Gayle chooses this moment to arrive at the desk beside me and ask Wally if there’s anything she can do to help. Usually, I am very grateful when Gayle comes to my rescue, but today I am frustrated because it reminds the man why he approached the desk in the first place.
‘Ah, yes,’ he says, directing his enquiry to me once again. ‘The printer.’
‘Have you tried pressing “Print”?’ I am unable to conceal my boredom.
‘Yes.’
‘And have you checked you are connected to the correct printer? Each one has its number printed on a laminated document on the wall.’
‘I have.’
I toy with the idea of saying ‘The network has gone down’. It happened a few weeks back and it was the most glorious catch-all for every printer or photocopier enquiry that came my way. Sadly, it hadn’t remained ‘down’ for long. I am about to give this excuse a go when I notice Carmel still hovering nearby, watching us. I sigh. ‘Fine. Let’s take a look, shall we?’
I follow Wally to his computer. The last time I saw Wally I’d thought of him as lanky, but as I trail along behind him now, I notice he is more athletic than I gave him credit for. His stature reminds me a little of those golfers I enjoy watching on the television during the Presidents Cup. Wide shoulders, narrow torso, firm buttocks. I enjoy this view until we make it to Wally’s laptop when, again, I’m instantly bored. I try pressing Print, and when that doesn’t work, I fiddle with a few of the settings. I figure I can do this for a few minutes before declaring it a mystery and suggesting he come back tomorrow. In the meantime, in case Carmel is looking, I frown intensely at the screen as if I’m deep in thought. And I am. About Tinder. Apparently, I’ll need to set up a profile with a photo, which shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ll ask Gayle to take the photo. Then I’ll have to vet the suitors. Someone handsome would be good, for the baby obviously. Someone with a few brain cells. Good health.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Wally asks, which is annoying, as Carmel is still within earshot.
‘What does it look like?’ I snap. ‘I’m trying to print your document!’
I press another button, and a document pops up on the screen. ‘Rocco. Ryan,’ I say, reading the name printed at the top of the document. I scan the rest of the document. It looks like a proposal of some sort. There is a list of credentials on the screen. I scan them, then turn to him, aghast. ‘You’re a computer programmer?’
‘I am.’
‘And you’re asking me for computer advice!?’
‘I’m not asking for computer advice,’ he says. ‘I’m asking about the printer.’
‘Pat-ay-ta, pot-ah-ta.’
‘Right.’ Wally exhales. ‘I don’t think we’re getting anywhere here.’
Anywherrrrre. Herrrrrre. Despite my irritation, I find the cadence of Wally’s voice pleasant. The neutral mouth movements, the distinct pronunciation of each syllable, the way he holds onto his r’s – it’s lovely. I close my eyes. ‘Anywherrrrre . . .’
‘Excuse me, Miss,’ the old man seated across from us says. ‘I’m having some trouble with my computer.’
I open my eyes. ‘Don’t ask me! He is the computer programmer.’
The man looks at Wally, who rolls his eyes but then squats in front of the man’s computer. Within a minute, the man is thanking him profusely and Wally is saying, ‘Sure thing,’ in his gloriously American way. Surrrre. Thaang. The man beams at him and Wally nods.
The interaction gives me an idea.
‘Are you looking for a job? You could work here! Printer and Photocopier Specialist! Do you live locally?’
He pushes his glasses up on his nose. He seems to do this with astonishing regularity. ‘I guess.’
‘You guess?’ It will never cease to amaze me the way people understand things in an instant. I, on the other hand, need to take my time, consider the statement from all angles, and if possible, put it back to the person by way of a question to make sure I’ve interpreted accurately. In the back of my mind, I’m always aware that I can get it wrong, and the consequences of this, I’ve learned, can be disastrous. ‘What do you mean you guess?’
‘I live in my van. Which, currently, is right outside. So . . . I guess that’s local.’
‘You live in your van,’ I say, taking in this peculiar piece of information. ‘So . . . you are homeless?’
‘I’m not homeless.’
