by Ilsa Evans
‘Cheers!’ She passes me my glass and raises her own.
‘Cheers!’ I reply, dragging my eyes down from the ceiling and fixing a smile on my face. ‘Here’s to Diane, David and the boys . . . and the girls too, I suppose!’
‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers!’
‘Prost!’
‘I’m really sorry about the ceiling, Maggie,’ I say with feeling as Sam grabs a stool and climbs up to have a closer look at the cork appendage. ‘It just shot straight out!’
‘It’s okay,’ Maggie replies heartily as she watches Sam lever the cork out with her finger. Ben catches it as it falls and we all look at the neat, deep, circular indentation it has left.
‘It really just flew out,’ I continue, feeling pretty rotten about the dent, ‘but I’ve never seen one actually stick in the ceiling!’
‘Neither have I but, look, don’t worry about it.’ Maggie shakes her head at me. ‘Knowing Alex, it’ll be the first of many.’
‘Not like that, surely.’
‘Hmm, no, you’re probably right.’ She looks up at the dent again with a sort of wonder.
‘Don’t look at it, you make me feel guilty.’ I grab her glass to top it up and then refill my own. ‘Here, let’s nibble some nuts.’
Maggie gives yet another of her guffaws, for what reason I don’t want to even think about, and I put my glass down to try and open the shiny foil packet. It is definitely not my day. I think the damn thing has been super-glued together.
‘Here, let me.’ Maggie sounds a bit nervous as she watches my attempts to tear open the packet. ‘Give it over.’
‘No, I’ve got it.’ A statement which I immediately proceed to demonstrate by tearing through the package and straight on down one whole side. The momentum causes my hand to continue onwards after the foil parts and I send my full glass flying. Nuts cascade everywhere. The flute hits the edge of the counter lengthwise and expels its contents before rolling slowly over the edge to the floor, where it smashes into a million or so little pieces. Champagne pools on the counter and begins to drip steadily over the side. Meanwhile, nuts bounce gaily over the freshly vacuumed carpets in one direction, and scatter wilfully over the kitchen floor in the other. Numbly, I watch a couple roll under the stove.
‘Good one, Mum!’
‘Mummy! I wanted some of those!’
‘Hmm,’ says Maggie faintly.
‘I am so sorry, Maggie!’
‘Look, perhaps you’d better . . . that is, I’m sure you’ve got heaps to do next door. Why don’t the kids and I clean up here?’
‘Oh no! I couldn’t leave you with this mess!’
‘Yes! You could! Really, it’ll be fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ replies Maggie, a little bit too quickly for my liking.
So – I leave.
MONDAY
8.50 pm
As it turned out, I didn’t have that much to do next door. I changed my sweaty t-shirt, opened all the windows, made tomorrow’s lunches, unpacked CJ’s schoolbag, read the assorted notices, and was standing in front of the open freezer staring at its contents and waiting for some inspiration regarding tea when Maggie and the kids came back bearing pizza. Lots and lots of pizza.
Maggie finally left only about half an hour ago. And now I’m going to have to stock up on some more champagne. But while we were sitting and eating, and drinking, she gave me a hand preparing the various party games for tomorrow and packing the lolly bags for each of the thirteen participants. We have even filled an empty ice-cream container with cupcakes for CJ to dole out at school tomorrow. Now all I have to do in the morning is buy a ton of junk food and make some chocolate crackles and fairy bread. Oh, and turn a couple of plain butter-cakes into an elaborate, pink, ruffled fairy-doll cake complete with silver wand and intricate icing. A thousand curses on the Women’s Weekly Children’s Birthday Cake Book, which is CJ’s favourite reading material at this time of year.
