by Meg Bignell
I used to think I’d do it all differently, our wedding day, but now, having thoroughly examined it again, I don’t think I would change a thing. Even the bit when Mum did a spontaneous speech about how pyjamas must never be allowed in a marriage. The whole fluffy fuss of it, now that I have a grasp on how effortful marriage can be, was perfectly warranted.
My Husband. Must press on with my Sparkle Project, channel extraordinary vibes and try to be fascinating.
WEDNESDAY 6th SEPTEMBER
Hugh is back in the state but hasn’t actually come home yet. Is marriage just a series of texts about where the children are and whether we need milk until one of you dies?
SUNDAY 10th SEPTEMBER
Valda has fallen and broken her hip. I am sitting in the hospital beside her while she sleeps. She is heavily sedated and will probably have to have surgery to pin her hipbone. One of her legs is shorter than the other and she looks very small. I cried a bit because this has been her worst fear and because she’s so lovely when she’s asleep. She’ll think this is the end of her; I wonder if it is? Poor Valda. Thank God Raffy is in and out of her house on weekends because she wasn’t wearing her alarm and she might have been lying on the floor for hours and hours.
Hugh has to go back to Melbourne on Tuesday, for goodness sake. He promises it’s his last trip for a long time. He has to front up to a Women in Engineering thing with April. She’s going to talk about Antarctica. Hugh’s been away so much he might as well have gone expeditioning. He said he’d come and see Valda and bring some lunch in for us. I’ll have to try very hard not to radiate any of my cold feelings, but cold they are. And I’m just freshly warm from my wedding-day reminisce too. Such a shame.
Finally a letter from Ria! But not the joyful correspondence I was hoping for. I’ll pop it in here to illustrate what I mean …
Dearest Helen,
Should have phoned well before now but the days are full and when I find time to call it is too late and you’ll be no doubt swinging from chandeliers or rummaging in the spice drawers.
Thank you, as usual, for having me. Always a pleasure to have a break from those peaceful and opulent hotel rooms with masseuse and mink throws when I can ditch with you, your smelly dog and smellier sprogs.
I hope you’re over the impost of a new viola. I knew it was a risk but, Zannah, it had to be done. I have a very great deal of money. Hugh was talking about a maker in Adelaide but you had to have the best. It is the best. Have a feel of it when you can; it might teach you things.
Your children are also The Best. You have good bones, a nice house and silky hair. You have a life that doesn’t press and everyone loves you. Scaffolding. Let it support you. Eloise loves you. She’s just not a showy person; that’s her nature, nothing to do with deep-seated traumas. And Hugh. Hugh especially loves you. I don’t think you can see the wood for the trees any more but Blind Neddy can see how much he adores you. You’re just too busy rootling around in those trees for issues. STEP AWAY FROM THE FUCKING TREES.
Maybe you just need some change. A new rhythm. Remember in first year we learnt that if there’s no change, there’s no rhythm, no music, only the same old beat? I don’t mean your sex life either. That’s had so much change you’ve sent it into dissonance. Leave it alone, for fuck’s sake. But change something in YOUR life, in YOU. Yes, you have a lot of children but not hundreds. They don’t need you to be there every single time they sniff. Do something for you.
You probably hate me but you know I’m not one for mincing words. And speaking of mince, your rissoles are awful but I’ll say again, your viola playing is sublime. SUB. LIME. No one can do what you do with that daggy old mourn-wielding instrument. I have been hugely and patiently respectful of your extended creative pause but, for fuck’s sake, enough is enough.
Anyway, loved our time, sorry I spoilt the ending.
Love you.
Always and always, Your Gloria. xxxx
PS Tell Mary-Lou that turquoise is nowhere on the spring catwalks. Tell Jimmy I met the fast bloke from Fantastic Four and got his autograph (enclosed). Tell Raff yes and Eloise no. Tell Hugh I bought a punching bag, my hooks are mean and I’ll always know where his nose is.
Of course I don’t hate her, but she can’t understand. She’s a musical prodigy with the confidence of an American bulldog. And no dependents other than a few potted cyclamen. I am feeble and weevily and needed to bits and my hands know not the bow. They are ruined by dishpans and covered in thwarts. And my rissoles are NOT awful. They were just a bit burnt. Better than underdone.
