Above the Fold Page 7

  There was a slight pause after this.

  “Luke …” the editor said.

  “Yes, Rupert?”

  “I don’t wish to be unkind, but do you know anything about Istanbul?”

  “Well, not a lot.”

  “Or princesses?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Or even diamonds?” This was met with a shake of the head. “Would it be possible to write about something you know?” he suggested. “After all you live on a beach, you have friends, including a girlfriend. Are there stories in your own life or hers you could write about?”

  He tried to think. His mother who should have remained a ballet dancer? His father who was a shit and bashed her. Or Claudia who had to flee from Paris … and her dad … who could be … if he was he wouldn’t tell his family. Spies had to look ordinary, so …

  “Any thoughts tucked away in that busy mind of yours, Luke?”

  “My girlfriend’s father is a spy,” he said, and Rupert promptly sat up attentively in his chair. “They were nearly caught in Paris by the Nazis, and British intelligence had to send a corvette to help them escape,” he added, already starting to improvise on the reality.

  “And …”

  “The corvette was sunk by a torpedo in the English Channel, and they had to swim the last half-mile in freezing water.”

  Rupert gazed at him carefully. “It could be interesting. But are you sure about that last bit? Half a mile in the English Channel. I’ve had the bad luck to swim there and can testify it’d freeze the balls off a brass monkey. Your characters would be dead after a hundred yards.”

  “Perhaps they had to row. Grabbed a lifeboat.”

  “Sounds more feasible,” he agreed. “So stop mucking around with princesses and diamonds. Write it.”

  “But there is a problem. I’m not supposed to know he’s a spy. I could be sued under the official secrets act.”

  “Bollocks, dear boy. Change their names. Disguise the characters. Get on with it, tout de suite. Now fuck off and start, first thing tomorrow.”

  In fact, he began that night, and spent the rest of the week on cloud nine, feeling almost a writer. Thrilled by the fact that he had a story and feeling tempted to tell someone. In the end he decided not to, not yet.

  Should this next attempt be rejected, Barry, for one, might be scornful. He’d already disparaged Luke’s ambitions in his typical style.

  Because they were both at university Barry and Helen often travelled together by bus. He voiced his opinion of Luke’s new job while Helen sat beside him, trying to study Butterworth’s Law of Torts.

  “Messenger boy. Why? Utterly mad. And Steven. They wanted him to get a degree, add a bit of gravitas to the firm. Then move to a job waiting at Pascoe Timbers. But not Steve. He went charging off like Galahad to win the war. And Luke’s trying to be Somerset Bloody Maugham.”

  Helen looked up from her text book. “What did you say?”

  “Never mind. Just thinking aloud.”

  “Sorry, Baz. Trying to catch up on this.”

  She nearly always studied on the bus. Sometimes he wondered about he and Helen. At the start when he’d talked her into moving from Luke, she’d made all the right signals. But for one reason or another it hadn’t led quite where he’d hoped, and if she wasn’t such a great looker with her dark sexy eyes and perfect complexion, he’d have moved on.

  Had he been lucky enough to meet Claudia first instead. Christ, when looks were handed out, she’d certainly got her share. Be fabulous in the cot, he thought. Lucky Luke. He was sure they were doing it every night! He missed the days when it was the three mates, he and Luke and Steve, like it used to be, he sighed. Helen heard it and glanced at him with an enquiring eyebrow.

  “Just thoughts,” he said.

  Thoughts about his brother Felix, the young swine who’d wrecked the first time he’d almost got Helen to go all the way. She’d have been willing, he knew; when she didn’t have her head in law books they’d openly discussed it, and she’d once joked the loss of virginity was something that needed to be remedied. He’d suggested there were rooms in lower George Street or in Darlinghurst, but she hadn’t liked the idea. Sleazy places that charged by the hour, Helen said, just the thought was unpleasant, let alone the look of the place. So, no thanks. In the open air, at least you wouldn’t wonder if the same sheets had been used by the last couple. And no paying at the desk, then having her legs watched by a landlord while she was going up the stairs.

