Paper Alice

by Charlotte Calder

  It occurred to me that I didn’t even know what he was studying. Arts, most likely, like me . . .

  We’d reached a parting of ways between the servery and the bar. I reached over and took the few used glasses on his tray to return them with my lot.

  ‘Thanks.’ He grinned. ‘Well, if we’re talking about careers, you could always go into the collecting business – debts, shoes, whatever.’

  I made a face at him.

  ‘Or write plays, like your sister.’

  Oooff. It was like being winded.

  ‘Ciao,’ he added, wandering off to the hatch. Leaving me standing there, mouth hanging open.

  By the end, when the last few stragglers were noisily exiting in little flocks, like tipsy parrots, I’d become determined to get things off my chest, set the record straight. I’d been moving around through the throng as though in a capsule, deaf to the noise and laughter and probable demands for more drinks. Operating on auto pilot.

  Avoiding Andy’s eye, at all costs.

  I plodded on, picking up dirty glasses and debris, stacking my tray and carrying it to the bar. It was when I bent to unload one of the dishwashers that he was suddenly there beside me, hauling out hot glasses in a cloud of steam, head next to mine.

  It was now or never.

  ‘I–’

  I stopped. He turned and looked at me.

  ‘I’m not really her sister–’ I swallowed, nearly choking on my own gabble. ‘I only said I was, to get out of it, explain why I was there–’

  I broke off, my fingers gripping wine glass stems, my face prickling with warmth and shame.

  His eyes were full of genuine bemusement.

  ‘What?’ he asked, starting to laugh.

  ‘Y’know,’ I cried, almost crossly, ‘the Wilda thing!’

  ‘Oh, the Wilda thing!’

  Could he be serious about anything? I felt like hitting him.

  ‘Hey you two – how about getting a move on? So we can all get out of here before midnight.’ This was from Fred the barman, at the sink.

  ‘Aye aye, captain.’ Andy gave a little salute and bent to the machine again. But he also put a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Why don’t we go and grab a coffee,’ he murmured, ‘when we get out of here, and you can tell me all about it?’

  I got on with the clearing up quite a bit quicker after that.

  Main street suburbia at eleven on a Thursday night was not exactly bopping. Most places had shut, and gusts of wind tumbled dead leaves and bits of rubbish along the footpath, pinning them up against the darkened shop fronts. The only open coffee shop had lace curtains in the windows, plastic flowers on the tables and a sole customer sitting there in the gloom – the owner, most probably. It certainly didn’t look as though it’d have the world’s best brew.

  ‘Well, why don’t you get off at Summer Hill with me – have a coffee at my place,’ Andy suggested. ‘Lil makes the best.’

  It’d been easier to catch the train than try and find my way driving way out through all those unfamiliar suburbs.

  ‘Will she still be awake?’ I asked, wrapping my jacket tighter around me. If I was Lily, I didn’t know whether I’d want me arriving at that hour of the night, particularly if she was tucked up in bed.

  ‘Yeah – she’s up till all hours,’ he said, ‘listening to god knows what on the radio.’

  I pictured pretty, delicate Lily sitting with her ear glued to the airwaves. Somehow the image didn’t fit. And she didn’t look like an insomniac. But perhaps she was studying communications and it was for some kind of an assignment . . .

  ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘she loves having people round.’

  We walked along to the station and down into the tunnel to cross to the city-bound side, our footsteps echoing round the grimy, yellowed tiles. I half-held my breath, waiting to be hit by the usual stench of dried urine.

  I always try and make sure I travel home with someone from work if I go by train. But I couldn’t believe who that person was tonight.

  ‘By the way,’ I asked, when we were climbing the steps on the other side, ‘did your dog really chew your bow tie?’

  He grinned.

  ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘wouldn’t be seen dead with it, let alone chew on it.’

  We laughed.

  ‘But you were so convincing!’ I cried. ‘They didn’t know what to think!’

  ‘That’s me.’ His eyes gleamed in the soft platform lights. ‘Convincing Andy.’

  Suddenly I felt confused, as though I too might be one of the hoodwinked. I stared at the hoarding across the other side of the tracks. Girls just wanna have fun, it said, underneath a couple of groovy chicks dancing with four or five admiring boys.

