by Ilsa Evans
‘Nothing! Why does everyone think it has to be me whenever some animal gets sick around here?’ I say with righteous indignation.
‘Probably because of your track record.’ Sam grins at me and plonks her dead teabag in the kitchen sink. ‘Anyway, Dad rang. I said we couldn’t come over because we all had nits and he said he’d come over –’
‘What!’
‘– but I said no, we all look disgusting so he said okay, and he wants you to ring back as soon as you can. Hey, did you want to look at my army pamphlets?’
‘Not really,’ I answer diffidently as I reflect on what a shame it is that I am just about to start tea, and do school lunches, and iron uniforms, and change the sheets on everybody’s beds, and read CJ a story, and do the dishes, and – well, unfortunately the list goes on and on. In fact, according to my calculations, ‘as soon as I can’ will probably place the return phone call well into next week. Or thereabouts, at least.
WEDNESDAY
8.30 pm
‘Hello, Camilla, I do like what you’ve done with your hair.’ Phillip gives my lotion-stiffened hair an admiring glance as he follows Ben outside via the laundry. I don’t know why everyone refuses to use the sliding doors off the dining room – they all insist on traipsing through the kitchen and around the long way for some unknown reason. I am standing at the kitchen sink, finishing off the tea dishes so I lean forwards and peer out through the window towards the rabbit hutches. From this cunning vantage point I have a good view of Phillip – and he has absolutely no view of me.
Phillip is my sister Elizabeth’s boyfriend. They have been going out for about twelve months now, and that must constitute some sort of record as her relationships are not generally known for their longevity. He is a really nice guy, and a vet – and Benjamin’s favourite person on the face of the earth. He is also very cute. In fact, he is the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. Standing a couple of inches over six foot, he has nice broadish shoulders and a neat, narrow waist. His dark hair has a natural wave with absolutely no grey, his moustache is extremely debonair, and his eyes are a sort of liquid brown that I personally find very attractive. Ironically, so does Bloody Elizabeth.
As I watch Phillip fish Rover out of the top hutch and squat down to examine him, I suddenly realise what the odd feeling is that I have had ever since he walked in a few minutes ago. Unbelievably, I feel a bit guilty. Even though he is my sister’s boyfriend, and not mine, I feel almost like I have played up behind his back. Which is ridiculous. I know that there is a certain chemistry between us, and has been since we first met, but I thought I had it firmly through my head that we are not, and never will be, an item. Even if he and Bloody Elizabeth broke up tomorrow, he would still be out of bounds. There has to be some sort of honour code between sisters, even if one of them doesn’t really deserve it.
Phillip passes a limp Rover over to Ben and takes a handful of straw out of the cage to examine it. I put my head on one side, narrow my eyes and try to compare him with Alex in a visual sense. Phillip is slightly older but certainly doesn’t look it, and he is taller, and he would also be classified the more handsome in the strict definition of the word. Especially in a photograph – Phillip would always look traditionally handsome whereas Alex needs some movement, some expressiveness, to bring him alive, then he becomes interesting, and that is something I have always found seriously appealing. In a non-visual sense, I think Alex wins. He’s a bit more interesting, more fun, and has a really lively sense of humour. And that is one thing that Phillip isn’t exactly over-endowed with (there may well be others, but I am not in a position to judge). However, his air of competence is extremely attractive. That, and the fact that he belongs to someone else – and that someone just happens to be the sister I am least fond of.
Terry has a theory that I am chiefly attracted to Phillip because he is going out with Bloody Elizabeth (Phillip and Elizabeth – it even sounds ridiculous), and I think she may well have a point. But, whatever the reason for it, the attraction is mutual and the low-level flirting (and Elizabeth’s expressive face) has certainly made family functions much more interesting of late. But I shouldn’t feel guilty, for god’s sake!
Phillip dumps the straw back into the cage and shuts the door firmly. Then they turn away from the hutches and start to head back inside. Phillip pauses to give Murphy a scratch behind the ears and the stupid dog just about wets himself in unbridled joy. He also leaves Phillip’s legs well alone. I suppose there’s no accounting for some tastes.
