Best Australian Yarn 2023: Dorothy’s To-Do List by Peter Byrne

She had requested no fuss, no gift. But they had insisted on a few drinks after work, some words.Her last day.

“Don’t know how we’ll get on without you.” “Unfailingly reliable.” “Hardly a day off in thirty-five years”. “Wish you well in retirement.” The founding partners had come in for the occasion. That was nice. One of them recalled her first day, her skills and discipline, their trust.

Her response had been predictable: brief, the right words. Some were already collecting their coats, bags and umbrellas, ready to drift off to Friday bars. She hadn’t been invited, the last invitation declined years ago. She had said that she didn’t drink.Words. A card. Flowers.

Dorothy was through the door, alone, before six o’clock. In coat, scarf and gloves she strode through the drizzling rain to the station, left the flowers on the seat of a bus shelter. She patted her shoulder bag – in it her diary, lunchbox, the farewell card and the flash-drive.

No more “Miss Prim”. No more condescension. No more long hours in an office without a single piece of decent art.They had no idea.

The founding partners, then in their middle years, had employed her as a book-keeper and secretary for their new consulting firm. Before long she was managing payroll, taxation, trading reports, insurance, records ... almost everything other than their professional work. The founders had embraced her capacity as she took on each new task without fuss, seemingly without effort.

She and the founders had been made for each other. This was even reflected in her dress - conservative suits and sensible shoes, her only concession to femininity a brooch, one of her mother’s. From the day of her starting, her neatly cut straight hair remained unchanged other than its natural progress from brown to grey. She had loved her job, and the founders, gentlemen both. Old school.

The consultancy and its reputation grew. New associates and partners were taken in. Dorothy anticipated their growing needs, expanded finance and records systems, took on young assistants who came and went. She introduced networked IT for which she had liking and talent. Unnoticed, she did night courses to stay ahead.

She imagined herself the ship’s engineer: the partners – officers on the bridge; herself below deck, trimming, tuning, supporting. Orders from bridge to engine room were met without fail. From the bridge they looked to the horizon, set the course, met important people. At her station she knew and maintained every circuit, conduit and valve, her ear attuned to the beat of the engine, ensuring safe and timely passage, each trusting and depending on the other.

She hadn’t been comfortable with all of the new arrivals. They were younger, of course, and smart; some clearly ambitious, pushy, go-getters. They had brought different values, were less formal. She was no longer Miss Barnes. She was now Dorothy. Blessed with acute hearing, she was aware of her other soubriquet, “Miss Prim”. On first hearing she was stung but on reflection knew it to be accurate … and perversely satisfying.

Yes, prim, but not stand-offish or unhelpful. She had her standards. Old school. She was as constant as the healthy lunches she brought daily. Though some had tried to develop a closer relationship, she hadn’t let them in. Though often not part of lunch-room chat she listened.

No one, other than the founders, knew of her life – her single mother with failing health, the years of struggle, the abandonment of a Fine Arts degree to learn more employable skills.The founders moved to semi-retirement, appeared in the office less often as they sold down to the new ones. Then they were gone. She suspected that they’d been eased out but could never have asked; and they wouldn’t have said.

The consultancy continued to flourish. Dorothy kept pace, anticipating needs. Unobtrusively she put in extra hours at nights and weekends to meet schedules and deadlines. Her ‘to-do lists’ became legendary, emulated by some, using her printed forms. ‘Dorothy’s To-Do List’, the DTDL – intended action, due date, date done. Ever the engineer. She would not leave the office on a Friday until she had completed her DTDL for the following week.

Profits improved. A bonus scheme was introduced. She was instructed to prepare the letters and generous cheques. There was no letter for her, not then, not ever. Partners and associates. Crisp white uniforms with shiny buttons and epaulettes above deck, boiler suits and boots below. Officers and crew.

For the next twenty-four years, Dorothy arranged her own annual bonus, set it at no more than that for an associate. It was not difficult. She hadn’t closed her mother’s little bank accounts, the “coffee jars” she had called them. They became useful repositories. She had created phantom suppliers of IT and other services that sent invoices for unremarkable amounts for which she arranged payment.

She had discontinued her bonus payments in the year before announcing her retirement. The phantom suppliers had vanished.She gave ample notice of her intended retirement and was influential in the choice of her replacement, another capable woman who praised the thoroughness of her systems.

There was little chance of her questioning transactions of the past. She would be too busy.Dorothy’s salary was adequate, she lived modestly, even sparingly, her superannuation accruing nicely. Without her bonus she could expect a comfortable retirement. If not for her addiction.

As Dorothy drew her bonus she took insurance. She knew the grubby secrets of some. Credit card purchases, itemised hotel bills – they all went across her desk, never questioned but copied and logged, if interesting. She had access to all emails, some of which would be soon deleted, but not before being read and copied, if interesting.

As for the internet search histories, the salacious titles, well, she could barely allow herself to imagine their content, but logged them. Were they too smug to not think that someone might look? And if this embarrassing evidence wasn’t enough, there was her file revealing consistent over-billing of some of their oldest clients, those established by the founders. No wonder the profits had been improving!

