Page 16 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

Checkmate. I know better than to argue with Debbie Reddy. But the conversation with the travel agent has unnerved me. If my father is behaving like the rational one of the pair, my parents are in deep, deep trouble.

From the journals and miscellaneous paperwork of Eva Reddy (Age 12)

June 22nd, 1984

My mother is so embarrassing.

I’ve begged her over and over to let me make my own way home from school, even when she happens to be just around the corner.

Most of the time, I catch the bus but occasionally she’ll be at the gates waiting for me.

She says it’s a good chance for us to bond and talk about ‘stuff’.

I know she wants me to talk about boys and periods and puberty and my feelings.

But yuck. No one talks to their mother about that stuff.

Especially not my mother. She doesn’t respect boundaries.

And she always says something about her sex life that makes me cringe for weeks afterwards.

This afternoon, she was standing in her usual spot near the gates.

I hurried past her, head down. I didn’t want anyone to know that I was related to the crazy woman with the Cyndi Lauper hair and dreadful dress sense.

Today she was wearing the ‘Stop the Drop’ T-shirt my cousin Wendy brought back from a leftie concert in Melbourne.

Everyone at my school is super conservative so an equestrian outfit would have been less conspicuous.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. She was also wearing bright red, yellow and blue Jenny Kee leggings.

They drew attention to her mauve tights and then to her Jane Fonda–style leotard.

And from there to her … I can’t. I just can’t.

All I am prepared to say is that the leotard outlined her anatomy exactly.

I could hear her jogging behind me as I stormed to the car. The stares of my classmates bored into my back. They knew for sure that the woman chasing me was my mother. Hopefully, they also realised that I didn’t want her to be.

I reached the car and wrenched open the door.

Our Morris 1500 stands out among all the Mercedes and Celicas parked outside school.

And not just because it is worth less than my best friend’s mother’s handbag.

Today, the car was plastered with Nuclear Disarmament Party stickers. My mother had been busy.

As the Morris spluttered away, my classmates waved and laughed at me. Even Rodney Halvorsen, the biggest dweeb of them all, was snickering. I guess he was grateful to be on the fun end of the joke for once.

I wanted to die. I was probably already dead socially.

Physical death would be a kindness. One girl in my year had been cold shouldered ever since she admitted her parents voted Labor.

The fallout from this was going to be so much worse.

I understand that my mother doesn’t care what other people think of her.

But shouldn’t she care what I think? Or care that I care what other people think?

I was so angry.

I should have kept my mouth shut. But, instead of sulking, which would have been the wiser move, I yelled at her. How could she embarrass me like that with the stupid clothes, the big hair and the crappy car? Why couldn’t she be more like my friends’ mothers?

I was well and truly on a roll when she suddenly yanked the steering wheel to the left and slammed on the brakes. We came to a rest halfway up a gutter.

‘You want me to be more like other mothers?’ She pulled up the handbrake and gave me an especially venomous sniff. ‘That can be arranged.’ And with that she got out of the car and walked away.

That’s when I knew I was in big, big trouble. My mother’s sniff is like that flash of fin before a shark attack, except this shark takes its time with the follow through.

I found my way home, not that I was in any hurry to get there. There will be hours or even days of silence ahead. Dad will tiptoe around the house looking terrified for me. And then, when the tension is at its highest, she’ll take her revenge.

And it will be epic.

Pray for me.

June 24th, 1984

My mother has exacted her revenge and it’s even worse than I imagined.

For two whole days, she didn’t speak to me. She would just stare with snake eyes, sniff and turn away. Then tonight, she came into my bedroom. She has a flair for the dramatic, so I will relate what happened as the theatre piece my mother meant it to be.

SCENE

EVA is sitting in bed reading 1984 because it’s 1984 and she appreciates the symbolism and symmetry of the date even if George Orwell didn’t get the details exactly right.

DEBBIE REDDY/MUM enters the room. She is wearing a conservative twin set and pearls with her hair tamed and pinned back. She is barely recognisable.

MUM

(Pointing a perfectly manicured pearl pink nail at EVA’s book.)

Your choice of reading material is interesting. Even if you are so stubbornly pedestrian.

EVA takes in the ultra-conservative outfit. She’s relieved her mother is finally speaking to her, but she doesn’t know how to respond in a way that won’t escalate hostilities. She wisely stays silent.

MUM

So, Eva, do you like my new look?

