Sydney's Song (6 page)

“
Really
? Then what are you doing here in a call centre?”

“Love. This is five minutes' walk from home. My kids are young. Besides, there aren't any petroleum-seismology jobs.”

“True, Dad used to work offshore from Perth. Definitely not for a mum.”

I kept coming back there, curious about my father's new world. Between calls she told me about the seismic exploration around Mahakam Delta. Mahakam was a very wide river sparkling in the sun, with the world's best lobsters. Going to work on a speed boat was a never-ending holiday. No civilisation. She had been the only female in the middle of nowhere, apart from an
‘all-rounder'
maid.

“The nearest town was Balikpapan. We flew to and from an oil rig by helicopter. Half of the city is a very well-designed upper-class area for the rich oil people, with their posh country-club and such. The other half is poor, crowded and disorganised.”

“Funny,” I told her. “My parents have taken me to Canada, USA, Thailand, and Singapore. But not to our nearest neighbour.”

“Don't worry. All Australians will eventually end up visiting Indonesia. In 200 million years, that is.”

“How come?”

“The geodynamics. The Australian tectonic plate moves north at about 15cm a year. It melts underneath Sumatra and Java, causing so many volcanoes there.”

“You mean the heat comes from the melted Australian plate?”

“Yes. The mountains are tectono-volcanic.”

“And in 200 million years, we'll be no more? Interesting. So I won't end up being a museum object like the African ‘Lucy'.”

I did not ask Dad anything when he rang, though. At this stage, I was jealous of his English geologist girlfriend. When he squired me around I had thought I was his precious princess instead of a burdensome obligation. I felt disillusioned. I didn't say much except “Yes”, “No”, “Ah-ha”, and “Don't know.”

“Typical teenager,” Dad sighed. Frustrated. “Please say something.” “Something.”

I did not chat with Mum either. She used to look after my every single need, always resourceful and so thoughtful, and very dependable. All I had to do was enjoy life while Mum tirelessly and competently arranged and organised every single detail of whatever I might need for every occasion. She did none of that now. Like, did you know that a sunscreen tube could get empty? I did not approve of the new Mum so I refused to talk. Yes. No. Sure. Okay. In the end she became fed up and voiced a forceful “Grow up!”

They told me to read my emails, having written to me many times… the precise reason I stopped checking my emails. Just to be perverse.

I didn't even touch the computer. Weird, come to think of it. All through my high-school years, Mum confiscated the modem at 9pm. How I used to seethe, watching her unhook the cables one by one and walk away with the modem. A mean mother, was she not? I'd had to make sure all homework requiring the internet was completed by nine. To my surprise, now that I had the internet all to myself, it ceased to be interesting.

I spent long hours drawing instead. And I took photographs, endlessly arranging and rearranging lighting. I did need to know more about this before uni started.

My neighbours enquired about my parents but they did not think it odd for a high-school leaver to live alone. I was an adult now, supposedly.

Now why would an adult feel devastated by her parents' decision? Someone enlighten me. Should I have had counselling? I could not get used to the hurt although it was constantly with me. Pain was a heavy chain tied around my neck. Often it jerked me awake at 4am. Pain robbed me of my voice, making it barely audible. This chain was tied to an invisible pole. You couldn't shake it off. You could only go around and around it.

I felt someone was wielding a sharp knife, slashing my heart into ribbons. The hurt was astonishingly physical. Somehow I could feel it at the tips of my fingers. At the ends of my nerves. If you have never experienced this, then you don't know what heartbreak is like, and I would never wish it on you.

More bad news came to me.

“I got admission to study music in Melbourne!” Brenna announced in excitement after their Queensland trip. And now her artist aunt had invited her to her home near Creswick Forest, Victoria. She would holiday there until January.

“I'm doing the Army recruitment exams,” Lucy beamed. “And my ballet company has a new production. We are to tour Australia this summer!”

The girls were deliriously happy when I was horribly depressed. I so needed a friend but could not bring myself to speak up. I was ashamed of my parents' divorce. And I was happy for my friends. I could not sing, dance, or play any instrument, so I had great respect for people talented in these arts.

With a feeling of loss I watched them leave. And I walked the empty rooms and hallways of my home…

My old dog knew all about my tears. We jogged and we talked and I hugged her a lot. Dimity, the love of my life.

“The bloody bus just drove past me!” I yelled on my phone to Nicholas at the administration desk. Although it wasn't considered a profanity in Aussieland, earlier I could not bring myself to use the b-word. It definitely took Sydney's public transport to force it out of me. “I'm going to be late!”

“Sydney… you shouldn't…” This week my rolling shift began at the indecent hour of 6am again. “You'll lose your Attendance bonus.”

“I know I know. Can't help it. Sorry.”

This was a Saturday morning in December. I had planned to take the N80 bus because the first Beecroft train would arrive in Hornsby at 05:56. I still had to run up the station stairs, and cross the George Street pedestrian bridge to my office. Fat chance I could make it.

I was furious with the N80 driver. Nightride buses were supposed to help customers while the trains stopped between midnight and early morning. I had planned my trip meticulously. But I had stood there in my bright jacket—impossible to miss!—waving, and the inconsiderate bus driver ignored me!

Unhelpful people should never apply to be bus drivers!

I sat on the first train feeling
sooo
upset.

My miserly office only paid the lowest minimum Australian salary. They gave us various bonuses if we were disciplined and good at what we did.

Attendance bonus was yours if you didn't call in sick
at all
, and were
never
late even for a single minute.

