Next Step

ONE The absence of a government directive blaring from audio-points should have been welcome, a potent reminder of renaissance, yet silence hung heavy, trapped within her apartment walls like a Port Phillip sea fog. Yesterday morning, Emma hadn’t noticed the lack of intrusion, her desire for punctuality overriding all else, the resumption of a workday routine after 12 months of unemployment shaping every minute from the moment of waking. First on the agenda was an alarm cancellation instruction to her bedside device, given in a whisper to ensure she didn’t disturb her son. Less than 24 hours had elapsed since Jack’s return home from a youth detention centre, where he’d been detained along with numerous others for participating in a student protest in the street opposite the imposing stone façade of State Parliament. The subsequent release of all detainees except Jack had alarmed not only his mother, but also the committee charged with administering Citizens’ Voice, an undercover organisation promoting radical political change through civil disobedience. Jack was accused of masterminding both the sit-in and the preceding protest march through city streets to State Parliament, demanding government action on unemployment issues. Fabricated charges, given the rally had been instigated by the CV committee, of which Emma was secretary. Now that Jack had been granted bail to await his trial, scheduled to begin on Wednesday, March 31, Emma felt confident that the preposterous charges would be thrown out of court, his lawyer, Penelope Watts-Smith, being renowned for her brilliant defence strategies. Cocooned in the shower within a cascade of tepid water, Emma focused on the silky touch of washing gel, her hands moving languidly over her slender limbs and the slight skin-creases that would forever remind her of mid-life pregnancy. As expected, her body exhibited numerous signs of aging – wrinkles around the eyes, puckers above her upper lip, the beginnings of loose flesh beneath her chin – but, unlike some citizens, she had no wish to erase the evidence of a 70-year life. Recent events were of more importance than the passing of decades, a momentous month having culminated in a challenging administrative position that she’d planned to vacate after a single day, after citing a confidentiality clause implying dire consequences if contravened. Cal Ritchie, the convenor of Citizens’ Voice, had persuaded Emma to return to the Productive Citizens Bureau, where she would spend the next few weeks completing instructive modules before embarking on her role as a trainee doorkeeper (TDK), one of many employed throughout the city to determine the next step for the unemployed. As Cal had explained in his no-nonsense manner, her exposure to the workings of a government long suspected of sanctioning inhumane solutions to rid the country of unproductive citizens, could provide CV with valuable intelligence. Citizens raised on a diet of strict compliance needed absolute proof of unlawful and brutal conduct before they would commit to changing the status quo. Back in her bedroom, dressing for work, Emma mused on the chance encounter with eccentric market owner, Cal, that had seen her status quo alter beyond belief. In the space of three weeks, she had emerged from a life of conformity to one of civil disobedience and sedition. A month earlier, she would have dismissed any suggestion of transformation, citing age, reluctance to alter the habits of a lifetime and the desire to shield Jack from unpalatable truths. All hollow excuses for passivity, she acknowledged now. But as she put the finishing touches to her workday façade – combing unruly grey curls, applying a subtle shade of lipstick – stabs of unease began to perforate her bolstered confidence. Had she allowed a sudden surge of bravado to countermand her natural inclination to flee, not fight? Or had she been swayed by Cal’s loving embrace and promise to be there for her during the challenging months ahead? In theory, escape to his isolated farmhouse remained feasible, there being two hours until the start of her working day. A brief message would suffice; Emma was certain Cal would understand her change of heart. If she caught the all-stations to Mordialloc at seven, she could disembark at Mornington and climb into Cal’s waiting truck. Jack could join her later in the evening, as it was unwise to leave together. Hands shaking, Emma lifted her right arm to speak into her wrist-band, but before she could utter a word, a head-shot flashed into the screen. Familiar, appreciated, a miniature portrait depicting tousled hair, a freckled face and sea-green eyes. ‘Cal, I…’ she began, taking a step towards the bed and the soft landing it would provide once she’d dropped her bombshell. ‘Morning, Em. Just wanted to wish you well for day two and let you know I…’ ‘Thanks, but.’ ‘No buts. I’ve been awake for ages waiting for the right moment to call. I didn’t want to disturb Jack or interrupt your shower.’ ‘Sorry,’ she said automatically. ‘Why? It’s my problem if I can’t sleep for thinking about you. Geez, Em, can’t a man express his feelings early in the morning?’ ‘Any hour is okay by me,’ Emma replied, despite her wish to move on to farmhouse business. ‘That’s my girl. Hey, how about I bring over some fresh veg for dinner tonight?’ Prepared syntax evaporated in a blaze of light, which had nothing to do with the sunshine strip streaming through the gap in her bedroom curtains. The faint-hearted took the easy option, but she wasn’t an abused woman desperate to leave an impossible situation. She, Emma Cartwright, newly employed, yet already considered eminently suitable for a government position calling for complete confidentiality, possessed a tight circle of support, from the CV committee available to guide and encourage, to the man whose declaration of love had floored her days earlier. ‘Peaches for dessert would be lovely, if you’ve got any,’ she answered, aware that Cal’s boisterous presence might help distract Jack from constant contemplation of his forthcoming trial. Apart from making a few positive comments on learning she had a new job, Jack’s release on bail had done nothing to restore his battered spirits. ‘Barney picked up peaches this morning, so Charlie should have them by now. I’ll drop by his stall and snaffle a few of the best.’ She thought of the ancient stallkeeper, whose friendly chatter and concern for her welfare had opened small windows of hope on many occasions, during her one-year Government Allocated Unemployment Period. ‘Good, but now I must go and have breakfast, otherwise I’ll miss my train.’ ‘See you tonight, peaches and cream.’ More like stewed fruit and thin custard, she thought, but did not say. It would take time to adjust to Cal’s compliments.