by Joy Dettman
‘You catch this tram every morning?’ he said.
People didn’t strike up conversations at tram stops, and he was too old to be trying to pick her up. He was wearing a navy suit and a tie, looked as if he was going to work, apart from the small brown case at his feet.
‘Is that a big briefcase, or are you leaving home?’ she said.
‘Going home.’ His eyes refused to leave her, but other travellers were grouping and the tram was close. She dropped her cigarette, ground it into the pavement and stepped on board.
A bad day for public transport, and peak hour the wrong time to try it, the seats all taken and the ticket machine way up the other end.
‘If they want me to buy a ticket, then I say let them sell me one.’ He was still behind her, and his silly little voice made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
She fought her way to the machine and bought a ticket. He didn’t; he was still staring at her as the tram trundled on, trying to toss her to the floor at every stop and acceleration, but it was a fast and efficient way to move people around. Just learning to sway with the crush of humanity, to get the rhythm and she was in the city. She stepped from the tram and walked quickly away.
Walter O’Leary and his case were not far behind her. He followed her down to Collins Street. She turned once, perhaps she saw him, so he placed his case down and scratched his back. When she’d gained some distance he followed again, saw her enter her office building, then he hopped a tram to Spencer Street Station.
His hire car due back last night, he’d been late getting into town, very late, so he’d taken it in early this morning, parked it out the front of the yard, the keys in the glove box.
His old watch told him he had almost four more hours to kill before his bus left, and his case, though small, was growing heavy. He took a luggage locker and stood admiring a young woman in a black overcoat. Walter was watching her instead of watching where he was walking when a big woman, pushing a case on wheels, ran over him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
She wasn’t. She reminded him of Elaine, his first wife.
Black coats and suits everywhere this morning, Melbourne’s winter uniform, her army assembling, then marching off to do battle with their computers.
Elaine had stepped into that uniform early and never got out of it.
‘Black is for mourning,’ she used to say. She’d spent most of her married years mourning the years she’d spent with him. Not that he blamed her.
Going, Going, Gone
All day the clock in the Collins Street office had ticked slowly. All day Sally made the calls, her eye on that clock, and as the hour grew later, her plans grew more inventive.
I had to have the brakes done, Matt. They’re down to the metal.
‘Good afternoon. Today we are offering you –’
I took the tram to work this morning. Had to put the car in for a service, Matt.
Liar, liar, your pants are on fire.
‘Mrs Matthews, this is Sally calling –’
I put the car in for a service, Matt. The motor keeps stalling. It’s this cold weather. Have to buy a new car, I think.
What with, you liar?
Why shouldn’t she lie? They lied to her at interviews. Like the one she’d given up lunch to go to last week. ‘We will be putting your name forward, Sally.’ The woman at the agency had sounded so genuine.
They hadn’t called, or not when she was home. She needed an answering machine. Dozens of interviews she’d gone to since May, but employers wanted references and qualifications. She had none. And she knew she applied for the wrong jobs – which paid better than the right ones.
There was plenty of work for waitresses and sandwich hands, checkout chicks and child-carers, and they paid a pittance. After the taxman took his cut, it was impossible to live on what they offered. At least at Phonepross she could do the extra hours, make ends meet. She’d have to do a computer course at night school, get some qualifications.
But Sue had an education, and an answering machine – with a Sue-type message. Five-foot-eight, overweight, don’t stand there and salivate. Though her guys thought it was a lark, it hadn’t got her a highly paid job.
And so the clock ticked on, but slowly.
While Walter O’Leary repositioned his limbs for the umpteenth time and tried to ignore his seat companion’s thigh, which was hard to ignore, Sally was placing her phone down.
The time was five minutes past five.
She walked to the toilets. There were six cubicles, all new and white. White tiles. But the basins were grimy by this time of day, their matching wall of mirrors smeared, splashed by Queen Ratsus’s mouse plague.
Forget Matt Marsden and hand in your notice. Go back in there and do it. Now.
Her reflection didn’t like the idea, it grimaced.
