Wood Green

by Sean Rabin

  Tim’s round, fleshy face, rosy with alcohol, furrowed with confusion. What do you mean? Why not? You an epileptic?

  No, just never learned to drive.

  A cranky dad? Is that why you gave up?

  Sorry?

  Your father yell at you while he was teaching you to drive? Can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that story.

  I don’t think so. You know, I can’t remember if he ever tried to teach me. Some friends got me behind the wheel a couple of times when I was at university, but driving always seemed like such a dangerous thing to do.

  So how do you get around? Besides taxis I mean.

  In Sydney I used to ride a bike to work. And the rest of the time I just used public transport.

  Not much of that down here.

  So I’ve noticed. Michael patted his jacket pockets in search of cigarettes; it usually took ten minutes for a taxi to arrive.

  Tim pulled an ashtray out from under the counter. Here. It’s too cold to smoke outside. Don’t worry, I’ll have one with you. Just don’t tell Maureen. She hates it when I smoke inside. Want a drink?

  Sure, why not.

  Tim reached behind the stack of paper towels for his bottle of red, tore open a packet of plastic cups, poured a generous measure for each of them, and swallowed his in a single gulp. Michael’s nose immediately recognised the pungent chemicals of cheap wine and let the liquid just touch his lips.

  Not a bad drop this, said Tim as he refilled his cup. Bought a case with the intention of storing some away, but I think I’ve only got two bottles left. So how’s it working out with Lucian?

  Pretty good so far.

  Not surprised he’s finally got someone in to help. What is he? Sixty? Sixty-five? Once people get past forty I’m hopeless at guessing how old they are.

  Sixty-one I think.

  Well I suppose you’re entitled to be a little grumpy when you’re as old as that. Certainly lets me have it when I forget something in his order. He doesn’t drive either, you know. Decent enough bloke though. Told us all about the area when we first moved up here. And pays his bill on time. Not a bad writer either, or so I hear. Tried to read one of his books once but only got through about twenty pages. Maureen finished it, but she reads everything. Not much else to do up here. Tim stubbed out his cigarette with the determination of a fire fighter. So how are you finding Hobart? Bit of a change from Sydney I’d expect.

  A lot colder than I thought it would be.

  Wait till it snows. Your balls will freeze off.

  Tim’s heavy-handed attempt to cultivate male camaraderie made Michael impatient for the lights of his taxi.

  Discovered any of Hobart’s hot spots yet?

  Not exactly. I haven’t had much opportunity to go out. Anywhere you’d recommend?

  Tim massaged his left ear and tried to suppress a smirk. You single men aren’t after exactly the same type of excitement as us married blokes. Try the Court House Hotel on Clarence Street, I hear it gets pretty busy in there. But watch out for the Orion on Elizabeth, that’s where all the timber men drink when they come in from the bush. Looks like your cab is here. You should ask your driver where to go. Those guys know things about Hobart that people like me will never discover.

  The moment the shop door closed Tim downed Michael’s unfinished wine, then re-hid the bottle behind the paper towels, emptied the ashtray into the plastic cups, and hurried them out back to the garbage bin where the incriminating evidence could be concealed beneath a thick layer of kitchen scraps. On his return Tim locked the office safe and turned off the computer, beginning the long process of closing up for the night that culminated with bolting the front door and inspecting the cucumbers and tomatoes. Their skins were cool to touch, and when the stove died down the room would be even colder. So how much difference would the inside of a refrigerator make? Very little was Tim’s conclusion as he switched off the last light and walked upstairs.

  14.

  Lucian sat at his desk refusing to be intimidated by the blank page scrolled into his typewriter. He had faced thousands of them in his life. Perhaps even millions. Only to see every one eventually fill with words and ideas that had miraculously advanced from the back of his head to the consciousness behind his eyes. And today would be no different. There was no reason to fret. He would just sit and wait until the familiar leaps of imagination intrinsic to his writing began again, as they always did.

  The small pile of completed pages at his elbow certainly did not help. Though Lucian was confident in the premise for his new novel, here was tangible proof that its story was not emerging half as quickly as his previous books had. His brain seemed slower, less able to devise fresh scenarios, and there was a constant internal nagging to free things up. Approach ideas from a different direction. An unfamiliar angle. His books had always been admired for their expansive language and quiet structural complexity, yet all of a sudden Lucian felt frustrated by the restrictions of prose. He had no ambition to share a blind alley with Joyce and his posse of imitators. He was just tired of hearing his own voice inside his head. No matter how deeply he inhabited his characters, or displaced them in unfamiliar surroundings, the sound of his voice was always lurking below the surface. And he wanted to hear something different. Look through another person’s eyes. Not see the same damn blank page he had been staring at his entire life. Why was it still such a struggle after so many years? Had he ever managed to write a single sentence that did not demand repeated revising? What on earth had ever given him the idea that he was a writer? Lucian suspected that there were some authors who just sat down and typed the first thing that came into their head, then sent it out into the world without a second thought. But he had always felt compelled to fine-tune a book until he could no longer stand the sight of it. An exhausting and demanding process that he was now thoroughly tired of, and frustrated by its devaluing rewards. What was he persisting for? He knew how little time he had left. Why did he not just sit back and enjoy the show? What was another book going to prove? Why this incessant need to torture himself day after day with a stupid blank page?

