Telling Stories

by Geoff Palmer

  And then I thought about Marie. What does it matter if I tell her how I feel about her? What does it matter if I make a fool of myself? Indeed, what does it even matter that I'm fat? The cosmic significance of it all is utterly zero. So perhaps what's really been happening in the last week is that I've been building up the courage to say something to her. And I almost did so, but of course I had forgotten about the bet.

  I had a premonition as soon as I walked in. For a start she was in before me, which is unusual, and was laughing and putting down the phone as I walked in. She called out, 'Hi, Steven. Lovely day,' and it rather took me by surprise because for a moment I thought she was someone else. She looked different. She had her hair down, not tied back, and was wearing a light cotton dress of the sort she wore when she first started instead of the conservative businesswoman stuff she's been wearing lately. She looked like a harbinger of summer, even though it's really autumn. Her bare arms and the skimpy dress and the faint outline of underwear beneath suddenly made me remember the stake money locked away in my top drawer.

  There was hardly anyone else in yet and she came over and sat in Tim's chair and asked me about my weekend. That was unusual too. We've exchanged a few words of a morning but she's never followed me round for a chat. She's been a bit wary of our area for obvious reasons, but today she sat on Tim's chair, relaxed, leaning back, head to one side, skirt riding up over crossed legs.

  All my courage from the Coma Berenices and the weekend evaporated and I mumbled something about having to get a report to Tom by nine. She apologised and said, 'Catch you at morning tea.' I nodded lamely, but by the time morning tea came round I just wanted to avoid her.

  Torn came in at his usual time and was untypically cheerful for a Monday morning. He went straight over to Fletcher, sat on the front of his desk and, when he had his attention, said in a voice loud enough for us all to hear that he was claiming the money from the bet. Fletcher snorted in disbelief whereupon Tom stood up, gave him an earnest and pitying look and said, 'I'll give you all the details in the pub at lunchtime. You're buying.'

  'Of course, you've got proof,' Fletcher called after him.

  'Of course,' said Tom and went into his office.

  I couldn't get any work done after that. All I could think about was the two of them together and how it couldn't really be true. Then I thought about how different she seemed this morning, almost as if she was in love or something, and then I couldn't bear to look at her.

  Word spreads round that place like wildfire as it is, and gossip's a great accelerant. The whole building must have known by morning tea. When I went up, late, after she'd come back down, (I pretended to be busy and just shrugged at her quizzical look), two of the kitchen staff were apparently talking about it.

  'I put it down to the morals these days.'

  'Me? I put it down to women in business. Some of 'em'll do anything to get ahead. It's not right. A woman's place is in the home.'

  I'd rather not have gone to the pub but I was holding the stake money and I was curious in the way that people are curious about car crashes and sudden deaths. More than anything I wanted it to be a story, one of Tom's jokes, or a way of calling off the bet by showing how stupid and appalling it really was. Most of all I didn't want to believe it, to scoff at the story, to shoot holes in it, to ridicule it, to see for myself what a tissue of lies it really was, and the only way I could do that was to hear the full thing.

  In the end I just let myself get carried down there by their high spirits and boyish excitement. Marie looked up and smiled quizzically as we swept past her desk, and then we were out into the blessed relief of the street. For one crazy moment I felt like taking off and leaving them and the rest of the world to it. All I'd have to do was drop back a little, pause at a shop window while they got further ahead, then slip away and never return. Sign up on a fishing boat or an oil rig or join the Foreign Legion … Before I could think of anything else we were there.

  Tom was late and he took his time joining us, chatting casually with acquaintances, with the barmaid and publican, playing us along like a showman. When he finally sat down at our table he pretended surprise and said, 'Fancy seeing you all here.'

  'Stake money, stake money!' somebody cried and I put the envelope I’d been keeping it in on the table in front of me.

  'Well?' said Fletcher. .

  'Well,' said Tom grinning smugly, 'you pretty much know it all. I brought a spark into a certain young lady's life at the weekend.' Then he just sat back and folded his arms.

  'You can tell that,' said Philips. 'Just look at her today. I said that's all she needed.'

  Torn nodded regally.

  'I'm sorry, lads, but I need more proof than that,' said Fletcher. 'The day I trust the word of a managers the day I ...'

  'Oh, I brought you something, Fletch,' Tom interrupted, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket. 'A little trophy and keepsake for you.' He produced a pair of lacy white knickers and passed them across the table.

  'Hers?' said Fletcher.

  'Of course,' said Tom.

  'How'd you get 'em?'

  Tom gave him a long-suffering look. 'I took them off her, you idiot. With my teeth.'

  There was a roar from the rest of the table.

  'By the time I'd finished she wasn't concerned about the whereabouts of any of her clothing. It took me long enough to find my own.'

  There was another roar and someone pushed the stake money across to Tom's side of the table.

  'Hold on, hold on,' said Fletcher dragging it back again. 'How do we know for sure? How do we know these are hers?'

  'You'll have to do your own fitting,' said Tom. 'I was only there for the removal.' More sniggers.

