by Liz Byrski
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Adam had asked on the evening she had turned up on the doorstep, saying she needed to talk. Jill, just pregnant with Daisy and nauseous throughout her waking hours, had gone to bed early, and Barbara and Adam had sat at the kitchen table with a bottle of red. ‘It’s a big decision. No going back,’ he’d said.
Barbara remembered how her stomach had lurched at the prospect. ‘I know, but why would I want to? I could get a place in the country, do the things I never have time to do. Read things I want to read instead of academic manuscripts. Write the book I’ve been threatening to write for years. Be part of a community –’
‘Listen to music,’ Adam cut in. ‘It was you who introduced me to it, on the piano, and your old gramophone. Remember?’
Adam had been eight years old when he’d started to show an interest and she had grasped the opportunity of introducing him to the great composers, and the instruments of the orchestra. Roy and Dorothy had been mildly disapproving at first, although they soon began to realise that the boy showed some talent. But it was Barbara who had paid for his lessons when he showed an aptitude for the cello, and who had bought him his first instrument.
‘As long as it doesn’t distract him from his schoolwork,’ Roy had wheezed from his chair in a corner of the lounge, struggling to breathe with lungs irreparably damaged by polio. ‘He’s got to do well, get a good job, a proper job.’
Barbara smiled remembering Adam’s determination and the energy he had invested in balancing his love of music with his efforts to meets his father’s expectations.
‘Yes,’ she said now, ‘listen to music. In fact, I could have a piano again, like we had in Balmain. That’s it, that’s what I want.’
And now, here she was with the cottage that Adam and Jill had helped her find, the garden, the piano, half a manuscript, and life so pleasant and satisfying that she could barely believe she had ever considered dying at her desk in the city.
Barbara stared out beyond George’s garden, wondering about Heather; her seemingly tireless commitment to the job, her patience with belligerent constituents and colleagues, the endless struggle to do her best.
‘Don’t you think it could be time to move on?’ Barbara had urged her on several occasions. ‘Get a life – a different life, I mean. Have some time for yourself.’
‘Maybe,’ Heather had said. ‘Sometimes I think that but I’m not sure what that life would be. What I’d be without the job; a pain in the bum to everyone, probably, with all that time on my hands.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Barbara said. ‘No one thought I’d ever retire, including me, but it’s the best decision I’ve ever made; wish I’d done it earlier.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Heather had said. But, of course, she hadn’t. Or if she had, she’d clearly rejected the idea because here she was, just over a year out from another election, with a bullet wound in her shoulder and facing the aftermath of a brush with death.
The kettle switched itself off and Barbara turned back into the kitchen to make the tea, listening to the low rumble of George’s voice on the phone. They had met as neighbours and become friends, and Barbara couldn’t begin to measure the ways that friendship had enriched her retirement. She felt completely at home in this house, which was meticulously maintained to the standards established by George’s late wife.
‘Can’t let things slip,’ he always said, ‘might never get them back together again.’
‘Tea up?’ George asked now, coming back into the kitchen. ‘Good. Trying to sort out delivery of some manure for the garden.’ He peered at her. ‘You’ve got to look after yourself through this business, you know, Barbara. No sense knocking yourself out, you’re no good to anyone then.’
Barbara sipped her tea. ‘I know. It’s just the worry. She’s like my daughter, but I’m not her mother, I don’t want to interfere too much.’
‘Rubbish,’ George said brusquely. ‘You’re her best friend and her mother’s best friend, that’s why she’s there with you now. Where else would she go? Tell her what you think.’
‘Who do you think did it?’ Barbara asked.
George shrugged. ‘Hard to say, but my money’s on that nasty little mob of neo-Nazis that got done for trying to set fire to the mosque. What about you?’
Barbara shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I can’t make sense of it. It’s like Shaun said just now, if it’s someone trying to make a political point you’d think they’d be claiming responsibility; otherwise, what is the point? I just know we’ll all feel a whole lot better when they catch whoever it is and lock him up.’ She paused, leaning forward as George started chopping vegetables again. ‘Don’t you think it must be horrible to be in a job that people hate and despise?’
‘Yes. But I don’t think Heather is. People are cynical about politics and politicians, but I’ll bet if you talk to them most would say that they like, or at least respect, their own local member. And look at all the support she’s had over this nasty business, the affection. A lot of people think very highly of her. Don’t feel sorry for her, she likes her job and she does it well.’
Barbara laughed. ‘I suppose you’re right. But Heather’s talking about “getting back to normal” as though it’s simply a matter of going back to her office, her house and parliament. I don’t think she has any idea what a trial of strength that’s going to be.’
George stopped chopping and looked up. ‘And you can’t protect her from that,’ he said. ‘All you can do is warn her, and then be there for her when it happens. You shouldn’t be trying to live her life for her. Now, have a look in the wine rack and pick us out a nice bottle for tonight’s dinner.’
‘So, now that Barbara’s not around to hear, how do you really feel?’ Shaun asked.
Heather leaned back in her chair and took off her glasses. ‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly.’
