The Bus on Thursday Read online

  So then I think about my various girlfriends, and finally I call Sally because even though she really upset me with the Harry the Harelip debacle, she’s still probably the one I like best. I mean, she’s at least funny, some of the time anyway. And of course, it’s not the same since the bub came along, and now she’s had to go back to work to pay off the mortgage on their stupid big house, but I still feel like underneath it all, she is actually there for me. Anyway, whatever, after several attempts, it finally connects: she doesn’t answer and it goes through to voicemail.

  So I leave a message, very jokey ha-ha about things, and tell her next time you’d better bloody well pick up, you stupid moll. Then I hang up, get the lonely rush again (tears pricking, manage to fight them back, take a few big breaths), and then I suddenly think: It’s Friday evening! What the hell, I’m going to drink wine! And that thought suddenly cheers me up immensely. So I drive back into Talbingo and stop at the Talbingo General Store—which is licensed, fortunately—and buy myself a bottle of Jacob’s Creek sav blanc and a packet of salt-and-vinegar chips. Which was dinner.

  I’m suddenly buggered.      Also drunk. Off to bed.

  The weekend.

  I can see how the weekends might be the challenge.

  Granted, I wasn’t feeling the best when I woke up. I really can’t handle the wine since chemo, so I was queasy and I had a lousy headache. Luckily I still have a few anti-nausea tablets, so I force one of those down then I stagger to the shop to get a Coke and some Panadol. That was breakfast. Then I lay down again. But I couldn’t get back to sleep, and instead I find myself thinking about Miss Barker. How she would have slept in this same bed in this same bedroom. And I find myself wondering what the hell has happened to this woman. Why does a woman like that suddenly do a runner in the middle of the night? Did she shoot through? Or has something else happened to her? And given I live in same house, should I be worried? What’s with all those locks on the doors, for instance?

  Hours pass, the sun starts to come through the crack in the curtains at such an angle that it hits me straight in the eyeballs, so I finally get up. It’s getting on for noon, so I have a shower, make some toast, and then I think, What the fuck am I going to do with myself today? And then I remember the bike. There’s a shed out the back with some old skis and a kayak, and also quite a nice-looking bike. So I go and check it out, and it’s got a few cobwebs on it and its tires need some air, but I pump them up and it’s fine.

  By now, it’s an absolutely glorious day. The sun is out, the air is fresh, the birds are singing in the trees. My headache is practically gone, so I decide to embrace the day and my new healthy lifestyle by taking the bike out for a spin. At first, I just doodle around the streets of the township, and I’m thinking: Where the hell is everyone? I ride past the park, and there’s a few kids there with their parents, but I don’t recognize them so I’m thinking they must be tourists passing through. Most of the houses look empty and have holiday rental signs out front. Once again, I am dumbfounded that they actually have a school here.

  After about three minutes, I realize I’ve covered the entire town, so I get more ambitious and take the road leading down to the power station. It’s a lovely, gently undulating road, the Pondage on one side, the foothills on the other, a cow or a horse here and there. Little birds rising up out of the rushes on the edge of the road, making a funny sort of warbling sound. Looking up, I see a hang glider wheeling. The sun feels so nice on my skin, and the rhythm of my tires on the asphalt (a bit of a squeak now and then from the right pedal) is so kind of meditative that my spirits begin to rise and for a moment I feel exhilarated and joyful, and I realize it’s been a long, long, long, long time since I felt like that.

  Then …

  I come around a corner and there’s a fucking 1960s sci-fi power station, like some kind of reinforced bunker where Dr. Evil might live, surrounded by all these giant transmission towers and an enormous grid of power lines crisscrossing the sky. I stop my bike, and I listen, and I swear to God these towers are emitting this ominous low-level humming sound. Even (did I imagine this?) the odd crackle. I don’t like it. I suddenly remember all those stories about links between cancer and electrical transmissions. God only knows if there’s any truth to them, but I sure as hell threw away my electric blanket, just to be on the safe side.

