The Grand Tour

by Olivia Wearne

  The photo session had been conducted on the back of a boozy lunch. As with his initial visit to the winery, Bernard had been ushered into John’s cellar for a preliminary bout of tasting. He was just settling down, and discussing with blatant ignorance the ins and outs of Australian terroir when Lil materialised and suggested they have a bite to eat before the shoot ‘to allow you to get to know everyone’.

  In the restaurant Bernard discovered who the ‘everyone’ was. Reclining at a table by the window were two twenty-somethings of similar plainness. The freckle-faced girl stood in welcome with an outstretched hand: this was daughter Belinda. She wore a floral print skirt and a striped cotton shirt that buttoned at the elbow. The ensemble was horrible but Bernard appreciated the effort. He’d already digested Lil’s T-shirt at the door: a dolphin lounging on a deckchair informing him she’d been to Byron Bay in 1991. Like a well-trained von Trapp child, Belinda dropped both hand and head at hearing her name announced, then promptly sat down.

  The second youth to be introduced was son Damien. He grinned and chewed on the edge of his thumb, appraising Bernard through narrowed eyes. This aloofness was attributable to neither parent; Bernard suspected a stray gene passed down by some belligerent grandparent.

  During lunch, Bernard had the vague sense of having joined a Mallory family reunion. Damien enquired, as only an insolent younger son would dare, if his drinking habit had played a part in the demise of his news career. The other Mallorys held cat’s bum faces as Bernard broodingly considered the question.

  ‘Unfortunately it was a debilitating lifelong affliction that was to blame. You may be familiar with it—incompetency.’

  John was the first to twig. ‘Ha!’ He thumped the table. ‘I suffer from a bad case of ineptitude myself.’

  The merriment continued over racks of lamb with salsa verde and a couple of bottles of Pinot; all the while, Lil and John effortlessly gestured to their listless waitstaff, indicating tasks that needed seeing to at the handful of tables occupied for lunch. It was only the arrival of the photographer that reminded the revellers what the gathering was in aid of. John sprang into action. Like an army commander caught out by his superior sleeping on the job, he attempted to cover his offence with bluster.

  ‘Right, right, we’re definitely having too much fun here. Now, what needs doing? What do you need me to do? Can I do anything?’

  As guest of honour, Bernard took the liberty of sliding into a gentle red wine coma.

  A voice called, ‘If you wouldn’t mind taking a seat here for me please?’

  Bernard woke with a grunt and looked blearily around the room before spotting the photographer at a nearby table. He lumbered over and prepared to sink into the nearest chair.

  ‘Not that one, this one.’

  Bernard pulled out the allotted seat.

  ‘If you could sit down without moving it, the light’s perfect where it is.’

  He squeezed into the chair, careful not to disrupt the table that had been elegantly laid for one. As the photographer observed him through his equipment, Bernard looked over at the Mallory family, standing to one side like spectators at a golfing open.

  ‘Hang on a sec.’ Belinda stepped across and, making sure not to disrupt the tableau, gently smoothed down a few stray hairs.

  Bernard pared back his lips like a horse to reveal his teeth. ‘All clean?’

  ‘Yes.’ She giggled and skirted back to her parents.

  Before he could draw breath, the photographer began snapping. Bernard smiled.

  ‘Don’t do that. Maybe just look out the window. No, not that far, just a bit, that’s good.’

  Suddenly the clicking stopped. The photographer stood back to survey the table, his eyes oscillating between Bernard and the view. ‘Can I get some wine in this glass?’ he called.

  ‘Do I look that tense?’

  The photographer appeared surprised as though just realising he was there. ‘It’s for the shot.’

  ‘Oh, right, excellent idea.’

  John went for wine and the photographer gently yet purposefully pushed and pulled his model to get the best possible light on his face. ‘Sun’s moved,’ he offered by way of explanation.

  John returned carrying four different glasses. The photographer made his selection then disappeared behind the lens again.

  ‘Drink, Bernard.’ The clicking resumed. ‘Now drink again.’

  Bernard did as the camera told him.

  ‘You look like a robot,’ laughed Lil. She bent her elbow and mimed mechanical drinking.

