Selected writings from a creative writing course I completed recently
In praise of lovers
Yemmerawanyea sat uncomfortably in the chair that had been provided for him. He squirmed and wriggled on the lumpy cushioned surface, feeling the coarse material of his striped worsted breeches under his thighs. He also wore buckled shoes, a frilled collar with silk cravat, a blue and buff-striped waistcoat and a salt and pepper coat. Bennelong and he were guests of honour at a fashionable house in Mayfair. Smells of soap, powder and perfume refused to settle in nostrils accustomed to sea spray and eucalyptus leaves. A string quartet was playing Variations in F minor by Joseph Hyden, although to Yemmerawanyea the sound was like a flock of screeching galahs.
He was somewhat accustomed to the music of the British colonists who had arrived in his country only five years earlier. On one of the first ships to arrive in Sydney Cove was a piano and he had listened, fascinated by the songs sung and pieces played. As a young teenager he had been keen to get to understand the strangers and their ways. However, he had also been initiated as an Eora man, having had his front tooth removed and he had inherited the songs and dances of his elders.
He had jumped at the chance to sail back to England on board the ‘Atlantic’ with Governor Phillip. Since being in London he had been taken to St Paul’s Cathedral and the Tower of London. St Paul’s was like a mountain to him, hard to believe it was man-made. He had been to a performance at Sadler’s Wells which had included acrobats, musical pieces and even a re-enactment of a military operation. The show had ended with a comedian, who he had not understood at all. London was such a strange dream. He longed for skins and feathers from home, known Dreamings.
Coming back to the itch in his legs, he looked anxiously at his friend Bennelong who squirmed in unison on the chair next to him. He whispered to Bennelong that he yearned to remove the layers of clothing and return to the gentle feel of possum skin against his own. Bennelong grunted his ascent along with an Eoran gesture which indicated he should watch his tongue. Both men were confronted by the smells of refreshments which were bought into the room on trolleys – a range of freshly baked pastries including biscuits, cakes, custards, puddings, pies and tarts. Confectionery included candied and conserved flowers, fruits, and roots, as well as jellies, marmalades and decorative ‘sugar-works’. Drinks offered were tea and cordial. Yemmerawanyea settled for a biscuit and cordial, his nerves not allowing any further indulgence. Besides, his taste buds were more used to yams, oysters and kangaroo tail.
The string quartet finished the piece and all eyes turned to the Aboriginal pair with a look of keen expectation. They were to sing a song from their homeland. Both men agreed on a song which was in praise of lovers. This saved them the embarrassment of singing taboo songs which only certain members of the Eora tribe are allowed to sing. The pair stood up and moved their chairs aside and sat cross-legged on the floor. They held a wooden ‘clap-stick’ in each hand and started by holding one stick on the ground in front of them. Using the other stick they begans tapping a regular rhythm…..clap…clap…clap, clap, clap…
Barrabula barra ma, manginè wey enguna
Barrabula barra ma, manginè wey enguna
Barrabula barra ma, manginè wey enguna
Barrabula barra ma, manginè wey enguna
At the end of the song polite applause rippled through the room, interrupted only by Yemmerawanyea’s wheezing cough. It had worsened over recent days.
London leave
Archie stepped off the Folkstone to Victoria train with a spring in his step. To think he had been in a muddy trench only a week ago, fearing for his life as a bomb exploded nearby, seemed inconceivable. The privations, discomfort, noise, stench and fear faded away. Instead his senses became accustomed to the damp smell of a drizzly London day and the bustle of a London station platform. Soldiers struggled to get their packs through the crowd, alongside daily commuters wrestling with their small cases and umbrellas. A female platform attendant directed pedestrian traffic with a loud whistle.
Archie was buoyed by the throng of pretty girls who waited at the platform entrance. He heard comments of “Bravo boys, welcome to London” and “well done Australia”. A dark-haired girl slid her arm through his and Archie, only just turned 25, felt a surge of pride. He sensed a warmth spread through his body, despite the dreary day. “Well thank ee kindly” Archie replied. He was going to enjoy his leave in London.
Hang on a minute Archie was from London – he had only left the city 7 years earlier – attracted to a better life in Perth. A shy teenager grown into a confident young man under southern skies. When the opportunity arose to sign up with the AIF, Archie had jumped at the chance to return to the ‘old country’ and visit his parents and brother and sister. But with the attention from the girls Archie was happy to be an Australian for now. In emigrating he had adopted a more care-free outlook on life, loving the outdoor existence and can-do attitude. He was swinging along the platform in the free and easy Aussie style. Besides, the Tommies didn’t get the same kind of welcome. Archie cocked his feathered hat to its side and walked out of Victoria station, now with a girl on each arm.
Before heading for his digs at Horseferry Road, Archie was steered into a pub which was seething with men and women. He was surrounded by clouds of talcum powder, soft pink and white flesh, the smell of cheap perfume and the promise of a sweetheart. After a few drinks, Archie lost all sense of being organised and practical (he was due to sign in at AIF headquarters) and got swept up in a sing song and an orgy of kissing and cuddling. Archie became more of a drunken lout, tarnishing his clean-cut reputation. But he was beyond caring. He, along with a whole bunch of newfound mates, spilled out onto the pavement where disapproving looks met him at every turn.
In the evening Archie headed to His Majesty’s Theatre to attend a benefit concert for wounded Australian soldiers. Archie felt sorry for his wounded mates, some with missing limbs and others just holding a blank stare. Archie thought the programme rather boring; all the pieces were British, and it wasn’t possible to sing along. At the end of the concert, in true Aussie larrikin style, Archie shouted “coo-ee” and it wasn’t long before his call was answered, and the auditorium rang out with whoops and cheers. They would write a song about this evening.
