A Different Turf. Jon Cleary
poet and playwright named Christopher Marlowe—’
‘I’ve read Marlowe.’
Which was more than Malone had ever done; it had been enough while at school to plough through Shakespeare. ‘He used to use the gays, the women hookers. Whores were called gays up till about the end of the last century.’
‘You’re sure Marlowe didn’t use the word the way we do? The first speech in one of his plays, Edward the Second, is about as close as you can get to a male love song.’
Malone didn’t answer; his education went only so far.
‘You seem pretty interested, doing all that research.’
‘It was just curiosity. I’m not a closet queer.’
‘Is that the sort of word you’d prefer? Queer, fag, pansy? Maybe I can give you a lesson in etymology. You call yourself a heterosexual?’
Malone nodded.
‘That word was coined in the eighteen nineties – about the same time, I guess, that the word “gay” stopped meaning a whore. Heterosexuality was used to denote sexual perversion – “hetero” means “other” or “different”. How does that strike you? It was meant to describe someone like me, a double-gaiter. It was not until the nineteen fifties or sixties that the meaning was changed. And it was gays who gave it the meaning that’s acceptable to you now.’
It was no longer a dialogue between a senior and a junior officer. The guard detachment was now closer, the sergeant in charge barking to the rhythm of the marching. Behind the police car the sentry had come to attention, then dropped stiffly into the at-ease stance.
‘Righto, I don’t like fag or queer, either. I just wish you had chosen another word but “gay”. It’s a cruel thought, but I’ve sometimes wondered if a man dying of AIDS still feels gay – in the original meaning.’
Kagal’s face had stiffened, but he said nothing. The guard detachment was close now; it went by with a thump-thump of boots, came to a stamping halt. The two detectives sat in silence while the guard was changed; then the detachment moved on, the sergeant’s bark dying away as it moved on down the long parade ground. The defence forces were currently debating whether personnel suffering from HIV-infection should be allowed to stay in the army.
‘In your language—’ Kagal was now distinctly, if coldly, hostile. ‘In your language, are you homophobic?’
‘No, I’m not. People’s sexuality is their own business. Except for paedophiles and fellers who bugger sheep.’
‘Like New Zealanders?’
‘So you’re racist, too? Or nationality-biassed, whatever they call it.’
‘It’s a joke, for Crissakes!’ Kagal was angry; then he struggled to relax. It suddenly occurred to Malone that this conversation was as awkward for the younger man as it was for himself. ‘Look, the Kiwis say the same thing about us, only we have more sheep, more opportunity, they say. It was an Aussie joke originally, that you only got virgin wool from the sheep that could run faster than the shepherd.’
Malone laughed, not at the old joke but as a release. ‘There’s the one about the bachelor farmer counting his sheep as they go into the pen – sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine – hullo, darling – seventy-one, seventy-two …’
The time-worn jokes seemed to oil the tension. They sat in silence for a while, men Malone said, ‘I’m anti some of the things you get up to—’
‘You don’t know what I get up to.’ The tension crept back in.
‘Right. Gays then, full gays.’
‘The Mardi Gras – I know you’re against that’
‘Yes. I think it’s a grown-up version of the game that five-year-olds play – you show me yours and I’ll show you mine. But my two daughters think it’s just a load of fun.’
‘And your boy – Tom?’
‘He’s like me.’
‘Is he going to grow up to be a poofter-basher?’
‘You think I might encourage him to?’
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’
There was another long awkward silence; then Malone said, ‘John, I’m dead against poofter-bashing, gay-bashing, whatever you want to call it.’ He was walking on eggshells; or anyway on words that kept tripping him up. ‘But cops my age, we carry a lot of baggage – prejudice, if you like. Though I hope I’d never be like that old bloke in the hospital corridor this morning.’
He paused and after a long moment Kagal said, ‘Go on.’
Jesus, he thought, this is like confession used to be when I was at school. But all he said was, ‘Righto, let’s get back to Bob Anders. Are you and he—?’
Kagal smiled without amusement ‘Lovers? Is that the word you can’t get out? No, we’re just friends, the best of friends. He’s had his own partner for ten years, he’s never played the field. Unfortunately his partner did – he’s dying of AIDS. That was why he was on his way to the Albury to see the nurse. He’s been looking after his partner on his own.’
That, for the moment, left Malone without words. An officer, a major, appeared from somewhere, coming at them from the back of the car. He leaned in and looked at Malone on the passenger’s side. ‘Are you going to remain parked here for long? If so, we’d prefer you moved over there.’ He waved a swagger stick towards the far side of the ground.
‘Are we cluttering up the place?’ The words slipped out; Malone was still caught in the tension with Kagal.
‘Since you ask, yes.’
Just in time, Malone caught a retort; instead, he nodded at Kagal. The latter started up the engine, turned the car round and drove out through the gates. The sentry came to attention and saluted; Malone didn’t know whether it was from habit or whether it was satirical. Though he belonged to a service that had its own discipline, its own play-by-the-rules culture, he didn’t think he would ever have been happy in the army. For the next few weeks he was not even sure mat he was going to be happy in the Police Service, not in the wash from this latest case.
They had driven a mile or more back towards Strawberry Hills before Kagal said, ‘Am I still on the case, then?’
‘Do you want to be?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you are.’ It struck him that he would need Kagal to lead him through the shoals of prejudice, on both sides, that lay ahead.
Kagal nodded; then said, ‘Erskineville now?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ He looked at his watch. Time to be heading for lunch with the family; he had broken enough eggshells this morning. Normally he liked to keep at a case, not to let it cool; but: ‘Let Mrs Langtry have another twenty-four hours to get over it I’m not up to treading on someone’s grief this morning.’
Gazing straight ahead he felt, rather than saw, Kagal glance curiously at him.
3
Kate Arletti offered to drive him out to Watson’s Bay in time for lunch.
‘In your what? Goggomobile? G-O-G-G-O—’ He spelled it out as in a well-known Yellow Pages TV commercial.
‘The very same. Unless, boss, you’d rather not’
‘No, I’m game. My kids will love to see it.’
As he struggled to fit himself into the tiny bubble-car he thought of an old joke – ‘I’ve been in bigger women than this’ – but didn’t tell it to Kate. He was always decorous in dealing with women staff and not just because of the current wave of sexual harassment cases.
Driving out to the farthest