‘I don’t know. I never notice what people look like. I only notice how stimulating they are to talk to.’
Marie leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘And is he stimulating to talk to?’
‘He is, actually.’
Jin-Jin held a dumpling in her chopsticks. ‘If I knew he was Don Thomas, I wouldn’t have—’ She stopped and cast a sidelong glance at me.
I had a dawning realisation: Jin-Jin didn’t look like a golfer. Her arms were very thin and she didn’t seem like someone who’d have good hand–eye coordination. ‘How do you know Don?’ I said.
She was engrossed in her dumpling. ‘I don’t, I’ve just heard his name before. I, ahem, go to the senior citizens centre next door to the golf club most weekends for a homework group.’ It didn’t surprise me to hear she needed help with her studies.
‘Do you know anything about an incident involving chaining up the wheels of cars?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ Jin-Jin gestured for the waiter. ‘Excuse me, can we get the bill?’
14
I kept the receipt from the café with Don, intending to claim it on tax at the end of the financial year. This was not necessary, however, because when I got to work on Monday he’d emailed about paying me back. What a gentleman. And how fiscally responsible.
He said to come past the golf club ‘any time’. He must have wanted to give me the money in person otherwise he’d have asked for my bank details.
I was meeting with Gladys at the senior citizens centre in the afternoon and resolved to visit Don after. I didn’t tell anyone, which was not difficult as Eva was ignoring me—still annoyed about the biscuits. She had the idea it was somehow my fault.
The morning took forever. Jack came to visit before lunch, which provided a minor distraction. He leaned against the wall, his hands behind his back. ‘How was Sunday?’ he said.
‘Good. Better than Saturday.’
The forum went for two days but most people (e.g. Jack, Jin-Jin, Marie, even Don) lacked the fortitude for both.
‘Dinner was good,’ said Jack. ‘We should do that again.’
Eva spun around. ‘You guys went for dinner?’ she said. It was the first time she’d talked to me all morning.
I corrected her. ‘We had dinner in the same group of people.’
‘That’s why she’s been grinning all morning.’ Eva waved her annoying Slurpee.
I said Marie was there too, but Eva didn’t appear to hear. She gave a maniacal smile. Was she pretending to be me? If so, it was a terrible impression. I opened my book, wrote her name and put a black dot against it.
Gladys Watts was not the only one in attendance at our afternoon meeting. The famous ‘Betsy’ was also there. It transpired that in addition to being a cooking ‘champion’ (insofar as you could call it that) she was also the club’s treasurer.
Betsy didn’t look like a champion; she wasn’t wearing a medal or anything. She was wearing exercise clothes, despite being a bit portly, and she had the kind of face that seemed to default into smiling. Some people say it takes fewer muscles to smile than it does to frown but I have done the research and this is incorrect. She must have trained her mouth to stay like that. I wondered why.
They were in the office when I arrived. I had just put my bag on the table when Betsy asked if I would like a cup of tea and, before I had the chance to answer, announced she’d make a pot and left the room. Gladys said, ‘Maybe don’t say anything until she gets back.’
This was a request I was willing to accommodate, sitting in silence even when Gladys changed her mind and said, ‘How are you, anyway?’
While we waited, I looked out at the window. Past the car park and through the wire fence, the golf club’s main building was visible. It was long, mostly glass, and it had a grand entrance with pillars.
I tried to imagine where Don’s office was. Would it be on the ground floor or upstairs? Would it face this way or look out the other side? I ran my eyes across the building, left to right; up and down.
‘It’s a nice view, isn’t it?’ said Gladys.
I was in agreement but we weren’t supposed to be speaking until Betsy got back. I was preoccupied anyway, with the golf club. Fourth window across, ground floor. Don was sitting there now, I was sure of it. He was there and I was here, we were just a few hundred metres apart.
Gladys said, ‘I don’t know what Betsy’s doing. How long does it take to make a pot of tea?’
