She was struggling to remember.
‘Anything by Elvis Costello, Ella Fitzgerald, the childlike paintings of Paul Klee, a long hot bath, sex with you in clean sheets, Harry Nilson singing “Without You”, Everything But the Girl before they got a drum machine, taking Abby to see the tigers at the zoo, Atticus, Jem and Scout, Macedon in autumn, Abby anywhere … and you, sharing everything with you, reading the paper on Sunday mornings with you, holding you, watching you with her—Eddie I hate myself for it. I’m telling you all this because you want me to help you get into how I am—into how it is that nothing reaches me. I feel so alone. Eddie, I was going to do so many things. Now there’s too much involved in rolling over. I just want to sleep and … I’m so sorry to be like this.’
She had energy only for hating herself. I continued rubbing her back through the bedclothes. It was clear to me that what she most needed was to integrate back into the world. Whether I could bring this about on my own I did not know. I doubted it. And I had other doubts too. Each fortnight the bank automatically extracted a mortgage repayment from our joint account. If ever the account were empty or there were insufficient funds to meet the payment, the bank could legally treat the shortfall as a breach by us that entitled it to sell our house.
After the first rumours of the restructuring, and even before that, during my attempts to contact the Minister, I had wondered at home, on the train, in the supermarket, anywhere I went, whether the bank would actually go through with it for one missed payment. Would it sell our house because we had missed one fortnightly payment when we had paid in full every fourteen days for the last ten years?
It could. It was entitled. The small print that no one ever bothered reading let alone understanding was the bank’s entitlement. Someone gets up in the morning and decides that your house should be sold. They get paid for the decision. They go home. They pay off their home with the proceeds of many such decisions. If the account were completely empty it would be because neither Tanya nor I was working. How many payments would we miss? How many would we need to miss? I remembered the mortgagee sale of my uncle’s home and what it had done to George and Peggy.
I could not begin to devote all my efforts to helping Tanya until I had secured my position, any position, our house. Even then I would need time off to help her. I thought that perhaps she should see someone professionally. But would she ever agree? I was afraid to put it to her. She mistrusted psychology. It was not the mistrust of the unsophisticated. On the contrary, her mistrust was born of an appreciation of the still comparatively primitive state of psychology, its relative lack of well-defined and effective therapeutic procedures, and ultimately its reliance on the verstehen of its practitioners, be they psychiatrists or psychologists. And the majority of them, she thought, were much too—what had she said?—dumb, facile, lacking in wisdom, or screwed-up—to help her. Anyway, she would feel that to see a therapist of any kind would stigmatise her forever, in her own eyes and in the eyes of the rest of the world, as someone mentally ill, someone to pat and give coins to in the market beside the giant panda on the edge of the car-park.
Nor would we be able to keep it all as completely hidden as she would want, want as much as a cure. At the very least we would have to let her mother know in order to enlist even more of her services with Abby before and after school, at least if I were working. Her mother knew the problem was latent. As long as it remained that way she could put it to the back of her mind. But if she saw her daughter incapacitated by it would she be able to help us or would she only compound the problem for Tanya? I had no choice. I needed her help. I needed someone’s help. Perhaps I could ask my own mother?
I had not yet written back to her, not even the usual requests for information about the weather up there. I sat down and wrote a perfunctory letter mentioning nothing about the crises in our own lives, asking in a roundabout way for more information about my father and explaining that I was trying to get some time off work. I enclosed some crayon works from Abby’s Elvis period.
CHAPTER 28
Before my appointment with the department’s management consultant I took my letter and two of Abby’s drawings to the post-office nearest departmental headquarters. Abby’s artwork needed more than standard postage.
It was the same post-office I had always used when sending parcels and packages to my parents from work. The people there had not seen me for a while. They seemed embarrassed. They seemed older and fatter. Some of them had died, first their hair, then their positions, then their vital organs. But dead or not, if their employment contracts were still current, there was no way they would take a package. They rotted, slowly, patiently, each nine to five, till the public stared but no longer asked, ‘Are you alright?’ or ‘Can I help you?’ We just waited quietly. Embarrassed from waiting, we waited some more. There was no way they would take a package, neither mine nor the standard weapon in the downsizer’s arsenal, the tax-free early retirement payment based on length of service.
Somehow your perception of the number of people ahead of you in a queue is inversely proportional to the number of people behind you. If there are six people ahead of you in the queue and nobody behind you, you might consider leaving. If there are six people ahead of you and six people behind you, you will not leave the queue. You cannot. It would seem like a tragic waste of a precious resource even though, as you stood there in the queue, you would not be able to name the resource.
