Kathryn knew there’d be a story there.  A fortune teller, working with gelato flavours.  That’s news.

I’m not Kathryn, and I don’t think it’s news, but my editor at the community newspaper sided with my step-sister.

So here I am, standing outside a nondescript store in a strip mall, half the windows boarded up, at 11am on a Tuesday morning.  The daughter of one of Kathryn’s Tennis buddies was meeting me there, along with her fiance, in less than one minute.  Unless they’re late.  It’s a shitty, rainy day.

But no, here comes Tami, with reluctant beau in teau.  Ready to have her destiny mapped out in roasted macadamia, or white chocolate, or oreo.  Tami is as sweet and bubbly as I remember.  Gooey sweet.  Her fiance, Travis, just looks tired.  And embarrassed.  Good.

Right on the dot of 11:03, Madame Chang opens the door, and ushers us inside.  The shop interior is best-described as “folksy”.  Wooden apothecary shelving and drawers line the walls, every surface is covered in jars, boxes, old papers.  Some kind of incense is adding smoke to the dust in the air.  Proudly displayed, right in the centre of the floor, is an ice-cream counter, full of little pottles of multicoloured… something.  Madame Chang, dressed for the part as rural witch.. doctor… ess, not ice-cream… parlor…. operator… smacks her hands together gleefully.

“Now” she says, “what do we have here?”  She rubs her hands together in anticipation.  Tami wades into the silence.

“I’m Tami.  I called you?  This is Travis.  He’s my fiance.”

Travis nods.  I’m not sure which part he’s agreeing to.

Tami is very… loud.  And she talks fast.  And she’s never still.  Her tiny, sneaker-shod, foot is constantly tapping a staccato to her commentary.  She shrugs and bounces endlessly, and her blond curls just seem to erupt, perenially, from the top of her tiny head.

She pipes up.

“I just know me and Travis are meant to be.  We’re getting married next weekend.  We’re star crossed lovers” she finishes dramatically.

Travis winces.  So do I.

There is silence again.

Madame Chang takes a breath.  A deep breath.  And begins to speak.

“I used to do chinese medicine.  Old medicine.  From China.  Natural.  From my family, going back long time.  I had many customers.  I see them.  I know what they are.  I know what they need.  I know all of the things, their things.”

She takes a pencil from behind her ear.  Actually it’s not a pencil, it’s a piece of cinnamon bark.  And gestures, poking it at each of us in turn.

“I see you.  I know you.  I know what you need.”

She looks at us over her glasses, all three of us, clumped uncomfortably on her floor.  She frowns.

“But now nobody come.  Nobody want herb that taste bad that make you good.  Nobody want feel little bad now but plenty good later.  Everybody want feel good now and good later.”

She reveals the ice-cream counter that we already know is there.  She beams proudly, her red-stained lips shrinking then spreading across her face.

“So now ice-cream.  Everybody like ice-cream.”  She states this like it’s perfectly obvious.  I suppose it is.

“Feel good now, feel good later, everybody win.”

“You make…. ice-cream” I start, uncertain about where we’re going with this.  My pencil hovers, waiting for me to give it something… substantial… to write.

“You make… ice-cream.  And it… Fixes… People…”

I’ve got to have missed something, surely.

“Yes” she confirms.  Sagely.

“I make ice-cream.  No milk.  Dairy free.”  She winks at me.  “I see you.  I see you flavour.  I know your future.”

She slaps Travis on the back.  A big bloke, and yet the slap projects him forward a couple of steps.

“I see you flavour!” she cackles up at him.

“You flavour Pineapple!  Very fresh.  Very strong.  You very active, go long way.  Good companions Lime, Coconut, even Caramel.  Sweet, to balance you strong flavour.  Not get lost.”

“I’m sweet!” Tami bounds into the conversation, which immediately starts to feel cramped.  She draws Madame Chang’s steel-trap gaze.

“Yes…” she begins thoughtfully, measuredly.

She gestures at me, then draws me closer, into her confidence.  Into her clutches.

“She…” Madame Chang gestures again, the jade beads in her hair-comb clacking ominously.

“You…”  She points a bony finger at Tami.

“You no good.  You too sweet.  You bubblegum.  Whoever heard of Pineapple Bubblegum?  You no work”  she shakes her head.

