“Try not to kill Sandro, please my dear!” and “Keep in touch!” Both were challenges.
***
Bridey
I sat in the library wasting my time for an hour and a half after the tute. The difficulty with studying is, that when you feel like doing it, you can’t because you’re doing something else like sleeping or working, and when you have time you don’t feel like doing it. All I could think about as the minutes dragged was Sandro coming to pick me up. In the end, I gave up and walked about the Uni grounds for half an hour. Melbourne University is a lovely old place. I felt honoured to be studying there. Trees grow in the middle of the square. Lawns are spread in various corners where you might least expect them. Everywhere, you find masses of chained bicycles. Each building has its own history and charm. The cafeteria is a dive and the pool building, a surprise. There you are walking along, and there it is sitting in the middle of an historical site looking very modern. It would be inviting if there weren’t so many people training. Watching people train tires me.
I’m lucky I don’t have to struggle with my weight because if I had to exercise to get rid of it I would be truly monstrous; that is if I could afford food! This thought made me wish dinner would hurry up, and I checked my watch. Woah! It was six thirty. I was late. I ran across the square and down the lane to Swanston St, arriving breathless and eager, rather than cool and unconcerned. I was atrocious at hiding my feelings.
The only car anywhere near where we planned to meet was a red Ferrari. No sign of Sandro’s old Camry. The rush was wasted. A burst of disappointment hit me, along with fear he wouldn’t come. He’d had a better offer. He was over me, already. As I stared down the road towards the city, Sandro’s voice behind me made me jump.
“What are you waiting for, a written invitation?” The relief was heady, and I grinned at him happily like a puppy given a pat on the head. He took my hand and began leading me back up the road. When he stopped at the Ferrari I shook my head. “You’re kidding?”
“Nup. It’s all mine.” He held the door open, and I sat gingerly on the leather front seat feeling out of my depth now.
“Where are we going?”
“Just around the corner,” he said. “I only brought this because I wanted to take you home.”
Two things happened at these words. Firstly, a jolt of lightning ran through my thighs and my stomach turned over. This was closely followed by a jab of fear. These first parts of relationships were horrible.
Sandro continued, “I’m not trying to pick you up Bridey, I just wanted to make sure you got home safely, and I don’t want to see you set off walking.”
“Why not,” I asked, “there’s nothing wrong with my foot anymore; plenty of trams around.”
He switched on the car and drove off without saying anything. We pulled up in front of a swish looking, tiny place. Being a Monday night there was a parking spot outside the restaurant. These things are important around Carlton. The table he’d reserved for us was in a secluded corner, and the restaurant was hushed, polished, but not posh. There was something different about it. My previous partners (not that Sandro was my partner), had all chosen busy places in crowded popular areas where you had to speak loudly in order to be heard. Well, Sandro had said he wanted to talk to me. Perhaps that hadn’t been a lie. It made me feel uncomfortable, too intimate.
We sat down. The waiter came and put out the napkins, as they do, and left Sandro with the wine list. He looked at me enquiringly. “What?” You say the most stupid things when you’re nervous, a state which was increasing by the minute. Before we met outside the Uni, it had been excitement, now, I just felt very out of my comfort zone. But, if he chooses without asking me that’s going to piss me off.
“What do you like to drink Bridey” he asked. “Wine? Red, white?”
That was easy. “White, thank you.”
He ran through the list, and we chose a Pinot Gris together. This was one of the first times my parents’ education about such matters felt useful. The difficulty with them was they never thought to presume a taste of my own, just informed me what went with what. Sandro had made a good start.
The earlier demands of my appetite disappeared when it came to choosing food. Sandro told the waiter we weren’t ready to order and asked for some dips to share. We made idle conversation together and drank wine. In the way animal paces around its food checking out safety issues before going for it, I found myself relaxing after a while and looking forward to something hearty to eat. Hopefully it wasn’t one of those places where the serves are tiny and unsatisfying. Then I remembered Sandro’s eating patterns. We ordered something the ingredients of which were immediately forgotten, two courses, both sounding delicious.
At first we talked about the Caretakers. It became clear Sandro and Flagran were not too fond of each other tonight, but Sandro refused to tell me about it. Once he got snarly, it was time for retreat.
“Tell me some stuff about you, Sandro!” It was a risk. He answered with the inevitable. “What would you like to know?” Come on, you said you wanted to talk to me. Let’s get on with it.
“How did you get to own a Ferrari?”
“I bought it,” he said simply. When I moved to pick up a plate and throw it at him he decided to play nice. “I actually have a great deal of money.”
“Well, how did you come by that?”
“My parents gave me a good start...you know, made me save my pocket money and stuff like that,” I thought about the pocket money I’d been forced to save and then remembered it’d all been spent on a lap top. Not in the same league, obviously. “I used my savings to go to Dubai to work. Worked there for eight years. Made myself a non-taxed fortune and had nowhere to waste it. I used to send it back to the folks and they helped me pick out my first property. By the time I came back to Australia to live I had two rental properties, one paid off and the other doing well with the tenants picking up most of the tab.” He must have felt he’d revealed too much because at this point he began to look wary and suddenly went quiet. “Actually that’s what Flagran was on at me about tonight.” This made no sense at all. It was disappointing to hear they hadn’t been fighting about me.
