by Ilsa Evans
‘I should have known you wouldn’t understand!’
‘Look,’ I say before the situation turns into a full-blown domestic, ‘why don’t you and Nick take my car and go over to get it. I’ll just walk around to Harold’s.’
‘Cool,’ says Nick, who quite obviously doesn’t care much either way but would simply like to keep his girlfriend happy. ‘Is that the one with the possum shit all over it?’
‘Oh, are you sure?’ Bronte looks at me as if I have just single-handedly saved her from a fate worse than death. ‘I’d be ever so grateful.’
‘Of course I’m sure.’ I fish my car keys out of my tiny shoulder bag and pass them over. ‘Off you go. Only watch out for the reverse – it gets stuck sometimes. See you later on.’
Terry and I watch them wander over towards my Holden in silence. Bronte looks rather virginal in a snow-white broderie anglaise shift and high heels that make her legs look like they go on forever, but I’m beginning to think she might be a trifle neurotic.
‘You’re not really going to walk, are you?’ Terry asks doubtfully.
‘Are you kidding? In these shoes?’ I reply. ‘Come on, where’s your car?’
‘Okay,’ she laughs. ‘And thanks for that. Fergus! Fergus! Come on, we’re off!’
Fergus and Phillip come wandering over and Fergus nods at me happily and then grabs Terry around the waist, twirls her in a circle, and leans up to plant a big kiss on her mouth. While they are thus engaged I notice that my relief at Fergus’s traditional garb earlier was a little premature. His suit might be perfectly conventional, but his floral shirt and monogrammed tie (to match his work overalls) most certainly aren’t. The kiss continues. Phillip and I grin at each other, slightly embarrassed.
‘Heard about your accident,’ he says, looking straight at my nose. ‘How’s it feel?’
‘Like it looks,’ I answer wittily. ‘But a little bit worse.’
‘Hey, Phillip!’ says Terry, having been abruptly released by her paramour. ‘Are you walking over to Harold’s?’
‘Yes. I left my car there earlier. I wasn’t sure what the parking would be like here.’
‘Well, you can grab a lift with us. C’mon, the car’s this way.’
By the time we get to Terry’s little blue Holden Barina, it’s the last car left in the car park. It’s also a two-door hatch, so Phillip and I have to manoeuvre ourselves in with considerable dexterity past the front seats and into the back. When Terry and Fergus lower the front seats back into position and clamber in, I start to feel positively claustrophobic. Especially because Phillip and I are now in extremely close proximity and his elbow is jammed into my waist. I fold my arms across my chest to give us a little more room. But I don’t think I’m going to get out of here without a shoehorn.
Fortunately Harold’s house is close and we pull up at the kerb mere seconds before my breathing starts to become embarrassingly rapid (because of the claustrophobia, not because of Phillip). Fergus clambers out of the passenger seat and lifts it up for me to get out. And that’s where the real fun starts. First I try grabbing the back of the front seat and the edge of the door and pulling myself out but I can’t quite get enough momentum going. Then I try leaning backwards and giving myself a push start, but that doesn’t do the trick either. Then my shoe gets stuck under the front seat so I have to take it off to get it free. At this juncture, Terry begins to laugh and I shoot her a filthy look. Phillip, who has been sitting back and watching with considerable interest, offers to lend a hand and Fergus reaches in to grab one of my arms. I take hold of the back of the seat with my other hand and as Fergus pulls, Phillip shoves me firmly in the small of the back and I pop out of the car like a champagne cork, one shoe on and one shoe off.
I breathe a sigh of relief and turn to thank Fergus for his help, and that’s when I notice that a small but very interested crowd has formed to watch the events. Alex among them. Our eyes meet momentarily and I have a spilt second to register that he is looking very smooth in a slate-grey suit, black shirt and black tie. And that Mum’s magic ointment has done the trick and he has only the tiniest bruise on his left cheekbone. Then his eyes leave mine and flick away to stonily watch a laughing Phillip emerge from the other side of the car, and walk around to me with my errant shoe in one outstretched hand.
‘Here you go,’ Phillip says with a smile. ‘You might need this.’
‘Thanks,’ I answer distractedly as I take the shoe and hop over to the side of the car to put it on. While I am thus engaged, I look around surreptitiously for Alex, but he and Maggie are already heading up the driveway to the back of the house where the reception is to take place. I put my shoe on and, with Terry, Fergus and Phillip, follow.
Harold’s house is a small, neat brick home with an exceptionally tidy garden mainly consisting of roses. The driveway is gravel and leads around to a white picket gate, which has been left open to welcome the guests through into the backyard. And what a backyard!
