Fall of a Bird by Louise McKenna

photoLouise McKenna was born in the United Kingdom and studied at the University of Leeds where she completed a joint honours degree in English Literature and French.  She now lives in South Australia.  In 2010 a short poetry collection, A Lesson in Being Mortal, was published by Wakefield Press.  In 2013 she co-edited Flying Kites, a Friendly Street Poets anthology, also published by Wakefield Press.  Her poetry has appeared in Mascara Literary Review, Cordite Poetry Review, Red River Review, Eureka Street and Poetrix.  Her work has also appeared in Light and Glorie, an anthology of South Australian poetry published by Pantaenus Press.  This year she was longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize and she was shortlisted for the same prize in 2013.  This is her first published piece of fiction.

Fall of a Bird

The bang makes her spin round as the bird hits the paving stones outside her lounge room window. It’s a honeyeater, tiny and beautiful in its gold and black plumage. Jen goes out into the yard and cups the insensate bird in her hands. It’s warm as blood and she can feel the rapid vibration of its heart. There is no time to nurse it. She feels a pang of guilt at the thought of leaving it, but she is running late already. She lays it in the shade.

Its wings have made a ghostly impression on the glass door. Strange, how this draws a tear from her. She does not normally weep over such things; having worked as a nurse for ten years has shored up some emotional ballast, yet this small tragedy moves her. Her mug of coffee sits on the kitchen top, but she feels a sudden repulsion for it and slings it in the sink. Another wave of nausea breaks over her. She feels depleted, a little down. This is a virus taking hold, she thinks, although she’s been like this now for over a month. She hopes her GP will shed some light from her blood results on Monday.

She glances down at her fob watch. Ten to six: that sparrow-farting, heart-sinking hour on Saturday before the early shift. Passing the open door of her daughter’s bedroom, she glimpses Polly, one arm splayed across the doona, the other thrown back on the pillow, the way she used to sleep as a baby. In a week’s time she will be four. Despite the celebration, Jen will silently grieve once more for the anniversary of the day she was told that no more children were possible. When they opened her up and lifted Polly out, there were ripples visible on the uterine muscle. She was told her uterus had been about to split apart, that it was perilously frail and inelastic. Then it failed to contract after Polly’s birth, resulting in massive blood loss.

During those first ten, sacrosanct minutes in which they worked to stem the haemorrhage, Jen prepared to face death, and she clung desperately to the edge of consciousness, determined not to fall into a pelagic darkness where she would not find her baby or partner. Afterwards they told her and Mark how Bandl Rings were the cause, the phenomenon indicating impending uterine rupture, first discovered by Ludwig Bandl. During those weeks of slow recovery, Jen had googled the nineteenth century obstetrician, and learned how he had spent his last years in an asylum. Her specialist had been straight with her. She remembers his eyes, bloodshot from too much work, or alcohol, when he recommended sterilisation. A rare problem. Very rare, her womb was dangerously thin, he said. Another pregnancy might kill her.

There is a violin case propped up by the door, and she thinks of Mark, how he will be up in a few hours preparing Polly’s breakfast in time for Dora the Explorer. His career as a music teacher allows her to work weekends for the penal rates that come in so handy. He’d played some Beethoven for her last night, the notes spiralling off into the room with a mellifluous sadness.

‘God, you look as white as one of those sheets,’ Sue tells her at the nurses’ station. They’ve just finished handover and are waiting for an eighty-four year old with a fractured hip to come in. Sue sets some tea before her on the desk before Jen feels her world tilt again, black snow dotting her vision. She sinks on to the chair and waits for it to thaw.

‘Have you got an appointment yet?’ Sue asks, searching her colleague’s face.

‘Yes, on Monday.’

‘Good.’ That is all Sue has to say, and the word trails in the air as she goes off to her duties. Jen has to delete an unbidden image of a tumour slowly rotting her away.

After her appointment late on Monday, how does she open the car door in the health centre car park, turn the ignition key and manoeuvre out? How does she drive home through the city’s craziest hour? She pulls up behind a ute, a demonic looking dog menacingly dripping strings of saliva over the tailgate, and vomits into a supermarket bag.

