by Peter Barry
Hugh, stunned, looked at Murray. The group account director shrugged. Russell said, ‘Murray already has plans to go away next weekend, so it’s up to you, mate. Sorry.’
‘But …’ Both men were looking at him as if he was some vaguely interesting, primitive form of life in a jar. They waited for him to say something. ‘Er …’ He struggled. ‘Kate and I have plans to go camping, actually. We’ve booked a site.’ That was a lie, but he could already feel Kate’s fury. If he cancelled their holiday now, there was no knowing how she would react – except that it would be extremely unpleasant.
‘Tough, Hughsy,’ Russell said to him, resting an arm across his employee’s shoulders. ‘You can go camping any time. The bush ain’t going anywhere.’ And Hugh’s triumvirate of bosses laughed. The managing director turned away to speak to three women just behind him, while Murray and Grandfield started chatting about golf. Hugh felt he was the victim of a conspiracy.
‘Murray, excuse me, but I’m really upset about this.’
Both men turned towards him, surprised by this interruption. ‘Appreciate it’s not ideal, but what can I do?’
‘You could work over Easter yourself. You’re the head of the account after all.’
‘You’re always the one going on about wanting more autonomy, mate. Soon as you get it, you object.’
There was a placid smile on Grandfield’s face as he watched the little contretemps being played out before him.
‘That’s being totally unreasonable, and you know it.’ He was seething with anger at being out-manoeuvred by Murray and Russell, and with himself for having taken it lying down, but he appreciated that there was unlikely to be an alternative. ‘Easter of all times!’
Murray was grinning at him. ‘Hold some religious significance for you, mate?’ He downed the last of his orange juice.
‘Fuck that. And fuck you for ruining my weekend.’
As he turned away, feeling as if he might be tempted to punch Murray if he didn’t, his boss said to his back, ‘Relying on you, mate. Need someone to show Si the ropes.’
What could he do? This was advertising. This is what happened in the business. It was to be expected, and one had to make the best of it. There was no way out of it. His only option was to refuse to work over the Easter weekend, and the likely outcome of that could be that he was fired. His job was precarious enough as it was. The atmosphere in the agency over the past few months hardly made staff feel secure or confident. All too often nowadays he was reminded of one of those television wildlife programmes, the kind where you see a herd of impala on the African veldt being stalked by a lioness. The lioness would watch her prey with eyes that, although coldly calculating, also showed a remarkable degree of disinterest, as if she couldn’t be bothered to choose which of the impala to kill and eat. Finally, she would charge in, and the herd would scatter in every direction. The lioness would take one animal to ground, bleeding, in a cloud of dust. The other impala would then settle, averting their eyes from their fellow creature, now a twitching, bloody mess. They would still keep a wary eye on the lioness, their feet restless, their eyes bulging with fright, wondering who would be the next victim. So it was in Alpha. It was as if there were lines of blood leading to the lifts, pools of blood on the carpet, blood splattered on the walls and desks of the many empty offices. People were fearful, whispering to each other, trying to persuade themselves that the management’s desire for blood had now been assuaged. In such circumstances, how could Hugh possibly refuse to work over Easter?
He sat in the train and tried to work on a strategy document, but found it impossible to concentrate. He kept on thinking about the time, two or three months earlier, when he’d arrived home after work and, without saying a word, Kate had thrust a piece of paper at him the moment he walked through the front door. It was a series of numbers, one or two of which were heavily underscored. ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s the amount of time you spend at work and commuting, and the time you spend with your family.’ She went back to reading her book, as if to show the matter was no longer of any interest to her.
‘We’re talking the clichéd work-home balance, are we?’ He made an attempt at flippancy.
‘It may be clichéd; doesn’t mean it isn’t relevant.’
