I did wonder if the number of complaining calls we got had anything to do with Eva, making the problem worse by sympathising with people. She didn’t do anything to assist them but I often heard her say, ‘That’s terrible,’ or ‘Those guys are such arseholes.’ This, I surmised, had the effect of making people feel they could call back.
I, on the other hand, was putting my efforts into education. ‘What do you know about the tiers of government, James?’
‘They said I had to fill out a form. I filled out the form and sent it to them but then they said it wasn’t the right form. But they were the ones that sent me the form in the first place.’
I told James I could be of assistance on this occasion. I got his full name and address and told him to keep an eye on his letterbox.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much. Thank you.’ The change in his demeanour was marked. And it was hardly any effort, clicking on the How Government Works website and finding him a suitable factsheet.
After that there were four more calls in quick succession and two of them were pension-related. It was at this point that I had my great idea.
I’d been thinking about all the data the council was collecting. It was great to have this information but, as Professor John Douglas always said, ‘Data is meaningless if you don’t understand how to use it.’*
The current information was limited to volume, average call length and total call times. But there was only so much you could do with that. We could do a lot more if I started to classify the calls. I could create categories and at the conclusion of each call decide which category the call was in. This would facilitate trend analysis. I’d be able to demonstrate, for example, with evidence, that half the calls were unrelated to our sphere of influence, or that there was a 25 per cent increase in requests for domestic assistance.
The possibilities. It was—and I would say this regardless of whose idea it was—brilliant. I could already see what a big impact it could have on this place.
Categories just started coming to me; I hardly had to think, all I had to do was write them down. And it was not only categories that came to me, I could see the spreadsheet itself: what things would go in columns, what would go in rows, what formulas I’d need.
I was writing it all down in my notebook, having the best time I’d had at council, notwithstanding meeting with the mayor, but then I was rudely interrupted—the phone again.
Not only that, it was my anonymous friend, the woman with the previous enquiry relating to takeaway foods. Apparently she was as underwhelmed by me answering as I was by her calling, because the first thing she said, the same as last time, was: ‘Is Eva there?’
‘No.’
‘Where is she?’
‘On her lunch break.’
‘At eleven o’clock in the morning? Council workers. Wish I could sit around and eat lunch all day.’ Her voice reminded me of someone when she said this. Maybe Kimberly? She was a big luncher.
‘Can I help you?’ I said.
‘Probably not. It’s…personal.’
‘You mean some form of domestic assistance? Home nursing?’ I was testing out the categories. But it was a new one.
‘My house is too quiet.’
No relevant categories in the spreadsheet; nothing under Noise Guidelines in the handbook. I was baffled.
‘There’s no one in it,’ she went on.
‘What about you?’ Where was she living?
‘No one except me. I’m the only one.’
‘You live alone,’ I clarified.
‘I do now.’ Her voice softened. ‘It’s the anniversary next week. Three years since he passed.’ The husband again. ‘It’s just me now.’
‘I’ve always lived alone,’ I said, ‘except for when I was living with my mother.’ Why was I giving personal information? What if this person was a serial killer, and this was an elaborate plot to target me?
‘Do you like it? Living alone?’ she said.
‘Most of the time. But I’ve had a while to practise.’ Thirty-seven years. I’d practised being on my own all my life, regardless of the environment in which I lay my head. ‘You have to keep busy,’ I said, ‘doing things. Doesn’t matter what they are, you just keep the day filled up.’ I would have suggested she focus on her career but she was too old for that.
‘I do keep busy, in the day. It’s late at night that’s the problem.’
Nights could be hard, of course. That was the time for a level five sudoku. Somehow the empty squares on the page made the empty spaces in the house less obvious.
‘Cancer’s cruel,’ she said. ‘I knew he was going but…’ Her voice trailed into the ether. Much like her husband had. ‘Do you believe in life after death?’
