The Reluctant Doorkeeper Trilogy

2. Day 27

Rising at five evoked memories of the years before Jack went to school, when Emma would eat breakfast on the run in between dressing an uncooperative child, applying make-up and making sure Aarav got out of bed in time to take their son to childcare on his way to the station. When she became pregnant – a complete surprise given she’d turned fifty the day after their partnership ceremony – Emma had planned to look for work closer to home, but there had been nothing available either before or after her maternity leave. By the time a suitable position came up, Jack was in second-year primary school, so it seemed pointless to leave a fulfilling job and friendly colleagues. Fifty wasn’t considered too old for a first pregnancy, but despite advances in medical knowledge, there remained a chance of foetal abnormality. Fortunately, Emma hadn’t experienced any problems except mild morning sickness during the first trimester, and exactly nine months later, Jack Aarav Cartwright-Kori had entered an overcrowded world.

In the past, women had solved the problem of “aged eggs” by having theirs harvested at a younger age, then stored to be used when required, but a change of legislation in 2070 had removed that option and in-vitro fertilisation was banned, along with any type of assisted reproductive technology. Australian women understood the reasons supplied by government – global population at ten billion, the cost of egg and foetus storage plus IVF procedures – but that didn’t help those with fertility issues, who wanted the single child permitted by the government.

* * *

Cloud blanketed the sky as Emma walked towards the market, and a light sea breeze kept humidity at bay. There were few people about at such an early hour, and other than a man sweeping sand from the footpath, no one paid her any attention. She returned his greeting but, determined not to be late on her first morning, didn’t stop to engage in conversation.

When she arrived, Charlie had already unzipped the stall’s front panel and was re-arranging yesterday’s produce to make way for the morning’s deliveries. ‘Hi, Uncle Charlie. Better weather for customers today.’

‘Sure thing.’ He gestured towards the fruit trays on his right. ‘I sort the more perishable varieties every day. Slightly damaged produce goes in the cut-price basket, move the rest to the front of the tray. Anything that looks unsaleable, put in the bucket under the table.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Emma slipped the bag from her shoulder and looked around for somewhere to store it.

‘Put your bag round the back with mine. And cut out the “sir” business. My name’s Uncle Charlie. Just Uncle or Charlie will do if you want.’

‘Sorry, Uncle Charlie.’ Emma tossed him a smile, then slid sideways into the narrow gap between table and side panel, depositing her bag next to a rucksack of ancient origin. She was tempted to ask the significance of “uncle” but thought better of it, so leaned over the fruit trays to sort as directed. Indigenous Australians referred to their elders as Uncle or Aunty, but Emma had never heard Charlie or anyone else mention his aboriginal heritage. Or any other heritage, for that matter. Perhaps his origins were gnomic after all and he lived beneath the surface of the earth with others of his kind.

Charlie disrupted her absurd musings. ‘Help yourself to fruit if you’re hungry, my dear. Just pick from the cut-price basket, please.’

‘Thanks, I will.’

‘When you’ve finished the fruit, sort the tomatoes and salad greens.’

‘Sure, nearly done.’

‘Good girl.’

‘Hardly a girl, Uncle Charlie. I’m seventy.’

‘Just a young’un to me.’

‘Why, how old are you?’

Charlie scratched his nose. ‘Now, that would be telling. Can’t have my customers thinking I’m past it.’

Emma knew better than to persist. If Charlie wished to remain an enigma, so be it.

* * *

Gnome and girl worked well together, creating a colourful display in advance of the first customers. Cloud dissipated, leaving the clear skies that were typical on the peninsula during the summer months, although a pall of pollution still hung over the city further north. Sheltered from the hot sun, a sea breeze wafting over her – Charlie had opened the side panels – Emma began to enjoy herself despite curious looks from some customers, followed by the occasional query. True to his predilection for privacy, Charlie dismissed questions about imminent retirement or ill-health with a wry smile and a wave of the hand, before directing attention to his wares.

Those customers acquainted with Emma, seemed to accept her presence as a natural progression, all being aware that whatever their previous occupation, the long-term unemployed were forced to undertake whatever work became available. Naturally, neither Emma nor Uncle Charlie mentioned the casual nature of their arrangement, the by-passing of officialdom; vigilance being essential as one never knew who had the ear of local or regional authorities. Old women that appeared meek and mild had been known to take on the role of informer in exchange for extra pension benefit.