‘I’ve got Nicholas and Alexandra in my bedroom,’ Ben is saying as he comes in still nursing a totally immobile Rover in his arms.
‘Ben, put that rabbit down! It’s dead!’ I exclaim in disgust.
‘No, he’s not.’ Phillip turns to look at me with a puzzled frown.
‘Oh.’
‘Told you so,’ Ben says with a smirk and hurries to catch up with Phillip, who is striding purposefully off towards Ben’s bedroom.
‘Hey,’ I hiss as I reach out and grab him by the arm, ‘I thought I told you I didn’t want Phillip here tonight?’
‘You said you didn’t want him here today, not tonight.’ Ben shakes off my hand and, tenderly nursing the rabbit (which still looks dead to me), hurries after his mentor.
I think Alex will have to consider training as a vet if he wants to win his son over. Ben hasn’t mentioned his father once since he’s been home, or even expressed any desire to pop over and see him. Alex is going to have to realise that this relationship will need some work and, for a while at least, the input is going to be all on his side. Obviously this boy isn’t quite the pushover his mother is. Is anyone?
I finish the dishes and pull the plug in the sink. A flock of cockatoos wing their way down from the mountain and into our largest tree where they begin to shriek at each other gregariously. A few of the more valiant ones glide from the tree limbs to the ground, where they peck at all the bits of party food which the fairies thoughtfully spread over the backyard yesterday. The other birds gather up their courage as soon as they see what spoils are on offer. Soon the backyard is absolutely covered with a blanket of snowy white cockatoos. Unbelievably, that stupid dog is lying down next to the remains of one of my tree ferns and complacently watching them while he chews on one of the fronds. Even if he doesn’t feel like chasing them off, then the least he could do is get rid of his sexual frustrations on a bird or two.
‘Mum, can we leave the light on in the bathroom overnight?’
‘Why would we do that?’ I turn to face Samantha, who is still clad only in a rather skimpy towel. She ate tea dressed like that, did her homework dressed like that and, for all I know, plans to sleep dressed like that.
‘Because, Mommie Dearest, if I, like, need to go to the toilet in the middle of the night, then I never turn on the light and I go into the bathroom to wash my hands and then, well, I’ll probably end up under the house.’
This is true. And most likely her screams will wake me up. And then I’ll have to fish her out, and take her to the Angliss Hospital and, although I do need to go there tomorrow anyway to visit Diane, I’d rather wait until after I’ve showered this disgusting gunk out of my hair.
‘Okay, we’ll leave the light on. And, Sam?’ I cast a meaningful look at the towel encasing her slim, teenage body. ‘You might want to put something on. Phillip is looking at rabbits in your brother’s room.’
‘What!’ She looks around wildly and then, moving a lot quicker than I could in a towel, she sprints off towards her bedroom. Well, that got rid of her.
I wander down to CJ’s room to check that she has gone to sleep as requested thirty minutes ago. She is snoring gently and has one arm wrapped around her latest stuffed bear. Her room looks no different from how it did this morning except that the pile of birthday acquisitions in the corner has been rummaged through and several Barbies have been totally stripped. I kiss her gently on the cheek and tuck her doona up over her chest. It is quite cool tonight, and that m
akes for a very pleasant change.
Benjamin’s bedroom door is open so I walk in and stand just inside the doorway. If I thought CJ’s room was messy, one look at this room is all it takes to alter perspective. It is a veritable tip. Clothes are scattered over the floor, books are piled haphazardly on the desk, and a plate of something indistinguishable lies abandoned on the windowsill. Ben and Phillip are sitting on the bed and both turn as I enter – Phillip with a welcoming smile, Ben with a questioning frown.
‘Hey, just thought I’d see how it’s going.’
‘Fine, Mum.’
‘Actually, I was telling Ben that I think they should be okay by tomorrow or so. But it looks like someone has fed them something they shouldn’t.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ I say defensively.
‘I didn’t imagine it was,’ Phillip says magnanimously.
‘I did.’
‘Thanks, Ben.’ I give my faithless son a Look, which he totally ignores. ‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee, Phillip – or something stronger?’
