CHAPTER FIVE
Robert dived into the first doorway, as the train started to move. Grabbing a stand pipe, he leaned out the door, to see if this was the right train, but could not see the indicator. 'It must have been behind me', he thought. However when the train started to climb the fly over, he knew it was a good omen. It felt like time had stood still. The carriage, the open doors, were all instantly returned to his mind. He lived with his parents until he was twenty two, and travelled to the city to work. This was like only yesterday. Only the advertising, above the windows, was different. Even the smell of metal on metal, and Arnott's Biscuits were there. His mind began to race, as he wondered if this was the right thing to do. If he stayed just far enough away, it was right. But he wondered if he could. Trapped in a different time, he might need the comfort of family, to keep him from losing it. He shuddered, when a wild thought of parallel worlds, flashed by. What if he came face to face with a 57 year old himself? He dismissed it, as illogical. This was 1950. Still the whole scenario was illogical. Another shudder, but this time the old metal bridge over the Parramatta River.
The train took it's time climbing up to Eastwood, adding to the feeling in his stomach. He stepped out. Some children, in a school uniform, pushed past, and noisily ran for seats. He heard the banging of seat backs being flipped over, and a window being thrown up, as he climbed the steps to the overhead ticket box. He remembered a subway came after he left home, but his visits were by car, something he bought when he was twenty, and like most others, never was without.
Standing on the over bridge, he surveyed the district. The oval was the most dominant vision, remembering his father had told him it used to be a lake or lakes. Always an oval to him, many a game of footy played upon. The Odeon theatre stood out. Many Saturday afternoons, and later, nights, flashed by his eyes.
He had trouble focusing, and brought himself back to the present. Passing the theatre, he noticed 'A Letter to Three Wives' on the poster. He smiled. He had the video. And it was better than the remake he saw in recent years. There were a lot of people in the main street, and he scanned the faces, for some familiar sign. A bus, with a long engine, and radiator, sticking out in front, tooted at a dog. "This is like a Disney movie," he said aloud.
He walked up Trelawney Street, on the opposite side to the house, and stopped two houses early. He was outside a gate he knew well, and a house he knew well. His best mate, when he was in primary, lived here. There was no sign of anyone, but the big fawn '48 Chev was sitting in the drive. He walked on, knowing that to think about it, would only cloud his main objective.
The house was no different to when he remembered it, or the bits he did remember of it in 1950. Well maintained, only the facia boards a different colour, to now, testimony to his father's continual love for the place. He was there three weeks ago, and the same rockery existed near the front tap then, as was now,
If no one came out, he didn't have a plan. To go and knock on the door, would be a betrayal of his resolve. Then he remembered his father would have left for work. How would he see him?
There was a movement. He was so involved in his thoughts, that the young boy was at the front fence, and already turning around, before he could focus. He watched the retreating body, go running down the drive. Robert didn't need a name for the boy. He just stared, his heart literally missing a beat. Then he remembered the camera, and cursing, ripped open his pack and managed to open the lens, despite his trembling hand.
The sleeveless grey jumper, with the train locomotives, knitted into the chest, was like a blow. He had loved that jumper, and wore it into his early high school days, before he found adolescence.
"Please," he said, "Please come out again." His words had a pleading tone. As if they had been conveyed over such a large distance, a face appeared around the back corner of the house and small eyes were fixed on him. Then they were gone.
Robert's hands still trembled. Two cars drove by, leaving tell tale signs of smoke, and the slight smell of burning oil, lingering for a fraction, in the clear air. An electric train rattled down towards the city.
He saw the front curtain move, and a vague outline of a face, for a second. He could not stay here any longer. This was too much for his emotions, and he had the sudden need to empty his bladder. With a last, hopeful look over his shoulder, he walked quickly back to the shops, and up the laneway behind the School of Arts. He hoped to find a loo here, as the station was just too far. It was there, but locked. He had to squeeze behind the back of it, and the side fence, and hope he wasn't seen.
