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Cox’s attitude infuriated Fiona. She now had him firmly in her sights. ‘Okay Mr Cox, let me ask my question in another way. Excluding the out-of-court settlements, past and future –’
‘I’m not at liberty to discuss those,’ Cox cut in.
‘Yes, I know that, Mr Cox. That is why I am excluding them. The withdrawals would be high, wouldn’t they?’ Fiona asked.
‘What do you mean, withdrawals?’ Cox asked in a strangled voice.
‘Withdrawals from the bank you mentioned, erosion of profit margins ... however you like to put it, Mr Cox.’
Cox made noises as if to interrupt, but Fiona continued on. She knew he would soon hang up and there was little point pursuing him with nothing of substance to support her claims. ‘I mean, with the retraining of offenders, the loss of good employees fleeing a toxic workplace, and the lost time in production, wouldn’t that mean the costs to Wallis Industries are much higher than first anticipated?’ Cox attempted to butt in again, but Fiona continued. Something in her needed him to squirm. ‘I have a copy of a study done in the UK, which shows the strategy of settling without addressing the issue of bullying will become a thing of the past, due to the very real effects bullying has on the bottom line. Would you like to comment on that, Mr Cox?’
Cox spluttered into the phone. ‘No, I would not. ‘
‘Would you like me to send you a copy of the UK study, Mr Cox?’
‘Who are you? Which paper do you work for again?’
‘My name is Fiona Lees, Mr Cox. Not ‘love’ or ‘miss’, and I don’t work for a paper. I write in-depth features for In Business magazine and we do our research.’ The phone clicked in her ear as Jeremy Cox hung up.
Regret flooded in. She should not have baited Cox. It was wildly unprofessional. Fuck! She had to get her shit together. On top of this, the story was a good one, but what she had gotten so far wasn’t strong. Fiona took her phone out onto the verandah and rang her editor.
Steph answered immediately.
‘Do you have time to talk about the bullying story?’ Fiona asked.
‘Sure, just let me shut the door. I have a new policy with Padma. If the door is shut, it means leave me the fuck alone.’
Fiona smiled. ‘Is it working?’
‘Not particularly well, no,’ Steph sighed.
Fiona heard Steph’s door slam shut.
‘Right, so what’s up?’ Steph asked.
Fiona sat on the stairs in a patch of sunlight. ‘I’ve just spoken to a Jeremy Cox from Wallis Industries which, according to Renee Rodgers, has a terrible track record when it comes to bullying. I get the feeling it’s pretty entrenched over there.’
‘Why do you think that?’ Steph asked.
‘Cox put the allegations down to a few disgruntled employees. He was offhand, like he was in no danger of being held to account.’
‘Okay and I’m guessing you didn’t have enough to counter the argument?’
‘No. I thought he would want to hide the evidence; that he wouldn’t want to talk about it at all,’ Fiona said, realising how stupid she had been.
‘You thought you would get a bunch of no comments then?’ Steph said.
‘I did. I didn’t think he’d openly blame the victims because I didn’t think he would admit there were any.’
‘Really? Come on, Fiona. Victim-blaming is one the most effective ways to slip the noose. Say they are troublemakers, crazies or liars and you are halfway to getting away with it. It seems plausible and it’s easier for people to accept than the possibility the victims are telling the truth.’
Fiona knew Steph was right. Her editor was razor-sharp. ‘Okay, so I need to talk to a victim, don’t I?’
‘You do. Otherwise you will have to write it up and move on.’
‘Right.’
‘Well, good luck with it. I’ve got to go.’ The line went dead.
Fiona walked down the steps. She stood in the middle of the yard. It would be a shame if this story went nowhere. She didn’t want it to be like every other story on bullying, utterly lacking in substance and heavily reliant on statistics. She wanted it to be undeniable.
The chickens scratched around under the bushes near the old picket fence, which bordered the yard. There was no fear in them now. It was as if they had always been there, clucking and scratching. It was calming to watch them.
Fiona took a deep breath and stretched her arms above her head. She would ring Renee Rodgers on the off-chance she could help, but she knew it was a big ask.
