Australian Dreams

Derek looked up and turned in his chair, startled. His face was clouded in confusion for a split second before reddening. It was as though he’d been caught stuffing company stationery into his briefcase.

He glanced down at a small pile of business-sized envelopes in front of him before roughly shoving them out of sight under some papers. Definitely caught doing personal business on company time, Claire thought smugly.

‘Claire, please,’ he said, sweeping an arm toward a vacant chair.

‘Thanks.’ Claire went in and sat down at the small round low table, part of the new ‘touchy feely’ concept in working environments at Rockford.

‘Did you enjoy your time off? Successful week away with the gee-gees?’

‘Um, yes, not bad. Something I can help you with, Claire? I’m rather snowed under…’

Claire was annoyed. It was all right for him to stand at her desk fiddling with her bits and pieces, but now when the tables were turned she was getting the royal hurry on. Bloody typical.

But she wasn’t going to let it get to her – she was on the cusp of two glorious weeks away. Nothing could ruin that now, not even Derek and his double standards. Claire smiled sweetly at him, got up, flapped her leave form theatrically and laid it on the desk in front of him.

‘What’s this?’

‘Leave form, Derek.’

‘Yes, I can see that, but you said…’ He ran a hand through his hair.

‘I decided you were absolutely right – I need a break. So as of this afternoon, if you agree, of course, you’re rid of me for two whole weeks.’

‘Great,’ Derek groaned, and closed his eyes.

‘I’m touched by your concern, Derek, but don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it.’

‘What a mess,’ he murmured, barely audible.

‘I don’t know what your problem is, it was your idea.’

‘This,’ he said, reaching over to the small pile of envelopes he’d hidden moments before. He removed the top one and handed it to her.

Claire stared at her full name in bold black type: ‘Claire McIntyre’.

‘What’s this? Party invite?’ she laughed. She looked back up at Derek, whose face was now an ashy shade of salmon. His lips were in a grim line. He nodded to the envelope in her hands and she looked back down at it: the words ‘Private and Confidential’ were in large uppercase print and underlined twice, at the top left. How could she have missed it? Claire had seen similar envelopes before, but had never been handed one with her own name on it. She knew what it was but just couldn’t seem to grasp it.

‘What is it?’ she asked, brow knitted in genuine confusion.

‘You’d better open it,’ Derek said with a sigh.

Claire knew if she did her life would never be the same again, just like the night she’d opened the door to the police. She didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to know.

‘No, I don’t want to,’ Claire said, sounding almost child-like. Her hands were already beginning to sweat, her vision blurring.

‘Come on, you have to some time.’

No I don’t, Claire thought. What are you going to do? Hold me down, jack my eyelids open with toothpicks, have me arrested for not opening a letter?

‘It might not be so bad,’ Derek offered.

But Claire disagreed. In her experience, good news came in person or by phone and bad news came by mail. Except, she found herself correcting, when it came to really bad news – like the phone call about Jack’s accident. Or really really bad news – like the police knocking on her door at one o’clock in the morning to tell her that her husband was dead. There were exceptions to everything.

‘You can’t fire me, I haven’t had any warnings, and my performance…’

‘Claire, just open the damn envelope.’

He was right: she was just delaying the inevitable. There was no way it could be the worst news she’d received that year. Claire carefully prised the seal apart and pulled out the folded sheet of Rockford letterhead. She held her breath as she straightened it.

She sighed at seeing ‘Redundancy Offer’. Okay, she thought with relief, it’s an offer. She tried to scan the following text but her eyes refused to focus. After a few moments pretending to read, she passed the sheet across to Derek and sat back with arms folded.

‘Sorry, no deal.’

‘Claire, this is not a game – you don’t have a choice.’

‘Why not?’ Suddenly all Claire’s experience of middle management had left her and she was just like any other bewildered employee trying to hold on to her job.

‘Claire, you know why not.’ Derek was rubbing his face, clearly exasperated.

‘No, it says there “redundancy offer”. And I think you’ll find the dictionary meaning of “offer” is “to present for acceptance or rejection”.’

