When their mother’s alert finally arrived, Fancy’s heart was playing thrashing rock.
But it went surprisingly smoothly.
There was nobody around; Marbie climbed her tree safely; the code worked; the apartment was empty and dark; and the List of Potential Lists was sitting safely on the dining room table, underneath some kind of legal assignment. Once she had folded the list into her handbag, Fancy was so relieved that she decided to do the Maintenance Work she had not completed on the last Intrusion.
“Sleep well,” said Marbie kindly, as she dropped Fancy back at home. “And have a nice, relaxing day tomorrow. Get an aromatherapy massage.”
But the next day, Friday, the last day of the school term, Fancy woke in such a state of jitters that she had to spend some time deep breathing. It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right, she chanted.
Her hands fluttered from her mouth to her elbows to her ears, and sometimes to nothing.
“Are you all right, Mum?” said Cassie, as Fancy drove her to school.
“Yes, darling, perfectly fine! Have a nice last day at school! Holidays tomorrow! Hooray!”
Cassie looked back at her suspiciously.
Driving home again, Fancy knew that she must take action against this hysteria. Otherwise, it would manifest itself in some physical way such as a heart attack or hives. She needed exercise—it was far too cold to go jogging, but she could go to her gym. Swimming, that was what she needed. The serenity of gliding through the water.
And how about that, it was Friday morning, and that man on the phone had told her that this was the quietest time for swimming. She would go home, gather her things, and drive directly to the gym.
The Canadian was standing on his porch.
“I haven’t seen you for a while!” she chatted as she reached her own front door. “I guess it’s been too cold for your breakfasts on the porch. I never got a chance to thank you for that delicious cake! Cassie loved it, by the way. I froze a couple of pieces for her, so she could take them to school as a special treat with her lunch.”
“Never too cold for me,” he said, “to eat breakfast on my porch. I’ve been away, is the explanation. And that is the nicest thing I’ve heard in a while, that Cassie took a piece of my maple cake to school as a special treat. Thank you.”
“Tell me,” said Fancy suddenly. “Now, a sugar maple leaf, that would be a Canadian sort of leaf, wouldn’t it?”
“They have sugar maples elsewhere as well,” said the Canadian formally. “But yes, the maple leaf is on our flag. So, you could say it’s Canadian.”
“Then tell me,” Fancy repeated, “would a teardrop ever look like a maple leaf?”
The Canadian considered this for a moment. “I would have to say,” he said slowly, “I would have to say, I’d choose a different sort of leaf if I wanted to describe a teardrop. I would choose a leaf with your more traditional leaf shape. Such as that eucalyptus leaf, right there. Now, I suppose that a teardrop might fall splat onto a page—say you were reading a book and having a little weep—a teardrop might fall splat, and the mark that it left on the page might, if you were lucky, resemble a sugar maple leaf. But otherwise, I would say no.”
Fancy felt a rush of love for the Canadian-next-door.
“Thank you,” she said, blushing, and walked into her house.
Driving to the swimming pool, Fancy felt calm and happy. She allowed herself to imagine that she had invited the Canadian along. And he had said, Swimming, I love to swim! And she had said, Me too! And he had run inside and returned with his swimsuit. Perhaps even wearing it! To prove that he was Canadian, and could get about bare-chested in such gray and icy weather. (It was close to zero degrees, the radio told her.) And then she had driven chattingly along, her bare hand on the gearshift, so close to his bare legs! And then, at the pool, there would be nobody else! Just the two of them! And he would shake his head in wonder at the grace of her stroke.
Fancy, unlike Marbie (who was a high-speed swimmer and could have been a champion but never got lessons), swam exceptionally slowly but with grace; so slowly that she tended to hold up even the slowest fellow swimmers if she had to share a lane. That was why she had called about the quietest times to swim.
Calmly, she entered the gym and explained that she wanted to use the swimming pool.
“Sorry,” said the man behind the counter—and it was the man with the rasping voice who had answered her call—“sorry,” he said, “the swimming pool’s closed for cleaning. Nine-thirty to eleven-thirty every Friday.”