Fiona’s phone buzzed in her hand and Julia’s name glowed on the display. She stared at it, letting the call ring out. Fiona knew Julia wouldn’t stop ringing until they had spoken about Richard.
*
‘Do you like them?’ Lochie asked.
Steven nodded. He did like the chickens. He had been returning from the house paddock along the track when he had heard them clucking away under the bushes by the old farmhouse. Initially, he watched from beyond the fence. Fiona was watching too. She had stood in the middle of the yard with her arms above her head, had twirled once and then jumped when her phone rang. He had jumped as well, but the chickens had clucked on happily. Once she had left, he drew closer, until he was sitting on the grass in the yard with his knees bent and his arms wrapped around them, just watching. This was how the little boy had discovered him.
Lochie stood by him for a while, watching the chickens too. ‘They are cool, aren’t they? And very friendly,’ he said.
Steven nodded.
‘You can touch one if you like.’ Lochie picked up a hen and cradled it in one arm, bringing it closer.
Steven reached out his hand and touched the feathers. They were stiffer than he expected. The chicken clucked softly.
‘Would you like to hold it?’ the boy said.
Steven nodded again and Lochie placed the bird in Steven’s arms. He was surprised by the chicken’s lightness, that underneath the feathers, the body was so small. After stretching its legs, the hen relaxed and nestled into Steven’s lap.
‘You see, she likes you,’ Lochie said.
‘I have to go now,’ he said to the little boy.
‘Okay, but you can come back and see them again,’ Lochie said, as if he were granting Steven a great favour.
‘Thanks,’ Steven said, handing over the chicken and rising to his feet.
‘Sven, I’ll give you an egg when they start laying,’ Lochie called to him as Steven walked back along the track toward his camp site.
Mother’s Chiffonier
Steven moved through the house. Cones of sunlight struck the floorboards like spotlights. In a room under the eaves of the verandah toward the back of the house, he found a model of a WW2 aircraft. He took it down from its shelf and ran a hand along the fuselage. The stickers bubbled under his fingertips. He knew he could have done better. He would have pushed out the bubbles with the edge of his fingernail, until the stickers lay flush. He saw himself building the model from scratch. Spotting the plastic with glue and pressing the pieces together. Painting it a silver-grey. It comforted him just to think of it.
In his mind, he would sit at a desk like the one pushed up against the louvres in this room. Fiona, or someone like her, would come down the hall and call him to dinner and he would place the tiny cap on the glue and the little lids on the paints and the model would lie undisturbed until he returned.
Steven heard a car making its way up the track. He gripped the airplane to return it to its place. It hovered in the air as airplanes do and, at the very last moment, he released it and allowed it fall to the floor. When the doors of the car creaked open outside, Steven was slipping out of the back door.
*
Knots tightened in Fiona’s stomach as she sat at her kitchen table and listened to a recorded spiel of the advocacy group’s services. She knew what she would be asking of Renee Rodgers and she also knew it was a long shot.
‘Fiona, it’s good to hear from you?’ Renee’s voice was bright and welcoming. ‘How can I help?’
‘I spoke with Jeremy Cox from Wallis Industries and I didn’t get far, I’m afraid,’ Fiona answered, drawing her notes from that interview toward her.
‘How so?’ Renee asked.
‘He put the bullying complaints down to a few difficult employees and I’m afraid I had nothing to counter him with,’ Fiona said. ‘I need more. I need to speak with a –’
‘You need to speak with a victim,’ Renee cut in. ‘Look Fiona, I know I don’t have to tell you about confidentiality clauses, but I do need to tell you there is no way I would ever counsel a client to breach one.’
Renee’s voice had taken on an edge.
‘I know Renee, and I would not ask you to. Neither I or the magazine want to put your clients at risk. It’s just without speaking with a victim, the story isn’t strong. I’m under instruction from my editor to write up what I have and publish as is, but I just thought I’d give it one last shot.’
‘Right, I’m sorry, I just don’t know what to tell you,’ Renee said.