Derek blinked twice while he processed what she’d said, and then glared at her.

‘Don’t be a smart arse, Claire. It doesn’t suit you. And being difficult is really not going to help the situation.’

‘Difficult, Derek? I’ll be as difficult as I bloody well like. I’m about to lose my job, my final shred of security. Kick me while I’m down, why don’t you?’

‘I know and I’m sorry, I really am.’ Derek stared at his fingers in his lap.

‘Not sorry enough to stop this.’ She jabbed a finger at the piece of paper.

‘Please, Claire, don’t shoot the messenger,’ he said wearily.

‘You could have stopped this. I don’t know how, but you could have.’ Claire’s eyes flashed at him.

Derek looked back down at his desk. ‘Claire, for the record, I did actually try. If you’d been on leave like I suggested, you couldn’t have been made redundant.’

‘Oh, so it’s my fault now.’

‘And if you look at the figures, you’ll find the offer is well above…’

‘This is not about the money, Derek.’

‘Of course it is, Claire. It’s not personal. The new CEO is just making his mark by changing the organisational structure – it’s not about you.’

Claire shot him an indignant glare.

‘Just sign the bloody letter, take your time off, and then worry about it. You’ll have no trouble finding another job – I’ll do all I can to help.’

‘And if I don’t sign it?’

‘You will be fired. So that’s your choice – twelve months pay or two weeks.’

‘Fine!’ Claire snatched the piece of paper back, grabbed a pen from Derek’s holder, and roughly scrawled her signature. She got up, threw both pen and paper at Derek, and stalked towards the door.

‘Um, Claire?’

She wanted to keep walking and complete her grand exit, but something in Derek’s tone made her stop and turn. He was focussed on the desk in front of him.

‘I have to inform management and then you are to be escorted from the building. You have about forty minutes. Go back to your desk and pack your things,’ he said, unable to look her in the eye.

Claire sat in her car, panting from the exertion of holding her dignity together while being walked past her colleagues and underlings’ workstations flanked by two overweight, middle-aged security men who couldn’t have outrun a headless chicken if their jobs depended on it. She hated being the highlight of their day – possibly year – and especially despised the grim, authoritarian expressions that did little to hide their smugness.

Claire barely remembered the faces which had uttered vague messages of hope before bobbing back down, the acceptable length of time between curiosity and nosiness having expired. As she tramped down the hall, forced to keep the slow pace of the kitchener bun boys beside her, Claire just wished she could disappear.

On the passenger seat beside her was a box of personal items from her desk: clock, phone charger, photo frames, Keith’s snow dome. The security staff hadn’t stopped her throwing in the stress ball with the company logo – probably figured she’d be needing that.

She knew something major had happened but she didn’t understand how. She’d gone into Derek’s office to get her leave form signed. She was supposed to be excited about her freedom for the next two weeks, not jobless and terrified of her entire future. Jesus, how was she going to tell her father? Part of her was almost glad he was still unconscious and couldn’t say ‘I told you so’. He’d told her so many times that these sorts of people couldn’t be trusted, that she was just a means to an end, a way to make them more money. They didn’t care about her as a person. And as it turned out, he was right.

Claire left the car park for the last time with a sick sensation of going out into the big scary world. All those management texts said to look at redundancy as an opportunity, the potential start of an exciting new chapter – what a crock of shit! Claire felt a little guilty about the times she’d said these same words, and for those who had left her office looking brighter for them.

At the second set of traffic lights, her attention was caught by a billboard advertising an upcoming reality show: ‘SMILE, YOU’RE ON CANDID CAMERA!’

‘If only,’ she moaned.

Claire dropped her box on the kitchen bench, kicked her shoes off and threw herself on the sofa. Now what? She looked around for answers and spied the cordless phone on the tinted glass coffee table.

‘Hi Bernie, it’s me, Claire. Look, sorry to disturb you at work but…’ Claire’s voice cracked.

‘What! What’s happened? Are you okay?’

‘Um, actually no. I’ve just lost my job and…’ The lump in Claire’s throat exploded and the tears began to flow. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she sobbed. ‘I feel so lost… I was wondering if… well, if…’

‘Don’t be silly. Come straight up. Are you okay to drive?’

