The Intentions Book

by Gigi Fenster

A day or two before a tramp, they’d lay everything out on the lounge floor and stand looking down on it for a while before Morris asked, Do we have everything? Is that the lot? More looking down, more running through lists in the head before she nodded, Yes, I think that’s the lot, and he nodded, Yes, I can’t think of anything else. And then, only then, would he pull out his notebook.

  ‘Torch.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Gas cooker with extra cylinder.’

  ‘Check and check.’

  Once, Rachel suggested that they didn’t really need the list since they remembered everything anyway. Morris sat down on the floor beside her and pointed out how every single item was essential. ‘We take only what we really need and we need every single thing we take. If we forget one thing we’re … we’re, well, we’re buggered.’

  She didn’t laugh at her father saying buggered. She thought about what he’d said and she understood.

  They kept up the tramping through Rachel’s childhood and well into her teenage years. When Rachel was about thirteen or fourteen, Sadie told Morris she was pleased the two of them were still going together, that they’d managed to ‘navigate their way around Rachel’s adolescence and the difficulties it presents’. There hadn’t been any navigation necessary. One day Morris felt more discomfort at the thought of sleeping face to face with his growing daughter than he did at the thought of a hut full of strangers. He suggested to Rachel that they try out the huts, and she said, ‘Sure.’ Morris never slept in a tent again.

  With the huts and Rachel’s maturity came longer, more difficult tramps. More trying days at the end of which there was real comfort in spotting a red roof amongst the trees. They gave a sense of homecoming and solidity, those huts. A sense of belonging—not because you happened to be in a place but because you’d earned it.

  The buildings themselves were suitably stark, the simplicity of their design outweighed by the grandness of their positioning, the impossibility of their location. Their red roofs seemed to call over the mountains to the men who’d built them—men who carried water tanks and metal pipes through the wildest bush, whose backpacks bristled with axes and nails. Who did it for no reason other than giving their children a place to bunk down in the unruly.

  Those men could teach you something, Morris thought. You could learn a lot from those huts if you knew how to read them.

  Sometimes when there were no other trampers in a hut he’d want to study every inch of it, to run his hands along the knots in the wood, looking for messages hidden in them by the hut’s builders.

  Morris remembers the smell of wet boots and wood. Gas burners lined up on a bench. Rachel’s poise as she stood at a window, opening a tin. The English tramper who picked up her pack to lift it on to a bunk and commented, teasing, at how such a tiny thing could carry such a humungous load. Then muttered softly (but it was a confined space) that he was only trying to be pleasant, there was no need to get all uppity.

  Another father might have leapt up then, told the boy to apologise. Couldn’t he see she was just a girl? Sadie would have done that. Or she could just as easily have pulled Rachel aside and said, ‘He’s a silly boy but honestly, honey, would it be so hard to smile at a person?’ Maybe Sadie would have done both and made the boy shake Rachel’s hand or invited him to share their meal, overpowering Rachel’s awkwardness with bright conversation and funny stories.

  Is that what Rachel would have wanted? Morris knows, actually for sure, that she would not. He can picture the lifting of her head, the tightening of her mouth, the turn of the heel as she walked away from the English boy, and he knows he did the right thing. Be quiet and ignore it. They’ll be turning to their sleeping bags soon, and tomorrow morning we’ll be up and out of the hut before that boy has woken up.

  David and Wendy are looking at Morris with one face.

  David gestures towards him as if introducing him to a crowd. ‘Morris and Rachel, the Goldberg Family trampers.’

  ‘I haven’t gone tramping in years.’

  ‘Well, she certainly has. She’s been doing it pretty regularly for at least two years now.’

  Of course. Morris knows that Rachel returned to tramping some time ago. There’d been that scene at the hospital. Rachel had sent a text to Sadie saying she wouldn’t be visiting because was going tramping. Sadie seemed to think it was fine, but David did not. He called Rachel from Sadie’s ward, started off all bouncy and light-hearted.

  ‘Thought you’d get away without talking to big brother, did you?’

  The bounciness didn’t last.

