Bernard glanced up to see Mark and Stewart approaching, passing a brown paper bag back and forth, from which they were taking ungainly bites. The smell of the falafel reached him before they did.
‘You stopped for food?’ Mia chided. ‘You said you were just going for chai.’
Mark wiped his mouth on a napkin, raising a palm to Stewart to signal that the final bite was all his. He greeted Bernard matter-of-factly. ‘Good to see you. I read that you’d be making an appearance today.’
Bernard waited for Stewart.
‘Hope it wasn’t overly painful.’
‘It was. Although you could say the children were no worse than other years. The mothers, however, seem to grow progressively awful.’
CHAPTER NINE
Ruby sat in the spa bath with a group of saggy contemporaries, hot steam rising from the bubbling water. It’s like being in a cauldron, she thought, we only need some cannibals to dance around us. Her eyes shyly swept over the others stewing away beside her. She folded her arms across her girth; it was impossible to find anywhere safe to rest her gaze. The venue accentuated the group’s infirmities: pasty complexions illuminated by halogen lights, wrinkles maximised by submersion, loosened skin flapping from the force of pressurised jets. What could have possessed Angela to want to take part in this indignity? Aside from the site manager Rick and his pug-nosed wife, Janelle, there was a couple from North Queensland: two dried fish, brown as teak, their sun-bleached hair the consistency of orange pith. Ruby focused on Janelle, trying not to cast her pupils toward the woman’s frothing décolletage, two great lumps of flesh crammed into her bulging one-piece. Beside her, dehydrated Deirdre, thin and stringy in her mutton-as-lamb bikini.
Ruby half-listened as each of the wives took turns in lauding their grown children, voices rising in pitch and volume to compete with the drone from the humming pump and chortling bubbles. She held her shrivelled fingers up to her eyes, the purple flesh of a newborn baby, pale and puckered. The scent of chlorine was embedded in her pores. She wanted to get out, but not in front of an audience—rising from the water like the creature from the black lagoon, stray pubic hairs plastered to her thighs as she heaved her dimpled legs over the side. She dropped her hands back into the warmth, and they tingled following their exposure to the cool night air.
Perceiving Ruby’s disinterest, Janelle and Deirdre craned their necks to talk around the newcomer, condemning a certain Julie who had offended in some grievous way.
‘She didn’t.’
‘She did.’
‘Bitch.’
‘I know.’
‘What a nerve.’
‘That’s not the half of it …’
Across the hot tub, Angela was happily sandwiched between the husbands, wedged in by their great drum-sized stomachs, pretending to be impressed by power of their LandCruisers. Her gumnut head, flushed as pomegranate, sat level with their shoulders. Every now and then she reached out an arm to collect her margarita. Ruby had long since abandoned her drink, it tasted like undiluted lime cordial. Angela had convinced her to join this frankly disturbing shindig on the pretence it would give them something to laugh about—it seemed treacherous of her now to be actually enjoying herself.
In response to a question from her hostesses, Ruby perked up. ‘We’re having our floors done, decided to rip out the old carpets and lay down floating flooring. It looks very contemporary, and it’s so much easier to clean.’ She saw her audience nodding appreciatively and ran on, ‘That’s when Angela decided, if they’re pulling up the floors we might as well have ducted heating put in. She’s always wanted it; the Ballarat winters can be brutal. There are gas wall units in the living area but the bedrooms feel arctic. She got a marvellous deal on having the two units done—I’m two doors down from her. I thought, what the heck, in for a penny, in for a pound. I waste a fortune running a blower in the bedroom, so it’ll pay for itself in a few years …’
Janelle, hoping to speed things along so she could take her turn at yammering, second-guessed the conclusion. ‘So you took a little holiday to escape the mess.’
‘I’d always been meaning to see Adelaide,’ Ruby began, intending to speak further on the matter, when Janelle broke in again.
‘Renovations can be impossible, just impossible. I remember adding our extension, we were foolish enough to think we could stay while the building was being done—I mean, living without a kitchen, and with a family of five to feed. Can you imagine—’
‘It’s the plaster that’s the worst,’ Deirdre intervened. ‘It gets into everything. When we were having the rec room redone …’
Ruby sank down to her chin. She shouldn’t have said anything, kept what was personal personal. She usually refrained from public disclosure; everything felt silly and extravagant when spoken aloud.
