by B M Carroll
‘She won’t get away with it,’ Mick says confidently. ‘There’s a dent in her reputation now. They’ll be watching her.’ He drains his drink. ‘I’m going to the bar … Hannah?’
‘I’ll have a quick one … I need to get home to Mum and the boys.’
‘It was a long shot,’ Jane says again when he’s gone. Then she slaps herself on the forehead. ‘Jesus Christ, why do I keep saying that? I didn’t make up the things she did to me. I didn’t lie or exaggerate. Everything happened just as I said in my claim. The only thing I did wrong was resign, and it feels deeply unfair that one action should undermine my whole case.’
‘Oh, Jane, I’m so sorry it didn’t work out.’
‘She was clinical, Hannah. She stood up on that witness stand and rebutted each and every point. High standards, strong work ethic, only wanting the best, blah, blah, blah. A bully? Out of the question. No fucking way.’
Does any bully ever regard themselves as such? Do they know what they really are? I suspect not.
Jane gulps back the last of her wine. ‘I’d better get my act together. Tomorrow I’ll start looking for a job … Although any potential employer will run a mile if they hear about this.’
‘You’ll get something, Jane. Somewhere that will appreciate all your experience and respect your home–life balance.’
‘I hope so, I really do.’ She looks wistful now. ‘I want a boss who understands that children are an important part of the society we live in. Who understands the odd time when their needs must come before work. Who gets how precious my family time is to me.’
Mick comes back with a beer for himself and a bottle of wine for Jane and me.
‘This is like the old days,’ he pronounces, plonking himself down on the cushioned seat.
Jane’s smile is nostalgic. ‘We used to go to places like this when we first met. I would arrive in my work suit and high heels, and Mick in his overalls and dirty boots. I found him so much more rugged and handsome than the bankers and accountants my colleagues hooked up with.’
‘I loved her for her money,’ Mick jokes. ‘Her salary was double mine.’
They’re a great couple. Mick makes Jane laugh. He bolsters her when she’s down. His support is rock-solid, no matter if Jane’s in the right or wrong. I can’t help feeling envious.
‘Good thing you found more things to love about me than my salary,’ she says.
He raises one bushy brow at her. ‘Who says I have? You’d better get another job quick smart or I’ll be looking for a divorce.’
‘Oh, fuck off.’
I nudge her so hard she falls on top of Mick. ‘When will you learn that saying the F word gets you into a lot of trouble?’
We’re all laughing hysterically again, and no one looking would ever guess that Jane had just lost her case with the Fair Work Commission across the street.
Boots, balls, bags; it’s almost impossible to get inside the front door. Again.
‘Who has left all this stuff here? Why can’t things be put away?’
Callum comes running, but it quickly becomes clear that the state of the hallway is not on his agenda. ‘Mum, Mum … Guess what happened at training today?’
Something good from the look on his face, and the fact that he left the lure of the television to greet me on my way in.
‘What?’ I ask, rolling a dirty soccer ball out of the way with my foot. Grass shavings and clumps of mud speckle the carpet. I’ll have to get the vacuum out later.
‘Davy made me captain.’
I stop despairing about the carpet and drink in the proud grin on his face. ‘That’s great. For this weekend?’
‘For the rest of the season … He said I was good at talking to everyone on the field and keeping spirits up when we’re losing.’
Thank you, Davy. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You knew what you were doing that day you kept Callum on the bench. Respect and rules and love, you said. This will be the making of Callum.
‘That’s the loveliest news I’ve heard all week. Davy is right – you’ll make an excellent captain. Oh, I am so proud of you … Come here. This news deserves a hug.’
He moves awkwardly into my arms. His body feels bulky against mine. He has grown, I realize with a start, and not just in height. His shoulders are filling out, and his face is beginning to mature too. He is so much like his father it takes my breath away; it’s precisely why I worry about him so much. But there’s no sign of that underlying broodiness today. His face is completely open, his eyes bright. He’s had a badly needed shot of self-confidence. I can see now that this was what Davy was working towards. But Callum had to earn it first, to deserve it.
