Sex, Lies and Bonsai

by Lisa Walker

  My mother’s notebook sits in my bedroom like a junkie’s fix. I am both drawn to and repelled by it. I wish I could find a way to settle it in my heart in a way that didn’t hurt. I put it back in the chest and pick up my car keys.

  Driving down to the village, I park next to the shops. The fruit shop man nods at me as I climb out. That makes him a friend, rather than a stranger, so I can’t count him. As I cross the road, the man I know only as unfriendly goatee man is crossing the other way, surfboard under his arm. Even though we have seen each other many times and I suspect he knows who I am (that is, my father’s daughter) he stares straight past me. I make a mental note — stranger number one.

  A couple I’ve never seen before are enjoying breakfast outside the beachfront café. They have a well-groomed look that almost invariably separates the blowins from the locals. Strangers two and three. My heart beats faster. I am getting dangerously close to stranger five. What if I don’t like the look of them? I can move on, I tell myself. Sally will never know.

  My prepared opening line will work best if I am looking at the sea, so I walk over the grass towards the railing lining the beach. As I do so, I realise I have my hands clasped behind my back. My hands become a bit of a problem when I am anxious. Clasping them behind my back is comfortable, but Sherlock Holmesish. Dangling by my sides feels wrong and I suspect makes me look deranged. Having them in my pockets can work, but my jeans are too tight today. Resting my elbows on the railing provides instant relief.

  Darling Head turns on amazing autumn mornings. The sea is a cliché of transparent blue and even I can see the waves are good. Line after line of swell rolls in; not a single wave is left unmarked by a board rider slicing along the smooth face.

  Even though I am not tempted to join the surfers I can see how it might be fun if you were so inclined. I am, of course, no stranger to the surf. I was brought up in the great Darling Head tradition. At five, I was signed up for the Darling Head Surf Nippers. Every Sunday during summer Sally and I lined up on the beach, ran races, paddled boards out through the breakers and were dumped face first into the sand on return. These days left me freckle-faced and red-nosed but fair skin was no excuse for non-participation. It wasn’t until I was twelve that I dug my heels in and retreated indoors. Nothing Dad could do would tempt me into the waves again.

  A self-possessed black cat stalks up the path from the beach with its tail in the air.

  ‘Hi, puss,’ I say.

  Clearly a cat of discernment, it completely ignores me.

  ‘Don’t worry, the feeling’s mutual,’ I mutter as it strolls away.

  Stranger number four, a fisherman with an ancient wiry-haired dog, goes past. For a moment I think he might be the one I’ve been looking for. But I think that every time I see an old fisherman heading back from the sea. This quest for The Fisherman has plagued me for years. I wish I could stop looking, but I can’t. Would I know him if I saw him? If I knew him, would I know what to say? But I can’t be thinking about that now. I am on a mission to overcome shyness. I have a report to make to Sally.

  The next person I see will be stranger number five (as long as I don’t already know them).

  I have the panicky sensation I get when people are going around the room introducing themselves and my turn is coming soon. My throat is constricted and my mouth is dry. Any moment now I’m going to have to open my mouth and say something. It’s impossible. I can’t talk.

  Down the beach, Dad and Rochelle are coasting into shore, side by side on their surfboards. As they reach the sand they stand, picking up their boards with one hand. This action is so well practised it is almost a dance. I wonder what it would be like to be so sure in your body. As I raise my hand to wave at them, a guy comes up the ramp from the beach.

  Stranger number five.

  I freeze, my hand half-raised, my smile half-formed, my breath half-breathed. He looks at me, obviously wondering if he knows me. It is the worst-case scenario. He is about my age, but I can already tell our auras don’t align. Not that I’m into that stuff. And, here’s the major surprise, he actually is a stranger. I’ve never seen him before in my life.

