Peter Corris - The January Zone

‘You’ll see. We’ve got the steps to climb first.’

My calves were aching when we got up to her place which turned out to be a loft behind a big sprawling house. The loft would once have had narrow slit windows but now it had big expanses of glass to let the view in. We climbed still more steps, narrow wooden flights up to a door at the end of the building.

‘What do you think?’

I clung on to the handrail. ‘Air’s thin up here.’

She laughed, dug out her key and we went in. She flicked a switch inside the door. The loft was spacious and spare. There was a pot belly stove up one end near a small refrigerator and microwave oven on a bench. A lot of cushions lay about and there was a table tennis table at the other end. The big windows looked out to the city. The viaduct was a dark, exotic shape back-lit by the suburban lights.

Trudi threw her keys into an earthenware pot and stomped around turning on more lights.

‘Like it?’

‘It’s great.’ Along one wall there was the sort of divan that folds down to make a double bed; a couple of light wooden room dividers lay on top of the divan. She saw me looking.

‘That’s my bedroom. I can move it to wherever I like. I’m going to make a toasted sandwich. Want one?’

‘Thanks. Where’s Gunther?’

‘He’s away being minded. I lined it up with a friend when I knew I was going to the US. Otherwise he’d be scratching the door down by now. D’you like dogs, Cliff?’

‘I’m not sure. Way back, when I did divorce work, they could be a bit of a nuisance when I was sneaking around a house. I haven’t met too many angry ones lately.’ I wandered around looking at the posters on the walls-movie themes and characters, some nice ones from a San Francisco exhibition of relics from Egyptian tombs-and the books. Her clothes hung on a metal rack near the divan. The pop as she pulled the cork from a bottle of wine made me start.

‘You’re edgy,’ she said. She poured some wine and beckoned me across to the bench.

‘Yes.’ I drank some of the dry white and suddenly felt hungry. Trudi diluted hers with soda water and I wondered if she’d picked that up from January.

‘Food won’t be long. Why’re you edgy?’

‘I don’t know. Who d’you play table tennis with?’

‘Anyone who’s good enough. Do you play?’

‘I can. Is that what you meant about muscles?’

‘No, I’ve got some weights and an exercise bike. Keep ‘em in a cupboard so’s not to scare off the men. What do you do for exercise, Cliff?’

‘Bit of tennis, some swimming, that’s about all.’

‘What about Helen?’

I took a long drink. ‘Who told you about Helen?’

‘Peter. He was sort of in love with her before he met Karen. Lucky for you; he hasn’t missed many he’s aimed at.’

‘So I gather. Helen plays tennis and swims. She does other things in the country-chops wood for all I know.’

‘Sounds like you’re getting sick of the arrangement.’

‘Peter’s really filled you in, hasn’t he?’

She touched my arm. ‘Don’t get pissed off. We’re just talking. It sounds good to me. Better’n anything I ever had.’

‘You’re doing all right. Good job, good place, you could take your pick of the men…’

‘I do.’ She took a gulp of her drink. ‘Let’s eat. Stools are under there. Just yank ‘em out and we’ll sit here.’

She made cheese and bacon sandwiches and we wolfed down a couple each with the wine. We sat very close together at the bench and I could smell her and feel the warmth from her body. She shivered and I took off my jacket and hung it around her shoulders. She was good to touch, firm and straight-backed with a softness over the bones.

She lifted her glass. ‘Washington,’ she said.

‘Washington.’ We drank. ‘Has there been any more nutty mail?’

‘Ah, work,’ she said. ‘Safe ground. No, nothing since the bomb. What d’you make of that?’

‘I don’t know.’ I wasn’t really concentrating on the words. There was a battle going on inside me. The four l’s-love, loyalty, lust and loneliness -were having a hell of a good time slugging it out and I was feeling miserable. Trudi fell silent and seemed to brood. Then she jumped off her stool and bounced up and down on the board floor.

‘Tell you what, I know a place where they have great coffee and they put French brandy in it. Costs a mint. I’ll play you some table tennis. Loser buys the coffee. Okay?’

I laughed. She kept bouncing and the chopped-off hair swung around her head. I wondered how long she could bounce like that-longer than me for sure. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘You’re on. Best of three?’

She nodded. ‘Toss for ends.’

She won the toss, turned on the big hooded light over the table and offered me a selection of bats. I chose a heavy one. She held up two balls, one white, one red.

‘White. I’m old-fashioned.’

‘I can see that.’

She turned off the other lights apart from a lamp down by the bench. We hit up. That is, she hit up. She put the first few past me on either side using wicked spin and plenty of power.

‘You could at least take the jacket off.’

‘Sorry.’ She slung the jacket aside. ‘Home ground advantage. Is the lighting okay?’

It wasn’t quite. Since my eye injury I’d had a little trouble with shadows and adapting from light to dark quickly. But I had no real excuses other than rustiness. ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Can we rally a bit on both sides while I get my eye in?’

‘Sure.’

We rallied steadily, forehand and backhand, and I began to get the rhythm back. I’d played the game like a madman at the Maroubra YMCA as a kid and later in long, boring lay-off times in Malaya. I’d had a few games since, away on holiday with Cyn and at other places with other people, but I’d played much more court tennis and the two styles don’t mix well. I took too much swing and advertised my moves from right to left too clearly. Still, after the rallying and a few practice serves, I felt I was ready.

‘Three over for serve.’ She was concentrating, bent over, serious. I lost the serve in four shots.

The first game was over pretty quickly. I lost 21-9. She had a tricky, whippy style which depended a lot on spin and an ability to drop the ball short over the net. I won a few points by pushing her back and forcing her to hit long. She aced me at least eight times, but it wasn’t all bad: I aced her once. I won most of my points towards the end when I’d figured out some of the elements of her game. She liked to take the ball late and very low, below the level of the table if possible. This disguised the spin and direction; the ball came back breaking to either side and skipping down the middle or skimming the sidelines. But I watched and picked up something from the way she dropped her shoulder when she made the shots.

I held her in the second game. The ways of neutralising spin came back to me and I could control her serve better. I read the tricky low shots and did better than before when she had to play long. But she was fitter than me and I had to end the points quickly if I could-most of the really long rallies she won. I hit my straps at 16-19 down. I won all five points and the game.

We changed ends. I was sweating freely but she seemed cool and untroubled.

‘You’re all right,’ she said.

‘I thought I was good and you were terrific’

‘I’m just getting warmed up.’

And she was. She won her serve to love and I was struggling to get three points on mine. I pegged her back a bit over the next few serves but she’d been reading my style while I’d been reading hers. She fought to keep the points long and with a lot of side to side movement. She bounced; I lumbered. She spun and I smashed.