The silence went on a bit long. Where to go with this. Eventually, just when massive doubts about my conversational abilities were overtaking me, Sandro spoke.
“What are you studying Bridey?” he asked. Sometimes he had this lovely intense way of showing interest. It was irresistible, and it made me forget how grumpy and difficult he was.
“Anthropology.” It was worrying wondering what he would make of that.
He began to ask me intelligent questions about the subject matter of my Master’s, and we were through the worst of it. We sat over drinks. He was conscious of driving, so more than half the bottle of wine went mostly into me, and when he suggested a liqueur with coffee, I chose a Drambuie. Couldn’t usually afford things like that. A lovely, mellow feeling settled over me and I began doing things like putting my hand on top of his while speaking eloquently (well, it seemed like that at the time) about my study and ideas about life. He just sat there as though he didn’t notice, and when the waiters started looking restless, he took me home. He reached across me to open the door and wished me a pleasant goodnight. It was a crushing blow. It seemed I’d made a complete fool of myself.
Attempting to look cheery and probably just looking drunk, I moved off to the door. He was making no attempt to drive away, and he suddenly called me back. Hope rose. But he said, “Don’t forget about tomorrow!” That was confusing. “The compost,” he reminded me. “Homarta would be very disappointed in you Bridey. Pick you up at half nine. I’ll be in my mate’s Camry with the trailer, so if you could come out and wait it’d help.” He flashed me a slight smile and started to drive off, lingering until after the door had closed behind me.
***
Sandro thought seriously about a swim in the ocean as he drove home again. He sat in the garage for a bit bracing himself to f
ace Flagran whose fire had been obvious as he drove up. Taking a deep breath, he flexed his shoulders and stretched out bruised muscles. He wondered if calling the police might be an option. As he headed up the stairs to the door, he was planning what to say. He still hadn’t faced up, and Flagran would not be happy. Perhaps it might be wise to play it cool; not too defensive, he decided.
He threw down his keys on the little antique table by the door leading in from the garage. He went to the fridge and grabbing a beer, took another deep breath and headed out onto the patio.
Flagran didn’t even look up.
“I don’t know mate,” Sandro said, sitting beside him. “I just can’t seem to tell her. I tried. Couldn’t get the words out.”
“Well, at least you didn’t fuck her!” Flagran said.
“What sort of a person do you think I am?” Sandro asked, righteously horrified, “I never had any intention of fucking her.” He sat and took two pulls at his beer when a thought came to him. “How do you know I didn’t?”
“I can tell,” Flagran said mildly. “But you were certainly hopeful.”
Sandro chewed on that for a bit. “She got quite tipsy,” he said to the air around them. “She’s really cute when she’s drunk.” They both pondered on that. “And I never even kissed her!”
Flagran jumped to his feet making Sandro cringe. “Well, she’s probably finished her night feeling devastated.”
Sandro looked up at him in horror. “You think?”
“Oh, come on you idiot,” Flagran laughed. “Let’s go find Torrenclar. He’ll be on the beach. We’ll both coach you for the marathon.”
With Sandro looking a bit dubious, the two headed for the car again making no attempt to grab any gear.
7
Bridey
Morning arrived early after a restless night. While the mind was keen to make sense of my current life, being keen, and achieving a result, are two conflicting arenas. When six o’clock came around, I rolled out of bed too agitated to stay there any longer. Problems of food and showering occupied me forever (there was no way going out with Sandro this morning without a shower was an option). Without Flagran’s help with the water, it was ages before there was enough Hot. The challenge of washing my hair at least was unnecessary. A full two hours later, I was showered, dressed (because choosing an outfit had been complicated) and had eaten. Porridge formed a reasonable breakfast, but there weren’t any nuts and no honey. Thank goodness today was payday.
Homework should have been a priority. No luck there. In the end, I decided to venture out and talk with Homarta who was becoming fuller each day, and the more like her former self, the more comfortable she became to be around. She was watching me approach.
Do you ever get the feeling that if you can’t talk to someone you’ll explode? That’s how it was going out to talk to Homarta. It was hard to come to grips with wanting her company after finding her overwhelming. Now, feelings bubbled up which absolutely had to be shared.
She began. She was good like that.
“Where are you off to today, Bridey?” she asked. “It’s a bit early for you, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is.” The perfect opening.
“Now, I wonder what was keeping you awake,” she pondered. “I personally never sleep. But this confinement is hardest during the nights you know. Perhaps you should have come out and entertained me.” She cocked her head on one side as though she were assessing the state of affairs.
It was embarrassing to bring up the topic but the words insisted on laying themselves out there. “It’s Sandro.”
“Now, what’s Sandro been up to?” Don’t start criticising him.
“Nothing,” I lied.
“Well that’s good then,” she said.
“No, it’s not.”
“Ahh!” she said. That’s all it took for the whole story to come tumbling out about how Sandro had been so lovely. She looked a little incredulous.
