spear-throwing arm far into the deep roiling waters of the Wattamolla.
There was a sigh then like the first breath of a storm through treetops, and all of us stood blankly. The tall one stood like a plucked bird, his large hands empty by his sides, and I stood feeling gooseflesh on my skin. Even Warra was abashed after his moment of glory, and stood as ungainly as a few snapped sticks.
It was the ugly boy who moved first to mutter something slyly to the small one. He nodded and spoke to the tall one, who sighed and spoke back gloomily. The sound of his voice made Warra bold again, and he seized me by the shoulderâit would have been by the hair if there had been enough left on my headâand forced me away from the strangers. I could manage only one backward glance before he grasped my chin and turned my head away: I struggled, as any woman of destiny would struggleagainst being thrown off the stage of history, but I knew Warra would always be too strong for me. I shrieked farewell to the witnesses of my moment, but heard no answer, only the unsteady roar of waves against sand, and the whistle of wind in dry dune grass.
I was a woman now, and ripe for history: or if not history, at least some muddle of flesh against flesh. But that bald father of mine was always too strong for me, guarding me against my own flesh, recognising its hunger, and behind his guarding I remained, reluctantly, virgin territory.
Father knew when I was expected to be intelligent on a bench at the university, taking notes and having my mind improved by the great men of the past. Hurry, Joan! He would stand at my door, watching as I dawdled in front of my reflection in the mirror, and in his anxiety his mouth would form the slippery old words of another country. Hurry, you will be late, the philosophy is at nine oâclock. So under his scrutiny I would tie my hair up in a scarf and hurry out past Mother smiling her baffled smile, watching her tall daughter swinging her book bag in a dangerous sort of way.
After the lecture I could never be sure that I would not see his gleaming head among so much unruliness of young hair, and have him take me by the elbow, practising his best English, saying rather more loudly than necessary in his desire that everyone should recognise his grasp of idiom: Come on Joan, we will have some bites to eat, I know this part of town like the back of my head. I would be willing to hurry away with him because, although I loved to be stared at and be the centre of some sort of spectacle, I liked the spectacle to be of my own making.
He knew, of course, that I had dealings with young men in the lecture halls and libraries, but he dismissed with a shrug those he saw. At home, when he spoke seriously after dinner of my future, he did not speak of purity, or incorruptible vessels, and even less of respect or virtue. They have no prospects, Joan, he said. We came here, your mother and I, leaving our home, only for the prospects. He relished the whole idea, swirling the whisky and ice in his glass and placing a tweed elbow carefully on the arm of his chair, but I did not relish what he had in mind for me. I am my own prospect, I told him, and heard my voice loud and nasal, as foreign as possible from the smooth outlandish English of which he was so pathetically proud. He laughed, thinking me a girl of spirit who would make a fine fiery wife and an electric exclaiming kind of mother when the time was right, and he cared only that I should remain intact.
In the meantime, he could not care much that I cut my hair off in a way that outraged the pink-faced wearers of broderie anglaise, and dyed it every different colour that the frowning chemist could offer me, so the unintended final result was a sort of shot green: he did not even care very much that the scarf I tied around my head, making my mother smile nostalgically, did duty later as a blouse, tied precariously around my flat chest. Father was still too foreign to know
There was a sigh then like the first breath of a storm through treetops, and all of us stood blankly. The tall one stood like a plucked bird, his large hands empty by his sides, and I stood feeling gooseflesh on my skin. Even Warra was abashed after his moment of glory, and stood as ungainly as a few snapped sticks.
It was the ugly boy who moved first to mutter something slyly to the small one. He nodded and spoke to the tall one, who sighed and spoke back gloomily. The sound of his voice made Warra bold again, and he seized me by the shoulderâit would have been by the hair if there had been enough left on my headâand forced me away from the strangers. I could manage only one backward glance before he grasped my chin and turned my head away: I struggled, as any woman of destiny would struggleagainst being thrown off the stage of history, but I knew Warra would always be too strong for me. I shrieked farewell to the witnesses of my moment, but heard no answer, only the unsteady roar of waves against sand, and the whistle of wind in dry dune grass.
I was a woman now, and ripe for history: or if not history, at least some muddle of flesh against flesh. But that bald father of mine was always too strong for me, guarding me against my own flesh, recognising its hunger, and behind his guarding I remained, reluctantly, virgin territory.
Father knew when I was expected to be intelligent on a bench at the university, taking notes and having my mind improved by the great men of the past. Hurry, Joan! He would stand at my door, watching as I dawdled in front of my reflection in the mirror, and in his anxiety his mouth would form the slippery old words of another country. Hurry, you will be late, the philosophy is at nine oâclock. So under his scrutiny I would tie my hair up in a scarf and hurry out past Mother smiling her baffled smile, watching her tall daughter swinging her book bag in a dangerous sort of way.
After the lecture I could never be sure that I would not see his gleaming head among so much unruliness of young hair, and have him take me by the elbow, practising his best English, saying rather more loudly than necessary in his desire that everyone should recognise his grasp of idiom: Come on Joan, we will have some bites to eat, I know this part of town like the back of my head. I would be willing to hurry away with him because, although I loved to be stared at and be the centre of some sort of spectacle, I liked the spectacle to be of my own making.
He knew, of course, that I had dealings with young men in the lecture halls and libraries, but he dismissed with a shrug those he saw. At home, when he spoke seriously after dinner of my future, he did not speak of purity, or incorruptible vessels, and even less of respect or virtue. They have no prospects, Joan, he said. We came here, your mother and I, leaving our home, only for the prospects. He relished the whole idea, swirling the whisky and ice in his glass and placing a tweed elbow carefully on the arm of his chair, but I did not relish what he had in mind for me. I am my own prospect, I told him, and heard my voice loud and nasal, as foreign as possible from the smooth outlandish English of which he was so pathetically proud. He laughed, thinking me a girl of spirit who would make a fine fiery wife and an electric exclaiming kind of mother when the time was right, and he cared only that I should remain intact.
In the meantime, he could not care much that I cut my hair off in a way that outraged the pink-faced wearers of broderie anglaise, and dyed it every different colour that the frowning chemist could offer me, so the unintended final result was a sort of shot green: he did not even care very much that the scarf I tied around my head, making my mother smile nostalgically, did duty later as a blouse, tied precariously around my flat chest. Father was still too foreign to know
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