Chapter Eleven
DAN
Sunlight creeps into my bedroom, where I’m quickly reminded that I forgot to close the curtains last night when I got home from the supper club. One too many canapes. Probably one too many wines at the festival yesterday as well.
Salem sinks his teeth into my wrist when he finds out I’m awake, and I flinch in the same way I always do when he has a moment of feline rage.
‘Owww, did you need to do that?’ I raise my voice at him. He gives me this look, as if to say he doesn’t know what he just did. ‘Making me bleed again, little man. Good thing I love you, even though I’m your punching bag.’
While I’m on the balcony drinking a coffee and reading, I hear Ruby, Chloe, and Jake in the car park below, voices echoing against the stone walls.
They must be heading off to the Gold Coast for the weekend.
I’m kind of glad they didn’t ask me to join them – I’ve had plenty of socialising this week.
My only plans for the weekend are to clean the house and go for a grocery shop, the latter being a top priority, granted my fridge is empty.
On my walk to IGA, I spot the early morning runners on the Riverwalk from Howard Smith Wharves, as well as people brunching away at cafés.
As much as I’d like to treat myself with a ten-dollar croissant accompanied by a seven-dollar coffee, my finances say otherwise.
Untold Media pays monthly, so I have to live off what I have now until the end of June.
And after reserving money for rent and groceries, I’m not left with much.
Good thing I’m satisfied with spending weekends alone, which is what I prepare for when filling my basket with groceries in the supermarket.
Meals for one: check – a butter chicken curry on the menu for tonight, portioned into several meals for days to come.
Cat food for Salem: check. The cheaper of us to feed, and the one who doesn’t have to work for it.
As I’m browsing the aisle for tomato paste, an elderly woman brushes past me with her walker and begins to reach for some pasta. Her short height, however, has the packet out of reach, so I extend my hand for it, struck with a realisation that I’ve seen this woman before.
‘Jean? Hey!’ I say, my face lighting up like it would on visits to see Grandma Jo on trips to the Dandenong Ranges.
‘Oh.’ Jean springs back, caught off guard. ‘Dan, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ I point to the packet of pasta still sitting on the shelf. ‘This one?’
‘Indeed, dear. That’s the one. Thank you.’
I place the pasta packet in her basket. ‘Totally fine. How are you?’
‘About as good as I can be, dear. I read three books this week, so it kept me occupied. Is the new job treating you well?’
The cogs in my brain begin to whir as I think. It’s been a weird week, sure, namely with the whole Kallen thing. But it’s also been a productive one, and both mixed together prove that perhaps it was a successful first week.
‘It is, yeah,’ I tell Jean. ‘I’m enjoying it.’
‘That’s good to hear, dear,’ she says as we approach the check-out line. ‘Hey, I know you probably have other plans today, but if you’re free, I would love your help with something.’ She shakes her face in hesitation. ‘Never mind. It’s silly of me to ask.’
‘No, it’s not silly at all. What did you need help with?’
She goes to speak but stops herself. ‘It’s a…long story. Would you mind if we spoke about it back at my place? I’ll put on a cuppa for us and some cake I got from the bakery this morning…if you’re free, of course, no pressure.’
What could she need help with from me? Fixing or moving something perhaps. Uncertainty strikes in the form of a lump in my throat. ‘Uh…sure. I’m free today.’
‘Great!’ Jean pushes out a breath of relief. ‘Well, thank you, dear. Um, anytime this afternoon.’
‘Sounds good,’ I say as the cashier calls us over now that we’re at the front of the line.
We pay for our groceries, Jean tucks her bags into the basket of her walker, and we amble up Brunswick Street together.
‘Did you want me to bring anything over?’ I ask her. ‘I don’t have any tools or anything since I just moved in.’
‘No, it’s not that kind of help,’ she calls back, continuing onto Kent Street while I stay on the corner.