“Well, he’s done all this work around here. I know you’ve been doing a lot too,” that was added hastily, “but you have to, and he doesn’t.” The blush was because it suddenly occurred to me it was a rude thing to say.
Homarta regarded me thoughtfully for a few moments.
“Is that all?” she asked.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, if there’s nothing more to say then....”
“He took me out to dinner last night, and we talked a lot. He was lovely to me. Really interested in what I’m studying and everything.”
“So, how is that a problem for you to be worrying about all night?”
“Well, I got a little drunk.” It was a relief to confess. “And I think I made a bit of a fool of myself.”
“Ahh!” she said again.
Don’t you hate it when people say that like they understand everything, and you have no idea what they’re understanding? But desperate times require desperate risks. “No nothing happened. Nothing stupid. I think I was just a bit too into him.” There, it was out.
“Ahh!!” she said.
“Stop saying that, Homarta!” Snapping at her helped.
“How do you know he thought you were too into him?” It was a helpful question which could be answered.
“Well, he seemed really interested, and then he just wasn’t.”
“Ahh! “ At my glare, she said, “Sorry. I meant in what way?”
“He drove me home, opened the door and pretty well pushed me out.”
“He pushed you out of the car?” she was confused.
“No. Not literally, but…but, he didn’t even try to kiss me.” If she says ahh again walk away.
“Good on him,” she said.
“What?”
“I really thought he would make a move on you,” Homarta said.
“So did IIII!” It was crippling. The initial determination not to allow anything had morphed into devastation because he didn’t like me enough to try. “It turns out I must have been a bit silly after too much to drink, and he’s gone off me, already.”
We sat in silence for a while, me wondering what Homarta was thinking. She was good to talk to. Just saying it all helped.
The side gate swung open, and Flagran swept in with a flourish. “The top of the morning to you both,” he said breezily. “And what a beautiful morning it is too!”
“You’re in good spirits,” Homarta said.
“Yes, I am. Great night last night.”
“Where were you? What were you doing?” Of course, I just wanted to know about Sandro. If he said he was off lighting fires somewhere, the disappointment would create a permanent scar.
“After he came home, we took Sandro for a play in the Bay. He needed cooling off.” The tone was annoying, but more information vital.
“What do you mean cooling off?” Had he been that angry?
Flagran cocked his head to one side, as he does, and grinned. “Now, don’t you tell me you don’t know what makes a man too hot to sleep,” he said.
Happiness flooded over me. Instead of kissing him, my first impulse, I gave him a little shove and told him to behave himself. Homarta smiled and began to turn over the earth. I sailed away inside to get ready all over again. It was such a long time until nine thirty even some study helped.
Eventually, the time came as it always does and nine twenty-five found me waiting on the front veranda. It was such a stupid little veranda. If he happened to be late, standing there would be awkward. The old Camry with the trailer on the back pulled up, and my feet were light running down the steps and over to the car. Too late to think about how eager that might have looked, I dragged open the door and flashed my best smile at Sandro. He was less exuberant. “How did you pick up this morning?”
What did he mean? Was he asking about a hangover? It was impossible to share the restless night with him. The description was more like a deep and peaceful sleep resulting in freshness, but not too much eagerness. It was tricky.
“How about you?”
&n
bsp; “Yeah, good,” he said.
The silence was oppressive, but talking about where we were going and what we were doing gradually resulted in the odd glimmer of a smile. On our way out to Pakenham, once the freeway ended, he suddenly pulled over to the side of the road. Without leaving much time for curiousity, he leant over and more than made up for how last night had ended. Shock unfortunately prevented any reflection on technique or anything. The swim hadn’t helped him all that much. Then, he moved away, saying, “There! That’s done!” He withdrew all the way back over to his side and drove off again.
The trip from there was silent. His beautiful profile, along with a confusing, firmly set jaw, was well worth looking at, but he was miles away. Staring at someone and willing them to do something only works occasionally. The next stop was not for kissing but for a ‘Manure 4 Sale’ sign. Out of the car, the distance between us was not as far as requiring email contact, but still. The roadside stall was one of those honesty things where you put your money inside a locked box. I saw him shoving in a fifty dollar note, and then things became even more awkward.
“It’s payday today, Sandro, so I can give you some of that back.” It was embarrassing because rent was coming up. His angry face flashed on again. What? What was wrong with that? Was he just being macho? Starting something with this guy really was not worth the pain.
“You can’t keep doing stuff for the house. It’s not right.” He loaded up five large bags into the trailer and said nothing.
His moods were too much. The car offered some refuge and slamming the door seemed appropriate. Apparently, he didn’t think so. He came around, opened the car door and dragged me out onto the gravel again. That made me very angry.
“Don’t manhandle me,” I said bravely. “Just because you’re in a bad mood doesn’t mean you can push and shove me around.” It was brave, yes, but really what I wanted was for him to kiss me again, and instead, he held the door open, shut it behind me and went to the rear of the car. He stood staring back along the road. He was there for a long time. The wait was torturous. The worst of it was feeling angry, disappointed and desperate, all at the same time.
Reluctant Activists Page 10