Then she started asking about me.
Funny, it felt a bit like unrolling my life and spreading it out for us both to take a look at. And what it amounted to seemed pretty damned ordinary.
I mean, here was I, raised by two parents who loved me, having been given, as that old speech-day chestnut goes, Every Opportunity, and what was I doing? Going to uni, seeing friends, returning to my safe and comfortable home – that was about it. And here was someone who had never had a proper home or family, striking out on her own in a new city, writing plays, helping underprivileged kids . . .
I sensed that she was fighting an inclination to sum me up as a typically indulged, middle-class university student. I found myself playing down or not mentioning the cushier aspects of my life – the private-school education, what my parents did, our architect-designed house, but after a few questions I could tell she’d sussed most of it out anyway.
There was nothing left but for me to lamely offer that I would be getting involved with Students as Siblings. ‘I only left without signing,’ I finished, ‘because I was so freaked at finally seeing you!’
She grinned.
‘Why d’you think I bolted off early?’
We laughed.
‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘you can give your details to me if you like, and I’ll pass them on to Larissa.’
‘Sure.’ I pulled out a notepad and pen and started writing them down. ‘Will you be–’
But she was peering at what I wrote.
‘So,’ she said, ‘your name actually is Alice.’
I looked up at her in surprise. ‘Yeah!’
She was smiling wryly back at me.
‘Well, after all that mystery about your identity at the drama meeting – Alice – my sister . . . who knew who you really were!’
As I’ve already said, I was beginning to wonder myself.
CHAPTER
TEN
We chatted for a few more minutes, and then Wilda looked at her watch and said she had to get back to UTS for a tutorial. She added that after I’d passed all the mandatory checks (to make sure I didn’t have a criminal record, etc), we’d be seeing quite a bit of one another at the Students as Siblings training sessions. She gave me her number, too, in case anything came up. I think we both knew she was thinking about more than just the program.
Finally meeting my double may have been a huge relief in some ways, but it still didn’t stop her shadowing me – in my mind, at least. First semester was nearly over; in less than a fortnight’s time I had two major essays due plus two exams, yet for the next few days images and thoughts of Wilda trailed through my brain like writing in the sky.
It was so distracting. I’d get myself settled in the library with books and pens and notepads, look up relevant page numbers, open to one of them, and there she’d be, popping into my head as though she were a genie, trapped between the pages. That direct, quizzical gaze of hers, her skin and hair, and that shrug that was so much like mine . . .
I’d give myself a mental shake; remind myself that we weren’t identical – anyone could see that. I tried picturing her, in order to pinpoint our differences. For example, she was slightly more angular looking, and perhaps a tiny bit taller, with wider-flaring nostrils and a longer length of jaw as it ran down into her chin.
And yet all that did was to etch her image even deeper into my mind’s eye. And inevitably her features would blur into and merge with mine; I couldn’t separate us. It was exhausting. Even the most noticeable difference – her teeth – was a ghostly echo of my own childhood.
Leave it alone, I kept telling myself. Everyone has people who look like them – this is just an extreme case. Concentrate, as my dear mother would say, on what’s important.
As in: passing first semester.
After all, we’d led completely different lives, in different places. Aside from our looks, there was nothing to really connect us, was there? Apart from our dental history, nail-chewing habit, taste in clothes, and shrug.
The first person I thought of telling about Wilda was Andy. Just to mull it over. But I couldn’t, of course, no way – not after that latest unspeakable little incident. He’d think I was chasing him. And anyway, I didn’t even have his phone number.
I didn’t know whether I felt like telling it all to Milly, not right then. I knew she’d be like, ‘Well, well, so tell me about her!’ And I would. But how to explain to her that strange sense of . . . connectedness with Wilda – when I didn’t really understand it myself? I just didn’t have the energy. And anyway, she’d be sure to grow impatient and hustle me on to more interesting topics, ie – her own dramas over the past few days.
