My Word

It was taking longer than I anticipated. Packing up to move house always does. I’d vowed to be brutal, with my mother’s mantra in mind: if in doubt, chuck it out! It only partially worked. I’d kept the Duran Duran records but reluctantly jettisoned the linguistics assignments stored on a dozen floppy discs.

I didn’t quite remember the small wooden box. Cross-legged on the hallway floor, I opened it. A jumble of jewellery fell into my palm. The other hand found my chest, fingers pressing softly against my collarbone as the memories formed, and a smile with them.

I spread the jewellery out on the carpet.

A silver ring inlaid with a black pentagram was joined to a bangle by a tarnished chain. In the middle of the bangle was another, larger pentagram. There was a long chain with a huge cross, a sea-green jewel in its centre, and a leather wristband brandishing several silver spikes.

It had been 20 years since I’d worn them. Remnants of my former incarnations, I knew immediately they were coming to the new house.

The cross came from Melbourne’s Camberwell Market in the mid-80s. I wore it nestled on top of vintage lace dresses, accessorised by ripped fishnet stockings and 14-eye Doc Martens boots. I paraded my outfits at Zuzu’s, a nightclub on Exhibition Street, an appropriate address. I recall watching old black-and-white vampire movies projected four metres high onto the walls. Rushing the dancefloor for The Cult or The Cure, we planted our feet firmly on the ground and waved our branches around dramatically in the classic “Tree Dance” that, 30 years later, would cause mirth in my husband when I recreated it in our living room. The dance was not the most preposterous sight at a goth nightclub. Multiple Brides of Dracula floated around in their wedding dresses and veils, holding aloft hand mirrors to admire their ghostly visages caked in cheap white make-up. Later, you would see them on a bar stool between dances, sipping Midori through a straw to protect their black lipstick.

I picked up the pentagram ring-and-bracelet combination. It took me to a different city, thousands of kilometres away. At 17 I moved to Brussels on exchange. Wading through high school in French and Flemish, I searched the city for my goth brethren to help anchor me in my new home. On Rue des Harengs, I found it. Le Cercueil translated to The Coffin, a tiny cafe with Sisters of Mercy blaring from the speakers and beers served in skull mugs set upon coffin tables. In a city full of medieval history, it was this cafe I found most impressive. I returned to it time and time again.

For my 18th birthday I hitchhiked to the Rhine Valley in Düsseldorf with a friend. On the train we concocted fake names and accompanying backstories. I was always pushing the constraints of my identity, seeing how far I could make it stretch. We met three German boys with high mohawks and black eyeliner and spent the day with them, culminating in a heaving, hectic punk club. Outside they knelt on the cobblestones and sang me ‘Happy Birthday’ in German.

The pentagram combination was bought the week before I returned to Melbourne. On Rue des Éperonniers, Street of the Spur Makers, was a shopping arcade full of army boots and punk T-shirts. I was looking for a talisman to guide me on the long trip home, to help ease me back into Australian life. The ring fit well. When I snapped on the attached bangle, I felt I knew who I was, no matter how temporary it would prove to be.

Two years ago, I found myself back on that street on my honeymoon. I was showing my husband around Brussels, the city I adore so much I’ve lived there several times now. We walked through the arcade, past where the jewellery shop used to be. On my hands were no garish goth rings, no crows or cobwebs. There was only a simple wedding ring set with two rubies. In a city where I’d tried on many skins in the past, it was the role of wife I was now embracing. I did check whether the Coffin Cafe was still there though. It was, as reassuring as any old friend.

I gathered up the jewellery back into its container. Still sitting on the floor, I reached for a box. For a moment I stared at the other contents, already packed; a bell jar of snake skins, a pearlescent bird skull, and a bedraggled mouse I’d taxidermied myself. For the first time in years I questioned whether I actually had grown out of my goth tendencies, or whether they were still in me, a small flame I occasionally fed with nostalgia and Nosferatu.

And then I placed the jewellery gently inside the box, deep down in a corner where it would be safe.

Rijn Collins is an award-winning Melbourne writer who explores her love of foreign languages and lands (and her goth past) in her memoir, Voice.