His heart was still going a great rate of knots, when he reappeared in the main street. He needed to calm down. A milk bar was open, next to the cinema, and he went in, dragging out some money.
"Yes sir. What you have?", asked the man behind the high counter, with a very Greek accent.
"Coffee please, and strong."
"Ah. I lika a man who knows how to drinka the coffee. The Aussies don't appreciate the true taste and aroma. You sit. I bring."
Robert sat, and half listened to the rattle of a cup and a spoon hitting something. Perhaps Allan was right. He should just forget it.
The coffee came, the proprietor, beaming as he placed the small cup down, then automatically wiped his hands on the somewhat soiled apron, around his well fed waist.
"You liva rounda here?"
Robert didn't immediately answer, but took a deep sip. He nearly choked, but struggled to contain himself. His caffeine intake for the year, was in this cup. "Not now. Born here, or rather up at Ryde Hospital. Lived in Trelawney Street for over twenty years."
He took some more sips. The Greek was straightening a drink display. "I don't thinka I've seen you rounda here before, but it was a long time ago you leave, as you say. Me. Only two years here in Australya. No good after the war, my country. No money. No job. Rosita and me, we come here. Now everythink is OK. More coffee?"
Robert winced inwardly, but managed a large smile. "No thanks, but it was nice. Just how coffee should be. How much?" and stood up.
The proprietor put up his palm. "Nothing. This one is, how you say, on the house."
"Thanks. Have a good day, mate," and walked out. He couldn't resist the 'mate', but he hoped the owner would take it as a compliment, an integration into the new land. He knew that any children, might look exactly like Rosita or her husband, but they would talk exactly like Allan or himself. That was the way it was. "And should be," he said aloud.
Whether it was the coffee, or the time to regroup himself, but he was heading back up Trelawney Street. He sat on the fence, opposite his parent's place, and with camera ready, and wondered if he was too late.
He wasn't. Young Robert appeared around the side, and started walking to the gate. It was if Robert was seeing a moving picture of his younger self. His stomach tightened again. The boy caught sight of him and high tailed it back inside. The ripple of the front curtain again, and then, both his mother and young Robert, came striding up to the front. Some words were spoken to the boy, who remained by the letter box, and then she came briskly walking over the road, to stop in the gutter, just far enough away, in case she needed to run.
Robert could not hold back the tears. She was just as he remembered her, back all these years, and in the photographs, she had later gave him.
"What do you want. I've seen you watching the house. If you don't go, we'll get the police."
He didn't move, or speak. He couldn't.
She noticed his tears, and took another look at his face. The nose and eyes, not unlike her husbands, or Roberts, for that matter. "What's up with you? You sick?" The hands that were held by her side, fingers clenched, were now crossed in front, palm in palm.
He recovered himself. "I'm sorry mum, I mean mam. You look, looked like my mother. Almost identical." He was lost for words again. The face before him, sending his rational thoughts, into chaos.
"You still haven't answered me. Both my son and myself are being scared out of our wits. He needs to leave for school, and I will be with him, to make sure he gets there." She had a determined manner, as he always had found, and tackling a problem, head on, never lost in her later years.
He had to ad lib somehow. "Sorry. I'm Robert For....est. I work for a magazine, photographic magazine. We take all sorts of subjects. That's why I stopped here. Your house has an appeal to me, and I want to take a couple of photos for the magazine. But more than anything, I would like to include the owners. You and your son, if I could. My editor, tells me always to include people. It brings a dull photo to life. May I? Just at the front footpath."
"I am not dressed for any such photos, and Robert is late for school." She had not refused, but it needed more persuasion.
"That's a good omen. Your son and I have the same name, Robert. I was never Bob or Bobby. My mum insisted on Robert. She said it was the name she and dad chose, and should be the one used."