But of course my phone soon rang, and it was guess who? So I did tell Milly (briefly) about Wilda, and she was suitably interested and said the three of us should meet for a coffee some time.
Then came her news, which left me feeling quite winded.
‘You’ll never guess,’ she started, her casual tone immediately putting me on alert, ‘what I’m doing tomorrow night.’
‘What?’
‘Auditioning for the Arts Revue. You know . . . the one Chet and them are putting on.’
‘Oh . . .’ My insides jumped, as though I’d been given a fright. ‘H-how come?’
‘To audition, of course – why else? There’ve been flyers about it up all over the place – haven’t you noticed? But Chet,’ she added, resuming her offhand, almost ironic voice, ‘actually texted me – about it.’ Pause. ‘They thought I’d be perfect for a few of the sketches.’
They?
‘Oh . . .’ I swallowed, a small jet of jealousy flaring in me. ‘Cool.’
I remembered that evening in Chet’s kitchen, when they’d been joking about writing a skit about zombie girls in blue polka-dot shoes.
‘You should come along too!’
‘What?’ I cried. ‘To audition?’
‘Yeah!’
‘No way!’
Apart from the fact that acting has never really been my thing, the thought of getting up there and making a fool of myself in front of that lot, including Andy, horrified me.
On the other hand, the thought of Milly becoming best friends with them all, and me being left out in the cold, was just as bad.
‘I suppose I could help out – if they need anyone,’ I mumbled finally. ‘If you do get in. Bet you do!’ I added, trying to sound generous.
As I’ve already mentioned, Milly’s a natural in the comedy department.
Wilda and I had coffee together one afternoon, in Glebe. We sat there talking for ages, until the proprietor started moving in chairs and tables from outside, obviously wanting to close up.
It felt strange in a way – almost like rediscovering someone you’d been close to, but, due to severe amnesia, had no recollection of. Nice-strange, though.
Among other things she told me about her own experiences with the mentoring. She’d had her fair share of difficulty with her little ‘sister’ – certainly to begin with at least. Eleven-year-old Tegan had spent most of her life being taken in and out of foster care, which had certainly left its scars. She’d been sullen, manipulative and aggressive in turn, and sometimes wouldn’t even be there when Wilda turned up to take her out. But Wilda had stuck it out, and Tegan was finally beginning to trust her, and look forward to their outings. Wilda had even been greeted with a hug on her last visit, which, as she said ‘kind of made it all worthwhile’.
‘But she’s a fairly extreme case,’ she added with a sigh. ‘Hopefully you’ll be given an easier kid!’
It would be typical, I thought, for Wilda, with her own insights into suffering, to be assigned a very difficult child. Nonetheless, it seemed like pretty daunting stuff, certainly for sheltered little me, at any rate. Thinking about it all made me nervous and excited, both at once.
Then, since I had Dad’s car for the day, I gave Wilda a lift home to her share house in Redfern. And when I mentioned I lived in Neutral Bay, she told me she had
friends who lived there, in a house in Dudley Street.
I glanced sideways at her. ‘Dudley Street?’
‘Yeah, number sixty-three. Why – is that your street?’
‘No – the next one up.’ I stared absently at the car in front. ‘Number sixty-three would be . . . Are they next door to a modern house with a pool?’
‘Yeah . . . yeah, they are!’
‘I’m sure that’s the one I call the Creepy Crawly House!’ I cried, starting up again as the light went green. ‘The back of our house – my bedroom window – overlooks it. And the backyard of your friends’ house is next to it–’
‘Hey,’ Wilda was sounding equally stoked, ‘That’s amazing!’
Then she frowned.
‘But . . . why d’you call it the “Creepy Crawly House”?’
I laughed. ‘Because the only thing that seems to move in that courtyard is the creepy-crawly cleaner thing in the pool. Apart from the owner, this old guy who only comes out once in a blue moon.’ I shrugged. ‘And he kind of looks a bit creepy himself, wearing those cardigans, and always on his own!’
