by Denise Scott
To my surprise and delight I fell in love with Wycheproof. I loved the red dust. I loved the pale-yellow fields of wheat. I loved the huge, gnarled, dappled-grey gum trees and the soft, silver light that made everything shimmer at sunset. I loved my work colleagues. I loved the kids I taught. I loved being invited to their homes to share an evening meal with their family—typically a three-course affair consisting of soup, roast and dessert and followed by a huge homemade passionfruit sponge.
More than anything, I loved discovering that beneath the surface of this seemingly sleepy, uneventful, boring town where—apart from mouse plagues, wheat business and the annual amateur musical production—nothing seemed to happen, there beat a wild, passionate, crazy heart. Life was far from ‘ordinary’. There were teacher–student relationships and closeted homosexual activity. And there was the scandalous behaviour of an unlicensed teacher driving a carload of students home to their billets while away at a school sports competition. (I had no choice. The physical education teacher had sprained his ankle and was on crutches and couldn’t drive, and, oh yes, he was also quite drunk. His car was an automatic, though, which was just as well considering I had never driven before in my entire life; and one of the students knew what to do so they were able to instruct me.)
The only thing I didn’t like was living so far out of town. I was renting an isolated farmhouse about 12 kilometres from the school, postal address Wooroonook Road, Teddywaddy West, via Wycheproof. It wasn’t the fact that I had to ride my pushbike to and from the school; I loved that. It was the loneliness. In theory I shared the house with another teacher, but in practice she always stayed over at her boyfriend’s place in town, leaving her large, crazy black dog, Ninja, with me at the farmhouse. Perhaps it was because his owner was never there and I had no experience caring for a dog, but, whatever the reason, Ninja was extremely mentally unwell. He tore everything to shreds (including my washing). He killed local livestock. He leapt on people and nipped at their faces. What I’m trying to say is that Ninja was not very good company.
My home in Teddywaddy West, Wooroonook Road
Given my penchant for insomnia, paranoid thoughts and a basic fear of the dark, night time was never my best friend. This was especially so in the wilds of Teddywaddy, where, as a young woman living alone in an isolated farmhouse without a car or, for that matter, a licence to drive one, I would lie in bed listening for the sound of heavy boots click-clacking along the return veranda, making its old wooden slats creak. Or maybe it was the boots creaking? Who cared what was creaking; all I knew was that there were footsteps, and every single time I heard them, which was every single morning at around 2 am, I was paralysed with fear. I tried to reassure myself that it was just a friendly ghost. (It had to be, right? I mean, it hadn’t hurt me thus far, had it? In fact, could ghosts actually hurt people, or did they just send them crazy with fear?) Eventually, the footsteps would disappear, the creak-creak-creaking gradually fading into the dusty, barren, distant paddock.
Then there was the time a ute full of men firing guns came screaming down my driveway. If you could die from fear I most certainly would have died that night. I hid in the cellar, located through a trapdoor underneath my kitchen table. I sat there in the dark, fully expecting the trapdoor to be opened and my gun-toting visitors to murder me. The next day, having emerged from my Anne Frank hideout, I learnt they were pissed locals who’d come to shoot some rabbits.
There was also an incident with the geography inspector. Back in those days school inspectors roamed the state, their job being to sit at the back of classrooms and assess teachers’ performance. This particular inspector was your typical Education Department chap, slightly balding on top, dressed in an ill-fitting suit, his shirt just a little too tight across his small paunch, and dusty, unpolished shoes. By day he was friendly enough, and come the end of his visit I happily joined him and a few other teachers at the pub for dinner and drinks. The inspector was staying the night with John and Dave—fellow schoolteachers who also happened to be my nearest neighbours—and, since their house was just 2 kilometres further along the Wooroonook Road from mine, he offered to give me a lift home. I accepted.
We were driving along Wooroonook Road, and as far as I knew all was well with the world, when completely out of the blue Mr Geography Inspector suggested we have sex.