  Lucian heard Michael’s footsteps on the verandah and checked his wristwatch. One o’clock already and still nothing done. Lucian could not recall a single day in the past twenty years when he had failed to write a sentence, and committed himself to staying in his chair until he had a paragraph, or at least the beginning of one. The prospect of returning to his desk the following morning and staring at the same blank page was too dangerous. Lucian had never suffered from writer’s block because he had never given it the chance to take hold. Let a day go by without getting something down and the same might happen again tomorrow, and the day after that. Too bad if it was chilly outside. Michael would just have to wait. I bet he’s been writing all morning on that prissy little computer of his. Tap tap tap. Cliché cliché. The idea made Lucian even more angry, and without thinking he stood up, rushed into the hall and opened the front door to find his secretary pacing the verandah while puffing on a cigarette to fend off the cold.

  If you’re going to smoke out here then put your butts in the garbage and not into one of my coffee cups, okay? This is my home, not your personal ashtray.

  Right. Sorry.

  Lucian noticed that Michael had no groceries with him. And where’s the food you’re cooking for tonight’s dinner?

  Michael picked up his satchel. I thought we could give ourselves a night off and maybe order a pizza, or get some Thai sent up.

  Really, you thought that did you? Well done. Brilliant work. You must have a headache after such a burst of inspiration. But most places don’t deliver this far up the mountain. And anyway, I only eat real food. Like the type I prepared for you last night. And now it’s your turn to return the favour. So fuck off back down that road and find something for dinner, or don’t bother coming back at all.

  15.

  Maureen watched Michael walk up and down the aisles of her store, drop random groceries into the basket h
ooked over his forearm, then moments later reconsider their suitability and return them to the shelves. He huffed, and intermittently hitched up his trousers to stop them catching the heels of his shoes. Maureen remembered seeing him wear the same clothes a few days ago, and again thought how odd it was for someone so young to dress as if he were already an old man. Michael’s black hair bore a loose curl, and obviously needed a cut as he kept twitching his head towards the ceiling to keep it out of his brown eyes. The skin below them was swollen with dark crescents that seemed incongruous with Michael’s otherwise fine features. In a year or two, Maureen surmised, when his jowls relaxed and a little grey salted his whiskers, he might have that rough appeal she had fallen for on a few occasions before marrying Tim. But then Michael tugged at one of his small earlobes and revealed fingernails bitten to the quick. Sore, with shredded cuticles, red enough to have just been dipped in boiling water, the ends of his fingers instantly smothered any spark of attraction that Maureen may have felt, and alerted her to other evidence of compulsive behaviour. Michael’s insistence on wearing shoes wholly inappropriate for Mount Wellington might be included, along with the way he kept muttering to himself, as if debating the validity of every idea that occurred to him. His tall body – six, six-one? – bent towards the freezer so suddenly that Maureen gasped in fear he was about to butt his forehead against its lid. Instead, Michael slid open the plastic door and roughly pushed aside cuts of frozen meat, seemingly unable to find what he was looking for. The racks of vegetables provoked further shaking of his head, and at last Maureen realised that Michael’s frustration was more with himself than the products in her store.

  Can I help you with something? she asked from the far side of the vegetable stand.

  Michael rolled his eyes. I seem to have forgotten it was my turn to cook dinner.

  I see. Any idea what you’re after?

  That’s the problem. I usually find a recipe online, but now I’m just trying to come up with something that’s quick and impressive enough to put Lucian back in a good mood.

  The old man of the mountain giving you trouble?

  You could say that.

  Well I know he prefers savoury over sweet so I’d put that cream back in the fridge if I were you. And chilli sometimes gives him hiccups, so avoid heat if you can. What about you?

  Me? I’ll eat anything. I just need an idea that’s not going to take half a day to prepare. I’m already running late.

  Can I offer a suggestion?

  No. You can please just tell me what to do.

  All right then, hand over your basket. I know the best meal you can get ready in less than fifteen minutes, and I guarantee that Lucian will love it.

