And what if there was a romantic element to Jack’s request? What if ‘lunch’ was in inverted commas? A euphemism for something more?
I wasn’t going to…Colleagues were off limits, after what happened with Peter.
It was nice to be asked, though. Assuming it was a sincere invitation. If not for Jack’s casual dress sense and what I’d seen of his personality, I might revise him upward, to a 7.2. Perhaps even higher.
A third email arrived:
Hello?
I’m starving.
I checked the clock. Normally I ate at half past but I could eat at twelve. I could have a cup of tea at three instead of three-thirty and move dinner forward to six o’clock. I might not even notice I’d eaten earlier; I might have dinner at the normal time. Maybe I could even take today’s allocation of pasta home and have it for dinner. Jack could pick me up and we could walk to the venue together. With regard to payment, I could insist on splitting the bill, and, throughout the meal, make it clear this was a platonic lunch, nothing more. I could eat garlic, and sit at a distance.
The cursor winked. I shut my eyes. Fine, I wrote, and hit send.
10
Jack was punctual. He came to get me at exactly twelve o’clock. By then I’d decided lunch was a bad idea and if he was even one minute late I’d make an excuse not to go. But there he was: same hiking shorts, same shoes, different top.
‘Should we go?’ he said.
‘Sure.’ Eva got her wallet from her drawer.
Jack was supposed to say, ‘You’re not invited,’ but he did nothing of the sort. In fact, it rather seemed he expected she would come.
And so it was a scenario I had not considered: having lunch with both of them.
We went to a café over the road. It was not as nice as where I’d been with the mayor. What it gained in proximity it lost in ambience. The woman at the counter did not greet us by name and there were no skinny cappuccinos, only a bain-marie and a sandwich bar.
Eva ordered an assortment of fried goods, Jack, a curry, and I had a roll. We sat in the courtyard outside to eat.
Eva said to Jack, ‘Did you get the email I sent? The one with the cute cat?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you like it? Wasn’t it great?’ She turned to me. ‘I sent him a photo of a cat riding an invisible bike. That’s what it looks like, doesn’t it, Jack? Doesn’t it?’
‘Yeah, I guess. Sort of.’
‘It does,’ Eva assured me.
I nodded. ‘Want to hear some facts about heat loss?’ I didn’t give her a chance to answer. I didn’t know if Jack had explained already—how often did they talk?—but I gave an overview of the article I’d sent. Jack didn’t ask for additional information. Neither of them did.
Eva said, ‘I love cat pictures. Whenever someone sends me one I print it out and take it home. I have hundreds of them.’
‘How are you liking the job so far, Germaine?’ said Jack.
‘It’s fine,’ I said.
‘Fine’ was the averaged experience. Some parts were > fine, some parts were < fine.
‘Just wait until you qualify for long service,’ said Eva. ‘Then you’ll never want to leave. It’s basically five weeks holiday a year. I’m saving mine.’
‘For what?’
‘For if I want to go overseas or something. I might go to Tasmania for a while.’
‘Tasmania’s not overseas,’ I said.
‘Sure it is. Overseas. You have to catch a boat to get there. Right, Jack?’
‘Well…yeah, over seas. But it’s not international,’ he said.
‘I didn’t say it was international. I said it was over seas.’
Mercifully, the door to the courtyard opened and our food came out.
‘How long have you guys been at the council?’ I said, as Eva peeled the outside off her dim sim then ate it, leaving the insides in a squishy ball on her plate. It was hard to watch.
Eva said twelve years and Jack said sixteen.
‘Have you always been in the same positions? Doing the same things?’
The answer was yes, for both of them.
‘Where do you think you’ll be in five years?’ I asked.
Eva said, ‘Tasmania.’
Jack said, ‘I’d like to move out of home eventually.’
‘You live with your parents?’ I said.
‘With my mother, but I’m in a granny flat out the back so it’s like I live by myself.’
I filled my mouth with sandwich.
‘Did I say I like pictures of goats too?’ said Eva. ‘Not as much as cats. But still, more than a lot of other animals.’
After lunch the phones were busy. I had little time to work on my spreadsheet; it was all I could do to classify the incoming calls.
There was one for domestic assistance, two for garden maintenance and then I got my first heavy breather. Some guy, breathing heavily on the phone. I said, ‘Listen, here. There’ll be none of that.’
‘None of what?’ he puffed.
I knew about heavy breathers because, for a brief period, Sharon worked on telephones too. Different industry, though—sex talk. The good part was she could work from home. The bad part was she was a dominatrix who specialised in and .
Actually, no, they were both bad parts. And it wouldn’t have been appropriate to tell the current caller to squeal like a pig.
I said, ‘If you don’t start saying something I will have to end the call.’
He puffed some more. ‘I’m…’
He was what? I was cringing.
Turned out he wasn’t a heavy breather, he was an asthmatic and had run out of Ventolin. I had to call triple zero and say there was an emergency.
I said to Eva, ‘What happens now? Will they tell me if he dies?’
She said, ‘You can call the hospital, they’ll take him to the Austin. I’ve sent a hamper before but you’re not supposed to. Hey—can you recycle tissues?’
