Wood Green

by Sean Rabin

  Across from the kitchen was a sunroom with two black leather couches, creased and worn, facing each other over a long coffee table supporting a clean ashtray, cigarette papers, lighter, plastic sandwich bag filled with marijuana, notebook, pen, dictionary, reading glasses, and a catalogue of a Francis Bacon exhibition at The Art Gallery of NSW. The windows were floor to ceiling, offering an expansive view of the forest that stood no more than ten metres from the rear of the house.

  Lucian set the teapot down, lowered himself into the corner of a couch that no longer rebounded from the weight of his body, and turned towards the windows in the hope of seeing one of the local wallabies, or the family of pink robins that hunted insects among the remains of his kitchen garden. He would have liked his guest to take up a similar pose, but a sideways glance confirmed that Michael sat like a child witnessing an inebriated parent for the first time.

  You can pour the tea if you like.

  Michael preferred it with a spoon of sugar, but was too embarrassed to ask. He found his cigarettes and placed one between his lips.

  I’d appreciate you not doing that inside the house, said Lucian. A spliff is the only smoke that Sadie can tolerate. Shall I roll one for us?

  Michael put away his cigarette and for the first time noticed the dog staring at him with suspicion from the foot of Lucian’s couch. Shouldn’t I start work first?

  Your professionalism is duly noted and commendable, said Lucian as he dangled a cigarette paper from his bottom lip. However, in my vast experience I have often found that being stoned is the optimum state of mind for dusting. He unsealed the sandwich bag and inhaled the aroma of its contents. Don’t worry, it’s not too strong.

  You’re the boss.

  Lucian flinched. Michael seemed as incapable of resisting clichés in conversation as he was when theorising about Lucian’s books. And the thought of how such a mind might eventually portray Maureen in a novel made Lucian pull hard and deep as he lit the spliff.

  Michael sank back into the couch with the realisation that he was thoroughly, terribly, stoned. At some point in the past half an hour the pot had undermined his ability to speak, and in the vacuum an album of trippy French folk – Paix by Catherine Ribeiro + Alpes – had taken over the room. So like Lucian he turned his attention towards the forest. Its details were infinitely more complex than Michael had first appreciated. The variety of greens and browns was astonishing, and the countless faces that appeared in the clusters of leaves flickering in the breeze seemed to all be competing for his attention. Look, a kangaroo! Michael shouted with a gesture so large and fast that the marsupial immediately disappeared back between the trees.

  Lucian scowled at his new secretary. Time for you to start work I think.

  10.

  Michael rested his feet on a low windowsill and admired the grey clouds advancing towards Hobart. The wide vista from his B&B room took in the Derwent River, its eastern shoreline, along with the rooftops and chimneys of the houses built further down the hillside. Situated on a headland, Battery Point was a historically significant suburb that fostered an atmosphere of white-bread exclusivity, manicured old-world charm, heightened colonialism and prohibitive affluence that Michael’s lower-middle-class upbringing instinctively condemned, while his university-educated consciousness revelled in its beauty. The houses were predominantly Georgian in style, with front doors that opened onto generous and spotless footpaths. Along these strolled couples inspecting restaurant menus and estimating real estate prices; European backpackers trying in vain to discover what their guidebook authors had found so exciting about the suburb, and groups of old ladies patronising tea rooms while marvelling at a part of Australia that had remained unchanged since they were girls. Turn a corner and there was an original sandstone wall; a circus surrounded by renovated workers’ cottages, or a secret staircase down to Salamanca and the wharfs. No trace of graffiti was visible, and all architectural aberrations appeared to have occurred in the nineteen-sixties, so even the few apartment blocks that had wheedled their way into the area had an old-fashioned quality. It felt like a guilty pleasure to enjoy it so much, and Michael knew he was being marketed to, but no more than the inner-city suburb he had left behind in Sydney that sold ideas of vibrant unconventionality while landlords waited impatiently for gentrification to occur. At least Battery Point was unambiguous in its ambitions, giving Michael a sense of freedom to enjoy all its trappings.

