Call Waiting

by Dianne Blacklock

  “No, Ally, you must never think that. He would have lost heart entirely after Margaret died, if you hadn’t been there. You gave him a reason to keep going. He was so proud of you.”

  Ally blinked back tears that had unexpectedly sprung into her eyes. She sighed, “Then why didn’t he ever tell me that?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know how,” Lillian paused. “I don’t know that you were the easiest person to get through to, Ally.”

  Ally stared at her, taken aback. She supposed she was a serious young thing. It wasn’t as though there was anything to be very light-hearted about.

  “What am I saying?” Lillian interrupted her thoughts. “You were only a child, you had enough to deal with, what with your mother and all. But you should realize that both your grandparents loved you very much. That’s the memory you should try to hold onto.”

  * * *

  Ally packed up her overnight bag and carried it to the car. She walked back up onto the verandah where Lillian waited.

  “Thank you for everything,” she said, clasping both Lillian’s hands. “I couldn’t have got through all this without you.”

  “It was my pleasure, Ally,” she assured her. “You’re going to call in to Circle’s End, then?”

  Ally nodded.

  “You’ll find everything in order. Evelyn and I went down after the undertakers had been. We emptied the fridge, took his laundry, stripped the bed, that sort of thing.”

  Ally hadn’t even considered any of that. “Thank you.”

  Lillian looked at her for a moment. “Ally, you don’t have to keep thanking me. We’re family, you know that, don’t you?”

  Ally nodded vaguely, looking out across the gardens.

  “I mean that, Ally, I want you to treat this as your second home. You’re always welcome here.”

  “I might have to take you up on that—I still have the property to settle. I’ll have to do something about it sooner or later.”

  “Let’s hope sooner. And you’ll come and stay here with me.”

  After she hugged Lillian and drove away, Ally felt a monumental emptiness well up inside her. She knew what had remained unspoken between them. Ally had no family of her own now. Although she’d hardly visited her grandfather, she’d known he was there. It grounded her, gave her some sense of where she came from, however meager.

  Now, driving down toward Kangaroo Valley, Ally felt her stomach churning. This was the same route they had taken every day, up and down the mountain, to Bowral High School. Her grandfather would never allow her to take the bus, and his ute was always parked outside the school in the afternoon, waiting for her. It was so embarrassing. She had no extra activities outside of school, and she certainly never went anywhere. She didn’t know whether he would have let her have friends home, because she never asked.

  Ally glanced out the window to the valley below. It was a pretty place she supposed; lush, green fields draped across the hills like a patchwork quilt. She pulled up at the enormous stone pylons at Hampden Bridge and waited for the oncoming car to cross. It had always amused her that they had built such huge pylons for a one-lane bridge. As she followed the road on toward the township, she noticed more houses had been built along the way, and Ally was sure there were a few more cafés in the village. Even Kangaroo Valley was becoming trendy.

  She turned down the road that followed the Kangaroo River. Circle’s End was at the lowest possible point of the valley. A creek ran through it, and rainfall being what it was in the Highlands, they were regularly cut off for days after heavy rain. It never bothered her grandfather, but it drove Ally mad. She was glad it was dry this time of the year, or she would not have been able to cross even today.

  She arrived at the gates of Circle’s End and climbed out of the car to open them. It was a laborious procedure for one person, getting in and out of the car, driving through, stopping again to close the gate. She continued along the dirt track until the house came into view. Ally tried to decide if it seemed different, empty, abandoned. No, she sighed, it had always looked like that.

  When she stepped through the front door, though, it did feel strange. Ally realized she’d probably never been here without her grandfather, so it almost felt like she was trespassing. She wandered around the rooms in the gloomy half-light. The house used to be even darker than this, till finally Nan insisted they needed more windows. James fitted a couple of sets of secondhand sliding glass doors across the wall of the dining area. It made a huge difference. They faced north, and so it was the only place that was warm on clear winter days, and Ally would sit at the table reading, her back to the window, the sun streaming in.

