Corner Table

Chapter 1. Goodbye St. John.

Snow fell on Mount St. John last night. It has made a tiny white cone on top of the mountain, the first intimation of winter. Here at Windabri, in the valley, it is still autumn but up there in that little cone of white it is already winter.

St. John is about thirty kilometres from Windabri, and serves as is a sort of seasonal clock for the town. Today the townspeople will look up at it and say, "Snow on St. John, winter will soon be here."

As winter approaches and during the winter itself, the snow cap will gradually creep down the mountain, and the skiing enthusiasts will be there until the season turns again and the snow creeps back up until it vanishes in the warmth of spring and summer.

For one whole cycle of St. John's seasonal clock I have stayed on in the house, but whether it has been summer or winter on the mountain it has been perpetual winter in my heart.

It was last year when the snow first appeared on St. John as it has today, when Glen came to me with his news. Not that it was really news because I had suspected for some time.

He tried to put it delicately, but no matter how he put it, it came to the same thing; he was leaving me.

"I don't want to hurt you Laura, it's just that...well...I want you to understand. These things happen, we...we don't want them to happen...they just do."

Of course they happen, especially when the other woman is tall, blonde, with big blue eyes and a figure out of a fashion magazine. They happen when she's working as the group practice nurse and somehow she and Glen have to work late.

He'd even brought her to the house – to dinner.

"Cynthia is new to the town, darling, and I thought it would be nice if I invited her here for a meal, just to make her feel welcome."

It was ironical because she had taken my place in the practice when it was found I was pregnant. I lost the child at three months.

Glen was very kind and considerate, telling me there would be other times and there was no reason medically why I shouldn't go the full term. "It's just one of those things, darling."

Funny, he used those same words when he came to tell me he was leaving me to live with Cynthia; "It's just one of those things," but he didn't say "darling" this time.

Now I am sitting here looking out through the window at St. John, waiting for the taxi to arrive that will take me to the station. Waiting and remembering.

I recall when I first joined the practice. I had not long finished my training as a nurse. I had completed a number of post graduate studies and had done well, but perhaps I was still too young for the job in the group practice.

I had been thrilled to even get an interview, but at the end of it I had little hope I would be chosen from among the other applicants. He has never said so, but I suspect it was Glen who swung it for me. Did he have in mind even then what happened later?

I've no doubt it went the same way with Cynthia; "Could you work late this evening, Laura? He had said to me."

For him I'd have worked every hour God made; the handsome doctor with his dark hair and eyes. When he said he loved me and took my virginity on the recovery room bed I couldn't believe it.

Why should such an attractive man want me? I suppose I'm not ugly, but I'm not beautiful either. "My little brown mouse," my father always called me. I suppose it described me well. Small, with brown hair and eyes; certainly not a beauty, not like Cynthia, and to match the "Little mouse" imagery, I've always been shy, ready to scurry away if I thought I was being noticed.

Odd isn't that I chose a people oriented profession like nursing? But somehow that was different; I could be professional, keeping that slight barrier between me and the patients. It was in social and intimate situations that my shyness took over. I suppose that was how I had come through high school and my years of training with my virginity still intact; a pity in a way because otherwise I might not have fallen for Glen so easily.

But I did fall for him; I adored him but could scarcely believe that he could love me.

After he asked me to marry him and I took him to meet my parents, they, all unknowingly, reinforced the doubts I had about myself.

My mother, like just about every woman from nine to ninety years old, fell for him.

"Darling, how did you manage to capture him?" was my mother's comment.

My father, less frivolously, asked, "Sweetheart, are you sure? I don't want my little mouse hurt."

How was it they didn't know that they hurt me with this implication that I wasn't attractive enough to have someone like Glen want to marry me?

Attractive or not he did marry me, and for five wonderful years we were passionate lovers. It was at that point that I got pregnant and left the practice and Cynthia replaced me.

I don't blame Cynthia for the loss of the child because at that time I had no suspicions about her and Glen. But for all that Glen reassured me that there would be other times, his sexual interest in me gradually diminished as his apparent need to work late in the practice increased.