Ruby lay on her back, reeking of chlorine and staring at the ceiling a metre from her nose. It was like being entombed. The sleeping arrangements had been determined by Angela’s flat refusal to climb a ladder into bed. Thus, Ruby reposed in a sarcophagus (the cavity above the dashboard) while her friend slept in the double bed at back, slotted in between the window and the toilet stall. She listened to Angela prepare for sleep: her absentminded movements, the jangle and clatter as she removed her jewellery, the squirming and writhing, pillow thumping and doona kicking, before she fell still. A minute later her voice rose from the insufficient darkness. Angela liked to muse as she drifted off to sleep. Ruby assumed it was a throwback to married life, and wondered if Angela had murmured to herself in the years between Patrick’s death and their becoming Winnebago roomies.
‘Rick and Nigel were fun,’ she said. ‘Foul-mouthed, but then I’m used to that from being on film sets. They offered to escort us to the lake tomorrow.’
Ruby snorted, she couldn’t imagine spending any length of time alone in the men’s company. She asked if the wives had been invited too. Angela wasn’t sure. Ruby said flatly, ‘I’ve got no intention of staying in town long enough to make pals.’
‘Why not?’ Angela said. ‘You seemed to hit it off with so-and-so.’
‘Deirdre and Janelle. And I wasn’t having fun, I was bored senseless.’
Ignoring Ruby’s admission, Angela continued, ‘Women are always latching onto you, wanting to tell you their secrets. You only have to be standing in line five minutes and some sad sack is sharing her life story.’
It was true. Women were drawn to Ruby just as seagulls sensed when a cold chip was about to be tossed. She couldn’t leave the house without being detained at some point. Complete strangers raised news stories with her: ‘Isn’t it terrible …?’ And the world’s failings were countenanced with resigned shrugs and a cheerful ‘But what can you do?’ Ruby hadn’t thought anything of it until Angela pointed out the intrusion, raising a meaningful brow as a waitress spoke of her thesis, a saleswoman discussed her grandson, or a neighbour waylaid them to bemoan the price of fruit. To begin with, Angela smiled graciously, nodding attentively when the stranger turned their eyes to her, trying to offer some input or light-hearted banter. It was only a matter of months before impatience got the better of her. She began drumming her fingernails on café tabletops, pinching Ruby meaningfully, or simply declaring, ‘We ought to be making tracks.’ So long as Angela didn’t overstep the mark into rudeness, Ruby was happy for her friend’s interruption, it did save her quite a bit of time and sympathy.
From across the van, Ruby heard, ‘Why is it that women are drawn to you and men to me?’
Ruby wasn’t altogether pleased with the inference, but had to concede there was a degree of truth to it. ‘I suppose men see you as a charmer, while women view me as a confidant.’
There followed a pregnant pause as Angela contemplated the statement. Ruby rolled cautiously onto her side, feeling that the ceiling had dropped and expecting to knock her shoulder against it. She pulled the floral doona up to her cheek, its frilled edge tickling her nose.
Angela’s voice wafted up fr
om the shadows. ‘Are you saying I’m shallow?’ A hint of menace, a quarrel looming—they were both wide-awake from the evening’s stimulation.
Ruby tread carefully. ‘I don’t think being deep or shallow has anything to do with it. You’re simply more amusing than I am. Women are intimidated by you.’
Angela was perceptibly chuffed but pretended otherwise. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
In the morning, they ate toast sitting at a table of green dimpled plastic like something out of a fast food restaurant, the Winnebago’s door hanging open to dispel the acrid scent of charred bread. Neither of them was quite able to get the timing right on the toaster oven.
The sun pooled on the aqua carpet like a spotlight aimed at the doorway. Ruby hadn’t yet managed to acclimatise to the grey and aqua décor. She’d never imagined herself ever owning anything so gaudy. The swirling pattern on the upholstered dinette and facing couch defied aesthetics, and had prompted the catchphrase (relished by she and Angela alike): a portrait of bad taste.
