The Helpline

by Katherine Collette

  ‘Squishy, were they?’ I put his bowl back in the microwave. ‘I’m never doing this again,’ I said. ‘Next time you cook.’ ‘Next time I will,’ he said.

  I left work early for my membership tour with Daisy at the golf club and immediately wished I’d looked at the price list before organising it. The joining fee was more than seven thousand dollars and there were annual fees on top. Daisy better, as Don had promised, give me a good deal. No matter how strapped for cash he was, I wasn’t that altruistic. Or that interested in health and fitness.

  Daisy was maybe twenty-five, with long blonde hair and lots of freckles. She was very enthusiastic about golf. ‘It’s a great sport if you want to meet people,’ she said.

  ‘What sort of people?’ I asked.

  ‘People’ were everywhere. If my only requirement for relationships was to have some, I’d hang around at homework club. I’d go for lunch with Jack and Eva or I’d invite Jin-Jin around for dinner. But having observed Sharon all these years, I knew there was such a thing as being too inclusive. It was probably what drove my father away.

  Daisy assured me the club was very selective. ‘We don’t take just anyone,’ she said. She didn’t say but we will take you, but that was her meaning. It wasn’t the high school chess club, after all.

  Or the Year 7 debating team.

  Or Brownies, circa 1987.

  I’d found where I belonged. Or would belong, if I could find the money and present myself appropriately.

  Daisy took me the long way around the building. We walked through the bistro, past the poker machines and out the glass doors onto the first tee for a view of the course.

  Clipped lawn was bordered by trees—one variety—planted at precise intervals. There was a body of water, its edges so crisp and so sharp it was like a piece of blue cellophane had been cut out with scissors.

  ‘Isn’t the air fresh?’ said Daisy, breathing it in in a way that reminded me of Sharon, meditating. I looked the other way, running what must have appeared to be a knowledgeable eye across the fairway.

  Daisy said, ‘Have you played for long?’

  ‘A little while.’ Very little. Technically, never.

  ‘Okay. Well, the course is eighteen holes, fully couched and—’

  I tuned out.

  Had Don remembered I was coming? I hoped he was okay. He’d had a hard enough time of it already without being harassed by a bunch of senior citizens. Had the mayor told him we were getting rid of Celia Brown, or would I be the one to reveal the news? How exciting it would be, to witness his reaction firsthand.

  Daisy pointed vaguely to the east. ‘That’s Box Hill. We have reciprocal relationships with them and four other clubs in the region. We also offer formal coaching, from the course professional, and informal, from some of our more experienced members.’

  I asked if Don did any coaching. It was an innocent question but Daisy gave me a knowing look. ‘He does, actually. He’s quite popular among a certain set.’

  I didn’t like her implication.

  We went back inside, this time walking towards the hall that led to Don’s office and back to reception. Before we got to Don, Daisy opened a set of doors.

  ‘This is the main function room. We do weddings and corporate dinners for up to three hundred people. Members get a ten per cent discount on hall hire and catering.’

  We paused, looking. Then she said, ‘Let’s go find a room and we can discuss membership options.’

  We walked towards Don’s office. As we got closer the electricity in the air intensified. I could feel charged particles moving around.

  I held my bag; how solid it was. If only emotions or ways of being were so concrete, and I could pick up happy or content or easy to love and put it in my pocket.

  ‘This is a good time of year to join,’ said Daisy. ‘We’ve got some great deals at the moment. There are a number of different options.’

  We got to Don’s door, which was open. I glanced in and saw him sitting at his desk.

  ‘We also have packs for new members. You get two free coaching sessions and a T-shirt if you join before Saturday.’

  Daisy kept walking but I didn’t. I called out, ‘Hi, Don.’

  He looked up. We shared a long, glorious moment. Then Don shuffled some paper around. ‘Germaine…What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m doing the membership tour.’

  ‘Right, the tour. How’s it going?’

  Daisy, who was up ahead, came back. He wasn’t talking to her but she said, ‘Great. The weather out there’s lovely.’

  Don said, ‘Make sure you give Germaine a good deal.’

