by Sean Rabin
5.
Kitchen and laundry are through there, along with the sunroom. That’s the library. Bathroom. And this is the sitting room. The dog’s name is Sadie. She doesn’t move much these days, but she’s never been one for strangers so I’d leave off introducing yourself until she gets used to seeing you around.
Michael was more than willing to follow Lucian’s advice. He had always been nervous around dogs, and tried not to make eye contact with the greying beagle scrutinising him from between two large reading chairs.
Lucian corralled his guest back up the hall towards the front door. In there’s my bedroom, and this is the junk room. But I suppose from now on we should call it your office.
Michael leaned through the doorway, registering the cardboard boxes and overflowing filing cabinets; binders piled high on a kidney-shaped desk; newspaper clippings teetering towards collapse, and silverfish scurrying from the glare of the dangling ceiling light.
I wouldn’t have needed to hire you if it wasn’t a mess, said Lucian as he observed a stunned expression spread across Michael’s face. He then noticed the trail of wet sock-prints on his floorboards. Anyway, it’s too late to get started now. Have you organised yourself a place to stay?
I’ve booked a week at a bed and breakfast.
Whereabouts?
Michael pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. Battery Point.
Lucian raised an eyebrow. Fancy. I might have to renegotiate your wages.
It’s just until I can find a room in a share-house, or maybe a bedsit to rent.
Wait and see policy, eh? Don’t want to sign a lease until you’re sure the job is right for you.
No, that’s not it at all. I definitely want the job. I just wasn’t sure if we were going to be doing any late nights, and if it might be better for me to find a place to live that was close by.
I’d say that practically every night is going to be late, so I suppose you could rent a room in Paul’s pub if you wanted to. But I hear it’s not particularly well heated. If I were you I’d stay in town. Hobart is a pretty small place, so it never takes long to get anywhere. A cab from Wood Green should have you back at Battery Point in about twenty minutes. You can’t stay here though.
No, of course not. I wasn’t trying to suggest that I should.
Both men stood awkwardly in the hallway. Michael waiting for Lucian to offer him a seat, and Lucian wondering why his new secretary was not pulling his shoes back on.
Well, like I said, it’s too late to start work now, so there’s no use trying to get you dry. Lucian reached around Michael and opened the front door. You might want to buy yourself a pair of boots before you come back up. It’s only going to get wetter at this time of year. There’s a public phone down at the local shop. You can call a taxi from there. If it’s out of order just tell Tim or Maureen you’re working for me and they’ll let you use their private line. They sometimes take messages for me as well, so whenever you see them don’t forget to ask if there’s anything they need to pass on. No phone here I’m sorry. No internet either.
Michael clumsily squeezed on his sodden shoes. I’ve got my mobile with me.
Won’t do you much good up here. Something to do with the density of the trees. Seems to interfere with reception.
Michael unfastened his leather satchel and confirmed his phone was useless.
Lucian escorted him onto the verandah. I’ll see you tomorrow. Around 1pm is best. I write in the mornings so I need the place to myself until then. When you see Maureen at the shop tell her to put some rubber gloves in my next delivery. And maybe a can of bug spray as well. I suppose you could just pick up everything on your way back here tomorrow. Save Tim making the trip. I never know when he’s going to arrive. Usually just leaves a box outside the front door for me to trip over. Don’t worry about food. I’ll make dinner tomorrow night. But it’ll be your turn the day after, all right? Can you cook?
Michael picked up his suitcase. I’m competent.
I’m sure you are. Wouldn’t have hired you otherwise. Well, you’d better get a move on. Looks like this rain is starting to set in.
6.
Lucian jammed an iron poker between two logs and pried them apart to feed oxygen to the coals underneath. As flames flickered up he stepped back, slumping into his favourite chair with its rounded arms, braided upholstery and snug embrace. Sadie’s tail thumped against the floor as she exposed her belly to the warmth. Lucian caressed her head and ears and noticed the back of his hand was covered with scratches. That he had no recollection of when or where they had been inflicted deepened his appreciation of how confused he had become in the forest. The signposts that he usually relied upon to point him in the right direction had all of a sudden disappeared. Familiar trees, Gaudí anthills, abandoned nests and rotting logs no longer distinguished themselves amongst the dense foliage. And the arrival of rain only made things worse – so befuddling Lucian’s senses that at one point he stood undecided about whether to continue walking down the mountain or to turn around and head back up. Perhaps he had accidentally passed Wood Green and was moving further away from home with every step. The trees in this section of the forest were so tall that he could not see a damn thing. But even without a view of its peak Lucian knew Mount Wellington would be capped with white. The feeling of snow was in the air. And should he have to spend the night outside then it was almost certain he would suffer from exposure. The solitary existence he had so successfully cultivated for himself meant that days could pass before anyone questioned his whereabouts. Maureen and Tim might grow curious, but they had a business to run and domestic injustices to fight. Sadie was no help. She was exhausted from their long walk together and did not seem to comprehend that her master had forgotten how to find his way home. Lucian felt a warm trickle down the inside of his leg and was shocked at the depth of his fear. It sobered and focussed his mind. Keep walking down, he told himself. Something familiar will appear, even if it’s the shore of the Derwent. Keep walking down and you’ll be inside before nightfall. Just keep walking down and eventually you’ll stumble upon your backyard.
