by Ilsa Evans
She sits up, takes a deep breath and starts to wail.
I carefully step out of the bath, switch off and put the video camera down on the vanity unit, kick the bathroom door closed with one foot, push the towel back under the door with the other, grab a dry towel from the rack, and gather up my youngest daughter in my arms.
‘Come on, come on. Are you hurt?’
‘Yes! Yes! All ober!’
‘We’ll have a cuddle and then you can show me where.’
‘All ober! All ober!’
‘Can you be just a little more specific?’
‘Ow!’
‘Okay, okay! But what were you doing?’
‘It was Ben! Ben said to do the bideo!’
Right on cue comes a discreet little knock at the door followed by the solicitous voice of my only son: ‘Is everything okay in there?’
‘Go and make yourself breakfast, I’ll be out to talk to you in a minute.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, I’ll be there in a minute.’ Although I don’t know whether he meant was I sure everyone was okay, or was I sure I wanted to talk to him, or even was I sure I’d only be a minute. But, boy, do I want to talk to him. I mean, the video camera could have been totally trashed.
‘You’re in big trouble!’ CJ vents her petulant little spleen as we hear his footsteps recede down the passage towards the kitchen. I strip CJ’s saturated pyjamas off, dry myself as best I can with her draped across my chest, and then shrug my dressing-gown on. After kicking the wet pile of clothing into a corner with the towel, I open the door and head down towards CJ’s bedroom. On the way, I make a mental note that the hallway will need mopping as soon as I have the time.
CJ’s room is not one that should be entered with a hangover (not that I actually have a hangover today, but I know this from experience). She is currently poised in the epicentre of several warring phases, and this is wholly reflected in the decor of her living space. Animal print curtains frame the window beside a frilly, canopied bed, which is adorned by a Barbie doona cover and various iridescent throw cushions. A framed picture of her father sits centre-stage on her bedside table, with his dark, rather intense eyes following your every movement. A Pokemon beanbag chair leans against the corner wall, bearing a family of stuffed leopards and thirty-three multicoloured beanie bears. The overall impression actually hurts my eyes whenever I enter. Accordingly, I blink several times as I plonk her down on top of the mother leopard in the beanbag chair. The problem is that whenever she mentions a new fad on a visit to her father, she brings home yet another disparate addition to the bedroom. I’m not sure if he is doing this out of love for her or because he suspects (correctly) that it is driving me crazy.
While CJ whimpers tragically on the beanbag chair, I make her bed and rearrange the covering of stuffed toys. Then I pull up the blind, turn off the light, pick up and put away a few dozen books, drag her school dress out of the wardrobe and lay it out neatly on the bed for her. Finally I turn to look at my youngest daughter. CJ does not resemble her elder siblings in the slightest, but I suppose that’s only natural as they take after their father who isn’t her father. She’s all pink and white, with a round little face, big cornflower blue eyes and fine blonde hair that she wears in a shoulder-length bob. The overall impression is of defenceless cherubic innocence – until you get to know her. She has a will of steel.
‘Here you are, CJ, dry yourself off and get dressed. I’ll go and make you some hot chocolate, how about that?’
‘Can’t you dress me?’
‘No. You’re a big-school girl now.’
‘But I’m hurt . . . all ober!’
‘And whose fault is that?’
‘Ben’s!’
‘Well, I’m going to find out about that. Anyway, I’ve just made your bed and cleaned up for you. All you have to do is get dressed and surely you can manage that.’
She is still complaining volubly as I walk out the door. I head around the corner into my bedroom where I brush my hair haphazardly and spend some time selecting a sloppy red t-shirt and a pair of baggy nondescript shorts. Then I slip on some sandals and take a look at myself in the full-length mirror. Average height (well, almost anyway), average weight (more or less), dark blonde hair (or mousy-brown if you want to be pedantic – although I have livened it up recently with some blonde streaks), bluey-green eyes, and a mouth, nose and two ears. There’s not really much to say about those, except that they’re there and they work. I have always known that if I wanted to stand out in a crowd I would have to develop a scintillating personality. Maybe I’ll develop one at university. After a few moments’ contemplation, I make a mental note to get rid of the full-length mirror.