She arrives home almost disorientated. Her limbs move mechanically, as if her brain no longer communicates with her body, and she is swimming through air. She takes a shower. Afterwards, naked and dripping, she stands still and drinks in the emptiness of the house.

Mark’s text still shows on her phone: At Woolies, hope everything OK xxx. She throws on some clothes then walks through to the lounge room. Polly’s pink blanket is spilled across the sofa. There are two of her books on top of it. An arrow of grief enters her.

The bird is still there, motionless, under the garden fence. She walks out into the yard. The impossibly small engine of its heart ceased, perhaps hours ago. Its eyes are glazed and soulless. She kneels down, takes it once more in her hands. This time it is cold. She sees honeyeaters almost every day, darting back and forth among hedges and power lines, where they briefly arrange themselves like notes on a stave. She takes a trowel from the shed, scoops a hole in the humus beneath her roses and gives it a burial she hopes is deep enough to deter the neighbour’s cat.

Come and see me next week, her GP advised her. He spoke with some emotion, being fully versed in Jen’s medical history. How could she have known, that as an afterthought, perhaps acting on professional instinct, he had called the lab and requested a pregnancy check in addition to the other tests? So now it is on paper, the report confirming the incontrovertible evidence from a few millilitres of blood. Nausea, overwhelming tiredness, spells of dizziness. Not the symptoms of a tumour, but an eight-week old foetus struggling to make its presence felt.

 A very small chance of pregnancy. She remembers signing the consent form for the sterilisation, the smaller print insuring the hospital against all those highly improbable risks and complications. A very small chance. All life needs. She has a week to think things through; another week while the baby grows, swimming in the warm dark.

As she steps back inside the house, she sees herself in the glass door and above her, a perfect cloning of clouds in a blue sky, the same forgery of heaven that tricked the bird. The print of its wings is like the spread, phantom fingers of a minute hand. She reaches for a cloth.


Sam Langer

sam langer picSam Langer was born in Melbourne, in February 1983. He lives in Berlin. He edits Steamer and has published a chapbook, Law You Can Eat, with Munted Beyond Press. A second chapbook, Topaz, should come out in 2014. Recent poems have appeared in Otoliths, Southerly, and Outcrop. Contact: samuel underscore langer at yahoo dot com dot au.

Horizon Drinkers (after Pierre Reverdy)

Venomous dregs girt by sea jails
Vicious pearlers in boated collars
these men who shut their eyes in the warm cruise blood
these suspect men whose love lives on water

their eyes open like cages
staggering under blokeish cenotaphs
they go home in hollow bungalows
they hide themselves
and exile and bile and boredom share out
their hearts and minds like overripe fruit

The warm breaths on porches at thresholds
against the boulevards and the currents of night
the ports and beaches
the dead adventures
the flame badge detaches itself, ferments, and is rotting
the nostrils full of savage aftershaves
givings up
bestial fights
unseen agonies in the table shadows
the Tummies rolled under these tomb plaques
the ear sagging with obese words
and too beautiful names
under the frozen forehead arch sharp arrows of desire
this evening the spirit was troubled by an irritating task
to book departure
the world’s blank verso on freshly constructed roads
on hopeless quayside strips toward sudden returns

to leave this type of leaf, always to leave
to run

Chris Wallace-Crabbe

IMG_2112Chris Wallace-Crabbe is an octogenarian metaphysician whose generous accolades include participating in a reading series with Iraqi poets Fadeel Kayat, Jamal Al-Hallaq, Sudanese poet Afeif Ismail, and Chilean poet Juan Garrido-Salgado. Thereafter, he was anthologised in a ground-breaking transnational collection, Poetry Without Borders Ed Michelle Cahill (Picaro, 2008). Having conferenced with the legendary likes of Andrew Motion,  Alastair Niven as well as Mulk Raj Anand, Kamala Das, Raja Rao, Eunice de Souza, G.V Desani and Raj Parthasarathi, he describes himself as a post-colonialist with history being the ultimate arbiter. Carcanet published his New and Selected, while his latest collection is My Feet Are Hungry (Pitt St Poetry) and Afternoon in the Central Nervous System is forthcoming with Braziller, New York.

