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Me, me, me, wishes Sofia.
<8202*> But in a sieve I'll thither sail,/ And like a rat without a tail,/ I'll do, I'll do and I'll do. I'll have the cane toad, please.
Sofia types one out and arranges a meeting to pick up her new pet. Then she leaves Wimmin.com.au/kitchen and surfs the search engine for genetic modification and other food sites until her money runs out. All her fears are justified. There are aliens in the sky and lesbian cyborgs with an intent to murder. Murder. The OD at the beach was murder, intended victims, lesbians with the truth! Knowledge and no power, until now! It wasn't an overdose. Her mind is exploding. The electrons in her brain are leaping over the chemical arcs creating heat and distress. She needs a drink, a serapax, benzodiazepan. Not speed, she mutters to herself speedily. She needs a familiar of a particularly witchy kind, a toad. It'll do.
Chandra settles Tilly on the horse and lets her ride by herself. It is a beautiful day. The work in cyberspace is keeping her chained longer hours than ever at her computer, she needs some flesh and blood nature. After the call from Sofia, she decides to do a bit of mowing. She thinks she needs, also, a relationship. It has been a long while since Sofia but her sexy voice turns her on. Then, after the last, with Alison, she vowed never again and buried herself in revolutionary work. Love of women should make us full of self-knowledge and courage of conviction, broader of mind, safer, therefore able to explore more our radical thought. It should make us stronger because we have support, and freer and less selfish and more self-confident.
Chandra mows meticulously. She loves her ride-on. Sad irony that the goddess should give the gift of green fingers to the mobility-challenged; nonetheless, she copes, and the garden, as the sign says, is always a thing of pleasure. Being outside allows her to entertain lusty thoughts, while doing something useful. Bad experiences with mad, beautiful women have left her with a few responsibilities and expenses, but no great bitterness. Yesterday in the oppressive rain she did not know what she knows today. What she knows today with crystal clarity is: she is ready. It is a new morning. The chemistry of friendship, often left in abeyance at hot love times, requires phenomenal discipline. When to be kind. When to be cruel. What is needed is both loyalty and freedom. If she had let her stay, she would have had to give up so much freedom. Specifically, her choice to have no males in her environment. Tilly's okay. Most women are so used to being a helpmeet they don't know who they are or they are scared to be alone. Being indispensable is rewarding, Chandra concedes, but being a married couple does not challenge hegemonic reality. Unacceptable. Chandra doesn't have time. Ordinary lesbians can do it but not radical feminists because they're aware that there are no models for them to follow. We must forge a new path, of discovery, of sexuality.
As she turns, she glances up and sees the figure of Meghan Featherstone pointing at her, near one of those dinky toy four-wheel-drives. She is suddenly furious. Meghan could have been a sister-at-arms, but she works for a multinational, an earth-raping, secret organisation that Chandra suspects of being owned by the CIA. Meghan did not deny it. They had a very public barney, screaming at one another in front of a number of gurls. Chandra made her passionate position clear. She could not live with hypocrisy. Contradictions, yes, we had to, but deliberate, self-serving hypocrisy, no. Never. The betrayal of trust churns in her guts while she mows. She has lost sight of Tilly and Potsdam Harry. Gradually, with effort, she gears her anger to contemplation of the methods of war. The friendly mailing lists which she updates and checks with her email everyday are full of action. Known radical feminists are attacked personally. Brought down. The old troopers are starving in poverty somewhere. Not if Chandra can do something about it. Child porn. Coalition Against the Trafficking in Women. Women Against War. Zimbabwe International Book Fair. Sex is pornography according to Germaine Greer. It is not as though women aren't fighting. Forwarded messages keep her in touch. Social change does not come easy, pioneers pay dearly for what their successors take for granted. Well, Chandra is not finished, she is just beginning to gather a strike force.
A sealed ring road roped the mansions to Red Cedar Road. I figured that if I turned left, then left again, I could approach Chandra's from there. Like turning over in bed, the corner had the effect of taking the mind off one preoccupation and putting it on to the next. There was a rough track immediately to my left, I noticed, as I shifted up a gear. I glanced down it. Coming towards me at a confused canter was the dappled grey pony, without rider. I stopped, reversed and swung the steering wheel. I drove past the horse. Suddenly it came to a standstill and started eating grass. I was worried about the child last seen on its back. The little girl had fallen and was doubled up on the ground under a tree. I was beside her in no time.
'That branch knocked me off,' she explained thrusting an accusing finger upwards. 'Stupid branch.' Her voice was breathless as if she had been winded.
'Maybe you thought you were smaller than you are, you and your pony.' I was rubbing her hunched shoulders.
Her eyes shone. 'No, we were going faster than I have ever gone. We were galloping!' she exclaimed proudly.
'Then you must be very hurt,' I sympathised. Her muscles relaxed. Her breathing came back to normal.
'Show me?' I attempted to pull up her T-shirt. Kids usually show off their hard-won bruises. This one held down the front of her shirt with all her strength so quickly my hand slipped around and exposed her back. It was blotched with black-and-blues that were too old and inconsistent with either falling off a horse or being hit by a tree. It was only a glimpse. I lifted her to her feet.