‘Actually, a cup of tea would be lovely, thanks.’
‘Me too,’ adds Ben.
‘How do you have it?’ I ask Phillip, pointedly ignoring my son.
‘White and weakish, thanks.’
Well, that’s interesting – he is going out with Bloody Elizabeth after all. I wander up to the kitchen and put the kettle on just as the phone rings . . . and rings. Samantha comes racing out of her bedroom, now dressed adequately in tracksuit pants and an iridescent green crop top.
‘Isn’t anyone going to answer that?’ she yells rhetorically to nobody in particular as she picks up the phone.
‘Hello? . . . Oh, hi, Dad . . . I’m fine . . . Yes, I told her . . . hang on. Mum! Mum! Dad wants to talk to you!’
‘Tell him I’m sorry but I can’t come to the phone right now.’ I bustle noisily around the kitchen and try to look appropriately busy with the kettle and some teabags.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m making tea for Phillip!’
‘Okay. Hello, Dad? She can’t come coz she’s busy making tea for Phillip . . . Who, Phillip? He’s like a friend . . . No, about Mum’s age . . . Yep . . . Okay . . . Yes, that’d be great! I’ll tell Ben . . . Yep, I’ll tell her . . . Yep, got it – that beanbag, right? . . . Okay! See you then.’
She hangs up the phone and I stop straining my ears. The beanbag? What about the beanbag? I pour hot water into the mugs while I wait patiently for her to come and tell me what that was all about, but she never appears. Finally, I simply finish the tea, put the mugs on a tray with a plate of chocolate-chip biscuits and go to find her. She is leaning inside Benjamin’s doorway talking to him. Phillip is still sitting on the bed and is now forcing an eye-dropper full of some purplish concoction down Rover’s throat. If that rabbit throws up in here, I am not cleaning it up.
‘What did your father want?’ I look around for a clear space on which to place the tray. There is none.
‘Oh. He’s taking Ben and me out for tea tomorrow night. To, like, a proper restaurant.’ She gives me a look that speaks volumes about all the second-class establishments that I obviously force them to frequent.
‘Is that all?’ I kick some clothing to one side and put the tray down on the floor.
‘Thanks, Mum.’ Sam picks up my mug of tea and takes a gulp. ‘Mmm, delicious.’
‘That was – never mind. What else did your father say?’
‘Well, he did say that we had to dress nicely. Did you hear that, Ben?’
‘Yeah, whatever.’ Ben doesn’t take his eyes off Rover, whose own eyes are starting to protrude in a most unattractive manner. If this is Alex’s idea of a positive step in building a relationship with his son, it’s not a particularly good one. Ben and restaurants, especially ‘proper restaurants’, are like chalk and cheese. Alex would have been better off sticking to the pizza on the floor like last night.
‘Was there anything else?’
‘Um . . . he wanted to know who Phillip was.’
‘I hope you told him he’s Aunt Elizabeth’s boyfriend,’ I say primly, knowing full well that she skipped that bit, but also well aware that Phillip is listening unabashedly to the conversation. A friend, indeed. I wonder what Alex thought of that?
‘I can’t remember.’ She frowns at me. ‘Why, does it matter?’
‘Of course not.’ I look at Phillip, who grins at me fleetingly before shining a light into Rover’s now bulging eyes. The rabbit immediately begins to work his back legs frantically. Yep, I agree. He’s definitely alive.
‘Anything else?’
‘God, Mum! If you’re so interested then why don’t you answer the phone yourself next time!’
‘Don’t be so rude! It’s only that I thought I heard you say something about telling me something, that’s all.’
‘I hear your father’s living next door now?’ Phillip dumps the frenetic rabbit into a cardboard box by the bed, picks up his mug of tea and turns to look at Sam. ‘That’ll be great for you two. I’m looking forward to meeting him.’
‘Oh, you’ll like him. He’s really fantastic,’ Sam says enthusiastically.
‘Was. There. Anything. Else?’ I enunciate the words slowly and distinctly while I spare a moment to fervently wish that I was a rabbit and could therefore devour my young with no legal repercussions.
