Sydney's Song Read online

  “Not here. It’ll be getting cold here. What’s the use of being in Australia if we don’t feel warm? I’ve had enough cold at Mt Buller and Tumut. And hell, I’m from Ireland! I’ll go to the sunshine. Queensland.”

  Next we had to be quiet because the trainer, humorous Matt, started speaking.

  “Most inner streets of a suburb are designed to get a bus every half an hour. So that when they hit the main corridor on their way to the City their combined frequency is every five minutes. Think of it like small creeks flowing into a river.”

  I had lunch with Sinead in the Leagues Club café. I had a turkey sandwich. She had hot chips—and nothing else.

  “When you travel you have to be really careful with your spending,” she explained. Right. Seemed like if she bought something to go with her chips, she would have less funds for booze.

  “Are you from around here?”

  “Yes. Beecroft. Been there all my life.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Northern Line. Eight minutes’ train-trip away.”

  Our location was confidential, perhaps out of fear callers would bomb us for giving out wrong information. But since it was more than eleven years ago and they have since moved away, I guess it wouldn’t matter anymore if you knew where we were, right? The training did take place at the Asquith Leagues Club, but my office was going to be on George Street, next door to Hornsby Library, several minutes’ walk from Hornsby Mall’s water clock—our emergency meeting point in case of fire.

  The suburbs Waitara and Hornsby belong to the green and leafy Hornsby Shire, Sydney’s northern gateway if you are travelling north to the Central Coast or Newcastle. Vast and sprawling with residential suburbs and eucalyptus forests, Hornsby Shire is located 25km from Sydney’s city centre and 130km from Newcastle. It has a population of 160,000, roughly 22,000 among them in the suburb Hornsby and 11,000 in my suburb Beecroft.

  “I’m staying at Lane Cove,” Sinead volunteered. “That’s by bus from St Leonards. With the English boys. Lindsay and Mark and Gareth. Pete—you know, tall, black hair, green eyes? He used to travel with us, but he’s so lucky he has relatives here in Roseville. He’s staying with them rent-free. So he can afford to pay proper fares. Did you hear him this morning? He’s the only American. I hate it when he starts to moralise. ‘Pay proper fares. Drink only when you can afford it’,” she did a poor imitation of his accent, “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “Maybe he’s concerned you’ll get into trouble.”

  “He always is. But then he’s old. He’s 22, you know. All the others are under 20. Come on, follow me, I’ll introduce you to them.” She dabbed her mouth delicately with a paper napkin. “They’ve been curious about you. The very pretty, very silent girl.”

  Oh? Had my silence made me stand out? How embarrassing.

  Before long I found myself in front of a group of boys. A tall and very handsome blond hunk stood next to the tall and handsome American. There was also a scruffy dude with brown, curly hair. Another one with very short blond hair looked stern. They gave me inquisitive stares. I did not know what to say.

  “This is Sydney, guys,” Sinead cheerfully introduced us. “Kevin. Pete. Gareth. Lindsay. Kevin’s an Aussie.”

  I nodded to their “Hi”, “Hey”, “Hello”, and “How do you do?”

  “I’ve seen you at the station,” short-haired Lindsay told me. This guy was of medium height, gym-honed, with piercing silver eyes. I was to find out later that he never, ever smiled, although at times he would laugh. Shiny blond hair covered his muscled arms. “But you catch the train from the wrong platform.”

  “Wrong for you,” Sinead interjected. “She has to go to the Northern Line.”

  “Join us for drinks after work,” Lindsay moved in. “Then it’ll be the right platform.”

  I looked at them warily.

  “After work?” Sinead pressed.

  “Um—I can’t. I’m not 18 yet.”

  “Ahh, a baby… But that’s no problem,” Kevin said with a devastating killer smile. Later I was to find out that he was 19, a student of Pure Physics at Macquarie Uni, partied hard and changed girlfriends on a regular basis. “We adults will get the drinks.” He winked.

  “Then we’ll all go somewhere to get foxed,” Lindsay added.

