Wood Green Read online

  WOOD GREEN

  SEAN RABIN

  Wood Green

  FIRST PUBLISHED IN 2016

  FROM THE WRITING & SOCIETY RESEARCH CENTRE

  AT WESTERN SYDNEY UNIVERSITY

  BY THE GIRAMONDO PUBLISHING COMPANY

  PO BOX 752

  ARTARMON NSW 1570 AUSTRALIA

  WWW.GIRAMONDOPUBLISHING.COM

  © SEAN RABIN, 2016

  DESIGNED BY HARRY WILLIAMSON

  TYPESET BY ANDREW DAVIES

  IN 11/14 PT GARAMOND

  PRINTED AND BOUND BY LIGARE BOOK PRINTERS

  DISTRIBUTED IN AUSTRALIA BY NEWSOUTH BOOKS

  NATIONAL LIBRARY OF AUSTRALIA

  CATALOGUING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  RABIN, SEAN, AUTHOR.

  WOOD GREEN / SEAN RABIN.

  978-1-925336-08-5 (PB)

  A823.4

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  NO PART OF THIS PUBLICATION MAY BE REPRODUCED, STORED IN A RETRIEVAL SYSTEM OR TRANSMITTED

  IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY MEANS ELECTRONIC, MECHANICAL, PHOTOCOPYING OR OTHERWISE WITHOUT THE PRIOR PERMISSION OF THE PUBLISHER.

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  TO FRANCESCA AND JUDE

  1.

  Michael gripped his shins and bent his head towards his knees. The panic in his chest refused to be rationalised or contained, and infiltrated the extremities of his body with every shudder and lurch made by the Boeing 737. He could hear the other passengers laughing, but knew it was just a survival mechanism. If one did not laugh at their impending collision with the coast of Tasmania, and disintegration in a fireball of aviation fuel, then the only other option was to scream with terror.

  He tried to curl his body tighter and feared his spine was about to snap; held his breath, swallowed against the pressure inside his ears, and squeezed his eyes closed to avoid glimpsing the rushing approach of land. If only the pilot would turn towards the water where they all had a better chance of survival. A change in direction, however, required time, altitude, and sufficient control over the plane’s steering mechanism, all of which he assumed were no longer available or dwindling fast. He felt himself violently shaken sideways and braced for impact; the clamour of the undercarriage scraping along the tarmac; veering suddenly off the runway; a wing snagging on a patch of grass; cries from passengers as legs were broken, arms shredded and bodies cut in two. Michael was ashamed of the way he had grumbled at check-in about the need to pay an additional twenty-five dollars to secure a bulkhead seat. What was such a paltry sum when compared with the good fortune of sitting in one of the strongest sections of the plane, closest to the exit, with the added protection of a nearby wing? Had he been seated behind someone else it would have proved impossible to bend so far forward. The space between the rows was woefully inadequate, and offered no other option than to brace against the seat in front, leaving the top of his head – as the emergency manual illustrations demonstrated – completely unprotected while the roof of the aircraft was torn away.

  Catering trolleys clattered and rattled as the cabin suddenly tilted. Michael interpreted the silence spreading amongst the other passengers as a sign that land was near and it would all soon be over. A smell of fear flooded his nostrils. A sour taste rose to the back of his throat. He would probably feel no pain. One minute consciousness, the next…nothing. The comforting voices of his mother and father, dead more than five years, whispered in his ears until drowned out by the whine of engines making a futile attempt at acceleration. The wheels were lowered next, sounding like a pack of barking dogs let loose in the cargo hold. None of it offered any reassurance as he knew the pilots were required to follow landing procedure irrespective of their chances of survival. If only he had caught a different flight then none of this would be happening – well not to him at least. Michael dispatched mental apologies to everyone he had ever wronged, and wondered if Rachel would cry at his funeral. She had every reason not even to show up after the way he had left without saying goodbye. Though their status as a couple had ended more than three weeks ago, he knew their fourteen-month relationship had been serious enough to warrant greater consideration than disappearing to another state without leaving word. But if Rachel did attend, would she wear that little back dress he found so alluring? He guessed it depended on whether the service was held in the warmth of Sydney or the chill of Hobart. Would there be enough of him left even to conduct a funeral?

