Art Ache Read online

  But there have been many times when I’ve wished my love affair with theatre would end. When I’ve had a string of unsuccessful auditions, or no auditions at all. Then it’s like a lover who’s rejecting and/or ignoring me, pitching me against other women who are my type, comparing our height, our looks, our ability, sometimes even our teeth. And if you are the lucky one who gets the job, then the reality is theatre pays very little money and requires long hours. Then it’s gone, merely a memory once the show closes. It’s ephemeral. Theatre lives on in the audience’s mind, or not at all, depending on the quality or power of the production. Ironically, that’s part of its charm and power.

  But despite all its shortcomings, theatre has a power over me. I return time after time. And the next time involves working with my soon-to-be ex-husband.

  Let me paint a picture. I’ve written the play and he’s directing it. He’s also dramaturge. That’s like an editor, but it’s more than that. In the true German tradition, the dramaturge is a theatrical scholar but also a confidante, pedestal, rock, mentor. The dramaturge provides support, encouragement, clarity, and a reference point of professional excellence. The fundamental ingredients for a successful writer/dramaturge relationship are mutual respect, open communication, and the ability to work constructively together. Right now, it’s three strikes and we’re out. There is no respect, completely closed communication, and frankly, I’d like to destroy him from the base of his pasty white feet to the top of his early-onset-balding head.

  I let out a deep sigh, switch the bedside lamp off and roll over onto my side. I’m gutted by the emptiness of the bed. Bruised by the silence of the room.

  Chapter 4

  The next day. Mum and Dad’s house.

  “Love Art in yourself, and not yourself in Art.” Constantin Stanislavski.

  I’m late. The voice-over took longer than it should have and the afternoon traffic was worse than I thought it would be. I pull into Mum’s driveway and race to the door. It’s always unlocked.

  MUM

  (Calls out)

  In the kitchen, love.

  She’s been baking with Jack. I can smell the buttery, fresh-from-the-oven biscuits.

  JACK

  Mummy! Look what we made!

  Jack smells buttery too as I pick him up for a big hug and breathe him in.

  MUM

  How clever are you?

  JACK

  Very.

  MUM

  Go and wash your hands in the bathroom, sweetheart, and grab your toy bag.

  Nice delivery, Mum. You sound firm, but loving. You have a warm smile on your face. Stop, Persephone. This is no time to be assessing your mother’s performance or delivery of the script. Back to reality, my friend.

  JACK

  Okay, I’ll wash my hands.

  My mum doesn’t wear a lot of make-up. I’m reminded of this as I look at her flushed but happy face. She’s glowing.

  “I don’t want to look like mutton dressed up as lamb” has always been her catch cry. “I’ll use a bit of mascara and a bit of lipstick, but I’m not putting eye shadow anywhere near my face.” Eye shadow is definitely the paint of the whore as far as my mum’s concerned. Fair enough. And she doesn’t look like mutton. She looks like Mum. Her skin is still good. Wrinkled, but clear and soft. Her eyes are bright and although her hair is a bit mannish, it’s healthy and has a nice sheen to it. Each time I discuss the issue with my sister, she fires up.

  SISTER

  What is it with old women wanting to look like blokes? Jesus Christ, they stop menstruating and then they think that’s a cue to start growing balls. No wonder their husbands don’t want to fuck them.

  She’s very direct, my sister.

  ME

  How do you know their husbands don’t want to fuck them?

  SISTER

  Would you?

  ME

  Well, no.

  SISTER

  See? Why do they have to make it so challenging for the man in their lives? It’s hard enough to please a man when you’re hot, let alone when you’re a dry old post-menopausal wife who refuses to pluck herself or wear lipstick.

  ME

  Mum looks nice. She’s ageing, but she’s doing it without chemical assistance, and I respect that.

  SISTER

  I can guarantee I won’t be that brave when my time comes.

  ME

  Well, she looks fine and dandy to me.

  SISTER

  You’re living in a fool’s paradise, sweetheart.

  Am I? Probably. Right now, all I know is that I don’t know how to broach the subject of Boofhead with my mum. I shouldn’t call him that. I should call him by his real name, especially when talking to my parents. If I use Boofhead, they’ll have no idea who I’m talking about. Call him by his real name—Tom.

  Okay, how do I broach the subject of Tom with Mum? I was in a rush when I dropped Jack off so I didn’t go there, but now, I feel I must. I can’t keep it from her forever.

  I’m overwhelmed by the significance of the statement I need to make, so I opt for a warm, reassuring hug instead.