He sighed, and studied the piece of paper. ‘I’m guessing the eighty, which you’ve underlined and circled, is the amount of time I spend working and travelling. And if I average seven hours of sleep a night, that accounts for this other number: forty-nine. The number thirty-nine …’ He made some quick calculations in his head. ‘That must be the number of hours left in the week.’ He looked across to her for confirmation. She compressed her lips and given a small nod, as if to say, That’s not bad.
‘I suppose you’re telling me, Katie, that I spend thirty-nine hours a week with you and Tim? Almost six hours a day. That’s pretty good.’ He tried to make light of it.
She looked up from her book, unimpressed by his levity. ‘You have to deduct from that thirty-nine, the number of hours you spend watching TV, doing DIY, gardening, and fiddling around with that damn car of yours.’
‘All of which has to be done – apart, I guess, from watching TV. But then a man has to have some fun.’
‘I see you for an hour a day, at best. Tim sees you even less.’ She threw her book down onto the sofa. She could no longer pretend to read. ‘Why don’t you go and live with that awful Russell fellow? You spend most of your time with him anyway.’
‘If he wasn’t married, I probably would.’
‘Don’t be facetious. It doesn’t suit you.’
The remainder of the evening had passed in a miasma of strained silences and suppressed resentment.
When he got off the train at Stanwell Park, he was still trying to work out the best way to break the news about the coming Easter break to his wife.
6
Dante, the mutt they’d bought in Leichhardt and therefore considered to be of Italian origin, greeted him by raising his head slowly and thumping his tail on the floor a couple of times. Having then decided that he’d performed his canine duty, he went back to sleep. Hugh went upstairs; he could hear singing. In Tim’s bedroom, with its bright blue and white paint and its wallpaper covered in cartoons of wild animals, with mobiles hanging from the ceiling and toys littering the floor, he found his wife and son holding hands and dancing in the middle of the room. ‘Watch, Dad, watch,’ Tim shouted excitedly.
Ring a-ring o’ roses,
A pocketful of posies …
A-tishoo! A-tishoo!
We all fall down!
And after shouting the final four words, his three year old flung himself onto the floor, arms and legs spread-eagled, eyes tight shut. And inexplicably, quite out of nowhere, the thought came to Hugh that it was a strange song for his small boy to sing, as well as re-enact, about the plague of London and about people dying. But he forced it from his mind as Tim jumped up, shouting, ‘Again, Mummy, again!’
‘One more time, Timmy. Just for your father.’
‘Watch, Daddy!’ And they held hands and danced in a circle in the centre of the room until, again, on the last words – A-tishoo! A-tishoo! We all fall down! – Tim fell, with absolute abandon, onto the floor, almost as if he knew he was playing dead.
He then leapt to his feet and propelled himself, a sparkling, fresh-faced bundle, across the room into his father’s arms. ‘I’m so happy my favourite person in the whole world is still up,’ he said, hugging his son.
‘This is unusual, having you home so early.’
‘Remember, I told you there was an all-staff meeting after work? It started early so people could get home.’ He threw his son into the air, and caught him.
‘Don’t do that. He’s already too excited. He’s never going to go to sleep.’
‘But we don’t want you to sleep, do we? Daddy wants you to stay up all night.’
‘No, he doesn’t.’ Kate pulled back the doona on the small bed in the cor
ner of the room.
He nuzzled his son, now doing an impersonation of a koala, arms and legs bound tight around the ‘tree trunk’ of his father, a blissful smile on his face.
‘What was the meeting about?’
‘Supposed to be a morale booster for the few of us who weren’t fired last week.’ Looking down at his son, ‘Did you have fun playing today?’
Tim nodded his head emphatically, then wriggled to be put down. Hugh lowered him to the floor and he ran out of the room. A minute later he returned with a large sheet of paper on which was painted a crude circle and an assortment of dots and slashes. He handed this to his father. ‘It’s beautiful.’ He crouched down beside his son. ‘What is it, Timmy?’
‘Daddy.’
Kate rolled her eyes. ‘It was Mummy this afternoon. Come on, we need to get you into bed.’