EVA

I like it if you like it.

(Good answer!!!)

MUM

I’ve been thinking about what you said. About being more like your friends’ mothers. And I’ve decided to go along with the idea.

(She executes a little twirl in her kitten heels.)

Is this the kind of mother you want, Eva?

EVA

(EVA knows her mother is setting a trap, but she won’t know what the trap is until its steel jaws have clamped around her ankles.

She attempts a half-nod/half-shake of her head.

She could be agreeing. She could be disagreeing.

She hopes her mother chooses the response that will bring the scene to a reasonably happy conclusion.)

MUM

(Throwing her hands in the air.)

Oh my God, Eva! Could you please grow a backbone. Who cares what I think? Who cares what anyone thinks? Just spit it out.

EVA

(If you’ve ever seen a kangaroo staring into the headlights of a fast-moving oncoming car, that’s what EVA’s eyes look like.)

Well, I don’t know about the outfit, but I like that you’ve toned your look down a bit …

(Please … PLEASE … let this be the right answer or just the least wrong.)

MUM

(Smiling smugly, like a movie villain about to pull the lever that will eliminate all mankind.)

I’m glad you approve of my new look. But I’ve done more than just style my hair and revamp my wardrobe.

I called all your friends’ mothers and asked them what they think about my daughter going to the Culture Club concert with her older cousin next month.

They all agreed that someone your age should not go out on a school night.

And they are very certain a child should not be exposed to a man who dresses like a woman and prances about shaking a tambourine.

I believe one of them described it as Satan’s work.

EVA

(EVA knows she is roadkill. Her carcass begs.)

Please, Mum, no. I don’t want you to be like the other mothers. I really don’t.

MUM

Unfortunately, you don’t get it both ways. You will not be going to the concert. I’m sure Wendy has a friend of a more suitable age she can ask.

MUM sweeps out of the room, closing the door behind her, leaving EVA sobbing.

There we have it. My mother has wreaked her revenge.

She just ripped away what would have been the most amazing night of my life.

I should have seen it coming but Mum was the one who’d driven Wendy and me all the way into town at three in the morning so we could line up for tickets and she doesn’t like wasting her time.

And if I don’t go to the concert, that’s a huge waste of her time.

Plus, the concert is almost three weeks away.

She usually chooses a punishment that is more immediate.

But I get it. This way, she can watch me regretting my words for every one of the next seventeen days. If the concert was tomorrow, the Band-Aid would be off in an instant.

This will be so much worse. Especially because all my friends were so jealous I was allowed to go. And now I’m just like them.

I didn’t realise how much I liked being different.

July 11th, 1984

This afternoon, my mother was waiting for me at the school gates.

She was looking as normal as my mother ever looks in jeans and a sweatshirt.

Her top wasn’t even emblazoned with any political logos.

I think she’s trying to pull back a bit, although her hair still had a bit of a Cyndi Lauper vibe going.

I walked up to her and stopped. I’ve given up pretending she’s not my mother. She’s eccentric, but listening to my friends bitch about their mothers, I’m starting to think I don’t have it that bad.

Tonight was the night I was supposed to see Boy George and Culture Club. I’ve accepted my punishment now. I hate to admit it, but I did deserve it. I treated my mother horribly. How would I feel if she pretended that she didn’t know me?

Culture Club played on the radio as we drove home. Their songs are everywhere now that they are here in Australia on tour. The universe can be cruel.

When the song ended, my mother turned down the volume. ‘Have you ever really listened to the lyrics of their songs, Eva?’

‘I know the words, if that’s what you mean.’

‘No. You need to really listen. Take “Karma Chameleon” for example.’ She brought the old Morris to a spluttering stop in our driveway.

‘It’s about trying to impress people but not being true to yourself.

And when you do that, you get karma—justice.

’ She turned to me. ‘Well, I delivered you some karma justice. But I think you’ve learned your lesson. ’

Then she handed me my Culture Club ticket.

‘I don’t care if I embarrass you sometimes. But never, and I mean never , tell me that you want to be like everyone else. You are my daughter. You are not like everyone else. You are better than that.’

So I saw Culture Club after all. I’ve just got back home. And no surprise, it was the best night of my life.

And the reason I had the best night of my life is because my mother isn’t like other mothers.

I guess there’s a lesson in that. And I’ll try to remember that next time she embarrasses the hell out of me.