The Helpline Read online

  She shrugged. ‘I get up early. Don’t need much sleep. I’m like Napoleon.’

  ‘Who’s Napoleon?’

  ‘Napoleon. The French guy? The little one, that fought the battles?’

  ‘Napoleon Bonaparte?’

  ‘Whatever his name is, I don’t know. He only slept four hours a night. I sleep five.’ She waited.

  ‘Eight and half,’ I said. ‘Most nights.’

  ‘Mind you’—she waved the Slurpee about—‘I drink three of these a day.’

  ‘They say the minimum you should get is eight hours.’

  ‘Yep, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, three hundred and sixty-six in leap years. It’s all I drink, Coke-flavoured Slurpees and iced tea. Don’t do hot drinks, don’t see the point of them.’

  ‘What about water?’

  ‘Don’t do water. Don’t like the taste of it. I haven’t had water in probably thirty years.’

  At that moment, the phone rang. ‘Suppose I should show you what to do,’ Eva said, picking up and barking, ‘Senior Citizens Helpline,’ into the receiver.

  But it was not whom or what she expected, that much I could ascertain. ‘Oh,’ she said, three times, each with a greater upward inflection, each suggesting something more curious was unfolding at the other end.

  ‘What did you do?’ she said when she hung up.

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  ‘That was Stacey. The mayor’s assistant?’ Eva raised her eyebrows and leaned back like she had such enormous news she had to physically give it more space. ‘The mayor wants to see you.’

  3

  ‘How come?’ I was careful to appear as surprised as Eva was. No point inflaming things with the suggestion it was inevitable. I’ve borne the brunt of jealous colleagues before and it’s never pretty. People start to pick fights in meetings or say things like Here we go again, Germaine, and We didn’t actually ask for your input when all you’re doing is trying to help them out.

  Eva shook her head. ‘Stacey didn’t say. It’s weird. Why would the mayor want to see you? You only just started. I’ve been here twelve years and the mayor’s never wanted to see me.’

  I shrugged and hung my bag on the chair. When I sat down it was casually, like it wasn’t that interesting. ‘What’s she like?’ I said. ‘The mayor, I mean.’

  I’d looked her up online but that didn’t tell me anything. Everyone looks good online unless they look like a serial killer. Even I had a sizable internet presence, with a devoted following: on World Puzzle Forum’s sudoku website I called myself Mathgirl and had 1300 friends.

  When you googled Mayor Verity Bainbridge, City of Deepdene, a woman in her fifties came up. She had long, brown hair, tanned skin and teeth so shiny and white she might have modelled toothpaste. In every photo, and there were a lot of photos, she was smiling and looking at the camera. There was not one picture in which she was sneezing or slouching or taking an inopportune bite of a sandwich. She was smart too. She had her MBA and before she was mayor she was a partner in a large multinational that had an acronym instead of a name. On paper at least she seemed like a kindred spirit.

  Eva scrunched her nose up as if something smelled bad. ‘They’re all the same. Good at schmoozing; better at getting her face in the paper. She picks Employee of the Year. Those bitches on customer service have got it the past two years running; the whole thing’s rigged. Still, most people love her.’

  Eva, I gathered, was not ‘most people’. This might have been a commendation—or not. I would have to find out.

  ‘When does she want to see me?’ I asked.

  ‘Like, ten minutes ago.’

  There were multiple surprises in the mayor’s office. In order to provide the most accurate account of what transpired, I will list them in the order in which they appeared.

  • Surprise #1: The mayor’s office was huge. It was bigger than any of the offices at Wallace Insurance, even the CEO’s. It could have fitted a swimming pool or, at the very least, a decent-sized spa. There was a beautiful oak desk, a silver computer and windows. Sunlight streamed in, bathing the mayor, myself and The Other Party in warm, golden light.

  • Surprise #2: The mayor was not wearing the signature twin-set that was featured in all her Google images. She wasn’t even in business attire. She had on a pink jumper with the council logo on the breast, tan pants and crisp white runners.