  Anyway, I panic. Next thing I know, I’ve spun around and I’m pedaling away as fast as I can, and now the gently undulating road seems to be one long, steep uphill gradient, and my right pedal starts slipping so that every time I put half a degree too much pressure on it, I almost end up catapulted over the handlebars. And just as I get back into town, I realize the back tire is dead flat and, to judge by its mangled appearance, I have been riding the last ten minutes on the metal rim. For some reason, this just absolutely infuriates me so I pick up the bike and I hurl it into some bushes. And then I suddenly remember I’m the new teacher in town, and throwing a bike into bushes because a tire is flat might indicate that impulse control is not my strong suit.

  But of course, nobody actually saw me do it, because the streets are completely empty and the citizenry of Talbingo is apparently skulking indoors, hunched over their Nintendos, despite the glorious autumnal day.

  So I drag the bike out of the bushes in a manner that I hope might look nonchalant and wheel it up to the General Store, where I stock up on healthy provisions as best I can. I soon realize that they do not have a lot of what we think of as fresh food back in Sydney. In the refrigerated section, I find an iceberg lettuce, some apples and carrots, all a bit soft and limp and pre-bagged in plastic. Nothing is dated, so I have no idea how old anything is. Regardless, I purchase them all at top dollar. I also purchase a tin of corn kernels, a tin of sliced beetroot, a pack of Jatz crackers and some tasty cheese, plus a family-size block of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk and a New Weekly. I look in the meat section, but it’s too depressing for words. There’s some chops but they look kind of gray, and some queasy-looking chicken Marylands that seem to be silently emanating E. coli even through their cling wrap. So I go to the freezer and pick up a McCain’s frozen pizza (Hawaiian) and a box of hash browns. Also some ice cream.

  Obviously this can’t continue. I am going to have to get organized and drive into Tumut to buy some decent food or I will end up with scurvy.

  Meanwhile, the woman at the cash register has been watching me the whole time, and when I come up to the counter, she says, “Aren’t you the new teacher?” And I say, “Yes,” feeling extremely embarrassed by my purchases (she also served me for last night’s wine and chips—luckily not the breakfast Coke and Panadol; I think that was her husband). She introduces herself as Janelle, mother of the twins Jaden and Madison, and then says, “Welcome, it’s great to have you, thank you for coming at short notice, etc. etc.” And we get chatting about this and that, and she’s banging on about Miss Barker and how wonderful she was and what a terrible shock it’s been for the children and so on. I act all innocent and I say, “Did Miss Barker get another posting somewhere else?” And she looks at me like she’s shocked I don’t know, and she repeats the “vanished in the middle of the night” story. And I find myself saying, “Isn’t that a bit odd?” which of course I could never say to Glenda or she would probably sock me in the jaw. And Janelle nods and bulges her eyes a bit and says, “Yes,” very quietly out the corner of her mouth because a couple of other customers have come into the shop. So I lower my voice also and say, “Did the police get involved?” and she nods again and whispers, “Missing Persons.” And that’s as far as we get, because someone comes up wanting a carton of Winfield Blue.

  I lug the bike and unhealthy comestibles back home, where I shove the bike back in the shed and spend the entire afternoon eating Dairy Milk and poring over pictures of celebrities without makeup in the New Weekly.

  I should have been preparing class work for next week, but for some reason I just couldn’t be bothered. So after I finish the Dairy Milk, I crack
open the Jatz and the tasty cheese, then I finish off the remaining wine (about half a glass, sadly). I contemplate going back up the shop for more, but decide not to in case Janelle serves me again and thinks I’m an alcoholic. I try to watch TV (encore episode of I’m a Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here!) but the reception’s not very good. I feel sick from all the Jatz and the chocolate.

  Tomorrow, I’m going to start afresh. I’m going to get up early, go for a walk, and then spend the day preparing class work. Also, must call Mum!

  I’ve just spent about two hours on the phone bawling to Mum, and she’s finally talked me down off the ledge. Her main point: I owe it to myself to hang in there and give it a proper go. And I know I should, so I will. But I am just feeling UNBELIEVABLY PISSED OFF.

