We sit, we chat shit, and we catch up with what’s going on in each of our lives. The girls don’t question the fact I have very little to add to the conversation, and with the wine flowing, I finally begin to unwind.
Jemma and Lou both have younger children, so Jo and I both smile and nod in the right places when they share their stories about them. I had my kids young, with both my boys now in their twenties. My heart kicks against my chest, and my stomach churns at the notion of having to tell them what’s gone on between me and their dad, and I make the decision right then to keep it from them for as long as possible. No matter their age, they’ll always be my babies, and it’ll always be my job to protect them.
At just fifteen, Jo had been even younger than me when she’d had her son, Joe, who’s now thirty. Her parents were thrilled when that news broke. . . Not! Her boyfriend’s even less so. They’d forbidden their son from having any contact with Jo, he then denied the baby was his. The whole family then moved interstate. With Jo’s family disowning her, she would have been left to raise her son alone without us and our parents. Each of our mums had stepped up and helped Jo with a place to stay, and then with childcare after Joe was born. This enabled Jo to work while she put herself through university, eventually qualifying with degrees in accounting and commerce. She now owns her own accountancy firm, employing around six staff.
Men have come and gone over the years, but sadly—for them, not so much for Jo—none have been able to handle her strong, feisty, and fiercely independent personality.
After sharing three bottles of wine, and lots of conversation, we decide to move on to somewhere where we can dance. Not wanting to be surrounded by drunken kids falling all over the place, we head for a bar off Main Street that we know stays open late and always has a great live band and a small dance floor.
The wine, being with my friends, and listening to their easy conversation have me feeling more at ease than I have in weeks, months even. I’ve even found myself laughing a few times during the evening, before a flash of what my life has become and the uncertainties I’m facing hit me, and my stomach does a backflip or three.
The bar is packed, with just about everyone in the place singing along with the band’s cover of Joe Jackson’s 'Is She Really Going out with Him?’, as we enter.
Jemma raises her fist and punches the air as she shouts, “Woohoo, it’s 80’s night.”
“Oh no, this is gonna get messy.” Lou sighs.
Jo hooks her arm through mine, pulling me towards the bar. “Let’s get fucked up. When was the last time we had a big night together?”
“I can’t,” I lean into her ear and say, “I’ve got a big day tomorrow, and I need to have my head on straight for it.”
We stop moving. Jo takes both my hands in hers and squeezes them. Her brown eyes fixed on mine, she stares at me for a few seconds.
“If you just wanna enjoy tonight and talk tomorrow, we can meet for breakfast. I get it if you don’t wanna ruin the vibe, but we do need to talk. It’s killing all of us, seeing you go through something you’re not sharing when you’re always the first one there for any of us.”
My nose tingles as emotions clog my throat, and all I can do is nod.
“How about we just see how tonight goes, hey?”
Jo flicks her long, honey-blonde hair over her shoulder and shakes her head.
“It’s 70’s and 80’s night, we know exactly how it’s gonna go. We’re all gonna drink too much, we’re gonna get loud, a song will get played that makes us all emotional, one of us, either you or Lou will likely cry, and we’ll all end up singing, and you’ll do it badly and very out of tune.”
I nudge her arm with my shoulder. “My singing’s not that bad,” I protest.
Lou and Jemma turn from the bar to face us, and along with Jo, say in unison, “Yeah, it is.”
I shake my head before joining in the chorus and singing along with Mr Jackson as Jemma orders a round of shots.
We’re just one song in, and already the music is evoking memories of my formative years. Of my life back in Barking on the outskirts of London, before my dad moved us all over to Australia when I was just thirteen.
I’d been angry at the whole world, but especially my parents when we’d first arrived in Australia. Music had been one of the things to help get me through the trauma of being ‘dragged away’ from my friends and everything that was familiar.
It had to be British music though. As another act of defiance aimed at my parents for ruining my life, I would only listen to songs recorded from the UK charts onto the mixtapes my friends from England would send me.
I’d lay in my room for hours, listening to bands like The Clash, The Jam, and The Specials. Sobbing my little heart out, desperate to go back to the place I loved most in the world. . . Home.
It wasn’t until I had my own children, I finally came to appreciate why my parents made the move, and why they’d wanted to get us out of London. It was to give us what they hoped would be a better start, and eventually a better life for myself, my two brothers, and my sister. And it has been. I’ve lived a life and done and seen things my friends in Barking could only ever dream of.
Despite now being in Australia for thirty years, I still had a pretty strong Essex accent and a big Essex girl attitude. Like the saying goes, ‘You can take the girl out of Essex, but you’ll never take the Essex out of the girl.’ And I was glad of that. That accent and attitude is part of who I am, the attitude though, is sadly part of what I’ve lost over these past months. I just need to dig deep and find her again, I need to find me. And that all starts with leaving my abusive husband, something I plan on doing tomorrow.
“Where did you go?” Jem asks as she shoves a shot glass in my hand.
“London,” I tell her. “The eighties, right before we moved here. It’s amazing the memories one song can drag up.”
Jem knocks her glass against mine.
“Here’s to the angry ranga kid, who rocked up to my school wearing stripy tights Doc Martens, a tiny denim skirt, a Sex Pistols t-shirt, and a really, really bad attitude.”
“Here’s to her,” I agree, swallowing my drink down around the ever-present ball of emotion.
Ordering another round of shots, along with a double of hard liquor for each of us, we find a table and ask the barman to bring our drinks over. This isn’t the kind of establishment to sit down, we just need a table to put our drinks on so we can keep an eye on them if we dance.
We do the usual scan of the place, nod and smile at the faces we know. When our drinks arrive, we knock back the shots before I pick up my vodka, lime, soda, and turn and face the dance floor.
Knowing I have a lot to organise in the morning, I make a mental note to only have one more drink after this. I’m enjoying the buzz, the alcohol I’ve consumed has me feeling relaxed enough to want to dance, but with my emotions so close to the surface, I’m aware that can switch in a heartbeat, resulting in me having a major meltdown on Main Street. The instant the D chord is played by the band’s opening of ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ by The Clash, I realise just how easily triggered I am. The song title’s irony isn’t lost on me as I knock back my vodka right along with my tears.