The Pencil Case

by Lorraine Cobcroft

  The neighbours lived in a modern brick flat with three big bedrooms and all the mod cons and nice carpet on the floor. Fran had to scrub and polish worn linoleum every morning, battle with a dirty, old, wood–fired stove, and bath the kids in a laundry tub. I sugar–soaped the smoke–stained walls when we moved in, and begged paint from the landlord to dress up the kitchen cupboards. Fran made some colourful gingham curtains. It brightened the place up, but I sympathised with her desire for better.

  She settled herself at the kitchen table after dinner that night to fill out protracted forms loaded with invasive and seemingly irrelevant questions. “Typical bureaucracy,” I snorted, looking over her shoulder. “They always want to know when you had your last shit and how much it weighed.”

  The decision was fast. The letter was sympathetic and apologetic.

  “We understand that your family genuinely needs housing assistance,” it said. “We regret that we are unable to make an offer at this time due to a serious housing shortage. You will appreciate that we must give preference to those in greatest need. Accordingly, your name has been placed on a waiting list. At this stage, we expect it will be up to two years before we are able to offer you housing.”

  Of course it went on with the usual crap about there being an appeals process if we thought the decision unfair. Of course I said, “I told you so”.

  I was more relieved than disappointed. I wanted better housing and cheaper rent, but not that way.

  Six weeks later, our neighbours started packing to move.

  “I don’t get it,” Fran said, ladling stew on to plates. “I just assumed they’d get the same answer we did. It doesn’t seem fair, when he’s got better accommodation and healthy kids and actually brings in more money than you do.”

  I shrugged. Since when was anything in life fair? But she persuaded me to go with her to the Housing Office to challenge their decision. I saw no point, really, but she insisted.

  They showed us into a small cubicle–style office --- one in a row down the side of an airless hall with waiting–room furnishings in the middle. We sat opposite a weasely little man with huge ears and a pointy nose. A brass plaque on the front of the desk identified him as “Mr Norm Higgins”. His face was flushed and he sat tapping his pen on the polished timber desk and frowning, as though having to speak to us was a great inconvenience. I was sure it was. The high piles of papers scattered on his desk suggested he might have a lot of more pressing business to attend to. They probably actually indicated nothing more than that he spent more time at the coffee machine and taking smoke breaks than working.

  “I’m confused,” Fran said, unable to suppress annoyance. “My neighbour says he was told there is about a six–week wait. I was told two years. How does that work?”

  “Obviously, Mrs Wilson, his must be a high priority case. We work on a points system, you see. We have to prioritise those in greatest need.” He leant back in his chair and sucked the end of a pen.

  “I see. So can you tell me, sir, how you assess someone whose income is higher than ours and who, unlike us, doesn’t have a child with a condition that requires expensive medical care, to have greater need than we do?”

  “I can’t answer that. No. I would have to look at his file and yours. And we don’t discuss comparative situations of applicants. Applicant privacy must be protected.”

  “Hmmm. Then I guess I’ll just have to appeal.”

  He leant forward again, frowning. “I could, I suppose, give you some general guidance to help you understand how we prioritise. Hopefully that would assist. For example…”

  He turned to me. “Are you employed, Mr Wilson? Unemployed persons are obviously needier.”

  “Even if their income is higher?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be, would it? And of course Aborigines are always given highest priority.”

  “Thank you, Mr Higgins. You have told me all I need to know.” Purple with anger, Fran gathered up her bag and strode out. A tense silence hung over us as we drove home and I prayed that her simmering anger wouldn’t erupt in a bitter attack on me. She hated me whenever I was proved right.

  “So, Paul,” she began, flinging herself into an easy chair. Her puckered face reminded me of Nicki’s when a request was denied, and I had to suppress an amused smile. “A neighbour who can comfortably afford a nice brick apartment with carpet on the floors and electric stove and a tiled bathroom and separate laundry, and who has two healthy kids, is more needy because of the colour of his skin and because he chose to refuse the offer of a job that pays less than the dole --- the Aboriginal dole, that is. Great system we have! Really fair, isn’t it?”

