She had been lonely more than jealous, he discovered. She was really pleased to walk in that evening and find dinner half-prepared; that saved her the trouble of the kitchen labour, but she gave herself away chatting interminably all evening about every tiny little development during his absence. He entered into the spirit of the homecoming, grasping the opportunity to keep her interest away from his main pre-occupation.
So why the Hell hadn't she dropped everything and come along? "I nearly did," she responded thoughtfully. "But I decided you really did need a complete break. You've been getting dreadfully forgetful lately. It was damned short notice, too, you know. I didn't really have time to even work out whether I had time!"
She didn't have a pigheaded Personnel man with a harassment project on his hands, either. So there were just too many negative indicators.
There was an interesting snippet of neighborhood gossip came up as well. Next-door needed to borrow a can-opener, and told her the sad tale of next-but-one. He'd lost his job as a machinist in a small local workshop that was closing down. It was really bad: he didn't drive, and the neighbour reckoned he'd have a really tough task finding work. They had three nice kids, too - such a shame, slowdown and unemployment and all.
Next day, soon as he'd seen Annette off to work, he drove into the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages in mid-city, ostensibly to do some family-tree tracing.
It wasn't as simple as he thought. The counter clerk was busy with a constantly-rotating half-dozen inquiries, but Lester was able to wheedle enough information out to define the task, and left with a sheaf of birth certificate application forms.
On the way home, he dreamt up a plausible approach to go chat with the jobless neighbour, and conveniently found him languishing in his garage. Conley had plenty of time to yarn, and was mildly interested in some vague details of Lester’s family tree search.
"An old aunt of mine thinks we might be related," he started." Do you remember your mother's maiden name?"
Patiently he waited, as all the irrelevant (to Conley) details came slowly to the surface. Gradually, keeping the tone casual, stumbling over imaginary places and dates that were obligingly corrected, he collected the few key details that he needed.
"It looks like Aunty Ev mightn't have had her facts quite right," he finished, "but that's a problem of the old. Many thanks; I'll let you know if anything does turn up."
"Do that. Let me know how far you get, anyway. Funny how we'd all like to have colourful convict forebears, these days. Lots of ugly things look attractive from a distance."
Lester wondered how much deep feeling there was behind that parting snippet of philosophy, striding off briskly to get the key points down on paper before he forgot them.
"Margaret Allingham, father James, birth date 5.10.1925," he chanted mentally as he let himself back into the house, and started on the application form. With that much detail, he'd certainly have it looking like the start of a legitimate genealogy search.
Keen to get things going, he drove back into town, and submitted it to the clerk again. No problems, obviously routine, so he hoped to have it today with a bit of luck.
"When will it be ready?" he asked the cashier as she handed back the receipt slip. Nobody had said anything about any processing delay. "Be ready in two weeks. You pick it up in the office down the hall."
Two weeks! But he had all the details... no wonder they offered you an accelerated process at double the price. But careful now, it’s supposed to look routine. No cause to attract attention. This gives you more time to plan, get the whole sequence straight.
Back in Caulfield, he had a half-hour to kill before the appointment with his bank manager. It was a risk, he knew; bankers had long memories, and a penchant for records. He'd have to keep the discussion general, so as not to leave a trail, and to avoid creating suspicions.
"I'm going to have a look at setting up my own Company. A lot of people in my work are doing it now, and I'm told there are a lot of financial and tax advantages." That was the line he had decided to start on. It didn't commit him to do anything, and there surely were a lot of people doing that kind of thing- working for their own one-man business, which "hired out" their services.
The old boy was certainly willing to help, but it wasn't really his field. Nonetheless, he's read up on Lester's file and was constructive and knowledgeable.
"That should be easy enough to set up," the banker assured him. "Do you use a Tax Accountant?"
No, he didn't. Actually he did, but there was no gain in having the inquiry get too far too fast.
"Then you're going to need a Solicitor to get the right forms presented. I can give you a few names of local people if you'd like."
That would be fine, he answered.
"I noticed you've been running a large balance in the cheque account for a while now," the banker changed to a new subject. "It's not the best strategy with bank charges and inflation as they are. Why don't you think about relocating some of that into a high-interest account?"
It seemed like a good idea. They cleared up the mysteries of interest rates and withdrawal access tradeoffs, and Lester promised to think it over. He hadn't decided when to move yet, and the old boy had a good idea. It underlined his ignorance of investment matters, he noted, and took his leave.
