Sunlight glints through the brown murky water, spreading warmth. Small fish dart where the green reeds break the surface, swaying in the gentle current. Suddenly, bubbles spill forth and the surface begins to move further away. The light above darkens. A white hand reaches up to the few remaining shards of light still penetrating the murky depths. The hand is not fast or alarmed, it does not clutch. Buffeted by the swirling water it drifts in an arch through the gentle current. Riverbed mud rises up like bellows of smoke in the brown water. The reeds close in, thicker at their base, twining around the hand as it floats back down to the river bed. All dark now. Still. Not even the current moves.
Silence. Cold. Dry and brittle.
Adrift in an ocean of darkness.
Sydney, Australia 2018
I’ve always loved the sight of water, Cool, calming, the shades of blue, green, brown, all natural and peaceful. I hugged my handbag to my chest and gazed out towards Sydney Quay, the harbour waters rolling gently beneath me. Dusk kissed the currents in orange and pink. The breeze, though warm, carried the promise of winter at its edge. Another ferry crossed our path, it’s wake rocking us side to side, forcing me to admit that perhaps that last pint at the Four Pines was a pint too many.
My friends and I had spent the morning hours in the waters off Manly, swimming, splashing, laughing, the warmth of the sun soaking into our skin, before retiring to the micro-brewery by the ferry station to eat and drink away the sunshine hours. Golden light had bathed our smiles, glinting off our auburn and rose coloured drinks, shading us in the hues of summer. Chasing away the sound of tomorrow morning’s 6 a.m. alarm and the grey of weekdays ahead.
Crowded trains, blaring car horns, shoulder to shoulder in black suits, carrying briefcases, sucking down the last ash of a cigarette before the office doors, thoughts of my father… all pushed firmly aside as another slice of fruit cheese, dried apricot popping from the pale flesh, was gathered up in greasy fingers, wrapped in bright pink salami and passed through wine stained lips.
My mobile bleeped. I rummaged through my bag, pushing aside lip balm, tissues, beer change and a barrage of crumpled receipts from the bar.
Message from Caleb: ‘Happy studying. See you Wednesday?’
A heavy sigh escaped me as I returned the phone to my bag, message unanswered. I’d told my boyfriend I needed tonight to prepare for my tutorials, ready to launch into the new term. And to work on my thesis, if in fact I could find the time around the marking and lesson planning. Truth. But another truth was that I would stop at the little grocery store on the corner of my street in Darlinghurst. That I would buy a bottle of sav blanc - or rosé? Both. I would climb the stairs to my student apartment under the dim light of the automatic fluros: five lights, three broken. I would sit on my tiny balcony, just wide enough for my bum, legs stretched out before me, the view of the concrete apartments of next door rising up, gum trees silhouetted against the last of the sun’s rays. And, wine in one hand, ice blocks clicking in the glass to cool the room temperature liquid (that mattered for the first one), cigarette in the other, I would rest my head against the concrete panel behind me and toast the night. A cloud of smoke rising from my lips to mix with the cooling autumn air. Open wine bottle wedged between my legs, I would watch the darkness swallow the sky, the ambient light of the city and gathering winter clouds hiding the stars.
And I would drink, and smoke, and drink some more. Until I finished both bottles - why stop at one? And I would finis the pack of cigarettes - because I would quit tomorrow and these shouldn’t go to waste. And finally, sometime around 1 a.m., exhaustion would creep into the haze of boredom tinged with nothingness that sat inside me. Not heavy, not light, not anything really, just there. And I would stagger to bed, bottles and butts left on the balcony and collapse onto my mattress, not even bothering to pull back the sheets, definitely not brushing my teeth. But remembering last minute to set my alarm, because tomorrow… tomorrow, I had to show up.
‘Good Easter break Ellie?’
I looked up from the essay before me, red pen hovering over yet another correction and smiled warmly at Tessa.
‘Wonderful, thank you.’ I said, reaching for my coffee – my third one since arriving at my office, ‘You?’
‘Yes, went down to Bondi with the family. Lots of niece cuddles. Can you believe she’s almost two already?’
‘Two! Wow, time flies huh?’
‘I can’t wait to have my own. But thesis first. Did you find any time for good ol’ EB over the break?’
EB - Edward Barrington, author of the poem I was analysing for my PhD thesis. I suppressed a cringe. No, no I hadn’t. Truth be told, I hadn’t ‘found time’ for my thesis in weeks…
‘Some,’ I said, ‘but mostly I had to catch up on these papers. And planning for the term.’ Lie.
