‘I know!’ she said. ‘Who even am I? Come home quick before I turn into a pumpkin!’
Upon my return to Melbourne, it became very clear very quickly that things were going to work out well for Marty and this music thing he’d bet his life on. Not only had his band, A.O.F., toured Australia and Europe, they were soon to head off to the United States! In this age of international travel, it’s hard to explain what a big deal this was in our little arts community: that local musicians were being flown overseas to play gigs. Suffice to say, it was … a really big deal!
With recognition, of course, came groupies. Rumour had it (that is, Defah told me) that Marty Brown was now in the middle of what could only be described as a little bit of a purple patch with the ladies. All those years of being good old Steady Eddie, playing the tortoise not the hare, focusing on the quality of his output, hoping it would pay off and, now, would you look at him go!
Was he ever going to return my calls?
He did, he always did, but I loved teasing him about his rise to the big time, how he’d need to be sure to remember us little people when he won his first ARIA.
He laughed at that, and then bragged about how, in fact, funny I should mention it, Art of Fighting had, in fact, just been nominated for their first ARIA—Best Alternative Album, 2001.
No way!
Yes way!
I was gobsmacked! I mean, I loved the album, but since when did excellent bands get nominated for ARIAs? Wasn’t it all commercial pop acts?
Yeah, he said. Pretty much. There was no chance they’d win—they were up against some big names—but a nomination was enough.
Through a big smile, I said, ‘Oh my God! I hate you so much!’ and he laughed and said, ‘Your time will come, little Bowditch.’
I didn’t believe him—not at all—but I did love making him laugh.
He mentioned he would be heading to New York in a couple of weeks. I told him I’d give him a lift to the airport, unless he already had a limousine booked?
It would be wrong to say Henry didn’t try to make room for me in his life, because he did: he tried very hard. He tried so hard not to make it all about him that I got to thinking, is this always going to be about him? Try as both of us might to break whatever this dynamic was, we couldn’t. We were at totally different stages of life, too, I guess. He was not just a boyfriend, he was also my hero, and that is a powerful love, but it’s not an equal love. So, often, when he told me what he thought, gave me what he considered as the gift of his honesty, there was not—in my reading—enough love mixed in with the delivery to allow it to land correctly. I ended up feeling patronised and belittled. Somewhere along the line, I began to get his critique and Frank’s voice mixed up. It was such a formative, pivotal time—he encouraged me to reach and keep reaching, to tell the brutal truth about what was working and what wasn’t, both in our love life and in my art. But, one day, when we were riding our bicycles through a park together and he kept racing ahead, not waiting for me, I saw that this was how it would always be. I would always be asking for more—for things that I thought were small but that for him were so big. I pulled over, sat on a bench, and tried to work out what I was going to say. Ten minutes later, when he came back for me, looked at me, sat next to me, put his arm around me, we both knew it was curtains.
Turns out, Henry was just a human, like me.
I was honest with him then, told him I wanted more. Did he? He said he might one day, but not yet, no. I got it, and he got it, and we sat on that park bench together, crying in each other’s arms at first, but then just sitting silently together with the body of what our love had been, an act of witnessing, a respectful bereavement for a death as significant as this.
Finally, a break-up that happened exactly as it was meant to.
Little did I know, the art of breaking up was not something I’d be needing in my future life.
On the night Marty was due to fly to New York with Art of Fighting, the night I was due to give him a lift to the airport, I showed up a little early. Our plan had been to share a meal, play some new songs and say goodbye. Marty was already packed, his mates were over and he had pizza and a six-pack waiting.
I was still on a high from the arrival of John and Defah’s healthy baby, a daughter, Ella. Defah was an absolute warrior that day, and she did it. Little Baby Ella, born at home, in a birthing pool. Defah had asked me to be one of her birth attendants, but in reality all I did was make tea for the professional midwives. But afterwards, Defah said, even though she didn’t believe in God, would I be Ella’s fairy godmother? And I cried. All right, I said, if you insist.
I’d drawn Marty a card; a little something to let him know that I—his old band mate, Clare Bowditch—was rather impressed by him. He would remember me, wouldn’t he? He said ‘Hmm, maybe …’ and poked me in the ribs.
Just before we were due to leave for the airport, to get him on that plane to New York, Marty’s housemate Dave turned on the TV, turned up the volume, and a minute later, told us all to shut up, shut up.
The