  • Surprise #3: The mayor was not alone. There was a man with her (The Other Party).

  • Surprise #4: This was the biggest surprise of all: I knew The Other Party. He and I had met before, though it was unlikely, given the previous circumstances of our meeting, that he would remember.

  The mayor’s assistant announced me: ‘Germaine’s here.’

  The mayor said, ‘Hi, Germaine.’

  I didn’t say anything. I was too busy not looking at the man, which was as much effort as not staring at the sun or the moon when an eclipse is occurring.

  ‘It’s good to finally meet you,’ said the mayor.

  And I said, ‘Yes.’

  She held her hand out and we shook. Think of the differential between me and Eva and multiply it by ten. The mayor’s self was cool and calm and myself, which a moment ago had seemed capable, up to whatever task it might be set, suddenly inadequate.

  She gestured at Him. ‘Germaine, do you know Don Thomas?’

  Don Thomas? It must have been some kind of alias. I guess it got difficult being accosted by fans all the time. I smoothed my shirt down at the front.

  ‘Don,’ I said. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  I didn’t say we’d met before. Even though a localised fog had descended on my person, I had the wherewithal to realise his not remembering the first time we’d met was a gift. I had a chance to make a second first impression. A chance I was squandering, right now.

  The mayor said, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  She didn’t, because I wasn’t thinking. It was too hard with Him standing there.

  Luckily, I had The List, folded in my notebook: a series of dot points comprising potential conversation topics and my current thinking on each one. If you want to be insightful you need to pre-prepare. I only needed to open the notebook and unfold the paper, and I’d have access to a number of interesting remarks. That was all I had to do.

  But I was having trouble moving. I could only stand there, still, like a very lifelike statue.

  The mayor said, ‘You’re thinking…Why are they wearing golf clothes?’

  No, but a fair guess on her part. The pants, the runners, it was unusual.

  ‘There’s a tournament at the club this afternoon—Don’s club. Fundraiser for Alzheimer’s. Speaking of which…Don, do you have to get back? I can deal with this.’

  He cast an apologetic look at her, at me. ‘I ought to. See you this afternoon, Verity…And Germaine.’ A nod. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again.’

  And just like that he was gone. Disappeared, leaving me feeling like the remainder in a long-division equation. I didn’t show it. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s hiding feelings. Most people don’t know I have them.

  In addition to the desk, the acreage of carpet held a table with four chairs. The mayor gestured that we sit down, and poured me a glass of water. ‘Your cousin’s told me a lot about you, Germaine.’

  ‘Don’t believe everything she says,’ I said. ‘Kimberly’s not very astute.’

  She laughed—I don’t know why. Kimberly was not very astute. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure we were related.

  I took a sip of water. ‘Thank you for getting me the job,’ I said.

  The mayor flapped her hand. ‘I didn’t get you the job. I don’t do any of the hiring and firing around here, Germaine. Well, perhaps a little firing—ha. That’s a joke; I’m joking. Did Kimberly tell you I have a wicked sense of humour? You’ll have to watch out. No, I just passed your résumé on. I thought it was very impressive. You don’t meet many mathematicians these days.’


  ‘Or senior mathematicians.’

  ‘Or senior mathematicians.’

  ‘I guess it’s in my blood.’ Not the blood I inherited from Sharon, which was pretty ordinary, to be honest; the blood that came from Professor Douglas.

  ‘You must be good with numbers.’

  ‘It’s not just numbers,’ I said. This was a common misconception.

  ‘Of course not, no. That’s oversimplifying, isn’t it? I suppose I mean to say you’re logical.’

  ‘And I have a good work ethic. I can write a thousand words in two hours.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  It was in my résumé, all of this. I wasn’t telling her anything new.

  ‘Are you excited about working on the helpline, Germaine?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t want to answer the phones for too long. I’m hoping we can automate it. I want to be a team leader, that’s my ultimate goal.’

