The shop’s phone meep-meeped.
The Lillibridge book was nowhere in sight. He’d overlooked googling it before leaving. At present Matthew had nothing to go on. It would have been helpful to recall whether the novel Dalesford had shown him was minuscule, like that joke of a time-travel book, or voluminous, like War and Peace.
The time travel book glared out at him. If it were a Time Travel for Dummies title, he might have been interested. That’d be the go. Travelling back in time, preferably to the beginning of his adulthood and starting all over again with relationships.
No. Earlier than that. Up until the age of seventeen, he knew what it was to be lonely; had been too shy to approach the girls he really admired.
All of that changed in the last two years of secondary school. He grew taller, got contact lenses—the specs in those days frequently resembled frog man goggles—and discovered through relationships that he wasn’t as undesirable as he’d always thought. Once he’d met Bernadette in his initial years of work, he’d re-experienced some of that muddled clumsiness.
It was hard to believe that the bad-tempered acquisitionist he’d married was the same woman he’d fancied like crazy during his years as a junior partner at Garrison Weissler Brumby. Bernadette’s disarming phone manner and innate sense of style had made a great impression on Matthew and his partners when she’d gone for Garrison Weissler Brumby’s ‘Immaculate Front-Desk Clerk’ position, and Matthew had taken it upon himself to phone her with their offer of employment.
In his opinion back then, none of the others he dated could match the skinny-legged brunette who giggled at his jokes and moved about the office with a spidery sort of grace. Bernadette’s single-mother status had deterred many a potential suitor, but Matthew hadn’t seen this to be an issue. Their work connection was the reason he'd discarded his dream of asking her out. Facing each other over the tea-room percolator each day would mean major awkwardness if they broke up, and remaining in control at work was mandatory.
She’d got herself a fiancé named Grant Belfield—a policeman who’d scored a two-storey home in a lottery win—had talked excessively to Matthew about her wedding plans, which killed him inside, turned into a blonde and resigned two months after marrying.
On the day of her send-off, she confided that Grant was the father of Sara, still a toddler back then. He’d been her high-school sweetheart, but she couldn’t have married a barman. ‘Grant earned an embarrassing amount,’ she’d said. ‘My great-uncle would never have accepted him into the family. Besides all that, we were way too young.’ Her great-aunt had minded baby Sara on weekdays so that Bernadette could do an admin course at a business college in the city. Not long after graduating, she’d landed the job at Matthew’s firm.
Seven years after the send-off, Matthew had come to the realisation, when Bernadette—a divorced mother of two by then—had tracked him down and flitted into the lobby of his new workplace one sunny afternoon, that he’d never completely forgotten her.
He went over the shelves and re-scanned them for the name Lillibridge. Nope. Nothing there. He returned to the rune stone book and flicked through it once more, his thoughts settling again on Bernadette. He couldn’t ever have imagined she’d become a drain on him in the future. Wasn’t marriage meant to be the end of feeling alone? Lonely was the perfect word to describe how he felt in his wife’s company.
Perhaps her ability to love only extended as far as her children and the Doultons: the great-aunt and departed great-uncle who had always referred to her as their princess. Matthew indeed had a great deal of respect for Bernadette’s motherly devotion. Despite his gripes about self-centredness and a compulsion to overindulge—presents in lieu of presence—he could concede without a doubt that Bernadette cared deeply about her children.
He wandered into the next book-lined aisle, making a note of talking over the postnup process with Marc. He had to get things sorted before she arrived home from Vanuatu. Postnup or none, the freedom to forget all she’d put him through would soon be reality. He’d tell Marc he didn’t believe she deserved fifty-per-cent ownership of his inheritance and everything he’d acquired through sheer slog. While for many years he’d thought a not-so-good marriage preferable to dividing his fortune, the continual put-downs and petulant outbursts had caused him to re-think.
It was a question of living solo or bowing to materialism: his own and hers. While singledom equalled becoming poorer, at least he’d regain his peace, and at thirty-four he wasn’t entirely out of the game. He could still take another swing at partnering up, and it wasn’t as though he’d be moneyless.
