Darkness more visible
Finola Moorhead's second novel, Still Murder, won the Vance Palmer Prize for fiction in the Victorian Premier's literary awards when Joan Kirner was premier. A truant at school, Moorhead's view of the world was formed by the strong but unhappy women who dominated her early life. Never able to hold down a straight job for very long, and deciding to be a writer in the late sixties, Finola has survived by thinking, dreaming, learning to do what is needed and the fortunes of fate. First thrown down the stairs by the police demonstrating against the Vietnam war in 1968, then embracing the women's liberation movement in the 70s, and following the philosophy of radical feminism during the 80s, she joined a separatist collective in 1990 to put theory into practice. Since then she has lived on the mid-north coast of New South Wales. Her other books include A Handwritten Modern Classic (1985), Quilt (1985) and Remember the Tarantella (1987).
What a misfortune to be born a woman!… Why seek for knowledge, which can prove only that our wretchedness is irremediable? If a ray of light break in upon us, it is but to make darkness more visible; to show us the now limits, the Gothic structure, the impenetrable barriers of our prison.
Leonora, Letter 1, 1805
Maria Edgeworth (1767–1849)
What power do we have over each other that has to be constantly guarded against for fear of annihilation? We're very easy to walk away from—there are no laws against it, and our pain and rage are no sort of weapon at all.
Denise Thompson, 'Freedom for What?',
Essays in Lesbian Feminism. Sydney, May 1984.
darkness more visible
Finola Moorhead
Spinifex Press Pty Ltd
504 Queensberry Street
North Melbourne, Vic. 3051
Australia
women@spinifexpress.com.au
http://www.spinifexpress.com.au
First published by Spinifex Press, 2000
Copyright © Finola Moorhead, 2000
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Edited by Janet Mackenzie
Typeset in Garamond by Claire Warren
Cover design by Wingrove Wingrove Design
Made and printed in Australia by Australian Print Group
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Moorhead, Finola
Darkness more visible
ISBN 1 875559 60 4
1. Crime—Australia—New South Wales—Fiction. 2. Love stories—Australia—
New South Wales. 3. Detective and mystery stories. I. Title.
A823.3
This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government
through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
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Dedication
My sister, christened Arthur Carmel Moorhead, known as Moodge, was born 30 June 1941, with a caul, and died 20 January 1970. Her spirit pervades this work as she could swim and play sport like no other and mentally she was brilliant.
Author's note
The people and places in this novel are entirely fictional. A lot of work went into making characters and locality seem real when they are actually products of my imagination serving the cultural purpose of story-telling. Resemblance to any living or dead person or district is an achievement; neither rip-off nor take-off. This work carefully avoids both plagiarism and libel, or hint thereof, for there is no intention or desire to hurt the feelings or reputations of anyone I've known or heard of. The art of fiction is not a representational one, since it must include fantasy. This literary venture is reflective, informed by my concerns and politics, limited by my talent, experience, time, education, brain-power, space, money, vision, and comprehension. Above all a novelist must have compassion and conviction, and be fully responsible for the words on the page and the world view propagated.
Contents
Book One murder Friday Saturday Sunday Monday
1 body of a teenager
2 the shape of breasts
3 slicing at the head of a Moor
4 'Almost Gothic, isn't it?'
