by Liz Byrski
She takes out three hundred dollars and checks the balance. Just over six thousand; much more than most people have on release, she knows, but it won’t last long. She’ll need rent and probably a bond. A job, she must get a job, but first she’ll have to go shopping, buy some more clothes, underwear, a nightdress. She puts the money, her money, into her wallet and cuts through London Court, across Hay Street and through an arcade into Murray Street and the coffee shop in Forrest Chase where she used to have coffee before she caught the train home to Midland. Her legs are weak, trembling, and she’s a bit giddy. Is she supposed to order at the counter or is it table service? How will she ever get a job if she hasn’t the confidence to order a coffee? She grabs the edge of the counter, steadies herself and takes a deep breath.
‘Do I order here?’ she asks and the barista gives her a surly nod as the machine hisses steam.
Alice takes her coffee to a table and sits watching the streams of people weaving their way to and from the station, back and forth along the mall. She is calmer now but there’s a sense of unreality, as though at any moment someone will order her to move, tell her to do something, tell her what to do next. But there is no one else in charge now, the decisions are all hers, and each time she thinks of that she feels a stab of panic. She’s out here, on her own, her children have disowned her, the friends who hadn’t known how to handle it have all drifted away. No one visited her inside – actually one person did, even sat in court watching the trial, the last person she’d have expected, visited quite often until he moved too far away.
‘Give me a call when you get out,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll help if I can.’
They’d exchanged letters since then but she hadn’t told him she was due for release. Maybe she’ll call, or maybe not; one final tie to the past, perhaps she should cut that too. Anyway, before she can think about any of that she has to sort out her phone, or get a new one. She sips her coffee, breaks off a piece of croissant and dunks it. She can make croissants now, excellent croissants, chef said, professional standard. Will someone give her the chance to make some, to make anything? Will anyone trust her with that?
The longer she sits the stronger she grows; no one notices her, and even though she feels as though the words ‘first day out of jail’ are tattooed across her forehead, she knows that there really is nothing about her to indicate that she is anything other than a woman sitting alone with a coffee, just one of many, totally unremarkable. She decides to stay a bit longer, orders a second coffee and plans her next move: the Telstra shop first, and then Myer for knickers, bras, a nightdress, maybe some jeans and a couple of shirts, then the bus to the unit. It all adds up to a daunting prospect: the shops, the people, the choices, the decisions, the bus and then the greatest ordeal of all – the unit and the people she’ll have to share with. But if she can do all this today, then tomorrow will be easier, and the day after tomorrow, and the day after that. One day at a time. By this time next week she’ll be feeling a whole lot better about everything. At least that’s what Alice tells herself as she finally pushes aside her empty cup, picks up her bag and makes her way across the mall to the phone shop.
eclan, alone in the office, surrounded by paperwork in untidy piles, facing a spreadsheet from which he is supposed to calculate staff pay and authorise it, is bordering on panic. Three weeks ago he was parachuted into this place and expected to take over because his aunt was dying, but the end had come within days, sooner than everyone – no, not everyone – sooner that he had expected.
‘Please, Declan,’ Catherine had begged when she had called in late November, ‘I don’t have long to go, come and stay, come soon, so I can show you the ropes.’
But of course he hadn’t. The prospect of being up close and personal with Catherine showing him the ropes of a business that she’d run single-handedly for years was too hard to contemplate. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his aunt, he liked – even loved – her rather a lot, but she expected so much of him, demanded the same sort of vigorous conversations they used to have when, years earlier, he’d gone down to Benson’s Reach in the university breaks. That was twenty-five years or more ago and it had been fun then. He’d always taken a friend and they’d be planting or cutting back, digging new beds, tying up the fruit canes, sometimes putting up new fences. Then, in the evening, they’d sit with Catherine around the big table, drinking wine and putting the world to rights. But Declan has changed since then. Too much has happened – bad, stupid, embarrassing things that have made him feel vulnerable, fear exposure, keep him from getting up close and personal with anyone. Catherine was too intense, her questions too probing, and although she never passed judgment on him her mere presence made him pass judgment on himself. He’d assumed she was exaggerating when she’d told him she didn’t have long and he had stayed away until it was almost too late. Stupid, he thinks now, stupid and selfish. It would have been easy, really. He’d been living in Albany, doing a job that bored him senseless. If he’d come here when she asked, he would by now have known what he was doing.