‘I think so.’

‘Come to the house, I’ll shut the shop.’

‘I don’t want to be a burden – I’m happy to wait. It’s just…’

‘I know, and don’t be ridiculous. What are friends for? Just throw together some clothes and toiletries and get in the car.’

‘Thanks, Bern.’

‘No worries. And Claire?’

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing is ever as bad as it first seems. I’ll see you soon – drive carefully.’

‘Thanks, I will.’

Claire had been on the phone less than a minute, but just hearing her friend’s voice was a big relief. She didn’t feel so alone, so out of control. She smiled ever so slightly through her drying tears. Trust Bernadette to take charge. At least now she had a plan for the next forty minutes: she was driving up the freeway to the Adelaide Hills.

Chapter Seven

By the time Claire arrived at Bernie’s house she was exhausted and dishevelled, as if she’d been physically fighting the goings-on in her head – the war the left and right hemispheres of her brain had been waging the whole way. She was still no more certain. Was the redundancy a good thing, a chance to take a breath and get her life back into order? Or was it the catastrophe she’d initially thought it was?

Bernadette ran down the steps, burgundy curls flying out like a cape behind her. Claire was quietly relieved at the prospect of shedding half her burden. She got out of the car, returned her best friend’s hug, and burst into tears.

After letting Claire cling to her for a few minutes, sobbing, Bernadette gently turned her to the house. ‘Come on in,’ she said.

Claire allowed herself to be helped like an invalid up the verandah steps and inside.

Bernie deposited her on the lounge and went out to boil the kettle. Claire listened to her friend pottering about in the kitchen and thought to offer help, but felt fused to her plush surroundings. Her head was fuzzy.

Bernadette brought in a tray with some mugs, a teapot, sugar, milk and a plate of homemade Anzac biscuits, and put it down on the coffee table.

Claire frowned. She could see but wasn’t really seeing; she could hear but it was a muffle somewhere in the depths of her brain. Distantly she realised Bernadette was pushing at her arm, almost hitting her. Claire shook her head, trying to shake the cotton wool from her ears and milky film from her eyes. She fought the urge to curl up and go to sleep, pretend this day hadn’t happened.

‘Here, drink this. I’ve put some sugar in it to help with the shock.’

Yes, that was what was going on. Shock. How could she have forgotten? Not so long ago she’d been in a similar state after news of Keith, and then, not quite so bad of course, her father.

‘Thanks,’ she said, accepting the mug. She wrapped her hands around it to try to draw its warmth into her. She took a tentative sip and ran the hot, sweet, milky liquid around her tongue before swallowing. She instantly felt comforted. No wonder tea was the first thing to come out in a crisis. Claire sighed and let herself relax slightly.

Bernadette, who had been watching and waiting for the right moment, spoke. ‘Now, starting from the beginning, tell me everything.’

Claire looked down into her cup, searching for the logical order of the day’s events.

‘Remember how I told you I’d finally decided to take some time off? Well I went into Derek’s office to get the form signed and instead I got handed my notice.’

‘He fired you, just like that?’

Claire took a sip of her tea. ‘Not fired, exactly: made redundant.’

‘Oh, well, that’s a whole different thing.’ Bernadette sighed and took a sip from her mug.

‘No, it’s not. Either way I’m out of a job with a big fat mortgage to pay. I can’t believe the bastard…’

‘Derek’s not the CEO, is he? Orders are bound to have come from higher up. I doubt Derek’s really to blame, as much as you want him to be.’

‘Jesus, Bernadette. Whose side are you on?’

‘Yours, of course. But Claire, you really need to get things into perspective. If you’ve been made redundant, that means you get a payout – and you’ve been there for ages.’

‘Twelve years, eight months, two weeks and three days to be precise – that’s what the “offer” says. What’s the point of calling it an offer if you don’t have a choice? Derek said I’d be fired if I didn’t take it. “Twelve months pay or two weeks, your choice.” The smug prick.’

‘I hope you took it,’ Bernadette said, eyeing Claire suspiciously.