  Okay, so this is what happened. (I am actually finding this blog-writing quite therapeutic—maybe that’s why they recommend it!) It’s Sunday. I set my alarm for 6:00, but I slept through till about 7:00, then I rug up and go for a walk. And once again, Talbingo takes my breath away with its beauty. It’s quite chilly, there’s this silvery frost on the ground, and clouds of mist hovering on the Pondage so it looks almost mythical (King Arthur? Lady of the Lake? Must google, if I ever get the internet sorted). There’s a mob of kangaroos grazing on the grass down near the water, and the boy kangaroos seem to be fighting one another all the time, grunting and boxing then having a little rest like it’s time out, and then standing up and grunting and boxing again. I watch them for a while, and I think to myself perhaps I could start drawing. I would quite like to draw a kangaroo. So I make a mental note to purchase a sketchbook when I go into Tumut.

  I look up and there’s a hang glider above. This must be a popular place to hang glide—possibly favorable air currents or something. Perhaps I could take up hang gliding? That’s exactly the sort of Bucket List stupidity that cancer survivors tend to partake in, Living Life to the Fullest, etc. Am I living life to the fullest? Possibly not; possibly too much time spent staring at photos of celebrities without makeup. This is the whole problem with having cancer: everyone expects you to have mysteriously acquired some kind of wisdom out of the experience, and if you haven’t, then it’s a personal failing. I mean, people have actually said to me, “Wow, I guess having cancer so young must have given you a whole new perspective on life?” And I always nod and try to look inscrutable, but in fact, if I am completely honest with myself, I have the same old skewed perspective I’ve always had, except now I get to feel guilty about it. Likewise with living life more meaningfully. What the fuck does that mean anyway? How do you actually do it, in reality, besides taking up yoga? Like, I sometimes ask myself, How would I spend my last day on earth if I had a choice in the matter and was totally able-bodied? And invariably the answer always involves me ogling fish in some manner, either diving or snorkeling or whatever. I like fish. I like their pretty colors. I can follow them around for hours, to the point where I start to seriously creep them out. They try to shake me off by hiding under ledges, changing color, etc. One fish ducked into the wrong cave and got himself eaten by an octopus, which was the first time I realized that fish could look surprised. So all very educational, even fun, but is giving fish the heebie-jeebies in any way actually meaningful? I doubt it.

  Anyway, I’m trudging along in the wet grass ruminating about all this when I come to a big sign explaining the Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Scheme. I spend some time studying it in the hope that I might be able to converse knowledgeably with the children on the subject. Apparently there is a lot of pumping water back and forth between the Pondage and the Reservoir via the power station, which generates electricity somehow. (How exactly? Must read up on this properly. Could be a good project for the older kids.) Three short bursts of the siren warn when large amounts of water are discharged into the Pondage. Unsafe for swimming or boating owing to the unpredictable rise and fall of water levels. (I guess the kids know all this, but it might be worth going over it with them anyway.)

  Interesting facts: the original Talbingo is underwater; they flooded it for the Hydro-Electric Scheme. The Hydro-Electric Scheme provides electricity for 250,000 homes.

  Anyway, as I’m reading all this, I start to become aware of this strange music. I can’t figure out if it’s bells or what, but it’s playing some kind of clanging, discordant tune which sounds oddly familiar but I can’t put my finger on it. Then I realize it’s coming from the church. So I decide to go and check it out, seeing as how it’s Sunday morning.

  My friends would probably sneer at this, but while I might be none the wiser for having had cancer, I do find myself a lot more open to the idea of God than I ever used to be. In fact, this is funny—since I always considered myself a nonbeliever—but I have prayed to God quite a bit in my desperation over the last two years, and sometimes it has really helped. Like, sometimes an odd feeling of calm has come over me. It’s quite a pleasant feeling, and I realize I also connect it to my dad. Like, I feel as if my dad is with me and looking out for me, and he’s been dead thirteen years now. Once, not long after I was diagnosed, I had this dream that he called me up from beyond the grave, and I said, “Where are you, Dad?” and he said he was staying in a nice motel with tea-making facilities and a heated swimming pool, and I suddenly realized he was describing heaven. Dad was extremely unassuming; he never expected much or even wanted much, so I really believe that this was his way of telling me not to worry. That there was nothing to be afraid of, even if the worst happened, because they put you up in a nice motel. Which is funny, and it’s very typical of my dad, and it’s the sort of odd little joke that Dad and I would have together. So it was weirdly comforting. Of course, I never mentioned any of this to Mum.