I politely refused, and that was when I became uneasy and a teeny bit scared. I wasn’t sure why—it was just a vibe he was giving off—that and the way his eyes had gone all squinty and he’d started sweating and breathing heavily and glaring at me and muttering to himself under his breath.
Not wanting him to come up my long and lonely driveway, I asked him to drop me off at my front gate.
He obliged and zoomed off, leaving a cloud of angry red dust in his wake.
I was about halfway up the drive when I heard the roar of a car engine. I looked over my shoulder and saw headlights approaching, and quickly. Mr Geography Inspector had turned round and was coming back for me!
The car turned into my driveway and sped up it.
I took off and ran into the paddock in front of my house. To my dismay Mr Geography Inspector followed, his car jumping and bumping across the rutted field while I stumbled and scrambled and only just managed to stay upright. Once or twice I dared to look back over my shoulder, only to be dazzled by the headlights.
And then, into this Wake in Fright nightmare lurched Ninja, flying through the air …
Oh, bless you, beautiful boy, coming to save me! And to think I’d spoken of you so poorly.
… and then he started attacking me.
Ninja, what the hell? You stupid dog. I’m your friend; I live here.
But with the deranged geography inspector still zooming towards me there was no time for dog whispering.
And so, with two crazy animals now chasing me, I ran like I’d never run, and eventually I made it onto my front porch and into the house. Mr Geography Inspector sped back off into the night, never to be seen again. Ninja resumed chasing rabbits.
And to think, when I’d first heard I was being sent to Wycheproof, I’d sobbed to my parents, ‘But what will I do there? It’s going to be so dull!’
* * *
More often than not, of a weekend I returned to Melbourne and stayed with Mr Right. But on one memorable occasion I remained at the farmhouse. It was late on Friday afternoon when the phone rang. It was Jim the Hippie. He explained he had been staying in a nearby town, having gone to fix some wiring for a ‘friend’. (I interpreted this to mean he was having an affair with a lonely farmer’s wife whose husband had gone away for a few days.) Jim the Hippie was considering hitching over to my place that night so we could catch up. (I interpreted this to mean the husband was making his return a day or so earlier than expected.) He wanted to know if it would be okay if he stayed at my place for the night.
I said it would be fine.
He asked directions.
I said they were complicated—best he get a lift into Wycheproof and then ring me and I’d organise for someone to pick him up and bring him out to the farmhouse.
In order to fully appreciate the ensuing drama, one has to understand that not only did mobile phones not exist back then but my home phone went via the local telephone exchange. Every time I picked up the receiver I immediately spoke to an operator. The reverse was also true: every time someone called me they went via an operator.
As soon as I hung up the phone I began to worry about Mr Right and how he would feel about Jim the Hippie coming to stay with me. Not that any shenanigans were going to happen—I was well and truly over Jim and vice versa—but nevertheless it didn’t feel right. And so I decided to ring Mr Right to tell him what was happening.
I picked up the phone.
‘Hello, Teddywaddy West two-one-three. What number, please?’
I told the nasal-voiced operator Mr Right’s number. She put the call through.
His housemate Trev answered.
I asked
him if Mr Right was home.
‘No, Scotty, he’s already left.’
‘What do you mean, he’s already left?’
‘I mean, he’s already left to go to Wycheproof. Didn’t he tell you?’
‘No …’
‘Oh shit, he must be wanting to surprise you. Sorry, Scotty.’
‘When did he leave?’ I tried to sound nonchalant.
‘He must have left an hour ago, maybe an hour and a half.’
I almost fainted. My heart started pounding, and beads of guilty, panic-fuelled sweat formed on my furrowed brow. (That’s not true. I never sweat, not even in times of crisis. But the image does go some way to conveying how anxious I was.) Jim the Hippie was on his way! And now Mr Right was also on his way! What if they arrived at the same time? Mr Right would think Jim the Hippie and I had planned a clandestine rendezvous!