When he told me he was going to leave me and live with Cynthia he was all consideration and selflessness.

"You keep the house, Laura, and the furniture. Cynthia and I are going to get a place of our own eventually so..."

His "generosity" was all too clearly his conscience salve; but didn't he know how that wounded, telling me of their plans after he'd dumped me?

I didn't protest; I didn't scream and abuse; I sat there and took it like the little mouse I was – a mouse cornered with nowhere to run. I didn't even cry until after Glen had moved out.

So here I am now, doing what I should have done after Glen left. I have sold the house and the furniture, and I'm sitting on the window seat waiting for the taxi with only my suitcases left, and looking up at St. John.

"I don't suppose I shall ever see you again, St. John – you and your foreshadowing of the coming seasons."

The taxi is here. It is shiny black like a funeral car. How very apt since so much has died inside me.

"Goodbye, St. John."

Chapter 2. An Aggressive Mouse.

I left Windabri for a city far from the town. Having been a group practice nurse it hadn't been difficult to get a job since I came with experience and glowing references; no doubt the references were yet another salve for Glen's guilt feelings.

The bitterness I still felt about Glen's betrayal had led me to the decision that I would re-invent myself. No more the little brown mouse grateful for the crumbs of love and affection that fell from life's table; I would be assertive and independent.

There's a problem with re-inventing yourself. I've noticed over the years since those days how people who make the decision to change do not in fact really change; not deep down.

What I mean is that they find in themselves traits that have always been there, and these become exaggerated. In my case the shy little brown mouse retreated into "Fort Mouse," a stronghold bristling with defensive armaments to repel any who tried to enter the space I created around me. But inside the fort I was still the shy mouse.

What I had determined was that no male, however handsome and charming, would ever get to me again. Not only that, no one, male of female would get close enough to hurt me.

I did my work efficiently but made it obvious that beyond that I wanted no socialising. If any male hinted at an interest in me, and there were a couple, I fired off a missile from my fortress, making it clear that there was no entry into it.

Outside work it was the same. If I went to a theatre, concert or to see a film, I went alone.

The group practice was located in one of those dull concrete and glass monstrosities that have come into fashion over the last century. The building was occupied by many businesses, most of them connected in some way with medicine. Located in the building was a cafeteria used by many of the people who worked there. The tendency was for the people who worked together to occupy adjacent tables where they laughed, joked, chatted and complained.

Right from the beginning of my joining "The Centre Health Practice," I had cut myself off from the lunchtime conviviality and regularly occupied a small corner table. Often the cafeteria was full at lunchtime, but however crowded hardly anyone ventured to sit in the chair opposite me, and if they did, they never repeated the experience.

The more polite of my colleagues called me, "A loner;" the less polite, like two of the younger receptionists, Margaret and Pam, were less polite. I knew they called me "a stuck up bitch."

Had I been less efficient at my work I might well have been "let go" from the practice, but I maintained just sufficient communication with those with whom I had to work, to not give any reason for them to dismiss me.

Yes, I was a loner. I sheltered inside my defences and any attempt to touch on the personal was immediately repelled. I was still nursing the wound that Glen had inflicted on me, a wound that would not heal. In all this, and as I looked out from my bastion with suspicion, trusting no one, I was not only a loner, but also lonely.

There is a difference between being a loner and being lonely. Some people seem to be made to be loners, just as people like nuns and priests seem to be made for celibacy. They have become what they essentially are, but others have become what they are by force of external circumstances.

I was lonely, and yet I feared intimate contact, and my fear had made me aggressive. I am not sure that a real mouse is inclined to turn on those who might hurt it, but the mouse that was me had.

We often decide that the pattern of our life is set and nothing is likely to happen that will change its course. When something does happen it comes as a surprise; my meeting and marriage to Glen had been like that. The truth is, none of us really knows what is lurking round the next corner. Using my own imagery, I didn't know what sort of weaponry might allow someone to break through into my citadel.

Chapter 3. A Meeting.