Callum is just stepping back from my embrace when there’s an officious knock on the door, a knock that I recognize from the last time: Mr Fastidious. If it weren’t for the fact that he was obviously watching out for me to get home from work and probably knows I’m on the other side of the door, I would consider not answering it. What now? Nothing good, if our previous encounters are anything to go by. I move some of the sporting paraphernalia out of the way with my foot so I can get the door open.
‘Good evening.’ I force a smile, trying to make up for the fact that I was unforgivably rude the last time we met. Is it too late to apologize? Callum’s stare bores through my back; no doubt he’s hoping for a repeat performance.
‘Good evening,’ Mr Fastidious parrots. He’s as immaculately turned out as ever: pressed shirt, chinos with a razor-sharp crease, freshly polished brogues. ‘Your boys …’
First it was the washing on the balcony, then it was the noise, and now, apparently, it’s the boys.
‘Your boys have been playing soccer in the driveway …’
‘Is that a problem?’ I feign surprise, even though I know perfectly well that it is a problem, at least to the killjoy portion of the population.
He stretches his neck in a way that reminds me of a turkey. ‘Of course it’s a problem. Cars are coming in and out. The ball entered some flower beds in the garden. Then it hit the wall, causing a noise disturbance.’
‘Did you ever play soccer when you were a boy?’ I ask, weariness overcoming me.
‘Of course,’ he bristles. ‘We played in the park, the appropriate place for such games.’
‘Never in the driveway, or on the street, or somewhere it wasn’t strictly allowed?’
‘Never … We had rules, and we kept to them. Your boys need to learn a thing or two about rules, I might add. And you do know that children are not allowed to play on common property unless accompanied by an adult exercising adequate control?’
‘Yes, I do know that, but I think that particular by-law is intended for very young children. Ten-year-olds need a little more freedom and lenience –’
He cuts me off, obviously not agreeing. ‘And you know that an owner must not cause damage to plants or lawns on common property?’
‘Yes, of course I know that. Hopefully nothing was actually damaged?’
He doesn’t even acknowledge my question. ‘And an owner cannot interfere with the peaceful enjoyment of other owners and occupiers.’
A sarcastic laugh erupts from deep inside me. ‘Peaceful enjoyment? Give me a break! You don’t know the meaning of that phrase … You thrive on issuing complaints and finding fault … Can’t you just leave us alone?’
His face reddens. ‘Now, listen here, there are rules, and we must all keep to them …’
I’ve had enough. I’m sick of being trodden on. Of being constantly hassled at work and now at home too. ‘Please stop. You’re harassing me. Stop.’
‘Harassing you?’ he splutters. ‘I’m most certainly not. I’m just pointing out –’
‘I am just in from work. I haven’t seen my children all day. They’re hungry, I should be making them dinner instead of standing here arguing like this. I am not a bad person. My husband died last year – I’m a single mother who’s trying to make ends meet, that’s who I am. And all my energy is devoted
to keeping my head above water, not your flipping by-laws. Can’t you understand that? … Now, good evening.’
Making sure to close the door as softly as possible, I turn around to see Mum and Finn shoulder to shoulder with Callum.
‘You stood up to him.’ Mum has a proud, surprised look on her face.
All my life I’ve been timid, slow to speak up for myself, chronically lacking in confidence, believing that my opinions were inferior to everyone else’s. Mum and Dad used to despair over me.
‘Must be Dutch courage from that glass of wine I had with Jane … The downside is that we’re probably going to get another contravention notice as a result.’
Mum gives my arm a squeeze as we all finally leave the confines of the hallway. ‘Will I stay on for dinner?’
I give her a wobbly smile. ‘You can answer the door if he comes back.’