  “What did you expect?” I said coldly. “The words ‘fair’ and ‘system’ don’t go together. What do they call it? An oxymoron?”

  “I’m angrier than I remember being in a long time, and you don’t even seem mildly surprised, let alone annoyed. How can you be so --- ”

  “I learnt how the system worked a long time ago,” I said, strolling calmly to the wood box to fetch some more logs for the stove. “I did warn you.”

  #

  “Shirley seems to think we were lucky to be refused public housing,” she said over dinner a few days later. Shirley was a friend from Playgroup who had been studying to become a social worker before pregnancy got in the way. “She seems to agree with you --- government housing communities are ghettos.”

  “You’ve got to admit you can pick a public housing estate a mile away. And you can usually recognise the people who live in them, even when they’re away from home.”

  “That might be a bit of a stretch!”

  “It’s true, Fran. They’re a type. You can pick them.”

  “Paul, some of the people who live in those places are salt–of–the–earth, hard–working, good people.”

  “Did I say they weren’t? They’re still a type.”

  “Anyway, as I was saying, Shirley reckons giving people houses and money destroys incentive and pride. She agrees with short–term charity, but she says long–term charity destroys the soul. She was quite vocal in her criticism of society for the handouts to Aborigines. ‘Never has solved their problems, and never will,’ she said.”

  “I think I like her. So what does she think we should do about not being able to afford a decent place to live, since she thinks we are so lucky? Does she have an answer for that?”

  “No. Seems she can solve the world’s problems, but not ours.” “Typical. Should’ve been a social worker, or a bloody bureaucrat.”

  “I’ve been thinking though, Paul, and maybe I have a solution.” She took a deep breath. Her eyes were pleading. “I think we should buy a house.”

  I made a pretence of choking.

  “I’m serious, Paul. I think we should investigate the possibility. We have some savings to use as a deposit and the repayments mightn’t be much more than we pay in rent.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. You know it’s never going to happen, so why prime yourself for another disappointment?” I considered her frown for a moment before adding, “Fine. Whatever. Go be an idiot if you must. No doubt someone will convince you it’s never going to happen. Just please don’t ask for sympathy from me when they do”.

  I shoved another log in the fire and slammed the firebox door hard, then banged the kettle down on the hotplate over the firebox.

  “What’s a man have to do to get a cup of tea around here?” I snapped. “Can you stop bloody dreaming long enough to make me something to eat?”

  #

  Weekday newspapers were now a luxury beyond our means, so it surprised me to see the daily edition on the kitchen table one Wednesday, a few weeks after the moving van departed from next–door. I cracked a stubby and pulled it across to read the headlines.

  “Building Society offers Subsidised Home Loans for Low Income Earners”. Fran spread a sheet of old newspaper on the table opposite me, laid out an assortment of vegetables, and dropped into the chair opposite me. Picking up a p
eeler, she started scraping carrots. When I made no comment on the headline, nor any effort to read on, she dropped the peeler and looked up at me, her face puckered with anxiety.

  “They’re offering low–interest loans for people to buy homes of their own. We could get our own place. It’d have to be cheap, but we could fix it up and make it nice. And it’d be ours.”

  “It’s a government program, Fran,” I snorted. “You’ll fill in a monstrous batch of forms, and they’ll send you a polite letter explaining why they can’t help us and telling us in very legalistic lingo how the ‘appeals’ process works.” She refused to be dissuaded. I was utterly convinced this was a pipedream.

  “I worked it all out, Paul,” she chirped, her face alight and eyes dancing. “We can afford something up to $20,000. Even with stamp duty and legal costs the repayments only come to about what we pay in rent now.”

  “First,” I said in an authoritarian tone, “houses in this town cost a lot more than $20,000. $25,000 is cheap. Second, we are struggling to pay the rent now, and you want to lumber us with a liability for the next 30 bloody years! And there’s rates and insurance and maintenance costs on top of the repayments.”