  'But we've only got your word and a pair of knickers for it. It's not cast-iron proof, is it? It could still be a wind-up.'

  Tom groaned along with everyone else. 'If I had photographs you'd say they could've been doctored.'

  'You haven't, have you?' Fletcher leered. Tom shook his head.

  'We should have an independent arbitrator,' said Jonesy.

  'We have,' said Tim. 'What d'you reckon, Steven?'

  Suddenly all eyes were on me again, as they have a habit of doing when I most want to be anonymous. There were the usual elements — the melodramatic silence, the sudden stillness — and part of me couldn't help thinking how ridiculous it was; a latter-day Solomon dispensing wisdom over a pair of knickers. Yet another part of me responded to the task with seriousness and detachment.

  I thought of how Marie had seemed changed that morning, cheerful, with a spring in her step, exactly as if she were in love. I thought of Tom's story and of the evidence Fletcher was holding and the expectant faces around me — it was clear who they believed. I thought of the ridicule I would get if I sided with Fletcher and of how I felt about Marie, or had felt about her, and just for once I wanted to be part of the gang, to leer and sneer and get drunk and shout 'Fuck 'em!' I had lost her. I had lost her the moment Tom walked in and made his announcement. I had lost her and realised now that I'd been preparing myself for this moment all morning. It didn't matter now, it was too late. I sided with Tom.

  There was a loud cheer as Tom scooped up the money and headed for the bar. The rabble followed him, leaving Fletcher and me together at the table. He just shrugged his shoulders, picked up his trophy and went and joined the others.

  Farce

  Act 19

  Time: The present

  Location: The head office of a nameless, faceless government department.

  The stage shows a bisected view of the office, as though it has been cross-sectioned with the audience sitting in the other half. Stage left is the entrance containing a reception desk cluttered the usual receptionist's paraphernalia, including a computer terminal, intercom, digital voice recorder and headphones. Centre stage (on the wall facing us) is a door with a name-plate reading 'Reginald Cotton—Regional Director' . Stage right contains a collection of desks where the clerk
s — FLETCHER, PHILIPS, TIM and JONESY — work. The right-most desk belongs to SPALDING and sits against what would be the back wall facing into the office. SPALDING remains behind it during the entire proceedings, pretending to work but clearly following what's going on. At times he lifts his head and sneers, looks disgusted or pulls faces, from which we conclude he's a really un-fun guy.

  There is a filing cabinet to the left of Cotton's door and the wall behind it contains a noticeboard peppered with departmental memos. To the right, hidden by a narrow partition and thus only visible to the audience, the wall is covered with a collection of nude girlie photos and forms a surround for one corner of FLETCHER's desk.

  The wall clock shows two-fifteen. The clerks are at their desks, heads down, and as the curtain rises MARIE is at her desk, talking into the intercom.

  MARIE: (into intercom) Certainly, Mr Cotton. Yes, Mr Cotton. On my way, Mr Cotton.

  She rises and waggles across the office. She is wearing an incredibly short skirt, a top with a plunging neckline and impossibly high stiletto heels. As she gets to Cotton's door she makes an over-the-top 'silly me' gesture and waggles back to her desk. The return trip is followed minutely by four of the clerks who suddenly, and in unison, spring to life to watch her every waggle. (The exception is SPALDING who, apparently not noticing, continues working.)

  MARIE picks up a notepad, pen and manilla folder stuffed with papers. As she turns round the four heads snap back to their work. She waggles back towards the door and drops the notepad, making another over-the-top 'silly me' gesture, and bends from the waist to pick it up, flashing underwear to audience and clerks alike. (This girl apparently doesn't have knees.) As she bends the four clerks rise in unison and as she straightens they again snap back to their desks. She exits through Cotton's door, stage centre.

  TIM: Knickers still in situ. You're looking healthy chief.

  FLETCHER: (sighs) And what a situ, eh?

  PHILLPS: I wonder if he managed it?

  JONESY: My wad of cash says yes.

  TOM enters from the street.

  TIM: We'll soon find out ...!

  TOM is dressed in an expensive suit, sunglasses and carries a cellphone. His hair is slicked back, his face glows with a solarium tan and he walks towards the collection of clerks like a movie star approaching some awe-struck fans. As he approaches MARIE comes bustling out of the office and collides with him, dropping the notepad again.

  MARIE: Sorry.

  TOM: Hello, beauteous.

  MARIE: (guileless) No, it's Marie. (He takes off his sunglasses.) Oh, hello Tom.

  TOM: (ogling as she bends to retrieve the cassette.) Lovely to see you again.

  MARIE: (giggling) You too.

  She waggles back to her desk and picks up another notepad. As she returns she drops it in exactly the same spot as before, makes the same over-the-top gesture, etc.

  TOM: (following the retrieval process once more.) I'd like to pop in again sometime.

  MARIE: Any time, Tom. You know I have a soft spot for you.

  She exits through Cotton's door.

  FLETCHER: You dirty bast ...

  TOM: (modest) You might say that.

  FLETCHER: But did you get the proof?

