On Brunswick Ground by Catherine de Saint Phalle Page A

grumbles Bernice.
    Her face puckers.
    â€˜The problem is I often say “I love you” after the first date. I can’t help it. You are not supposed to do that, are you?’ she whispers guiltily.
    â€˜We’re in the same boat, Bernice. The man I love prefers the company of giraffes.’
    â€˜If I were you I would go and raid the Werribee Zoo.’
    I stare at her in horror.
    â€˜The very idea of it makes me feel seasick.’
    My reticence is a mystery to her.
    â€˜But why? You should shake him up or he’ll forget you all the more.’
    She also knows my story. I stay mum. Werribee Zoo looms so large it churns up the gigantic disproportion of the world you first experience as a toddler. I remember the first time I was fished out of my life. I must have been two or three. It was in the middle of a heartbeat high on a swing: when all I knew of the earth was a few rooms, the enormous wave of the earth swept up at me. Soon after that, I climbed towards a loft, heaving myself up each gigantic step. Completely alone in the dark, creaky, spidery silence, I stared through the tiny attic window. But I did not catch sight of Bluebeard or of the witch, as I expected – no, to my utter stupefaction there was a whole world out there and in a flash I understood the earth was round, just like my father said. But there are no swings, no attic steps from which I can fathom Werribee Zoo.
    Bernice smiles at me.
    â€˜Ah, don’t worry. We’ll be right.’
    At another table I catch a glimpse of a blue burqa. Could it be Mary? Green’s is a Brunswick hub. The blue burqa is talking earnestly to a blonde in jeans with a prim smile and a sexy blouse. She has to be a symbol too; it doesn’t seem fair otherwise. I turn and pretend to look at a picture on the wall so it’s possible for the possible Mary to have a chance of recognising me. Nothing happens – they are deep in conversation.
    Bernice is talking about IVF again.
    â€˜IVM is better,‘ she says, ‘more natural. They don’t mess with your hormones so much.’
    Bernice has beautiful hands. They lie near her cup and saucer like the hands of Virgins painted by Memling. They hardly seem capable of clasping the smiling child with the halo. They are hands to be kissed and adored, not nappy hands. I’ve seen Bernice’s hands do the dishes. They dive in and out of the water like tentative mermaids. The plates and glasses escape, tumble and slide within an inch of their lives. Still, Bernice gets things done. She pours herself into action with a kind of crazed devotion. It’s beautiful to watch because it all seems to happen by utter chance. And yet things land, safe – breathless.
    â€˜I haven’t bought a pram yet,’ Bernice sighs. ‘It would be a bit premature,’ she adds with her quaint dignity. ‘But I have looked for schools.’
    It reminds me of Bob Marley’s ‘I shot the sheriff, but I didn’t shoot no deputy.’ I ask her if she has a preference for a girl or a boy.
    â€˜A boy!’ her face falls. ‘I never thought of that. With my track record with men, I’d be in trouble,’ she sighs and then shrugs: ‘Oh, well.’
    I glance again at the possible Mary, and Bernice leans towards me and whispers:
    â€˜Isn’t it nice, that they can be exactly how they wish to be, here in Brunswick? Nobody cares, everybody wishes them well.’
    Just then, the blue face turns round and calls out something I don’t catch. I smile tentatively. She gets up. Now it’s Mary for sure. She moves towards me rather quickly considering all the blue in the way. In a second, her clear voice and common-sense tone are familiar to me again.
    â€˜How’s Melbourne treating you?’ I ask.
    â€˜Not too bad.’
    She then tells me her friend’s name and calls her over to our table.
    â€˜She was my tutor at university.’
    Bernice is good