Room 46 & Short Story Collection

by Helen McKenna

  The melodic tone of her mobile phone sounded and the screen display showed that it was Karen on the line.

  ‘Hello,’ Margaret answered softly, determined not to be one of those annoying passengers who conducted loud mobile phone conversations.

  ‘Hi Mum, I just wanted to ring and see that you weren’t still stressing about seeing old Berno today.’

  ‘Well, uh, no, not really.’

  ‘Chill Mum, he can’t kill you,’ Karen reassured her. ‘I know I put the wind up you when I told you about Jasmine, but she was really a bit of a drama queen. You’re just another student to him and a first year at that. He’s not stressing about your meeting, so you shouldn’t worry about it either.’

  ‘Oh I wish I had your confidence,’

  Sitting outside Professor Bernstein’s office before her meeting, Margaret chatted nervously to a fellow student named Kirsty who was awaiting the same fate. Margaret wished she could be as calm and unruffled as this seventeen year old, who was chewing gum and filing her nails.

  ‘Aren’t you nervous?’ Margaret asked, trying to quell the butterflies in her stomach.

  ‘Nah, old Berno doesn’t worry me,’ Kirsty replied. ‘This is only worth ten per cent, and besides you’ve got until week six to drop out or change subjects.’

  Margaret smiled politely and gnawed at her thumbnail, which was now bitten down to the quick. It was a nervous habit from her childhood that the nuns at her school had never managed to curb.

  Kirsty handed Margaret her emery board. ‘Really, I think you’re getting yourself too worked up about this.’

  Margaret nodded her thanks and filed her ragged nail. Maybe she was over-reacting. But what if Professor Bernstein told her she was no good at writing? How would she face him at the tutorial each week? Oh why did I ever think this was a good idea?

  The low murmur of conversation inside the office was punctuated by an angry raised voice. Although they couldn’t hear what was being said, Margaret and Kirsty exchanged a nervous glance. Now Margaret could detect fear on the teenager’s face.

  ‘Really, his bark is worse than his bite,’ Kirsty insisted as she fiddled with the end of her plait.

  The door to Professor Bernstein’s office opened suddenly. Margaret looked up with a start as a short wiry boy walked out clutching an assignment covered in red ink. The terrified look on his face said it all. Kirsty gulped audibly and Margaret wondered if she had time to dash to the toilet again.

  ‘Next,’ barked the voice from inside the office.

  Margaret scuttled in with her head down and perched on the edge of the visitor’s chair. About sixty years old, Professor Bernstein was wearing brown trousers that looked to be at least a decade past their prime, a white shirt that had gone grey in the wash and an ugly paisley tie. Reading glasses were perched on the end of his nose and the legendary beady eyes that had scared so many students over the years didn’t even look up from the pile of assignments in front of him.

  ‘Margaret McCormick?’ he snapped gruffly.

  Margaret bit her lip. ‘Yes that’s right,’ she squeaked.

  Professor Bernstein picked up her assignment and made a great show of leafing through it, saying ‘mmm’ several times and pausing dramatically each time he turned the page.

  ‘Well, Margaret clearly it has been some time since you were at school.’

  Margaret’s stomach clenched. This was going to be worse than she had imagined. Her lack of knowledge about poetry must have been very obvious in her writing.

  ‘Yes it’s been a few years,’ she replied, her voice still squeaky.

  ‘I know people think I’m an old fool but I can always pick a more mature student’s work as opposed to those young louts who breeze through the doors these days barely able to spell their own names.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Margaret, very unsure where this was leading.

  ‘You see Margaret, you are one of the few students in this class who appears to have any kind of grip on the English language. Your argument is too hesitant and you could have explored some of the concepts raised to a higher level, but on the whole this was a passable effort.’

  The sense of relief that flowed through Margaret was like the rush of adrenaline that accompanies a near miss with another car on the highway.

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ she answered, her voice almost back to its normal pitch.