‘God, Mum! No, there – hang on, he did say something about going furniture shopping tomorrow and if you’re interested in giving him a hand, just give him a ring.’
‘Oh . . . I see.’
‘And he said something about that beanbag.’
‘Beanbag?’ I repeat stupidly in a rather high-pitched voice. ‘What about the beanbag?’
‘Something about you and the beanbag.’ Samantha is now looking at me curiously. ‘You know, I think he meant that disgusting looking beanbag he’s got.’
‘Well, what?’ Is my face going red? Are my legs turning to jelly?
‘The one that looks like a piece of swamp.’
‘Not that – what did he say?’
‘Let me think . . . something about not to worry –’
‘What?’
‘Hang on! I’m trying to think! . . . Oh, that’s right, he said you’re not to worry, even with the new furniture, he’s definitely hanging on to the beanbag. The one that looks like a bit of swamp. Gross. And why do you care?’
I close my eyes for a second or two to let this sink in. No doubt Alex thought he was being wickedly amusing. But I am not amused. For starters, I have learnt through bitter experience that it is never a good idea to send a joke like that via a teenager. They are like terriers when they latch on to something even mildly intriguing. Let alone something like this. I quickly decide that I had better act naturally, so I stop grinding my teeth, plaster a smile on my face, and open my eyes again. They are all now staring at me with open curiosity.
‘So what’s with the swampbag, Mum?’
‘Yeah, I thought it was, like, so ugly!’
‘Perhaps it has some rather special meaning?’ Phillip arches his eyebrows suggestively and looks at me with his head on one side. ‘Now what could that be?’
What could that be indeed? There’s a good question.
WEDNESDAY
11.23 pm
Terry once told me a story that, for some reason, has stuck in my head for many years now. It happened way back during the three years she spent as a member of the Royal Australian Air Force in her late teens, shortly before she married Dennis. Apparently this friend of Terry’s had gotten quite serious with a fellow she worked with in the air force and, after a while, they moved in together. Well, things were hunky-dory for about twelve months and then, as often happens, it started to fall apart so they made an amicable decision to go their separate ways and remain just good friends. The very next day after she had moved out of the unit and back onto base, her ex-boyfriend offered to sell her his Honda Civic, which she had been driving frequently and had grown qui
te fond of. I can’t remember what the price was set at exactly but, whatever it was, he offered to knock off a further five hundred dollars – but only if she slept with him one last time.
The different contours of the moral dilemma involved here have always rather fascinated me. On the one hand, this was way back in the late seventies when five hundred dollars was worth a considerable amount more than it is today. Besides, five hundred dollars are five hundred dollars and not to be sneezed at. And she was sleeping with him right up to the day before anyway, so what difference would once more really make? On the other hand, regardless of whether she had ever slept with him or not, or when she had last slept with him, taking the deal was still putting a market value on her body. And then, of course, the tricky question arises regarding exactly where you draw the line. Four hundred? Two hundred? Fifty?
Apparently this girl told Terry that she rejected the deal outright and paid full price for the car but Terry claims that she is pretty sure that the girl actually did take the discount, but just wasn’t game to admit it. Either way, as I don’t personally know this particular female, her subsequent actions have never been quite as interesting to me as the moral considerations of the situation. If you have slept with someone countless times, why is once more a mere few days later any different? Or even a few weeks later, or a few months or – as in my case – thirteen years, one month and twelve days later? I’m not exactly sure of the minutes.
In other words, why am I so worked up about sleeping with Alex one more time? After all, I have slept with the man more times than I could possibly remember, and in a variety of ways that I don’t particularly want to remember. As soon as this thought meanders through my cerebral processes, I can feel my face grow warm as memories start to crowd back in, complete with full colour illustrations. I roll over, pull my doona up over my head and groan out loud.
What have I done? What have I done? I throw the doona back and sit up in bed to reach out for my warm milk. While I drink, I contemplate the ceiling and pray for divine inspiration. Nothing happens so I finish off the milk, flop back onto the bed and return to my original train of thought.