  ‘So when are you planning to come back? D’you think it’s a good idea to be away for so long? At a time like this?’

  He walked out of the ward and into the passage. Leaving Morris and Sadie.

  ‘I don’t mind, you know,’ Sadie said. ‘Not for me. But David’s right. She should be here. She might never forgive herself if I … you know.’ She lifted her hand slightly so as not to dislodge the drip. ‘And I mind for you.’

  Why should she mind for Morris? Why should he care if Rachel went tramping? There was no need to mind for Morris.

  As it happened, Sadie got better. Went home.

  So, after all that fuss it was okay that Rachel went tramping. She could be forgiven for it. Morris wonders if David has forgiven her for it. He looks at his son. And at Wendy. Again the single face.

  Then Wendy says, ‘Back to business. What do we know about her gear?’

  David clicks his pen. ‘All right, I’ll tell you what I know. I know that she spends a fortune on sporty-style stuff. She probably spends half her income on that crap.’

  ‘It’s not crap.’ Morris’s voice comes out too loud. ‘It’s important to have good equipment. You don’t want to be caught in the bush with inadequate equipment.’

  ‘Okay, Dad, we get the message. You and Rachel love tramping gear. You’re passionate about it.’

  And not much else, David wants to add. Morris can almost hear the words, and David’s c’mon-Dad-I-was-joking tone as he said them.

  ‘These things are important,’ Morris says. He manages to keep his voice down.

  ‘Um, you two,’ says Wendy. ‘If I can bring you back to the job at hand.’

  Now look where you are. You’ve got yourself so caught up in thinking unjustified thoughts about your own son you’ve forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing. Think about Rachel’s tramping gear. Rachel. Tramping gear. That’s all.

  When Rachel was small she carried a little canvas pack that had once been David’s school satchel.

  With every tramp the satchel got fuller and fatter until the sight of it, bobbing in front of Morris, embarrassed him. Rachel was nine or ten at the time. The right age for a proper backpack. With a pocket on the top and a pouch on the side for holding the water bottle.

  Morris went to a camping shop and found just the right pack. He bought it there and then, even though he hadn’t compared prices with other shops. Even though he hadn’t consulted with Sadie. He was hungry for the pack. If he paused to consider, the moment might be lost. And they were going tramping that weekend, the gear was ready to be laid out on the lounge floor. It was urgent. Besides, good camping equipment was important. You don’t cut corners when it comes to tramping gear.

  Morris planned what he’d say if Sadie disapproved of his buying the pack: I saw it in the window and thought, That’s what Rachel needs. I know it seems like a lot of money but it’s actually quite cheap for something of this quality. It was on special. David got that tape recorder and Rachel didn’t complain. Good tramping equipment is important. You don’t want to be caught in the bush with inadequate equipment.

  Sadie was alone in the kitchen. ‘I bought this for Rachel,’ Morris said. ‘David got that tape recorder …’

  ‘It’s blue,’ Sadie said. ‘Her favourite colour. I’ll wrap it and we can give it to her when she comes home from ballet. She’ll love it.’

  Morris remembers Rachel’s face, her hair done u
p in its tight ballet bun, her careful fingers opening the wrapping, her eyes lighting up.

  She didn’t wait to change out of her ballet clothes. Just slipped the blue backpack over the leotard. And kept it on while Morris laid the gear out on the lounge floor.

  Rachel is wearing a pink leotard, pink tights, ballet shoes, a pink slip of a skirt. And a blue backpack. She’s standing in the middle of the lounge, surrounded by camping equipment.

  ‘Check,’ she says, and she points a toe at the cooker. ‘Check and check,’ as she jumps over a pile of clothes.

  She pauses, one hand on her hip. ‘I could make a list of everything that goes into my pack.’

  ‘A list,’ says Morris.

  ‘Sorry, Dad, what did you say?’

  ‘A list. She might keep a list to remind her what to take on a trip.’

  Wendy says, ‘You’re right. She might.’

  ‘She’s always been a big one for lists,’ says David. And then he says, ‘Oh bugger.’

  ‘What?’ says Wendy. ‘What?’