Sharon would be better—not more accurate, but certainly more voluble—with this sort of question. She had a lot of theories. Reincarnation, past lives, spiritualism. Nothing subject to peer review.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Me neither. When you’re gone, you’re gone.’
‘But you’re not gone yet,’ I pointed out.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not gone yet.’
________________
* It was 4.65 kilometres, 32 per cent of it uphill.
* He may not always have said this, technically, but he did say it in a newspaper article circa 1988.
8
When Eva went to lunch I turned the phones off. I checked no one else was around and typed: Alan Cosgrove and Don Thomas into the internet search bar. When their photos came up I downloaded one of each and put them side by side. Looking at them this way I was sure they were the same person, even if their Wikipedia entries were different. I even did two eye tests: I had 20/20 vision.
I couldn’t understand why Don would lie. What was the point of denying your greatest achievements? If it were me, I would have told everyone. It would have been the first thing I said when introduced to someone new. Have you ever met a world champion? Trick question! You’re meeting one right now.
I used to love Alan. As a teenager, I went to every major sudoku event there was in the hope of seeing him. This was when public transport was even more inefficient than it is now and it took two hours to get into the city. Sharon would tease me and call me his ‘number one fan’, sometimes upgrading this to ‘number one super fan’ in typical Sharonic disregard of the implied tautology.
He was hardly ever there, and we only spoke one time, but we had an unspoken connection: it didn’t require acknowledgment on his behalf. Although, that said, it would have been better if he had acknowledged it.
I thought a lot about how life would be different if Alan was in it. Monday through Thursday I’d have homework but on Friday nights we’d go to Knox shopping town and attend a movie. I’d say, ‘I’ll make popcorn for us and bring it along,’ and he’d say, ‘Don’t worry about it,’ and buy an extra-large one each, so we didn’t have to share. People from school would see us and wonder who he was, this handsome, rich man I was standing with. Maybe they’d rethink their behaviour towards me, without teachers having to get involved.
On Saturdays Alan and I would go to a sudoku competition if one was on or, if it wasn’t, we’d sit around and do sudokus together. We’d do the same sudoku at the same time and keep a tally in a book of who was quicker, which, to start off with, would be him; over time, with a bit of encouragement, I’d get better. Alan would say, ‘Well done,’ or ‘That was quick.’ Rather than, for example: ‘Are you finished yet?’ or ‘Germaine, I’m worried about you.’
In time, we might go on holidays together and not only in winter when everything was on special, but all the time, whenever we wanted. Of course Sharon would have to come too and I’d sleep with her in the big bed and Alan would be on the fold-out couch. The three of us would share a single mini-soap to wash our hands or in the shower, and when the holiday was over Alan would let Sharon and me take the unopened ones home.
I didn’t think having Alan in my life would change me
but I did think it would improve the experience of being me. My glass would be fuller, or at least it would feel fuller, instead of feeling like everyone else had got together and agreed on a specific size of glass and volume of liquid and I was wandering around holding a giant mug with a tiny splash of water in it.
The problem was that everyone wanted Alan. When Sharon said I was the number one fan, this implied there were other, lesser fans. She called them ‘groupies’. I was not a groupie. I didn’t have a group.
Groupies were older, anyway. Most of the sudoku fraternity were in their twenties or thirties. I’d tried meeting people my own age with similar interests, but my success rate was low. It peaked in 1997, when the internet first started. I used to log on to World Puzzle fan page after school and chat. [Sharon at the door: Germaine, is everything okay in there?]
I had my first relationship with someone I met on Alan’s website—we were Mathgirl and Blackadder—but the mistake we made was meeting up IRL. The idea of a guy my own age who liked the same things as me turned out to be much better than the reality. Sometimes the less you know the better, sometimes you have to delude yourself and pretend to believe in things that aren’t real. Like imaginary numbers:
i2 = −1
‘i’ is a concept, it doesn’t exist. You can’t multiply the same two numbers and get a negative, but we pretend it does exist. We pretend other things exist too: Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, cryptocurrencies.