It had never occurred to Declan that Catherine would leave him a share in Benson’s Reach. He’d thought she wanted him to run it until someone else took over or it was sold. So he’d kept putting it off, and then the call came from the hospital. She’d lived just three more days in no state to tell him anything much at all. And he had hovered between here and the hospital, embarrassed, shamefaced, horrified by what he’d done, or rather not done. He knew next to nothing about the business and it was too late to learn it from the one person who knew it back to front. The knowledge that he had let down the only member of his family who had ever shown any real interest in him was hauntingly painful.
Declan had run a number of businesses in the past and proved to be not particularly good at it, largely because nothing really grabbed him by the heart or the gut. He’d tried real estate, got to run a small section of a department in the public service, and even been employed to manage a very small non-government agency. He was personable, likeable and very good at looking as though he could manage things, but he was never quite up to the task. Things started off well and then began to fall slowly apart. He was actually happiest doing something physical, but he didn’t appear that way to others. He looked bookish, more like a friendly teacher. He had soft, pale hands that didn’t seem suitable for bricklaying or fencing, no one wanted to employ him to do physical work.
Inheriting just under half of Benson’s Reach would have been a dream come true if he could be tending the lavender and the berries, mending the fences, mowing or doing the maintenance on the cottages – anything, in fact, other than actually sitting in this office pretending he knows how to run it and, right now, trying to draft an advertisement for staff.
None of this is made any easier by the fact that his co-beneficiary and therefore business partner could arrive from London at any time. All Declan knows about her is that she and Catherine met when they were sent to Australia as child migrants in 1947. So she’ll be about the same age and she’ll probably know less about this than he does, which is really saying something. Sadly, the prospect of her grasping the reins and taking charge while sending him off to chop wood and trim the lavender seems unlikely. And she also has the controlling interest. Declan is not keen on the idea of being the one who has the final say, but he’s never owned property before, so he’s not sure how he’ll feel when he has to argue for something he wants or has to defer to someone else. What if she wants to sell it, would that be a good thing or not?
‘Ruby’s a very smart lady,’ Paula had said, ‘not that I’ve met her, but Catherine talked about her a lot. Very smart, she said.’ She had been heading for the office with her cleaning trolley at the time, emanating disapproval of his failure to turn up more than a few days before Catherine’s death. ‘Yes, very smart. Catherine said Ruby was here when you were a kid.’
Paula may be right but Declan can’t remember it. Suppose they don’t get on or don’t agree on what should happe
n – what then? At this stage Declan doesn’t really know what he wants, but based on past experience he’ll discover what he doesn’t want if Ruby suggests it. It’s always been that way with him.
‘I don’t know why she even left a share of the place to me,’ he’d said to Paula. ‘I wasn’t a good nephew; in fact I wasn’t her nephew, just Harry’s, and I can hardly remember him. So, why me?’
‘She thought a lot of you,’ Paula had said. ‘Very fond of you, she was. Very sad that you didn’t come here for help those times you were in trouble.’
‘What? You mean she knew about all that? The, well … er …’
‘The drink and the drugs – oh yes, she knew all about that.’
‘You mean she knew everything?’
‘’Course she did. Not much got past Catherine.’
‘But how – how did she know?’
Paula shrugged, ‘Someone always knows and someone always passes it on. WA may be a huge state but it’s a very small community. Catherine knew a lot of people. Shame you couldn’t make it here when she needed you.’ And she wheeled the trolley into the office, running over Declan’s foot and twisting a knife into his already guilt-stricken gut. Paula, he thinks, is both blessing and nightmare. She knows the place well and does a terrific job, but she’s too opinionated and nosy for his liking. He watches her now as she zips through the office dusting, wiping, whizzing around with the vacuum cleaner.
