This Has Been Absolutely Lovely

by Jessica Dettmann

  If Jack realised he was gay, and took up with her best friend . . . but the analogy didn’t work because the situation with Mum, Brian and Dad had been unusual even before Dad and Brian fell in love.

  How much of her mother’s acceptance of the situation was rooted in a twisted sort of romantic affirmative action? Molly didn’t think everyone would have been nearly as supportive of her dad if he’d fallen in love with another woman. But because he left her mum for a man, no one was allowed to be pissed off about it. By coming out, her father had effectively immunised himself against criticism of his behaviour. He was seen as a hero for admitting his truth — even by the woman he had pledged to be with forever, and with whom he had three children.

  Molly loved Brian, and her father, but still, such thoughts floated to the surface every now and then, and they weren’t exactly okay to talk to people about.

  Her grandfather had been the only other person in the family who wasn’t all right with Brian and Dad becoming a couple. Since that January when Annie and Paul separated, Pa had refused to see or speak to either Paul or Brian. Molly had quietly approved of his stance: not the blatant homophobia, but definitely the loyalty. It had made Christmases awkward: since she was eight, whenever her dad and Brian came back to Australia for the festive season they would celebrate with them on Boxing Day, round at Brian’s mum’s place while she was alive and after that at whatever holiday house they were renting, after spending proper Christmas at Granny and Pa’s.

  On the twenty-first floor they were ushered into a boardroom, where the solicitor kept them waiting for ten minutes. Sitting on white leather chairs on little wheels, they gazed out at the million-dollar city views. The receptionist offered coffee, and Simon accepted almost before she had finished asking the question. Molly could see he was determined to get his money’s worth, judging by the heaped spoonfuls of sugar he stirred in and the number of biscuits he managed to grab before the plate was offered to the other side of the table.

  Molly declined coffee but took a biscuit. She was in no particular rush for the meeting to begin. The longer it took, the later she could start work. Work today was at a house in Vaucluse, rearranging the pantry of one of the laziest couples she’d come across. Every six weeks or so they called Molly in to tidy their kitchen cupboards and implement organisational systems. Every time they praised her to the heavens, said she was a wonder and that they would never need her again because this time they would put clearly labelled things back in the correct places on the clearly labelled shelves. But they didn’t, and they always called her back. They were infuriating, but Tien’s business would grind to a halt if people could actually change their ways. Their inherent slobbishness paid Molly’s salary.

  Simon was getting antsy. ‘Why did Pa use these people? He didn’t need a fancy firm like this. Is there something we don’t know about him?’

  Annie replied calmly, as she always did when Simon got the bit between his teeth about something. ‘As I understand it, the local solicitor he used originally ended up moving to this firm. Years and years ago, though: he’s long gone. Dad followed him here for estate planning because he liked him. There’s no great conspiracy, Simon.’

  ‘Hmph,’ said Simon, and as he folded his arms and furrowed his brow, the boardroom door swung open and a woman about Molly’s age marched in, wearing an elegant suit and the sort of stupidly expensive high heels Molly was used to seeing in her clients’ wardrobes. She wondered idly if maybe she should have done law.

  ‘Annie. I’m Cara Lee — good to meet you in person.’ The woman put down her manila folder and held out her hand.

  ‘Yes, hello, Cara,’ said Annie. ‘This is my son, Simon, my daughters, Molly and Naomi, my children’s father, Paul, and his partner, Brian.’

  Molly flinched at that explanation of their family, but Cara seemed unperturbed. She sat down. ‘Shall we get started?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Annie.

  ‘Firstly, let me say how sorry I am for your loss. I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting Robert in person, but some of my older colleagues knew him and speak very highly of him.’

  Molly saw Simon shift impatiently in his chair. Three minutes, that’s how long Cara had been in there without actually getting down to business. If the parking prices were bothering Simon, the ten-minute billable increments for this woman’s time would likely cause his head to explode.

  Cara went on. ‘Robert’s estate was very straightforward. He left the house at 28 Baskerville Road and its contents to his only child, Annie Elizabeth Jones. Also the balance of his savings account — which was almost five thousand dollars — plus his small super fund.’