Documentary maker Louis Theroux looks back at his younger self and sees a boy struggling with notions of what it is to be a man, struggling with his place in the world – struggling with everything really. Except his homework.

by Jane Graham The Big Issue UK

@janeannie

Sixteen was a watershed year for me because it was the year I got admitted to Oxford. I was a weekly boarder at a London public school. I’d skipped a year due to being excessively studious, so when I got to sixth form I was a year younger than most of my peer group. And I hadn’t hit puberty. I had a high voice, what I call a piccolo voice. I had no pubic hair. I was sort of sexually ambiguous. Over-capable in the realm of books and academics and under-capable in every other area of life, particularly in relating to other humans and especially girls. I tried to be a hipster and buy my clothes from the King’s Road or Camden Market, but in a deep sense, I was a very square kid. I was very uptight, very worried about what people might think of me.

you get older. In my early teens I was trying to figure out who I was and also trying to get a girlfriend and not having a lot of luck. Then, that summer when I was 16, my voice broke, and the first green shoots of pubic hair began to appear. The long awaited “manhood”, of which I’d heard and read so much about, finally seemed to flower, which was a huge relief. Part of me had wondered if that would ever happen, if I would ever get any proper tackle. But at the same time, I was like, well, now what? What does it mean to be me?

with my academic life. I worked hard and was good at exams. But part of me realised I was in danger of letting an important part of life slip through my fingers. All that stuff I saw in John Hughes movies – going to parties and kissing girls. I wasn’t absolutely incapable of hooking up, though I’m defining that very loosely. Not as in actual sex. But there was always this tension in me. I was conscious that I wanted to be young and be free and have fun and take risks, plough my own furrow. I was also conscious of this self-imposed need to be a model student, to follow the path expected for me.

Being 16 did get better. It was the year I struck up friendships with many of the boys who would become lifelong friends. Most famously, Adam [Buxton] and Joe [Cornish], who went on to form a comedy partnership, did lots of TV and radio and amazing things. We were in a little gang with Mark and Chris and Zach, who are not on the TV but mean something to us. It wasn’t exactly an act of rescue on their part, but I did feel rescued in the sense of having finally found a group of friends with whom I shared a set of interests like music and comedy and having fun and being silly and joking around, getting high some of the time and drinking quite a lot of the time, all of that. I’d always dreamed of having a little posse, a gang of compadres.

relax a bit, cut loose a bit. That didn’t take much in my world – maybe handing my homework in slightly late once or twice. My parents were going through some difficulties around the same time. I think that fed into a feeling of maybe my world isn’t as stable as I imagined it to be. And maybe I shouldn’t worry quite so much about bowing to convention.

personality. He’s a successful novelist and travel writer who’s still enormously productive. That probably made me think I was supposed to be a literary writer or a director or some sort of respected artistic figure. But when I wrote poems or short stories they didn’t feel authentic. I’d write a page and then be like, “this is probably garbage”. I think if I told my younger self you’ll be a documentary maker, making programs about offbeat cultural subjects in America and mental health issues, you’ll go on journeys to a skinhead music conference to talk to neo-Nazis and into a prison to speak to sex offenders, and there will be moments of surprise and unselfconscious actuality that tell stories…the younger me would have been delighted, thrilled. I think I’d have thought, Holy shit! Are you serious? God, that sounds perfect.

for a year. I got accepted to a newspaper there and thought, Well, California seems like it would be quite sunny and fun. San Jose couldn’t really be more different to London. It’s a big, bland, sprawling mess of a city, not known for its temples of culture. But I loved being there. I loved the sense of liberation, and being somewhere my parents hadn’t been, my own terrain.

You feel the burden of judgement lifted from your shoulders, the sense that people aren’t trying to figure out where you’re from, what class you are, what school you went to. That slightly tutting, curtain-twitching side of life that we have in the UK, they don’t have so much. They roll around in church aisles and speak in tongues, or go to the gun range and shoot cut-outs, and they jump up and down. When you go to America it’s like there’s less gravity and you can jump a little bit higher.