Dinner is weird. Everyone is on edge to the point of being giddy, especially Mum, whose high-pitched laugh makes the rest of us laugh too, though we’re not clear on what’s so funny. Every time there’s a sound from the other units, a slammed door, a voice, we freeze, waiting for another knock, which doesn’t come, and then Mum gives a nervous giggle and we all start laughing again.
Later, when I see Mum out, I’m half expecting to find an envelope inside the front door, another stealthily delivered contravention notice. But nothing’s there, other than clumps of mud and grass that I’m too tired to vacuum up.
The boys are late going to bed – it takes a strength I don’t have tonight to keep them on schedule – and when they’re finally down, I check my phone (which, due to the strangeness of the night, never made it out of my handbag).
Four missed calls, two voice messages, and numerous emails in my inbox. All from Sophie. More harassment.
Stand up to her. Say no. But it’s not that easy, is it? Standing up to her will have consequences – that much is clear. And look what happened to Jane. Jane, who is a hundred times more confident and more qualified than me. Jane, who has the indestructible Mick to cushion her fall, and who was prepared to go all the way to the Fair Work Commission. If Jane can’t stop Sophie, who can?
Sorry. Have things on tonight. Will get to this in the morning.
I look at my reply for a long time before pressing send.
42
Sophie
It’s going to be one of those bad days. I know, even before I open my eyes, that every hour, every minute, will be infused with pain. Getting out of bed will hurt. Getting dressed. Commuting to work. Sitting down. Standing up. Opening doors and filing cabinets. If I were still keeping my spreadsheet, I would rate this morning’s pain as an eight: the worst it’s been in a long time.
Aidan, as usual, has left long before I make it to the kitchen and I feel a stab of resentment at the thought of his energy, his fitness, and the fact that the possibility of pain doesn’t even cross his mind.
‘This is because of you,’ I mutter, with as much viciousness as I can muster. ‘You did this to me.’
Sometimes I do this when I have a bad day: turn on Aidan. Not for long – a few minutes of a one-sided tirade at most. I’m offloading, that’s all, finding an outlet for my frustration and helplessness, and because he’s not actually here and can’t hear, it doesn’t hurt his feelings, so no harm done. I love him, he knows that, I know that. I’m allowed to lash out every now and then. It’s only fair.
‘You too, Jane, you stupid bitch.’
On the contrary, I would be thrilled if Jane could hear what I have to say about her. The fact that I feel so crap today is mostly her fault. Dragging us both in front of the Fair Work Commission. Wasting hours and hours of everyone’s time. Me having to sit there and listen to all her whining and exaggerations, and then swear on a Bible before defending myself. How demeaning. How wearying, exasperating, infuriating. It’s no wonder the strain of it has caught up with me today.
‘I hope you never get another job, Jane Dixon. And if I’m ever asked for a reference, I’ll take great delight in telling the truth, you lazy, vindictive cow.’
To think that, next week, I have another hearing to go to, another ordeal to endure: Aidan’s sentencing. It’s too much at once. My body is saying, Enough already. But there’s no way the judge will allow another adjournment and, anyway, despite feeling dangerously exhausted, I really need to get this over with – we need to get it over with. Aidan’s been really tense. He’s worried that he’ll get a term in prison, despite all the assurances that it’s unlikely.
‘How will I explain to Jasmin?’ he said last night, just as I was about to turn off the light. ‘Her dad going to jail … Imagine the shame she’d feel.’
Jasmin, Jasmin, Jasmin. What about me? I’m the real victim, remember? I’m the one who had her chest crushed, the one who’ll never be the same again. I’ve forgiven you, but now I have to suffer through another day at court while work is piling up back at the office. And the stress of having to relive every little detail of the accident: the photographs, the medical reports, the statements from the various witnesses. Not to mention having to see your stupid ex-wife sitting there with her sad eyes.
Stop, Sophie. Enough. You’re just making yourself feel worse now. You’ll get through today. You always do.
First, a fresh cup of tea (the one Aidan made for me is still on the bedside table, untouched, cold).