“No,” said Fancy emphatically. “No, I phoned a few weeks ago, and I was told that this is the quietest time to swim.” She intended to stand her ground.
“That was you calling about the quietest pool times? What I said,” declared the man, with a leering grin, “was that the swimming pool is quietest at this time! Of course it is! There’s nobody there! They’re cleaning it!”
Fancy stared at him. That a person could play such a trick! She felt entitled to continue staring, with amazed, accusing eyes, for as long as she liked.
“I did explain,” he said defensively, “I did go on to explain why this was the quietest time. You mustn’t have heard me.”
“If the swimming pool is being cleaned now,” said Fancy with a proud swing of her head, “then I don’t imagine it’s all that quiet. I imagine the cleaning equipment makes quite a racket!”
She flounced out of the gym.
Behind the wheel again, Fancy felt so foolish that she had to cry a little. The rain was strange on her windshield: It seemed to land with an icy skid rather than a normal, sugar-maple-leaf-shaped splat.
She felt especially foolish at the idea that the Canadian might have been with her. How she would have wasted his time if she’d brought him along. She was cold with fear at the thought. Of course, he might have found her error adorable, and suggested a hot chocolate instead. The car skidded and slipped on the road, and some of her jitters returned.
Back in her own home, the day seemed endless. She tried phoning her mother, and they had a brief chat about whether to cancel the Zing Family Secret Meeting that night because of the weather. They decided they should cancel, so then her mother had to hang up to let the others know. Fancy wandered from room to room, picking up objects from the floor and then letting them slide back down in different places. She took books off shelves and replaced them, and flicked through the pages of photo albums. As she did this, she wept to herself: about the man at the gym with the awful voice; about how close she had been to getting caught at the last Intrusion; about how stupid she was to have left her phone bill behind when she got out! About her well-meaning husband, Radcliffe. (Look at him in this picture with his worried expression; and what if he got killed while driving home?) About her beautiful daughter, Cassie. (She was so little. Look at her here in her cozy red mittens!)
And all the time that sad little sentence played itself over in her head: How is your ocean bream, my love? How is your ocean bream?
Anything but this. Fancy jumped up from the living room floor, tripping over photo albums, and strode down the hall to the front door, throwing it open.
She stepped onto the porch and something whacked her face like a leather glove—that’s how cold it was. The mat, when she stepped on it, crunched with ice. A shudder spiraled through her and pinched her shoulder blades. The sky was low, pale and plaintive, like Cassie when she was coming down with something. The Canadian’s porch was empty.
Back inside with the door firmly closed against the cold, Fancy stared down the hall. What if she were to make gingerbread? What if she were to try a little mosaic? What if she were to do some of Cassie’s mending? What if she were to—
But no, no, she panicked, and strode back to the front door. The sky was still looking sulky, and the Canadian’s porch remained empty. She held the door open a moment as an icy breeze shifted twigs on the lawn, scattering dried leaves on the porch.
“Oh no!” said Fanc
y, her eyes glinting as a leaf or two skittered past her ankles and into the house. “Now I’ll have to vacuum!” Then she remembered that her vacuum cleaner was in the repair shop.
I wonder if the Canadian has a vacuum cleaner I might borrow? she thought, suddenly and earnestly. At that moment, the vacuum-repair truck turned into her driveway. Fancy accepted the repaired vacuum with cold politeness, and as soon as she had closed the door, she plugged it in.
She vacuumed: the hall, the lounge room, the TV room, Cassie’s room. And now she was in the main bedroom. Her lower back ached, the room roared with vacuum cleaner groans, she used her knees to shove the bed to the side, and she busied herself with the baseboards. Crouching down to the floor, she fed the nozzle way under the bed, but then there was a gasping, choking sound, and she switched the vacuum off. There was something caught in its mouth, which she gently removed.
It was a dusty purple sock. Stitched at the back of the ankle with a simple purple daisy.