A businesslike double rap on the side of the trailer and Nigel’s leathery face emerged. He raised an ochre arm, resting it against the doorframe, a tuft of grey underarm hair filtering sunlight.
‘How are you young ladies doing this morning?’
Ruby could have done without being patronised so early in the day.
Angela circumspectly tugged her robe across her legs.
The visitor sniffed the air. ‘Burnt toast,’ he deduced. ‘Haven’t you two learnt to cook yet?’
‘We’re used to being waited on hand and foot,’ Angela simpered. She invited him to join them at the table. Nigel, not wanting to intrude, said he’d been dispatched by Rick to follow up on their invitation.
‘He would have come himself, but there were toilets to be seen to.’
The women pulled faces to suggest he’d run a little too far with the truth. Ruby slurped her tea. She was leaving it to Angela to decide what their course of action would be. If her copilot wanted to amuse herself playing coquetries for a day or two, why should she stand in her way? She picked up the burnt crust she’d intended on leaving, smeared on a little raspberry jam and chewed mournfully, shrugging a shoulder in response to Angela’s questioning glance.
‘What’s it to be?’ the intruder asked, smoothing his hand down the front of his singlet and over the hump like a roller-coaster.
Angela shaded her eyes against the diaphanous morning sunshine. ‘What time did you have in mind?’
‘Around two, say? Jan and Deirdre are heading into town to look at microwaves.’
Angela ran her tongue across the front of her teeth as she contemplated the proposal, and then warmly replied in the affirmative. Ruby slumped.
Nigel clapped his hands, rubbing them together eagerly. ‘It’s a date. I’ll swing by at two. Be sure and put on something comfortable.’ He raised his hands in a show of innocence. ‘Shoes, I mean—comfy shoes.’
When Nigel’s bulk had moved away from the doorway, allowing the sun to spill forth in relief, Ruby began gathering up the breakfast dishes. Angela let her stew for a minute before saying, ‘We better pack up our things.’
Ruby spun around.
Angela calmly brushed toast crumbs off the tabletop into her cupped hand. ‘You don’t really think I’d go anywhere with those morons, do you?’
Rick was hosing off the driveway as the Winnebago approached. Ruby gave a cautionary toot. He automatically stepped backward, turning the hose away from the road. Seeing the ladies leaving, his face creased in bewilderment and he forgot the hose, which arced upward, a spray of water pattering against the van. Angela gave a wave as the motor home rumbled past.
The friends stood at the rim of Mount Gambier’s Blue Lake, staring glumly into its murky grey depths.
‘What is it we’re supposed to be seeing?’
Angela checked the pamphlet in her hand. ‘Water’s supposed to be blue.’ She flashed the flyer at Ruby. The lake on its cover was a striking sapphire. ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ Ruby told her yes without bothering to elaborate. Angela looked back at the volcanic pool. ‘I think the tourism board is conning us. It’s like the Twelve Apostles—give or take …’
Ruby smiled, spurring Angela on.
‘It’s probably blue on a sunny day because the sky’s reflected in it.’
Ruby’s smile broadened, her amusement tended to creep up in increments.
Angela tittered. ‘Like Henny Penny—the locals running around crying, “Oh no! The sky’s fallen in the lake!”’
Ruby belched laughter. Angela joined in. She heard a beep and pressed the pamphlet onto Ruby. She thrust an arm into her bag, elbow deep, and then the other arm, as though it might prove luckier than the first. She eventually extracted her phone and squinted quizzically at the message.
‘What’s a white flag supposed to mean?’
Ruby glanced up from the pamphlet. ‘Surrender, isn’t it?’
Angela clicked her tongue against her palate. ‘Surrender? What the heck is he surrendering to? I never asked him to surrender. This isn’t a war.’
‘Who knows what it is. By the way, the lake’s blue from November to March.’ She refolded the glossy flyer along its seams. ‘It’s like any document, you have to read the fine print.’
‘It is November, dumdum. Tell ’em we want our money back.’
Ruby was shell-shocked—she’d been known to forget what day it was, never which month.