5 fear of the abyss
6 white virgin
7 Myrmidons of Achilles
8 the World Wide Web
Book Two motherhood Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday
9 his mother's only joy
10 the warrior women
11 bliss of being and non-being
12 insane obsessions with nutso things
13 ripping off my wings
14 dog maidens
15 the spaces beneath
Book Three madness Saturday Sunday Monday Tuesday
16 greenish glass
17 the Port Water triathlon
18 like a kid again
19 ghostly rapists
20 Dishes for the Quick and the Dead
21 murdered by those bastards
Book Four nonsense Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday
22 boredom is a function of evil
23 the information on the monitor
24 her dead body
25 the empty bed
26 institutional corruption
27 down the dirt road
28 no stasis
29 the colour of gingerbread
Book Five chemicals Sunday Monday Tuesday Wednesday
30 not known at all
31 the thrill of killing
32 hell hath no fury
33 The Golden Notebook by Trivia: A Diary
34 the funeral
35 like a bully
36 haven't got a clue
37 a vertical drop
Book Six transsexualism Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday
38 the blood of the daughter
39 kidnapped
40 get away with murder
41 the impossible separatist
42 several loose ends
43 the grapevine
44 the centre of the earth
45 threatened to rape me
46 truly terrible
47 to sabotage your site
48 too drunk to get an erection
Book Seven money Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday
49 spiralling into the fifth galaxy
50 seduced by idealism
51 all very plausible
52 organised paedophile ring
53 international female conspiracy
54 what they wanted to know
55 drop-dead gorgeous
56 arrayed in purple and scarlet
Acknowledgements
This book was begun in 1990. Since then I have received invaluable help from numerous sources. It has evolved and transmogrified, risen, disappeared and come through at least seven drafts to the finished product. I have to thank the Australia Council for two Senior Writers' one-year grants in that time from the Literary Fund, 1990 and 1996. Individuals, also, have baled me out when I've been in desperate need financially. I hereby express sincere gratitude for this patronage.
As well as fiscal assistance, I have received invaluable help with the manuscript itself, reading, ideas, criticism, production, computer hardware, expertise, photocopying, printing, desk, books and talking time. Pencils, paper and paper-clips alongside hours of typing I recognise as donations towards this creation. While some aid was direct and practical, other incidental and general, it was all generous. At the point of saying thank-you it is difficult to know where to begin, how to quantify and qualify, how to make the priorities of give and take fall into place so as full an expression of indebtedness as possible can be put down. I am afraid I will fall way short of my emotion of gratefulness for the full gamut of support I have received. I am obliged to others not only for information and faith but also for knowledge, experience and tests of my self-esteem, from encouragement to challenge.
Earnest thanks to the following individuals for specific help in the time of my writing this book: Sandra Russell, Sue Standen, Janne Ellen, Jennie Curtin, Deborah Carmichael, Denise Thompson, Ticole Akuni, Shane Kelly, Robyn Martin, Cathy Lewis, Dot, Oshun, Dione McDonald, Kaye Moseley, Louise Lovett, Patricia Bodsworth, Liz Miles, Irene Bruninghausen, and the men in my life, Bill, Robert, Colin, Michael, Gareth and Garry Moorhead. Susan Hawthorne has been encouraging, considerate and invaluable throughout. I am very grateful for both her and Renate Klein's faith in me and that of all the women of Spinifex Press, Janet Mackenzie and Claire Warren especially, for close editorial work in the final drafts.
For the depth of philosophic perspective and cultural continuity from which I come to this fiction, I am indebted to publications of the following women: Virginia Woolf; Valerie Solanas; Germaine Greer; Ti-Grace Atkinson; Mary Daly; Elaine Morgan; Merlin Stone; Phyllis Chesler; Shulamith Firestone; Jill Johnson; Susan Brownmillar; Barbara Walker; Monique Wittig; Marilyn Frye; Andrea Dworkin; Kathleen Barry; Denise Thompson; Sheila Jeffreys; Robin Morgan; Adrienne Rich; Somer Brodribb; Renate Klein; Henry Handel Richardson; Miles Franklin; Leonora Carrington; Maria Edgeworth; and Christa Wolf. There are, of course, many other writers and artists whose work I have appreciated to the benefit of my own, with either sympathy or criticism, but a complete map of the mental process of thinking with a view to literary fiction is too overwhelming to undertake. I wish merely, by naming the above, to indicate the path to the point of view I embrace as real, as mine, authenticated and weighted by the authority of female perception available to all who would read the written word.
