Left Luggage

by Andrew Christie

  Rosemary Bennet, on the other hand, was someone she tried to avoid. A recent widow, Rosemary was younger than most of the village residents. She was a busy woman, always doing things for others. “Always sticking her nose into other people’s business,” Betty complained to Ken and Helen. “Trying to fill her life with other people’s problems so she doesn’t have to deal with her own.” There was no beige knitwear where Rosemary was concerned. She was always neatly turned out. It seemed to Betty that Rosemary had not changed the way she dressed since she was in her twenties, when someone must have told how to dress to make the most of her figure. It was the Rosemary Bennet uniform, a fitted linen jacket over a T-shirt, and linen slacks or skirt. It would be chic if it wasn’t always exactly the same.

  Rosemary was always on the alert for any unexplained absences. If she hadn’t seen someone for a day or two, she would virtually send out a search party. “We have to make sure we’re all still ticking over. Can’t have anyone left behind,” she said. Betty would be very happy if this annoying woman would leave her behind, and she thought a lot of the others would too.

  Rosemary was the chief instigator of organised activities. Shopping trips, excursions to the art gallery, boules in the courtyard. They called it boules, but it wasn’t anything that Betty recognised. Just a bunch of old people lobbing steel balls around a tiny lawn. The most entertaining part was watching them bend over, trying to pick the boule up after each round.

  Card games were another Rosemary special event – she organised them every Wednesday afternoon in the common room. Betty went along just the once. When Rosemary said cards, Betty heard poker, and was looking forward to winning a bit of spending money. But the game turned out to be canasta. No gambling was allowed, apparently. Rules. “Just as well,” said John when she told him, “the way you play. You won’t make any friends if you take their pensions off them every fortnight.”

  “That is the trouble with this place. You have to be careful in case you upset anyone. They are all too bloody sensitive,” Betty said.

  “I haven’t noticed it cramping your style. You just go ahead and say whatever is on your mind.”

  “Yes? What else should I do?”

  Despite Betty’s efforts to dissuade her, Rosemary took a shine to her. She did some research and was very excited by what she found out. “Oh, you have had such an interesting life, Betty.” She had tried to get Betty to give the residents “a slide show and a little talk, show us some of your famous pictures”. Betty didn’t think so, not without a gun to her head.

  As much as she tried to avoid Rosemary, it wasn’t always possible. That was the problem with sitting out on her little terrace. It was the best place to be at the end of a long hot day, with a nice glass of wine and something to read, but there was no privacy.

  “Hello, Betty, what a lovely evening.” Rosemary was apparently on her way to the bins, a white plastic garbage bag in her right hand and a stack of newspapers tucked under her left arm. “Did you hear what happened to Sue Hodges?”

  Sue lived across the courtyard, a very quiet woman who kept to herself. She had collapsed in the communal laundry the previous morning. Taken a turn, was what Ken said. Bad heart, was the rumour. She had been carted off to hospital in an ambulance.

  “Yes,” said Betty. “It is bad luck for Sue, missing her washing day, she will have to wait a whole week before she gets another chance at the machines.”

  Rosemary ignored her. “Poor woman. I wonder how long she will be away for?” They both knew Sue probably wouldn’t come back. These events were not uncommon at Forest Court: a natural form of attrition, and a topic of conversation for the next week or so. Ken said that four of the residents had been carted off in the last year. Someone was always having a fall or some other health crisis. Usually they didn’t come back, instead they were shipped off to a nursing home, the next stop in their inevitable decline. There were a couple of vacant apartments now. Waiting for fresh meat, Betty supposed. Ken said that they liked to wait till there were two or three vacant so they could get a cheaper price for renovating them.