I was sitting in the cafeteria one lunchtime. As usual the place was crowded and noisy with the buzz of conversation and the clatter of knives and forks. Even an isolate like me gets to know people in those circumstances, even if it is only to recognise them physically.

On the day in question I was looking out from my corner table redoubt at the noisy throng when I spotted a young man holding a tray of food. He was looking around, a slightly bewildered frown putting a crease between his eyebrows. All the seats in the place seemed to be taken, except the one opposite me.

He saw the vacant place and headed in my direction. Seeing this I buried my head in my book. I had found that this was a useful ploy when trying to deter someone from sitting with me; all except the most brash are discouraged by a book reader. A newspaper or magazine does not seem to have the same effectiveness as a four or five hundred page novel. On this day the ploy did not work since it was obvious that there was no other seat apart from the one opposite me.

The young man stood beside the table and asked hesitantly, "Is this s-s-seat t-t-taken m-m-miss?"

I glanced up at him from my book; "Obviously not," I replied, trying to make the words sound as if I'd added, "you idiot."

He looked a trifle abashed but went on, "D-d-do you m-mind if I s-s-sit here?"

In my mousy days I would have replied, "Of course not," but having found how easy it is to discomfort people, especially males, by an unexpected and aggressive reply I said, "I don't own the damned place so I can't stop you sitting here if that's what you want to do."

No doubt many young men would have thought, if not said, "Up your's lady," but not this guy. He didn't even look as if he thought it.

"If you'd r-r-rather I d-d-didn't I ..."

"For God's sake sit down and stop interrupting me," I snapped.

"S-s-sorry."

He sat and commenced eating. I returned to my book reading – or pretending to. Even for a misanthropist like me the advent of a new face has its interest. I side spied at him for a while. A pleasant if slightly harassed looking guy, perhaps about twenty three or four years of age, not exactly handsome, but clean and healthy looking. I suppose the nurse in me approved.

He glanced up from his food and caught me looking at him. He smiled a trifle wanly and said, "My f-first d-d-day here, I d-don't know the ropes yet."

Having been caught looking at him I softened sufficiently to say, "Haven't seen you here before, who are you with?"

"Whibly and Associates."

"Ah, the pathology people."

"Y-y-yes, I'm a lab t-t-technician. My f-first j-job. A-a-and you?"

"The Centre Health Practice."

"I-I think I s-saw some w-w-work from your p-people this m-m-morning."

"Yes, we always use Whibly's."

"Poor devil," I thought, "his first job and his first day in it." I could recall my own first day in a job. You don't know anybody and you don't know where anything is, not even the toilet, and you know everybody is weighing you up. If you're as shy as I used to be it was hell, and this guy looked and behaved as if shy.

We seemed to have come to the end of the conversation so I hastily finished my meal, rose, and saying, "Good luck in the job," I left before he could respond.

He lingered on in my thoughts for a while. I suppose I could identify with him, or at least my pre-fortress self could. He floated away during the afternoon as I gave injections to, and took blood from, cringing patients, or tested urine specimens or sent them on to Whibly's for more precise tests.

Chapter 4. Home and the Way Ahead.

At five o'clock my working day was finished and after handing over to the evening nurse I went down in the lift and hurried out into Victoria Square. The rush hour and everybody hurrying to get home. Above a sky that in the morning had been blue was now grey and weeping rain, the cars splashing walkers who ventured too near the kerb or stood waiting to cross at traffic lights.

"Why the hell does it always rain when I haven't got my umbrella," I grumbled. Standing in the queue waiting for my first bus on the homeward trip, as it always does when it rains, it seemed to take ages to arrive. When it did I piled aboard with the other soggy passengers and stood swaying in the aisle as the bus lurched and weaved it's way along King William Street.

I had to change buses when we got to North Terrace. In fine weather I would have walked there from the Square and I might just as well have done so anyway since I couldn't have got any wetter.

As I waited for my connection the rain was coming down even harder and again the bus took an age to arrive.

When it did arrive, spraying the waiting passengers with water from the gutter, it was standing room only again. Since the days of the feminist uprising men don't give up their seats to women anymore, unless they are heavily pregnant or frail aged, and sometimes not even then.