‘Of course I bloody took it – I haven’t lost all my marbles.’

Bernadette visibly relaxed, sank back into the couch and put her feet on the coffee table. ‘Well, I don’t know what you’re so worked up about, except of course the initial shock.’

‘For a start, I’m jobless, Bernadette, with a mortgage I was having trouble paying alone in the first place. “It’s not personal,” he says. I could lose the roof over my head. How much more personal can you get?’

‘Claire, you haven’t lost your house.’

‘I might.’

‘You could always sell, move up here.’

‘And move into my parents’ house? Great, then I really will end up the old spinster with the house full of cats.’

‘You don’t have any cats.’

‘I’ll get some. But seriously, how humiliating.’

‘Why? Who would care anyway? Claire, people don’t waste as much time thinking about other people as we like to think. And Derek’s right, it’s not personal. Some bigwigs over in Sydney probably decided to do a shift and shuffle – people you probably haven’t even met.’

‘Are you sure you haven’t been speaking to him?’

‘Just because I’m not chained to a desk, doesn’t mean I don’t remember how these things work. Personally I’d be taking their dough, saying “thank you very much” and looking forward to the opportunities that are about to come your way.’

‘What if there are no opportunities?’

‘There always are. In a matter of months you’ll remember this conversation – actually, you probably won’t but don’t worry, I’ll remind you – and you’ll laugh at how paranoid you were because everything will have worked out for the best, it always does.’

‘I feel so lost.’

‘You just need a plan – a logical way forward.’

‘You’re right. Do you have Saturday’s career section still?’

‘Claire!’

‘What?’

‘Have you not listened to anything I’ve said?’

‘You said I need a plan, and my plan is to find another job so I can pay my mortgage.’

‘Would you shut up about your bloody mortgage?! With all the things that have happened to you this year, I would have thought you’d have learnt something.’

‘I have: that life could be over in a split second.’

‘Well thank Christ you’ve learnt that much.’

‘Which is why I’m going to live comfortably.’

‘Claire, forget the fucking money! Life is not just about money.’

‘There’s no need to swear at me. Just because you decided…’

‘This is not about me – I’m not the one who’s freaking out because she’s lost her job and can’t pay the mortgage.’

‘I’m not freaking out.’

‘Oh really?’ Bernadette looked at Claire with raised eyebrows.

Claire paused for a moment and rewound their conversation in her head. She took a deep breath and pushed some loose strands of hair from her face.

‘Sorry, you’re right, I am freaking out. But what else am I meant to do?’

‘Stop, regroup, have faith in yourself. Let the chips fall where they may.’

Bernadette grabbed a pen and lined pad from the pile of books on the coffee table. ‘Now, I’m going to make some notes for you to refer to whenever you start getting freaked. You mentioned twelve months pay, right?’

‘Yeah, about that. Why?’

Bernadette wrote as she continued. ‘So, in theory, you are actually gainfully employed for the next twelve months.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

‘No, because you were too busy freaking out.’

‘I guess so,’ Claire said, looking sheepish.

Bernadette ripped the top sheet from the pad and handed it over.

‘What’s this?’ Claire said, accepting it with a puzzled frown.

‘Read it.’

She opened it and couldn’t keep the grin from spreading across her face. In Bernadette’s large neat script were the words, I, Claire McIntyre, agree to take twelve months paid leave to recuperate from an extremely shitty year. Beginning today, October 7.

‘Do you agree to take said leave, and promise not to look for another office job for at least twelve months?’

‘Oh, well, um…’

‘Do you agree?’

‘Yes, all right. I agree.’ Claire laughed.

‘Right, now sign there at the bottom.’ Bernadette handed Claire the pen.

Claire signed the piece of paper and handed back the pen.

‘Now, keep that with you at all times.’

Claire nodded and reread the note before folding it and tucking it in the front pocket of her jeans.

‘Now I don’t have any jelly beans but I can, however, offer another cup of tea.’