  ‘And?’ Simon couldn’t handle the suspense.

  ‘And?’ Cara echoed.

  ‘Yes, and what else? Presumably he left his grandchildren something?’

  Cara was obviously used to this sort of reaction. Looking straight at Simon she said, ‘No. That was all. He left everything to Annie.’

  Everyone looked at Annie.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Are you sure? About six months ago he had me drive him in here for a meeting. He said he was making some changes. He suggested it was about my kids, and leaving them a bequest. It was after he watched an episode of Q+A about how millennials in Sydney will never own homes.’

  Cara leafed through the file. ‘Yes, I see here that he did come in. But he didn’t end up making any changes. He consulted one of our senior partners, Hamish Baxter, but ultimately he left the will as it was.’

  ‘What did he consult him about?’ demanded Simon. ‘What did this Baxter person tell him?’

  ‘I can’t disclose that,’ said Cara.

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘Because you’re not our client.’

  ‘That is outrageous,’ said Simon, his brow furrowed and his cheeks beginning to inflate. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. Where’s this Baxter person? I’d like to speak to him. If he talked our grandfather out of making a change he wanted to make, then surely that’s not legal. We’ll sue him.’

  ‘Simon,’ said Annie sharply. ‘Behave yourself. We will talk about this later. Let’s not take up any more of Cara’s time. Cara, can we take the paperwork with us to complete?’

  Cara nodded and handed the folder to Annie.

  With a snort, Simon pushed his chair back from the table and marched out to the lobby. One by one they followed and found him furiously jabbing the call button for the lift, breathing heavily and still puffing his cheeks out with rage.

  ‘That doesn’t make it come any faster,’ Molly told him. She nudged Brian. ‘Doesn’t he look like the North Wind on that old map in Pa’s dining room?’

  Brian tried to hide his smile.

  * * *

  As soon as the lift doors closed, Simon erupted. ‘I can’t believe you dragged us all into town to hear that Pa left us nothing.’

  ‘I didn’t know he’d left you nothing. I wouldn’t have asked you to come if I had,’ said Annie, trying to calm him.

  Simon was pacing on the spot and breathing like a horse who had been forced into a float. ‘Why didn’t he leave us anything? I don’t understand. We’re his grandchildren. We’ve been really good grandchildren. We deserve something. What do you need with a massive great house? You already own a flat.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Simon,’ muttered Molly. ‘You’re not the only one this is affecting. You’re fine. You own half of the bloody Rhineland. I’m the one who has a shitty mortgaged flat that’s dying of concrete cancer.’

  ‘What? What are you talking about? I don’t live anywhere near the Rhineland.’

  ‘Molly?’ asked Annie gently. ‘Is something the matter with your flat?’

  ‘Yes, actually. It’s completely busted and Jack and I have to pay eighty thousand dollars to fix it, that’s all. So a bit of money from Pa would have been really game-changing for us. But you don’t see me shouting about it in a lift, do you, Simon?’

  The lift stopped and th
e doors opened. Simon started to leave but Paul grabbed his shoulder. ‘Not our floor.’

  Two men in suits entered, and they rode the rest of the way down in silence.

  * * *

  In the parking station Naomi took her mother’s hand. ‘It’s all right, Mum. It wasn’t your fault. It’s only money.’

  Annie marvelled at her daughter’s thoughtfulness.

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ said Simon. ‘You can just pick fruit from the side of the road and live off that. Bet you don’t even file a tax return.’ He stuck his ticket into the payment machine. ‘Fuck off. Seventy-two bucks. For thirty-five minutes of learning that now Mum owns a flat and a house.’

  ‘You should be pleased our mother has somewhere nice to retire to, you shit,’ said Molly.

  ‘I am pleased. I just don’t think I should be down seventy-two dollars for the privilege of knowing it.’

  ‘Oh my god, would you shut up about the parking.’ She opened her bag, pulled out her wallet and thrust two fifty-dollar notes at him. ‘There. Parking. Paid for. You owe me twenty-eight bucks.’ Simon took the money and she rewarded him with a look of pure disdain. ‘I can’t believe you accepted that. It was a gesture.’

