‘You want to know why I’m here? That’s easy. No place else to go. It was either here or under a bridge.’
She bit her lip, stifling a smile. I’m not the only feisty one in the room. This is going to be fun. But careful, girl, wade in slowly. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Nod your head. Affirm what you’ve just heard.
‘Yes, Baxter, you had no place else to go. I think I’ll hear that from others too.’
‘What do you know about me?’
Oh dear, we do have a touchy one. No beating about the bush. She’d better shoot straight.
‘Well, I know you’re about to turn eighty. You were born in the country. You’ve been here for a year and you don’t have any family.’
It’s all true, these words. She’d read his file. But there’s much more to it. It’s a touch delicate, though. She paused. I can’t tell him I’ve read his file. He would be upset and rightly so. What business is it of mine? Nobody asked his permission. It won’t wash if I blurt out that I need all these background details, especially those he may not willingly disclose. The powers in my Department have spoken to those at the Lodge. Apparently everything is kosher. Helping each other out and all that. And leaving me to the explanations. The neat little dance around the truth and the whole truth. What do they call it? The sins of omission. They won’t be the only sins, I dare say.
He looked at her and reached across for the water. ‘Would you like some?’ She nodded. He poured a glass for both.
How will he play this? This filly knows more than she’s letting on. He studied horses when he was younger. He watched their eyes and the way their bodies moved. No different with people. The eyes. The bodies. You can tell a lot, if you’re observant.
‘You’d like me to cooperate with you. Give me three good reasons why I should.’ He leant his head to the side, and looked at her quizzically.
‘Three reasons? You’re making it tough on me.’
He shrugged. ‘You’re the brains here.’
Again, Simone stifled the impulse to laugh. I’m the brains, am I? You’re a clever old bugger. You don’t believe that for a moment. And now he’s looking me up and down. He’s figured I don’t bite and he might even enjoy himself. That was quick. He was about to pee in his pants when we were introduced.
He’s testing her. Playing for time. Making her dance his tune. A challenge. A challenge she quite liked.
‘You flatter me, Baxter. I think your age and experience might trump my so-called brains anytime. But I’ll try to dig up three reasons why we could work well together.’
She paused, and took a sip of water. ‘The first reason – the official reason – is that our research, somewhere down the track, might do some good. Governments, despite appearances, do listen and can be persuaded. You never know.’
Simone fingered the folder in front of her. I haven’t declared my political allegiance though I’m tempted. Will he give me a cue about his? Not yet. What does he think about politicians and bureaucrats – and academics, for that matter? I get the feeling there will be a touch of cat and mouse between us. He’s not commenting on ‘the official reason’. No surprise, it’s none too convincing.
‘The second reason is that I want to obtain a higher qualification and become known. That’s my purely selfish excuse for seeking your help.’
He’s not surprised about that either. Wow! His eyes are powerful. Does he realise this? Okay girl, pull out the big cannon.
‘And Baxter, the third reason – and for me the most important – is this. I would like to get to know you and for you to get to know me. For me, you’re not just a bunch of data in a research project. You’re a flesh and blood human being and a real person, and even though we’ve just met I sense you’re an interesting person and I could learn a lot, just from yarning together.’
She stopped, and looked at him. There, that’s it. End of presentation. Only thing is - I meant it. He does intrigue me. I could talk with him. We could yarn – I like that word – about who-knows-what. Will he feel inclined to share his life with me? I’ll have to be patient.
‘Where do you want to start?’
His mind raced ahead as he listened to her spiel. In spite of his reservations, he began to feel attracted to the idea of yarning, as she put it. Not that he thought he would have much to say. She would pose the questions. He would deal with them as they came up. Some would be awkward but so what? Over the course of his life, particularly when it became troublesome, he became adroit at deflecting the unwanted intrusions. At letting the difficult balls go through to the keeper. With this young – and admittedly pretty – whippersnapper, it would be a challenge but nothing he couldn’t handle. It wouldn’t be for long and it would be a break from his regular routine. The chair needed a cushion. Angela, the lovely Angela, would set that right. He could probably order a cuppa when he wanted. Who knows, he might even find it interesting, this interview business.
‘Why don’t you pick a place to begin? Or you could tell me about what you were up to before you came to live here, and what happened to change that.’
‘I was living with Jennie in a wee house across the river. Rented, not owned. She died last March. I had my pension but that was it. No relatives, none that I know of. Couldn’t afford the rent. The landlord gave me an extra month. Not a bad cove but he liked the colour of a coin. I went to see the State Housing and they put me on to the Welfare. Getting too old to look after yourself, Mr Moncur, they said. Next thing I know they found me a place here.’
‘Jennie was your sister?’
‘She was. We were always close though she was a bit older.’
‘What about other sisters and brothers?’
‘The eldest was Ann. She passed away in the thirties. I don’t know what happened to Keith, her husband. They had four girls. Must have all married, I expect. I had two brothers. There was George who died around 1950. A shearer, he was. And then Bram who went up north and we never heard from him again.’
‘So you’re the last in the line?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘And you never married?’