Oh my God, this was a disaster. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I reminded myself to breathe. Then I did a quick calculation. If Mr Right had left Melbourne an hour and a half earlier, there was another hour and a half before he would arrive. As for Jim the Hippie, I didn’t know how long it would take him to hitch to my place. But both men were on the road heading towards Teddywaddy West from opposite directions. At all costs I had to prevent them from meeting.
There was no time to lose. I formulated a plan and immediately put it into action. Firstly, I rang my friend Jane. She taught at the school with me and lived in town, near the main street. She agreed that Jim the Hippie could stay at her place for the night. When Jim rang me I would give him Jane’s phone number and they could arrange to meet.
But hang on, what if Jim the Hippie rang my place and Mr Right had already arrived? My phone was attached to the wall in the hallway. There was no hope of a private conversation. How would I be able to tell Jim about going to stay with Jane without Mr Right overhearing and becoming suspicious? Alright, okay, I had to find some other way of communicating the change of plans to Jim.
I went to the phone and lifted the receiver.
‘Hello, Teddywaddy West two-one-three. What number, please?’
‘Um … hello. Yes. Well, you see, I don’t actually want to be connected to anyone. I was wondering if you could do me a favour …’
The operator said nothing.
I pushed on regardless. ‘You see, I have this friend who is on his way to Wycheproof and he was going to ring me when he arrived in town, but my plans have changed and I was wondering, when he does ring, if instead of putting the call through you could give him a message?’
‘What message would you like me to pass on?’
‘Well, his name is Jim, and could you please tell him that my boyfriend is now coming for the weekend, so he can’t come to stay with me, and he has to ring my friend Jane Thomas. Her number is —’
‘Two-one-seven. I know Miss Thomas. She teaches my kids English. Actually, you teach one of them drama.’
‘Oh really?’ I laughed, admittedly without any sense of amusement.
I hung up the phone. To be sure, it was an awkward situation. But I told myself that even if the whole town was talking about the crazy drama teacher the following day, I didn’t care. As long as Mr Right and I were all hunky-dory, being the cause of country-town gossip was but a small price to pay.
I changed my clothes and put on some make-up in readiness for my man’s arrival. I heard a car coming up the long driveway. It was Dave and John. They were on their way to the pub in town for a meal. Did I want to join them? I decided I might as well. There was still at least an hour until Mr Right arrived. It would provide a good distraction. I left a note on the kitchen table in case Mr Right turned up while I was out, explaining I was at the pub and telling him to meet me there.
It was 8 pm by the time we finished our meal. Mr Right hadn’t shown up at the pub. As it was now well over three hours since it was rumoured he had left Melbourne, he should have arrived.
I went to the phone box in the main street, rang the operator and asked to be put through to my farmhouse. The phone rang out. Where was he? Maybe his car had broken down. Maybe he’d been held up somewhere. Maybe he’d tried to ring me …
Oh shit. Oh fucking hell. Please, God, no.
Once more I picked up the receiver.
‘What number, please?’
‘Hello, it’s me again, Denise, the drama teacher, from Teddywaddy West two-one-three. You just put me through to my house and no-one was there and, well, I was just wondering, has anybody tried to ring me?’
‘No, Denise, no-one has.’
Oh, the relief. This meant Mr Right hadn’t rung and inadvertently been given the message meant for Jim the Hippie—namely, not to come to the house because Denise’s boyfriend was on his way. What would Mr Right have made of such a message?
I took the opportunity to avert such a mishap by giving further instructions to the operator. ‘There may be another man who tries to ring me …’ I told her Mr Right’s name, ‘and it’s very important that he doesn’t get the message meant for Jim.’
‘I see. So let me get this clear. If your friend Jim rings I tell him your boyfriend is on his way and not to go to your house, and if your boyfriend rings I tell him … what?’
‘That I’m at the pub but will be home soon.’
