Sisterly Love is a serialized novel. To savor the full narrative experience, start at the beginning and work through the chapters in order. You can find chapters on the Home page or in the Archive.
CHAPTER 21
The Returned Servicemen’s League was busier than usual for a Friday afternoon. Summer could sense Vern’s anxiety as he jostled to secure a table with a view of the bar and easy access to the men’s room. She slid off her blazer and hung it over the back of her chair as she watched him fuss with his seat, jumping it to the left then back to the right.
“Are you going to sit?” Vern said.
“Why don’t you stay here and guard our table,” Summer said, winking, “I’ll get our beers.
Minutes later, Summer returned with a look of anticipation.
“Gail Marcus is here,” she said, passing Vern a Tooheys. “Over there, near the entry,” she pointed. “She’s shaking veteran’s hands.”
“That’d be right!” Vern said, not hiding his cynicism. “Try’n to garner support for the referendum most likely.”
“The publican said she’s going to draw the meat raffle.”
Vern tapped his wrinkled fingertips on a small pile of raffle tickets. “Well, if Gail draws my ticket, she’s got my vote,” he said.
“You’re easy,” Summer teased.
Vern brought his schooner to his lips and craned in the direction of the Prime Ministerial delegation.
“Politics isn’t a game for a woman,” he said, following Gail Marcus around the room with his eyes.
“Is that what you really believe, or are you just echoing the flack she’s copping in the media?”
“They’ll calm down,” he said.
“It’s been two and a half years,” said Summer. “Seems to me things are ramping up.”
“Blokes don’t want to be told what to do by a woman,” said Vern.
“But blokes voted her into office,” Summer reminded him, affecting a look of exasperation.
Vern rolled his eyes, “You know what I mean.”
“What I know is that she’s the head of the country; telling people what to do is her job.”
“But she says one thing and does another.”
“Oh, you mean she’s a liar?” Summer felt a flash of irritation; Vern seemed to be deliberately provoking her.
“She’s back flipped on her election promises.”
“Christ, Vern! Give her a break! Name me one Prime Minister who hasn’t changed direction?”
“It’s not just that. She’s out of touch. How can she make decisions about families when she’s unmarried and childless?”
Summer fell back into her chair and watched Vern’s wet lips mold and shape his grievances. She recognized the rhetoric; a familiar fiction about power, who owned it, and what it looked like. She remembered an event that had occurred at The Daily Tribune when the new Deputy Editor, a woman, had addressed the all-staff meeting, and afterwards, as the workforce was filing out of the auditorium, how a colleague had cupped his ear in a dramatic pretense of pain and said loudly, “There’s a reason she succeeded in print journalism.”
“What’s that?” A woman replied.
“Because, with that voice, she’d be laughed out of radio.”
There was sniggering from the journalists in his ambit, including some of the women. Summer called back.
“You can attack her high register all you like, Jimmy old boy! But she’ll always wipe the floor with you in credibility.”
The women hooted, egging Summer on.
At the time, Summer had dismissed the event as typical male to female provocation—the lads did seek her out after all, and Summer enjoyed a debate. But now, she had the uneasy feeling that there was something she was overlooking. She leaned toward Vern.
“She can’t win, can she? I mean, from your point of view, nothing she does will ever be good enough.”
“That’s a bit rich,” Vern protested.
But Summer was unwilling to let him off the hook. “Answer me this then. And be serious. When was the last time you heard anything in the news about her reforms?”
Vern tilted his head, giving thought to the question.
“You’ve got me there,” he said. “I don’t think there’s been any, has there?”
“There’s been loads; more than any other PM at this stage in office.”
Vern seized his beer as he considered this information. Over Summer’s shoulder, he spotted Gail Marcus approaching. He swiftly returned his beer to the table, spilling it over his hand as he sprang to his feet.
“Australian Corps of Signals,” Vern announced, pushing his shoulders back and thrusting his chest forward: “104th Signal Squadron, First Brigade.”
“Certa Cito!” said the Prime Minister, shaking Vern’s hand.
“Swift and Sure,” Vern beamed, translating the Squadron motto.
“Where did you serve?” asked the Prime Minister.
“Here and there...” said Vern. Then lowering his voice, he said, “I was in the Invisible War.”
The Prime Minister nodded, and Summer, who was familiar with politician’s ploys, could see she had not been briefed on the Invisible War.
“Course, we couldn’t speak of it for a full thirty years afterwards,” Vern said, “but we knew our role in that operation.” Vern spoke quickly, and Summer saw he was nervous.
“I can’t tell you what a privilege it is to meet the men and women of our defense forces,” said the Prime Minister.
“Few more women today than in my day,” Vern joked.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said the Prime Minister. “The Australian Defense Forces rank third in trusted professions.”
Vern soaked up the compliment.
“Where do politicians rank?” he asked, trying to be conversational.
“Ah!” exclaimed the Prime Minister, “we routinely rank last.”
They laughed. Summer was impressed with the Prime Minister’s genuineness; she had heard about her self-effacing approach with her constituents.
