Wood Green

by Sean Rabin

  63.

  Michael cracked a window to clear the room of stale air, kicked off his boots and started to pull clothes from his back, all the while trying to ignore the sheets of paper piled on top of his desk. Under the shower the sound of Lucian’s offer echoed between his ears. To repay for all the cooking and shopping Michael had done over the past seven days he would be happy to have a look at his manuscript…if that was what he wanted. Except Michael no longer knew if it was. Towelling himself dry, he thought it might be unwise to have his work critiqued before it was finished. Michael could feel how fragile the process was. Vulnerable to insecurity; second-guessing. And a dose of Lucian’s sarcasm might bring his current progress to an abrupt halt. Michael reread the scene he had most recently completed and realised that a similar situation would suit his novel. The aspiring writer showing his latest work to the established author. The worry and anxiety that went along with it. The advice that ensued. Its possible misinterpretation by both characters and readers. The tensions that might emerge between the aspiring author and his new wife. An accusation that she no longer had his best interests at heart. Or a creeping suspicion that she was falling in love with the established author. Could that be another idea developed throughout the book? Another misdirection to put before the reader? Thirty minutes later Michael realised he still had no clothes on and had written an additional two pages. It was like that now. The writing would just happen. Michael would see himself holding a pen, but it felt like someone else was moving it across the paper. The same as when he read a book so good he was unaware of turning the pages. He hoped it was an indication of doing real work. That by escaping the restrictions of the physical world during the act of composition – fleeing gravity; travelling through time; guided by a voice different from his everyday consciousness – he was writing something true enough to also displace his readers. Michael trembled with a sudden recognition of the effort necessary to create something new. And now understood why certain novels of obscure experimental fiction had endured despite never topping a bestseller list. They were vessels. To convey readers into a unique world of no compromise. A singular state of mind that vanished the moment the final sentence of the book was complete. It must have been tortuous for their authors to realise it was gone forever. And Michael theorised that what divided writers was the decision either to spend a career trying to recapture it, or to move on with the understanding that the value of the achievement lived not in the moment, but in searching for its existence. How could anything new be discovered without looking somewhere different? Michael acknowledged that this was what Lucian had done throughout his career, and how it would be folly to decline an offer of assistance. Who knew for how long Lucian would be able to bestow such a gift. Michael dressed quickly and stuffed the opening chapters of his book inside his satchel. He glanced around the room and scarcely recognised it. His laptop and mobile phone had acquired a layer of dust and appeared to belong to someone else. His waste-paper basket was empty, his bed was made with fresh sheets, and someone had turned the pictures on the wall to face the right way. The bathroom awoke memories of Rachel’s visit, and with it recollections of his former life in Sydney. Michael felt little for either the people he had left behind, or the places he had frequented. All he wanted was to get onto the streets of Battery Point. Find a shop. Buy some groceries. Hail a taxi. And return to Wood Green with its trees and quiet and friends like Maureen and Paul. It was where he felt most at home. More so, he realised with surprise, than any other place he had ever lived.

  64.

  Maureen was not surprised to feel Tim’s hand upon her hip. He had been awake when she came to bed, and all day there had been casual touches of her arm, her shoulder. One time she had caught him spying at her from behind his newspaper, and of course, it had snowed. The first fall of winter had kept them inside for most of the day. The only time Tim had stepped out was to shovel clear the path that led to the shop’s front door. He re-entered the kitchen sweating; red faced, with veins bulging at the side of his neck, and it reminded Maureen of how he had looked when they were first married. When their sex had been good, sometimes even great. Maureen caught herself revisiting one or two incidences of particular eroticism. There was nothing else to do. The snow had made everything so quiet. She closed the shop early and was not nearly as tired as usual. Tim waited for her to settle into bed. The room to grow still. Then turned on his side and reached across. If only he didn’t speak, Maureen thought. Just removed her pyjamas and nibbled at the back of her neck the way she liked. Didn’t kiss her too much, or say anything to imply he was trying to save their marriage. If only he caressed the small of her back: attended to her breasts; licked his fingers first; made her feel his desires were urgent, passionate; so long as he didn’t tickle her; try to talk dirty or make that sound at the back of his throat. He needed to understand that this was the last time, so he should make the most of it and respond to her body, touch her inner thighs, give her hair a gentle tug. Not resort to tired positions, come too fast, take too long, sniff in her ear, or ask for anal. If only he gave Maureen no reasons to change her mind then she might find the right position and tap into a fantasy, banish all thought and finally lose herself in the moment.

  65.