Anyway, I’m very busy being here for Valda. It’s so unlike Ria to be so instructional. I mean, she’s naturally bossy but this is like a letter from your teacher. I’ve had to read it twice. I’ll read it again. Am I missing something?
Valda hasn’t moved. Better check she hasn’t died while I was being cross with Ria.
She is awake. I leaned right over her to see if she was breathing and for a moment I thought she wasn’t. Then she suddenly opened her eyes and said, ‘Boo!’ and laughed her head off. That woman. She is no more demented than me. That’s probably not saying much.
LATER:
April brought me in a sandwich and a coffee. Hugh was caught up with something so she offered. I barely recognised her because her hair was straight and blonde! And she was wearing a pencil skirt. ‘April!’ I said. ‘You look lovely.’
She blushed and said, ‘Thank you. Just trying to be more corporate for this presentation. It won’t last. My hair will be frizzy by this time tomorrow. And when I’m in Antarctica I’ll probably grow a beard.’
She’s really nice. I pretended not to see her blush; I know what it’s like. We’re all trying to be something we’re not, aren’t we?
Valda is trying to live.
I have sent Ria a flower emoji in a text. And a rainbow, which is the closest thing to an aurora I could find.
TUESDAY 12th SEPTEMBER
Hugh’s gone. Needless to say, we didn’t have frenzied, desperate goodbye sex.
Valda has had surgery and come through it well! She’s not out of bed but she’s sitting up and we watched quiz shows on the telly. Her marbles are intact, it seems – she knew everything from Rasputin to Bach and women’s cricket. She must be feeling better because she said, ‘That bossy nurse smells like boiled cabbage, a semitone away from fart.’
She had a visitor pop in – a tiny woman who looks older than Valda, if that’s possible. She walked in tentatively and said, ‘Valda Kent?’ and Valda did a little happy sob, held out her hands and said, ‘Daphne? Ahhhh, O fortuna velut luna statu variabilis.’ They laugh-cried and embraced. So I made my leave. I’ll go back with the children after school.
O fortuna velut luna statu variabilis means ‘Oh fate, as changeable as the moon’. I know it from the Orff cantata ‘Carmina Burana’. Valda and Daphne must have gone to school together. I love to think of them as young girls … I miss Ria. And Latin. Schools are not what they used to be. All that time we had to get to know one another without computers.
To be fair, I only knew Latin when it was pertinent to music, or in the form of Ria’s insults.
Anyway, I’m sitting in a café in between buying socks and knickers and having to claim health insurance and not being late for school collection. You think you only just renewed everyone’s knickers when you realise your ten-year-old is wearing size seven. The odd-socks bag is fuller than anyone’s sock drawer. I should ask Ria to compose a piece of music called ‘Where do the odd socks go?’ It would have universal appeal. Well, perhaps not in equatorial climes.
LATER:
In other news, Eloise says her tummy hurts. Has she caught something from the hospital? Please not gastro. There’s never a good time for gastro.
THURSDAY 14th SEPTEMBER
ELOISE HAS HER PERIOD! Mustn’t write. Must go and be a loving mother. Dear Goddy God, my little girl is becoming a woman. At thirteen????!!! I was fifteen, I think. Have I been feeding her too much chicke
n??? Will she stop talking to me altogether and pierce her nose? Anyway, I’m going in with hot water bottles and analgesia. I’ve let her stay home, mostly so I can make sure she doesn’t get chased behind sheds by any boys. And to read her a story and pretend she’s still my baby. Sniffity sniff.
I’m calling Ria later. She should know. Hugh’s still in Melbourne but I rang him immediately. He said, ‘Right …’ but I’m sure I detected emotion in his voice. I thought he might say he’d fly home early but he didn’t. Of course, putting off important work affairs because of one’s daughter’s first period would be ridiculous. Nevertheless, there is mild panic in the air, mostly mine. All mine. Although Mary-Lou has wide eyes and Rafferty got in the car without hurry or harry, so that’s saying something about the gravity of the situation.