  ‘Then you’re an idiot for offering it,’ he replied.

  ‘You’re the idiot. For being born an idiot.’

  Annie squeezed Paul’s hand. ‘Didn’t we do a lovely job with Naomi?’ she said to him.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Paul said. ‘Naomi was a lovely child who has turned into a beautiful adult. I think we made such a good decision when we only had one child.’ He put his arm around his middle child’s waist and squeezed her. ‘Naomi, you’re a credit to your parents.’

  Naomi leaned her head onto her father’s shoulder.

  Simon glared at them. ‘That wasn’t a funny joke when we were kids and it’s especially not a funny joke now.’

  Molly opened the boot of her car and began to heave out the suitcases. Brian rushed to help her. ‘Mum, can you fit Dad and Brian in your car?’ She scowled at Simon. ‘Some of us have jobs to go to.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, scathingly. ‘You go, fight the good fight in the War on Clutter.’

  ‘Don’t forget to . . .’ she struggled to think of a suitable insult ‘. . . buy fifty different kinds of horrible boiled sausages on your way home. Don’t want to piss off your hausfrau.’ Hmm, she thought, not her finest work.

  ‘That’s just racist,’ Simon called after her, but she slammed the door and started the car. She reversed out of the space, then paused and opened the window. ‘Mum. Can Jack and I move into Pa’s place for a bit? Jack’s worried about asbestos.’

  ‘You said it was concrete cancer,’ said Simon.

  ‘I’m asking Mum.’

  ‘Sure, of course,’ said Annie. ‘You’re always welcome. Come whenever.’

  ‘We’re a bit crowded, actually, aren’t we?’ Simon appealed to his mother.

  ‘Did we not just establish it isn’t your house?’ retorted Molly.

  ‘You can all stay,’ said Annie. ‘It’s a huge house. There’s plenty of room. We’ll all have a good time,’ she added, but her attempt to sound calming came off like a stage hypnotist faced with a room of unbelievers. ‘It’ll be absolutely lovely.’

  Molly gave her the thumbs up and drove off, and Simon got into the back of Annie’s car.

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ Paul asked Annie.

  ‘The last time I was sure something was a good idea I was sixteen and I thought you and I should start going round together,’ she told him. ‘Look where that got us. Maybe I need to start embracing the bad ideas instead.’

  Chapter 7

  Annie stretched out on a towel she’d spread on the lawn behind the house. She listened to the currawongs in the tree and the distant hum of traffic. Scrunching her eyes shut she strained to hear what she always heard, but the wretched song was actually gone. Her own stupid song. It was remarkable. That was three days now that it hadn’t been in her head. She couldn’t believe how light she felt.

  The sun warmed her face and she was grateful for the gift she’d given herself when she turned fifty-five: no more sunscreen. She’d grown up in a time before SPF, and the advent of 15+ had put a serious dampener on her life. As part of the first generation of parents who knew about skin cancer, Annie had spent every morning for years attempting to rub thick zinc creams into her furious children’s soft pale skin, dragging it with her fingertips, beginning every day with a battle and stinging eyes.

  Next had come the news that sun exposure was what caused premature aging of the skin, and Annie too had started wearing protective face creams, and putting on a hat when she was in the garden or at the beach. For thirty years she’d done what she was meant to, but it didn’t matter what happened to her face any more. She had sailed past the years where premature aging was a concern. Any aging from here on was entirely right and correct. Besides, she thought smugly, she had genetics on her side. Her mother had always looked a good twenty years younger than her age, and Annie seemed to be following suit.

  Moving back in to look after her parents had been confronting, but in a good way. Fear of turning into her mother — who, though she had a smooth face, was brittle of bone and mood, spent too much time in the house and was too dependent on her husband — had led Annie down to the local gym and into a beginners’ Zumba class.

  Zumba was a shock to her system, but except for the front row of sharp-eyed, long-necked hip swivellers, who wore branded Zumba shoes and copied the sex-faces the young Spanish instructor made during the slower songs, everyone in the class was shamelessly bad, mostly on the wrong beat and two or three steps behind. People laughed, crashed into each other, and on more than one occasion were sent outside by Ale-hannnnndrrrrro to calm down until they could take the class seriously again.

