Wood Green

by Sean Rabin

  Rachel shivered at how malicious her thoughts had become. It was not like her to be so scornful of love. Although she was disappointed to see someone so young, with so much potential, acting so conservatively, it did not mean the girl’s marriage would not work out. What the hell did she know about relationships? Maybe risking a career for love was the right thing to do. Maybe it was what she should have done herself instead of working ridiculous hours and following ex-boyfriends halfway across the country. Rachel decided to contribute fifty dollars to the wedding gift from the office. Maybe even a hundred.

  As she scrolled her perfectly manicured thumb hovered over Michael’s number. It had been four months and still he had not called, leaving Rachel to consider three possible conclusions: he had found a new girlfriend and stayed in Hobart; failed to finish his book and was too embarrassed to admit it to her face; or returned to Sydney and decided not to contact her. Strangely, it was the second scenario that bothered Rachel the most. On her return flight from Hobart she had had a strong hunch that unlike so many journalists and editors she knew, Michael was actually going to finish the book he had set out to write. She hoped it was true, and that his silence was simply a case of not wanting to rekindle their affair. Rachel had hardly been sitting by her phone waiting for him to call. She had more pride than that. There had been five dates since her return to Sydney. But all the men had talked about was how much money they made, while flashing their expensive wristwatches as if they were some symbol of virility. And even when Rachel found herself in bed with one, all he had wanted to do was re-enact scenes from his favourite porn films and share his dreams of driving across America on a Harley Davidson. She might have wanted a relationship with someone different from Michael, but she needed a little more imagination than that. And a hell of a lot more passion.

  Rachel decided that a text would be best. Less of a shock and more time for him to think before he responded. She could hear people entering the bathroom to wash sticky cake off their fingers. High on an afternoon hit of sugar and chocolate, their voices were loud and full of laughter. Rachel’s red thumbnail became a blur as she typed her message.

  Hi Steve. Sorry about last time. You caught me by surprise. Still no word from Michael. You? Just wondering…still interested in chasing me around the couch?

  95.

  Where the hell were the aspirin? Michael searched the shelves of the medicine cabinet but failed to find the rectangular box of pills. He had again been woken by pain. Aching bones. Cramped muscles. Itching skin. Dry eyeballs. Watery nose. The cold he had just recovered from appeared to have returned for a second round, and he despaired at the prospect of being unwell again. The bathroom light hurt his eyes, and a tune was looping inside his head – Judee Sill’s ‘There’s a Rugged Road’ – which Michael realised must have been playing in his brain while he was asleep. He drank one, two glasses of water. Pressed a cold washcloth against his face. Was aspirin going to be enough?

  He switched on a lamp in the sunroom and set about rolling a joint of serious intent. His fingers were so swollen that they fumbled with the papers. And his tongue was dry again. Perhaps he was dehydrated. Another glass of water before he began to inhale deeply. The marijuana dulled the pain to a point, but the idea of a few aspirin to help him get back to sleep was insistent. He gave the bathroom cabinet a repeat inspection then decided to check Lucian’s bedroom.

  Michael switched on the hall light and partially opened the door, allowing just enough glow inside the room to see the box on Lucian’s bedside table. The spliff was still burning between his fingers, and rather than put it down or out Michael stood in the hall smoking with purpose.

  As the roach fell into the sitting room fireplace he realised he had become unsteady. Tiny hallucinations flickered at the corners of his eyes, and once again his mouth was dry. He stepped inside Lucian’s room, successfully avoided a pair of slippers then quietly snatched the aspirin.

  What do you think you’re doing? asked Lucian from the shadowed side of his double bed.

  Michael jumped, tripped over the slippers and stumbled back to the door. Sorry, he whispered as he regained his balance and held up the box. Just needed some aspirin. Getting a cold again.

  Oh what are you complaining about?

  I’m not complaining. Go back to sleep.

  This is everything you’ve ever wanted. The shortcut you’ve always dreamed about finding.

  There’s no need to get upset. Just go back to sleep.

  No struggle. No sacrifice. No risk. Especially not to your precious pay cheque. It’s just a promotion for you, isn’t it? I’ve done this, I’ve done that. I know, next I’ll become a writer. Just like putting on a hat. Ridiculous. You’re going to have to stop thinking that by documenting an author’s life you can learn what it means to be a writer. That’s psychology, not literature. Is that why they call it literary analysis? Well it couldn’t be further from the truth. Being an artist is not something you can think into existence. You either are or you aren’t. It is or it isn’t. And no amount of study will alter the situation. You can’t buy your way in. You’ve got to earn it. Take the gamble. Fail. Lose friends. Lose everything. Accept the consequences. How else will you know if it’s in you? Really in you. An imperative to your existence. So much so that success becomes irrelevant. By all means publish a book. Publish two. But it won’t necessarily make you a writer. You have to forget everything you know. Or think you know. And start to feel around for it. Listen. Smell. They’re not meant to be just words on the page. They’re meant to be whispers. Shouts. Songs. Remember? Why anyone would want to…

  Michael opened the bedroom door wider and saw Lucian sitting up in bed with his eyes closed. He was dreaming. Prattling on in his sleep. Flabbergasted with his secretary even in his subconscious. The tirade continued as Michael pulled the door to. He then hurried to the bathroom and washed down a double dose of aspirin.