  He has a panicked look on his face and a ring through his eyebrow. I’ve always found body piercings intimidating. It’s the bold statement they make — hey, I’m hip; I’ve got a pierced eyebrow. I could never carry it off. It’s the same with tattoos and asymmetrical hairdos. The guy is wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt with a giant tongue on it. His jeans are damp at the bottom. His bare feet are pale — too pale for Darling Head. He is holding black basketball shoes in his hand and a bag dangles next to his hip, its strap running across his chest. He might have just stepped off the streets of Kings Cross. He pauses at the top of the ramp, looking as if he is calculating the relative risks attached to running off or appeasing me.

  I decide to let him go past and find a friendlier victim. But then I realise my hand is still raised in a frozen greeting. I am committed. I lower my hand. ‘Hi.’ My voice comes out in a squeak, but at least it comes out. Conversation has commenced.

  His eyes flicker down and up again, possibly checking for weapons. ‘Hi?’

  The inflection in his voice confuses me. Is he saying hi or questioning me? I decide on the latter. ‘Yes. I said hi.’ I cough to clear my throat. I’m pretty sure Sally would be handling this better. What was I supposed to say to move the conversation on?

  ‘Do I know you?’ he asks.

  ‘What do you think of the quality of the waves?’ I ask, then registering what he has said, add, ‘No.’

  He frowns, lowering his eyebrow ring, shakes his head and walks off without another word.

  A hot flush spreads across my face. I suspect our conversation has lasted less than five seconds. I stand, cemented to the spot with humiliation. My errant hands have moved themselves onto my hips and are projecting an aggressive image totally at odds with what is going on in my head.

  ‘Eddie,’ says my father.

  He and Rochelle are standing in front of me. They look like trained seals, the water running off their black wetsuits.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Dad looks at me hard. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing, just…checking the surf.’

  Dad smiles, immediately distracted. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? When are you getting in?’ He has been saying this for eleven years, but still sounds hopeful. Like me, he is a testament to the futile optimism of the human spirit.

  I smile back, waggling my head in the indeterminate way which has served me well over this time.

  ‘Did you meet Jay?’ asks Rochelle.

  ‘Jay?’

  ‘My brother. I saw you talking to him. He just got off the overnight bus. I told him to look for us down the beach.’

  ‘Oh.’ I register this fact. Rochelle’s brother is a stuck-up git who thinks I’m mentally deficient. And he’s coming to stay with us. Great. Things couldn’t be better.

  Rochelle smiles, her eyes creasing into a ripple of wrinkles which only make her look happier. ‘You and Jay should get on well. He’s creative too. He plays in a band.’

  That figures. He’s a pierced, superior nob who thinks he’s a rock god because he plays at pubs every now and then.

  ‘I’d better go to work,’ I say.

  As I am unlocking my car, someone calls out to me.

  ‘Hey.’ A boy rides up to me on his bike. He is about thirteen and, like most kids in town, has the white-blond hair and peeling nose of a surf fiend.

  I pause with my hand on the open car door. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you know Dave McElroy? I saw ya talking to him.’

  It is my usual practice to deny such accusations, but today I find that my bruised ego needs massaging. ‘He’s my father.’

  His mouth drops open and he gives me a look usually reserved for minor celebrities. ‘Rad. So, who are you sponsored by?’

  Now is the time to nip this in the bud. I open my mouth to tell him I don’t surf, but the words don’t quite com
e out. His hero-worship is a little intoxicating and in the wake of my debacle with Jay, I need all the uplift I can get. ‘Just Rip Curl,’ I murmur modestly.

  ‘Cool. I’m hopin’ to get them. I’m coming top in my division. Going down to Bells for the nationals soon.’

  Bells is Bells Beach in Victoria — a famous break. ‘Rad,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, thanks. I’m Tim.’

  ‘I’m Edie.’

  He fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a crumpled grease-stained paper bag. ‘Can you get your dad’s autograph for me?’

  So that’s what he wants. Dad stopped giving autographs years ago. He said his time was over. Kids still approach him but he turns them down gently. Tim has found a better way. I take the bag, then wonder what I’m supposed to do with it. ‘But how will I get it back to you?’

  ‘I’ll see you round.’ He waves and rides off.

  I look at the greasy paper bag. It’s not like we don’t have paper at home. But perhaps the bag is significant? I fold it up and push it into my purse. Rip Curl. With any luck I won’t run into him again.