Wilda stared at me. ‘But that’s Jim!’ she cried. ‘He’s lovely! And the reason you hardly ever see him is because he’s inside most of the time, looking after his wife. She’s an invalid – she had a stroke or something, ages ago – right after they moved into that house. She can’t walk or talk, but he’s too devoted to her to put her in a home.’
‘Oh . . .’
There was a small silence. I suddenly felt like something very small and creepy-crawly myself.
‘I feel awful,’ I started, but she interrupted me with a shrug.
‘You weren’t to know.’ Then she grinned, twisting around in her seat. ‘Next time I visit Dudley Street, I’ll come and drop in on you!’
‘They need a stage manager,’ said Milly, ‘so I suggested you.’
I swapped the receiver to my other ear. ‘What?’
She, of course, had romped it into the revue cast; was ringing me with the glad tidings.
‘You can be stage manager,’ she repeated airily. ‘The whole thing’s gunna be such a blast!’
‘But . . .’ I stared out through the windows at the shadowy courtyard, my pulse quickening. A pale sliver of moon was starting to rise above Ballboy’s chimney. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue about being a stage manager!’
As I’ve already said, drama wasn’t really my thing at school.
‘Oh, come on Al,’ she cried, ‘how hard can it be? I mean, it’ll just be common sense, won’t it?’ Adding cheerfully: ‘Doing whatever needs doing, I guess . . .’
‘General dogsbody, in other words!’
I thought about working with Lily, and Chet and May and . . . Andy. And Milly and the rest of the cast. Laughing and fooling about while we painted props and shifted scenery . . .
How could I refuse?
Then again, it’d be full-on. How was I going to be able to manage doing that and the Students as Siblings thing, once it got started? I suddenly seemed to have gone from being stuck in a rut to facing two new and distinctly scary unknowns.
‘Rehearsals aren’t starting till the holidays,’ said Milly, as if reading my thoughts.
I drew a shaky breath, then sighed.
‘O-K,’ I said, ‘I guess I can try. But only if they haven’t got anyone else who wants to do it – someone experienced! Will . . . you tell them?’
‘No, they haven’t got anyone else.’ I could almost hear her breaking into a grin. ‘And yes, I’ve already told them – you’ll do it.’
The less said about the following week the better. By the weekend I was really beginning to panic. Stu-vac seemed to have been and gone in a haze of god knows what, and now I was going nowhere but my desk or the library, with the odd foray into other buildings to drop off essays, or sit exams.
It was like doing the HSC all over again. My room was like a war zone, with piles of papers and folders and books all over the floor and dirty glasses and dishes lying around from my last meal or snack. I did a couple of all-nighters to get two different assignments in, which left me feeling as though I had severe jet-lag. Especially when I hadn’t even had time to shower to get the essay to the drop-off place by 9 am. It was a bit like being on a thirty-hour flight – a kind of hell you just have to get through – though of course it all went on for a lot longer than thirty hours.
And in the midst of it all I barely had time to register, let alone enjoy, the fact that Dad finally got a job! As marketing manager for a local plumbing supplies company, as distinct from his former job as national head of marketing for a major sporting goods brand. On about half the salary, and we didn’t quite have the need for O-rings and S-bends that we did for joggers and tennis racquets, but who cares? It was a job, and almost overnight Dad became bouncier and smilier again, and full of his old tricks to help me keep going through hell week.
And then it was the holidays, and we had the first production meeting. In the Cave, for all the cast and crew, about fifteen of us altogether.
I’d given Milly a lift and she typically wasn’t ready when I arrived to pick her up, so we were running a bit late. By the time we arrived most people were already sitting around on bean bags or the floor, or leaning up against various bits of set. It’s all black in there, and even though the door into the foyer was open and the lights were on, it somehow looked as though they were already on stage, encircled in a pool of light in the darkness. They turned to look as we came in, and Chet said, ‘Ah, Milly, and our stage manager, the lovely Alice.’
