Sydney's Song Page 3

  “This can’t be true,” I insisted. “Dad has a girlfriend?”

  “Of course. Harry is only 42, you know. A year younger than me.He’s a very successful man and he’s very handsome.”

  “Then why don’t you stay married to him?”

  “Honey… We didn’t tell you before, precisely because you’d nag us and try to change our minds. But you should know one more thing, to prepare you for tonight’s conversation.” She took a breath.

  “Your dad needs money to start a new family now. Geraldine is young. They want children. So they’re moving overseas to an oil company in Indonesia. A petroleum geophysicist makes way over half a million dollars there as an expat. He plans to be there for a few years.”

  “Are you serious?” She couldn’t be talking about Dad. “He’s my best friend!” He couldn’t cast me aside. “That can’t be right. Mum?”

  “We’ll explain later. I just want you to be prepared.”

  I was stunned. As I gaped, she went into her room again but this time she did not close the door. She picked up her phone and ordered dinner from a nearby restaurant. And I ran out of the house and ran and ran.

  So many thoughts crowded my head. My parents, who looked very beautiful together, must not separate. I would not have it! I would fight for them to stay together. Tonight I would confront them.Tonight we were going to have one hell of a rational dialogue and contrive a plan to resolve their conflicts.

  After some time I registered that Dimity was running silently beside me and I slowed down. I thought very, very hard, trying to remember anything wrong, any sign or hint, about my parents’ rift. It must be a trifle, because try as I might, nothing came up.

  If you had seen our family albums, you would’ve known Mum and Dad had always been there with me.

  On the day I was born, Dad looked positively ill. You would think it was him who had given birth to me—so traumatic was his expression.

  On the second day of my life, he looked so happy and proud, as if no one could be more beautiful than his darling daughter, and that he had accomplished this feat all on his own.

  There was a picture of him pushing the swing in a park, with one-year-old me big-eyed with wonder. I could not walk or talk yet, but they had me safely secured in the special baby swing. This photo had always been one of my parents’ favourites because of my ‘precious’expression.

  Also there was him looking indulgently at two-year-old me, when I was playing with a bubbler in the park that wet my frilly dress.

  You could only conclude that if Dad was in the pictures, it must be Mum who had taken them. Although she did not join us on most of our outings, Mum had been a constant at home. She would not cheer or jeer along with us when cricket was on TV. But she did at tennis. She had not participated when Dad helped me gardening. But she would be sitting nearby, doing crosswords or manicuring her nails to perfection.

  How was I to save their marriage when I could not even speculate on their issues? They sure had never advertised them. Did they discuss them behind closed doors? If so, I was completely ignorant of them.

  It was a mild October evening. The leafy streets of my suburb Beecroft were as tranquil as ever. There was no indication that the world was coming to an end. A few people jogged. A few people walked their dogs. A few people were getting divorced. Just another day huh? Another day in the life of Australians.

  That evening, I ate my very last dinner with both my parents. Or perhaps I didn’t. I remember them gently telling me that their divorce had been approved. It had come through. They received the papers today. And when, just when, had they submitted them? No slim chance I could fight to save their marriage? What kind of parents broke sickening news like this? It made me run to the toilet and throw up, but I only spewed water.

  My parents followed me to my room. Mum stood by the window, Dad sat at my desk. I was on my bed now, hugging a pillow. Trying to suppress the bile. What was I going to do now?

  Fight!

  My mind scrambled for what to say. Nothing was too late. Hang the papers. They could remarry. I would make them. Squaring my shoulders to bolster my courage, I said my piece.

  “You’re highly sensible adults. You’re supposed to figure out your problems and work out the solutions. You shouldn’t just give up.Have a rational dialogue. Think of all the good times. You’ve had a wonderful life for two decades. People have been impressed by how close you are to each other. By how compatible you are. You have a million reasons not to throw it away.”

  “Honey… we’ve seen a marriage counsellor. He said the problems would still be there ten years from now, so we should opt out while we were both still young and able to find happiness somewhere else.”