  I contemplated them. Perhaps they could see my apprehension, because Pete—the spunk with blue-black hair—came closer. This guy exuded calm. He was not as athletic as Lindsay, but with his height and magnificent broad shoulders he radiated strength. And there was grace in his movements. It was in the way he walked and in the way he tilted his head. I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck.

  “Have you ever been totally drunk?” he asked in a very pleasant voice. Questioning eyes. Very, very alluring eyes. Deep-set. Exquisitely shaped. Beautiful brows. Long thick lashes. I felt entranced, lost in his eyes.

  I shook my head.

  “Wanna try it?” he asked slyly.

  I shook my head, feeling really, really worried.

  “Then stay away from this bunch!”

  Ohh… he only meant to scare me away? For a moment he had given me a bad impression of him. Whew!

  “Confound it Pete!” Sinead punched him. “You’re such a wet blanket!”

  He stepped back but looked unfazed.

  “Ignore him. Pete’s a killjoy, a goody-goody prude,” Sinead told me. Really? What was he doing, hanging out with this lot himself?

  “We’ll convert you yet. We’ll have you hitting the pubs and cutting loose with us soon.”

  “Just look at her,” Pete warned Sinead. “You’ve frightened her.”

  “You did,” Sinead retorted.

  “Did not.”

  “Did too. No need to force your stitched-up wowser values on the rest of us. Now sod off!” Sinead glared at him before whirling back to me. “Sydney? Come with us? It’ll be mighty fun!”

  “I—,” I took a deep breath. “I don’t think I’ll try it. Yet. Um—I’m not ready.”

  During the next training session my eyes kept darting towards the gorgeous American. At one point he looked straight at me and made eye contact. I shivered but refused to look away. He nodded imperceptibly.

  That afternoon I saw Sinead and Kevin laughing aloud together, arms around each other, as they climbed the steps of Waitara Station. When we reached the platform Pete was already up there, loosening his tie.

  “Too hot for you, mate?” Kevin asked him.

  “This is the first job I’ve had to wear a tie for outside the States,” Pete grumbled. “Today sure is hot.”

  “You’ll get cooked next month!” Kevin informed him cheerfully, before continuing his outrageous flirting with Sinead.

  I took the train home from the wrong platform, from Waitara to Hornsby and changed to a Beecroft train. I thought about Sinead’s invitation. Was I a coward? How was I going to get a life if I was a coward? But was life about drinking for the sake of drinking? How essential was getting totalled for its own sake? Could a person have fun without alcohol?

  If they were prepared to get completely hammered and have sex too, would they also take drugs? Was being high on drugs the only way to achieve true liberation? How lasting would that be? If I went out with them to drown my sorrow, what guarantee was there that I would not wake up in anguish as I had been doing lately?

  Remember The Traffic Jam At Olympic Park?

  Late October 1999

  My parents broke my heart right after I completed high school.

  It was a Friday. It had started as an ordinary, beautiful spring day. One when you woke up to the fresh air, a cloudless blue sky, and rosellas squealing on the green branches outside your bedroom window, you felt grateful for your own lovely piece of heaven. There was no sign at all it was going to turn ugly, that the painful memories of the day would remain with me forever.

  In the morning, the HR manager who interviewed me a few days earlier called to offer me the job. I was ecstatic. I ran to the back
yard, scooping up my grey, long-haired dog.

  “Dimity!” I shrieked. “My first job! Wish I could tell Mum and Dad!” My strict parents would be driving at the moment. It was so unfair that they had asked the phone company to block calls from our landline to mobiles. “You know what Dimity? I’m going to buy my very own mobile phone with my first pay!”

  Sensing my happiness, Dimity responded with a few celebratory yips. But she was not the exuberant puppy she once was. Old Dimity had been my companion since I was a toddler.

  I danced and sang. When I let her go, I did a bit of gardening, still singing. While my best friends usually told me to shut up, poor Dimity put up with my off-key singing. She was a very understanding and considerate bearded collie.

  My backyard bloomed with colour. Yeah, I was one of the many Aussies with a green thumb. Although our gardener mowed the lawn and did general cleaning, most of the flowers had been my work. I grew various types of plants to bloom at different months of the year. Lavender and hydrangeas adorned the back fence which bordered natural bushland, while roses blossomed along the walkway. I was passionate about roses and had planted many varieties. The wind had blown lots of petals off the flowers, turning the walkway pink. It was my favourite time when this happened. I called it “My Garden of Love”.