  ‘So where did you go to school?’

  ‘St Anthony’s.’

  Professor Bernstein raised his bushy eyebrows and eyed Margaret closely. ‘Really? Here in Brisbane?’

  Margaret nodded, noting the immediate softening of the professor’s expression. He looked almost friendly!

  ‘My mother was the Senior English Mistress there for twenty-five years!’ Professor Bernstein exclaimed. ‘You know, I can always spot somebody who was taught to her exacting standards.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Bernstein. Well what a small world it is!’

  ‘Indeed, indeed. My dear mother – may she rest in peace – was the one who inspired me to go on and study English. She was such a gentle woman and so caring of her students. Firm but kind and she always got results. Just look at you, out of school for many years and still served well by Mum’s wonderful teaching. It was far superior to the young teachers of today, who in my humble opinion, are much too liberal.’

  Professor Bernstein handed Margaret back her essay with a warm smile that softened his stern face. Margaret could only sit and grin in relief as her heart slowed to its normal speed.

  ‘Like I said Margaret, you need to be a bit more assertive in your writing but that will come with experience. I don’t expect you to have any problems in my course.’

  Margaret just smiled again, thanked the professor and left his office before he changed his mind.

  Karen laughed as Margaret relayed the story back to her that afternoon over a cup of tea. ‘Fancy you being taught by old Berno’s mother and him being able to pick up on it like that. He’s obviously not as out of touch as he appears to be.’

  Margaret smiled. ‘Ah but I wasn’t taught by her. Remember I left school when I was fifteen so I didn’t do senior English at St Anthony’s.’

  ‘Oh, so you lied to get into Berno’s good books,’ Karen replied with a mock stern look.

  Margaret shook her head and took another sip of tea. ‘No I didn’t lie. I just let Professor Bernstein draw his own conclusions, inaccurate as they may be.’

  Karen chuckled again. ‘Fair enough. So what was she like?’

  ‘Does the fact that her nickname was Battleaxe Bernstein answer your question?’

  ‘I take it you didn’t tell her adoring son that?’

  ‘No definitely not,’ Margaret chuckled. ‘I may be new at this whole uni thing, but I do know to quit while I’m ahead.’

  Karen broke a Scotch finger biscuit in half and dunked one piece in her tea. ‘So, who should really get the credit for your superior English skills?’

  ‘Well here’s a laugh for you. I went back and did most of my senior subjects at night when you girls were little. All except English. I only did that two years ago to qualify for uni and my teacher was a twenty-two-year-old new graduate.’

  ‘No!’ Karen exclaimed. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Uh huh. So much for the liberal young teachers of today, hey?’

  Margaret and Karen looked at each other again and burst into laughter.

  # # # # #

  Initially, Grace felt self-conscious reading the story with Marion in the room. She had dawdled for a while, flicking through the pages slowly to get to the right place and wriggled in the lumpy chair to get as comfortable as possible, but had eventually realised the other woman had no intention of leaving. Deciding to just get on with it, she soon lost herself in the reading of the story, so much so that she was startled when Marion chuckled heartily at the conclusion.

  ‘I enjoyed that,’ she said as she dusted the pictures on the wall. ‘You’ve got a real knack for reading a
loud.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Grace said.

  ‘I was out at UQ for many years myself.’

  Grace couldn’t hide her surprise. ‘Oh, really? What did you study?’

  ‘Not a thing!’ Marion laughed. ‘I used to clean there.’

  ‘Oh right. Did you ever wish you were a student?’

  Marion looked up from where she was cleaning Edith’s dressing table. ‘Maybe once or twice, but believe it or not I’m very happy with my career.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Marion arched an eyebrow. ‘Did you go to uni? Or do you still go? You’re about the right age.’

  Grace hesitate a second and then shook her head. ‘No, no I haven’t ever been to uni.’

  ‘What about TAFE or another training college?’