They’re not lies, exactly. Like how a secret isn’t exactly a lie.
Peter said, ‘Let’s not tell anyone, Germaine. Let’s keep this to ourselves.’
I don’t know why I said, ‘What is “this”?’ I knew Peter didn’t like definitions. I’d put extensive glossaries in my reports and he always got rid of them.
It was only a question, but he refused to answer.
I should have said to Don: ‘Alan Cosgrove was a great man, a man I have always admired,’ and then asked if he was him.
I made the photos bigger on the screen, zooming in on both Alan’s and Don’s faces.
Poor Don. Where Alan’s face was young—younger, anyway—and full of optimism, Don’s was sadder, more resigned. It seemed to brim with disappointment.
I could see how lonely he was. I felt the way Sharon feels around cats or Eva around sandwiches—I wanted to hold him, hug him to my chest and whisper compliments in his ear. You’re great, Alan. Everybody loves you.
9
The following week, on Biscuit Tuesday, Eva tried to fob the jars off on me again but I was wise to her. Not only was it a) her turn but b) I knew better.
‘No, thank you,’ I said. But I did go upstairs to collect my personal allocation as was in keeping with the official policy.
The tearoom was empty, except for a man in shorts and hiking boots standing near the sink. He was in his early forties and not unattractive (maybe a 6.3?) but sloppy-looking and too laid-back for my liking. His shirt wasn’t ironed and the collar had crumpled, folding down around his neck and curling upwards at the ends.
I observed the man remove the lid from the cream-filled barrel. He put his bare hand inside and fished about for a biscuit, paying no heed to the newly erected signage fixed to the wall behind him:
TONGS MUST BE USED FOR BISCUITS.
IT IS FOR HYGIENE REASONS.
MAXIMUM BISCUIT ALLOWANCE:
2 BISCUITS PER PERSON PER DAY
(8 IF RICE CRACKERS)
I frowned and made a low tsk-ing sound, and when this failed to garner his attention, said, ‘No tongs?’
When he looked up his face was not embarrassed or apologetic. There was a gap between his front teeth some people might have found endearing.
I pointed at the sign, which he did not look at.
‘I won’t tell if you don’t,’ he said.
That was the difference between us. Mine was an innocent mistake whereas his was a transgression in full knowledge. And he wanted me to be an accomplice.
I increased the severity of my expression but he was oblivious. He pulled out four (4) Monte Carlos and a cream-filled yo-yo. He offered me the yo-yo and when I declined, tossed it back in.
By now I had decided he was a 6, maybe even a 5.9. The gap between his teeth was not appealing enough to override certain other personality traits.
Having selected his biscuits, he moved to one side so I could access the barrels. He watched as I used the tongs to extract rice crackers and began to count out aloud as I set them on the bench.
This ‘assistance’ was doing nothing to improve the experience of our interaction. I cut him off at six. ‘Aren’t you cold?’ I said.
He looked down at his legs, as though he hadn’t realised he had shorts on. Then he said, ‘Actually, no…Did you know you only lose ten per cent of your body heat through your legs? Most of it comes out through your head and your feet. You’re better off wearing a beanie and a pair of socks than pants.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve known that for ages.’
‘Really? I thought I just made it up.’
‘No, I’ve read it before. Quite a few times.’
‘Huh…Where?’
He was a 3.7 now and plummeting rapidly. ‘In different articles…Can’t remember which ones.’
‘Well, if you do remember, can you let me know?’ He held out his hand, an infuriating gesture. ‘I’m Jack. I’m in IT.’
I didn’t shake. I pretended it was too difficult, on account of holding four rice crackers in each of my hands. But I gave him my name. ‘Germaine Johnson, Senior Citizens Helpline.’ It would have been good if I could have said, ‘Germaine Johnson, Senior Citizens Helpline and Special Projects’ but it wasn’t official yet. Or not public knowledge anyway.