She held it up and frowned at it. This was not Fancy’s sock. Nor was it Cassie’s sock. Certainly, it was not Radcliffe’s sock. So now, whose sock would be deep under their bed like that?
In the post-vacuum quiet, Fancy rocked back on her heels, looking from the sock to the window to the ceiling to the vacuum. The vacuum had no reply, but there was something wide-eyed about the room.
This sock belongs to another woman, Fancy whispered to herself. Radcliffe is having an affair.
Immediately, crouching on the floor by the bed, she laughed to herself. Radcliffe having an affair! It was so unlikely that the word affair was instantly surrounded, in her mind, by a circle of witty cue cards. Each card contained a rhetorical question, such as, When would this affair take place, Fancy, given that you work at home every day?
I know, I know! When? (She laughed along.) Although still (she noted, politely) I often do go out—on Zing Family Secret business, for instance, or for coffee with Marbie or Mum. He’s only ten minutes away and often slips home to surprise me for lunch. He could easily slip a pretty woman home.
But, FANCY, what sort of a pretty woman would have sex with Radcliffe? I mean, seriously.
Me, for a start (she thought tartly). He’s not that bad. He has an unexpected charm. And there are plenty of women at his work. There’s Gemma, for instance, in the pay office, who spills her drinks at Christmas parties, and gets all the moles zapped from her arms.
Yes, but a purple sock? Why would she leave a purple sock behind?
Here, Fancy had to pause. She had never believed for a moment in bits of gossamer lingerie or single diamond earrings. No woman would have a dalliance with someone else’s husband and then flit off in a taxi without her underwear and earring. No woman! The wind would blow cold against her buttocks! Not to mention her diamondless ear.
But a purple sock. This she could believe.
Let’s say Gemma (it might as well be Gemma)—let’s say Gemma only works afternoons. (Gemma does only work afternoons—Radcliffe mentioned that.) All right, so let’s say one morning Fancy calls Radcliffe to tell him, “I’m going to have coffee with Marbie today, so I won’t be home!”
Radcliffe makes a furtive call to Gemma: “Are you still at home, my darling? Haven’t left for work? The wife’s gone out. Meet me at my place in ten.”
Gemma, dressed in morning attire of shorts, sneakers, and purple socks, arrives breathless. Her work clothes are in a gym bag over her arm. They hurry up the stairs for a few moments of passion; Gemma showers steamily; then she throws her work clothes on (stockings, skirt, lipstick); and off they rush to work. So easy to forget a purple sock!
Well, but really, why would you imagine that Radcliffe is having an affair? You’ve never thought a thing like that before.
The question (frostily) is why have I not considered it before. Recollect that Radcliffe cheated on me when we were fifteen years old and had only just begun going out. If he could not last a single month, why do I imagine he can last a lifetime?
And now she found the word affair gleaming and proud, surrounded by fallen cue cards. It waited patiently for her to fill in the details.
It was with Gemma! Of course it was! Remember how Radcliffe spoke of her? So tenderly, so fondly. “You must remember Gemma,” he had said. “No,” she had replied. And then he had explained how Gemma had the moles zapped from her arms. Why should he know that? Why would Gemma from the pay office tell Radcliffe about her moles? Didn’t people in the pay office stay behind closed doors, filling up envelopes with pay?
He must have brought her home on the day Fancy met Marbie and Listen for coffee in Castle Hill. On that day, Radcliffe had come home from work to “surprise” her for lunch. But, she realized now, she had phoned to let him know she was not there. He came home BECAUSE she was not there. He came home with Gemma in purple socks!
And on that day, she recalled in a rush, he had broken a glass. He had broken the vacuum cleaner trying to clean it up. Trying to clean away the evidence of his affair!
No! It was Gemma who had broken the glass. Gemma was clumsy. She spilled drinks at Christmas parties. He only mentioned his sojourn home, and the breakage of the vacuum cleaner, weeks after the event. It was a slip! How strange and awkward he had been when he told her. And then how kind and loving as they carried the vacuum in to be repaired.
