Prescription: 10 minutes a day from 8.00 to 8.10 for 6 months.

I picture you calling from a vast and desperate place.   Do you spend your days scamming people and wishing that you had stayed, because you didn’t think that it would take this long?  I spoke to Brother David; he is soft on you.  He forgives you, because it’s you but the others think that you turned your back on God.

‘Our truth is our truth’ Father would say.  I’ll never forget the moment when you told me you hated him. There you laid bare your truth.  You were always so insistent on being by his side. Making it a competition to be near him, even though you knew I didn’t care for your shared beliefs or strange rituals. I guess we all just want to belong to something.

You told me that you didn’t know that you could do what I do, give to the people without being ‘a religious’.  I always thought it was funny how you would communicate.  Your words translated from Arabic into English then into broken Khmer.  It wouldn’t have mattered if you had known. Brother, I have privilege: my skin, my country, my family.  You were born to struggle. Maybe you were doomed from the beginning.

Daddy sat at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette whilst looking at himself in a small Jade green mirror. In between tokes ,he would rest the cigarette in a clay ashtray, then pluck hairs from his chin. When the hairs were gone, he would squeeze zits, dabbing them occasionally with clearasil pimple cream.I hated the smell of clearasil, but I did enjoy observing his strange bodily rituals.

Finger nail manicures, facials, hair sculpting,and the infamous ear cleaning ceremony, involving a torch,a tissue and a long barbecue skewer.

“Dad I want a cat”. I stood next to his chair, peering at his whiskery chin in the small mirror.

He looked up and blew smoke rings in my face. I stepped back and broke them up with my eight year old fingers. He replied in his unintentional, aggressive, camp like asian voice, “oh do you darling…Well you know you’re mother say she is allergic to cats… But I say she jus don like cat hair everywhere frew the house… and to tell you the truth i don’t either… but i know she is not bloody allergic to cats… so you want a cat do you?”, He spoke like a mystic who was about to reveal a magic crystal ball that would give birth to a kitten.

“Listen to me closely darling, if you want a cat there is only one thing you can do”.

Before he had a chance to go on with his secret revelations I butt in like a drooling dog, “take me to the pet shop now dad, let’s go down town now, I know it’s open”.

“I’m not taking you to the bloody pet shop! If you want a pet cat, you must find a stray one. Feed it, then put butter on its paws. The cat will lose it’s scent and not know which way is home.Then you have a little pet cat. I’m not taking you to the pet shop. His story was over. He went back to preening himself and pouting in the mirror.

“Really? “

Rolling his eyes, “Darling I have been around longer than you and I know many things. Trust me kiddo, it’s the only way”. His high pitch giggle started up which seemed to waft out of his ears. He looked part sucker fish part cheshire cat.

“But daddy we only have margarine”.

“Trust me. It’s ok, now go away and play,”.

For the next week I did blocky’s on my bike every morning and afternoon searching for a stray cat.

At night I prayed to God to deliver.

Things started to line up.Mum was going to Sydney for a uni residential and dad was working late (out partying with younger women). This meant Nanna was coming to care for us. I kept praying and hoping we didn’t run out of margarine.

Nanna arrived on Friday morning. By Saturday afternoon there was thunder and rain which meant no playing on the streets with the neighbourhood kids.

We ate apricot chicken for dinner. It was 5:30pm and I was bored. I walked down the hallway heading for the front door. I was going on to the verandah to see if I could spot my friend Emma  who lived across the road. I was going to shout over the street at her, in case she could hear me  through her front window. Instead I found a cat. Holy Jesus, God was real. There on the steps was a grey cat with no collar.I picked it up and swung him around. Cheering and hooraying, all my wishing on stars had paid off.He started licking my fingers. Now was my chance. I ran back into the house, pushed passed my little brother Al, then barging into the kitchen I took the meadow lea margarine out of the fridge, grabbed a chicken wing from out of the pot on the stove and ran for it. Nanna shouted to me but her hands were covered in rubber gloves and dishwashing bubbles. She would not escape from doing the dishes.