‘Don’t touch anything on the desk,’ he calls. Not that it would make much difference, he hasn’t a clue what’s there or how to deal with it. She’s an odd sort of mix, Paula, late thirties, possibly a bit more, very tight jeans and a pink t-shirt with a picture of Kylie Minogue on the front, usually plugged into her iPod, singing along quietly with Kylie while she works. But quite often, when she opens her mouth, she sounds like a 1950s charlady.
He shuffles a few papers on the desk now and, thankful that Paula has vacated the office, finds a pad and starts to draft an ad. It would help if he actually knew what sort of staff he needs but he hasn’t been able to work that out yet. What he feels he needs is someone who will tell him what to do, how to make the place work. The figures for the summer tourist trade are down considerably on previous years and the whole place is looking seedy. A couple of seasonal garden staff have left, and everything looks sad and neglected. The shop obviously needs restocking, and although the young assistant is still there, Glenda, who had managed it for years, decided that Catherine’s death was the signal for her own retirement.
The chef left a couple of months ago and Catherine had apparently run out of the energy required to interview anyone new, so she had closed the café. Declan has no idea what goes on with the lavender products except that for years Catherine made them all herself: the moisturisers and cleansers, the soaps and shampoos and conditioners, the massage oils and refresher sprays and all the rest of it. But some years ago she’d started talking about finding someone to train, and that’s when Fleur came along. Fleur, who in so many ways is larger than life – confident, outspoken – makes Declan feel like an awkward child. She’s a big woman, younger than him, probably not yet forty, but tall and curvaceous, with lots of wild auburn hair, and big gestures. Something about her conveys the impression that she is the possessor of ancient wisdom and whenever she’s around Declan fumbles for words and struggles to remember that he’s the one who’s supposed to be in charge. But it’s easy for him to see why Catherine chose Fleur to be the one to whom she would pass the baton of the lavender products. She oozes competence, believes passionately in the soothing and healing properties of the lavender, and her sense of humour is similar to Catherine’s. Fleur plays with irony and takes no prisoners, and if something upsets her she doesn’t mince her words. She seems to get on well with the rest of the staff but keeps her distance, spending most of her time in the workroom and production area and not using the staff room. But she’s good at managing the volunteers who turn up to collect the dried lavender and bags of fabric to make soft toys and eye and neck pillows.
‘Why don’t we pay the volunteers?’ Declan had asked Fleur as they walked around the gift shop a couple of days after he arrived.
‘Because they’re volunteers,’ Fleur had said, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head to one side as though humouring him. ‘All the profits from the cushions and the toys go to charity,’ she’d said, showing him the label around the neck of the nearest teddy bear. ‘Benson’s provides the dried lavender and some of the fabric. The rest of the materials come from local people and businesses who give us offcuts and remnants and also offcuts of the Dacron that goes in with the lavender to make up the filling. Catherine knew various people in Perth so every time she went there she’d come back with bags of leftover fabric and Dacron.’
‘But where does the money actually go?’ Declan had asked. ‘What does it do?’
‘The Birthing Kit Project,’ Fleur had explained. ‘They make up birthing kits for women in developing countries. They’re very simple but hugely effective because they reduce the risk of death from infection and bleeding.’
Declan had blushed and swallowed hard; he was not good with discussions about bleeding, especially about women bleeding. ‘Really?’ he managed to say. ‘That sounds … um … very …’
‘I can show you a kit if you like,’ Fleur had said. ‘I’ve got one in the workroom.’
‘No, no need for that,’ Declan had said almost too quickly, visualising terrifying sets of forceps and hypodermic needles. ‘I’m sure they’re … they must be … um … important and obviously we should keep doing it.’
Fleur had eyed him off at the time, and he’d thought she might be having a silent laugh at his expense. Later she’d put some leaflets about the birthing kits on his desk, together with a small plastic package.