  ‘No.’

  The silence hung between them a moment and Grace could see that Edith was following the conversation with interest. ‘I don’t really work at the moment,’ she said eventually. ‘I’m just sorting some stuff out, you know.’

  ‘Looking for your true vocation, huh?’

  ‘Uh, yeah,’ Grace replied, while desperately searching for a conversation topic away from her vocation or gross lack thereof. Looking back at Edith she smiled a little forcefully and picked up the book again. ‘Sorry, we’re getting off topic here. Uh, I really liked the way Margaret was thinking on her feet,’ she finally blurted. ‘I mean she was really scared and everything but she really picked up on the way the Professor got all wistful when he spoke about his mother and she said something that scored her some brownie points.’

  ‘Yeah, she did and then of course we realise she was fudging it a bit – although as she said herself she didn’t lie, she just let the professor draw his own conclusion.’ Marion seemed determined to continue involving herself in the conversation.

  ‘Lying by omission,’ Grace said.

  ‘Mmmm, kind of,’ Marion agreed. ‘I don’t know that that is always a bad thing. Take Margaret for example, nobody was hurt and there was little likelihood of being found out given that Mrs Bernstein is dead. So all she did was use a lever to put herself in the best place to succeed with her study.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘And, besides the Professor had already told her she had a good writing style before she told him where she went to school, so it’s not like he totally changed his opinion of her.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Marion was rearranging Edith’s drawers now. Grace suspected it was a delaying tactic but knew she couldn’t very well ask her to leave. Besides, maybe it was interesting for Edith to have another opinion in the mix.

  ‘Let’s face it we’re all guilty of lying by omission sometimes,’ Marion said.

  Grace froze for a moment, then forced herself to nod her head. ‘Yes,’ she replied softly, willing the fleeting image to only skim the rim of her conscious mind and not settle there. What was it Melanie said? Cancel, clear and delete the thoughts that don’t serve you well.

  Detecting the change in Grace, Marion steered the conversation back to safer waters. ‘So what do you think the moral of the story was?’

  Grace was determined to be positive. ‘It’s never too late to try something new.’

  ‘Good advice that.’

  The road works were still in progress as Grace made her way home; in fact the workers had expanded what they were doing. Huge chunks of bitumen had been ripped up and they appeared to be replacing a water main. Noticing the detour signs Grace realised she was going to have to take an alternative route. Damn she thought, what was the point of having a safeguarding system when it could be upset so easily?

  As she drove the long way home Grace kept her eyes straight ahead. But it was no use. Even if she didn’t physically look over at the Conservatorium she knew it was there, doing what it had always done. Grace sighed sadly wondering if she would ever be able to look at it without feeling such an aching loss.

  It was hard to fathom that she should be graduating this year. Grace scrupulously avoided the musical circles she used to move in, having no wish to hear about the successes of her former classmates as they made their way into the performing world. It was just too painful to contemplate what might have been … what should have been if her life hadn’t derailed along the way.

  * * * * *

  Unlike almost most other high school seniors, the pupils at Strauss did not have to stress about their immediate future. Part of its exclusivity was the pathway program it provided – guaranteeing every graduating student a place at either the Conservatorium of Music or a degree in music at any university of their choice. Naturally they did have to fulfil their other academic requirements as well, but they were so well monitored and supported with their studies it was almost impossible to fail.

  Grace had kept her options open, applying to uni as well as contemplating the Con. She had always liked the idea of teaching music as well as performing and knew it was easy enough to complete her Bachelor of Education as a combined degree. While it would be amazing to be surrounded by other musicians as passionate as her at the conservatorium, no doubt there would be a lot of pressure as well, not to mention fairly serious competitiveness. The less structured environment at uni that wasn’t exclusively about music did hold a certain amount of appeal.

  She had to admit that she had felt a little smug compared to her friends from home who were still dithering about whether or not to continue studying and if so what course to take. It was a relief to have all that sorted out and just focus on the endless opportunities Strauss provided.

