Michelle Vernal Box Set

by Michelle Vernal

  Listening to the excited jabbering of the Japanese tourists who were now wide awake, she felt absurdly proud, as though she had had some input into the landscape laid out before them. Then, Jack broke the spell by wiggling away from her to join in the jostling crowd intent on peeping through the telescopes.

  REBECCA CHEERED AS they rounded the last bend and drove into the village of Akaroa. Slowing the car to a crawl past the big old pub on her right, she caught fleeting glimpses of the still waters of the harbour. It peeked at her between the melting pot of quaint craft shops, art galleries, and al fresco cafés. The businesses had moved into the original colonial structures clustered along Rue Lavaud. Arriving at Rue Balguerie, she swung left away from the hub. She’d always loved the charming mix of paint peeling, bougainvillea-clad cottages that forged their way upwards along this road until the dense greenery of the bush took over. It was up here, partially hidden by nature, that the Carlton family lived, overseers of the undulating hills and harbour.

  “We’re home.” She had smiled as the sign announcing Cuisine with Carlton’s swung gently in the chilly afternoon breeze, inviting them in.

  When Jennifer and Mark had first moved here, the steep incline that was their driveway had been a “take your life in your hands” kind of experience. It had been filled with potholes and loose stones, but that was a distant memory. Pale terracotta stamped concrete swept away from the main road. Guests viewed the oversized log cabin that once upon a time had housed rows of bunk beds but was now home to Cuisine with Carlton’s Cooking School on their left. To their right was the huddle of rustic two-bedroom log cabins and at the end of the driveway, the restored grandeur of what Jennifer had named the “Cook’s Quarters” waited for them to register their arrival.

  Seeing their car pull up outside the house, Betty had excused herself from the classroom. The aroma of coriander and coconut had snuck out behind her and carried on the late afternoon breeze to where Rebecca was unloading the children. Sniffing appreciatively, she turned and caught sight of the older woman making her way up the garden path towards her.

  “Hi, Betty. Long time, no see.” Rebecca waved before unlocking the front door so Jack could attend to his urgent call of nature. Turning back, she saw that Hannah had thrown herself into Betty’s arms. You’d think she hadn’t seen her for weeks instead of just one day, she thought, smiling at her niece’s effusive greeting.

  “Welcome home, dear!” Betty grinned broadly at her as she placed Hannah back down and wrapped Rebecca up in a warm hug. “Let me get a look at you.” Releasing her, she held her at arm’s length. “Goodness me, what’s your secret? You haven’t changed a bit, and it’s been what, two years?”

  Rebecca nodded—Betty was nice enough to ignore the extra poundage acquired over the years. “It’s whizzed by, I know. It’s so great to see you again, Betty, and you look great.”

  The plump cook guffawed. “A lovely thing to say, dear, but either you or my bathroom scale is telling porkies.” Betty had indeed increased a couple sizes from when Rebecca had last seen her, but who could blame her? If I did what she did all day, I’d be the size of a bus, Rebecca thought. Her stomach rumbled as she caught a whiff of coconut floating past.

  “What’s that smell? It’s divine.”

  “Thai green curry. I’ll bring a bowl over for your dinner if you like.”

  True to her word, Betty had appeared in the house half an hour later, looking like Little Red Riding Hood’s granny as she peered over the top of her glasses and handed Rebecca an aromatic container. Just like Little Red Riding Hood’s granny, though, appearances could be deceptive. Betty’s cooking skills had seen her employed everywhere from a highland castle, a mansion in Bel Air, to a sheik’s palace in Dubai. Somehow she’d found time in between jobs to get married and raise a family. She’d come out of retirement to take the job at Carlton’s, claiming that lazing on the couch with a good book wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  “Apparently she was driving her husband bonkers at home,” Jennifer had whispered to Rebecca conspiratorially. “His loss is my gain; I’d be sunk without her.”

  While Rebecca dined on Thai, the kids had eaten beans on toast with eyes glued to the plasma television. Though Rebecca warned them that next time they’d eat at the table, she figured caving this once might get her in their good graces. Betty’s eyes had crinkled with a suppressed smile as she watched Rebecca’s discipline skills dwindle when under pressure.

