The Grand Tour

by Olivia Wearne

  Bernard nodded and kept his peace. Anything he said could be used against him in tittle-tattle court.

  ‘I couldn’t bear it—meeting his mother—today of all days. It would only upset her, having her son turn up with his crippled old lover.’

  Bernard quailed at the word ‘lover’. He watched a large crow land on a fencepost outside, its ark clearly audible through the glass. Another two crows swooped out of the grey to take possession of their own posts. He felt the cane’s rubber stopper tapping against his knee.

  ‘God, I hate those pants.’

  ‘But you love that walking stick.’

  She smirked. ‘I do. I really do. So why aren’t you with Terri?’

  ‘I felt it was a little premature to be spending Christmas together.’

  ‘It was good of her to stick around. She must have thought it was touch and go for a while there.’

  Bernard had taken Mia into his home upon her release from hospital. For eleven days he’d done nothing but minister to her every whim—and relished every minute of it. When she was irrational, he was patient. When she was self-pitying, he was compassionate. It was the best version of himself he’d ever known, even if Mia didn’t appreciate it. Terri had called each evening on the pretence of checking in—checking up on him, Mia insinuated. Lucas never called once. On the twelfth day the scoundrel appeared on their doorstep. Bernard ushered him gruffly into the living room where Mia had taken up residence on the Chesterfield. He left them to it, shutting the door behind him, certain he’d be able to hear the fireworks from the hallway. Lucas did most of the talking. It surprised Bernard that Mia would even deign to listen.

  He began to worry. After another few minutes of Lucas’s muffled cadence he opened the door a crack. Lucas had his head in Mia’s lap. She was stroking his face as he sobbed his apologies.

  Later, Bernard helped his wife to pack. When they reached her apartment building she invited him up for a homecoming drink. He refused, needing to escape before his chest imploded. He watched through the glass entry door as Lucas ascended the deadly staircase carrying Mia in his arms.

  ‘Two peas in a pod.’ Mia rested her head on Bernard’s shoulder, jolting him back to the party.

  ‘You abandoned the pod.’ He took a step toward the door, turning back to help himself to a large measure of Scotch from the den’s liquor cabinet. ‘They’ll be starting to gossip.’ He checked the label: Glenfiddich, aged eighteen years, should have been a little more restrained. He left his glass of punch beside it—let that be a warning.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Izzy glanced back over her shoulder. Her grandma was watching her through the windscreen, hunched over the steering wheel, clenching it like a racing car driver. Izzy took a hand off the strap of her duffel bag, which was biting into her shoulder, and lifted it in farewell. Ruby lifted a hand in response, her mouth a little bit open, as though she might be crying.

  Izzy noticed the dead insects splattered across the waist-high sign beside the driveway. They were attracted to the cheesy glow thrown by the spotlights posted in the grass and dive-bombed the sign—so eager to get inside they couldn’t even manage to swerve. Her mum never once drove in or out of the park without muttering, ‘Happy campers, my arse.’

  Further along the drive, on one of the side paths that veered every which way around the campsite, Izzy saw a familiar shuffling figure. The person stopped to swipe at a pebble that had lodged itself between his foot and his thong. Izzy stopped too, unsure if she wanted to be seen or not. Her shoulder began burning from the weight of the duffel hanging off it. She used both hands to swing the bag across to her opposite shoulder. Trent glanced up, looking like a confused bulldog. He gave a whoop of jubilation and stumbled into an ungainly gallop, sweeping Izzy up into his arms, duffel bag and all.

  ‘Crap,’ he groaned, returning her to solid ground. ‘What are you carrying in there?’

  ‘Books mainly.’ As though she’d just popped down to the library.

  Trent kept a fraternal grip on Izzy’s shoulder, his doughy hand pinioning her to the here and now, to stop her from floating away. ‘Jesus, kiddo, it’s good to see you.’ He reached out to relieve her of her swag. Izzy resisted. ‘I don’t want your goddamn books,’ he growled.

  She accepted this was most likely true and relinquished the duffel bag, which she’d chosen from the luggage store against Ruby’s better judgement, explaining how she liked the hobo look of it.

  The pair of them fell into step.

  ‘Where’s your gran?’

  ‘In the Winnebago.’

  Trent chortled. ‘Staying out of the firing line, huh?’

