Wood Green

by Sean Rabin

  Rachel waited impatiently for Michael to reappear, frustrated by his insistence to stay at her side until she had boarded her plane. What was the use of dragging things out? They had both agreed to have a break until Michael finished his book. Then when he returned to Sydney he would give her a call to see how things stood between them. But Rachel already doubted the likelihood of a successful reunion. Just a few weeks apart had revealed features of Michael’s personality that she had never noticed while they were a couple. So four more months of separation was likely to expose even more. And anyway, she was not the type of woman to wait around for someone.

  Their equipment must be faulty, said Michael as they walked towards the newsagency. I was down to my underwear and that thing was still lighting up.

  Too much iron in your diet.

  Told you I was the man of steel.

  Aluminium more likely. Rachel was surprised as the bitterness in her voice and sought to correct it. You should have told them you were just seeing me off.

  I think it was too late by that stage. They wanted to know exactly where I was hiding my nail clippers.

  As Rachel paid for a magazine Michael noticed a stand dedicated solely to books about Tasmania, and a solitary copy of Dismantling Ivan’s Circus standing on a shelf below rows of travel guides, glossy photographic journals and literary non-fiction. Michael had followed Lucian’s advice and not given the novel much attention lately, but as soon as he began to read he realised what a mistake he had made. The voice in Dismantling Ivan’s Circus was almost identical to the way Lucian spoke in real life. And it occurred to Michael that perhaps its narrative about a demoralised circus proprietor making one final attempt to hold onto his business might reveal more about Lucian than any of his other books. It was a novel filled with the lies that men told themselves, and the price such behaviour exacted from the people around them. Which was why there were so many strong women in it. Some critics had lazily interpreted this as Lucian’s attempt to address the accusations of misogyny levelled at him after the publication of Lady Cadaver. But Michael knew the female characters who populated the book where there to offer a damning contrast to the circus proprietor’s farcical behaviour. Though the story began in rural England in the nineteen-fifties, it was quickly transported to the north coast of Tasmania, where the failures Ivan had hoped to escape fell upon him without mercy. Lucian had always used the fantastical nature of catastrophes to undermine his readers’ perceptions of reality, and in this book he perfected the technique. There was a freedom to the writing that Michael had never appreciated before, and Lucian was right, in every sentence was a rich melody to carry the reader along as they surrendered to the authority of the author’s imagination.

  Rachel folded her magazine into her handbag. I haven’t read that one yet. Any good?

  It is. In fact I think I should read it again.

  He’s lucky to have you, you know.

  I’m not sure Lucian sees it that way.

  Then he’s an old fool. How many people out there could organise his papers with the knowledge you have?

  Michael returned the novel to the shelf. It’s a means to an end, that’s all. I get time to write a novel, and he gets the information he needs to write an autobiography.

  I’d be very surprised if that’s what he’s really up to.

  Of course he is. Why would you say that?

  Just think about it. The short temper. The forgetfulness. From what you’ve told me it sounds as though he’s losing his memory. And I’ll bet the real reasons he’s brought you down here is to help him hold onto his past for as long as he can.

  53.

