The Helpline

by Katherine Collette

  ‘Not now, Germaine. Not a good time.’ She leaned into Don, murmuring in his ear: ‘Is the Premier here?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said.

  I was not enjoying this. They were being…the only word I could think of was mean. But it didn’t affect me. My heart felt full. I wasn’t hungry for something to top it up.

  ‘It involves both of you,’ I said.

  ‘Are you still here?’ Her voice was mocking.

  All of us had jobs and mine was to impart the message. I had to make her listen, and soon. The dinner was scheduled to start any minute. I could raise the amplitude and/or frequency of my voice, but the issue was sensitive. My proposal might be misconstrued; whereas if I kept it private I could maintain plausible deniability. I remembered Celia saying, ‘It’s not blackmail…it’s a reciprocal relationship,’ but sometimes these fine distinctions can be obscure to the untrained eye.

  I had to think. But in emergency situations the amygdala floods the cortex with adrenaline, triggering a fight or flight reaction—not a thinking one. I started getting flummoxed. Also, the champagne had affected my mental agility.

  Then Celia appeared.

  And beside her was Betsy. And beside Betsy was Gladys and behind them were Jack and Eva and Jin-Jin and Vera and a long line of catering staff. All of them, on my side of the equation.

  ‘Oh, God,’ said the mayor. ‘Can we get security?’

  ‘I’d hold that thought if I were you,’ said Celia. She gestured to me and I bent down to unpin a piece of paper from inside the hem of my dress. I began to read aloud.

  ‘Email dated May 7th, last year. Sender: Alan Donald Cosgrove. Dear Verity, Can you get those old people to stop parking in that car park?…I thought you said you’d have them out by Christmas…’

  I didn’t need to look to know I had captivated my audience. The mayor might have thought she was an unstoppable force but I was an immovable object. What would happen if we collided?

  The mayor seemed equally unsure. The look she gave Don didn’t require a cryptographer to decipher. ‘Perhaps we should take this conversation elsewhere,’ she said.

  I said I didn’t mind where we had the conversation.

  Celia said she didn’t mind either. Actually, none of the seniors centre affiliates were all that particular.

  The mayor asked Don for the keys to his office.

  We followed the mayor to Don’s office. All of us, including most of the catering staff. (I hoped the water carafes in the dining room had already been filled; we didn’t want to jeopardise our Responsible Service of Alcohol certificate.) On the way, the mayor seemed to undergo a metamorphosis. By the time we got there she was calmer and there was less hissing. Her voice was like silk: ‘Welcome, everyone. Thanks for coming. It’s always a treat to meet with my constituents.’ She extended her arms in an inclusive fashion. ‘How can I be of service?’

  I was succinct in our list of demands. They were very modest, I told her. Only a commitment not to sell ONE (1) senior citizens centre and a guarantee that ONE (1) senior citizens centre would not be sold in the future.

  ‘I’m listening to what you’re saying, Germaine. I am listening, however…’ she winced to simulate sympathy. ‘It’s not that easy. You might think I’m all-powerful but I’m not. The council’s voted.’

  A voice up the back, near the door, called down: ‘That’s what you said about the biscuits.’

  ‘Is that Eva?’ The mayor tried to find her, looking over people’s heads. ‘I must say I’m disappointed to see you here.’

  Eva was not affected by the mayor’s disappointment. ‘Could you please stick to the specific line of questioning at hand?’ she said.

  ‘Fine. The council didn’t have to vote on the biscuits. That was within my discretion.’

  Celia said, ‘What a coincidence. We have some emails that are within our discretion.’

  Normally the mayor was unflappable but this seemed to flap her. Her mask began to slip. ‘What emails…? I don’t know how you…If those are…I don’t believe those were obtained in a legal manner.’

  Don, who’d been silent until now, chimed in. ‘Yes. I’d like to understand how you came to be in possession of them.’

  Celia said we couldn’t comment on the method of obtaining the emails, but the Deepdene Courier was very interested in their content.