It’s still quite warm inside the house but it’s about as good as it’s going to get so I do the circuit, shutting all the windows and closing curtains. CJ is now fast asleep, having been read to and tucked in by Maggie. I kiss her baby-soft cheek and straighten out the pink ruffled fairy costume that she has laid out ready for the big day tomorrow. As I head back up the passage, I note that the TV has been left on although there is nobody currently resident in the lounge-room. I lean in the doorway for a moment to see what’s on – a documentary about some natives somewhere who are indulging in a bizarre ritual of body-piercing. I should tape it for Samantha, whose acquisition last year of a belly-button ring still annoys me thoroughly. Although I must give her full marks for persistence. The thing has been infected three times, has had to be reinserted twice, and has got caught on her jumper more times than I care to count. But still she won’t give up.
The documentary seems rather interesting so I flop down on the couch to watch the rest of it. Right on cue, the phone rings so I sigh heavily, get up again and head out to the hall.
‘Hello?’
‘Darling!’
‘Mum. How are you?’ Not for the first time I note that, ever since she got engaged last year, my mother has sprinkled more ‘darlings’ in her conversation than I have ever heard her use in my entire life. I never thought I’d say this, but it’s beginning to wear rather thin.
‘Oh, fine! Preparations are going fairly smoothly.’ She blithely assumes that her wedding is everybody’s number one priority. ‘And fortunately they’re saying that the weather will be quite mild on Sunday. And they had better be right.’
‘They wouldn’t dare not be. But, Mum, why aren’t you in bed? I mean, isn’t it a bit late for you to be up and making phone calls?’
‘Well, I have had to rework my timings. Just for this week – there is much too much to get done. If a bit less sleep is the price I have to pay, well, then I have no choice, have I? And there’s no point telling me I should ask you girls for more help, it just wouldn’t work.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I reply heartily, because I positively agree and, in fact, had no intention of even suggesting anything to do with sharing the workload. Besides, she’s the one who’s been married three times so she’s the expert.
‘So I have to put my own personal requirements to one side for a while and focus on the job. You should see the lists I have before me!’
‘No thanks,’ I say hurriedly.
‘But enough about me. Have you heard about Diane?’
‘Yes! Isn’t it fantastic?’
‘It certainly is, and I have to admit I am very, very relieved. I was quite concerned, you know.’
‘Oh, Mum. That’s nice.’ Sometimes she surprises me. ‘And now you’re a grandmother twice over again!’
‘Oh, yes. And now Diane will most likely be able to make it on Sunday too.’
‘Of course.’ Well, she doesn’t surprise me for long.
‘Now, in my day women were kept in for much longer and there was none of this rubbish where the baby sleeps in the room with the mother.’ She continues smoothly, ‘No, Nurse would soon put paid to anybody who tried that sort of caper. Sometimes I don’t know what the world is coming to.’
‘Well, Mum, perhaps it’s their choice not to –’
‘Yes, well,’ she sniffs audibly, ‘anyway, I shall be visiting her tomorrow.’
‘Oh! What time?’ As I am also planning on visiting Diane tomorrow it is now imperative that I ascertain what time Mum is going so that we are not there at the same time. Only because it’s a shame to double-up, that is.
‘About lunchtime. But that’s not why I’m ringing. CJ picked a cake out of my Women’s Weekly Children’s Birthday Cake Book when she was here last week, so I whipped it up this afternoon and thought I’d better let you know. So that you don’t go to the trouble . . . I know how you hate doing anything complicated – not that this one was that complicated, but anyway, there you have it. So what time would you like to collect i
t?’
‘You did her cake?’
‘Yes, darling. Aren’t you listening?’
‘Well, thanks for letting me know,’ I say sarcastically, inwardly fuming as I look through to the kitchen bench where my two butter-cakes are cooling in preparation for their decoration. If she knew last week, why couldn’t she have let me know then? What on earth am I going to do with all the fairy bits . . . and the miniature silver wand?
‘That’s fine, darling. Now, what time exactly?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Mum. I’m flat out tomorrow.’
‘Really? It’s not like you’re working at the moment.’ She manages to inject such astonishment into her voice that she sets my teeth on edge. ‘I tell you what, why don’t I drop it around in the afternoon during the party?’