  Daisy said, ‘I will, I will.’* Then she started to move off but I didn’t follow. I asked Don if he had a minute and, when he said he had several, felt a small pang of excitement.

  Daisy’s voice moved into re-evaluation mode, upgrading its initial perception of me. ‘I’ll meet you back at reception,’ she said.

  A certain set indeed.

  When she was out of earshot, I told Don I was sorry to hear what happened with the car park.

  ‘Thanks, Germaine. That means a lot.’

  I lowered my voice. ‘Don’t worry. You won’t have any more problems there. Celia Brown’s leaving.’

  If he hadn’t known what was happening he would have asked why she was leaving or how I knew but he didn’t, which meant he knew already. The mayor had told him.

  I didn’t mind, I wasn’t jealous of their relationship, but I would have liked some acknowledgment of my personal contribution, a sign that he knew how much effort I’d put in.

  He exceeded my wildest hopes in this regard.

  ‘They must love you at the council,’ he said.

  Did he say this because he thought I was eminently lovable, or was it an offhand remark? I couldn’t tell by looking at him. I went to leave.

  ‘Wait.’ Don fossicked through his drawer. ‘I forgot to give you this.’ When he put his hand out he was holding a certificate. It said:

  EASTERN REGION SUDOKU CONTEST 2004

  THIRD PLACE

  PRESENTED TO Alan Cosgrove

  ‘You can add it to the shrine,’ he said.

  It wasn’t a shrine, it was a display, but I didn’t tell him that. And I wasn’t disappointed. ‘Thanks. I love certificates. I’ve got fourteen of my own, you know.’

  I would have loved to tell him what they were for. But all he said was, ‘Now you’ve got fifteen.’ He didn’t realise the fourteen were ones I’d earnt myself: a different category from ones that belonged to him. Maybe I should have clarified.

  ________________

  * Daisy did not give me a good deal. It was a terrible offering. Four thousand dollars in start-up fees plus another $150 to pay by the month. Also, the much-lauded free T-shirt only came in an XL. I said I’d think about it.

  20

  That night Jack messaged saying he was going to bring me lunch tomorrow and was there anything I didn’t eat. I said I ate everything, though this wasn’t strictly true. There were lots of things I didn’t like. Let’s see if they happened to appear. Let’s see if he’d allocated portions and I happened to inadvertently stuff them up.

  I was sick of answering the phone. Talking to people all the time took a lot of energy. What kept me from complaining about it was my spreadsheet. Whenever I opened it up I remembered I wasn’t only answering calls, I was collecting evidence. Professor John Douglas said everything in life should be based on evidence.

  Every time I got a call I logged it, recording a number of relevant characteristics. It wasn’t just a basic classification anymore. I’d created a series of meta-categories and sub-categories and was developing a coding system, which would help in the future, when we had to branch the calls. For example:

  Press 1 if you’re calling about home nursing. [Code: 1]

  Press 1 if you’re calling about personal care [Code: 1, 1]

  Press 2 if you’re calling about doctors’ visits, including transport [Code:
1, 2]

  I wanted to make sure the line items that got their own numbers were the highest demand requests. That way I’d minimise the number of staff required—conversations were time-consuming. If it was a recorded message, the caller would listen but if it was a person that answered the call, the caller felt the need to talk as well. This introduced a layer of inefficiency.

  I told Francine that, a couple of times, but she was not concerned. She said, ‘I know, Germaine, but it’s nice for people to have human contact sometimes, don’t you think?’

  It might have been nice for them. It wasn’t particularly nice for me.

  Repeat callers were still the worst-performing category. If I had my way we’d limit the number of times the same person could call over a set time period.

  Like James. He kept calling about his pension payment, and when I didn’t change my position on what he had to do, he got Betsy to ring.

  ‘I’m calling on behalf of a friend,’ she said.

  ‘Betsy, it’s Germaine. Tell James to call the Department of Social Services. It’s got nothing to do with council.’

  ‘But Eva’s fixed it for us before.’

  ‘Eva? Eva who works here?’ Betsy must have got the names wrong. I couldn’t know for sure because Eva was off with Frank, making sure the signature collection officers were doing their jobs correctly. ‘Some of them are real slackers,’ she’d said.