The Thursday setting-up crew (of which I should have been one) has worked wonders. The lawn has been mowed to within an inch of its life and is scattered with circular white tables, each with long white tablecloths and bowls of pink and white roses. Several wrought iron archways dot the area and are adorned with more matching roses and luxurious greenery and, as if that wasn’t enough, numerous pots of tall standard roses have been placed judiciously around the yard. I am beginning to feel really guilty that I wasn’t part of all this hard work – I’ll definitely have to make a point of coming to help clean up tomorrow. A crowd has already started to surround a small bar that has been set up in the corner and from where drinks are being dispensed by catering staff as soon as they can be poured. Our eyes are drawn there like magnets.
‘Shall I be doing the honours?’ asks Fergus magnanimously.
‘Please,’ sighs Terry appreciatively. ‘I’ll have a white wine.’
‘Me too,’ I add quickly.
‘Nothing for me, thanks,’ says Phillip. ‘I’d better go and see if I can rescue Beth.’
Terry and I find a vacant table in a nicely shaded corner of the yard and sink down onto the chairs. I dump my handbag under the table and lean forwards to smell the roses in the centre.
‘Mmm . . . heavenly. Can you believe how many people are here? I didn’t even know that my mother knew so many people!’
‘And look at all the presents!’ Terry gestures over to a table in the far corner that is heavily laden with wrapped gifts of every size and shape. ‘It almost makes you want to get married again.’
‘No thanks. And my present’s in the car with your daughter so remind me when she turns up to grab it, will you?’ I lean back and yawn sleepily.
‘Tired already?’ Maggie slips into the seat next to me and grins. ‘Could you have got a bigger bandage?’
‘Big nose, big bandage,’ says Terry helpfully.
‘No, I don’t think so.’ I ignore Terry and concentrate on Maggie, who looks like a lilac chiffon-draped beach ball. ‘And how are you, Maggie? You’re looking good, as usual. Didn’t Ruby want to come?’
‘No, you know how she hates these sort of things. And thank you, I’m good. Yeah, really good. Love your dress – and yours too, Terry. Great about your mother, isn’t it? They really seem happy.’
‘I know.’ I follow her gaze over to where my mother and Harold are mingling with some of their friends. Mum seems to be in her element.
‘He looks so pleased, like he’s finally met his Mrs Right,’ says Terry as she watches Harold beam at my mother devotedly.
‘Yeah, but wait till he finds out her first name is Always,’ I comment with considerable feeling.
‘True. So, been studying more of those dirty movies of yours?’ asks Maggie with a grin.
‘What dirty movies?’ Terry looks at me curiously.
‘Just some stuff from uni. Nothing much.’
‘Bit more than nothing much, I’d say. And I have to tell you about you-know-what.’ Maggie looks around
surreptitiously and lowers her voice: ‘It was all a big misunderstanding. So the coast is clear.’
‘What coast? What misunderstanding?’ Terry is looking at both of us in confusion. ‘And what dirty movies?’
‘Oh, Terry, how rude of me,’ Maggie continues in her normal voice. ‘I haven’t asked how you are. So how are you?’
‘Why do I get the feeling I have no idea what’s going on?’ asks Terry petulantly as Fergus comes back with a tray full of glasses that he places carefully on the table.
‘I saw you over here, Maggie, so I took the liberty of getting you your favourite,’ he says brightly while Terry’s face slowly turns a dull red. ‘Here you go!’ He puts a glass of wine in front of Terry and me, a beer in front of himself, and what looks like a gin and tonic in front of Maggie.
‘Why, thanks, Fergus.’ Maggie looks rather surprised to see him here, and says so.
‘To be sure,’ says Fergus with a proud grin, ‘but I came with Terry.’
‘I would have liked a G & T too, you know,’ says Terry, looking at Maggie’s drink.
‘I didn’t even know you liked them,’ replies Fergus apologetically, ‘but I’ll be fetching you one if you want.’
‘But you knew that Maggie liked them, hey?’
‘Well, yes, but I thought you asked for a white wine.’ Fergus is starting to look confused. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘That’s not the point, and you know it.’
‘Didn’t she ask for a white wine, Camilla?’ Fergus turns to look at me appealingly. ‘Didn’t she?’
‘Well, yes, but –’
‘The point, Fergus,’ interrupts Terry, without taking her eyes off him, ‘the point is that you knew what Maggie’s favourite drink was. That’s the point.’
‘But I only know that from all the times I’ve been over there,’ cries Fergus helplessly.
‘And that’s the bloody point!’ yells Terry, causing several heads to turn and glance in our direction.
‘Hmm, I think I know what this is all about,’ says Maggie, with a benevolent smile at them both. ‘And I think I can clear it up as well.’
‘Doubt it,’ mutters Terry crossly as she takes a sip of her wine and leans back in her seat. ‘Doubt it very much.’
‘Look, I’d better go over and say hello to my aunts before I start to relax,’ I say, getting up with my drink, ‘so you guys just enjoy and I’ll be back shortly.’
I make my escape, leaving the table in a rather uncomfortable silence. But they’ll have to sort it out sooner or later, and I’d prefer for them to do it sooner and without me there. I walk over to the table at which my Great Aunt Pru and Aunt Annie are sitting. Unfortunately Aunt Emma and several of her offspring are also sitting there, but beggars can’t be choosers.
