Sydney's Song (10 page)

“You only have to press a button, y'know,” he pressed the hot chocolate milk button on the drink machine. “Faster than making tea.”

“Thanks.”

“No worries.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and went to turn the TV on, keeping the volume low. He was silent again.

I stood awkwardly, sipping my chocolate. It was a bit heavy, but apparently I needed it. I had lost too much weight.

“You don't do drugs, do you?” I blurted out. Still 15 minutes to 6am. Soft morning sky outside the glass walls.

He turned to me with a smile.

“What do you think?” He flexed his arm, showing off healthy muscles. Today he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a tie.

“What about the other kids? The backpackers?”

“Those with Sinead are clean. They party hard but they don't do drugs. At least, not as long as they've been with us.” Us. So he and Sinead were ‘us'? How? Sinead was into lots of boys.

“Why are you with them? The Pommies?”

He looked surprised and gave it some thought.

“Actually, when I make friends, it never occurs to me where they come from…” he reflected. “It doesn't matter to me what backgrounds they have. The Pommies are friends from earlier jobs.But I have Aussie friends too. Here we have Jack, Kevin… How was it that Aussies call the Brits Poms?”

“No idea. It's a friendly nickname though. Not a racial slur.”

“So you aren't racist… What do you think of our multi-racial callers?”

“They all have distinguishing traits,” I smiled. “But yes, I'm not racist. I give all callers equal deference. No one is more equal than the others.”

He laughed out loud. I was pleased to hear the wonderful sound.

Matt joined us in the kitchen. He was a funny guy and we ended up gossiping about callers. Pete and I had actually spoken with tens of thousands of people from all races, while Matt monitored calls.

We talked about one particular race who repeatedly asked “What's after that?” to torture us. Just because they could and because it was free.

We talked about another race who asked “What ifs?” over and over, worrying unnecessarily. They were the most meticulous race who didn't like surprises and scrupulously planned every possible detail imaginable.

We all agreed that the Poms weren't whingers. They promptly accepted the information we gave them. Perhaps they desperately needed money for grog, but they happily travelled long distances to work. Or at least, they thanked us politely and cheerfully.

And no. I won't tell you who did not do that.

Rain came pouring down later that week and the temperature plunged. I floor-walked during a managers' meeting and had to check out on problems myself.

“Sydney,” Pete said when I answered his light. “This guy's at the Cricket Ground. The match has been cancelled ‘cause of the rain. His boys are soaking wet and it's the coldest day ever for summer. They wanna go home, but no Special-Event bus can be seen. They've paid for return tickets and with the other cricket crowd are waiting to go home.”

I stood near him as I phoned Sydney Buses. The contact there replied with an icy voice, “The return service is only scheduled from 4 o'clock.”

“But the game's been cancelled
now
. The customer said they've paid for return tickets and the cricket crowd are waiting in the rain to go home.”

“I DON'T CARE!” he snapped. “The return buses will be from four!” And off he went.

What a horrible man! Arrogant beyond belief… I was shaken.Taken aback by his contempt.

“Sydney?” Pete enquired in a gentle note. “You look like a kicked kitten.”
Don't cry
.

There was deep understanding in his eyes. His concern loosened up my tight emotion that I opened up. In wretched voice I told him about the self-centred, obnoxious Radio Room man.

“Can't he phone the event's organiser who's chartered the Special-Event buses to work this out? Like, show some interest in helping customers? I'm just out of school here—how was I to know our public service was so non-customer-service focused?”

“Sydney… I'm sorry you have to take the brunt.”

“Never mind me.” I worried about those kids—and about Pete.Sydney Buses never gave a damn that we were constantly on the receiving end of the filthiest profanities imaginable. “What are you going to tell your customer with poor, soaking children?”

Calmly Pete spoke to appease his caller, his sympathetic tone and mesmerising voice ‘hypnotising' them to walk far away to catch the non-special buses. Marvellously he avoided the caller's anger by being helpful. All the time his eyes held mine. Again, I felt that connection…

“Hello?” A balled paper hit me. Sinead grinned. “My light is flashing!”

December continued to be hectic. One distasteful thing was that the company made more money when a disaster struck. Of course it was not their fault, but the call volumes always jumped significantly at these times, bringing in a lot of money for our centre. Since this would increase our bonus considerably, I could not help feeling guilty. I felt compelled to go out of my way to be helpful.

One morning, somebody figured the railway track was the-place-to-be for committing suicide. Successfully, too. Many had done this and we weren't supposed to broadcast it. I personally thought Sydney trains should copy the stations of other world-class cities such as Singapore's. There wasn't the slightest chance anybody could jump onto the rail tracks there.

Another morning, there was an oil spill. Somewhere else, there was a burst water main. Both causing major traffic diversions.

On another day, raging bushfires in Berowra cut the railway line and the motor freeway. The calls slammed us non-stop. We had fewer agents because many of them lived on the Central Coast and could not pass the fire to get to work. The centre called in Pete and others in Sydney who were on their days off for overtime.

In panic, thousands of stranded passengers asked, “When will the train service resume?”

Sorry guys. Sydney trains had not faxed us the “Bushfire Schedule”. They didn't give us a crystal ball either.

“How am I going to get home?” asked exhausted Lynn. “I drove to work because the trains were already out when I left. Now the roads are closed, too.”

“Would you like my house key?” I offered. I gazed down the northern glass wall. The streets were choked full, the traffic stationary. The long traffic jam from Berowra had reached Hornsby.“Go there and have a rest.”

When I turned around Pete was looking at me. His eyes thoughtful.

I was busy at the office answering calls all morning on Christmas Eve and Christmas day.

