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Authors: Caroline Overington
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tallest, blackest, lankiest men you’ve seen in your life, all spider limbs, and the women dressed up like pepper grinders. They get into their own version of strife, belting each other over some ancient tribal problem. And then you’ve got Australians themselves, the white ones, the bogans I suppose you’d call them, who it’s apparently okay to have a bit of snicker at, who would snicker at themselves because they’re quite proud of the fact that they’ve got no airs and graces. They’re the people who wear ugg boots to the milk bar; they’re the people who you see today draped in the Australian flag, naked but for their stubbies and the Southern Cross tattoo on Australia Day.
Lisa was firmly in the bogan camp, and I knew exactly what the good folk of Australia would see when sheappeared later that night with Brian Naylor on the six o’clock news. She had that bad dress, that skinny body, and skinny fingers with cheap rings on all of them. Her nails were painted to look like the tail of a peacock, and her arms were bare from armpit to wrist. Her hair had been permed, dyed, bleached and then dyed red, and was now growing out like a mullet down the back of her neck. Her eyebrows were plucked into a single line of hair, and the smokes had forced her gums back so she had that witchy look that you get when your teeth are too long.
There would be a fair amount of sympathy for her plight – it was obvious she had no education and was struggling by with all those kids – but on some other level she would have been repellent. There would have been a feeling that she’d brought much of this on herself. The only thing that saved her, I think, was that her voice wasn’t strangled. You know the way the mums in the suburbs whine? It wasn’t like that. Lisa had a voice that was deep and smoky. It sounded kind of hot.
She looked out at the cameras and said, ‘My boy Jake got bashed yesterday. I want to know who bloody did it, and why! Why bash an innocent five-year-old boy!’
I’d encouraged Lisa to appeal for information in a calm manner, to suppress whatever emotion she felt. I’d told her, ‘Nobody likes a lynch mob.’
Lisa had nodded, but now, in front of the cameras, she was letting the tears come, and she was letting heranger show. Why wouldn’t she? Lisa Cashman was generating more respect and attention in front of those cameras than she’d been paid in her whole life.
She said, ‘I want this bloke caught! I want to find out what kind of mongrel would do this! He should rot in hell.’
She was crying now and her make-up had started to run. I put my hand on her shoulder and gently moved her back to stand with me.
‘We’ve got time for a question or two,’ I said.
To myself, I thought, ‘Here come the cynics.’
A reporter from The Sun – from memory, it was old Frank Postle – was first to speak. He said, ‘Where were you when this happened, Mrs Cashman?’
Lisa said, ‘At home!’ and Frank, quick as anything, said, ‘Do you often send the boys to the shops on their own ?’
Lisa was fired up. ‘Whaddaya mean by that?’ she said, but before she could say more, I stepped in to defuse the situation. I said, ‘Look, I think you’ll appreciate that Mrs Cashman is extremely upset, the whole family is very upset. You’ll appreciate that we want to get Mrs Cashman back to the hospital to see young Jacob as soon as we can. Thank you very much.’
Frank tried to interject but the bloke from media liaison stepped in. I heard him say, ‘That’s it, folks. I know you’ve got more questions and as soon as we’ve got more information we’ll let you know.’
I rounded Peter, Lisa and Harley into a group, and pushed them back through the front door, into the lounge. I stayed on the porch for a moment longer. A cameraman, reaching down to release the hold on the telescopic legs of his tripod, said, ‘Sounds like so much bullshit.’
Frank said, ‘Stranger, my arse. It’ll be the boyfriend.
Lisa was firmly in the bogan camp, and I knew exactly what the good folk of Australia would see when sheappeared later that night with Brian Naylor on the six o’clock news. She had that bad dress, that skinny body, and skinny fingers with cheap rings on all of them. Her nails were painted to look like the tail of a peacock, and her arms were bare from armpit to wrist. Her hair had been permed, dyed, bleached and then dyed red, and was now growing out like a mullet down the back of her neck. Her eyebrows were plucked into a single line of hair, and the smokes had forced her gums back so she had that witchy look that you get when your teeth are too long.
There would be a fair amount of sympathy for her plight – it was obvious she had no education and was struggling by with all those kids – but on some other level she would have been repellent. There would have been a feeling that she’d brought much of this on herself. The only thing that saved her, I think, was that her voice wasn’t strangled. You know the way the mums in the suburbs whine? It wasn’t like that. Lisa had a voice that was deep and smoky. It sounded kind of hot.
She looked out at the cameras and said, ‘My boy Jake got bashed yesterday. I want to know who bloody did it, and why! Why bash an innocent five-year-old boy!’
I’d encouraged Lisa to appeal for information in a calm manner, to suppress whatever emotion she felt. I’d told her, ‘Nobody likes a lynch mob.’
Lisa had nodded, but now, in front of the cameras, she was letting the tears come, and she was letting heranger show. Why wouldn’t she? Lisa Cashman was generating more respect and attention in front of those cameras than she’d been paid in her whole life.
She said, ‘I want this bloke caught! I want to find out what kind of mongrel would do this! He should rot in hell.’
She was crying now and her make-up had started to run. I put my hand on her shoulder and gently moved her back to stand with me.
‘We’ve got time for a question or two,’ I said.
To myself, I thought, ‘Here come the cynics.’
A reporter from The Sun – from memory, it was old Frank Postle – was first to speak. He said, ‘Where were you when this happened, Mrs Cashman?’
Lisa said, ‘At home!’ and Frank, quick as anything, said, ‘Do you often send the boys to the shops on their own ?’
Lisa was fired up. ‘Whaddaya mean by that?’ she said, but before she could say more, I stepped in to defuse the situation. I said, ‘Look, I think you’ll appreciate that Mrs Cashman is extremely upset, the whole family is very upset. You’ll appreciate that we want to get Mrs Cashman back to the hospital to see young Jacob as soon as we can. Thank you very much.’
Frank tried to interject but the bloke from media liaison stepped in. I heard him say, ‘That’s it, folks. I know you’ve got more questions and as soon as we’ve got more information we’ll let you know.’
I rounded Peter, Lisa and Harley into a group, and pushed them back through the front door, into the lounge. I stayed on the porch for a moment longer. A cameraman, reaching down to release the hold on the telescopic legs of his tripod, said, ‘Sounds like so much bullshit.’
Frank said, ‘Stranger, my arse. It’ll be the boyfriend.
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