Changing gears, p.1
Changing Gears, page 1
Changing Gears
L A Wright
Things Done Wright
Copyright © 2023 by L A Wright
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorised duplication is prohibited.
Cover design by Cath Grace Designs
Published by Things Done Wright - New Zealand
ISBN: 978-1-7385849-0-1 (ePUB Edition)
ISBN: 978-1-7385849-1-8 (Paperback Edition)
For my wife, who supports me in everything.
Contents
1. Sydney Monday, 2 April, 2018
2. Paris Friday, 30 June, 2017
3. Paris to Avignon Saturday, 1 July, 2017
4. Sydney Tuesday, 3 April, 2018
5. Avignon Sunday, 2 July, 2017
6. Sydney Thursday, 5 April, 2018
7. Avignon to Sorgues return Monday, 3 July, 2017
8. Avignon to Les Baux Tuesday, 4 July, 2017
9. Sydney Friday, 6 April, 2018
10. Les Baux Wednesday, 5 July, 2017
11. Les Baux to Fontaine de Vauclause Thursday, 6 July, 2017
12. Sydney Sunday, 8 April, 2018
13. Sydney Monday, 9 April, 2018
14. Fontaine to Gordes to Isle sur la Sorge Friday, 7 July, 2017
15. Isle sur la Sorge to Venasque return Saturday, 8 July, 2017
16. Sydney Tuesday, 10 April, 2018
17. Sydney Wednesday, 11 April, 2018
18. Return to Avignon Sunday, 9 July, 2017
19. Sydney Thursday, 12 April, 2018
20. Sydney Friday, 13 April, 2018
21. FaceTime Thursday, 14 September, 2017
22. Sydney Saturday, 14 April, 2018
23. FaceTime Wednesday, 11 October, 2017
24. FaceTime Friday, 8 December, 2017
25. Sydney Sunday, 15 April, 2018
26. FaceTime Thursday, 4 January, 2018
27. Sydney Friday, 20 April, 2018
28. FaceTime Wednesday, 31 January, 2018
29. FaceTime Tuesday, 27 February, 2018
30. Sydney Saturday, 21 April, 2018
31. Sydney Sunday, 22 April, 2018
32. Sydney Monday, 23 April, 2018
33. Sydney Tuesday, 24 April, 2018
34. Sydney Wednesday, 25 April, 2018
35. Sydney Thursday, 26 April, 2018
36. Sydney Monday, 30 April, 2018
37. Sydney Tuesday, 1 May, 2018
38. Sydney Wednesday, 2 May, 2018
39. Sydney Thursday, 3 May, 2018
40. Sydney Friday, 4 May, 2018
41. Sydney Airport Thursday, 19 May, 2018
About Author
Acknowledgments
Sydney
Monday, 2 April, 2018
Jen stared blankly at her laptop screen, unmoored and overwhelmed. Conversations during the afternoon staff meeting had been demoralising, scratching raw nerves she’d already been nursing for months. Her private self had been unceremoniously dragged into her professional world, and now she couldn’t seem to right herself. Prep for tomorrow’s classes would have to wait.
FaceTime chimed, and she cupped her face in her palms a moment before tapping to connect. Abigail’s face loomed large on screen, her warm smile chasing away the malaise Mrs MacKechnie’s afternoon vitriol had caused.
“Heya,” Abi grinned. “How are ya?”
Her Scottish lilt made Jen smile back. “Argh.” She rolled her eyes. “Be thankful your Monday hasn’t started yet.” Flapping her hands at the screen, she paused before her grievances became the topic of conversation. Instead, she propped her elbows on the desk and cradled her chin in her hands, a deep sigh escaping her. “Tell me what you did during your amazing weekend.”
“Oh god, you need a distraction already. Ok…”
If anyone could raise her spirits these days, it was Abi. Abi, who tugged at her heart in uncomfortable ways. Jen was glad for the distance that separated them sometimes, but for all those moments in between, she hurt. Their friendship had blossomed during a week-long holiday in France—far too brief a time for them to have become so enmeshed. Yet, nine months on, they called and texted each other too frequently. Jen had lived her entire life without Abi, but now she struggled to function without her advice and insight. And her smile. That smile. As she peered at the view from her apartment window, she shook her head at the absurd turn her life had taken.
The last rays of afternoon sun flung a wild pastiche of colour across the sky, and flocks of cockatoos swooped between pealing eucalyptus trees. Three years ago, when she had moved into her apartment, it had been for this view—treetops, raucous parrots, a glimpse of the ocean, extravagant sunrises and sunsets. But now everything was too vivid, too optimistic, too cheery, too “she’ll be right, mate” when all she felt was sad and alone. Tucking her hair behind an ear, she drifted back inside. A ride would fix things.
