by S. J. Finn
I turned to consider him, frowning a little brutishly. ‘And that’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
I laughed sharply.
‘Monty.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Let it go.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Singing Silverchair: I’m watching you watch over me, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, to hide nerves, I walked the corridors.
After six months of performing the job as team leader I was to be interviewed to take the position permanently. Outside the room I tried to think what they would ask me and who would be on the panel.
I was counting on Anton being there, as slippery as a black fish and harder to catch. And Celia, a saviour with her vague but brilliant mind; how much power she had in the company of the broad-shouldered, though, wasn’t easy to forecast. Perhaps Nancy, head of the hospital’s psychological services, who I’d only met once, and Eddy, a small bustling man who was in the habit of slipping his feet from his shoes and picking his nose right in front of you. Eddy ran umbrella projects across programs and was the sort of man whose nose-picking and sock-showing had the unusual effect of making you think you were special. In fact, in all the time I spent with Eddy, often in meetings, I never saw anyone flinch or pull him up on this behaviour. Despite his tendency to be a worrier, he exuded comfort and his repeated quirks were oddly endearing. It was as if he was bringing you into his secret fold. There were other people, I’m sure, who didn’t see it like this, but it couldn’t be denied, Eddy was universally liked.
Eventually, Anton, holding his tie as he swung open the door, nodded and told me they were ready for me. I was right except for Elliot’s presence. Since he was my peer – in the world of hospital hierarchy that seemed important – I was taken aback to see him. My head kicked with surprise, and I realised, for the first time, I didn’t quite trust him. Composing myself, I pushed it from my mind. Who cared if he was there?
They sat in a semi-circle around me so that I instantly felt like an insurgent under the spotlight. But the interview began normally enough, with a pappy speech from Anton.
‘We’re proud of ourselves at SKYHooks, Monty. We’re forging a new era in child psychiatry and it’s innovative stuff. Our inclusion of consumer representatives, our plans to create a hub-and-spoke design to our model, the increase of our outreach services and the triple F: fast, flexible and fitting intake system. We’re pretty snazzy, really.’
He jiggled the knot of his tie back and forth between his fingers and looked to the others for confirmation that they thought him eloquent and masterful.
‘The plan is for the four generalist teams to be moved off-site to the spokes, have mini-spokes shooting off from those again. To take our service into those outlying suburbs.’
I could see in my peripheral vision that Celia, who was sitting next to Anton, was looking at him in horror. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d interrupted with a: Hang ON a minute, when was this plan drummed up? But she kept whatever she did think to herself.
‘If you were successful today, you would be heading up such a move. Do you feel equipped?’
And so began all the fast-talking, robust and rounded answers of the wanting-to-impress – which was, after all, the point of the exercise. I got into a rhythm, not to be put off until Nancy’s blatant case of narcolepsy caught me unawares. Although I’d noticed her eyelids had been drooping throughout the proceedings, it wasn’t problematic until she fell asleep promptly after asking me a question. I answered – the other four looking at me looking at her – without letting on that she was dead-to-the-world. My heart pumping, hers slowing, it was an odd thing to happen, a secret being concealed in full view. In conspiratorial partnership, I ignored her closed eyes and managed to finish my answer without revealing Nancy’s problem.
Celia asked me clinical questions about attachment disorders and the presentation of enuresis (bed-wetting) – what investigations I might embark on before coming to a conclusion and deciding on a mode of treatment.
Eddy wanted to see if I had a commitment to community development, but all I could truthfully offer, given my limited experience, was an acknowledgement of its importance and disappointment at the lack of it in the field. But Eddy – I had noticed this before – appreciated truth and was just happy not to be jerked around.
Elliot’s questions were all about difficult staff, changing mores, modernising the staid, and kicking out the entrenched culture at Marlowe Downs, which caused Anton to swing his head about in whoops of unhappiness at the obvious criticisms. He wanted only niceties.