  Directly in front of his window the Derwent River ran smooth and bright, but to the south, beneath the advancing clouds, the water had grown dark and fractured by rain. It created a distinct line across the river’s surface and revealed exactly how fast the morning storm was advancing towards the city. Michael felt privileged to witness such a spectacle of weather, and vindicated in his recent decision to extend his stay in the B&B for another month.

  Of the twelve tables in the dining room on the ground floor only three were occupied for breakfast, so after the proprietor, Andrew Tiller, had served everyone, he took it upon himself to sit with Michael – because no one wanted to eat alone – and recount the highlights of the B&B. All the silver came from England with my great grandmother, he boasted. Some time after the end of the nineteenth century.

  Andrew was a thin man of medium height and shallow chest who shaved every day and bought his clothes from discount stores because he was always forgetting to put on an apron in the kitchen. He checked his reflection in most shiny surfaces, and used his immaculately clean and slightly overlong fingernails to comb any recalcitrant strands of hair back into place. There was an eerie lack of scent to Andrew’s skin, and a fastidiousness in the way his shirt was always perfectly tucked in. He was aware that spit bubbles sometimes gathered in the corners of his mouth, and would haughtily wipe them away with a thumb and forefinger whenever he sensed a moment of disrespect. Andrew’s desire to talk about himself was so overwhelming that he never gave a thought as to whether the people and places he mentioned were familiar to anyone else. The same way he failed to question whether there was a motive behind Michael’s queries about the tourist season, and if his room was available for another week. The moment he answered without checking the register Andrew knew, however, that he had forfeited ground in a negotiation masquerading as a conversation.

  The price Michael had locked in for the following month, with breakfast still included, was cheaper than what he would have paid for a bedsit. And the room, with its en-suite bathroom, free wi-fi and striking view, was infinitely superior to any share-house accommodation he could have secured.

  The storm had finally reached Battery Point, and as heavy rain tattooed Michael’s window he decided against going out to shop for boots. The three-and-a-half hours before he was due back up at Wood Green would be better spent by beginning work on his book. Even though the whole point of accepting a job in Tasmania had been so he could write without the distraction of teaching and marking, the novel Michael had been attempting to start for the past week was still just a collection of scenes and random ideas. Cleaning Lucian’s junk room of dust dating back to Federation, and organising boxes so he could begin sorting their contents, had so far left him too exhausted to contemplate raising the lid of his laptop. But perhaps if he began transcribing some of his notes it would inspire an opening line for his novel. Michael then realised he should probably give Rachel a call before he settled down to work. She had sent three text messages on the day of his arrival in Hobart, and one every twenty-four hours since then, all of which he was yet to respond to. The effort of breaking up had been too great, and he felt there was nothing more that needed to be said. They had exhausted the possibilities of their bodies. Once or twice things had even gone so far that it had made them feel ashamed. Ideas that seemed erotic in theory, in practice had turned out to be sour and unsatisfying, and led both of them to suspect that their relationship might have reached a dead end. Michael would not deny that he sometimes missed Rachel’s wry humour and provocative sense of fashion, but he also
knew her cynical eye would have levelled Battery Point to rubble, leaving him with nothing to enjoy. It was why he had left Sydney without saying goodbye, and not answered any of Rachel’s messages. He already knew what her estimation of his decision to move to Tasmania would be. Michael understood that what he was doing made no sense, yet as soon as Lucian had offered the job it felt as if he had no alternative but to accept. And though he appreciated what he was giving up, Michael also knew that to become a writer meant making sacrifices, and the loss of Rachel’s company was just one of things he was willing to forgo.

  11.