“No future.  I finished.  You go now.”

She slumps into a chair, gathers her voluminous sleeves, touches a hand to her forehead.

The little shop resounds with the silence.  Tami is opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish.  A popping noise comes out, but nothing else.  Travis, his expression unchanged, leave a $50 on the counter, secures it with a jar full of blue plastic spoons, collects his stunned bride-to-be.  Opens the front door, guides Tami through it, and it closes behind him with a soft thump, cutting off the fresh air I’m tempted to gulp.

I’m standing in the middle of the shop, pencil held above blank notebook, thinking I should probably do something.

Madame Chang looks up, squinting at me in the late afternoon sunlight.  I chance a quick glance at my watch, which says 5:15.  I’m astonished.  Surely we’ve been here for less than ten minutes.

Her scowl fixes on me, and on my pad and pencil.

“Ah,” she nods.  “You from the Paper.  You interview me.”  She sighs.

“Another day.  Another time.  I’m too tired.”

She contemplates me over the top of her tiny glasses, and sadness washes her face, then sympathy, resignation.

“You don’t believe.  I know, but you will.”

She sighs again, dragging her aged frame upwards.  Fumbling with her sleeves, she turns to the back of the shop.  I guess I’m dismissed then.  I start turning my own tired body to the door.

And find Madame Changs fleshless hand clasping my wrist.

“I’m very sorry, my dear.  Here.”   She hands me the tiny pottle that appears.  “You will need this.”

And with that I am dismissed.  Madame Chang has disappeared into the late afternoon shadows.

Once upon a time there was man. Bob was his name. His job was the Lucky Dip at all the country Shows, all the little packages wrapped spotty pink for, starry blue for. Travelling with the show people he drove alone, his rattling Austin Cambridge, two-toned green, pulling the little covered trailer where he lived with the supplies.

Bob never knew what was in the packages. Prewrapped, they were, in starry blue. In spotted pink. The Boss showed up at the end of every Show, topping up the Lucky Dip supplies, collecting the money, doling out Bob’s pay.

Sometimes he saw the paper trampled on the ground.

His favourite time of day was early morning, the sun just arriving and the crowds not yet. When he put on his striped bow tie. His white shirt fresh pressed from under the mattress. Filled the stripy bags, pink for, blue for.

Every day. Every day. Same walk around the other stalls, past the laughing Clowns who sometimes smiled at him and sometimes sneered. Past the Test your Strength stand, listening for the sound of the bell that never came. Past the shooting gallery where the ducks, cheeky, waved at him covertly. Past fairy floss and ring toss.

One day, there was a new stall.

One day, his bow tie straight and shiny, his hair dark and stiff, there was a new stall, tucked between fairy floss and ring toss. Narrow and quite dark, no colour, just a flap of a door and a sign above. “Seeing is Believing,” it said.

He wanted, wanted to stop and see but the kiddies clamoured and his bags, blue and pink, were still full.

“Lucky Dip! Lucky Dip,” he cried as he looked back.

Because of that, that dark new stall, he could not sleep. Next morning, when the sun was just arriving, his white shirt was wrinkled, his bow tie dulled and his hair too pale and soft.

“Seeing is Believing,” the sign told him all day. But the kiddies clamoured and his stripy bags were too full.

He wanted to stop.

He wanted to stop and see.

The next day. And the next day and the next his shirt was more wrinkled, his hair softer still, his bow tie dulled and drooping.

He did not sleep

“Seeing is Believing,” the sign said and the kiddies clamoured and his bags were too full.

The morning arrived. The morning of the last day came and the clowns sneered at his faded tie, his floppy hair and the shooting range ducks looked away.

Until finally, he went to see what he believed.

The stall was gone.

Nothing left all but a square of pale, dead grass, a small scrap of the sign above the door.

“See,” it said, in neat black letters.

He picked it up, put it in his pocket and went to fill his lucky dip bags.

