The Grand Tour

by Olivia Wearne

  —I couldn’t say.

  —So, when do you think you’ll be done?

  —I couldn’t say.

  —Bernard, you need to realise we have deadlines to meet. We had been hoping to get this series out by Christmas.

  —Mmm.

  —We really do need your reading by the end of next week, Monday at the latest. I’ve spoken to your sound recordist—Nick, is it? And I have to say he didn’t sound overly confident.

  —You might have to count me out on this one.

  —That’s not an option, Bernard.

  —I’m happy to waive the rest of my fee.

  —We’ve already had printing and advertising done with your name on it. So, unless we have your reading by the end of next week—

  —Monday at the latest.

  —Right. Unless we receive it by then, Eucalypt Press will have to begin legal proceedings.

  —I see.

  —Great, if you have any more problems, let me know, my number was on the info sheet we sent to you. Do you still have it?

  —Of course. Thanks for calling, Margot.

  Mia was curling smoked salmon onto blinis. ‘Why don’t you just finish reading it, for Christ’s sake?’ Her damp hair hung limply around her face, emphasising her long nose and giving the impression of a recently bathed Afghan.

  ‘It’s become a physical impossibility—like quicksand, the more you struggle, the further you sink.’

  ‘That’s why you should stay calm.’ She attempted a rosette. ‘Calm and relaxed.’

  ‘You might be calm, but you’re still sinking.’

  ‘Yes, but it buys you more time for help to arrive. Blast!’ She abandoned her final salmon rosette, laying it to rest in a little orange heap.

  Bernard clanked out the remaining ice cube and refilled the tray with water, along with the other empty tray beneath it. For Bernard, ice-cube trays were like toilet paper in determining a person’s character. There were those who chose to leave the empty roll on the holder, in total disregard for whomever might use the toilet after them, just as there were those who used the last ice cubes then tossed the empty container back into the freezer. He took a certain pride in being both a toilet roll reloader and an ice-cube tray replenisher. ‘I had a visit from a reporter the other day. Apparently they found out about my car crash.’

  Mia was busy chopping dill.

  ‘They want to make a story out of me fleeing the scene of an accident.’

  ‘Ahh.’ She laid her knife down, now feeling the conversation to be worthy of her full attention.

  ‘I think it was Lucas who dobbed me in.’

  ‘Lucas? Why?’

  ‘It had to be him; he was one of only about three people who even knew there was an accident.’

  ‘It wasn’t Lucas. We were just talking about you last night and wondering what we should get you for Christmas—as a gag. I told him you don’t like material possessions; you say you only bump into them. But Lucas was convinced he’d find you something really memorable.’

  ‘You two are Christmas shopping now?’

  ‘It’s not that far away.’

  ‘I mean that’s a pretty serious commitment for a couple that were on the rocks a week ago.’

  Mia shrugged and returned to her chopping.

  ‘No doubt he regrets it, but it’s too late now. The press have been informed, the bomb has been set, there’s no way of deactivating it.’

  ‘Such a drama queen.’

  ‘I need to talk to him. I need to find out what he said.’

  ‘He’s getting dressed. He’ll be out soon. Just don’t be prissy and cause a scene.’

  ‘You have quite the mean streak.’

  ‘You married me.’

  ‘He never envisaged himself on the receiving end.’ Jim, who was sitting at the table socialising with his phone, had a tendency to drop in on other people’s conversations, sometimes taking part in three or four discussions at once, regardless if any of the exchanges involved him. He was proud of his eavesdropping abilities and his sonar hearing had become the stuff of legend, no thanks to Jim’s bragging about it. ‘You’re a hypocrite, Madam Hostess,’ he called.

  Mia, whose hearing was useless at best (according to her discretion), refrained from responding. She was busy deciding on the best way to arrange cheeses of varying shape and consistency.

  Bernard leant forward and peeled away a slice of prosciutto. ‘How was your retreat?’

  ‘I’d rather not go into details.’ Jim said, fossicking through a bowl of nuts in search of a cashew.

  ‘A good or bad would have sufficed.’

  ‘Good or bad? My, my, you do see the world in black and white, don’t you, Bernard?’