Angela dropped her phone back into her bag and retrieved her purse. She selected a twenty-cent coin and hurled it at the lake’s leaden surface.
Ruby, veering away from Angela’s swinging elbow, cried, ‘What are you doing?’
‘Hoping for a dark, handsome stranger.’
‘It’s not a darn wishing well.’
CHAPTER TEN
Izzy glanced at her mother across the table, her chin resting against her raised knee as she played solitaire. Ages ago, she’d taught Izzy how to play, back when they were living with Simon in Sydney, but then she got sick of Izzy always pointing out the cards she’d missed, and Izzy got tired of being snapped at, so they left it at that.
Izzy’s mum had been like a caged tiger since coming home from town—the arseholes at Centrelink were making her life hell. Izzy agreed they did expect her to do an awful lot of homework. They were always receiving letters and forms, which made her mum swear and put her in a nasty mood for the rest of the day. Izzy had begun to recoil from the windowed envelopes every time she saw one slipped under the door. She’d taken the last two and pushed them to the bottom of the rubbish bag, beneath the gunky leftovers and dried-out teabags. She wondered if that had anything to do with her mother being called down to Centrelink for a meeting. She’d been hoping her mum would be gone all afternoon, or at least while the cartoons were on. To her dismay, the door banged open at the stroke of four and they had to watch game shows instead. Her mum usually hogged the couch, meaning Izzy had to sit on the carpet, which was prickly with crumbs and dirt.
Her mother rose to make dinner when the news came on because she didn’t much care to hear the rest of the world’s miseries. (‘I’ve got enough of my own to put up with.’) Izzy wasn’t allowed to change the channel because her mum didn’t want to miss the weather. Some nights Izzy tried her luck and kicked up a fuss. ‘Why do you care about the weather? It’s not like we ever do anything in it.’
Tonight she didn’t bother, she’d managed to find a handful of birthday cards in one of the caravan park bins and was busy cutting out their decorative fronts. When her mum asked where the hell she got the cards, Izzy told her Mrs Bronson gave them to her. She was careful to make sure her mum didn’t see the Dear Tina written inside. Izzy couldn’t remember Mrs Bronson’s name, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t Tina. There was a black nameplate at reception, the size of a ruler, with something-or-other Bronson written in white. Izzy would have quite liked one that said Isabelle McPherson—you probably had to be important to get one.
Izzy was halfway through her beans (only half-heated—they were still cold in places) when Trent wandered in. Izzy wished he’d wait to be invited inside like polite people. She was always scared that he’d walk in on her when she was using the bathroom. She supposed he was allowed to do as he pleased seeing as how his mum owned the whole park, which probably meant he owned it all too.
He said, ‘Hey, Carol,’ before turning to Izzy and tossing something through the air. ‘Incoming.’
Izzy wasn’t very good at catching and had to scrabble behind the couch to retrieve the missile: a new glue stick. Trent had caught her using her finger to try and scrape out the last smears the other day. He’d thought it was funny. Her mum said she was gross. Izzy was secretly rapt with the gift—now she’d be able to paste her pictures onto her treasure box.
Trent peered over her mum’s shoulder. He reached out to move two cards down to the bottom of her lines.
‘Piss off.’
He clicked his tongue. ‘Only helping.’
Izzy could have told him not to bother.
‘How’d yer meeting go?’
Her mum grunted in reply.
Izzy would have liked to hear how the meeting went as well, but her mum had the sulks and wasn’t going to talk about it. Izzy was afraid the people at Centrelink might stop giving them money. Then they’d have to beg like that guy at the supermarket who sat behind a cardboard sign and an empty ice-cream container. Maybe Mrs Bronson would let her work at the kiosk before it came to that. Izzy would be in charge of feeding the family then, meaning her mum would have to be nicer to her.
‘Carol,’ Trent urged, addressing her matted crown, its usual pumpkin colour darkened to a greasy brown—Izzy could judge her mum’s mood based on the dirtiness of her hair. ‘Don’t you think you should do as they say?’ He placed a hand to her shoulder and she shrugged it off, as if he were a creepy-crawly.
The Grand Tour Page 6
