Cross purposes

lbert Lancaster lived alone in his nice three-bedroom en suite townhouse with views that he never looked at and a lock-up garage with internal access. It was tidy to the verge of sterility, but was over-furnished. He had moved from a much larger home a year or so earlier One of the bedrooms was his study, tidy but utilitarian. Another bedroom housed a set of home gym equipment, extra bookcases and two nests of tables in dark walnut. The master bedroom boasted a futon bed, with black lacquered bedside tables and tallboy. There were Japanese lantern-style bedside lamps and two Japanese prints on the wall, giving out a cheery red effect that matched the red embroidered mats setting off the tables and tallboy. They did not go well with the sale price standard salmon pink vertical blinds, but created quite a pleasing contrast with a chintz-covered Victorian Grandfather chair.

One day, a Sunday, as Albert Lancaster sat, half-way through yesterday's cryptic crossword, his doorbell rang. Placing his pen carefully on the newspaper, with its point on the clue he was working on, he went to open the door. A woman peered expectantly through his screen door with its wrought iron curlicues, a clipboard in her right hand, and a pen and photo-ID badge in the other. Albert checked with a glance that the ID matched the face, and said in his neat, economical way, "Yes? How may I help you?"

He ascertained that she was indeed an interviewer for the Australian Bureau of Statistics, and then unlocked the door. He offered her a seat at his Baltic pine colonial kitchen table. He responded to the interviewer's questions in his concise way. They were through the process in less than twenty minutes. Politely, and without any appearance of fuss or haste, Albert had completed his social duty and returned to his crossword in twenty-two minutes.

But the answers would not come. Uncharacteristically, he could not concentrate. Josephine Marcus. The name on the ID card kept coming back to him. He put down his pen, distracted. A crease appeared between his straight sandy brows as he leaned back in his chair, legs crossed under the table, arms folded. In his mind was a picture of a smooth, shapely white hand, the left hand, free of ornament. The hand was holding a silver pen, recording his responses neatly yet quickly. He saw again the swing of the straight, short hair, thick and dark against the smooth cheek. She had been his own height, tallish for a woman. She had not taken off her coat. He relived the business-like but pleasant voice and the smile accompanying the parting thank you.

Albert Lancaster came upright in his chair, shaking his head in exasperation with himself. He re-folded the newspaper and put it into the magazine rack. He slipped his pen back into his shirt pocket. He straightened the tablecloth and straightened the chairs.

"I will make myself a coffee," Albert thought, "and then I will do my ironing." Organised again, Albert put on the kettle, getting out his mug and spooning in two level teaspoons of instant coffee. Then he got out the ironing board and arranged the clothes in neat piles. The water soon boiled and he made his coffee, added milk and switched on the iron before getting empty hangers for his shirts.

Albert liked ironing. It had a skill and rhythm of its own. Usually he found it relaxing as well as constructive. Today, however, his mind was on Josephine Marcus. The ironing did itself almost automatically. His coffee stood untouched, cooling and forgotten.

In the three years since the death of his spouse Rhonda from breast cancer, Albert Lancaster had cut himself off from the world, fencing himself in with a vast protective array of repetitive, ordered behaviours. His childless marriage had had its sadnesses, but it had been a happy companionable relationship. Red-haired Rhonda had tempered his obsessiveness and taken him with her into the normal world of socialising and circulating. In his grief and loss, he had withdrawn behind fences of routine. Josephine Marcus, unaware, had penetrated his defences in less than twenty minutes.

Weeks went by in the outside world, but the world of Albert Lancaster moved more slowly. He maintained his steady protective routine, but Josephine Marcus seemed to evade his defences. Finally, he made a decision. He would find Josephine Marcus. He could give himself no rational argument, but he was sure that finding her would alleviate his problem and allow him once again to live his orderly life.

Meticulous as always, he formulated his strategy. Contact the Bureau. Advise that the interviewer had left something behind. Ask for her to contact him so that he could return it. Insist that no, he preferred not to entrust the return to a third party. Insist. Insist. Insist.