things in my head. Because I’m trying very hard not to say Jimmy Savile [Theroux made a documentary on the disgraced veteran BBC broadcaster in 2000, before allegations of his serial child sex abuse had been proved]. If I did meet him again, instead of just speaking to him I’d bring along Kat Ward, an abuse survivor I interviewed – if she was up for it obviously. And basically I’d let her drive the conversation rather than me. Because there’s nothing I could have said then that would have made him be honest about anything. He was obviously a pathological liar as well as a sexual predator. He was so wrapped up in his pathology, so wrapped up in his predatory characteristics, it would be almost impossible to communicate with him meaningfully about any of it… I’d prefer to focus on the dignity of the survivors. So if I could facilitate some kind of act of holding him to account that involved some of the victims, that would mean something to me.

before. On some level I realised my parents had academic aspirations for me, and I was attempting to fulfil them. But there was a fear of doing a karaoke act through life. Singing a tune with words by someone else.

off. And I thought about doing a foundation course at a London art college. And I sometimes wonder what would have happened – imagine how much fun I might have had. I might have met people I’d never have met otherwise. I’ve always enjoyed being in an arty crowd of people, a little bit bohemian and fun and from different walks of life. They might have shaken me out of my academic ways. Adam went to art college, Zach did a foundation at St Martins, Joe went to film school. They learned to question the framework of how you look at the world, how you understand what creativity looks like, of your sense of the world. I went to do history at Oxford. It’s a silly thing to dwell on, but it’s one of my few regrets.

TOP: IN A TURTLENECK, 1997 MIDDLE: IN MY SCIENTOLOGY MOVIE, 2015 BOTTOM: IN FORBIDDEN AMERICA, 2022 01 APR 2022

by Melissa Fulton Deputy Editor

@ melissajfulton

Like many modern dates, it began without commitment: a casual late-night scroll while watching TV, something prospective fur mum Caitlin Coxhell admits to doing reasonably often. What she never does, however, is click through to an individual profile. But when she clapped eyes on Ham Sandwich, an American bulldog cross, something stirred in her, and she made an exception.

Was it her cocked ears and soulful expression? Her snow-white coat? Her snacky little name, perhaps? “Her deep black eyes just got me,” says Caitlin. “I just thought, Yes. Please. I need to come and get her. And I decided last night that I was going to come down and meet her [this morning].”

I first spy Caitlin and her sister Brooke outside the North Melbourne Lost Dogs’ Home just before it opens at 10am. It’s a Monday morning, and there’s an air of nervous excitement, from both the humans on the street and, by the sounds of things, the animals on the other side of the roller door: a chorus of yap-yap-yapping and welcoming puppy-dog woofs.

Caitlin and her sister have been here for two hours already. Now, five minutes before opening, their noses almost touch the roller door in anticipation. As soon as it opens they gun it for the adoption department. They don’t want to miss out on their doggo.

My introduction to the LDH is more traditional, beginning with a tour from staff members Suzana Talevski and Kristen Vear. The premises, which is both expansive and rabbit-warreny, has the same bustling atmosphere as a primary

school. They run a range of services from the North Melbourne site: in addition to adoption and foster services for cats and dogs, the LDH has a vet clinic, shelter services and a pet training school. They also take in pocket pets like rabbits and guinea pigs.

And since COVID it’s never been busier. Animal Medicines Australia data shows that one-fifth of all dogs – over a million in total – have joined Australian households since 2019. Thirteen percent of these dogs were rescues, acquired from shelters around the country. Indeed, at the height of the pandemic adoption boom, demand for dogs outweighed supply, and The Lost Dogs’ Home was receiving up to 300 applications per dog. Last year, 14,000 animals came through HAM: HAPPY AS A CLAM its doors.

This year is shaping up to be even bigger, though for slightly different reasons. As we move into the next stage of the pandemic, and many people are returning to work, more animals are being surrendered to the Lost Dogs’ Home than ever before – particularly large dogs that require extra care. In March, to address the problem, the LDH set up a Tinder-style dating drive for PUPPY LOVE: BAILEY PLANTS A KISS dogs over 20 kilos (“swipe right for ON HAM SANDWICH paw-fection!”), offering half-price discounts and walk-in adoptions over three huge days. It was a resounding success, with 37 dogs now housed in their forever homes.

