Falling into Place

by Pamela Mc Casker

  “Bonnie’s bloody marvellous,” Maureen says, licking her lips. “I’ve half a mind to poach her in part payment for your land.”

  “Never,” Cyn says, but crossing towards the room bells, she wonders how it would feel to have a full-time husband. “Depends on the price,” she says, feeling like a slave-trader.

  Eventually, Bonnie bustles in with the tea, which she places dead centre on the Napoleonic.

  She goes about her work all blank-faced determination; she’s impeccable but graceless. She resents Cyn when she imposes on her good nature.

  Cyn can see she’s been sleeping on her left side, as a fold pressed into the skin hasn’t sprung back with its normal elasticity.

  No. She could never ‘sell’ Bonnie. She likes to watch her, knowing all that binds them while tearing them apart. ‘Cleave’ is a wonderfully ambiguous word! Cynthia’s married to Bonnie and Hal. The bad part of Cyn wants all she stands for gone – her worse part wants to keep Bonnie around so she can watch her wanting him.

  “Is that all, Ma’am?” Bonnie says, mock-curtseying, and laying it on thick.

  “Yes, dear. I’ll do the washing up.”

  She gives Cyn an incredulous glare and hobbles out in Cyn’s old Cuban heels as if negotiating a carpet of up-ended penknives. The dog exits too.

  “You know, Maureen,” Cyn says, nibbling carefully on a biscuit. “Bonnie avenges herself on us by making the biscuits so irresistible, but so tough she’ll live to see our teeth fall out.”

  “No!”

  “Never underestimate…”

  “…anyone’s propensity for malice?” says Maureen, finishing Cyn’s sentence.

  “My hugest wish until recently was for no marriage between either son and Claire. Now, my greatest fear is that she’ll stay unmarried. The thought of it turns my blood to ice. When Thelma visits she might take Claire with her. I need coaching in getting along with a woman from the lower middle classes. She’ll wear ‘slacks’, no doubt. I’d better be at my charming egalitarian best, so Claire isn’t tempted to head back to Wang and fall into an irrigation canal…or is that in Shepparton?”

  Chapter 58

  Stew Again

  The day after the Maccas’ luncheon, Cynthia reminds GwenLen they are expected for Sunday lunch as usual. “What? Parties on two consecutive days?” Hal had asked. “Are we opening a restaurant?”

  “No, we’re eating up the rabbit stew that Maureen and Beppe weren’t keen to eat yesterday,” he’d been informed.

  “So,” says Cynthia, carrying in the tureen. “Voila! Bonnie’s lapins aux fines herbes. Cooked them earlier. She’s gone on strike.”

  “Wow! Bonnie’s bunnies!” Alex says. “Didn’t she cook them for yesterday’s lunch; the lunch our new friends were invited to?”

  Cynthia sighs. “Yes, Alex our meal was interrupted.”

  “No wonder Bonnie’s tired. It’s a lot of entertaining to be doing.” Gwen’s curious to know more.

  “Yesterday’s lunch was more a business meeting. No one you’d know,” Cynthia lies. “And luckily, we saved some stew.”

  “Hal shot these?” Gwenda asks.

  “Yes,” says Cyn. “Always pot the pair,” she says. “Or its mate pines.” She shoots Claire a look.

  “Would couples rather boil together or survive alone?” asks Alex, his expression neutral.

  “Hopefully, these didn’t know their deaths were imminent,” says Len. “I read in ‘The Age’…”

  “Yes,” says Hal. “I read that article, too. Fear alters molecular structure; toughens muscle tissue.”

  “Once a microbiologist…” says Len.

  “No, Len. Hal was an engineer,” says Gwen.

  “I obtained qualifications in both areas,” says Hal. “Couldn’t decide…”

  “You still can’t,” says Cynthia, cryptically.

  “Such diverse qualifications!” says Len. “No wonder your clever sons cover all bases.”

  “Yes, we’re the ‘drainage boys’,” says Alex, which comment earns him a glare from his mother.

  “Of course, you, Alex, are the practical one. Nothing wrong with that,” Len says, as if there actually were something wrong.

  “I’ll give Cyn a hand with the trolley.” Hal gets up to help.

  “Boys of such diverse talents…” Len’s words tail off.

  “Without you we’d be down the drain,” says Gwen referring to Alex’s plumbing skills.

  “Ha! Good one, love,” says Len, relieved at Gwenda’s tactful intervention.