  ‘I forgot to check if she has any ballet classes this afternoon. I should have checked her ballet classes first. Oh bugger.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ says Wendy. ‘We can check now.’

  ‘How can we?’

  ‘We can ask someone. Who would know?’

  ‘No one. No one. I can’t think of anyone.’

  ‘D’you think Debbie knows?’

  ‘Why would Debbie know?’

  ‘Someone at the gym?’

  ‘They wouldn’t know at the gym. Her ballet is separate.’

  On and on like a pair of turkeys until David says, ‘That’s sorted then.’

  And Wendy says, ‘Right, Morris, get your coat.’

  It’s all planned. Wendy and Morris will go to Rachel’s flat. They’ll use David’s spare key to get in. David will wait at home by the telephone. He’ll keep trying Rachel’s cell phone. Wendy will look for a ballet schedule, and Morris (he feels sick at the thought of it) will search through Rachel’s things for camping gear and a list.

  He says, ‘If she’s taken her gear it really doesn’t make much sense for me to …’

  Wendy interrupts. ‘It was your idea to look for the list. You’re the detective. I can’t tell the difference between a tent and a what d’you call it? Ground thingy. For God’s sake, Morris, we have to do something. Let’s go.’

  David waves Morris out.

  Sheet, thinks Morris as he follows after Wendy. It’s called a ground sheet. And I’m not a detective.

  Wendy points her arm in the direction of her car. It beeps in response and the locks pop up to hurry Morris along.

  The car’s CD player bursts into life. Not loud but full and rich. Inappropriate.

  Wendy turns it off.

  Later she will turn it on again. Then off, and the radio on. Then off.

  They keep their eyes fixed before them.

  At a traffic light she turns to him. ‘How do you feel … feel about …’

  ‘Did you hear,’ he interrupts, ‘about the opening of the Arctic Sea Route?’

  The traffic light changes.

  ‘Yes, Steven was telling me about it.’

  Steven? Who’s Steven? Steven is not Strobelight. Strobelight is Stewart. Steven is not Wendy’s ex-husband. He was called … what was his name? David. Sadie used to call him Zowie. Why Zowie? Why was Wendy talking to Zowie about the Arctic Sea Route?

  ‘Steven got quite worked up about it. He finds the whole global warming thing really upsetting.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Not Zowie, Steven.

  ‘But you know. I’ll tell you something. Don’t tell anyone I told you. Especially not Steven.’

  Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.

  ‘There’s a part of me that finds it quite exciting. The whole idea that the earth is changing beneath our feet. It’s quite exhilarating really.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Morris says, and immediately wants to take the words back. He shouldn’t admit it. Not openly like that.

  She looks away from the wheel to smile at him. ‘Don’t tell anyone I said it’s exciting. I’ll deny it if you do.’

  Morris smiles. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Pinky promise,’ says Wendy.

  Pinky promise. Sadie used to say that.

  Outside Rachel’s flat, Morris hesitates before unbuckling his seatbelt. It’s as if he doesn’t intend leaving the car. As if he expects Wendy to say, ‘I’ll fetch her and we’ll come straight down.’ Or Rachel herself to be waiting outside, ready to get in the car.

  Wendy notices his hesitation. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I wonder if—’

  ‘Let’s do this thing. What’ve we got to lose?’

  ‘Do you think she’ll mind?’

  Wendy rattles her keys. ‘Come on, Morris. You of all people shouldn’t be squeamish. You spend all day digging about in people’s personal files.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Look, I don’t like this any more than you do, but if we can get information which might help …’

  Morris unbuckles his seatbelt.

  At Rachel’s front door he stops himself from suggesting that they knock before entering.

  Wendy takes the key from her bag and then, after the slightest pause, knocks loudly. ‘You never know,’ she says.

  They stand in the narrow entranceway, looking at the door, until Wendy says, ‘Well, I guess we know now,’ and turns the key.

  Rachel’s flat is small, clean, uncluttered. Tidy house, untidy mind, thinks Morris, but he doesn’t believe it. The tidiness is soothing. He wants to run his hands along the clear surfaces, to feel the smoothness of them.