‘No! I mean, that’s okay, I know you’re really busy too – lists and all that.’ I have a brief and nasty mental picture of Keith and my mother walking in at the same time. She can barely be civil to him nowadays, not that I blame her, but I do want CJ’s party to be a success. One of the good things about this week being a particularly hectic one for my family was that nobody really expected an invitation to CJ’s children’s party. Instead I held a little family birthday afternoon tea on Saturday, at which CJ collected presents from all and sundry. Mum gave her a new doona cover and matching lampshade. They are covered with sparkly blue dolphins that should blend in just perfectly with her bedroom when I get around to putting them on.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes! Absolutely! You’ve done enough.’ More than enough if the truth be told. ‘I’ll pick it up after lunch when you’re back from the hospital.’
‘All right then, darling. If you have the spare time. And I’ll see you on Thursday.’
‘Thursday?’ I repeat foolishly.
‘Yes, Thursday. When you volunteered to help with the house, remember? It won’t be much, merely a little vacuuming and such. Although I think I might take all those curtains down and wash them. Or you can do that with your new washing-machine. Goodbye.’
I hang up the phone feeling slightly confused. I don’t remember volunteering to clean any house. She must mean Harold’s, because that is where the wedding ceremony is going to be held on Sunday. This is getting ridiculous. I spent all day today cleaning Alex’s house, and now I’m going to spend all day Thursday cleaning Harold’s house. What is it with these men? I have barely taken my hand off the phone when it rings again. Sighing heavily, I pick it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Listen, we’re frantically busy so I can’t chat. But I’ve rung with that phone number I promised you. Hmm, have you got a pen?’
‘Just a tic, Maggie.’ I scramble about in the drawer underneath the phone and come up with a biro and a scrap piece of paper. ‘Shoot.’
She barks out a phone number and then hangs up. I decide to dial and get it over and done with. It’s not like the hole in the floor will mend itself. The phone rings several times before an answering machine clicks in and, to my astonishment, a male voice yells stridently into my ear:
‘Who can?’
My eyes widen and I automatically wrench the phone away from my ear before slowly, and cautiously, bringing it closer again to hear what happens next. Am I supposed to answer the question? Or was it rhetorical? But before I can come to any conclusion, the disembodied voice, with a vague Irish lilt and without quite so many decibels, answers itself confidently with:
‘The handyman can! To be sure he can! So please leave your name and number after the beep . . . BEEP!’
Okay, I am totally incapable of leaving my name and number or anything else after the beep. I am too stunned. I know Maggie said that this guy was a bit odd but this takes the cake. Thinking of cakes (and the inevitable association with my mother, CJ and the Women’s Weekly Children’s Birthday Cake Book) shakes me out of my stupor and I decide to go with him anyway. Maggie did recommend him and she might be offended if I don’t use him and, what the hell, us social workers need to tread on the wild side occasionally. So I dial again, being careful to hold the phone away from my ear for the initial, earsplitting question and then obediently leave my name and number after the beep. I also make a mental note to tell the kids not to dance frantically on that particular corner of the bathroom until it is repaired. I mean, as far as I know they have never danced frantically in the bathroom before but, if there is going to be a first time, it will definitely be right now when the floor is in such a state. I know my kids.
Humming the Candyman tune from Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory under my breath, I wander into the kitchen and fill a bowl with some potato chips, which I carry into the lounge-room. As I collapse back onto the couch, Benjamin comes in from outside where he has been feeding animals, grooming animals or just playing with animals. I notice that he has the video camera tucked under one arm, and he notices that I notice so he says a quick goodnight and slunks off to his room before I can confiscate it. I make another mental note to wrest this morning’s tape off him before he sends it in to Australia’s Funniest Home Videos. With everything else going on today, I totally forgot.
‘What’s on the TV?’ Samantha wanders in and looks over at the television screen. ‘Apart from dust, that is.’