  T OM reaches into his jacket pocket, withdraws a pair of skimpy white lace knickers and twirls them round on his finger. There are gasps of admiration from the clerks; even a small reaction from SPALDING.

  PHILIPS, TIM and JONESY: (all at once) When did …? How did …? Was she …? Did she...?

  TOM: (hands up) Later lads, there's a time and place—like when the bet's paid off …

  He flicks the knickers at FLETCHER.

  FLETCHER: (sceptical) No pay-outs yet. Let's check these out ... (holding them up) For starters they're not your wife's (hoots and howls from the clerks) ... too narrow 'cross the stern. They're used too—that label's worn ...

  PHILIPS, TIM and JONESY lean over to inspect them. At this point MARIE emerges from the office and all four again assume nonchalant positions. MARIE returns to her desk, opens out the manilla folder and begins to bustle to and fro to the filing cabinet, filing, it appears, one piece of paper on each trip. Every time she turns away from them the clerks strain forward to watch her progress, each time she turns to face them they snap back into casual conversational positions.

  FLETCHER: ... but there's one more test to make.

  There follows a comic pantomime of FLETCHER trying to follow MARIE to size the knickers against her without her noticing. As she waggles to and fro he waggles behind her, mimicking her every movement. As she bends at the filing cabinet or her desk he brings them out to compare; as she straightens he whips them back into his pocket. At all times he remains close behind and she doesn't notice him. Now and then she does a double feint, starting to turn one way then going back the other, but his timing's perfect and it looks like something of a ballet. Each attempt at sizing is unsuccessful because he doesn't get the knickers out in time, she's not bent over long enough, he fumbles or drops them, etc.

  After she's made two or three trips — and he five or six attempts — he begins producing other things from his pocket like a magician. There's a large bunch of flowers which he pops into a suitable receptacle on her desk (when she returns she reacts with exaggerated puzzlement at their appearance); a white dove or two (MARIE reacts to the appearance of imaginary dove poo on the filing cabinet and scans the ceiling); an incredibly long string of brightly coloured knotted handkerchiefs which he is forced to unfurl behind her as they both shuttle back and forth; and finally a large white rabbit, which he actually sizes against her before realising what it is. The remaining clerks, meanwhile, continue to study her retreat and assume nonchalant positions at her advance. Even SPALDING, too, is affecting a casual interest.

  At last she finishes her filing, sits down at her desk, puts the headphones on and begins to type. (She's a hunt-and-peck typist; about ten keys a minute. She continues typing during all subsequent action.)

  FLETCHER, relieved at her finally sitting down, absentmindedly reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief and ends up wiping his brow with the knickers. He does a double—take, remembers his mission and is at last able to obtain a sizing against her seated form.

  FLETCHER: (returning defeated) A perfect fit. Cinderella really did get the ball.

  PHILIPS, TIM and JONESY: Hooray!

  Wads of cash start changing hands.

  TOM, FLETCHER, PHILIPS, TIM and JONESY: (singing)

  Women were created

  to make our time here fun.

  What point is there in living

  if you cannot give 'em one?

  There's roars for drawers

  and rants for pants

  it may sound quite ridickerlous

  but let's be honest, true and frank,

  we like our ladies knickerless!

  Curtain

  Tuesday, May 5

  What is this constant need to escape? We escape with booze, with books, with films and telly, with drugs, with daydreams ... anything to drag us away from the reality of the present, this moment, the here and now. I constantly weave fictions round my life. Alternate realities where I am the master of every situation, where I star as avenging hero or the silent and deeply wronged. My mental life is a constant replay and re-scripting of what I should have said and done, or of extrapolating the real into the possible and exploring every angle of it. I am the callous Lothario and the devoted and tender husband, and the man so scarred by love he can never love again. I am the eloquent politician denouncing the brute, the rapist, the molester of children; I am the judge deciding fair and just sentence; the vigilante deciding on his own. I am the victim and the perpetrator, the audience and actor, the hero and the villain. I walk upon the moon and the Antarctic, plumb deep-sea depths and travel to the stars, cross scorching deserts and trackless jungles ...

  I scribble words on paper, drop the pages in a box.

  And sometimes the boundary greys and blurs. Som
etimes it is hard to remember where one world ends and the other begins. My life is a ghost story in which I am both the spectre and the haunted. How can I be anything else? My past and present hover round about yet, even to myself, I'm a vague and insubstantial thing, a will-o'-the-wisp, a ghostly presence inhabiting neither world. I know my alter ego better than I know myself, or anyone else for that matter, and yet he is a mirage, not-even-ghost, the fiction of a fiction.

  But better that than the vision I had of Marie. That wasn't the true her but some mythical form, some ideal vision, a fiction of my own devising that I overlaid on her frame. And off I went again, not seeing the trees for the forest.

  How can I of all people — despiser of the image, the front, the pretence — believe in love at first sight? Yet I am still the victim of the fairy tales of my childhood. In the cold reality of the adult world I still, deep down, believe in, long for, hope for, the beautiful princess and the happy-ever-after.