We gave tiny waves, and Milly cried ‘Hi-i – sorry we’re late!’
I hoped that not too many of them had been present the last time I was here. My gaze slid over May, and Lily and Andy, who both gave us little grins and waves.
We plonked ourselves down, breathing in that theatre smell of old greasepaint, dust and sweat, and things got under way. Chet gave the opening chat, and then everyone introduced themselves and said what they were going to be doing. Andy would be co-directing with Chet, plus acting in some of the skits; May was co-producer with Chet and also doing sound and lights; and Lily was in charge of publicity, as well as doing some acting. When it came to me I didn’t repeat ‘stage manager’, partly because Chet had already said it, but mostly because I didn’t want to pretend I knew more than I already did about the role – which was, of course, next to nothing.
We’d all be helping make the sets, such as they were.
One or two of the actors I recognised from other uni productions, and there was also another who seemed super-familiar, until it hit me that he was the eye-rolling star of a really annoying ad on TV for mobile phones.
I glanced sideways at Milly. She was hugging her knees to her chest, her eyes gleaming. It occurred to me that this whole thing might be just what the doctor ordered for our Mildy.
And then everyone had to write down the times they weren’t available over the two weeks of holidays. I put down ‘pretty flexible’, but I hoped they weren’t going to have too many rehearsals at night. Seeing my last handybank receipt showed a grand total of $4.00, I desperately needed to do some Bunters shifts.
After it had been decided that the first rehearsal would be the following day, the actors left and the rest of us, plus Milly, stayed to sort out various production details. As in: who’d be responsible for keys, prompting, props and rehearsal schedules, for example. The answer to all four, by the way, was guess who?
First thing to remember if you’re ever made stage manager: bring a notepad. All I had was the back of a tattered library list, so Lily gave me some pages from hers.
I was getting increasingly nervous as I scribbled away. I know everyone else was doing heaps too, but it seemed to me that it was going to be pretty obvious to everyone if, or rather when, I stuffed up.
Afterwards as we were all wandering out, Andy was suddenly there beside me.
‘So,’ he said, ‘did you find her – Wilda?’
‘Yeah . .
.’ I gave a little laugh. He was looking particularly rumpled today, but his eyes were as blue as ever. ‘Yeah, I did actually! It’s a long story, but–’
He looked at me.
‘But–?’
I waved a hand. ‘No, it was great – such a relief to finally meet her. But so . . . weird!’
‘What was weird?’ asked Lily, catching up to us.
‘She met up with that double of hers,’ said Andy, ‘that day, after you bumped into her.’
‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘Wow!’
They both looked at me, waiting for me to go on.
‘So,’ Andy started again, a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth, ‘did you establish a long-lost connection?’
I shrugged.
‘Not really . . .’ I paused. ‘Except–’
‘Except what?’ they said, practically together.
‘That was what was weird,’ I said. ‘It really did feel as though there was some kind of – connection between us. Like – we’d had completely different lives and stuff, but there was still something incredibly the same.’
‘As in – you look practically identical!’ said Lily.
‘Face it, kid.’ This was from Andy, that little grin still there. I could drown in it, I thought suddenly. ‘She’s your doppelganger, turned up from another life, to haunt you.’
I made a face – to stop myself beaming idiotically back at him. It was so awkward the way he flirted in front of Lily like this.
And there was that word again – doppelganger. I hadn’t even been able to bring myself to google it.
I turned around to look for Milly. She was standing in the doorway, deep in conversation with Chet.
My notebook was certainly needed the next afternoon, at the first rehearsal. As we ran through the skits with the actors reading from their scripts, Chet or Andy and sometimes May would call: ‘Can you make a note of that, Al?’ I ended up scribbling pages and pages in the way of props and scenery requirements, script alterations, et cetera, et cetera. This job was certainly going to involve way more than just turning up to rehearsals.
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