  Hello? Hello? Lucian stood in the hall as he waited for a response from either the other side of Michael’s office door, or the kitchen. When the house remained silent he hurried to the sunroom and checked the backyard. It was late, but there was still enough light to see that Michael was not outside taking a break. As Lucian lay on his couch he saw the note he had left on the coffee table explaining how he would be spending the afternoon in Hobart. It had not been touched, and Lucian felt a spark of fear in his chest. What if Michael had decided to quit? Was his assistant the type to hold a grudge? Had that girlfriend of his convinced him to give up working for such a cranky old bastard and fly back to Sydney? Lucian now remembered the letter she had written, and fathomed the mistake he had made by replying to it. He had never expected her to board a plane and come after Michael. What was wrong with a phone call? Didn’t everyone just text these days? Stupid. Stupid. To put his entire plan into jeopardy all for the sake of a test. If Michael wasn’t committed then why would he have come all the way to Wood Green? Stupid. Stupid. The last of the daylight left the top of the forest and the sunroom fell into darkness. Lucian’s breathing grew strained. He needed to stand up and take a taxi to the airport. Maybe Michael’s flight had not departed yet and there was still time to explain the truth. Well some of the truth. Just enough to change Michael’s mind. He would promise to be better behaved. Provide more advice about writing. Look over Michael’s novel. Whatever it took. But what if Michael’s plane had already taken off? How was he going to find him? The address Michael had used during their correspondence was no longer valid. He had given up his apartment to move down to Tasmania. Then maybe he was still at the B&B. Michael would have had to pay in advance, so perhaps he was using the remainder of the time to work on his book. It was what Lucian would have done. It was what any writer would do. If Michael did not turn up for work tomorrow then Lucian would pay a visit to Battery Point. The idea helped him rationalise his fears. He was tired. That was why he was panicking. Though he had spent the afternoon lying in bed with Maureen, the effort of speaking about everything other than her imminent departure from Wood Green had been exhausting. And he was probably still recovering from the loss of blood. The nosebleed had taken more than an hour to stop. And by Maureen’s expression, Lucian presumed it had left him looking pale. Food. He needed food. Except it was Michael’s turn to cook. God damn it, Lucian shouted as his panic reasserted itself. Had their argument really been too serious to forgive?

  54.

  With the first sip of his fifth beer Michael’s body chemistry abruptly revealed just how drunk he had become. For much of the afternoon he had been trying to drown the realisation that Lucian had deceived him; tricked him; fooled him into thinking he had been hired as a researcher for an autobiography. But it appeared no amount of alcohol would allow him to forget that he was in Hobart to do nothing more than nurse Lucian Clarke through his failing memory. Rachel was right. As soon as she had pointed to the evidence he knew she was completely right. He had almost made it. Almost got her back to Sydney without his world being destabilised. But in the few minutes remaining before Rachel boarded her plane she had managed to undermine everything he thought he knew. Maybe it was payback for not replying to her messages. Or forcing her to fly to Tasmania. Whatever the reason, Michael now needed a drink. As his taxi re-entered Hobart he had asked to be dropped at the nearest pub to Battery Point where he could be left in peace. The driver, however, had scoffed at the idea that such a place existed and continued further down the road towards Sandy Bay.

  Two TVs, on mute, each screening different sporting events, shone at either end of a room that was isolated from the outside world by heavily tinted windows; decorated with posters advertising gambling websites, and serviced by a cash machine standing ready at the door to the gaming room. Though the front bar had been empty when Michael entered, it now contained a pair of builders getting a head start on their night out, a newly minted grandmother pushing a pram back and forth, two students slumming it until their parents transferred more money, and a bald man of imposing size sitting four stools away and smiling at his latest text message. The barman had finished restocking the fridges for the night shift, and stood at the far end of the bar in case Michael attempted to initiate a conversation about his predicament again.

  There was no chance of that. Even to Michael’
s ears his complaints had sounded petty. So instead he tried to rationalise his situation. Look for a positive side to the idea of Lucian having dementia. Could he somehow turn it to his advantage? Michael knew there was cash hidden somewhere in the house. Maybe Lucian would forget how much there was. Or how much Michael was supposed to be paid each week. He might even forget about the book he was writing. Was he now facing the opportunity to steal Lucian Clarke’s latest manuscript? Who would there be to dispute it? Certainly not Lucian. Michael was sure that one success was all he needed to establish a literary reputation. After that his name would become a brand under which he could publish whatever he wanted. Being drunk and feeling lazy, the idea was particularly appealing to him. But even in the midst of such a tenuous grasp on reality he knew that being recognised for someone else’s work was not what he wanted. Michael needed to know if he was a writer. If the story he was creating was as good as he suspected it might be. So perhaps the only thing to do was to leave Hobart and use what time he had left to finish his book. But go where? Back to Sydney? Back to Rachel? He had no intention of doing that. The relief of seeing her plane leave the tarmac confirmed their relationship was over. Then why not stay in Hobart to write? As long as he maintained their breakfast relationship, Michael was sure that Andrew would allow him to rent his room for as long as he liked. So why not keep on with Lucian as well? Stay and see what happened? Who cared if Lucian had lied? Their arrangement seemed to be working fine. He was writing wasn’t he? What more did he want? He would have to confront Lucian at some point though, if only to stop the arguments and…

