On Brunswick Ground by Catherine de Saint Phalle

Brunswick seems to know about Jack. We are all knitted together in a Brunswick sweater – like the knitting those women wrap around tree trunks and streetlights.

6
    GLOW-WORMS
    Whenever two women walk together in the streets of Brunswick, every sound they make floats freely in the air, every step they take is inscribed in the land. When I’m walking, I often catch myself following in their wake to catch swathes of their conversation. Soon enough, what I am waiting for happens: one or the other will inevitably let out two words in a slow, sensual monotone: ‘I knooooowww,’ she’ll say. What she knows matters little, what matters is that her companion is no longer alone in solitary flesh, but loosely moored to the floating, harmonious lament bobbing at her side.
    Now I am walking along Sydney Road, within the soft perimeter of where I live and work, soft with familiar sights and signs – a cement garden where people swear easily and kindly, even mothers of two year olds. I recognise the walks, the tilts of heads, the tattoos and the piercings, the unshaved jaws and the shaved heads. I recognise the black-dressed old women with gnarled hands and bright eyes – those who are still living, in all but their bodies, in the small villages they have come from. They are trapped in an Italy that no longer exists – even if they go to ‘Colees’ or ‘Safeways,’ even if they say ‘no vorries,’ Brunswick is a parallel universe for them. Their husbands sit in front of cafés and nod to each other, sipping hard liquor in tight espressos, peering straight through the flow of passersby. Then they walk back to their Victorian homes, where they have removed the cast-iron lacework and cemented over the front gardens, keeping their lemon trees and vegie patches for the back, to disappear into their severe, spotlessly clean interiors with their oilcloths on the tables, their crucifixes, their photographs of the current Pope and – because they know how to manage shutters, blinds and night air – their cave-like coolness in summer. Even though spring is still teetering, today’s a warm, sunny day and the crowds – like just after a war – are walking aimlessly. Women of all ages and nationalities, trendy, academic, arty or businesslike, drift along the footpath with the same unspent load of love, while the trams, held between cable and rail, thunder past doggedly.
    Bernice wants to have a coffee with me. It is 1 pm and I am running. Bernice is rarely late. Green’s on Sydney Road is packed, but she’s purloined a table. I queue for the coffees and bring them to her. She wrestles to pay me back. When I won’t give in, she jumps up to buy a cake. Bernice’s generosity is connected to her sciatic nerve. It’s compulsive; she has to give. And the world takes. Men especially. Birthdays, Christmases, good news, an exam, a good mood, anything is an excuse for Bernice to give a present. At the moment, she is on RSVP.
    â€˜These men just flick through the photographs and choose a different woman each night,’ she complains as we wait to be served.
    It does not occur to her to do the same thing, even though, from what I sense, she’s a highly organised romantic.
    â€˜If someone contacts me, I sail into the date dressed to the nines, teetering in my tight skirt and my high heels …’
    I can imagine her warpath make-up and her heart beating too fast – a bright Victorian butterfly sailing into the Net.
    â€˜They never call me back,’ she says. ‘They only go for the pretty girls.’
    â€˜But you are pretty, Bernice. That would be the exact word to describe you.’
    I look at her. Her fluffy dress, her warm breasts, her camellia skin are a soft lolly waiting to be unwrapped.
    â€˜There must be an explanation. It doesn’t make sense.’
    She exhales a violent sigh.
    â€˜You have to play hard to get,’