‘Obstinate,’ Elliot was saying. ‘Some of them still think we’re trying to keep families together.’
I took a quick look around the room at Nancy in narcolepsy hibernation, Eddy, head cocked over, finger resting up the nose in mild curiosity, Celia, dramatic curiosity scarring her expression, and Anton twisting in pre-explosion frustration.
‘Are you going to ask a question?’ he said to Elliot.
My eyes darted between them.
‘I wish to know if Monty thinks she can drag this lot into the twenty-first century. Get them out of their towers.’
‘Monty?’ Anton assisted.
‘Well—’
‘I want to know what Elliot means by that?’ Celia said. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you Monty but really…’
‘I thought I was quite explicit.’
‘And I take offence to your comments,’ Celia replied.
‘Well, be damned. If we don’t pull our socks up, we’re going to die with them around our ankles.’
‘Oh, that’s sophisticated.’
‘People, please,’ Anton said, tutting and shaking his head.
I sat extra still. Nancy was trying to keep her eyes open, although it was clearly still a struggle. Eddy, who now had his shoe hooked on the end of his stockinged toe, was fiddling with his skullcap, pushing the hairpins further onto his scalp, as if a neat, well-secured calotte would make up for a chaotic, untidy fray between highly paid people.
I realised how divergent the personalities in front of me were, the hotchpotch in the room. I thought of Renny, and looked forward to spilling the news of this stoush to her. Nancy rubbed one eye, yawned in a lengthy, face-shuddering manner and said, ‘I think it’s up to each and every individual to deal with their own deficits. Nobody can drag anybody anywhere much, not really.’
‘Perhaps all they can do is suggest,’ I ventured, nodding at the older woman, whose face obviously sagged the way it did from years of struggling to stay awake. ‘There are non-confrontational ways to keep people abreast. Make sure they’re aware of contemporary realities for families. Bring them on board, if you’ll excuse the platitude, might be the way to put it.’
‘Perfect answer,’ Anton sang.
I left the interview ten minutes later, a giggle burbling cheekily in my throat. How could you not love the dysfunction?
James was at his desk.
I shut his door secretively. (I had forgiven him for our argument in the courtyard, had even taken his advice and calmed down about Nigel.)
‘They started fighting.’
He sat back, his hands folded in front of him. ‘Who won?’
‘I think I handed Anton an open hand.’
‘The side the butter is on. That’s good. You’ve got the job.’
‘This place…’ I was incredulous. ‘Really. No one agrees on anything.’
He shrugged, placing his pen in a tray of office accessories. ‘Reflects the general status quo.’
‘Their status quo! Not mine.’
He laughed. ‘They’ll get you.’
‘Earth to James, they have got me – us. We’re working with them. That makes us them.’
‘You’re the one climbing into their bunker.’
‘If I get this job, you’re coming with me. I’ll be appointing you my deputy.’
‘Sheriff’s office. Gotta love that.’
‘Get your badge on, kiddo.’ I was thinking past James;
I wanted to get home to Renny. I was staring out his window at a rockrose, its musty pink flowers drooping, the papery petals missing where it had been rubbing on the glass. ‘Your first task is to tell me if you detect the slightest change in me. I’d hate to become one of them. Hate it.’
‘Didn’t you just… aren’t we already both…?’
‘Arrh…’ I went towards him growling, my hands poised to close in around his neck.
TWENTY-FIVE
In-laws. I didn’t consider, certainly at the time, that I’d betrayed them too. But, like a lot of things, often it’s not until each piece of the jigsaw has been tried for size that people know how things are going to pan out.