  Dear Michael,

  Thanks for this. I’m sure that showing your work to someone before it’s finished must be a terrifying experience, but you needn’t have worried, the writing is fine. In fact it’s better than fine, it’s good. You appear to have found a story of interest to yourself and, I’m pleased to say, readers as well. You also seem to have reached that point where you can begin to relax and enjoy the experience of writing. I usually have to wrestle my way inside a book, but once I’m there and I’m sure it’s alive I start to breathe easy and allow it to grow under its own momentum. Be careful though. Such a pleasure is fleeting. So enjoy it while it lasts because soon enough you’ll need to wrestle your way out again. But while all of that is still ahead of you I thought I might offer a little advice. Not hard and fast rules, as I’m sure you know that no such things exist. Just an understanding, which after years of writing I hold to be true. A writer can only use the voice he or she was born with. And if it makes them a success or not is simply luck. In fact, to be honest, whether you get published or not is down to luck as well. Your voice is your voice and it’s the one you’re stuck with. Unfortunately, choice is not a factor. Popular fiction writers can’t understand why they never win literary prizes. Literary writers are frustrated that they can’t achieve the big sales. Yet it’s all because neither of them can escape their voice. And those that try tend to fail miserably. Also, don’t worry so much about being neat and correct. Awkwardness is fine. Rough edges are good. Think of the millions of novels that have been published. It’s rarely the smooth and palatable ones that endure. It’s the books that get stuck in my throat that I tend to remember. Be yourself. Let your personality seep into the work. Be true to what’s inside your head. How else will you uncover the things you never knew existed? Write the book you would want to read. That way whether it sells or not becomes irrelevant. Publishers will always insist that this is a business. And for them it is. But for you it can never be. Writing has to be an artistic pursuit otherwise you’re just wasting trees and distracting yourself until death. And believe me, you are going to die. We all are. So why not make your own mark. State what you think is real. More than likely it will be real for others as well. And in the process you’ll furnish yourself with a purpose in life that billionaires will envy.

  Lucian leaned away from the typewriter to scan his letter. His back was sore, his ankle throbbed, and he was actually more interested in what might be for lunch than composing platitudes. Did Michael really need to hear this? Did he not already know it all instinctively? So what was the point of blathering on like this? Encouragement? What real writer needed that? You either had to write or you didn’t. And if you did then good or bad was beside the point. Lucian had no recollection of a ti
me when he had sought someone else’s validation of his work. He just wrote and hoped for the best. Consequences be damned. What other choice was there? And wasn’t that the measure of a real artist? It had certainly always seemed that way to Lucian.

  He reached forward and yanked the paper out the typewriter. The machine rattled in protest at being treated so roughly, but Lucian assumed he would not need it for much longer, so what did it matter if it broke. He screwed up the letter and threw it to the floor for Sadie to chew on. The dog raised her head, sniffed the paper ball once, then grabbed it between her slobbering jaws. Michael, however, would be expecting some kind of response to his writing. On a fresh sheet of paper Lucian wrote in an untidy hand, ‘Good work. Keep going.’ And placed it on top of the manuscript. Really, what else did he need to hear?

  66.

  Michael slipped and fell in the snow. He had managed to remain upright all the way down the road to Tim and Maureen’s store, but on his return to Lucian’s house had tripped over hidden stones and lost his balance so many times that his trousers were now completely wet through, with the sleeves of his jacket only marginally drier. Appreciation for the blanket of white that had descended upon the mountainside, its incongruousness with the dominant eucalypts, the sight of wallabies venturing into front gardens, and the general otherworldliness of walking through falling snow, had all begun to fade as Michael struggled back along Brenan Street. Maybe it was because he was walking up hill. Or perhaps his feet had grown too numb to work properly. Fear of frostbite tried to take hold in Michael’s imagination, but he told himself to stop being childish and step in the footprints he had made on his way down.

  By the time he reached Lucian’s verandah he was shivering. He suspected the leather of his boots was frozen, and slipped them off inside the front door as he announced to Lucian that the roads were closed and he was taking a bath. No response came from the other side of the bedroom door, and Michael was thankful for the chance to shed his wet clothes without the delay of having to explain himself.

  Lucian’s bathroom was a remarkable time capsule of nineteen-seventies fittings and tiling. Respectable to the point of functionality, it was nevertheless developing an impression of antiquation, bordering on neglect. As Michael waited for the long deep tub to fill slowly, he inspected his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror and wondered whether marijuana was turning his hair grey. He knew he could not smoke it every night without consequences, and saw how the creases across his forehead had grown deeper. The discolouration of his teeth also appeared to be worse, even though he had avoided tobacco for nearly two months. Maybe he wasn’t getting enough sunlight. Being cooped up with Lucian all day looked like it was making his skin grow pale. And a layer of flab was developing around his neck that Michael was convinced had not been present when he first arrived in Tasmania.