  A kookaburra emitted a jeering laugh from a distant vantage point. Izzy stopped to try and locate its fluffy brown-and-white body within the silvery treetops. Trent crouched down to point it out to her. When they set off again, Izzy slid her hand into the open envelope of his palm.

  Her mum was sitting outside the cabin in Trent’s old corduroy armchair. She stood up as soon as she caught sight of them. A blanket dropped from her shoulders, as if she’d spent all night there.

  ‘Merry Christmas, my darling.’

  Like metal shavings to a magnet, Izzy was sucked into her mother’s outstretched arms. She hooked herself around her body, encircling her waist with her legs. ‘Octopus cuddle,’ she cried, furling her chin around her mum’s neck.

  ‘I missed you, my girl. God, I missed you.’

  Izzy nuzzled her forehead into her mum’s shoulder, relishing the words. ‘How’s your hand?’

  ‘My what?’

  She tickled her mum’s shoulder with her dry lips. ‘Is your hand okay?’

  ‘My hand? Oh, Izzy, as if I give a damn!’ She pressed her daughter in closer, forcing their ribs together.

  Izzy turned her head to take in air. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ran away.’

  ‘You don’t have to be sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be mad.’

  A twitch of irritation. ‘I’m not mad.’

  ‘Promise?’

  Her mum squeezed her harder still. ‘I’m not mad, Izzy. I promise. I’ll try and not be mad anymore.’

  ‘I love you, Mum.’

  ‘I love you too, Iz.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, sweetie?’

  ‘You’re kinda hurting me.’

  Izzy was an island rising from a choppy sea of red and green capped with Seasons Greetings in white cursive. She unwrapped a Barbie doll, holding it up for her mum’s benefit. There had obviously been some mistake. Izzy wasn’t allowed Barbies because her mum said they were poor role models.

  Her mum shrugged. ‘She’s a doctor. See? She’s got a white coat and a stethoscope.’

  ‘Barbie went to uni?’ Trent asked.

  ‘Brains and beauty.’ Her mum pushed the tip of her moccasin through a mess of wrapping paper. ‘There’s another gift in here with some clothes in it. She might be a career gal, but she’s still entitled to a social life.’

  Izzy plunged an arm into the wrapping and drew forth another parcel. Mirrored, expensive-looking paper. ‘To Carol from Trent.’ Izzy looked momentarily disappointed. ‘Can I have the wrapping when you’re done?’

  ‘Of course.’ Her mother carefully picked at the tape with her fingernail.

  ‘Ah, for Pete’s sake,’ Trent said. ‘Rip into it, Carol, Mum’s got rolls of it leftover.’

  ‘Not big into giving, is she?’

  ‘I had to wait till she was sleeping to steal that piece.’

  Beneath the foil was a Marsupials CD. ‘Hot off the press,’ Trent bragged.

  ‘Last of the big spenders,’ her mum said, poking out her tongue.

  ‘I found another one,’ Izzy cried, holding aloft a package.

  ‘Like diving for abalone,’ Trent said.

  ‘To Izzy from Trent,’ she hollered, and tore through the cheap paper. Izzy flashed the two boxes. ‘It’s Barbie’s evening gown. And her tracksuit.’

  ‘It’s what all
the dolls are wearing this season,’ Trent joked.

  ‘Right—gym wear.’ Her mother laughed. She looked up and the light drained from her expression. ‘Mum?’

  Ruby stood in the cabin’s doorway, afraid to cross the hearth. ‘Sorry to intrude. I wanted to apologise. I thought I should do it in person.’

  ‘So … apologise.’

  Ruby glanced at Trent, then Izzy, both gawping at her expectantly. ‘I did a terrible thing. I should have brought Izzy home the moment I found her. I was too weak to face you.’ Realising she still was, she dragged her gaze away from a row of wood panelling and fixed it on her daughter. ‘I remembered when I was a mother, how relieved I was to have my parents take care of you. How inept I felt. How overwhelmed. I thought—some stupid, blind, selfish, part of me thought that you felt the same, especially when I saw you on TV, that terrible footage …’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ Carol warned.

  ‘No. No. I’m not blaming you. I drove you to that. I meant, I just thought, perhaps you needed the break, some time apart …’ She pressed her hand to her temple. ‘I’m making things worse, aren’t I?’

  ‘I never wanted to get rid of Izzy.’

  ‘No. Of course not, that’s just it. I see that now. You’re so much better than I was. You’re so much more capable.’