‘I could have retired at eighty, of course,’ Uncle Charlie remarked to Emma during a lull in trading. ‘But I didn’t feel inclined to do unpaid community work several days a week like the bloody government demands. Besides, I’ve heard that some old farts lord it over other pensioner-workers and make their lives a misery. Me, on the other hand, I might make a nuisance of myself, seeing as I would resent working for nothing but a pathetic pension.’

This was the longest speech Emma had ever heard from Uncle Charlie and she wondered what had induced him to open up. Twenty years as a customer didn’t make her a close friend. ‘I don’t agree with compulsory community work, either and I’ve always been thankful my parents died before the Productive Pensioners Act came into force.’

Charlie nodded, then said wistfully, ‘Sometimes I crave a quick exit. Right here after a good day’s trade.’ He patted his ample stomach. ‘I’d make good compost. Haven’t touched meat for seventy years.’

Emma smiled but decided not to voice her own thoughts. If she didn’t have Jack to consider, she would willingly opt for voluntary euthanasia given her current situation.

‘That reminds me,’ Charlie continued, wrinkling his nose. He bent to pick up the rubbish bucket. ‘I forgot to empty the damn thing last night. ‘Just going to the compost bin. Won’t be long.’

* * *

A delivery truck pulled up in a cloud of dust, triggering coughing fits for those nearby. Emma turned away from the fruit and vegetables to clear her throat, so failed to notice that the driver was heading for Charlie’s stall.

‘Where the hell is my stallkeeper?’ a booming voice demanded, as a hand slapped the produce table.

Oranges and Emma jumped and twisted around. ‘Gone to the compost bin,’ she answered between coughs, trying not to stare at scarlet boardshorts and a flower-patterned shirt of a kind only seen in old movies.

‘Customer minding the shop, eh?’

Emma decided not to divulge her status. ‘Uncle Charlie won’t be long. Can I get you anything?’

‘No.’ The driver ran a hand through thick auburn hair laced with grey. ‘s**t of a morning,’ he continued, wiping his hand on the red shorts. ‘Bloody Barney didn’t turn up, no message, either. Then the cold room door at the depot wouldn’t open, so I had to call an engineer, then my brother tripped over a tray of veg and cut his leg.’

‘Would you like to sit in the shade while you wait?’ Emma gestured towards the stool positioned in a back corner.

‘I need a cold drink, not a sit-down,’ he said gruffly and set off towards the stall opposite.

The significance of his words struck her, as she began to sort a tray of zucchini. He must be one of the Ritchie brothers, owners of Peninsula Markets. His odd clothing had distracted her; she should have taken more notice of his authoritarian manner and the pale face with a smattering of freckles. He wasn’t a man accustomed to obeying orders or spending hours in the sun. She should warn Charlie, stop him floating the idea of employing her. After such a difficult morning, she couldn’t imagine Mr Ritchie would be receptive to anything out of the ordinary. But Charlie was nowhere in sight and the man in question was heading her way. She stopped sorting and settled a smile on her face.

‘Sorry I sounded off,’ he began, looking sheepish. ‘I don’t usually behave like that, and especially not to someone I’ve just met.’

‘I’m Emma, and there’s no need to apologise. Your frustration was understandable.’

‘Thanks, Emma,’ His lips parted in a half-smile. ‘I’m Cal.’

‘Short for Callum by any chance?’

‘I’m afraid so. Parents wanted to continue the Scottish theme even though the family’s been here for generations. My twin brother got Dugald, the poor bugger.’

Definitely a Ritchie, she thought, but said instead, ‘I like those names. They conjure up images of courageous warriors storming across the Highlands.’

Definitely a Ritchie,‘Are you flirting with me, Emma?’

‘Hardly, at my age.’

‘Never too old,’ he said under his breath. ‘Ah, here’s Charlie at last.’ He rushed to meet the old man.

The pair were too far away for Emma to hear any subsequent dialogue, but she could tell from their body language that something more than an absent driver and a minor depot accident was amiss. It would be prudent to leave when Charlie returned to the stall.

* * *

‘No customers, I’m afraid, Uncle Charlie,’ she said, noting his grim expression. She bent to pick up her bag, then stepped outside the stall. ‘I’ll be going then.’

‘Why? It’s only eleven!’

She tried to signal a warning without alerting Cal Ritchie, who was standing close behind.

Charlie looked puzzled. ‘Oh yes, thanks for holding the fort. Might see you tomorrow. Should have some of that beetroot you like.’

Emma had never purchased beetroot. It was the one vegetable she couldn’t abide, and Jack shared her dislike. ‘See you around, Uncle Charlie. Goodbye, Cal, nice to meet you.’

Cal nodded in her direction before bending almost double to speak again to the diminutive Charlie.