‘But you don’t live in a house? Doesn’t that make you homeless?’
I feel oddly victorious. I’d been unsettled by the idea that I’d wrongly assumed he was homeless. I know I have a tendency to get things wrong, but if I can spare myself yet another example of my not being able to trust my own judgment, it’s a definite win.
‘Technically, I’m houseless,’ Wally says. ‘But the van is my home. And, for your information, there are many virtues of van living.’ He uses his fingers to allocate each virtue. ‘Vans are affordable,’ (thumb). ‘They have a low carbon footprint,’ (pointer). ‘They allow for freedom,’ (middle). ‘Travel’ (ring) . . . ‘And it means I can work freelance, choose my own hours,’ (pinkie; replaces hands in pockets). ‘So thank you for the job offer, but I prefer to do freelance work.’
I try to focus on the words he is saying, rather than the accent, but it’s difficult. ‘You mean you . . . choose to live in your van? And other people choose it?’
‘Sure. Look on Instagram under the hashtag “vanlife”. A lot of people my age are doing it.’
I frown at him. Wally looks to be about my age, perhaps a few years older. It feels astonishing that a person of around thirty years old – a computer programmer! – would choose such an unorthodox way to live.
‘Well . . . what kind of van is it?’
‘A kombi. I have a bed, a kitchenette, a table where I can sit and eat. I use public facilities for showers, like here at the library. I use the laundromat for laundry. And I have pump water to clean my dishes. It’s really not as difficult as people think.’
I am still dubious. ‘Where do you keep it?’
‘Right now, it’s in the parking lot outside. At night, I park it at the Uniting Church on Wilson Street, they let people park there all night. During the day, I try to find all-day parking, or I move it every two hours.’
‘Sounds . . . tedious.’
‘It’s a lifestyle choice,’ Wally corrects.
‘Oh-kay.’ I nod, making my eyes wide to indicate that I have not been convinced. ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t be of any help here. Unless you are looking for a book recommendation?’ My mood is immediately buoyed. ‘What do you like to read, Wally?’
He frowns. ‘Oh. No, thanks.’
‘No thanks?’
‘I don’t really . . . read.’
I blink. ‘You don’t really read?’
I’m aware, of course, that there are people who don’t read. There are those who insist they are far too busy to read and who instead spend their time watching Netflix and scrolling social media on their iPhones or Androids. Those who say they read so much for work that they couldn’t possibly come home and read any more. There are those who cannot read. But, judging from the document on the screen, Wally can read. Hence my confusion.
‘Do you know how to read?’ I ask.
Wally looks affronted. ‘I have an IQ of 141.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘I used to read when I was a child,’ he says, almost thoughtfully now. ‘I stopped at some point, I guess.’
‘What were your favourite books when you were a child?’
He appears to think about this. ‘Let’s see, well, I enjoyed The Outsiders. The Chocolate War. To Kill a Mockingbird–’
‘I have the perfect book!’ I say, cutting him off and taking off toward General Fiction, where I snatch up a copy of Jasper Jones. ‘This will reignite your love of reading,’ I say, upon my return. ‘It’s won several major awards and been shortlisted for half a dozen others. And it was made into a film in 2017.’ I place the book on top of
his notebook, which is next to his laptop. ‘And if you need me to set you up with a library card, I’d be happy to do that.’
He regards me for a longer than normal moment. Then something softens around his eyes. ‘I apologise, I didn’t catch your name?’
‘Fern. Fern Castle.’
‘I’m Rocco.’
He extends his hand as if to shake mine, I cross my arms in front of my chest.
‘Oh, I prefer not to touch people if I can possibly help it. Did you know that we carry an average of 3200 bacteria from 150 species on our hands at any one time? This includes faecal bacteria! If I shook hands with everyone I met at the library, I’d be constantly ill, not to mention contaminated with god-knows-what.’ I reach for my travel-sized antibacterial spray, which is attached to my overalls by a handy carabiner, and pump it into my hands. ‘Would you like some?’