Breakfast: two chocolate digestives (I crave sweet things when I’m like this). The junk food is stashed at the back of the pantry, where Aidan can’t see it, and where it takes a little extra effort to retrieve, so there’s time to change my mind. But I can’t seem to stop myself this morning. I used to be so scathing of binge-eaters and people who couldn’t control their weight, and look at me now. It’s only a few biscuits, and it’s only a few kilos; still, it’s getting me down, and is yet another reminder that I am not the same.
With the biscuits filling the void in my stomach and the comforting taste of chocolate on my lips, it’s time for some hardcore pain-relief tablets, which – please, please – should kick in by the time I get to work.
‘Hannah, have you finished the new product report?’
Hannah glances up from her screen, her face unattractively flushed. ‘Still working on it, Sophie.’
‘I need it … I needed it hours ago, in fact.’
‘I’m going as fast as I can.’ Hannah is staring at her screen again, deliberately not meeting my eyes.
‘That’s why I messaged you last night. Because I needed the report early today.’
No answer. She’s ignoring me, refusing to explain, to apologize.
I’m about to turn on my heel – even though I know that the abruptness of such a movement wouldn’t be a good idea in my fragile state today – when she finally opens her mouth.
‘Stop it.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Stop bullying me,’ she continues, her voice sounding wobbly and strangely young.
Oh, for God’s sake. She’s as pathetic as Jane. Nobody can take the pressure any more. ‘What are you talking about? I’m not bullying you … I’m merely asking you to perform your role.’
‘My role does not involve working after hours … or receiving texts, emails and phone calls every waking hour.’
‘This is a busy department. Everyone has to put in more than nine to five.’
‘I’m paid for nine to five,’ she retorts, quite unbelievably, considering I’ve only recently given her a pay rise.
‘You’re paid very well,’ I snap. ‘Thanks to me.’
She swallows. ‘I had other things on last night, that’s why I didn’t start on the report. I’m allowed to have a life outside work … You don’t own me, Sophie.’
‘I never said I did! Now, can you finish that fucking report so I can send it to John Greenland?’
Back in my office my anger immediately fizzles away. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Hannah is a solid worker, even though she isn’t as flexible as I’d like her to be. I’ll apol
ogize when she brings in the report. I don’t want another Jane-type situation. Anyway, John Greenland isn’t expecting the report today; I wanted to surprise him, impress him with our efficiency.
My chest. It’s not any better. I’ll have to take more painkillers. 11.30 a.m. – still too soon. At least another hour before I can pop some more. Fuck it.
‘Here’s the first section.’ Hannah’s face is still rather red when she slides the document across my desk half an hour later. She avoids my eyes. ‘I’m still working on the rest.’
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have got angry with you. I know you try your best.’
My apology is met with silence and I can’t help sighing.
‘Look, Hannah. I know I can be demanding … To be honest, I’m in a lot of pain. It’s hard to be nice when my chest feels ready to explode. Some days I can’t think straight, let alone remember my manners and be pleasant with people.’
The set of her face relaxes before my eyes. ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t realize.’
I shrug, and then regret it because even that small movement hurts quite badly. ‘That’s part of the problem. Most people don’t realize because they can’t see it. Pain is a terrible thing, you know? It can completely change your personality, make you quite nasty at times. But people don’t know it’s there, and so they assume that you’re just not a nice person.’
It’s true. Every word I’m saying. Today more than any other day, because I think my initial rating of eight is now an eight point five and I’m struggling to maintain focus.
Hannah’s face is full of sympathy. Does she understand some of what I’m talking about? Most people don’t. They have no idea.
‘Was your husband in pain? Before he died?’
A few moments pass before she answers. ‘Yes, you could say he was.’
Now she looks as though she might start crying. She’s a sorry sight with her quivering mouth, harried demeanour and cheap clothes. She makes me think of someone who’s been kicked to the ground and pummelled repeatedly. Maybe this is the reason I’m prompted to ask, ‘There was life insurance, wasn’t there?’