  Michael wanted to hold the hand of the woman sitting next to him in a gesture of solidarity as they faced their demise together. Except his body was rigid with fear. Fixed into a ball. Isolated from all contact with the world aside from the seatbelt buckle pressing painfully into his stomach and the aeroplane shaking beneath his feet. The anticipation was almost too much to bear. Michael’s breathing quickened; he could sense a scream mounting in his lungs. What did it matter if he exhibited cowardice in the final moments of his life. No one would live to tell the tale. In a few seconds everyone on board was going to die regardless of whether they had been brave or not.

  Excuse me Sir.

  He felt a hand pressed gently to the middle of his back, and opened his eyes to a flight attendant with ruthlessly plucked eyebrows and a thick coating of make-up that was beginning to crack. Her hair was tied so tightly behind her head that the concern she attempted to express looked closer to a case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Michael then noticed the other passengers glancing in his direction as they retrieved their luggage from the overhead lockers.

  The fasten-seatbelt sign has been turned off, said the attendant. It’s time to leave the aircraft.

  2.

  Tiny droplets of rain stung Michael’s ears as he descended the mobile steps parked against the rear exit of the plane. Hobart’s cold wind made him gasp, smile with relief at having survived another flight, then feel hot shame at yet again failing to control his phobia of flying. On the tarmac he looked back to the aircraft and realised he had never before stood so close to one. All previous air travel had been a clinical, sanitised affair where he was carefully funnelled through ubiquitous terminals and gateways until he stepped through an oval doorway into the pacifying internal organs of a mechanical bird. Now, however, he could observe the decelerating rotations of the turbines, identify the hydraulics of the landing gear, measure himself against the height of the wing, and witness the luggage being unloaded from the far side of the undercarriage. It briefly gave him a childlike sense of wonder, and made the prospect of his return flight home – whenever that might be – marginally less ominous.

  Though one of the states in Australia, Tasmania’s island locale made its landscape distinct from the mainland. Behind the small terminal building topped with a ‘Welcome To Hobart’ sign were hills as golden and rolling as a Tuscan postcard. Yet in the opposite direction stretched a windswept plateau populated by short robust trees whose dark foliage had more in common with those inhabiting marshlands. The cold easily cut through Michael’s clothes, constricting his skin, quickening his pulse and confirming his long-held belief that he was a warm-weather person. His thin-soled shoes offered scant protection against puddles, and the prospect of wet socks hastened him towards the terminal building.

  At its entrance stood a group of Chinese tourists struggling to interpret the concerns of a customs official who had singled out their party and led it to a large yellow garbage bin with a sign mounted above it indicating the laws against carrying fruit and meat into Tasmania, and the fines to be faced should anyone decide to flout them. Inside, the other passengers congregated around a small baggage carousel while watching a life-sized plastic seal – advertising scenic speedboat rides – disappear and reappear from behind the black rubber curtain that concealed the dock where their suitcases were to be loaded. Michael observed families reunite –
children hold up toys for uncles to appreciate – while he tried not to consider the solitude that could potentially accompany the job he was about to begin. Lucian Clarke had not hired him for small talk or literary opinions. Besides any questions he posed concerning the forty years of paperwork he had been employed to organise and classify, Michael anticipated there would be little conversation throughout his working day. Lucian Clarke’s novels were large works of complex imagination that contained stories within stories and required hours of undistracted concentration just to read. Michael therefore presumed the focus necessary to write one of them would demand even longer periods of sustained, uninterrupted silence. Lucian Clarke was far from famous, but had earned a readership loyal enough to ensure his works were reviewed by most major newspapers, and occasionally included in the contemporary literature syllabus of selected universities. For years he had ignored all interview requests, politely declined invitations to edit short-story anthologies, wilfully insulted faculty heads who had offered him the chance to teach creative writing courses, and flatly refused to scribble endorsements for anyone else’s books. In 2002 he had been given long odds to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, but in the years since then the name Lucian Clarke had failed to reappear as a contender.

