It was 1980.

I was writer-in-residence at a university.

I had booked a meeting room

for the first reading of a play.

But three young men were dug in

deep with each other.

I became stiff and shrill.

— ‘Did you book this room?

I booked this room!’ —

They glanced at each other,

they gathered their materials together,

— their ‘seminal’ texts re ‘the woman question’ —

they folded their hands and they stood.

 

Tears leapt out of my eyes like crazy diamonds.

I held my chin with the palm of one hand

so I wouldn’t judder.

Like, I can’t judder.

I am the writer-in-residence.

 

And tears leapt out of their eyes too,

the young crew of woken men,

as they walked

out into the bright air of a new world.

I often think of them, still.

 

*

 

On the Monday I miscarried.

On Wednesday my father died.

I had flown in.

I was sitting at the dining room table

on the Friday

telling my mother I was out of money

and the phone rang.

I had won a playwriting competition.

I was in the money.

Her eyes shone. My mother.

(Her magical child.)

(But it wasn’t stupid money.  

I have never won stupid money.

I would imagine that would

half ruin you,                                                             

stupid money would.)

                       

*

 

                                    It was 1975.

                                    My first play. My first director.

                                    I had written myself up and out

                                    of everything. Of everything.

                                    He was coming round to finesse

                                    my play, my first play.

                                    He threw me onto the floor.

                                    I squeaked. I made a little squeak.

                                    He spread himself on top of me.

                                    Grinding and grinning.

                                    He said  — ‘I love the feeling

                                    of your breasts against my chest.’ —

                                    And I went off my head!

                                    It went blue, it went white, kaleidoscope.

                                    I ran in circles, limping and panting

                                    and although I thought I was screaming,

                                    I felt I was screaming, I probably wasn’t.

 

*

 

            It was 1983.

            I was strolling my big belly

            around my home town.

            I thought I might as well

            pop into the bank

            and pick up an entry form

            for the short story comp.

            As the teller handed it to me

            she asked with a pregnant smile

            — ‘Is it for your husband?’ —

            I didn’t shout — ‘Three years ago

            I won the bloody thing!’ —

            No. I shuffled my big belly

            back out onto the street.

            Surely it is very bad for a child

            to feel such blind resentment

            hammering their mother’s heart.

 

*

 

I could go on. And on. And on.

I could go on and on and on.

And I will. But not just now.

Now I will sit still. Like this.

 

Overland’s Friday Features project is supported by the Copyright Agency’s Cultural Fund.