  “I think you’re wonderful, Rebecca, coming home to look after them like you have.” Her eyes grew serious, and she lowered her voice as she added, “I don’t know the ins and outs of what has been going on between Jennifer and Mark. I don’t want to either, but what I do know is that children sense when things aren’t right between their parents and those two have had a rough time of it lately. Especially Jack, so, if having their tea in front of the tele keeps them happy, then I’m all for it.”

  When evening had approached, Rebecca passed out her Irish souvenirs and rounded up the children for bed. Delighted with her new leprechaun paperweight, Betty kissed the children on the tops of their heads as she passed through the living room. Rebecca trailed behind her out to the hall following the swathe of the antique Persian runner to the front door. Switching the outside light on, she was planning on seeing the older woman to her car when they’d been distracted by raucous laughter. Squinting into the night, they sourced the laughter to two elderly ladies sitting, despite the cool night air, at the picnic table on the porch of the “Russian Tea Room.”

  Cabin one, as it was otherwise known, was decorated in the same glitzy, decadent style as its New York namesake. Jennifer hadn’t laughed when Rebecca once suggested christening cabin two the “Gordon Ramsay.”

  “It’s a famous London restaurant,” Rebecca insisted, but Jennifer had refused, instead opting for the Ivy and Sydney’s Rockpool, saying they gave her more scope for decoration.

  “Fluffy Duck!” shrieked one of the ladies and Rebecca watched in disbelief as the old dear banged the spirits glass she was holding down hard on the solid wood table. She then proceeded to knock its contents back in one gulp.

  Turning towards Betty, who was also watching the proceedings across the lawn with some interest, she asked, “Uh, who exactly is it that’s staying this week?”

  Betty chortled. “The Timaru branch of the Nifty Knitters. Though, it would seem Lois and Ivy over there are keen to do something other than knit.”

  “The Nifty Knitters?”

  “Yes, you heard right,” Betty assured her. “I’d never heard of them either, but apparently they’re a nationwide organisation. Of course, trips away are usually reserved for knitting conventions, but according to their president Maureen, there were rebellious rumblings when the annual trip to Invercargill rolled round. Maureen’s granddaughter did a course with us here last year and raved about it, so Maureen suggested they do something different.”

  “Like Thai cookery?”

  “Exactly—and Ivy and Lois have thrown themselves into the spirit of it, literally. That Mekhong’s lethal stuff.”

  “What’s Mekhong?” Rebecca asked.

  “Thai whiskey. I had a couple of bottles left over from my last trip to Phuket, and I thought leaving a bottle in each of the cabins for a nightcap added an authentic touch. I had no idea they’d play drinking games with it!”

  Laughing, Rebecca had cupped her hands on either side of her mouth and called out, “You go, girls,” receiving a bottoms up in return.

  “Don’t encourage them; they’ll pay for it in the morning as is,” Betty chastised as she climbed behind the wheel of her gleaming Black Ford Falcon Ute.

  They say there’s a bit of a rebel in all of us, Rebecca thought as the wagon roared to life. Betty was a study in casualness with her sleeves rolled up, one hand on the steering wheel, and her free arm resting on the open window, oblivious of the cold. All she needs now is a cowboy hat and a roll-your-own in her mouth.

  Coming
back to the present, Rebecca placed her wine glass down on the hand-carved coffee table that Mark and Jennifer had picked up on their Indonesian honeymoon. They’d be in Mooloolaba by now, she realised, wondering how they were getting on. What a shame that this trip was a last-ditch attempt to save their marriage instead of what it should have been—a second honeymoon. Then, stretching forward to pick up the list of instructions Jennifer had left for her, Rebecca began by reading the handwritten note at the top:

  Hi Rebecca,

  By now you will have arrived safely and gotten the children off to bed. If I know you, the bottle of Sauvignon I left in the fridge will have been cracked open, and you’ll be lying on the couch reading this. It’s a good vintage from one of our local wineries, so enjoy. I have written out in detail below how mine and the children’s day usually plays out, but I don’t expect you to take it as gospel. You’re in charge, so take what you want from it, remembering of course that children do love their routines. I thought I’d phone in at 6:30 p.m. so Mark and I can say hi to them both before bed each day and hear how you’re getting on. Speak to you tomorrow and thanks again.

