Spinning Around (13 page)

Nowadays, I'm in the habit of working very, very quickly. I'm used to grabbing a spare ten minutes here, a spare half hour there, to complete tax returns, write letters, or balance chequebooks. I'm not used to having hours and hours of uninterrupted time to do
anything
. Hence my ingrained sense of urgency. Hence the fact that I've got out of the habit of coffee breaks, long telephone conversations and all the other devices used by some people to fritter away their time at work. In fact I'm so damned efficient, these days, that I astound myself.

And my people management skills—God, how they've improved! You don't realise how much kids change the way you handle disputes. With kids, you're always anticipating problems, heading off tantrums before they occur. If they do occur, because you've failed to plan ahead, then you learn how to reduce their impact. You don't give in (if you can possibly help it), but you don't exactly stand firm, either. Instead you distract. The fine art of distraction. It works just as well with adults as it does with kids—as I learnt within three weeks of returning to the workforce.

It only dawned on me recently that I was doing so well. After three months of confusion I paused for a moment, checked my caseload schedule, and was amazed. Not that I can take all the credit, mind you. I'm job-sharing with a woman called Amelia, and she's pretty efficient herself (though very untidy). But I have to say that things are under control, at work—something that I could hardly believe, when it was first brought to my attention. Because the rest of my life is such a mess, you see. I was beginning to feel that I had completely lost my grip. And I'm not much of a mother, so I was delighted to find myself good at
something
. I'd forgotten that I could be good at something. Though my house is a tip, and my hair is a joke, and my kids are TV addicts, at least I can conciliate a pregnancy discrimination complaint like nobody's business.

Of course, some of my work has to be done at home, and that doesn't exactly ease the domestic pressures. Motherhood has definitely become more difficult since I started earning again. There's more to juggle, even less time to do it in, and there's also the guilt factor. I feel guilty, not because I'm going to work (which is an absolute necessity, given the size of our mortgage) but because I enjoy going to work. What I mean is, I enjoy the feeling it gives me. Sometimes I feel like an escaped prisoner, for God's sake, and that's not something to be proud of, is it? My office shouldn't be my refuge—my family should be my refuge.
That's
where I should be feeling empowered and safe and thoroughly comfortable. But what with the renovations, and my frantic attempts to finish reports at the kitchen table, and Jonah's recent bout of gastro, and now this business of the Girl With Purple Hair . . .

I wonder if Matt's been feeling the same? I wonder if that girl is actually a refuge for him?

Oh dear, oh dear.

The Equal Opportunity and Human Rights Board is located on the twenty-first floor of a tower on Castlereagh Street. When you walk out of the lift, you find yourself opposite a sign made of polished brass and steel, mounted on a wall covered in something that looks like blue felt. Then you pass through a pair of glass doors and you're surrounded by acres of expensive wool carpet (industrial grade), seamless stretches of Tasmanian ash, fuchsia-coloured feature walls, chrome planters, recessed lighting, pastel prints and stacks and stacks of impenetrable government literature. The reception desk is as long as a landing strip, is topped with polished granite, and is manned (or personned—no sexist language here) by Jean Spence, who takes no prisoners. This woman has to deal, almost daily, with incursions by schizophrenic walk-ins claiming that their human rights have been violated. One of them once tried to prove that radio waves were being beamed into his penis, and Jean didn't bat an eyelid. ‘Formidable' is the word that best describes her.

So there it is. What with Jean, and the granite, and the hushed atmosphere of the foyer, and the annual reports weighing down the Tasmanian ash coffee table, the office of the Equal Opportunity and Human Rights Board isn't exactly a welcoming environment. In fact I worry about its impact on the complainants sometimes. It's hard enough for them to walk in off the street with their nervous inquiries about what constitutes sexual harassment; an office like the executive floor of an international corporate law firm must make it even harder. If you ask me, our old address was much less intimidating. It had that authentic, down-at-heel, health-centre ambience, all coffeestained sofa cushions and cork boards covered in public service posters.

I believe it's been argued that our new office has had the effect of elevating the status of discrimination complaints in the overall scheme of things. Unless you look important, you won't be perceived as important—or so the argument goes. But I wonder.

I mean, you'd think we could at least provide a few copies of
Who Weekly
and a coffee machine, or something.

There's a big, glossy wall behind Jean's desk, and behind the wall lies a network of carefully graded cubicles. First come the Enquiries Officers, who don't have access to any windows. On either side of their space, the Assistant Complaints Officers are squeezed into slots with windows, but no doors. Then come the Policy Officers and Complaints Officers, who have proper offices with doors, windows, paintings and credenzas. The Chief Conciliator has even scored a couch—as has the Senior Adviser. They have corner offices, but they can't compete with the Commissioner. The Commissioner's office is so big, it takes up practically a quarter of the entire floor space. It features
two
couches, a concealed bar fridge, a TV in a cupboard, a glass sculpture, a Chinese silk rug, a personal fax machine and dropdead views. We call it ‘the Hangar'. The Commissioner rates this penthouse of an office because she's so important in the scheme of things—like a justice of the High Court, or something. When she's around, you can always tell; there's a certain tension in the air. People get jumpy (especially when they're on personal phone calls). As you go about your job, you notice an increase in the number of VIPs wandering about the place, waiting to speak to the Commissioner.

Because I'm a Complaints Officer, I don't rate a couch. Even if I did, I couldn't fit one into my office, which I have to share with Amelia; two desks in that space don't leave room for much else, except a couple of filing cabinets. Not that Amelia helps matters, the way she accumulates crap. I don't know what it is, with her. She just can't seem to contain herself. Post-it notes proliferate. Coffee cups accumulate. The files pile up like dirty dishes, spilling off the edge of her desk and onto mine.