"My husband and I feel the same way. Now stop changing the subject, or I will get my neighbour, who is in his car, there, to hold you, whilst I get the police." She pointed to the '48 Chev.
"It's OK. I already have a photo of Mr. Hargreave in front of his house, and his car." Robert was amazed this had come to him so quickly. He also couldn't believe he was lying to his own mother.
Her body language showed mild confusion. She continued to stare at him. He was so like her husband. She also wished he was here, to solve this problem, if it was one.
"Madame," Robert said in his best polite voice, "nothing you could change into, would improve, from a photographic point of view, your suitability (he was going to say beauty, but quickly thought the better of it) for reader appeal. Just as you are, one hand on the letterbox, is all that is needed. My editor is going to be pleased, and I may even get a bonus."
She was thinking. "What magazine?" She was unconsciously adjusting her apron, and then her hair.
"Time," replied Robert, "It's very popular in America, and we are just starting up here. I could talk to the editor about a free subscription, but I can't promise." He inwardly felt sick about what he was saying. The greatest con job in his life, was being done on his own family.
"Can you make it quick. Robert's late as it is," and she turned and walked back to the house. He took a photo, then. He couldn't help it. She grabbed young Robert, and made him stand beside her. Robert came up to them, making some movements with his hands, to give the impression of framing.
"What's your name, lad?" looking directly at the boy, and feeling his body screaming, on how his ten year old voice, would sound.
"Robert. Robert Forsythe," the boy replied. Robert quickly looked back over his shoulder. He did not know what his face was registering, but he knew what his insides were like.
"Nice name, Robert. I knew a Forsythe." Robert's mind was racing. "He was a neighbour. Joseph Forsythe. OK I'm ready to take the photo."
He was looking at his mother's face, and saw it momentarily tighten, at the mention of his grandfather's name. She didn't say anything.
He took his photograph, and asked for a second. He would treasure these well composed shots of his family, the house making a memorable background. He would treasure this meeting. He shook hands with his mother, and with young Robert.
"Any plans for when you grow up?" he asked the boy.
"Don't know really. I might try being a photographer like you. When I start work, the first thing I will buy, is a camera. Is that one yours? Expensive?" It was the innocent talk of a ten year old.
"Yes, it is my own camera. I also do freelance. That’s working for myself, and it is expensive. So look after your camera." Robert remembered his first one. He left it in the train, two weeks after he got it. "And another thing, if I may add. Start setting your goals now, on your future. I didn't think about it, until last year at high school, and ended up not doing what I wanted." Robert couldn't believe this flow of words coming from his mouth. Straight out of some movie. But it was what happened to him, and maybe he could change history. Anything else he was going to add, was cut short.
"Thanks. This boy is late for school." She stuck out her hand, (his mother was always one to do that, when other women of her time, hid behind their gender role), and started walking up the street. Robert noticed, that the front gate, which was shut during the photographing, was opened quickly by her, as she moved off.
He started to follow, not knowing what should be the next step. It was if she expected him to. She said to the boy, "I left the gate open Robert, shut it quick, like a good lad."
As the young boy heeled about and went to do his mother's bidding, she looked at Robert. "Thanks for the advice. He needs it, even if it was Jimmy Stewart, word for word." He smiled. And perhaps his greatest memory of the day, she returned it.
The boy was already back, and giving a "Bye", Robert crossed the road and headed down to the station. He purposelessly didn't look across or back.
At the station, he waited, sitting on the hard wooden seat, not even trying to think about the morning. A city train rattled in, and grabbing a window set, looked at the passing parade of suburbia, without taking any of it in.
At Strathfield, he walked up along the shopping centre, and bought a sandwich. Then without any premeditation, joined the queue in the post office. He saw the building, and decided then, to send a letter, to his family. What he would say, was unclear. He asked for a stamp, and was just turning away, when he had a thought.
Turning back to the sales assistant, he asked where would a person go, around here, if they wanted casual work.