  Chapter Seven

  Flowers are restful to look at. They have

  neither emotions nor conflicts.

  SIGMUND FREUD

  The drive to the university takes half an hour. I wind through macadamia farms and patches of rainforest, slowing to let an echidna cross the road. Its worried little face pokes out between its spines as it waddles at a leisurely pace across the tar. Life in the country has its compensations — trees, flowers, fresh air…

  What strikes me about the north coast, after living in Sydney, is how green it is, how slow the pace, how randomly friendly the locals. I grew up here, so I should be used to it, but after a five-year break it all seems new again. What I do miss about Sydney is the anonymity, the sense that no one is going to report you to your parents or gossip about you behind your back. Yes, I do miss that.

  Along the way I pass a church. It has one of those newfangled signs out the front with changeable letters. Failure is a success if we learn from it, it says. This is very upbeat, very appropriate to my current situation. But is it true?

  Can my encounter with Jay be called a success? What about all my failed love affairs? My failure to become a surfer girl? My social inadequacies? Can I somehow reframe these as successes?

  Jesus Saves says another sign, fixed to the picket fence a little further along. Having recently watched The Da Vinci Code on DVD, this reminds me that Jesus supposedly had a daughter called Sarah. I don’t recall her founding any new religions. Hah. I’m pretty sure being the water-shy daughter of a surf champ is trivial in the failure stakes compared with being the unknown granddaughter of God. Sally is right; there is no shortage of child failures out there.

  This cheers me up and I tune my radio to the university radio station. While it is amateurish and often boring, it needs support. I turn up the volume as a song I haven’t heard before comes on. It is a love ballad with a thumping backbeat. The production isn’t the best but the singer sounds like Chris Martin from Coldplay, only not so whiny. I listen for the credit at the end, as I already know I want the album.

  ‘Um, that was…‘ there is a shuffling sound, ‘… Jay Spooner with “Tangled Web”.’ The announcer is clearly reading from a CD cover. He is either stoned or naturally vague. ‘Ah, he sent us this CD. I thought I’d play it as he is performing at the university bar on the—’

  I punch the off button. Jay. It’s him. I just know it. Maybe he actually is a rock god. So what? Failure is success if we learn from it. Right on, church. I have learnt that I should cancel that mental note to buy the CD.

  ‘Hello, Edie,’ says Professor Brownlow as I come in. He is seated in front of his microscope.

  I blush. I feel like my microscope seduction scene is written on my forehead. How did I write such things? Imagine if he ever found out. I need to stop it immediately or at least change the character beyond recognition.

  Professor Brownlow’s hair is messier than usual. This gives him a rakish air that goes straight to my, er… Damn, why aren’t there any decent words for it? No wonder writing about sex is so hard. If I was a man I’d just say I got a hard on, but being a woman…my pelvis tingles. I store the phrase away for future reference. It’s not perfect, but it will have to do for now.

  He waves his hand. ‘Can you come over here for a second?’

  My pelvic tingle is squelched. This sounds rather like a prelude to some long-overdue counselling on my work performance. I am right.

  ‘Your drawings are very good, very aesthetically pleasing, I like them but…’ Professor Brownlow coughs and spreads out my last five drawings. He has circled various parts. ‘I just double-checked the morphology of a few of these.’ He sounds apologetic, although it is me who should be apologising. ‘The antennules of this one should have eight aesthetascs, and its maxilliped one has nine setae, not seven.’

  Unfortunately, he has lost me at morphology. I nod. ‘Sorry.’ I feel bad. I am patently unfit for this job, which requires minute attention to detail. I suppress an urge to put my fingers in my ears and hum as he continues.

  ‘…maxilla…protopodite…telson…‘

  ‘I’m sorry, Ralph,’ I say again when I can’t stand it any longer. ‘I’ll concentrate harder.’

  Professor Brownlow pushes the drawings towards me and smiles. ‘I know you will.’ He reaches into a folder behind him and pulls out another drawing. ‘I like this one.’