  ‘Oh, give it a rest, Mum. I’m just as bad as you were.’ Carol lifted a finger and sliced the air. ‘But I never wanted to get rid of my girl. I never handballed her to anybody.’

  ‘Except Mrs Bronson,’ Izzy said.

  ‘Shut up, Iz.’

  ‘Carol.’

  ‘Mum—’

  ‘Should I leave?’ Trent asked.

  ‘No,’ Carol snapped.

  ‘It’s all right, Trent. I’ve said what I came to say. I truly am sorry, Carol—for everything. Right back to the beginning.’ She held onto the flimsy doorframe, steadying herself as she turned her leaden body to go.

  ‘You may as well stay.’

  Ruby paused, holding her breath.

  ‘I mean, it’s Christmas, isn’t it? We’re supposed to be together.’

  Ruby looked back at her daughter. Carol wound a thin strand of gold ribbon around her finger, pulling it tight. All the things Ruby wanted to say were bricked up inside her. She levelled her gaze at Izzy, who sent her a tentative smile, narrowing her brows.

  ‘I’ve come empty-handed.’

  ‘There’s a convenience store open two blocks away.’

  ‘Trent,’ Carol shushed. ‘It’s okay, Mum.’ She gave a crooked grin, revealing the dimple Ruby hadn’t seen in years. ‘I’ll accept a cheque.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  By the time lunch appeared, all the porn stars lazing on the sunken lounge were properly plastered.

  The guests followed Stewart and his seafood platter out through the glass doors and onto the deck. It took no longer than two minutes of acute solar radiation for the parade to pivot and return inside. While Stewart and Mark squabbled over who was to blame for the shade oversight, their guests pushed past, ferrying their dining chairs indoors. Bernard and Lucas dragged the twelve-seater table back into the house. They found everyone seated in the round, as though at an imaginary banquet. ‘One of you eager beavers will have to make some room,’ Bernard hollered. ‘We’re not about to levitate this thing in over the top of you.’

  Cherise and the blue suit (Peter, if Bernard recalled) obliging pulled back their chairs and helped heft the table into its final resting place.

  Stewart’s seafood starters led into Mark’s entree: a pork and veal terrine with home-baked bread. Bernard wondered if they might be asked to fill out scorecards at the end.

  Suddenly Stewart leapt from his chair. ‘We’ve forgotten the hats.’ He dashed from the room and returned a minute later bearing a stack of glittery top hats and pink medieval princess caps complete with whispy veils. Cherise squealed in delight. Mia and Jim immediately swapped so that Mia donned a silver top hat and Jim the pink ice-cream cone. Carl and Angela were entirely nonplussed to find themselves strapped into garish costume pieces. Angela kept swatting at the pink gauze, as though it were a fly that had taken a fancy to her.

  Later, Mark tended to the barbecue and Mia suggested they use the time to open presents—‘That is, if Mark doesn’t mind missing out.’

  Stewart assured her Mark wouldn’t care. ‘I’m the materialistic Diva in the relationship.’

  The party regrouped on the sunken lounge. Carl removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘What the heck are they up to?’

  Bernard gazed down at the ancient amoeba. ‘It’s time to open the presents.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, we’re old people, haven’t we picked up enough crap throughout our lives?’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Angela said, seated on Bernard’s left.

  ‘Other than the old people bit,’ said Bernard.

  ‘You growing backward, are you?’ his sister retorted. ‘Last time I saw you, you were middle-aged, and lord knows that was yonks ago.’

  ‘Are we going to do this now, are we?’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me when you and Mia separated?’

  ‘Because you weren’t speaking to me.’ Seeing her mouth open to retaliate, he exclaimed, ‘Texting is not speaking! It’s barely communicating. You text someone to say you’re running late. Only Stephen Hawkins could legitimately use texting as a form of discourse.’

  ‘You know we’re each other’s only family.’ Angela’s chin began to tremble. ‘I think we should make more of an effort.’

  Bernard unfolded a wing and drew his sister into him. ‘You’re right. Angie.’

  ‘Angie—no one’s called me that since Patrick.’ She giggled with misplaced emotion. ‘God, I hate that name.’

  ‘I’m truly sorry I wasn’t there for you.’

