by Sean Rabin
He knocked, just in case, looked left and right, then took out his master keys. Everything was as Andrew had suspected, including the stale scent of cigarette smoke that permeated the room even with a window left open. The carpet just below was damp with rain, and Andrew felt an internal conflict between his desire to avoid further damage and the risk of Michael noticing that someone had entered his room during his absence. The B&B proprietor sneered at the chocolate wrappers in the waste paper basket, and shook his head at the soiled underpants on the bathroom floor. This was no way for a guest to behave. There were marks on furniture that were never supposed to have hot cups placed on top of them, and all the doilies his grandmother had crocheted were curiously missing. He found them stuffed into a drawer with the ornaments that usually stood along the mantlepiece; then registered how the three watercolours had all been turned towards the wall. It was as if Michael had rejected everything in the room that was beautiful. Still, Andrew had what he needed. More than enough evidence to deny a continuation of the discount rate should Michael ask to stay another month. In light of the repairs the carpet and furniture would require, Andrew thought he was well within his rights to charge peak season rates. No smoking meant no smoking.
27.
Lucian carefully lowered himself into his bedroom chair and switched on the lamp that stood behind it. He found his spare glasses on the windowsill, then began to reread Michael’s summary of his life between 1970 and 1980. Lucian remembered nothing about the article on prison conditions, nor stealing amphetamines from the Brompton Hospital. And the idea that he had ever been in a room with Harold Pinter came as a complete surprise. He wondered who else might have been present. Experience had taught Lucian that the anticipation of meeting a writer was invariably more pleasurable than its fulfilment, but he was amused by the idea that at one time he might have shaken hands with Simon Gray or Antonia Fraser, or even John Fowles. Lucian redirected the light towards the wall of photographs, hoping for a clue as to what else might have occurred during those ten years. Some of the fashions certainly corresponded with the era, however most of the people and places remained infuriatingly unfamiliar. The fact that Lucian knew he had forgotten their names only made it worse. If he would just forget the desire to remember as well, then he could finally be at peace. Until then, everything he failed to recall felt like a black hole in his brain. Of course he recognised Patricia with her fair complexion, small lips, sharp jaw, long neck and petulant expression that a simple smile could transform into miraculous beauty. It was a shame she had asked for a divorce after only nine years, but life in Surrey had not suited Lucian. And moving about the Continent, staying in hotels that quickly declined in prestige once The Bombardier was replaced by the next literary sensation, was far from the life Patricia had been bred for. The fact that Foxtrot was taking so long to write also did not help. Patricia had experienced only the end results of a writer’s work – the newspaper reviews, nominations for prizes, window displays and parties full of frightfully clever people. The years of quiet, isolated research and rewriting, with false starts and angry outbursts fuelled by self-doubt consequently came as a rude awakening and were hardly her idea of fun. No children had arrived to provide distraction, and though Patricia appeared more attractive with each consecutive birthday, her daily view of Lucian’s loosening jowls, yellowing toenails, thickening ear hair and wrinkling elbows made her panic. The divorce papers were somewhere in the other room. Michael would come across them soon enough. Another piece of the puzzle for him to put together. Lucian then realised he could not recall the sound of Patricia’s voice, or what it felt like to kiss her lips. How sad, he thought, that after being so close to someone such intimate details could be forgotten. Yet the longer he dwelled on it the more he discovered what else had vanished from his memory. Such as Patricia’s taste in music, or whether she liked to dance. Did she ever eat chicken with her fingers? Or allow herself to get drunk? He assumed she had done both in his company, except Lucian had no recollection of it. Nor did he remember what she looked like naked. He had no idea of where Patricia had attended school, or how many siblings she had grown up with. Did she cook? Could she ride a bike? And which side of the bed had she preferred to sleep on? No matter how hard he stared at the photograph of his first wife, such details refused to reappear. It almost felt as if the two of them had never actually been married. Well of course it does you old fool, he shouted as he crushed the notes and threw them against the wall of pictures. Lucian waited for his anger to abate, then retrieved the ball of paper from the floor, smoothed its creases against his chest, and inserted it into the filing cabinet drawer that had been cleared for everything Michael wrote. Such documents were too precious to throw away. It reminded Lucian that he needed to leave himself a message somewhere nearby. A physical instruction to look in the bottom drawer should he ever become confused about who or where he was. Otherwise he might forget the information was even in there.
28.
Michael lowered his nose into the boot and inhaled the sweet scent of pristine leather and virgin innersole. The aroma returned him to the Sunday afternoon shoe store expeditions made with Rachel, and the erotic pleasure he had discovered by being surrounded by so many women.
Have you got these in brown? he asked the approaching shop assistant.
Phil wore a khaki shirt with the name of his store printed on its pocket, and sported a goatee to balance the short crop of hair growing in a semi circle around the back of his head. He saw people sniffing shoes every day and thought nothing of it.
No, just black.
And they’re waterproof?
That’s what it says on the label.
Where’s that?
Phil pressed his finger to the product description stapled to the wall. Just there.