It was a project; a small one with a limited objective, but it was his first active foray outside his fences in three years. And it worked. He did not care that of all organisations in the country, the Bureau of Statistics was the most paranoid about confidentiality. He persisted. He went on, and on, and on. It took four months from his first contact with the Bureau, but one day a short letter came.

"Dear Mr Lancaster

I am informed that you have a possession of mine that you say I have lost. I am not aware that I have lost anything recently, but thank you for your concern. I may be contacted in business hours on my mobile number 012 878 234.

Yours sincerely

Josephine S. Marcus

26 October"

Albert looked at his wall clock. It was 6.00 pm. Too late. He would have to wait until the next day. His hands were shaking. He could not sleep. He tidied his already tidy house. He vacuumed his already spotless floors. He tried to do his crossword, but could not focus.

In the morning, after he had finished his shower and cleaned his teeth, he forgot to return his toothbrush to its rack. He brushed his wiry, sandy hair, and forgot to put the brush away. It was a long wait to 8.30 am, but it came at last.

He called the number he had been given. He was answered almost immediately. "Josephine Marcus."

"Hello. This is Albert Lancaster. You asked me to call."

"Yes, Mr Lancaster. At the Bureau they say you are a very determined man."

"Miss Marcus, you interviewed me in April. I remembered your name from your ID badge."

"I remember you Mr Lancaster. You were doing a crossword. I noticed the clue you were on: 'Chance your arm to find your weapon'. The answer was 'armoury'-did you get it, by the way?"

"No," Albert said slowly, "I didn't, although it is obvious isn't it."

Then, with decision, "Miss Marcus, I must tell you immediately that I do not, as far as I know, have anything of yours. Nor, as far as I know, have you lost anything."

"That's OK, Mr Lancaster, I know that. But I am intrigued. Why have you gone to so much trouble to contact me?"

Albert shifted his weight from one foot to another. He was a reticent man, and never endowed with a surplus of social skills. Put on the spot, though, he opted for the truth.

"I was very distracted after you called on me. I don't know why, but I found myself thinking about you, and I wanted to meet you again. I wanted to clear things up."

There was a pause. He had not heard a click, so he thought she must still be on the line.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes, I am Mr Lancaster, but look, I know you seem to have gone to a great deal of trouble to contact me, but I don't think there's much I can do for you just now. I'm sorry, but I really have a lot on at the moment and-" "I'm very sorry, Miss Marcus," Albert cut in hurriedly. "I did not mean to be troublesome."

"It's OK, Mr Lancaster, I'm not offended. I am sorry, but I just don't think that now is the time for me. Can we let it go at that? Let's part friends, OK?"

"Yes, goodbye Miss Marcus."

"Goodbye Mr Lancaster, and good luck with your crosswords."

"Goodbye Miss Marcus," said Albert again into the silent phone. He hung up and stood quietly in the kitchen, feeling sad but-OK. Whether he noticed yet or not, his fences were coming down. He decided to walk up to Holliday Street to the newsagent and get the paper. Perhaps he would have a coffee at that little shop on the Wyatt Street corner-the Coffee Corral. No, not today, but sometime, that was for sure.

Later that morning he sat comfortably in his study, ploughing through the cryptic crossword, when his phone rang. He quickly scribbled in the next clue, then threw down his pen carelessly before snatching up the phone.

"Albert Lancaster."

"Oh-Hello. It's Josephine-Josephine Marcus."

"Oh.Hello!" said Albert on a rising note, his irritation evaporating.

"Er I hope I haven't caught you at a difficult time."

"No. No. Not at all. No. Just starting on the crossword.". His pulse was loud in his ears.

"Er Albert." His breath caught in his throat. "Look, I just happen to be in the area. I'm at the coffee shop-the Coffee Corral-do you know it at all?"

"I do. I do, yes."

"I was er.wondering if you'd care to join me for morning tea?" Josephine said.

"Er yes. Yes, Josephine," said Albert, "I would. Very much."

"Oh good," was the reply. "and perhaps you'd like to bring the crossword and we can start on it together?"

Read the review

Back to the archive

Return to.... SSC