  ‘I know … Oh, loooord.’ Angela pressed her fingertips to the apex of her nose. ‘The floodgates are gonna open.’ She spoke brusquely to herself, ‘Remember you’re in public. Keep a stiff upper lip.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry—this isn’t your usual cross-section of the general public.’.

  ‘Still, now’s not the time—it’s supposed to be a happy day.’

  ‘Not according to Mia. Didn’t you read the manifesto?’ He saluted his wife, rolling her hands at them from across the floor to give them the wind up.

  ‘You know I still haven’t cried for him yet, not properly.’

  ‘I’d be happy to provide a shoulder. How about I come round next week?’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Angela clasped his knee like a gearstick. ‘Be sure and wear something waterproof.’

  Mia was ogling them, leery of their intimacy. ‘It’s pressie time—you can do your bonding later.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Jim quipped. ‘Bondage is scheduled for after dessert.’

  Mia and Cherise put themselves in charge of distributing the gifts, reading the cards aloud like celebrities at a telethon calling out donations. Bernard was thankful he’d only bothered to write the name of the recipient and a fleeting From Bernard, rather than any expression of sentiment now being made public. Mia practically purred Peter’s endearment to Cherise, one eye cocked on Lucas as though to say: If he could manage it, why not you? Bernard recoiled from the drooling newborn look the hairdresser bestowed upon her beau as the love note was relayed. He was thankful for the vulgar sexual references Jim had sketched on his nativity cards; the humour only heightened by the perplexed manner in which Cherise tried to interpret each message, and the ribald explanations Jim shouted from his seat.

  ‘A simple case of bestiality, ma chérie!’

  Bernard received a Better Than Sex chocolate dildo from the cowboy; the accompanying card depicted him being gang-banged by the three wise men.

  Mia selected another package. ‘“To Lucas From Bernard”—you must have been up all night composing that.’

  Lucas tore the brown paper from his gift; a task made all the easier by Bernard’s shoddy wrapping.
He lifted the fly swatter high for everyone to see. ‘Anyone for badminton?’

  ‘And in the shape of Australia,’ Jim’s paunchy pal chortled.

  ‘Australia Day,’ Stewart groaned. ‘I completely forgot about that one.’

  ‘I would have bought one for you, Angela …’

  ‘I’m completely bereft,’ Angela sobbed.

  ‘You’re welcome to have mine.’ Mia gathered together the remaining swatter-shaped packages. ‘This was particularly cheap of you, Bernard.’

  ‘I liked it better when we used to steal from one another—what happened to that?’

  Mia thought for a moment. ‘I had to put a stop to it. I kept getting hounded through January by people asking for their stuff back.’

  The ceremony continued. Carl received three bottles of whisky in a row from Lucas and Mia, Mark and Stewart, and Cherise and Peter. ‘What sort of an alcoholic do they take me for?’

  ‘The expensive sort,’ Bernard reassured, reading the label on one.

  Jim swatted Bernard’s hand with his new fly swatter. ‘Put the booze down, Barkley. I won’t have you pulling a fast one on Rip Van Winkle.’

  Bernard stacked his gifts neatly on the coffee table in front of him: Jim’s erotic chocolate, a first edition of Bridget Jones’s Diary from Mia and Lucas, a Hits of the 80s 5-disc compilation care of Stewart and Mark, a set of walkie-talkies from Angela (‘So we can keep in touch’; she’d been briefed about the gag gifts), a sweet pea toiletries gift basket from Cherise, and a pack of highlighters from Carl. ‘You get two extra free,’ he pointed out.

  Bernard frowned. ‘I don’t know what to highlight with the first five, let alone the two extra.’

  ‘That’s been your problem,’ Carl said, ‘not enough highlights in your life.’

  ‘Time to swap,’ Jim cried, and immediately reached for Bernard’s dildo.

  The chaos that followed was something akin to closing time at the New York Stock Exchange. Presents were grabbed, then snatched, then argued over, as though any of it was actually worth having. The rumble of the sliding door interrupted the melee. The children dropped their loot and returned to the table as Mark began carting in the first of his barbecued dishes. Salads were shuffled aside to clear room for the meat: stuffed chicken breasts, a trussed pork roll, eye fillets, and homemade ćevapčići. Bernard paused briefly to tally the astronomical expense of this bevy of flesh. As part of their eco-religion, Mark and Stewart would only deign to purchase organic, hand-fed, lovingly nurtured, home-schooled, well-read and psychologically well-adjusted meat.