by Cate Kennedy
‘Yeah, but do you have to listen to them through those earpieces?’
‘What? Of course not. You get a dock. You sit this unit in the dock and get yourself some good speakers and listen all day ... Hey, why am I telling you this? You work in TV, Rich, you know the technology.’
‘I’m avoiding it.’ He smiled as he reached across the desk for Martin’s player. ‘I have this theory, see, that everyone jumps on these fads and thinks the new stuff is totally indispensable and just a few people resist the impulse to leap on the bandwagon ...’
‘You are so full of it.’
‘ ... and after a while the people who’ve resisted, who’ve never owned the new gadget, they’re the ones who come to seem really cutting edge.’
‘Nah, they just seem really weird. OK, so you set this into the dock and buy a couple of speakers, and I can get those off eBay for you for probably $100 all up, and off you go.’
Rich thought of the sound system he’d saved for months to buy just a few short years ago, his stereo that took up a whole tabletop. He couldn’t get over how small the CDs had seemed when they first hit the market, compared to LPs. Thought vinyl would soon become collectible, and was still waiting.
‘So I can burn all my CDs into the computer ...’ he began.
‘Yeah, but why would you? Just download everything you want off iTunes.’
‘I wouldn’t need two thousand songs. But I thought it’d be good, you know, I’ve got this trip coming up ...’
‘I’ve got just the thing for you,’ Martin said, scrabbling in his bag. ‘Hardly use this now. I got it last year for the car, but since I got this job here I really only ride my bike. It’s only got one gig capacity though.’ He handed Rich a black plastic gadget on a key ring. Cord with a lighter plug, like a recharger.
‘There’s about 150 songs downloaded onto it off my playlist. I’ll leave them on; you can delete them when you do your own. You just plug it in and tune it into the car radio.’
‘Miracle.’
‘Nah — you can have it.’
‘Seriously? You star.’
‘Let me know when you want to upgrade to something decent.’
‘Thanks, but this is great — all I need. And the sound system I’ve got at home is fine.’
‘Let me guess — one of those big black empty boxes with a million wires and cables everywhere?’
He hesitated, then shrugged. ‘It’s got great speakers and I can record from CD or do tape-to-tape dubs.’
Martin gave a good-natured guffaw, looking at him with something like wonder as he zipped up his bag. ‘Tape-to-tape dubs?’ he spluttered, shaking his head. ‘Mate, what planet have you been living on?’
Rich grinned back, his jaw tight, and turned again to his script. Underlined, the client’s strict instructions that the text saying Three easy payments of $49.99 was only to flash onto the screen for three seconds in total. Rule number one: disorientation. Then pause on the second part that offered an extra gift for the first two hundred callers, as if the switchboard was going to be swamped for a crappy walking machine. Don’t be left out! the voiceover would add urgently. The illusion that you were missing out on something unless you jumped right now: rule number two.
Disorientation and urgency, thought Rich, inserting tapes, turning back to the screen. Disorientation and urgency. Get those two elements working together, and there wasn’t a single miserable thing human beings weren’t capable of falling for.
Eight
He was such a big presence in the car, so relaxed the way he draped his arm over the bucket seat to catch her eye and include her in the conversation. And her mother was so clearly rattled by him, nervy and over-talkative by comparison. Sophie was feeling pretty keyed-up herself, seeing him at close quarters like this, reminding herself, disbelievingly, who he actually was. The radio was fuzzing along with static the way it always did in her mum’s car and he reached down to adjust the tuning dial.
‘That won’t do anything,’ Sandy said. She pointed to where the aerial should have been. ‘That’s the best I can get without an aerial. Got snapped off.’
Sophie tried to read the precise tone of her voice. Not apologetic — accusing, almost. Defiant. As if Rich should have divined she needed a replacement, and provided one.
He reached into his bag. ‘How about I just use this instead?’
An in-car iPod. Sophie blinked. When he pushed it into the cigarette-lighter cavity, and tuned it in, she felt another nudge of astonishment as the first song started.
‘Korn?’ she said finally, leaning forward in her seat. ‘You like Korn?’