So, it would have to be a Solicitor, he concluded.
With the tail end of the work day, he made an appointment for some driving lessons to start late next week. That looked like a prudent way to approach the new driver's license, and it might give him some early practice at responding to his new name.
He was already becoming Roger Conley, non-driver, temporarily unemployed.
On the other hand, the thought suddenly occurred; he'd have to find another address for Roger II. It had been a busy day. He'd used the real Roger's address once, and his own address as well, and a mistake there could be costly.
There was no reason for the Registrar of Births, or the Driving School, to use those addresses - no reason that he could think of. Even so, he couldn't trust to luck forever. Some arrangements would need a real, mailable address, and perhaps not before long.
Again there were dangers. Nothing came readily to mind. He booked a restaurant for dinner for the two of them, and settled down in the lounge to define the task.
Roger II had to have an address. A Post Office Box was ideal, because it was anonymous, accessible at all hours. Some authorities, he was sure, just wouldn't settle for a P.O. Box. He'd need a street address, he knew, on his planned driver's license. It had to be out of the Caulfield area: or otherwise, for sure, some helpful Mailman would deliver the real Roger some very interesting surprises!
That's it, then, he summarised. He needed a street address outside the Caulfield mail area, and a P.O.Box. Over the weekend, he'd drive around near work, maybe, and select a derelict or vacant block. That way he could have a valid reason to redirect the mail, within the postal system, to the Box. Until somebody tried to visit in person, nobody would ever know. He would have to be careful about that: no visitors!
The scheme was coming along so well he was mildly disappointed to hear Annette call from the front door. Back to being Lester.
She agreed a night out would be a great idea, but wanted an hour's peace to unwind.
"I'll just wrap myself around a cocktail. Want one? Better still, make one for me, too, while I get some of this finery off. Later I'll think about a shower, and we can go out fresh."
She disappeared down the hall, but was back in two minutes in a loose housecoat with nothing, as far as he could see, underneath. Well, after all, this was home, and you might as well be comfortable at home. Anyway, he twinkled mischievously, there isn't a lot under that housecoat that warrants hiding. The pleasure of Annette’s company had more physical and intellectual sides than aesthetic qualities. If he wanted a doll, he'd buy one!
After a slow re-orientation, she was back and comfortable in his world, his recently-assumed world of leisure and inactivity. The cares and pressures of the week largely put aside, she tidied up (marginally) after a steaming shower, and they set off for the Restaurant.
The meal was good, service superb, and all was well tonight. By the time the band was setting up around 9 o'clock, they caught each other's eye knowingly. From here on, the noise level was likely to be over their threshold of comfort. He caught the waiter's eye, scribbling in the air to ask for the bill. Sipping the last of the liqueurs, they settled back for a few minutes more.
He'd recounted the whole Queensland experience - the places, the people, the weather and the beach, the Hotel's attractions had all come under scrutiny. It had been a very pleasant stay, and under her questions, Lester knew she would dearly have loved to come.
"But I still can't make sense of why you didn't stay there a few more days," Annette prompted.
The waiter brought the bill, and placed it strategically by his elbow.
"Couldn't stay away from you any longer."
"Horseshit!" she retorted. "Why didn't you squeeze all the value out of the trip?"
They made for the door. Let her puzzle over it for now: one day she'd find out. Right now, she had no "need to know”, he told himself.
* * * *
Over the weekend, he found an opportunity to do some driving around the suburban housing areas of Mulgrave near the computer centre, looking for a suitable “dud” address. He wanted a packet of cigarettes, he told Annette, praying she hadn't stocked up on his behalf: she hadn't.
He'd listed the addresses of a couple of old farmhouses that had progressively been hemmed in by new building subdivisions, but then the new building development ahead presented a better opportunity. The Avis truck was being unloaded into one of a group of about ten townhouses on a large double-sized block. The truck was small; obviously, the new occupiers here didn't have a lot of belongings. Those townhouses would probably have quite a bit of turnover of tenants; one of them would do nicely.
He stopped a moment at the group of letterboxes out front, and selected one at random. Roger II had an address of his own! This week he'd ask about renting a mail box at Mulgrave Post Office. There might be some kind of identification required for that, but at least he could get the requirements clear.