  Love, Jennifer

  X

  Rebecca smiled to herself. Typical Jennifer, she thought, running her eyes down the list:

  5:30 a.m. – 6:30 a.m.

  Hannah gets up, wanting her milk in her special Peter Rabbit cup. Once she has this, she climbs into bed for a cuddle.

  6:45 a.m.

  Jack wakes up and switches TV on to watch the Disney channel until breakfast. A piece of toast tides them both over while you shower quickly.

  7:05 a.m.

  Proper breakfast (one Weetabix for Hannah, two for Jack, and a glass of milk for both of them.)

  7:25 a.m.

  Help Hannah get dressed and then lay Jack’s clothes out for him. You may have to threaten him with the withdrawal of television privileges if he refuses to get dressed.

  7:45 a.m.

  Supervise face washing, teeth brushing, and hair brushing.

  8:00 a.m.

  Make yourself presentable for the day; Hannah usually likes to help.

  8:15 a.m.

  Put a load of laundry on and clear up breakfast dishes.

  8:30 a.m.

  Pack their bags, i.e. lunches (best made the night before and kept in the refrigerator if you want the morning to run smoothly). Also, make sure you have packed a change of clothes for Hannah, and Jack’s PE kit before loading them in the car.

  8:45 a.m.

  Arrive at school.

  9:00 a.m.

  Arrive at preschool.

  9:20 a.m.

  Arrive home.

  FREE TIME!

  12:15 p.m.

  Leave to get Hannah for 12:30 p.m. pick-up.

  12:45 p.m.

  Try to get her to have a little rest.

  1:15 p.m.

  Set Hannah up with an activity.

  2:45 p.m.

  Leave to get Jack for 3:00 p.m. pick-up (remember to take Hannah with you).

  3:20 p.m.

  Jack will need to do his reading homework and maths if he has any and then it’s free play.

  5:00 p.m.

  Dinner time (I have bagged up a selection of frozen dinners for each night we are away and suggest a serving of fresh seasonal veggies straight from the garden on the side). N.B.: Night time can be a testing time but try to remember that you are the adult.

  6:00 p.m.

  Tidy up time.

  6:10 p.m.

  Bath time for Hannah and Jack will have a five-minute shower after his sister’s bath.

  6:45 p.m.

  Storytime.

  7:00 p.m.

  Hannah’s bedtime.

  7:30 p.m.

  Jack’s bedtime.

  P.S.: I limit the children’s television consumption to one hour a day.

  P.P.S.: Overleaf, I have included some healthy ideas for the lunchboxes.

  “Holy crap,” muttered Rebecca as she flicked the note over to see that her sister had indeed been full of bright ideas when she’d penned it. How like Jennifer to run her home like a boot camp and treat her like a complete imbecile, she thought while reaching for her wine glass. A good vintage, eh? Rebecca’s taste buds agreed that it was before she rolled off the couch with a big sigh. She couldn’t sit here relaxing, not when there were lunches to make.

  Standing back, admiring her handiwork—two lunchboxes filled to the brim with heart foundation approved foods—Rebecca heard a car door slam. A moment later, Melissa was air-kissing both her cheeks and pushing her way up the hall and into the lounge, leaving her bags in the doorway.

  Rebecca sighed and picked them up, staggering into the lounge behind her to find Melissa had already commandeered the couch and the wine. “Oh, I need this—cheers.” Melissa raised her glass. “How are my adopted niece and nephew, Becs?”

  “Good. They’re asleep finally. Jen’s left me a list of what she normally does in a day. Have a look at it.” Rebecca gestured to where it lay on the coffee table.

  “I’m surprised she didn’t have it laminated,” Melissa said, reaching over to pick it up.

