by Ilsa Evans
I smile ruefully while I start unloading my groceries onto the conveyor belt and reflect on how life is so predictable at times. That is, some things change, but some stay just the same. As if to prove my point, the loudspeaker crackles to life and yet another announcement issues forth:
‘There is a little lost girl in the store. She is three years old and dressed in jeans and an Adelaide Crows t-shirt. She answers to the name of Jade. Could anybody finding Jade please bring her to the service counter – her mother is quite concerned.’
I smile, purely because children like Jade and Jordan make me feel a hell of a lot better about my three offspring. However, my pleasure is short-lived because CJ chooses that moment to announce loudly that she has, in the last twenty seconds, managed to lose the receipt for Bondage Barbie. She has also managed to lose the plastic bag. I grit my teeth at her and proceed to look under the trolley, under the counter, under the display shelf, and under CJ. Then I check her pockets, her clothing, and her mouth. Lastly, I do a quick scan of the supermarket for Christine but she is nowhere in sight. Of course.
CJ starts to cry as she no doubt senses the impending cessation of her association with Bondage Barbie. There is no way I am paying for the damn doll. The teller has finished scanning the items I had placed on the belt and is waiting patiently for me to empty the rest of my trolley. The lady behind me is waiting for the same thing, but not quite so patiently. And I massage my temples slowly as I reflect once more on the predictability of life. My life, anyway. Because it doesn’t seem to matter what happens to whom, I end up paying for it.
THURSDAY
4.40 pm
I dump the two bags of groceries I am carting on the floor next to the hall-table, hang up my bag on the hat-stand, and press the button on the answering machine. It whirs busily backwards for a couple of seconds and then starts to speak to me.
‘On this day in 1950 Mark Spitz was born – you know, the guy who won seven golds at the Munich Olympics? Nice abs. Anyway, I’ll be a bit late tomorrow night but I should be there by eight. See you then!’
Hmm, I’m still not sure whether a few drinks with Terry tomorrow night is a good idea. The practical side of me says that it might be beneficial to talk about what happened on Tuesday night but the emotional side of me (which has been holding the reins for almost forty years and isn’t about to give up now) is saying don’t talk about it, don’t think about it, don’t even acknowledge it – then maybe you can pretend that it simply didn’t happen.
‘Hello, Mrs McNeill – or is it Mrs Riley? This is the canteen supervisor from Christine’s primary school. Ringing to remind you that you are rostered on for canteen duty tomorrow. See you then.’
Well, that’s something to look forward to. And it’s Ms Riley, thanks all the same. But I daren’t let her down – that canteen supervisor has a mean streak as broad as her build. If I don’t turn up, CJ won’t get sauce on her hot dogs for the rest of the year. A third message kicks in with a whir.
‘Oh, you’re not at home. It’s ten-thirty. In the morning. I hope that means that Harold and I can expect you soon. You do remember that you promised to help out at Harold’s house today? I’m sure you do. Elizabeth is already here, of course. So we’ll see you soon.’
Oh my god! I totally forgot about helping out at Harold’s today! And it’s too late to go up there now – my mother is going to kill me. I shall have to think of a really good excuse before she rings me – or simply not answer.
‘It’s Alex. Are you ever home? Catch you later.’
Not if I can help it. I rewind the tape over the messages and pick up the two bags of groceries. Ben comes wandering down the passageway and glares at me.
‘Where have you been?’ he says accusingly.
‘I had a million things to do today. Sorry I’m late.’
‘Did you do the groceries? We’re out of biscuits.’
‘Yep, they’ve been melting in the boot all afternoon. Go and give CJ a hand with them, will you? And bring in those boxes of tiles from the boot as well. You can stack them outside the bathroom door, thanks.’ I actually dropped the frozen stuff off earlier on my way to Mega-tile City, the home of every variety of floor and wall tile you could possibly imagine – and many more that you probably couldn’t – so there shouldn’t be anything actually melting in the boot, I hope. Ben opens the door and heads outside.
‘Mum! Where have you been?’ Sam comes out of her bedroom and looks at me with concern. ‘I was getting really worried.’