  The mayor’s lovely hair had frizzed around her forehead, forming an ironic crown. ‘It’s not how it looks. It’s all very above board. There are a lot of complex processes, internal checks and…things you wouldn’t know about going on behind the scenes…’ She was sweating now; there was a sheen on her forehead. ‘Isn’t that right, Don?’

  Don agreed. ‘Oh, yes. Very complex.’

  ‘That’s okay. The Courier is well versed in these kinds of issues,’ said Celia. ‘Remember the exposé they did on petrol stations and money laundering? Those guys went to jail, you know.’

  The mayor pressed her lips together. Her face was impassive but her eyes looked like an angry tiger was trapped inside.

  ‘In fact’—Celia was enjoying herself—‘their reporter will be here any minute, if you want to explain more fully.’

  ‘That’s not necessary,’ said the mayor. ‘We’re all reasonable, I’m sure we can sort something out…Why don’t we talk about it next week? Germaine, call Stacey. Ask her to set something up for Monday, or Tuesday. Whatever’s convenient.’

  She was delaying, that was her tactic. Jack said she’d try this so she could clean up her emails, delete the ones that were incriminating. ‘Be easier if we talked about it now,’ I said. ‘No time like the present.’

  The angry tiger inside the mayor was ready to come out. It was being held back by the barest of threads. ‘Look, this is all one big misunderstanding. But I can see you’re upset. You don’t want the centre sold and that’s understandable. Unfortunately, at this point in time, even if I wanted to stop the sale, I couldn’t…Once the council votes, it’s almost impossible to un-vote. Isn’t it, Don?’

  Don had no particular expertise in local government standing orders but the way he agreed, you would have thought he did. I couldn’t bear to look at him.

  I said, ‘Almost impossible is not the same as impossible.’

  The mayor had been trying to hang on to her calmness but now it seemed to get away from her. ‘Germaine,’ she said. ‘You’re an intelligent person, aren’t you? Surely you understand there are limits to what I can do.’

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I don’t know that much about democracy. You probably know more than me, in fact.’ This was quite generous, given the circumstances. And I encouraged her further: ‘If anyone can do it, you can.’

  My faith was apparently not a solace to her. She said, ‘You’re not the only ones in the municipality, you know. There are other people…They don’t all want to hang around a senior citizens centre.’

  ‘I don’t know why,’ said Celia. ‘We have a very varied program. And an employment scheme too, now.’

  The mayor didn’t listen to her. ‘Germaine.’ She lowered her voice. ‘What’s all this about? You don’t want to go back on the helpline? Fine. You want to stay in that office? No problem. You want an official promotion? I can organise that.’

  I wasn’t even tempted.

  Don said, ‘Would you like a complimentary golf membership? On the house, no fees for ten years…What about my 2008 medal? I was meant to hand it back but I never did.’

  ‘Don. No one wants your stupid medal,’ said the mayor and he recoiled as if scorched. I felt a small amount of sympathy for him. He only wanted to be noticed. That’s all he’d ever wanted. It was a shame he had to go about it in such an annoying way.

  The mayor said, ‘Germaine, think about this…You don’t want to burn bridges…It’s not what it looks like…Do you really want to…For these…people.’

  I looked around the room. They were all there: Celia, Betsy, Gladys…Eva, Jack, Jin-Jin…Vera…Others whose names I hadn’t bother
ed to learn.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I quite like these losers.’

  ‘Germaine,’ said Jack.

  ‘What?’

  I turned back to the mayor. ‘It would be good if you could make the announcement today. The reporter is coming to attend the speeches.’

  Celia added, ‘And it would be nice if you remained in your current position as long as is practicable…We’re quite attached to you, Verity.’

  The mayor lowered herself into Don’s chair. She put her head on the desk a moment.

  Don whispered, ‘Do it, Verity. I don’t want to go to jail.’

  The mayor’s voice might have been muffled but her sentiment was crystal clear: ‘Shut up, Don.’

  45

  We had to save our celebrations until after the event. The Olde World Catering Company saw every single guest in attendance as a potential future customer, so we left the mayor and Don in Don’s office and everyone returned to their allocated duties.