Oh, right. Of course. Okay, can I try a pair on?
No problem. Have a seat. What size do you take?
Ten. Sometimes ten and a half.
Maybe I should measure your feet first?
No, a ten should be fine.
As Phil searched the stockroom Michael leaned back in his chair and admired the charm of the store’s built-in shelving, wooden serving counter and glass display cabinets. The layout had obviously remained the same for the past thirty or forty years, and though catering for the needs of tradesmen, had a quiet dignity that most modern shops had forsaken for prefabricated fittings and muzak. It was old without feeling stuffy, and Michael detected a surprising comfort in being served by a person who had actual knowledge about the product they were selling.
Thought I should buy a pair now winter has arrived.
Phil carefully folded back the tissue paper surrounding the new boots. Sounds wise. Although it’s not here quite yet.
Well not officially no, but it doesn’t get much colder does it?
Phil looked up from the three-legged stool at Michael’s feet. Just moved to Tasmania have you?
About a month ago.
Working for MONA are you?
No. Who’s Mona?
Museum…out past Glenorchy. You’ll get there eventually. Everyone does.
You say these are a ten?
That’s what the number says on the bottom of the boot.
They feel a little loose.
Maybe you’ve got thin socks on today. Take a walk around the shop. Phil watched Michael pace back and forth. So what are you doing down here if you’re not working at MONA?
I’m helping Lucian Clarke to organise his papers.
Who?
He’s an author. A pretty famous one actually. Lives in Wood Green. Up on the mountain.
I know where Wood Green is.
Of course you do. Sorry.
Sounds interesting. Good job is it?
So far so good.
And there’s no one here in Hobart who could do that work?
Pardon?
I mean you’re an expert on this writer? That’s why you’re down here?
Well he was the subject o
f my PhD, if that’s what you mean. But I don’t know if that qualifies me as an expert or not.
Should get a bit of snow up in Wood Green soon.
So I hear.
Got a good jacket? You’ll need one to keep out cold like that. We’ve got a few on sale over there.
I’m fine for a jacket. Thanks. Are those flannel shirts on sale as well?
Everything in the store is on sale.
You’re not closing as well are you? There seem to be shops closing down all along this street.
Not yet thankfully. Have to wait and see how the next six months play out.
So these boots are on sale as well?
Reduced to ninety-nine dollars.
You know, I think they’re a little too big for me. Maybe I should try a nine and a half.
Why don’t you let me measure your foot first.
I suppose you should. Are they an overseas brand? Maybe they’re using the American size system. Or the European one.
No, it’s an Australian boot, but like everything else these days they’re made in China. Used to have a factory right here in Tasmania. Everyone in the state owned a pair.
Are Chinese shoe sizes different?
Couldn’t say, never been there. Looks like you’re a nine.
You’re sure?
Phil pointed to the Brannock Device. Hard to get something like that wrong.
But I’ve been a ten since I was eighteen. Sometimes even a ten and a half. Look, see, even my shoes say ten and a half. And I bought these in Sydney.
They’ve seen better days.
The rain got to them. And then I had to walk through some bush.
Let me get you a nine and see how we go.
Phil returned to the stockroom while Michael double-checked the measurement of his foot.
Here, try these on.
Michael stood up in the new boots and walked across the store. Well that’s much better. How strange. Feet don’t usually shrink do they? Maybe my shoe size has been wrong all my life.
Happens more often than you’d think.
What’s that?
People thinking their feet are bigger than they actually are. Men especially.
Really. I never knew. I guess I might as well start wearing them right away. Is there a bin I can put my old shoes in?
Just drop them behind the counter here.
29.
Tim replaced the phone receiver and leaned back in his chair with a queasy stomach and humming in his ears. He squeezed his eyes closed, breathed deeply and swallowed against the wave of panic billowing about his body. Minutes passed this way until his grip of the chair gradually relaxed, and he reopened his eyes to an office transformed. Where every item had suddenly become more distinct. Not glowing brighter, but sharper with meaning – miraculously thrusting postcards, long ago tacked onto the notice board, back into view. Emphasising the appeal of the wooden walls painted white, and the snugness of the staircase intruding overhead. At once everything had developed a reassuring familiarity. Even the synthetic fragrance of the air freshener that had been so pungent all week now seemed to evoke a sense of belonging and home. The hallway was the same – beautiful with its wooden skirting boards, picture rails and old-fashioned floral carpet. The frosted glass in the door through to the kitchen further complemented its charm, and the metallic doorknob that had been broken since the day they moved in suddenly held a direct connection to Tim’s heart. He peered into the kitchen to check for Maureen, not intending to stop, yet found himself captivated by the formica tabletop he had eaten so many meals upon; the two chairs at either end; the salt and pepper shakers in the shape of penguins, and the sports section of The Mercury he had been reading that morning. Tim realised that he loved it all. Everything in the kitchen. The stained bench tops; archaic stove; taps that dripped unless you turned them off with both hands; the kettle that burned his fingers nearly every day. He loved the smell of last night’s lamb shanks, and the cosiness that seemed to grow thicker with each day the cold of winter encroached. He looked to the trees flouncing in the wind and rain. Even the weather felt significant. Back in the hall, past the office, Tim peered up the staircase to the residence and found himself wishing that things with Maureen had turned out differently. Somehow they had lost sight of one another, and in a moment or two everything would change forever. He ran his fingers along the grooves in the banister then sniffed his hand. The polish Maureen used was honeyed and deep and made Tim’s eyes brim with water. He remembered the first time they had seen the place, and the dreams they had brought along with their furniture. But no children had arrived, and the effort of running the business had caused them to drift apart. He knew some of it was his fault. But it was hard not to gain weight when work was just downstairs. And he enjoyed wandering over to Paul’s pub in the afternoon. It had begun as a tactic to gain acceptance in the local community, but the habit had stuck long after Tim knew everyone well enough to realise they were never going to become best friends. Before moving to Wood Green he had been reasonably fit, and maybe after he left he would be again. Tim had no idea of where he was going to go or what Maureen was planning to do. And for a moment he considered trying to save his marriage rather than face the rigmarole of setting up a new life for himself. But as he walked into the shop he knew the opportunity for reconciliation had passed. Over recent years his connection with Maureen had grown more fractured, and he understood that what he was about to say was going to make it finally snap.
