Room 46 & Short Story Collection

by Helen McKenna

Upon arriving home, Josephine followed her normal nightly routine and was in bed by 9.30 pm. She wondered how the day ahead would pan out. Her intention was to remain in her position as tea lady and to not reveal her identity to anybody outside the Management Committee. Simon would probably have been surprised to know that as well as her majority share in Blackstone, she was also a major investor in two other companies and had an extensive property portfolio.

  Funnily enough she had read an article about millionaires in Woman’s Day on her way home that afternoon. The lifestyles described bore no resemblance to hers, but she was used to that. Josephine assumed her name was on a list somewhere but nobody had ever come and asked her about her life. She supposed that a millionaire who lived in a small unit on somebody else’s property and who slept in a twenty-year-old single bed and had an old-fashioned alarm clock, was not that exciting.

  But Josephine didn’t care. All that mattered to her was that she had lived up to her own promises and that she knew for certain her financial future was secure.

  # # # # #

  Grace was surprised by how much she had enjoyed reading the first story and even wished it had been longer. She had only used fifteen minutes of her hour so far. Turning the page over she prepared to start on the next one but then remembered what Sylvia had said. ‘Um, would you like me to talk about the story?’ she asked, glancing at Edith.

  The blink again and a lopsided smile.

  Grace looked down at the text again and considered her answer. ‘Well, I thought Josephine was kind of misunderstood.’

  Another blink from Edith.

  Grace took this as her cue to continue. ‘I think all everybody saw was what was on the surface, someone who was plain and boring and old fashioned. But underneath she was actually really smart and determined.’

  Grace shuffled her position to avoid the jutting spring at the back of the recliner, and wondered why Edith kept the decrepit old chair. Then again, no doubt it was the kind of chair Josephine would keep and use. Perhaps Edith shared some characteristics with Josephine? Or had in her former life.

  Thinking for a moment she framed her next comments as best she could to avoid any offence about old people and things. ‘Um, on the whole Josephine is very rigid and literally didn’t seem to care what people thought of her. But that can be a good quality sometimes. No matter what most people say they DO care what other people think of them. To be like Josephine and really not care is pretty rare.’

  Two blinks this time. Grace assumed that meant Edith really agreed with her. Encouraged she continued on. ‘I really liked the twist at the end. I was so wrapped up in the other elements of the story I didn’t see it coming at all. I liked how she got back at the mean guys in her own quiet way.’

  A definite smile this time.

  ‘Yeah,’ Grace added softly. ‘It’s a shame not everybody has the guts to do that.’

  Talking about the other elements of the story helped the time pass quickly and when the hour ticked over and she knew she could go Grace wasn’t quite as excited to leave as she had anticipated earlier. Slipping the book back in the cluttered drawer she stood up, resisting the urge to rub her aching lower back. ‘Well, if that’s all I guess I’ll be going now…’

  Edith blinked and smiled.

  ‘All right, see you,’ Grace said, backing towards the door. Giving an awkward little wave she opened the door and inched out into the hallway.

  As she drove home Grace felt strangely exhilarated. She had endured the humiliation of talking about her personal circumstances without having a panic attack. And she had made conversation with a stranger without feeling horrifically self-conscious. On her way there, she’d gotten herself so worked up about what she would have to do but it had been nowhere near as bad as she had feared. Perhaps her counsellor Melanie was right in that she spent too much time thinking and over-analysing and not enough time just doing.

  But then again if she didn’t think and analyse then she couldn’t keep a handle on things. And keeping a handle on things was the key to everything. Take today for example. If she hadn’t thought ahead she wouldn’t have known to take the detour on the back streets instead of the freeway. Sure it took longer and there were dozens of sets of traffic lights to sit through but that was okay. Anything was better than driving past that place.

  Oh no, why had she dared to even think of it? That was the whole purpose of physically avoiding it, now even thinking about not thinking about it was enough to set her off.

  Glancing out the window at the school pick up traffic that was starting to build, Grace knew she had to get a grip on herself. ‘Breath Grace, breathe’, she chanted softly, glad she was stopped at a red light and had a moment to pull herself together. ‘You can make it home,’ she reassured herself.

  White knuckling the steering wheel she focused on the traffic light. The second it turned green she planted her foot, desperate to leave the unsettling thoughts at the intersection and make it to the safety of home.

  * * * * *

  She had loved driving before.

  While other people from small towns were often nervous in the traffic and fretted about getting lost in the hustle and bustle of Brisbane’s congested roads, Grace embraced the challenge. Of course it was all the more fun in a brand new car, lovingly bestowed upon her by doting parents the day she left her home town for the bright lights of the city. She couldn’t believe they had impulsively cashed in a long held insurance policy to buy it for her, especially when they drove a twenty-year-old Commodore themselves. But she had loved the little Peugeot upon sight and had relished every single moment of that maiden voyage.

  Everybody had warned her about the traffic lights before she left. Coming from a place where there were none within a one hundred kilometre radius, they were viewed with suspicion at the very least but mostly with contempt. ‘Fancy having to sit still on an empty road just because some robotic light tells you to,’ her elderly neighbour Mr Fargus had declared with a fearful shake of his head. ‘If city people had even a quarter of the manners we have out here you wouldn’t need the blasted things.’

