short story

Water Levels

‘Do you have any salads?’

‘Just what’s there.’

Lyn eyed the curling sandwiches in the service station fridge. They looked old enough for salmonella colonies to have set up their own websites. If Philip thought she was going to risk her digestive health just because he was peckish then boss or no boss, it was well past time he learned the benefits of fasting. She pulled her head out of the fridge, closing the door reluctantly on the cool air inside. Immediately, her sunglasses resumed their sweaty slide down her nose.

Through the grimy window, she saw that Philip was at the pump. She grabbed a few packets of nuts and a health bar. By the cash register, there was a stand advertising bottled water but it was empty.

‘Sold out yesterday.’ The man must have had eyes in the back of his head. He stared fixedly at the news coverage.

Lyn went back to the fridge. Three bottles of milk with a use-by date from over a week ago, a six-pack of carbonated sugar and a lone orange juice in a carton that looked soggy at the corners. She grabbed the juice and heaved the six-pack onto the counter. Damn, another nail broken. It was the second that day, what with clambering about Copeton Dam after Philip while he inspected whatever it was that engineers thought was important for dam safety. What she would have given to have waited in the car with the air-conditioning the whole time they were there.

It was only as she waited for her change that she paid attention to the television. The running banner along the bottom of the screen was the usual alarmist rubbish: floods, evacuations, riots. But Philip said everything would be all right and, since he was the Director of the Dam Safety Committee of the New South Wales’ Department of Water, she believed him. She’d been his assistant since the old days when the office of the Committee was a musty old cupboard in the back of Parramatta. Now, the Parramatta embankment stood as the flagship in their extensive levee building program and Philip headed a staff of over three thousand. Lyn smiled to think that she too had played her part. If only the left-wing media agitators going on about rising sea levels would give credit where it was due, then the world would know the Committee’s true worth.

She was still glowing with the thought as she stowed the snacks in the glove box.

Philip was still at the bowser. ‘Is that all you got?’ He frowned.

‘They didn’t have much. Anyway, we can stop on the way for something else to eat. Bundarra’s close, isn’t it?’

She could have given him the distance in kilometres. She’d planned the itinerary down to the last detail, as usual. It was her special skill. However, it was always better to let Philip think he knew more. Decision-making, that was his domain.

‘Well, I want to be over Barrington Tops before it gets dark.’

There was a loud clunk and the bowser sputtered into silence.

‘What the hell?’ Philip turned to look back to the service station.

The sign on the door had been switched to ‘Closed’.

Philip hooked the hose back into place with a shrug. ‘Friendly sorts, these locals.’

He slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. ‘Half a tank. We’ll need to get more at Bundarra.’

‘On the upside,’ Lyn said soothingly as Philip spun the wheels on the gravel exit to the roadway, ‘we didn’t have to pay for the petrol. That’s a saving.’

Philip was always looking for savings on the Committee’s budget these days. There’d been mutterings that he was being considered as the next Head of the Department of Water, he’d confided only last week.

Philip didn’t reply. He was driving fast.

Lyn tightened her seat-belt.

Neither spoke till Philip screeched to a stop outside the Bundarra general store. Its closed sign hung loosely from the doorknob on frayed piece of string. They got out, looking up and down the deserted street. Philip rapped at the store door.

‘What?’ The door opened a crack, and a suspicious eye peered at them.

‘I know it’s Friday,’ said Philip, ‘but don’t you want any business?’

Lyn feared that he was going to put his foot in the door. ‘We’re just after some food, that’s all,’ she began.

‘No food,’ said the man, slamming the door.

They heard him call out to someone else inside. ‘Just blow-ins. No, I didn’t give them anything. It’s got to be Tablelanders only, with what’s just happened.’

‘What’s happened?’ asked Philip, fishing out his phone. Whoever he was calling didn’t answer. ‘Something’s up. My ex is a right piece of work, but she’s too addicted to her phone not to answer it.’ He banged on the door again. ‘Hey, you in there. What is it? The least you can do is tell us. We’re not leaving till you do.’ His face was purpling in the heat.

As he lifted his arm to pound the door again, Lyn saw the damp stain pooling under the armpit of his crisp business shirt.

‘It’s that levee at Parra-bloody-matta,’ came the man’s voice through the door. ‘Busted. That’s it for Sydney — wiped clean.’