‘I had to put the car in to have the brakes done, Matt,’ her reflection mouthed, and smiled. The mirrored face appeared happy with that lie.
But she couldn’t, wouldn’t do it.
Minutes used up in combing her hair, touching up her makeup, gluing the external Sally threads together for their tram ride home. There was little to do about the inner Sally, who was coming unstuck fast.
‘I couldn’t start the car this morning, Matt,’ she mouthed and a trio walked in, glanced at her. She didn’t know them. They walked into separate cubicles, not allowing closed doors to interrupt their conversation. Now Sally recognised them. They were the trio with the chook cackler. Young. Probably students. Motionless, she eavesdropped on the conversation; not a part of it, but clinging to the lives of others. A bit of fluff on someone’s jacket, easily brushed away.
‘Pass me under some paper, will you, Cindy?’
Number five cubicle got her paper and number four cackled.
Sally listened and thought of Ross’s hen yard, thought of gathering the eggs, frying them in an inch of fat for the rest of her life. Thought of Ross in twenty years’ time, his stomach hanging over his belt, her own stomach sagging down to her knees after producing six Ross-sized babies with heads like watermelons.
‘Hey, you know those shoes I was looking at in Myer’s, well Mum got them for thirty-nine dollars with her staff discount.’
So the cackler had a healthy mother working at Myer. Sally combed her hair, and in the mirror watched Cindy vacate the cubicle. A gorgeous, tall redhead. No loose threads on Cindy, all together, her ends knotted, snipped off clean. Free Cindy, young and free to go out with her friends on Saturday night, to play and fall in love.
And Sally wanted what Cindy had. She wanted to be in love, wanted the real thing, and she was going to have it. Her borrowed books beneath her arm, she turned on her heel, leaving the trio cackling there.
At the lifts too early, she stood at the noticeboard, conveniently placed beside the lifts.
‘Lost, gold purse. Reward. Patricia.’ Scrawled hurriedly by a shaking hand.
‘To rent. Bungalow in Burwood E. Close to tram. $50 per week. See Joyce Rogers.’ Large neat handwriting. Which one was Joyce Rogers?
‘Left in ladies loo, black woollen jacket. Pam.’ Computer print-out.
She checked her watch. Almost 5.25. Time-warp time. Now she pressed the down button and watched the lift doors. It would be number three. It would be three. If it wasn’t three, then she’d walk back and give notice. That was fate.
Then number three opened and she stepped inside, pressed ‘Close’, pressed ‘Ground’ and the lift stopped at four.
He was there.
So. So this was her plan, planned for weeks, planned all day, planned since the fire-dream this morning. Planned at the tram stop, the weird little guy at her side. She was here and Matt was here, and right or wrong she was going to go through with it.
As he entered the lift he smiled, glanced at the books she was juggling and at the large shoulder bag, the umbrella beneath her arm.
‘You’re loaded up tonight,’ he said.
‘Hope I g
et a seat on the tram. I had to put my car in . . . to . . . have the brakes done.’ Practised too long, the lie came out flat. ‘I went for a skid last night.’ She turned to the door, watched the numbers. Stupid idiot. You didn’t go for skids when your brakes didn’t work; you went for skids when they did. Stupid idiot. She felt the blood rise to her cheeks.
‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘No, I’ll be fine, thanks.’ Too abrupt.
Last chance. Going. Going.
Don’t kill chance before it’s born. You’re almost thirty, Sall old gal.
Going. Going.
And too quickly she added, ‘The tram stop is only two hundred metres from my door. It’s very convenient.’
‘Why stand on a tram when you can sit?’
‘If you’re sure.’
He was sure. He lightened her load by three paperbacks and they walked from the lift to the street where rain pelted down.
No more thinking now. Couldn’t allow herself to think. ‘My flat is in South Yarra, Matt.’ She loved saying his name. Such a perfect name. I want him, want him. Never felt like this before. Never felt this throbbing ache, this aching need.
‘Which way do you go?’ she said, stepping quickly, lightly at his side, where she belonged.