We’re hoping that this morning, Ham Sandwich joins their ranks and finds her forever home with Caitlin too, but they’ll need to go on a date first… The thing about The Lost Dogs’ Home’s online pet profiles is that, unlike some of its human Tinder counterparts, the LDH prides itself on accuracy. Photos are current and descriptions are as thorough and detailed as possible, so when Ham Sandwich’s profile says “I’m very friendly and have the waggiest tail, and I can sit on command like the goodest girl!”, you can take Ham for her word. Caitlin knows that at nine years and two months old, Ham is a senior dog, and at 45 kilos she’s more than a little chonky.

A FETCHING FIRST DATE But these qualities are bonuses for Caitlin, who has brought along her nine-year-old purebred Cavalier King Charles spaniel Bailey, who Caitlin has raised from a puppy and who is looking for a playmate. Also a plus is that Ham gets along well with kids, as Caitlin has a four-year-old son, who is currently at kinder telling all his mates that he might have a new pup when he gets home, if all goes to plan.

We’re seated in the middle of a large, designated meet-and-greet enclosure – me, Caitlin and her sister, Bailey, and Laura Stubbs from the shelter’s customer experience department. The enclosure is covered in astroturf, smattered with toys and gated. The plan is for one of Ham’s carers to bring her past for a little through-the-gate rendezvous, to see how the two dogs get along. This is standard practice for anyone looking to adopt another pooch – the Lost Dogs’ Home won’t allow an adoption to go ahead otherwise. “I feel nervous,” says Caitlin. “Because it’s not up to us anymore – it’s up to them!” I step off to the side and watch, as Ham Sandwich ambles towards the enclosure for a sniff hello. It’s a thoughtful little date, and there’s room for both dogs to take their time. Things go well for the odd couple through the fence, and there are the beginnings of play, so Laura and Caitlin take the two dogs on an on-lead stroll down the street together, and Laura asks some more questions about Caitlin’s home and lifestyle. The matchmaking process takes as long as it takes, often a couple of hours when another dog is involved. “We need to have really big chats and make sure everyone’s happy and comfortable,” explains Suzana. “The process has to be hard, because it’s a vulnerable life you’re potentially messing with – we don’t want these dogs back and confused again and not knowing what’s going on. We say to everyone, if it doesn’t work out at the meet-and-greet, that’s fine… We’d rather you wait for the perfect one, and you will find the perfect match.”

Back from the walk, and things are moving along pleasingly. The leashes are off in the enclosure and Bailey and Ham are playing together, while Caitlin and Laura are discussing the finer points of Ham’s needs, arranging for Caitlin to have a phone call with the vet. Ham underwent surgery after being surrendered to the LDH, to remove some benign tumours on her tummy. She will need lots of gentle exercise and a regular balanced diet. Caitlin has a big yard and is a stay-athome mum, two big pluses for Ham, who can get anxious when left alone for long periods (“I just miss you so much!” says her profile).

While the humans discuss the best way to care for Ham’s white fur (oat shampoo and keep her out of the sun), hijinks ensue as tiny, fanciful Bailey attempts to mount (and hump) Ham. This could potentially be awkward, even hostile, but Ham is friendly and relaxed as advertised – “all my shelter buddies think I am the most beautiful potato” – proving that this is a resounding match.

After the vet check, the paperwork and Ham’s latest round of vaccinations, we make our way over to the office to sign the paperwork and make things official.

The doggo adoption office is a cheery little space, plastered with photographs and mementos and progress reports of pups been and gone. Suzana shows me the adoption staff’s social media thread, which is basically just pickie after pickie of dogs doing cute stuff in their forever homes. Every adoption is a big one, and the staff gather around for photos and well wishes with Ham and her new family. “Oooh are you taking Hammy? She’s absolutely my favourite goofball!” says a sweet-faced staff member. It feels like a school graduation, or, ah, moving out of home. All pups are required to leave with a harness, and Caitlin picks out a teal one for Ham, which complements her perfect pink tongue. There’s a real sense of ceremony, of hopefulness, as Caitlin receives her adoption pack. We walk to the carpark and load the two dogs into the back of the 4WD, and wave and wave until long after they’ve rounded the corner towards home.

The next day I get a text from Caitlin – pics of Ham on the couch, on a walk, watching TV. “She is absolutely perfect,” Caitlin gushes. “My intuition was definitely right in getting her!”