Lucian discarded his clothes on the bathroom floor and stood beneath a hot shower waiting impatiently for the chill beneath his skin to stop wriggling. The fresh shirt and trousers he chose were reassuringly comfortable and after raiding the refrigerator for cheese and milk he set about lighting a fire in the sitting room. There was more than enough kindling to get things started, though his supply of thicker branches and split logs needed to be replenished from the wood box on the verandah. When he saw Michael asleep in the cane chair Lucian remembered why he had gone for a walk in the first place. To clear his head in preparation for the young man’s arrival. Well clear his head he had. Cleared it of all common sense and memory of what he was supposed to be doing. Lucian sank lower in his chair and wrestled the urge to weep. Shook his head in shame at such feebleness, and the recollection of failing to offer Michael even a cup of tea. His irrational determination to have the young man out of his home as quickly as possible had put at risk all the plans he had been meticulously devising for the past six months. Lucian doubted Michael suspected anything. The letters from the thirty-four-year-old academic revealed he was not particularly overburdened with intellect or curiosity. Yet still Lucian reprimanded himself for being so irresponsible. This was his last chance. Mess this up and everything, his entire life, would be lost.
7.
Maureen knelt on the floor restocking chocolate bars while Tim rotated the freshest milk towards the rear of the refrigerator. The telephone was ringing in the back office, and both were pretending not to hear it as an experiment to see how long it would take the other one to stop what they were doing and answer the bloody phone for once. Tim leaned deeper inside the fridge so he could insist, in all honesty, that he had not heard a thing. Maureen quickly opened a large box of potato chips and rustled their noisy wrappers so she too would have an excuse. Finally the ringing stopped and both were left wonder
ing who had called. Maybe someone had seen their advertisement in The Mercury about the store. In the two years it had been listed for sale there had been only three enquiries, resulting in a single, fruitless inspection of the premises. Tim was baffled as to why the business was taking so long to sell. Surprisingly, it made good money. As the only market on the south face of Mount Wellington they serviced not just Wood Green, but also the houses higher up and the hobby farms below. And with fresh eggs daily; a wide selection of groceries; fruit and vegetables; hand-made sausages; basic hardware and pharmacy supplies; newspapers; magazines; a postal service and a library of DVDs to rent, all with free delivery, there were revenue streams coming in from all directions. Maureen had taught herself to bake croissants, which along with the purchase of an espresso machine had helped the store become the focal point of the Wood Green community, at least until Paul opened the doors to his pub at 11am. The work it demanded, however, had caused Tim and Maureen’s relationship to fray and unravel. So much so that the moment the store sold their marriage would be over. Though neither had said as much, the absence of any discussion about where they would go next, or how they might reinvest their capital, left little doubt about their respective intentions.
Tim shut the fridge door, checked his watch, then announced he was going to do some paperwork in the office. Midday was porn time. It only took a few minutes, after which he strolled out to the chicken coop to enjoy a cigarette. Maureen rolled her eyes and started on a second box of chips. She knew exactly what Tim was up to, and was more than happy to let him drool over petite Asian women so long as it meant he continued to refrain from all late-night advances. That the porn actresses were so different from her body type made complete sense to Maureen. She already knew she would never again be with a man as hairless as Tim. Maureen had grown too fond of Lucian’s furry chest, and the way his beard lightly scratched the inside of her thighs. Even the fuzz on the small of his back had become strangely attractive. At first it had been shocking, especially after so many years with Tim’s bald chest and downy limbs. But now she found thick hair masculine. Arousing. Maureen’s former lover materialised vividly in her imagination. Made her aware of her solitude, and the quiet of the shop, and the way the corner near the vegetable racks could not be seen from the street. With one foot on a box of aubergines, her back against a shelf of canned goods, and a scenario already playing behind her eyes, Maureen dispatched a hand beneath the hem of her skirt.
The tiny silver bell above the shop door rang just as her foot returned to the floor. The abrupt resumption of reality – after a particularly filthy fantasy – made Maureen feel awkward as she hurried towards the counter. Was her face flushed? Could he tell what she had been doing?
I’m here to pick up Lucian Clarke’s groceries, said Michael.
8.
Hello?
Hello, can I speak to Suzanne Pollard please?