Short Story: The leap not taken

The wintry twilight was closing in and the ferry to Manly heaved and rolled past the Heads. Back when Ned was a junior clerk, he had stood with the other fellows, feet astride, balancing on the outer deck as the ferry dipped and rose through the swell. It had been a matter of pride not to hold on to anything. Older now, he still took the ferry from the city and his cronies from the office still congregated outside, their hats and caps jauntily tipped back on their heads. But Ned sat inside, his winter overcoat buttoned up, his fedora hat tilted low, to keep the worst of the chill off his exposed ears.

As the ferry approached the wharf, the wind was rising and the waves pitched and tossed. Anxious to get home, passengers folded their newspapers and rose to gather close to sliding doors, packed in so tightly they swayed as one.

All eyes were fixed on the ferrymen standing outside on the deck. Broad shouldered, cigarettes lodged in the corner of their mouths, they looped the sodden rope through their hardened hands, ready to lasso the bollards on the wharf. The tide was low and the wharf loomed high above them, casting the outer deck into gloom. The echo of the seething waves rushed through the pylons barely visible in the darkness under the wharf. Until the ferrymen secured the boat, they couldn’t heave the gangplanks into position. The young lads waited, one foot stretched up to the rail, ready to leap up to the wharf, too impatient to wait for the gangplanks. Over the grinding chug of the engines, they called out, urging each other on, one eye calculating the distance, the other on the women still inside. ‘See, I’m not just a boring office clerk in the city’ their actions boasted.

As the boat rose, the ferrymen cast their ropes.

Missed. With a thwack the sodden ropes fell back against the gunnel.

The ferrymen cursed, coiling back the heavy ropes.

Behind the sliding door, Ned checked his watch. The 144 bus would be leaving any minute. He peered through the salt-misted window, watching his fellow clerk Frank jostle for position with the young lads on the outer deck. He tutted under his breath. When he got home he would tell his wife about Frank’s delusions of youth. That might liven her up a little. Marjorie seemed—he didn’t know quite how to describe it—a bit down. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled. Or the last time she’d cooked something other than macaroni cheese. A chap wasn’t asking too much was he, to have some variety in his dinner?

Marjorie used to like taking a trip on the ferry. From their back verandah they could see out toward North Head. If the water was rough they’d see the ferry rolling and heaving its way into Manly and they’d walk for half an hour to get down to the wharf and buy a return ticket just for the fun of it. How her face had lit up when they’d done that. She’d tuck her arm in his and chatter the whole way home, sharing her thrill at her new life by the sea, so far from her life back on the family property in the dry flat plains.

Perhaps Frank felt him staring, for he turned to look back, grinning and lifting his briefcase by way of a wave. Or was he mocking him? Everything was a joke to Frank. It made the hours in their office cubicle very tedious.

Nettled, Ned set his jaw and edged forward between the other passengers. Stepping outside, the wind blasted him full in the face threatening to lift his hat. He clamped one hand on top. It wouldn’t do to lose it. That wasn’t the sort of story that would make Marjorie smile, not when the cost of a new hat would cut even further into the housekeeping. They’d hoped he’d have been promoted by now, but old Simmons had intimated that perhaps at the end of the financial year, but the financial year had come and gone, and nothing had been said.

Again the ferrymen threw.

Again they missed.

Again they swore.

Silhouetted in the lights from the wharf, Frank was up on the rail, one hand on the floor of the upper deck for balance. ‘Watch me’, said his grin.

The ferry lifted with the next wave and Frank teetered for a moment, as the lads jeered, ‘Come on grandad, show us what you’ve got.’

Ned watched as Frank—a suited, hatted Nureyev—hung suspended mid-air.

‘He’s not gonna make it!’ shouted one of the onlookers.

With a crash, the waves sucked back and the distance between the ferry and the wharf doubled.

Ned, along with the other passengers, leaned over the rail, searching for any sign of Frank in the churning foam.

Then the water surged again and the ferry rolled towards the wharf.

He held his breath waiting for the boat to roll back away. For one dreadful moment, only Frank’s bowler hat was visible in the foam. But then his briefcase followed, still gripped tightly in his hand. And then his head emerged, spitting a spume of water from his mouth.

The lads bent double laughing and the other passengers cackled in relief.

Once more the ferry yawed away from the wharf and Ned leaned over the railing, trying to catch sight of Frank.