COLLARS APLENTY

PHOTOS BY CHRISTINA SIMONS FOREVER HOME HERE I COME! HAM SAYS GOODBYE TO THE LOST DOGS’ HOME GIA IS AWAITING YOUR CALL!

More of a cat person? There are plenty of felines looking to be adopted too. More than ever, in fact, due to undercompliance with desexing regulations leading to whole litters being turned into shelters around the country. “It’s a big issue,” says Suzana Talevski of The Lost Dogs’ Home. In March, they had a record 1000 cats awaiting adoption.

Boots wasn’t supposed to be a pandemic pup. In March 2020, my partner and I signed up to foster a rescue greyhound, blissfully unaware the world was about to turn upside down. On the first day of this new thing called a “lockdown”, his trainer delivered him to our front door.

We called him Boots for the little shoes he had to wear to protect his paws, still soft from three years of life in a kennel. Boots had stopped racing once he figured out that if he just waited patiently, the prey would go all the way around the circular track and come back to him.

The novelty of a pandemic was as fresh as the sourdough my friends were baking. Meanwhile, we were learning to co-habit with a dog for the first time. Unused to living in a house, everything was new for Boots, and it took us until the end of the first lockdown to convince him that walks were actually fun.

By the time Melbourne’s Lockdown 2 rolled around, we knew we couldn’t part with Boots, and so the adoption became official. My partner’s iso project was to teach him tricks, the repertoire expanding as the weeks turned into months, until he could jump, spin and bark on command.

Allowed out of the house for just one hour a day, I spent mine with Boots exploring our 5km radius. In the blur of days, I looked forward to our sunset walk, which inched back later in the evening as we crossed into a new season.

Then Melbourne opened up and so did the border that had divided me and my NSW family for half a year. I plotted my escape back to my hometown of Sydney for Christmas and packed Boots into the car. He loved visiting new places, but I was the one who screamed with excitement when we crossed from Wodonga to Albury.

Having spent his new life in an apartment with two people, Boots was dazzled by the cacophony of siblings and niblings. For 24 tense yet joyful hours, I kept one eye on Boots casually sideswiping his long snoot across the splendid buffet, and the other refreshing the news feed on my phone as case numbers rose. When my five-year-old nephew cried out, I looked up to see him fleeing across the backyard, a sandwich raised above his head, with my greyhound in hot pursuit.

The next day brought a new border closure, and Boots and I were up at 6am making the long drive home. I watched the family Christmas via Zoom from self-quarantine. Boots camped at the foot of my bed for 14 days and didn’t leave my side. We rang in the New Year together in that bedroom, the windows closed to shut out the noise of fireworks that made Boots tremble and me cry.

My long-term relationship didn’t survive that first year of the pandemic. Boots and I moved into a new place, with a new 5km radius and a garden. I said it seemed like a good place to spend the next lockdown. People told me I was being pessimistic.

The city roared back to life; Melburnians desperate to make up for the year lost. An air of optimism filled the streets, but Boots wasn’t happy with our re-emergence into the world. He developed separation anxiety and howled when I had to leave him at home alone.

For months, we were trapped in the house again while I trained him to be comfortable on his own; first for a minute, then five, all the way up to an hour. Friends agreed to meet us in cafes and beer gardens, and we were stuck inside Boots’ walking radius: 5 km.

He came everywhere with me, lying patiently on the floor of my therapist’s office while I admitted that just maybe the separation anxiety was mine as much as his.

Boots’ confidence grew. He started going to doggy day care, where the staff called him a gentle soul. Every morning, he gently poked his nose through the crack in my bedroom door to check if I was awake.

Suddenly, we were back in lockdown. At the daily press conferences, they said it would last a week, then two. Then they announced the numbers would never return to zero and we stopped watching. Then Boots began to fall.

The vet told me it could be anything from a pulled muscle to a brain tumour. We went to an animal hospital, a neurologist. The MRI found a growth on Boots’ brain that was already creeping down his neck.

A month later, Boots made it to his fifth birthday. The radius lifted and we went for a drive. He used to love exploring new places. Now he cowered in a seat corner and had to be lifted out. Then he refused to get in the car at all.