"Well," the balding assistant offered, at the same time scratching his ear, "you might try Barlows. They do a lot of goods loading for the railways. Or Moran and Cato's place, a few doors down. They’re always looking for young blokes to stack up their groceries, but you could be lucky. Might put you on. Try their Burwood shop, if nothing doing here."
"I will. You've been most helpful. 'Bye.". Robert left, and stood outside. 'Burwood sounds like my first try, and it has the Blue Bell Cafe', he thought to himself, with a smile. He decided to walk, the exercise would be good, and they needed to save what little money was left.
* * * * * *
When he disappeared up the ramp, Allan suddenly felt alone. The Museum was the first thing that came into his head, to make it easier for Robert. Still, he would go to the city, and see how much he remembered as a youngster, was still there. He waited for the train, up at the front end of the platform, and when it came, stood at the door, waiting for it to open. A man behind him, grabbed the handle, and yanked it. " Well it won't open itself." He was remembering.
The stations and the buildings, were coming back to him. At Central, he decided to get off. Except for the people moving back and forth, and reminding him of a movie street scene full of extras, all trying to look natural, it was unchanged. He bought a sausage roll, and spooned plenty of tomato sauce, along it. The noise of cars and trams reached his ears. he hurried forward, and stood for nearly five minutes, wrapped in the panorama. He wasn't even conscious of eating.
His parents brought him and his sister, from Melbourne, when he was eleven, to live in Sydney. He couldn't remember the reason why they came. It might have been something to do with the men who came one night, to the house they lived in at Carlton. He recalled the yelling and crashing, and his mother screaming. Debbie and he stayed in his room. When his mother came up, she was crying and that upset them. Downstairs, the crockery cupboard was smashed and a chair was still on it's side. His father came out of the bathroom, blood still on his shirt, and his lip all swollen. They moved two weeks later, barely time to say goodbye to his friends, and find a home for Oakey, the cattle dog he loved, and would miss. The scene was etched on his mind, of that night. All he ever gleaned in later years, was a reference to money.
Pulling his thoughts back to the present, he saw the tram above heading down the ramp to Castlereagh Street, and decided, a ride in one to the Quay, was the first thing. He went back inside and up the steps and into the big concourse. It was dusty and pigeons had made it their domain. The restoration had improved it, but not for another 35 years or so, yet. Out on the Colonnade, three trams waited. He sat inside, one of the corridor types, but couldn't recall the class type that Robert had used. That was another time. All the group, Robert, Andy, Erlyn and Connie, had done a walk in the Royal, and called in to the tram museum, on the way home. Robert was into trains and trams, and seemed to know a lot. 'Where were they now', he wondered.?' Was there a search being made?' Then he thought of work. 'The boss would be doing his usual Monday crisis routine, and where's Bygrave theme?' , drifted through his mind, and he smiled, then stopped when he realised this wasn't really a time to smile. The tram started with a jolt, bringing him back to the present, and with it a voice, "Fares please."
Wide eyes, as the Tivoli was passed, then so much, that he was at the waterfront, sooner than expected. He walked along the wharves, tempted to take a ferry ride somewhere, but decided against it. One thing, there had to be some attempt to same their money, until a job or what, came along. The Bridge was ever dominant and not only linked the north shore, but 'a link between now and 1998', were his thoughts. He was tempted to walk across it, in the hope that when he reached the other side, it would be a North Sydney with modern high rises and Holden Commodores, but just as quickly dismissed it. 'Stupid thought'. Then he remembered Robert. He couldn't leave without him.
He decided to try a quick beer. There seemed to be no shortage of small hotels, and all well patronised. He ordered a middy of new, and found nothing had changed in that area, either. A morning drink, wasn't his usual, but neither was this whole experience.