I had a vision: it was a dark night. Don was in his office and I was in the car park, holding a torch. I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U, I flashed in Morse code.
‘Celia will be back at three-thirty,’ said Gladys.
Don responded using his light switch: I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-M-O-R-E.
Then me: N-O, I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-M-O-R-E.
‘I think we should go and get her,’ said Gladys.
The kitchen was large, almost industrial in size, but not at all modern. Small brown tiles covered the walls and floors, and the benchtops were a mottled peach laminate. There were four white ovens in a row.
Betsy was standing by the sink, talking to an older man. ‘Sorry,’ she said when she saw us. ‘I got sidetracked. Ken says they’re short a teacher on Saturday. No one for the mathematics table.’
‘Tom’s sick,’ said Ken. ‘Shingles.’
‘What about Keith?’ said Gladys.
‘Keith’s away. Queensland.’
Betsy explained that the senior citizens centre ran a homework group for young people on Saturdays. I remembered Jin-Jin mentioning it at dinner.
Betsy said they got students from primary school all the way to university attending. They helped with reading and writing and languages and mathematics. ‘Maths is always the hardest to find a tutor for. Seems like everyone is terrible at it.’
‘Does it pay?’ I said.
‘It’s run by volunteers.’
There was a long pause.
‘You’re not any good with numbers, are you?’ said Gladys, and I was torn between wanting them to know I was so much more than my current position and the disinclination to participate in something as pointless as ‘volunteering’.
‘I wouldn’t have time,’ I said.
‘No. Of course not. You’ve got better things to do.’
Then Gladys said that Celia was going to be back soon. Betsy streamlined the tea-making process by using bags instead of a pot. We each carried our own mug back to the office.
The ensuing conversation was very brief.
‘The council cannot condone the chaining up of other people’s cars,’ I told them. ‘If such behaviour continues, then…’ My voice trailed off.
‘Then?’ said Gladys.
I was evasive, in an ominous way. ‘Who can say?’
‘Celia said the council wants to sell this place,’ said Betsy. Gladys made a show of admonishing her, but in truth, they both looked interested in the response.
‘If I were you,’ I said, ‘I’d tell Celia to accept the situation and move on. Hopefully, she’ll listen.’
‘Yes, hopefully,’ said Gladys.
Unfortunately, Celia returned earlier than expected. I came out the front door and saw her walking along the footpath. I tried to get in my car as quickly as possible but she spied me and cut across the parking lot.
‘Why are you here?’ she said.
‘Official duties.’ I still couldn’t reconcile Celia with the woman on the phone, who was really quite pleasant.
‘We got your letter, and we’re not going to do a thing about it.’
‘I would advise against inaction,’ I said.
Celia pointed her finger at the golf club. ‘That lot have been harassing us.’
‘You’ve been antagonising them.’ It is a great word, antagonising, and very apt in the situation. But it is not a word you hear every day. The last time I’d used it was on the phone. It was unwise to use it again so soon, and with the same person.
&n
bsp; Because Celia noticed. Her hand lowered and her pointing finger lost its rigidity. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said you’re annoying them.’
‘You said antagonising.’
‘I said annoying.’
‘Wait a minute…’ A slow dawning, a kind of horror spread across her face. She put both hands to her mouth as if to stop words from coming out. It didn’t stop them completely, though, because then she said, ‘What do you do at the council?’
‘This and that…I have a very broad skill set.’ I got in the car and started driving.
I drove for fifteen minutes in a northerly direction. I didn’t feel bad; I never lied to her. It was Celia’s fault if she didn’t realise who I was. She said herself she had a problem with anger. When I spoke to her again I’d tell her she certainly did.
If I spoke to her again.
The best-case scenario was we’d go on as we did before. That would be my preferred way of dealing with it. If you didn’t like how someone was being or wished you hadn’t told them your private thoughts or secret hopes and dreams, the best thing to do was pretend you hadn’t.
