Dancing of the Swans
by GEORGIA MIDDLETON
Before we moved, my parents had a medium sized wardrobe against the wall in their bedroom. It was about shoulder height and doubled-doored, with a little bronze handle. One door didn’t close properly and so an old piece of thick cardboard was wedged in to keep it shut. It had a fantastic woody smell. The top was home to a collection of family photos.
The largest photo was of my dad. It was black and white and the frame, thin black – about half an inch in width. He looked about twenty years old which would have made it about 1973. He had a moustache and long curled hair. In the picture, he was sitting on an old horse cart wearing a sturdy pair of dusted-up riding boots back dropped against a dense collection of gumtrees. He isn’t smiling, but he looks happy. During those years, my dad spent a lot of time on farms. Most of his friends lived in the country and for school holidays would return home. Dad went too. He spent summers jackarooing on properties around New South Wales; although how I know this I’m not sure, because we’ve never sat down and talked about it. In fact, we haven’t sat down and talked about anything in a really long time.
When I was about six or seven, he took me to the ballet. It was in the city, where though, I can’t quite remember. We went to see Swan Lake. Details of this outing escape me, such as why we went, or why it was just the two of us. What I do remember is sitting in the theatre, mesmerized by the swans dancing across the stage; long limbed and puffed white silk tulle. I don’t ever recall feeling a desire to be a ballerina, but something that day definitely impressed me. After the ballet, we walked across the Harbour Bridge.
We were on the eastern side and the sky was darkening pink. The sun was lowering behind us in the west. We stopped in the middle of the bridge, up against the steel barrier and looked out over the harbour. I was too small for an unobstructed view and Dad lifted me up. He taught me how to spit from the bridge. In my memory, we spend hours spitting over the edge. In reality, it was probably a lot less. I remember saying one of my spits hit a bald man’s head on a boat going under the bride, and when telling people this later, he always stuck by it as though it were truth. As a six year old I really believed that I had and Dad allowed me to believe so too. I’ll never forget how naughty it felt to spit off the bridge and that my dad was letting me do it. These moments are important to children, to engage in mischievous behaviour, joined by an adult – to know they’re really on your side too. He told me I wasn’t allowed to tell Mum and this was probably one of the few times in my life where I didn’t. It was our secret.
In later days, my dad played Barbies with me. At the time, I remember thinking that he should have felt lucky to be playing Barbies. He played for hours; through several costume changes and re-braids. He not only played Ken but Barbie too, feigning a high pitched ladies voice much to my amusement. We used to set up Barbie camp on the landing at the top of the stairs. I can’t remember what happened in our Barbie town that particular day, but the play session quickly turned to Barbies jumping off the landing down the stairs to their ‘death’, hysterically launching Barbie after Barbie off the top of the stairs to watch them plummet to their death.
It was all Dad's idea. I remember thinking he had invented the greatest Barbie game ever and would spend the next few months begging for him and no one else to be my Barbie-playing friend. I didn’t see it at the time, but looking back I realise that throwing the Barbies off the top of the stairs was the only way he could enjoy playing with them. Either way, it would go for hours and would happen again and again and again. He never said no. And even when one Barbie lost her head in the faux suicide, Dad drew eyes on her breasts with pen and assured me that the game would go on.
Now, years on, we no longer play. I really believe that both of us wish we did, in very different ways. A few weeks back, I had coffee with a friend. We sat in the sun at a small round table. I faced out onto the narrow street. Some time into our coffee, I saw my father on the other side of the street, walking home. I did not run over and say hello. I did not move. I did not call him, or yell. I did not even tell my friend he was there. Instead I sat cold, watching him behind sunglasses. He was alone but smiling.
Georgia Middleton is a contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Sydney.
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