  He examined the contents of the medicine cabinet. Not in search for illicit pharmaceuticals, of which there were plenty elsewhere in the house, but for clues about what medication Lucian might be taking to help him manage his condition. After almost a fortnight of caring for the author and his sprained ankle, Michael had identified definite signs of Lucian’s decline. Most obvious was his incessant opening and closing of cupboards and drawers to persuade himself he knew for certain the location of the peanut butter or the tea bags. The sound of double-checking created an atmosphere of anxiety that permeated the entire house, but in accordance with their tacit agreement the two men refused to acknowledge the unease, its source, or anything else to do with Lucian’s memory loss. For the moment such a pact was only mildly inconvenient, though Michael could foresee a time quickly approaching when he would have no choice but to speak the name of Lucian’s misfortune, if only so they could begin to face its ramifications head on.

  As Michael lay in the bath, his body tingling beneath the hot water, he again acknowledged the quiet that had descended upon Mount Wellington with the snow. It seemed to amplify every sound, from the ripples of the bathwater to the creaking of the house constricting against the icy air. Michael was surprised not to hear the clack of Lucian’s typewriter, and wondered if he was reading instead. He sank lower into the bathwater. Maybe Lucian was reading the opening chapters of his manuscript. Michael had not anticipated being in Wood Green while this occurred, and decided to hurry to his office as soon as he exited the bathroom. That way it might be hours before they encountered one another. Plenty of time for Lucian to become distracted…and maybe forget all about the limitations of Michael’s abilities.

  67.

  I’d like a room please.

  Really?

  You don’t think your own pub is a good place to stay?

  It’s not that. It’s just that people usually go back down to Hobart if they need a hotel.

  Yeah, but if it snows again I won’t be able to get back up the mountain. They closed the road on Thursday, and it was pretty slow this morning as well. You should have seen the meter in my taxi.

  How did you get on with Tim today? He show you the ropes?

  I’d say that running a general store is deceptively difficult. Much like running a pub I presume.

  Deceptively difficult sounds about right. Don’t worry, you’ll soon get the hang of it. How many nights do you think you’ll need? Or do you want to wait and see how you feel at the end of each day?

  I’ll need two nights at least. Maureen is showing me the morning shift tomorrow, and depending on how it goes I might do it again the next day. Sunday I assume is pretty slow, and it would probably be worth my while hanging around until Monday so I can meet all the delivery guys. But yeah, let’s play it by ear. Do you want me to pay upfront? I’ve only got cash I’m sorry.

  No, no, I know where you live. Or where you will live. Just settle up at the end of your stay. So what would you prefer, quiet or warmth?

  Both if you’ve got it.

  Well room three shares the chimney so it’s warm all the time, but the sound of the pub will come up through the floorboards until closing. Or you can have room five, which is at the back of the pub over the kitchen, away from everything. There’s a small heater in there, but if it snows overnight it could get a little chilly.

  I’ll take room three please. Noise doesn’t bother me.

  Good choice. The bathroom is next door, and there’s no one else staying here at the moment so you’ll have it all to yourself.

  No ghosts?

  None that I’ve noticed. If you hear someone walking around in the attic it’s just me stumbling into bed, so don’t worry. Breakfast is included. Nothing fancy. Orange juice. Coffee. Scrambled eggs and bacon, if that’s all right? Here’s your key. Up the stairs and the second door on your left. Have you had any dinner? Of course you haven’t. Where could you? The kitchen is only open for lunch, so most nights I tend to make myself something. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.

  I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I can wait until breakfast.

  Nonsense. But I don’t usually eat until late, when people are drinking a little slower.

  No problem. I like to eat late as well. Thank you, that’s very kind of you. I might take a shower then come back down for a drink.

  I have some South African wines in stock if you’re interested.

  No thanks. That’s all behind me now. A Tasmanian wine is what I’d prefer. No use moving to a new place and wishing I was back home. Up the stairs and to the left?

  That’s right. Anything you need just ask.

  68.

  Maureen cursed inwardly as she rolled and bent pastry into the shape of a croissant. The forlorn expression on Carl’s face as he stood in the kitchen and sipped coffee was ridiculous. To the point of being odious. No one had forced him to stay up late drinking with Paul. Maureen certainly hadn’t. Self pity during a hangover was a bugbear she could never shake, and it undermined the kindness behind her decision to help train Carl with his takeover. She felt her time was being wasted. Carl wasn’t listening. He was barely awake. Ma
ureen vowed that if he started to doze she would kick him out. Tim and Lucian were enough. Teaching a third man the meaning of gratitude was too much. Running a general store would soon reveal to Carl the consequences of neglecting personal responsibilities in favour of instant gratification. And if, like Tim, he failed to discipline his decision-making, then this mountain and its community would quickly cut him adrift. The timer on top of the stove announced the first batch of croissants were ready. Carl winced at the volume of the alarm, so Maureen left it ringing until the second tray had been placed inside the oven. It was a cruel trick to play, but it was too early in the morning to put up with people being inconsiderate of her effort.