  There’s a faint perfume. At first Morris thinks it’s coming from the vase on the table but it can’t be—the flowers in the vase are clearly dead. He draws back, resisting the temptation to sweep the curling petals into his hand.

  Wendy says, ‘Why would she buy flowers before going on a trip?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Unless someone else bought them for her.’

  She snaps her cell phone open and calls David. She hardly greets him—just fires a question into the phone about who might have bought the flowers. Could it have been Strobelight? That could mean he told her about the pregnant girlfriend. Thought he’d sweeten the news with a bunch of crappy flowers. Or maybe it means he didn’t tell her. Maybe they weren’t from him. Anyone could have given them to Rachel. Didn’t her ballet students sometimes give her presents? She wouldn’t have bought flowers for herself before going tramping, would she? Would she? Maybe Rachel was seeing someone else and he gave her flowers. But she’d tell David if she was seeing someone else, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she?

  Morris looks around the room. There’s not much to see. A desk with a telephone and cup of pencils, a sofa, a television and, in the corner, a wooden cabinet with a glass front. The cabinet must be new. Morris doesn’t remember having seen it before. He likes it.

  Rachel won’t mind if he looks more closely. She’d put it there for display.

  If Morris had hours to stand before the cabinet he might see the patterns in the items on show. He might understand why she chose to present that particular ballet shoe and why she placed it so close to the green vase. He might know why she wanted the two eggcups to stand on different shelves.

  If Morris had hours to stand before the cabinet he’d recognise something. Anything.

  Sadie would have known the story behind each item. She would’ve said, ‘I’m so pleased that you kept that sash. I’ll never forget how well you danced that night.’

  She would’ve made a joke about the absence of memorials to herself.

  Morris kneels down so that he’s at the same height as the shelves. The height Rachel would have been at when she filled the cabinet. Did she arrange her belongings on the floor beside her? Did she study each item before deciding if it deserved to be on display? Did she step back once everything was arranged to look at it
again from a different angle?

  She must have felt optimistic when she was doing it. Like she was expecting visitors.

  A shadow falls across the cabinet. Wendy says, ‘I wonder where Rachel found that unit. She must’ve bought it recently. Deco. It reminds me of the furniture your aunt used to have in her house.’

  ‘My aunt. Joan.’

  ‘Your Aunt Joan. Little did we know that her taste in furniture would come back to haunt us. She loved a china cabinet, your Aunt Joan. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one as big as the square one she had in the lounge. Remember?’

  Morris remembers no big square cabinet. He is not interested in a big square cabinet. He wants to study the life that Rachel put on display. He wants to look for the gaps left by an item removed. A keepsake from a boyfriend, perhaps.

  ‘Well, we’d better get down to work,’ says Wendy. She touches him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll look for her ballet schedule. You see if you can find a list. Or gear. Whatever.’

  Morris touches the glass front of the cabinet. Lightly so his fingers won’t leave a mark.

  Wendy’s task is quickly completed. The ballet schedule is exactly where one would expect to find it, on Rachel’s desk next to the telephone. It is clearly labelled: Ballet Students’ Times and Contact Details.

  There are no classes scheduled for today. Wendy phones David, says, ‘So you see, it wouldn’t have made a difference if we’d checked earlier. This is good news.’

  She puts the book in her handbag and says to Morris, ‘People usually keep lists on the fridge. Try the fridge. Oh, and I guess she keeps her gear in the bedroom. You get going in there. I’ll check her phone. There may be messages.’

  Messages? She can’t be intending to listen to Rachel’s phone messages.

  ‘But, but, this is the last place she’d call.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking there’d be messages from her.’ But Wendy withdraws her hand from the phone. ‘I’ll go outside and have a cigarette. Leave you to it then. Try the fridge. For the list.’

  Morris crosses the tiny kitchen to close the balcony door behind Wendy. Rachel wouldn’t want to come home to a flat smelling of cigarette smoke. Wendy shouldn’t be smoking here at all, making herself at home. She’ll be opening Rachel’s underwear drawer next, trying to find her hidden diary so she can pop that into her handbag.