by Sean Rabin
Good on him. Too right.
You still owe me one, said Maureen as she drained her tea. Michael leaned back and searched his memory. Okay, here’s a good one. Did you know that Lucian has a photograph of you?
Maureen appeared genuinely surprised, and a little cautious. Doing what exactly?
It looked as if you were out the back collecting eggs from the chickens. I don’t think you knew it was being taken. At least it didn’t appear that way. I saw it sticking out from a book on his coffee table.
What was the book?
Michael had not anticipated the question and closed his eyes to picture the cover. I think it was called The Good Soldier. Why?
38.
This way. Come right through. Tim held open the door to the hall so Carl and Fiona could walk upstairs and inspect the residence. Fiona smiled, winked and gave a secret thumbs up as she waddled past. The real estate agent wore silver-plated earrings, a cheap business suit stretched over her belly fat, and insisted on saying ‘interiority’, ‘superiorfied’ and ‘caricature’ when describing the renovations that had been made to the premises. A thick veil of perfume hung in her wake, though its scent was warped by the body odour lingering underneath. Tim could not accompany them upstairs. He had to tend the shop as Maureen had gone out for the afternoon. The inspection had been planned for more than three weeks, and the two of them had spent the past six nights making sure that everything was ready – cleaning, organising, camouflaging tiny faults. Then at breakfast Maureen had announced she needed the car to run an errand. It was infuriating and completely typical. But she knew it would not take the two of them to sell the business. A copy of their financial records had been emailed to Fiona a fortnight ago, so the only thing left to discuss were the quirks of the local community and the potential for Wood Green to grow in the future. Both of which Tim could handle on his own. Unfortunately it was an abysmal day for an inspection. So wet and cold that most locals would be staying inside if they could manage it. Tim had already received six home-delivery orders, and would not normally have bothered to pack them until Maureen returned with the car, but he wanted to give the impression of a business that was thriving even in inclement weather.
The ache of sentimentality Tim had felt after Fiona rang to inform him she had found a potential buyer was all but gone. He now acknowledged only the hard work necessary to keep the business afloat, and their daily struggle to appease the needs of customers so they did not take their money down to the supermarkets in Hobart. And what was the use of being sentimental when Maureen wasn’t? She had always possessed an impeccable business sense, and if his wife was willing to let the shop go after all the effort they had put in, then he would be as well. Tim fed another piece of wood into the heater. He did not want the place to feel cold. Carl had spoken with a thick South African accent, and not unzipped his jacket when he walked inside, so he might be unaccustomed to such low temperatures and wet weather.
Fiona pushed opened the door and offered her best professional face. We’re just going to have a look at the kitchen and backyard, okay?
Go ahead, said Tim. There’s a couple of umbrellas beside the back door if you want to have a walk around outside.
The bell above the shop door announced Michael’s arrival to purchase a litre of milk and a six-pack of tonic. As he stood at the cash register waiting to pay, Tim crouched below the counter pretending to look for something. He wanted to foster the appearance of a bustling store, and hoped to delay Michael until Fiona and Carl had walked back inside. But the moment they did Tim realised his mistake. Just when the time had arrived to conduct a private and frank discussion about a price for the business, Lucian’s assistant had suddenly developed a deep interest in the dried pasta section.
Would you like a cup of tea or coffee to warm yourselves up? offered Tim.
No thank you, said Fiona. Carl, is there anything else you’d like to ask?
Carl looked up from his phone, wondering why he could not get reception, and glanced around the store. No, no. I have everything I need. Thank you for letting me look around your home.
Tim accepted Carl’s excessively strong hand and was shocked at how cold his fingers felt. You’re welcome. Good to meet you.
I’ll be in touch, said Fiona before she and Carl dashed through the rain to the BMW parked outside.