  “It’s horrific,” Rebecca shook her head, “and she’s not expecting me to do any of the Cuisine with Carlton’s stuff. I have no idea how Jen does what she does on a daily basis.”

  Melissa tossed the note back down on the table. “Well, I was right.”

  “About what?” Rebecca was puzzled.

  “Your sister was indeed Wonder Woman in a past life. Either that or she’s a chronic anal retentive.”

  Ignoring the comment, Rebecca frowned. “I don’t know how I’m going to do it all.”

  Rebecca glanced across at Melissa, who refused to meet her eye. “You know I love Jack and Hannah as much as if they were my own, but I’m crap with kids.”

  “Oh, pass the wine over here, you great big prima donna,” Rebecca retorted, pouring out two generous glasses.

  Chapter Eleven

  AT APPROXIMATELY 5:40 a.m. the next morning, Rebecca was bitterly regretting her decision to open that third bottle of wine. The words, “I wanna milk, Auntie Becca...a big one in my rabbit cup,” were being shrieked into her left ear. When instantaneous action was not forthcoming, it was shrieked again. Hearing her niece take a great big breath with the obvious intention of raising the volume, she capitulated and crawled from the bed.

  “Alright, alright, Hannah,” Rebecca croaked, fumbling around in the dark for her dressing gown and slippers. “I’ve got the message.” Feeling as though she had a percussionist taking centre stage inside her head, she staggered downstairs into the kitchen to fill Hannah’s cup.

  A few minutes later, she climbed gratefully back into bed; it was as Jennifer had predicted. Once Hannah’s little hands were wrapped around her warm milk, she cuddled into her. Rebecca almost forgot that she had a disgusting wine headache until a little voice from the depths of the duvet giggled, “You stink.”

  The sound of Jack stampeding down the stairs into the lounge an hour later was followed closely by a violent din. Lying in bed with one ear cocked, Rebecca presumed he’d switched the Disney channel on which, bugger it, meant that it was time for her to get up. First things first, she thought, squinting painfully and taking the stairs with trepidation. Her headache had moved to its usual position over her left eyebrow. It was a bit like being on an aeroplane that was going down, she surmised, rummaging for a box of Panadol as she waited for the jug to boil. The parent’s oxygen mask must go on first before one could effectively take care of the kids. As Rebecca’s oxygen mask of coffee and paracetamol eventually wound their way through her bloodstream, she began to feel like perhaps she had a chance of survival.

  “HANNAH, PUT YOUR CLOTHES on now!” Her naked niece dove behind the couch and screeched with excitement. Deep breaths, Rebecca. Calm; that’s it—calm. Try to remember who is the adult and who is the child. “Hannah, get out here right now. I mean it!”

  “I pity the poor bloke who winds up ma
rrying you, Rebecca. You’re a shrew.” Melissa wandered into the room yawning and rubbing her temples; she looked decidedly rumpled. “Could you keep it down? I feel a bit delicate this morning.”

  “Get stuffed,” Rebecca snapped back. “Make yourself useful and tell Jack to hurry up and get dressed. His clothes are on his bed.”

  If she didn’t get this child dressed ASAP and move on to number six, she was going to have turban hair all day.

  “You look like crap, Rebecca. You can’t drop the kids off looking like that. What will all the single fathers think?” Melissa had positioned herself in front of the door, a human barricade.

  Attempting to shove her aside, Rebecca muttered, “Get out of my way. I don’t have time for this.”

  But she wouldn’t budge, wagging a finger in her friend’s face. “When you’re single, you have to make time. I mean, what is with the hair?”

  Rebecca’s hand flew up to try to smooth down her poor fringe, the victim of being wrapped in a towel for too long. “While you were busy applying a full face, I was running around, sorting the children.”

  “Don’t blame me. Honestly, you need to take some personal responsibility. Set your alarm earlier or something.”

  Thinking of her 5:40 a.m. start, Rebecca didn’t trust herself to reply, and with superhuman strength, she pushed Melissa out of the way and dragged the children outside to the waiting wagon.