Cardamom Country

Well, yes, I’ve always been intoxicated by India,
a rich Everywhere which can’t possibly resemble us
       (except in playing cricket, either straight or bent),
let alone the notorious gravity of beer-drowning Belgium and Wales,
being a technicoloured macro-country of hill station and spice
plus devilmaycare characters like Babur and Kimball O’Hara
and at best reminds me of every adventure I relish,
not excluding the nursery land of green ginger which
may well have been Cathay.

It could be that India is a collective subconscious,
but I can let that one go through to the ‘keeper
tricked out in glorious silks and golden bangles.
       My dad lived there through years of war;
I love the way they sustain the English language,
though why we call it that only the Krauts will know,
(bespectacled, growing esteem among literate historians);
a tongue that tricked wryly past Norman bastardisation
holding hands with a lovely Latin of inkhorn learning
in order to produce dinky-di oxbridge Australian
or laboured essay prose from catholic schools,
but which in their spicy landscape is melodiously
delivered from high up the oral register.

On my very first visit to those curried shores
I flicked my passport open to an inclining clerk
who cut to the paper chase quickly and demanded,
“Who is the greatest English poet?” and when
I roundly demurred at Shelley, proffering Shakespeare,
He could cope with that, riposting blandly,
“He was not for England , but for all mankind”.
He passed me on to the dodgy taxi-drivers, Hanuman
and Petrolpants, into the southerly smileage of Madras
with pluncake in Spencer’s emporium.

Back in those days even when the street beggars laughed
and our hotel drummer wanted to eat the cook; no,
it was the other way round, like sari-bright India:
that bulky chef was devoured of all. Whatever
passed by meltingly became him: or her.
and I suffered only once from Akbar’s Curse,
but that was in a posh quarter of Delhi,
not on the elephantine Great Trunk Road
in some lean-to-café with hot sugary tea.
I filled the shower with shit for a couple of days.

Trivandrum was another story again,
literate, breeze-laved, anticipated from childhood,
a southwest version of rapture’s roadway far,
       while necklaced with glinting lagoons.


Anne Elvey reviews Bluewren Cantos by Mark Tredinnick

PSP_BC_cover_sq_hiresBluewren Cantos

By Mark Tredinnick

Pitt St Poetry

ISBN 978-1-922080-32-5

Reviewed by ANNE ELVEY

When Bluewren Cantos opens ‘With Emily in the Garden’, the reader hears a beguiling voice. In shorter lines than is often the case with his work, Mark Tredinnick weaves the tropes of attentiveness to the other, mortality and finitude, together with his wry humour, to tell a
loving engagement with place, human persons and otherkind. This is poetry as blessing. It is a poetics of witness where observation is astute and singular:

In the lower branches a rufous fantail turns
And demurs, displaying his tail the way a cardsharp
Shows his hand—giving nothing but grace away.

(‘With Emily in the Garden’, p. 2)

There is a gentle mix of the sublime and the mundane, so that we are invited to let such dualisms be undone in us:

                   … Crows
Came to vacuum the last stubs of daylight
From under the feet of the eastern greys,
Mobbing the riveroaks and downing last
Drinks along the river.

         Until later, Bach kicked
The door in and sat with you on the couch,
And you knew you’d never spend
A better day alive again on Earth.

(‘A Day at Your Desk All Along the Shoalhaven’, pp. 6-7)

Emily Dickinson and JS Bach inhabit these poems. They are joined from time to time by Mozart, the Buddha, Hindu gods and even sometimes the memories of a Protestant Christian old time religion. Charles Wright wanders through in the shape of many of the poems but despite the similarities in line length, form and a sometime irreverent sacrality, Tredinnick’s voice is distinct from Wright’s. With Vedas and Eclogues, Partitas and Cantos, Nocturnes, Sestets and even a deconstructed sonnet, Tredinnick writes both with an ear to older traditions of sacred and poetic writing and with a feel for the way form and music work on and in the body.