What on earth is happening today? I thought it was going to be a ‘chill on the couch with Salem’ kind of day, yet here I am, about to go drop my groceries off, read for a bit, have lunch, then go over to Jean’s place for tea, cake, and what – bond over books?
I’m not complaining if that’s the case. Plus, Jean seems sweet.
Maybe she just wants some company, and her asking for help is a way to get me to come over and hang out.
Also, not complaining, because I could do with more friends.
When I reach her house, at just after two in the afternoon, I’m reminded of how well-kept and beautiful her garden is, with flowers lining the house.
English Daisies. They were Grandma Jo’s favourite too.
Another thing I notice is the plaque hanging next to the front door which reads: There’s nowhere like Nanna’s .
A sombreness washes over me, and I smile because of the truth in its words.
I knock on the front door, and Jean calls out from inside. ‘Dan?’
‘Yeah!’ I call back, in an almost-tune.
‘Come in, dear. I’m just in the kitchen.’
I do so, taking my shoes off at the front door. The space where the bookshelf used to be is now dust-free, replaced with a table full of scattered papers and manila folders, as if the working space for an investigation.
Not one to be nosy, I wander into the kitchen to see Jean wearing an apron. The kitchen is filled with a rosemary and thyme aroma, making me slightly hungry, even though I just ate lunch .
‘Whatcha cooking in here?’ I ask her.
‘I got inspired to make a roast for tonight, which is terribly silly of me, considering I’m only cooking for myself.’
‘I was going to make a curry for dinner tonight, but that smells amazing,’ I say, hiding a smirk. ‘Maybe I’ll have to stay for dinner too.’
‘Oh, please do, dear. I don’t know why I do this to myself.’
‘How long have you lived here on your own?’
‘Oh, just over twenty years now, after my late husband passed away. So now, I do freeze a lot of things, which makes for easy dinners.’
‘I do the same. It’s efficient.’
‘Your parents have taught you well,’ she says with raised brows, grabbing the kettle and pouring a pot of tea.
‘I guess they did. Talking about baked dinners, though. My nan used to make them for us all the time. They were her specialty.’
‘Is that right? Well, your nan and I have a lot in common. She still around?’
‘No. She passed away about three years ago now.’
‘Sorry to hear that, love.’
‘No, it’s okay. She made it to ninety-five, which was amazing.’
‘ Ninety-five?! ’ Jean raises her voice. ‘For heaven’s sake. I hope I don’t make it that long. But I’m glad she got a long life and lots of love, I hope.’
‘She did.’ I pause as moisture multiplies in my eyes.
‘How old do you think I am?’ she asks.
‘Uh…maybe like…seventy? ’
Jean points a finger at me. ‘You’re close. Seventy-seven. And before you say I’m looking good for my age, I don’t want to hear it.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ I say, following her to the round mahogany dining table in the room one over, holding a carrot cake on a tray while Jean carries the pot of tea and cups.
‘Good,’ she says, pulling up a chair as I do the same. ‘I know I’m getting old.’
‘Have you lived a good life?’ I ask her when she pushes a cup of tea in front of me.
She pours herself a cup and mixes sugar in it with a spoon, then looks at me with a smile and a wink. ‘Like you wouldn’t believe. Which brings me to that thing I mentioned back in the supermarket. But first, I want to know more about you. About your writing in particular. You seem…special.’
I scrunch my nose up. ‘Oh, I’m pretty ordinary, I like to think.’
‘You can be special and ordinary, though,’ Jean says. ‘The two aren’t so far-flung from each other.’
I’m not sure what to say to this, so I just smile and take a sip of my tea. ‘Mmm, it’s good.’
Her gaze flicks to her cup. ‘Yes, it’s a beautiful black tea blend I found at the markets a few weeks ago. That’s one thing I love about Brisbane – we have lots of markets, and I can’t seem to get enough.’
‘I’ll have to go sometime,’ I say, remembering how much I loved going to the markets in Melbourne.