‘Awful. But more like me again. The drugs blunt and confuse everything and now I’ve got a bit more clarity, but that isn’t very comfortable.’
Shaun poured coffee from the plunger Barbara had left for them. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked pushing a mug towards her.
‘Clarity seems to be an invitation to fear – paranoia, even. Everything seems threatening and the nights are the worst. I’m not sleeping well and I imagine I hear something, people outside or in the house, see shadows. I mean, I know they’ve put a guard on the place, I know we’ve got the panic-button thing they gave me, but even in the day I’m jumpy all the time, sort of hyper-alert, everything seems suspicious. Just a car door slamming, the phone ringing, every tiny sound seems threatening.’
Shaun nodded. ‘I can imagine. I’m a bit the same. It’s the heightened awareness of things we usually don’t notice. It’s like what they say about rats – you’re never more than six feet away from one. Something like this makes you feel that all sorts of terrible things must be just behind you waiting to pounce.’
‘I’m so sorry you’re going through this because of me,’ Heather said. ‘But why, Shaun? Why was it me? I’m sure the police must have asked you this heaps of times, but you don’t remember anything, you didn’t see anything?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. I wasn’t aware of anything until it happened. There was the noise, you went flying off the steps, and all I can remember is hearing a car engine revving and then the screech of tyres. But I’m sure they were waiting for us, parked like that without the lights on, tucked away down the side of the building.’
‘They? There was more than one person?’
‘A figure of speech, Heather. I couldn’t see anything, not who was in the car, what sort it was, numberplate, nothing, it was all so fast, and I was in a panic. I thought you were dead –’
‘I’m sorry,’ she cut in. ‘I know you’ve been through it over and over again but it’s a relief to talk about it. I don’t like to say too much to Barbara and Adam because they’re both already so worried about me.’
‘It’s fine,’ Shau
n said, ‘you should talk about it, we both should.’
‘Do you . . . well, do you think how it could so easily have been you that got hit?’
Shaun blushed. It seemed selfish in view of the fact that he was unharmed but it was a relief to admit it. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I do, constantly, and I try to stop myself thinking that. I’m not over it by any means, Heather. It’s just that I’ve been so busy I’ve had to get on with things. I suppose that’s helped. And I wasn’t the target.’
‘I thought you weren’t convinced that I was either,’ Heather said, looking at him in surprise. ‘You said you thought it was random –’
‘I did at first. But then I thought it had to be you because otherwise why would they be sitting there waiting?’
She nodded. ‘The hate file did it for me. Those letters are pretty scary and most of it I hadn’t seen.’
‘You’ve worked on some pretty contentious stuff.’
‘And, you know, that’s the other awful thing about all this,’ she said, ‘realising all that vitriol and abuse is directed at me, for things I believe in.’
‘But you’ve always known that. You’re not naive enough to think that it didn’t exist.’
‘Of course not, but this makes it more real, and very personal. Before this I could ignore it, now it’s in my face.’ She sighed. ‘Surely the police will arrest someone soon, so I can stop seeing gunmen everywhere. Apart from feeling safer, I might be able to stop questioning the value of everything I’ve ever done.’
Shaun leaned forward in his chair. ‘Heather, you’ve made a hell of a difference to a lot of people over the years, and often at some cost to yourself. And obviously you’ve changed things. If not, why would someone be trying to shoot you?’
‘That’s the problem,’ Heather said. ‘I don’t know about any of it anymore.’ She got up and wandered to the edge of the verandah. ‘Hopefully, getting back to work will help me get things in perspective again.’
‘You don’t really look as though you’re ready to come back,’ Shaun said. It had shaken him to see how much worse she looked since she’d left the hospital. Coming out of that cocoon and coping with the delayed shock had taken a toll. She was pale and drawn, with purple shadows under her eyes, and he sensed that some fundamental change had taken place in her. ‘You really don’t need to yet.’
‘Yes I do,’ Heather said. ‘I’ll take it slowly, a few hours each day. But it’s only four weeks until the end of the recess. I want to break myself in before parliament sits again.’
‘I guess there’s not much point arguing with you if you’ve made up your mind,’ he said. ‘If you’re really sure . . . ’
‘The only thing I’m sure about is that the longer I stay away the harder it’s going to be and the more frightened I’ll get.’
Shaun nodded and began to tidy papers into his briefcase. Heather watched him with affection; in the eight years he’d worked for her he’d proved loyal and hardworking, he’d developed excellent political judgment and diplomacy in handling colleagues and constituents. His only blind spot seemed to be in relation to her and his belief that she would get a ministry at the next election. Heather knew it would never happen. She was far too much of a loose cannon to get promoted to cabinet, and she really didn’t care. But Shaun cared, for her and for himself, and it surprised her that with his otherwise sound political judgment he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, see it. At some point she would have to talk to him about it. He needed to think strategically about his own career.
‘You’ve got a new haircut,’ she said with a smile. ‘It looks good.’