  When I cleaned up, a car with a P-plate pulled into the driveway. My best friends Lucy, Brenna and Alex came to take me ice skating at the nearby Macquarie Centre. As we were having lunch at the food court by the ice rink, we chatted about our plans. Alex was about to travel the world and defer uni for a year. Brenna and Lucy were going to the schoolies in Queensland. I told them about my upcoming call-centre job.

  Now, Lucy’s first job was dancing as a ballerina with a Pennant Hills ballet company. Brenna’s first job was busking, playing her cello by the water clock at Hornsby Northgate shopping centre. Once she even climbed up the gigantic clock and played its chimes. Meanwhile, Alex taught little kids swimming at Hornsby Aquatic Centre. And they all burst out laughing to hear that my first job would be a supposedly very easy call-centre job.

  “That won’t need any skills or talent, will it?” Alex asked unnecessarily.

  “Just you wait!” I wasn’t offended, “In February I’ll start uni and study animation. Someday, your kids will be watching the movies I make!”

  “But how can you be happy now?” Lucy questioned. “When I dance, I love it! When Brenna plays cello, she’s ecstatic. Alex teaches little kids swimming knowing he’ll save lots of lives in the future.”

  “And when I tell people how to catch public transport to work, they’ll earn their rent or mortgage. When they go to watch a game, they won’t have to drive through the congested roads around the stadium. Remember the traffic jam at Olympic Park when Dad dropped us off? We ended up walking to the concert ‘cause it was faster.”

  “I’ve heard that call-centre pay isn’t good, though,” Brenna chirped in.

  “Probably. But as long as we pay tax, we contribute to the economy. Right?”

  My friends continued to tease me and became annoyed when they could not make me angry. I had always been placid. Basked in my family’s love, I felt very secure of my place in the world.

  “So you wanna prove you aren’t the average lazy, snooty rich girl?” Alex asked.

  “Alex. We aren’t wealthy,” I told him distractedly as I watched a little girl in the ice rink flailing about. Her attentive big brother quickly caught her arm. Nice.

  “You’re comfortably well off,” Alex stated. “Never had to work during high school.”

  “That’s because my parents have been pushing me to concentrate on my studies, so paranoid about me not getting a place at uni after the HSC. Besides, I have no skills to earn money. Can’t dance. Can’t play any instrument. Can’t teach.”

  “How was it your parents sent you to a public school instead of a private school? They could’ve afforded it.”

  “To be in touch with the real world.” I rolled my eyes. “My parents had to work hard during their studies. They often tell me that kids should sweat through their education. But I enjoyed our school heaps.”

  “She’s your down-to-earth Aussie girl,” Brenna commented. “Jeans and all.”

  “We all know that,” Alex told me, knowing he could annoy a close friend and still be forgiven, “The boys at school always say your only saving grace from being labelled a tomboy is the way you walk! It’s so graceful and elegant like your mum’s.”

  “Why, thank you!”

  “Speaking of clothes,” he went on unperturbed, “it’s almost Christmas and there are lots of vacancies as shop assistants. If you don’t have any skills, why didn’t you apply to be one?”

  “’Cause I dread meeting people. I can only laugh and be noisy with my parents and close friends. The notion of talking to strangers face to face makes my tummy churn.”

  “Why this job?” Blond and tall Lucy asked. She was analytical and the smartest girl in our class.

  “My contribution to the Olympics.” Olympic fever was running high in Sydney and thousands of Australians had offered to volunteer for free. “Never mind the low pay—I’m thrilled to be part of it!

  Besides, the HR manager said I could switch to weekend part-timer when uni starts. And the office isn’t far.”

  It was going to be a time of my life, I thought, foolishly feeling secure that face-to-face conversations with my customers weren’t required. Little did I know I would have to meet hundreds of co-workers. Little did I know my customers were going to be very angry commuters disillusioned by the government’s inept handling of Sydney’s prehistoric public transport. Or that, for me, this episode was going to be life altering.