  96.

  It was only 4pm. Why wasn’t the general store open? There was smoke rising from the chimney. Maybe Carl was in the bathroom. Michael peered through the front windows and tried the door handle for a third time. Still locked. He knocked again. Waited in case Carl was doing something upstairs, or was on the phone. He looked around. Saw Matthew sitting on the bench outside the pub, reading. Maybe Carl was having a drink, or talking with Paul. Michael found the pub empty except for the regulars at the bar. No one was eating lunch at this late stage in the day. He waved to Paul manning the taps then stepped back outside.

  Waiting for your mum to finish work?

  Matthew nodded and continued to inspect the Lego catalogue that had been included with his latest purchase.

  She doesn’t usually work this late, does she?

  Some pensioners came up in a bus to see the aqueduct, then stayed for lunch.

  Oh, right. Michael turned back to the general store. You haven’t seen Carl around have you?

  I think he’s gone into town.

  Any idea when he might be back?

  Matthew looked up from his catalogue. You shouldn’t buy things from Carl, you know. It isn’t right.

  Really? Why do you say that?

  You just shouldn’t, Matthew whispered. He isn’t very nice. He gets angry all the time.

  Michael had little experience of talking with children, and quickly searched for an appropriate response. You know sometimes grown ups can have a lot on their minds and forget to be polite, he said as he sat beside Matthew to avoid appearing like an authority figure. Maybe you just caught Carl on a bad day. Try to give him another chance. I’m sure you’ll find he isn’t angry all the time.

  Oh he isn’t angry with me. He’s nice to me. It’s Paul he’s angry with.

  I see. Did Paul mention this to you?

  No, Mum did. She says Carl isn’t always a good friend, but Paul keeps forgiving him.

  Maybe your mum is just trying to make sure that Paul takes care of himself.

  Like sitting on his stool behind the bar?


  Exactly.

  But Paul won’t do it anymore.

  What do you mean?

  He put it in the storeroom. He says that sitting on a stool all day makes him fat. But standing up all the time makes Paul’s legs swell up and hurt.

  Michael realised that Matthew was just repeating what Penny had said in the privacy of their home. I don’t think you need to worry about Paul. He’s a grown-up. He can take care of himself.

  But Mum says we need to take care of each other. We take care of Paul and Paul takes care of us.

  Well she’s right, of course, but you shouldn’t say those things about Carl to anyone else. If he heard you say them it might hurt his feelings.

  That’s what Mum said as well. She told me not to tell anyone.

  Okay, well, good. Do as your mum says.

  But I tell everyone I can.

  Michael waited for Matthew to look up and see the seriousness of his expression. Well from now on I don’t think you should, okay?

  The nine year old shrugged and returned to the pages of his catalogue.

  Michael stood up to leave, but was reluctant to end their conversation on such a serious note. Sorry I haven’t been down for a Lego date yet. I’ve been busy trying to finish off some work. But when I see your mum next I’ll arrange a time so when we can get stuck into it. Okay?

  Matthew looked up with a puzzled expression. You want to play Lego?

  Of course I do. Remember, we said that we were going to build something together.

  Matthew still looked perplexed. All right. But make sure you bring Michael as well, okay?

  97.

  It must have been the beard, thought Michael. Had Matthew seen only the hairy face and automatically decided he was speaking to Lucian? Recently there had been no time to trim it back. He had been too busy writing his book. Researching Lucian’s life. Changing Lucian’s sheets. Assisting him to the bathroom. Cooking his meals. Rolling his spliffs. Of course it was the beard, otherwise there was no strong resemblance. How could there be? Michael stared at the bathroom mirror. All right, he would admit his face had changed a little. But surely not enough to be confused with Lucian. Hopefully he did not look that old yet. His whiskers had definitely grown more grey. And two blood vessels seemed to have recently broken across the bridge of his nose. But it was hardly enough to account for such a mistake in identity. Michael’s heart began to race, and he started to search for a mirror small enough to hold in his hand. When the house failed to produce one, he attempted to improvise. However the blade of a carving knife was too small. The curve of a ladle distorted his face. And the lids of Lucian’s pots were so old and worn that they offered only a blurred reflection of his head. But would a CD work?

  Michael opened the bedroom door and checked that Lucian was asleep. A strong wind blowing across the peak of Mount Wellington was moving clouds fast enough to allow the last of the day’s sunlight to flood the room intermittently. From the reading chair Michael examined Lucian’s face, then compared it with the nose, skin, ears and eyebrows he saw in the CD’s reflective surface. The image was far from perfect. Michael’s features were sharp, but appeared to be covered by a film of mistiness and a shifting rainbow of refracted light. His forehead seemed too large, suggesting a degree of distortion, and the finger poking through the CD’s centre hole certainly didn’t help. After a while Michael decided that he could assess nothing with any certainty. His brain felt too flummoxed by the idea that Matthew could make such an error. Had he and Lucian been living together too closely? Were they like an old couple who were no longer distinguishable as individuals? But didn’t that require thirty or forty years of marriage? Perhaps it was like those dog owners who looked like their pets. Or was it the pets who looked like their owners? Michael could never decide which one it was, and instead considered whether Matthew had merely got their names confused. It sometimes happened to children. Michael checked his face in the CD again. There might be a few rudimentary similarities. The hairline: shape of the jaw. But Lucian looked so much older. Michael conceded he no longer appeared as spry as he once had, but a haircut and a few hours in the sun would rectify that. Maybe he should shave the beard. It had definitely aged him. But it also helped to keep his face warm.