LATER:
Ria’s not answering. Left message saying, ‘Alert! Alert! Godchild experiencing menarche. Send positive affirmations immediately. And some for her too. Can you believe it? Please call.’
Hugh hasn’t checked in to ask how we are. You’d think he’d be more concerned. His daughter has essentially just had her childbearing faculties developed. Not to mention tummy aches, etc. And my overwhelm. Eloise has beautiful hands. They’re not anything like mine, which look like pig farmer’s hands. They are long and elegant and piano-playing and I can’t believe that they grew inside me. That whole beautiful, lengthening person grew inside me. How can she be so grown? How can this be?
… I remember how she sat in her cot and I put my hands out to her and she looked at them like she’d never seen them before …
Meanwhile the woman-child in question is predictably unfazed. I’ve been at her bedside with open palms and the invitation to ask anything. She said, ‘Can I go to the late movies with Rebecca next week?’ and then laughed and said, ‘Stop stressing, Mum. It’s fine. I’m fine.’
So I laughed too and said, ‘Sorry, bit flummoxed.’ And she leaned into me so I could say, ‘Please don’t rush, darling. Childhood is the best hood of all.’ She nodded. And I thought about getting her to sign a contract but decided that would be pushing it, so I got her some beef consommé instead and talked about iron. She got a bit eye-rolly but the air remained warm. No one can be too annoyed when there’s a hot water bottle involved.
Valda is well. I phoned in. She has asked for her music. I’m actually missing her morning arias in the next-door distance. Might take some consommé in to her later too. Except she’ll know it’s from a can and deal me more attitude than a dormitory full of hormonal teens.
REALLY LATER:
I’m having a glass of wine alone because Aunt Flo has come to visit and, like many spontaneously visiting grumpy aunts, she calls for wine.
Any excuse really. Last Tuesday I had a glass because I’d switched moisturiser to a coconut oil–based one as opposed to petroleum and I decided that the reduction of chemicals absorbed through my skin deserved some extra alcohol absorbed through my stomach. And what a novelty to drink on a Tuesday. People are always saying to break the rules. Second glass.
LATER:
Need to close my eyes and sleep, but there’s a niggly feeling that there’s something I should write down. Also I’m hungry but I’m not sure what for. While I wait for that important something to come back to me, I have to say … Oh, wait. I’ve forgotten that too … wait …
… I don’t know if this was the important thing but I’ll say it anyway: when I say two glasses, they are big ones. Probably more like three actual standard drinks.
I’ve just tipped out the rest of the wine in disgust. I know how I’ll feel in the morning – crappy and annoyed. I will die early. Soon I’ll be swigging whisky with breakfast and using concealer on my cauliflower nose.
I just coughed. An unexpected cough with a sort of burp at the end. Quite a burp, actually. More burp than cough. A burp. I burped. Just now. I never burp.
Go to bed, Burpy Parks … I’ve got as far as removing my clothes. Where are my pyjamas?
Actually, while I’m nude and before I put pyjamas on, I should go in and seduce Hugh. Might just have some Doritos first. Oh, wait. I don’t have any Doritos because some wet blankety person in this house never buys junk food. That’d be me. It’ll have to be lentil chips. Yuck, lentils, those sanctimonious little twerps. I bet they cause bloat.
BACK UP THE TRUCK. How can I seduce Hugh when HE’S NOT HERE? Hahahahahahaha. What a silly old dumbo. What’s on the telly? Ah, Antiques Roadshow …
LATERER:
Holy God, Jimmy just walked in all sleepy and found me sitting here fully nude, eating chips and watching Antiques Roadshow. I don’t think he was very awake, thank God. Extra thanks because I said, ‘Oh, please just go to bed. Jeez, can I get no privacy in this place?’ And then when he lingered in front of the telly I added, ‘Go on, off you fuck.’
Dear God, have I swung completely off my rocker? Who says ‘off you fuck’ to their own child?
FRIDAY 15th SEPTEMBER
Headache this morning. Deservedly so. Jimmy appears to have no recollection of the Antiques Roadshow incident, so that’s something. I’ve been extra nice to him anyway. The hangover of shame has long outlasted the headache, let me tell you. Imagine if something had happened to one of the children and I couldn’t drive them to hospital?! Third-degree burns, anaphylaxis, toxic shock???