  They could go for days, she and James, hardly saying a word to each other, beyond what was absolutely necessary. Lillian said he was grieving. Ally tried to recall, was it sadness on his face? He always seemed so grim, his jaw set firmly, excluding conversation. Had she made it hard for him, as Lillian had hinted? She couldn’t imagine he was frightened of a teenage girl, what could have frightened him?

  Ally looked out through the windows now, across the expanse of the property, the escarpment rising in the distance. She remembered when Nan died, he’d wanted to bury her here, on her “beloved” property, he said. He railed against the “bastard” bureaucrats that “wouldn’t let a man scratch himself without a permit.”

  But although she was only young, Ally had realized that Nan did not love the land as much as she loved her husband. She followed him there, and Ally sensed at times she’d wearied of their makeshift home and life. Just by little things that were said during those long afternoons out in the conservatory at Birchgrove. Ally remembered she had resolved never to follow a man anywhere, never to live his dream.

  Just as well he hadn’t been allowed to bury Nan here, Ally could never have sold the property then, it wouldn’t have felt right. Looking around the place now, she realized that it was going to be hard to sell regardless. Bryce had told her that Kangaroo Valley was becoming very popular for weekend retreats, especially to those wanting a more “rustic” experience. She wasn’t sure they wanted quite this rustic. She would have to get some work done, but she didn’t know where to start. There were dozens of half-finished projects around the place. Her grandfather seemed busy all the time, but he never finished anything before the next idea would take off and he’d get absorbed by that.

  She had hardly spoken to Bryce all weekend, he was so flat out at work. Ally knew he was working today, but she needed some advice. She picked up the phone and called his mobile.

  “Bryce Horton speaking.”

  “Hi, it’s me, Ally.”

  “Hi, hun.” He was on the speaker phone in the car. “I thought you’d be on your way home by now?”

  “Well, I am, kind of,” she explained. “I’ve just dropped in to the property first.”

  “So, how does it look?”

  “Not great.”

  “It must be bad for you to say that.”

  “It’s going to need a lot of work to sell.”

  “You never know, you have to get to know the market. There’s a lot of people out there dreaming of a sylvan experience.”

  Ally looked around her. “You’d have to be pretty loose with the term ‘sylvan.’ Should I see an agent while I’m down here? I think there was at least one in the town center. Or I could go to Nowra.”

  “You’re breaking up a little, Ally. I’ll probably lose you soon, I’m heading into the Harbor Tunnel. Did you say you’re going to see an agent?”

  “Should I?”

  “No, don’t do anything until I’ve had a chance to talk to some people, put the feelers out, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll see you at home later. We’ve got that cocktail party tonight, don’t forget.”

  “Oh, no Bryce, I don’t think I’ll be up to a party tonight.”

  “What did you say?” His voice was breaking up.

  “I don’t really want to go…” But it was no use. The line had drop
ped out.

  * * *

  Ally tried Bryce on his mobile as soon as she was back in the metropolitan area, but he must have switched it off. That meant he was showing a house. He never took calls when he was showing a house. It was rude, he insisted. However, he frequently interrupted Ally to take calls. Then it was rude not to answer the phone.

  She decided to call past his office on the way home. He had been considerate about the property on the phone. Even though he didn’t come to the funeral, she knew she could count on him to help her with that. Maybe she did have her place in the world and it was not as she was feeling, that she was adrift, and in fact terribly alone.

  Ally spotted Bryce’s car as soon as she pulled into the small carpark at the back of the office. She realized he was still sitting inside, with a couple of clients. Ally knew not to interrupt, so she sat watching. They seemed to be listening to music, their heads bobbing around like those novelty dogs that sit in the back windows of cars. Bryce would have preselected the right CD to play for these particular clients. The ideal CD, in fact.

  He had a gift. Ally almost admired it, she certainly marveled at it. Bryce could sum up a person in terms of the music they liked, the brands they bought, their tastes, everything, with uncanny accuracy, and then show them just the type of property that would suit them. He had an electronic organizer and when he keyed in a name, up came his carefully collated profile.