  If anybody had asked, Grace would never have said it was easy for her to get in her car and travel to Rosehill Gardens each week. But she had to admit it was becoming less difficult. The drive there was no longer such a tense experience, and rather than clenching the steering wheel struggling for control and psyching herself up for what was to come, Grace found herself looking forward to seeing Edith and interested in the story they might read that day.

  I almost feel normal, Grace realised as she exited onto the access road. I’m going somewhere and I’ve got something to do. It wasn’t like having a proper job – Grace had accepted that was not to be her path in life – but it felt good. She was doing something with her time that actually meant something both to her and another person. Although still of the opinion the Rejoin program was ultimately not going to be of benefit to her, she conceded that it did have some merit.

  Edith was dozing when Grace arrived, so she closed the door quietly and sat down. Making herself as comfortable as she could in the lumpy chair Grace studied the room. As much as Edith had personalised it, like no other room at Rosehill, it was still a small space that spoke little of the sum of Edith’s life experiences. The photographs on the wall showed a younger, mobile Edith who was clearly an adventurous soul. A multi-shot frame displayed action shots of that other woman horse riding, sky diving and aboard a yacht holding a glass of champagne. How does all that energy and purpose fizzle to nothing? How does a healthy, even curvaceous body shrivel to skin and bone?

  Caught up in her wondering, Grace was startled when she glanced up and found Edith watching her intently. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured, ‘I wasn’t being a stalker or anything.’

  Edith’s expression was mild. She raised her eyebrows as if to say ‘no problem’.

  ‘You look like you had a lot of fun back when you could … uh before...’

  A blink and a smile.

  ‘I think I’ve forgotten how to have fun,’ Grace admitted. ‘It’s kind of strange, you don’t think about it when you’re a kid, you just do stuff you like and play and it all seems like fun. But then you grow up and you realise the world isn’t always a nice place and you kind of forget about having fun.’

  Edith eyed her intently, so much so that Grace felt she should explain herself further. ‘But it’s different when you’re a grown up isn’t it? I mean if you like daring kind of things like the pictures here, I guess that’s fun. But I’m not daring, so my options a
re a bit limited.’

  Edith just kept looking at her and this time her eyes were definitely sad.

  # # # # #

  Rosie, Bev, Ross and Scott greeted each other with little enthusiasm outside SmallWorld IT Solutions at 8.30 am on December thirty-first. All the other business car parks remained empty; and the street that was usually bustling with traffic was deserted. It appeared that they were the only people who had to work on New Year’s Eve.

  ‘Would you look at the colour of that sky,’ said Rosie wistfully, her mind still back at the beach house where she had spent the last week. The other three peered upwards into the cerulean depths and agreed that it was a crime to waste a summer sky like that by being indoors.

  None of them had worked on December thirty-first at SmallWorld before. Like the other businesses in the industrial estate it used to remain closed between Christmas and New Year. Yes, they had all heard the stories from Mr Small each year about how his holiday had been interrupted because he was always gracious enough to be on call, but they never imagined that he would pass on the responsibility to somebody else this year.

  They had all protested when Mr Small had announced the crew rostered to work New Year’s Eve. Each of them told him how inconvenient it was to come in for one day and that they had other plans. But Mr Small was unmoved. Unless there was a valid excuse that could be verified, they were rostered on to work. He reminded the quartet that they were being paid double time and would enjoy a pub lunch at company expense. None of them felt this was worthy compensation for having to be in the office on a day when the rest of the country (and more specifically the rest of their workmates) were out having fun.

  For security reasons a minimum of four staff had to be present and Mr Small had chosen each of them for a specific reason. Rosie had the keys and alarm codes, Ross was the most experienced senior technician, Scott was the resident virus removal expert and for Bev it was an opportunity to run the end of year invoices without the hassle of having to backdate them.