by Ilsa Evans
‘I feel sooo bad too.’ My elbow gives way and I flop backwards. Even that makes my head thump.
‘I bet, like, you had too much with Dad last night!’
‘I bet, like, you’re right.’ Boy, is she right! I close my eyes and put my hand on my forehead. It’s very hot. And my lips feel bruised.
‘Isn’t it great having him so close?’
‘Oh yeah. Just great.’
‘We can see him all the time!’
‘Fantastic.’ I wish she’d shut up and go to school. But even in my befuddled state I notice that Ben is not contributing to the conversation. Not that Ben is famous for contributing to conversations at the best of times, but something tells me that his father might have a bit of work to do regarding the father-son bonding thing. Or maybe the boy is just exhausted from the effort of getting ready for school on time for once.
‘Well, we’d better get going.’ Sam tiptoes over to the bed and drops a kiss on my cheek. ‘See you this afternoon.’
‘S’ya, Mum,’ Benjamin mumbles from the doorway and then both kids exit and shortly afterwards I hear the front door slam. Thank god, I’m alone. Now’s my chance to commit suicide.
I lie in bed for another thirty minutes or so, staring at the ceiling. But, unfortunately, that doesn’t change anything. I sigh heavily, move slowly, and get out of bed. Wrapping my dressing-gown around me, I head at a snail’s pace up the passage to the kitchen. The unearthly silence seems to reverberate through the house, and it makes my headache worse. First stop – two headache tablets. Second stop – a glass of Eno. Third stop – put the kettle on and tip some coffee in the plunger. At least, at some stage during the night, the promised cool change must have arrived and the house has ceased trying to impersonate a sauna.
Only after the headache tablets have kicked in, the Eno has settled my stomach, and I have actually got the cup of coffee between both hands, do I feel human enough to look around me. Oh my god. Well, if I wanted something to distract me from my nefarious exploits of last night, I certainly have it in abundance. The counter has dirty dishes as far as the eye can see and the sink is still full with abandoned washing-up. And the kitchen table is piled with bits of wrapping paper and sticky-tape, empty wine-glasses, cake crumbs, and chocolate crackle wrappers. As I walk slowly towards the lounge-room, I step on several Cheezels that are scattered all over the floor almost as if a more modern Hansel and Gretel had been trying to find their way out at some stage. And I don’t blame them.
The lounge-room is no better – there is a party-pie mashed into the carpet, and another mashed against a window. Several sheets of newspaper which escaped my divided attention last night litter the armchairs, balloons float dejectedly around the floor, up-ended cups lie abandoned on the coffee table, and paper plates laden with half-eaten food are scattered over nearly every available surface. To top it all off, there is a house made of video cassettes under the window. I stare at these for a few minutes while I slowly remember the pornographic scenes I unwittingly starred in last night. That is, the ones I starred in earlier last night.
I sigh heavily and wander down to CJ’s room. The nightmare continues. Her party guests must have examined every toy she owned, opened every puzzle they found, and dismantled everything they could possibly dismantle. Plus, almost everything in her wardrobe has been pulled out – no doubt when she was attempting to hide Caitlin within.
I can’t face this without another cup of coffee. On my way back to the kitchen, I pass the answering machine in the hall. The little red light is blinking spasmodically at me. Once, twice, three times . . . I don’t know when those messages arrived because I can’t remember checking the machine at all yesterday. Hell’s bells! Mum – messages . . . I totally forgot. I pull out the telephone stool, sit down and press the play button.
‘Did you know that on this day in 1587, Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded? Apparently it took three tries. It’s from a book we’ve got in about what things happened on what day. I am so bored! I’m glad you’re doing what you want but I really miss your scintillating company here. How’s the plans for the big wedding going? Is Diane close to having the twins? Has your ex arrived yet? These questions and more must be answered by a return phone call. But not tonight, I’m going –’
Her rambling is cut off by the answering machine but at least it’s put a smile on my face. Then again, Terry usually has that effect. She has been my best friend for over ten years now and still works at the library that used to employ me. I make a mental note to call her back. The second message kicks in.