Then it was a walk up Pitt Street, looking at the shops and buildings, all unfamiliar. When he got to an office front door, with '117' on top of it, he jerked his head up, his mind racing. "Yes. I'd forgotten." he said to the door. Allan's first job out of high school, was with Mercantile Mutual, as a junior, ready to climb the stairway of the insurance giant. This was where it happened. It was a race each morning to get here, from the train, and up in the lift to the upper floors, before the book was inked off. He suddenly had an urge, to go up again. To do a Robert, despite what he had said earlier. Just to see what it was like, but he couldn't really remember. It would be another seven years, but maybe some face might trigger a memory chip.
He entered and took the lift, indicating to the liftman, which floor. When he got out, there were two large glass swing doors, with brass work. Opening one, he came face to face with an oak counter, and almost immediately, a young girl, stood up from her ancient typewriter, and faced him.
"Yes sir, can I help you?"
He couldn't remember any names. "Yes," he stalled, "this is MM?"
"Yes sir," she replied, smiling sweetly at him.
"I was thinking of a position, for my son."
The sweet smile again. "Oh, the Staff Department, is one floor up.”
He nodded, and as he turned, he had a thought, not without some logic behind it. He dropped to his shoe, as though to retie it, and scratched an 'A' at floor level, on the counter wall, with a penny. Then he left, and used the stairs, but went down and out to the street. It was a spur of the moment thing, but if they got back, and he came down here, and the counter, was still there, so would his 'A'. Shrugging his shoulders, he realised the building, would long be gone, perhaps.
He bought a sandwich and a bottle of soft drink, with an unknown brand on it, and sat at the side of the Town Hall, on one of the many seats available. He half noticed the older gentleman, sitting at the other end of the seat, coat and tie, and returned his smile. Only into his second bite, of not very fresh bread, when he sensed a change, and found the fellow had moved up closer to him.
"Nice day it is," the older fellow said.
"Yes." Allan took another bite, looking at the passing traffic.
"Fancy a sherry....back at my place?". Not only did Allan hear the softly spoken words, at the same time, felt a hand resting on his knee. This wasn't the first time this had ever happened to Allan, and he wasn't angry or embarrassed to any great degree. He was annoyed, however. He firmly removed the hand, and put it on the owner's knee, as he stood up. "Sorry. Wrong guy." His cheeks were feeling a little warm.
"Really sir, you misunderstood."
"No," replied Allan, "I don't think so," and walked off. 'Stone the crows,' he said to himself, 'what's my attraction?'
Looking up, he was passing a small theatre. 'Newsreel' it said. He recalled these, vaguely. His sister and he, would go into town with mum, and spend an hour. Wheeling around, and almost colliding with a small man, with an even smaller woman on his elbow, he fished out some coins, and bought a ticket. In the door, and the next sixty minutes or so, he had his education on 1950, updated.
Smiling as he left, at some of the misconceptions, and inaccurate guesses on the future, he used the theatrette toilet, then thought it was time to walk over through Hyde Park, and do a quick visit to the museum. He was feeling weary, but just enough time to do this and get back to meet Robert.
The museum was old, only the huge skeleton, hanging above the main foyer, any connection to the present. And it was free. He didn't waste much time there, just a quickie, grabbing a newsletter on the way from the front desk, and back across the park and down St. James station for a train. He changed at Central for a faster train, and Strathfield, all of a sudden , was there. Outside the entrance, no sign of Robert. After ten minutes, he decided, he fancied another beer, and crossed to Whelan’s Hotel, and into the public bar. There was a bit of jostling to get to the front of the bar, and one had to be quick, or you died of thirst.
The cold drink went to his kidneys, and he followed the signs to the men's room. This was a separate shed structure at the back of the beer garden, and stunk. As he left, he found his path blocked, by three young fellows, the youngest, striking a vague chord.
"Well, look who we have here. Thought I saw you inside." The voice made the connection, for Allan. It was the young would be pick pocket from the railway station.