‘Well, Germaine,’ said Jack. ‘Enjoy those eight rice crackers. And if you do happen upon any reading you think might be of interest, let me know.’
±
Twenty-two hours later, eleven of which were spent perusing online databases and scientific journals:
To: Jack Bowe, IT
From: Germaine Johnson, Senior Citizens Helpline
Please find attached article from Journal for Scientific Medical Studies of Australian Sciences (v. 3, 2013) regarding body heat loss via head and other limbs.
____________
To: Germaine Johnson, Senior Citizens Helpline
From: Jack Bowe, IT
Thank you for the article.
One question: You write, ‘heat loss via head and other limbs’.
Is the head a ‘limb’?
____________
To: Jack Bowe, IT
From: Germaine Johnson, Senior Citizens Helpline
Please find attached an article from the Journal for Scientific
Medical Studies of Australian Sciences (v. 3, 2013) regarding body heat loss via head and limbs.
____________
To: Germaine Johnson, Senior Citizens Helpline
From: Jack Bowe, IT
Thanks, Germaine.
Maybe we can talk through the contents over lunch?
____________
Lunch?
I pushed the chair back from the desk and looked to see who was watching. First Eva and now Jack. Two invitations for lunch in less than one week. It must be some sort of joke. Maybe they were evangelists, recruiting for some religion? Neither of them seemed the type, but maybe that was their strategy. Send in the most unlikely candidate, make the target comfortable, and then when their defences are down and they are at their most vulnerable, ask, Do you believe in God?
I glanced at Eva, who was on the phone.
‘I suppose I could organise a cleaner. Yes, yes, you qualify. Look, I’ll have to ring around. I’m not promising anything.’
There was no evidence to suggest religious fervour. Quite the opposite. Pinned above her desk was a sticker that said In case of zombie apocalypse, follow me.
What a strange thing for Jack to do. It was not as though our interaction in the kitchen had been so sa
tisfying as to warrant further contact. In fact, it had been entirely unsatisfying, so far as I was concerned. It was reminiscent of—
Oh. Oh, no.
Last time I agreed to go to lunch with co-workers. Susan, David, Wayne. Come, Germaine, they said. We’ll meet you there. Then: an empty table in the tearoom, smirking faces in the hall, whispers in the meeting later.
I patted my fringe down flat. Flatter; flattest. Be wary, Germaine. People are not always as friendly as they seem.
I went to delete the message but another email appeared.
I can go at 12. Or 1? Or 2?
I’ll come get you.
He was very eager. Could it be he had an interest in heat loss? Perhaps I’d misrepresented my expertise. Because I wasn’t a scientist. I knew very little about it. All I knew was what I’d read in the article. If he wanted to learn more, he would be better off spending the time doing a literature search or trawling the bibliography of the original article in order to identify other articles.
Or did he want fashion advice? But there must be a website that told you when shorts were/were not appropriate.
So…perhaps…What if it was just an invitation to lunch, nothing more? That was a possibility. Such things must exist. But that in itself brought complications.
I had lunchtime organised. At the start of the week I brought in three tomatoes, a large can of tuna in oil and 1000 cubic centimetres of cooked pasta. Each day I put three-fifths of one tomato, 85 grams (undrained weight) of tuna and 200 cubic centimetres of pasta in a bowl. I microwaved it for one minute, stirred, and then for an additional thirty seconds. I ate it on the bench near the car park or, if the weather was bad, in my car.
When Jack talked about discussing something over lunch I was quite sure he wasn’t asking to share my tuna pasta. He wasn’t envisaging we would sit on the bench together. He meant go out for lunch.
And this idea brought with it a multitude of other worries. Was Jack going to pay for lunch and, if so, did this mean I would have to pay another time? What if the lunch I paid for was more expensive than this lunch? Was it wrong to bring a coupon? What about onion and garlic? Because these were appealing items, but problematic.
The Helpline Page 5