  “I know, and I still think it’s doable. It won’t be easy for a while, but inflation pushes rents up every year, and wages. Home–loan repayments stay static. A year from now, the rent here will be more than the loan repayments, rates and insurance combined. Why worry about 30 years from now? By then, we’ll be setting aside the price of a loaf of bread for loan repayments!”

  “Right. Then go find a house for under $20,000,” I snarled, and watched the dull, red tide of anger creep across her cheeks. Her eyes blazed and she tore at those vegetables, ripping large chunks of flesh away with the skin.

  Savagely determined, Fran poured over classified ads and stalked real estate offices for months. She snapped at the children and was rarely civil with me. When she demanded it, I sullenly strolled through run–down houses, careful to point out rusted gutters and rotting timbers and warning her off with inflated estimates of repair costs. She refused to be discouraged, but gave up requiring me to accompany her on inspections.

  Eventually, she found what she declared ‘a gem’. She asked the agent to arrange for me to check it out, alone, after work on Friday. It was my drinking night, so I was pissed at her for making the appointment. My disinterest was thinly disguised as I trailed through the place behind an irritatingly enthusiastic agent nattering about ‘potential’.

  It was 30 years old and badly in need of renovation, and it was located right at the point on the highway where the semitrailers changed gears. It had two large bedrooms at the front and a small sleep–out at one end of an enclosed back veranda. The laundry and toilet were at the other end. There was a comfortable living room with a fireplace.

  The large combined kitchen and dining room had an electric stove, only one tiny window facing south and admitting no light, and flooring that looked remarkably like hessian sugarbags opened up and stitched together. The back windows were rotten and the bathroom pipes leaked through the bedroom wall. The yard was so heavily overgrown that we’d have to take truckloads of tree branches to the tip before we could get a piece of furniture through the door. But it was solid and liveable. Two months later, it was ours.

  Despite a prevailing chill of unidentified fear upsetting my belly, a thrill tickled its way up my spine the day we finally signed those mortgage papers and the solicitor handed us the keys to our new home. Fran whooped with glee.

  #

  “That sheet of wallpaper is upside down,” Fran laughed, looking from the bed into the freshly papered hallway I had thought looked so lovely. “Look! The pattern is actually of vases of flowers.”

  “Yes, but they go both ways. Up and down.”

  “Uh uh. No they don’t, but I agree the pattern is hard to identify. Maybe no–one will notice.”

  I had fallen into a tolerable routine of stumbling, frustrated, through long hard days working at a job I detested. I led band rehearsals and taught budding young brass musicians on Wednesday evenings and conducted band concerts often on Fridays and weekends. Otherwise, I spent my weekends working on home–renovation projects.

  We’d removed a wall in the bathroom to repair leaking plumbing, then replaced the rusty old tub, installed a smart new vanity, and painted and tiled. Fran wallpapered the kitchen cupboard doors and made curtains for the living room and back veranda. She was now child–minding, taking in ironing and making and selling children’s clothing to add to our scant renovations fund.

  A month after moving into our new home, panic displaced joy when a loans officer advised that the back windows must be replaced before Christmas. With no money to pay for such an expensive renovation, I was convinced the loan would be cancelled and we’d be back in rental accommodation --- if we could find any. Fran’s uncle came to the rescue, offering an indefinite interest– free loan for materials he could supply at trade prices and volunteering his labour free. Another uncle arrived one Sunday morning with a new toilet on the back of his utility and ordered us to arrange to use the neighbour’s facilities for a day until the concrete set after he installed it. He’d noticed a rather large crack in the base of ours.

  Moving in had been a family affair too, with an aunt stocking the fridge and sliding a cooked casserole into the oven to keep warm for the evening meal and uncles coming and going with loaded cars while cousins helped unpack and stack cupboards. A member of the band --- someone I had met once --- lent me his truck for the move, and our landlord brought his truck and helped move heavy items. He even loaded a bed that belonged to him, insisting it must be ours as our son slept in it, and he waived the last two week’s rent. I was slowly adjusting to a world where people were kind, caring and supportive. It quieted the demons and warmed me.