‘Nope, always led the single life. Seems to suit me.’
He was able to lie with confidence. Ordinarily, his deception could be swiftly uncovered. The Registrar-General’s office kept official records, including all marriages in the State. But for some inexplicable reason the Moncur-Bailey nuptials in 1919 were not registered. The minister, or one of his flunkeys, stuffed up. The certificate had not gone in. Perhaps it was the fault of the Post Office. He found this out through the grapevine. Alice had made enquiries, sometime after they separated. When nothing showed up it suited her – and it suited him – to stay mute. Of course, if some smart-alec investigator got on the case it wouldn’t take long for the truth to come out. He and Alice produced three children together. There would be birth certificates for each of them. The old electoral rolls would also compromise him. But, who would go this far? No government department wanted to delve into his past. For forty-odd years, the world knew him as a single man.
‘What about your parents?’
‘What about my parents? What have they got to do with your research?’
A good question. He’s sharp, not like some of the others. Simone looked briefly out the window and then back at Baxter. I’m going to get into deep water here. His parents have nothing to do with my project, not directly anyway. But I have a problem. I’m running two agendas. The research topic, let’s face it, is pretty basic. Anybody with two eyes and half a brain can see what is wrong with these institutions and the systems sustaining them. People get older. Some stay at home. Some have families to care for them. Others have no home and no family. Neither do they have money. The State has to care for them. Baxter is one of these. His alternative, as he put it so baldly, would be a cardboard box under a bridge. Sunset is a cut above that. He gets fed and clothed and has a roof over his head and a pittance of a pension to amuse himself until he, like all the others here, is carr
ied away in a cheap coffin to an unmarked grave at Karrakatta.
Simone sighed. Was she really as cynical as that?
‘You’re right, Baxter. It has sweet Fanny Adams to do with my research.’
She was starting to feel confident with Baxter, wanting him to know she was comfortable with street vernacular, a woman of the world, so to speak. He was looking intently at her. Shocked? She didn’t think so.
‘Can I let you into a secret? I’m not a very good social worker. No, let’s rephrase that. I could be a very good social worker, if that’s what I wanted. At the Institute, we were taught how to talk to people and find out what they needed and how to get them into the system. You know what I mean by ‘the system’ don’t you, Baxter? You’ve probably had more than enough to do with the system in your lifetime, applying for pensions, dealing with the social security people and the hospitals and the rest of it.
His eyes are lighting up. Would he see her as a potential ally? She hoped so.
‘And even here, Baxter, in this Home where you have been this past year, I’ll wager there’s a system in place that you might find troublesome from time to time. They have forms to be filled in and rules and regulations like anywhere else, and you have to play ball or……’
‘Or else they make your life a misery.’
‘Exactly. They make your life a misery.’
She’d better get to the point. Beneath the charm and the reserved manner, this old bloke doesn’t suffer fools gladly.
‘What does my interest in your parents have to do with my attitude to my job? The problem I have with my job is that I find it’s too limited. I don’t think I can really help people unless I know a lot about them. And to do that, Baxter, I need to know their backgrounds and their family life and all of the things that have been important in their lives. And sometimes even the unimportant things. Unless I get a full picture, I can have a nice chat and help my clients fill in forms but I can’t really deal with what might be bothering them underneath. And that’s why I’m a bit of a renegade social worker. I want to go where I’m not supposed to go.’
‘So you think I need help?’
Simone drew breath, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight shake of her head. Oh, Baxter, I’ve read your file. I can’t tell you this but it makes disturbing reading. You were a mess after your sister died. Your landlord did let you stay on in the house. But he went to State Housing, not you. And ‘the Welfare’, as you put it, came out and found you in bad shape. You hadn’t eaten and you’d been drinking. They put you in hospital. You didn’t make much progress. They thought you’d lost the will to live – that’s what the report says. And when your strength did come back, you stole painkillers and tried to do yourself in. They pumped your stomach. You were seen by a psychologist but wouldn’t talk. Eventually, they sent you here.
‘Can I answer that this way, Baxter. I think we all need some sort of help in understanding what makes us tick. I’m no different. There are things about myself that I do not see – but someone else might. Does that make sense?’
‘It might make sense to you but I’m not sure I see the point. I’m an old man. A lot has happened to me but why dredge it all up? My old mother used to say ‘let sleeping dogs lie’. She was right, I reckon, like she was right about a lot of things.’
‘Fair enough, Baxter. It’s not fair for me to push you where you don’t want to go. We’ll stick to my research, unless you decide otherwise. Is that okay?’
Simone laid her folder on the table. God, I hope I haven’t blown it. He had turned away and was looking out across the courtyard. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.
‘I don’t know about you but I’m ready for a cuppa.’
She breathed more easily. He hadn’t shut the door in her face.
‘Me too. Let’s see if we can rustle up Angela.’
6
Ross’s ruminations continued. The concert was terrific. They’d both lost themselves under the stars. But the inspiration dissolved overnight. He was back wallowing in his own manure. Where was June? A lunch date? A bloody long lunch date. His old fears resurfaced.