When I got off the bus it was raining even harder, but wet through already it made no difference now.

With the money from the sale of the Windabri house and furniture I'd managed to buy a small place in the suburb of Klemzig. In selling the furniture I had hoped that I would be making a clean break, not carrying memories of the past with me. I suppose it had achieved that to some extent, but of course, the real memories are in your head, and are not so easily disposed of.

As it turned out the sale of the Windabri furniture had to some extent proved counterproductive. When soaked to the skin I let myself in through the front door of the house, it had no welcoming sensation that comes with the familiar.

I had chosen its furnishings carefully, having only myself to please. Some of it I bought new, some of it was good quality second-hand. Pleasant thought it was it had nothing of my past clinging to it, no depth, and no personality. The second hand pieces may have had other people's memories buried in them but not mine. It had been a mistake to get rid of everything at Windabri, for even when something gives rise to painful memories at first, in time the memories mellow and give solidity and comfort.

I went to the bathroom and peeled off my dripping clothes. Instead of my usual shower I opted for a bath, and relaxed and soaked myself. Afterwards I went to my bedroom to dress. I caught sight of myself in the long mirror.

I've never been the type to examine myself minutely in a mirror – or at least, not since I was a teenager; now I was looking at myself more intently than usual.

"Nearly thirty," I murmured to myself, "and what have you become, Laura?"

My father used to say that I have a pixie face. If that means a slightly triangular shape, then he was right. The brown hair was the same, although still wet and stringy from my bath. My eyes, naturally, were still brown but they had a strained look about them, and my mouth, not fashionably wide, but with what I once thought were nice lips had a touch of grimness about it.

I'm only five feet three inches tall, but I've always had a reasonable good figure – well, apart from my breasts which I had always considered to be too small.

In my teenage years I'd been seduced into secretly buying some cream that "guarantees to enlarge your breasts." I'm sure that the stuff didn't really work, but I've often wondered, if I hadn't used the cream would my breasts have ended up as they are now, or would I have had only little pimples?

As it was my breasts had become quite firm with nice pink nipples, and Glen had always enjoyed them until Cynthia came along with her overblown bust. In that respect I wished Cynthia well, hoping she would have the offspring that I had been unable to give Glen, and in the process her mighty boobs would succumb to breast feeding and gravity and collapse into deflated balloons.

My physical self-contemplation led on to thoughts about the future. I had sought to escape from the pain of the past, locking myself away behind my defences. To some extent this had succeeded since I had kept people at bay, but what of the future?

The nurse committed to her profession going on year after year in self-sufficient physical and emotional isolation? Was that for me? One day waking up to see the first grey hairs, then the wrinkles; the creak of arthritic joints, and the retirement farewell when people say how devoted and skilful you have been in your work, whether they mean it or not; was this to be it?

The years seemed to stretch out before me, thirty, forty, and fifty; even sixty was not impossible. Would work be sufficient to make those years fulfilling? For some, yes, but for me...?

I gave up my self-contemplation, dressed and went to prepare my evening meal.

As I sat eating thoughts about my lunchtime meeting with the shy and stammering young man came to mind. I had been irritated at having my solitude invaded, at having to relate to someone outside the immediate demands of work. Yet one small corner of me said, "It wasn't altogether unpleasant, having someone sitting opposite you and in a sense sharing the meal."

I suddenly felt the solitariness of my present meal, and wished I'd gone out to a restaurant to eat. There would be people and talk, not of course with me, but they would be there, just as in the cafeteria.

I became horribly aware of the silence in the house and to cover it I got up and turned the radio on, tuning to FM and its music. Later I would watch television and after that go to bed – the bed I shared with no one.

Chapter 5. More Lunches.

I fully expected that I would not be bothered again by the young man. That first occasion had been unusual in that normally there would be some other seats empty. In any case the Whiblyites had their own group of tables that they habitually occupied at lunch. I calculated that the young man would have become sufficiently comfortable on his second day to join with the others.