An Inconvenient Child by Sharyn Killens

The worst autobiography I’ve ever had the displeasure of reading was Scar Tissue by Anthony Kiedis, lead singer of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. Not only was it self-indulgent, boring and full of stories about shagging anything that moved, the ghost writing was so bad that I’m pretty sure a dyslexic ten-year-old could have done a better job. The Inconvenient Child is not as dire as that particular effort, but it didn’t really grip me either. I think it’s a great example of what happens when an ordinary person tells an extraordinary story – the book turns out……a bit ordinary.

So the true story is amazing – white Aussie chick gets banged up by hot American Navy Man in the late 1940’s. Navy Man sails home, leaves woman to have illegitimate coloured child alone during the rollickin’ good times of the White Australia policy. Woman refuses to acknowledge child as daughter, puts her in several horrific girls’ homes throughout the years, gives her presents on intermittent visiting Sundays, won’t tell her what her father’s name is until after he dies and screws her up royally for life.

Author Sharyn Killens is now in her early 60’s, and has come to terms with her past and found a sense of belonging meeting her half siblings in America. There’s a refreshing lack of self-editing of events from her past (which sometimes you feel the subjects of autobiographies must be tempted to do, wiping out mentions of incidents that may depict them in not so flattering light, which is probably what I would do) - it’s all laid out bare here which I thought was pretty brave. There’s not much imagination in the writing itself, but I guess when the truth is so entertaining, she didn’t feel the need to embellish any further. I’m sure writing a book about your shitty childhood works out to be far cheaper than going to see a shrink.

The Spare Room by Helen Garner

Let's just get this out of the way - I loved this book. Loved like it will sit in my middle book shelf, be re-read every couple of years and lent out to friends with a stern look and strict instructions on its safe return.

It’s the kind of book you devour in one sitting, which is pretty easy to do as it’s about 200 pages of size 14 font, almost like the big sister of a short story (by this logic, why aren’t novels just called ‘tall stories?’). If it’s a novel at all is put in question not only by its length and Garner’s more recent forays into non-fiction (which she is also damn good at) but it’s confusing to me that the main character is a 50-something writer called Helen who lives in Melbourne. For Chrissakes, call the woman Kate, Penny – but not after yourself! It’s a mere quibble since the book is a gem.

After the hard slog of my last reading adventure, I really enjoyed not being able to put it down and save some more for later. I was going to give myself book heartburn – quite literally. The Spare Room did what a good book should, which is leave a little imprint on you that makes you smile on the tram a few days later, or has a character that reminds you of someone you love, and it brings that person back to life for you, for a wonderful fleeting moment.

It was my Gran who revisited me as I travelled through main character Nicola’s struggle with terminal cancer, the ever familiar doctor’s appointments, her annoying but understandable grim optimism that her quack Vitamin C treatments are working her avoidance of death. It makes you wonder how you would cope if you were the one diagnosed.

Despite knowing the likely outcome of the book from the off-set, Garner creates this hyper real suburban world, where Nicola’s best friend Helen can only cook and change sweat drenched sheets to help her, helplessly watching as Nicola weakens with the passing weeks. Garner is a brutally honest writer, and some of the emotions are so raw and disarming – Helen’s anger at Nicola for not facing up to the likelihood of death, admitting she’s unable to cope with looking after her as she declines, and Nicola’s admission that no-one has ever asked her how she feels, so she just pretends. The part where Helen squeezes a glass of fresh OJ for Nicola, who drains it and says “That was the best orange juice I think I’ve ever tasted” was so fucking tender it made me want to cry. It summed up what your best friend will do for you when in need, and how sometimes the small things are like gold.