  Another inexplicable laugh. ‘You’re a breath of fresh air, Germaine.’

  I wished I had my phone so I could record the conversation. I’d have sent the audio to Peter. Not just Peter, the whole of Wallace Insurance.

  ‘What’s your position on internal promotions?’ I asked. The more we talked the more relaxed I felt.

  ‘I’m all for them.’ She pointed at the door. ‘You know Stacey, my EA? She started off in customer service. Someone does well and it gets recognised around here. At least, I hope so.’

  I smiled into the glass of water. I was about to open my notebook and extract The List when the mayor got up and went to a filing cabinet set against the wall. She opened the drawer, pulled out three manila folders and brought them back.

  ‘I need your help with something,’ she said. ‘If you’re interested.’

  I didn’t have to know what it was to know I was interested. But when she said it had to do with Don, my interest doubled.

  ‘Poor old Don. He’s been having issues with a few people. You’ll never guess who.’

  Oh, a guessing game. My first guess was sudoku enthusiasts—you’d be surprised how crazy they are. My second guess was troubled youth. For my third guess I was going to ask if drugs were involved but the mayor interrupted.

  It was nothing like that, she said. It was the old people, the senior citizens. Not all of them but a specific subset:

  The issue, said the mayor, was car parking. ‘Technically, the golf club should have put in more parking a few years ago, when they expanded. But you know how it is, Germaine. You have to be a little flexible about these things. You’re better off having a golf club with all the bells and whistles and a little parking problem than no golf club, no bells or whistles and no one parking anywhere,’ she said.

  I said I agreed.

  Not everyone did, she told me. From time to time—like today, in fact—the golf club would host a big event, a charity dinner or some sort of fundraiser. ‘Don’s a real philanthropist. Not many people know that, but he is. Honestly, the amount of good work he does behind the scenes, people don’t talk about that, do they?’

  How sad, I thought, always to be underestimated and thought the worst of.

  The mayor explained that when these philanthropic and other events were on, people would park their cars at the golf club and, when it was full, they’d spill into the parking lot at the senior citizens centre next door. It should have been fine, no problem. The senior citizens centre and the car park attached to it were both owned by the council and anyone could park there. But the old people had started getting upset about it.

  ‘Don’t tell me…Old people are the worst in insurance.’

  ‘I understand where they’re coming from,’ said the mayor with a patience and a sympathy I could never pretend to feel. ‘But it’s getting worse. Don came past to talk about it.’

  There’d been an incident over the weekend. The ‘usual’ story: too many cars, not enough parks, people having to park next door. The only difference was, when people came back to their vehicles at the end of the evening there were chains on their wheels.

  ‘What, metal chains?’ I said.

  She fluttered her eyelids to show how crazy it was. ‘They had to catch taxis home. And when they came back in the morning? The chains were gone. Someone’s idea of a joke, you might say, and if this was an isolated incident I’d agree. But it’s not an isolated incident.’ She gestured at the files on the table.

  This was where I came in. I’d been employed to work on the helpline but the mayor had something for me to do in the down time, between calls. The next time the phones were quiet she wanted me to go and have a ‘discussion’ with the senior citizens. Let them know chaining up cars was not the sort of thing the council condoned.

  It was an okay project, I supposed. I’d hoped for something more substantial, but on any test you start with the most simple questions.

  The mayor looked at her watch. ‘Is that the time? I have to get through a mountain of work before this tournament. Shall we…reconvene at a later date? Oh, and Germaine?’ She waved her hand over the folders like she was a magician casting a spell to make them vanish. ‘Keep this to yourself for now. You know how people are.’

  4

  Eva wasn’t there when I got back to my desk. I transferred the files to my briefcase to take home and read later and then sat for a moment, thinking. I wanted to understand how I felt about what had just happened and the first step was to identify my feelings.