Even with divorce-diminished dough, he’d retain plenty in the way of investments. He wouldn’t be giving those up without a fight. There was a small possibility she’d feel guilty about taking so much and agree to his proposal—retention of the Audi and a paid-in-full four-bedroomer in one of the better suburbs—‘small possibility’ being an overstatement. This was Bernadette, after all.
He checked his watch once more. Twenty minutes now till his appointment with Marc.
Not so easy was eradicating the guilt that gnawed away at him at breaking up Granddad Weissler’s millions inherited ten years earlier. His father and brother had been prudent with their share. More than likely, Matthew would be forced to white-ant the legacy, a fortune built from scratch, the life savings of a man who fled Poland on the eve of the Second World War. If there were such a thing as souls moving up to an otherworld, the gruff elder would be glaring down ferociously at Matthew by now. The results of backbreaking toil, of setting up a modest New York tyre shop in 1942 that expanded into franchises and flourished throughout the four decades that followed, was not left to Matthew so he could waste it within a decade.
‘Don’t you go marryin’ no gold diggers, boy,’ the moonfaced man had warned him in a Polish-tinted Southern drawl. That had been when Matthew, as a teenager, had travelled from England for a stay at his granddad's Texan ranch. If the grammatical implications had defined that statement, Matthew could have argued that he’d followed this advice to the letter. He hadn’t married no gold digger.
Jannali Dalesford’s words rang back to him. Your loving wife...
Matthew placed the rune-stone book on the counter. He asked about the book he was after. The bookseller punched the title into a catalogue in slow and staccato clacks and viewed his monitor with the classic backwards head tilt of a bifocals wearer. Out of print. ‘We could order Our True Ancient History in for you,’ he advised, ‘if the usual wait-time doesn't bother you. I know of an Antiquarian wholesaler.’
‘I really need it sooner than three weeks,’ Matthew told him. ‘Do you know of anywhere around here that might sell second-hand books?’
The bookseller's mouth twisted. His moustache slanted into a diagonal strip. ‘Crystal Consciousness has a second-hand section.’ This was said with reluctance. It was an opposition retailer, after all. A guarded pause. ‘It’s in the station arcade.’
‘Thanks for that.’ Matthew opened the jangly door, re-checked his watch and headed up George Street towards Wynyard and the café.
Crystal Consciousness. A familiar sounding name. It had immediately evoked the memory of burning myrrh, piped music, and the crimson and orange splendour of an ethereal poster.
He scrolled through last month’s schedule on his BlackBerry. Aha! Marked under Friday the 8th was: Conan Dalesford Book Launch. 5.30pm (Time of finish not provided). Crystal Consciousness Books & Gifts.
So this was the name of the place next to the first-floor news stand. It was the shop with a mind-body-spirit theme that Harrow had detoured into to buy and then discard Conan Dalesford’s Thoughts on Tomorrow’s Tycoon War. Matthew had intended to revisit because of Laura’s ‘lotsa dots’ gift wrap request but had instead gone to a newsagency closer to work. A few weeks later, he’d shaken hands with Dalesford outside its doors.
No time left today. He’d go next week.
* * * *
‘Sold,’ Lena said.
They trolleyed the purchase across the mall’s car park, lugged it into the boot of Lena’s Ford, and then Rosetta remarked they were due for a caffeine hit at Hansel & Gretel, a tiny coffee shop that exuded the aroma of simmering chocolate.
Once settled at one of the pine tables, Lena made the inevitable comment. ‘You haven’t told me yet about your last date with The Gorgeous GEG. How was it?’
‘Aaaagh!’ Rosetta rolled her eyes. ‘Disappointing. I’d rather not talk about it.’
But she did. She told Lena how the minutes leading up to the delicious hour of Adam’s arrival had hovered in slo-mo. And then he was there on her doorstep, all tall and golden, beaming like the midday sun. He'd said a ‘Hello again,’ to Eadie (volunteer make-up artist) and Darren (self-appointed semi-beehive stylist) while they scrambled out of the door to make an inconspicuous getaway.