In the title poem, ‘Bluewren Cantos’, it is as if the writer’s body is itself the site of writing, and the writer “becomes for a time, a place. Painted by blue wrens.” The poet is an instrument of place, writing and being written by it. In ‘Margaret River Sestets’, for which Tredinnick won the Cardiff Poetry Prize, the poet develops this theme of relationship to place, as a kind of addiction or falling in love, around which there is some ambivalence: “My whole life an addiction to country, falling forever for places/that were never going to be any good for me.”

The language of love and eros that Tredinnick uses to express this dance of relationship with place and otherkind often employs the feminine in ways that reinforce problematic identifications of women and nature, such as can function to devalue both. Ecofeminist philosophers describe this problem. The late Val Plumwood’s approach is highly nuanced: while the “backgrounding and instrumentalisation of nature and that of women run closely parallel”, and this backgrounding involves a “denial of dependence on biospheric processes”, women [and men] need to “consciously position themselves with nature” (Feminism and the Mastery of Nature, p. 20). I doubt stereotyping of either women or what we sometimes simplistically call “nature” is Tredinnick’s intent as he makes explicit, and unsettles, a poetic or ecopoetic vocation—for example in ‘The Wombat Vedas’, for which he won the Newcastle Poetry Prize, where we read: “I’m writing a kind of confessional ecology here,/and you mustn’t believe a word” (p. 11). The poet is witness, a participant observer who exercises an ethical self-suspicion, reminiscent of Judith Wright, who says in her poem ‘Two Dreamtimes’ addressed to Oodgeroo Noonuccal, “Trust none—not even poets” (Collected Poems, p. 318).

Tredinnick wants to “tell it slant”, as he suspects the world does: “The world works best when it misses/Its mark”, and sometimes a poem works best when it surprises with a twist on the known: “still the river is a habit that can’t quite shake me”.

The poems of Bluewren Cantos are something like blues, a lingering music with a bit of a swagger and a bit of philosophy thrown in for good measure. At times they are breathtaking:

Winter is the slowness in us all,
         the world at prayer. Winter
is a picture of how one remembers
And gets on with it, anyway: a peaceable kind of
Resistance, a protest performed
         by surrender to the exquisite
Blind etiquettes of the actual world.

(‘Resistance’, p. 115)

While I wonder at ‘blind’ (and in another poem at the use of ‘spastic’ as an adjective), the word fits the flow of the line and much can be forgiven for the articulation of such a con-cept—”the exquisite … etiquettes of the actual world”—and the suggestion that the poet might surrender to these etiquettes.

Bluewren Cantos rewards reading and re-reading. Among my favourite poems there is ‘Cro-cuses’, a three part immersion in a day of heavy rain, on which the first crocuses of the season appear. As Phillip Gross says on the cover, in some senses every one of Tredinnick’s poems is a love poem. Among the many poems of love and family in this collection, I was particularly taken by the dream of a staid grandfather preacher rapping and dancing at the pulpit. The col-lection ends fittingly with an epilogue entitled ‘The Trees’ and its one poem ‘It Matters How We Go’. The poem remembers the late Seamus Heaney. Here ‘walking/Is a prayer the trees seem disposed to answer sometimes’.

In conclusion, Tredinnick’s ‘Lyre Lyre’ encapsulates much that is distinctive of his work. The feminine reference, surprising because it is the male lyrebird that has the more diverse repertoire, is strong, working to effect a layering of Beloved as partner/lover, bird, place, perhaps also a/the divine. The repeated lyre of the title suggests that the poet is not only riffing on the bird as performer, but inviting the reader to attend to his (the poet’s) lyric performance. In this poem, as in so many others, there is a gentle but wry interweaving of attention to an other and a kind of love that spills between human relationships and other than human ones, celebrating kinship and mourning loss, so that all love is more than human. In ‘Lyre, Lyre’, as in Bluewren Cantos as a whole, Tredinnick strives to capture an ecotone in language, to write us into an environmental culture, into the habit of ecological ensoulment.


Plumwood, Val. Feminism and the Mastery of Nature. London: Routledge, 1993.
Wright, Judith. Collected Poems 1942-1985. Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1994
ANNE ELVEY is author of Kin (Five Islands Press, 2014) and managing editor of Plumwood Mountain: An Australian Journal of Ecopoetry and Ecopoetics. She holds honorary appointments at Monash University and University of Divinity, Melbourne.