  My duties had officially concluded, and Celia didn’t have any, aside from acting as escort to the Deepdene Courier reporter, and he hadn’t arrived yet, so the two of us went and stood at the entrance to the dining room.

  We watched the waiting staff mill around and top up people’s glasses. It was okay for a while but once the entrees came out we were in the way. Though hungry, I was not inclined to go and sit on the mayor’s table. She and Don had entered the room the back way, via the stage. They were now seated and, periodically, the mayor would turn and glare at me and Celia.

  Celia and I went out to the foyer. There were a couple of chairs near where reception was. We sat on them, side by side, with a plate of Betsy’s manchego and gorgonzola straws.

  ‘That didn’t go too badly,’ said Celia. ‘Considering.’

  I thought so too but I was glad it was over. The conversation with the mayor had been difficult. A level six in sudoku terms, maybe even a level seven, if such a thing existed, because it involved feelings. These were not only unpredictable; they could be very unpleasant, which was why I generally tried to avoid them. On some occasions, though, when you pressed them down they popped straight back up.

  Like now, for example. I started folding my serviette into rectangles. I was glad Celia and I weren’t looking at each other.

  ‘Celia,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  I coughed. There seemed to be a crumb stuck in my throat.

  ‘Well…I think maybe I was wrong.’

  She didn’t respond straight away. There was a low murmur coming from the dining room, but it was not so loud I couldn’t hear the chair creak as she uncrossed her legs and put both feet on the floor.

  I clarified. ‘I probably shouldn’t have made a fake policy and used it to get rid of you.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve already forgotten about it.’

  ‘If you’ve forgotten about it, how do you know what I’m talking about?’

  Celia looked up at the ceiling. ‘Maybe we were both wrong,’ she said. ‘Maybe there were some occasions, a few, perhaps, when I got…overwrought. Those letters I wrote… Maybe some of them, one or two, were unnecessary.’

  I couldn’t see Celia’s face, but I felt very close to her. We were close—our elbows were nearly touching.

  We sat in silence for a minute. Then I said, ‘How many of the letters do you think you got wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know, Germaine.’

  ‘Twenty per cent? Thirty per cent?’

  ‘Fine, twenty per cent.’

  What an understatement. She was way off. But I was okay with it. If I could be half-wrong, she could be 60–70 per cent incorrect also. I’d give her that.

  Darren Hinkley from the Deepdene Courier came at exactly eight o’clock. The speeches weren’t expected to start until around half past, so we had a bit of time.

  Celia, Darren and I went down to the kitchens to see Betsy and Eva. I asked Darren if he wanted to take some photos of the newest catering company in the municipality, but he said he was the politics reporter and it wasn’t relevant to his beat.

  ‘When are you going to give me this big tip-off?’ he said.

  ‘Soon,’ said Celia.

  Don was the host of the evening’s official proceedings. He got out of his chair and stood on the stage in front of a lectern. He was handsome in his suit; I could still see the glimmer of Alan in him, but it was an older, sadder, more pathetic version. He’d lost his sparkle. He seemed preoccupied, too. Maybe he was thinking this might be one of the last times he’d be able to make a speech in his precious golf club. Who knew what would happen to it now?

  Oh, well. He’d reinvented himself once; he’d have to do it again.

  After Don introduced her, Mayor Bainbridge got up. I hadn’t written a speech for her; it seemed like a waste of time. She must have written it herself, and of course she now had to ad-lib in some new bits. I felt I could make allowances, but it was clear she should get professional help in future. The speech was quite long-winded and very boring, even for someone listening as intently as all of us.

  ‘On behalf of the Deepdene Council, I’d like to welcome you here today. As you know, proceeds from tonight’s ball go to the National Dementia Foundation. Dementia is an issue that I’m sure has touched us all.’ She cited some facts about it but since none of the source material was disclosed, no one knew if any of it was true.

  Then she told a very convenient anecdote.

  In a voice dripping with sincerity, she began to talk about her Great-aunt Ethel—allegedly, her favourite person in the whole world.

  ‘Can’t imagine anyone but Verity Bainbridge would be Verity Bainbridge’s favourite person,’ said Celia under her breath.