  Bernard arrived home by taxi to find he’d left his keys in the pocket of yesterday’s pants. He promptly deviated to the side of his house, pushing past the overgrown bottlebrush thriving in the free reign that inconvenience provided. He thrust aside a lantana branch to emerge like an explorer around the back of his abode.

  A newspaper protruded above the top of the banana lounger.

  Mia looked at him from around the tabloid’s edge. ‘I met Mrs Lee on my way in. I had to wrestle her for the paper, but we eventually reached a compromise.’

  ‘I hope nobody was hurt.’

  ‘Just some scratches … You never offered to give me the papers.’

  ‘I caught her going through the recycling bin. I thought I’d save her the trouble.’

  ‘I’ve only been gone a few months and the place has turned into a commune.’

  ‘You’ve been gone a year.’

  With an unnecessary amount of rustling and shaking, Mia turned a page. Her eyes inspected the fresh newsprint in front of her but found nothing of interest. She paused for a moment, debating whether to bother wrestling with the paper in order to turn another page. ‘Apparently that actress from that show has secretly adopted twins. African. It made the front page, can you believe it?’

  ‘That it made the front page? It’s not much of a secret.’ Bernard lowered himself into the facing lounger. ‘How’s Lucas?’

  ‘He’s fine. He decided to go to work today, poor thing. Imagine, a local recruitment agency. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he focus on his comics? You could support him.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I assumed things were heating up between you.’

  Mia fiddled with the string of baubles around her wrist. ‘We’re just enjoying each other’s company at the moment.’

  He knew better than to force the issue, but he didn’t always act on his better judgement. ‘He’s practically living with you, isn’t he?’

  ‘He stays over occasionally. By the way,’ she crushed a handful of curls. ‘I’m not doing Christmas this year.’

  There was a period in their marriage when they had both gleefully shunned Christmas and all its obligatory excesses. Like impish children escaping some painful and mandatory routine, such as visiting elderly relatives, they bunkered down in a country house for a fortnight to avoid the yuletide holocaust. To anyone who asked, they claimed to spend the holiday visiting Bernard’s father, an excuse that required sustaining the lie that Bernard’s father was still alive. To Angela, who annually dispatched invitations to her own Christmas soirees, they took devilish pleasure in concocting obscure ailments preventing them from attending: the disorders growing progressively worse, from piles, to tapeworm, to foot and mouth. Until one year, when following an emailed expression of regret—they couldn’t attend due to Mia contracting SARS—Angela wrote back informing them they’d been struck from her and Patrick’s Christmas list.

  Then came the year it dawned on Mia that she had actually been forgotten. Her mother was being lavished with salaried attentions in a nursing home, and her only sibling—a little spoken of brother—and his brood, were ambivalent to her existence. Naturally, there were dozens of friends and acquaintances demanding they join them every year. But in Mia’s maudlin self-pity these were brushed off as charitable civilities. Henceforth she gave herself over to the season with gusto, throwing open her doors to all the sociable Chr
istmas orphans, only those without family (be it literally or through heartfelt loathing) were invited.

  Mia established her own set of rules and customs: there was to be no gift giving, no carols, no cards, no undue cheer, nothing that could be said to meet with tradition and most especially no religious undertones. Instead, she encouraged people to subvert Christmas conventions: funny hats (other than paper) were encouraged. Guests were invited to take things from other people (stealing was championed); food and drink were to be innovative and surprising. And visitors were invited to flaunt loudly and proudly their flaws and foibles in the mutual agreement that self-improvement was absurd.

  Needless to say, the idea took off. A trail of broken families led to their door on December twenty-fifth, as friends endeavoured to gain entry by divorcing themselves from relatives.

  ‘I do enjoy it,’ Mia sighed. ‘But Stewart and Mark have requested I pass the baton. And you can stick your bottom lip back in; as if you weren’t invited—they adore you, those old queens.’

  ‘I was just thinking how nice a quiet one would be this year.’

  ‘Your lies won’t float with me, Newsman.’

  They settled back to enjoy the sun, mild enough for basking rather than percolating.