‘It’s beautiful whoever it is. Can I keep it?’ Tim nodded solemnly, then ran across the room and climbed onto his bed, where he proceeded to jump up and down.
‘Why don’t you put him to bed and read him a story for a change? I’m exhausted. Also, I want to get on with that canvas for the café woman.’
‘How’s it coming along?’
‘It isn’t. When do I get a chance to look at it?’
It was more of a statement than a question, and more of a challenge than a statement. He thought it wise to say nothing. He sat down on the bed as his wife left the room.
Ten minutes later he went down to the sitting room. He fell back on the sofa and switched on the TV. A minute or two later Kate walked into the room. He looked up. ‘I thought you were going to paint?’
‘I’m too tired. I’ll try and grab some time tomorrow. Has he gone down?’ He nodded. ‘It would be good if you did dinner for us.’
‘OK. What can I cook?’
‘There’s some leftovers in the fridge – chicken.’
‘I’ll start in a minute.’
‘Do we have to have the television on?’
‘No.’
‘We never talk.’ She failed to make it sound like a pleasurable activity. There was a hint of aggression in everything she said this evening, and he knew her well enough to be wary.
‘Sure.’ He lifted the remote from his lap and switched off the TV. A moment later he said, ‘Might as well start dinner.’ He stood up, thinking, I’ll tell her about Easter when we’re eating.
They ate in front of the TV, even though the screen was blank. ‘So, how was your day?’ His interest was feigned, and he didn’t bother to hide the fact.
‘Like every other day – boring. There’s not much you can do with a three year old under your feet all day long. It’s not like Crows Nest where there’s so much right on your doorstep.’
‘Did he go to pre-school?’
‘For a couple of hours. Not even enough time for me to get back here and set up a canvas before I have to leave to pick him up. I went shopping instead; bought myself a top.’
He decided not to ask how much it had cost. It was probably better not to know.
‘I also bought us a new Esky for the weekend. Our one is far too small now.’
He nodded, his insides suddenly tightening at the thought of having to tell her. It wasn’t that he was scared, he simply didn’t like the way she would sometimes go off her head when he told her anything she didn’t want to hear. He’d be happy to avoid that. ‘Good,’ he said. He wanted to finish eating before he raised that particular issue.
‘Where shall we go? Any ideas?’
‘You mean camping?’
‘Of course. What else?’
‘We need to talk about that.’ He forked the last piece of food into his mouth. His mind was blank. He had no idea how to break the news gently. His brain seemed to have closed down. ‘It looks like we might have to re-think our camping trip.’
She fell back in the sofa, staring at him. ‘Meaning?’
She’s realised already, he thought. She’s guessed. How do women do that? ‘We may need to postpone it. Just for a week or two.’ He avoided the use of the word will.
Her face darkened, her eyes focussed – unlike his which roamed the room looking in vain for somewhere he might hide. There was a distinct and sudden chill in the air. He didn’t have to say anything; she already knew, or was at least suspicious. ‘Easter’s the best time to go away, Hugh. You know that. We get four whole days.’
He shut his eyes, and his chin fell forward onto his chest. There was no avoiding this. He raised his head and turned towards her. ‘It looks like I may have to go into the office.’
Silence. A silence that exploded outwards from the centre of his wife, expanding as if during the very first moments of Creation, throwing him into the vortex of a vacuum-like, ear pounding hush – an emotional black hole. Yet it was a silence, he swore, in which he could hear the whirr of time ticking, the boom of his heart beating, and the hollow crash of distant waves falling. He tried to hold his wife’s gaze, but her expression of disbelief and anger proved too much for him, and he was forced to turn away. ‘I’m sorry, Katie. It’s this Bauer presentation. It’s very urgent all of a sudden – as always.’ He glanced quickly at her, not to engage her, more to check up on the possibilities of being struck or in some way physically outmanoeuvred. ‘You know how it is.’ It was a pathetic attempt at getting her onside.
‘I thought you’d already done that presentation?’