  Tim unscrewed the bottle cap to let the wine breathe, but on second thoughts decided to take his first drink. Maureen was already reading in bed and unlikely to come downstairs again, so why shouldn’t he begin the wine he had set aside to keep him company? Sulphur preservatives immediately assailed his sinuses, and for a moment he questioned the wisdom of his plan to consume the inexpensive bottle over the three hours the shop was to remain open. Tomorrow was a big day for deliveries, and Maureen had little sympathy for his hangovers. She was well acquainted with her husband’s undiscerning approach to wine, and refused to take a sinus headache into consideration when there was work to be done. Tim, however, decided to risk it. It was such a cold night, and he was so bored, and maybe someone from the pub would wander over later for a chat. Nothing worse than being sober when speaking with a person who has been drinking all night. At the back of his mind lingered the hope that the woman he had struck up a conversation with in the pub earlier that day might make an appearance. She and her less friendly friend had taken a table near to where he was relaxing with a post-lunch glass of red, and as they discussed what to eat he had leaned across to recommend the fish cakes. Tim knew that women loved things like fish cakes, and continued to chat and wink and charm until their food arrived.

  This old man bothering you ladies? Paul said as he set down their plates. It was meant as a joke, and everyone smiled, but the expression on the publican’s face left Tim in no doubt that he was being told to stop harassing the customers.

  He couldn’t understand what the problem was. He was just being friendly. Making Wood Green more inviting. Oh well, he said as he stood up, better get to work. Enjoy your lunch. If either of you ladies need anything just pop across the street, we’re open till late.

  Tim took another drink straight from the bottle before hiding it behind a nearby stack of paper towels. He then wiped down the serving counter, prepared the cash float for the morning, straightened the magazines, touched the breasts of every cover girl, and fed another split log into the potbelly stove. The cucumbers and tomatoes were pestering him. Three times that month he had forgotten to store them in the fridge so they stayed fresh overnight, and each morning after, his breakfast had consisted of cereal, toast, coffee and Maureen’s reprimands about wasting food and throwing away hard-earned money. Although Tim knew that most people only wanted chocolate and DVDs at this time of night, he still felt that putting away the vegetables early sent the wrong message. That it looked like the shop was getting ready to close. With a whiff of defiance for Maureen’s procedures he decided to let the cucumbers and tomatoes sit a while longer. It wasn’t as if there wouldn’t be time to put them away later in the night. But for the present he preferred to imagine the friendlier of the two women he had met in the pub earlier that day walking into the shop looking for a little romance. Tim was all for romance. It was Maureen who never wanted to go out to eat, or have sex in the bathroom. She was always too busy reading her books. In fact Tim loved romance. He remembered buying Maureen chocolates once, but they had sat in the fridge so long that he eaten most of them himself. And just because he liked action films didn’t mean that going to the movies wasn’t romantic. Films with subtitles gave him a headache.

  12.

  Michael stepped back to inspect his effort. The kidney-shaped desk looked much more attractive beneath the window, and now he could glance over the verandah and down the mountainside while he worked. The sight of the windowpanes cleaned of their layers of dirt continued to give him pleasure, and with the flyspecked roller blind banished to the garbage he could imagine morning light pouring across the wooden desktop that he had carefully cleared of dust, mildew and mouse droppings. A manual typewriter sat on its right side, for aesthetic effect, while opposite was an electric lamp – the only one of four in the room that still worked. Under the desk stood a captain’s chair with a broken swivel mechanism that caused it to tilt suddenly and dramatically to one side. Twice it had tried to tip Michael onto the floor, but Lucian had given strict instructions that nothing in the room was to be thrown away unless it was particularly foul.

  Along the adjacent wall were suitcases and boxes containing manuscripts, letters – professional and personal – birthday cards, reviews of Lucian’s books, the few efforts of journalism he had not bothered to publish, tax returns, essays he had grown bored with, as well as hundreds of notebooks containing ideas jotted down while composing his novels. Access to such an abundance of information made Michael giddy with the prospect of becoming the world authority on Lucian Clarke’s life and work, and kept distracting him with dreams of writing a definitive biography the moment his own novel was complete.

