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CHAPTER 1
The Office
The best time was always afterwards, alone, in the Ladies' Restroom on the first floor. It had high frosted-glass windows that at this hour, before the frail winter sun had found its way between the buildings of the city, shed a dim grainy light like old footage in a documentary film.
How long since this room had been modernised? There was a quicklime incinerator for tampons and a yellowed notice about a women's refuge, contact Terri, which might have been there since the seventies. It was the sort of place she was always trying to describe in the on-going letter in her head. But who was this letter to? Who wants to read about the toilets at your place of work? The rotating chrome soap dispensers, the mint-green handbasins on their pedestals, the big wire basket for paper towels – the sense of living in another generation's film? Her father of course would be hanging out for this sort of news, but she wasn't going to ponder to his romanticism. And Jason Kay – if a letter ever reached him – would read anything from her with painstaking attention, but she didn't want to think about Jason. In fact she hadn't sent a single letter home since she'd come to Melbourne, though she'd started several on the office computer in the afternoons.
She had this room to herself. The other women in the building, the beauticians from Beauty by Mimi on the ground floor, didn't start work till nine. It was pristine, like a beach first thing in the morning. She didn't switch on the fluoro, but stayed in the gray light. All the contents of the little bag she kept in her desk were laid out on the broad sill of the handbasin. She washed and dried herself with paper towels, fixed her hair, put on deodorant and mascara. The antique plumbing hummed as she ran the taps. She felt safe here, performing these classic female rituals. Every morning at this mirror she thought for a moment of her mother and the compulsive little pout she made when she looked at herself, like an old-fashioned model.
When do you stop being haunted by your parents? The face that looked back at her was not a face that they had ever seen, the eyes darkened and reckless, the skin luminous. It made her shy, she turned away and then could not resist another peek. She knew this transformation wouldn't last for long.
It was time to go back upstairs. She liked the washed lightness of her body as she moved to the door. She liked the silver flecks in the faded terrazzo floor. But then of course she liked everything, everything seemed to have significance, for a short while, afterwards.
Global Imports occupied the whole top floor of the narrow old building, above Jonathan Fung Barristers. Its corridor ended in a door out to the rusty metal landing of the fire escape, where on a fine day, amongst the roar of air-con vents, you could sit and eat your lunch and look out over the roofs along the back laneway. Someone had once slung a little washing line out there and tried to grow basil in a pot. It was like being in Naples or New York.
The office consisted of one large bare-walled room, high-ceilinged like all the rooms in this building, with two tall front windows facing the street. A head-high partition of varnished ply and frosted glass made a waiting space by the door. Here there were two cane armchairs and a low glass table on which sat a Cinzano ashtray – some of the clients came from countries where it was still OK to smoke at business deals – and a neat pile of magazines, Time, Fortune, BRW. It was part of her duties to keep these up to date and to water the rubber plant in its bamboo stand.
As soon as she opened the door she knew he wasn't there. She could sense his absence even before she saw that his black coat had gone from beside her sheepskin jacket on the hooks behind the door. Inside the office the answering machine's red light was flickering on his desk. He'd made the call from his car in traffic, she could hardly hear him. He said that he was going home, there'd been a turn for the worse and could she please just carry on. He would be in touch, he said, and something else that was lost in a blast of static.
She stood looking out a window for several minutes, holding her little quilted bag. The long window had a view of the black spire of the church opposite and the bare swaying tips of the churchyard trees. Below her a phone was ringing in Jonathan Fung's office. Someone with a light tread was running up the stairs. The working day had started.
There was no other message. She had a sense of abandonment which was, she knew, unreasonable. He'd left the computer on and the coffee-maker. She poured herself a cup and sat down at her desk. The air in the room was still thick with their closeness. But her feeling of well-being, of doing good in the world, had faded.
Maynard Flynn started work before anybody else in the building because he had a sick wife. She slept during the morning while their son stayed with her and Maynard left at noon to be with her when she was awake. He asked Maya at the interview if she could work from seven till three. For the time being he was in and out of the office and needed someone to hold the fort. Things had, he said, with a little grimace, got rather out of hand. That was six months ago, in summer, soon after she'd arrived.
Each morning of those first couple of weeks she took the cup of coffee he offered her and plunged straight into the messy paperwork and files. She spread them out in piles all over the seagrass matting and for a couple of hours before the phone started ringing, she crouched over them, silent and frowning. He seemed both impressed and entertained.
In this way she saved herself from the shyness that threatened to take her over whenever she was face to face with him. Shyness, she knew, had a mind of its own, chose when to strike, caused red blotches to break out on her neck, made her voice catch, her eyes fill with tears. She lived in dread of its attacks.