All this time, her vacuum cleaner had been trying to let her know about the affair. First, it choked on the broken glass; then it caused Radcliffe to slip up and reveal he had been home that day; and now, today, it had come home to her from the repair shop. On purpose, to swallow the purple sock.
Fancy lay flat on her back on the bed, and thought with clarity: Radcliffe is having an affair.
“Oh, stop that,” she cried, sitting up with a final burst of scorn. “It’s just a sock!” She looked at it in the palm of her hand, so flimsy and frail. How could this mean something so immense as an affair?
But then she thought of her recipes: an accidental touch of egg yolk in her meringue; one-eighth of a teaspoon of cayenne pepper in her mango dressing—these tiny things had such an impact! Small things, she realized, can mean something immense.
Suddenly the sock felt moist in her hand, a scaly, alien thing, and she flung it back onto the floor. It lay there, seeming to wriggle, like a fish too small to eat.
Three
The day after Cassie’s birthday party, Listen sat at a window desk in the Castle Hill library. Her dad and Marbie thought she was meeting the others here to collect the work they’d done for the assignment.
There was no assignment. But she did have English homework.
She was supposed to be defining irony, but all she could do was stare at the traffic lights outside, thinking about how ironic it was that Donna had held her strategy meeting before Cassie’s party.
The party had been her idea. She had wanted to show Donna and the others her new life. Now, finally, she had a mother, and what a beautiful, dreamy mother Marbie was. Now, also, she had a family, and what an amazing, crazy family the Zings were. She had a family secret too, even if she didn’t know what it was. Somehow, she thought, Donna and the others would have realized there was a secret—something to do with the connection between family constellations—and then they would have found out what it was. (Donna could be very persuasive.)
Probably, Listen thought, drawing stars all over her English homework, the Zing family were undercover agents. When you walked into the garden shed, it probably looked like a regular office with white walls, green carpet, and a receptionist wearing chunky earrings and typing at a desk. If you knew the password, the receptionist would pull a leaf from a potted plant on the desk. The floor would open up. You’d fall smoothly down a slide to a basement deep underground, with walls of computers, flashing lights, spy cameras, disguises, and machine guns. The Zings would be sitting at an oval table dressed in black.
Imagine if she could have taken Donna and the others into the shed and down the slide! Let them dress up in disguises an
d play with the guns. They would have loved her forever!
But the party had come too late.
Donna had already had her strategy meeting, and now her friends would never meet Marbie, or the rest of the Zings, or learn the Zing Family Secret.
It was ironic.
Another ironic thing was that the Zings seemed to think that she, Listen, was special. They were as blind as her dad had always been. He and Marbie and the Zings looked at her with such admiration, and said things like, “You’re so popular!” and “You’re so pretty! I bet the other kids are jealous of you!” They asked her questions about school and life as if she was the expert on Grade Seven. When, in actual fact, she was a failure.
Donna had called the strategy meeting because she thought that Listen might jeopardize their chances of survival at Clareville. “I’ll go through her reasoning for you,” Joanne had offered on the phone. “Okay, number one, you dance too much. The thing is, you never stay still. You’re always swaying and clicking. Personally, I hadn’t really noticed, but some of the others have been pretty embarrassed about it. Also, you’re always wearing kind of boring clothes, and sometimes you wear them wrong. I mean, boring in that they’re just like what we all wear? Like you can’t think for yourself? Caro did point out that that’s not completely your fault because you’ve only got your dad to buy clothes for you, and you never had that much money, but then we were thinking that Gabrielle doesn’t have much money either, but she’s still got a personal style.
“But the main thing is, you’re too quiet. It’s like your name says. You just listen. You don’t talk. Which is obviously not your fault, I guess, but it still means you’re kind of like a taker. Not a giver? And Donna was saying, well, you know how Donna’s mum got divorced? Well, her mum says that love can die, and Donna was thinking that like can die too. Especially when the person you used to like doesn’t talk.”
The Spell Book Of Listen Taylor Page 14