Hugh hasn’t called. Can’t blame him. I wouldn’t call me either. And Ria still hasn’t answered even though we’ve had a PRETTY BLOODY HUGELY IMPORTANT DAY IN ELOISE’S LIFE, might I say. She shouldn’t be the one to be sulking. She’s the one getting all bossy about trees ET CETERA.
Anyway, THINGS TO DO (because I seem to have been bestowed a day with nothing in it other than headachy shame):
– Do proper grocery shop (evaporated milk, Jif).
– Develop photos from phone – storage levels critical!
– Uniform order forms due tomorrow (WTF? – it’s September, you morons. Just ignore the Christmas decorations in Woolies.)
– Reply to invitations – think of excuse not to go to mothers’ group spring picnic (everyone else so together, successful and fit).
– Chemist – ask why skin is coming off elbows. (Will there be new elbows underneath that don’t have the texture of scrotums?)
– Find Raffy’s good shoe.
– Call internet people and try not to shout.
– Hide all children’s devices until they tidy their rooms, especially under beds.
– Make something new, exciting and nutritious for dinner (broccoli).
– Take some of said exciting nutritious food over to V’s freezer – find out when she’s home and what about care?
– New lingerie before Hugh gets back? THINK ABOUT NEXT SPARKLE PLAN.
– Pluck eyebrows and scan for chin hairs.
Oh, dear. I need a little lie-down after thinking of all that. I’ll never get it all done. Hugh will return to chaos. (Mum would approve, at least.) Actually, looking back over the list, Hugh will be none the wiser because it’s all stuff he can’t see. Even if I stretch myself fully and get it all done, there’ll still be dust on the skirting boards.
There’s the one thing that I would really, really like in the bedroom – for Hugh to make the bed and vacuum under it. Without my asking him. If he ever washed the sheets, I swear to god I’d have an orgasm.
LATER:
I’ve just discovered some old vinyl records in Mary-Lou’s doll’s house. She’s taken out all the furniture and laid the records down in the bedrooms and covered them with little blankets. What is the meaning of this?
LATER AGAIN:
I’m not much closer to solving the record mystery. I stood Mary-Lou in front of the doll’s house and said, ‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me, darling?’
She looked guilty and said, ‘No, thank you, Mummy.’ So I had to open up the doll’s house and say, ‘Are you sure?’
She thought for a minute and then said, ‘Shhhh. It’s a very big secret.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Valda asked me to creep them away (little creep re-enactment) so that no one burglars them when she’s dead from a broken hip.’
‘But, darling, she’s not going to die just yet. And now you’re the burglar.’
‘No, I’m the hero. I’m going to make sure they go to the world.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can’t tell you any more, please, Mummy. I was meant to be the hero. You can’t tell Valda you found them.’ And her eyes welled up with tears, so I didn’t press.
I didn’t know what to do so I left the records in the doll’s house until I can talk to Hugh. He always has a sensible perspective. The records are in paper covers, no labels. In the tiny bathroom I also found the sticky tape, a box of bandaids and the spare key to the car. Hmmm.
Hugh still hasn’t called, so I sent him a text message that said, ‘Are you dead?’ He replied with a smiley emoji, which surprised me because I didn’t think he was an emoji sort of person.
I’ve also texted Ria: I got pissed on a Tuesday and today I skipped assembly. CHANGING RHYTHMS and all! because maybe she’s waiting for an acknowledgement of her letter. No response yet despite further messages from me – four tulip emojis and one cheeky ghost.
SATURDAY 16th SEPTEMBER
I’ve had a very strange phone call from Mum. She called from golf, which she never does. Then she didn’t seem to have anything to say. She wanted to talk to Hugh, said she’d tried his number but it goes straight to voicemail. I explained that he’s not home until tomor row and she sounded quite agitated. ‘Anything wrong, Mum?’ I asked.
‘No, darling. Just got a birdy on the sixth, actually. Waiting for the other slowpokes so I thought I’d phone in and send love. Lovely day. Are you busy? Good to be busy.’