Jamie King-Holden

Jamie King-Holden lives in Melbourne and studies literature at Deakin University. Her first book of poetry, Chemistry, was published by Whitmore Press in 2011. Her poetry has appeared in Antipodes, Capsule,  Dotdotdash, Eureka Street, Ekleksographia and Verandah. She was shortlisted for the Gwen Harwood Poetry Prize in 2010 and was guest emerging writer for the Mildura Writers festival in 2011.


the crux

the first time you have a fever.
Saturday’s dying and you let your
umbrella melt at the door.

we zigzag to shadow, newly drunk.
find the queer wilderness of skin,
kiss and slur.

the clock halts and spills, Daliesque.
on the wall women in frames
glow and look on.

your open mouth’s a small sun
that asks my neck for a poem
over Abbe May.

when you’re inside me, at the crux
I only render this: carnal apple, woman
filled, burning moon. 

carnal apple, woman filled,
burning moon.


The Skit by Roanna Gonsalves

IMG_8071Roanna Gonsalves is an Indian Australian writer. She is currently a PhD candidate at the University of New South Wales, Australia, researching how writers are created in the contemporary Indian literary field. She is the founder-moderator of the South Asian Australian Writing Network.




One November night in Sydney, Roslyn adjusted the dimmer on her new Ikea floor lamp. Her living room was full of the Bombay gang. They had gathered to meet John Greenaway. He was Paul’s client, and the Director of the Australia India Festival of Culture, Social Harmony and Business. Roslyn had been adjusting that dimmer every time she walked past the lamp, going brighter, going darker, until she was satisfied that the room looked cosy yet sophisticated, much like the cover of the Ikea catalogue itself.

Suddenly, Sushma clapped her hands and said, “Okay everyone, Lynette has written a skit. She’s going to read it out now.”

Roslyn, by then, was at the breakfast bar, arranging her beef roulade on brand new Belgian crystal. She had been saving up her last packet of Goan chorizo just for tonight’s beef roulade. She would welcome John with a plate full of this offering in her left hand. Her right hand she would leave free to place on his back and guide him in. When Sushma made this totally unexpected announcement, she said, “Er, Sushma, we’re expecting John any minute now.”

Paul said “He’ll be late, he just messaged.”

Sushma looked at Roslyn for permission to continue. Roslyn shrugged her shoulders.

Most of the Bombay gang were still on student visas, still drinking out of second hand glasses from Vinnies, and eating off melamine plates while waiting and waiting for their applications for Permanent Residency to be processed. Lynette was one of them. She was Paul’s neighbour from Bombay, now enrolled in an MBA at a university in Sydney. Paul and Roslyn were the lucky ones. They came to Sydney not as students, but on a secondment from Paul’s multinational accounting firm. It was Roslyn who convinced Paul that they should stay on, become Australian citizens, because it thrilled her to be anonymous yet striking in the undulating uniformity of Sydney’s affluent lower North Shore.

In the background Elvis was booming through Paul’s new Bose speakers, You Ain’t Nothin’ But A Hound Dog. Lisbert, an accounting student, had just stood up, stretched out his arms towards Lynette, about to ask her to jive. But when he heard Sushma’s announcement he retracted his arms and sat down again.

“Oh,” said Paul, turning around. “A skit? You mean like a play? Didn’t know we had a Salman Rushdie in Sydney.”

“Salman Rushdie doesn’t write plays,” said Sanjay, another accounting student. “Novels he writes.”

“Same thing yaar, for any kind of writing-viting you have to have a good command of the language”, said Paul.

“I always say, if you have the Queen’s English you have everything”, said Roslyn.

“If you can write novels, you can write plays,” said Paul. “Salman Rushdie, if he tries to write plays, again he will make millions, again he will get a fatwa, again he will marry a model…”

“But Paullie, do you really think novels are the same as skits?”

“C’mon, let’s hear it,” said Sushma. “She’s written it, let’s hear it!”

Lynette opened the embroidered cloth folder and lifted a few handwritten sheets of paper into the white light.