After that, the anonymous woman called, the one with the dead husband.
‘How was your anniversary?’ I said. ‘Did you go to the Red Emperor?’
‘No, I couldn’t. I was…I didn’t even leave the house.’
‘Was it quiet?’
‘It was very quiet.’
‘You could have put the radio on.’
‘And listen to some inane rubbish? Prefer the sound of nothing.’
For a moment, that’s the sound we listened to, the sound of nothing. I knew it well. Sometimes it was loud and sometimes it was quiet. It wasn’t loud right now.
The woman said, ‘I get so angry since Bernard died.’
‘That’s his name? Your husband?’
‘Bernard. Bernard Brown.’
So my anonymous caller was a Mrs Brown. It was a common surname, but it seemed to be extra common of late. I’d met another person quite recently with the same…
Oh, wait.
Professor John Douglas would say don’t jump to conclusions. Just because it looks like two data points are converging, it doesn’t mean they are. But she did sound familiar.
‘You there?’ said the woman.
…Said Celia Brown.
I couldn’t even. If I’d been holding the phone instead of wearing a headset I would have dropped it. How could this nice woman be Celia Brown? And vice versa.
‘I’m different now. Since he died. Some days I think the old me is gone forever.’
‘Okay, well—’
‘It’s true. I never used to be like this.’
‘I’m sure you have your reasons.’ I was speaking very quickly.
‘How’s your living situation? You’ve got a quiet house too. No partner?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t do it. Fine while they’re here; terrible when they’re gone. Some days I don’t think it was worth it.’
‘Probably not.’
‘But like you said, keep busy. Which is why I’m calling. Do know someone who works there called Germaine Johnson?’
&nb
sp; I paused, then answered truthfully. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I know Germaine.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Very nice. Competent, professional…Good with numbers.’
‘Well, she’s not very good with people. I had a letter from her—I’m on a committee,’ Celia started to explain, though no explanation was necessary.
After my meeting with the mayor I’d sent Celia and the club a letter. At the time I’d enjoyed writing it. It said:
Dear Celia,
This is an official warning. Recently a highly valued staff member visited you and your members regarding an important issue. Your response was less than satisfactory…
She read out a different portion. ‘It says, The car park at the senior citizens centre is classed as “shared infrastructure”…We’ve been having problems with the golf club, next door, you see. They’re trying to take us over.’
‘You’re not antagonising them, are you?’
‘No!’ She was insulted. ‘What are you insinuating?’
‘It’s just a question. Sometimes callers mislead us on the phone. Sometimes they say things that aren’t true, or they leave out important information.’ It was on the tip of my tongue to say: like the fact they put chains on the wheels of other people’s cars, but I exercised restraint.
‘I see.’ The woman on the phone sounded so much like Celia I was surprised I hadn’t picked it earlier. ‘You lot are all the same, aren’t you?’ she said, and hung up.
If there’s one thing I learned from reading the newspaper article featuring Professor John Douglas, it’s that if you can’t achieve something one way, doesn’t mean it’s not achievable. All it means is you have to identify other potential avenues. He said (quote): ‘I went down many wrong paths before I found this one.’
If I applied this way of thinking—a way of thinking I was genetically disposed to, given he was my father—how else could I make the senior citizens centre understand that the car park wasn’t for their exclusive use?
One option was to speak to someone other than Celia, someone more receptive. Someone, perhaps, who was also responsible for communicating with the various subcommittees?
I logged off from incoming calls and consulted the handbook to get the number for the senior citizens centre. It was under ‘B’ for ‘Buildings’ (i.e. unhelpfully classified).
First two attempts there was no answer, but on the third attempt:
‘Hello, this is Gladys Watts.’
Gladys Watts, the vice-president. And she remembered having met me. She didn’t know my name but that was easily rectified.
‘Sorry, Germaine. I think I missed the phone before,’ said Gladys. ‘We’re having a bit of a celebration down here.’
‘Someone won something,’ I said, remembering.
‘Yes, Betsy’s going to the CWA final in Sydney. She’s representing the state in five categories.’
‘CWA?’ Something to do with clock watching?
‘Country Women’s Association. It’s a baking competition. She won best banana cake, best butter cake, best butter biscuit, best chocolate sponge and best Monte Carlo.’
How boring. Anyone can cook; you just follow a recipe. I didn’t waste time with congratulations. There were four calls in the queue and Eva wasn’t doing much to bring the number down. I asked Gladys if she’d got my letter.
She paused. ‘Yes. Betsy and I were a bit worried about it, actually. But Celia said there was nothing to worry about. She said it was just a formality.’
A formality? I felt a familiar prick of irritation. ‘It wasn’t a formality. You were right to be concerned. Concern was entirely the appropriate response.’
Suddenly, Eva seemed to sit up. Her ears visibly pricked.
‘Is the lease being renegotiated?’ said Gladys. ‘Betsy and I thought it sounded like you might kick us out. But Celia said that would never happen.’
Eva’s chair moved closer. She was facing forward but her seat had rolled across.
‘I think it’s best if I come and speak with you in person,’ I told Gladys. ‘Without Celia.’