‘I was just getting some bits and pieces done, that’s all. And picking out the new tiles for the bathroom.’
‘Well, you could have rung or something. You’d, like, scream if I did that.’
‘True. Okay, I’ll remember that.’ I shake my head in disbelief because, until only a short while ago, I was working until five o’clock every day and there didn’t seem to be any problems with me coming in late. It certainly hasn’t taken them very long to get used to me being at home when they walk in the door every day, and carrying on like two-bob watches when I’m not. I go down to the kitchen, dump the groceries on the table, and put the kettle on. Sam follows me and starts to unpack one of the bags.
‘What’s this cereal?’
‘I thought we’d try a new one for a change.’
‘Gross.’
‘Anyway, I thought you and Ben were going to visit Auntie Diane after school today?’
‘We did – or actually, I did. We had the last two periods off so Sara and I went over then. The babies are gorgeous! And did you know she’s called them Robin and Regan? And Regan looks like Grandma.’
‘But I thought you were going to take Ben over?’
‘Not likely!’ Sam looks at me as if I have just suggested that she eat dirt.
Meanwhile CJ comes staggering down the passage holding a bag of groceries with two hands and lurches herself into the kitchen, grunting with the effort. I reach out and take the bag from her. It only has tissues and toilet paper in it, and weighs about as much as two feathers. However, it was obviously enough to exhaust CJ, who throws herself onto a chair, breathing heavily.
‘Can’t carry any more. Look, Sam! It’s my new doll what my Nannie bought for me!’
‘Really, Nannie bought it for you? How nice of her,’ I comment sarcastically, still feeling extremely bitter about the fact that I have added considerably to the profit margin of the grocery store by purchasing the same item twice. I did try to state my case to the checkout operator but to little avail. She simply asked CJ to point out the teller who had served her only ten minutes earlier, but apparently she had suffered spontaneous combustion or something. So that was that. On the way home, I came up with a slightly paranoid theory that Christine had surreptitiously lifted the receipt and bag so that she could lurk around the corner and smirk at my discomfiture. She and Keith are probably going to have hysterics over it next time they meet.
‘Are you looking, Sam? See, she’s eben got black knickers on!’
‘Cool. I like her boots.’ Sam peels the plastic off the toilet paper rolls and takes them down to the bathroom. The doorbell rings and she detours to answer it. I can hear her talking to somebody. I hope to god it’s not Alex – or my mother either, for that matter. I fill the coffee plunger with hot water and then start to put some of the groceries away. Ben comes down the passage with three bags in each hand, heaves them onto the floor in front of me, gives his little sister a filthy look, and heads back out to the car for some more.
‘Mum! Look – flowers!’
‘My god!’ My mouth drops open as I turn to see Samantha, who is standing in the doorway partially obscured by a large arrangement of white camellias and assorted greenery. She moves forwards and places the arrangement gingerly on the counter in front of me.
‘Mummy! Lubly flowers!’ CJ and Bondage Barbie come over for a closer look.
‘Look, there’s a card.’ Sam plucks a small white envelope from amongst the foliage and reads it. ‘And it�
�s addressed to you!’
‘My god!’ I am just as amazed as she is.
‘Can I read it?’
‘No!’ I grab the envelope out of her hand as Ben comes back in with another load of bags, dumps them on the floor next to the others, gives everybody a filthy look in general, and starts to rummage through the groceries in search of something to eat.
‘Did you put the tiles outside the bathroom, Ben?’
‘Yep.’
‘What does the card say, Mum?’
‘Yes, Mummy! What does it say?’
‘Thanks for all your help, you lot,’ Ben says with an attempt at sarcasm as he finds a packet of biscuits and tears it open.
‘Does it?’ CJ says with a frown on her face.
‘Of course not, CJ. Come on, Mum, what does it say?’
‘I’ll open it later.’ I tuck the little envelope into a pocket in my skirt and pat it to make sure that it is secure. ‘After we’ve put everything away.’
‘Oh! It’s a secret!’
‘Hey, Ben, Mum’s got a secret admirer. Look at the flowers.’