Lisbert turned down the volume and turned on the yellow house lights. Lynette nodded ever so slightly, without taking her eyes off her script. She began to read. “It was a dark November night …”

Suddenly Roslyn stood up.

Lynette stopped reading.

Roslyn said, “One sec Lynette, I’ll draw the curtains.”

When she was done she sat down again and flicked her hand indicating that Lynette could continue. So Lynette started again.

This was the first time she had ever read her writing aloud to anyone, let alone to a whole group of people. She faltered at the start, her tongue tripping on the opening lines of dialogue. But soon, she took the silence in the room for interest, and was encouraged.

The story was an amalgamation of many stories in the newspapers that year. A girl comes to Sydney on a student visa, attends a private college, and studies hairdressing. Like many others before her she has been promised Permanent Residency in Australia, or PR, by her migration agent, by her private college, and by the man who stamped her visa. The fees are more than what was advertised in the brochure. When she complains to the Student Welfare Officer, he is very sympathetic, invites her to his house, and after a glass of Reisling, begins to kiss her. She initially resists like the good woman of Hindi films and convent schools. But he is cute and keen and accurate. She succumbs to the callings of her own body and his. However, in the throes of passion he says, “Call me Mountbatten”. Then, eyes closed, he breathlessly proceeds to call her a stinking curry muncher cunt. She is stunned. She runs away immediately and decides to lodge a complaint of sexual assault and racism through the local courts. He contests the allegations and, playing on the latest cricket match fixing scandals between India and Australia, he counter alleges that she was attempting to buy him with sex. The story climaxes with a dramatic courtroom scene, and ends with the girl being deported and the Student Services Officer going scot-free.

Lynette finished reading.

There were brand new crystal glasses on the coffee table in front of Lynette. The light from the floor lamp made them glow like compliments.

She asked, “So? Was it ok?”

Still, there was silence.

Then Roslyn said, “Oh my! That was, that was…. God! You poor thing, why didn’t you tell us you were going through all this!”

Lynette had imagined all kinds of feedback. For weeks she had practiced witty comebacks to questions about the dialogue, the sex scene in the story, the decision to reflect India through the broken mirrors of diasporic memory. But the assumption that the skit was autobiographical took her by surprise.

“No no, I didn’t go through any of this…”

Again, a silence full of pity and a collective Catholic ache to be helpful.

“Really! Nothing like this happened to me. Seriously.”

“You mean to say you made it all up?”

It’s…what’s it called…fiction or something?”

“Yes,” she said.

“So it’s not true then.” Roslyn got up and pulled the curtains back.


Sushma’s eyes were red from the tears she was freely shedding. “Such a beautiful story!. You are so brave, I mean, the girl is so brave and … so….so…. Poor thing.”

Lisbert said, “Forget your MBA, you should take up writing. See J.K. Rowling, she’s rolling in cash. What will your MBA give you? Nothing compared to that!”

Paul, who had not even taken one sip of his whisky during the entire reading now drained his glass and said, “Lynette, Lynette! Who would have thought the little two year old girl I saw running around in her panties in Barfiwalla Building in Byculla would one day write plays like Salman Rushdie!”

Sanjay inhaled sharply, but Paul ignored him and continued, “Superb! So proud of you, my girl! Didn’t know that students who come here suffer like that. So terrible that she was deported.”

Sushma said, “Shit yaar! What a heart-wrenching ending! Forget Hollywood! Forget Bollywood! This is heaps better! You can start an Aussiewood all by yourself!”

Sanjay reached for the beef roulade and put a piece in his mouth. The only other time he had heard of beef and pork together was in relation to the bullets, smeared with the fat of the cow and the pig, that sowed the seeds for 1857, the First War of Indian Independence.

“Nice bullets” he said, and gobbled up a second piece.

“Beef Roulade. High time you Hindu buggers learnt the proper names for Catholic food”, Roslyn said.

“Sorry. I was just…”

Sushma interrupted Sanjay. “It was so real what you wrote! So typical of men in power, they always abuse it, especially when there is a succulent and exotic thing in front of them.”

Sanjay said, “Lynette, give me your autograph now only yaar, when you become famous you’ll forget all of us.”