"Excuse me," Allan said, and went to walk around them. A hand shot out and stopped any further progress. It was from one of the older men. "Our mate here, wants you to have a lesson. Might help keep your nose out of other people's business." The voice was gruff, and affected by alcohol.
Allan managed to overcome his fright, and let out a large "Help". Nothing else could have come, because the fist in his stomach, had taken the wind from it, and left him dizzy and disorientated. He collapsed on to the ground, and lay there. He couldn't remember any other assault on his body, just being sick. Then a hand lifting him up into a sitting position. He gradually focussed on a large man, and some others, behind him, who didn't seem to be the ones responsible for the attack.
"You alright, sir?", the large fellow was saying. Allan managed to nod his head, and staggered to his feet. "Come inside and sit down. I'll get you a brandy." Allan didn't argue, but let himself be assisted into the lounge, and sat in a soft chair. Shortly, a drink was pushed into his hand, and one large gulp, that nearly choked him, followed. But it did bring some life back into his shocked system. "Thanks," Allan wheezed, to the fellow.
"No thanks to them, eh?. I'm Bert, chief cook and bottle washer, around here. Saw the two older blokes go out the back, and decided to make sure they weren't up to no good. Had trouble before, with them. Lucky for you, I got there when I did."
"Where are they? Still here?", said Allan.
"No. Took off past me, when I came out and yelled at them. Shot off out the back gate, with another. A kid, by the looks.”
"Should I get the police?", Allan said, standing up. He seemed to be more affected by the brandy, than the assault, and felt a little woozy.
"Forget it sir," was the reply, "Punch ups and muggings, especially behind hotels, don't get much police sympathy, for any party."
Allan just smiled weakly, and nodded his head. "Think I'll go."
'Live locally?", Bert asked.
"No. Actually don't have a place. Mate and I just arrived from...from the country," was Allan's reply.
"We have a room or two, here, but it'll cost. Can see the boss, and get it for, probably five bob or so. Say eight bob for both of you."
Allan perked up. "You're on. Thanks. Will be back, when Robert turns up."
Then with a warm inner glow, thanks partly to brandy, and partly to a warm bed offer, he waved a thank you, and walked outside, checking up and down the street. Allan made his way across to the railway station, and stood behind a news stand, partly hidden, but with a view of the barrier. He hoped Robert would not be long.
* * * * *
Robert followed the streets that ran parallel the railway line, and came to the main Burwood business centre, in about thirty minutes. He decided first to find the Blue Bell cafe, and have a coffee, and he might just chance a meeting with a nice lady.
He found it, tucked away at the bottom end of the shopping centre, just before the park. Looking in through the front window, he couldn't make out any one, so he opened the door, and went in.
No one came, so he selected a vacant table, in the front window, and waited. A woman, not the one he knew, came in from the kitchen, and immediately noticed him. She grabbed a pencil, and came over. "Can I help sir?," a voice so shrill, it gave Robert a start.
"Yes please. Do you have a cappuccino, and a chicken sandwich?"
The woman just looked at him, mouth partly opened. Then Robert's mind kicked in, and he realised in that instant, that maybe he was ahead of his time. "Sorry. I meant to say coffee."
The woman spoke. " We have coffee. I can make it for you. We don't have any chicken. Ham do?"
He nodded. She went away, and he looked around. The wallpaper was a mass of blue flowers, blue bells. There were also some in vases, fresh. It reminded him, of one of the old fashioned tea houses, you would find in an Agatha Christie film. He laughed quietly to himself, thinking what he would do, if Miss Marple, opened the door, and sat down, gloves and handbag, next to her on the table.
Outside the low hum of traffic, made up of all sorts of vehicles. He was getting used to the styles, but they were still veterans in his mind. It was getting overcast, and the rain promised last weekend, seemed to be getting closer.
The woman reappeared with a wooden tray, and a crockery jug, with steam curling out of it. She also had a dish with a plain biscuit on it, and a large ham sandwich, some pickle spread, just obvious. And a folded sheet.