‘Your way tonight, Sall.’
Then they were in his car park and his car beeped for her, called her to it, and she was in his car, and his doors were locked and her seatbelt fastened, then together they drove towards Spring Street.
He’s just giving me a lift home. Just a friendly lift home.
Maybe he was, and maybe he wasn’t, but for this moment she was locked with him inside the warmth of the big station wagon, the Melbourne rain weaving a silver curtain between them and the world. He was beside her, and she was where she wanted to be. She was flying beside her black swan and for once she wasn’t thinking of Mummy or Ross.
The car smelt of him, and the smell was intoxicating; every nerve in her body opened, feeding on the scent of him. And it was gluing her unravelling threads together. She had breasts again and her breasts wanted his touch. They pushed against her coat. She had legs again and they wanted to wrap around him, hold him.
She swallowed, crossed her legs, trying to still that want. She’d only known Ross’s brand of love. What if . . . what if he wanted to come in and . . . what if he didn’t want to come in?
He spoke little, concentrating on the traffic, but he drove easily, confident behind the wheel. She glanced at his profile against the wet window, and she thought of another station wagon and didn’t know why.
White, that one had been. Older. Three boys in the back. Sally got to ride in the front with Daddy when Mummy wasn’t there and Shane was always jealous.
Shane threw my Teddy over the back, Daddy. Teddy’s lonely.
She turned quickly to the rear of the modern vehicle, looking at the neat space, looking for the three boys, looking for Teddy. Nothing there.
Stupid idiot. Stop it. Her heart racing, she turned again to Matt. His hands were sure on the wheel, and she loved them. Not large hands, but long, slim. His face in profile was well known to her. He had a perfect nose, a perfect brow where his thick black hair now fell. She’d known it would fall over his brow. Just that little bit. Her hand lifted, wanting to touch it, to brush it back, knowing exactly how it would feel. Soft, heavy. Quickly the hand was drawn back to her lap.
Mad. She was stark raving mad. What was she thinking of? He was just a guy who worked in her building, a friendly guy who had offered her a lift home. I’m reading too much into a friendly lift home, so I won’t make a fool of myself. I’ll say, drop me on Toorak Road, and he’ll stop the car and I’ll get out and that will be that.
‘Turn left at the next lights,’ she said. ‘And a left here.’ The car drew to a halt in front of her concrete block of bedsitters, and she wished she lived in a mansion fit for him to see.
‘Thanks very much, Matt.’ She reached for her books. Sue was educating her, lending her books she never would have thought to buy. She tucked them beneath her arm as the rain thundered down. Rain, rain, rain, she prayed, not wanting hope to die yet. And God was listening to her for once. He pelted the rain down and it danced on the bitumen like fish dancing beneath the moonlight over a dark lake.
The motor stilled. ‘Wait for it to ease off a bit, Sall.’
He didn’t want her to leave. She could feel it, feel the air between them. Pure electricity, any movement now and the car would explode, fling them into orbit.
They spoke a while, spoke of the rain, spoke of the concrete block of flats, and when the downpour steadied to a fine mist, Sally sought the door handle.
He reached across her, opening the passenger-side door. His arm brushed against her breast, and her breast leaned into it and his arm moved imperceptibly against it. She was wearing a bra and the blue sweater beneath her black coat, but her breast was bare and his touch burned. Then the door was open and she was sliding from the car, knowing now that it was over. He’d drive away. And she’d wave and . . . and tomorrow, and all of her tomorrows loomed before her like a concrete wall.
Raindrops on her hair and on her lashes. Umbrella snapped open, she stepped away. Shook her hair. Shook her head. How could he drive away and leave her? She couldn’t let him. He didn’t want to drive away and she knew it. She had to . . . had to . . . had to at least ask the question.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got time for a drink, Matt?’
These words had been practised too, practised when she’d bought the wine, when she’d bought the Jim Beam weeks ago. Just a game back then. Now the game was in play and she’d made her move. She knew her voice sounded too high. Silly. Practised. It sounded like her supermarket persona, mouthing, ‘Have a good day.’ She knew he would reply, ‘I’ll take a rain check, Sall.’ She was ready for it.