  Transforming our shabby little cottage into a home rapidly became a labour of love. Readily mastering the required skills produced a warm glow of pride. Fran’s uncle gave me tips on painting --- a task I performed often, but found I detested. I learnt to lay concrete, tile and replace broken taps and doorhandles. Carpentry became a favoured pastime. I delighted in building bookcases and cabinets.

  In the lead–up to Christmas, I built a magnificent doll’s house for my daughter, complete with tiny balconies edged with plastic replicas of iron lace. A battery–operated lighting system thoroughly enchanted her, although she flattened the battery on the first night by refusing to switch the lights off.

  Leading the town band proved a challenge, but one I embraced with vigour. The band hadn’t won a contest in over 30 years. Assessing the rabble confronting me at the first rehearsal, it was easy to see why. I found myself, now, mourning the absence of the army discipline I had so detested. I quickly resolved to focus on music and avoid marching contests. To my amazement, conducting proved no challenge and the band --- especially the younger members --- were enthusiastic and responsive. Wednesday evenings became the highlight of my week.

  “So are you going to audition for the musical,” Fran asked, still staring at the sheet of wallpaper. The local musical society was planning a production of 'Annie Get Your Gun' and advertising for brass musicians.

  “Absolutely,” I replied, starting to hum 'You Can’t Get a Man With a Gun’ as I headed for the bathroom.

  The weeks flew by and the leaves began to rust and fall as I prepared to take my band to a State music contest in Gunnedah. Taking up the baton at a Sunday concert the week before the big event, I grew a full two inches. The melody washed over me, transporting me into a trance–like state where everything around me glittered and the baton was a Midas wand. The notes floated up to drift away on clouds and the crowd roared approval.

  A week later, the day dawned warm and sweet. The sun set in a copper blaze of triumph behind a bus filled with rowdy bandsmen singing, shouting, laughing and applauding the triumphant bandmaster who had coached them to win three out of four events. I stepped on to the bus holding a
trophy high to be greeted with waves of wild applause. On the journey home, I resolved to finally challenge the demons and apply for retraining. I had set myself free. I had proved my ability. Now was the time to start my new life --- to finally pursue a career path of my own choosing.

  “I stopped in at the Employment Office today,” I said, dropping the weekend race guide on the carpet and settling back to put my feet up on our chocolate vinyl lounge. Fran leapt up and folded the paper carefully and put it in the magazine rack. The cream–wool living–room carpet was the only floor–covering in the house that didn’t need replacing, and she was paranoid about anything marking it.

  “I asked about the army retraining program,” I continued, shaking my head at her. “They told me I was eligible when I was discharged, and the local Employment Office could give me whatever information I needed.”

  A triumphant beam crinkled her eyes at the corners. “That’s great, Paul. What did you find out? Do you have any idea what you would like to do?”

  “I told them I want to learn a trade. Do something with my hands. Carpentry maybe, or shoe repair. I have to take an aptitude test and go for an interview, then they’ll process the application. Apparently I can do a short–course training program and I’ll be paid to learn.”

  She flicked at a stray tear, obviously overcome with emotion. She had urged me many times to think about retraining.

  I was quiet and withdrawn for days after, and she watched me anxiously for signs of enthusiasm, or lack of. She tried to talk to me about career options, but I merely grunted. “Wait!” I said, my face twisting with impatience, “There’s hurdles to cross.”

  “It’s important you appear eager, Paul,” she warned, knowing my tendency to feign disinterest so others wouldn’t know they had the power to disappoint. I merely shrugged and told her I had no intention of getting my hopes up --- priming myself for yet another disappointment. When she nagged me further, I assured her that I was trying to stay positive and I would give my best at the interview. I didn’t tell her about the dull, numbing bleakness consuming me, or the screamed warnings of the demons refusing to let me hope.