Joseph looked at himself in the hotel room mirror. He was wearing faded jeans and another of George’s Tshirts. Much better, he realised.
He’d certainly had no luck the day before. Dressed in one of the white linen shirts and dark suits he’d worn at the conference, he had called in to several hostels in the city centre. He’d tried to make conversation with some of the backpackers, get some feedback on the backpacks they were using. He wanted to be sure the modifications he was making to the design of his own backpack would be workable.
But no-one would talk to him. The first couple had thought he was trying to sell them something. Another had assumed he was from the immigration department, checking out everyone’s visas. She had been out the front door in a flash. Someone else thought he was a Jehovah’s “Witness. Finally, the manager had come up to him and wanted to know
who he was and what was he doing in there, scaring off her customers. He’d gone back to his hotel room, his notebook still empty.
Today would be different. He looked the part and he was taking his backpack with him as well.
He decided to avoid the city hostels and head instead for St Kilda. The receptionist downstairs had told him yesterday it was another popular spot for backpackers.
‘All human life is in St Kilda,’ she’d grinned.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, you’ll find out.’
With his pack on his back he walked down to the tramstop, where a tram was already in sight. He climbed aboard and within minutes had fallen into conversation with a couple of Swedish backpackers. The backpack was the perfect conversation starter, he realised. He’d become a member of a club.
‘That’s a great pack,’ one of them said in perfect English. ‘Where did you get it?’
His research was off and running before he knew it. He didn’t let on he’d designed it, just spoke about the various features. In turn they showed him their packs, moaning about how uncomfortable the shoulder strap was and how the zip on the waistband kept getting stuck.
Two hours and four hostels later Joseph had talked to more than a dozen backpackers. It was just a shame he didn’t have any backpacks with him to
sell. He’d had two offers for his own already, and for his clothes as well.
‘Cool!’ A young American had stopped him in the second hostel. ‘Where did you get that Tshirt?’
Joseph glanced down. It had an obscure symbol and the name of a new band. Joseph thought they might have been from Manchester. Or was it Leeds? Somewhere up north anyway. ‘A friend gave it to me.’
‘They are incredible live, just incredible, don’t you think? I saw them in the Melkweg in Amsterdam last year. I could have died a happy man that night. That singer is so cool.’
‘He sure is,’ Joseph said, wondering who the singer was.
‘Will you let me know if you ever want to sell that T-shirt? I’m staying here for a few more weeks.’
‘No problem.’
Joseph walked down to the end of the street, toward the beach. The receptionist was right. All human life was indeed here. St Kilda was not only home to plenty of hostels, but it seemed to be doing a pretty good trade in drugs and prostitution as well. There was lots of legal money around too, he thought, walking past a sleek, glass-fronted cafe. Inside, the tables were filled with businessmen and women, stylish people, their mobiles and diaries and laptops placed casually on the tables. Outside, a man was begging.
Joseph kept walking along the Esplanade, following
the tram route. He noticed a multistorey hotel right on the beachfront and stopped. That looked good. Sea views and all. Perhaps he’d move down here, rather than stay in South Yarra. He could swim, relax for a couple more days before he caught the train to South Australia.
He came to a particularly lively street. If all human life was in St Kilda, a good deal of it was based here in this street. Acland Street, according to the sign. He walked the length and back. There were bookshops, biodynamic food stores, restaurants and bars. Gift shops, clothes shops, design shops and a stretch of European cake shops, their front windows temples of adoration to cream and chocolate.
He didn’t feel like sitting inside, not on a warm day like this. He kept walking until he came to the beach, and took a seat on a bench by the sand. The fine weather had lured swimmers, picnickers, skateboarders and rollerbladers to the Esplanade and nearby parks. The bay was dotted with boats and yachts and sailboats, multi-coloured sails bright against the blue water.
After a while he took out his notebook, ready to jot down ideas about the backpacks he’d seen all morning and the modifications he’d need to make to his own design if he took the job in Canada. He looked at the blank page, waiting. Nothing. He ran his fingers through his hair. Come on, Joseph, he told himself. Concentrate.