‘There’s one down at the Powerhouse every Saturday,’ she tells me. ‘But mind y ou, if you’re anything like me, I can’t help myself at those markets. End up buying all these nice things for myself.’
‘Yeah, I guess I can’t afford it right now.’ My head goes downcast. ‘But maybe when I get paid, I’ll get a little treat for myself. Like some of this tea.’
She smiles. ‘I’ll give you some to take home, dear.’
‘Oh, thank you, that’s so kind of you.’
‘So, have you always wanted to be a writer?’ Jean then asks.
‘Uh, yeah. Ever since I was young, I guess. Would always write these made-up news stories and TV show episodes, and all that. And then I went to uni and went into journalism and haven’t looked back.’
‘I’d imagine you would’ve come across some interesting stories and people in journalism, right?’
‘I have, yeah. There’s always something happening. Good and bad. I guess it’s nice in my current job not having all the bad stuff in my face as much.’
‘Yeah, the news on the telly seems like it’s all doom and gloom sometimes. Well, a lot of the time.’
I huff out a sigh. ‘Yeah, well, doom and gloom sells.’
‘Have you ever thought about writing a book?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, sometimes. I just…have never found the time. Or a story I feel driven to write. Maybe one day.’
She exhales deeply from her nostrils. ‘I’m looking for someone to…write my story.’
‘Oh really? Like, your life story?’
‘Yes,’ she says assuredly. ‘I want something to leave with my family. A story for them to pass down through genera tions. Now, there is a company that offers this service to people like me, who want their life stories written. But they sent out two writers, and I couldn’t seem to connect with them.
I’m an introvert like that, you see. Unless I connect with someone, I hardly speak. ’
‘I’m the same, and fair enough, there would be a lot of trust involved there.’ I nurse my cup of tea as a cool breeze blows in from the back door.
‘Yeah, it was a shame, but it’s a lot of money to spend on something written by someone I don’t trust.’ Jean pauses, looking out the window, presumably for wisdom on what to say next.
‘I want to pay you to write my story, Dan. I was thinking about it when I first met you, but seeing you in the supermarket today was a sign, I believe. Something has brought you – a writer – into my life.’ She looks over to a photo of her and her husband hanging above the dining table. ‘Might’ve been him.’
My cheeks scrunch to my eyes. ‘I don’t know, Jean. I haven’t written anything longer than fifteen hundred words in a very long time.’
‘You don’t have to rush it. We could work through it each week, or even once a month,’ she explains.
‘But I would pay you by the hour. Could be some extra money on weekends, when we sit down and chat about my life. I’d pay you for the interviewing time and the writing time, of course.
But I don’t want to intrude on your schedule. It’s just a thought.’
‘It’s not that, it’s just…’ I honestly can’t come up with an excuse as to why, because I could do with the extra money. It’s not like I have a social life right now, either. And to be fa ir, I’ve only known Jean for a short while, but her presence is calming. Home kind of calming.
‘Are you sure you want me to write your story?’ I ask.
She lifts her cup of tea. ‘About as sure as my decision to fill my fucking house with books, dear.’
In the years I’ve been writing professionally, never would I have thought that my words go beyond news coverage, a story that takes no more than an hour to complete, forgotten about by the fourth story after it.
Now, I’m being asked to write about someone’s life, and not in the short format I’ve been used to since becoming a journalist. While I feel the fear rumble inside, curiosity also begins to make itself heard.
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘Okay?’
‘Okay. But how long do you want this project to be? Are you thinking like a book length?’
‘Oh, no dear, not a novel length.’ She giggles. ‘I wouldn’t want to bore you to the death. Maybe a short novella length would do it.’
‘Okay.’ I search what the word count is on a short novella. ‘So, like, around fifteen thousand words?’
‘I think that’s plenty of words.’
‘And what kind of theme would we focus on? What part of your life do you want to be written? I guess it’d be good to start there, to work out what kind of story we want to write here.’
Jean’s lips stretch further across her cheeks, and after a long moment, she says, ‘It’s a love story.’