  “I’m afraid poor Sue will miss the party next week,” Rosemary said. “Did you see my notice?” Betty had, but hadn’t planned on going. “When I say party,” Rosemary went on, “it’s just a bit of get together, just some tea and cakes. No particular occasion. Do come, it’ll be a good chance to get to know some of the others. Ken and Helen are going.” Betty probably should go, at least to see if there was anyone there worth talking to. She didn’t suppose there would be any dancing – not for her anyway. John offered to get her a little wheeled pusher to lean on, but Betty preferred her stick. She enjoyed the thought that she could poke things – and people – with it if necessary.

  She had recently started to explore her new environment, beginning with the local corner shops, gradually extending her range to Glebe Point Road. There were plenty of cafés in Glebe, but Betty found the coffee was too strong, and there was nowhere quiet to drink it. All the cafés were too noisy, full of music or television screens, and young people with computers and mobile phones.

  John had given Betty a mobile phone when she started going out on her own. “Look, it’s really simple to use, green to call, red to hang up,” he said, holding it out to her. It was an ugly black thing with big buttons and big numbers, designed for a half-blind person with clumsy sausage fingers. Anyway what did she want another phone for? She had no one to call except John, and he always called her on the house phone in the sitting room. She didn’t want him calling when she was out somewhere.

  “It’s just in case you get stuck, Mum. Have an accident or something. So you can call me.”

  Betty took the damned phone in the end, just to shut him up. She kept it in the top drawer with her lingerie.

  Against her better judgement, Betty told Ken and Helen that she would go to Rosemary’s party. When she settled down in front of her mirror to do her face she realised how long it had been since she had made herself up properly. Most days she just slapped on a bit of lipstick. For the party, she chose her favourite blue dress, one she used to wear in summer in Paris. It would be fine for an autumn evening in Sydney. She wore a lemon silk scarf with it, and considered leaving her stick behind, but decided that was just a foolish vanity.

  A woman that she thought was called Philippa greeted her at the door of the common room with a pot of tea. “Yes, thank you, just a drop of milk,” Betty said, peering around her. Rosemary was in the little kitchen rallying her troops, standing over Jennifer Hewitt, watching her cutting the crusts off chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches and trying to squash them onto an already full plate. Rosemary looked as if she was trying hard to stop herself from slapping Jennifer. Instead, she passed across another plate.

  “Here, Jenny, some of those sandwiches can go on this one. There’s no shortage of plates.”

  “Oh, I suppose so,” said Jennifer, “but it’s another plate we’ll have to wash up.”

  “You’re standing in front of a dishwasher, you know. Here, let me get these out of the way.” Rosemary picked up two full plates and marched out of the kitchen, nearly bumping into Betty, who was juggling her tea cup and her walking stick. “There you are, dear, I’m so glad you came. Would you like a sandwich?”

  Betty took one of the sandwiches and made her way through to the main room.

  Ken stood up and offered her his chair. “This party is eating into my drinking time,” he said, glancing at his watch.

  “Oh, sit down and keep us company,” said Helen. “The pub will still be there tomorrow.”

  “Do you have these things often?” Betty asked. She hoped not. It was not really her idea of a party. There was no wine for a start.

  “A couple of times a year,” said Ken.

  “When the mood takes Rosemary,” said Helen. “Something to look forward to, she reckons.”

  “I suppose it is a chance to meet the other inmates,” said Betty looking around the room. She didn’t think she had
ever seen so many cardigans before.

  “Inmates?” Helen laughed. “Yes, that’s what we are. For the term of our natural lives.”

  “At Her Majesty Rosemary’s pleasure,” added Ken, draining his tea cup.

  The pub Ken frequented was called the Bulls Roar. It was a small place tucked in with a collection of local shops at Forest Lodge. “It’s a nice pub,” he told Betty, “quiet, and they’ve got decent beer.”

  It was only two blocks from Forest Court. Betty stumped along the narrow footpath, occasionally stopping for a short rest, leaning on her stick in the middle of the footpath, ignoring the other pedestrians, who stepped around her. It was nice to be out on the streets, the area was busy with lots of people going about their business under the bright blue autumn sky. Betty was tired by the time she pushed through the pub’s door, leaving the light of the street outside, replacing it with cool gloom and the smell of beer.

