A Real Sunday

OUR DAUGHTER 

 

After she got back from India,  

our daughter sued the school

Then she sued the Uni  

Then she sued her ex boyfriend’s family 

Then she sued the makers of her computer and phone 

Then she ran a marathon 

Then she drank all weekend at Ricks 

Then she forced a showdown with a businessman who she claimed was in love with her   

Then she had an affair with his son 

Then she stood for parliament 

Then she became an independent MP championing women’s rights  

Then she was charged with embezzling public funds 

Then she put out a book 

Then she married Geoffrey Robertson 

Then divorced him 

Then she campaigned to be the first president of Australia 

Then she got drunk on TV, screaming and squawking at the Australian of the Year, a disability advocate. 

 

Our daughter was always unfilled, which we put down to the fact that we followed the parenting advice of a local newspaper columnist in Adelaide where we lived. His advice was to let kids do their own thing. She was bottle fed as an infant. I can't imagine what that has to do with anything that followed.

 

Our daughter took years of therapy, accusing us of every sort of abuse for over ten years, although this suddenly stopped just before the court case began. 

Her PHD was on parental neglect. 

Our other children led normal boring lives, so they were happy it seems. 

 

Cups of tea are poured as we look out the window across the Adelaide Hills and remember her.  Us, the Gang, who knew her as a kid, not as this celebrity persona, always misrepresented in the press. 

It was her interest in architecture that I felt went unnoticed.She designed a few houses I will have you know.  Not officially mind, more like on the back of envelopes with her architect friends. Up in the Blue Mountains people say, “That’s her design.” 

She didn’t confine herself to one area.

From shopping to argument 

To dressing 

to letter writing 

to gardening 

to getting mixed up at airports and accused of shoplifting and getting carried away in a paddy wagon,  

she did it all her own way. 

We would all laugh nervously in recognition then run a hundred miles in the opposite direction. 

 

What a bloody show off.  

I cannot remember the last thing we said. 

Something like me telling her to get away and stop sticking her nose in. 

Of course, after that she went missing for two months and without even being present, grabbed all the attention. 

That is why there would be no point some kidnapper chopping her up into a 44 gallon drum and setting it on fire. 

Because, you know, the smoke that escaped would make the national news and news helicopters playing dodge in the smoky sky would weave a beautiful mid air ballet in her honour. 

Our spoilt brat. 

She should have had her own radio show – she did, can you believe it? 

She broadcast from the natural birthing centre the day after giving birth.

Did I mention her son? 

Oh lord, he’s a piece of work.

A chip off the old block, no doubt, but I do feel sorry for him. 

He, the poor love, wanted to be a stage actor and his mother used to come and write reviews of his shows. Damning reviews. 

He disappeared around this time and went to Europe and married an Italian girl. 

No point calling him now. She fought him in the courts after he left. She felt betrayed. 

That’s when she got into cocaine for a while. 

While writing her book on the history of the railway gangs on the Nullarbor and the songs they sang. 

Yes, it was amazing.

She chased up all the relatives of the gangs and interviewed them. 

She said she was honouring her grandpa who worked on the railway too, which was complete fiction! Her grandfather was an insurance clerk in Adelaide. But nobody seemed to mind. 

 

When she moved to the Southern Highlands she worked as a butcher, can you believe that? Standing out the front of the shop in striped butchers apron, whetting the stone, sharpening her knife, scrape, scrape, in the New England High Street morning sun. 

 

How did she die, our daughter? 

Riding her bike along a country lane and falling off. Sleep deprived and on all sorts of medication, she bumped her head on a large jagged rock. 

She was found the next day, suffering severe exposure. 

She was in a coma for weeks. We waited for a sign, for her to spring out of unconsciousness. Surely something like the beginning of an Olympic opening ceremony. But there was no movement. 

In the sixth week the machines were turned off. 

 

It was a sad day when her wild ride was over. 

Afterwards, we retired to a café near the hospital and began to surmise what we might say to celebrate her life. 

After a silence, a deep guttural laugh began escaping from inside my husband, and then my other daughter and son. 

I joined in. Now laughing uncontrollably, I began gasping for breath to say, 

“We can’t… can’t… find…” 

My husband continued, “any…any…thing good… “,  

my other daughter, “… to… say…”,  

my son,”.. about …about….her!” 

We all collapsed in hysterics. 

In the midst of this purgative release it was decided that I had drawn the short straw and would deliver her eulogy. 

 

Since that is the case, I prefer to think of her demise this way. 

Our daughter flew the first rocket to Mars but was burnt to cinders upon entering the atmosphere of the red planet. 

 

Our daughter, the Australian explorer.

 

Thank you for listening today.