  She’s starting to smell old. Only slightly, but it’s there. Mingled with the Red Door Dad bought her for Christmas from the Malouf Chemist’s sale and the Mum roll on anti-perspirant, there’s that faint old-lady-smell. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Just starting to creep in. I have no idea why she insists on wearing Red Door. It dates her, throws her right back to nineteen eighty-something, but at least she’s moved on from Jean Nate. Well, she had to. They stopped making it. You could buy Jean Nate at the chemist for less than fifteen dollars. It was a bargain and it actually didn’t smell too bad. But it was so bargain basement. So Mum.

  My sister brought her a bottle of Chanel No. 5 duty free last time she went overseas, but Mum can’t bring herself to wear it. “I’ll keep it for good.” Not a great idea when you live in our steamy climate. The “good” occasions that warrant Chanel No. 5 tend to occur just after the perfume has gone sour. But Mum doesn’t let that stop her and there she is at every family gathering (that’s considered “good”), resplendent in her “good” slacks, “good” earrings and “good” perfume. You go in for the hello hug and are assailed by slightly off Chanel No. 5. Not so good.

  ME

  We’re getting a divorce.

  I blurt it out before I’m ready to say it and definitely before she’s ready to hear it.

  MUM

  A what?

  ME

  D.I.V.O.R.C.E.

  MUM

  Loretta Lynn.

  ME

  Tammy Wynette, actually.

  MUM

  She’s getting a divorce? Isn’t she dead?

  ME

  Not her. Us.

  MUM

  Us who?

  ME

  Boofhead and me.

  MUM

  Who?

  Oops.

  ME

  Sorry, I meant Tom. Tom and I.

  Mum sits down on the edge of her favourite armchair and looks like she might cry.

  MUM

  I don’t understand what you’re saying.

  ME

  Tom and I are getting a divorce.

  MUM

  But you’re married.

  ME

  Not for much longer.

  MUM

  But . . . why?

  ME

  He wants one.

  She sits straighter than before and her spirit rallies. A moment of feistiness.

  MUM

  Of course he does. They all do. But you can’t possibly let him have it.

  ME

  I don
’t have a choice.

  MUM

  Nonsense. There’s always a choice.

  ME

  No Mum, there isn’t. He’s over it.

  MUM

  I hate that phrase.

  Mum swallows deeply, pushing her tears away. She always does this. Crying is something she doesn’t like doing.

  MUM

  You young people use such ridiculous phrases. “Over it.” “It’s all good.” ”Random.” What on earth do they mean?

  ME

  Well, “over it” means I’m over it. Fed up, had enough. The end. You get the idea. “It’s all good” means/

  MUM

  /He can’t be “over it”. Marriage isn’t a fence. You don’t get “over it.”

  ME

  Apparently, you do.

  Her face is contorted into an anguished grimace, holding back the tears.

  MUM

  (whispers)

  What about Jack?

  Then she calls out to him in the other room, trying to stall him. Protecting him.

  MUM

  Make sure you pick up all those blocks, young man.

  JACK

  (calls)

  Okay, Grandma.

  She’s all choked up, but is determined to dam those tears. They will not fall. However, despite her iron will and years of stifling, the tears have a mind of their own today and start to drizzle down her cheeks. She cries so infrequently that when she does, it’s like she’s gagging. She tends to save crying for life’s major events, like the baby she lost. The one between my sister and I, the one she’s sure was a little boy. And for the death of her parents. And the death of Dad’s parents. And for the time my sister got a tattoo and showed all and sundry at a family dinner. And now for this, her daughter’s impending divorce.

  She lets out a sob. It’s involuntary and scares both of us. More sobs follow. They’re strangling each other as they come out of her throat. They’re embarrassing, repressed and somehow shameful. I wish she’d just let them out. Howl at the moon, Mum. But no, she continues sobbing and crying, snot cascading from her nose, mingling with the salty tears.

  I give her a hug. She keeps up the whisper.

  MUM

  How did this happen?

  ME

  What do you mean, how did it happen?

  MUM

  Well, these things don’t just come out of the blue.

  ME

  Sometimes they do. I don’t know.

  She’s using an accusatory tone and I’m losing my through-line, my objective, my intention. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to tell her. I release the hug and sit opposite her. She retrieves a hanky from her bra and wipes her nose. She gives it a good blow and wipes her chin.

  MUM

  You always know. Husbands don’t just turn up one day and tell you they’re leaving. There’s a process.