  As Maureen rang up the groceries she repeated the recipe to Michael for a second time. His concentration on every detail, and obvious excitement at the prospect of pleasing Lucian, reminded her of when she had first read Foxtrot. For Maureen, the closer an author’s proximity the less value she attached to their work. So when she learned a writer called Lucian Clarke lived only a few streets away from the general store, her assumption was that he must be nothing more than a hack. Writers of significance lived in England, Europe and America, or even Japan and Norway…countries where people read. Not halfway up a mountain at the bottom of Australia. The previous owners of the general store had displayed copies of Lucian’s books in a corner dedicated to Wood Green tourism, and passed them on with the rest of the stock they had failed to sell prior to handing over the business. Foxtrot was the shortest of the three novels Lucian had published by that time, so Maureen begrudgingly began to read it while she waited for the boxes of her own books to arrive from Melbourne. The low expectations with which she approached the opening chapter were quickly confirmed as she wrestled with the awkward style pressed so deeply into every page, and recoiled against its graphic description of an old man shooting himself at the conclusion of a party. But by the end of the second chapter Maureen had grown intrigued with the mechanics of the backward-moving narrative. And by the end of the third she was much less perturbed by the way the point of view slipped between party guests and family members. Until eventually the opulent English country manor at the centre of the narrative stood perfectly clear inside her imagination, while its past and present inhabitants intermingled behind the blur of an alcoholic lens. And though sometimes it was difficult to observe consecutive generations repeat the same mistakes, and characters commit pitiless deceits to ensure the estate remained within the family, Maureen found herself so emotionally and intellectually engaged that she effortlessly devoured the remaining chapters to emerge out the other end of the novel with an entirely altered view of Wood Green. Her new home now appeared like a secret Eden, full of natural splendour so majestic and mystical that it could not help but inspire such a wondrous piece of writing. Even when she later learned that Foxtrot had been written in Europe she refused to change her mind and simply qualified her incorrect assumptions by insisting that for an author of such a powerfully concentrated novel Mount Wellington was an ideal location to write. Perhaps she and Tim had not made a mistake moving to Tasmania after all. Lucian had been so kind the first time they met. Welcoming them to the community, offering advice about what to do when it snowed, subtle warnings about certain locals. And he was thoroughly gracious when Maureen clumsily blurted out how much she adored Foxtrot. More than a decade had passed since he had last received praise for the book, and Lucian insisted that her kind words had made his month, if not his year.

  Yes, Maureen could understand Michael’s desire to please. And as she handed over his change she thought that his hands were not so ugly. If only he did not smell so strongly of cigarettes.

  16.

  Small chunks of melted chèvre floated on top of hot olive oil cupped in the recesses of four capsicum halves that also held finely minced garlic and anchovies. With a spatula Michael carefully served two halves to each plate then sprinkled fresh parsley on top.

  Meanwhile, Lucian stood before a wall of CDs trying to decide what music to play during dinner. There were more than two thousand to choose from, along with approximately eleven hundred records shelved against an adjacent wall. In the corner between them stood a stereo of old and new components, including an amplifier Lucian had found in a Brixton alley in the early nineteen-eighties and had never felt the need to replace. Perfect, he said, plucking a CD from the shelves.

  Michael waited nervously for Lucian to join him at the coffee table and taste the meal that Maureen had taught him to prepare. It looked impressive and smelled delicious, but Michael would not relax until Lucian had taken a bite and offered some indication of approval. He sipped the powerful vodka tonic that accompanied the meal – Michael had forgotten to buy wine – and felt the alcohol hit his stomach at the same moment a raw exotic music filled the room.

  Lucian handed Michael the CD cover as he sat down. Mmm, what have we got here?

  Salah Ragab and the Cairo Jazz Band present Egyptian Jazz, Michael read before he put the CD cover to one side so he could demonstrate how the meal was to be eaten. With a bold cut across one of the capsicum halves the plate filled with warm, fragrant oil and the dissolved remnants of anchovies and garlic. He then continued to cut the capsicum into portions small enough to be easily gathered up with a piece of bread that had first been sopped in the chèvre and oil. Michael tried to contain his surprise at the pleasures of the dish, but quickly found himself so involved with the meal that it was half over before he thought to look up to check if Lucian was following the same technique. His dining companion, however, was happily nodding his head to the rhythmic swing of Middle-Eastern jazz as he also greedily devoured the moreish meal.

  After the plates were cleared, Lucian selected a different album – Sheriff Lindo and The Hammer, Ten Dubs That Shook The World – and began to roll an after-dinner spliff. So how did you get on today? Make any progress?