  “So, Len, are you moving down here permanently?” Alex always struggles with GwenLen. It’s not that he dislikes them. They just don’t hit it off. If only he can find a neutral topic he may yet survive this ordeal, he thinks.

  Awaiting Len’s response, Alex examines the pepper mill as if guessing how many peppercorns it held.

  “We’re moving down soon. We planned on gardening today,” Gwen says. “But Cynthia called. We came.”

  “So, you’re soliciting?” Alex makes the word sound sleazy.

  “Yes!” Len beams fulsomely, unaware he’s being sent up.

  A rattling trolley heralds Hal’s arrival with the serving dishes.

  “Home is the hunter replete with his bounty,” says Len.

  “Bit on the scrawny side. The drought…”

  “You’ll fill out, Hal. Haha!”

  “…but thanks to Bonnie’s marinades, their flesh has been plumped up. A slow Aga does the rest,” he adds.

  Bertie arrives bearing tureens of vegetables. He sets them on the sideboard. Stands awkwardly, his hands behind his back.

  “I can’t get my oven running slow.” Gwen fans her face with a napkin.

  “Don’t go on about the climacteric, dearie,” says Len.

  “Now, Len,” says Cynthia warningly. “Bertie, pass the greens around, please.” He obeys as if serving poison.

  “So, what’s Bonnie’s secret?” Gwen persists.

  “She stokes the Aga up to billy-oh, then starves it of fuel and lets it stew in its own juice,” says Cyn. She passes a laden plate to Gwenda.

  The conversation dwindles. Intermittently, Len shouts, “Compliments to the chef!”

  “Splendid! Why buy lamb fillet, Gwenda, when a wittle bunny wabbit tastes so good?”

  “If you want wabbit, Len, impwove your aim,” says Gwenda tartly.

  “Claire,” Hal says. “Clive phoned. He’ll be down soon. Not to see his old dad, I suspect.”

  “Oh,” Claire studies her fork as if its prongs represented the choices facing her. All four tines run in parallel. Originating millimetres apart, they end right where they’d promised starting out.

  It’s lucky the twins aren’t quadruplets or she might have wanted all four of them, she thinks, smiling a secret smile. Can one ever choose the wrong prong? Oops! Her subconscious mind’s behaving badly. Surely, a fork’s just a fork and not a metaphor?

  Despite her anguish, Claire’s mouth twitches at the lewdness she is capable of. Perhaps the tines are telling her life’s forking routes only appear to offer a choice – that all roads lead home. She runs her fingers across the tines before setting down the fork.

  She realises Hal’s still awaiting her response. “Great,” she says. Her lie turns sour in her mouth. “But Mum’s visiting next week…”

  “We’ve plenty of spare bedrooms. Enough room for Mary too. Claire’s little friend is out with her love interest from next door,” Cyn says. “But Claire, aren’t you pleased about Clive’s visit?” Cynthia, rises from the table to hand around the tureens since Bertie appears paralysed.

  “I didn’t sleep well. Itchy cast,” Claire admits.

  “Abominable,” says Cynthia checking to see if she’s engaged the guests’ attention. GwenLen won’t meet her gaze. Hal reddens. Alex glares. “Nothing worse than an itch you can’t scratch, is there? The more one thinks, the itchier it gets. We’ll add scratching to Alex’s chores…”

  “Ma!” says Alex.

/>   Claire studies her placemat depicting Bradman hitting a six at Lords. She loathes Bradman.

  “Glad the storm’s blown over. We’ve enough wood for now,” says Hal, gruffly.

  “Yes,” Alex raises his glass. “To our land and its fecundity.” They clink. Claire sips her water.

  “And to Alex, who got the fires ablaze,” says Hal. “Chased our damp away. Saved us a fortune.”

  The Waterford crystal chimes prettily.

  “Yes, and here’s to dear Claire, despite her being peaky from lack of sleep,” says Cynthia.

  Claire’s cheeks redden as though slapped. She traces a paisley swirl on the tablecloth.

  “I’ll fetch dessert, dear,” Hal says. “Ah, here’s Bonnie back on deck and with banana fritters.” Bonnie isn’t smiling. Hal takes the fritters, serves them up on Wedgewood plates.

  Bonnie departs in silence.

  “Do sit with us, Bertie. Have a fritter,” says Cyn. “We’ll have you moving in with us next.”

  Bertie looks stricken. He eases into a spare place looking like he’s on Death Row.

  “Didn’t say grace,” says Cyn. “I’ll say it now. We’ve much to be thankful for. There’s Claire, the men adore her.” Heads bow while Cynthia blesses her harmonious family, the laden table.