When she locked up, Rosetta couldn’t help overhearing Darren muttering to Eadie as he crossed the lawn with her that the look Adam had gone for—navy polo and white trousers—was ‘nauseatingly nautical’ and that Adam was twenty years too late to be ‘an extra on The Love Boat.’ Although terrified Adam had overheard, Rosetta was heartened to find he’d been taken up with his own thoughts, frowning at the verandah floorboards and relating in a moan his bad fortune of parking further up the street because of a party going on in Ashbury Avenue. And then she’d heard Eadie’s words, rich in New Zealander charm, hissed indignantly back to Darren, which sounded to the Australian ear like, ‘Eighties pen-up boy look’ and ‘virry en et the moment.’
‘So we went to his colleague’s retirement dinner,’ Rosetta told Lena, ‘And you won’t believe this. You know the nannying position I went for? The two-week job looking after kids in Cabarita Heights?’
‘The one with the interrogative mum? But she phoned you to say you weren’t successful!’
‘She did. Job’s gone. I thought it a shame at the time because when I read the ad I saw some kind of vision, a burst of stars that matched Lillibridge’s description of the lights Maleika conjured in the dragon cave. They felt hopeful and positive, so I considered them to be a good omen. But the woman who interviewed me turned up at the pre-dinner drinks. Can you believe it? Dette Weissler is the wife of Adam’s colleague! The whole purpose of the drinks and dinner was to celebrate her husband’s retirement.’
‘And what was the husband like?’ said Lena, amused. ‘Impossible too, I bet.’
Rosetta paused to consider Dette’s husband. Matthew Weissler had got Rosetta’s name wrong. She hadn’t had the heart to correct him. He’d appeared to be a considerate man and an attentive conversationalist who would probably have been profoundly apologetic if he’d realised. ‘He was actually quite the opposite,’ she said in answer to Lena’s question. ‘And a real catch.’
‘In a silver-haired sort of way?’ Lena was looking puzzled.
‘It does sound like that, but no. This guy was young. Thirty years too young to retire.’
‘And probably enviously moneyed if he can afford to give up work.’
‘Probably.’ He’d misheard her name because they’d been introduced when the drums started up. Since she was never going to see Matthew again, his knowing who she was hardly mattered. Rosetta took a sip of her soy latte. ‘But I’ll tell you something that shocked me about his wife.’
Lena looked up from her coffee, hazel eyes alight with intrigue. ‘What was shocking? What did she do?’
‘I guess you could say she caused us to leave. One minute I’m at the bar, and the next thing I know, Adam and I are cruising out of the city in Adam’s gold Porsche. Everyone was due to move on to a restaurant at Circular Quay.’ Rosetta lowered her voice. ‘Adam told me that Dette was drunk and flirting with him.’
‘No way!’
‘It had been really, really awkward for poor Adam. He told me he hadn’t wanted anyone to be embarrassed and then he mentioned something about not wanting to spoil Matthew Weissler’s big night. Apparently he doesn’t like Matthew much, but he was sensitive to the fact that Matthew should retire with dignity.’
‘Hmm. What’s caused Adam to dislike Matthew?’
‘Didn’t say, but he referred to him as an “arrogant creep” so I’m guessing they’re not the best of buddies.’
‘What did you do when that was going on?’ Lena asked. ‘Back in the bar, when Dette went after Adam?’
‘It was happening at a distance, and I couldn’t be sure it was anything but innocent, although I was definitely feeling uneasy. I shrugged it off when Matthew mentioned Dette was his wife. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with chatting with your husband’s workmate. But when Adam told me what had really gone on...Well! You know me, Lena. I turn into a she-wolf when I hear about anyone trying to cheat on their partner.’
For a second Rosetta was back on that date with Adam, confiding in him that hearing about cheaters instantly threw up the memory of Angus’s icy eyes when he’d marched out of their marriage with barely a grunt. Adam had laughed in agreement and said ‘Liars suck.’
‘And Matthew’s a catch you reckon?’ said Lena. ‘Wonder what’s causing his wife to stray. Maybe he is arrogant like Adam said.’
‘Whatever the reason, the least anyone can do is allow their partner the courtesy of separation before going on the lookout for someone else.’