  ‘Great-aunt Ethel began to forget things.’ The mayor dabbed the side of her eye with an open palm, and elaborated that this was ‘tragic’ and ‘heartbreaking’.

  ‘Some government bodies see older people as a drain on resources. Well, not here. In the City of Deepdene we like to look after our older citizens, we think they’re an important part of the community…Who here has heard of the senior citizens centre?’

  A smattering of hands went up. Celia nudged Darren and mimed taking a photograph, and he gave her an irritated look.

  The centre was a ‘wonderful place’, said the mayor, despite her failure ever to have visited it. ‘They do very important work. It’s not just a place that people go to, though. It’s a second home.’ She was laying it on thick but, even so, when she announced the council planned to retain the senior citizens centre in perpetuity, it didn’t get much of a response. It got zero response, in fact. But that didn’t matter. It was On Record now, though Darren didn’t seem overly interested. ‘Why am I here?’ he whispered to Celia.

  By the time the guests were gone and the cleaning was done, it was after midnight. Celia asked everyone to gather in the empty dining room. She told Jack and Jin-Jin to pour the leftover champagne into glasses for a toast, then she made a speech about what a good job everyone had done, the importance of teamwork, blah, blah, blah. It was getting late.

  Eventually, she said, ‘There’s one person I wanted to thank in particular…’ I guessed it was going to be Betsy for creating the menu, or Eva for helping her, or maybe even Gladys, who’d worked hard to create a newsletter to communicate with volunteers. But Celia said, ‘Germaine.’

  Germaine. That’s what she said.

  I was the centre of attention. I tried to hide behind my glass but there was a disparity between the size of it and the size of me.

  ‘Where’s the certificate, Gladys?’ said Celia, and Gladys came forward holding a sheet of paper. It was laminated and had a gold ribbon drawn in the corner.

  It said:

  GERMAINE JOHNSON

  EMPLOYEE OF THE YEAR

  It wasn’t the official one, but it was pretty close. It looked genuine if I wanted to include it in my portfolio. ‘I think it normally comes with a voucher,’ I said, but there didn’t seem to be one.

&n
bsp; Celia said, ‘One thing I was wrong about was you, Germaine. You’re…different.’

  ‘Everyone always says that.’

  ‘Yes, but I mean in a good way.’

  My face went the colour of Eva’s tomato sorbets. ‘You’re not going to hug me, are you?’

  She said she was happy to leave it as a verbal—but sincere—thank you, and all present raised their glasses. To me.

  Jack and I stayed back and put the bottles of unopened wine in the back of his car. When the boot was full, we sat on the bonnet, drinking the last of the leftover champagne and looking at the stars. Flashy things, they were, sparkling for us.

  Jack pointed at a constellation. ‘Look, the Saucepan,’ he said.

  I pointed out a better one. ‘Southern Cross.’

  Jack kept looking but he didn’t know any others. I might have, but I was sick of stars. Something else was on my mind.

  ‘Hey, Jack.’

  ‘Hey, Germaine.’

  ‘You know that night in the mayor’s office? You know how Francine came in? I didn’t tell you, but she said something funny after.’

  ‘What’d she say?’

  ‘She said, “I didn’t know you and Jack were friends.”’

  ‘That’s not that strange,’ he said. ‘We are friends.’

  ‘It was how she said it…Like…’ My voice stopped talking.

  ‘Like…? Oh my God, do you think she thought…you and I…?’

  ‘I don’t know. God, I hope not. How embarrassing. I mean, I’d never.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Jack, quickly.

  And then: ‘Never?’

  ‘Nothing to do with you. You’re a moderately attractive man.’ I thought about stressing this point by touching his trousers. His leg in the trousers. But I didn’t.

  ‘You’re moderately attractive too,’ said Jack. He thought about it. ‘Perhaps a bit more than moderately.’

  ‘But we’re friends,’ I said. ‘Right? And the parameters of friendship are well defined.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Jack topped up our glasses. ‘We’re friends.’

  We sipped in companionable silence.