  Claire nudges Alex. Cynthia knows, she mouths. He nods wryly.

  “I hate bananas,” says Cyn. “Luckily, there’s rhubarb for me.”

  Alex, wracked by a convulsion, sprays breadcrumbs on the tablecloth. “We didn’t thank God for rhubarb.” Alex wipes his eyes. “Sorry, I’ve a cold. Why do you hate bananas, Mama?”

  “They’re phallic symbols. They remind me of that commune, Alex.” Cyn turns to her guests. “We almost lost him to a cult. All hippies, wet alpaca, and tie-dye. Ate bananas in their curry! Too indolent to cultivate root vegetables. In and out of each other’s shacks all day.”

  “No loans, no overdrafts,” says Alex.

  “Here in Warrnambool, with herbaceous borders, people know where they stand.”

  “Have a drop of wine dear, you’re getting all worked up,” Hal says.

  “No! Their Ugg boots stank to billy-ho. Beanbags. Psycho-babbling morons. Yogis.”

  “Without progress we’d best crawl into our caves and die. Agreed?” No one argues.

  Cynthia glares at Alex. “I blame tie-dye for the state of the economy. Once you don’t need Myer for a nice little suit for church, you don’t need work, and without a job you’re adrift.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having fewer bills to pay,” Hal says quietly.

  Chapter 59

  Meeting

  Hal and Beppe are barbequing on the Maccas’ expansive terrace.

  Gwen whispers in her friend’s ear, “I’ve a juicy morsel, Mau. You’ll be discreet?”

  Maureen nods. “Of course, Gwenda.”

  “Well, the other day, after lunch at the Sins…”

  “But Beppe and I were at lunch with the Sins, not you,” says Maureen.

  “Not on Sunday, you weren’t,” says Gwenda, frowning.

  “No, it was Saturday.” Maureen says, eyeing Gwenda with suspicion.

  “They didn’t mention it. Anyway, on Sunday, we were shepherded into the study,” says Gwen.

  “Earlier, Bonnie had been resting but she volunteered to bring coffee to the study.”

  "‘Bonnie, dear. Pour and go,’ Cynthia said. But hurrying, Bonnie brushed against the urn. ‘Christ!’ she said. ’Ecks queues em wah, madame, je suis blesse,’ she’d cradled her arm in agony.

  “‘Then I’ll pour,’ Cyn said. ‘I’m hardly incapacitated.’”

  “What a bitch!” says Maureen.

  “I know but Cynthia has a good side.”

  “Well, her bad side is expanding, in my mind,” says Maureen.

  “But you hardly know her, Mau.”

  “I got to know her rather well on Saturday, we’d been invited to discuss a business deal.”

  “She always consults Len about her deals,” Gwen replies, in a whiny voice, her neck reddening.

  “Just kite flying,” Maureen says, playing down its significance.

  But Gwen is downcast; it’s one thing to criticise your friends, another to be dumped by them.

  Maureen sensing her hurt, clams up. “And Bonnie?” she asks, getting them back on track.

  “‘I’ll manage,’ Bonnie said, bending to place some Blue Vein cheese on the coffee table. She rarely gets into a lather when hurried. But I think she suspected someone was out to dud the twins – so even exhausted, she came to ‘help’. Bonnie and Cyn bicker a lot, but ultimately Bonnie backs down.”

  “Fears for her job, I’d say.”

  "‘Don’t bob up and down, dear,’ Cynthia stage-whispered. ‘Gwen and Len are democratic people. Be good, or I’ll buy you a mobcap and pinny!’

  “‘Yes, m’lady,’ she said, bowing even more servilely. ‘How do I reach that dinky coffee table without bending, me being five eight? Should get m’ legs shrunk?’”

  “Priceless,” says Maureen.

  “But Cynthia only smiled. ‘You’re a tease, Bonnie. Now go.’”

  "Afterwards a silence fell, only broken by Hal slurping his tea and swivelling his old desk chair while the Venetians flickered and thrashed in the breeze. Cynthia rose, adjusted the blinds, then slammed the window shut. The next minute stretched forever.

  "When satisfied with her theatrics, Cynthia cleared her throat. ‘We’ve a crisis,’ she said.

  “I leaned forward to indicate concern. ‘Anyone unwell, Cyn?’ I asked.”

  Maureen, slaps her knee. “You’re an excellent storyteller, Gwen.”

  “‘No, dear,’ Cyn replied. Her hand went up to check her pearls were centred. ‘Our physical health is robust. I’ll plunge in without delay.’”