Adherence bonus was yours if you logged in to take calls the
precise
minute you were supposed to.

If they monitored you, and you gave out
accurate
info in a
polite
way, you received the Quality bonus.

If
you received the Quality bonus, and your Average Handling Time was less than 106 seconds, you would also get the AHT bonus.

But if you did not pass the Quality, you wouldn't get the AHTbonus, no matter how fast you handled the calls.

This Saturday, because of a nasty bus driver, I lost my Attendance bonus for the month. It meant my pay would be nowhere near decent.

As I logged on a few minutes late, I noticed a spill-proof computer mug on the desk next to mine: ‘PETE's. DO NOT TOUCH'. Its handsome owner was talking on the phone, his tenor voice soothingly pleasant, and his tone of speaking lovely. Somehow it calmed me down a bit.

My manager Justin called me. He talked for 15 minutes because he was obliged to admonish me for arriving two minutes late.

My mood worsened when the Newcastle Line trackwork victims whinged. The maintenance crews were required to check the tracks on a regular basis to avoid accidents. There was always trackwork on some line every weekend. Except on election days.

A very rude young boy shouted, “You say your (
bleep
) trackwork bus from Gosford is every
ten
minutes? I don't (
bleep
) believe you! Are you (
bleep
) sure?”

“Would you talk politely or would you like me to terminate the call?” And buy some soap to wash your mouth before the next call.

“I just don't believe the bus is so frequent when your train is only every half an hour,” he argued.

“The train has eight double-decker carriages. The bus is way shorter.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. When a train runs, 2000 cars stay home.” There. What was so hard to understand?

Next, “I want to go to Silverwater!” an arrogant lady demanded.

“Which part of Silverwater please, Ma'am?”

“Just show me how to get there! You should know! Why do you work there if you have to ask me?!”

“Anywhere in Silverwater, Madam?”

“Anywhere!”

Right. So I whipped up a travel plan to get her to Holker Street near Silverwater Road. The address of Silverwater Jail. I hoped she would be very happy there. Have a nice life!

But then a meaner lady (two in a row!) wanted to go to Frenchs Forest, address unknown.

“But Frenchs Forest is very big, Madam. Bigger than the City. Where specifically, please? So we can send you to the correct location.”

“You should tell me where it is!” she snapped. “It's your duty! Call your supervisor! NOW!!!”

For the next 20 minutes she spitefully dobbed my ineptitude and unhelpfulness to Justin. Since she refused to be put through to Your Say, our feedback section, these 20 minutes added to my handling time. There went my AHT bonus.

It did not stop there. Next, harassed Justin assigned me to assist her
again
, assuring her I had been fully trained to do so. Grudgingly she granted me the dubious “honour” of advising her about
every
single bus that went to Frenchs Forest.

“I plan to buy a house in that area,” she announced now, “I haven't decided on what street it's going to be. It will depend on your advice.”

Ohmygod, now I'm a real-estate adviser?

“How about we mail you the buses' Region Guide for Frenchs Forest, Madam? Also all bus timetables there. You can peruse them carefully and decide for yourself.”

“No, no, no! Don't you try to get out of this! You're being paid to take this call! Now just tell me what's available!”

So I read her departures and arrivals of every single direct bus as well as every combination of buses—both government and private buses—for weekday mornings, weekday nights, Friday nights, Saturday mornings, Saturday nights, Sunday mornings, Sunday nights.

Of course she just had to ask, “And where would I catch a taxi if I missed them? Where's the nearest train station and major bus stop?”

“Have you written down all this information?” I asked.

“Yes yes, just tell me the nearest place for a taxi now!”

I was dying to transfer her to Pizza Hut. But I duly advised her that the nearest train station was Chatswood. She then demanded I read the departures and arrivals of trains and Nightride N90 bus between Wynyard and Chatswood.

Next I had to advise her that the main bus corridor was Pittwater Rd in Dee Why. For this, too, she made me read the schedule of the nightride 151 bus between Wynyard and Dee Why. Weeknights.Weekend nights.

“Right,” she said after all that, “What bus was it again that went direct?”

“But you said you'd written them down.” Ma'am, I'm about to kill you!

“No. No… I think it will be better if you send me that Region Guide after all. And all the bus timetables of course. Please take my mailing details now. My name is Fu Lyn …”

I looked away to the streets of Hornsby, visible from our northern glass wall, remembering Winston from Pennant Hills High School. A brilliant Chinese Australian, he was one of the most pleasant people alive, even when we always badgered him with questions. If only Mrs Fu was half as nice.

Mrs Fu then felt justified to end her call with the following farewell, “I'm very disappointed with your service today. Not good customer service at all. In the beginning you deliberately pretended not to know anything about the services in Frenchs Forest so you could get rid of me. You're such a lazy person you tried to get out of your duty to provide me with information. I've spoken with your manager and reported your refusal to help a customer seeking assistance. People like you should never get a job in customer service. You're a disgrace to your company and to Sydney's public-transport provider. I'm extremely appalled at you.”

She railed on and on in this condescending tune for the next ten minutes while my bruised heart was screaming,
“Daddyyyy… can you see me? Can you see me now? Would you allow this person to batter your daughter to pieces? Daaad… take a look at me now. How can you let this happen to me? Daad… you promised to always be there for me. I need you now. Dad, heeelp!”

“I hope my words will stay with you and help you improve, because I feel very sorry for all your customers. I pity those unfortunate people who call this number and get you on the line. I've never before encountered such a lazy and deceitful customer-service person such as you.”