‘Hello, Camilla darling. I was hoping that you’d be at home . . . anyway I’ll speak to you later, but please don’t forget that you were going to collect the girls’ shoes from Boronia. Ring me if you can’t spare the time – I’m sure I can squeeze it in . . . somewhere.’
Damn. Damn. Damn. So that’s it. I had forgotten all about those damn shoes. Probably because they are so incredibly ugly – white-buttoned things with a salmon ribbon to match the bridesmaid dresses. Gross. I make another mental note, this time to fit the collection of said shoes into my busy schedule. The third message kicks in.
‘This is Fergus O’Connor, the handyman, returning a call from Camilla Riley. And wouldn’t I be delighted to look at your floor tomorrow? If I don’t hear from you, I shall drop by at ten o’clock. Thank you.’
With horror I look at the clock in the hall. Oh my god! That gives me about an hour to get this house into some semblance of order! An hour to wash the dishes, clean the windows, tidy the tables, pick up the Cheezels, demolish the video house, vacuum the carpets, wash the floors and close CJ’s door. And try to do something about myself as well! I automatically glance at the hall mirror. Hmm, I think I’ll stick to cleaning the house. This definitely isn’t a day for miracles.
WEDNESDAY
10.00 am
Well, I’ll say one thing for him – he’s certainly prompt! I shove the vacuum cleaner roughly into the broom cupboard on my way past, straighten my tracksuit, and cautiously open the front door.
‘Ms Riley? I am “The Handyman”. At your disposal.’
‘Uh – great!’ All I can do is stare. Because ‘The Handyman’ is the strangest repairman that I have ever had come to my door. And that’s saying something. My eyes start at his blond-streaked hair because I don’t have to look up very far, then move down to his rather ordinary looking early thirty-something face. He has a largish gypsy-hooped earring in his left ear. My eyes continue down to his candy-pink overalls and I read the logo: ‘Who can? The Handyman can . . .’ which is emblazoned in silver studs across the front bib. Underneath the amazing overalls (and isn’t this just like a guy?), is a daggy old sleeveless checked-flannelette shirt. Slowly, my stunned gaze travels on downwards until it finishes at his shoes, which look for all the world like genuine wooden clogs. This apparition is doing nothing for my fragile state. In fact, my eyes hurt. I close my mouth and drag my eyes quickly back up to his face. He is grinning hugely at me.
‘You may call me Fergus, if you wish. And what, may I ask, can I be doing for you?’
‘Um . . . my floor,’ I answer lamely. His slight Irish lilt gives his voice a musical quality. It was definitely him on the answering machine recording singing that ditty.
‘Ah, then lead me to the offending surface, madam.’
It’s the word ‘madam’ that gets me going. I remember that this is one of Maggie’s regular clients and I don’t particularly want him to go back to her laughing hysterically about how conservative I am or something. I lead the way to the bathroom and he clogs along noisily behind me. Clop, clop, clop. I’m going to need more headache tablets soon at this rate. When we get to the bathroom, I stand in the doorway, gesturing vaguely inside and giving him plenty of room to get past me.
‘In the corner. Can you see?’
‘To be sure. Has it been like this for some time?’
‘No. Well, I don’t think so. I only noticed it on Monday and when I sort of touc
hed it, the tiles just seemed to cave in.’
‘Yes indeedy. Ah.’ He kneels down on one leg, puts his hand inside the hole and pulls up a large section of the floor. ‘It’s a problem you’re having, for sure.’
‘Really?’ I stare at the large bit of my bathroom floor that is hanging out of his hand and try to sound sarcastic. I mean, before it was a dilemma I was having, now it’s a problem.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ He lays the section that he just pulled up back down, pats it into place and turns to face me. ‘Indeed I am. Hasn’t water been getting in under the tiles and the floor’s rotted. Now I think the lot’ll probably be needing replacing – I’ll have to go under the house and have a look. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be getting a quote together for you.’
‘Would you like a coffee, or a tea?’ Or anything else that might have a positive effect on what price you’ll be charging?
‘A tea would be quite the thing, thank you. And where’s your access?’