Why couldn’t she see his point of view? She only saw things her way. ‘You should see what I have to put up with,’ she told him, when he savagely ripped off his shirt and tie after another frustrating day. ‘Try dealing with my supervisor. He’s a dandruff-coated, double-dealing male chauvinist cactus of the first order. And my future - my future is in his greasy hands.’
Having been on the wrong end of her talent for adjectival invective, he was relieved in this instance someone else lay squarely in her sights. But nor could he muster much sympathy. Never worked, had she? Always cosseted at uni, ‘advancing herself’. Never exposed to the real world where you had to deal with so-called colleagues and bosses and programs and budgets and deadlines and changes that nobody wants, except someone out there who thinks there needs to be a new policy every other month or else their own job can’t be justified.
The short straw, he righteously believed, was his and his alone.
June exhibited an altered perspective. She’d switched from languages to psychology. Early on in her first year, she grew disenchanted with French. She figured she could keep it going if she really wanted but it was a poor career choice. A visit to the university guidance officer opened up other possibilities. ‘Have you ever thought about psychology?’ he asked her. She had not, but went away and studied the syllabus and then met someone in the Department. He was influential in her decision, and she changed horses without further ado. That was fine. Contrary to the dismissive barbs of one or two of her linguistically-minded buddies, she liked the immersion in ‘rats and stats’. In some ways, she was a born scientist. A natural behaviourist. Nit-picking, excessively logical, focused and thorough. She observed, she recorded and she analysed. And, as Ross forcibly reminded her, she behaved like that well before she chose psychology.
She was an excellent student, he accepted that. Exemplary attendance at lectures and tutorials. Essays handed in on time. Respectful interaction with her tutors, asking thoughtful questions while fellow students fidgeted and hoped they would escape unnoticed. By the time she completed her undergraduate degree, she’d gained a profile within the Department, becoming the darling of the academic staff. Honours, first-class, was almost a given, and June duly obliged.
Ross was happy for her. But neither of them understood the full ramifications of higher study. He couldn’t get his head around her thesis topic. She showed him a piece of paper that stipulated it had to be specific and oriented towards problem-solving, using rigorous statistical and observational methods and analyses. What the hell did those bone-jarring words mean? Thank God, it was her and not him. He thought at the time it sounded so bloody narrow. How would June, who didn’t seem to be much of a conformist, handle that? He was not far wrong. She had no scope to whistle her individual tune. Her supervising professor played the piper. And, as she soon found out, his training and inclination eschewed improvisation and his tune was all monochrome. June, who had begun to dip her toes into alternative waters, felt the pressure. And her supervisor got right up her nose. Her consternation and grievance spilled over, adding fuel to the marital fire. She’s dumped it all on me, Ross told himself bitterly. A fly landed on his forehead, and he swatted it. Sweat continued to trickle down his body. God, it was hot. He closed his eyes.
‘Ross, I’m back.’
He woke with a start. She was standing in front of the settee.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
She didn’t answer immediately.
‘I left a note. Didn’t you see it?’
‘Of course I saw it. What time is it?’
‘Just gone six. I’ll make something to eat.’
He grabbed her arm. ‘Sit down. Tell me what’s going on.’
‘It’s a long story. Just let me get something to eat. I’m starving. Then we can talk.’
He followed her inside and watched as she hacked off a
large chunk of the expensive goat cheese.
‘I met up with Claire.’
‘You did, where?’
‘If you don’t interrupt, I’ll tell you.’
He made an exasperated movement with his hands.
‘Can’t you answer a simple question?’
‘Just shut up and I’ll tell you, if you really want to know.’
They were outside again. He heard their neighbour watering his back garden.
‘Okay,’ he hissed. ‘Get on with it.’
She stuck her tongue out. ‘You are such a bastard, sometimes.’
He decided no reply was needed.
‘I met Claire in Leederville. We went to do psychodrama.’
‘Psycho-what?’
‘Psychodrama. It’s a sort of therapy.’
‘Therapy? Since when do you need therapy?’
‘We do, Ross, we do. Haven’t you noticed what’s been happening?’
Before he could answer, the tears came. Tears of frustration, he thought. He sat immobile as she rummaged for a tissue. What was she on about? What have I done to piss her off?
‘Hey June…Junie….Are we that bad?’
She looked at him as if he was a complete cretin. ‘Ross, maybe you don’t realise it but there’s a helluva lot to sort out. Our relationship’s a shambles. I can’t believe you don’t see that. You seem content just to cruise along.’
‘Be fair. We’re both busy but we do things together. What about the concert? Last night, you were starry-eyed.’
‘Don’t be so bloody defensive. Last night was a distraction. You don’t know what’s really going on with me. And I sure as hell don’t know what’s going on inside your head.’
She banged the table and he grabbed the glass before it fell.
‘We need help, Ross. We need help.’
He was silent, trying to absorb her words, contesting the picture she’d painted. Help? Do we need help? Don’t all couples have problems? Even Jacob and Rachel, now they had a baby, were known to get sore at each other. What’s the big deal?
Absence Makes Page 10