Jen changed swiftly, pulled a bike off its hook in the hallway, checked the tires, hefted it onto her shoulder, and made her way outside. There was less than an hour of light left, but North Bondi was hilly. It wouldn’t take long to burn off some of the angst of the day. A simple remedy for her restlessness and resentments.
The revulsion the staff meeting had triggered was mostly gone by the time she got home. As she hung her bike up in the hall, she shook her head, recalling the Principal’s face as Alice, Head of Wellbeing, surfaced rumours about a student’s troubling sexuality. A lesbian at St Mildred’s Ladies College? Surely not. It would not be tolerated. Reflecting on the hypocrisy of the school’s leadership, Jen muttered her mother’s favourite idiom. “There, but for the grace of God go I.”
Teaching at an Anglican school was no cake-walk—she’d known that when she accepted the job. But teaching positions in Sydney were fiercely contested, and having a high-ranked private school under your belt took teachers places—places with decent salaries, adequate budgets and resourcing, and stable futures. The opportunity had been far too good to pass up. Still, there were Anglican schools and Anglican schools, something she’d learned within a few months of starting at the College. The primary/secondary combined interviewed like a liberal institution, with values of inclusion and respect, and educating girls to be ready for their dynamic, empowered futures. In reality, deep-rooted traditional Christian values, typified by the knees together rule enforced during assemblies, underpinned the school’s culture. She was repeatedly reminded that the values of respect and inclusion only extended to those who walked in Christ.
The spectacle that had unfolded during the afternoon staff meeting earlier that day caught Jen off guard. It was all too close to home, painfully reminiscent of childhood and teenage years she had left hometown Bathurst to escape. Not that Bathurst was the actual issue. It was more her mother’s holier than thou Christian matriarchy and the regular Sunday church visits that had done it. No wonder today had sparked such an acute sense of despair. She knew what allegations of sexual deviance felt like to a young woman finding her way into herself in a community leaving no space or grace for that kind of growth. Sour nostalgia, that was what had rattled her.
Moving to Sydney for university at eighteen had been a godsend for Jen, giving her room to catch her breath and shake off those small-town conservative Christian constraints. And she thought she had put sufficient distance between herself then and now, but reflecting on her reactions at the staff meeting, maybe she hadn’t moved as much as she’d thought.
In hindsight, deciding to teach at a conservative Anglican school was a recipe for… well, nothing good. She had been eager enough at the time, given where the experience might take her. And the culture felt familiar and manageable. But the longer she worked at St Millies, the more challenging it became. It was one thing to negotiate her way through the requirements of providing a faith-informed education, but another to be dragged into discussions about a student’s emerging sexuality as though it was a bad habit to be addressed.
All of which would make tomorrow demanding. She had the offending student on her timetable, and from the sounds of teacher reports, the mean girls’ bitchery flying around free period the week before was enough to straighten out the staunchest lesbian. To add insult to injury, she looked so much like Abigail.
Abi. A bright light that had lit up Jen’s existence for almost two weeks last year. With her long russet hair, bright blue eyes, and a vibrancy Jen couldn’t help but admire, she had changed her life. A crazy thing to admit—that one person could do that to you so quickly, but such was the reality of their time together. By the time she boarded the plane to return home, Jen’s world had changed irrevocably—brighter, clearer, full of possibilities she would never have previously entertained. A switch had flipped. She was suddenly impatient with the drudgery of daily life, the lock-step nature of her rituals and interactions, the blandness of her environment. All she wanted was to reignite herself, to stay connected to the emotions that holiday had sparked. Abi was that bridge.
Paris
Friday, 30 June, 2017
Jen had never been so grateful to disembark a plane. After nearly twenty-four hours of flight time, a very confusing transfer in Dubai, and virtually no sleep, all she wanted was to escape Charles de Gaulle and breathe Parisian air. Her Lo nely Planet and the inflight movie selection had occupied her during the flight, but now she itched to experience Paris.
France was Jen’s first European country, her first outside the Asia-Pacific, in fact. Like many Australians, she’d done Bali and Thailand to death but never ventured much farther afield. When a colleague shared his photos of his recent biking tour in the Champagne region, it had inspired her. Three days later, she was booking a tour package—eight days riding in Provence. All so romantic. She had chosen a tour company to handle logistics, so all she needed to do was ride the recommended route and not get lost. Daily distances were moderate and the terrain fairly gentle, rolling through some of Provence’s most scenic villages. The itinerary afforded plenty of time to sightsee, and eat and drink her way around the wine region. Three days in Paris to finish—including Bastille Day—before flying home for the start of term two. An efficient two weeks. And just long enough to either whet her appetite or cure a curiosity.
With her Roissybus ticket in hand, Jen boarded the airport shuttle bus and spent the ride to the centre of Paris with her face pressed against the window. Everything was different. Compact cars and scooters whizzed down tree-lined avenues under cloud-spattered skies. Buildings along the route were a jumble of eras and styles, and the closer she got to the Palais Garnier drop off, the grander the architecture became. Already it was like nothing she had ever experienced, and giddy excitement bubbled away inside her. Jen had worked hard prior to leaving Sydney to not let her expectations of the city run away with her, but she needn’t have worried. Paris from a bus was incredible.