  “That marriage counsellor should be shot!”

  “On the contrary. He gave us very sound advice. Which we considered for two long years. Yes. This is no sudden whim, honey. We started talking about it when I turned 40. But we love you. We’ve always kept your happiness foremost in our mind. For a long time now we’ve been waiting for you to grow up before we went our separate ways. Now that you’ve completed the HSC and will turn 18 next February, you are old enough to understand. Adults have their own life too. We also need to be happy.”

  Mum delivered all that in a very kind tone. The tone of someone delicately calling for understanding. Completely the opposite of her flighty mode when she had just arrived home. The way she talked made me feel like an inconsiderate, ill-behaved, spoiled little girl.

  I turned to Dad looking for help. But there was no help there.

  “Your eyes. The look in your eyes… We love you so much, darling,” Dad, who had been silent, now spoke. He always waited for Mum to tackle difficult situations first. “Don’t worry. Nothing will change. You will continue to live here. As usual. We’re both moving out immediately, yes. You must understand that we can no longer live here.”

  In those kind, gentle tones I found infuriating my parents said they each loved me very deeply. This love for me would never change. They said I was an adult now, not a helpless kid. They said I should not begrudge them their happiness because their love for me would remain the same.

  “I’m good to leave tonight,” Mum announced later. “I’ve packed what I need now.” You bet. Couldn’t wait to jump the bones of her young boyfriend, seemed to me.

  Dad kissed Mum’s cheek with a loud smack, ruffled her hair, closed her car door and gave her a jovial wave. She waved back cheerily. And out she went. Out of the house. Out of my life. And into Ettoré’s penthouse at McMahons Point.

  “How could you let her go?” I cried. Fear had roiled in my stomach as I watched them. If they had shown grief and longing, there might have been some hope, perhaps? But their cheerful indifference struck me with its finality. Everything was simply beyond my grasp. It was all very hard to understand. My perfect family was no more. “Dad, how could you?”

  “The flames dimmed.” He lifted his broad shoulders. “Then went out. We’ve become simply good friends, sweetheart. So we’ve decided by mutual agreement to go our separate ways.”

  “That’s it?”

  Dad dragged me to the kitchen and took some yoghurt, cajoling me to eat something. He seemed to consider what to say next. I could see him turning it over in his mind.

  “We’re only in our early forties, sweetheart. Very young. We still have forty or fifty more years to live. A very long time. Shouldn’t we be happy? Should we be condemned with ‘make do’, when life could be better?”

  “But yours was my model of a happy marriage. I planned to grow up to be like you guys. To have just one—one!—love for my whole life. Now it looks like I had stupidly believed that was possible.”

  “Why not? Some other people are luckier, perhaps you’ll be too.Just don’t put up with crap, change your partner if you must… If you missed one train, another one will turn up shortly. Now, would you like to meet Geraldine?”

  “Never!” I was ashamed of my sudden waspish attitude. I never kn
ew my placid self could be so mad with anyone, let alone my parents. But I was very distraught. All this time they had waited for me to grow up… “Why don’t you fix whatever is wrong, Dad… Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you’d insist we stay together when we’d rather not.” He shoved a generous slice of chocolate dessert in front of me, still trying to get me to eat something.

  “But you say we have to fight to make things better.”

  “Honey,” he took my hands solemnly. “Sometimes it’s not worth it. Don’t fight too hard.”

  “Dad… I can’t believe you’ve been my model of happiness. Of fidelity”

  “I’m human. I’m not perfect.”

  “Oh? I saw you and Mum staying faithful. Because of this, I’ve been saving myself for the love of my life, whoever that will be. And now you’re telling me it has all been a farce? No such thing as fidelity? I better go party and throw my virginity to the wind now.”

  “No!” he protested. “Don’t you dare!”

  “Why not? Trial and error. Just like the grownups.”

