by Ilsa Evans
Obviously money wasn’t an issue during my little jaunt into the past last night, although I did help myself to several slices of pizza. But that was before the sex, and had nothing to do with prior payment or anything. And I might be middle-aged, but I value my worth at a little higher than three slices of ham and pineapple and one supreme, that’s for sure. A bucket of KFC with potato and gravy would be more like it.
However, the issue of past sexual partners is still pertinent to the question in hand. I did sleep with the man on a frequent (extremely frequent, if my memory serves me correctly) basis at one stage so why is last night so upsetting? After all, why is it so different than if we had just gone to visit a favourite restaurant, or drove past the house we used to live in, or some such other slightly less tactile trip down memory lane? Because really, when all is said and done, that’s all that it was. Just a little reminiscent detour, a particularly physical reunion, a testimonial to what was once so commonplace that we never gave it a second thought. Even as I smile and congratulate myself on being able to put things into perspective, a little voice, which has been trying to be heard for quite some time, says the word ‘bullshit’ very loudly and rather rudely. I flop over on my stomach and bury my face in my pillow. What have I done?
I might as well face the truth, unpleasant as it may be. And the truth is that, in all likelihood, I have seriously affected what could have been a very convivial relationship with my next-door neighbour. A relationship without undercurrents of depravity, debauchery and desperation. And there are other players involved as well. Samantha, Benjamin, Maggie. They each have an investment in what is going on. Although it occurs to me that all the aforementioned players are probably not having the trouble sleeping that I am at the moment. Will I ever sleep the sleep of the righteous again? A better question would be, will I ever sleep again? If tonight is any indication, I may well have to visit the doctor and get a prescription for sleeping tablets. And then take the lot. That would solve my immediate problems anyway.
Now this is why sensible people are celibate. No matter what the temptation. Because just one little itty bitty slip-up, just one little illicit plunge into the rampant fires of all-encompassing, intoxicating, promiscuous, tempestuous, rapturous, carnal passion for fifteen minutes or so – and you always have to pay the price. And if I had known the price I was going to have to pay, well – I would have stayed for seconds.
THURSDAY
Cauliflower is nothing but cabbage
with a college education.
Mark Twain 1835–1910
THURSDAY
7.00 am
When I first realised that I was going to have an extended period of time between finishing my job at the library and starting my university course, I set myself a few goals that seemed quite attainable at the time. One involved buying some of my set textbooks and reading them before I started so that I would be way ahead of all the other less organised types in the class. Yeah, right. The textbooks are sitting untouched in a pile on my dressing table and their virginity isn’t even under threat. In fact, the only instructional things I’ve read in the last month have been the directions for my new washing-machine, and an innovative recipe which called for the inter-racial marriage of jelly crystals and meatloaf. Which incidentally wasn’t a raving success – apart from the raving that is.
Another easily attainable goal involved a list of things to do around the house that have needed doing for some time. And it didn’t include the bathroom floor. But, as that looks like the only thing that will be getting done, I had better add it to the list so that I can have the thrill of crossing at least one thing off.
My only other resolution concerned CJ. As my period of unemployment happily coincided with the start of her first year of school, I reasoned that it would be great to spend some quality time helping her settle in. Like volunteering to help with book-share, or being a classroom helper, or whatever it is that is asked of willing parents nowadays. So far I have done absolutely nothing. And this week has been even worse than usual. On Monday I virtually flung her in the direction of her classroom, and on Tuesday I didn’t even go near the school as Caron dropped her off and picked her up, and yesterday – well, Keith delivered her and all I had to do was pick her out from the line-up after nit-check. Well, today will be different. I am going to take her to school (and I’m going to be on time as well), and then I am going to volunteer for whatever is required. I shall spend all day there if necessary – it is my parental obligation. So, unfortunately I shall be quite unable to go furniture shopping with Alex, or even be around the house if he happens to drop by. Duty calls.