  ‘How’s that book of yours coming? It’s not the one about the two brothers, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s the one about the explorer.’

  ‘God that was obtuse—the brothers one I mean, not the explorer one, I haven’t read that. It’ll be strange having you narrate it. I’ll feel like you’re trying to brainwash me.’

  ‘You’ll fall asleep long before I have any influence.’

  ‘Just like our lovemaking.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mrs Bronson escorted Izzy across the caravan park to her mum’s new cabin. She claimed that families needed to be together in such turbulent times. Izzy didn’t know what turbulent meant but she knew her minder was fed up with her. Mrs Bronson had entered the spare bedroom to find Izzy down on her knees industriously cutting up the Bible Stories for Children books she’d been given. The series had thick cardboard covers and the pages were musty and yellowed. The books had been read by Trent as a boy and were stashed on top of his wardrobe when he outgrew them—Mrs Bronson suspected it might be sacrilege to throw them away. Izzy hadn’t thought much of the stories and found most of the pictures fairly dull. She did, however, quite like the animals, and was cutting out all the wise-looking sheep and melancholy donkeys when Mrs Bronson found her.

  Izzy had stared benignly up at her host as Mrs Bronson railed at her. She had wondered about chopping up the books, but figured because they were so old, and shoved to the back of the wardrobe where she probably shouldn’t have been snooping, then no one wanted them anymore. When asked in exasperation what had possessed her to do it, she replied frankly, ‘You don’t have any grandkids, so why does it matter?’

  Mrs Bronson squeezed Izzy’s arms as though meaning to shake her. ‘You don’t even care one little bit, do you? These aren’t just any old books, you know!’

  Izzy didn’t know, but sensing some give on her biceps she slithered to the carpet and began gathering up the pictures, attempting to slot them back to where they’d once been attached to the page. Mrs Bronson shouted at her to stop it. She grabbed hold of Izzy’s elbow and yanked her to her feet.

  ‘Stand here still as a statue till I figure out what to do with you.’

  In the end Mrs Bronson wasn’t actually her problem to deal with.

  Izzy was sprawled on the cabin’s couch watching television when her mother came in. Her mum froze in the doorway. Izzy waited for her to remark upon her return. Her mum stood unmoving, shrinking Izzy with her ray-gun stare.

  Izzy scrabbled to break the spell. ‘Mrs Bronson is sick of me,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ Her mum walked past her toward the bathroom. ‘So you’re stuck with me then.’

  That night, mother and daughter lay within touching distance on their respective mattresses, the sheets stamped with monstrous orange daisies. Izzy longed to crawl into her mother’s bed, as she did when faceless monsters haunted her dreams. She would press her knees into her mum’s corresponding hollows and her forehead into the alcove between her winged shoulder blades, and be comforted by her tangible human presence. Instead, Izzy lay immobile in the dark, fearing rejection. Her mum hadn’t even said goodnight or kissed her forehead. Izzy retreated further into her personal misery, certain her mother must hate her. Would rather she wasn’t there.

  Izzy was heading back from the playground. The air had chilled, the sky had dimmed and her Hello Kitty watch told her it was 5:27. A fancy Winnebago was occupying most of Bay 16. The door was open and Izzy could hear voices above the chatter of evening birdsong.

  ‘It does seem ridiculous,’ a woman’s voice complained scratchily, ‘to be staying at a holiday park in our own town.’

  A different (calmer) lady’s voice responded, ‘Angela, what choice do we have, other than tightrope walking on rotten beams?’

  ‘The sub-floor’s stuffed—is that what he said? What does that even mean? And why did they leave it ’til now to tell us? We’ve been gone a whole week.’

  ‘He said he was held up on a job—only began work on our units yesterday. He was very apologetic. He said he couldn’t in good conscience complete the work knowing the beams were unsafe.’

  ‘And who’s this other fellow?’

  ‘The underpinner? I’m not sure. But apparently he’s available and can complete the job in a week.’ ‘A week? Is that for both units?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It doesn’t sound like enough, does it—to get both of them level, install the central heating and lay the flooring?’