Tim’s heart sank. If Carl had been serious about purchasing the business he would have asked more questions. Or waited for Michael to leave so he could make an offer. Maybe it was just a reconnaissance trip. To gauge the competition before Carl opened up a general store of his own. And like an idiot Tim had shown him everything they did. He was too trusting. Taking advantage of people was not in his nature, so in turn he never suspected it in anyone else. He might have noticed something was wrong if Michael had not been in the way. Just when they were supposed to have a serious conversation, Lucian’s nursemaid had decided to hang around and eavesdrop. Damn it all to hell, he thought as he watched the car begin to pull away. But then the BMW’s brake lights flashed, the passenger door opened, and Carl ran with his jacket over his head towards Paul’s pub.
You little beauty, said Tim.
What? asked Michael.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
39.
Maureen did not expect Lucian to answer his front door, but thought it only polite to knock before letting herself in with the spare key from under the wood box. And when he failed to open his bedroom door to confirm who had violated his 1pm rule, she assumed a sentence or idea had made him deaf to all distractions. So she decided to wait in the sunroom until Lucian felt the need to make himself a cup of tea.
His socks were what she saw first. Through the large windows at the rear of the house their dark-blue pattern caught her attention even before she had noticed the kettle boiling vigorously on the stove, or the back door hanging open. Maureen ran outside and knelt next to Lucian lying face down in the dirt with an arm bent awkwardly beneath his body. Heart attack or stroke were her immediate fears as she gently rolled him onto his back. No, not dead. Still breathing. Yes, he had a pulse. Lucian’s skin was cold and wet but that was to be expected after lying outside in only a shirt and trousers. Maureen brushed away the dirt and leaves stuck to his forehead. Extracted a tiny twig entangled in his short beard. Lucian seemed to be stirring. His groans were growing louder, more regular, until finally his eyelids flickered open to reveal two blue irises surrounded by a dense web of red. Between the fingers of the hand that Lucian had fallen onto was a ridiculously fat joint, crushed.
Are you all right?
A vision…
Do you need me to get an ambulance? Have you had a heart attack?
…of beauty.
Yeah right. I bet I have two heads at the moment. Come on, can you stand up?
Lucian perched on the edge of the bath feeling weak, a little nauseous, but delighting in the way Maureen dabbed at the small graze on the end of his nose. There was music playing in the other room – E Pluribus Unum. Lucian could not recall selecting it, and thought how wonderful it was to be cared for by a woman who understood the restorative properties of Sandy Bull’s music. He smiled as Maureen changed his wet socks for dry, and savoured the tender way she passed a warm washcloth over his face and hands.
Do you want to lie down?
Lucian shook his head. I think I’d prefer to sit in front of a fire. Do you have the time?
Maureen ignored the suggestion she might have somewhere else to be and escorted Lucian to one of the deep armchairs in the sitting room before preparing a pot of tea. Lucian sipped and listened to the music as Maureen built a fire. She had found some chocolate in the fridge and told Lucian to eat it all, but he refused to take a bite until she accepted a piece as well. Together they watched the flames take hold and engulf the wood.
It must have been the shock of the cold air, Lucian finally offered as an excuse. Probably made my blood pressure drop. And I didn’t eat very much for breakfast this morning.
S
moking a joint big enough to fell an elephant might have had something to do with it as well, don’t you think?
My spliff! I forgot all about it.
Don’t worry. I put it next to the ashtray on the coffee table. But maybe you should think about taking a few days off.
Lucian held up his cup. Only one type of tea for me from now on.
I’m not here to tell you what to do. Are you hungry? Do you want some lunch?
Not at the moment. What time do you have to be back at the shop?
Maureen shrugged. Whenever I’m ready to go back.
You and Tim have a fight?
No. We’ve given up on fighting. There’s someone inspecting the shop at the moment. That’s what I came up here to tell you. I think we might have found a buyer.
Lucian sipped his tea and stared at the fire. When do you think you’ll be leaving?
If it sells? In a month or two I suppose.
Any plans yet?
None that I can think of.
What about Tim?
Once we’ve sold up he can go wherever he likes.