I arrived one morning, as arranged, to pick Marcus up. Geoff and Faye Ashcroft had always been outdoor types. They lived close to the beach and their house, appropriately bleached, had an open-air feel. There were large decked areas around a barbecue and plenty of outdoor furniture, everything framed by striped awnings. They were up-front people, welcoming, sunny. I remembered Dave’s criticisms about their lack of political insight, their disinterest in the arts, their shallow uncomplicated outlook on life. I’d been quick to agree. But as I walked along the side of the looming two-storey house, the memory of our harsh words stuck to me like dried mud. They had always been so good to me, accepted me so readily into their unblemished fold.
While my parents had suffered from the break up too, the same strong reaction that rose in me that morning had never surfaced when I’d seen them. Maybe this was because our relationship would go on uninterrupted, or maybe since I’d been the one to ruin things, I thought that my parents would be less wracked by the worry of it. I could not understand why tears were rising in my eyes now. I felt as though I was going to throw up and had to stop to take three large lung-fulls of air to calm myself. An image of Faye’s delicious butterscotch pudding came to mind, along with a memory of the taste, which didn’t, of course, make things any easier.
How do you face people after you’ve rejected their child? I realised I was about to find out.
I knocked at the back door, my heart thumping.
‘Jen!’ Geoff greeted me jovially. ‘He’s just come out of the bath. Been helping me with the mushroom mulch. Didn’t want to deposit him into your car smelling like manure.’
Geoff’s large freckled features, his fit brown body, was as neat and bold and uncomplicated as always.
I was differential – contrite, in fact. ‘He will have loved that,’ I managed to say, my voice a little shaky. ‘Such a good helper.’
‘He got the hang of using the shovel in a blink. Must be in the genes.’
‘You look very well,’ I said then, trying to convey more – the enormous change that had occurred. Geoff didn’t take up my offer to converse about difficulties, his face simply crinkling with his beaming smile.
Faye appeared. ‘Here’s your little man.’
‘Hi Mum.’ Marcus came towards me in new clothes – obviously bought by them – giving me a sideways hug.
‘How ‘bout a cuppa?’
I don’t know if I’m more gutless than anyone else in the world but I felt as if I was going to break down, as if I had a seam loosely sewn down my front, held just by a single, fragile thread. Staying would have meant that thread fully unravelling, my insides bursting out with sobs of recrimination, and all onto these pristine, good living people who never felt down or negative – so it seemed – about anything, even the betrayal of their son. I couldn’t sit down to tea, the thick stain of a sullied character was already building bit by bit on my face; it would have been unbearable.
‘I haven’t organised myself very well.’ I began sculpting an excuse. ‘Left no time. Meant to be meeting a friend and… I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, course not!’
These sunny people weren’t going to protest. Poise and acceptance, politeness and forgiveness are sure ways to put worry and remorse back where it rightly sprang from. If they had been angry I could have been righteous, but I was going to have to take responsibility. It didn’t even matter what they really thought or how they spoke of it in private, it only mattered that they treated me with the same respect they always had.
My eyes brimmed with tears as we hugged our usual goodbyes. I thanked them for having Marcus, my voice choking a little with the finality that we all knew, despite our ease, was inevitable. Life would not bring us together apart from these brief exchanges while Marcus grew up, and eventually even they would peter out. The changes in me that suddenly seemed stark and real in their company would only cause the gaps to grow. I had no reason to continue and it would be unfair to Dave to pursue a connection. Even for my sake, letting it go was the right thing to do. Life simply couldn’t support the amount of time needed to nurture such a connection. Our relationship would dwindle in direct response to the need for it. We were the computation of circumstance and such computations are full of prescriptive and extraneous duties. They are wrong in the wrong time and place. It would be worse to force things.
Holding Marcus’s hand, my whole body quivering, I walked carefully down the driveway to my car. They would be watching perhaps, or perhaps not. I certainly knew they wouldn’t be so enlightened as to feel no sadness at what had happened. But I also knew they would wipe away blame – say to themselves, it will just have to be accepted. There’s nothing more. Simply a sad, sad thing.
Before pulling away from the kerb I turned to make sure Marcus was strapped in. He smiled, two new teeth rearranging the balance of his features.