When I was sure Celia would have gone inside, I did a U-turn and drove back, only this time instead of turning into the seniors centre car park, I turned at the adjacent property.
I’d been to the Fitzsimmons Golf Club once before, years ago, when Kimberly had her wedding reception there. Back then it was old and staid. Now, it was much improved. I could see hints of Don everywhere I looked: in the upright pillars out the front, in the bold, red carpet, in the wooden winners panels that lined the walls in the foyer.
I asked at reception for Don and he appeared almost immediately, a faded vision in a grey suit. He could have been George Clooney if you squinted and got the angle right.
Don said he was pleased to see me. Also: glad I’d come.
‘Pleased’ and ‘glad’ were positive emotions, ones I reciprocated.
Don didn’t bring his cash tin out, but led me down the hall to his office.
‘How was the rest of the convention?’ he said.
‘It was okay.’ Coffee with him had been the highlight, but other aspects were pleasant also.
‘Did your friends enjoy themselves?’
‘They’re not friends; they’re acquaintances. I hardly even know those people.’ I had a vacancy in the friendship category, was what I was trying to tell him. I didn’t know if he understood the subtlety of my messaging.
Don’s office looked on to a rolling swathe of green. Picturesque, I guess. I don’t know, I found the view bland but Don stopped in the doorway and stared out, admiring it in such a way I felt obliged to admire it also.
‘Wow,’ I said.
‘I know. I’ve had this place for eight years and still every time I look out that window I can’t believe how beautiful it is…All those trees. I love trees.’
Sharon loved trees. I wasn’t mad about them.
‘We spend thirty thousand dollars a month on fertiliser,’ said Don. ‘And don’t get me started on water. It costs a fortune to keep the greens like that.’
‘Maybe you could concrete some of it,’ I said.
He laughed, but not unkindly, at this suggestion.
Finally, we could sit down. There was a table. I sat in one chair and he sat next to me. Next to, not opposite. I couldn’t see a cash tin anywhere, only a large brown paper bag, stuffed full. He pushed it towards me. ‘This is for you,’ he said.
I was taken aback. A gift? No one ever gave me gifts.
I should have got one when I left Wallace Insurance but because of the nature of my departure it never happened. I’d thought of sending a card for everyone to sign and write messages—I even pre-filled a return envelope—but every time I went to the post box I hesitated. Should I be including guidelines on what to say or a pro forma of thoughtful phrases? People don’t always know what’s appropriate.
I lifted the bottom of the bag and the contents slid out. Before I could register what was in front of me, Don picked the first thing up.
‘This is a signed poster from the State Sudoku Forum in 2004. That’s my signature, that’s Rebecca Li’s and that’s Phillip Collins. He was the—’
‘Head adjudicator,’ I said.
‘Yeah, the head adjudicator. That was the first year I qualified for finals. I bombed out in the second semi, though. Put a seven in the second box when it should have been a three.’ ‘Wasn’t that 2005?’ I said.
He stopped. ‘You’re right. That was 2005…What happened in 2004?’
‘I don’t know.’ I paused for fake-thought, not wanting to seem too enthusiastic, or too much like my actual self. ‘Um… Was that the year you took too long against Janis Woo and got eliminated?’
The way he looked at me was like he’d had eye surgery and was seeing me for the first time.
I made sure my fringe was flat against my forehead. I couldn’t believe I was sitting next to him. It was like finding a sock I’d been looking for for ages. Suddenly, I had a pair.
We turned back to the pile.
Don pointed at a gold medal on a ribbon. ‘Ah, 2006. Now that was a good year. You know if you win they give you a trophy at the ceremony but you have to give it back. They put it on display at the Australian Puzzle Federation’s office in Canberra. They let visitors in on the weekends. Get hordes in summer, I’m told.’