I can still hear CJ complaining as I exit the bedroom and head up towards the kitchen. I doubt she has even moved from the beanbag chair yet. As I pass the linen cupboard I grab a clean towel and stand on it so that I can shuffle up the passage drying the water spillage as I go. I can hear the shower going full-pelt in the bathroom so I leave the towel outside where it will remind me to mop up in there later.
In the kitchen the kettle is boiling away merrily so I turn it off and make myself a cup of coffee. CJ is still complaining. From the scattering of dry cereal across the bench and on the floor, I deduce that Ben has already breakfasted. Nursing my coffee, I close my eyes and lean against the counter while I take a deep breath and try to think serene thoughts.
‘Is the video camera okay?’
I open my eyes and look at my son for a moment before answering. He is now dressed in his school uniform but even so manages to give the impression of having only now got out of bed. Apart from the rumpled clothing, one side of his hair is totally flattened against his skull while the other side is sticking out at right angles as if it has been electrically stimulated.
‘Brush your hair.’
‘Can’t. Sam’s in the bathroom. Is it okay?’
‘No, it looks like your left half is going punk.’
‘I meant the video camera!’ he says with some exasperation.
‘I know,’ I reply as I fix him with a steely gaze, ‘and yes it is, but no thanks to you. What on earth were you trying to prove?’
‘How d’you know it was me? You never blame CJ!’
‘Well, let me see. CJ doesn’t know where the video camera is kept, doesn’t know how to insert the battery, or turn it on, or which button is for taping. And then when you add the fact that I heard you outside the door, well, sorry but I jumped to the hasty conclusion that you were probably at least partly responsible!’
Grunt.
‘So, spill it. What’s going on? And, Ben –’ I take my coffee over to the table in the meals area and sit down – ‘just be honest.’
‘Well, it’s for all of us,’ Ben says with righteous indignation, ‘not just me. That’s right – I thought I’d do something for the family! See, I saw on Funniest Home Videos last night, well, this really stupid tape won. It was only about this dumb kid who flipped his bike over and then these two other kids came screaming around the corner and hit the first kid so the first kid was stuck under the other two bikes but the first bike went west and the second kid somersaulted over the third bike but the third kid got airborne and ricocheted off the first bike and –’
‘Enough about the bikes!’ I interrupt with growing exasperation. ‘Who cares about the damn bikes? And what’s it got to do with you and the video camera?’
‘Well, if you’d let me finish I could tell you.’ Ben plasters an affronted look on his face. ‘You see, what I was trying to explain was about the quality of the tapes on the show, coz they were really, really pathetic. And, see, I thought I could get better. Because you should see the prizes! They’re so cool, and they give them away to just about anyone!’ Ben gestures wildly around the room, getting more and more animated as he goes on. ‘A wide-screen TV! A DVD player! A Sony Playstation! A new video camera!’
‘We almost needed one,’ I comment dryly as he pause
s for breath.
‘But we could have two! It’d be fantastic!’
‘But you still haven’t told me what –’ I pause as the scenario sinks in. I look at Ben. Ben looks sheepish. My sneaky suspicion is confirmed but I pride myself on my control.
‘Was I going to be the funny bit?’
‘Well, yes but –’
‘Were you going to film me in the bath?’
‘Well, yes but –’
‘And send it to strangers?’
‘Well, yes but –’
Ben starts to edge cautiously out of the kitchen but backs into the doorframe so decides to make a stand. ‘I don’t think you’re funny naked . . . that is, I don’t think you’re anything naked – well, you are something . . . but no! Not – well, I don’t think anything about you naked! Ever! At all! It wasn’t you naked, anyway – it was your face I wanted, not, um . . . ’ He winds down and looks at me pleadingly. ‘It was only for the surprise, you know.’