Sing us a song of Australia
The land we know so well
Sing us a song with any old rhyme
Of a Land where sun shines all the time
If you haven’t a song of Australia
To cheer us o’er the foam
Shout “Coo-ee” “Coo-ee”
Twill remind us of home sweet home
Performing window
I gaze into the Church of St Sepulchre and cast shards of coloured light onto stone floors and wooden fixtures. Azure blue, cobalt green, framboise red and jacaranda purple all dance in space as branches scatter dappled sunlight through me. In the evening I channel amber streetlight but in the dead of night moonlight paints its pale palette. The occasional adoring face stares back at me but for the most part I have lasting peace. I am joined in this place by fellow musicians, Sir Henry Wood, John Ireland, and Walter Carroll, who similarly filter light through their own coloured panes. The Musician’s Chapel is often filled with live music - sometimes I even hear some of my own.
The admirers looking up at me remind me of all the performances I made during a career spanning 50 years: in London, Paris, New York and my hometown of Melbourne. I even named myself after this beautiful southern Australian city. To my left is the Royal Albert Hall where I sang 26 times, on the right my spiritual home, the Opera House in Covent Garden. Surrounding me are 10 nightingales, all warbling their beautiful songs and sometimes they almost sound as good as I did. I sang the last innocent notes of Desdemona as she was killed by Otello and felt the ravaging effects of tuberculosis on poor Mimi in La Boehme. I poured my heart into song, sensing every note.
I launched my career in London and spent many years in the city, but I still call Australia home and that is why the Commonwealth coat of arms is to my right - a shield depicting symbols of Australia’s six states supported by a kangaroo and emu. Above me sits Saint Wilfrid, Patron of the Arts, with the protection of violin playing angels above each shoulder. Australian native flowers envelop me with their scents - Grevillea, Desert Flame, Kangaroo Paw, Lilly pilly and Bottlebrush. Scattered at my feet are red roses, thrown with love and admiration by my adoring fans. The applause has found a resting place in my ears. Curtain call after curtain call. Encore, encore, brava, bravissima!
Have I told you that I have four foods named after me? Melba Toast was named after I became ill in 1897. I was so sick that I could only manage thinly sliced toast topped with either melted cheese or pâté. It goes well with soup or salad. The others are Melba sauce, a sweet purée of raspberries and red currant and Melba Garniture, chicken, truffles and mushrooms stuffed into tomatoes with velouté sauce. My favourite though is Peach Melba, a dessert of peaches with vanilla ice cream and raspberry sauce. I couldn’t resist placing some peaches in the bottom right-hand corner of my window.
You can listen to me if you’d like, as there are a few scratched and thin recordings of my voice. I’m afraid they don’t really do it justice reflecting the rather inadequate technology of the time. The critics will not be kind. However, I’ll remain in this sanctuary for all time, continually performing and not having to do yet another comeback, the great number of which I am fondly remembered for. Do return, I’d be delighted to sing for you again.
Separated by 190 years
Kate hung at the back of the group as the tour leader herded them out of the main entrance of the Tate Gallery and turned to the left. Having arrived from Australia that morning it was no wonder that she lagged behind. The first glimpse of the old penitentiary wall appeared on the left and the leader, Rob stopped them and pointed animatedly along the line of the wall, clearly indicating one of the sides of the old octagonal wall.
Kate turned over the round metallic object in her hand, feeling the slightly rough edges and the smoothed front and back surfaces. She detected the remaining indentations on the coin and knew by heart what was written there: ‘A token of love from John Harris to Ann Taylor’ on one side and ‘When this you see remember me when in a foreign Country, Feb 25 1830’. The coin love token had been handed down through her family. John Harris was Kate’s great, great, great grandfather. Ann had been left behind in England when John had been transported to Australia for his crimes. She later joined him after he had received a conditional pardon in 1842. They had made their life together as successful farmers in southern New South Wales.
Kate struggled to keep up as Rob was leading the group to the next stop, a beautiful garden at the back of the high-rise Millbank Centre. Rob asked them to take a seat on benches facing the wall. In front of the wall a depression in the ground marked where a moat had encircled it. Again, Rob was enthusiastically pointing out how the wall turned to follow its next octagonal side and how the arms of the pentagonal prison building would have loomed up behind it. He described what life had been like for the prisoners, what they wore and how they were forbidden from talking. Kate, though, had something of John’s voice in her hand. She was sure she could hear a faint tapping on the other side of the wall. She imagined him patiently hammering the words into the coin, his back against a damp wall, nostrils filled with the stench of too many people in one space. Fashioning his own leaden heart. Her delicate hand merged into his.
John would have passed through Millbank Penitentiary to be processed for transportation to Australia, following his committal at the London Gaol Delivery in early February 1830. John had been part of a gang who had attacked a man called Thomas Webb, stealing his watch. Kate walked across the remains of the moat and stood against the wall which towered over her. She ran her hands over the bricks, feeling their roughness. She imagined John touching these bricks from the other side of the wall. His hand black and careworn touched hers. In her reverie Kate could hear voices singing:
Now I’m bound for a foreign land,
Against my inclination,
Yes – I must leave my native home,
Which fills me with vexation,
As I am bound for Sidney’s coast,
Nature still does bind me,
To think of her I do adore,
The girl I left behind me
Kate realised that Rob was leading the group in song. Kate was reluctant to join in but as she did, she felt even closer to her ancestor. Her voice singing in harmony with John’s. The old Millbank Penitentiary walls contained the memory of John. It was the same place, only separated by 190 years.