“The bus just drove off with my Christmas shopping!” screamed a lady, “I forgot to take it with me when I got off the bus!”

Christmas Eve was also horrible with last-minute travel plans.Several callers were disturbingly heart wrenching.

“To Pokolbin Prison, please,” requested a woman in a very weak, barely audible low voice I could well relate to. A vision came to me of a gaunt, sickly, very depressed lady.

I worked out her travel plan. She had to catch a bus, two trains, and a bus again, for a three-hour journey. Then she asked, “How much would it cost for a pensioner and a three-year old?”

Tears gathered in my eyes. A poor young mother with a young child trying to visit her worthless husband at Christmas!

And she was not alone. “To John Moroney Prison, please,” said a miserable mother.

“To Silverwater Correction Centre, please.” A sad girlfriend.

“To Long Bay Jail, please.” A wretched daughter.

Long-suffering souls requested travel plans for Lithgow Jail, Parklea Jail, Goulburn Jail—you name it. I do have a word to anyone out there planning to commit a crime. Please, please stop and think of your loved ones… Consider their feelings. You don't want them to call 1300500 on Christmas Eve. You want them cooking your special dinner!

Come to think of it, there was hardly a male caller wanting to visit a female prisoner. Either the men did not use public transport or they didn't bother to visit. What did this tell you?

The next day chocolates flowed on the floor. The managers and floor walkers went around offering lavish Christmas goodies.

My backpacker friends rejoiced in the special feast laid out by the management in the break area. Sinead and gang had chosen to be rostered on Christmas so they could have New Year's Eve off.

“What are you doing at work?” Lindsay heaped his plate with delicacies. “Our families are far away, but yours are here.”

“They aren't,” I confessed. Thinking of all the empty promises.That they would always be there for me. One was diving in paradise.The other at a Swiss ski resort.

“No family coming over? No? You aren't going anywhere?”

“No.” I speared a strawberry and held it in the chocolate-fondue fountain.

“You have the whole place to yourself?”

“Pretty much.”

“Awesome. You mean we can come over and party at your place?”

“Yes! Oh blessed, yes!” Sinead joined in with enthusiasm. The plate she had been delving into was forgotten. “Please Sydney?”

“Dash it,” Lindsay apologised. “I was only teasing.”

“But I'm not!” Sinead pressed on, unabashed. “What sort of a place do you have? A house? An apartment?”

I was under siege. Around the break area, expectant eyes waited.Pete stood quietly by the window, but why did the silences between us feel very loud?

“It's a house. But there's nothing cooking.”

“We'll think of something,” Jane urged. “Just say yes.”

“We'll bring the grog,” Sinead offered, “We'll convert you yet.”

“The shops are closed!” Moya interjected, “Where'd we get some?Do you have a barbeque? Any hope we'd get something somewhere?”

“The shops are closed,” I told them, still trying to analyse my feelings about having them over. Should I test the water? Was I ready to open up? “I only have blueberry muffins.” Yucky frozen ones. Been there for a few months too.

“No grog?”

“Well… There's Dad's… I suppose…” But when would he ever return anyway? Hang Dad. These friends didn't do drugs. I rose to the occasion, “To my place. After work this arvo.”

A big step for me… I waited with impatience and trepidation for the end of my shift.

“Next train from Newcastle Station to Katoomba, please,” asked a‘Newcastellan'. This was my term for a Novocastrian, no offence intended. I gave him a travel plan with a change-over at Strathfield.

“Darling, I'm in Fassifern. What time will it be at Fassi?”

I gave him the time at Fassifern.

“What time will I arrive at Hazo?”

Why on earth didn't he simply ask for Fassifern to Hazelbrook in the first place?

Another caller requested the Port Stephens 130 from Newcastle Station to Nelsons Bay, while actually she would board it at Mayfield and disembark at Salt Ash. For some reason that eluded us at the 1300500, many Newcastellans had a rather convoluted way of requesting travel plans. Well, Newcastellans?

To my disappointment, Pete was not among the bunch of friends who followed me onto the 14:42 Northern Line that afternoon. Hang Pete. I had decided to have fun.

The day was scorching hot. I lent the girls Mum's swimming suits and the boys Dad's and they helped me to roll away the swimming-pool cover.

I cringed when I saw my reflection in swimming suit. After ignoring the mirror for ages, I was horrified to see my near-anorexic unenviable bony self. It wasn't news that I had lost weight, but frightening to notice how much. Self-conscious, I covered up by putting on my long-sleeved rash-shirt.

“Grand Christmas in the sun!” Jane squealed happily. “If this doesn't beat all.”

“Enjoy,” I commanded. “Hang on, I'll get towels.”

I was at the linen cupboard when the doorbell rang, and answered it with an armful of towels on my hip and Dimity barking by my legs.

It was Pete. How my heart sang with joy.

“Barbeque,” he put a bag on the foyer table and helped me close the door. “Raided my uncle's freezer.”

“Uncle? You have family here?”

“Yep. Wife an Aussie. Made a wicked roast dinner last night.They've gone to her parents' in Cessnock.”

He looked around. Pete was in my house! For a long moment I stood transfixed, flustered by his nearness, his masculinity, his scent.

For quite some time now we'd had this
thing
. Besides our occasional chats we had a tacit communication. As if I could tell him about my life without a word. As if we understood each other just by shooting looks across the room. Or across the workstations in our pod.

What did he think of my empty home now? Proof of the vacuum in my life, my hollow world, as he had perceived? I was almost certain he could see me going to sleep at 5pm yesterday, anguished over being alone and hungry on Christmas Eve.