I roll over in my bed and gather my youngest daughter up in my arms. Actually, it will be quite fun to see how she has settled in, what new friends she has made, and how she copes in a classroom situation. Perhaps I can even get some practice in for myself. I tickle CJ under one ear.
‘What are you doing in my bed?’
‘The birds sang,’ she mumbles sleepily as she nestles herself spoon-like against my body. She is referring to a rule that I established a few months ago to try and prevent her clambering into bed with me at odd hours of the night. She is now not allowed to leave her bed, unless she has a nightmare, feels sick or there is a genuine emergency, until she can hear the birds start singing in the morning. Well, she must have pretty keen hearing because she’s obviously been here a while, and I have only just heard the birds begin their morning warble.
‘Hmm.’
‘They did! I heared them!’
‘Listen, what do you say to me asking Mrs James if she needs any help this morning?’
‘Oh yes!’ she says rapturously as she turns and flings her arms around my neck. ‘That would be fantastic!’
‘Okay then, I’ll ask her.’ I cuddle CJ back and feel inordinately pleased with myself. Sometimes it doesn’t take very much at all to make a child happy. Then again, at other times it takes everything you have . . . and a little bit more.
‘You can stay here for a bit if you like.’ I give CJ another cuddle and then clamber out of bed. I look in the full-length mirror as I pass and recoil with shock at the sight of my hair. I look like I am positively bald in places, while in others tufts of dark blonde spikes stand up like the sole surviving vegetation on a windblown prairie. Oh, that’s right! I’ve still got the nit stuff in – and so does CJ.
‘Change of plans. You’ll have to have a shower with me.’
‘But I’m so comfy! Why do I need a shower?’
‘Remember the nit stuff?’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Come on then.’ I hoist her out of the bed and carry her with me down to the bathroom. She weighs a ton. I can see the light spilling out from the doorway as I approach and that reminds me of the temporary absence of the bathroom floor. I put CJ down with a sigh of relief and, holding her by the shoulders, walk her carefully along the plank to the edge of the bath. Then I help her clamber in and turn to shut the door. I can’t. So I stand in contemplation for a minute as I reflect that, although I realised showering with CJ would limit my privacy, I had sort of counted on being able to shut the damn door. I sigh heavily again and begin to strip the child off, flinging her nightie and knickers into the passageway. Then I pull the shower curtain across, step in and begin to take my own clothing off. CJ watches this entertaining show with considerable interest.
‘You hab boobies.’
‘You know that.’ I reach forwards and turn the shower on.
‘Yes – but you hab big boobies.’
‘Not that big.’ I adjust the temperature of the flow and ease myself underneath with my eyes closed. Ah, heaven.
‘When I get old, will I hab that?’
‘Yes.’ I don’t have to open my eyes to know what she is pointing at. We have this same conversation every time we share the shower. She’s out of luck if she thinks that the answer will change one day.
‘Yuck.’
‘Don’t act all surprised. Didn’t you see t
he video?’
‘Yes, but it’s worser up close.’
‘Well, that’s life, kid.’ I squeeze a liberal amount of shampoo into my hand and wash my hair thoroughly. Then I put some conditioner on, swap places with CJ, and do a thorough job on her hair as well. We had better not take too long as everybody will need a shower this morning – even Ben. I rinse out CJ’s hair and then my own. It is not until I turn the shower off and peer around the curtain at the single towel, which is hanging on the rail on the other side of the plank, that I begin to wonder how we are going to get out of here both covered and in one piece.
‘Mummy, I’m cold.’