As Boots’ balance worsened, we crossed off the things that he could do. The walks got shorter and then turned into sits in the park over the road. The beer gardens and cafes opened but Boots couldn’t get to them anymore. He was falling more often, finding it harder to get up. On bad days, he walked sideways like a crab. I carried the weight of the decision like a stone around my neck. One night, Boots looked at me, whimpering softly, and I knew it was time.

My former partner and I cradled Boots in our arms as he died peacefully at home. In his final hours, we fed him treats. He still barked on cue, but his voice had been reduced to a squeak. He wagged his tail when the vet arrived. He always loved visitors.

Boots’ life with me marked the duration of one of the world’s longest lockdowns. And for the first time since the pandemic started, I can leave the house. Freely. Go anywhere I choose. But for the first time, I don’t want to.

All the memories of Boots are in here.

Alessandro De Bellis & Matteo

series by Montenero/Parallelozero

Millions of Ukranians have fled their homes and country, seeking safety and shelter across the Polish border. Photographers Matteo Montenero and Alessandro De Bellis take their portraits, and put faces to the crisis.

by Alan Attwood

Alan Attwood is a former editor of The Big Issue.

Siblings Jena, 8, Vera, 14, and Dasha, 12, belong to a dance company that performs all over Ukraine. Their mother, who fled with them, smiles as she describes how her children are helping each other through this terrible experience. P residents and prime ministers start wars. Generals direct them. Soldiers fight them. But it is civilians – ordinary people, old people, young people, babies, children and their pets, so many pets – who suffer the most. Their lives are upended. They are left homeless; forced to flee and face a question without an answer: what next?

Late in March the UNHCR, the United Nation’s refugee agency, estimated that since 24 February well over 3.6 million people had fled Ukraine. That number rises every day, as refugees escape a country under siege. The movement of people has primarily been towards the West – to Romania, Hungary, Slovakia, Moldova and Poland, where the vast majority (well over two million) have sought help.

It was in Medyka, Poland, on 7 March that Matteo Montenero and Alessandro De Bellis, a pair of Italian photographers, took unflinching portraits of some of the desperate people arriving by train, in cars or on foot. Some carried a few possessions; others had no choice but to rummage through piles of clothing and necessities brought by volunteers from disparate parts of Europe.

Statistics and numbers from war zones are numbing. They can soon become incomprehensible. These portraits put faces to the figures. And by framing each of their subjects inside a plain white backdrop, the photographers emphasise their individuality. Each of these people – wearing beanies, jackets, scarves or thermal blankets like superhero capes – have their own stories of loss and hardship. Some insisted to the photographers that they would soon return home; others seemed resigned to the fact that their new lives might well have already begun in a foreign country far from home.

There is something else significant about the blank space behind each individual in these portraits: it emphasises their displacement. These are people who, through no fault of their own, lack the landmarks or familiar things – homes, streets, shops, schools, buildings – that give us all a sense of place in our everyday lives. They live now with emptiness all around.

But look at the faces. Despite all they have experienced there is dignity and pride. They have been displaced, but not defeated.

“They’re all scared and devastated by this war and suffering that they weren’t expecting,” reflects Montenero. “They’ve lost everything and their lives have been changed radically in a short amount of time. This has caused a very strong feeling of anger, but also an extraordinary determination and the conviction that they will resist the oppressor. It’s culturally rooted in them.”

Photographers and correspondents in war zones face a dilemma. Are they bearing witness, informing the world beyond the immediate borders, or being passive onlookers as other people suffer? The answer lies in these pictures.

Over a century ago, the English World War I poet Wilfred Owen wrote: “My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.” Now, war is again the subject for Montenero and De Bellis. War, and the pity of war. War, and the people swept away by a tidal wave of conflict.

Maria, 19, is travelling with her friend Tatiana. She doesn’t really like being photographed, but firmly believes that the world must know the circumstances the refugees face.

Sasha, 11, was scared throughout the journey. When she first heard planes over Kyiv she understood that something was wrong. She still doesn’t know where she will go, but she is relieved that this part of the journey is over. Diana, 11, fled with her mother. She will go to school in Poland, once she reaches the family that will house them temporarily. She hopes to return to Ukraine soon and see her friends again.

Dasha, 20, has arrived in Poland with her cousins. She is carrying the computer that she says holds her entire life, as well as a phone and a few hryvnia, the Ukrainian currency that is now worth little.