Once upon a time, I would have resented this. It would have rankled to the point of an official complaint. Now, however, I'm so used to cleaning up other people's mess that I take it in my stride—especially since Amelia is in every other way unexceptionable. She's fast, she's thorough, she's patient and she's bright. What does it matter if her desk looks like a dumpster? As long as she can find her way around it well enough to do her job, I don't see why I should make waves.

As a matter of fact, she's not beyond redemption. This morning, for instance, wasn't too bad at all: there was a strange red jumper draped over my chair, two dirty coffee cups sitting on my monitor, and a pile of Amelia's lime-green complaint files clogging up my desk space. I moved the case files, rinsed the coffee cups, carefully folded the jumper and placed it on top of Amelia's filing cabinet. Then I picked up the phone and called Miriam at work.

Unfortunately, she wasn't in. I'd suddenly reached the point where I needed to discuss the issue of adultery with some rational, informed adult—I needed comfort, clarification and advice, not necessarily in that order—but Miriam wasn't in. I had to leave a message. It was such a blow that I did what I probably shouldn't have done: I rang the ABC and asked for Megan Molesdale.

Only to discover that no-one of that name worked for the Australian Broadcasting Corporation.

So that was that. Having exhausted all avenues, I had to turn my thoughts to work-related subjects. And after the first wrenching struggle, I found that it was quite a relief to abandon my own fucked-up life in order to assess the fucked-up lives of other people. Like Lisa's slasher movies, the endless number of discrimination case studies reminded me that many people were far worse off than I would ever be.

As I said, I'm a Complaints Officer with the Equal Opportunity and Human Rights Board. It's my job to investigate (and conciliate) complaints of sex discrimination, racial discrimination, and discrimination based on disability. Mostly, however, I handle cases of sexual harassment and pregnancy discrimination in the workplace. It's become my specialty; I don't know why. Time and time again, I'll open up a complaint file assigned to me and discover the initial intake form, the complainant's letter, and a dog-eared nudie pin-up or an e-mail printout featuring the words ‘cock', ‘tits' or ‘blow job'—evidence of what some poor souls have to put up with at work. You can't help but sympathise, though you're not supposed to. You're supposed to be objective. The aim of the job is to help the two parties involved in a complaint negotiate a satisfactory settlement, without having to resort to public hearings or other legal processes.

A satisfactory settlement, by the way, normally involves one or more of the following: money, reinstatement, disciplinary action, counselling, the provision of a reference or statement of service, and an apology. If the complainant is lucky, this settlement will be the outcome of a few telephone calls or a conciliation conference. Otherwise I have to write a referral report, and the whole thing gets shunted off to the courts and tribunals.

At the moment I'm juggling about twenty complaints. They're all at different stages, so I spent the morning notifying respondents, telephoning complainants, and organising conferences. I also had to book a car for the night, because tomorrow morning I'm scheduled to interview witnesses way out in Penrith, at 8.45 a.m. The respondent in this particular case (a certain Mr L.) won't admit to anything, and there are no memos or other documents that might kick-start the conciliation process. What's more, at least one of the witnesses is practically illiterate; it would be impossible to get a written declaration from him even if he wanted to give one. Consequently, I'm going to have to drive all the way out to this Large Service Company (no names; confidentiality assured) and see what I can discover.

Thus far, we've got Mr L. snapping a bra strap (unsubstantiated), Mr L. referring to the complainant's mobile telephone as her ‘dildo' (witnessed by a female co-worker), Mr L. making comments about the complainant's buttocks (reported to the same female co-worker by the complainant shortly after one of the alleged incidents took place), Mr L. discussing the complainant's favoured sexual positions and personal habits with the illiterate male witness in earshot of the complainant (promising), and Mr L. planting a sex toy in the complainant's desk drawer (disposed of in a garbage bin, allegedly, though Mr L. did subsequently ask, in a female co-worker's hearing, whether the complainant's sex life had ‘improved lately' for any reason).

The complainant, Ms F., is a divorced 43-year-old mother of two. Mr L. is thirty-nine, and also married. I haven't interviewed him yet, though I have spoken to her over the phone, poor thing. She has a Portuguese background and a thick accent, and can't seem to believe what's been happening to her. It is, I have to admit, a slightly unusual case; normally the respondent is older than the complainant, and the scenario is therefore of a more traditional nature. Nevertheless, it's a complaint that merits investigation, especially in view of the fact that Mr L. responded to my notification with a very curt denial. They always do, I've found. Usually there's some sort of elaboration (i.e. ‘she's a slut', ‘I'm a family man', ‘my brother's a policeman—why would I lie?', ‘it's sour grapes because she can't get a root', ‘she's vindictive because I disciplined her' or even ‘why would I harass a dog like that?') but Mr L. didn't provide any kind of explanation at all. Just a short, sharp denial. He didn't even list the names of any witnesses who might be able to refute Ms F.'s claims—either because there aren't any or because he won't cooperate with the Board.

Either way, it's not going to be easy.

After booking the car, I transcribed my interview with the witness I'd interviewed the previous week, in a classic sexual harassment case involving a 54-year-old shop owner and his twenty-year-old employee. (‘
I enphatically
[sic]
deny that I ever
asked Miss B—
“Would you like a fuck?”' the shop owner declared in his outraged letter of response to my notification. ‘
If Miss B—'s memory was not totally at fault, and her motives
questionable, she would recall that my exact words were
“I suppose a fuck's out of the question?”') Then, having sent my record of the interview off to the witness for checking, I went to have lunch with my friend Veronica.