It was 9.30 pm when Dave and John dropped me back at the farmhouse. Still Mr Right was a no-show. Once more I rang the operator. Before I said anything she informed me that neither Jim nor my boyfriend had rung. I thanked her and told her to forget about passing on any messages; I could no longer cope with the tension. I had bigger concerns: I was worried sick about Mr Right. Again I asked the operator to put me through to Mr Right’s home phone, and again his housemate answered. I told him Mr Right hadn’t arrived. ‘Are you sure he left Melbourne around four-thirty?’
‘Absolutely certain.’
By 11 pm I was convinced Mr Right had been involved in a car accident. I rang the operator. A different voice answered. He sounded young. I asked to be connected to Mr Right’s house. This time no-one answered. Trev must have gone out.
And so I waited.
That darned farmhouse—so far away from anywhere.
I rang the operator again. This time I didn’t ask to be connected to anyone. It was nearly 1 am; who could I ring at that hour? It was the operator I wanted to speak to. I asked him if he had heard about any accidents on the Hume Highway.
He said he hadn’t.
I explained why I was worried.
He listened and sympathised and offered to ring the police and check with them. He promised he’d ring me back straightaway. He did exactly that, informing me the police had received no reports of car accidents. He told me to ring him any time during the night, that he was there to help.
I made myself a cup of tea and turned on the radio. The reception was bad, but it was better than the silence.
An hour later the phone rang. My stomach lurched. Mr Right?
It was the operator.
‘Have you heard something?’
‘No, Denise, I haven’t. I was ringing to see how you were going.’
What a kind and thoughtful young man. The truth was I wasn’t going too well. Being in the farmhouse on my own in the middle of the night was doing nothing to quell my fear that Mr Right was lying dead somewhere.
And what of Jim the Hippie? I hadn’t given him a thought for hours, because I wasn’t in the least worried about him. My instinct told me he’d more than likely been picked up by some bored, sexually frustrated country woman who at that very moment in time was giving Jim a ride, in more ways than one.
Of course, I didn’t tell the young operator any of this, but I did tell him about the ghost that haunted my house.
He interrupted me, saying he’d have to hang up as there was a call coming through.
He rang back immediately and said he was sorry but it hadn’t been Mr Right.
I burst into tears.
The operator calmed me. He assured me he was there for me,
that I could ring him any time.
And I did.
And he rang me.
And, each time, we talked and talked. He asked me about my life. Where had I grown up? What brought me to the country? How did I meet Mr Right? How long had we been together? In turn I asked him about his life, not that I paid attention to his answers. I was too distracted, fantasising about what I’d wear to Mr Right’s funeral—definitely black, maybe even a lace mantilla—and how I would assert my right to sit in the front seat at the church even though I knew his parents would be against it.
I stayed awake the whole night, didn’t doze off for one second. At 7 am I was once more connected to Mr Right’s home phone. Trev—his bleary voice indicating a hangover—answered. I was sobbing uncontrollably. I told him Mr Right hadn’t arrived, that I didn’t have a clue where he was.
I rang Mr Right’s boss, apologised for waking him so early on a Saturday morning, and asked if he had any idea where Mr Right could be. All he could tell me was that when Mr Right had left work the previous afternoon he’d told everyone he was heading to Wycheproof.
I rang Mr Right’s friends. They all said the same thing: that as far as they knew he’d been heading to Wycheproof to spend the weekend with me.
I rang my parents and wept. My mother told me she was sure everything was fine, but even she didn’t sound convinced.
It was now 9 am, and everyone in Melbourne who knew Mr Right was on the case, trying to track him down. In the meantime, the young phone operator finished his shift. I thanked him for his kindness.
At midday the phone rang. It was Mr Right, as bright and breezy and upbeat as you like. He was ringing from my parents’ house. He’d been playing basketball nearby and called in to see them.
‘Where have you been? I thought you were dead. I’ve been awake all night. You told everyone you were coming to Wycheproof. You weren’t at your place, so where were you? What happened?’
He couldn’t explain how everyone had got the impression he was going to Wycheproof. Obviously, there had been a misunderstanding, because what he had done was go away with a couple of his blokey mates to a beach house down the coast.