  On the opposite side of the room were three cupboard doors that concertinaed open to reveal a long row of tightly packed plastic suit covers containing clothing from what appeared to be every stage of Lucian’s adult life. Below them were thirty-nine shoeboxes of corresponding historical relevance, while at the back of the cupboard had been stacked foreign-language editions of Lucian’s books.

  Against the fourth wall of the room stood a daybed that Michael had emptied an entire can of bug spray over to kill the colonies of insects infesting its wood and cane panels. The floor underneath had turned black with their tiny carcases, but fear that some survivors might still be lurking in a protective crevice meant Michael remained hesitant to sit on the divan’s mattress and cushions.

  Lucian appeared at the doorway, leaned through, apparently reluctant to enter the room, and nodded approvingly at Michael’s work. I seem to recall it being this neat once before, but it must have been twenty years ago. Typewriter looks good there.

  Yeah, I thought you’d like it. I found two others in the cupboard, but that was the only one that still was working. Looks to me as if it’s never been used.

  You’re probably right. I remember buying it years ago off the back of a truck on Portobello Road in London. Thought it might be wise to have a back up in case my machine broke down. Feel free to give it a spin if you like.

  That’s ok, I have my laptop.

  Oh right, of course, I’ve heard of those. Could never bring myself to use one though. Always scared I’d hit it too hard and break it. I prefer the way you can be physical with a typewriter, as if you’re actually building something. And it’s noisy, so you can hear the rhythm of what you’re writing. Best way I can tell a sentence is working is if it sings when I type it. Computers are designed to be quiet, aren’t they? And don’t all the keys sound the same? Did you know that Flaubert would tap out the rhythm of his sentences on a piano to check their melody was right. Can you play? Me neither. But I reckon a typewriter is pretty close to a percussion instrument. Hard on your fingers though. Got to keep your nails short. And I won’t deny I make a hell of a lot of typos. But I think that’s where the best accidents occur. Missed words or punctuation as a page is retyped for the tenth time can take an idea in a completely unexpected direction. Computers automatically correct mistakes, don’t they? Well now you know why so many writers sound the same these days. And I suppose they’ve done away with handwriting as well. Seems a shame to me. Nothing more beautiful than a page covered with crossed out words and alternatives inserted. The only way I know a page is ready is when there are no more pen marks on it. Lucian felt his stomach rumble. But enough of my proselytising. Dinner is ready. And now this place is cleaned up we can get you started on the work I’ve a
ctually hired you to do.

  At the end of each day I want you to write a summary of what you’ve learned about my life while you’ve sorted through my papers.

  Michael looked up from the flecks of parsley lingering at the bottom of his bowl. Lucian’s beef cheek stew, served with gremolata, had been so delicious that it was difficult to accept the meal was over.

  You’re writing an autobiography?

  Thinking about it.

  But I thought you didn’t believe in them. Aren’t you quoted as saying that autobiographies are the greatest dishonesty a writer can commit. Not only to his readers but also himself?

  Lucian shrugged. That’s what comes from not giving interviews for thirty years. The things you let slip as a young man tend to follow you around for the rest of your life.

  You mean you don’t believe it anymore?

  Let’s just say I’m an old man and I’m allowed to change my mind. That’s why I’ve hired you. I need someone who’s familiar enough with my books to be able to recognise the parts of my life that were relevant to my work. Don’t worry, I’m not expecting Proust. Just take it down in note form if you like, then hand it to me at the end of each day.

  Michael returned his bowl to the coffee table as his own biography of Lucian Clarke vanished before his eyes.

  Sure. No problem.

  Marvellous. Well then, want to make a start on the washing up? That way you can have an early night and be fresh for tomorrow. Lots of work to do, said Lucian as he stood up. I’m quite excited. Aren’t you?

  13.

  You should buy yourself a car if you’re going to go up and down the mountain every day. Hobart taxis charge like the Light Brigade.

  Michael picked up his satchel from beside the public telephone and joined Tim at the counter. You’re probably right. Only problem is I don’t drive.