  What’s that you’ve got there? asked Lucian as he opened his eyes.

  Huh?

  The CD. Who’s it by?

  Michael turned over the object in his hand and realised he had no idea what it was. He had just grabbed a random CD from the nearest shelf. Kawabata Makoto – Hosanna Mantra, he read from the cardboard sleeve.

  Well that’s certainly a cosmic record. Are you going to put it on?

  Sure, said Michael. I was just waiting for you to wake up.

  98.

  Lucian sat up in bed with a towel draped across his chest and felt Michael guide a razor down the length of his neck. It might have been morning. It might not. Lucian slept so much these days that his body clock had become disconnected with notions of night and day, morning and afternoon.

  Oh god sorry. Michael reached for the corner of the towel.

  What for?

  I just cut your neck.

  Didn’t feel a thing! No need to worry. This is all rather pleasant.

  Michael pressed the edge of the towel to the tiny cut, and dipped the razor in the bowl of warm water sitting on the bedside table.

  What’s this music you’re playing? asked Lucian. It’s quite beautiful.

  DJ Sprinkles, Midtown 120 Blues.

  One of yours or mine?

  It’s the other new record I bought at the same time as Oval.

  Lucian nodded. I remember now. It has a painting of a laughing face on the cover.

  That’s right.

  For a while there I thought its beat was a little too repetitive. But now I’m inside of it I can hear all sorts of ideas at work. It’s very romantic, isn’t it?

  I thought it would appeal to you. It’s all about rhythm, right? Michael pressed a thumb under Lucian’s chin and started to shave the far side of the author’s neck.

  Lucian noticed that Michael’s index finger was stained with ink. You’ve been working hard I see. How’s the book coming along? You must be close to finishing it by now. Or have I been taking up too much of your time?

  It’s almost there, I think. A few more weeks and hopefully I should have a first draft.

  Well done. Congratulations. I bet that’s a relief.

  When I’m finished it will be.

  Will you promise to do me a favour when you think it’s ready?

  Of course. Anything.

  I want you to send it to my agent in London. I’m sure you’ve come across her name and details amongst my papers. You’re to tell her I’m recommending you.

  That’s very kind of you. But don’t you want to read it first?

  Lucian shook his head ever so slightly. Not necessary. I saw the opening chapters. I’m confident it’s going to be an excellent piece of work.

  Michael dried Lucian’s neck and soothed it with moisturising cream. Would you like to lie back down?

  No thank you. I think I’ll keep looking out the window for a while and watch the weather change.

  You think it’s going to cloud over?

  This is Tasmania, my boy. The weather is always about to change.

  Lucian watched Michael open the curtains as wide as possible, then carry away the bowl and razor. From down the hall he could hear the kettle being filled for tea, and assumed it would accompany a soft-boiled egg. Fifteen minutes later the meagre meal appeared on a tray. Lucian had no appetite, and couldn’t really taste anything anymore, but still accepted the morsels of egg Michael spooned into his mouth in the knowledge that it was necessary for him to stay strong for as long as possible.

  You were adopted, weren’t you? he asked in the hope of delaying another serving being inserted between his lips.

  Michael paused, surprised that he had identified a feature of himself he thought was kept well hidden.


  How did you know?

  It wasn’t so hard. I was as well.

  But I thought you…

  And so was the one before me. We all were. And we’re all from Tasmania as well.

  Michael endeavoured to steer the conversation back towards reality. I think you’ll find I was born in Queensland. It says so on my birth certificate.

  But where were you conceived? And who was your mother? Where did she grow up? Who was your father? None of us know for certain. But I can guarantee you that at least one of your parents was born somewhere on this island. It’s why we always return. Like salmon smelling their way upstream. It’s home for us and always will be. Every time we land back here we know it’s exactly where we’re supposed to live. Nowhere else in the world like it. The scent of the air. Sassafras and Needle Bush: sandstone and moss. It’s cold and wet, but it’s also crisp and clear. You can think down here. I don’t know how anyone north of Melbourne gets any thinking done. I wasted a lot of time trying to live somewhere else, but eventually we all return here. Just like you have. So now we need to start getting in supplies. You’ll have to stay hidden for a little while. I don’t remember how long exactly. That period is always a little bit patchy. It’s far from an exact science this whole process. You’d think that by the third time we’d know some things for certain, but it seems none of us has ever bothered to write anything down. I’d say food for at least four weeks should be enough. There’s money under the rug in the hall. I guess there’s no need to tell you where things are. You probably already know. And if not, you will soon enough.

  I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.