‘It’s very important, you need to read about it,’ Paula had said fiercely when she spotted them the following day. ‘Catherine thought it was important.’
So he had tucked them away in a drawer and turned his attention to other aspects of the business: the potted lavender plants in fancy gift containers, the berry products – the jams, the sauces and vinegars made up by a couple of women in the town and delivered complete in octagonal glass jars and bottles topped with purple and white checked fabric and ribbon. Then there was the bulk picking (no more now until next summer, thank goodness) and the pick-your-own trade and, of course, the letting of the cottages. Catherine had kept everything in her head and so the history, the daily life and orderly running of the place had died with her. Declan knows he lacks the organisational skill and the sort of passionate energy needed to pull it all together. Each day he comes in here and stares in dismay at the chaos which has not changed since the previous day except to become more overbearing. He is paralysed by anxiety, fearful of messing things up in ways that will destroy the place and with it the jobs of the remaining staff.
The telephone rings and Declan clears his throat and attempts to sound professional and confident as he answers. It’s a booking. His first.
‘A week certainly,’ the woman says, ‘but I may want to stay longer. I thought you might be fully booked.’
‘Normally we would be,’ Declan says in a tone he hopes is genial but businesslike, ‘but we’ve had … a few administrative problems, things have slipped a little. We haven’t been processing any bookings.’
‘Well that’s my good luck then,’ the woman says. ‘It’s a lovely place so I’m happy you can take me. In fact, book me in for two weeks. I’ll pay in advance.’
‘I just need to tell you that we’ve had to close the café for a while,’ Declan says. ‘It used to cater for breakfast and lunch. But we can provide everything for a continental breakfast delivered to your cottage kitchen, so if you’re happy with that …’
‘That’s not a problem … Mrs Benson, is she still there?’
Declan takes a deep breath. ‘Sadly Mrs Benson died recently. I’m her nephew, Declan Benson.’
T
here is an awkward silence at the end of the line, then, ‘Oh … oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, how very sad. Well I don’t know what to say now. Your aunt, I only met her the one time we stayed there but she was lovely, so warm and friendly. It must be a great loss.’
The words slip like a dagger into Declan’s heart, and for the first time he actually feels that loss. Stunned by the enormity of what he has to take on it is only now that he starts to feel exactly what it is that he has lost. A lump of something hard and painful seems to have gathered in his throat and he tries to swallow it and coughs in the process. ‘It is indeed,’ he says, thinking his voice sounds as though he’s being strangled. ‘But it was her wish that we should carry on with the business so—’
‘Of course,’ the woman cuts in, ‘but it’s difficult, I’m sure. Well, two weeks then, the name is Craddock, Lesley Craddock – shall I give you my credit card details?’
Declan puts down the phone, enters the booking into the register and leans back in his chair thinking about Catherine, who she really was and what she meant to him. His parents are both long dead, the wider family scattered and unknown to him. His ex-wife despises him for his indecisiveness and his drinking, and hopes never to hear from him again. Years ago, in this situation, Declan would have reached for a drink. He would have opened a bottle of Scotch and poured a liberal amount down his throat, and then some more; or he might have drunk his way steadily through a few bottles of wine until panic and confusion were replaced by the comforting feeling that he was in total control and knew exactly what he was doing. Then he would have passed out, woken up the next morning with a terrible headache and started all over again. There were times, too, when he would have shoved something up his nose or into his arm, but that was a long time ago. It’s twelve years since he had a drink and much longer since he’s taken anything stronger than a couple of Panadol. These days he attempts to deal with stress through meditation, but times like this are a painful reminder that he was much better at drinking than he seems to be at meditating. He wonders now if he might be better to shelve all this confusing paperwork and go outside and sort out the sprinkler system, or check the raspberry canes. But the raspberries are finished and, anyway, he’s done that for the last four days and each time he comes back in here no office fairy has worked magic on any of the problems, a few more of which have landed on the desk.