She’s uncontrived unconventional. She wears black tracksuit pants with an elasticated waist and ribbed elasticated ankle bands. She never wears shoes and her feet are hard and dark like horses’ hooves. Her 11 year old daughter tells me that mum gardens all through the night which explains why her feet look like they’ve come from under the ground – grown from somewhere near the bamboo or hibiscus. There are no allocated bedrooms for her eight kids. They camp on couches, in corners, behind doors. Her daughter can sleep with people coming and going, with drug deals taking place in the lounge room, with a cat asleep on her face, outside or in the bathroom if she has to when the fighting gets too bad. Her 12 year old disabled son sits nude and smiling in the driveway, escaping sometimes to wander alone around the dark streets of the neighbourhood.

She’s the one who shuffles in with the cheap store bought cake in a brown paper bag to the primary school sports’ carnival and then leaves before she can watch her daughter win her race. She’s got a laugh that’s coarse and unapologetic and she sweats. Through every season she gleams like she’s emerged from the river. Once maybe she was considered attractive, possibly even stunning; now she wears scars from the bottles and bricks that have been thrown at her over the years. But even with sandpaper skin and tired pinned eyes, and perhaps because of it, she’s a character who intrigues, both fascinating and terrifying.

Once upon a time there was a small village.  The inhabitants of this village were quiet, keeping mostly to themselves.  Visitors were always welcomed with open arms, and the villagers were happy and content, going about their daily lives with little concern for the outside world.

On a day much like any other, the sea breeze wafted in gently rocking the fishing boats in the port, raising small clouds as it passed up the dusty streets, and following the gentle incline up the valley.  Birds sang, dogs barked, and a small boy sat savouring the sun on his face, clutching his brand new shoes to his chest with unconcealed joy.

Towards midday a shape crested the horizon of the hills surrounding the village and began to make its way slowly down the road to the sea-side community.  As it came closer the shape resolved itself into a wagon.  The large wooden structure looked like it was originally designed to carry some form of cargo, but it had been converted into a make-shift mobile home.

Every day, the boy and his friends kept one eye on the road as they played, looking out for travellers or traders who might bring some news, trinkets or other excitement to add to their otherwise largely predictable days. Hence, as as the wagon continued down the hill, the children ran from their play in the streets up to inspect and greet this new arrival. Rushing and racing each other the boys were quite close before they took much notice of the solitary figure behind the reins of the large black stallion which pulled the wagon.

“One day”, boomed a deep voice startling the boys to a halt. “you will run into someone you will be less eager to greet”, and as the figure raised his head the boys recoiled at the dark angry face which now regarded them with its unwavering gaze.  Time seemed to halt, and the children momentarily failed to realise that the black beast was still moving ponderously towards them. It took one of the younger children deciding the turn and take flight to startle the others into a similar course of action.

It was this headlong, panting rush of children tearing back through the village which caused Dom to stop his work and step from the smithy to glance up the hill and regard the stranger, and because of that to also take in the distinctive markings on the flag fluttering above the wagon. This was a day Dom had known would come. The Founders had arrived.

Astride the wagon, Founder M met the eyes of the figure who emerged from one the buildings, and returned his gaze until finally the figure moved from the doorway towards the middle of the street to await him.  “Good” thought M, this was a man who could potentially save him from much heart-ache.  It was always a sensitive thing, entering a new village, the Founders reputation proceeded them, but many listened to the stories and heard only things to fear.  Few, like this man, seemed to grasp the greater purpose and truly understand that this was not an occasion for running or alarms or pitchforks.

M directed his horse toward the man and proceeded down to initiate the meeting which would truly decide not just the direction of the day, but the future of a nation.

In Fremantle  we have statues of a Prime Minister, a pop star, fisherman, an immigrant a sculptor, footballers, an engineer even an abstract human. All men.

It was fun, and for some a little daring but by 8.00am evidence of our work was all but gone. In a city that prides itself on its history of creativity and as a home to the arts, this small act of  public disobedience  was as if it didn’t happen.

The theme of International Women’s Day 2016 was a Pledge for Parity. On the agenda were big picture  issues, like job opportunities, work place discrimination and closing the wage gap. For us , a group of women whose youngest member is 51, our aspirations were more modest. It was opportunity to raise public awareness about the absence of female representation in the cultural narrative of our city.

We sent out photos and press releases but got very little traction. IWD breakfasts, speeches and political announcements dominated the news cycle. But like our bronze counterparts, we were all but invisible.

As middle aged women we are no strangers to invisibility. Next time we will use it as a weapon.

Zita Pal owns South of the Border