While I value the insights of intellectuals, I also cherish the worth of conversation and interaction within the community of my circle of friendship.
I honour the memory of Charlotte Moorhead, Badajos, Susie Stuart, Liz Lovely and Lors who lost their lives during the course of my writing this.
Book One
murder
Friday Saturday Sunday Monday
Friday's child is loving and giving
1
…body of a teenager…
Simply Margot was written on the manila envelope. The other letter had my full name, Ms Margot Ellen Gorman.
The moon was fat in the afternoon sky, affecting the tides. And my body. Restless with the agitation of PMT, I felt mentally tired after I looked at my mail. I scratched my head and distractedly wrote down 'hair-cut' above my address. I could not work,. so I made a list. Even though my quota of training for the day was done, I had to exercise, for my sanity. When I'm in the mood I kick and box a leather log of a bag hanging from the rafters of my verandah. But I wasn't in the mood to punch. I could swim. Or ride either of my bikes. A bit dangerous in the evening; it would be dark by the time I got in.
Or I could run.
Ten Mile Beach is five minutes' walk from my house. I live on the delta of the Campbell River. As soon as I saw this place, I realised I didn't need to live anywhere else. I can train along the beaches and in the surf. I can travel to competitions. As well as my racing bike, I have the mountain bike for offroad touring, and, maybe, for races in the future. Hundreds of kilometres of unsealed roads are only an hour away by car. I can bike into deep bush along Forestry roads and fire-trails.
Behind my property are paperbark wetlands. These become mangrove swamps closer to the estuary. A short walk over sand dunes is the sea. Canal development on the other side of the river enables wealthy retired couples to have a water road in front and bitumen where the back door is the front door. But these settlers in Paradise screen out all but the view of this nature because of the mosquitoes. Especially, the disease-bearing Aedes notoscriptus. Until the controversial bridge is built I am on the wrong side of the river.
The surf sounded like relentless distant traffic. The largest ocean in the world was banging at my door, calling me out to play, to witness the magic of seascape, dolphins riding the waves, sea eagles soaring, people walking their dogs. Whatever, the negative ions of the spray off the waves would do me good. Clear my head, blast my lungs.
Worrying about me is serious business. I strolled down to the beach. When I had stretched my tendons I started out on the firm sand, heading towards the point, weaving up into the soft stuff now and then. As the body-work began to bite, physical aches concentrated my mind to disallow the idea of stopping and panting at the burning moment, if not, the chest will always burn here. I kept my eyes on the prize, got through it to the bigness of being. Being yourself and losing yourself at the same time is a rush. Eventually, my mind, my emotions, my knowledge, my past, my future were in my body. Everything was pumping. Rising and resiling like the sea.
Whiffs of exhaust and loud acceleration, brake-screeching and skidding indicated hooning kids doing donuts behind the sand-dunes. A woman who stood gazing at the horizon did not move when I passed. A dyke, I judged by her clothes, greasy wool, hand-spun, hand-knitted jumper, loose trousers of scarlet and purple tucked into socks and solid walking boots. As well as garlic, I smelt the earthy body odour of land-living. The evening sun gave her long brown hair a kind of golden aura. Her face was lined; she did not smile but glanced at me as if she had contempt for all joggers. Her straight hair fanned by the wind, she stared back at the waves in arrogant stillness. My grin of recognition froze to a grimace.
Why would a gurl acknowledge me? I stopped for a breather beside the track from the caravan park where four-wheel-drive tyres grooved a curve to the north.
Gurls was an acronym for Generally Unruly Rural Lesbians. A tribe of hillpeople who lived on a remote property somewhere around the head-waters of the Campbell River, high in the ranges, gurls had a reputation for being quite frightening. I found them friendly for the most part, though interpersonal relationships were fierce and they tended to fight in public. But there was a code of behaviour, a style of dress unique to themselves. I supposed a sort of quest was credited more than conventional success, commitment to women's freedom.