Sydney's Song (12 page)

Swiftly he unfolded his arms and walked to me—both hands outstretched reaching for mine.

“I was at Hornsby Library's car park after work when I saw you running to your car.” He squeezed my hands comfortingly, looking into my eyes. “I was worried for you, so I followed. Just to make sure you're alright.”

He searched my eyes and then pulled me into his arms. I was surprised at how soothing it felt. It felt—
safe.
It was true nobody had hugged me since my parents left, but still I didn't remember feeling a hug this good. He was warm, strongly solid, and smelled wonderful.He was real.

“Wanna talk about it?” His nose nuzzled my hair.

No words could come out of my mouth. I just wanted to be held.Forever. As if he understood he tightened his hold, tucking my head in his throat, his hand soothing my hair. Gingerly, I put my arms around his waist.

“You're wonderful,” I admitted after a while.

His hands lifted my face towards his.

“Do you have my number?” he asked quietly. “I wrote it down in your little phonebook last night when our friends were writing theirs.Don't hesitate to call me any time.”

I nodded. He bent down and kissed the tip of my nose.

Pete followed me home in the car he borrowed from his uncle. At my place he came out to meet me. Before we could say anything the landline rang, and I let him in while I went to answer the phone. It was Mum's friend Kate. I listened to her as Pete flipped his own phone open, talking quietly away from me.

“Darling, we're all down on the South Coast. Come over to our holiday home in Broulee now. I didn't realise you've been home alone.”

“Now?” Get real. Why hadn't she invited me earlier when I had no plans for the season? Because you-know-who just rang from Italy asking her to check on me? It hurt to be treated as an afterthought.

But wonderful Kate was a mean cook. Really. Don't laugh. This was very big to me. Her house always smelled of heavenly baking.Each time we visited when I was a little girl, I used to ask after hugs and greetings, “Can we eat now?” and received more hugs and kisses.

In my very secret wish, since childhood I had always imagined my dream home. I had never bothered to visualise how it would look, but I knew it would smell like Kate's heavenly baking.

Thinking of her food, I forgave her for not knowing I had been home alone. That was how badly I'd missed home cooking.

“Let me think…” I considered my schedule as I looked at Pete, who was now crouching down patting Dimity. Should I cram this in?“Kate, I'll be having Your Say training for the next three days. If you still want me over, I could drive down after work on the last day.Have to return to take calls for New Year's Eve, though. I've agreed to help out until midnight.”

“Midnight? But 1300500 closes at ten!” Kate, who often used public transport, knew this. Only much later would 1300500 be open 24 hours.

“Special occasion.”

“But darling, it means after five hours driving you'll be with us for only—what? A day and two nights? I guess… that's better than nothing… We'll have a full day at least. What would you like me to cook?”

Pete looked at me when I hung up.

“Your Say training? Seriously? Why'd you be willing to take complaints when Sydney is notorious for late running trains, buses, and ferries? Sydney's rail network is complicated. One problem train can cause a hopeless domino effect on many lines.” Probably sensing my reluctance to talk about my problems, he talked shop. “I was shopping in Chatswood before Christmas. I know what it's like when the trains make passengers wait in the extreme heat of your summer.How on earth can they call it a minor delay when no trains show up for half an hour? Chatswood trains are supposed to be every 8minutes.”

“I've been stranded with friends at Parramatta River, not only once, but twice,” I topped, swapping experience. “The Rivercat was cancelled.”

“Exactly! So why'd you join Your Say, Sydney?”

“Oh come on Pete. This is my hometown, I'm entitled to love it. It never fails to hurt my feelings each time a Melburnian yells about how stupid our city planning or transport is. Criticism should give Sydney the drive to better itself. I'll start with myself. I'll listen to our transport feedback.”

At that moment the doorbell rang and I turned in surprise.

“Don't worry,” Pete went to answer the door. “It's pizza.”

“Pizza?” I asked stupidly.

“Yes. Y'know, what some people eat when they don't have the time to cook?”

Of course.

Darkness had just descended on the long summer day. We sat on the back veranda, listening to cicadas and eating pizza under the Southern stars.

“You genuinely believe people's complaints will improve dodgy services?” he asked.

“It could. For example Sydney trains has this habit of saying over 95% of its services are reliable. Meaning it needs input to make travelling a better experience for the unfortunate 5% of its passengers. Faulkner says it's not enough to be better than others—you should be better than yourself.”

He looked at me with wondering eyes.

“I like that attitude,” he smiled softly, handing me more pizza.

His smile stayed with me long after he left.

At the office, my American boss had invited us agents to develop our skills.

Those who aspired to managerial level went through a selection process. I later understood this involved intrigues such as elbowing, backstabbing and denigrating other candidates (you know, just like in most workplaces). The survivors were called Seconded Managers.

Numerous co-workers would successfully advance their career through this scheme.

I didn't want to be a manager because you had to work full-time and I was to be a part-timer when uni started. I agreed instead to handle feedback. For the following three days I had my training with Matt, its trainer/manager.

Your Say was a happy, high-spirited team. They nicknamed it“Yellow Submarine” team and decorated their pods in a deep-marine theme. Once they noisily sang the Beatles' “Yellow Submarine” until the management told them to curb it. After all, it would not look good if callers knew Your Say—where passengers phoned to vent their anger and to relate their woes—was the happiest team on the floor. Once a guy on a Newcastle train was hit by faulty toilet's pressure burst. After journeying almost three hours many people had been using it before him, building up the pressure too high. When he pressed the FLUSH button, this high pressure caused the receptive tank to burst and throw out its contents on the poor man. Shit happens. He ended up screaming on his mobile phone straight from the toilet… and Your Say team laughed and laughed all the way home.