‘We have. This is another one. It’s too complicated …’ He leant forward to put his dinner plate on the coffee table, then stayed in that position, his head in his hands, almost assuming the crash position in an aircraft. He wondered how much protection it would offer him.
She continued to talk. Her tone was measured and emphatic, almost suppressed, but he wasn’t fooled. ‘And what’s Murray doing over the Easter weekend? Is he working on this presentation, too?’
She knew he wasn’t. He was still surprised by the way his wife could hone in on the very crux of an issue, go straight to its all-important core. She would have made an excellent marketing director.
He hesitated, a sure sign of weakness. ‘Er, no. No, he’s not able to.’
‘Not able to? Well, what a shame. I suppose he’s too busy having a holiday to go into the office and work? Too caught up in spending time with his family to bother to sit behind a desk for four days.’
‘Kate –’
She cut him short. She’d already lost interest in any excuses he might be hoping to fall back on. ‘And Russell, is he off having a good time, too? I imagine Russell, being Russell, will be going somewhere exotic. Exotic and expensive. Would that be right?’
‘Kate, there’s nothing I can do. I’ve tried everything. I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry, but that’s life.’
Those last three words seemed to have the power to ignite some anger and resentment that had lain dormant deep inside her, possibly for many years. There was no restraint now, no pretence at politeness, no possibility of understanding or compromise. ‘That is not life, Hugh. It is absolutely not life.’ She spluttered for a moment, halted for a split second by a log jam of venom. ‘How dare you come back to your family and tell them their camping trip is cancelled. How dare you! Do you have any idea how excited your son is? He talks of nothing else. He’s been sitting in the new Esky most of the afternoon. How can you do that to him? How can you let those bastards walk all over you – and me, and your son? You’re spineless. You let them use you. They laugh at you behind your back, they must do. “Get Hughsy to work over Easter. He won’t object. He’ll do what he’s told.” And you do. You just take it. It’s an insult, a blatant insult, like a slap in the face, and you do nothing. Just sit there and lap it up.’
He lowered his head against the barrage. It was easier not to resist. She was right; he wasn’t a fighter. But why should he have to be?
As always, she suddenly recalled similar incidents from the distant past, incidents he had long since forgotten, probably wouldn’t even have remembered the day after the
y’d happened. She had a memory an elephant would have been proud to possess, and it allowed her to link his past failings with this, his present failing, in a seamless segue, without breath, without pause, as if she’d been rehearsing her argument for months. He must surely wonder at his own lack of fluency. After a while, he did make one feeble attempt at justifying his decision.
‘I don’t really have an option –’
But she cut him down before he even started. ‘Of course you have. You could tell them to shove their job. You could tell them you’re not going to take their crap any longer. You’re not a slave, Hugh. You could stand up for yourself for a change.’
He tuned out. He watched her face, transformed and contorted by rage and frustration, and thought much the same as many husbands think at such times. Not that he should ditch his role as her husband because he intended to go off and live in a cave alone and be happy, without any responsibilities whatsoever. Not that, although it was tempting. But that she seemed to expect the best of both worlds: she wanted him to be successful, earn good money and ensure they all lived comfortably, yet at the same time she wanted him to work nine to five, never bring any work home, and take as much responsibility for his job as a labourer on the basic wage. She expected him to earn his good salary, yet work the hours of a junior or some kind of office clerk. How unreasonable – how irrational – is that, he mused.
Without thinking, he cut in on her tirade. ‘I do all of this for you, that’s what you don’t seem to understand. For you and Tim. That’s why I sometimes have to work outside office hours – for you and Tim.’
‘Bullshit!’ It was as if he’d thrown some kerosene on a fire. ‘You’re not doing this for us, Hugh, you’re doing it for you. Because you enjoy it. Because you love your work. You love working late. You love working over Easter. So don’t try and persuade me you’re making all these sacrifices for me and Tim, because it isn’t true. And you know it!’