‘Humph,’ Ben replies grumpily around a mouthful of milk arrowroot biscuit. I pick up the flowers to move them somewhere more suitable, but then change my mind and place them back on the counter. I finally manage to push Christine McNeill, Bondage Barbie and their joint financial sting out of my mind. These flowers look beautiful. Samantha grins at me and starts to unpack the groceries in double-quick time, even folding the plastic bags neatly after she empties each one. But I don’t want to share the note with her. Or with anybody for that matter. I try and distract her.
‘Did I tell you that I picked out the new tiles for the bathroom floor? They’re really nice. Do you want to have a look?’
‘No. I want to see what your card says.’
‘I told you I’d open it later.’ I glance up at the clock. ‘And what time did you say your father was collecting you two?’
‘Oh, I’d forgotten about that! Ben, come on, we need to get changed!’ Sam abandons the groceries and heads off to her bedroom. Ben follows, with considerably more reluctance – and a handful of biscuits.
‘Not fair! I want to go too!’
‘Well, we’ll have a yummy dinner anyway. How about macaroni cheese?’
‘Yuck.’
‘All right. What about sausages? Or spaghetti and meatballs? Or chicken schnitzel?’
‘Yuck. Yuck. Yuck.’
‘Well, with that sort of attitude you can just have baked beans on toast.’
‘Yum!’
‘Fine. Consider it done.’ I edge my way into a corner of the kitchen, turn my back on CJ, and take the envelope out of my pocket. I look around quickly to make sure nobody is watching and slowly slide the card out.
‘Mum, how does this look?’
‘Lovely.’ I give Sam a cursory glance as I shove the card back into the envelope and back into my pocket. Then I turn to give her my full attention. I was right the first time, she does look lovely. She is wearing a pair of black cotton hipsters and a black halter-neck top that is shot through with silver. Oh, to be eighteen again.
‘Do you think so?’ she asks as she does a little pirouette.
‘I know so.’
Ben comes back into the kitchen wearing scruffy runners, jeans, a torn t-shirt, and a hangdog expression.
‘Ben! Dad said dress neatly!’
‘Ben, that won’t do. Go and get changed.’
‘I don’t even want to go anyway,’ he grumbles as he heads back to his bedroom. Sam leaves also, but continues down the passage in the direction of the bathroom. CJ has started to undress Bondage Barbie on the table. This is my chance. I pull out the envelope, remove the card and rapidly read the four printed words:
Are you avoiding me?
Well, actually – yes, Alex, I am. How astute of you. But I have a smile on my face as I push the card back into the envelope and then stare out into the backyard for a few minutes. Murphy has managed to dislodge one of the staghorns from a tree and is dismembering it with gusto. Am I acting a bit childishly by not facing this thing head-on? Is Alex in fact displaying a lot more maturity and commonsense by wanting to talk about it and get it out in the open? I mean, it did happen and it isn’t going to go away. I only wish that I knew what I wanted. The doorbell rings.
‘That’ll be Dad!’ Sam calls out as she rushes from the bathroom to answer it. I freeze at the window for a second and then turn, grab the flowers and shove them quickly into the laundry on top of the washing-machine. I duck back into the kitchen, shut the laundry door and try to get my breathing under control. Act nonchalant. Act nonchalant. Act nonchalant. Bloody hell.
‘What’re you staring at, Mummy?’
‘Nothing. Nothing.’ I take a deep breath and brush my fingers through my hair. Then I walk slowly down the passage towards the front door where I can hear Samantha talking to her father. But by the time I get there they have already left and are walking over to the metallic bronze Holden Commodore parked in Alex’s driveway. Even from the back Alex is looking very nice in a pair of tailored navy trousers and patterned shirt. He carries the little bit of weight he has put on rather well. My stomach does a couple of flip-flops and my legs feel weak. Resolutely, I smooth down my batik outfit and wander over to the side fence where I lean casually.
‘Have a good time,’ I call courteously.
‘Oh, my god! It’s you!’ Alex whirls around, clasps his hand to his chest and acts as if he is absolutely astounded to see me. ‘Be still my heart. What a surprise!’
‘Ha, ha. I’ve been busy.’
‘You must have been.’
‘I do have a life, you know.’