‘My access?’ I repeat stupidly.
‘Yes, access. To under the house.’
‘Oh! It’s on the side of the house – out the front.’
‘Great. I’ll be with you in ten.’
‘How would you like your tea?’
‘Ah, black, strong and sweet – like my women.’ He turns to flash that enormous smile at me again, as if it is the first time that that joke has ever been used. Or perhaps he is subtly letting me know that my white, weak and slightly bitter body – and access – does nothing for him.
‘On the way.’ I leave him to his quoting and head towards the kitchen. I have just reached the doorway when the phone rings, so I reverse thrust and walk back down the passage to the hall phone because it has a seat next to it. But as I reach out to pick up the phone I pause, my hand balanced mid-air conjurer-like as I decide it might be more prudent to screen my calls for the foreseeable future. The phone rings three more times and then Sam and CJ’s rather mechanical voices mingle through the recorded message, followed by the beep, a pause – and then Alex’s voice.
‘Cam? Are you there? It’s Alex. Pick up if you’re there. I really want to talk to you . . . about last night. There’s something I haven’t told you. Look, we really need to talk. Are you there? . . . Okay, I’ll be out for most of today but we’ll catch up tonight. We really need to talk.’
I’ve got news for him. I have no intention of speaking to him today, or perhaps ever. At the moment the ostrich is my favourite animal . . . or bird, or whatever the hell it is. As I walk slowly back up the passage I involuntarily glance into the bathroom and meet the interested eyes of The Handyman. He gives me another huge grin and then heads past me in the direction of the front door. Great. He’ll probably tell Maggie and she’ll be onto this so fast I won’t even have time to sell up, let alone move.
I put the kettle on and stare out of the window morosely. The backyard is beginning to look like it has not quite survived a nuclear bomb blast, and it’s all courtesy of that damn dog. He has eaten all of the tree ferns, dug up most of the grass, and even managed to tear an enormous hole in the trampoline. And at the moment he is doing a series of moronic circles around the washing-line trying to catch his own tail. When I move, I’m definitely leaving him behind.
The front door opens and I hear The Handyman clomp back up the passage and into the bathroom. The kettle boils stridently and I proceed to make some black, strong, sweet tea for him and some white, semi-sweet, insipid-looking tea for me (if there really is a correlation between how one has one’s tea and what attracts one in the opposite sex, then what does my tea say about me?). As I turn to take his down to him, he comes up the passage waving a large piece of paper in his hand.
‘Here you go. There’s two quotes there, one with the tiling and one without. In case you’ll be wanting to do that bit yourself. Don’t have to give me an answer now. Ah, thanks – perfecto.’ He takes the tea from my outstretched hand and deposits the quote in there instead. I skip the details and go straight to the cost.
‘That seems very reasonable!’ I say in surprise, ably demonstrating the fact that I have not even grasped the rudiments of dealing with repairmen. Incidentally, I’m also the pits at any sort of haggling.
‘Well, our Maggie is a friend of mine.’ At this he gives me a huge wink and another of his super-wattage smiles. And actually they do wonders for his face – run of the mill weird becomes impish in the blink of an eye.
‘Oh. Okay then, when can you start?’ I have no morals when it comes to paying for labour. If I am getting this cheaper because he thinks my ex sister-in-law provides excellent service for whatever it is that he needs done, then so be it.
‘Well, was it me you wanted doing the tiling or yourself?’
‘Ha, ha,’ I laugh merrily. ‘How droll. No, you can do it, thanks.’
‘Okey dokey. Well, I can either do the whole job next Thursday, or I can do half now and the other half on Friday. Either way that’ll be giving you a few days to pick out your tiles – I’ve put the measurements down at the bottom of the quote.’ He points to a jumble of figures written illegibly across the bottom of the piece of paper in my hand.
‘Um . . . I’ll go with the half/half option, if that’s okay.’ I give up trying to decipher the scribble and decide to leave that up to the tile salesperson.
‘Not a problem.’ He takes a sip of tea and looks with unabashed curiosity around my kitchen. I am fascinated by the way he drinks his tea – he actually crooks his little finger out at such an angle that he would be a positive menace to anybody who happened to be walking past.