‘Very funny. Feel free to take over the housework any time you like,’ I say sarcastically, knowing full well there is little chance of my offer being taken up. Samantha’s idea of house cleaning is to sweep the room with a glance and then make disparaging comments about the efforts of others. Sure enough, she ignores my invitation and, after sneering briefly at the program that is screening, leaves the room. No doubt to tune in on the portable she has in her own room. I grab a handful of chips, stretch out and prepare to relax.
The documentary featuring the much-pierced natives has ended, and in its place is a courtroom drama where a woman is making a stressed spectacle of herself on the stand. The drama is interrupted briefly by an attractive blonde weather-woman who cheerfully informs me that it is going to be a stinking hot thirty-nine degrees tomorrow. Great. However, apparently there is relief on the horizon with a change expected mid-afternoon and a much cooler day is forecast for Wednesday. The weather-woman smiles superciliously (she probably has air-conditioning), and then it’s back to the courthouse where the nervous-looking female is apparently in imminent danger of losing custody of her children to her more affluent ex-husband. He is impeccably dressed, with impeccable credentials, and has an obviously impeccable lifestyle complete with requisite impeccable blonde girlfriend (actually, she looks a lot like the weather-woman). The children’s mother, on the other hand, has what definitely looks like a smear of Vegemite on the front lapel of her crumpled suit, and keeps jumping nervously every time somebody makes even a moderately loud noise. I vote that she lets him have the children, enjoys a prolonged holiday, and then returns when he has had enough – which, by the look of those kids, shouldn’t take very long at all. After all, I know from experience that it is the every-second-weekend parent who is worshipped, Vegemite-less and cannot do a thing wrong. And has a life.
I also know that she won’t give them up without a fight, and I can’t say I blame her.
It’s a funny world.
TUESDAY
Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
Matthew 19:19
TUESDAY
8.00 am
There were two things on my mind as I woke this morning. The first was CJ’s birthday party this afternoon, and what I needed to get done beforehand, and the second was the imminent arrival of Alex this afternoon. Actually, also on my mind was the fact that Keith, my other ex-husband, would be present at the birthday party, and that I didn’t really want Ben around while he was here . . . and that there is a hole in my bathroom floor, and that my mother has gone ahead and made CJ’s birthday cake, and that the day already feels hot and sticky, and to remember to say happy birthday to CJ, and that my sister gave birth to twins yesterday. So, I suppose there were rea
lly a lot more than two things on my mind as I woke this morning. In fact, now that I think of it, my mind was a veritable cauldron. No wonder I needed a couple of headache tablets before I could even think about coffee.
Well, at least I did remember to say happy birthday when CJ got into bed with me for a cuddle at the crack of dawn. So now I am leaning against the kitchen counter, freshly showered and dressed in a rather attractive new lemony shift-dress, waiting for the kettle to boil and watching the birthday girl hand-pick her cereal. This has been a morning ritual ever since she once managed to score a faulty cornflake that had somehow adhered itself to several of its mates and formed an unattractive and unchewable lump. Apparently the experience was traumatic. As I watch her examine each flake in minute detail, I resolve to restrict her to toast in future.
‘CJ, just pour them in already, will you?’
‘No way! Then I get the yucky ones.’
‘We’re running late! And you’re not even dressed yet!’
‘Okay, this’ll do.’ She pushes the cereal box aside and pours some milk over her eight carefully selected cornflakes. ‘Oh! Did you do my cupcakes for today?’
‘All thirty of them. They’re in an ice-cream container and I’ve put them in your schoolbag so don’t crush them.’
‘Cool! But I wish you’d sabed one of my presents for today.’
‘Well, CJ, if you remember I tried to, but you insisted that you wanted them all on Saturday.’ I turn off the kettle and pour hot water over my coffee granules in the plunger as a semi-dressed Benjamin saunters in and slides into the chair next to his younger sister. He picks up the cereal box and pours a liberal amount into his bowl and all around it. Now there’s someone who definitely goes for quantity over quality.
‘Mum, you know the smell next door?’ Ben looks at me while he pours his milk, with predictable results. ‘At Dad’s new joint?’