So you’ll be getting a divorce?
That’s the plan. Though Tim never does anything in a hurry.
Lucian and Maureen finished their tea in silence.
I could stay around here if you’d like? Maureen knew she had said the wrong thing as soon as the words left her lips. Lucian had already decided the fate of their relationship, and what she wanted was never going to change his mind no matter how unfair it seemed.
Lucian pulled on his glasses and opened a nearby book – Memoirs of Hadrian by Marguerite Yourcenar.
Maureen picked up the empty cups. I’ll start some lunch, okay?
All right.
Shall I make some for Michael as well? He should be here soon shouldn’t he?
Lucian looked away from the page. Why don’t we give him the day off? That way it can just be the two of us.
40.
Tempted you at last I see.
Sorry?
For lunch, explained Paul as he stood beside Michael’s table.
Oh, yeah. I’m been meaning to stop by for ages. Michael was lying. As soon as he had seen the message ‘Day Off’ tacked to Lucian’s front door he had intended to call a cab and return to Hobart. But Tim explained that at this time of day, when the drivers were changing shifts, he would have to wait at least forty-five minutes for a car to drive up to Wood Green.
We have three dishes on the menu today, but what you want is the salt and pepper squid.
I do?
Ask him if you don’t believe me. Paul nodded towards a man sitting at a nearby table. How’s the squid?
Fantastic, Carl replied with a mouthful of food.
Sold, Michael said. And a glass of whatever white you think would suit it best.
As Paul passed Carl’s table he noticed a sheet of paper with a picture of the general store printed on it. Unmistakably a real-estate ad, it left Paul shocked. He had no idea that Tim and Maureen were thinking of selling. If they abandoned Wood Green and the general store went back to how it had been before it would make his task of turning the pub into a success even more difficult. He stole another look at Carl. Though the South African accent grated on his ears, he could not deny its owner was attractive. Tall, muscular, with a wide expressive face sporting just the right amount of stubble, and no wedding ring either. His leather jacket was a little too Tom Cruise, but it revealed a tidy physique underneath, and he certainly knew how to buy shoes. Paul handed Michael’s order to Penny, a local single mum who worked in the kitchen during school hours and cooked better than half the chefs in Hobart. Then walked out the back of the pub for an armload of wood. The fire was low and the day was bitter, and who knew how sensitive a South African might be to such temperatures.
Carl pulled out his mobile phone to check again if his crime had finally made it into the newspapers back home, but for the second time that day he failed to find a signal.
You need to go upstairs and stand on the back balcony if you want reception, said Paul as he added split logs to the flames. We’re in a bit of black spot here.
Really? Carl held up his phone and moved it around to confirm Paul was telling the truth. Nobody has tried to fix that?
I don’t think anyone has complained about it. Tends to make life a little less complicated I suppose. Are you up here visiting friends or just sightseeing?
Carl slipped the ad back inside his manila folder. Sightseeing. Are you the proprietor of this pub?
Paul glanced at the walls, floor and ceiling. Yep, all mine. His eyes then fell on Brad’s fat arse half hanging out his trousers as he leaned sideways to ask Phil to buy him a beer. All mine, Paul repeated to himself as he quickly returned to the bar to prevent the two old timers from erupting into a shouting match about who owed whom a drink.
Carl observed how all the bar stools were occupied, and took it as an encouraging sign that so many people were out in such foul weather. He had not expected Wood Green to be this cold, or this beautiful. The abundance of moisture and lush foliage was almost impossible to believe. And everything seemed so well maintained. On the drive up the mountainside he had seen council workers trimming trees away from power lines, and surveyors staking out huge plots of land for new residential constructions. His heart beat for the wild daisies growing along the edge of the road, and he had noticed how there were no potholes for Fiona to contend with as she steered the hairpin corners and talked about the opportunities in Wood Green for someone willing to take a chance. But what Carl liked the most was the fact that no one would ever think to look for him here. It was such a perfect place to hide and start a new life. He had already managed to set up a bank account with his new name, so now all he needed was something to do and somewhere to live. And Wood Green was unlike anywhere else he had seen before. He thought the shop might be too much work for just one person, but how much more difficult could it be than running a pub? And Carl felt confident he could hire someone local to help make deliveries or do the late shift. With the glow of a delicious lunch and a good fire, he felt warm and comfortable and wondered if the owners of the general store might be willing to accept a little less than their asking price. Bon appetit, he said to the man at the nearby table when his lunch arrived.