By the time I got back to the porch the cat was chewing the side of the verandah with its sharp teeth. I lent down and lured him up from the steps below on to the verandah, using the chicken wing as bait. I fed him with one hand, patted him with the other. Once he was eating, I took my hand away and opened the margarine container. I dug my fingers into it. Then like a maniac I desperately started smearing marg onto his paws and legs. The cat hissed and cried, “it’s ok kitty”, I said as I tried to force his grease onto his soft padded feet. He recoiled, jumped up, swiped my face with his claws then bit my middle finger and didn’t let go. I screamed, he screamed and i booted him off the porch and down the stairs. He ran out the gate and didn’t come back. I sat with the margarine and the chicken bone crying for the cat to come back. “What in God’s name is going on?”, asked Nanna. Her face pressing up against the fly screen looking through the front door.

 

The first time Else wore it, she was unprepared for just how fabulous it would feel. The swish and the swagger of it all. Shoulders back, swathed in a beauty queen gauze of femininity, as she clip clopped down the footpath. She loved the way walking became an art form. There was something timeless and rather wonderful about it. She sashayed into the pharmacy and handed over a prescription.

“You look wonderful”. A woman tapped her arm. “No one dresses up anymore. I miss wearing dresses. It’s all slacks now. A shame”.

The second time it was a warmer day. Else felt clammy on the plastic seat. Outside it was melting and inside the split system was doing its best, recycling the sick air into the waiting room. A man staggered, berating the triage nurse, a young mum jiggled and soothed a squally infant in a nappy and singlet. A television screen displayed numbers counter lunch style.

“Hopefully it won’t be too much longer”. Charlie squeezed her hand.

Flipping up the petticoat the nurse attaching the wires admired her garters and stockings.

The third time her legs felt silky smooth against the cool swish of the nylon. Charlie slid his hand along the back of her thigh. They were dressed and heading out. The night felt full of expectation. Invariably the phone began to ring and vibrated through their dinner. They ignored it, holding hands below the table.

There were so many times after that. It became a habit and in turn her something old. Else wore it under swathes of tulle. She walked towards Charlie, a little stateliness, a little sass.

Swish.

Warm sun on my back.
Someone is speaking about a marathon.
I’m not thinking about a marathon.

I’m sleepy.
Sun streaming through the window.
Warm upon my back.

Marathons.
Moneghetti.
Wardlaw, the bearded runner.

My heroes.
And Herb.
Herb Elliott
Sun, Sand, Cerutty

Circuit training
Sand Hills
Portsea Camp
Who remembers?

Olympics ’56
Vladimir Kuts
Melbourne ten thousand,
Burned the Pom,
Burned them all.

The Russian,
Well, he was Ukrainian.
But from the Soviet Socialist Republic
Inspiring

I wanted to run like him.
Run like Kuts
Run like Elliott
Run like Zatopek.

Determination
Endurance
I had both.
I could do it.

But no.
Percy said no.
No girls.
No women.

Give me your daughter and
I’ll give you back a son.
I will not coach women.
No women at Portsea.

Not fair!
No girls?
Silly old coot!
I’ll train myself.

Not at Portsea.
Not with Percy
Not Circuit training.

Just surge running …
Through the bush at dawn.
Just me.
And the warm sun upon my back.

The first time I ever broke the law was at Woolworths. There were two of us. We were thirteen and in those days a Woolies’ department store had long counters with a sales assistant standing behind each one.

When you started high school in my town in the 1960s, the second year boys ran a protection racket: you had to bring a ruler or a compass. But my friend Jenny, a skinny girl with plaits and a home-cut fringe, didn’t get pocket money, didn’t know the rules and didn’t know what to do. She didn’t even live in a proper house.

So I asked Michael, my older brother, and his mate, Jimmy, for help. Jimmy knew everything. He had a gang. He didn’t have green teeth or holes in his socks, he had proper, polished, black lace-up boots and slicked his hair with Brylcream. Jimmy could bring down a pigeon with his shanghai and a single yonnie. I loved him. Jimmy said she just had to nick the stuff from the paper shop. But Jenny said she couldn’t do that because the owners knew her Dad. So Jimmy said she could bring along a lipstick. They were easier to nick. From Woolworths.

I knew what to do because I’d seen girls do it before.  Jimmy’s sister mainly. The make-up or jewellery counter was best. One of you talked to the sales girl while the other pretended to look at something and then that something somehow just happened to end up in your pocket. The trick was not to hurry and to keep on smiling.