Fiona closed the cover of her notebook. ‘That’s alright, Renee. Thanks for all your help.’
After ending the call, Fiona set about drawing up a working structure for the piece. She was considering the lead, when the door on the verandah creaked and bounced across the verandah floor.
She knew the shape of her sister before she stepped out of the dark hall and into the brightly lit kitchen.
‘I see the door has returned to its natural state,’ Julia said. ‘Perhaps Graham should come out and take another look at it?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Fiona said. She could tell by the way Julia stood with her arms hanging limp at her sides and her chin tucked into her chest she was not at all concerned about the door.
‘What brings you here?’ Fiona asked, breezily.
‘You haven’t been taking my calls. That’s what brings me here. Are the boys about?’ Julia asked, gazing toward the sleep-out and then Lochie’s bedroom.
‘No, they should be on their way to school by now,’ Fiona answered. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We are all worried about you,’ Julia said.
Fiona moved to get up, but Julia laid a hand on her wrist.
‘Fiona, we care, that’s all.’
‘Is this an intervention then?’ Fiona asked, looking pointedly at their hands on the table.
‘No, you know it’s not, but you’ve got to say you’ve been acting pretty strangely since you left Richard and now he wants custody of the kids? You don’t talk about it. You move out here and your best buddy is now a crazy old farmer who accidentally shoots his own cows? It’s like you’re hiding ...’ Julia came to a stop. She took a deep breath and stared at Fiona. ‘You are hiding, aren’t you?’
Fiona withdrew her hand from Julia’s and stood. ‘Do you want some lunch? I was going to have Vegemite sandwiches.’
‘What?’ Julia asked.
‘Vegemite sandwiches. Do you want some?’
‘What kind of adult still eats Vegemite sandwiches?’ Julia smiled.
Fiona felt a rush of gratitude toward her sister for letting her off. ‘I do, when I’m working. It’s quick and it focusses the mind.’
‘I’m sure it does. Okay, I’ll have one.’
Fiona pulled the fresh bread from the bread box on the kitchen bench. She slowed herself and, with her back to her sister, she made lunch.
‘I feel like a kid at school,’ Julia said, when Fiona placed a plate of sandwiches in front of her.
Fiona smiled. ‘Eat up then.’
Julia took a big bite of her sandwich and closed her eyes to chew. ‘Hmm,’ she murmured around the sandwich. ‘I’d forgotten how good this is.’
‘I know, right?’ A vision floated to Fiona. Her sister was sitting across the playground with the older girls. They were laughing together, while little Fiona sat silently alongside her own classmates.
‘Fi, what happened?’ Julia was watching her intently.
‘What do you mean?’ Fiona asked, her heart hammering.
Julia frowned and Fiona knew she was losing patience with her. ‘You know what I mean. What happened with Richard?’
Julia’s question fell into the gap between them and Fiona felt as if she were falling with it. Her fingers and toes were numb. Her breath stilled in her lungs, caught there in a bubble with Julia’s question.
‘Fiona?’
Julia’s face loomed in front of her, disappeared and then returned closer still.
‘Fi!’
She could feel Julia gripping her hands. Something light like a silk or gossamer curtain flickered at the edge of her vision. She looked there, focussed on it and waited for it to move again, but it was gone.
‘Fi!’ Julia yelled.
Fiona looked to her sister. It felt as if an age had passed and Julia was a long way away. ‘Julia?’ Julia’s hands gripped hers even harder and Fiona saw fear in her sister’s face.
‘Where did you go, just then?’ her sister asked.
‘What?’ The light glowing through the window over the kitchen sink caught Fiona’s attention. It soothed her.
‘What just happened, Fi?’
Fiona followed her sister’s voice and found Julia had pulled a chair closer to sit beside her.
‘I don’t know,’ Fiona said.
Julia leaned forward and gave her an awkward sitting hug. It was not something they were prone to as sisters. Fiona sat still and waited.
‘Could it have been a panic attack?’ Julia whispered in her ear.
Fiona withdrew from the hug. Perhaps, she thought.
