How to be a Good Veronica. Michael K Freundt

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      1

      Not today, not now, but a few days hence Veronica Souter will realise that what she wants, needs in her life, is a man. Veronica has had many men, although not lately, but believed, if she was asked, that such a decision would never be necessary. In fact it would only be a decision until she met the man that would fulfil it, but then she wouldn’t need such a decision. Veronica has always thought of herself as independent, resourceful (hell, look at the work she does), responsible and an active member of her community. That last bit isn't entirely true, but Veronica holds a few little self-delusions that attach themselves to all of us, like pin numbers. She has seen the world, when she was young, tasted frogs, dragonflies, witchetty grubs, elan, snake, and dog. She is happy to live in Sydney in the twenty first century, believing it is a choice she has made, and she understands how the city works. Well, she understands how her little stratum of the city works; at the same time vaguely aware of other strata below her and other strata above her. The former, she believes, is far more numerous than the latter. She knows that there are people in harbour-side mansions who secretly put ice cubes in their pinot noir and care little for her (she cares even less for them) and she knows there are neck-tattooed renters in the city's west who make illegal livelihoods thinking they are entitled. She has been in the company of both and been equally bored and a little scared: scared by the have-nots and the threat of trouble and scared by the haves and the threat of commitment. She is contented; happy in the knowledge that the city is big enough to allow her world to be as small as she needs it to be.

      She came from somewhere else (everybody in Australia comes from somewhere else), from good, peasant, European stock who got on a boat thinking they were going to America, and, even when they had landed in Perth thought that America was where they were. She liked the fact that on any Friday night she could choose to eat from seventeen different cuisines; she loved that there was regularly on her television, a feisty politician called Wong, a famous swimmer called Scrinsky, a newsreader called Fernandez, a comedian called Noh; she has a cleaner called Mrs. Danuta, and a baby-sitter called Ng. They were all Sydneysiders first, Australians second. Her past she dragged around like a shadow and her future was just around the next corner, where a man was waiting. What she didn’t foresee was that once one appeared several others would pop up, like hounds following a scent.

      For some time now, Veronica had avoided eye contact with herself in her morning mirror. This simple fact and its possible significance didn't impinge on her that morning: it was a school morning, Tuesday. But at rare times of self reflexion she thought about it, but only for a moment. She wasn't alarmed by it, she thought it curious but understandable since she was a woman of a certain age and a graduate of psychology from the University of Sydney. Behaviour was her field and her own was subject to the same scrutiny as others; and like everybody else self-delusion was part of the territory. She is tall, a little too tall she used to think, with shoulder-length light brown hair that she delights in doing things with. But today she wears it down, with a pair of Calvin Klein jeans, a white shirt and no jewellery; she feels smart, and tidy.

      As she subtlety applied mascara, she called out to her son, "Jack!" This was all that was required; he understood it to mean, "Are you ready? Packed your lunch? Combed your hair? Cleaned your teeth?" As she finished her morning ritual she stepped back and surveyed the total picture, still avoiding her own stare: professional, modern, but conservative. She was proud of her figure; she was no slim-hipped girl; her figure was ample and soft; her bones were well protected: womanly. Jack was waiting by the front door and they traversed the small front garden to the squeaky gate and the street beyond where the car was parked. All the original houses in Newtown were built before the invention of the motorcar; no garages, no driveways. The curb was a little extension of the family plot.

      I must do something about the front garden, she thought to herself yet again. It looked like a military barber had had a go at it. Every two weeks a young boy named Neville came around and cut everything back: bushes, lawn, weeds, flowers, everything. Neville had a slight intellectual disability: he thought the CTV cameras in the streets were how TV programs are made so in his free time he insinuated himself around the cameras in the local streets and malls in the vain hope of becoming a TV star. There are far more harmful pastimes for a teenager.

      The house was a semidetached, one of two, with a brow-like verandah where the recycling bins, a chair, walking shoes and other odd bits and pieces lived. She often wondered what would happen if Neville stopped coming, and if the shrubbery were left to grow, and grow. Would it finally take over? If the army of city gardeners were no more would the manicured grass and neat corner-street beds of mass-produced plants take over the city? What flora would evolve to reclaim their patch? How long would it take for Sydney to resemble Ankor, or the pyramids of Mexico? If human kind was obliterated by mutated mobile-phone waves, plants and ants would reign. How quiet the world would be. She often wondered if other people thought weird thoughts like this. Some minutes later in the car she explained to Jack her schedule for the day: she'll be home when he arrived back from school but the baby-sitter, Rosemary Ng, would be around for a few hours as she had an early evening appointment but she would be home before his bedtime.

      "You promised to come up with another name for the baby -sitter; I'm almost ten, you know," said Jack in his usual grown-up voice.

      "Sorry. What would you like to call her?"

      "Her name's Rosemary."

      "Since when have you been calling her Rosemary?"

      "Since the fifteenth of last month. I made a note of it in my diary."

      "Did you ask her if it was OK to call her Rosemary?"

      "She said it was better. No-one calls her Ms. Ng, except me. But I had to promise not to shorten it to Rose or Mary. Her name is Rosemary and that's that." Almost ten going on thirty-five, thought Veronica.

      "Well, it's alright then."

      "Good. We also talked about her joining the ranks of the unemployed when I turned ten in three months time."

      "I wish you had talked to me about this first."

      "I did and you promised."

      "Did I?"

      "Yes. I can make a photocopy of my diary entry and show it to you if you like." Such a Jack thing to say.

      "That won't be necessary," she said as she pulled over to the curb outside the school.

      "Good," said Jack as he opened the door to find his best friend, Joe Jones, waiting to greet him.

      "Hi, Jack Souter!" said Joe Jones.

      "Hi, Joe Jones!" said Jack Souter, and then he leant over and gave Veronica a peck on the cheek. "Bye!" and he was out of the car, but left the door open.

      "Do you always kiss your mum in the mornings?" Veronica heard Joe Jones say as they waited for a gap in the hordes of little boys, all with backpacks as big as little boys.

      "Don't you?"

      "Nah"

      "Ya should ya know."

      "Why?"

      "It's part of the deal."

      They were gone, swallowed by the crowd. Veronica smiled at her son’s comments as she reached over and closed the door properly. In the rear-view mirror she watched her son walk and chat with his friend among an array of children and parents. The boys stopped and Joe Jones started talking to another boy who stood next to a large man in a baseball cap. The boys chatted with the man but Jack did not really join СКАЧАТЬ