  So, instead, that was why in the summer vacation they’d picked a fine night and gone to the security of a local park near the Mona Vale headland. So secure in fact, that he’d removed his clothes and was waiting for her to do the same. It was too late to say no. She’d started to take off her pants, when they were bothered by a persistent prowling dog who wanted to be friendly.

  “Go away,” he’d said, trying to brush the animal off with his left hand, while his right hand fondled Helen’s breast. “Go on, you stupid mutt,” he whispered at the dog, “just piss off.” But the dog, a large red setter and thus not amenable to reason, took it for affection and wagged his tail while he licked both their faces, before lifting his leg to urinate on Barry’s bare bum.

  He’d been furious and struck dumb, while Helen was so convulsed with helpless laughter that a chance of anything further that night was impossible. Between the dog and his young swine of a brother, her virginity remained intact all this time. Something had to be done about it, he decided with a sigh.

  She glanced at him again. “Deep thoughts. Can I guess?”

  “Suppose,” he said, “just suppose I could persuade the oldies to lend me money, so I could rent something in town to save this travelling. A little flat of our own. How would you feel about that?”

  She contemplated it with a smile. “No chance of stray dogs or cheeky brothers. I think I’d like that, Baz.”

  “I’ll start working on the parents tonight,” he promised. “It may take a while, so keep your fingers crossed. And your legs,” he murmured with a grin, but by now Helen had returned to the Law of Torts.

  Claudia was in trouble with Matron. After her training she was now a junior nurse, and the matron was giving her a hard time. “This week I’ve had all the yucky jobs,” she told Luke. “If there’s an extra pisspot that needs emptying or a spittoon to clean, I’m the chosen one. All because I let the urine boil over.”

  “Oh, yuck,” Luke said. It was a Saturday and they were having a quick meal in the hospital canteen. “This hamburger is disgusting enough without news of boiled urine.”

  “It’s only a check for diabetes,” she said, smiling, “adding acetic acid to make the albumin in the urine appear. If it boils over, so does Matron. No Brownie points for me since it happened.”

  “What’s she like, this tyrannical matron?”

  “A large woman, with a formidable bosom. In starched uniform and veil she can look a bit like a galleon in full sail.” Amid his laughter she continued, “A fierce old duck, who’s been through it in the good old days, and determined to show us how tough it was. She has a soft side and a wrong side and that’s where I am at the moment. Right on the wrong side, if you know what I mean. Sentenced to scrubbing in the pan room. Bottles and potties to be firmly scoured with Bon Ami.”

  “It sounds appalling,” Luke said. “Resign.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Claudia replied.

  “You actually like it, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Just not this week. And it is strict. No staying out late, as you know. Praetorian Guards to check arrival time at night.” She grinned. “But, yes, it’s what I want to do. And I start on surgical wards soon. The male orthopaedic ward is what us girls like best. Gives us a chance to meet young studs from footy or bike accidents. The female ward is not so hot. More bed pans required there, and the patients complain a lot.”

  She was irrepressible. Luke knew she enjoyed the companionship. Just as he enjoyed his days, getting in early each morn
ing to work on more plays, and even looking forward to his messenger chores. Through them he came to know the seedy side of the city, pubs that were full of shady characters, bookies, con men, a dodgy doctor, all figures in a landscape that was growing in his mind, and which he hoped to write about some day.

  Flight from Fear, a drama by Luke Elliott, the announcer said, and he felt relieved his father was not there. He’d been deliberately working late for months now, keeping a distance from his wife and son, and was unlikely to change his routine for this. Luke sat and listened to it with Louisa and Claudia as the actors performed his lines. His first-ever experience of hearing his own words was both nerve-racking and exhilarating.

  It was a simple half-hour plot, the story of an Australian spy who outwitted the Nazis in Brussels and then had to flee from the German invasion with his wife. He had a beautiful daughter working with the resistance who remained behind with her Belgian lover, and, after sabotaging Gestapo headquarters, was rescued by a British corvette.