Nadia, 57, says that at her age, after experiencing the end of the USSR, she never thought she would find herself fleeing her home because of a war.

Sergiej, 45, is a dual national. Because of this he managed to cross the border without a problem, in contrast to many Ukrainian men who are unable to leave the country. He is travelling alone with his dog Nancy, who is very agitated to be surrounded by so many people. Lukas, 35, is shivering, cold and angry. He wants directions to the town centre. He believes the refugees need backpacks, not just clothes, so they can take donated necessities with them.

Katja, 27, prefers not to take off her mask, partly as a precaution against COVID and partly out of shyness. She has just arrived and is still holding her passport in her hand, having not had time to put it away since the border controls.

In a Florence bathtub, Zoë Coyle considers her unborn child, remembers her long-past mother, and contemplates what NSW lawmakers will decide about the terminally ill.

Zoë Coyle is an author, leadership facilitator and communications training leader, with experience that spans 20 years. She is based in Sydney. Where the Light Gets In is her first novel.

am heavily pregnant, seven-and-a-half months, with my first child, and I am sitting in a bathtub. The tub is in a tiny rented cottage in the hills above Florence in Italy. I’m living there with my husband and our two long-haired dachshunds. The bathroom hasn’t been updated since the 1960s and is covered in square handmade green tiles that I love. The toilet and sink are also green, giving the room the feel of being carved from an emerald. The shower is so small I have trouble fitting in it, and there is only one window; it’s tiny, and as I lie in the tub, all I can see through it are the tops of a few ancient poplar trees and a slice of sky.

My large belly is like an island in the water. I cup it in my hands and am struck by a straightforward thought: I need to get my shit together. In a month and a half, I will be a mother. I will need to be responsible. My mistakes, failings and faults will surely be more meaningful then, because they won’t affect just me. And this realisation does two things. Firstly, it teaches me that loving another person, even one I haven’t met yet, inspires me to be better. So maybe all those syrupy love songs are right. And secondly, it makes me miss my own mother terribly.

She had a terminal disease. It was obscure and took ages to be diagnosed, and when they finally worked it out their prognosis was terrible. A degenerative disease that attacks the brain cells and impairs mental and motor functions. Generally, people who have it die of breathing issues or infections. It was going to kill her painfully and in slow motion. My mother, a nurse, was calm when she found out. Immediately, she said she had no intention of dying that way. That she would euthanise herself when things became unmanageable. Her autonomy and dignity were important to her. She wasn’t depressed. She didn’t want to die, but my mother correctly predicted there would come a time when she would want her suffering to end.

As she was living in Australia before the voluntary assisted dying laws were enacted, she had no option but to take matters into her own hands. Legally, she had to be alone, and the classification of her death was suicide. The fall-out of all of this, of not being able to be with her, was almost insurmountable for me. But this growing baby in my womb is helping me to finally shuffle out of the dark tunnel of grief. A new life in some magical way making sense of an ended life.

This month the New South Wales Parliament is due to decide if it will join all other states in enabling voluntary assisted dying. I deeply hope the legislation is passed, so other patients and families don’t have to go through what we went through.

When my mother was seriously unwell, I kneeled down by her bath. She wore a beautiful scarf to cover her hair, so it didn’t go frizzy with the condensation. I took a flannel and she leaned forward, folding over her bent up knees. Turning her face to the side, she shut her eyes in pleasure as I washed her. She almost looked like a child to me, as if we’d swapped roles. She said she was sorry to miss out on future things. On my wedding, on my being pregnant, on the children of mine that she would never meet. I carried on gently washing her back as we both cried.

And now, six years after her death, she is not here to see me pregnant. Not a day passes when I don’t want to ask her something, or tell her something. These green tiles, for example – she would love them. And to share with her this new realisation of mine, that we each have a responsibility to try to sort ourselves out, so we are not working our stuff out on our children, friends or colleagues. I want to do that for my unborn child, yes, and also for my mother. I want them both to be proud of me.

It’s time for me to get out of this bath as my hands have gone all wrinkly, but before I move another thought occurs to me: even though my mother is dead, my love for her brings her close. Death is no match for our connection. I can hear her voice clearly saying, “This, darling, is a really lovely bathroom. The tiles are the most perfect shade of green.”