It was nearly noon when she arrived at her drop off point. The pavements bustled with tourists snapping pictures of the Opera building nearby—a ridiculously opulent melee of grey stone columns, cornices, and gilded figures. She stopped to take the obligatory selfie to text to her family before setting off towards her hotel.
The walk to her accommodation was an easy ten-minute stroll. Located within walking distance of some of Paris’s most iconic attractions, she had chosen an ideal location to explore the historic city from. The Eiffel Tower, Place de la Concorde, and Seine were all accessible by foot—a tourist’s paradise. Too early to check in, she dropped her bags at the front desk and headed back out. There was ample daylight left to wander the streets and imbibe her surroundings.
With her phone in hand, Jen rambled along the Rue Tronchet. She couldn’t help but stop for more pictures of the L’eglise de la Madeleine for her mother. Sally liked nothing more than a grey church and la Madeleine was that in spades, a grey stone monolith of condemning angels and grim columns. It seemed to echo her inner martyr, and Jen wondered if it gave her mother solace to think women had been sacrificing themselves for centuries, toiling on their Christian paths.
On to the Place de la Concorde, with its old cobbles and misappropriated Egyptian obelisk. Tourists of every nationality buzzed about, taking selfies with a tiny Arc de Triomphe or bubbling Fontaine des Fleuves in the background. Jen joined them, snapping away as she admired the gilt and stone, hypnotised by history and grandeur. Moving on, she rambled through the parks along the Champs-Élysées and filled up on crepes in the Jardin des Tuileries. It was surreal to walk through gardens commissioned by Catherine de Midici almost five hundred years ago. Until that moment, Catherine had been little more than a name in an English lit text to her.
After a while Jen put her phone away to people-watch and just stare at everything. With less than a day under her belt, she was already falling for Paris’s charms. Cliché, she realised, but cliché for a reason. The city was sumptuous, a sweeping, intoxicating indulgence of architecture and antiquity, making her feel worldly and provincial at the same time. Why she’d taken so long to make the trip escaped her.
By late afternoon, jet lag and the long journey caught up with her, so she headed back to the hotel. Her room was a quaint, compact box with an even smaller en suite—snug, but more than enough for her night’s stay. Kicking her shoes off, Jen tugged the window open to let the street noise in and flopped back on the bed. She nodded off to the sound of motor scooters and French pedestrians, any thoughts of her students and the term two workload lost to the resplendence of Paris.
Paris to Avignon
Saturday, 1 July, 2017
Jen woke early, quickly packed and checked out so she could spend the few hours before the next leg of her journey exploring the banks of the Seine. With her pack snuggly on her shoulders, she dawdled along the river and across the bridge to the fabled Place Dauphine. Beautiful apartment buildings with cafes below flanked the three sides of the public square, their stone façades casting narrow shadows and slight relief from the sun. She googled locations as she walked, lost in the city’s tumultuous yet remarkable history.
With the Eiffel at her back, she sat by the river to feast on baguettes, picturesque pastries and coffee. Glass topped tour boats drifted by, taking her thoughts along with them. With less than twenty-four hours of Paris under her belt, she already felt like a different version of herself. Stale Jen, rigid, boring, rut-bound Jen was nowhere to be seen. Even her mother’s persistent nagging in the back of her mind was drowned out by the babble of French locals and beeping traffic. Jen didn’t want to stop walking. It was all too enchanting, too intoxicating.
Her route took her towards Gare de Lyon, the major station for trains heading to Avignon. But there was so much to see along the way. By the time her watch buzzed to remind her the train was due to depart in an hour, she was hardly half way there. Travel advice recommended budgeting plenty of time to navigate to the right platform, so she ordered an Uber, sacrificing the walk to ensure she didn’t miss her train.
As she wove her way through the throngs of summer travellers, she was glad she had paid attention. The station was organised but busy, and it took her some time to get her bearings. When she finally found her platform, she wondered if she’d ever be able to go back to the utilitarian trains that dragged her around Sydney. Shaped like a bullet with seats made for comfort, the TGV has designed to move people in style. She sighed contentedly as she settled into a window seat. Three hours of French countryside awaited her, all from a plush interior that felt more homely than her apartment.
Jen napped despite her best intentions, but only for the last thirty minutes of the journey. The young man seated opposite woke her gently after they’d pulled into Avignon. They were the last two people on the carriage.
“On holiday, mademoiselle?” French, and nice looking. He smiled at her as she rubbed the sleep from her face.
“Ah, oi,” and she reddened, realising she had replied to his perfect English with her poor Australian-tinged French.