  Cherise arrived, her hair a triple-decker combination of black, auburn and platinum, and made a beeline for the kitchen in the hopeful expectation of being put to use. Mia denied her this sense of purpose, other than foisting a tiny quiche upon her with a request to eat up, before picking up a platter and ferrying it away.

  Bernard looked down at Cherise, who was nibbling on the baby quiche. He tapped a finger against his glass. ‘How are you enjoying your hairdressing?’

  Cherise appeared slightly stunned, as though she’d never considered the potential of enjoying her work. ‘It’s okay.’ She nodded tenderly at her quiche as though it had just whispered ‘I love you’. Her head bounced up. ‘Did you see the picture Lucas drew of Mia?’

  ‘No.’ Bernard waited to hear how adorable it was.

  ‘Well, he always draws these pictures of women with huge …’ She cupped her hands and juggled them beneath her breasts.

  ‘Boobs.’

  ‘Right, and these impossibly tiny waists. And they always have full lips and long hair and perfect legs.’

  ‘Sounds fine to me.’

  ‘And they’re always dressed in catsuits, or tight-fitting bodices or breastplates. But Mia doesn’t look like them at all. She’s just this big head with this tiny body.’

  ‘So it’s true to life?’

  Cherise slapped him lightly on his forearm. ‘Nasty.’

  ‘And what does Mia think about it?’ Bernard noticed Lucas listening in from the bedroom doorway. ‘She thinks she looks old.’

  ‘I don’t think it makes me look old—I think all the other pictures make him look ridiculous.’ Mia was glowering at them from the table.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ growled Lucas, taking a seat alongside her, ‘don’t start this again.’

  ‘Those two were gossiping about it.’

  ‘How do his men look?’ Bernard asked.

  Cherise sucked grease from her thumb. ‘Pretty normal.’

  ‘It’s only women he doesn’t view realistically,’ said Mia.

  Lucas stood. ‘I swear to god, I’ll leave if this begins again.’

  Mia lifted a shoulder and let it drop disdainfully.

  Whack. The table shook from the force of Jim’s fist upon it.

  ‘Sit the fuck down, everyone! This is my party—if anyone is going to storm out in a puss it will be me.’

  The hostess waited until Mark and Stewart had arrived and everyone had settled into desultory chatter before exclaiming, ‘Does anyone know a good lawyer?’

  Immediately all eyes were upon her.

  ‘It’s not for me. For Bernard.’

  Thrust into the limelight, Bernard told them, ‘I blame Patrick White.’

  ‘Oh, what’s he gone and done now?’ groaned Jim.

  ‘He’s dead,’ snapped Mia.

  Jim looked flabbergasted, he pointed at Bernard and widened his eyes.

  ‘I didn’t do it, if that’s what you’re wondering,’ Bernard informed him.

  Jim rolled his eyes. ‘Of course not, you’re gentle as a lamb.’

  ‘It’s Voss,’ Bernard continued. ‘I can’t seem to get through it.’

  ‘The publishers are baying for blood,’ Mia explained.

  ‘This is the one you’re recording, right?’ Lucas said. ‘
Is there anything we can do?’

  ‘I’ll testify for you,’ offered Cherise. ‘I’m happy to lie.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  ‘We’ve got a great lawyer. What’s her name, Stewart? The one we used for the planning dispute.’

  ‘Nancy, or Darcy, or was it Linley? Something like that.’

  ‘Sounds like a teenage super sleuth.’

  ‘You better believe it,’ Mark said, ‘she solved all our problems with the local council—what the hell was her name?’

  ‘I’m not quite at the point of assembling a legal team. I just have to finish the fucking book.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’ asked Cherise.

  Bernard gritted his teeth. ‘Just can’t seem to manage it.’

  Mia, seeing her dinner party was back on the slide, said, ‘Has anyone seen that impotence ad? It makes me want to pull out my fingernails.’

  ‘I keep telling her to change channel,’ Lucas chipped in, ‘but she can never find the remote in time.’

  ‘I read somewhere that impotence was a sign of latent homosexuality,’ Stewart offered.

  ‘I hope not,’ Jim said, ‘We don’t want the impotent ones.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The next morning, Izzy watched two babyish programs to fill in time (in case her grandma liked to sleep in) before racing off to the Winnebago.

  Angela opened the door.