‘Oh no, it’s okay . . . Oh, er, okay, thanks,’ he says, and I administer a squirt to his palm. He rubs his palms together. ‘So, shall we see if we can do something about this printer, then?’
Carmel is in the children’s section now, watching Linda making recommendations to a mother of four sons who look like they’d much rather be kicking a football than be in the library (perfect candidates for Paul Jennings or Andy Griffiths, or any book with ‘Fart’ in the title, if you ask me). As such, I know now is the time to make my exit. I prepare to tilt my head, frown into the distance and declare that I can hear someone calling me when I have an epiphany.
Wally is handsome, in an odd sort of way. If his IQ is to be believed, he has a few brain cells. Which means there’s only . . .
‘How is your health, Wally?’
The softness in his eyes is replaced with suspicion. ‘It’s excellent. I jog every morning, ten kilometres.’
I smile. For once, the library computer service has brought me some good fortune. He smiles back at me a little uncertainly, until I pose my next question.
‘Would you like to go on a date with me?’
His smile falls away.
JOURNAL OF ROSE INGRID CASTLE
My therapist told me I should keep writing while I’m away. Seeing Owen again is likely to bring up some big emotions, he said, about the marriage as well as my desire to have a baby, and it will be helpful if I get them down on paper. And since I’ve watched all the movies I care to on the plane, here goes!
I’m terrified about this reunion. I want to believe it will go well, obviously. I fantasise about it going well. In my fantasies, Owen will be happy to see me. He will explain that the reason he hasn’t kept in touch is because it is too painful to talk to me, knowing I’m so far away. But just because I fantasise about it doesn’t mean I expect it to happen. I’m not stupid. I’ve noticed Owen has been lukewarm about my visit. I’ve considered the possibility that he’s invited me to London to end things for good. Maybe I’d even arrive to find him on the arm of a beautiful English rose with an upper-class accent? The funny thing is, if that is the case, part of me will be satisfied. Because it’s what I think I deserve.
This, of course, links things back to Mum. Everything, if you dig down far enough, links back to Mum. She taught us early on that love was conditional. To earn it, we had to perform like we were in a concert. Smile, be cute, say something funny. Know exactly what she wanted you to do . . . and do exactly that.
She loved it when people found Fern and me charming because it reflected well on her. I remember being on an outing with Mum in the city when we were about six or seven. By this time, we had been granted a little public housing flat just outside of the city, and we’d often take day trips into the city so Mum could get away from our home, which she hated. This day, we were passing a busker playing the trumpet when Fern stopped and started to dance. Mum had been in a hurry, so didn’t notice and kept walking. I tugged Fern’s hand to keep her walking, but she just grabbed both my hands and spun me around, giggling.
‘Hey, look at those little girls,’ someone said.
‘Aren’t they adorable!’ someone else commented.
After just a minute or two, a crowd gathered around us, clapping and cheering. I’d never had dancing lessons, neither of us had, but even then, I knew there was something magical about Fern – her golden hair, her long limbs, the pure joy in her eyes. She was like an angel.
‘Who do these girls belong to?’ someone asked. People looked around expectedly. My stomach was already in knots. When Mum noticed we were missing, she’d be livid.
‘They’re mine,’ came her voice.
Fern and I whipped around to where Mum was standing, her hand raised. She beamed from ear to ear. ‘There you are, my little ballerinas! Putting on a show as always.’ She laughed, throwing the crowd a little eye roll.
‘Don’t get too mad with them, Mum,’ someone said. ‘They’ve got a big future in front of them.’
Mum accepted people’s accolades, basking in the attention. Receiving compliments was one of only a few things that consistently made her happy. Even so, I couldn’t relax completely. She might be smiling now, but I knew there’d be no applause for us when we got back home. If Fern shared my discomfort, she hid it well. Her shoulders were relaxed, her face was open. I remember being glad for her. Fern always seemed to have some sort of impenetrable boundary around her that made her immune to Mum’s reign of terror. I often wondered if that boundary was part and parcel of whatever was different about Fern. But Mum never took her for an official diagnosis. Giving Fern a diagnosis or help would have made her special and Mum was the only one allowed to be special in our house.
