30
At work in the long days of learning about journalism, Louisa is well aware of John Keele. He’s tall and lean and maybe, she thinks, he’s kind. But mostly she likes his tanned face, his grey eyes, his full lips and wide smile. She forgives the slightly beaky nose and loves the straggly straw hair. Gary says he’d be right for her because there’s some kind of symmetry going on, fair and dark, tall and not so tall; but then Gary reckons many men would be right for her, which is becoming annoying.
John works up the back of the newsroom in the sports department a few desks away and over time they become distantly connected through lust. Often, in any lull, they will glance towards each other then guiltily, hastily, look away. When he catches her looking, she feels a tilt in her heart. There’s an old intent at work here and Louisa, even though she’s wary, would be happy to look at John Keele all day.
And John even seems less threatening than other men. There are the smiles for one thing, and his surfer looks make him seem otherworldly in the office. He wears the same grey suit every day but this has been duly noted because little escapes trained observers like renowned luncher and Melbourne sports editor, Ralphie-boy Hobbs. It’s often late in the afternoon when he puts on his little performance pieces and today, in a booming voice so everyone can hear, he asks Louisa, ‘What is the difference between a journalist and a reporter?’ Bit of theatre to cheer up the troops. But Louisa couldn’t care less. She’s about to make a phone call to the Lord Mayor to ask him about a councillor charged with something seamy involving council funds. She’s nervous and she’s written out her questions but as usual she’s got the order all screwed up and the good questions end up at the bottom of the list and as the time appointed for the phone call looms, she re-numbers but her nerves are as taut as a kite string. ‘Honestly, I would not know Ralphie,’ she snaps, looking down at her messy list. ‘I’m sorry, I’m still busy here you know.’
She’s impatient, but Ralphie’s pushing on with the joke. ‘Never mind love, must be that time of the month.’ Everyone laughs. ‘Take young Mr Keele here,’ he says and winks, ‘he’s a reporter because he’s got one suit. Now if he had two, he’d be a journalist.’
Weak laughter wafts through the newsroom and copy paper is scrunched and hurled at Keele. It’s that golden time of the afternoon when early deadlines have passed and the light sneaks in through the big smudgy windows and first thoughts of clearing off for the day arise. Today there’s a game of cricket with a taped-up copy paper ball and a cardboard bat and the news editor’s bin as stumps and sixes are carted all over the newsroom.
But Louisa still isn’t finished so she keeps her head down behind the shield of the upturned typewriter and tosses the paper ball back without looking when it lands on her desk. She does the phone interview with the hostile Lord Mayor and he calls her impertinent and hangs up on her so all is not in vain. When she looks up, it’s like coming up for air. She manages to read back her notes, which is unusual. Sydney wants five pars just to cover themselves so she files.
It shocks her later that night when John Keele is waiting for her downstairs in the circle of light out the front. She steps back when she sees him, understanding instantly that the time of looks is over. ‘Come for a drink Lou?’ he asks, and in the bright light she sees his one suit is shiny and creased; but still, it is thrilling to be so close to him. This Keele person seems like someone I know, she thinks, someone I’ve always known.
In the corner of the drab smoky pub they sit on high stools at a round table away from the others from The Ant who are already running a shop on the likelihood of a match. John Keele talks about music and poetry.
He puts a glass of paint-stripper wine on the table before her and says, ‘That’ll put hairs on your chest,’ and blushes then yanks opens a bag of chicken-flavoured chips way too hard and spills them over the sticky table like so many communion wafers. Louisa picks one up, eats it and smiles.
After a silence, acutely observed and snickered over by the comrades at the bar, John wants to know her favourite book. She surprises herself by saying Alice in Wonderland which is the truth but she instantly wishes she’d gone for something cooler. She smiles and sips wine.
He drinks Coopers beer from South Australia because that’s where he’s from. Men and beer, she thinks, and a mild wave of nausea catches her. John laughs at some of the things she says and thinks she’s kidding when she describes her father as a psychopathic maniac. ‘You are an absolute riot Louisa, who would have thought it,’ he says, grinning like a happy schoolboy. She sips the turpentine wine and thinks, this is not going so well.
He talks about his poetry and then about his mother’s heart disease and he seems caring and tender and, almost against her will, she finds herself noticing his fine hands, his wide wrists and his raw mouth; and then her heart is beating way too hard. This is no good. She gets up to leave, gathering bag and coat fast. ‘Goodbye,’ she says, brushing chip crumbs away, ‘I’ve got to get home.’ And she’s gone, leaving the chorus of comrades smirking at John until he joins them with tales from the front.
Walking to the train, almost running, she tries to work out what has just happened. Whatever it is, this cannot be good because when he speaks to me, she thinks, I feel empty. Empty and full. As if I had so much room to hear him, as if listening were a whole new thing. What is it? she asks herself. What is this thing that’s going on? Later, she will recognise that it was his kindness that got her.
The next day on her muddled desk with its fossilised phone numbers and addresses and mugs lined with mysterious festering layers, there’s a small brown paper parcel tied with string. Her name is written gracefully in black ink. She smiles. Seeing her name in print always gives her a jolt, makes Louisa feel real, that if someone’s written it down, there must be a person to match. Vain idiot, she mutters to herself, open the damn thing.
Still in her coat but slowly, to stretch the moment, she opens the parcel to find a very old copy of Alice in Wonderland. It can only be from John Keele. On the title page he’s written a quote from Alice: ‘He was part of my dream, of course ... but then I was part of his dream too.’