I pop into the bank and it seems Mr Finley is expecting me too, for he has the paperwork prepared for me to sign and another envelope with Jack’s bank statements for the past year. I tear it open in the car, hoping it will reveal a six-figure balance, but sadly not. It’s only four figures – better than nothing, but not enough to make a difference.
When I get home I put the letter from my father on the mantelpiece, where I can keep an eye on it. What could he possibly have to say to me after all these years? I’m not ready to find out.
Dog is happy to see me. Dog! What am I going to do with him when I move back to the city? I can’t be responsible for him. He was just foisted on me, really. I don’t even know his name, for God’s sake.
Leonie calls to confirm my talk to the local women’s network tomorrow night. I’m looking forward to it, I assure her. I have a couple of topics to run by her. What does she think about ‘Talking business in the global village’ or perhaps ‘Horizontal communication in a vertical organisation’?
‘Both sound interesting …’ she says unconvincingly.
‘How many businesswomen are you expecting?’ I ask.
‘Well, there were going to be twelve but it looks like there’ll only be six.’
‘Six!’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. There’s been a little split in the group over our sponsorship deal with the Miss Duffy’s Creek pageant and the network has broken into several factions … I won’t go into it – it’s been awful, really, just awful. But there’ll be some terrifically keen businesswomen there. Jenny runs the takeaway; Annabelle Challis has the gift shop; and Cecilia Simmonds – she’s one of the top saleswomen for Supperware – she usually gives us a bit of a demo of the new products. And, of course, myself – you’ve probably seen my salon in town, the Chit-Chat and Chop? Now, what shall I put in the minutes as your subject?’
‘What about “How to get a free plug in your local paper”?’
‘Oh, that sounds wonderful! The girls will be tickled pink.’
The venue, Martha’s Restaurant, is the local cream-tea coach stop. This evening there is a sign on the door saying ‘Closed for Private Function’. Martha herself greets me, wearing a powder-blue tracksuit and a pair of pink fluffy slippers. In her late seventies, with a few too many cream teas under her waistband, her claim to fame is that in her early life she was something of an aviator; a barnstorming babe, by the look of her. She flew the Outback for the Flying Doctor Service and then became a stunt pilot. The theme of the restaurant could loosely be described as ‘antics of the air’. The walls are crowded with pictures of her, a mere slip of a girl, in various open cockpits wearing leather headgear and goggles. In later shots she starts to look more glamorous in colourful (sometimes even sequined) jumpsuits, posing with other (presumably) luminaries of the air. Her suits are preserved on dejected-looking mannequins propped in the corners. A dusty parachute cascades from the ceiling. You can follow the whole story of her life because every item has a terse caption like ‘Martha with Reverend John Flynn, Alice Springs 1947’ produced on one of those little machines that impress letters onto strips of plastic.
We sit at one of the long tables. The six members face one another, with me the odd one out at the end of the table. I am, of course, hopelessly overdressed in a black tailored suit and white silk shirt.
Leonie gives me a friendly little wave. She’s easily recognisable as a hairdresser, her hair a colourful brawl that does not inspire confidence. No one explains the format of the evening as I sit through an interminable hour of minutes and general business. Martha ducks in and out of the room at intervals, then shouts from another room, ‘Okay, it’s ready – all hands on deck.’ The meeting is abandoned as the group seriously bustles. Cecilia sets the table while the others ferry plates of steaming sweet and sour pork with rice to the table. Finally, Martha emerges hot and bothered from the kitchen and pours us each a half-glass of warm riesling.
‘Thank you, Martha,’ twinkle the group like polite schoolchildren.
‘The cheesecake is defrosting,’ says Martha with a wink. Wicked.
Finally, it’s my turn. The secret to free publicity, I explain, is the angle. The secret to angles is brutal opportunism. I ask each of them to give me a two-minute run-down on their business and then we ‘blue sky’ and come up with angles. They love it. Soon we’re laughing and dreaming up more and more outrageous ideas. The one who really doesn’t get it is Cecilia, the Supperware queen. She’s one of those brawny saleswomen, bedecked in gold, who have spent forty years knocking down doors and selling their wares. Her stance is to go direct, cut out the middleman. Why faff about when you can just bully till they buy?