He smiled. She smiled, placed it out for him, and retired to the counter, to fiddle with something or other. He took the paper, and found it to be the bill. Efficient. Dawdling, in the hope, the woman he was waiting for, may appear, he finally had to give up, and went to the counter to pay.
"I was wondering," he said, "you have another lady working here, about this tall, middle 40s, brown hair." It was not really a question, more a statement.
"Not to my knowledge. Four others, depending on the time of day. Three are quite young, compared to me, and you." There was emphasis on the last word. "Alice, on the other hand, shall we say, is more mature than you, and me. She is for our older clientele. Your change."
Robert, was disappointed. Obviously the encounter on the platform, would be the last. He opened the door to leave.
"There is Myra." The words halted him in his tracks.
"Myra?", he queried.
"Just thought I'd mention her," replied the waitress, who turned to a mirror, and patted her hair.
Robert had turned around. "She works here, too?"
""No. Myra is the manageress. She does not work. Lives upstairs. There is a back entrance, off the lane." It was theatrical to Robert. Her body language and tone, had summed up Myra and Robert, and she was showing it. Obviously some gulf existed between the two women, and already Robert had been assigned to his side of that division. He bowed his head, and went to leave.
"Not in. Gone to town. Try after seven," and promptly walked out to the kitchen.
Robert was amused. He left the shop and wandered up the street. Then he saw Moran and Cato's shop, and came back to reality. Entering, and leaving long tracks in the sawdust, scattered on the floor, he approached a middle age assistant, in a white waist apron, and slicked down black hair.
"The manager, please."
"What business would that be related to, sir?", was the reply.
Robert was half inclined to tell him to mind his business, but decided he needed a good track record. "Related to employment," was Robert's words. Well, he was entitled to a little sarcasm.
"He's out the back. Any chance of taking this sack with you?" he said pointing to a rather large corn sack, laying on the floor. "He asked that it be removed from the customer's area." His face betrayed nothing.
Robert decided to keep his possible future working partner, on good terms. Keeping his back straight, he crunched down, and hugging the sack, made it in one lift, without audible sound, and walked through to the back entrance. It nearly killed him, but he did it. There was no one inside. The assistant followed him in. "You'll do, if you’re looking for a job. Name's Lester, Mr. Lester. Manager," and stood there, looking at Robert.
Robert wished his application to the Tax Office, had been as simple. He stuck out his hand, and said," You're on, sir." Then he had a thought. "What if I was after a sales position? Would you still have asked me to move the sack?" He smiled, because he thought he might lose this job, before he started. But he needn't have worried.
"Yes. Everyone here pitches in, when required. However your clothes, told me it was not your profession. You’re timing was good. We're short of a store man at the moment. Start tomorrow, 7.30am sharp, standard wages." He sort of shepherded Robert out into the store, and went off. Robert walked out into the street.
He walked around the shops, checked out the station, and noticed, as he was interested, that the tramlines and poles, were still in place in the main street, but of course, no longer running. He would have loved to take a ride out to Cabarita. It was getting darker, not so much the time, but it was very overcast. He caught a train back to Strathfield, and saw Allan, who appeared to be lurking behind a news stand. Allan also caught sight of him, and they stood on the footpath, trying to decide on dinner. The hotel room, was good news, to Robert. He was, on the other hand, horrified about the attack on Allan, but they decided to talk about the day, after eating something.
They found a cafe, had a couple of pies and tea, and went back to the hotel. Bert was behind the bar, and Allan gave him a nod. He came over, and they ordered a beer each, and asked him to have one later. He thanked them, and took them next door to the lounge, and passed over a key. It was close to closing, and he disappeared back inside.
The room was old, and it was plain, but it had sheets, and two towels. First priority was a shower, there appeared to be only one for the whole hotel. Then it was to sitting on the beds, and talking about the day's events. Each would bring up about tomorrow, at a suitable time.