'All right now? Hey? Let's go get your steed,' I jollied.
'Okay. He's really very naughty,' she chatted. 'A very naughty boy. Because when I tried to keep him on the road, he turned around. And then we went round and round. I tried to steer him off the road. It really pissed him off, me changing my mind. Stupid tree got in the way.' She held my hand walking towards the cropping pony, who turned and looked at us with mild interest. 'He was going so fast.' She looked up at me, and I grinned.
As we neared to her mount, her step got slower. She let go my hand and visibly gathered her courage and started talking like a schoolmarm. 'Now you come here, Spotty, and don't be a stupid boy.'
She castigated him while I picked up the reins and patted him on the nose. I've always liked the smell of horses and the softness of their noses. Now she was beside me, becoming more bossy as the moment of decision loomed. To relieve her of it, I whipped around, picked her up and placed her on the saddle. She winced as if I'd caught the fresh bruises. Weight, I'd estimate, twenty-five to twenty-seven kilos. I kept the reins and led them down the track.
The Suzuki was back there with keys in the ignition and my wallet on the seat. I let a twinge of worry come and go. Funny how eventually you check: car, keys, wallet. Forget it, I told my mind. Walking eased me, teasing out knots like some spinster at her knitting wool after her cat's had a go at it. The horse was a solid presence, a gentle giant of a person. The girl chatted on. Half the time her chatter addressed me and the rest Spotty got. I assumed the verbal trots were nerves, but when I looked back at her she was playing with the mane, thoroughly contented.
'What's your name?' I asked.
'Tilly. It's really Matilda. I have a second name and that's Jocelyn. And my mother says there's two reasons why Matilda is really good for me. One is that she used to carry me around everywhere like a swag and the other one I've forgotten. It is maybe someone who was alive and doesn't live in Australia. Who doesn't live any more,' the little livewire responded.
Whether or not she heard my name in response, Tilly began to give me minute directions, even options. I could go that way through the paddock gate, or open the one beside the main drive-way. I looked up to paddock gate and panned from there. Beside the cattle-grid was a magnificent picket with a wrought-iron contraption at the top. I realised the gate could be easily opened from the back of
a horse, a complication of weights and counter-checks. Impressive. There was a horse-riding rectangle with recycled tyres and sawdusty sand on the flat part. Further down were white-painted little jumps between Xs. Neither conforming with this kid's ability to ride.
Tilly demanded the reins as we gained home territory. Instead of relinquishing them, I gave her my nasal rendition of k. d. lang's 'Tall in the Saddle' and she seemed to enjoy that as much.
'Chandra,' shouted Tilly. 'This is Margot.'
A big black and tan dog bounded up, barking.
The circular blades stop whirring. Chandra's meditations are destroyed by the appearance of Margot Gorman, untrustworthy by virtue of being an excop. The triathlete, the summer Amazon, is a gorgeous creature. A jelly-fish on the phone, when she needed counselling, she is leading Potsdam Harry. Tilly's seat in the saddle is straighter than she has ever achieved before. No reins. Must do some lunging with her later, Chandra promises herself. The three of them are so beautiful as they make their way past the enormous native fig, the gravel road behind them curling away between overhanging gums and the true blue of the sky, Chandra frowns. Beauty melts her. Margot's physical perfection, completeness, makes Chandra aware of herself, her imperfection, her resentment, and her system floods itself with a rush of embarrassment. Tilly has her mother's looks. Chandra has had to pay dearly for her own double standards. She is not attracted to other cripples. Why should others be? Especially those blessed by nature. Alison is exquisite, and Sofia a sex-kitten; both marred by mental fragility, they did not threaten Chandra's confidence. Margot stands gracefully. Harry pricks his ears. Tilly talks. Chandra, in self-protection, tries to be as rude and grumpy as she can. She did not imagine that the detective would have such an honest, open, bloody attractive demeanour. She tries to unsettle her.
Chandra's broad-brimmed hat came into view at motorised speed as we passed under the shade of the Ficus rubiginosa. She lifted the blades of the mower when she heard Tilly shout and drove up to meet us. I detected some hostility as she sighed and nodded, a gesture of impatience. I stood still, patting the horses neck, but he didn't seem to tremble at the approach of the vehicle. Tilly started shouting explanations before the engine was cut. And continued after. We, the adults, looked at one another without interrupting the girl. Chandra remained seated, perfectly still, taking in what had happened and everything she could about me. I gathered that was quite a lot, from the intelligence in her eyes. She had one of those wide, brown faces, with big teeth and decisive lips. She was between forty and fifty. The lines becoming deep were those from the nose around the mouth and squinty-smiley crows' feet. She wore an ironic expression. She seemed little amused by the accident story. I let my gaze wander to her body and machine. The clavicle muscles were cultivated like a weight-lifter's. Her hands on the gearstick were strong like a musician's.
Tilly's story had changed. She was now an Enid Blyton-type heroine.