‘Pah,’ she says. ‘Marketing’s just another word for selling – what’s the difference, anyway?’
‘With selling, people know what you’re up to,’ explains Leonie. ‘Marketing comes around the back and bites them on the bum – and convinces them it’s an experience worth repeating!’ We all shriek with laughter. Half a glass of sweet wine and we’re like kids on cordial. Then the sugar hit arrives. I don’t know how big the mother ship was but the waxy cream wedge that docks on my plate direct from Planet Cholesterol probably weighs half a kilo. Naturally, the meeting sidetracks to a discussion on who wants to lose some weight (almost everyone) and when they are going to start (tomorrow).
Cecilia announces she has an item for the agenda. She wants the Duffy’s Creek Women’s Business Network to start a campaign to lobby the government to bring back national service. ‘The reason the youth of today are off their brains with drugs and alcohol is because they have not had the discipline of army service,’ she declares. She’s so belligerent you would have to be one brave businesswoman to go up against her. Everyone looks appropriately concerned and there are murmurs of concurrence around the table. Within minutes, Jenny, the owner of the ‘Quik Chik’ takeaway (whose greasy pallor is no doubt a side-effect of toiling over vats of boiling oil), yawns discreetly and glances at her watch. Cecilia eyeballs me.
‘I’d love to enter into a spirited debate on this … um … fascinating topic, but unfortunately I have to get up very early in the morning, and I need my beauty sleep, heh heh …’ I slip out of my chair and pick up my bag.
Leonie makes a short speech to thank me for my presentation and hands me a very nice blue silk carnation in a tube. Annabelle of the gift shop takes it upon herself to see me to the door. She presses her business card into my hand.
‘I’d love you to drop in and see me, I’m an old friend of your aunt’s,’ she murmurs. She opens the door and I’m finally released into the cool of the night. If I didn’t have a job lined up in Sydney, this evening would have depressed me beyond measure but I giggle all the way home.
I’m still chuckling as I walk in the door, pick up the phone and call Sarah in London, forgetting that I’m semi–pissed off with her. I tell her the story of my evening, every little detail. ‘I think they like me – they’ve invited me to come to their Christmas do next week – the male strip show called the Bilberries at the footy club!’ The line reverberates with our screeching.
‘So, are you going to go? Probably just what you need.’
I yelp with laughter but the line is silent. ‘What do you mean, “what I need”?’
‘Friends, fun, a bit of frivolity – wouldn’t do you any harm right now, Adrienne.’
I sigh. ‘The thing is, I actually liked them, even Cecilia the Conqueror. There’s something touching about their naïvety, something that’s more honest than I’m used to. They just say what they think.’
‘So, do you see a place for yourself there, helping the business network?’
‘Sarah, it’s not a business network, it’s a jumble sale – I’m out of my league. And you’re out of your mind.’
‘Just asking, just exploring the options.’
‘There is only one option and I have taken it.’
The line goes silent and we both know why.
‘You haven’t said anything about Lauren coming over.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ I sigh. ‘I don’t want this to be an issue between us. I was hoping to ignore it … hoping it would just die a natural death when it dawned on everyone that I was not happy about it.’
‘I thought you’d be thrilled for her.
‘I thought I would be too.’
‘She’s very excited about having Christmas in London.’
Christmas in London? Christmas is barely a week away. I’m sinking to my knees as I say in as casual a tone as I can muster, ‘When does she arrive?’
‘In the morning,’ Sarah says. ‘I’ll get her to call.’
I mumble something about the lateness of the hour and get myself off the phone. Lauren’s gone. My girl’s gone. To the other side of the world, without seeing me, without a word. She had that ticket when she called me. I know she did. I am so angry with her. So angry. Not sad – just bloody angry.
I lie awake half the night, thinking not of Lauren’s Christmas in London but my Christmas in Duffy’s Creek. My mind darts from place to place. Where can I go? Who would have me? The thought of being alone at Christmas terrifies me out of all proportion, it always has. I need to be somewhere with people. I get out of bed at 4 a.m. and throw Jack’s dressing-gown around my shoulders. I wonder how many Christmases Jack spent here alone.
