Peter Corris
The Coast Road
1
It had to happen sooner or later. The building in St Peters Lane where I’ve had my office for longer than I like to think about has come up for ‘restoration’. Read demolition maybe, with a retained facade. I knew the hammer was poised when my lease ran out and all I was offered was a fortnightly tenancy. I took it and hung on as long as I could, but the game’s up. The rent’s been cheap because of the condition of the joint. DDD, my ex and now late wife Cyn called it-dark, damp and dusty. And that was years ago. It’s had a few facelifts, paint jobs, rewiring, but the space had just become too potentially valuable to accommodate tenants like me.
We held a party-Stephanie Geller, astrologer, Frank Corso, antiquarian bookseller, Lucille Harvey, genealogist, Donald Carver, philatelist, Henri Baden, numismatist and a few others, some of whom imported and exported, and me. Strictly cheap wine casks, paper cups, Salada biscuits, cheese slices.
‘Usually they offer the existing tenants first option on the new offices,’ Don Carver said. Don looks like a bird, with a long nose and retreating chin. He’s slumped as if all
those years of peering through magnifying glasses have bent him over.
Frank Corso held a three-tier Salada and cheese slice construction in one hand and a brimful cup of rough red in the other. ‘Hah, this’ll be apartments, mate. Bet on it. A couple of grand a month, no sweat. They know none of us are up for that so they didn’t bother with the politeness.’
‘Still, possible grounds for a legal challenge?’ Don said. ‘Cliff?’
I was watching Frank, wondering how he was going to negotiate the biscuits and cheese.
‘Sure, Don,’ Lucille Harvey said. ‘What d’we do? Club together and get a QC?’
Somehow, Frank handled it. He’s a big man with a wide mouth and he managed to absorb half of the biscuit sandwich in one bite, not many crumbs falling onto his bulging waistcoat. Frank maintains that people expect an antiquarian bookseller to wear a waistcoat. He washed the mouthful down with a slug of red. I nodded my congratulations and turned my attention to the conversation.
‘Don might be right,’ I said. ‘And Lucille’s right as well. Upshot is, we’re fucked.’
Don took a cautious sip of his wine. ‘Steph?’
Stephanie Geller, ruby-lipped, kohl-eyed, in a sequinned top and a long skirt festooned with tiny mirrors, was pissed. She’s short-sighted and won’t wear glasses because she thinks they’re bad for her image. She squinted and smiled lopsidedly. ‘Zee cards…zee cards say Cliff’s right, even though he’s a fuckin’ sceptic’s sceptic. We’re fucked. Henri, get me another white.’ Steph forgets the accent once in a while.
‘You’re drunk, darling,’ Henri Baden said. Steph told me once that Henri is a con man who tells people what they want to hear. He’s one of those gays that seem to get gayer
by the glass.
‘Don’t darling me, you poofter.’
‘Steph!’ Lucille Harvey snarled.
It went downhill from there. Goodbye St Peters Lane, goodbye central location, goodbye cheap rent.
I was working from home and not liking it. My place in Glebe doesn’t lend itself to being an office as well as a house. The front room’s too small; the living space is filled with books and now holds a couple of filing cabinets. You can’t escort people upstairs, not when the runner’s worn and the spare room holds a bed, a computer and more books. I was reduced to meeting my clients at places of their or my choice. I was to meet Dr Elizabeth Farmer in her room in the Linguistics Department of Sydney University.
A day in early spring, clear and cool. I walked. The linguists were housed in a building that looked like a cross between a Nissan hut and a school demountable. It was probably intended to be temporary, but a creeper had grown over it, trees and shrubs crowded close and it was there to stay in all its grey, small-windowed anonymity. From what I’d heard about the way things were going at universities lately, maybe a low profile was a good thing. The bean counters and productivity assessors just might leave you alone.
It was cold in the corridor-poor insulation and inadequate heating. It’d be an oven in summer. I found a notice telling me the number of Dr Farmer’s room and tracked it down. The door was open and I heard voices coming from inside. I walked past, slowly enough to see a young female dressed like a student sitting forward in a chair and an older woman behind a desk. They kept their voices low and I couldn’t catch what they were saying. Probably wouldn’t have understood anyway.
I was early as usual and it was one of those times I used to fill in by smoking. Now I wandered around looking at noticeboards, passing a couple of other open doors, drifting back to Dr Farmer’s room. Ten minutes past our appointed time the student hurried away, backpack over one shoulder, scarf dangling, muttering to herself. I knocked on the open door and presented myself.
She stood and beckoned to me. ‘Mr Hardy. Sorry to keep you waiting.’
I went in and took the hand she extended. She was tall and well built with thick dark hair going attractively grey. I must have gaped just a bit because she laughed as she pointed to the chair. ‘I know, I know. I look like Germaine Greer. No relation. I just do.’
I sat and then stood. ‘Can I close the door?’
‘Of course. Have you been around a university lately?’
‘No. Not as a student for a long time and not otherwise for quite a bit.’
We both settled into our chairs. ‘You can’t be in a room with a student with the door shut-male or female. Possibility of improper conduct.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Absurd, isn’t it? Conversely, you can’t leave your door unlocked when you go to the loo in case your bag gets nicked…or your computer.’
I nodded and looked closely at her while also taking in details of the room in a professional fashion. Rooms can speak about character. Books, books and more books, filing cabinets, stacked folders, audio cassettes. She wore what looked like a heavy linen shirt, white, with a string of dark beads around her neck. Dark skirt. I guessed her age at around forty and her character as strong. I wondered if I was being called in on one of those university political cases where factions develop in departments, insults fly and crimes are alleged.
‘Is this a university matter, Dr Farmer? I mean threats, harassment, that sort of thing?’
‘Shit, no,’ she said. ‘Anything like that I could handle myself or go through the union. No, this is personal and nothing to do with my profession. D’you remember Prof Harkness?’
I did. Harkness was an ophthalmologist who saved the sight of a Bougainville patriot who some others patriots were trying to kill. Harkness had needed some protection up to and during the operation. ‘Sure, I remember him.’
‘He operated on me a little while ago. Tied up a muscle to correct a squint. I used to have to wear these thick glasses. Anyway, apparently I babbled a bit under the anaesthetic and he was interested in what I said. We talked. He suggested I get in touch with you. He sings your praises.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Anyone who could’ve been making a million dollars a year in Macquarie Street and doesn’t impresses me. What were you babbling about, Dr Farmer?’
She paused before she answered. She was a very handsome woman, possibly well aware of it but it sat lightly on her. She had a slight frown mark between her eyebrows, probably a result of the corrected squint. Her eyes were large and grey and unwavering. ‘The prof took me seriously and I hope you will as well.’
‘You’ve got my attention.’
‘It’s a question of how to put it. We linguists sometimes get tongue-tied, you’d be surprised to hear. D’you play golf, Mr Hardy?’
I shook my head.
‘There’s a phrase-paralysis by analysis-when you think about technique so much you can’t actually hit the ball. What I’m talking about is similar. I’ll just have to stumble through it. I might say I want you to find out who murdered my father, but I think I know who. What I really want is to find out how she did it and make her pay.’