Allan was pleased about a job, because it meant money, although it might be a hungry week, before Robert was paid. And then there was the problem of where to sleep. The money was fast going. Robert went very quiet, when Allan tried to talk about his visit home.
"Perhaps you were right, Allan, I should have kept away. It has upset me, yet at the same time, I'm so happy, that I did it. There could be no coming back to the past, and not trying to. At least for me." He said no more on the subject, eyes glistening.
Robert changed tack. "So you missed out on your sherry, then?"
"I just took your advice, not to sell my body, despite the need for a capital injection to boost our finances. Was a bit off putting though." Allan relived the moment, in his mind.
"It's never happened to me," said Robert, "do you still, well, get a bit stirred, even though it's a bloke? Sorry. That's an open ended question. I just wondered, wasn't prying." Robert had gone quite red in the face. He regretted opening his mouth, especially to his friend. It was just a silly, curiosity thing.
"You sound like you're putting a label on me," said Allan, his face saying nothing.
"No," replied Robert, his voice betraying alarm. "No. Nothing like that. I wasn't asking, and I'm not interested. It wasn't prying, just conversation on what happened to you. That's all. Look, Allan, we're friends. You accept me as you find me, and I do the same.
"Simmer down. I understand what you're saying. Just that some parts of my life, are mine. If I choose to share them, that's my move. If people start asking, wanting to categorise me into their world, I'll tell them to get lost." Allan's voice was calm but with a determined strain to it.
"Relax," said Robert, "If you think about it, I'm much the same. Probably why we get on . I don't care who a person is or sleeps with. It's how they interact with me, that's important.
A silence followed.
"I'm sorry about the question, Allan. It was just curiosity. No hard feelings. Oh, struth. That wasn't intended. Just came out."
Allan smiled. "Taken in the spirit, I know it was intended. I'm nowhere at the moment, still looking."
Robert put out his hands, and taking Allan's right hand, gave it a squeeze.
Allan smiled again. " The answer to your original question, was no."
"Tomorrow," said Robert, wanting to bring the relationship back on more stable, or less contentious ground. " I have a job, and that means money. We're in this together, so what I get is for both of us. I think the aim is, somehow, to get back to our time. How that can be done, buggered if I know. There was mention of a shelter at Ashfield. Might be worth a try until I get paid, and we can get a room."
Allan didn't say anything.
"Problem?", queried Robert.
"No. Just sort of feel, we should be back where it happened, that's all. Can't visualise a big cloud coming down in Sydney, and selecting us two, from everyone else. It's not so easy living in the past, is it? All our knowledge should make it easy. make us special or something. Can't even go to the toilet without nearly getting killed." Allan was getting melancholy, and his friend sensed it.
"Give it two weeks, Allan, and then we get the train and go back to Perkins Peak. It is a logical thing to do. And next Saturday afternoon, we catch a Manly Ferry, and act like twenty year olds. Pick up a couple of girls..." He stopped, not wanting to rekindle whatever had surfaced before.
"Ten bob bet," said Allan.
"What for?"
There was a light in Allan's eyes. "First to get one into bed, collects."
"You are bloody hopeless, and you are on. Still I won't be trying too hard. It's not something I do well at."
"Time to sleep. You have to get up early. I might look for a job. Meet outside Burwood Station at 5.30pm, and we give the shelter a try." Allan was all business like.
Robert nodded agreement, but was thinking that one night, he would like to try the Blue Bell. As he lay there in the dark, he reflected on the conversation of the last half hour, and how convoluted it was. How fragile relationships, could be. Allan was certainly an emotional and deep thinker. Allan had also not committed himself. Straight. Gay. In between, or even none at all. Certainly a private person. And to Robert, it didn't matter at all.
In the bed, next to Robert, hidden by the darkness of the room, Allan, lay facing the wall. There were tears rolling down his cheeks.