She Walks the Line

She Walks the Line by Ray Clift

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Authors: Ray Clift
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accident and could only wear a caftan. He got to be a cross-dresser and Joyce always moaned about him stealing her underwear, which felt good against his burnt skin. He was in the front row with his socks pulled right up to hide his wobbly knees. He also had a sock fetish.
    â€™Ted, the strange one in the family – no one knew how he got there or what he did, he just moved in and was accepted, sort of like a lounge lizard – he wore pancake make-up with poorly applied bright red lipstick. They were both a sight. And they were pissed before the solemn event started.
    â€˜Their dogs and the neighbours’ dogs smelt the food on display and were jumping up trying to pinch some of the fish tails. Only three disciples turned up – Joyce couldn’t muster any morevolunteers, because of the snobbery to which she was exposed. The small group heard the sounds of message sticks and Aboriginal men turned up. They filled the seats of the absent disciples.
    â€˜Joyce made a grand entrance dressed in a nun’s outfit, supposedly Mary Magdalene. She tried to bring back some order with a narrative and urged one of her coached black kids to recite his lines. He stumbled and said, “On this night before the chooks speak, one of you will be betray me.” The Aboriginal men started to eat the food and drink wine in large gulps.
    â€˜It was too much for the older drunken relative named Dollie, now very sloshed, and she shrieked with her drunken devil’s laughter. The oldest black man looked at Bill and Ted and yelled, ‘Bloody ugly-looking sheilas, mate,’ and while all of this chaos descended, Uncle Ron had put the substitute record on full blast.
    â€˜The dogs jumped on the table and started polishing off the grub. Joyce whisked away the other wine jugs as it was forbidden then for black folk to drink. It fell silent when Mary Magdalene started to weep. Her friends comforted her and did a corroboree dance with the well known jerky movement.’ I took a big breath and looked at Martin and he knew there was an ending. I had him one.
    â€˜Auntie Joyce decided never ever again to have an Easter or a Christmas celebration. She prayed to God that night for her blasphemy, which she hoped would be forgiven. So, Martin, what do you think about that?’ I asked him.
    He was still shaking his head and not speaking so I had to put in my dollar’s worth before he did. ‘Are we mad or not?’
    He kept a straight face in spite of the memory of the recital. ‘I believe she was far ahead of her times.’
    â€˜The sad fact, Martin, is she thought it wasn’t funny.’ I could see him preparing another reply.
    â€˜I think you ought to sent it to John Cleese or some of that Monty Python cast.’
    â€˜Nowadays, mate, some wit would say, “Well, that went well.” What do you reckon, Martin?’
    He replied by rolling his eyes, with a tonsil tone, after swallowing a peanut.
    We were in Perth to catch up with relatives (what’s left of them) but most of them were on holidays so it was a quick trip in a tour bus to catch some sights of Perth and then back home.
    We booked a taxi to take us to the terminal. The cab driver was a chatty man and thankfully he did not recognise me in my wig and great sunglasses. But on the way, the back of my head was itchy. Something’s up, I thought.
    â€˜Have you got an enemy?’ the driver said.
    â€˜No, why?’ I enquired because it seemed a strange question.
    â€˜A big black four-wheel drive is following us.’
    We were close to the depot and stopped. The driver was paid and we jumped out almost into the arms of a TV journalist thrusting a microphone in my face. This isn’t just fan stuff, I thought, and it wasn’t: they were about to hound Martin.
    A man wearing a dark suit stood alongside and produced an ID card which read ‘PI’. ‘Are you Martin MacRae?’
    Martin nodded.
    The PI thrust

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