Spin Cycle (7 page)

God! I've only just fired my therapist and already I'm confronting issues head-on! I shake myself and make a valiant effort to put the past behind me while I walk back around to the rear door and let myself in with my key (never having opened up before, it takes me ten minutes to find it), and proceed to telephone Teresa (hell's bells, I just remembered that I forgot to ring her back last night!). I hang up on Bronte's voice cheerfully informing me that she and her mother are not home but would simply love to talk to me as soon as possible, and try a few of my other colleagues in turn but there is no answer anywhere. I finally track down a mobile number and dial that instead.

‘Hello?' (Lots of static and road noise.)

‘Barbara! What's going on? I'm at work and you're not!'

‘It's the strike today, you dummy! Remember we discussed it last Friday?'

‘Vaguely … but I didn't know it was definite – or today!'

‘We talked again yesterday, but Joanne said she'd remind you. She's supposed to be picking you up from your house at eight-thirty. God, she's going to be furious.'

‘I don't remember that at –'

‘Listen, I can't talk now, I'm in heaps of traffic. Meet us somewhere along the route. We're meeting all the others at ten-thirty and then marching towards Parliament House, okay?'

‘I suppose so. What's the route though?'

‘Well, lucky you! See you soon!'

Lucky me? What others? What the hell is she talking about? Number one: I am quite sure that nothing definite was agreed on Friday, I remember listening. Number two: I
never
made any arrangement to drive in with Joanne, I can't stand Joanne,
if
I had known about any of this I would have made an arrangement to be driven in by someone else (probably Terry, certainly not an oddball like Joanne), because I HATE driving in the city. Number three: where the hell is Parliament House anyway?

I suppose I could drive to Ringwood, leave the car and catch the train into Melbourne. It's just as quick and I won't have to park it. Once I'm in the city I could ask directions and then meander towards Parliament House generally, having a look at a few shops along the way. And if I don't see the marchers (or if they don't see me), well at least I can say that I tried and even wave my train ticket around tomorrow to prove it.

Now
that's
what I call lateral thinking.

I, and a multitude of other potential passengers thronging the Ringwood railway platform, eagerly watch the approach of the 9.50 am train bound for Flinders Street Station via the city loop. Intrepidly we board with the minimum amount of fuss.

At Camberwell, a disembodied voice with a heavy accent informs us that our train is no longer taking passengers, despite the extravagant promises it made back in Ringwood. We are directed to exit the train forthwith and board the next one to arrive on the adjoining platform. I, and the hundred other occupants of my carriage, rush to obey The Voice, and promptly jam ourselves between the automatic doors trying to get out. I spend the next five minutes struggling to disengage myself from sudden intimacy with complete strangers. Just as our new train pulls in on the adjoining platform, I manage to fight free. And I realise that I am about to spend the remainder of the journey experiencing a sense of affinity with a sardine that I could happily have lived without.

Twenty-three minutes later I falteringly exit the train at Flinders Street Station a considerably wiser, and certainly more dishevelled, person.

‘Over here! We're over here!'

Dammit
, they've seen me.

I knew I should have just hung around the Bourke Street Mall, but no, curiosity (and a trifling little bit of guilt)
had
to bring me up here to see what was going on. I was thoroughly enjoying myself, shopping and having a look at just how much the city of Melbourne has changed since I was last in the vicinity several years ago. And changed it certainly has. Fast-food outlets have bred like voracious locusts along the city streets, and you can barely move without tripping over an enterprising busker or two. A casino is now flamboyantly sprawled along Southbank, the Rialto Tower looks even taller, the city trams more colourful, and the Yarra River a good deal more solidified. But the power of the subconscious is a wondrous thing and, rather than continue my city exploration, I found that my feet were slowly but surely taking me on a course for Parliament House (after I asked directions a couple of times, that is).