  She’d told Simon about it when he’d arrived home for the funeral, and he’d frowned. ‘Zumba’s a gateway exercise,’ he warned her. ‘It happened to Diana’s mum. They get women like you in with a bit of Zumba, because it’s really just dancing. Then you’ll start doing Barre and Pump and before you know it you’ll be able to bench-press your own cars and then because you’re bored you’ll think you need to “find yourself” so you’ll take up yoga. After that you’ll retrain as a yoga teacher and want to move to India. It should be illegal. I should have thought walking on the beach was more in your wheelhouse.’

  She’d laughed at him. ‘Would that be so bad, if I moved to India to look up my own asana?’

  ‘You can do yoga here, if you must. I don’t know why you need to find yourself anyway.’

  Annie hadn’t mentioned finding herself. Or doing yoga, for that matter. She wondered why Simon was so prickly. His level of corporate jargon was off the charts this visit. Maybe he felt guilty about not having been there to help her with Pa. Probably not, though. Guilt wasn’t really ‘in his wheelhouse’.

  Simon wouldn’t have coped with watching his grandfather fall apart. Pa’s eyesight had dimmed, he’d grown shorter day by day, and his flesh had seemed to melt off his once grand frame. His skin tore easily, his nails thickened and yellowed.

  His mind had stayed sharp until almost the very end. That had been hard. It would make more sense if the body and the mind could give way at the same rate, Annie thought. It would be less cruel. It was almost a relief when, a few days before he died, her father stopped realising what was happening, as his heart grew weaker, his breath became more laboured, and his limbs swelled with the fluids his body no longer had the strength to process.

  She was with him all the time. Her friends — mostly new friends from the gym — were so helpful. All through that last week someone had been in the house with them constantly. Just being present, making sandwiches for Annie, sitting with her father while she showered, keeping the dishes washed and the floor swept. There would have been a roster: she’d participated in a couple since she’d met them — once when Geraldine was treated for leuk
aemia, and once when Deborah’s husband died quickly from aggressive bone cancer.

  A bee tumbled past her head, flying low and unsteadily like the A380s that dragged themselves over the backyard so many times a day, and landed on the drooping head of a blood-coloured dahlia. There were more bees this year. On the advice of the Gardening Australia website, she’d put a water tray out for them with stones to land on, and planted more flowering herbs, lavender and alyssum. It seemed to have worked.

  She wondered how long Molly and Jack would stay. Hopefully they’d move on after Christmas, once Jack realised that concrete cancer and asbestos weren’t one and the same and they could safely head back to their flat.

  Once everyone had left, things would be quiet, and she would be able to hear what she’d started listening for again since her stupid old song had gone: the music. Some new music. It occurred to her that maybe songs would come, if she found a space for them, made some room in her head and her life. She wasn’t sure how to go about it. How did you attract inspiration? If she put a birdbath of vodka in the garden would the Ancient Greek muses come clambering over the fence like a trio of pissed back-up singers?

  A single shriek came from the bottom of the garden. Annie shielded her eyes from the sun, trying to see her grandchildren. Sunny and Felix had been down the back all morning. Naomi had given them each a pair of secateurs and told them to try to cut their way into the tangled plumbago hedge. Naomi, Simon and Molly built a hideout in there when they were kids, and Naomi assured the grandchildren that they would find forgotten treasures within, if they could make it to the middle and cut themselves a clearing.

  Silver teaspoons: that was what they might find. Annie remembered Jean mildly raging about the way, when Simon, Naomi and Molly were in summer residence, all the teaspoons went one way only — out of the kitchen, in jars of jam, pots of Nutella, or bowls of ice-cream, and into the plumbago cave, never to be seen again.

  She’d only half-listened to her mother’s complaints, before turning back to planning the next day’s activities for the music workshops, or tinkering with a jingle she was writing, leaving her mother to supervise, feed and care for her kids once again, but now without any teaspoons.