‘Samantha! Sam-an-tha!’ No response. I mentally gauge the distance between the bath and the towel rail and calculate how long it will take me to reach it – and what the chances are of somebody walking past while I am balanced on the plank, stark naked. I don’t know why I’m acting all prudish. Sam has all the same equipment only smoother, and I don’t know how many times Ben watched the video before he left it on top of the television. Well anyway, there’s no choice. I gingerly step out of the bath onto the plank and pause with my arms outstretched while I get my balance. It’s harder when you’re dripping wet. Ben should have his video camera ready right now – this would definitely make a funny home video. Perhaps even I would laugh about it one day. I edge carefully over to the towel rail and am reaching out to grab the towel when I suddenly spot somebody in my peripheral vision. I try to turn and grab the towel at the same time – and immediately lose my balance. For a few panic-stricken minutes I teeter precariously on the plank, my arms waving wildly as I try to regain my balance. And then I slowly topple straight off the edge and plunge into the depths. Actually, I only plunge about four feet because this is the low side of the house, but it still hurts when I land. Smack on my bottom into something that feels totally indescribable. I groan as it squelches accommodatingly around my buttocks.
‘Mum! Are you all right?’ Sam’s worried face appears above me.
‘Mummy! Mummy!’
‘What’s happening?’
I realise that I have the towel still grasped in one hand so I wrap it around me awkwardly before Ben can join the group above. Then I start to check for broken bones.
‘Should I ring for an ambulance?’
‘No!’
‘I know! I’ll go next door and get Dad!’
‘NO!’
‘Hey, don’t yell!’
‘Sorry. I’m okay. Really, I am.’
‘Hey, Mum! What’re you doing down there?’
‘Mummy! Mummy! Gib me the towel – I’m cold!’
‘Sam, take your sister away and get her a towel please. Ben, can you go and put the kettle on. I’m fine. I’ll just hoist myself back up as soon as you all go away.’ Actually I’m not fine, but I’m not badly hurt either – apart from my ego. However, one thing is for sure, I’ll be having another shower as soon as I get back up.
Now that my eyes have adjusted to the semi-darkness down here I can see that my lower half is covered in a black, mushy sludge – or something else that I don’t want to even think about. It would be a lot easier to crawl out from here and walk around to the front door, but knowing the way my luck is running at the moment, Alex would probably be out the front trimming his hedge. And I’d never live this down. So I’ll just get up in a minute when my heart palpitations ease somewhat, and see if I can slowly hoist myself back up onto the plank.
Suddenly, the ‘slow’ part of my plan is upgraded dramatically as I realise that the snuffly noise I can hear getting gradually louder is not me, but the relentless approach of that damn dog. And he is bad enough when I am fully clothed, on two legs and able to defend myself. In my current position, and smelling like shit, he’ll probably think that I’ve given in to the inevitable and capitulated at last.
I move – and I move fast.
THURSDAY
11.15 am
Today I can’t find a car park at the William Angliss Hospital anywhere I look. I circle for about fifteen minutes before I finally give up and drive further up the road in search of a house without a ‘No Parking’ sign out the front. I find one about a bus-ride away from the hospital, lock the car up, and begin the long trek back – with CJ at my side.
After my little mishap this morning, it took me quite a bit longer than usual to get myself organised. Firstly, by the time I had finished my second shower, Samantha was just about tearing her hair out with worry about being late and then, after she had finished, I had to physically push Ben into the bathroom and stand guard (with my eyes closed, of course) to make sure that he showered. So, it wasn’t until they had been organised and had left the premises that I realised CJ was still wrapped in a towel and playing with her birthday presents in her room. By then it was almost nine o’clock and she wasn’t even close to being dressed – let alone anything else. So I decided on the spur of the moment to give her a day off and bring her with me to visit her aunt and her two new baby cousins at the hospital.
The weather is slightly warmer than yesterday but nowhere near the hot, humid weather we had been experiencing before the change. And it’s actually a nice day for a walk, especially since all we have to carry is a couple of small gifts for the twins. I am dressed in a batik-print summer skirt, matching sleeveless cotton shirt and black sandals while CJ has on a pair of bright yellow short-overalls with a bright yellow and pale blue Winnie-the-Pooh t-shirt underneath. We are both looking very nice, very neat, and our hair is decidedly nit-free.