‘I’ll make some tea, shall I?’ Julia suggested.
Fiona nodded.
Julia floated over near the kettle. ‘How long have you been having these ... attacks?’
For so many years. For as long as ... ‘Only recently,’ Fiona said.
‘Right. Is it money? Are you okay for money?’ Julia asked, bringing the cups of tea to the table and sitting across from Fiona.
‘I’m fine for money,’ Fiona said. This wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t the problem.
‘What brought it on? Do you know?’ Julia asked, taking a sip of her tea.
Fiona did know. She’d always known. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘Well, I think it’s pretty normal when people split up ... to have some problems,’ Julia said.
Fiona nodded.
‘Well, if Richard thinks he can take the children, he will have to fight with both of us,’ Julia said. ‘You have to promise me you’ll get a lawyer. I’ll come with you, if you like.’
‘Yes. I’ll get a lawyer, Jules. I promise.’ Julia was at her best when she was practical. The world made sense to her.
*
Alick listened for the screech of the chainsaw and heard it rise shrill through the trees by the creek. He nodded, as he pulled open the door to the storage room at the end of the shed. The lad was handy. Picked things up quickly, he had to admit.
Inside, cobwebs hung from the rafters and daylight pierced the rusted holes in the exterior walls. Dust swirled on a small draught from the open door. Alick hesitated on the threshold. He had not been inside for a long time. As his eyes adjusted, he made out the contours of his mother’s dressing table. The large mirror at the back was cracked and one of its broken side mirrors hung sadly. An ache in his chest swelled at the extent of his neglect. He averted his eyes and moved toward a corner in search of a dining-room chair. He had been thinking he could use another chair, a more comfortable one. Maybe a better armchair too. His back was not what it was.
He moved between the islands of stacked furniture, touching here and there a table, a sideboard, the kitchen chiffonier. The deep honey of the wood showed through the dust where he ran his finger over it. He saw it as it once was in the kitchen of the old farmhouse, with the plates lined up behind the thin dowel, his mother’s soup tureen centred on the top shelf. Alick positioned it theoretically in his own house against the wall leading into the dining room. It would do nicely. Sven could help him move it in, he thought.
Alick located the dining chairs in the far corner atop the old dining table. Off to the side stood his father’s winged chair. It was upholstered in a heavy brocade. As a child, Alick would stroke the silky indentations in the fabric. Even at a distance, he could almost feel it on his fingertips – the fur of the velvet, the cool slipperiness of the grooves. His heart fluttered with his imagined fingers.
‘Alick!’
‘In here,’ he called out, his voice catching in a dry throat. The lad came to stand beside him in the half light. He smelt of fresh wood shavings.
‘Have you finished with the wood?’ Alick asked, his gaze still on his father’s chair.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll teach you how to split it next, but I need a hand with some furniture.’
‘A hand?’
‘Help with the furniture,’ Alick rephrased.
The lad nodded to show he understood.
Alick pointed out one dining-room chair and then decided on another for good measure. After Sven had separated out the chairs, Alick spied a small side table with a green leather top. ‘This might come in handy too,’ he said to Sven. On a whim, Alick pointed to the chiffonier and together they humped it to the door of the house, along the hall, and into his kitchen.
Alick stood back and looked at it. It appeared smaller in this house, almost inconsequential, dwarfed by the walls of boxes. Sven returned with a chair in each hand and placed them at the table. Alick joined him again at the shed.
‘That one?’ Sven asked, pointing to his father’s winged chair.
‘No,’ Alick said. ‘That can stay. Just the little table. That’s all I want.’
A Bad Cop
Steven is running. The darkened shops in the arcade flash by him and he knows there is no help here. He comes to the hexagonal space where the arcades converge and pauses behind the statue of the David, positioned in the centre of the mall. He is listening for the sound of footsteps. At first, he hears nothing and relief floods in, but then he hears the squeak of rubber on the marble tiles and he knows it’s too late. He cannot move. He looks up at the pale, cold figure of the statue. He beseeches the statue in the manner of an ancient god. ‘Hide me please.’