‘Without Celia?’ Gladys sounded nervous. ‘I don’t know if she’d like that.’
‘Well, don’t tell her,’ I said.
I felt very satisfied when I hung up the phone. Celia might have thought she could ignore me and I’d go away but that was not the case. Not only was the incident in question to be taken seriously, but I, too, was to be taken seriously. If she wouldn’t listen, I’d find someone who would.
11
Francine organised a team meeting. She pushed a chair into our area and the three of us sat in a circle. Eva put the biscuit jars on the floor in the middle so we could all reach.
‘How are things going?’ said Francine, extracting a cream-filled. The question was directed at me for first response.
‘“Things”,’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Anything and everything,’ she said. ‘Work, life; whatever, really.’
She made it sound like there were no wrong answers but that wasn’t true. There are always right answers and wrong answers. That’s how you know what to say when someone asks you a question.
‘Actually,’ said Francine, as though a thought had just occurred to her. ‘Here’s an idea. We should do some getting-to-know-you activities.’ She tossed her notebook on the floor behind and wiggled in the chair as though loosening up. The wiggle reminded me of Sharon. She does the same thing when she takes her bra off in the evening. That’s better, she says.
‘Have you ever played the game where you say one thing about yourself that’s true and one thing that’s not true and everyone has to guess which is which?’
‘I love that game,’ said Eva. ‘Me first. I have 723 photographs of cats. Or, I have 897 photos of cats.’
‘Hmm,’ said Francine, thinking.
I’d played the game before and this was not a good example of how it worked. I said the two statements were meant to be different.
‘They are different,’ said Eva. ‘How is 723 not different to 897?’
‘They’re not different enough,’ I said.
‘Says who?’
‘Okay,’ said Francine. ‘Different game…Or…what if we each say a little about ourselves? Like, where we live and what we like to do on the weekend. I live in Glen Iris and I like hiking, gardening and quilting. Now, Eva. Your turn.’
Eva turned to face the wall.
‘Germaine?’ said Francine.
‘I’d rather not disclose.’
There was a pause.
‘We had thirty-seven calls yesterday,’ I said. ‘And I answered thirty-three of them.’
‘Great,’ said Francine. ‘Eva, how many did you answer?’
That’s what she said.
It got worse.
‘Five,’ said Eva.
‘Excellent,’ said Francine, just as enthusiastic as she had been to me.
I had to point out that Eva could not have answered five calls if I had answered thirty-three. ‘Thirty-three plus five would be thirty-eight. We only got thirty-seven calls.’
‘You make it sound like a puzzle,’ said Francine. ‘If I have six beans and you have seven beans, how many beans are there in total?’
‘Thirteen,’ I said.
‘It was just an example,’ she said.
Eva turned to be part of the circle again. ‘One of Germaine’s calls was from Celia Brown,’ she said.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ I said.
‘It was.’
‘It wasn’t.’
Eva sat on her hands and refused to look at me. Francine tried to sound casual. ‘Did you get a call from Celia Brown?’
‘No, I got a call from Gladys Watts, if you must know. But I can’t divulge specifics. It’s part of my special project.’
Eva gave Francine a meaningful look.
Francine brushed biscuit crumbs from her lap, slowly, carefully. ‘Germaine,’ she said. ‘I know the mayor’s got you working on somethin
g important but…How can I say this? Sometimes things are more complicated than they seem.’
‘And sometimes they are less complicated,’ I said.
‘I suppose.’
‘And sometimes they are neither more nor less complicated but exactly as complicated as they appear.’
Francine put her hand to her chin. ‘I just hope…What I mean is, if you have any questions or if anything seems strange or unusual…Or if you want some help, just ask.’
‘Sure.’ I couldn’t imagine that would ever happen.
Confession: after the team meeting I sent an email. It wasn’t vindictive. It was simply a series of biscuits-related observations I thought Ralph Garner, the Health and Safety Officer, might be interested in knowing. How was I to know he’d take it so seriously?
Less than an hour later he sent an email of his own:
To: ALL STAFF
From: Ralph Garner, Health and Safety Coordinator
Colleagues,
Recently biscuit-related signage was erected in the kitchen instructing staff on the use of tongs. I have been made aware that people have flagrantly disregarded this advice. Additionally, in a number of instances individuals have eaten in excess of 2 biscuits/8 rice crackers.
Effective this afternoon, we will remove all biscuits to ensure that there is not an outbreak of salmonella or similar. You will recall a recent lunchtime lecture in which I cited incidents of faeces in bowls of complimentary bar nuts.
Signage regarding hand washing, etc., has been installed in all bathrooms. We are considering making food-handling training compulsory for all staff. You will be kept informed.
Regards,
Ralph
‘Oh,’ I said to Eva, keeping my voice light. ‘They’re removing the biscuits.’
There was no response. Just the curt click of her fingers on the mouse.
‘It’s probably for the greater good,’ I said. ‘Biscuits are very fattening.’
The dramatic sipping of Slurpee suggested improved diet was not high on Eva’s list of priorities. I went to get a cup of tea.
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