  Hey mate?

  Michael looked over his shoulder in the direction of the grandmother sipping a Raspberry Breezer.

  Shut up will ya? You’re gonna wake the baby.

  Then turned back to the bar and his thoughts.

  You’re gibbering, said the bald man with his eyes still on his phone. Why don’t you shut up for a while and give us some peace.

  When the barman also nodded Michael realised he had been speaking his thoughts out loud. What had he said? How long had it been going on for? He was more drunk than he realised. He should go home and sleep it off.

  Then go, insisted one of the students.

  Both of them sported thick beards that reminded Michael of his post-grads, and the risk he now faced of returning to his old life.

  Go on, piss off, one of the builders shouted. You’re boring us stupid.

  Michael unstuck himself from his stool, found his balance, lost it, then found it again before shouting, Why don’t you all fuck off and leave me alone.

  I bloody well knew it, the grandmother said as her grandson wailed in protest at the sudden noise. She stood up and started to push his pram around the room. You’re a fucking wanker, you know that.

  No place for a baby anyhow, said Michael with a haughty tone.

  Time for you to go mate, said the bald man as he switched off his phone.

  I’m having another drink first.

  Pub’s closed, said the barman.

  Then why are all these people here?

  Because they can shut up, said the grandmother.

  The bald man stood up. Are you going to leave?

  A flicker of common sense flashed across Michael’s addled brain. Okay. Okay. He walked towards the door, glanced outside and felt the sting of daylight. He then turned back to the room and shouted, Fuck you all, while brandishing both middle fingers. He then turned and hit his face so hard against the doorframe that blood gushed from his nose.

  55.

  Morning.

  Good morning Michael. Tea or coffee?

  I’ll have whatever you’re having.

  Oh I’m sorry but I couldn’t possibly have breakfast with you this morning. I’m far too busy. Tea or coffee?

  Coffee. Strong please.

  Bacon and eggs? Or pancakes?

  Could I have bacon with pancakes?

  No. I’m sorry. It’s either one or the other.

  Pancakes then. You’re sure you can’t spare a moment to sit and chat?

  Andrew wrote down Michael’s order.

  Just a cup of coffee?

  Pardon? Oh no, no, not this morning. I’ve much too much to do. It’s a lot of work running a B&B you know. I’ve been up for hours. No afternoon shift for me. And I probably won’t get to bed until late.

  Of course. I understand.

  Will you be having cereal as well?

  Yes, I thought I might have a small bowl this morning.

  Well that will be an extra $4.50. I’ll just add it to your bill, shall I?

  Michael nodded and watched Andrew disappear through the doorway to the kitchen.

  56.

  Penny was broad hipped and buxom, with dark hair, darker eyes, a longstanding commitment to retro fashion, and a dwindling interest in tattoos since they had entered the mainstream. She was thirty-two, self sufficient, always willing to lend a hand, and barely reacted when Paul revealed that Tim and Maureen were selling up. The two of them scored squid, mixed salad dressings and changed the oil in the deep fryer with such a sense of solidarity that Paul felt bad withholding the news. If his livelihood was going to be affected by the sale of the general store then so was Penny’s, and she deserved his loyalty more than Tim and Maureen. They did not care about the community of Wood Green. In a few weeks it would be nothing more than a memory; just a place where they had once lived and worked. Penny had been cooking in the pub for five years. Ever since her son Matthew was old enough to begin kindergarten. On school holidays he would help in the kitchen by shelling peas, sweeping up, or manning the dishwasher, and Paul would use any tips to cover his wages. The money lasted Matthew all term, and took the pressure off Penny when it came to buying toys and DVDs. Paul thought Matthew was about the best kid he had ever met, and for the first few days after the new school term started he would sit in the kitchen lamenting how quiet it was.