The ferryman gave him a shove. ‘Out of the way,’ he yelled, heaving the rope up to the wharf to loop the iron bollard at last.

Ned waited, heart pounding, as the ferrymen roped and made the ferry fast. The gangplank thudded into place at his feet, and he was pushed forward by the press of passengers. Even now, with the ferry tied up, the rise and fall of the water skewed the gangplank this way and that. He fought to stare down to the water as the gangplank groaned and creaked under their feet. There! Behind the barnacled pylon, a hand. Then in the shadows, bowler hat back on his head, Frank emerged, clumsily swimming his way to the next pylon.

Reaching the safe stability of the wharf, Ned picked up his pace. Wouldn’t want to miss his bus – Marjorie would have dinner waiting.

A sploshing sound from behind caught him mid-step. Frank had made it to the beachside pool and climbed the stairs to the street. His suit was sodden and his wet footprints tracked along the concrete but, with a flourish, he lifted his dripping bowler in acknowledgement of the scattered applause of his fellow passengers.

When Ned arrived home, he told Marjorie all about it as he forced down the macaroni cheese. He’d thought to amuse her. When he finished, she didn’t comment, just rose to clear away the dishes.

He made one last attempt. ‘Well, you wouldn’t catch me doing such thing, now would you?’ he snorted.

Her hand brushed his shoulder. ‘No, you would never do such a thing,’ she said, her voice tinged with disappointment.

________

This short story was tucked away in a drawer for a long while but I figure it’s time to drag it out into the light of day. Hope you like it!

The Essentials

Miss Solly locked her bag into the lower drawer of her desk and clipped the key on the chain about her neck. She removed the dustcover from her computer and folded it into three before tucking it out of sight. She exhaled slowly. Mr Alexander Svaric, today’s applicant, would be here any minute—or should be, if he had any chance of being appointed. Brandon & Co Detective Agency had to find someone suitable soon or they’d be out of business and thirty years of her working life would disintegrate to a one-line resumé item.

Three floors below, Alex Svaric pushed his way past piles of uncollected mail by the doorway. He had heard glowing reports of the agency—all the biggest clients and the best jobs—so he’d expected lots of chrome with piped music in the elevators. Instead, he gasped his way up three flights of narrow unrenovated stairs. The musty smell increased with each level. Fresh air hadn’t filtered its way into this office block since last century.

Outside the door to the agency, he smoothed his hair and adjusted his tie. Mentally he rehearsed his pitch. His police training had been cut short when he was head-hunted for an elite unit in the armed services. Now it was time for fresh challenges. That was it—snappy tone, positive, forward looking—it didn’t do to dwell.

On entering, Alek’s second disappointment was the receptionist. He’d pictured a chatty blonde who’d appreciate a break and would give him some ideas about what might go down well with the boss. Women thought him handsome—though he knew that was mainly to do with his height and build. His nose had been broken so many times that, these days, he shot for rogue-like charisma instead of pretty boy. The job would be his in a heartbeat. Nice of him, really, to give Brandon & Co the opportunity to have him.

The woman behind the desk would have been fifty on a good day and, by the look on her face, today wasn’t that day. She peered over her bifocals by way of a greeting.

“Alek Svaric’s the name.” He flashed a grin. “You’re looking at the agency’s next best detective.”

The gargoyle surveyed him for a long moment. “Our next detective, or the next best one?”

“Ha.” The smile slid off his face. “I’m due to meet with your boss, Mr Brandon, at nine.” He emphasised ‘your boss’. Put the bitch back in her box.

She inclined her head toward the chairs.

He sat.

And sat.

Rapid-fire clicks came from the old dragon’s keyboard. Every so often, the clicking would stop, only to be replaced by the soft tick of the clock on the wall. Nine-thirty, then ten o’clock came and went.

Might as well check his emails while he waited. He foraged in his pocket for his phone. The damn suit must’ve shrunk; he didn’t know why he’d bothered getting it cleaned. He slid his butt forward on the seat of the wooden chair, sucked his stomach in and eased his hand into the pocket. The tips of his fingers fumbled with his phone—it was chunky and heavy. He needed to update—if he got the job, that is.

He stabbed at the screen. No signal.

No internet reception? How did this place get its reputation?