  The passengers who had travelled with Michael emitted a collective sigh of relief as suitcases started to appear upon the carousel. Soon after a small beagle, under the guidance of its trainer, began to scamper across the luggage searching for the scent of illegal apples or T-bone steaks. A full explanation of the dog’s role in safeguarding quarantine regulations was printed on the stiff cape tied across her back, along with guidelines not to pat her in case it proved a distraction from her very important work. As he admired the animal’s conscientiousness Michael acknowledged that an equivalent level of dedication would be needed if he was to achieve his objectives for this trip. Else the sacrifices he had made – job, relationship, friends, home – would have all been for nothing. Novels did not write themselves. He needed to work harder than he had ever done before, or risk repeating the two failed attempts that had marred the past four years of his life. Michael felt instinctively that this was his last chance. If not here and now, then when exactly was he going to write the story that was so persistent in his imagination? The realisation flooded Michael with determination, and inspired him to haul his suitcase from the carousel in such a brusque manner that it turned the head of almost every Tasmanian who stood nearby.

  3.

  Wood Green? No problem. Just throw your case in the back. First time in Hobart? Holiday or work? Thought so, too damn cold for sightseeing. They reckon it’s going to stay this way for the rest of the week. Still, we could use the rain. Whole place is too dry for my liking. Get a bushfire down here and it’s hard to stop it. Too much wind. But a few days of rain should green things up a bit. In from Sydney or Melbourne? Went there once. Wanted to see the Opera House and Harbour Bridge. Didn’t like much else though. Too many people, and too fast for an old fella like me. Things are a lot slower down here. Quieter too. You’ll get used to it after a while. Probably won’t want to go back in the end. Just joking. Although there isn’t much to do in Wood Green. Just a shop and a pub and a whole lot of trees. Good if you like bushwalking. Bring some boots with you? Might need to buy a pair if you’re planning to stay on through the winter. They’re not hard to find in town. Wait, wait. There it is. The Derwent River. Not bad eh? Deepest harbour in the Southern Hemisphere. Bit misty today though. They call that fog the Bridgewater Jerry. Don’t ask me why. Should be gone in an hour or so. There was a whale and her calf spotted in the river a few weeks ago. First time in years. Some people say the water’s not safe because of the zinc works and paper mills, but I reckon a whale would know if it was clean or not, right? I’ve got friends who eat fish out of it all the time and there’s nothing wrong with them. That’s Mount Wellington over there in the distance. Bit of snow on her peak so I’d say it’s going to be a cold one today. Wood Green is just on her left side, about a third of the way up. Wait, wait. That section of the bridge we just drove over was the part that collapsed in 1975. You’re probably too young to remember. Bulk ore carrier hit one of the pylons and four cars fell about one hundred and fifty feet. Five died that way, and seven of the carrier crew went down with the ship. Poor bastards. People around here still don’t like to talk about it. Hobart is a small place, so you never know if someone lost someone, or knows someone who lost someone. And this is our opera house. They call it modern architecture but it looks like a rusty tin can to me. Bloody awful. Thought I’d take you the scenic route and show you the docks, it’s just as quick. Get a good feed down here. Fish straight off the boats. Down that road you’ve got Australia’s oldest pub, been closed for a couple of years though. And over that way is Salamanca. They put on a big market there every weekend. Tourists love it, but between you and me it’s mostly the same tat you can buy everywhere else. Take that road into town and you’ll find the oldest theatre in Australia, as well as the country’s first synagogue. Not that I think you’re Jewish. I’m not either. I just thought you might be interested to know. Wait, wait. Coming up on our right is Australia’s oldest Royal tennis court. There are only four in the entire country, but ours was the first. Bet you haven’t seen one of those before. If we’d kept going straight we’d have reached the Cascade Brewery. You’ll get there eventually, everyone does. The tour is pretty interesting, or so I hear. When my father was a boy the brewers used to roll a couple kegs into the street every Friday afternoon and tap them for the local residents. Oldest continually operating brewery in the country. Just north of Hobart we’ve also got the oldest golf course in the Southern Hemisphere. And in Richmond, about twenty minutes drive north east, there’s Australia’s oldest bridge; oldest postal building and oldest Catholic church. Lake St Clair, about two hours away, is also said to be Australia’s deepest lake. And up in the northwest you can see the world’s oldest tree, if you’re inclined that way. Bet you didn’t know Australia’s first circus performance was in Tasmania, did you? Me neither, but who gives a damn, right? Might get a bit of snow in Wood Green if the weather continues like this. It doesn’t usually rain so early in autumn. Looks like we’re in for a wet winter. Wonder what the greenies will have to say about that? Nothing good I suppose. That tall building you can see down there is Wrest Point Casino. Australia’s first legal casino. Keep going in that direction and you’ll reach the Taroona Shot Tower. Three hundred and eighteen steps to the top. Built in 1870, it was the tallest building in Australia for four years, and stayed the tallest building in Tasmania for a hundred years. You can walk to the top if you like. It doesn’t cost that much. Wait, wait. Here you are. Wood Green. Told you there wasn’t much to the place. Nice view though. What road did you say you were after? Brenan Street. Right. Not sure about that one. They don’t go in for street signs much up here, do they? Might have to consult the map. Or I could ask this guy. ’Scuse me mate, Brenan Street? Next left? Gotcha. Thanks. See, what did I tell you, friendly people. Here we are. Brenan Street. No house number? All right, well I guess we’ll just stop at the first place we see. You look left and I’ll look right. Plenty of room for development along here. Hardly a house in sight. Wait, wait. You think that’s it? You’re sure? Well okay, that’ll be sixty-five, forty. No need to tip here mate, this isn’t America. Just give me a call next time you need a cab. Dave’s my name. Number’s on the card. Enjoy your stay. You’re sure there’s someone home? Okay then, good luck.