I was only slightly late for the appointment with the management consultant. It was important to me to get the letter off, and anyway, I couldn’t walk into the appointment with two large crayon portraits of Elvis. The only alternative was to quit my place in the queue, ditch Abby’s pictures and shove the letter itself in a regular-sized envelope and post it like any normal letter. But I could not leave Abby’s drawings abandoned in the post-office. I could just see her drawing them at kindergarten or at home on the kitchen table. So I stood there and thought, ‘How much longer can they be?’ Thus I was slightly late for the management consultant.
His office had its own gardener. If it didn’t, it should have had. There were plants everywhere, lining the walls of the room and in between the sink-down-as-low-as-you-cango furniture. It was a manicured jungle. I apologised for being late and he responded gracefully. It had, he said, given him an opportunity to reacquaint himself with my file. He had already acquainted himself with my file but my lateness had afforded him an opportunity to reacquaint himself with it. He had it in his hands. It was thick and grey and bore the legend Edward Harnovey—Department of Environment and Planning, a barcode and some pink and yellow sealing tape. I was obviously a code pink-and-yellow case.
He seemed younger than me, or perhaps he was my age, and the darling of a reassuring credit facility, the kind that whispers sweet nothings in your subconscious on a monthly basis. Paint stayed on his walls no doubt. Bathroom tiles never threatened insurrection. His car moved, initially from Europe to Melbourne, and then quietly and smoothly from the underground car-park deep within the basalt of LaTrobe Street all the way to the renovated terrace in South Yarra via Sothebys where he would meet his wife who was well and truly ready for that late dinner, exhausted from a full day auctioning the children.
‘Now, Mr Harnovey, do you mind if I call you Edward?’
‘Not at all, Giles.’
‘Edward, what made you want to come here?’
‘I didn’t want to come here, Giles. I was made to come here.’
‘Why do you think you’re here?’
‘Let’s see—I’m here because my position has been terminated as part of the Department’s general restructuring and I was given the very clear impression that, whatever might be my chances of remaining in the Public Service, they would be zero if I didn’t keep this appointment with you.’
‘You’re a … chemical engineer.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘There are still chemical engineers employed in the Melbourne office aren’t there?’
/>
‘Yes, three.’
‘Three … I see.’ He made a note of this.
‘This is twenty per cent of the number employed when I started.’
‘Which is what—twelve or thirteen years ago?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘Let’s recap, Edward, on where we’ve got so far. Some of the Department’s chemical engineers are still there following the restructure, some are not.’
‘Most are not, Giles.’
‘And you yourself are one of the ones who are not, Edward.’
He began leafing through my file at a speed which would have made it impossible for any information to have been absorbed from the activity.
‘Can you think of any reasons why you’re not one of the ones kept on?’
‘I had a seventy-five per cent chance of not being one of the ones.’
‘Is there anything about you that you can think of that makes you a more likely candidate for not being kept on?’
‘No, but perhaps you can.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Your attachment to my file.’
‘Do you think there is something incriminating in your file, Edward?’
‘It’s hard to answer that, Giles.’
He looked seriously at his hand for a moment. ‘To be of any use, I’d like to see you again. I’d like to conduct some tests.’
‘Tests? What kind of tests?’
‘Perhaps I’m premature.’
‘Well, there’s certainly evidence of some kind of birth-related trauma.’
‘What do you think you would find in your file?’ he asked with textbook earnestness.
The world was in the hands of animated self-parodies delivering Dale Carnegie wisdom to the bewildered from the mountain of their own banality. I exhaled once slowly, for old times’ sake.
‘Giles, please, out of deference to that long distinguished line of management consultants from which you descend, please come to the point. Are there any positions for someone with my experience or not?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Say what?’
‘Mention management consultants.’
‘I was appealing to your professional pride, or attempting to.’
‘Edward, I’m not a management consultant.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m a psychologist.’ He chuckled at my misconception. At this my head fell involuntarily into the palm of one of my trembling hands.
‘A psychologist?’
‘Yes. Why does that surprise you? Perhaps now you can relax a little and answer some of my questions.’ He smiled uneasily from the same textbook, the eighties’ edition.
‘Giles, I’ve been had. Is there really any point to this?’
‘That’s up to you. I’ll ask you again, what do you think you would find in your file?’
‘A psychologist?’
‘Yes.’
‘They didn’t tell me my appointment was with a psychologist.’
‘Do they generally try to keep things from you, Edward?’
‘I don’t know. They’re so good at it.’
‘Does it bother you that I’m a psychologist?’
‘Well, it’s just that they said you were a management consultant attached to the Department.’
‘Are you sure that’s what they said or just what you heard?’
‘You’re not being serious, are you?’
‘Do you think you have problems, Edward?’
‘I know I do. I have a wife and daughter to support and I’m out of work. Aren’t I? Giles, am I out of work?’
‘Are you afraid of your problems?’
‘Yes, I am. I am afraid of losing my house. I am afraid of being out of work. But that doesn’t make me ill or disturbed. This is how healthy people feel in unhealthy times.’