All this on the flash-drive in her shoulder bag.

The flowers jettisoned, Dorothy resumes her walk to the station and boards her train. She doesn’t alight at her customary stop. When she left for work this morning she closed the door of her flat for the last time, though the lease had some months to run. She had left a forwarding address, a Post Office Box. “I will be away for some time” she told the caretaker. She has taken only her personal belongings and bed linen. When she returns the key by mail she will suggest that the flat can now be let fully-furnished.

The tiny space to which she moved after her mother died had suited her well. It had been the cocoon in which she recovered and from which she would emerge when the time was right.

As the flat and its memories recede, her mind turns to that which lies ahead. Her new home, a modern compact apartment with a city view, her car already in its own parking space, security. She will have unlimited time to herself. Such luxury. And her treasures.Should she host a house-warming party? How silly. What was she thinking? She loathes parties. Her last had been at Art School. She hadn’t fitted-in with those would-be bohemians, though she tried. Miss Prim, then and now. No, not a party. She can almost envisage a dinner though. But for whom?

She is back in Art School. Scott, one of those who had looked down their noses at the tiny objects of her interest, her work. He’d come to nothing, his vast ghastly abstracts, the paint laid on with a trowel and a three-inch brush. It might’ve been the only joke she’d attempted while there: “Scott, if we ever become art thieves, you’ll need a truck and I’ll get by with a shoulder bag.” Did Scott get it? Probably not. She finds herself smiling, the start of a giggle. Did she snort? Silly woman, laughing at your own joke. And not even a drink, yet. Compose yourself. Others will notice.

At her new station she leaves the train, walks slowly, taking in her new neighbourhood, the small shops and cafes. An electronic key, the reassuring thunk of the lock and she enters. It is so smart, so well designed. She admires its proportions, the high ceilings, the empty white walls, the clever lighting, the sparse mid-century furniture, the balcony and its view.A dinner? She now has a kitchen from Home Beautiful. But whom could she invite? She has no confidantes, no children, no known relatives, not even an ex. There is her little group though, the ones she meets at the auction viewings and openings. Were they friends, acquaintances or rivals? Would they come?

She opens her safe, puts in the flash-drive, her daily habit. She removes the substantial folder, reverently opens it on the table.It had started at Art School. While other students had immersed themselves in the modernists and avant-garde, she was drawn to Australian printmakers, early twentieth century, particularly the women. She had been picking through clothes in an op-shop when she saw it on a wall, a small etching, a Jessie Traill, ridiculously cheap. She had it professionally cleaned and framed, hung it, returned to it often, admiring the sureness of line, the composition, the sense of peace it brought. The pencil signature connected her to the artist whom she imagined at her solitary work. To actually own one of her prints ... or did she?

No. It owned her. She went from trawling second-hand shops to dealers and galleries, later the internet. She became a regular at art auctions. In the early years the prices were low but had been growing. Goodness, she had bid $2000 for a Margaret Preston. Such extravagance, it had seemed then, but its value had since increased tenfold. She had an eye for a bargain, even if the piece was not to her taste, to later sell and fund future delights. Dealers now knew her, her tastes, her good eye, would occasionally call to inform her of a new acquisition. She had become something of a dealer herself. Fancy that!

Now, at the auctions, she recognises the others, knows the names of some. There is a strange intimacy that comes from two people peering closely at a piece of framed paper, each feigning indifference while wondering what the other might bid. She knows their tastes, the extent of their knowledge, the pull of their obsession.

Susan seems nice, small and fastidious, not unlike herself. Not Harold. He had glared at her, shaken his head in scorn after she had matched his bids for a Teague and then lost her nerve. He had blamed her for the price he paid. Silly man. No, not him. She quite likes Gordon who seems kind, has the bearing and manners of an officer. Quite presentable too. Then there are the dealers. Arthur, his edgy humour. Arthur could be relied on to keep a conversation alive.Yes, there are possibilities.

She puts on cotton gloves, opens the folder, takes out an Ethel Spowers. Exquisite. Understated yet dynamic, a perfect early impression. Would she have it framed? No. Not yet. Better to keep it among the other jewels in the folder, each discovery a fresh delight. She will limit framing to her first acquisition, dear Jessie Traill, keep the walls begging for now. She has time.

Dorothy opens a bottle of Champagne, a taste acquired at viewings and openings, and goes to her balcony, stands at its rail. “Marine quality stainless steel” the selling agent had remarked, never to know that with these few words he clinched the sale. Her bridge, from which she now looks out at the sea of city lights. The sky has cleared. Fair sailing ahead. She silently toasts the artists, those meticulous, reclusive, dedicated women of the past, her imagined friends.

Not for the first time – it has been building – she feels the need to share a moment such as this.There is a viewing next week. They will be there.

A To-Do-List. That’s the ticket! Can’t let discipline slip. Must get some forms. And while at it, some business cards, useful for encounters, connections, arrangements. She tears a page from the end of her business diary, finds a pen …Week 1. Printer – DTDL forms, cards. Winter outfit. Tableware – china, cutlery, linen. Hairdresser – cut and style. Bob? Tint??