Yesterday, the Australian literary community lost one of its own. A treasure. A glowing, wonderful treasure in the form of Kat Muscat. This is for her.
I count the steps in my head. If I was sitting down at my desk I would swivel the chair around, stand up and walk three steps to the door and then take another three, maybe four, more until I reached the partition where I would rest my chin to have a chat.
“Hey, Kat,” I would say.
“Hey, Karen,” she would reply, looking up from the computer monitor and her expression would relax, turning into the smile we all loved.
She was so easy to talk to – her sanguine disposition immediately drew friends and fans. Even during the concentrated periods of stress that comes with keeping a regular publishing schedule, she would stay composed. I watched her grab her wrists to put them behind her head whenever there was an issue to think through, like a printing delay or a reply to an important email. This was such a contrast to the way I generally tend to problem solve – with a lot of paper scrunching and heavy sighing, all bluster – I couldn’t help admiring it. Her conscientiousness, skill and perception made her an excellent writer and editor. I would pass by and see her reading pieces for Voiceworks, printed out on A4 paper, chin down, concentrating.
Often I didn’t need to see she had arrived for work, hearing instead her laugh as it travelled along. I began early and some mornings she was there as well and we would talk in the quiet din of the Wheeler Centre before all the lights came on and people arrived. Whenever I return to the building now, that pocket of the third floor, down towards the kitchen, remains special to me. I would beg staplers and sticky tape on the days we were low on office supplies, or pass over documents from the printer when they’d been mixed together and other kinds of workplace minutiae I can’t believe are still ingrained in my memory, but I’m glad they are. Because right there is Kat, handing over a stapler, or passing back a piece of paper that actually belonged to me.
We had an open coffee date, an understanding that if she needed a time out – or I did – then all one of us had to do was say the word – a wonderful prospect during times when my own stress levels would rise ahead of festival season or those few months I worked solo in the office. This was one of Kat’s kindnesses, her gift of herself, comforting and special.
She was witty, with an intuitive knowingness of life. I would pass her outside having a cigarette and she would have a twinkle in her eye, as if daring me to have a go at her for smoking. I never would, but I knew that she knew she had divined that part of my nature that is motherly and wanted to give it a little poke.
Now she is gone and I am counting steps, and all the ways I love her. The literary community is also counting the ways it values and loves her. You will be missed, darling Kat.