Jenny could only do it on a Saturday morning. That suited the boys so they came along as well. We had a practice run but Jenny couldn’t do it. So we swapped and I did it for her. Jimmy waited outside. ‘Wadja get?’ ‘Lipstick.’   ‘Givvus it.’ ‘Nah.’ I was too smart to hand it over straight away. ‘Bring it on Monday.’ ‘OK’. I took the bullet-shaped metal case, threw away its box, and handed it to Jenny. We were walking to my place, giggling, dawdling behind the boys, feeling pretty pleased with ourselves, but it was a really hot day and Jenny was gripping the lipstick in her hand, keeping it hidden. She started crying: the lipstick was melting. We stopped and so did the boys. ‘Shit,’ said Jimmy.

That was when God took a hand. A car went past. Thump, yowl, yowwwwwl…. a small animal rolled into the gutter at the boys’ feet. ‘What are we going to do?’ says Michael. ‘It’s not my dog,’ says Jimmy, but he’s already squatting down, having a look. ‘I think it’s dead’. Jimmy’s Dad runs an abattoir so Jimmy knows ‘dead’ when he sees it. ‘Go into that house,’ he says to Michael, ‘see if anyone can help.’ Two minutes later, a woman in a pink pinny and green rollers appears: ‘Oh my god, oh the poor thing, oh I’ll have to ring the RSPCA. It’s next door’s dog. Is it dead? Are you sure? Is it dead? Oh my god it’s dead. Oh my god.’

Jimmy takes charge. ‘Have you got a blanket? And a shovel?’ She goes back inside. Jimmy follows. They come back. She’s carrying a cardboard box and a blue baby’s blanket. Jimmy has a spade. ‘Hold the box,’ says Jimmy to the woman as he scrapes the body off the road and pours it gently into the blanket. She’s crying. ‘Did you see the car? Why didn’t you stop them? You stupid kids! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god….’ Then, ‘I can’t hold it any longer.’ The box crumples and its contents drop to the ground. Jenny moves in to help. She puts out her hand, but it’s red. The woman screams. ‘It’s only lipstick,‘ says Jenny, but the woman doesn’t hear.

Then yelp – the dog’s alive!

Later, after a cool drink, the woman gave us a twenty cent piece each. Jimmy said: ‘If we pool the money, Jenny can go back and buy a new lipstick’. And she did. So reader, I married him.

The first time I glanced over my shoulder as I heard someone settle, I took in his smoothness. He had a 1950s coolness with slicked back hair and a boyishly soft face. He was wearing pants that ended 5cm from his shoes and a cream linen shirt that smelt of tobacco and musty cloves. In my most coquettish interpretation of a female pinup, I tried pushing out my chest and pouting my chapped lips whispering “fake it until you make it” and leaned forward on the barstool, silently cursing myself that I wasn’t wearing a shorter skirt or brighter lipstick or generally inhabiting a more voluptuous female body. Cliches pounding through my veins, I ordered two martinis with my last $5 note, the only money left in my purse, and half of which was my taxi fare home.

I was momentarily distracted when I noticed a tea-light melting slowly; I wondered if it would eventually start a fire on the oilcloth ‘Native’ print pink flowery tablecloth? The heady smell of citronella and the warm evening made me slow and his silky presence was lulling me into a memory not of my dog, but of Connie. A gorgeous Irish setter with a red coat and an attitude of superiority over all other beasts. Ironically, she weighed only 18 kilos and has no real substance to her bark, let-alone her bite. Maybe this man was the same, all sleek coat and dark pools of eyes?

And then I managed to slip off the bar stool in a clumsy lump; there is no way he failed to notice. Luckily I was wearing a long enough dress to cover my bottom as I tentatively stepped on my ankle, sore with my uneven distribution of weight. I softly blew out the candle, and with this sensible gesture reality started to kick in. The note began to crumple in my hand as I started to regret spending my only means of getting back to my balconied room on a good-smelling bloke. KL is full of people pretending to be something they are not; expats on two year journeys of self discovery and an inevitable swagger and backstory to pull at the heartstrings. Until finally my own reasons for escaping on a sabbatical resurfaced, and I smiled to the barman as he handed over the drinks, softly turning towards the sockless one…