  The smell took her straight back to her youth, before she left home to try to find her mother; drinks after work with the girls from the typing pool. The smell was still the same but everything else was different. The pubs she remembered had tiles everywhere to make them easy to hose out in the morning. This one had carpet, and there were tables made from barrels, and high stools along the bar. A television screen was located high up in the corner showing a cricket match from somewhere overcast and dull.

  Ken was there, sitting at a table at the back. He had a glass of beer, nearly empty, and a newspaper spread out in front of him open at the crossword page. He looked up as Betty came in, and smiled.

  “Mind if I disturb you?” she asked.

  “Come and help me with this bloody crossword.”

  “I don’t know if I will be much help. These days my French is better than my English,” she said. “Can I get you another drink?”

  “No, no. You sit down. I’ll get this round. You can get the next one.” Ken got to his feet and pulled out a chair for her.

  Betty was grateful to sit down. She lowered herself into the chair and balanced her walking stick on the arm.

  “What would you like?” Ken asked.

  “Oh, a glass of wine please, white. Anything white will be fine.”

  While Ken went to the bar, Betty pulled out the mail she had collected from her letter box. There were two letters, one from Hubert Foss in Paris and one with a government crest from Canberra. She opened Hubert’s letter first and quickly scanned it, smiling at the gossip and local news. When Ken came back with the drinks she put it away to read properly later.

  Ken put a glass of white wine in front of her. Beads of condensation were forming on the outside of it. “Pinot grigio, is that alright?”

  “Wonderful. Merci.” She took a sip. It was cold, dry and very welcome. The letter from Canberra was from the National Gallery of Australia, from a photographic curator.

  Ken sat down with his beer. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “It’s from the National Gallery, in Canberra. They want to talk to me about my work, about my photographs.”

  “Really? That’s great. Are they going to buy them?”

  Betty laughed. “I hope so, but it doesn’t say, it just says that they want to talk to me.” She put the letter away in her handbag. “How is the puzzle?” she said, nodding towards the crossword in the paper.

  “Not very good. I’m trying to do the cryptic one.”

  “Cryptic?”

  “It means the clues are written by a smartarse. They’re puzzles. Like this one, eleven down, ‘Strong enough or not to break.’ Six letters.”

  Betty looked at him blankly. “What does it mean?”

  “Exactly. What does it mean? ‘Strong enough or not to break.’”

  “Strong enough for what?”

  “Last letter might be a T.” Ken tapped his pen on his teeth. “If eighteen across is really opportunity.”

  Betty smiled. “Sorry, I have no ideas.”

  “Me neither. Let’s have a go at the quickie.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Quickie – crosswords for dummies.”

  “Ah, like us.” Betty sipped at her wine.

  Ken shifted the paper and read out: “One across: ‘Region of contact between nerve cells’, seven letters?” He looked at Betty, drumming the pen against the side of his jaw.

  “Could it be synapse?” said Betty.

  “Dunno. What’s a synapse?”

  “It is something to do with nerves. And brain cells.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “You probably kill them if you drink too much beer.”

  “Mine are probably all gone then, why I’ve never heard of the buggers. How do you spell it?”

  Betty spelled out the word while Ken filled in the white squares. The barmaid came past collecting empty glasses. When she walked back to the bar, Ken’s eyes followed her. “Very nice,” he said, mostly to himself, before taking another drink from his beer.

  “Ha. You are too old, Ken. You could be her grandfather.”

  He grinned. “Sure, but seeing a pretty girl gives me a reason to go on living.”

  By five o’clock they had worked their way through half of the crossword. “That’s me done,” said Ken, downing the last of his beer. “If I have any more I’ll be up all night going to the loo.”

  “Thank you for the wine,” said Betty. “I think I will walk back with you. It’s been good to be out of the apartment for a while.”

  “Yeah, you’ve got to get out and about. Some of the old dears in the village just sit around moping. Rotting away.”