Sushma said, “This John Greenaway who is coming, read it to him, maybe he will…he will…requisition it, put an encumbrance on it, or whatever it is they do with plays, you know what I mean.”

Lynette said, “If John Greenaway likes it, then who knows, I’m ready to quit the MBA and write full time.”

She looked at Paul and Roslyn. “It’s ok if I read it out to him, isn’t it?”

Paul poured himself another stiff drink. He was drinking scotch because he couldn’t find the feni, made by his uncle in Saligao, Goa. The minute you opened the bottle the aroma spread across the room, it was that good, the feni. He took a sip of his scotch and said, “Of course. Read it, read it, he’ll be very impressed. A female Salman Rushdie in Sydney, he’ll be impressed. And my neighbor after all. Tell him you got it all from me!”

Sanjay inhaled sharply again, but Roslyn said, “You know me, I don’t beat around the bushes. The play is great, you are a great writer. But when you talk about the Student Welfare Officer, he’s Australian?”

“Yes”, said Lynette.

“A proper Australian?”

“Yes”, said Lynette.

“White?”, asked Roslyn.

“Proper Australians are blacker than us”, said Sushma.

“White, white”, said Lynette.

“Like John Greenaway,” said Roslyn. “We don’t want to offend John Greenaway. He’s also Australian. He’s also in a position of power. He should be here anytime now. What if he thinks you had him in mind?”

“I didn’t…”

Paul added, “Poor fellow just got divorced.”

“Wife left him,” Roslyn interrupted, “Don’t want to offend him.”

“That’s true,” Lisbert said. “Don’t want John Greenaway to get the wrong impression about you”.

Lynette looked at him, pushed her hair behind her ears.

“Yes, better leave him alone”, Paul said, “Recently divorced…”

“Wife left him,” Roslyn interrupted again.

Lynette began to look through her manuscript.

“What if I make the Student Services Officer half white and half Aboriginal?”

“You mean like that newsreader on TV?” Sushma said.

“That way John Greenaway won’t be offended,” said Lynette.

“What if John Greenaway has Aboriginal blood too?” Lisbert asked.

“Arre baba, Sanjay said, “See, if Aboriginal people can be white, then white people can be aboriginal, right or not what I am saying?” All Whites in this country have Aboriginal blood in them”.

“You mean on them”, Sushma said.

“In them”, Roslyn corrected her. “Queen’s English.”

Sushma stayed silent. This was Roslyn’s house.

“You can’t make an Aboriginal character a perpetrator, even if he is only half Aboriginal,” said Sanjay

“Who says?” said Lisbert.

“It’s just not done!”, Sushma said.

“It’s all politics…” said Lisbert.

“Arre! Forget politics-sholitics” said Sushma, turning to Lynette, “First the blacks will kill you. If you are still not dead then those Greens will eat you alive.”

“Greens? But they’re vegetarian.” said Lisbert.

“Doesn’t matter. For her they will make an exception.”

There was a pause. Then Rosyln said,

“You’ll just have to take out the Student Services Officer”.

Sanjay reached for the beef roulade and put a piece in his mouth.

Lynette said, “Take out the Student Services Officer? But…”

After he had swallowed the beef roulade, Sanjay said, “Lynette, one small thing, but I think I should mention it, don’t want you to get into trouble.”

Lynette turned towards him.

“In the court room scene, you actually mock the judge! That’s a bit risky, don’t you think?”

“Very risky”, Roslyn said.

“I mean, you’re a superb writer”, Sanjay continued. “What emotions you have captured! But why risk it? So many years, so much money you have spent here, lakhs and lakhs of rupees. Why risk your PR application being rejected?”

“That’s true,” Lisbert said. “You really deserve to get PR Lynette.”

“You have to make the judge look good,” Paul said.

“Just take out the judge,” Roslyn said.

“Take out the judge?”

“As long as it’s grammatically correct. Queen’s English.”

“But the judge is…”

“You don’t need to have all that drama in the court room. Just make her get a letter or something at the end, giving the details of the verdict. You can do the letter in capitals so we know it is different from the other parts of the story. Times New Roman.”

