The Helpline: A Novel - Hardcover

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Katherine Collette is a Melbourne-based writer and sewage engineer. She once worked at a senior citizens council and her experience there informed The Helpline, her debut novel.

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The Helpline

– 1 –

The night before I started work, Sharon called. She was as encouraging as always.

“You’re still planning on going? It’s not too late to change your mind.”

“Of course I’m going. I can’t wait, I’m so excited.” This was an overstatement, but contradicting Sharon is a kind of compulsion. Like a form of Tourette’s.

She sighed. “You know, when that insurance place gave you the flick, I hoped you’d see the light. Take some time out and think about what you really want to do.”

“They didn’t give me the flick,” I said. “I tendered my resignation, and they were quite upset about it.”

“I mean, you’re not stupid. You’re not great with people, obviously. And you’re a bit of a self-promoter. But that’s the Douglas in you.” She says it casually, like the Douglas family has been a feature of my existence, but that’s not the case. I’ve never met my father—he left before I was born. I try not to take it personally; it was her he was getting away from.

I checked the clock. “I better go. I have to . . . get to bed.”

“Now? It’s seven-thirty.”

“The early bird gets the worm, Sharon.”

“Oh, please, not the early bird again. The one I feel sorry for’s the poor bloody worm. That worm got out of bed early, too, for all the good it did . . .”

I didn’t hang up the phone, not officially. I put it facedown on the table and left the room. Sharon could be very sympathetic to things like hypothetical worms. Not so much daughters.

It was raining in the morning, which I anticipated. I brought with me an umbrella that was very large, and very waterproof. When I got out of the car and walked towards the front doors of the town hall, it covered me, my disposable hooded poncho, the matching pants, and my wheeling briefcase.

Unfortunately, my timely arrival had not taken into account the opening hours of reception and, as it was 8:57 a.m., the sliding glass doors remained stubbornly inert.

Lucky I had a sudoku in the inner pocket of my jacket. I wiggled one arm from the sleeve of the poncho and maneuvered inside the plastic sheath to get it out. Then I stood and filled it in.

This was called Making the Best of Things. I’d become a seasoned veteran of Making the Best of Things these last few months. Specifically, since the day I left Wallace Insurance.

About a year ago, just after Easter, Peter called me into his office. He and I used to meet there on Friday nights after everyone else went home. I’d stay back filing difficult claims and drafting advisory notes for my inferiors, while they laughed and joked over after work drinks in the kitchenette downstairs.

During the week Peter could be gruff. He was under a great deal of stress—as manager, he had a lot on his plate. But on Friday nights, between 7:32 p.m. and 8:17 p.m. (approximately), he was a different person. I’d sit in his chair and he’d massage my shoulders. He was a lazy masseur—maybe he’d lost some of the strength he once had in his hands—but it was nice to be touched. I’d feel my back soften, the knots unraveling, and then he’d say how much he liked me and how smart I was. “Germaine,” he’d say, “you’re the only one with any intelligence around here.” He told me that several times.

But the last time I saw Peter was not on a Friday night; it was a Wednesday afternoon. And it was not only him in the office; Helen from the HR department was also present.

I wasn’t worried. There’d been a recruitment process; I was pretty sure they were going to tell me . . . I thought it was good news, as shown in Figure 1:



But when I entered the room, it had an air of formality that made my skin prickle.

“Germaine,” said Peter. His voice was stiff. “This has been a very difficult decision. We had lots of high-quality applicants, and some of them had been team leaders before.” His eyes wandered to Helen from the HR department, who gave an encouraging nod. “And I know you’ve been here before, too, Germaine. I know you’ve been down to the last few candidates more than once.”

Four times, in fact, in the seventeen years I’d been at Wallace Insurance (five as senior mathematician). Once upon a time there were six mathematicians, one whole department, but the others had moved on and their replacements were statisticians and computer programmers. I was the last of the old guard, and it was my time, my turn.

And Peter knew that. We’d talked about it, on a Friday. He’d intimated things were about to change.

But now look at him. He was perspiring. Little beads of sweat had appeared on his brow, highlighting the silver regrowth at the hairline. “Did I say it was a difficult decision? It was a very difficult decision, but unfortunately—”

I don’t know what he said after that because I stopped listening, but I got the gist of it, and the gist was they were promoting Susan Reynolds from the Customer Service team.

“But I’m older,” I said, “and I’ve been here longer. I have seniority.”

“Actually, no,” said Helen. “Susan will have seniority.”

I looked at Peter.

Peter looked away.

“We don’t want to waste your skills on managing people, Germaine,” said Helen. “We want someone like you sitting in a room crunching numbers all day long. Not everyone can do what you do, you know.”

I said, “But . . . Susan doesn’t know basic calculus. Her appreciation of polynomials is worryingly limited.”

Helen used the soothing voice. “I know . . . It’s hard. And Germaine, you are a very valued employee.”

I said if I was so valued, maybe they’d like to give me a pay rise? Helen said they weren’t in a position to increase my wages, but perhaps she could see about some movie tickets. To acknowledge all my hard work.

There was some conjecture about what happened next. As I recall, I expressed a degree of disappointment and asked them to reconsider.

Helen and Peter alleged I kicked the table over. They claimed I called Peter an expletive—a word I would never use—and exited the room in such a manner that the door required attention from the Maintenance department. That is not my recollection. For clarity, in Figure 2, I have accurately apportioned blame.



In any case, the next morning my security pass didn’t work. Helen informed me through the intercom that they’d accepted my resignation and requested that I not contact Peter.

In the search for another job I approached every insurance company in Melbourne, Sydney, and Adelaide, outlining my capabilities. I explained that given a few simple data points I could estimate the probability—using a calculator and pencil, no less—of any conceivable scenario. I could say with ninety-three percent accuracy that a sixty-eight-year-old smoker (male) on holiday in Thailand would lose his wallet within a week of arrival. I could tell them a family of four from Melbourne en route...