  ‘Brrr,’ I said, wrapping my jacket around me again and stamping my feet, ‘it’s freezing!’

  The breeze had morphed into a cold wind along the platform, cutting through my thin work pants and whipping around my ankles.

  Andy put an arm around my shoulders and rubbed the top of my arm. A comradely kind of gesture, but like a dork I immediately froze. My stiffness contrasting with an alarming rush of warmth on my inside.

  ‘Girls,’ he said, ‘always feel the cold.’

  I wondered if this included Lily. I stepped out of the circle of his arm and leaned forward, peering, red and green lights glowing at different points down the darkened tracks.

  ‘When,’ I cried, ‘is this train coming?’

  And then we heard a rumble and the blare of a horn and the headlights came swinging round the bend, the rails ahead of it shining silver.

  Trains always scare me slightly, for some reason. They’re so . . . inevitable. I once read that if you dream about a train, you’re dreaming about death. Plus I start imagining what it’d be like to be one of those heroines in an old-time melodrama, tied to the tracks . . .

  When it had glided in and hissed to a stop, and we’d entered a carriage with only one other person in it and sat down, I asked him what he was studying at uni.

  ‘Guess,’ he said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

  I remembered those Philosophy lectures.

  ‘Arts.’

  ‘Nup.’

  ‘Liberal Studies?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ From his faintly ironic smile I could tell this wasn’t the first time he’d been through this line of questioning.

  We locked gazes, smiling. My blood started its tiny fizzing again.

  No, Alice, there’s Lily.

  I dropped my gaze. ‘Um . . . Architecture?’

  He shook his head. Still looking at me.

  ‘Give up?’

  Law? Though I certainly couldn’t picture him ending up as a solicitor.

  ‘Maths,’ he said.

  ‘Maths?’ I swung round to him. ‘You?’

  People who did maths were supposed to be the nerdy, mad-professor type, with frizzy hair and thick glasses, spending their lunch times playing chess or avidly discussing theorems with other maths students. Not boys with wicked grins and baggy clothes who wrote and appeared in their own plays.

  ‘Pure maths, actually. It’s not really,’ he added, almost automatically, ‘what you might think.’ His tone of voice confirming my suspicions that these were very Frequently Asked Questions about his choice of course.

  Despite my extremely average mathematical abilities, I determined to try and sound intelligent. But the very next words that came popping out of my mouth were about as bimbo-ish and predictable as they could be:

  ‘You must be brilliant!’

  If he didn’t mentally wince, I did. He shrugged.

  ‘No . . . just interested.’ He folded his arms and stretched his legs out in front of him, staring at his crossed feet. ‘That kind of maths is actually quite . . . creative, in a way. Like a sort of exploration.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said trailing off. What could I say? ‘Have you . . . always been good at it?’ I asked.

  Another shrug. ‘Pretty good. I started off in first year doing Art
s, taking maths as an elective science subject, and ended up getting a high distinction for maths and bare passes for everything else.’ He laughed. ‘Too much else going on. So then I switched to science, majoring in advanced maths, with one or two arts subjects – eg philosophy – in the mix.’

  I just smiled at him, shaking my head dumbly.

  ‘It’s not some huge mystery,’ he added. ‘One of these days I’ll explain a bit about it to you if you like.’

  At this suggestion that our contact might extend beyond this chance meeting, that despite my peculiar behaviour we might still actually be friends, I got another small endorphin buzz.

  ‘Oh.’ My laugh came out a happy, silly gurgle. ‘OK . . .’

  Then I looked up and caught sight of the man sitting facing us, several rows away. He was balding with arms folded over his paunchy stomach, rocking slightly with the motion of the train. Staring at us with a faint smile. Getting all misty-eyed, I decided, over memories of his own youthful romances. We must have looked as though we were just getting together.

  I folded my arms, frowned and leaned away from Andy slightly.

  ‘Anyway,’ came the voice beside me, ‘speaking of mysteries, you were going to tell me about Wilda.’

  Despite my new resolve to chill, the name still gave me a jolt.