Despite being exhausted and dropping off in front of the television, Bernadette and Claire remained in the lounge room until after midnight. Bernie didn’t want to leave her friend alone lest she fall back into being terrified of the future. Claire didn’t want to break the spell of feeling that things might just turn out okay after all. Without it being said, both knew this was one of those few occasions when it wasn’t safe to ‘sleep on it’. So they huddled at their respective ends of the three-seater sofa, pretending the movie was enthralling.

Their silent trance was shattered by the phone. Instinctively, the first thing they did was check their watches. Claire’s hand went to her pounding chest. Jesus, no! Not more bad news; not today, not tomorrow, not this year. Bernie’s eyes were wide as she untangled her legs and went to get the handset from the small hallstand.

Claire watched her friend’s back as she picked up the phone and answered, feeling guilty for bringing her bad karma to Bernadette’s home. She felt a strange sense of relief when she heard her say, ‘Yes, I’ll just get her for you.’ Maybe she hadn’t cursed her after all.

‘It’s for you, the hospital. Your mobile must be turned off,’ Bernadette said, handing her the phone. Claire’s stomach knotted in dreaded anticipation.

‘Hello, this is Claire McIntyre.’

‘Claire, my name’s Abby Lawson. I’m calling from the hospital. It’s about your father…’

Claire held her breath and crossed her fingers harder than she ever had before.

‘We thought you’d want to know straight away…’

‘Yes?’ Claire silently begged her to get it over with.

‘He’s woken up, just a few minutes ago.’

For a moment, Claire thought her bowels might let go. She took a gasping breath.

‘Ms McIntyre? Claire, are you there?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m here. Sorry. Oh, that’s great. Thank you so much for calling. What happened? Is he okay? What has he said? Should I come in?’

Nurse Lawson waited until Claire’s torrent ended. She’d obviously done this before. ‘He’s fine, calm, lucid. None the worse for wear as far as we can see. Of course, the doctor will have to confirm that in the morning. He seems to know who and where he is, and what year it is. But there was something odd – one of the first things he said after waking. Something about a paycheque. It might be something that’s come up from his past. But he was quite adamant that someone needed to find this lost paycheque. Does that make any sense to you?’

‘Yes,’ Claire sighed, smiling now. ‘Paycheque was one of his racehorses.’

‘Oh, right, well I guess that makes sense then. Look, I’d better get back to my other patients. I just wanted you to know.’

‘Thanks so much for calling.’

‘It’s my pleasure – nice to finally have some good news. Sorry for calling so late.’

‘No problem, it was worth it.’ Claire was about to hang up when she thought of something. ‘Nurse?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you please tell him I’ll be in to see him in the morning?’

‘Doctor will be doing his rounds until about ten, so if you come after that we’ll know more.’

‘Okay.’

‘Goodbye then.’

‘Goodbye, and thanks again.’

Claire put the phone down and looked at Bernadette. They stared at each other in wonder for nearly a full minute before grabbing at each other and whooping with delight like they used to do at the end of exams.

They slumped back onto the lounge, and almost immediately began yawning. Five minutes later they had cleaned their teeth and were saying goodnight and turning off lights.

Claire lay in bed staring into the blackness above, wide awake. But it wasn’t her father’s waking that kept her mind ticking over, nor thoughts of the day’s events, but Paycheque.

The time was coming when she’d have to tell Jack what she’d done. She couldn’t check on the horse and just leave it at that. Not now. No, she had to get him back, give her father something real to come back for. But what if someone had discovered his potential, or perhaps worse, realised his sentimental value? She couldn’t afford to pay big bucks for him, but couldn’t afford not to. For all she knew she might even be too late. If things had gone as badly at Morphettville as Derek had said, he might have already been sent to the knackers. God, she couldn’t bear to think about that.

As the grey light of the new day began to peep under the blind, Claire decided she’d start by ringing Al Jacobs. And with that thought, she finally drifted off.

Chapter Eight

Claire woke to the sound of water rushing through pipes and beating on the bathroom wall next door. She smiled at Bernadette’s off-key rendition of ‘It Must Be Love’. She lay there until she heard her friend in the kitchen, not wanting to upset her morning ritual and risk her being late opening the shop.