Other Voices
The Advanced Writers’ Group wish to acknowledge Peter Cowan Writers’ Centre Inc for organising workshops for the group during 2013, and their ongoing encouragement and support of West Australian writers. We thank Ffion Murphy and Susan Stevens for their role in leading this workshop series and express our sincere gratitude to the generous and knowledgeable workshop facilitators: Ffion Murphy, Amanda Curtin, Susan Midalia, Kevin Price, Richard Rossiter, Colleen Egan, Ken Spillman, Trevor Todd, David Whish-Wilson, Vivienne Glance and Terri-ann White.
Our gratitude to Richard Rossiter for acting as substantive editor for our stories, and for identifying prominent themes in his Introduction, and to Ken Spillman for his generosity in reviewing our stories and providing the Afterword. We are also grateful to guest speaker Susan Midalia for launching the anthology.
We thank artist Lisa Maree Hinton for providing the cover image from her painting, Faith. Gary De Piazzi photographed the artwork and Justin van Didden provided our cover design.
Amanda Gardiner, Rashida Murphy and Josephine Taylor acted as copy editors, Sue Braghieri and Julia Mackay-Koelen spent long hours on typesetting, and Hannah van Didden was our project planner. John Hollywood was our launch emcee, ably assisted by the talented catering and set-up team: Dawn Fisher, Julia Mackay-Koelen, Rebecca Collins and Wilma Mann.
Finally, we give special thanks to Sue Braghieri for her outstanding organisational abilities as our project and publicity coordinator.
Peter Cowan Writers’ Centre Inc. – www.pcwc.org.au
Lisa Maree Hinton, artist – e: lisa@phcprojects.com.au
Gary Colombo De Piazzi, photographer and poet – http://www.redbubble.com/people/gcdepiazzi/shop
Justin van Didden, cover design – e: justin.vandidden@gmail.com
Introduction
What You See
The Line
That Hand
The Long Goodbye
Moonyoonooka
Accident
Lessons
The Gift
Ella’s Secret
The Moon Still Speaks
Afterword
Authors’ Biographies
Advanced Writers’ Course
In this small collection of stories from Peter Cowan Writers’ Centre Inc there is a noticeable emphasis on narratives that draw directly on life experiences—in the form of auto/biography and memoir. The degree of fictionalisation varies from one story to another, but the ‘truth telling’ conventions remain. This is very much in tune with the tenor of our times where there is a deep interest in, if not fascination with, ‘true stories’.
Only two of the stories work outside of the ‘real’: Hannah van Didden’s ‘The Gift’ and Amanda Gardiner’s ‘Lessons’.
Wilma Mann’s ‘What You See’ is a story related by Rachel, an oral historian, who is interviewing a great-grandmother—a lively, perceptive ninety-five year old who gradually reveals a life story of abuse at the hands of a violent husband. This is not, however, a story of defeat. Mary is a survivor who has certainly risen above the circumstances of her earlier experiences. ‘The Line’, by John Hollywood, is an autobiographical account of a baby being left for adoption at a Catholic convent. Hollywood explains the significance of the title:
‘The line’ was a term used to indicate where each child was to stand, so that potential parents could select a boy or girl to take home. The selection process happened every third Sunday of the month, at two o'clock in the afternoon. The line started at the front door and extended about twenty yards along the passage to the violin room.
Throughout, the tone is matter-of-fact which, I think, makes the story all the more effective.
Josephine Taylor’s ‘That Hand’ contains a contemporary narrative of a woman, Alice, and her historical counterpart, Emily, both of whom, notes Taylor, ‘may be experiencing a condition now known as vulvodynia’. In the historical narrative the role of the treating doctor and the husband, Arthur, are seen as paramount and the woman significantly disempowered in the decision-making. The power relationships have improved for the contemporary Alice—but in some ways her husband, Duncan, is less empathetic than his counterpart, Arthur.
Issues of power and illness are also at the heart of Sue Braghieri’s ‘The Long Goodbye’ which depicts the confusion and fear of Gerard as he deals with the development of dementia. His daughter Victoria is taking him with her on her annual visit to her mother’s grave—which is also a form of long ‘goodbye’. Most telling, however, is her realisation that she is farewelling the father she used to know. Dawn Fisher’s ‘Moonyoonooka’ is an account of living through a cyclone in the eponymously-named district outside Geraldton. There are glimpses of her family life, which include the everyday challenges of raising a young family living quite remotely.