But even if Fern wasn’t scared of Mum, that didn’t mean Mum wasn’t a danger to her. I remember one time when we were seven, when Fern drew on the coffee table. That had been a terrifying day. It wasn’t an expensive table – it probably didn’t cost anything at all, we got most of our furniture from the Salvation Army back then. We were still living in the council flat at the time and Mum’s welfare payments, she regularly told us, didn’t stretch to fancy things. It had been an innocent mistake. There had been laundry all over the kitchen table and Fern had asked Mum where she could do her homework. Mum had said, Do it on the coffee table. It was impressive really. Mum had been Fern’s mother for seven years and still hadn’t figured out how she would interpret those words. If I had noticed, I would have redirected her myself, but by the time I saw it, it was too late.
‘Who wrote on the coffee table?’ Mum roared when she’d seen it.
She’d had been in a bad mood all day, but now she was enraged. I would have taken the blame – I was just about to, in fact – but Fern raised her hand before I could. She’d been so carefree about it, so utterly unaware of impending danger. She’d even smiled a little. It was too late for me to tap my bracelet against hers to warn her.
I held my breath. Mum could fly off the handle for the smallest thing – talking too loudly, talking too quietly, not thanking her profusely enough. Who knew what she would do if we actually did something bad? I must have nudged myself ever so slightly in front of Fern because I remember Mum narrowing her eyes, distracted from the coffee table for a second.
‘What are you doing?’ she said, her voice changing. She sounded curious, but in a careful, cold way. ‘Are you trying to protect her?’
She stared at me coldly. It took me a moment to realise my sin. By expressing love for Fern, by wanting to protect her, I’d betrayed Mum. Our purpose, after all, was to love her.
‘I would never hurt Fern.’ Mum’s voice was like ice. ‘It’s just a silly coffee table. What . . . do you think I’m some kind of monster?’
‘No, Mumm–’
‘Do monsters feed their children?’
‘No.’
‘Do they give up everything for their children?’
‘No.’
Dread pooled in my stomach as Mum got right up in my face. ‘What about these clothes?’ she said, pulling at my T-shirt. ‘Do monsters buy clothes for their children?
It was the first
time I thought Mum might hit me. She had never hit me before. It was a source of pride for her. ‘I’ve never laid a hand on my kids,’ she would say to anyone who’d listen. The implication was that hitting your kids was something bad parents did, and she was not a bad mother. But that day, her face was so contorted, so angry. Her breath was so hot in my face. I was bracing for it – almost welcoming it – when abruptly she turned and marched out of the room.
Fern and I hurried after her. By the time we got to her, Mum was already pulling things off the shelves – books, toys, shoes. ‘Do monsters buy their kids stuffed animals?’ she cried, tossing our toys across the room. ‘Pens? What about plastic sea-side buckets?’
Thunk. Crash. Bang. She got hold of our jewellery box, the one that played music, with the little ballerina inside. Our dad had given it to us. Fern and I listened to it each night after lights out. Mum knew this, of course. That’s why she’d looked so elated as she slammed it against the wall and cracked it down the middle.
It went on and on until there was a mound of broken things in the middle of our bedroom. As Fern and I watched, I remember thinking that somehow what Mum was doing was worse than hitting. And how I wished she’d just hit me instead.
FERN
When I was a kid, I loved school. There were several reasons for this, most notably:
The routine of going every day.
The timetable, which ensured I always knew what to expect.
The learning.
The reading.
There were many things about school I found troublesome of course. The people, the noise, the lights, the smells. Still, I became adept at finding solutions. I tried to arrive at school after the bell had sounded, hence avoiding the morning rush. I sat in the front row, where chatter tended to be kept to a minimum. At lunchtime, I ate my sandwich outside and then went to the library to read. After school I went the long way home, so I didn’t need to make small talk with any of the kids. Generally, my workarounds worked well. But there was one day each year that I had no workarounds for.
The Good Sister Page 4