I walk past the letter on the mantelpiece. I don’t know why I’m so fearful of its contents. I pick it up and put it down again. Walking on by, I slip my boots on, much to Dog’s pleasure, and walk around the lawn in the muddy dawn light. I follow the path through to the vegetable garden. So much work has gone into building these gardens – I would love to see them put to rights. Taking the track through the trees to the orchard, we stand and admire the apple tree. I get the feeling Francesco Martino garnered more local respect for this apple tree than for a thousand olives.
The mystery surrounding Rosanna and her whereabouts nags at me. In fact, I would like to know more about Franco and Adriana too. I had no idea I was named after my grandmother. It has occurred to me that for me to have inherited the farm, Rosanna must surely be dead. Over the next couple of days I manage to dig out the card Annabelle Challis gave me and I drive into town.
The summer heat and lack of rain these last few weeks have scoured the road and added a thick layer of fine dust that coats the roadside grasses and dulls the landscape. I’ve been letting Dog sit in the cab with me lately; don’t want him eating my dust. He seems grateful.
Annabelle runs the Lavender Gallery, a shop full of New-Age knick-knacks and dust collectors. There’s wooden spoons with tea-towel capes and little faces painted on them, teddy bears in tutus, dangly crystal things – it’s a treasure trove. Annabelle herself is quite fetching in a purple tie-dyed kaftan with matching hair wrap.
‘What perfect timing! I’m expecting a tour bus in an hour and it will be very hectic in here. I’m burning bergamot to help them relax and stimulate spending.’ The laughter rolls out of her. ‘Now, sit here, perhaps you’d like a reading. Although, I think there is already someone tall, dark and handsome in your life – am I right?’
‘Did your crystal ball tell you that?’ I try to match her playful tone but we both hear the false note.
‘What can I do for you, my dear?’
‘You mentioned that you were a friend of Rosanna’s. I’m wondering if you know where she is.’
‘We were in the same class at Mother of Mercy Convent, you know. We were great friends; there was her and me, Charlotte Furnell and Marcia Simmonds. Charlotte was a lovely woman, she died four or five years ago. Marcia’s still around, she runs the annual Duffy’s Creek flower show – done it for years …’
‘And Rosanna?’
‘Could be anywhere – she was the wild one. I heard she moved to Adelaide and was working in a hotel as a cook. But even that information is probably twenty or thirty years out of date.’ She notes my disappointment. ‘I wish I could be of more help. I’ll consult my angels and see if I can’t come up with something – some little whisper for you, my dear.’
I thank her and make an effort to be charming.
‘If you find Rosanna, tell her Annabelle sends her love and laughter. A thousand dancing blessings,’ she warbles, chins wobbling, as I leave. ‘Take care, take care!’
‘I do appreciate you filling in for me with the cleaning job. Can’t let the tennis girls down. We’ve had Chrissie lunch every year for the last thirty-five years. We went thirty-four years and didn’t lose a single person, then last year we lost three. I suppose we’ll all just drop off one by one from here on …’ says Joy over the phone.
‘Good to hear you’re in a party mood, Joy. I’m happy to do it for you. Out of interest, what does it pay?’
‘It’s probably a little less than you’re used to – it’s $8 an hour.’
‘Each?’
‘Of course each, silly goose,’ she laughs. I like to make Joy laugh.
I discover that one of the reasons Joy’s cleaning partner Deirdre can’t work alone is that she doesn’t drive. It takes me twenty minutes to get to her neat little brick house on the edge of town; she’s waiting at the letterbox with a bucket full of Amfam products and some sort of high-tech mop. She slings them in the back of the ute and jumps in beside me. She’s a stringy little woman, middle-aged, wearing a Baywatch T-shirt, the last pair of stone-washed stretch jeans left in the country and a pair of ugh boots. Her face has a crinkly parchment quality to it and the hair is as lank and stringy as any I’ve seen.
The other reason she needs a buddy is that Deirdre likes to talk. I recall a crack Jack made about one of my mother’s friends; he said her skin must be too tight because every time she sat down her mouth opened. Deirdre is nattering before she even bends her knees.