  ‘Eva has fixed it before,’ said Betsy.

  Maybe that’s why James kept calling? Because he wanted to speak to Eva?

  Yet another reason automation was going to be a big success.

  When Jack came to get me for lunch he was holding a picnic basket. I hate picnics, so that was a black dot. We went outside. I thought we’d sit near the bench we sat at last time, when we had the pasta, but Jack said he knew somewhere better, which I thought hinted at an unpleasant competitive streak. We cut through the car park and down a laneway and there, on the other side of the road, was a park. We walked over to sit beneath a large tree.

  Jack told me to wait and opened up his basket. Inside was a picnic rug, which he unfolded and laid flat on the grass. Then he got out two food containers, fogged with steam, and a large bottle of orange juice—Ha, I thought to myself. I hate orange juice. I couldn’t wait to tell him. But by the time he’d put out two cloth napkins, folded in the shape of paper planes, two chequered plastic cups, two chequered plastic plates and knives and forks with chequered plastic handles, I found I didn’t feel like saying it.

  Jack stood up. ‘What do you think?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s okay. I prefer chairs to sitting on the ground.’

  Jack ignored this. ‘Please,’ he said, gesturing.

  I sat on the lower right-hand quartile of the rug and Jack sat on the upper left. He clicked the lid off a food container and put it on my plate. It was lasagna, store bought, like from a café.

  ‘I couldn’t get anything with tuna and tomato,’ he said.

  ‘That’s okay. I had enough yesterday.’ Actually, if anyone had enough of the tuna-tomato-pasta combination yesterday, it was Jack. When we’d started eating it I’d admitted, largely in fear of salmonella—the tuna was a funny colour—that the pasta was a little hard and maybe even rubbery but Jack insisted he didn’t mind. ‘It’s nice to be cooked for,’ he said, and finished every piece. Marie mustn’t have been very good at cooking. I wondered if she was good at anything.

  Now, on the picnic rug, Jack picked up his container of food. We sat and ate. It was quiet in the park; there were no visual stimuli.

  Jack asked how the helpline was.

  ‘Busy. We had fourteen calls today and Eva only answered one.’

  ‘Do you have a favourite caller?’

  I did but it was complicated and I didn’t want to say. ‘No. They’re all equally painful.’

  Jack did a half-laugh; it was a sort of snort, really, but not an unpleasant sound. I wouldn’t have minded hearing it again.

  ‘I don’t get too attached,’ I said. ‘I’m like a robot.’ That’s what Peter said—not to me, to other people. ‘I-am-Germaine, I-am-Germaine,’ I added, in the automated-sounding voice that Peter used.

  But Jack didn’t think this was as funny as the staff at Wallace Insurance had. ‘You’re not a robot,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a joke, Jack. I’m being funny.’

  ‘Well, it’s not funny.’ Suddenly, he was very serious.

  I rolled my eyes. But I sort of wished he’d been there, when Peter did his original impression.

  On Saturday morning I left for homework club ten minutes earlier than necessary and still ran into Jin-Jin. She was loitering by the fire escape with her backpack on. Her face lit up when she saw me.

  ‘Hi, Germaine.’ She followed me to the car, opened the passenger side door and got in. She wriggled out of her backpack, dumped it on the seat behind and started fiddling with the dial for the heating.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Jin-Jin,’ I said. ‘You can come with me this week but don’t get any ideas. I’m not giving you a ride every week. Nothing against you, it’s just easier. I don’t want to have to wait if you’re running late and I don’t want to have to tell you if I want to leave early. It’s better for both of us if we go separately.’

  She giggled. That inane, perplexing giggle. It was as though she was immune to discouragement. ‘Okay, Germaine.’ And then, as though she had heard none of it: ‘What d’you do last night? No, wait, let me guess: you ate Chinese takeaway and watched murder mysteries on TV.’

  Sometimes I wondered if Jin-Jin was spying on me. Did she stand on her side of the wall with her ear to a glass, straining to hear? Did she hang around her front door, looking through the peeper, waiting for me to appear?