  I told them when my training would start, while in the ice rink a young mother helped her little boy with his first steps on the ice. He fell. He had a hug and a kiss. What a wonderful world.

  “So soon? No chance you’ll join us for schoolies?” Brenna asked me. “You’ll miss the fun.”

  “What fun?” Alex scoffed at her. “It’s just a waste of money!”

  “Alex, don’t be a smart ass,” Lucy objected. “It’s once in a lifetime fun. You only get to graduate from high school once. Then it’ll be responsibilities after responsibilities. Or so I was told.”

  “It may be fun, but useless!”

  “Who cares?”

  “Well—,” he sputtered. We girls had all finished our food, but poor Alex still had a full plate. More proof that boys were lousy at multitasking. “Good on you, then. I don’t have that kind of money to throw away. If I could save even a dollar more for my world trip, I would.”

  “But Alex,” mischievous, black-haired Brenna teased. “Someday we’ll go around the world too. But we won’t be miserable like you. We’ll have made money first. Travel first class. Five-star accommodation. Chocolate, champagne and fresh fruit to welcome us. No sorry excuse for a shack to crash in.”

  They bantered happily, defending their choices. That afternoon we waved our goodbyes wearing broad grins, looking forward to our future and freedom.

  Back at home, I was dreaming of buying a mobile phone when a car pulled up in the driveway. Whose car? Didn’t sound like Mum’s or Dad’s. I peered down.

  Holy moley… a sleek hot rod! Low, showy… and open-topped.

  Mum was in the passenger seat saying goodbye to a brown-haired young man who had given her a lift home. Hang on, where was her car? And wait, wait a minute, they were now smooching. Did mere colleagues kiss like that? What was going on? This could not be happening.

  No!

  That was my mother. And that definitely was not Dad!

  I sat down, trembling and feeling stupid. What on earth was happening?

  Their laughter drifted up through my window. The car door slammed gently. Mum was coming into the house. I wanted to close my bedroom door, but my energy seemed to have drained. My hands shook. I felt ill.

  “Hi honey,” Mum greeted me in her sing-song voice.
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  “Mum, that wasn’t Dad!” I blurted out.

  “That was Ettoré.” Mum pronounced both ‘e’s as in “Echo”. She leaned on my door frame, but she wasn’t looking at me. She smiled with dreamy eyes, looking distantly at some very pleasant memory. Ettoré. As if this name explained their kiss. “Your father will always be a good friend of mine. But honey, our relationship has run its course. Time to move on.”

  “Which relationship?” This was so beyond me. My parents were devoted to each other. They had stuck together for years, not contributing to the statistics of Australia’s high divorce rate. When Auntie Kate—Mum’s best friend—separated from her first husband ten years back, my parents continued to be the epitome of a perfect couple. “You have a relationship with that guy Ettoré? What about Dad? He’s your husband!”

  “Not anymore,” she announced in a sing-song voice. As if she was not imparting a bombshell. Her face was positively radiant as she pulled away from the door. “Honey, we’ll talk about all this at dinner. Your Dad wants us together when we break the news to you.”

  “You’re joking!” I jumped up and chased her to her door, but she closed it in my face. “Tell me it isn’t true!”

  “Calm down honey,” she called from inside. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “You can’t do this to Dad! He loves you! Don’t be cruel!”

  Mum relented and opened her door, her smile replaced by a sigh.

  “Sorry that you saw me and Ettoré, darling. That was insensitive, very lousy of me. We forgot ourselves because we were so happy. Sorry. But your father and I are being kind to each other. He needs to marry his girlfriend. When people are in love, as you’ll be one day, they need to be together.”

  “Girlfriend?” I stood in total incomprehension. “Dad?”

  She nodded. “Geraldine. That English geologist we met at the conference of the Society of Exploration Geophysicists in Houston. A few years back.”

  “But we were there with him,” I reasoned, bewildered.

  “We were busy enjoying all those tours. And the other spouse activities. They were at the conference.” Her speech was slow as if addressing a simpleton, which I currently was. “He’ll explain to you soon enough. At dinner. Let me ring restaurant delivery.”