FLORRIE
Florrie started seeing demons in the patterned
wallpaper. Well, she said to herself, there’s a whole world out there. What’s
it like? Excitement? Romance? I think I’ll get a job. Hardly the done thing
then, if you didn’t have to work for a living, but in a grimy little city
office she found a position handling invoices and payments. The neighbours
sniffed a bit, but who cares?
Really, the job was hardly more interesting than
staying home, but there were people there, and cups of tea, and smoking
convivial cigarettes. As Florrie said, you could hardly not smoke when you were
breathing in everyone else’s second-hand. But was this romance and thrills? The
staff were unremarkable, but Florrie found one man she could really get on
with. His name was Bert, around her age. Just her luck, he was married with a
couple of kids, but they gave each other that special look. Sometimes they
would leave the office together and walk up to the corner and glance rather
wistfully at each other as they went to their different tram stops.
If I want a new path through life, it doesn’t look
as though Bert is on it, said Florrie to herself. But that warm look, that
occasional brushing of hands as they passed piles of paperwork backwards and
forwards kept her where she was. Bert’s wife, after all, might decide to up
stakes and go somewhere else. Well, not much chance, but you never know.
‘Watcha doin’ for New Year? asked Pat the
telephonist. ‘I’m goin’ away. So’s almost all of us, just leaves you and Bert
holding the fort between now and then.’
Just Florrie and Bert in the office for three
whole days! What a luxury!
When their day’s work on the Wednesday was
finished, they sat together and told each other their life stories, about their
marriages, his children, how he and his wife were ‘just so-so’. On the
Thursday, Bert cleared his throat, and said with some difficulty, ‘Ah, how
about tomorrow night?’
‘What about tomorrow night? New Year’s Eve?’
‘Yes, well, I thought we might go out together. Cleared
it with the wife. Told her Pat’s holding a party for the staff and I probably
wouldn’t make it home – no transport, you know.’
‘You told her a lie?’
‘Well, you know, Florrie,’ he said, and took one
of her hands in his. ‘I just can’t help myself. I think about you all the time,
really need you and … look, I’ve booked a room near Manly Wharf on New Year’s
Eve for the two of us. No names, no pack drill, you know.’
So the path to excitement is taking me to Manly
Wharf, said Florrie to herself.
‘I’ll do it, Bert, she said.
They ate hot dogs and fairy floss, visited the
shooting gallery, went on the dodgem’ cars, and had two goes on the spider,
which whirled out over the Harbour at about twice the usual speed, the cars
going round and round so fast that Florrie almost stopped breathing. Then the
few hours in the hotel room – Bert had to get back home in the morning of
course – surprisingly beautiful and joyous.
It was the beginning, and the beginning of the
end. Mrs Bert had her suspicions, and Bert had to find another job. Florrie had
tasted life, and she wasn’t going to end there. The neighbours said she sold
her house, and was ‘going north’, though they weren’t sure where, and they
never heard from her again.
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