  ‘We’re thinking of going on an outing,’ Angela blabbed with infantile excitement.

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘With me?’

  ‘If you don’t mind tagging along with a couple of oldies.’

  ‘Definitely. Yes. Please. Yes.’

  ‘After I’ve checked in with your mum,’ Ruby sang out from the sink. She pulled the plug and peeled off her mint green gloves, not sure if it was the smell of wet rubber or the approaching reunion that turned her stomach.

  The meeting with Carol was sinister in its simplicity.

  The daughter received her estranged mother with a dispassionate stare. ‘You came.’ As though it had been five days and not five years since they last crossed paths.

  ‘Yes. I’m surprised Izzy didn’t tell you. We spent some time with her yesterday.’

  ‘She doesn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘We thought we might take her into town for the day. Have a bite to eat and whatnot—if you don’t mind.’

  Carol wound a strand of hair around her finger until it tugged on the skin of her temple. ‘Who’s we?’

  Ruby had to think for a moment. ‘Oh, Angela. My friend. My neighbour actually—my friend and neighbour. We’re staying here at the caravan park while our floors are being done. It’s a long story.’

  Carol leant against the doorway as if she wouldn’t mind hearing the details but Ruby was too frazzled to notice.

  ‘So, is it all right? If we take her. We shouldn’t be too long.’

  A treacherous look clouded Carol’s features. ‘Suit yourself.’

  Ruby turned to leave, feeling uncertain in victory. ‘I’ll see you later, then.’

  ‘Have a nice day,’ Carol singsonged.

  Ruby glanced over her shoulder as the door banged into place. She’d neglected to ask how her daughter was feeling.

  At Ye Olde Sweet Shop, Angela took Izzy by the hand in order to enlighten the eight-year-old on the many varieties of candy she recalled gobbling as a girl, almost matching the child in enthusiasm. They emerged bearing a near-to-full shopping bag. Ruby was uncertain who she should direct her sermon of moderation at. She settled on no sweets for anyone before lunch, pretending not to notice the hidden toffees swelling their cheeks.

  They ate lunch at the Lake’s Edge Hotel. The voluminous space had been built with hordes of 1920s holidaymakers in mind. Now, on a blustery Thursday, it felt starkly vacant. Izzy was oblivious to the venue’s inhospitality. Everything she laid eyes upon was declaimed as being top-notch, a phrase drummed into her by a car-yard commercial, which apparently sold top-notch cars at bottomed-out prices.

  Angela held the brief kids’ menu at arm’s length for the benefit of her long-sighted gaze. She wasn’t particularly hungry, having filled up on jersey caramels and liquorice bullets. ‘I’m going to order the Tiddlywinks nuggets and chips,’ she announced, giving Izzy a nudge. ‘Pretend that it’s for you.’

  Izzy looked to Ruby to see if this arrangement met with her approval.

  Ruby, flattered at being so deferred to, shrugged. ‘Order what you like.’

  ‘Do they have spaghetti bolognaise? I remember you cooked it for me once when I was little.’

  ‘You can’t have been more than three.’

  ‘It was yummy.’

  Dumbfounded, Ruby argued the point. ‘You couldn’t possibly remember—’

  ‘I can! I remember exactly.’

  ‘I had my first memory at around three,’ Angela intervened. ‘I tried cuddling a cat and it bit my cheek. My mother said, “That’ll teach you not to foist your affections on others.”’

  ‘Nasty,’ Ruby responded, doubting the anecdote’s veracity.

  ‘I hope you gave that cat a kick,’ Izzy said in solidarity.

  When lunch was finished, Ruby ripped a napkin from the dispenser to wipe spaghetti sauce from Izzy’s mouth. ‘You should visit the bathroom.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘You’ve had two raspberry lemonades. You’ll burst a button on your jeans.’

  Angela was already on her feet, impatient, studying a sepia lakeside view hanging above the unlit fireplace, rotating her face from the frame to the plate-glass windows, trying to determine where exactly the photo had been taken.

  Izzy walked at a snail’s pace, lining up one small sneaker in front of the other, staring intensely at the purple carpet beneath her feet.

  Ruby urged her to get a wriggle on.

  Slowly, she lifted her head. ‘I don’t want to go. I don’t want it to be over.’