  I stare at the drawing. It was apparently done by me, but I have no memory of it. The crab larva is dressed in a military-type jacket with epaulets. A top hat rests jauntily on its head. It has an Hercule Poirot moustache. If Hotpunk , my former employer, sold crabs they would be retro-chic like this. A speech bubble comes out of its mouth with the words, Draw it again, Sam.

  ‘A Casablanca reference?’ asks Professor Brownlow.

  I nod. Gulp. It is a little alarming that I could draw this without having any recollection of doing so. Is there such a thing as sleep-drawing?

  He cocks his head and looks at the drawing. ‘It’s a little Dali-esque, isn’t it? I think I might frame it. If you don’t mind.’

  I shake my head. I am so overcome with gratitude that he is not about to sack me I almost offer to have his baby. Luckily I don’t as it would be inappropriate and, besides, he already has enough babies.

  He takes off his glasses and polishes them.

  I swallow. It is like a scene in one of those stupid movies where the shy, ugly secretary takes off her glasses and — ta da — everyone realises she is gorgeous. But it’s true. Without his glasses, Professor Brownlow is beautiful. Not just sexy with hidden depths, but beautiful. If I had known that I never would have let myself develop this ridiculous crush on him.

  ‘How are you liking the Murakami?’ he asks.

  I look away. It’s the only way I can concentrate. When I look at him my brain loses power. I am functioning at the IQ of your below-average sea slug. ‘The Murakami?’ I stall for time.

  I catch a glimpse of his face out of the corner of my eye. He looks disappointed, though still beautiful. I have let him down. ‘The Murakami is fantastic,’ I blurt.

  He doesn’t say anything. He is waiting for more — some deconstruction, perhaps? ‘Very post-modern.’ That’s usually safe. ‘Quite surreal, the protagonist is extremely original.’ I am plucking these phrases out of the ether. I hope they fit.

  Professor Brownlow replaces his glasses.

  Thank goodness. My IQ rises to that of an intelligent sheep.

  He smiles. ‘I’m glad you like it.’ He pushes the drawings towards me.

  Our little session is over. I pick up the drawings and stand up. ‘I’ll redo these.’

  He nods, turns back to his microscope and is soon lost in his world of crabs.

  Before I commence work, I pull out my notebook and write: Do not daydream when drawing zoea.

  My poor work performance has lowered my spirits, so
while I’m at it, I update my pain dairy:

  Wednesday (still): 46 days

  Pain level: 9.0

  Location: Head

  I start the day with good intentions. But, as always, it is not the first zoea of the day which is the problem, or even the second. The issue is, while not unattractive, zoeas just don’t do it for me. There is apparently nothing I can do to stop my mind wandering while I examine them under the microscope. And that is when mistakes happen.

  Professor Brownlow’s wife calls in at eleven o’clock. She looks as alarmingly fit and gorgeous as always. Her shoulder-length blonde hair bobs against her tight Nike T-shirt. I watch them out of the corner of my eye. He doesn’t kiss her and there is a slight reserve in both their manners. But perhaps that is just because I am here.

  ‘Back in a minute, Edie.’ Professor Brownlow gets to his feet.

  As soon as he is out the door I call my life coach.

  ‘Edie.’ Sally sounds out of breath.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve been running all around town, putting out flyers for my business.’

  ‘You move fast. You only decided you had a business this morning.’

  ‘Hope you don’t mind. I put a quote from you on the flyer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you’re my first client.’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Sally is magnificent. I thoroughly recommend her coaching to anyone looking for a new direction in life.’

  ‘Sounds like something I might have said, I suppose. Am I looking for a new direction in life?’

  ‘Do you see a possibility to improve your personal and business relationships?’

  ‘Is this a quiz?’

  ‘Answer the question,’ says Sal.

  ‘Has anyone ever told you you’d make a good bondage mistress?’

  ‘Edie.’ Sally sounds like she’s drawing her whip through her fingers.

  ‘Yes,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Would you like to examine your habits and beliefs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you ready to create plans and take action to achieve your goals?’ Sally’s voice is rising to a crescendo.