Sydney's Song (5 page)

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…

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 agents, 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.

My pod became a gathering of young people. I stayed quiet, contributing to conversation only in response to the others. Treading with care, I tried hard to conceal my depression. But our pod was noisy, happy, and vibrant. Some agents tended to talk louder on the phone when boorish customers had blaring TV or music in the backgrounds. My pod was loud because of laughter.

One morning a nice oldie called.

“Darling, next few buses from the first stop on Samuel Street in Warriewood to Spit Junction, please.”

I told her it would be the L85 at 10:20, arriving at 11:19. “After that every half an hour.”

“What's after 10:20 dear?”

“The L85 again at 10:50.

“What time will it arrive at Spit Junction?”

“11:49.”

“What's after that?”

“Every half an hour”

“And when would that be?”

“Warriewood 11:20. To arrive Spit Junction 12:19”

“Would that be from the first stop at Samuel Street?”

“Yes.”

“What's after that?” Gramma Chatty kept at this until I firmly asked the exact time she needed to go.

“It's for my granddaughter's birthday, dear. She's turning eight! I've bought her a lovely wide-brimmed hat for the summer. She's going to really look stunning wearing it. It has these lovely pink rosettes that she'll be crazy about. I remember her second birthday. Her hair was just long enough for pigtails then. I gave her hair bands with pink rosettes. She looked so adorable, I took a picture and it's now on my wall above the fireplace. I put it in a nice filigree frame. So I saw this hat at Warringah Mall last Wednesday and I just had to buy it for her. Actually I'd already promised to take her to the zoo for her birthday present. But it's almost summer so she'll need this wide hat walking in the zoo, won't she? I—”

“Absolutely. She'll look fantastic! Now you wouldn't want her to miss the Seal Show, would you? Please take the next bus. Ten twenty, Ma'am. Happy birthday to your granddaughter. Thanks for calling!” I hit the RELEASE button.

“You're very patient,” commented Pete from across the workstation.

Since Pete rarely talked, I was pleasantly surprised.

“She was actually lovely,” I threw him a smile. “But she can't help being old.”

He tilted his head, contemplating me with his very beautiful eyes.

“Join me for a smoke Sydney.” Friendly Kevin offered his cigarette pack to me in the lift during a morning break. “Here, have one.”

Many colleagues, young and old, had been pestering me to take up smoking each time I went outside the building. It was their life mission to initiate all young agents to drinking, smoking, and sex. Kids did not leave here a virgin or a non-smoker. Everyone drank. The Aussie office culture.

“No, thank you. I'm going to the library.”

“But you never turned the page of your book yesterday,” he winked. “I saw you through the glass wall.”

“Perhaps I was thinking. Bye.”

It was overcast outside. I walked quickly away. To the right. And spotted Lindsay enthusiastically kissing Flo, a young Aussie agent, in front of Hornsby Library. This, the guy who had forever asked me out?

He grew sheepish when he saw me. Busted. I held eye contact and smiled. Back off from me now, Lindsay.

Kevin joined me in the lift up, checking the book I had just borrowed from the library.

“Lighting techniques for photography?”

“Just for fun,” I told him. “I need to improve my photography.”

Upstairs Justin appointed me to be the Floor Walker of the hour to assist with agents' queries. I was actually wary of people and hesitant to initiate a chat. In this instance, my colleagues were the ones who flashed a light summoning help.

“Hi Sydney, how's it goin'?” Pete always greeted me with a smile before launching into transport questions. It did not reduce my nervousness caused by his proximity and masculinity, though. “This mom with baby in pram has been waiting for the accessible 380 scheduled at 12:10 from Dover Heights to Bondi, but the one showing up wasn't accessible. The baby's very sick and has a doctor appointment. Where's the accessible bus?”

On the floor we had several accents. Some lovely and some—well, not lovely. British accents were abundant—sometimes I teased Pommy agents that our greetings should be “Welcome to the UK”.

Today, as I floor-walked, I could hear snippets of between-call conversation here and there.

“A Blackheath customer complained that his train came only every two hours,” grumbled Valerya, a Russian lady, “They should go to a place in Russia where the train only comes once a day!”

“My daughter is sick,” shared Eugene. “I made my husband stay home with her. He's with the Public Service—they get to go on carer's leave even when their dog is sick.”

“Are you wearing your brand-new push-up bra, dear?” asked elderly Lynn of Flo, who looked ready to—spill, sort of.

“You from Sumatra?” Pete asked Nina, his eyes shone with fond memories. “Great surf. Beautiful food…”

I took note of this agent. When I wasn't busy answering flashing lights, I approached her, “Can you tell me anything about Borneo? Balikpapan?”

Nina looked up at me with surprise. “Why, that's a very specific place to be. Only the oil people go there.”

“My Dad is there,” I told her as Pete, who seemed to have overheard, turned to us from the adjacent pod. I nodded to him. “He's a geophysicist.”

“Really?” Nina asked. “I used to be one. Always wondered why many of my colleagues were Australians. Now I know we don't have petroleum in Aussieland.”