  Finding the conversation unfathomable, Izzy crept up to get a visual and, having mounted the steps, she summoned the courage to poke her face around the door. She caught sight of the two women—one big, one small—before ducking out of sight.

  There was a moment’s silence, then the scratchy voice said, ‘Love those boots, babe. Fuchsia. They could do with a darn good polish though.’

  Izzy waggled her scuffed boots, as if only just noticing their appearance. She slunk her face back around the door. ‘What’s fuchsia?’

  ‘Pink, sweetie. A fancy name for pink. Is that your favourite colour?’

  Izzy shrugged.

  The tall woman caught her breath. Angela and Izzy turned to look at her.

  ‘Do you remember me?’ The woman’s eyes glittered hopefully.

  Izzy took a moment to examine the face. Then she said matter-of-factly, ‘You’re Grandma Ruby.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ruby finished laying out the breakfast things before sitting at the table with her novel. Angela emerged from the toilet. Oblivious to Ruby’s diligence, she clattered open the cutlery drawer. ‘Don’t take a new teaspoon,’ Ruby said. ‘There’s one sitting out on the draining board already.’ Ruby had lived alone for too long, managing to subsist on rinsing off the bare essentials of crockery and cutlery, rarely having to fill the sink with water. It irked her to see the way Angela unthinkingly reached for clean dishes every time she ate or drank anything.

  Angela helped herself to a fresh utensil. ‘Sucked-on spoons. It’s outrageous. Not to mention unhygienic.’ She prised the lid off the Moccona. ‘Why should I put my health at risk every time I want a cup of coffee?’

  Angela stirred her drink, leaving her wet spoon on the countertop. She collapsed into a seat, waiting petulantly for Ruby to finish her page and pay her some attention. She’d never had the patience for reading and saw Ruby’s enjoyment as an affront. She felt she was being neglected, as though she were an irritation that required shutting out. The morning showed every sign of descending into petulance, but was saved by the sound of the door rattling. Ruby inserted her marker and laid her book aside.

  Izzy stood grinning on the step, just as crumpled and dishevelled as the previous evening. Ruby suspected her granddaughter migh
t grow into one of those unkempt women who always look windblown no matter what they do. She checked her watch, expecting the girl had come to say hello before heading off to school. Angela, chomping on a mouthful of muesli, waved from the table. Izzy switched her weight from one foot to the other.

  ‘I didn’t ruin the surprise,’ she exclaimed. ‘Can we tell her now?’

  Ruby cleared her throat. ‘Maybe we should wait till you get home from school?’

  ‘There isn’t any school today.’

  ‘On a Tuesday?’

  Izzy’s hand rose to settle upon her belly. Ruby wondered if she’d eaten yet. She supposed there must be a free day of some description; if not, one day off school wasn’t too great a setback.

  ‘Come on, you can help us polish off our brekkie.’

  Izzy scooted in next to Angela at the dinette. ‘I’d love to have a bedroom in that greeny colour—well, if I had a bedroom.’

  Angela informed her it was turquoise. Ruby muttered it was aqua and awful.

  Izzy’s eyes mine-swept over the breakfast clutter. ‘Do you have any Coco Pops?’

  ‘We have muesli.’ Angela raised her bowl like an offering to a deity. Izzy’s face contorted. Angela scrunched her nose back, and resumed eating.

  ‘What about some fruit toast?’ Ruby suggested.

  Izzy squinted suspiciously at the loaf. ‘It’s got sultanas in it.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Milk?’

  ‘Strawberry?’

  ‘Plain cow.’ Ruby poured some milk into a mug. Izzy took a sip to please and left it at that.

  After breakfast, Angela and Izzy amused themselves by mucking about in Angela’s cosmetic case. Ruby disregarded her initial contention that young girls shouldn’t wear make-up, asking only that Angela’s model be made to wipe off the gunk when they were done. It later required all her equanimity not to criticise the pint-sized beauty queen that greeted her over the top of her novel. She patted Izzy’s head, frowning at its lacquered coarseness. When she advocated a good face washing, Izzy baulked, as though Ruby had recommended plucking out her eyelashes. Angela settled the dispute.