  The CD must have finished, because the car doors opened and a “man-child” appeared out of the passenger side. That was what Ally called this particular subspecies of the male gender. As far as she was concerned, there was nothing sadder than a graying, middle-aged man wearing a loud Mambo shirt, cargo shorts, reef sandals and a ponytail. Nothing sadder, of course, except his wife who climbed out of the back seat. On the very far side of forty—Ally guessed most of those years had been spent in the sun, as she now resembled one huge melanoma waiting to happen—in white clinging hipster pedal-pushers and a midriff top. Yes, a midriff top. And if Ally was not mistaken, a navel ring.

  She knew the type. He was a typical baby boomer who had made a lot of money. And now, as a bored, middle-aged executive, he had rediscovered his youth, taken up surfing and decided to move back to Bondi, not that he had ever lived there in the first place.

  Bryce walked around behind the car and Ally realized he was wearing what looked like a Mambo tie. She didn’t know Mambo made ties. They probably didn’t, Bryce had most likely picked it up at the Balmain or Paddo markets. It was the right look, anyhow. He undoubtedly had another tie in the office, suitable for his next client.

  Ally wound down her window a little. The man-child was raving about the music. Ally guessed it was the Eagles, or maybe Richard Clapton. Bryce was promising to burn him a copy, and he would. It would be his next calling card.

  “If that left-hander is still working on Sunday,” Bryce was saying, “I might see you out at the point.”

  God, he’d even learned surfie-speak.

  Bryce waved the couple off in their electric blue Rav 4. He crossed to Ally’s car as she opened the door. He must have known she was there, but of course he would never acknowledge her while he was with clients.

  “What was the CD?” Ally asked with a smirk.

  “Hotel California.”

  The Eagles, Ally was right. That was scary.

  “What brings you here?” Bryce asked, automatically kissing her on the cheek as she stepped out of the car.

  “I wanted to catch you before tonight.”

  He waited expectantly for Ally to continue.

  She sighed, he had that look about him. Ally estimated he had three minutes and forty-five seconds to deal with her before his next appointment. How could she explain to him everything she was feeling?

  “I just wanted to let you know that I’m not up to the party tonight.”

  “Nonsense, Ally,” he chided. “A party is the best antidote for a heavy heart.”

  He must have read that on his desk calendar.

  “But—” she started to protest but he had her by the elbow and was leading her toward the office entrance. Three minutes, eight seconds.

  “There is a particularly important client that will be there tonight.”

  “There is always some important client, Bryce,” she insisted.

  “I really have to be there,” he said, pulling his Mambo-esque tie loose. Two minutes and fifty seconds. “And I want him to meet you too.”

  “But why, Bryce? I just don’t feel up to it.”

  He considered her briefly. “I know what will make you feel better.”

  He reached into his pocket. If he pulled out his wallet, handed her money and suggested she get her hair and nails done, Ally was going to scream.

  “Here,” he said, pulling out his wallet and handing her a hundred dollar note. “Why don’t you get your hair and nails done?”

  Ally didn’t scream.

  “I don’t think I’ll get in anywhere this late. It’s nearly three,” she said meekly.

  She noticed his lips twist, almost imperceptibly. Two minutes ten seconds.

  “Leave that to me.” He pulled out his mobile and pressed auto dial. “Elise!” he exclaimed brightly.

  Ally groaned inwardly. Elise—celebrity hair stylist; inner city apartment; stainless steel, pale timber; white wine spritzers; Macy Gray.

  Of course they could fit Ally in this afternoon, for Bryce. Ten, nine, eight …

  “See you tonight, babe.”

  Three, two, one, and he was gone.

  Seven p.m.

  “So what’s so special about this client?” Ally asked Bryce as he stepped out of the shower.

  “You’re wearing that?” he remarked, eyeing her dubiously.

  Ally looked down at her plain sleeveless black dress. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing,” he shrugged. “If you don’t mind looking like just about every other woman there.”

  Of course she didn’t mind. That was the whole point of fashion, wasn’t it?

  “I like you in that green Lisa Ho, brings out your eyes.”