Still nothing. Then it hit him like a blow from a sledgehammer. He was sick of backpacks. And not just backpacks, he was sick of ergonomic chairs and spinal-support research and weight-transfer systems. He didn’t care about any of them any more. He’d been fighting against it for months, maybe even years, he realised now. Trying to stay enthusiastic, keeping on top of everything, telling himself that he really wanted to work the long hours, have the breakfast meetings, make deals with the manufacturers. Perhaps he really had enjoyed it once, but he didn’t want to do it any more. The conversation he’d had at the taxi rank with the Irishwoman kept replaying in his head. She was clearly successful but she hadn’t compromised herself along the way. She’d remained passionate about her work. Not like him. Yes, he was successful, he was rich, he had his own company, but it wasn’t enough any more. He stared out at the water. So what did he want then? He thought about it for a long moment before the answer came to him. He wanted a different life. A completely new life. Less stress. Less responsibility. More fun. Joseph gave a soft laugh. Well, that should be straightforward. All he had to do was change every single thing about his life and he’d be happy. Something else Niamh had said the other night
kept teasing the edge of his memory. He could almost hear her Irish accent, soft, musical. She’d said that if you truly believed in what you’re doing, you had to make sacrifices. That money could be a corrupting influence, that it placed people on a treadmill. She had that exactly right. He felt like he’d been on a treadmill for years. And now he wanted to get off.
As he sat looking out at the blue water, he started remembering other things about Niamh. That smile. A dimple that came and went. The silver pendant she’d worn. A very clear mental image of it came to him suddenly. Clearer than any ideas he’d had about his backpacks.
He looked down at the blank page in front of him. Slowly, tentatively, he started to draw the pendant. It had been an unusual shape, he recalled. Not quite a square, not quite a diamond. The pen felt good in his hand. It had been a long time since he’d used a pen and paper to do his designs. Everything was done on computers now, all the weights, measurements and calculations. As he sketched, he imagined the jewellery against a woman’s neck. Against pale skin. Pale skin like Niamh’s. He kept drawing, his pen sure and fast on the page, adding a figure wearing the pendant. A figure with long black hair.
He looked at it closely. His memory had served him well. The drawing looked very like Niamh. And
the pendant in the sketch was very like hers. But if he had designed it, he wouldn’t have given it those angles. He drew it again, this time with softer, curved lines. Then another one, interlocking. And another. It was an interesting effect, he thought. Like something from nature, the texture of a pine cone or feathers in a wing. What material would he use? he wondered. Gold? Silver? He thought back to his final year at school when he’d made the decision to go into industrial design, to channel his creative skills into a practical area. But what would have happened if he’d chosen something different? Decided to study fine art? What would he have been doing now? Would he have been just as stressed, working with a team of artists rather than industrial designers? Or would he have been living like his father, out in the country, producing one-off pieces? He looked at the designs in front of him. He’d drawn curving shapes and interesting angles not for practical reasons, not to be used for work, but simply because they looked beautiful. They did look good. There was something there. A sureness of line, an elegance. He felt as though a window in his head that had been shut for years was slowly being prised open … It was time for a very strong coffee. Hoisting the pack onto his back he stood up and brushed the sand off his jeans. He went back to Acland Street, but all
the tables in the cafes seemed to be full. He kept walking, heading back toward the hostels, where he found three of the travellers he’d been talking to still sitting outside, including the American man who had coveted his T-shirt. Joseph stopped and asked if they could recommend somewhere good for coffee. ‘There’s a bar-cafe down there.’ The American pointed to the end of the street. ‘The food’s a bit iffy, if you ask me, but the coffee’s good.’ Joseph tried to read the sign but it was too far away. It seemed to be a mathematical equation of some sort. ‘That’s great, thanks.’ ‘And don’t forget about me and that T-shirt, will you?’ the American said with a grin. Joseph glanced down at his T-shirt. ‘Do you really want it that badly?’ The man was embarrassed. ‘I do. I’d love it. They’re my favourite band. And I’ve never seen that T-shirt before. But I can’t just take the shirt off your back…’ Joseph surprised himself as much as the other man. ‘Why not?’ Putting down his pack, he started to take off his T-shirt. ‘Come on, we’ll swap.’ ‘Are you serious?’ The American looked down at his own T-shirt. It was just an ordinary one advertising the backpacker hostel he’d stayed at in Sydney. Joseph nodded. ‘Fantastic’ The swap was done in moments. ‘My T-shirt was clean this morning, I promise,’ the
American said. ‘Straight out of the laundry. Thanks. This is awesome, really.’
