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Every man I've ever met has been named Ian. I'm not exaggerating.
I am the daughter of proud and doting parents,
Ian and Margaret, and was raised in what Ian called 'backwoods' Tasmania, well
away from anything that could be called civilisation.
My Dad was a writer. He'd sold a few books in his
glory days and could afford the isolation. Mum just fussed around the house a
lot, although she did visit her cousins Sue and Shirley up in Burnie every
month. Dad and I also went into town, for supplies, but only once in a blue
moon. He enjoyed the solitude of his castle, and I was raised to know no
different.
When we went to town, we shopped at the grocery
co-op. The store owner was a rotund man named Ian. He used to wave and smile
and carry-on when Dad came in. They would shout 'Ian' at each other like it was
the funniest joke in the world.
Dad home-schooled me, so I scarcely met another
soul during my childhood. I read a lot of books instead. Fairy tales and rhymes
like Jack and the Beanstalk, Little Jack Horner, and Jack and Jill. To me, all
the boys in the world were called Jack. I knew no different; Dad forbade me new
books or a TV. He said TV rotted the brain, and I was happy with the healthy
brain I had.
All the boys were Jack and all the men were Ian.
There was Ian the co-op owner, Dad's friend Ian
who visited from Launceston, and Pastor Peterson. The pastor came down from the
Seventh Day Adventist Church in Somerset and led us through Bible study, at
least until he and Dad had a falling out. I only knew the man as Pastor
Peterson until Dad wrote hateful letters addressed to a Pastor Ian Peterson.
I accepted all this without hesitation. The one
thing I didn't understand was why the Jacks changed their names to Ian when
they grew up. I assumed it was a man thing.
I had no reason to question otherwise until I
found Dad's secret stash of books in the bottom of his wardrobe. I was
dumbfounded. They featured wise or heroic men named John or Peter or Tom. I
thought the names sounded exotic. I'd never met a John or Peter or Tom. Just
Ians. I couldn't ask Dad though. He would have killed me for going through his
books.
I lived for years that way, yearning for stories
of these extraordinary men, and more. Yearning for the caress of John
Templeton, the spy from Casablanca Murders, or the intellect of Sherlock
Holmes, who reminded me of my father in so many ways. I always chuckled when I
read his strange name, despite myself. I still mutter 'Sherlock' like a
cherished sin in the twilight hours.
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When I reached womanhood, I struggled with the
urge to leave, to explore the world and meet a man not named Ian, or just to
find a job in Burnie. Dad grew cruel and distant each time I mentioned it,
while Mum just kept immersing herself in housework. I'd never seen the
fireplace so clean.
My husband-to-be changed everything. He was a
survey geologist, collecting soil samples near our cabin when we met. He was so
rugged, so different to everything in my world. His mainlander ways took some
getting used to but he still swept me off my feet. We married within a year in
a private ceremony.
It was the most romantic day of my life - the
drizzle forced us from the park but we sheltered under a stand of gum trees,
where we declared our vows. Just like one of Mum's novels - the ones with
long-haired men and women with torn blouses on the cover. Mum didn't come to
the wedding; Dad forbade her. My beloved lost his parents as a teenager, so
without my family it was just the two of us.
I became Mrs. Ian Robinson that day. I never
caught the celebrant's name. I didn't need to. Not then. I just assumed.
For the first time ever, I left Tasmania, my
family, and everything I knew. We settled on a station in the remote north of
Western Australia; Ian landed a job with a mining company, leading a survey
team in the remotest parts of the Kimberly and Pilbara. I was used to the
solitude, and the scenery was a welcome change from Tasmania's endless green. I
came to enjoy the red dirt, although it was a curse on the laundry.
Ian was gone for weeks at a time, and rarely did
he bring anyone home. His best mate was the exception. Also a geo on his team,
his name was Ian. My husband enjoyed the 'confusion' this caused with his
bosses in Perth. I had no idea why.
I maintained my interest in books, and Ian fed my
habit. Books with men named David, Simon, and even Nigel (a lovely name, rhymes
with
angel
). I wasn't stupid, but I was amazed by those author's imaginations.
To invent so many wondrous names was a feat.
Yet my suspicions flared again. I'd met plenty of
different women. Sarahs, Lindas, Hayleys, Stephanies, Kates, and Debras. The
list goes on and on. But Ian was the only man who touched my life. Ian and Ian
and Ian and Ian and Ian.
When I asked Ian about the names of the men on
his team, he laughed off my questions at first, telling me how endearing he
found my eccentric ways. He'd always enjoyed my simplicity, he often told me.
As my questions became more pointed though - about his team and the men's names
in the books and magazines - he smiled less and less. He came to look at me as
though I were a stranger. That look in his eyes stung me beyond words. Silenced
my curiosity.
I struggled alone with my questions, putting on a
brave face for Ian when he returned home from a survey. As my questions eased,
so did the tension, but something ugly lingered between us. Something unsaid.