  Bryce was the only man she had ever known who identified women’s clothes by their designer labels. He had bought the sea-green silk sheath for her. Ally could never bring herself to buy designer labels. She didn’t feel comfortable knowing that the price of the outfit she was wearing could feed a small village in Africa for a month. Bryce said it was an investment. No, a block of flats was an investment, Ally tried to tell him. And he was the one in real estate!

  Besides, the Lisa Ho made her stomach stick out. Well, to be fair, the dress didn’t exactly make her stomach stick out, it just revealed that her stomach stuck out.

  And why green? Ally liked black. Three-quarters of her wardrobe was black. Black was safe, black was slimming. Everyone wore black. You had to be stunning to carry off a green dress at a formal function. You had to be tall and glamorous. You had to be someone. Ally wasn’t anybody.

  Nevertheless, she walked automatically over to the wardrobe to find the green dress. It was no use debating the issue. She knew the routine by now. Bryce would frown, and furrow his brow, and make several more pointed comments while they were getting ready: “Are they the right shoes for that dress?” “No, I like the shoes, it’s not the shoes.” And so on. It was easier just to get changed now.

  “So, who’s the client?”

  “Well, I was going to surprise you,” he said smiling. It was his salesman’s smile. Ally was immediately suspicious.

  “Brendan Metcalfe. Heard the name?”

  She shook her head.

  “He is responsible for what are arguably the most original apartment developments in the eastern suburbs over the last three years!” Bryce explained, his enthusiasm building. “You remember Sandridge Towers, down toward Tamarama? We inspected them last year.”

  Ally grimaced, pulling her dress up over her head. Her friends at work sometimes complained about their partners; the electrician who never c
hanged a lightbulb, the accountant who never got around to doing their tax returns. Men who were happy to leave their work at work.

  Not Bryce. Real Estate ran in his veins, pumping his heart, keeping him alive. He thought there was nothing better on a free Sunday than to drop in on open inspections and see how the other side were doing. Keeping his finger on the pulse, he called it, as though no one had ever said it before.

  “Have you been down to Clovelly lately?” He didn’t wait for her to respond. “There’s a new development, right on Ocean Street. The front apartments have panoramic views off two generous enclosed balconies. All quality inclusions, gourmet kitchens with European appliances, expansive, open-plan living and dining areas with a superb northeasterly aspect.”

  Ally wished he didn’t always have to sound like an ad in the property section of Saturday’s Herald.

  “And?” She dreaded what was coming.

  “Come on, Ally, you know where this is leading. Metcalfe is keen to have selected apartments occupied throughout January and February. You know, the usual routine.”

  All too well. They had moved nine times in less than five years. When she first moved in with Bryce, he was living in a grand old Federation house in Randwick, meticulously restored and sumptuously furnished. Ally almost gasped out loud when she saw the place. She didn’t know how he afforded it on a property manager’s income, but it would have been rude to ask, she hardly knew him. She was just getting settled when he announced one day they had to get out in a week, the owners were coming back from overseas. Ally was stunned. He didn’t own the house, he wasn’t even renting it. And none of the furniture was his. Bryce was unperturbed, there was another house-minding contract starting in a fortnight, so they’d just have to stay with his mother in the meantime.

  Ally had met Bryce’s mother by then, and opted instead to stay with Meg.

  She had rather liked the duplex in Bondi they minded after that. They stayed for eight months—their longest stretch anywhere. Since then there had been a series of apartments, often in new developments that were not quite finished yet. Apparently it helped sales to have a couple of apartments occupied. Once, they had even lived in the display unit of a rather trendy, overpriced block in Surry Hills. Sales had not been up to expectations; the units were tiny, and potential buyers were leaving unimpressed, their checkbooks firmly closed. So the developers brought in a whiz-kid interior designer to revamp one of the apartments for display, and he decided it would be a novel idea to have real people as props. Bryce volunteered of course. They stayed there rent-free, but had to pay to have most of their belongings stored. They were not allowed to ruin “the look” with stray pieces of personal paraphernalia. Ally hated it. It was like living in a goldfish bowl, not to mention the weirdos that knocked on the door at all hours. She refused ever to be a display dummy again.