  "‘Hallelujah!’ said Hal.

  "‘Claire is pregnant. She wants her “Mum”.’

  "‘You’re to be grandparents. Congratulations.’ said Len.

  "Cynthia firmed her mouth to express contempt. ‘Some shotgun weddings can tear families apart. Claire has been unfaithful, and although the child is definitely Clive’s,’ said Cynthia, ‘the gel’s “Mum” may persuade her to abort.’

  “‘Wish you’d told me all this earlier,’” said Hal, standing and going over to adjust the blinds.

  "Cynthia glared at Hal. ‘You’d have botched things up. Claire’s led a sheltered life, but,’ Cyn waves her wrist as if repelling flies, ‘it seems she’s making up for lost time. How lucky we were, Gwenda, not to have been born in such permissive times as these.’

  "‘Even in our day opportunities to make a fool of oneself existed if one jumped at them,’ said Hal, earning himself a black look.

  "‘Goodness, fancy having all that choice,’ I said.

  "Len, thinking I was envious, glared. ‘Hard for you, my petit choux,’ he said, ’to be stuck with me.’

  "He pushed off with his feet against the metal filing cabinet; the oak swivel chair wheeled away from Cynthia and me, circling through 360 degrees, stopping only when he ended up face to face with Hal, at whom he stared all comradely.

  "‘Lucky weren’t we, Hal? Our good lady wives might have bedded myriad lords and princes had they not been forced to settle for us.’

  "Hal nodded grimly.

  "‘Don’t get huffy, dear,’ I said, to placate Len. ‘I’d have chosen you from hundreds anyway.’

  "‘Anyway? Despite my multitudinous disadvantages?’ said Len. Turning back to Hal, he asked ‘What does Claire want?’

  "‘It’s a matter of what we want Claire to want,’ said Cynthia.

  "‘And what might that be, Cynthia?’ Hal asked.

  "‘We want Claire right here and doing right by Clive, of course,’ said Cynthia.

  "‘But what if they’re unhappy married?’ said Hal.

  "‘Do we all have to be happy? We just got on with it,’ said Cyn.

  “‘Marrying the wrong person can ruin one’s life,’ Hal said
. At this point Cyn shot him a look of pure venom.”

  “What was that about?” asks Maureen.

  Gwenda shrugs.

  "‘Claire might marry her fellow fornicator just to be awkward!’ said Len wisely.

  “‘If she won’t marry Clive, we’ll…make it worth her while. We’ve money organised,’ said Cyn.”

  “Though who’d lend money to the Sins?” Gwen asks Maureen.

  “Who knows?” says Maureen, neutrally.

  "‘Anyhow, this meeting is about our sons,’ Cynthia pronounced the word ‘sons’ forcefully.

  “‘Sons, plural?’ I asked, gamely, so Cyn would spell it out – we’d got wind of some rivalry but…”

  “Gosh! Not incest!” The unshakeable Maureen’s shocked.

  "‘The thing is, Claire loves Alex. Thinks she does,’ said Cyn.

  "‘A ménage a trois!’ said Len, eyes popping. He swivelled away from Hal, back towards Cynthia and re-crossed his legs.

  "‘Stop it. You, silly tops!’ said Cyn. ‘No ménage! She fell in love with each twin, separately.’

  "‘We saw Claire and Alex in the ute. Like teenagers with their braces stuck,’ I said.

  "‘Anyway, the gel’s 25% in love with Clive, 35% with Alex, while leaving 40% of her capacity free to bestow on whomsoever, she chooses.’

  "‘Clive’s not going to like it – Alex looking after her that well,’ said Hal swivelling. Then he straightened up, as if Claire might fancy him if only his posture improved.

  "‘What a shemozzle!’ Len said.

  "‘Remember, this shemozzle’s familial links go back to the Middle Ages,’ said Cyn.

  "‘Well, my forebears go back to Adam and Eve unless a chimp mutated into human form in 1840, when our genealogy records dwindle,’ said Len.

  "‘Ooh! That’d explain a lot,’ I said, to lighten the proceedings.

  "‘So, the Sins were created on day seven?’ asked Len, his mouth quirking oddly.

  "‘No, just the concept of sin itself,’ said Hal.

  "‘Stop making us the stuff of comedy. Clive will be hurt. And Alex. It’s taken an age to bring them together since their troubles. Clive wishes he were Alex; Alex envies Clive’s success.’

  "Cyn sounded genuinely sad. I felt for her, Maureen. I patted her shoulder.