‘I hear you. The extra money is nice, but taking tutes and working on a PhD is tough. Still, better than the ‘real world’, am I right?’
I smiled in response and, slurping down a large mouthful of coffee, returned to my marking. I still had half of this class and all of the third to get through before the end of the day. Tessa settled down at the desk opposite me and soon the only sound around us was the scrape of my correction pen and the click of her typing… probably finishing another chapter of her thesis.
I liked Tessa. She was doing a thesis in history, specifically definitions of genocide, which still surprised me every time she gifted me one of her smiles. Straight black hair, shimmering glory unlike my dull ash brown; bright eyes behind purple rimmed glasses, mine bloodshot hazel; pearl white teeth, Tessa seemed totally at odds with, well, the horrors of war. When we’d first met as new PhD candidates two years ago I had thought her crazy for taking on such a complex topic. I had chosen The Fall, a poem by a famous and revered English Poet who had also lived in Australia. An unfashionable poem sure, but with the fame of Edward Barrington, and the connection to Australia, it would be easy… should have been easy.
Yet here we sat, entering our last 18 months of scholarship, and she was almost finished with her core chapters. I was… not there yet. Not even close.
I had started well. In my opening chapters, covering Barrington’s life, fame, and move to a property just outside of Goolwa in South Australia, I drew from his personal history to shape and support my interpretation of The Fall. I’d even won a grant to visit the UK to conduct some research on Barrington’s home soil (I hadn’t used it). From my own structured life I could indulge in the wretched sense of loss that leaked from the words: someone else’s pain, someone else’s cage.
It made me feel closer to my dad somehow. I missed him.
He’d always found the good in things. Always said, ‘Even in shadow, there will always be hope.’ I still liked that.
I’d applied it to my research and study of The Fall. But as I’d come to learn about Barrington’s life, I’d started to understand the poem’s paradox. A sense of loss and hopelessness ached from the words, a return to the dark poems that had made him famous, though it was written at a time of peace in Barrington’s life. And the pace of my work started to slow.
Then I’d visited my mum, and the foundation of my life was torn away. Her words plunged me into my own dungeon and The Fall became too personal, too real. No longer could I indulge in the emotions of the poem, safely distanced. Now it seemed to speak to my own heart and soul.
I’d decided I needed a break from studying and had taken a few days off to brunch with friends and say yes to a few date invites. I’d met Caleb and got sucked into the vortex of a new relationship. I was happy to drown my thoughts and feelings in his warm tanned body and ready fingers. My few days had become a few weeks, then months. And now, now…
I sighed and reached for my coffee cup. Empty. Restless, I rose from my desk, pen falling from my fingers. ‘I’m going for a refill, can I get you anything?’
‘Hmmm…’ Tessa held up a quick finger and, brow creased in concentration, finished off a thought before, ‘Sorry, you asked? Coffee! Right. Um, no thank you, I am fine for now.’ And returned to her typing.
I nodded and headed for the door, the sound of Tessa’s focused tapping on the keyboard behind me. As I pulled our office door closed I wondered: had I been engrossed in my thesis like that too? At the start? Had I felt that passion and lost it? Was it somewhere still, inside?
I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin, fixing an amiable but vacant smile on my face, ready to run the gauntlet of staff and students between my office and the cafeteria. The picture of professional calm, studious and focused; the PhD candidate nearing the end of her tenure, looking forward to a career in academia as a professor and lecturer. I smiled at a group of passing students, they nodded to me in acknowledgement. I knew I looked the part, in my blue shirt and black heels, hair neatly tied back. And I knew it for what it was. Felt it. I was on the precipice of failure. If I got past my upcoming review with my supervisor without being stripped of my scholarship, it would be a miracle. Because I was a fraud. Pretty packaging wrapped over an empty box. Nothing inside, nothing to show for the years of funding, research grants, time. I had taken my scholarship. I was expected to give back to the academic community, to advance knowledge… but I couldn’t even get through a class worth of tute marking. Not the problem. Not really.
The cafeteria loomed before me. I made a snap decision. Rather than enter and get that longed for coffee, I turned and headed out. Out across the campus, through the front gates and down the street. A walk, some fresh air, that’s what I needed to clear my head. To find some focus. Liar. The word leapt up at me but I pushed it down and headed for the park, for the chair by the lake I knew was waiting for me. Waiting like it did most days lately, to keep my bottom off the dry grass as I gazed at the water and felt nothing inside me. Nothing at all.