Perhaps the office was shielded in some way. He stared at the stony-faced woman—when she wasn’t tapping like some demented woodpecker, she was sliding the mouse. Then she’d pause and flick her thumb, slip and slide, another pause, another flick—right-click this time, her wrist jerk barely perceptible. Yes, she was on the net, all right. So that made sense—security conscious, with restricted internet access only.

He put his phone away.

Eleven o’clock. Had she even let the boss know he was there?

He cleared his throat. Before he’d uttered a word, the beady eyes were upon him.

“Mr Brandon has been delayed.”

“I’ll come back another day,” he said, standing. Why didn’t she tell him this two hours ago?

Her stare lasted for what seemed like a full minute.

“You could try that.”

It was a dare. Leave now and kiss the job goodbye. Well, he’d show her; he would wait. He’d been in a lot of waiting rooms over the last twelve months. Maybe it’d be for nothing, but he’d be damned if he’d give up.

With each tick of the clock, the sides of the room pressed in further. No paintings on the walls. Just wood panelling, interrupted by mottled glass partitions. Gold lettering on the door to the right of the reception desk— probably Mr Brandon’s office. The office on the other side was unoccupied. Behind the glass he made out the blurred shadows of cardboard boxes piled in a discarded heap. An office of his own, that’d be the way to go. But a job in an agency this well-known would have a shed load of applicants. Most private investigators only got casual work—that was the way of things these days, but the advert had said permanent full-time and it had appeared for weeks now. So, were they being picky, or did the other applicants think better of the deal after they’d seen the place?

One o’clock. What he’d give for a drink. He was parched. Dehydrated, no doubt, from last night. God, he’d put a few away. He’d settle for water now though. He ran his furry tongue across his teeth, imagining how it would feel to stick his head under a tap and let the water flow into his open mouth.

With the image, came a responsive twitch from his bladder. Don’t think about it. He wasn’t going to put his hand up like a kid in class and ask the schoolmarm to be excused to take a leak. Think about something else.

The typing stopped. The woman removed a plastic container from behind the desk. She snapped the lid open, took out a small plastic fork and speared a lettuce leaf. The leaf disappeared into her jaws, two crunches and the fork dived again. He was almost grateful for the diversion. Finished, she rose and walked briskly through a small doorway at the far end of the office.

There’d be a toilet in the office washroom, he thought. This was his chance—he’d duck out and be back before she knew he’d gone. He was half-way to his feet when she returned.

Fed and watered, the snow-queen seemed—or perhaps he was imagining it—marginally less ice-bound. It was worth a shot.

“So, how would it be,” he asked—no grin this time, keep things respectful, “if I left my resumé for Mr Brandon to look at when he’s free?”

Her expression was placid.

Encouraged, he continued. “I’m sure he’s eager to fill the position, given the time it’s been vacant.” He paused, indicating the empty office with the cardboard boxes. “You could give me a call or email and let me know when he’d be sure to be available.”

She nodded, picked up the phone and pressed a button.

The door to her right opened a crack. Mr Brandon was the sort of man who would pass unremarked in a crowd. He had lips so thin that, when he talked, his mouth movements were only visible by a wandering line like an old cartoon character.

“Come in, Mr Svaric. At last, we meet.”

When five o’clock came around, Miss Solly could still hear the men’s murmured voices from behind the partition. She draped the dustcover over the computer, unclipped her key and retrieved her bag.

The selection of candidates took a long time, she thought, but, as Mr Brandon always said, there were three criteria that made a good detective and every one of the criteria had to be met to meet the agency’s standards. Punctuality and persistence, of course. Third, there was flexibility—things didn’t always go according to plan in following a case.

The handle turned and Mr Brandon ushered the candidate out of his office. Mr Brandon’s thin lips creased into an upturned crescent moon.

“Mr Svaric will be joining us from tomorrow, Miss Solly. I leave the arrangements to you,” he said and disappeared back into his office.

Despite the news, Svaric’s body was tense.

Miss Solly jerked her head toward the door. “Conveniences on the ground floor; first left down the hall. We’ll see you tomorrow—nine o’clock sharp.”

He didn’t wait for her to finish. Walking fast with his thighs clamped together, he bolted for the door.

Mr Brandon’s three criteria for selecting a detective were all very well. But, Miss Solly mused, stakeouts were often long, and people being followed could not be relied upon to stay in one place long enough to allow for comfort stops. It was her fourth criterion that was the clincher.