‘You’re welcome. See you.’ Putting the pack on his back again, Joseph set off down the street.
‘Four Quarters bar and cafe, good afternoon, Niamh speaking.’ Eva spoke into the phone. ‘A table for four for lunch today? Of course, sir. Which quarter would you like? Casablanca. That’s grand, so. We’ll see you at one. Goodbye.’ Eva put down the phone and made a note in the bookings register. Was it any wonder Greg was planning on opening another Four Quarters in Melbourne? He’d certainly hit on a winning formula. This place was hugely popular. She counted the bookings under her breath. Twenty tables for lunch already today. Twenty tables. She smiled to think if she would ever get to that number at Ambrosia. She’d have to buy the two adjoining shops and knock down a few walls to make room. If her floorplan sketch was at all accurate, she’d be looking at six or seven tables at the most. Even that would be a bit crowded. Still, she’d already learnt plenty here at Four
Quarters about handling double sittings, getting people to move on quickly and allow other diners in, so that she’d be able to make the most of those seven tables. She was rapidly filling up her notebook with helpful information.
From her position behind the reception desk she’d been able to watch the whole day-to-day running of the cafe. In between answering the phone she’d watched the waitresses at work, seen the customers give their orders, watched the kitchen staff quickly make up the meals. It was a very smooth operation. More complicated than she had in mind for Ambrosia, especially with the four different menus, but it was better to have too much information than too little, she thought.
It had been good fun to dress up for work as well. She didn’t get the chance at the delicatessen, the white shirt and black skirt almost a uniform. Today she was wearing her favourite crimson shirt, a patterned skirt, with the silver pendant around her neck. She’d worn her hair down today, pinning a flower in it again. She was really enjoying herself, talking to the mix of locals and tourists, answering the phone and writing up the bookings. And Greg had been so grateful. She’d started to quite like him again, happily accepting his offer to take her down to Phillip Island to see the fairy penguin parade the following night.
She had just made a couple more notes in her notebook when a polite cough in front of her got her
attention. The first thing she saw was a T-shirt advertising a Sydney backpackers hostel. She looked up. ‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, can I - Joe! It’s you. Hello!’ He recognised her immediately. It was Niamh, wearing the silver pendant he’d been drawing less than thirty minutes ago. ‘Niamh, hello yourself.’ He smiled at her. She started rummaging in her bag. ‘I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been looking for you, but the hotel said they didn’t have a hostel section so I just had to hope I’d run into you again.’ He had no idea what she was talking about. She guessed as much from the expression on his face. ‘You gave me far too much money for the taxi the other night. Here, you have to take it back. All of it,’ she said, holding out the hundred-dollar bill she’d been carrying in her purse since the party. ‘Did I give you that? I thought it was a twenty.’ ‘I guessed it must have been an accident. So keep it safely now, won’t you?’ She spoke mock-sternly. ‘But I can’t take all of it. You should take some for my share of the fare.’ ‘Joe, really, I’m sure you need it more than I do.’ Joseph felt a little awkward. He hadn’t missed the money at all and probably didn’t need it more than she did. But how could he tell her? Especially after all she’d said at the taxi rank the other night. Thanks anyway, Niamh, but I’m not really on a tight budget,
I actually flew here as the guest speaker of a national conference and now I’m staying in luxury hotels, having a holiday before I go back to London and sign a contract that could be worth several hundred thousand pounds to me, with a company which more than likely exploits its Third World workers in order to increase profits to shareholders. No, he didn’t think he’d go into that right now. ‘Come on, Joe, I mean it.’ She was pressing the note on him. The moment of explanation had passed. He’d taken too long. He reluctantly accepted the money. ‘You’re here to talk about that job with Greg, are you? Take a seat and I’ll get you a coffee. Greg’s due in any minute. You might be in luck, I think there’s a kitchenhand job going. One of them walked out this morning. It seems to happen a lot here.’ Eva moved to the coffee machine and amidst much hissing and steam made him a coffee. ‘Here you are. On the house.’ ‘Oh, thanks very much.’ A group of people came up to the desk to pay. She smiled at Joseph. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’ She really did think he was a backpacker, he realised. That he was travelling around Australia, picking up work here and there. It actually sounded quite good, he realised. Much better than the life he had been leading, anyway. What had the dishwasher at Dave’s party in Sydney said about backpacking