Michael raised his glass. He remembered the face from earlier in the general store, but had no intention of inviting the man to join him. He had started to jot down ideas for his book and was determined to capture every detail before they slipped away. If he made it home in an hour he would still have most of the afternoon and all night to himself. Of course there would be emails to answer. The leave of absence he had taken from his university job did not seem to have registered with some of his former students or colleagues. And he still owed Rachel a phone call. Guilt over ignoring her messages niggled at Michael’s conscience on a daily basis, but every time he resolved to call and let her know how he was getting on, it suddenly felt like an imposition. As if he were relinquishing a reward he had earned or was entitled to. Michael looked at his hand and realised he had stopped writing. This was exactly what he meant. Just thinking of his former life had the power to distract him from his work. Imagine what effect speaking to Rachel might have? He did not care if he was being selfish. Lucian had given him the day off, and he was determined not to waste it answering emails or talking on the phone. All he wanted to do was work. At the moment he felt as if he could write an entire chapter in just one sitting.
41.
Wood Green? No problem. Been shopping for music I see. New CD? Which one? Vibra what? Hold on a minute there’s a red light coming up. Give me a look at that. Vibracathedral Orchestra – Wisdom Thunderbolt. Never heard of it. Australian? Gee, you don’t hear about many bands coming from Leeds. Bet you had to order that one in. What type of music is it? Doesn’t sound like it’s going to be one for the car. And if you’re asking me that’s a big factor for music in Australia. We spend half our bloody lives driving around, so
if something doesn’t play well in the car then it’s not going to sell. Hell, it’s scarcely going to get heard. It’s why Australian rock is still so meat and potatoes. Cars demand syncopation. Simple beats and steady rhythms. Anything abstract or delicate just gets lost in the noise of the engine. But maybe I’ll look that one up when I get home. Here, write it down for me on one of my cards or I’ll forget it otherwise. And take a card for yourself in case you need a cab again. Believe it or not, it’s not always safe to walk home at night in Hobart. Especially after the pubs close. Been to see any of the local bands yet? There’s not much to choose from I’ll admit, but you’d be surprised what can turn up. Occasionally we produce something interesting. You know Peter Sculthorpe was Tasmanian, don’t you? Okay, well have you heard about Eileen Joyce? Not surprised. Few people have these days. Classical pianist from the nineteen-thirties. It’s her playing Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No.2 in the soundtrack to Brief Encounter. That’s right. Born in a little town up the west coast called Zeehan. Hardly anyone living there these days. Less than a thousand people I hear. We’ve also got that bloke who records under the name Striborg. Does a lo-fi black metal that’s quite popular in the Netherlands. It’s as dark as Satan’s bottom but it works well on an ambient level. I usually put it on when a storm is blowing and scare myself shitless. You ever hear that live album John Fahey recorded down here? I know he isn’t Tasmanian, but I swear it’s one of the best gigs I’ve ever been to. Can’t listen to the record much anymore though. Played it too often, and it makes me sad to think he’s never coming back. You know the best thing about seeing music in Tasmania? The crowds are mixed. There’s so few people down here that anyone who’s into music goes and sees everything. Mums and dads standing right next to the young kids. Makes a show feel more like a community experience. And keeps the mood relaxed. It’s hard to start acting like a prick when there’s old codgers like me in the crowd. Maybe Vibra-thingy will tour here one day. I could use a little psychedelic drone in my life.