  I was pleased to have met the mayor. I was even more pleased she’d given me my own special project. While the project itself was rudimentary to the point of anticlimax, it was exciting to be singled out. And so early in my tenure. The complexity of tasks would inevitably increase over time, as she got to know me and my skill set and maybe, possibly, she’d pass this information on to Don Thomas.

  Don Thomas. I turned the name over in my head. It was strange calling him that, even if only silently. Mainly because it wasn’t his name. His name was Alan Cosgrove. He was the national sudoku champion in 2006 and should have been again in 2007, only…a thing happened. Alan Cosgrove had been unfairly dealt with, a mode of treatment I had some experience of.

  I wished I’d said something. Other than it being a pleasure to meet him, which it was. But I could have said, You’re not alone, Alan Cosgrove…I’m here. I wanted to help him; he’d been a very positive influence in my life at one point in time. Sort of like the father I never had. And quite unlike Sharon, the mother I did have.

  After what happened at Wallace she’d taken to calling me every day, wanting to ‘talk’. It was like being stalked by a telemarketer.

  ‘What’d you do this morning?’ she’d say.

  ‘Different things. This and that.’

  ‘What exactly?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘Germaine.’ She’d sigh and threaten to come over.

  ‘Don’t come now,’ I’d say. ‘I’m about to go for a walk with the girl from next door.’ This was a lie, but one I’d cultivated over a long enough period of time to make it seem plausible.

  ‘So long as you’re not wallowing in self-pity,’ Sharon said.

  I wasn’t wallowing in self-pity. I’d discovered old YouTube clips of Alan Cosgrove, competing in his heyday. He was a shining light in an otherwise dark room. My financial situation meant I’d been restricting electricity use.

  At my new desk, at the town hall, I stared at the computer screen the same way I’d stared at the television.

  Don Thomas, Alan Cosgrove. What was he doing right now, in this very moment? Was he thinking about me, just as I was thinking about him?

  I remembered I was meant to be categorising feelings. I could never remember all the feelings that existed. Perhaps I should write them down?

  Optimistic was a feeling.

  Enthusiastic was a feeling.

  Was wishful a feeling? I looked it up. It was not a feeling but a way of thinking:

  The formation of beliefs based on what might be pleasing to imagine instead of what wa
s supported by evidence, rationality or reality.

  No, I wasn’t feeling that.

  Eva didn’t come back for some time. I was forced to consult the handbook in my drawer in order to work out what my official duties were.

  The Senior Citizens Helpline Handbook was eighty-nine pages long and appeared to be very comprehensive, far too comprehensive to read in full. The first section was on ergonomics and how to set up my desk. The next was phone etiquette, instructions on how to use the phone, what to say when picking up, presenting a professional image and appropriate responses to complaints…I skimmed this. There was a lot to get through. The last section was an alphabetised list of common requests. Theoretically, this was a good idea but I could tell immediately it was inadequately cross-referenced.

  I flicked through a couple of pages and then the phone rang. I put on my headset and pressed the button to pick up. ‘Senior Citizens Helpline.’

  There was a woman at the other end. She asked to speak to Eva. When I advised that Eva was currently unavailable, the woman said, ‘When’s she back?’

  ‘I cannot give out that information. It’s classified.’

  ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘I too would prefer to remain anonymous.’

  A pause. The woman sighed. ‘Look, I’m calling about taking food home from restaurants. That’s all I want to know about.’

  I picked up the handbook again. Nothing under R for Restaurants or T for Takeaway. Under D for Dining there was this:

  ‘Many local restaurants and cafés in the City of Deepdene provide takeaway foods,’ I read aloud. ‘Refer to the online business directory on our website for a listing of those that offer a seniors discount. Do you want me to look it up?’

  ‘Not takeaway, you idiot. Leftovers. Last week I ordered two dishes at the Red Emperor. I got beef in black bean and fried rice. I couldn’t eat it all but when I asked them to put it in a container to take home they said they weren’t allowed. They said the council had changed the rules. Have you changed the rules? If so, who made that decision and how do I lodge a complaint?’