  Ruby took her wallet from her handbag and tucked the bag up snugly into her armpit. ‘If you’re quick, we can find something else to do.’

  Izzy emitted a cartoonish squeal and bolted away across the restaurant.

  A taxi dropped the daytrippers off just after five.

  Once inside the van, Ruby kicked off her shoes and lamented that the kettle couldn’t boil itself. Izzy offered to do it, excited by the prospect of making herself at home in the Winnebago’s kitchen. She was careful to wipe up the spilled hot water and return the cloth to its rack beneath the sink. Ruby sipped her tea and pronounced it perfect. Izzy swelled with pride. Angela would have preferred hers a little stronger but refrained from commenting.

  They were in the middle of playing Trouble, which they’d purchased after lunch, when the van’s door opened.

  Carol stepped in, locking eyes with Izzy. ‘Get up.’ She turned her attention to Ruby. ‘Did I say you could have her all day?’

  Ruby hastened to placate her daughter. Carol was right—they shouldn’t have stayed away so long. She tried to coax her into joining them for a cuppa, but Carol refused to be mollified. She barked at Izzy to get moving. When her daughter was too slow in responding, she grabbed her by her jumper and jostled her to her feet.

  Ruby urged Carol not to overreact. They’d stopped to do a bit of last-minute shopping. She shouldn’t take it out on Izzy.

  ‘I’m not taking it out on anybody!’ Carol screeched in outrage. ‘This was a bad idea. I never should have contacted you.’ She thrust Izzy, dumb with distress, down the stairs, spitting back over her shoulder, ‘You didn’t even ask me how I was!’

  Ruby rose to stand in the doorway. ‘Please don’t do this …’ She watched helplessly as Carol marched her stumbling hostage across the caravan park. Even after disappearing around a corner, the sound of Izzy’s sobs rang out in the smoky evening.

  Angela sat with her head resting in her palms, red fingertips splayed across her face. The pleasure had been sucked from the da
y. She removed her hands and her eyes were dark with anguish, the murky blue-black of mood stones. ‘Your daughter,’ she croaked, ‘is a madwoman. Why did she even have a kid? Someone should have told her a baby’s for life not just for Christmas.’

  Ruby mentioned that the saying referred to dogs, but agreed the sentiment applied just as well, if not more pertinently, for children. ‘She just needs to calm down. I’ll talk to her in the morning.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Neil slipped his headphones over his ears and raised a thumb. Bernard looked blankly at his inky outline. He bent to mutter into the microphone, ‘I’ve left the bloody book behind.’ Neil held up a finger and disappeared, reappearing with his own dog-eared copy of the novel (purchased from a bookseller’s bargain bin). He’d taken to mouthing the words along with Bernard as he read.

  Bernard nursed the novel in his palms, trying to alleviate the familiar drag of nausea. He stared at the printed characters crawling over the page, demanding to be named. His mind was empty; he’d forgotten how to read. All those years reciting aloud as his father peeled potatoes or ironed grey school shirts; the static-haired teachers and their impatient index fingers tapping the page; his aching bottom as he sat in bed reading science fiction and fantasy novels; soft copies of Camus held aloft, to impress other commuters with his intellectualism—all such endeavours had been erased in one magnetic swipe. He shook his head, signalling defeat.

  Neil peered back at him tragically through the glass. ‘Nothing? he mouthed, and then switched on the speaker. ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Not today.’ Bernard heard the static click of the microphone being turned off again.

  Out on the street, Neil apologised for having spoken to Eucalypt Press. ‘I tried to sound upbeat, put a positive spin on things.’

  ‘Pos-et-ev—it’s definitely a Commonwealth accent. Tasmania?’

  ‘Getting closer.’

  Bernard gazed at the baby on Neil’s T-shirt, floating in a swimming pool behind a hundred dollar bill. ‘One day that kid’s gonna grab that money and surprise everybody.’

  Neil consented to laughter for the second time in their acquaintance. Over his shoulder Bernard noticed a pack of skinny youths dragging their feet along the footpath. They all sported Warhol-yellow hair, sticking out from their scalps in sad little tufts. Before Bernard could issue a warning, the waxen-skinned posse had encircled them. Beneath the odour of cigarettes, the group exuded a rancid scent like suppurating wounds.