Who’s calling? If you’re trying to sell me something I’m hanging up in two seconds flat.
No, please, I’m not selling anything. My name is Rachel Atler. I’m wondering if you have a brother called Michael.
Yes, I do.
And does he teach English at the University of New South Wales?
That’s right. Has something happened to him? Has Michael been in an accident?
No! It’s nothing like that. I’m sorry, I should have explained straight away. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m a friend of Michael’s and I’m just trying to track him down.
If you’re a friend of his then why don’t you have his phone number?
I do, except he’s not answering my messages and I’m starting to get a little worried.
You think he might be in trouble?
I don’t know…I don’t think so.
Then maybe he’s just avoiding you.
I suppose that could be it, but I…oh how do I explain this?
Just spit it out dear, I’ve got about five minutes before I need to leave for work.
Your brother and I were involved for quite a number of…
Adopted brother.
Really? Michael was adopted?
He never told you?
No. He never mentioned it.
Sounds about right. Michael was always secretive as a kid.
Well perhaps that explains it then.
What?
When we broke up we promised to stay in touch with each other, but I dropped by his flat a few days ago and found that someone else was renting it. So I rang his work and discovered he’d taken a leave of absence.
Sounds to me like he’s left town for a while.
That’s what I thought as well. But he never said a word about it. And I only saw him a few weeks ago.
Well that also sounds a lot like Michael.
Look, I don’t need to speak to him directly. If someone else has heard from him recently, that’s fine. I just want to know he’s all right.
Sorry dear, but I haven’t spoken to Michael in over five years. Every Christmas I send a card care of that university where he works, but I never hear back from him. Last time we spoke was when our parents died. He came up to Brisbane for the funeral, then flew back to Sydney the same day. Felt guilty I suppose. They were driving down to see him. Got tired of waiting for Michael to pay them a visit.
Do you have any other relatives who Michael might be staying with?
None that I know of. We’re a pretty small family. That’s why my parents adopted Michael in the first place. A few cousins scattered about here and there, but none of us are close. Sorry I can’t be more help.
No, no, you’ve been very kind to speak to me. Thank you.
Listen, you seem like a nice girl, so I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but if I were you I’d forget about Michael and find someone else. My brother has always been a little weird. Even as a kid he was always on his own. Never wanted to share his toys or join in on games. And if he did decide to take part, he used to cheat so much that no one ever wanted to play with him. But maybe that was his way of making sure he was left alone. Who knows? I could never figure him out. I think deep down he feels as though he doesn’t belong anywhere, and it makes it hard for him to commit to anyone. That’s just my opinion of course. If you do speak to him tell him that some of his junk is still in my garage, and he can pick it up any time he likes.
I will. And thanks again.
No problem. Hey, just asking. How did you find my number? I don’t imagine Michael gave it to you.
He mentioned you a couple of times, and I knew he grew up in Brisbane, so I just started looking through the phone directory.
You called everyone with the surname Pollard?
I got lucky pretty quickly. It didn’t take too long.
Wow, you sure are…oh Jesus is that the time? Sorry dear, I’ve got to go. I’m late for work.
9.
I agree wholeheartedly.
Michael jumped at the sound of Lucian’s voice so close to his ear.
The author stepped back, thrilled at how successfully he had snuck out his front door and read over Michael’s shoulder. Are you writing something about Wood Green?
Michael closed the pocketbook and returned it to his satchel. No, just an observation.
Well I couldn’t have put it better myself. Maureen’s face does indeed hold your attention. And it’s not even what I’d describe as beautiful. It’s just her features are so strong. That nose and chin: they’re like picturesque hills and valleys for your eyes to tumble over. And the way her hair appears a little bit out of control. I admit I’ve often felt the urge to reach over the counter and take her head in my hands just so I could hold it still and stare at it. Writers always get poetic about a woman’s eyes, but how often do you see a pair that truly make an impression? Most people don’t even notice the colour of another person’s eyes. But Maureen’s are amazing. Grey flecked with gold. They’re almost avian. You can use that if you like. Avian. Not bad. Not bad at all. I suppose you’re writing a book, are you?
No. I mean…I haven’t started yet. Michael was a little stunned. Lucian had spoken like someone in love. But I have an idea for one.
Well I hear that’s how they usually begin. Sorry about not opening the door sooner but I told you about my 1pm rule didn’t I? Bring that stuff inside and we’ll have a cup of tea before you get started.
Michael hefted the groceries from the top of the wood box, kicked off his muddy shoes inside the front door, and followed Lucian to the rear of the house where he was shown what went where in the kitchen cupboards. The lesson implied he would be putting away more shopping in the future, and a detailed explanation of how Lucian liked his tea prepared furthered Michael’s suspicion that his duties were not to be restricted to the realm of manuscripts and letters.