In a different mode is Rebecca Collins’ ‘Accident’, which deals with the moral quandary of what to do when a couple, Virginia and Jeremy, get caught up in a hit-and-run accident in a foreign country—firstly as spectators, but then as participants. At the end it poses the question as to whether the past can ever, effectively, be ‘reshaped’ to ensure a particular version of the future.
We enter the world of the fantastic in Amanda Gardiner’s ‘Lessons’, which in ‘Expectation’, as moral fable—with its evocation of loss, separation and desire—suggests there is a price to pay for security. In ‘Responsibility’ there is a merging between the appropriately named Rose and the natural world of water, fish and trees to create a ‘magical place’. In similar mode is Hannah van Didden’s ‘The Gift’, a time-slip story concerning a new fence between neighbours which has, unintentionally, a gap in it. This ‘portal’ allows, literally and metaphorically, the intersection of two worlds, past and present, where two little girls, Lizzie and Eliza, meet up. It will, presumably, be their only meeting because it serves as a precursor to the death of the ‘old lady’ next door.
In a shift to a strictly realist mode, Julia Mackay-Koelen’s ‘Ella’s Secret’ confronts the reader with the tricky situation of interviewing a young girl, Ella, about possible abuse by an adult male who is a ‘stranger’. It details, very effectively, the sensitive yet persistent questions of the interviewer and Ella’s strategies for avoidance. The final story, evoking a very different level—and world—of abuse is Rashida Murphy’s ‘The Moon Still Speaks’. It is the story of Sohrab who came to a ‘dusty little village’ to stay with the narrator’s family. He is from Shiraz, a city which still resonates with him. He is enchanted by the moon. Sohrab’s family is killed during the revolution in Iran and yet, within the family that embraces him, there is some semblance of normality. In the end, however, Sohrab does not escape; he is certainly not untouched by the traumas he has suffered.
The stories in this collection give voice to a variety of experiences—and in particular to those who are, typically, unable to speak loudly and clearly for themselves.
Richard Rossiter
October 2013
Wilma Mann
‘Hi Mary, it’s Rachel. Your message said you wanted to talk to me, something about wanting to add to your story?’
‘Hello my dear. Nice of you to call back so quickly and, yes, there are a few things I’ve left out. I wondered if you have the time to come back again.’
‘No worries Mary, but I’ll have to call you back once I’ve checked my diary. I’m driving at the moment.’
‘Oh my goodness, you shouldn’t be talking ...’
‘It’s okay Mary. I’m on hands-free.’ I have to laugh, a ninety-five-year-old woman worrying about me!
‘Alright dear, I’ll wait for your call. Bye bye.’
Ten minutes later I park in our driveway and struggle indoors with arms full of shopping. It never ceases to amaze me how much food we eat in a week, unlike dear old Mary who eats less than a bird. She’s incredible for her age, and living proof that the ‘eat less, do more’ theory works. When I first heard about her from her great-grandson, I was sceptical. Twenty years of recording oral histories has taught me that most candidates over the age of eighty-four are disinclined to tell their ‘stories’ to an outsider. Their memories are faulty and only came to the fore when prompted by a member
of the family. And it’s usually the family, who have suddenly come to the realisation that all those great stories granny or grandad has told over the years will be lost when they pass away, that want the stories recorded. I tried to convey this to Ian, but he was insistent.
‘Gran’s not like that, Rachel. She’s up for it, I promise you. In fact at ninety-five she’s more with it than us.’
I could believe that. Two of Ian’s brothers were drinkers and the other one into heavier stuff. Their long-suffering wives had given up on them, but Ian was different according to Carole, the friend who had given him my name.
‘Ian’s the white sheep in a mob of black ones,’ she’d told me. ‘He has a few beers, but that’s all. He runs his own haulage business and he’s a real family man.’
‘She can run rings round me and my brothers,’ Ian said. ‘She’s a current affairs freak, she still does the crossword in The Australian, and she uses an iPad and an iPhone! Seriously, she’s really on the ball, and she’s got a wicked sense of humour. She’s great. I’d be devastated if the old girl dropped off the perch and all her stories went with her.’
Ian had persuaded me it was worth a try so I agreed to call his ‘amazing relic’ and have a chat on the phone before I made any commitment. He was happy and sure I would be surprised. He was right. Mary impressed me from the minute she answered her mobile. She was articulate, decisive and eager to meet me and record her life story, so I set up a preliminary meeting.
Two days later I knocked on the front door of her villa. I waited ... and waited for what felt like an eternity, and knocked again. Still no response. I decided to call her. I heard her mobile ring—its tune was Alex Lloyd’s ‘Amazing’—and laughed out loud as the door handle turned slowly and Mary appeared, leaning on her Zimmer frame.