‘And it’s only manners to check whether the guy you go after is with someone else at the time. Ah! There’s Crispin again!’ Lena turned to acknowledge a senior man all in white, a customer who shopped at the health food store she owned. She turned back to Rosetta, wispy platinum-blonde hair flouncing airily. ‘Do you think Matthew knew what Dette was up to?’
‘He would have had no idea. I wouldn’t have known either if Adam hadn’t told me.’
‘That’s pretty low. She should definitely be candid with Matthew.’
‘Absolutely. How many handsome men does that woman want?’ Rosetta went on to describe the fluorescent-lit restaurant she’d gone to with Adam after they’d left the bar. Overcooked food and an absence of ambience...the lack of patrons guaranteed quiet conversation, which meant Rosetta’s desire to learn more about Adam was amply rewarded. He’d volunteered his opinions: his likes, his dislikes, and an exhilarated description of his favourite gym. Along with a complicated account of the stock market, Adam expressed his confidence in stepping into his boss’s shoes. And after that? Well...Wall Street was beckoning. He’d already made two major career jumps, one of them from journalism to finance. Getting to work for the New York Stock Exchange would be an upwards jump rather than a sideways one, but he had no illusions about the amount of experience this would demand. After the meal, he’d suggested a walk.
‘A romantic walk,’ Lena ribbed. ‘Did that make up for the average dinner?
Rosetta roared with laughter. ‘We walked alongside a stormwater drain.’
‘Geez, you go to all the best places.’
A hand-in-hand stumble through the moonless night that ended in gazing into drain water, brown and murky from the afternoon’s rain. ‘But then he suggested a drive.’
‘Wow, where to?’ Lena said. ‘The local garbage tip?’
<><> XXXII <><>
Many years later in the
Devic Century of Ruin
Or ‘The Century Of Progress’
to those of the Empire
Following his Clan Watcher, Croydee hastened back to the glades where the dragon cave began and rushed through its uninspiring depths. ‘Look, Aunt Maleika,’ he cried. Towards the end of the cavern was an exit that branched off to the right. It was not the exit they had passed through the previous day. ‘Why don’t we escape the cavern here instead? I’d much ra
ther leave now than walk any further through an atmosphere as heavy as this.’
The two Brumlynds climbed the little incline and pushed their way through a narrow gap in the rock. The craggy doorway opened out to the freshness of the forest.
‘The golden residence appears different to yesterday,’ Croydee remarked. ‘Ha! I see why. A flag is flying. What must the flag symbolise?’
Maleika lifted her gaze to the tower’s banner of white, black and maroon. In the centre of the flag was an oval that signified new life. On the outer edges were the spindly lines of pterodactyl claws to give the effect of an egg cradled in talons. ‘It means the birth of a royal,’ said Maleika slowly. ‘This is odd. I did not see the gestation banner yesterday, which is what it always replaces.’
‘Perhaps they forgot,’ said Croydee with an extravagant shrug. He had said this with irony. He was well aware body kings were the most regimented people in the land.
At that moment they saw, on a balcony overlooking the fountain of gold, a body-king daughter, the bright-haired princess, deep in conversation with a body king. The body king bore the crown of a Grudellan prince.
‘The lady has wed,’ said Croydee, aghast.
‘And how does her prince appear?’ Maleika said. Before either of them had a chance to observe the male figure, the royal pair had vanished into the palace.
‘Quick! Back into the cave,’ Maleika ordered.
Croydee scrambled through the jagged opening and somersaulted down the incline to the cavern floor.
When his elfin aunt arrived beside him, Croydee asked whether they should go to the other exit.
‘Indeed,’ said Maleika. ‘We must view the palace from a contrasting aspect.’
The two emerged from the exit, which they had, prior to that day, only ever used in the past, and scanned the castle before them.
‘No birth flag,’ gasped Maleika. ‘Each exit must offer an isolated variation in time! I’m very confused now, Croydee. Three separate versions of the same residence! The one that we see from the river bank and the two that we access through respective cavern doorways. Which one is Pieter in? Which one coincides with the cycles of the sprites?’
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