  Her mother was more concerned about her personal safety. ‘Only look straight ahead Gracie,’ she advised, worry etched into her face. ‘Otherwise those road ragers will come after you.’

  Grace had taken the advice sagely, but in truth she loved the traffic lights. To her they represented the essence of city life and the fact that you were surrounded by enough people to need a way to keep some kind of order. In fact, she deliberately drove on the surface streets most of the time so she could feel the rhythm of the traffic. Rhythm had always been at the core of her being.

  Well it used to be anyway.

  Although she wasn’t anywhere near as panicky as she had been on her first visit, Grace was still a bundle of nerves when she arrived at Rosehill Gardens the following week. She hadn’t thought to ask if she needed to check in with Sylvia each week or if there was a form she needed to get signed to give her case worker. And what if she was stopped in the hallway and asked who she was and why she was there?

  As it happened the receptionist glanced up as she walked in. ‘Hello,’ she said pleasantly. ‘The visitors register is just around the corner on the white table.’

  ‘Right, thank you,’ Grace replied. Problem solved without any drama.

  Navigating her way down to Edith’s room, she avoided meeting the eyes of any of the other residents she met along the way. She wasn’t ready for any other interactions at this place just yet and besides it seemed most of them were too focused on their own issues to worry about her.

  All except the gnome like man with eyes the colour of a summer sky. ‘Cheer up love, it might never happen,’ he said with an impish grin as he whizzed past in an electric wheelchair.

  Grace paused for a second trying to think up an appropriate reply. But the man was long gone. People were always telling her she looked too serious, but how else were you supposed to look when your life was a mess? She watched hi
s fleeing form for a few seconds, the memory of those bright blue eyes fixed in her mind. She had always assumed that your eyes dulled as you got older, but clearly they didn’t, well maybe unless you had cataracts or something.

  Grace shook her head and kept walking, pausing when she got to room 46. It had been easier last time when Sylvia had announced her arrival. A wave of uncertainty hit. Was she allowed to just go in herself? Should she have asked someone to escort her? Maybe I should knock first, she decided. She’d gotten as far as lifting her hand when she realised the futility of her action. How was a woman who couldn’t speak going to respond to a knock? Idiot, she thought.

  Steeling herself she grabbed the handle and opened the door before she could dither any further.

  Once again Edith was dressed in a bright bed jacket and her hair was beautifully styled. An elegant woman wearing a beautician’s uniform was sitting beside the bed finishing a French manicure. Noticing Grace she smiled. ‘Hello I’m Dominique.’

  ‘Grace,’ she murmured in reply, her expression unable to hide the surprise she felt at the scene before her.

  ‘Just because Edith doesn’t use her hands much doesn’t mean they shouldn’t look nice,’ Dominique said. ‘It’s amazing how a manicure can give you a lift.’

  Grace shook her head as her face glowed red. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to stare, it’s just that I have never got the whole nail thing and I just didn’t realise that in here you would be able to do that kind of thing…’

  Dominique laughed. ‘Of course you can, it’s not a prison.’

  ‘No, no, of course not. I just meant I didn’t know people came in to do that.’

  ‘I’ve done Edith’s nails for years and I told her I’d keep doing them as long as she wants me to.’

  ‘That’s great. Gosh mine are just embarrassing,’ Grace said, clenching her hands into fists to hide the offending nails from sight.

  ‘Well it’s never too late to get them into shape,’ Dominique said as she packed up her gear. ‘We have a half price special every Wednesday. I’m at Gloria’s Beauty Bar in the city.’

  Grace nodded. ‘Thanks, I’ll remember that,’ she said, knowing that at even at half price she could not afford a manicure or any other kind of beauty treatment.

  ‘All done Edith,’ Dominique said brightly, taking the time to arrange the frail woman’s hands carefully on the top of her bedclothes. ‘No housework today, you hear?’

  Edith smiled and blinked as Dominique lifted her bag and prepared to leave.

  Grace smiled too, amazed that the other woman dared to joke about Edith’s condition. Wasn’t that offensive? But no, Edith had smiled in response so maybe not.

  She stepped back as Dominique stood, intimidated by her perfect makeup and impeccable dress.

  ‘See you in a fortnight Gorgeous,’ Dominique said, leaning down to kiss Edith on the cheek. ‘Nice to meet you Grace,’ she said as she walked towards the door. ‘Come in anytime for that manicure.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Grace murmured, trying to sound sincere. Taking a deep breath she sat down and picked up the book that was sitting ready on the bedside table.

  # # # # #

  Adrenaline surged as Sarah Harris explained the final details of the wedding photography package she was selling, but she maintained perfect composure. She had learned early on to always remain calm and professional with her clients, even when large sums of money were being discussed.

  Vanessa Morrison flipped through the sample album for the most expensive package, her shell pink fingernails tapping lightly on each page as she examined the layouts. Meanwhile, Sarah discreetly studied the woman sitting on the couch opposite. Her navy blue Carla Zampatti suit was wrinkle free, her makeup flawless and not a strand of glossy auburn hair was out of place. Sarah had seen Vanessa arriving in a silver Mercedes coupe, a car that seemed to fit in perfectly with the shiny, upscale life she obviously lived.