  ME

  Not this time.

  MUM

  Of course there’s a process.

  Why do I suddenly feel like I’m the one who’s done something wrong?

  MUM

  There must have been problems.

  ME

  Name one relationship where there aren’t problems.

  MUM

  Your father and I.

  Denial is a powerful weapon. Dream on, Mum.

  MUM

  Your father and I have been happy for as long as I can remember.

  ME

  You’ve had problems, Mum!

  MUM

  Of course we have, but you don’t just give up.

  ME

  I haven’t.

  MUM

  It sounds like you have.

  ME

  I haven’t. I went to see a counsellor.

  MUM

  So you were aware of something.

  ME

  I thought I might have been depressed after the baby.

  MUM

  Jack’s a big boy now.

  ME

  I know, but I was unhappy.

  MUM

  Why didn’t you tell me?

  ME

  I was mildly unhappy. But the counsellor seemed to think the problem was the marriage. She thought we could work through it. Maybe. Anyway, she suggested we go on dates.

  MUM

  What a load of rot! Dates? God help us. The last time your father and I went on a date was 1963! Man hadn’t even walked on the moon! Dates?!

  ME

  What am I supposed to do? Tie myself to his car, beg him not to go?

  I don’t want her to answer these questions. She doesn’t.

  MUM

  Oh well, it takes two people to have a relationship, you know.

  ME

  And one to end it.

  My voice cracks on the word end. Now I’m crying.

  MUM

  I’m sorry, love. Come here. I‘m just shocked, that’s all.

  ME

  Tell me about it.

  She gives me a big Mum hug, complete with a couple of hard pats on the back. It’s like she’s trying to burp me.

  ME

  We had problems, Mum. Most people do, but I thought we’d stick it out. I thought he was committed.

  MUM

  So you didn’t want it to end.

  ME

  No. But how do you admit that you still want to be married to someone who doesn’t want to be married to you?

  MUM

  The writing was on the wall when he bought that car.

  Everyone’s an authority after the fact.

  MUM

  A bloody sports car.

  ME

  It was a hatchback.

  MUM

  Same thing. All he needed was a tattoo and an earring.

  ME

  He’s got a yin yang symbol on his arse.

  MUM

  Mind your language, love. Just because you’ve been dumped doesn’t mean you have to become common.

  ME

  I haven’t been dumped!

  MUM

  Yes you have.

  ME

  I haven’t!

  MUM

  Suit yourself. Your counsellor wasn’t much chop, was she?

  ME

  I like her.

  MUM

  Well, she didn’t save your marriage.

  She has a point. But I don’t think I was looking for the counsellor to save my marriage. I was looking for her to diagnose the problem. She did that within five minutes. I think I’ll need to check back in and get that lifejacket and those swimming lessons she mentioned. But in the meantime it’s all about survival.

  MUM

  Suggesting you go on dates? That’s what you do before you get married. Once you’re married, there’s children to raise, a home to run. Once you’re married, the lay-by’s been collected. There’s no need to make any more payments. If you’re not happy with the purchase, tough luck, because there’s no bloody refund. Buyers beware, I say.

  ME

  The dates were part of an ultimatum. She told me to give him three months to try harder and if it didn’t improve, then it was over.

  MUM

  Never a good idea. If you give men an exit clause, they’ll always bloody take it.

  ME

  Great.

  MUM

  Men hate being told what to do. You have to let the silly bastards think they’ve come up with the solution. Sorry about my language, love. I’m upset.

  Who’s common now?

  MUM
r />   You can’t lay down the law to them. They think they make the law. Even fancy new age men who drive a sports car/

  ME

  /hatchback/

  MUM

  /and have tattoos. They’re still men. Just.

  Pause.

  MUM:

  Talk to him. Tell him you’re willing to give it another go.

  ME

  He doesn’t love me.

  MUM

  Love grows. Give it time.

  ME

  No. I’m worth more than that.

  MUM

  Another one of those modern sayings I can’t bear. You’re only worth what someone’s willing to pay, so to speak. What about Jack?

  ME

  He’ll be fine.

  MUM

  He deserves to grow up in a happy home with two parents.

  ME

  I can give him the happy part, Mum, but not the two parents part.

  MUM

  Think about it.

  Toot, toot! A breezy little red Barina pulls up outside my mum’s neatly manicured suburban dream home, breaking what would have been a moment of reverie.

  MUM

  Gotta go, love, May’s here. It’s craft day.

  She checks her hair and face in the mirror and calls out to Jack.