  But anyway, I wander up to the church. Here’s another interesting fact: it is the first interdenominational church in Australia. Apparently, after they’d finished flooding the original Talbingo, the Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Authority agreed to build one new church in the new Talbingo, and by that they meant one church only. So apparently the different denominations had to agree to share it. Except there’s no sign of any different denominations on the board out front—it just says in stick-on plastic letters CHURCH SERVICE 9:30 A.M. SUNDAYS. FRIAR EUGENE HERNANDEZ. ALL WELLCOME.

  It’s quite a groovy sixties building, wrought from local stone, high up overlooking the Pondage. It probably has the best view in the whole town. Also, it boasts a carillon, which is like an organ except with bells instead of pipes, and that is what’s producing this weird clanging discordant music. And here’s the spooky bit: I suddenly recognize the song that’s being played: it’s “Elenore,” by the Turtles. I kid you not. So now I am totally thinking of my dad, because Dad used to sing that to me when I was little. (I wouldn’t let him sing it to me when I was an angry teenager, of course, which is one of the billion things I regret bitterly now.)

  I wander in. By this time, I guess, it’s a bit after eight o’clock. And I assume the man hunched over the carillon must be Friar Eugene Hernandez, although he’s not wearing robes or anything—just a black skivvy with a chunky cross medallion hanging around his neck. He’s a funny-looking guy—very tall, very thin—and he’s banging away at the pedal thingies, completely oblivious to me. The thought “praying mantis” immediately comes into my mind—something about his long, skinny arms. But then suddenly he looks up and sees me, and immediately he leaps up to say hello, and he’s very friendly and talkative and starts blathering on about the carillon, and how he likes to play it nice and early every Sunday morning to remind everyone that there’s a church service. And I say, “Wasn’t that ‘Elenore’ you were just playing?” and he says, “Yes!” really delighted that I actually recognized the tune, and then I tell him about how my dad used to sing that song to me when I was little. And as I’m saying this, I find myself choking up a bit. And Friar Hernandez pats me on the arm, very kind and sympathetic, and he says, “Come and have a cup of tea.” Then he takes me into this little room at the side of the church.


  Now, here it starts to get strange. He doesn’t make me a cup of tea at all—instead he rummages around at the bottom of a cupboard and pulls out this bottle of what looks like communion wine. And he says, “Shall we?” and he has this gleeful look on his face like a naughty kid. And I say, “Sure! Why not?” because for some reason it doesn’t seem completely out of order to be guzzling red wine at eight o’clock in the morning, it just seems kind of a fun idea. So he pours it into two big mugs, and it tastes actually rancid, but he says, “Don’t worry, it gets better about the third or fourth sip.” And weirdly, it does. And he’s so nice and kind and interested in me that the next thing I know, I’m blurting out my entire cancer story to him. The whole thing, right back to scratching my armpit and up to and including the fact that I haven’t yet got around to getting the nipple done. Which is totally not like me, because I usually make it a point not to tell people about the breast cancer, and I certainly don’t tell anyone that I haven’t got a nipple. And here I am using the word nipple over and over again in front of this crazy-looking, wine-guzzling praying mantis. And he just seems extremely understanding and sympathetic, and he keeps murmuring, “Extraordinary. Extraordinary.” It’s actually just a huge relief to talk to someone.

  And then he says, “Are you familiar with Psalm Thirty-eight?” And I say, “No.” And then he picks up a Bible, and he opens it up to this psalm, and hands it to me and says: “Read it.” And as I read it, I start to get this churning feeling in my gut.