Lisa Portolan - Pretty Girls

About the Authors

Lisa Portolan is a journalist and author from Sydney. She has previously published two books, including best-seller, Happy As (Echo, Melbourne). She has written for publications like the Australian Financial Review, The Guardian, 9 Honey and 10 Daily, and appeared on the Today Show and The Drum.

Sam McDonald is an Australian director and producer. She has a degree in Law and Communications from the University of Canberra. She has spent the majority of her career working in the fitness and communications space, as a trainer and later as a production expect. She grew up in Canberra and Sydney as a pretty girl and it took her years to shed that skin and reach a place of acceptance, joy and love.

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Returning
(2017, Redfern)

E lizabeth Street was bright and busy. A pastel blue sky arched overhead. She scooped a box out of the boot of her tiny red Hyundai. There was a dint in the rear bumper. Someone had hit it in a Melbourne car park during the frenetic lead up to Christmas last year. They hadnt left a note, she hadnt bothered getting it fixed. She carried the box over the steel-grey fence of their new home and lowered it slowly to the ground, as though it contained something breakable, something precious. The box was labelled misc. Most of the boxes were labelled misc. Packed tightly in that beaten-up Hyundai (cheery in colour and dire in upkeep), were the remnants of their lives. A series of well-used cardboard crates and plastic tubs purchased at the $2 shop.

She had driven from Melbourne to Sydney overnight with Tilley. Twelve hours of solid driving with a few coffee and toilet breaks in-between. Tilley had slept the majority of the drive, snoring softly, her mouth drooping open, her face smooth and lineless, a look of absolute calm on her face. Evie had kept the radio off during the drive, unwilling to disturb the perfect slumber of her babe. Instead she was kept awake by the noise in her head and the sound of the boxes as they jostled against each other, clamouring for attention. A strange symphony of tight, squeaking sounds, as they reminded her of their existence. Recollections of her life, snapshots of moments flooded her mind. Trapped within the fabric of her clothes, and heaviness of her dishes were recollections. Interwoven and carefully scattered. Sometimes she wished she could leave it all behind, but then who would she be without it all? A blank slate. An empty vessel. She didnt quite know how she would fill that up.

Those memories defined her. They brought her back to this place, to this very street. Familiar, rich with the memories of her childhood. They flashed before her eyes in a kaleidoscope of terrifying forms. Brash, violent in colour and in delivery. They belonged to her, like the skin covering her flesh did. Impossible to erase.

Mum! she heard Tilleys angry voice from the gate.

What? she responded more tersely than she had intended.

Im hungry. Its past lunch. Can we go get something to eat? Tilleys blonde hair curled in an impressive matted mess around her cherubic face. She was a pretty girl like Evie had been. Evie knew she shouldnt feel proud, that her daughters appearance was a product of a genetic lottery, but she felt it. Was being a pretty girl worth what came with it? She wasnt sure.

Im almost finished and then we can go to lunch, she gathered the final box from the boot. Start setting up in your room.

Which ones my room? Tilley scrunched up her face endearingly.

The one I showed you upstairs.

The roof slopes.

Its an old house, Evie said, as though this were enough to describe its dilapidation. "The front door was painted a vivid blue, and the grey gate was new, but this place was an 1896 terrace with a 1970s kitchen. A grotesque clash of styles. Art deco fireplaces set against a linoleum floor, and lemon-yellow kitchen.

I hate it, Tilley said unhelpfully.

Go inside and start unpacking, Evie ignored the comment. In the distance she spotted a group of what she could tell were Aboriginal women heading in their direction. Instantly she felt uncomfortable. It was an irrational sentiment, but one that was tucked within her memories like the other relics that had come to define her. This was Aboriginal country after all, smack bang in the middle of Redfern, the blackest part of Sydney.

The older woman approached first, she pushed a pram with a toddler in it, her quick steps resounding against the pavement. A rhythmic clap-clapping of thongs against soles. Two younger girls walked behind her, talking.

Just moved in then have you? the older woman said, flashing her a pair of white teeth.

Yeah, Evie continued uneasily.

Where you from then? the woman had a friendly manner. The girls behind her eyed Evie off in a way that made her feel uneasy - she couldnt help but feel they knew she didnt belong, she didnt - this wasnt her land, this wasnt her place.

Melbourne but I used to live here. I grew up in Redfern, she added, stating her claim, as superficial as it might be.

Its changed a bit, the woman laughed.

Im counting on it, Evie winced with pain, the heavy box weighing on her slender arms.

Arent we all? The woman continued past her. See you round then, she called over her shoulder. The girls moved past Evie slowly, watching her. Their eyes shifted over her blonde hair and fair complexion taking stock of everything that wasnt black, Evie thought. Nothing had changed here at all.

She dropped the final box and closed it behind her swiftly as though that might keep Redfern out.

She glanced up at that blue sky again, waiting for its reassurance. A black magpie flew overhead.

Armageddon
(2017, Redfern)

O ut on the street, the rain had stopped she tried to stop herself from breaking out into a run. Calm down. Calm down. She told herself. But her breath was coming out in quick tight bursts and she didnt feel calm at all. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she could feel the adrenalin coursing through her body, there was a tight feeling in her head.

She turned down Phillip Street and counted houses, her strides long one, three, five, seven. The old terrace was opposite the tennis courts. Still blue, still dilapidated.

It looked like a housing commission. There was furniture pulled out into the front courtyard. Two burgundy couches and a coffee table with an old putrid jam jar which served as an ash tray. Two Aboriginal blokes stood by the door, mugs in hand, chatting.

Instantly she felt uneasy. Why? The two memories werent interconnected at all ... but the blue tennis courts were just behind her, and she could feel the energy of them oozing into her skin.

She pushed the broken gate open and they both looked in her direction. There was an older one with skinny legs and a beer belly and a guy who looked her age, wearing a hoody.

You lost? the younger one said. That familiar Aboriginal twang, instantly recognisable. He didnt smile. Thats how things worked in these parts. You went on the offence first.

She knew it, and she knew how to respond.

Nope, just here to pick up my daughter, she said direct. Keeping her eyes on him, like he hadnt made her feel small.

You Tilleys mum? the other man said. His face broke into a grin. Clearly, he was the friendly one.

Yeah.

Nice to meet ya. Im Chriss dad, Pete, he took a few steps and offered her his hand. She shook it. He looked nice enough. Great big dark eyes, gentle smile, kind voice. But they all seemed nice enough at the start.