Shaun straightened up, grinning, and ran his hand over his head. ‘It’s a number two,’ he said. ‘Never had it this short before. I quite like the look of it but I wish I’d waited till summer. I’ve had to start wearing a beanie these cold mornings, sometimes even in bed.’
Heather laughed. ‘Very sexy! And how’s everything else at the office?’
‘Calming down,’ he said. ‘Fred Williams is great value, he’s been an enormous help, and the staff and volunteers have been terrific. Oh, and Diane’s back.’
‘Really back, like, helping us again?’
‘Really back.’
‘I rather hoped she might find some rich and amiable expat and stay in Bali.’
Shaun shook his head. ‘’fraid not. She’s back and she’s very sulky.’
‘Sulky?’
‘She didn’t receive official communication about the shooting from me.’
‘Didn’t Charlene let her know?’ Heather asked.
‘Of course, but by email a few days later, and as far as Diane’s concerned that’s not good enough. She thinks I should have called her. So I’m in the doghouse.’
Heather laughed. ‘She can’t make her mind up about you. You straightened out her daughter, but you also encouraged her to move out of home. She seems such an angry woman, I think she must be very unhappy. How is Charlene, by the way? Is it working out with you two?’
Shaun put his head into his hands. ‘Letting her move in was not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. The thing I liked about Charlene was that she was fun, a total antidote to my work life; shiftless, funny, sexy, out for a good time. Then she moves in and starts buying linen and making nesting noises.’
Heather smiled. ‘I did warn you. She’s her mother’s daughter.’
‘I know. I wish I’d listened because right now she’s driving me round the twist.’ He stood up. ‘I’d best get back and you look as though you could do with a rest.’
Heather walked with him to the door, catching his arm as he turned to leave.
‘Shaun. I haven’t thanked you, for that night. For staying with me and all you did then and since. I’m very, very grateful.’
He smiled. ‘I’m thankful I was there, but I must say I don’t want to do all that again in a hurry.’
She nodded. ‘Me neither. Take care of yourself. Take a couple of days off now, before Fred goes. You need a break too.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, walking out to his car. ‘I’ll see you next week.’
Heather stood watching until the car reached the end of the laneway and turned out into the road, then she walked back through the house to the verandah. The work Shaun had left for her lay on the table and she shuffled the papers with her good hand, thinking back over their conversation. It had been a relief to talk to him in ways she couldn’t to Barbara and Adam, who worried so much. But she couldn’t articulate, even to Shaun, how profoundly this had affected her. She couldn’t describe the battle to stop thinking like a victim, not just a victim of crime but of a lifetime of events and decisions that now left her alone, without anyone to share the intimate terrors of the night, or in whom to confide the barrage of strange emotions and mood swings that clattered through her days.
The pain in her shoulder, even the possibility of losing some sensation in her hand and arm, were minor compared with the emotional impact of what had happened. And recovery was releasing more than her own fear and insecurity. The constant attention from the police here in Barbara’s home had brought the realisation that the way she lived her public life had put everyone she loved at risk. Shaun was right, she had always known; politics was rough, parliament a bear pit, the media ruthless, the compromises often heartbreaking, all par for the course. But this – this was different.
Jill was conducting a brutal cull of the paperwork on her desk. Her usual system, based on trays marked ‘in’, ‘out’, ‘action’ and ‘leave it there long enough and it’ll go away’, had let her down. On the other hand, she mused, maybe she had let it down. In the weeks since Heather’s shooting she’d found it unusually difficult to concentrate, and the present onslaught was a diversionary tactic: tidying, sorting and dumping seemed like a possible route back to normality. Jill did not believe in the causal relationship between local government and heaps of paperwork. Usually things ran smoothly, efficiently and with a minimal amount of unnecessary correspondence; the present problem
was of her own making. It was like the great backlog of stuff that needed doing at home – it seemed to be growing into a monster challenging her to do something to remove it. But work was easier than home. Her mother would definitely turn in her grave.
Jill had never expected to be a bureaucrat, which is what she supposed she now was. Armed with an arts degree in the seventies she had fancied herself working in a gallery, but for want of opportunities she’d drifted into a temporary job in local government and discovered that she liked the fact that it dealt with real issues that could improve people’s lives. By the time she reached her forties and married Adam, she’d built a résumé packed with useful experience, and as community development became an increasingly important part of the municipal agenda, she found she was in demand. Two periods of maternity leave came and went, and the second time she returned to a promotion. Now she had a job that kept her sane when the demands of motherhood undermined her spirit and her stamina, but in the last few weeks even work had begun to feel like just another form of drudgery.
Earlier that morning, incapable of working through the draft of the new community arts policy, she had called services and asked for a paper recycling bin. Now she was ruthlessly clearing up and chucking out in the belief that mess, and the concern that something vital might be lurking beneath it, was compounding her mood.
‘Impressive,’ Renée said from the doorway. ‘What’s prompted this?’
‘Stuff,’ Jill said, dumping the complete contents of the ‘leave it there’ tray into the bin. ‘Loads of stuff threatening to take over my life.’
