Fishing for Stars (63 page)

‘Marg, I’m confused, I can’t ever remember you taking the slightest interest in politics.’

‘That’s why it’s an entirely new career, silly. But you’re right. I don’t want to be a politician. I want to be myself again.’

I grinned. ‘Marg, if I may say so, you’ve always been yourself.’

‘Only as much as men have allowed. Nick, you’re an Australian male, sometimes a fairly sensitive one, but still typical of the breed. By the way, I don’t suppose you’ve read the book I sent you?’

‘Ah, well, er . . . no. We’ve been in Japan,’ I protested.

‘I sent it five months ago,’ Marg pointed out.

I recalled picking it up at one stage. It was by an American writer and was called
The Feminine Mystique
. I remembered thinking I’d had my fill of feminine mystique for a while as I put it down again. ‘Sorry, I’ll get around to it,’ I promised.

‘Well, it’s about women having the same rights in society as men,’ Marg explained.

‘Don’t they? I know a couple of bossy women who qualify,’ I chaffed.

Marg missed the humour and rebuked me. ‘That’s crap, Nick!’

‘Well, yes, I suppose it is,’ I admitted, thinking of Anna and Stan McVitty and how she’d suffered at his patronising hands. ‘You’ll have to explain, I’m
only
a male.’

But Marg was suddenly in no mood for banter. ‘I started out in Naval Intelligence where, despite the traditional bias against my gender, my own intelligence counted for something. Put bluntly, Commander Long, the autocratic misogynist who ran the Australian Naval Intelligence Service, couldn’t afford to ignore me,’ Marg went on.

I remembered meeting Commander Long, a strange, abrupt man who often spoke in monosyllables. ‘Yeah, scary bloke,’ I chipped in.

Marg ignored my remark. ‘There was a war going on and they needed all the grey matter they could muster. If you look dispassionately at what I achieved, had I been a male I would certainly have been promoted to the rank of captain and encouraged to make the navy my career after the war. But I was a woman, wasn’t I? I’d married a commander, a bright enough bloke who did decide to continue in the navy.’ Marg paused. ‘Nick, I’ve never said this to anyone before, but it’s important to this discussion. Rob Rich would never have made it beyond commander without me; he lacked the drive, the ambition and, dare I say it, the brains. My post-war naval career simply became his. On the surface I was a wife and a mother, but let me tell you what I heard in the officers’ mess from one of his fellow officers a bit the worse for wear: “Bloody Rob Rich! Lucky he’s got a great-looking sheila on his arm. She won’t do the bugger’s promotion prospects any harm, let me tell ya. Admiral can’t take his eyes off her tits.” I was Rob’s good-looking handbag who could hold a conversation on navy matters with an admiral and who boasted as many service medals on my motherly breast as most of them. I was, in navy parlance, Rob’s major asset, the well-manicured hands pushing him in the small of the back. But still the hands that washed the dishes, changed the dirty nappies, cooked and cleaned and drove the kids to school.’ Marg smiled. ‘It’s all so predictable. As a woman you begin by taking the back seat as a wife and you end up taking the back seat in life.’

‘Marg, I had no idea. You’ve never spoken about any of this.’

‘Nick, don’t get me wrong, I loved being a mother. I have two loving kids, an adorable grandchild from each, and
like thousands of capable and bright women I did what was expected of me. But once your womb comes into play it’s all over. When Rob died I immediately became the admiral’s widow, a new persona with a slightly different job. Rob was dead, I was alive, but in his memory I was expected to play a new and as usual subservient role. I became the sausage-roll queen, the highlights of my life the next fete, garden party, veterans’ dinner, cadet passing-out parade, and so on. I could see myself getting a medal for my ten-thousandth sausage roll and composing a nice humble thank-you speech to acknowledge the honour!’

I laughed at the thought and accepted her empty glass and began preparing a fresh drink. ‘So what caused the epiphany?’ I asked, adding fresh ice and reaching for the gin.

‘You did.’

‘Huh?’

‘Our conversation before you and Anna left for Japan.’

