As the train pulled out, I worked on my powers of effective harassment again. "This guy in Ballarat - what on earth could he want from you?"
I shouldn't have asked. No lies came forth, but no answer either. Instead, he settled down with the curtain positioned to shield his eyes from the light. I was glad the myths were wrong about the effect of sunlight. Gary didn't know what it was about the sun that made him itchy and squinty, but it didn't burn him up like a magnesium flash, thank goodness. He had little enough of a social life as it was.
"Hey," I said, "I've got some new songs for us to listen to." Gary collected songs the way he collected books and movies. He had bought whole albums on the strength of one song, or the group's name. It was fun trying to dig up things he hadn't heard before.
For the rest of the trip, we shared ear buds on my MP3 player. After a while, I left Gary to study the player and shift randomly through song lists while I read his hilarious/dreadful novel.
The train pulled into Ballarat and we emerged into a bright summer day. Gary, peering at signs on posts and bus windows, finally found the right stop. We reached Sovereign Hill with no further difficulty.
"Thanks. I'll meet you back in town," he said, inspecting the fence with a view, I assumed, to jumping it and avoiding the entry fee.
"I'm going in to pan for gold, remember?"
He decided not to make a fuss. "At the entrance then, at the end of the day. Or. Or I'll come find you when I'm done."
"Sounds like a plan," I smiled encouragingly. It didn't chase away the vaguely worried crease that had returned to his brow.
I paid for both of us, so he wouldn't have to sneak in. I am aware he has a finite income from the investments his parents left for him, and a mindset still bogged down in how much things used to cost in the sixties.
A few people in period costume were there for the meet-and-greet. The usual shop was there, filled with ceramics, tea-towels and, as this was a gold rush re-enactment town, vials of gold flakes and items of gold jewellery. Ballarat's place in history was also heralded by all the forms in which one could buy the Eureka flag - the standard flown by the miners striking and later dying for their rights. Gary seized upon the pictorial map of the place and found his destination.
"Right. See you later." He didn't move.
"You sure you don't want me to…?"
That got him going. "No. No, it's fine."
I watched him go, then walked out into the re-enacted past.
The dirt road forked in front of me. To my left the street dropped away to a miniature diggings, with a creek running through the middle of it and a handful of people already crouched by the water's edge, panning inexpertly for gold flakes. On either side of the dusty road were timber shops and hotels done in period style. There were no signs promoting modern products, only hand-painted wooden tiles. I wandered along the boardwalk, inspecting the shops. I found one that sold scented cedar roses, and bought a bag of lilac ones for Kate. I held one in my hand and surreptitiously sniffed it from time to time. It reminded me of Nanna.
Perambulating in the sunshine was unexpectedly pleasant. The earthy scents, the absence of twenty-first century noise, the sound of my shoes on wood and the clop of horse hooves on soil. The world of wall-to-wall consumerism and people shouting to be heard was far away. Not even the visual cacophony of advertising hoardings disrupted the serenity. It was hardly a surprise Alberto preferred living here to inhabiting the twenty-first century.
My mobile phone rang, jarring the peace and making me feel ashamed of the disruption. I usually try to set it on a discreet buzz, but Amisha from the library keeps sneaking it off me and changing the ringtone. I was currently scrabbling for a phone that was loudly singing the Inspector Gadget theme tune. I seized it and pressed the button. "Yes, Lissa here."
"Melissa, baby, hi! How's my little bookworm?"
The sudden happiness at the sound of my father's voice spiked and dropped in about a nanosecond. I couldn't remember the last time I'd spoken to him when he was sober.
"What do you want, Dad?"
"Can't I call to talk to my own little girl? My lovely little librarian?"
Oh, he loved the sound of himself when he was like this. I took a steadying breath. "Do you think you can call back later?" Like, when you're sober? "I'm busy right now."
"Aww, don't be like that, baby. I'm coming to Melbourne soon. I thought I'd take everyone out to dinner." He sounded so reasonable, despite the slur. "I want to meet Kate's mysterious Anthony."
"Anthony isn't mysterious, Dad. He's a lawyer."
"I haven't met him, and I should," he continued. "I'm Katie's daddy and I should know any man she's going out with. Are you going out with anyone, honey?"
"No, Dad." My last potential boyfriend was slaughtered by a vampire. Kind of puts you off.
"That's a shame, sweetie. You're lovely. A lovely librarian."
"Dad, you're drunk."
"I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry."
Apologies were nothing new, either
He lurched onto a new bad subject. "How's your Mum, by the way?"
How the hell was I supposed to answer that one? "Fine. Last I heard." In fact, the last I'd seen of her was on a departing tram after I'd threatened to set her on fire if I ever saw her anywhere near my sister again.
"Yeah, well. She's a survivor, your mum."
"When will you be in Melbourne?" Anything to change the subject.
"I'm coming this week." He sounded more cheerful, "I thought we could all go out to dinner."
Argument was fruitless. Kate must have already told him it would be all right. She's the peacemaker in the family. Which makes me the guerrilla insurgent, I suppose.
"Fine."
"And if there's anyone you'd like to bring along…" Hint, hint. I imagine he is where I get my subtlety from.
Yelling at him for not listening would not have helped, so I ignored the comment. "I suppose I'll see you when you get into town," I said. "And Dad, it would be good if Anthony could meet you while you were sober."
A moment of silence ended with the bitterly spoken: "You're so much like your mother."
Sticks and stones are nothing to words. He hung up. My hand fumbled with the cancel key and I clumsily tucked the phone back into its pocket.
Deep breaths tamped down the tears that threatened. These things were done and past and I was getting on with the now. I deliberately put my father out of my head. If he kept with tradition, he probably wouldn't show up anyway.
My Nanna Easton always told me that there was nothing like keeping your hands busy to keep your mind off upsetting things. This no doubt explained the prodigious amount of knitting, sewing and baking she did.
I'd always preferred distracting my emotions with my brain. Only one diversion came to mind. I had to find Gary and Alberto. I suspected it was not a good idea, but I was desperate to override my sudden distress.
When Gary had traced his finger over his map, looking for his rendezvous point, I'd only vaguely registered where he was looking. Consulting my own map now, I tried to correlate my memory with the locations labelled so clearly. He had traced the upper street, as I recalled, at the farthest end from the entrance.
Right. I jammed the map into my bag and strode up the dirt road. Delicious scents wafted from a bakery as I passed, and my stomach spasmed with nausea. Distress had that effect on me. Further along, the warm, waxy smell of the candlemakers was more soothing.