Even so, once I reached the vicinity of the demonstration, did I just have a brief peek at the multitude of librarians waving placards near the Parliament steps (which lead to a most attractive, dependable-looking building, by the way, which is a lot more than can be said for the majority of its inmates), and then make a quick getaway? No, of course not. I
had
to get closer so that I could listen to the inspirational speeches being made on the steps. Even then I had ample opportunity to just loiter around the back, have a bit of a listen and then continue my shopping (I managed to pick up the most gorgeous jumper on the way here, which was admittedly extravagant, but irresistible, and also a Barbie beanie and scarf set for CJ and a galah-shaped chocolate novelty thing for Ben, so obviously shopping for Samantha is now an absolute priority).

But no, instead of doing what I
need
to, I rashly decide that I simply have to get even closer and find out if I can see anyone I know, maybe even Terry, among the crowd. I must admit I never realised that there were so many librarians in the world, let alone in Victoria. They look surprisingly scary en masse.

‘Over here! Come on, we'd almost given up on you!'

Of course, the object had been to see if I could spot anyone I knew
without
them actually seeing me. I approach the dozen or so colleagues from my library, miserably aware that I seem to have slipped up on a crucial part of my plan. I can see Barbara, who is the only woman I know who is nearly as tall as Terry (unfortunately, she is also almost as round as she
is tall), and next to her is Joanne, whose flaming red hair and matching freckles would make her stand out in any crowd, even if she wasn't carrying her very own placard. But I cannot see Terry at all, and Terry is
not
the inconspicuous type. A wave of disappointment hits me. It's not just that I was really looking forward to talking to her, it's also that now I shall have to worry all day about where she is and why she was trying to contact me last night. They all start talking at once.

‘About time! Where
have
you been?'

‘You … you … I rang –'

‘You missed the march!'

‘Lucky beast.'

‘You! I rang – I waited outside your house for twenty …
twenty
minutes!'

‘Oh, don't worry, she's here now.'

‘Yeah, you can suffer with the rest of us.'

‘But I rang …
and
rang!'

I decide some placating is in order – after all, she
did
ring yesterday. At least three times if my answering service is any judge. ‘I'm sorry, Joanne, but I don't remember making any arrangements –'

‘Well, we most certainly frigging well did! Barbara can tell you, can't you?'

‘She
said
sorry, Joanne,' Barbara says soothingly. ‘Besides, mix-ups happen.'

‘Only if you're not fussed about stuffing other people around.'

‘Hey, you don't have to be damn rude.' Thoroughly irritated now, I look away from Joanne, whose face is turning an iridescent puce
shade which camouflages her freckles perfectly, and double-check to make sure Terry isn't here. ‘Listen, Barbara, do you know what's going on with Terry? Where is she?'

‘I don't know, it's rather odd. She wasn't up for any holidays but we were told yesterday that she's taken a week off. I thought she would have spoken to you.'

‘What's in those bags?' Joanne has pushed around in front of me again and is, incredibly, starting to paw at my shopping bags while making snorting noises reminiscent of an enraged bull. ‘You've been shopping! You're unbelievable! I wait outside your place, I march … for us … for
our
rights! And you … you've
been shopping
!'

Her voice has risen to a shrill crescendo and people are starting to stare. Barbara puts her hand on Joanne's shoulder to try to calm her down as I snatch my bags away from her.

‘I have not! It's my damn lunch!'

‘Bullshit! I don't believe you! We've been marching our feet off while you –'

‘Let
go
of my bag!'

‘You can just go get –'

‘Joanne!'

‘Shh! Quiet! Here's the minister!'

With unusually impeccable timing, a rather rotund politician has emerged from the building surrounded by minders and has graciously descended a few steps to a strategically placed microphone. He has that well-fed, sleek look of politicians the world over. A cordon of police has magically appeared and
stands between the minister and us. Maybe he finds the sight of librarians en masse surprisingly scary as well. If so, he should meet Joanne.