  “Sydney,” he chided with a warning tone. “Don’t be sarcastic. You’ll get over this. Let’s talk about something else… Wanna come with me to Indo-land for a few months? Before uni starts? We’ll be in Balikpapan. That’s far, far away from messy Jakarta or Bali.”

  “Oops!” this brought me back to my own plan. “I’ve totally forgotten! I get the call-centre job. One-three-hundred five-hundred. I said yes.”

  “Sure you wanna do it? Work instead of holiday?”

  “No. Yes. It’s just that I’ve said yes, so… I’ll keep my word… For now.”

  “Well, think about it. Give me a shout if you change your mind, okay? Join us any time.”

  Dad stayed several more days. When I returned from walking Dimity one morning, my stomach dropped to see him putting suitcases into his car. I had known about this and thought I was prepared. But I was wrong. With leaden steps I went to the backyard, unwound the watering hose, and watered my many, many plants.

  Dad came out to the backyard and set down a brekkie tray. He had put cut-up mango in a bowl. Toasted bread. And cooked non-shiny uninteresting eggs. Yeah, Dad definitely had to stick to cereal.

  He looked at me in helpless apology. His gaze imploring.

  “Thank you,” my lips wobbled. I loved Dad. Hated him. And life would never be the same again.

  Before Dad left for the airport, he said he would love me forever and always. He said he cared for me and would always be there for me. He said I would always be number one to him.

  And so many other lies.

  That evening I opened the fridge and stood there dejectedly. Staring. Tears and chocolate for dinner?

  But I did not even have the will to indulge myself like many broken-hearted females do. Being alone felt very unnatural to me. I had a strong need for companionship. After that day, when alone, I never bothered to expend my energy on feeding myself.

  At night I woke up with a jerk of anguish in my chest. For a moment I could not recall anything. I gazed around, searching…trying to understand the pain. A slither of light came in from the partly open drape of my window. Full moon outside. And I remembered.

  The divorce!

  A horde of tumultuous feelings assaulted me. I felt insignificant. They had not cared about my opinion or feelings. I felt defeated. Not even given any chance to fight. I felt rejected. My parents were too deliriously happy with their new lovers to want me.

  With a sob I flew downstairs and out to the backyard. Dimity whined and walked out of her doggy house to meet me. I threw myself down and hugged her for all I was worth.

  “Dimity. I’ll never ever fall in love. Because when you fall in love, you’ll end up married. Have a child. And when you’re not around anymore, your child will wish she’d never been born. I would never do that to anyone.”

  Dimity wasn’t leaving. Gosh, she was very old now. No, she was not leaving…

  Welcome to The UK

  The Hornsby 1300500 call centre went live at 6am on a November day in 1999.

  When I was stepping into the lift that morning, I saw Pete rushing into the foyer. I held the lift for him.

  “Thanks.” Tie in hand, he flashed me a white smile as he swept in with a faint whiff of citrusy aftershave. His hair was still a bit damp from the shower. “And good morning.”

  He dropped his small backpack and, facing the steel-wall mirror, he put his collar up and deftly knotted his tie to perfection, the quick, precise actions showing that he was used to this tie-tying routine.How good he looked.

  His beautiful eyes caught mine in the mirror and he turned to face me with a smile. I smiled back. His grin broadened. He tilted his head and said, “You know, if you press number four, we’ll get to our destination. You have a six o’clock start too, don’t you?”

  Bummer! In embarrassment I punched the lift button behind me. Pete’s eyes were laughing with a teasing glint.

  It was a beehive upstairs. We had so many visitors. All the big bosses from Sydney’s trains, ferries, buses, and other clients were here—before 6am.

  Briskly I set up to work.

  “Welcome to the Transport Infoline,” I responded to a very faint sound creeping through my headset. “This is Sydney.”

  “Sydney… Is that really your name? Or is it because we’re in Sydney?”

  “Both,” I blurted, suddenly nervous. “I meant, my first name is Sydney. How can I help you?”

  “Rightio Sydney, Charlie here from Chatswood. I’m going to the Saturday game at Olympic Park. But this morning I saw a trackwork notice up at the station. So how will I get there by six?”