His wife's name was Delores. Sometimes he spoke of her as Dory. Every few days now her friends phoned to ask him how she was. He had a special tone with these women, Francine, Bernadette and Tina, women from her church. His voice dropped a note, became suave and medical. She'd had a good night, thanks, the doctor was pleased. Yes, he and Andrew were coping well. At the same time he kept tapping away at the computer. These conversations never lasted long. Maya began to understand that they were all waiting, that things were coming to an end.
She'd never got up early before in her life. This was one of her new adult acts, making herself wake before her natural span of sleep was done. She put the alarm clock out of reach, leapt from bed, pulled on her clothes, cleaned her teeth and rushed up to Victoria Street while the last stars were fading. The 6.40 tram approached just as she reached the Vietnamese deli. She liked to make the transition between sleep and work as swift and dreamlike as possible, while she was still all instinct and warmth.
As winter came on, each morning was darker than the one before. Nobody on the tram looked at one another, their faces blank and private. Some were shift-workers falling in and out of sleep on their way home. She was like a shift-worker herself, she thought, her real life happened at the other end of the day from other people's.
Leaves rolled down the pavement ahead of her as she stepped off the tram. This was when she liked the inner city most, empty and echoing, a half-world, the light seeping into the dark. Car headlights and street lamps were still on. A news-agency was open, also the espresso bar on the corner, serving the little community she was briefly part of, the dog owners and joggers and council workers in rubbish trucks. Light broke out minute by minute as she walked, pale splashes over roofs and walls. Birds were going like mad in the trees around the old church. Bells rang the hour somewhere, pink clouds streaked the sky ahead. Sometimes the experience of striding up this street – the achievement of being there – could give her a historical feeling, as if she were looking back at herself, as if these mornings were already in the past.
She thought of the sick woman lying in the dawn, listening to the birds. Her relief. Her pillow shaken, her sheets smoothed, ready at last to sleep.
She had a key to let herself into the building. Past the brass letterboxes, past Mimi's glass door with its stencilled sign, Waxing, Peeling, Paraffin Treatments: she still hadn't found out what Paraffin Treatments were. The stairway was in darkness. She was aware of the ticking life of the building when it was left to itself, and its particular smell, ancient wood and radiators and dust, like an old person's house. Her heart started thumping as she climbed the stairs. Her stomach felt queasy with excitement. Sometimes Dory had to have an injection and he'd arrive later than her. She could always sense if he was or wasn't there. Nearly always. With about 98.2 per cent accuracy, as her brother would say.
'I thought you were a farm girl!' he said, amused, when she arrived that first morning windswept and out of breath. 'I thought you'd be used to getting up at dawn.' She began to explain that she didn't grow up on a farm, but in a town in the wheat-belt, that her family weren't real country people, but whenever she spoke about her past she knew he wasn't really listening. He went on making jokes about her strong shoulders and legs, from all that hay baling and cow milking: if he was in a good mood he liked to tease her about her cowgirl strength. The only questions he ever asked her were about her social life in Melbourne. When she told him after the weekend that she'd walked in the Botanical Gardens, or gone for dim sum with her housemate Cecile, he seemed disbelieving, even disappointed, and quizzed her about clubs and bars and boys. She shook her head. Something froze in her when he asked her these sorts of questions.
You could tell he wasn't being looked after by a woman. The first time he held her his shirt smelt musty, as if it had been left too long in the washing machine. A bachelor smell, like some of the young male teachers at school.
It was a fatherly sort of hug that first time, an arm around her shoulder as he left for the day. The culmination of all the little taps on her arm he'd been giving her over the past couple of weeks when he was pleased with her. Just a little more lingering.
Good old country commonsense, he said that first time, his face close to hers, his arm along her shoulders. A can-do attitude, he said. This was his way of showing his approval, she told herself. It was what good employers were supposed to do. Look how it made her work even harder! All the same, all afternoon she could feel the heat of his arm at the back of her neck. It seemed like a long time since anyone had touched her.
That night she dreamt she was walking down the main street in Warton with a friend of her brother's, Ben Lester, a nice enough boy, tall, freckled, three years younger than she was, to whom she'd never given a single moment's thought. Except it wasn't Warton, it was voluptuously beautiful, it was India, it was Paradise. A grove of feathery palm trees all swayed in the same direction, like underwater plants, beside a heaving grape-green river. The light was bronze, as before a storm. Everywhere she looked was this swelling beauty, exotic and familiar at the same time. She and Ben Lester stood beneath a blossoming tree by the river and moved closer, their feelings generous and loving.