  I rolled my eyes and gave a loud sigh.

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘Spiro didn’t say anything about . . . her? Or me?’ I added, swallowing.

  He shook his head.

  ‘The only time I’ve seen him lately was at Finks that night, and the stand-up comics were so full-on no one got much of a chance to talk.’

  Thank god.

  ‘And you’ve never met her . . . Wilda?’

  ‘No, I’ve never met Wilda,’ he intoned. ‘But,’ he added solemnly, peering at me sideways, ‘she seems to look like you – am I right?’

  I made a face; gave him a playful shove.

  ‘Yes, she looks like me.’ I sighed again. That feeling of dread was creeping over me once more. ‘A lot like me, obviously, although I’ve never met her, either.’

  He stared at me in silence. Our shoulders swaying in time as the train ker-thumped along.

  ‘She was in a newspaper article . . .’

  And I told him all the bits leading up to my visit to the Cave, including my bumping into Spiro at the pub. ‘I only went to the Cave that night out of curiosity, to see what she was like. And then with all the commotion,’ I finished, giving him a mock-glare, ‘I said she was my sister, just to get outta there!’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ he said, folding his arms but not looking entirely contrite, ‘sorry – again.’

  ‘Anyway.’ I looked down at my hands, frowning. ‘The whole thing’s got kind of . . . blown out of the water – in my mind, anyway. I keep thinking she’s going to . . . pop up out of nowhere and abuse me, for impersonating her sister. It sounds ridiculous, but it’s kind of scary.’

  We were silent once more; I could feel him looking at me.

  ‘The Revenge of the Doppelganger!’ he said.

  ‘Oh!’ I swung round to him, half-laughing. ‘It’s not funny!’

  ‘Well,’ he said, his expression becoming a bit more serious, ‘you know what you’ve gotta do.’

  Yet another sigh from me.

  ‘I know . . .’

  ‘Spiro’ll have her number, and I’ve got Spiro’s number so – meet up with her, clear the air. If it needs clearing,’ he added, with a short laugh. ‘He may not even know her that well – may not have even spoken to her since that night.’

  ‘Huh,’ I said gloomily. Somehow I doubted it.

  The train was slowing down for a station; the other passenger stood up.

  ‘Where are we?’ I asked, peering out into the night, not having a clue.

  ‘Strathfield,’ said Andy, without looking. ‘A couple more stations to go yet.’

  The man passed us on the way to the door, looking straight ahead. My anti-perving vibes had obviously had an effect.

  Andy had hauled out his phone.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, scrolling down, ‘Spiro’s number . . .’ He found it and held out the phone to me. ‘Ring him now, if you like, on mine.’

  ‘Oh, no . . .’ I stared down at the screen; the ten numbers suddenly seemed as sinister as if they were the code to detonate a bomb. Once dialled, no going back.

  ‘No,’ I muttered, pulling out my own phone. ‘It . . . it’s too late now, anyway. I’ll take it down and ring some other time.’

  Yeah, right.

  ‘Gutless!’ The blue eyes glittered. ‘If you don’t do it,’ he went on in a more serious tone, ‘then you’ll just go on being paranoid. You’ll probably get worse,’ he added, starting to smile again, ‘and end up going completely nuts!’

  ‘Oh, thanks!’ I laughed, but I was amazed at how quickly he had got a handle on the situation; grasped just how much the whole thing was bothering me.

  The train stopped briefly and then got going again. The bald man walking down the platform slid past in the window and was gone.

  Andy shrugged carelessly. ‘I’ll tell him if you like. Mention it in casual conversation. As in: “Hey, I bumped into that crazy Alice girl again–” ’

  He held up his forearm, laughing, as I gave him a thump. Grabbed my fist with his other hand and held it firmly.

  ‘Let me go!’ I giggled, not really wanting him to. What I felt like doing was getting a whole lot closer.

  ‘Seriously,’ he said, loosening his grip, ‘if I see him I could tell him the truth – how you just said you were her sister to get out of there, et cetera.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said, ‘OK.’

  What was chiefly occupying me at that moment was the tingly brush of his fingertips on my wrist. Then he let go, and I thought about his suggestion a bit more.