‘Marg, I wanted to talk to you about that,’ I said hastily.

‘No, let me finish, Nick. The week before I came up to see you, I lay in bed thinking. Not for the first time, mind you. I was fifty-four years old, I’d kept my figure – I can still turn a few male heads walking down the street – yet I hadn’t felt the arms of a man around me for five years and in the last few years Rob . . . well, you know how it is with marriage. I was playing the role of Rob’s widow and hating it. But unless I remarried it was all over, my role was defined, set in aspic. And the thought of being married again was too ghastly a thought to entertain. Besides, the only man I’d ever loved, apart from the first few years with Rob before he became imbued with his own glorious image, was all too briefly you. I knew about Anna’s problem, of course. I also knew how you felt about me – you’d never stopped sulking about my marrying Rob.’

‘It wasn’t sulking. I was in love with you!’ I protested, handing her the drink.

‘Thanks,’ she said absentmindedly, accepting the glass. ‘Well, anyway, in the true manner of an Australian woman I came up with a compromise. You and I would get together for mutual tenderness. Anna was a part-time partner who spent a week a month with you. I was your cherished female friend who now spent a week a month at Beautiful Bay and who, like Anna, shared a history with you. What, I reasoned, was the difference? We would share you, but obviously play different roles.’ Marg stopped and smiled. ‘But for once in your life you were smart enough to see it wouldn’t work, that your loyalty lay with Anna. When you told me you’d given up your scattered surrogates, I knew it couldn’t happen. Then shortly afterwards, when I finally came to my senses, I realised that I was desperate to change my life and in the process had lost my judgment.’

‘Marg, whoa! Can I say something?’

‘No, not until I’m finished. Please, Nick.’

‘Sure.’

‘So that was when I had what you call my
epiphany.
I realised that Betty Friedan was right and Bob Menzies with his bushy eyebrows and smug superior father-of-the-nation expression was wrong.’

‘Betty Friedan?’

‘The book I gave you.’

‘Oh, yes, sorry. Is this what they’re calling women’s liberation?’

‘Well, men are calling it that; women refer to it as the feminist movement.’

‘There’s a difference?’

‘Of course! Liberation suggests something males are going to have to be persuaded to do for women; the feminist movement is what women are going to do for themselves. We don’t need permission.’

‘Hang on, Marg. Anna has never asked permission from a man. In fact, just the opposite, she uses me as a measure of what
not
to do. And you are never short of an opinion, darling . . . I don’t see you getting pushed around all that much.’

‘It’s not about personality, about asserting oneself, it’s about closed doors, doors that have a welcome mat laid out for men but any woman wanting to enter has to charge it with a battering ram. How many women are in parliament at present? Let me tell you. Two in the Senate, none in the House of Representatives. How many have there ever been? Six! And yet we’re half the population! Why do we get less pay than men for doing the same job? If Rob could make admiral, then, intellectually speaking, I should be head of the armed forces.’

I sighed. ‘Marg, you know as well as I do that that’s never going to happen. It’s all about having babies. You can’t have the prime minister or the head of the navy wet-nursing during a debate in the house or while conducting an operations briefing. I don’t mean that literally, of course, but that’s the whole male mindset.’

‘Why does it always come back to the womb?’ Marg lamented. ‘But you’re perfectly right, Nick. It’s going to take a long time to change, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t high time we started.’

‘Bravo! Is that why you’re going to study political science in Tasmania? Will you go into politics? Why not start at the State level? The door to the House of Assembly probably isn’t too sturdy to batter down.’

‘God, no, I told you, not a politician! How to lose friends and influence nothing! No, Nick, the feminist movement isn’t just about being an equal part of the male world. It’s about challenging the system and coming up with new and better solutions. There are new doors to open, not simply old ones to batter down.’

‘Jesus, Marg, how many lifetimes have you got?’

‘Nearly half of one, I hope.’ She laughed. ‘I have every intention of becoming a very forthright and cantankerous old woman.’

‘So, let me ask you again. What will you do with this new life as Marg Hamilton?’