‘Do you feel other people are responsible for your problems, Eddie?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’
‘What do you think you would find in your file?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’ve never read it.’
‘Well, speculate.’
‘Couldn’t begin to.’
‘Would you like me to help you?’
‘Oh yes, please, Giles. Why do I suddenly feel that your name is Dr Spivvey and I’m R.P. McMurphy?’
‘It details your employment history, work-related travel, et cetera. It also says that you’ve been somewhat difficult.’
‘Difficult?’
‘Yes. You’ve shown a resistance, even a hostility, to change. You’re not a team player. You refused to co-operate in the preparation of a mission statement, those sorts of things.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘It also says that you take instruction poorly, that you’ve leaked confidential information to the media and that you have failed to declare a conflict of interest.’
‘What conflict of interest?’
‘You worked over a long period of time on the Spensers Gulf report, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, so?’
‘Before commencing the work, in fact throughout the entire period, you failed to disclose that you had gone to the same primary school as Claremont’s daughter. You were also at university with her, it says here.’
‘Barely. What has this got to do with anything?’
‘Since you know a member of the Claremont family socially and were going to be privileged to price-sensitive information, it was thought by the Department that you ought to have disclosed the relationship.’
‘There is no relationship. This is insane. We were children. There’s someone in the Department who’s had much more recent social contact with the Claremont family than me.’
‘Furthermore, it is possible that the objectivity of your report was compromised by your association with the Claremont family and, according to the department, that is another reason why you should have disclosed your association with it.’
‘Firstly, my report was completely ignored.’
‘I understand its implementation was adjusted for bias.’
‘Secondly, my report sought to impose stringent conditions on the whole operation. How could this possibly be seen as bias in favour of Claremont?’
‘The Department attributes the leaks to the media to you. Once the report is in the public domain, the publicly listed share price drops and Claremont’s private company buys up the public company’s shares at a discounted price.’
‘What new fresh hell is this? Did this actually happen? Did Claremont’s private company buy the public company’s bargain-priced shares?’
‘The department doesn’t know. But the fact is that your failure to disclose and subsequent conduct made it all possible. The department notes your inexplicable determination to have your recommendations adopted.’
‘You’re all mad, completely mad.’
‘Is everyone mad, Edward?’
‘Quite possibly, Giles, mad, malicious or both.’
‘Malicious?’
‘We can’t rule it out.’
‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know the department has decided not to take the matter any further.’
‘Any further?’
‘Yes, it’s not seeking any internal disciplinary measures.’
‘They can’t if they don’t employ me. They’d have to keep paying me in order to punish me.’
‘Neither are they recommending that any charges be brought against you.’
‘Charges? What charges?’
‘Well, if you had leaked price-sensitive information to the media, you would have been in breach of certain sections of the Corporations Law. Criminal sanctions apply. Then of course there’s the Public Sector Management Act you’d have breached by expressing your own opinion about a matter of public importance in which you have expertise, in a manner contrary to government policy. Something like that. I can’t tell you the provisions off hand. I’m a psychologist, not a lawyer. As part of my brief though, I’m obliged
to prepare a report on you and to submit it to your Department as well as to the Department of Personnel and Industrial Relations.’
‘Sounds like a lot of work. Would you like some help? Do I get a copy?’
‘Yes, I’m required by law to supply you with a copy on request.’
‘Well, treat this as a request, Giles.’
‘Fine, but I would like you to agree to complete some psychological tests for the purposes of my report.’
‘No.’
‘Would you prefer not to, Edward?’
‘I would prefer very much not to, Giles, because either way I’m going to have to leave this hothouse of conspiracy theories and insanity. One day, perhaps many years from now, when the world has turned often enough to have shaken off its malaise and its slavish adherence to pseudoscience, managerial psycho-jargon, economic insanity and efficiency worship dressed up as the great Western quest for individual freedom and prosperity, I will run into you somewhere. It might be in a supermarket queue or in the foyer of a cinema or maybe in a soup queue. You might be there with your wife and perhaps your adult children. When I do, I undertake to use the utmost restraint and not come up to you, your wife and your children, to remind you, in front to them, of what it was psychologists were doing during the occupation.’
I did not have to wait very long for a copy of his letter. He must have started drafting it as I was leaving the building. It was a strange sensation opening a letter perfectly addressed, my name perfectly spelt and finding a ‘with compliments’ slip attached to a document likely to be the closest thing to my own death certificate that I would ever see.
He concluded: Mr Harnovey does not exhibit any psychotic symptoms. He does, however, suffer from an obsessive-compulsive and paranoid disorder. He also presents as someone likely to regularly invoke Departmental grievance procedures for insufficient cause. It is a benevolent employer who hires him.
Three Dollars Page 25