‘Well then, madam, it’s onto it I am as we speak.’ He swallows the rest of the tea, curls his pinkie back, and hands the cup over to me before vanishing in the direction of the bathroom.
One thing is for sure, if this is what Maggie calls a bit odd, I’d hate to see anything she classes as really off the beaten track.
WEDNESDAY
1.30 pm
I am scratching my head uncontrollably as I throw my bag neatly onto the hat-stand and take my purchases up the passage and into the kitchen. CJ follows.
‘Will it hurt?’
‘Let me see.’ I stop scratching for a moment and take one of the small brown bottles out of the paper bag to read the label.
‘Well? Will it hurt?’
‘It might sting a little –’ I look up from the label and catch sight of her wide-eyed face – ‘I mean no, it doesn’t hurt at all. Perfectly fine.’
In a pig’s ear is it perfectly fine. For a start, it is extremely embarrassing to be phoned in the middle of the day by your daughter’s school and tersely informed that the Nit Nurse has found a colony of virile bloodsucking parasites gorging happily on the surface of her tender scalp. All right, those weren’t the exact words used, but the end result was the same. I had to go to the school forthwith and collect CJ, who was sitting with the other parasitic hosts (whose number included several of yesterday’s party guests), outside the school office and take her home. She is not allowed back until she is treated. Hence the bottles.
‘Mummy, I don’t like nits.’
‘CJ, there are very few people who do.’ I automatically start scratching again. I don’t know whether it is the power of suggestion or whether I actually have nits. Perhaps god hath sent a plague of lice to punish the fornicator. I certainly don’t remember scratching like this yesterday. I pull the rest of the bottles out of the paper bag. One for each member of the family. Samantha should be thrilled.
‘Are they really sucking my blood?’
‘Yes,’ I answer distractedly while I read the label thoroughly.
‘Aaaaah! I don’t want them sucking my blood!’
‘Okay, okay!’ I grab her by the hand and pull her down to the bathroom. ‘We’ll treat you right now and get rid of them. It’ll all be over and done with then.’
We both come to a dead halt in the bathroom doorway. Which is just as well, because there is no longer any floor in front of us
. CJ is now totally distracted from her unwelcome hair accessories and my mouth drops open. I clap a hand to my forehead in dismay. When I left to go and collect my infected offspring, The Handyman had still been hard at work so I had simply asked him to slam the front door behind him when he left. I hadn’t had a really good look at what was being done. But now I am – and I am beginning to regret my half today and half on Friday decision. Because the floor is gone! All gone! I now have an almost uninterrupted view of a good section of the ground about four foot below, as well as several of the house-stumps complete with spider-webs. I try to think positively.
At least he is neat, all the debris has been removed and, if there’s one thing my house didn’t need, it was more debris. He has also thoughtfully placed a wooden plank from the doorway to the bath for our convenience. The bath itself is suspended in its wooden framework with the shower above and nothing underneath except a few joists. CJ lurches eagerly forwards to walk the plank. I pull her back with one hand.
‘Hang on a minute.’ With my hands on her shoulders, I turn CJ firmly to face me so that I can be sure of her complete attention. ‘Look at me. You are not to enter this bathroom. Under any circumstances. You can still use the toilet next door of course, but for the time being, you wash your hands in the kitchen sink. I’ll put some soap and a towel out there. So the bathroom itself is totally out of bounds. Is that understood?’
‘But –’
‘No buts. Is that understood?’
‘Not fair. I want to play pirates.’
‘I don’t care.’ I take her by the hand and drag her forcibly back up to the kitchen. ‘No entry, no pirates, no bathroom. We’ll do this in here instead.’
‘But, Mummy, what happened to the floor in there?’
‘It’s getting fixed. So keep away from it.’ I put my hands underneath her arms and hoist her up onto the kitchen counter. Then I read the label on the bottle yet again (I am a nit novice so I want to be absolutely sure of what I’m doing), and pour some of the concoction into my palm. Then I start to massage the foul-smelling gunk through her blonde hair.