  The cast were fine, the Australians sounding authentic, the British suitably decent and the Germans fittingly guttural, and, apart from his mother who looked worried that the cast might make a mistake, it went smoothly. Luke had given up reassuring her it had been recorded the previous week in a two-hour session. As the final music played and the narrator read the cast credits the telephone began to ring. The first to call was Helen:

  “Just thrilled and proud of you. Dad said to say well done.”

  Then Barry, sounding a bit green-eyed: “I didn’t realise they put your name on the radio credits. Gotta meet soon. I’ll bring my new girlfriend. Name’s Miranda, she’s an arts student from Darling Point.”

  Later, when he walked Claudia home, they diverted to the beach, found a peaceful spot on the sand in the dark and made love. Afterwards she snuggled against him, quiet for a moment. “That girl, the daughter and her father the spy. I know it wasn’t Paris, but …?”

  “But …?” Luke asked.

  “Parts of it were slightly familiar.”

  “But slightly different, don’t you think, darling?”

  “You bugger,” she said affectionately and laughed. “No wonder you got me talking about it again weeks ago. You were doing research.”

  “Just checking on the real background. But different names, lots of different happenings. Do you think your dad will recognise anything?”

  “I’ve got news for you, my sweet. There was a symphony on the ABC he desperately wanted to hear, and he couldn’t listen to both. So he’s never going to know.”

  “Just as well,” Luke said.

  NINE

  The Florentino in Elizabeth Street was Barry Silvester’s favourite eatery. The appeal of this basement bistro was menu based: a three-course meal began with minestrone soup, followed by spaghetti bolognese, then a choice of butterscotch ice-cream cake or a cheese platter, all for the cost of just two shillings and sixpence. The menu never varied, but as the price was by far the best value in the city, it attracted not only students, but young lawyers, actors and other indigents. The actors made it a place to be seen, and, as it served carafes of good wine and had singing waiters, it gathered a reputation. Modish restaurants were few in wartime Sydney. It was near The Herald office so journalists ate there, photographers came to snap candids of up-and-coming actresses, and students like Barry could afford the price.

  He loved the atmosphere. He especially enjoyed taking Helen, for he could hardly be unaware of the attention focused on their table when she was with him. Students from the university all had eyes on Helen. This was confirmed by her closest friend, Rachel Ives, who’d seen the reaction.

  “He’s like a cat with the cream when she’s there. Because apart from being bright,” Rachel said, “our Helen is a truly spectacular looking sheila. And we all know how much Baz likes to bask in admiration.”

  What she knew, but others didn’t, was that so far there’d been very little sexual activity. Barry kept this concealed by not talking about it. If the subject was raised he smiled and refused to speak, conveying the impression they had a full sex life.

  “Lucky bugger,” his university friends were always saying, but he was not the lucky bugger he’d wanted to be, and was going to be at last. Since their disaster with the friendly dog, he had managed to persuade Helen to risk all in a furtive Darlinghurst Hotel, while he continued his campaign on his parents to finance a pad in town. The hotel was a bleak place specialising in short-term occupancy, furnished with a sagging bed and a cracked basin. Helen disliked it and had secretly wanted to leave, but in view of their unfortunate history had been persuaded to stay. It was where she lost her virginity, but when he wanted to return there she’d refused, reminding him of his promise.

  So he renewed his parental crusade. She was his best-looking girlfriend to date, and he had no wish to give her up, but he wanted more. A great deal more. He wanted her enthusiasm and lots of frenzied fucking. He’d had some rare exotic experiences with other girls — once on his seventeenth birthday a riotous night with two sisters in the same bed — but none of these conquests were comparable to Helen in looks or intelligence. Perhaps her intelligence was the problem. She was adorable but composed. He wanted her to be wildly tempestuous like some of the one-night stands he’d had, passionate enough to wrap her ankles around his neck and give voice to things she’d like done to her. Some vocal encouragement. Unrestrained dirty talk when they were naked in bed was what he needed. Especially from someone who looked like Helen.