  Michael drained the last of his vodka tonic but tasted only melted ice and lemon. The glass
of fine crystal, cut in an elaborate design, felt so attractive beneath his fingers that he was hesitant to put it down. I think so. I came across some of the notes you made when you were beginning Lady Cadaver.

  That should have been entertaining. I hope your interest extended beyond just the smutty bits.

  They weren’t salacious at all. They were about your sister, Ursula. She was one of your inspirations for that book wasn’t she?

  It’s certainly the theory your academic brethren have perpetuated, so who am I to contradict it. Let’s have a look at what you’ve found.

  Michael surrendered the glass so his hands were free to gather together scraps of paper from various pockets and smooth their creases against the top of his thigh. In exchange for his notes he accepted the joint, from which he took two deep tokes before returning it on the far side of the ashtray.

  As Lucian read he could not recall encouraging his six-year-old sister to accompany him down the blowhole at Blackmans Bay. Nor of Ursula ever falling off a path of wooden planks that had been laid across the top of a giant blackberry thicket. He imagined her sitting at the bottom of the brambles, poked by jagged thorns whenever she moved, and the relief of her rescue by their father forever associated with the torture of being pulled back up. Lucian noticed his hands were trembling as he relit the joint.

  Your penmanship is atrocious, he said. I can barely read what you’ve written. Maybe from now on you should type them up for me.

  I could buy a small printer for my laptop if you’d like.

  Lucian shook his head. I think I’d prefer your handwriting. Just give the typewriter a go. It won’t kill you.

  17.

  Battery Point? No problem. You that guy working for Lucian Clarke? Word gets around. Cab drivers love to gossip. So what’s he like? Besides being a good tipper. Really? Thought as much. You can tell from his books. Yeah, of course I’ve read them. You think I don’t read just because I drive a taxi? Just teasing. I bet there aren’t many people down here who even know who Lucian Clarke is, let alone own his books. Yeah, but Tasmanian literature is an interest of mine. Bigger than you think. Tasmania has more musicians, writers and artists per head of population than any other state in the country. I reckon it’s the climate. Most of the time it’s so bloody cold that there’s nothing else to do except stay inside and create. I wouldn’t say I have a favourite exactly…it’s just a hobby that I try to keep up. Well of course there are your notables like Richard Flanagan and Christopher Koch and Amanda Lohrey, but I bet you’ve never heard of Joan Wise or Nan Chauncy, have you? What about Roy and Hilda Bridges? Brother and sister, both writing around the early twentieth century. I think Robert Dessaix is still here, but Nicholas Shakespeare has moved back to England. Of course we get a lot of blow-ins. Caroline Leaky was here only five years, and sick for most of it. You know The Broad Arrow? Don’t worry, not many people do these days. But supposedly Marcus Clarke used it as a reference for The Term of His Natural Life. He’s another one. Only ever visited Tasmania. Never lived here. But most people assume he was Tasmanian because he wrote about the place. At least Gwen Harwood had the decency to move here. So did Katherine Scholes. Ever heard of Arthur James Oglivy or James McQueen? Maybe they’re too much before your time. But like I said there’s a healthy community of contemporary writers here as well. Carmel Bird, she’s sold a few books, and Geoff Dean. Oh, sorry, he died a few years ago. I keep forgetting that. What about Philomena van Rijswijk? Read any of her poetry? Who else is there? Heather Rose. Gina Mercer. Kathryn Lomer. Adrienne Eberhard. No? Well you’ve got some homework to do, haven’t you? Not much use coming to Tasmania and learning nothing about the place. I assume you do a spot of writing yourself? You just look like the type. There’s a writers’ centre down here you know. I’m a member so I can put in a good word for you if you’d like. Yeah I dabble. Not really poems, more flash fiction. Something short I can get down while I’m waiting for my next fare. Shame I haven’t got one here to show you. I’ve had a couple published. Just in small magazines. What about you? Oh, right, good on you. I’m considering having a go at a novel soon. Don’t worry, it won’t be about escaped convicts or hunting Tasmanian’s tigers. I’d like to think my work is a little more original than that. No, it’s about the whaling community that used to be in Hobart. Supposedly, at one time, there were hundreds of whales in the Derwent River. People said you could walk on their backs from one shore to the other. The Governor used to get letters from people complaining that they couldn’t sleep because the whales were singing all night. Imagine that! Course they killed them all, but I reckon it would make a pretty interesting story, don’t you? Here we are. That’ll be twenty-one, fifty. Make it twenty, we writers have to stick together, don’t we. Let me give you my card. Just call the number and ask for Phil. I’ll come and get you straight away.