On the walk to the hospital we chat about school, and friends, and the likelihood of CJ growing up to look like me – with all my assorted lumps and bumps. We are the best of friends as we arrive at the hospital doors and I am now enjoying the day once again. CJ presses the button for the elevator and we lurch up to the maternity ward. I take her over to the glass window to show her the babies-in-residence but today the nursery is bare. Probably because it is still too early for the babies to have worn their mothers down yet. Come late afternoon there’s sure to be a positive rush of weary women depositing their new offspring with heartfelt sighs of relief.
Diane’s door is open so I stick my head around the doorjamb to make sure that she is awake. She is – and she has company. Her eldest son, Nicholas, is lounging on the bed next to his mother with one of the babies sleeping peacefully on his lap. Bronte, his girlfriend, is sitting on the uncomfortable green chair I frequented on Tuesday, cooing softly to the other baby, who is nestled on her lap.
‘Hi, everyone!’ I bustle in and dump my gifts on the bed next to Nick. CJ streams past me and pushes herself up against Bronte so that she can see the baby’s face. Everybody talks simultaneously.
‘Cam! What happened to you yesterday?’
‘Oh! She is sooo cute! C’n I hold her?’
‘Hi, Aunt Cam. CJ. What d’you think of my sisters?’
‘Hello, CJ. What’re you doing at home?’
‘C’n I hold her? Please, c’n I hold her?’
‘I don’t know, CJ.’ I look at Diane for a clue. CJ already has her hands out and is persistently plucking at the baby’s pink bunny-rug.
‘I tell you what, CJ. If Bronte will get up, then you can sit in that seat – and be very careful, all right?’ Diane takes the baby from Bronte and CJ slides into the seat, a huge grin of anticipation plastered on her face. Diane places the baby gingerly on CJ’s lap and, still keeping one protective hand on her child, sits down on the armrest. I peer more closely to check out which baby my daughter is staring at so adoringly – it’s Robin. And her face is still exceedingly red. I hope she never takes up drinking in a big way.
‘Cam, Mum said that if I saw you, to tell you she’ll be a bit late on Friday night.’ Bronte positions herself on the area of bed vacated by Diane and turns to look at me.
‘Okay, that’s fine.’ I think I may cancel Friday anyway. One look at me and Terry will want to know everything – and I mean everything – that went on on Tuesday night. Terr
y and I try to get together most Friday nights for a few drinks and what has sort of evolved into a debrief session for the week. We bounce ideas off each other, unload on each other, and sometimes even get or give some helpful advice. Although the usefulness of the advice does seem to have a direct bearing on how much or how little we have had to drink.
The trouble this week is that it’s too late for ideas, and I don’t really feel like unloading – in fact, I don’t want to even think about Certain Things, let alone admit to them. I smile at Bronte to let her know that she has passed her message on successfully. Bronte is Terry’s twenty-year-old daughter, her only child. She first met my eldest nephew at a barbecue I held at the end of last winter and they have been as thick as thieves ever since – much to the disgust of both their maternal parents. Terry is disgusted because she doesn’t want Bronte to make the same mistakes that she made and get so serious, so young. And Diane is disgusted because . . . well, because she needs to feel needed, and if Nick has a serious girlfriend, he doesn’t need her quite as much. That’s how she thinks, anyway. But perhaps these two little girls will help her to let go of her bigger boys. We can only hope.
I have to say, though, that Nicholas and Bronte make a stunning couple. Nick, like his brothers, has inherited his father’s large frame and blond good looks while Bronte is close to the spitting image of her mother. She is very tall, very blonde and very statuesque. And her father’s one useful legacy is her absolutely perfect teeth (he’s a dentist). Together, the pair would not look out of place taking the stage for one of those dramatic Valkyrie operas.
‘Here, Aunt Cam, have my seat,’ Nick says to me as he hands the baby he was nursing to Bronte and stands up behind her with his hand on her shoulder. They look almost like proud young parents themselves – but I don’t think I’ll mention this to my sister.