‘Sure.’
‘How many songs fit on there?’
‘Oh — about a hundred and fifty I think ...’
‘About one gig then?’
‘That’s right.’
‘The radio gets AM, no problem,’ said Sandy suddenly. ‘It’s just FM that gets the static.’
There was a pause.
‘What kind of car do you have, Rich?’ said Sandy.
‘A car? I don’t have one at all.’ He turned his head again to include Sophie in the exchange. ‘If I’m not on the road I’m living in the inner city, and it just seems like too much of a carbon footprint, you know? So I just use public transport.’ He paused. ‘Or my bike.’
Sandy snapped the indicator and changed lanes. ‘Easy if you live in the city, yes,’ she commented.
Sophie heard the tone again in her voice, had lived with that tone and its wounded, aggrieved subcurrent all her life, but Rich didn’t recognise it, or else he ignored it. So that when her mother started on an elaborate tirade about voluntary simplicity and working within your own local community, Rich tilted his head back at Sophie and made a face. He raised his eyebrows a little and let his eyes go glazed and slightly crossed so that Sophie had to hide her grin behind her hand and pretend to look out the window to stop herself laughing.
‘For example, I’ve had this one car for fourteen years now,’ Sandy went on, still with the same voice, and Sophie knew it wasn’t just her, that other people heard the self-righteousness in it too, because Rich shifted in his seat and said, ‘Well, hang on a sec. Just for starters, there’s a false kind of logic working there’, and fearlessly, calmly, ignoring Sandy’s face mottled with surprise and anger, he started talking about catalytic converters and old engines spewing lead into the air. Just straight out contradicted her. And he knew what he was talking about too.
‘Not that I’m judging you,’ he was adding now to Sandy. ‘A lot of people think they’re doing the right thing, driving round in old cars, and just don’t realise they’re creating five times the heavy metal pollution of newer vehicles.’
Sophie could see, from the back seat, her mother’s furious profile. She shook her head and her bead earrings swept against her neck, and she chewed on her lip for a moment before answering.
‘Nothing like as bad as air travel,’ she said shortly. ‘Ironic, isn’t it — here I am driving you to the airport and you’re lecturing me about having to drive an old car.’
‘I’m not lecturing you. You insisted on doing the driving, remember? And I realise I do have to work hard to offset my carbon footprint with all the air travel I do.’
‘Where do you go?’ Sophie blurted.
‘All over the place, really. Out-of-the-way places.’
‘Still taking photos, then?’ said Sandy.
‘Oh, yeah, that’s what I mean. Photojournalism pieces.’
‘And what funds all this gadding about?’ asked Sandy. Gadding. Didn’t he hear that tone again, that warning note of buried contempt? Didn’t he know to back off ?
‘I work in television. I’m a freelance editor.’
‘Is that right.’ There was a flat note to her mother’s voice now, like someone who’s heard it all, like being a television editor was the worst sort of trivial sell-out. And Sophie realised he’d been aware of the tone all along, because he stretched out his legs and replied just as
coolly.
‘Yep, that’s my other job. What about you, Sandy? What do you do to make a living?’
Leading her right into it, so that when her mum started reluctantly explaining about the jewellery stall he didn’t even need to have a come-back, he just raised his eyebrows and said ‘Still?’ and let her bluster on digging herself deeper and deeper, listening almost kindly, nodding encouragingly, until even Sandy seemed to realise she sounded like someone who’d done nothing but sit in the same place and do the same mundane crap for years and years, and trailed off into stung silence.
Sophie looked at the two of them in the front seats, amazed that they could both have been the two halves of her. Her parents. It hardly seemed possible. Here was Rich, this stranger, a TV editor who probably knew tons of famous people. And he was taking her, Sophie, to a world-famous place, treating her like an adult, assuming she could manage the six-day walk. And there was her mum, going on a retreat to commune with her past lives, or something. Rich was calm and good-looking and he had Oakley sunglasses and listened to Korn; her mother had a shirt that was too tight under the arms and a car with a bent coathanger for an aerial.