‘I love you,’ I said.
‘I love you too, Mum.’ He responded, surprise colouring his voice, his smile pressing even bigger as he detected my strained mood.
Starting the car, I wiped a tear and swallowed silently. The maelstrom of bolting traffic would require concentration. Life was going to drag me forward.
TWENTY-SIX
The leaflet slid from the top of my bundle, spearing with some velocity into Teresa (a tiny, no-nonsense woman who looked after the files) before falling to the floor. She bent down to get it.
‘Sorry.’
‘Not your fault,’ she said, holding out the pamphlet. ‘Let’s blame God.’
I nodded.
‘He’s persistent.’ (She was talking about Nigel Pathmanathan.)
I read from the glossy notice, ‘Are you looking for a purpose in life? God can guide you to it.’
Teresa laughed.
‘I’ve found those files,’ she said, as I distractedly looked past the poster to my messages. ‘One of them is huge. Did Elliot explain what you need to do?’
‘Kind of.’
I was scrabbling back in my memory, trying to recall what he’d said exactly, after, Can you see Teresa about responding to a freedom of information inquiry?
‘Have you got the request?’ I asked her.
‘All three of them. Remember, there are three.’
I followed her, bundled up yet again with folders and paperwork, even more so than usual. Of late, I’d taken to driving and was never as compact getting out of the car as I was the tram, never as ready for the day.
This morning I was wondering what my diary might reveal. The FOI requests were apparently urgent; a tiny voice inside me cursed and there was the first twinge that comes in most jobs eventually: the feeling of drowning.
Still, outward appearances unchanged, I marched down the main hallway behind Teresa, doing a sharp right, past the managers’ meeting room, Anton’s office, Dr Albert Musgrove’s office and both their secretaries, to where Teresa was situated.
‘Have you ever been asked to a God session, Teresa?’ I said when I was in her room, the door closed.
‘First time I saw one of those things I told Nigel Pathmanathan I was Lutheran. He said it didn’t matter. I said it mattered to me and he was to refrain from putting things in my pigeonhole. He said he was following his calling. I said I’d be following my calling right up to Anton’s office if he did it again. He le
ft me alone after that.’
‘Are you really Lutheran?’
‘Yes.’ She sounded stern and was looking at me with indignation.
I nodded, feeling a little hollow.
‘Look through the entire file, make sure everyone but family members have their names blotted out. There might also be a few things, extraneous things, that can be thrown away.’
‘Don’t they just get the whole thing?’
‘They do get the whole thing. But it needs tidying up and the names need to be covered.’
I flipped through the top file.
‘I’m not going to take anything out, really,’ I said, smiling a little. ‘Some of this stuff dates back to 1959.’
‘You need to make sure there’s nothing inflammatory in there.’
‘Teresa, it’s all inflammatory. The people who’ve made the request feel inflamed, that’s why they’re asking for their records.’
‘For Christ’s sake Monty, I’m sure you’ve understood what I just said. Do what you can. I haven’t got time to mince words with you. Have a go. Bring it back, I’ll have a look.’
I let her place the files in my arms, open the door for me and, metaphorically, give me a shove to walk the gauntlet past the bosses’ doorways.
As I approached Anton’s door I could see him bending forward over something on his desk. Rumours about him and his secretary were circulating and it felt like taking a risk to have even the smallest peek. There was certainly no need to go to Anton about the FOI request and my doubts about doctoring the files. He would have looked put out, irritated. You’ve been given a job. Use your discretion… or some such thing. I kept my eyes forward and walked straight to my room.
Digging for my diary, I found I had two appointments later in the morning so I settled myself at my desk to look over the files. The first one, the one from 1959, was a relic. The paper, as thin as tissue and just as transparent, had small squirreling writing and some of the script was written in lead pencil; it was difficult to read. I cursed, despite interest. It would take time to decipher the words.