There were a few seconds of mutual examination, both of us looking at the medal. I didn’t ask what happened the following year, in 2007. Did the World Puzzle Federation remove the plaques that had his name on them? Or did they add explanatory cards saying how his titles had been revoked because he’d cheated (allegedly)? I wasn’t going to ask; I am not an idiot.
Don picked the medal up by the ribbon and held it out. ‘I want you to have it,’ he said.
I said no, I couldn’t possibly. Maybe not never but certainly not yet. Maybe after a period of time, when I was sure he wouldn’t change his mind.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘No, it’s yours. You should put it on your mantelpiece at home. Or on display in a dedicated cabinet.’
Don’s face changed. His mouth moved in a negative direction. ‘I can’t even give the thing away,’ he said.
‘It’s probably worth a lot of money,’ I said. I was trying to buck him up, same as I’d want someone to buck me up in such a moment.
‘Ha. I tried selling it but no one wants it.’
He shifted his hand so the medal swung on its ribbon, like his mood. One minute happy, next minute sad.
I didn’t know what to do. Maybe I should change the subject? I’d brought The List. There were lots of interesting topics on it.
Don started mumbling to himself. I don’t know what he was saying, but it allowed me to observe him more keenly. This was fortuitous, in a way. Because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have noticed. It was only because I was looking at him so closely that I saw what I had seen but hadn’t fully taken in:
The crumpled collar on his shirt.
How his tie was faded, and his self.
Why would anyone try to sell a medal?
All at once, I realised. I didn’t have to do extensive research to quantify the extent of Don’s fall. I was abreast of what he’d lost:
• The 2007 World Sudoku title
• Prize money from the 2006 and 2007 world titles, which had to be returned
• $30,000 fine to the World Puzzle Federation
• Undisclosed amounts in legal fees
• His Casio calculator sponsorship deal
But it was only then, in that moment, I understood the true extent of it: Don was broke.
I only agreed to take the items to appease him. At home I set them on the mantelpiece, balancing the medals against the larger trophies and arranging the certificates behind. It was an impressive collection.
I got out my computer and searched to see if what Don said was true. It did appear to be correct. The market for sudoku championship paraph
ernalia, even when accrued at the national level, was limited. I found an old listing for a trophy and emailed the seller, to see if he was a collector. He replied that the listing was a joke.
A joke.
I didn’t like to think of Don that way. People weren’t jokes. It wasn’t funny to laugh at someone.
I kept looking at the collection of items. If they were mine, no way would I ever have given them away. Not even when I died. I’d have asked to be buried with them, like a knight with his sword. But here they were. I touched a medal. I put it on and felt the weight of it against my chest.
I guessed he didn’t think any of it was special. Or he did think it was special and I was special enough to be its keeper. Me. I closed my hand around the metal, hard, so I could feel its edges bite and understand how real it was. It was not imagined. It existed.
15
As the week went on Eva’s thinking regarding the biscuits failed to evolve. When Jack asked if we wanted to go for lunch she replied, ‘I’m not going if she does.’ How strange that she thought her absence would reduce the enjoyment of the situation.
At the café, Jack said, ‘What’s up with Eva?’
I said perhaps, maybe—I was speculating—she blamed me for the removal of the biscuits.
‘Why?’
‘I have no idea. She has no reason to.’ Not unless she’d read my emails.
‘Oh, well. I wouldn’t worry,’ he said. ‘She’ll get over it.’
And she did, eventually. Three days later, when I got to work she greeted me with the sort of enthusiasm she generally only mustered for leftover sandwich platters.
‘Germaine,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
I was wary. ‘Good.’
‘That’s good.’ Her face scrunched upwards. ‘Hey—would you like a packet of Post-its? I got extra at the stationery cupboard. Noticed you were out.’
Normally, Eva hoarded Post-its like they were nuggets of gold. She was always getting more of them and accusing me of stealing the ones she already had. I’d tried explaining that even if I had taken them, which I hadn’t, it wasn’t stealing because they didn’t belong to her. They belonged to the council and I worked there too.
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