‘Hmm.’ I gaze into my coffee cup for a moment or two (always make them sweat for a while before you capitulate – besides, I have to stop myself from laughing out loud). Then I look back at my highly embarrassed son. He has blushed a uniform shade of ruddy red, which makes his hair look even stranger than ever.
‘Really, it was.’
‘Okay, listen up – and listen good. I want that tape back. Right now. And never, ever film me without my permission again, especially naked, and never, ever bribe your little sister to do things which you’re not game to do yourself.’
‘But I thought you’d rather her see you naked than me!’
‘Hell’s bells, Benjamin! You were about to send it in to Funniest Home Videos, for god’s sake! The whole damn country would have seen it!’
‘Seen what?’ Samantha saunters into the kitchen. Freshly showered with her long brown hair pinned up in an intricately arranged waterfall and dressed in a neatly ironed school dress, she makes her brother look like a street kid we are trying to rehabilitate. Without much success.
‘Good morning!’ I say brightly. I say it brightly because the sight of Samantha in the morning always gives me a little flush of success as I have actually bred a child who can not only function autonomously but can do a good job of it at the same time. It gives me hope for the future with the other two. One of whom can still be heard complaining bitterly down in her bedroom, and the other of whom has used the distraction of his sister’s entrance to make his getaway. I do hope he has gone to brush his hair. And get me that tape.
‘Guten Morgen, Mommie Dearest. So, what’s he done now?’
‘Only tried to film me in the bath. For Funniest Home Videos, you know.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘They wouldn’t have shown it.’ Sam pops two slices of bread into the toaster. ‘Like, otherwise it’d be so easy and everyone’d be doing it.’
‘What? Filming me in the bath?’
‘No, silly. Filming other old people in the bath.’
If I had more energy, I’d be offended. I’m not even forty yet – not until Sunday, anyway – but even then I don’t think I qualify for the old age pension quite yet. However, I have been living for a long time now with people who think that everyone over thirty has one foot in the grave, so I just shrug my elderly shoulders and take another sip of coffee.
‘D’you want a bit?’ Sam’s toast has popped up so she proceeds to spread them both so lavishly with butter that it drips off the crusts onto the bench as she turns to me.
‘No thanks.’ Even if I did want a bit, I’d probably be too old.
‘Where’s my hot chocolate?’ CJ finally makes an entrance, her blotchy face bearing evidence as to how she has occupied herself for the last fifteen minutes. Although at some stage she must have been able to hold the pain at bay long enough to pull her school dress over her head.
‘CJ! What’s wrong, liebling?’ Sam looks at her sister with concern.
‘Ben hurt me . . . all ober.’
‘Sam, can you put the kettle on, please? CJ, I’ll make it in a minute. Come and sit down next to me and I’ll give you a cuddle.’ I pull a chair over and pat it invitingly. ‘And I want to talk to you about using the video camera.’
‘Oh! I won’t eber again!’ CJ launches herself at the chair – and me – and buries her face in my shoulder. I do up her buttons and then pat her back comfortingly.
‘It’s just that you know you’re not allowed to use it.’
‘I hate the bideo. And I hate Ben too.’
‘You don’t hate anyone.’
‘Do so. And he owes me two dollars.’
‘Kettle’s boiling, Mum.’
I pick CJ up and lever myself past her before plonking her back on the chair. Then I proceed to make her hot chocolate, and her cereal, and her toast. It’s clear that I am not going to get anything even resembling autonomous behaviour out of her this morning.
‘I’m off now, Mum.’ Samantha dumps her plate in the sink and heads over to kiss her little sister on the top of the head. ‘What’re you doing today?’
‘Mummy’s making me go to school.’
‘Not you, I meant Mum.’
‘Well, after I make CJ go to school, I’m meeting your Aunt Maggie next door at ten. Apparently we’re going to clean up there a bit for your father.’