  4.

  On the covered verandah at the front of the house stood a firewood box that Michael hefted his suitcase on top of so he could rummage through his clothes for a coat to keep him dry as he walked down the side of the house. Rapping his knuckles against the front door had drawn no answer, so Michael decided to check if Lucian was working in a shed or writer’s room out back. Mud and water filled his shoes as he squeezed past pricking plants, neglected garden tools and the trunks of giant gum trees that
were either standing sentry over the old wooden home, or slowly encroaching upon it. Fallen bark and leaves gave a scent of sumptuous earthiness to the cold quiet air, which Michael inhaled deeply as he rounded a rainwater tank and saw that no shed or hut existed. Large panes of glass constituted the right rear corner of the house, and revealed an unoccupied sunroom with no sign of recent habitation. A kitchen garden overrun with weeds extended to the edge of the forest. Michael tried to distinguish a track between the trees, but had already decided that a search for Lucian would be foolhardy. Turning back to the house he noticed the metal roof was new, maybe two years old at most, while the structure underneath, long ago painted avocado, had evidently been built some time in the late nineteen-sixties.

  Michael knocked on the back door in case Lucian had been asleep, then succumbed to the fear that his employer was out of town. He rushed back to his belongings to check the letter confirming his appointment as secretary, along with the date he was supposed to arrive. Lucian had refused to correspond via email, fax or telephone, making a two-month exchange of letters, full of surprisingly personal questions, necessary for Michael to secure the position. As the letter began to sag with moisture he noticed the pale lichen growing along the verandah’s wooden railing and colonising the cane armchair beside the wood box. He sat down and tightly crossed his arms and legs in an effort to conserve body heat. The coffee cup beside the chair might have offered hope that Lucian had just stepped out, if not for the insects decomposing in its dregs. Hardly the welcome Michael had hoped for from the man he had spent the second half of his twenties writing a PhD about. There had been few personal details to include in his examination of Lucian Clarke’s fiction, and now Michael feared that the author’s retreat into isolation was more an indication of deficient social skills than a yearning for a tranquil location in which to write. His letters had certainly been curt and matter-of-fact, and offered no assessment of Michael’s thesis. Yet Lucian must have read part of it as he had made initial contact through its publisher. He chose to interpret this as Lucian safeguarding against the development of a sycophantic relationship. But it was too late for that. For weeks he had been reminding himself to act professionally when he finally shook the hand that had written The Bombardier, Foxtrot, Lady Cadaver and Dismantling Ivan’s Circus. Last thing he wanted was to appear besotted or fawning. Michael pulled out his cigarettes and lighter, and embraced the warmth of the smoke that filled his throat and lungs. He retrieved the business card from the same pocket and dropped it into the muck at the bottom of the coffee cup. Any cab driver other than Dave would do from now on. An early start, with the stress of flying, and not finding Lucian at home, had left him exhausted. He turned up the collar of his coat, used his suitcase as an ottoman, closed his eyes, and must have fallen into an unexpectedly deep sleep because the first sound he heard of Lucian’s return was the lid of the wood box slamming shut.