‘What’re you talking about?’ Sam has paused with her hand on the car door and is looking at us both suspiciously. ‘What life?’
‘Nothing. Only your father’s idea of a little joke.’
‘How little?’ he asks with a grin on his face.
‘Very little,’ I answer through clenched teeth. Ben comes slunking across the yard and over to his father’s car, dressed exactly as he had been fifteen minutes ago – except for a slightly cleaner pair of runners.
‘You can’t go out like that,’ I say, looking him over. ‘Hang on, Alex, and I’ll grab him another shirt.’
I walk back towards my house, affecting a slightly hip-swaying, languid semi-stroll that I have seen Cameron Diaz use to perfection. When I reach the house, I glance back to see if anyone was watching my performance, but they are deep in discussion. So I break the stroll and simply run up the passage into Ben’s room and throw open his wardrobe. There is absolutely nothing hanging up but I find a reasonable looking button-up shirt draped over the top of his guitar. It even still looks ironed. Probably because, after declaring that music was his destiny and he would die without a guitar for his tenth birthday, he only ever used it once or twice. I grab the shirt and take it back outside.
By the time I reach Alex’s car, without bothering to use the slightly hip-swaying, languid semi-stroll, Ben has ensconced himself in the back seat. I knock on the window and hold out the shirt.
‘Come on, Ben, you can’t go out in that shirt. It’s disgusting.’
‘Your mother’s right, Ben,’ adds Alex. ‘The restaurant we’re going to won’t let you in with a t-shirt. Especially that t-shirt.’
‘Hate that shirt,’ Ben mumbles as he exits the car and starts to pull his torn t-shirt off. ‘And I hate restaurants too.’
Just as I am opening my mouth to remonstrate with him, a sleek blue MG pulls smoothly into the driveway and coasts to a halt behind Alex’s Holden Commodore. We all turn to look at the car and, with considerably more interest, the female who slowly emerges from it. She looks like she has stepped straight out of the society pages and is heading for the Melbourne Cup. Suddenly my batik ensemble that seemed so fresh and summery this morning feels decidedly wilted and extremely old hat. She is dressed in a knee-length snug black leather skirt, a square white sleeve
less cardigan with pearl buttons, strappy sandals and a wide-brimmed black hat that is positively dripping with clusters of tiny white flowers. On me, an ensemble like that would look incredibly frumpish. On her, it merely looks exceptionally elegant and sets off her tall, slim figure to perfection. Long, shiny black hair cascades out below the hat, and vivid blue eyes (exactly the same shade as the MG) are smiling delightedly – at Alex. She secures her hat with one hand and, ignoring the rest of us who are standing around with our mouths half open, holds her other hand out towards the object of her attention.
‘Darling!’
‘What the hell!’
‘Darling! Are you totally surprised?’
Darling is totally surprised, if the expression on his face is anything to go by. And he’s not the only one. Holding Ben’s clean shirt in one hand, I surreptitiously smooth my own shirt down with the other. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Sam doing the same thing with her cotton hipsters. I imagine that this female would have that effect on most other women anywhere.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I thought I’d surprise you! Come on, at least act pleased to see me!’ She saunters confidently over to where Alex is standing by his car and, tucking her free arm into his, smiles brilliantly up into his face. ‘And give me a kiss!’
‘Oh, um. Sorry.’ Alex bends and plants a peck on her cheek. ‘I was just surprised, that’s all.’
‘Oh, really! A proper kiss, please!’ And with that she lets go of her hat, places a hand on either side of Alex’s face and proceeds to give him what she terms a ‘proper kiss’. Actually, I think I’d term it a pretty damn proper kiss too. My stomach goes into free-fall and then leaps up to constrict my throat. I tear my gaze away and look at Sam, who manages to frown and raise her eyebrows to me at the same time. No mean feat. I raise my eyebrows back and then turn to look at Ben who, shirtless, is watching the action with an indecipherable look on his face. Well, one thing is for sure – I am not hanging around here for this.
‘Excuse me, Alex?’ I raise my voice slightly as he finally breaks mouth contact with the mystery female and turns to me with his eyes wide and his face beetroot.