‘Oh! If I didn’t have double English today, I’d help!’
‘That’s okay.’ I wouldn’t have dreamt of asking Sam anyway. She is taking her last year of VCE very, very seriously, and I’d like to encourage her. She has even declared boys off limits for the duration and, although she still goes out to quite a few parties and the occasional nightclub, she hasn’t produced a boyfriend since the spotty beanpole with two-tone hair that she dragged around for a couple of months at the end of last year. Mind you, I’d also like to meet that VCE teacher who told his students, of which my daughter was one, that during the course of this all-important school year, they were now the most important person in their families and should be treated accordingly. At least, that was Sam’s interpretation of his speech and those were the words she used when she informed us of her enhanced familial status.
‘I hate Ben infinity.’
‘Don’t worry about Ben, liebling.’ Sam moves back over to her little sister and plants another kiss on the top of her head. ‘There’s a lot worse out there, believe me.’
With those words of wisdom, she exits the kitchen and, shortly thereafter, the house. Sam is always organised early, her bag packed and ready to go by eight o’clock. Ben, on the other hand, is still looking for his bag at nine o’clock . . . and his shoes, and his tie, and a hairbrush. I put the kettle on for another cup of coffee (it always takes me at least two to feel remotely human in the morning), and glance over to where CJ is methodically crushing her cornflakes between her fingers with a studied vengeance which makes me glad not to be in her brother’s shoes.
‘I hope you’re going to clean that up,’ I say automatically but with little hope of a response. Of course she’s not going to clean that up – and even if she tried to, we’d end up with a far bigger mess than we started with.
‘Mum! Mum!’ Ben comes skidding into the kitchen waving the video camera in one hand, his hair still looking like one side was neatly starched and ironed. ‘Guess what! It worked!’
‘What worked?’ I ask with foreboding.
‘I hate you, Ben.’
‘The tape worked. You should see it. It’s cool!’
‘And Mummy says you hab to pay me my two dollars.’
‘I – I mean we are going to win the first prize for sure! And you don’t have to worry at all! CJ was moving so quickly it’s all really, really fast and you’ve got the towel in front for most and, anyway, there’s hardly anything of you when you’re naked!’
Hardly anything of me when I’m naked? That I have to see.
MONDAY
10.00 am
I don’t believe this! The bath
room floor is caving in! I kneel down and cautiously prod the corner with my finger. My finger promptly disappears and so does that portion of the floor. Yep, it’s definitely caving in. I feel like Chicken Little in reverse. Exactly what I bloody need.
I knew I should have just sat down with a coffee after I dropped CJ off at school, but instead of bowing to my instincts, I decided to clean up some of the mess around here. And this is where that sort of behaviour gets you. It wasn’t even as if I was being that thorough either, just a rather haphazard mop in the bathroom to clean up the remainder of this morning’s spillage. Then I noticed a slight indentation in the floor near where the bath meets the wall. And then I gave it a gentle push with the mop. And then of course the indentation indented even further. Hence the finger investigation.
I sit back on my knees and glare at the hole and those tiles most responsible. Although the ones around them look like they will happily follow suit if given a little encouragement. At least the area where I am kneeling seems perfectly sound, so I suppose it’s only this particular corner that will need patching or whatever it is that’s required. I try to mentally calculate costs but give up because I have absolutely no idea about this sort of thing. And that is something that tradesmen can sniff out at thirty paces.
Well, I certainly know who is responsible. If it wasn’t for the budding teenage filmmaker this morning, I would never have even noticed any indentation. It’s not as if I wash this floor very much – in fact, I can’t remember if I ever have. CJ always liberally washes it for me whenever she has a bath. So perhaps that’s the problem. But anyway, I think I can still blame Ben. After all, he set the chain of events in motion that made me realise that there was a problem in the first place. And, as any parent can tell you, ignorance is often bliss. Just wait till he gets home.