Chandra spoke educatively. 'That would have been his pirouette. You probably accidentally gave him the aids to dance around in circles. It is just not appropriate to do that under a tree, Tilly.'
'Anyway, he was really good, apart from that. And when we went to catch him he didn't move at all. Margot lifted me back on his back.'
When we shook hands, I saw the callipers. A pair of those arm-strap crutches was resting alongside the accelerator pedal. None of the gossip had mentioned that Chandra did not have the use of her legs.
For some reason allusion in words to Friday night's intimate phone conversation was out of the question. I had been pre-menstrual, uncharacteristically upset and on edge when I rang her. I couldn't use Meghan's introduction because it would have been clumsier than Meghan herself, and she had told me not to. I tried small talk. I felt awkward, I got everything wrong.
Spotty was not Tilly's pony. Potsdam Harry was Chandra's equine companion and one of her means of getting around.
'How?' I said. In for a penny, in for a pound. Abrupt.
'I ride side-saddle. And mount via a mechanism my father designed many many years ago.' Potsdam Harry was a very expensive animal with a pedigree back through Holland to Austria. 'The Lipizzan horses,' she lectured, 'have very strong bones, short legs, and thick, arched necks. They can make difficult jumps because of their powerful hindquarters. The best known Lipizzan horses are those trained at the Spanish Riding School of Vienna in Austria. These horses perform graceful jumping and dancing feats.'
'Okay,' I nodded. 'Once on duty at a special event in Western Sydney I saw them with police horses from all over the world. The Lipizzans were amazing. I can understand why he was offended by being seen as a dappled grey pony called Spotty.' He was an aristocrat among horses who could walk around on his hind legs, jump without putting his front feet down and be as trustworthy a child-minder as there is. Chandra did not like my anecdote of ordinary policing.
'Nice place,' I mumbled; it sounded like a grumble. I looked about with an idiotic smirk, hiding a sort of exciting discomfort. Wrong again.
She launched again, her piano player's hands unmoving on the wheel. 'I suppose you think I got all this with some compensation claim. A motor bike accident, perhaps?'
I nodded, even though I had supposed no such thing. I wanted to nod, I wanted to affirm her.
But she went on, aggressively. 'I have worked hard for everything I have. I had polio as a child, for which I have never received any compensation except the disability pension.'
'Well, better go,' I backed up a couple of steps, with my hands showing my palms, fingers wiggled goodbye. When she started the motor, she flashed a mischievous smile. I wondered what the trouble was; both the problem Meghan alluded to and the problem of my being there. Why was she so defensive?
Potsdam Harry accompanied me. Well, I was the one on foot. He was like a dog at heel. Hearing her scold him, I waited for Tilly to gather the reins and compose herself for riding. The canine had disappeared. Chooks and ducks pecked about.
'Where's your mother, Tilly?' I threw the question over the handsome arched neck.
'Chandra is really cranky with my mum. We're just staying here a little while. I don't mind because I have Spotty. And it's good sleeping in the barn. It smells like adventure stories. And my mum doesn't mind that. We're both sleeping side by side in the hay loft.' She gestured to a building that had not been visible from the place where I dropped Meghan. It was a closed-in barn, with big doors and a high roof. The side-saddle hanging in the rafters beside a trapeze and monkey bar confirmed Chandra did not lie about little things, which was what bothered me about Jill. A lean-to carport housed a Subaru wagon.
'I don't think I'd better go out on the road again,' Tilly said. 'I only wanted to see if I could open the gate and I could and before I could stop him, Spotty kept going. He's hard to stop if he doesn't want to.'
'Maybe he was glad to be out.' I gripped the reins near the bit and gently pulled them back. The highly educated horse stopped promptly and posed. I got the feeling that everyone around Chandra was well-trained. Probably even the chooks.
'Tilly, I think you're going to be a really good rider one day,' I reckoned. 'I ride bikes. Have you got a bike?'
'No,' she said uncertainly. 'Lenny has. We're staying here, but Lenny isn't.'
The young intelligent face showed two conflicting emotions for a moment.
'I've met Lenny, where is he? At his dad's?' I asked.
Tilly nodded, 'Sort of. Chandra won't have any males on the property except animals, but they're not allowed to have balls. Like there's no roosters. Spotty and me are going now.' She pulled a long, loose rein and flung her little legs out in big painless kicks.
''Bye Tilly.' I smiled at the charming kid.
'See ya,' she yelled, still kicking madly to no great effect on the stately, gelded Spanish Dancer.
Still blushing from Chandra's brush-off and unsaid undercurrents, I regained the car. Wallet, gear, everything shipshape. This was a dead-end dirt road. I thrust a k. d. lang tape in the
deck and her voice boomed from the four corners of the Sierra's quadraphonic acoustics. I sang the phrases I knew of 'Family Tradition' as I drove.
A milk tanker passed me. How can they get such a polish on white duco? Although I was thinking of something else, this semi jerked my recall. It felt like déjà vu, always an unsettling mental skip in time's game of ropes.
You would think gurls in the same neighbourhood would be friends. Whatever happened between Meghan and Chandra must have cut pretty deep.