‘Left me fiancé Walter at home. He doesn’t like me being away for too long,’ she confides. ‘Jealous type.’ She rolls her eyes and sighs theatrically. ‘Even when I’m off doing me cleaning he gets in a panic, thinks I’m seeing some other bloke. Honestly. Can’t complain; I’m a lucky girl. Thinks I’m the sexiest thing alive. Can’t keep his hands off me.’
‘That’s great,’ I say stiffly. ‘You are indeed lucky.’
‘How old do yer think I am?’ she says, reading my mind.
‘Ah …’
‘Forty-eight,’ she says jubilantly. ‘You?’
‘Forty-nine,’ I say a trifle sulkily. She’s got to be lying.
‘How do yer keep yer trim figure there?’
‘I had a personal trainer for a long time, actually. How about you?’
‘Me? I don’t need a personal trainer. Coke gives me the sugar; ciggies keep me slim; cleaning keeps me fit. Saving up for me wedding dress. Like to see a picture?’ She pulls out a much-folded clipping from a magazine and props it on the dash in front of me.
‘Isn’t that Catherine Zeta-something?’
‘Yep.’ She winds down the window and lights a cigarette. ‘Walter can’t wait to see me in that dress,’ she smirks. ‘Can’t wait to see me out of it, more like, ha, ha.’
The house we are to clean belongs to the Simmonds family – not Cecilia of Supperware fame, thank goodness, but one of many Simmonds families. A beautiful old country home, the grounds are groomed like parkland; the redolence of old money. I feel intimidated somehow, embarrassed about the ute and my servant status. I’m tempted to loop the circular driveway and drive on out. Deirdre, however, hops out of the car virtually before I’ve stopped. She grabs the stuff out of the back and charges up the steps. The front door is open and she walks straight in, calling, ‘Yoo-hoo, Margaret! Where are you, darl?’
Dropping her bucket, she opens a cupboard in the hall and pulls out the vacuum cleaner. ‘You have a bit of a vac around, I’ll do the dusting, then we can tackle the kitchen and bathroom together,’ she instructs as she marches off down the hall. I hate bossy women. I start the vacuuming.
The house is beautifully cared for. An antiq
ue circular table in the hall holds a glass bowl of pale yellow roses. Glossy polished floors flow through the house, occasionally interrupted by soft, lush rugs. There’s a veritable library of books, walls filled with wonderful art works. I feel bitterness seeping through my veins. What am I doing cleaning someone else’s house? I’m only just coming to terms with cleaning my own. It is utterly humiliating.
Margaret eventually glides into the house and introduces herself. She shakes my hand firmly. My guess is she’s a little older than me (and no doubt mature enough to admit it, should the subject crop up). She’s tall and elegant, even in an old shirt, grubby riding breeches and straw-flecked socks.
‘Deirdre tells me you’ve stepped in to help out; that’s very kind of you. We’ve lost our housekeeper recently and I spend so much time in the stables at the moment I need all the help I can get. Are you a horse person, Adrienne?’
I rear back in fright. ‘Definitely not!’
She laughs. ‘Well, either you are or you aren’t. When you’re done, come out to the stables.’
Two hours later I am prepared to mount the most dangerous bloody stallion in order to gallop off into the sunset and escape Deirdre’s incessant, deluded, self-absorbed stream of consciousness. It just pours out – nothing is held back. She over-shares on every single topic, virtually all of which are about her, Walter or cleaning (on which she is the world’s greatest authority). Special subject: stain removal. Occasionally she runs out of things to tell me about herself and asks me a personal question like what star sign I am or do I shave my legs or wax them. My monosyllabic replies naturally turn the conversation to her star sign or her favoured depilatory method. I follow instructions mindlessly; the sooner it’s done, the sooner I’m gone.
We go to the stables to collect our princely sum of $16 each. Margaret has the grace to look embarrassed as she counts out the coins into my hand.
‘Fancy a ride, Deirdre?’
‘Jeez, Margaret, don’t know if you’ve got anything spirited enough to handle me,’ Deirdre snorts. The woman is a parody of herself. Next thing I know she’s got her bony bum in a saddle and is bouncing up and down like a pro. ‘I’ll just warm him up and take him for a spin, shall I darl?’
The Olive Sisters Page 12