Better if he did. Better for her mother. Better for Ross.
But the rain was falling now, and no rain check was requested.
‘I’d like that very much,’ he replied.
The door closed behind them, the small heater was turned on. Black umbrellas, placed side by side, dripped in harmony with the sink tap as she slipped her arms from her coat, shook it and hung it behind the door, not brave enough to look at him. Then she did, and her hand went to her mouth, and he smiled, dropped his coat to the floor and his arms took her, rocked her, while his mouth found her own, and his dark eyes burned the last loose threads away.
‘It’s been too long. Why did we wait so long?’ he said.
She clung to him, wanting, wanton, and when he kissed her again, his hand moved up beneath her skirt. He wasn’t into waiting, and she didn’t want him to wait; he was pulling her pantihose down and she wasn’t stopping him, and she wasn’t thinking of Lakeside or bulls and cows. She wasn’t thinking. She was helping him and they barely made it to the bed before she opened to him.
‘God!’
She was a throbbing nerve and he was inside the nerve and he was stripping off her sweater, ripping it off and hating it because it covered her breasts. Then her breasts were bare and his mouth covered them. But he was still wearing his shirt, his tie, and her hands wanted them off.
‘God.’
He was driving into her and she was alive and for once she had taken charge of her own life. His tie was off and her hands were beneath his shirt and he was taking her to places she had never been, showing her sights she had never seen.
No more thinking. Only sensation now. She was the given, not the giver. She was the taker, taking what she wanted and screaming for God. Sally De Rooze, twenty-nine years and seven months old was flying, flying high at the side of her black swan and he didn’t find her fledgling wings wanting.
‘My, oh my, Sall,’ he said when they collapsed exhausted on the bed.
‘You are beautiful,’ she whispered.
Gone now was the growl of the great Melbourne beast. It was only a kitten purring outside her window. Gone too was Lakeside
, and the accusing face on the white pillow. All gone. She kissed Matt’s hands in gratitude, kissed each fine finger, each perfect nail. For her, life had slipped into focus. This was the Sally hidden too long beneath responsibility and others’ expectations. This Sally had been born to love, to love wildly. This Sally was loved, loved gladly.
Matt drank Jim Beam and she drank wine. Fast. They ate crusty bread and cheese, fast, aware they had to get it down. They made love with their eyes, smiled a lot but spoke little. Lips were better used for kissing and for exploring naked flesh still warm with first love. Then they loved again, wild for each other.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’ So it was mad, bad, but finally right, and he knew it was right too, then at 10.30 he looked at his watch.
She was on her back, naked, her mind, her limbs at peace. She was thinking of breakfast. Pancakes for two. No cereal in her cupboard. Eggs. Yes. But no bacon. She frowned, leaned on an elbow and watched him dress, clothing new, strange love in a dark stranger’s suit, combing wild, sweet love from his hair.
Her hand reached out. ‘Don’t go, Matt.’
He took her hand, kissing the palm, closing her fingers over the kiss; he walked to the door, opened it. ‘Sleep tight.’ And he stepped through the door, dragging it shut behind him.
And she was alone and the kitten’s purr was becoming a rumbling growl, low in the throat of the city beast. She sprang from the bed, trailing her floral bed sheet. She hadn’t given him her phone number. She hadn’t asked for his. The first thing Sue did was to get their phone number.
‘Matt.’ She tugged at the door, dragging it wide. He stopped halfway down the concrete stairs, laughing at her sheet that covered too little, and he returned to her, his lips finding her own while his cheeky hands stripped the sheet from her, tossing it onto the floor as he lifted her, crushed her to him, in the open doorway.
‘Stay the night. Stay the week. Stay forever, Matt.’
‘Try keeping me away, Sall,’ he said. Then he placed her feet back on the floor and he slapped her bare buttock, and he laughed as he flew away.