Edging cautiously away from my colleagues, I strain to see more of the minister's face and try to register where I have seen him before. Suddenly, I am distracted by the realisation that Joanne has followed me and has actually got one of her hands inside the carrier bag with Ben's galah-shaped chocolate novelty thing. We immediately engage in a silent but surprisingly fierce scuffle as she endeavours to discover what's in there and I endeavour for her endeavour to be unsuccessful.

‘Bitch!' she hisses at me as she waves her placard menacingly. I stare in shock at this excellent impression of a particularly nasty Nazi stormtrooper and conclude that the motivational speeches must have had some strange maddening effect on her. Either that or the traffic was especially bad. Whatever, I am in immediate danger of becoming the first person
ever
to be maimed during a demonstration of librarians. I curl my lip in her general direction (
that
should scare her!), clutch my bags tightly to my chest, and scuttle behind the Head of Acquisitions and Cataloguing.

‘Shh! Be quiet!' Individually, librarians are very good at asking for silence. Collectively, they are definitely a force to be reckoned with.

The minister bows in gracious acknowledgement of the sudden hush and clears his throat noisily. ‘I have come out here today to ask for patience. I appreciate the fact that you are feeling disgruntled but, believe
me, I
do
understand your grievances.' (At this point, a few disgruntled disbelievers colourfully voice their concerns regarding the minister's honesty.) ‘Please! Calm down, calm down … there's no need for abusive language. I must say I expected a bit more from teachers like yourselves, the educators of our young, the …'

The crowd stares around in confusion while an excited aide runs up to the minister and whispers rapidly in his ear.

Suddenly I realise where I have seen the minister's face before: he was addressing Samantha's school on one of their speech nights because he's the Minister for Education!

‘Teachers? Who's a teacher?'

‘What's he talking about?'

‘Who's he calling young?'

‘This joker's a half-wit.'

The confused minister is trying to speak again but the noise level of the crowd now makes it impossible for any words to be discernible so he abandons the microphone and, with the aid of the police, begins a strategic retreat. Suddenly the crowd realises what is happening. Pandemonium erupts and everyone goes crazy.

One minute I am surrounded by unhappy but relatively (apart from Joanne) controlled librarians and the next I am struggling to keep my balance as an enraged mob surges around me, screaming abuse as they struggle to reach the Parliament steps. It is impossible to see what has happened to the minister or whether the cordon of police has held its ground, the
wall of bodies is too thick and I am too short. I hold on to my bags tightly and move with the crowd, only because I have no choice. The Head of Acquisitions and Cataloguing has transformed himself into a shrieking maniac with bloodlust shining in his eyes who is hellbent on moving onwards and upwards (much like his attitude towards career progression actually). I trip as we reach the bottom step but am kept upright by the solid press around me. Others are not so lucky and I watch in horror as the elderly audiovisual aide from our Boronia branch goes under, still hurling abuse. All around me, people are screaming and banners are waving.

Suddenly I am struck on the crown of my head by a heavy placard. I stagger and look up to see the words ‘I DESERVE MORE!' looming over me. The placard is heaved backwards and there is Joanne staring balefully at me. My lip-curling obviously did not have the required effect. I realise she is preparing to have another go so I try to lunge out of the way, but she follows. Desperately, I grab the placard as it starts to fall again and we struggle for control. The crowd has started to thin around us as the majority surge up the Parliament steps but the noise level is still deafening.

I can see Joanne's mouth moving but cannot make out what she is yelling. Somehow I don't think it's very nice. My head is thumping. I decide that I've had more than enough of this particular maniac, and I'll teach her not to mess with me. I kick Joanne hard in the kneecap and lurch suddenly sideways, still holding fast and pulling at the placard. Joanne's
mouth forms a large circle as she folds up, grasping her knee with both hands and letting go of the placard. Unfortunately she lets go so suddenly that my momentum continues to carry me backwards, the placard flying up over my shoulder and connecting with something hard behind me. It is wrenched out of my hand and, a split second later, I also connect with the something hard behind me. It turns out to be an injured policeman with extremely colourful language.