  “I’ll work it out, could you please hold the line?”

  I punched the MUTE button. The MUTE button was there so callers would not hear if an agent—that was what we were called—sneezed or coughed. Or would not hear when I called my manager. “JUSTIIIN!”

  I was frantic. Much later they would develop a sophisticated system when the entire trackwork information would be loaded. But on that first day of my working life they gave me a big bundle of STN, or Special Train Notices. This was the train schedule used by train drivers. They also gave me a thick printout of various trackwork buses.

  Hands trembling in trepidation, whatever eloquence and organisational skills I possessed evaporated. Even with the-also-panicking Justin’s help, it took me 20 minutes to match the working numbers of two trains from the STN and the much-hated replacement bus. That’s correct, 20 minutes! This immediately boosted my respect for train drivers’ intelligence.

  I had to say, Charlie was a most patient and polite customer. For the whole time I was fumbling with the fat STN, he only prompted me once, with a questioning tone, “Well? One-three-hundred five-hundred?”

  The call centre was housed in a huge, open, squarish floor. Later an interior expert would bring in designer colours and comforting green plants, but originally it was a plain sunny room. Five or six workstations were joined in a flower-like pod. With spacious distance between the curvy pods, there wasn’t the slightest sense of claustrophobia.

  Instead of cubicles or high partitions, curvy low dividers of about 20cm rose between us—enough to make sure our stationery did not go on vacation into another agent’s territory. In this very friendly setting we could easily see each other and chat between calls.

  Sinead of the curly red hair and Irish accent happened to sit next to me that first morning.

  As a backpacker, she hardly knew Sydney (except how to cheat using an Orange Travelpass, of course.) Therefore it was natural that I helped her to spell the Aboriginal names of the callers’ origin or destination.

  “Woolooware,” I would answer her question while pressing my MUTE button in the middle of a call. “Double-U double-O L double-O double-U a-r-e. Woollahra. Double-U double-O double-L a-h-r-a.Woolloomooloo…”

  After that she dubbed me her best friend.

  As 1300500 was a full house of agen
ts, we had hot seating. You sat wherever a workstation was available. Lindsay came to me late morning, peeved, “Sydney, you should’ve saved a seat for me. I wanted to sit near you. But now this pod is full.”

  Since our training Lindsay had been hounding me out for a drink every day. His piercing silver eyes conveyed he had more than drinks on his mind though. My hunch said he was okayish. He looked cool in his own way. He oozed strength, giving you a sense that he was dependable. But there was no spark there. And even fireworks as colossal as Sydney Harbour Bridge on a New Year’s Eve wouldn’t have moved me at this time of heartache.

  I was saved from having to answer him by an incoming call. Lindsay, who never smiled, glared at friends around me as if blaming them for occupying the seats. His eyes paused on Pete. Pete looked back at him unperturbed. These two measured each other.

  “Hot seating,” Aussie Kevin told Lindsay.

  “Does Sydney even want to sit next to you?” Sinead taunted.

  “Wasn’t our fault you asked for a later shift, mate,” Aussie Jack topped. “I just had a customer screaming abuse at me because he left an important item on the train. Tough. Don’t blame others for your own mistakes.”

  Pete did not say anything. I was soon to find out that he did not really talk. He had the most wonderful voice, but he preferred silence.

  Lindsay threw me a wistful look before going somewhere else.

  In the following days, whenever Sinead arrived she would look around, spot me, and a broad grin would alight on her lips and eyes. She would then glide confidently towards me to claim the nearest available seat.

  “My saviour,” she would tease, eyes glittering with humour.

  Many mornings I noticed several very cool boys near me. Not attracted by me of course. They were only waiting for lovely Sinead’s arrival. Except perhaps for Lindsay who kept doing his best to get friendly. Many British boys tried to pick up Aussie girls. Successful too. As it turned out, in their social lives the backpackers weren’t any different from many of my Aussie co-workers.