Sophie groped for her phone and scrolled down to Tegan’s number. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted to say. A song by Foo Fighters came onto the radio from Rich’s cool little MP3 player as her thumb hovered over the phone and she half listened to Sandy start in on Rich again, reading him the riot act about how he had to be back at the airport on Tuesday at the exact time they agreed on, no last-minute changes, as if he was some slow-witted eighteen-year-old taking Sophie out on a date and she had a curfew. And as she glanced up at them she saw he was nodding seriously, agreeing, then as her mother turned back to the traffic he swivelled his eyes back at her and smiled conspiratorially like he sympathised with her, and understood. Earlier at the café he’d gotten Sophie a double skim latte without even questioning it and hadn’t asked her a lot of bright-eyed crap about what she liked at school and what she wanted to be when she finished.
In fact he wasn’t like any of Sandy’s friends at all, or any of the adults at school, or anyone else’s parents. She’d never thought about it till now but of course Rich would know Sandy as well as she did; he of all people would understand what she could be like and what it was like having to live with her. He was an ally.
Rich likes The Vines! she texted surreptitiously. He is cool as. Stay tuned. : )
She pressed ‘send’ and watched the little animated envelope twist on the screen and disappear, then looked back up to see they were leaving the freeway for the airport.
‘I mean it,’ her mother was telling Rich in the front seat. ‘I think this could be a great experience for Sophie, but I want to be kept in daily contact and know exactly where you are and what’s happening. Are we on the same page about this?’
‘The same page? Absolutely,’ Rich answered. He glanced again at Sophie, and she saw, through the calm sincerity of his voice, that he’d crossed his eyes again, just for a second — a message of mutual forbearance just for her. They were in this together.
Sandy kept the slim packages hidden in her bag until she parked.
‘I’ll get your pack out,’ she said to Sophie, and while she was bent over the boot she patted a side pocket that felt empty, slid open the zip, pushed the packets deep inside behind a flap of Velcro and zipped it all up again before pulling the backpack out. Soph would find them in a few days’ time, like a surprise present, she thought, and know she was thinking of her.
‘All set?’ she said as she helped Sophie put her pack on. ‘Are you sure you’ve got everything in there? It seems kind of light.’
‘I’ve got everything I need. Mr Boyd’s helped me and I showed you the list Parks and Wildlife puts out, didn’t I? I’ve got just what they recommend.’
‘I wish I’d brought the camera,’ said Sandy.
Sophie pulled her hair free from under the pack and rolled her eyes. ‘Calm down. It’s only a week.’
‘Eight days,’ said Sandy. She felt bruised. Foolish. Concentrated on putting her keys in her bag, to stop herself reaching out and stroking her daughter’s hair.
Rich kept sneaking covert glances, mesmerised. He couldn’t believe it was her, the little girl in the photo. All that metallic blue and black around her eyes, that fringe hiding the combative scrutiny that missed nothing, and those black shrunk-wrapped clothes and outsized boots. She looked like one of those Bratz dolls. Or like a groupie at a Marilyn Manson concert, pale as paper, ready to cut you dead with a sidelong sneer. Next to her Sandy looked like a middle-aged tour manager huffing along with the paperwork, her shoulder bag slipping off her arm as they waited in the boarding queue. It was OK. Once they went through security and into the departure lounge, Sandy wouldn’t be able to follow; it would be just Sophie and him.
‘I’m surprised you’re flying to Hobart instead of Launceston,’ Sandy said, scrutinising their flight printout. ‘It’s further to drive to Cradle Mountain, isn’t it?’
She was right, and it hadn’t occurred to him until he’d already booked the flights.
‘I wanted to show Sophie Risdon Prison,’ he said. ‘Our own personal memory of Tasmania’s convict past.’ He glanced at Sophie. ‘Has your mum told you we both spent some time at Her Majesty’s pleasure, in jail after the Blockade?’
The girl took one gnawed black fingernail out of her mouth. ‘Only about a million times,’ she answered.
‘Well, I thought we’d do a drive-by, for old times’ sake.’
‘A drive-by?’
He grinned at her. ‘Not with Uzis, obviously. Just with a camera.’