  As they made their way slowly back along Norfolk Street, Ken paused, and said, “Robust.”

  “Pardon?”

  “‘Strong enough or not to break’: robust. It fits.”

  “If you say so,” Betty said.

  Billy Sheehan was waiting outside the gates when they got back to Forest Court. “Hello, Billy,” Betty said. “Did you want something?”

  “I just wanted to show you this.” Billy held up a camera that was hanging on a cord around his neck.

  “You have a camera?” said Betty. “Why don’t you come in and show it to me. I’m a bit tired, I need to have a sit down.”

  The camera was small and digital, the plastic case worn and scratched. Betty opened the lens cover and the little camera hummed as the lens extended and the viewing screen lit up. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about digital cameras, Billy.” She lifted the camera up and took a photo of Billy, the flash startling them both. Betty looked at the image on the screen then showed it to Billy. “We’re going to have to learn how to use your new camera. Where did you get it from?”

  “It’s my brother Tom’s. He never uses it. I’m just borrowing it.”

  “My first camera was my father’s Box Brownie.” Betty wondered what had ever happened to it. Disappeared, like so much else, into the void of the past. She held Billy’s camera up to the light and read from lens bezel. “Canon, 6.0-22.5 – I wonder what that is equivalent to in 35mm? It’s reasonably fast for a zoom lens, f2.0.”

  “Fast? What’s that mean?”

  “Means how big a hole the lens can make to let light in. Big hole, lots of light in a small time, fast shutter speed. Small hole, you need to keep the shutter open longer to get the same amount of light.”

  Billy was looking confused.

  “It’s not complicated really, but it’s good to know these things if you want to take photographs. If you want to get the most out of your camera. I could teach you.”

  Billy’s face lit up.

  “But not this afternoon,” Betty said. “I need to have a rest.”

  Billy stood up. “Yeah, sure. Thanks, Mrs Lawrence.”

  “Betty, call me Betty. Mrs Lawrence is some old woman. Not at all young and sprightly like me.”

  Billy grinned at her.

  “Can you come and see me after school tomorrow?”

  Billy nodded. “Sure.”

  “And see if you can
find the manual for that camera. So we can learn how to work it.”

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  Prepaid Only

  “Hello?” John called from the door. His hands were full with plastic shopping bags from the supermarket.

  “We are in here,” Betty replied.

  John managed to open the screen door without having to put the bags down, and went through into the kitchen. He had run out of food at home and had decided to shop for both of them while he was at it. He left the groceries on the bench and found Betty and a young woman in the sitting room. There were empty tea cups on the table, and a couple of Betty’s portfolios.

  “This is Annette,” said Betty. “She’s from Canberra.”

  John took the offered hand. It was small and plump like the rest of its owner. The handshake was brief and firm but accompanied by a smile that started at her mouth and lingered in her eyes.

  “John,” he said. “I’m Betty’s son.”

  “I know, Betty’s been telling me all about you.”

  “Oh. Has she?” John looked down at his mother.

  “Don’t worry, nothing too dreadful,” the young woman said, still smiling. “So far.”

  John guessed she was in her mid-thirties. Dark hair, nice eyes. Nice smile.

  “Annette works for the National Gallery, in Canberra,” Betty said. “They want to do an exhibition of my work.”

  The young woman retrieved a business card from the large black handbag at her side and passed it to John. Beneath a commonwealth crest in black, the white card said Annette Morgan, Photography Curator, National Gallery of Australia.

  “National Gallery. That’s the big time, Mum,” he said, putting the card in his pocket.

  Betty beamed. “I know.”

  “How come? Why now?” he asked Annette.

  “We have a program. Each year we try to do a major retrospective of a single Australian photographer. We don’t have the funds to do more than one a year. I was trying to get in contact with Betty in Paris. I didn’t know she was back in Sydney until I spoke to her agency. I’m so glad she is, it will make life much easier. For me, I mean; I’ve got two kids. I’d love to go to Paris, but I wouldn’t be able to leave them for that long.”