Without Ian, there were just the books, and the occasional magazine. I craved
answers, but they held none.
Maybe he sensed my frustration, or maybe he was
just bored, but either way Ian suggested we install a satellite dish.
Everything in my life had grown stale, especially me. The books were stacked
floor-to-ceiling. Nuisances, like the red dust. Ian thought satellite TV would
break my monotony. The very idea of television terrified me. Yet shameful
butterflies tickled my stomach. My head buzzed with possibilities.
I struck up a conversation weeks later with Ian,
the Telstra technician who installed the satellite dish. He talked of his son,
Jack, studying in Perth. I thought eighteen was a little old to still be a
Jack, but when I asked the technician about it, he turned vague and changed the
subject. I confided to him my yearning for children too, but chose not to show
further ignorance about the name change. Ian would tell me when the time came,
I was sure of it. I blamed my parents for not raising me right. A mother had to
know these things.
The technician's description of the city's
wonders enthralled me and decided me on my course. I had a television set to
buy, although I had no idea what I was looking for. It was the perfect chance
to test my theory (or hypothesis, as Sherlock would call it). Again, I had no
idea what I was looking for.
I called up a travel agent the very next day, a
nice man named Ian, who arranged a return plane trip from Broome to Perth. I
made sure the flight was on a day Ian would be home so he could take me to the
airport. I still hadn't learned to drive, which was another of my parent's
failings.
I asked Ian to drop me at the airport when the
day arrive, telling him I was having the adventure of a lifetime - going
shopping for a television and a new wardrobe, while seeing the sights of Perth
for a week. The lines around his eyes tightened but he seemed happy to oblige.
A courteous older man whose name badge read Ian
took my bags and checked me onto the flight. Once aboard the twin engine jet, I
was oddly comforted to find the flight attendant was a woman. Carina. After we
had been sailing over the ruddy Kimberly interior for twenty minutes, the
Captain's muffled voice floated over the PA system. Ian Bennett was his name;
he'd been flying for eighteen years he assured everyone.
With my head spinning from a million thoughts and
one crazy hope, I closed my eyes, losing myself to sleep for the rest of the
flight. I awoke to a bumpy landing. Captain Ian was a veteran perhaps, but his
landings could do with some work.
After I left the plane, I entered the terminal to
collect my baggage. It smelled of stale body odour, greasy chips and dust. The
people were all irritable or in a rush. I was too intimidated by the ruckus to
approach anyone.
Instead I waited patiently for a taxi and watched
the people bustle by. The burly, sweaty man who welcomed me into his car was
talkative all the way to my hotel. His licence, plastered with an unflattering
mugshot of his unflattering face, declared him as Ian.
I checked into the hotel. I forget the name of it
now; it might have sounded like a gemstone. The Ruby Hotel? Anyway, a
pimply-faced but well-dressed Ian assisted at the reception desk. At my
insistence, he gave me directions to the largest shopping centre in the area.
Once I had settled into my room, I set out on my mission in earnest. An Ian
dressed in a business suit gave me terse directions to the train station.
From there, finding the mall was easy. On the
train a trench-coated young man in dark make-up told me where my stop was. He
told me he was a 'Goth' (quite a silly word) and at first I thought that was
his name. My heart leapt for joy! He corrected me, but revealed his name as
'Eye On'. Still, my heart continued to flutter for my discovery, but I couldn't
let it be. When I forced him to spell his name before he slunk away, it came
out like everyone else's. I. A. N.
Downhearted as I was after leaving the train, the
sight of the mall lifted my spirits. It was huge, with signs everywhere. People
practically poured in and out of its glass doors.
Entering the mall, my head was buzzing in the
strangest way. I aimed straight for the heart of the largest store. Along the
way I passed many women with name tags, including Suzette, Jody, Bianca, and
Noelene, before I found the first man. His badge confirmed the worst.
Ian
.
The drone inside my skull grew steadily worse as
I stumbled into the throngs of shoppers. Grabbing men at random, I demanded
they give me their names. The first few Ians responded politely, but as the
pressure built inside me with my desperation, the men grew nervous at my
approach. The chatter in the mall was drowned out by the chatter in my head.
That same word over and over again. Ian.
They tried brushing me off, these Ians, as I
clawed at their sleeves. There had to be a Tom, Dick or Harry! Isn't that how
the saying goes? Everything I'd ever read told me so. Someone, somewhere out in
the world, any man at all, had to have a name from one of my books. Anything
but Ian.
I was a pariah as shoppers gave me a wide berth.
Sinking to my knees, I clutched my aching head as
people flooded past. The pressure wouldn't let up. The last things I remember
are screaming, and a blur of colour, a sea of legs.
A lifetime of pent-up frustration was released
with that scream and those tears.
"Ian!" I cried. The mall echoed the name to
infinity.
Every last man in the mall turned.
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