  What do you mean you already knew?

  Everyone saw the real estate agent’s car. You don’t get too many BMWs up here during the week. Or South Africans for that matter.

  His name is Carl.

  Already on a first name basis are we? Sounds promising.

  Tim told me. I get the impression that he and Maureen are separating once they sell the place.

  Penny disappeared inside the cool room then emerged carrying a tureen of three-root soup. That’ll happen when you screw around.

  Tim cheated? With who?

  Penny transferred the soup to a pot and lit the gas burner underneath. Not Tim. Maureen. She and Lucian have been at it for years.

  No!

  Penny rolled her eyes. Exactly how long have you been living up here?

  I don’t know what you lot get up to.

  Pretty much the same as what you boys get up to.

  Does Tim know? Is that why they’re selling?

  Penny shrugged then stepped out the back to pick a handful of parsley.

  Isn’t Lucian a little old for her? Paul asked on her return.

  Don’t they say that intelligence is the ultimate aphrodisiac?

  He’d have to be damn smart to make me go there.

  It’s probably a dirty old man thing. And Tim’s no catch.

  But Maureen is.

  You think? I’ve always found her a little vacant.

  Maybe that’s what the problem is between her and Tim.

  I’d say it’s more likely to be working and living together in the same place all day. Not many people can pull that one off.

  I wouldn’t mind the chance to try.

  It’ll happen. You wait. One day he’ll just be there and you won’t even remember the life you had before.

  Paul admired the way Penny refused to be cynical about love even though Matthew’s father had run off with someone else. And once again acknowledged that she was probably the most emotionally stable person he knew. The only times that Paul could recall Penny arriving at the pub in a bad mood was when Matthew had broken his a
rm, or her ex had tried to make contact. Otherwise she was the same person every day of the week. At one stage Paul had considered offering Penny a partnership in the pub, but suspected that if she had any capital to invest she would used it to buy a home for Matthew instead of renting Mrs Harding’s dilapidated cottage.

  You think it’s going to affect the business?

  Maybe, said Penny as she washed her hands and dried them on her apron. Hard to say until we see what the new owner is like.

  But Carl could make the general store even better. He might improve it.

  Penny smiled. Caaaarl might indeed. We don’t know what Caaaarl is capable of yet, do we?

  57.

  Michael spooned steaming ribollita into his mouth until he felt his gnawing hunger begin to abate. There had been no snacks that day. Since 1pm all he had done was stay in his office catching up on work and trying to avoid a confrontation with Lucian about taking the previous day off. But now his stomach had ceased to rumble, and he felt less light-headed, the speech Michael had been internally composing for the past thirty-six hours would no longer be contained.

  I think we need to talk about our situation, he said. And see if we can come to a more amicable understanding.

  Last night Lucian had vowed that if Michael turned up for work he would try his best to get along, and this was his first opportunity to put his pledge into practise. He had selected Um Violão Em Primeiro Plano to accompany their dinner. The album by Brazilian guitarist Rosinha De Valença was a gentle, spacey affair filled with summertime dreaminess and slow bossa grooves that immediately diffused any hint of tension in the air.

  Okay.

  First, I need to ask you a question. And it would be great if you could answer me honestly, and in a civil manner.

  Of course. Of course.

  Michael felt wrong-footed by Lucian’s affability, but was determined to maintain his resolve. He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. Usually Lucian provided only a sheet of paper towel, and Michael felt a twinge of guilt that the serviette would now have to be washed.