She looked at me, almost appealing to me to help. ‘Nick, I
think
I know. In the last year I’ve read two books that have made me question a whole lot of things. Things are happening in America, Europe, even I suspect here.’

‘One of them being this Betty Friedan?’ I suggested.

‘No, I read that four years ago, not long after Rob died. Rachel Carson’s book
Silent Spring
had a big effect. She writes about the fact that we are drowning the environment in dangerous insecticides that are killing everything. She tells, for instance, how DDT persists in the environment, poisoning indiscriminately every living thing with which it comes into contact. Then shortly afterwards I read Paul Erlich’s
The Population Bomb
. The two books taken together make it plain that we’re destroying planet earth. We’re like a cancerous growth invading the precious tissue of Mother Nature. We are killing the means of sustaining ourselves; the earth, our host, is being poisoned with our wastes; our exploding human population can’t be sustained, and while we populate, everything around us perishes!’

‘Hang on, Marg, I still don’t see why you’re off to Tasmania.’

Marg ignored me. ‘That’s the third thing that happened. Shortly after you left for Japan
The Age
ran an article – no that’s wrong, they ran a comment, a couple of columns – on the subject of the Tasmanian Hydro-Electric Commission and its plans to flood a large part of the south-west of Tasmania, including the iconic Lake Pedder. Apparently there had been local protests in the past but I was unaware of them.’

‘Lake Pedder? Never heard of it! Why is it iconic?’ I interrupted.

‘They plan to flood a wilderness area, which includes the lake, with eighteen times the volume of Sydney Harbour that includes the lake which would have disastrous effects on the environment, on already threatened animal species and plants unique to the area. The lake, high up where the button grass grows, is also seemingly very beautiful and primordial, though not easy to get to and so is entirely pristine.
The Age
wanted to know what was so important about a lake few people would ever see and referred to the protesters as a mixture of long-haired hippies in need of a shower, university students in need of a cause and middle-aged women in twin-sets and pearls with nothing better to do with their time.’ Marg chuckled. ‘Well, I guess that was me. Menopausal, midway through life and searching for a cause.’

‘So, the rebel has found her cause, eh? The new feisty Marg is on her way.’

‘Well, hardly. I have no idea where it will all lead. But everything seemed to fall into place. The tone of the piece in
The Age
was so impossibly pompous and complacent and, well . . . wrong. I felt it was time for a new start. The protesters, who it seems are still at it on behalf of Lake Pedder, made me realise that there are people who care and that I also care.’ Marg hesitated, then burst out, ‘I am going to try to do something that I believe is important. With Friedan, Carson and Erlich as my guides. I’m fifty-four, fit, there’s nothing wrong with my brain, in fact it’s better than ever, and I’ve made up my mind.’ She paused. ‘What do you think?’

I was silent for a while, thinking about what I should say. ‘Marg, the first word that comes to mind is “bemused”, but it’s much too tame. Will “gobsmacked” do?’

‘Nick, it’s important I have your opinion.’

‘That makes a nice change. Anna usually asks for it only so that she can do the opposite.’

‘Well?’

I laughed. ‘Marg, what have you got to lose? Darling, you’ve got both my hands, chipped and callused, in the small of your back. Go out and make trouble. But have you got the practical aspects worked out?’

‘Thank you, Nick, darling. While you may not think so, your opinion is very important to me.’ And she began to reel off her plans. ‘I’ve taken stock of things as they are. If I sell the house in Point Piper and buy another, much cheaper, but just as nice, in Hobart, and invest the money I have over in something safe, then together with Rob’s navy pension I can afford the fees to go to university and still live reasonably well. The degree is so that at least I will be well-informed and nobody can look at me with that “What would you know, you’re
only
a woman?” look that men, particularly state politicians and navy officers, seem to cultivate as a necessary part of their persona.’ Marg chuckled. ‘
And
, as an activist for the environment I qualify in all categories except youth – I’m a student and a middle-aged female protester, I even have a set of pearls and I can always buy a twin-set, my hair is already long and I’m prepared to go without a shower once or twice, always providing I’ve got a deodorant stick in my handbag.’