  ‘You must have the Red Emperor on speed dial. They see your number and start cooking. It’s Germaine from number 23. Quick, get the fried rice on, ha, ha.’

  I turned the heating off and pushed the button so the windows went down.

  ‘And you’re always alone in there, Germaine. No one ever comes to visit you. Don’t you get lonely?’

  ‘Lonely? I don’t get lonely, Jin-Jin. I don’t have time to get lonely.’

  ‘I get lonely,’ she said. ‘Lee works at night and I don’t know so many people here.’

  She sounded sad. I was glad we were both facing forward and I couldn’t see her face. I might have been required to do something. Instead, I pointed out how bad the traffic was. ‘You’ll have to remember that next week when you’re taking the bus. Might want to leave early.’

  ‘You know’—Jin-Jin perked up—‘you should come for dinner some time, Germaine. One Friday night we could eat together. Instead of takeaway you come over and I’ll cook. I’ll make you katsu curry. Proper katsu curry, my mother’s secret recipe. You won’t guess what’s in it.’

  ‘If it’s MSG, I’m allergic. I get headaches. Anyway, I’m too busy.’

  When we arrived at the seniors centre I would have liked to sit in the car for a bit, sending Don telepathic messages, but I couldn’t because of Jin-Jin. We got out and went inside.

  Charlie was in the foyer, pinning posters on the noticeboard. He seemed happy until I asked how the Book Day parade went and then his face clouded over. He didn’t win. Some kid hired a Hulk costume and got first prize. We agreed this was unfair. Leaving aside the fact that hiring a costume is cheating, the Hulk is a comic, not a book. ‘You were robbed,’ I told him.

  ‘I appreciate your support,’ he said. Charlie is very articulate for a six-year-old.

  Gladys and Betsy were in the office. I left Jin-Jin and Charlie to go speak to them. The three of us had just sat down when Celia appeared in the doorway. She had on the same mean face as usual.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

  I was going to say the same to her, only Betsy interrupted.

  ‘Germaine’s helping with the homework club,’ she said. ‘She’s the new mathematics tutor. She’s great with the young peop
le.’

  I had never met anyone as consistently friendly as Betsy. It continued to arouse my suspicions. I didn’t know what she was trying to do but whatever it was, Gladys was in on it.

  ‘Better than great,’ said Gladys. ‘Germaine’s fantastic. I don’t know what we’ve done without her all these years.’

  Celia was still glaring, only now it was at the three of us. It was a very confusing situation. I had to stay alert, observing what was happening so as not to be tricked or made a fool of.

  When Celia was gone, Betsy apologised on her behalf. ‘Sorry about that. She’s a bit out of sorts these days.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gladys agreed. ‘You get a glimpse of the old girl every now and then, but most of the time she’s in hiding.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ I stayed positive. ‘She’ll be gone soon anyway.’ This was their moment to say everything was organised, there was a new committee and Celia was not a feature of it. But they were strangely silent.

  I repeated myself. ‘She’ll be gone soon anyway.’

  Betsy picked up an empty cup. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I made some jam drops…’

  ‘What I would like is a status report and an ETD. That’s Estimated Time of Departure. I say “soon” but I’d like to know how soon. A week? Two weeks?’ The mayor wanted Celia gone by the end of the month but anything earlier would be a bonus, for her and me. When did she decide on Employee of the Year? Because it didn’t say on the council website.

  The room was quiet. Gladys examined the palm of her hand and Betsy looked out the window. My stomach began to sink. ‘You have told her?’ I said.

  Gladys made a long ‘mmm’ sound, which was difficult to interpret but didn’t sound positive.

  ‘We were going to.’ For once, Betsy was not smiling. ‘I was going to. But it’s not that easy. Celia’s bark is worse than her bite, you know. She’s…sensitive.’

  ‘We haven’t found the right moment,’ said Gladys. ‘And then we thought it’s probably better coming from you, Germaine. If you say it, she’ll know it’s official. If we say it, she’ll only get mad at us.’

  I started to panic. I’d told Don it was sorted and it wasn’t, not nearly. I fanned my face.