  And now at last he could assure her the problem was solved. He had a place of his own; his parents had finally agreed — a room in Glebe to avoid the chore of daily travel. No matter that it was a crappy bedsitter that looked out on a squalid alley, it had a bed, a table, a gas ring and sink, and was therefore, according to the landlady, a flatette. Enough privacy for Helen to be able to relax, and their dinner tonight was to break the news. He felt certain that freed of constraints he could induce her to release her inhibitions, forget making love in the missionary position, and together they could enjoy the uncontrolled bliss he’d dreamed about.

  He looked at her possessively across the table, aware of how many others in the restaurant were admiring her. No doubt imagining themselves in bed with her, the dirty buggers.

  “Guess what?” he said.

  “What?” she asked, which was when one of the waiters came to clear their soup dishes, held the plates in one hand while he held the other over his heart to gaze mournfully at Helen and sing: “You are my heart’s delight, You are my love tonight, All I ask is a tender kiss, Just one you’ll barely miss …”

  “Yes, thanks a million,” Barry said to the waiter, who ignored him and went on to finish the song. Helen smiled and clapped her hands.

  “Thank you,” she said. The waiter bowed, used his free hand to touch his lips in a kiss and went off singing loudly to another table.

  “Arsehole,” Barry muttered.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I had something important to say, and he’s not exactly Frank Sinatra.”

  “Not happy, Baz?” She smiled sweetly.

  “I was,” he protested, “until I was interrupted.”

  “So what did you have to tell me that was so vital?”

  “It’s hardly vital. But it is good news. I’ve got an apartment in Glebe.” It came like an anticlimax, he thought, thanks to the waiter. That’s why he’d made it sound better, an apartment rather than a room with a gas ring. He could always amend the description before she saw it.

  “Oh.”

  “Is that all you can say?”

  “Well, it’s a surprise. A real apartment? When did this happen?”

  “I signed the lease today. I thought we might spend the weekend there and … well, you know, christen it.”

  “This weekend? Oh, hell … I can’t, Barry.”

  “Why not? Something more important?”

  “Well … something I can’t put off. I’m taking part in a moc
k trial.”

  “Bloody hell,” Barry said scornfully. “Mock trial!”

  “It’s not kid stakes. We’re doing it in front of a special audience full of lawyers and two Supreme Court judges.”

  “Big deal. Cancel it.”

  “What?”

  “Call in sick. Say you’ve got the flu.”

  “Impossible. I’m the defence counsel.”

  “Shit.”

  “Baz, it’s important.”

  “It sounds ridiculous. Playing at being legal eagles.”

  “Oh, c’mon, this matters to me.”

  “And the weekend matters to me. Didn’t you hear? I said a place of our own, at last. We could spend the weekend in bed together, but you want to pretend to be Portia.”

  For a moment Helen said nothing. She just looked at him, picked up her glass of wine and drank the contents. The singing waiter returned with their spaghetti. He gave them a smile, but receiving none in return placed the food in front of them with a shrug.

  “What’s the point of a mock trial anyway?” Barry asked, when they were alone again. “It’s just law school playtime.”

  “I’d be better spending it in bed with you, is that what you mean?”

  “I mean what you’re doing is bloody rubbish, a sheer waste of time and effort. You’ll never be able to appear in a court, so why fool around with mock trials and make-believe?”

  Helen had begun to eat but this made her stop, strands of spaghetti left hanging off the fork. “Who says I’ll never be able to appear in a court?”

  “I say! Of course you bloody won’t.”

  “But that’s why I work so hard, to be a barrister. And why this weekend and the mock trial are important. A little more important, dare I say, than spending it in bed making love.”

  “A barrister. Of course I’ve heard you banging on about it, we all have. I can’t speak for the others, but I’ve never taken it seriously.”