“But you can’t see Times New Roman on stage.”

“The point is this. It has to be the Queen’s English.”

Paul opened the showcase to look for the feni but he couldn’t see it. So he poured himself another scotch.

“Do you know John Greenaway’s wife?” he asked.

“Ex-wife,” Roslyn said.

“John Greenaway’s ex-wife. You know she’s some big shot Professor, femin…femin…

“Feminist”, said Roslyn.

“Feminist”, said Paul. “She was going on marches-farches when she was young. Sharlene Connor I think her name is.”

“Oh! Sharlene Connor! I know her. She’s at our uni, right Sushma?” asked Lynette, “In the Arts Faculty, Humanities Faculty, whatever it’s called.”

“She’s at your uni? You purposely made the victim into a man-hater? Because of John Greenaway’s wife?” Paul asked.

“Ex-wife,” Roslyn said.

“She comes across as a man-hater?”

“No no”, said Lisbert.

“Yes, yes, very hateful”, Paul said.

“I didn’t know she was his wife!”

“But if John Greenaway hears the victim’s speech and he finds out which uni you are in, he will think that you are mocking him, that WE are mocking him!” said Paul.

Roslyn said, “You know I like you Lynette. Don’t get me wrong. But John Greenaway is coming home to relax, get some comfort after his wife left him, eat some homemade vindaloo, not just curry from a Patak’s bottle or something.”

“I’m so sorry I…”

“He’s a great lover of Indian culture. He should be here anytime now. He’s going to support our Indian Catholic Association of Sydney. Now you will go home and go to sleep. Life will go on for you. But what about us? We are the ones who will be blamed. After all he is coming to our house. Your play mocks him in our house. He will think we are taking the mickey out from him. Even the Queen’s English cannot hide this fact.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“No need to say sorry, it’s not like you’ve sinned or something.

“Thank you for…”

“I know you didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I didn’t.”

“And I know very well about metaphors and metonymy.”

“She is first rate in Grammar and Composition”, said Paul.

He’s Paul’s client, don’t forget that. You know what Gandhiji said. Customer is God. So I say John Greenaway is God.”

He’s divorced, watch who you’re calling God” Paul said.

“Wife left him”, she reminded him, “not like it was his fault. You know what white women are like.”

Sanjay reached out for the beef roulade again and put another piece in his mouth. Just then a cock crowed. It was Paul’s phone. Roslyn reached across to the mantelpiece, picked up her Japanese hand fan bought on a holiday in Boston last year, and began to fan herself quickly.

“Same as Indian women” Paul said as he put his phone on silent without even looking at it. Then he cleared his throat.

“If you want to be Salman Rushdie you should be prepared for a fatwa,” he said.

Lynette cracked her knuckles.

“But why a fatwa when you’ve spent so much, waited so long, worked so hard for permanent residency?” Lisbert said.

“A fatwa is not a good idea on a student visa,” said Sushma.

“Tear it up,” Lisbert whispered in her ear, holding his face close to hers for a moment longer than appropriate.

She turned her face to him and for the first time, looked into his eyes.

“I’m tearing it up”, she said.

She didn’t recoil when his hand squeezed hers.

Then she said loudly, “Don’t say anything to John Greenaway when he comes. About my skit.”

Sanjay found a napkin and wiped his oily hands clean.

A breeze of absolution blew across the room and recalibrated it.

Sushma hugged her.

Roslyn looked at the crystal plate and saw that there was only one piece of beef roulade left on it. She put the plate away in the oven.

Lisbert went across to the CD player and turned up the volume. By then the CD had moved on to Love Me Tender. He held out his hand to Lynette. She took it. They danced in front of everyone, not quite cheek to cheek, but there would be time for that.

Paul spotted the feni at the back of the showcase. He brought it out carefully, poured a neat peg for Roslyn and presented it to her.

But she had already rewarded herself with Riesling. She turned off the houselights and sat in her favourite armchair, watching the pirouette of the Bombay gang. Crossing her legs, she held her brand new crystal goblet in her left hand. Her right hand she dangled over the armrest. She brought the wine to her lips. She breathed in the room unfurled before her. It was now enveloped only in white Ikea light.