  Over the past four years Sarah had worked very hard to attract clients just like Vanessa. She had started her photography career in a large studio but had soon grown impatient with people who haggled over the cost of each shot and took years to pay off their family portraits. Careful research had shown that wedding photography was where the big money was and, more importantly, that well off brides-to-be were the ones that paid their way with interest. So, that was the niche market she had aggressively pursued.

  Sarah could tell if she wanted a potential client the moment they walked into her studio. The young women who looked around in awe and seemed nervous were regretfully informed that their date was already booked. On the other hand, those who were nonchalant in the luxurious studio surroundings were given red carpet treatment.

  Although the expensive office space Sarah leased had kept her business running at a loss for the first year, the investment had paid off. These days all her clients were of the highest calibre, which was reflected in the ongoing increase in her income.

  Vanessa closed the album and pushed it back towards the centre of the table. ‘That’s exactly what we’ve been looking for,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll take this one and we’ll happily pay the surcharge to have them done as a priority.’

  Careful not to display any emotion, Sarah nodded. ‘Lovely. I’ll get a contract drawn up and have it out to you by next week.’

  • • • • •

  Over the following months Vanessa continued to be a model customer, following Sarah’s advice without question and making the necessary decisions without drama. At her last appointment a week before the wedding, Sarah was amazed at her calm and unruffled state. This was not unusual in Sarah’s experience of wealthy families though. More often than not there was a wedding planner employed to take all the stress as last minute problems cropped up and the bride would have little else to do but partake in beauty treatments and drink champagne.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe how excited my parents are,’ Vanessa said as she read through the timetable Sarah had drawn up for the big day. ‘Dad is insisting on paying for everything, although Marcus and I would happily chip in.’

  Sarah nodded and smiled. ‘Oh well, if he wants to pay let him pay. I think most fathers like to give their daughters the best wedding possible.’

  After she had wished Vanessa luck for the coming week and waved her off, Sarah started packing up for the day. Preparing her banking, she couldn’t help but smile at the total on the bottom of the deposit slip. Rich people didn’t quibble about the cost and more often than not Daddy was picking up the tab, so the bride didn’t even look at the quote, or question the extra charges she always managed to sneak in at the last minute.

  • • • • •

  As she headed west the following Saturday Sarah squinted in the morning sun. Wriggling her toes, she scanned the road for the unmarked turn off. It must be along here somewhere. Sarah’s accelerator foot was starting to cramp after almost two hours of driving and she was well and truly bored with the passing scenery.

  Finally a crooked tree with a reflective arrow on it came into view. ‘About bloody time’ Sarah exclaimed. Slowing, she made the turn onto a narrow, winding road with only a thin strip of bitumen in its centre. Two kilometres along she came across an old drum that had been converted into a letterbox. Turning again Sarah cringed as her Corolla bounced into a large pothole. She wondered if the car’s suspension would survive the trip along the unsealed driveway surface. Slowing to a crawl, Sarah hoped her equipment had not been damaged. How does Vanessa’s Mercedes survive this goat track? she wondered.

  When the house finally came into view Sarah was floored. Working among an almost exclusively wealthy clientele she was used to arriving at large, prestigious homes. Some were genuine mansions. She soaked up such experiences, ever careful not to act impressed. A simple comment along the lines of, ‘a lovely place you have here’, was as far as she ever went.

  When Vanessa mentioned she was getting ready for her wedding at her parents rural property outside Toowoomba, S
arah knew it would be one of the grandest homes in the area. She wasn’t expecting a sandstone mansion with large pillars at the front – in her mind it was more likely to be a beautifully restored Queenslander with landscaped grounds. There would definitely be a pool and probably a tennis court as well, given that they had lots of land.

  Dumfounded at the sight before her, Sarah realised she must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. The decrepit farmhouse at the end of the driveway could not possibly be Vanessa’s family home. Not when there were two treads missing off the front stairs, the last paint job had obviously been done several decades before and the guttering was hanging precariously, attached only by rusty wire.

  Damn it, she thought crossly. I’ll have to go back to the turn off. Turning the ignition back on, Sarah drove forward so she could turn around. It was only then that she saw Vanessa’s Mercedes parked in between two rusted out car bodies.

  For a moment Sarah sat in her car, trying to process this new turn of events. How had her filtering system failed so badly? Maybe I could just sneak away, she thought wildly. I’ll call and say I’m hopelessly lost and will never make it in time.

  But then her practical side took over. Vanessa had already paid a fifty per cent deposit on the most expensive package, with the balance due in two weeks. It would be stupid to pass up that kind of money.

  The moment she stepped out of her car, two large Dobermans lunged at her from nowhere, barking loudly. Not a dog lover, Sarah cowered in fright. Pressed up against the driver’s door, she was too scared to even register the muddy footprints they had splattered on her new black skirt.

  Fortunately a booming voice yelled, ‘Oscar! Ernie! Down!’