  ‘Yeah, that’d probably be good.’ I couldn’t quite meet his eye. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘your double. Aren’t you curious to meet her?’

  I shrugged. Was I?

  ‘Curious,’ I said, ‘but kind of . . . not scared, exactly but–’

  ‘Apprehensive,’ he said, looking at me with a half-smile. ‘After all, she might turn out to be your long-lost twin – the one your parents abandoned at birth.’

  ‘I have decided,’ I said, frowning and laughing at the same time, ‘against that theory.’

  Had I, completely? The thought had been there all along, bubbling just below the surface, kept supressed by the awful, extreme unlikelihood of Mum and Dad ever doing such a thing. But now Andy had voiced it, if only in jest . . .

  For the hundredth time I thought about my mother’s reaction to Wilda’s photo, and those words of Dad’s. Things got a bit difficult around the time you were born.

  I gave myself a mental shake. The whole thing was ridiculous – she probably didn’t even look that much like me! I should just meet up with her, get the whole thing cleared up and out of my system.

  So why did the thought of the encounter fill me with such dread?

  At first glance, Andy’s place, which was just around the corner from the station, looked like the classic student terrace. By the glow of the porch light I could see that the parts that weren’t smothered in creeper needed a coat of paint, and the upstairs verandah was still enclosed. Almost certainly what the real estate agents would refer to as being in its ‘original condition’.

  ‘Is it just the two of you living here?’ I asked, as he motioned me through the gate. Somebody, I noticed, had been taking care of the tiny, old-fashioned front garden. A smiling gnome held up a birdbath in the middle of the little circle of gravel that was bordered by plants and shrubs, including a couple of roses still hanging on from summer, gleaming dully in the soft light.

  ‘Yep,’ he said, fishing for his key. ‘One of me’s enough for Lil.’

  I got another little pang. How cosy . . . And then: the rent must be pretty big, for two students on their own. The house might be a renov
ator’s delight, but it obviously wasn’t tiny.

  The sounds coming from the other side of the door were no surprise. Excited yaps, alternating with snufflings under the crack and the scrabble of doggy toenails.

  ‘Is that the bow-tie chewer?’ I asked, smiling.

  Andy put the key in the lock. ‘The very same. Jack!’ he called uselessly. ‘Quiet!’

  He turned the key; the big old door swung open. And after fending off Jack’s rapturous greetings, I looked up and got a bit of a shock. Rather than the normal flaking paint, tatty posters and surfboards propped against the wall, the front passage had an old-fashioned, flowery runner of carpet stretching along the polished floor and up the stairs, and a hall table with flowers on it and a mirror behind it. And instead of the usual musty student aroma, this place smelt of furniture polish.

  Either Lily was into retro houseproudness, or . . .

  ‘Hey–’ called Andy, loudly and unnecessarily, ‘I’m home.’

  It was only when Jack finally shut up that I heard the gentle murmur of a radio coming from the lit doorway further down.

  ‘Hi, darls.’ The voice certainly didn’t sound like Lily’s. ‘I’m in here–’

  ‘Where else?’ said Andy softly, rolling his eyes. Then, as naturally as though we were both three years old, he took my hand and led me towards the doorway.

  ‘Come and meet Lil.’

  We rounded the corner, and there in an armchair, rug over her knees, sat an old lady. She was illuminated by the soft light of a lamp, peering down at the portable radio on her lap, her bony fingers fumbling with the knob.

  She looked up and smiled, her false teeth too noticeably perfect in her lined old face.

  ‘He-llo!’

  Andy went over and gave her a peck on the forehead, at the same time reaching down and turning down the volume. Something he obviously did a lot.

  ‘Lil,’ he said, putting his hand on her shoulder, ‘meet Alice. Alice – Lil. My gran.’

  I just stood there, gawking.

  ‘Oh,’ I stammered finally, my brain still catching up. ‘I thought . . .’

  ‘What?’ asked Andy, looking at me.

  I could feel my face beginning to colour.

  ‘Oh,’ I said again. I shook my head. ‘It’s nothing.’