God, she was so cool, with that sullen, round-shouldered apathy all the teenagers seemed to have perfected now. She was putting it on for him, he could tell. He’d seen that smile bloom across her face in the car. Sandy folded her arms and hitched her bag again as they moved forward slowly in the queue. She’d been furious with him since the car trip. Just a few more minutes, though, and she’d have to leave, and take her bad mood with her. They checked in and weighed their packs, and Rich turned to Sophie.
‘Only fifteen kilos?’ he said. ‘Wow, I’m impressed. That’s fantastic. Have you got a sleeping mat in there?’
‘Of course I have.’
‘And a fuel stove and everything?’
‘She’s spent weeks packing,’ Sandy interjected. ‘One of her teachers gave her lots of pointers. She’s borrowed most of her equipment from the school.’
‘Great. See, mine’s twenty kilos. Extra camera gear, mostly. Can’t do without it.’
Their packs disappeared down the conveyor as they got their boarding passes and of course Sandy walked edgily with them all the way to the security gates.
‘Eight days, then,’ she said stiffly to Rich. ‘I’ll see you back here, in the arrivals lounge, at 11.15 Tuesday morning.’
‘We’ll be here, won’t we, Sophie?’
He watched her turn and seem to straighten her slouch a little as she saw the expression on her mother’s face. She raised her arms and gave her a hug. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll be absolutely fine.’
Sandy angled their bodies away from him as she embraced her daughter.
‘I can’t believe you’re actually going,’ he heard her say. ‘I want you to well, take such care, Soph ...’ Her voice going high. Red hair stark against a snarl of jet black as their heads dipped towards each other.
‘Now you just go and have a great time at your workshop,’ Sophie answered. Rich heard, in her voice, the level tone of authority, the voice of a parent.
‘Yeah, you too sweetheart. Be inspired.’
Sophie looked embarrassed. ‘You too,’ she muttered, smiling stiffly. ‘Be inspired.’
Then Sandy was turning towards him as Sophie rummaged in her bag for her mobile. She reached up to draw him to her and Rich thought with a flash of surprise that she was going to hug him too — present a united front for Sophie, maybe, or put a lid on this
animosity. He put his arms on her shoulders, a bit taken aback, and she tilted her chin to bring her face close to his ear.
‘If you harm one hair on her head,’ he heard her say softly, ‘believe me, you will pay.’
He pulled back his hands, affronted, and she turned without looking at him again, giving Sophie one more kiss before walking away. Sophie was already moving towards the security doors but he stayed a moment and watched Sandy hurrying off, his nostrils still registering her new and totally unfamiliar perfume.
She’d be OK. She would. She’d be absolutely fine. She was fifteen now and God knows she could stand up for herself. Sandy sped, throat squeezing, breathless, towards the car park. If she could just get to the cashier before 1.40, she wouldn’t be charged another $12. All the way there it was as if her mother was floating effortlessly along beside her, giving her the usual white-noise monologue. Couldn’t you have worn a decent pair of shoes? said her voice as Sandy jog-trotted across the zebra crossing, pushing her hair out of her eyes. When are you going to get yourself a proper haircut, Sandy? I mean, if it’s money, just ask, because frankly, darling, a good haircut would make all the difference. Cut all that colour out, don’t you think? It’s a colour for a much younger woman, I hope you don’t mind me saying.
Sandy put on her sunglasses as she hurried. She saw her own reflection elongate and slip by through the tinted side-windows of the cars she passed. He looked just the same. Just the same. Same long hair in a ponytail, hadn’t gained an ounce of weight. Patronising her with that amused patience, and Sophie lapping that up of course. Making her, Sandy, into the frumpy boring killjoy by default. She’d been in a rush this morning, otherwise of course she would have thought about her appearance more carefully. She was just out of the shower when the guy had rung about the tree, asking her when she’d like him to do it, and she’d clutched her towel around herself impatiently, saying, ‘Yes, sure, whatever, whenever suits you.’ She’d thought she looked good, anyway, before they left. Something indefinable had happened since then to make her appear shorter, and wider, and more crumpled.