“Let’s hope your example of leadership will turn those data around,” Summer chimed in.
“I’m doing my best,” said the Prime Minister. Then returning to Vern, “It has been a pleasure and an honor to meet you.”
She moved away. Vern called after her.
“Draw my ticket for the meat platter and I'll give you my vote in the referendum,” he said, with a cheeky grin.
“I'll see what I can do,” the Prime Minister promised over her shoulder.
Vern gulped his beer.
“She’s a good sort,” he told Summer.
Summer raised an eyebrow but Vern ignored her bemusement at his own backflip.
“She’d have to have a head full of knowledge to converse that easily with so many people,” Vern continued.
The publican called for silence and held up the fishbowl containing the raffle tickets. The Prime Minister withdrew a small square of white paper. It bore a single colored stripe.
“Green 004457,” the Prime Minister called.
Vern, who had laid out his tickets in a row in front of him, did a double take then shot out of his seat, waving the winning ticket as he approached the Prime Minister. Furiously, he shook her hand. Summer giggled when he reached up and kissed her on the cheek.
“You couldn’t write that scenario in fiction,” Summer told Vern, inspecting the platter of rump steaks, veal cutlets, lamb chops, ground pork, beef, chicken and sausages. “No one would believe it.”
When Summer and Vern arrived home, they were drunk.
“I can’t believe you let him drive in that state,” Jess hissed.
“What do you care about him?” Summer replied, instantly regretting her words.
Jess’s expression darkened, and Summer slipped the business card, with the cell number of the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff back into her pocket. She would wait for a better time to tell Jess that the Prime Minister had invited her to call about a job.
The next morning, Summer woke late. She went looking for Jess and found her in the laundry room with Coral. They were speaking in whispers. Coral stopped talking when Summer approached.
“Sorry,” Summer said, backing away.
Later in the car, driving to April’s birthday party, Summer asked Jess if everything was alright.
“Mum wants to get a Blue Heeler,” Jess said.
“A dog?”
“Yes. That’s what we were talking about in the laundry room when you blundered in.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. But why is it such a secret?”
“She just wanted to keep the idea between her and me.”
“What’s the idea?”
“That we share the responsibility, her and I. It would be our dog.”
“As opposed to yours, Coral’s and Vern’s?”
“Vern doesn’t like dogs.”
“But who’ll look after it when you and Coral are in the city?”
“He’ll just have to do his bit... for a change.”
Summer was silent.
“What?” said Jess, sensing something.
“Look, I know it’s none of my business but you talk all the time of having a life of your own with someone of your own.”
“And?”
“And how do you see that happening with your full-time commitment to your family that will soon include a dog?”
“My family needs me!”
Summer could see Jess’s defensiveness, and she considered backing down. But she could feel her exasperation building. Jess was her friend and a decent person who, Summer believed, deserved the life she wanted. Yet, for reasons that eluded Summer, Jess seemed incapable of connecting the obvious tension between the dream she imagined for herself and the lie she was living within her family.
“I agree, Jess,” Summer said, deciding it was time to say what needed to be said. “Your family would be lost without your taxi and babysitting services and your spare cash and your utter tolerance of their total disregard for any life that you may wish to pursue.”
Jess pulled over and cut the engine.
“Why do you insist on rocking the boat? Why can’t you just fit in and be grateful that we’re not like some of the lesbians we know whose families won't have anything to do with them?”
“Is happiness too much to ask?”
“Maybe I am happy.”
“Playing second fiddle?”
“For some of us, Summer, second best is enough.”
The tension between Summer and Jess continued into the next day. After lunch, Summer decided it was time to reconcile. She first knocked on Jess’s door but Jess ignored her, so Summer tried sliding a note beneath after dinner, then finally she waited for Jess to emerge from the bathroom on Monday morning. But Jess refused to be engaged, holding up a palm as she brushed past Summer. Later, when Summer was clearing away the morning tea cups and plates, Coral telephoned from the city to say that she and Jess would be spending the night in Sydney. The children had all come down with flu, Vern reported, and they were needed.
In total, Jess and Coral stayed away for four nights.
“You girls should try to make up,” said Vern, when Summer confronted him about his sudden disinterest in using her computer.
“Easier said than done,” she replied curtly.
But Summer felt for Vern; the sorrow in his voice echoed her own grief—he knew whose side he had to be on.
On Thursday evening, Summer telephoned Jess and said she would leave at the weekend.
Jess and Coral arrived home after lunch on Saturday. From the doorway of the guest bedroom, Jess watched Summer pack her suitcase.
“Nothing stopping you from finding Frankie now,” she said.
“Is that what this is about?” Summer replied. “Rejection?”
“How could I possibly feel rejected?” Jess said, turning on her heel, “since you wouldn’t even give us a chance?”
The taxi driver, who wore a turban, lifted her suitcase into the trunk. Summer climbed into the cab, closed the door and fixed her stare ahead. The driver pulled into the road. In the rearview mirror, he saw tears rolling down Summer’s pale cheeks.