She woke with the words of course he wants you in her head.
The next morning as she climbed the stairs, she was suddenly aware that they were the only two people in the building. When she let herself into the office and saw him she was too shy to speak.
'There you are,' he said softly, as if he too had been dreaming of blossoms and rivers. He stretched out his hand to her. 'Maya,' he said, to her vast surprise, and yet deep down some part of her wasn't surprised at all. 'You're tormenting me.' His voice was husky. 'I can't stand it.' Her first thought was that she must have done something unfair to him, and she searched her mind for how she might have hurt him. He looked tired as if he hadn't slept. He must be cracking up under the strain of Dory. She took a step towards him. That was the crossing-over time.
From that moment she ceased having her own life.
When she first came here she saw an office that was too bare, that had been cheaply, hurriedly put together. It looked like he'd just moved in and could disappear overnight, though Global Imports had existed for some years. None of the furniture suited the dark wood of the old room: the flimsy pine desks, the metal filing cabinet, the plastic table for the fax and photocopier. The matting was greenish and springy as if it had only recently been grass. In the corner there was a little fold-up divan, on which, before Delores got sick, he used to take a siesta, a habit he'd picked up during his time in Asia, he said. Only the long uncurtained windows with their view of the spire were beautiful.
Now in her mind it was a room at the top of a tower, floating amongst the clouds, detached from the world. She was grateful for its unclutteredness, the space it gave them, its work functions pushed to the margins. Its bareness seemed to say that this was enough, this was all they could ever ask for. They lay on the divan's thin mattress which he placed on the seagrass. There he was fully attentive. A beam of early sun streaked across the floor, stroked their white winter ankles. It was a shock to see white flesh in the pure morning light.
Whenever she was alone, in the office, on the tram, in bed, at any time of the night or day, she would see his hands, or the flank of his cheek, relive his touch, feel the weight of his legs, hear his voice in her ear as she fell asleep. She would sense the gray light swirling around them in their wordless concentration, hear the bird cries of their endless practice, closer and closer to the brink, and a shiver would run through her all over again.
The reason she couldn't write letters was because he was everywhere and everything and he was secret.
Sometimes the phone rang, the answering machine clicked into life or a fax spewed out. He chuckled. She knew it excited him, to be lying with her at the top of this silent house of business. He liked to stalk naked across the room, and stand at the window, lightly scratching himself, with only the birds to see him.
For a short time afterwards, dressed and back at his desk, he was blinky, dopey, like a little boy woken from sleep, winking at her as he spoke on the phone, calmer, no longer tormented. He was very attractive to her then. 'My legs don't work,' she said as she tried to stand up from the mattress, and he'd smile but keep listening to his messages. She dressed quickly, took the little bag from her desk and set off downstairs, briefly carefree and light-headed.
He winked and joked when he was happy and had sudden bouts of fondness for her. As he passed he'd whisper in her ear that she was the best little worker he'd ever had.
Although she was proud to have made him happy, she couldn't laugh at this with him. What had happened between them seemed too large, too radical for jokes. She smiled at him but she couldn't laugh.
A country girl. He'd been surprised he was her first. Wasn't that unusual these days? he asked. The isolation in the bush perhaps? She shrugged, not knowing why he was so keen for news of her generation, or why he seemed so taken up with the idea of all young women as freely promiscuous. She didn't want to think about this.
She didn't say that the way he made her feel aroused a longing in her to tell him about horses and her brother and her dog and the seasons and landscapes of the wheat-belt, all the things that fed into the river of loving that flowed through her.
She knew all the tones of his voice. He had a voice for doing business with Asians and another voice for Australians. Like her father, he became more macho, jokey, his accent broader, when dealing with Australian men. He was more at ease exchanging smooth small talk with the Asians.
Then there was the way he had of talking to his mother, tucking the phone under his chin, keeping on working, rolling his eyes now and then, ironic, yet always patient. His mother lived in a retirement village and forgot things and left flustered messages late at night: Maynard? Maynard? Are you there? – her voice quavery with self-pity.
Who are you? she demanded, impatient if Maya answered the phone. Oh, you're the little lass from the West, yes, yes, he's told me about you. There were old girls like this in Warton, left over from the big landowner families, shuffling into the newsagency with their hats and walking sticks, pretending to be helpless but always getting their own way. Going on and on about something that annoyed them, while everybody else had to wait.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Good Parents"
by .
Copyright © 2008 Joan London.
Excerpted by permission of Grove Atlantic, Inc..
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