During training I listened to Your Say agents for a few hours every day. I used to think Your Say line was scary, assuming that was where abusive callers went. Turned out callers on the Information line were more abusive. Not getting what they wanted, they just lost it because they didn't know how to channel their anger. In contrast, most Your Say callers knew their complaints would be forwarded to management.

Some of the calls made me smile though. A girl had a crush on a helpful staff member at a Lost Property office, so he received a flowery compliment.

There were serial callers. An ex-girlfriend stalked a bus driver.Every week she lodged a complaint about him. She knew everything about his driving and his whereabouts. She simply could not get over him. Must be a great bloke.

Away from Your Say pods, one fine bloke rarely took his eyes off me as he talked on the phone. I knew, ‘cause I constantly looked his way. There was honesty there. The distance between our pods could not stop the electric current.
I wanna be with you…

On the day I was to go to Broulee, I left Dimity with Vivian and drove to work. When I signed out Pete was waiting quietly by the lift, looking very good. I faced him saying, “Don't follow me. I'm going intercity today, not just to Manly.”

“Alright,” he agreed, probably because he had overheard me ordering prawns and pineapple chicken from Kate. I appreciated the fact that he was subtle and polished, never coarse or dull or blunt.This week I had come to know he was also caring. I sensed Pete wasn't just a pretty face. Deep inside there were more interesting things about him to learn. Surreptitiously I observed him in the lift down, wondering, how had he lived his life before today?

He walked me to the car. When I turned to him, he opened his arms without a word. I went to him and we shared a wonderful long hug.

Robbed of his warmth when we parted, I was overwhelmed by the loss assailing me. Oh I was going to miss him!

“Keep safe,” he kissed my nose. Our eyes were saying “I'll be thinking of you.”

He was forever on my mind as I drove across the city to go south.Pete had been tapping delicately at the door to my heart for some time now. He was there. I knew he was there. I could hear his footsteps approaching. I could sense him softly calling to my soul.But I left him standing outside. On the porch to my heart. I did not grant him entrance.

A few times I met him there. His eyes would enquire about
me
.Worry about me. Full of concern for me. And convey deep affection and love. I would look into his eyes and dream of forever. I would steal a few moments of closeness before retreating. But it was getting harder to keep the door to my heart closed.

He was kind. Patient. He was breathtaking, beautiful. Well—in a masculine way.

He had this strong, chiselled manly jaw. He had a straight, firm, masculine nose. His mannish brows slanted in perfect arches. His wide, beautiful, sculpted lips had given me my unforgettable first kiss. And oh—his clear, gorgeous green eyes were definitely not girlish, because no girl's eyes had ever sent my heart throbbing wild with a single glance.

Could you not tell I was smitten? I could clearly envision every line of his face even when he was far away.

Still, I had not let him in. I left him standing on the porch to my heart. Perhaps he would always wait for me out there. In the cold. In the rain. In the wind. Or in the heat of our Australian summer.Perhaps he would be gone. Never to come back again. Was there any wisdom in letting him in?

I thought a lot about him as I listened to my new music in the warm dry car. Outside, it rained a deluge from Unanderra onwards. But I loved rain, finding it soothing either as a cold mist or bucketing down.

The drive was without drama, apart from getting nostalgic when passing Milton. Dad and I had climbed the nearby Mt Pigeon House when I was twelve. It had been my idea, “Let's check out what Captain Cook found interesting!” And Dad had indulged me, explaining the geological and geophysical aspects of the formation.Dad, who used to be my best buddy…

“SYDNEEY…,” Kate hugged me like a mother bear when I pulled in at her holiday house. It was still daylight at 8pm. “Darling, how great of you to brave this rain!”

“The welcome's sure worth the trouble.”

Her genuine love was balm for my soul. Warm hugs. Delicious food. Pressies. Games.

Pristine Broulee on the NSW South Coast was beautiful and tranquil, much nicer than noisy touristy beaches. The next morning we jogged along the untrodden expanse of white sand. I surfed the glorious water, and the kids thought me cool because their dad Holger didn't surf. I ended up teaching them surfing and earned worshipful looks from eight-year-old Frank.

Holger was Swiss through and through, except that he hated cold and migrated to Australia for the climate. While fishing later, we engaged in friendly banter on how to pronounce Broulee. I said it the Aussie way, Browlee, but he kept saying Broolé.

“Aussies aren't actually consistent,” he argued. “We say names any way we want.”

“Touché. Newcastellans pronounce Beaumont Street the French way, while Sydneysiders pronounce Beauchamp Street the Aussie way—Beacham.”

“And how did Sydney come up with the name Railway Square when it's a triangle?” he topped. “Or World Square when it's round?”

It was a day jammed with activities. I felt invigorated. Lovely Kate, who was genuinely concerned about how thin I had become, made it her mission to feed me well. I was pampered and fussed over.

Kate had three children. The eldest was Frances, a daughter from her first marriage. Frances' dad used to be a dancer for a famous American singer. If you are of Kate's generation, you most certainly own this singer's records. Kate had been a music journalist, chasing after great musicians all over the world. The dancer was a very charismatic graduate of an American dance academy. The super-famous singer had been very busy. His dancer had not. That was how he and Kate had ended shacking up at his hotel.

Frances, a chocolate-eyed 12-year old with olive skin and very black hair, considered herself a lucky girl because every member of her very big family spoiled her rotten. She had two younger half-brothers from her dad's second marriage, two younger half-brothers from her mum's second marriage, three older stepbrothers from her mum's husband's previous marriage, and two older stepbrothers from her dad's wife's previous marriage.

“I'm the prettiest girl in the family,” she beamed. “So many boys love me!”

Would I be less bitter if Mum and Dad had split when I was that young? Less sullen? Would it have been easier to cope?