I just had a call from the real estate agent.
Maureen held her eyes to the newspaper spread over the serving counter.
Mmm?
Looks like she’s found us a buyer.
30.
Come on.
What?
Time to give those new boots of yours a proper workout.
Michael was halfway through sorting a pile of letters from Grace, Lucian’s second wife. Give me a minute. I’ll be right there.
Lucian paced the far edge of the yard until Michael appeared at the back door. Hurry up. The sun is already starting to dip.
Sadie isn’t coming with us?
She’s had her walk for the day. She can stay and guard the house.
So where exactly are we going?
Just up the mountain a bit. Thought it was about time I showed you the forest. Here, you can carry the bag. It’s just water and some nuts in case we get hungry.
Michael shouldered the knapsack and followed Lucian through the trees. For the first hour he stayed close behind, stepping where Lucian stepped while trying to ignore all fears of snakes, spiders, getting lost, and widow-making branches silently falling on top of his head. But during the second hour the distance between the two ramblers widened, as Michael felt himself relax and became accustomed to the dank organic reek of decomposing leaves and bark that had fallen during the summer. Some trees were so tall that he almost lost his balance as he leaned back to appreciate their height. And so wide that whenever Lucian’s red shirt disappeared behind one he would listen for the old man’s footsteps amongst the rustle of marsupials scurrying in the thick undergrowth, and the squawk of birds warning of approaching intruders.
Though Michael had been wearing his new boots for more than a week their stiff leather began to cut into the back of his ankles. His thighs also ached, his breath was proving difficult to catch, and after he had looked down the mountainside to estimate how far they had walked, he turned around and realised that Lucian had vanished. His legs refused all entreaties to run and catch up, and shouting Lucian’s name only resulted in hundreds of startled birds flapping noisily into the air. Michael forced himself forward as fast as his stamina would permit, and kept his eyes peeled for any glimpse of a red shirt in the dense and dimming landscape.
Lucian sat among the remains of three fallen trees that had made a small opening in the forest’s canopy and allowed for a bed of long grass and native flowers to grow. The warmth of the sun felt delicious against his back, and thoughts of his s
ecretary panicking about being lost kept him pleasantly amused until Michael finally emerged from between the trees with a face covered in sweat and obvious relief.
You made it! Pass the water will you.
Michael handed over the knapsack then lay along the trunk of one of the fallen trees with his face in the sun. It quickly dried his perspiration and made his eyelids heavy.
Beautiful spot, don’t you think?
Michael was not yet able to speak.
I don’t know whether anyone else knows it’s here. I never see evidence of other people visiting it.
He passed a hand across his face.
Thought I’d lost you there for a while. You make an old man like me feel fit.
Michael forced himself to sit up and accepted the bottle of water. Not much of a bushwalker.
Well living in Tasmania should change that.
How far up the mountain are we?
Not too far. It’d probably take another four or five hours to reach the top. Maybe even longer for you. People used to walk up and down here all the time, you know. Long before they made a road. There are tracks right through this forest.
Bet they lost a few along the way.
I’m sure they did. There were a lot more trees in those days. Fire burnt right through here in sixty-seven and thinned things out. That’s how I got the house. No one wanted to live in Wood Green after that. Lucian stood up.
I might need a few more minutes to catch my breath.
Take your time. I’m just having a wander around.
Michael appreciated the opportunity to lie back down. His heart was still thumping inside his chest, and forcing him to seriously reconsider the wisdom of cigarettes.
You little beauty, Lucian shouted in the distance. A few minutes later he returned to the clearing with a handful of mushrooms. Can I tempt you to an interesting afternoon?
Michael sat up too quickly and his head flooded with dizziness. How interesting?