‘Great Aunt Pru!’ I yell, pulling up a chair next to her.
‘Who did?’ she exclaims, looking around. ‘Where?’
‘It’s me!’ I yell even louder. ‘Camilla!’
‘Well, really!’ she replies, giving me a rather disgusted look. I turn to Auntie Annie, who is trying not to laugh.
‘I give up. How are you, Auntie Annie?’ I lean forwards and we kiss cheeks. ‘You’re looking very well.’
‘Thank you, Camilla, and so are you – apart from the bandage. We heard all about it from your mother, you poor thing. Does it hurt?’
‘No, not at all,’ I lie, mainly because I am getting heartily sick of people asking me how my damn nose feels. After all, isn’t it obvious that it would be rather painful?
‘And your mother tells us that you’re going back to university?’
‘That’s right. I start in two weeks.’
‘That’s wonderful! I always thought you had it in you. And your mother is so proud.’
‘She is?’ I ask with surprise.
‘Oh, yes, she’s telling everybody.’
‘That’s for sure,’ chimes in Aunt Emma sourly, ‘over and over again.’
‘Oh, put a sock in it, Emma,’ says Auntie Annie dismissively. ‘Just because none of your lot made it past year ten, there’s no need to take it out on Camilla.’
‘I’ll have you know that both Rebecca and Jacob have their VCE certificates, Annie, so please check your facts before you open your mouth.’
‘And which cereal packet did they get those out of then?’
‘Why, how dare you suggest that –’
‘They eat cereal?’
‘Annie Elizabeth Williams, you are going to go too far one day and my Christian forgiveness will not be able to rise to the occasion!’
‘Oh, shove your Christian forgiveness, Emma!’
I take my glass and slip away as Aunt Emma’s face slowly turns crimson. Great Aunt Pru is busily tapping her walking stick against any passing shins and, being deaf, is totally unaware that her two nieces are now going at it hammer and tongs. However, my assorted cousins and their families, who fill the remainder of this table and the next, are well aware and have paused in their conversations to listen open-mouthed to the extremely unchristian behaviour going on next to them. Obviously my mother’s two sisters are not getting on terribly well nowadays. I walk back over to my table where Maggie and Terry are sitting by themselves, and settle myself back into my chair.
‘It’s World War III over there,’ I announce. ‘I think I’ll stay here where it’s safe.’
‘What makes you think it’s safe here?’ asks Terry grimly. ‘You might have jumped from the frying pan into the fire.’
‘Oh, no. Don’t tell me you guys haven’t sorted anything out?’
‘How can we sort anything out?’ says Maggie. ‘She stole our man, she did!’
‘If you lot had treated him better, he wouldn’t have been out looking!’
‘Bitch!’
‘Slut!’
‘Hey, you two! Please don’t do this!’ I say with real consternation as they glare furiously at each other across the table. And then suddenly Terry snorts loudly and explodes into laughter while Maggie quickly follows suit with her trademark guffaw. I stare at them stunned as it slowly dawns on me that I’ve been had.
‘I hate you both,’ I say with real feeling.
‘Oh! Your face!’ splutters Terry. ‘It was priceless!’
‘Where’s a camera when you need one?’ Maggie is holding her sides as she convulses with laughter. ‘Oh! Don’t make me laugh any more – it hurts!’
‘I’m not talking to either of you,’ I say, turning my head ostentatiously away.
‘What’s so funny?’ Fergus has returned from the bar with refills for Terry and Maggie and is looking at them both with a tentative smile on his face. ‘Is it me?’
‘No, of course not, sweetie,’ says Terry, wiping her eyes. ‘Come and sit down.’
‘No, first I’ll be getting a drink for Camilla – another wine?’
‘Yes, thanks, Fergus,’ I reply, still ignoring the other two.
‘Sorry, Cam.’ Terry leans over and touches me on the arm. ‘I couldn’t resist. Come on, can’t you see the funny side?’
‘Hmm, of course she can,’ Maggie chimes in. ‘After all, you were the one that told Terry that Fergus was one of our clients, weren’t you?’
‘But wasn’t he?’ I ask curiously.
‘Well, no – never. Not unless he was getting some action behind my back.’ Maggie grins, catches sight of Terry’s face and hurriedly continues: ‘Which of course he wasn’t. He’s our handyman, that’s all. He’s been coming around for the last couple of years and doing all the jobs that need doing. And, believe me, that’s a bloody lot. Why, just last week we had a guy put both hands through a plaster wall!’
‘How on earth –’ I pause and give the matter some thought. ‘No, it’s okay – don’t bother explaining.’
‘So we have Fergus around almost every other day doing something or other,’ says Maggie, grinning at me, ‘but that doesn’t mean he’s a client.’
‘No, sir-ree,’ states Fergus emphatically as he places a glass of
wine in front of me and slides into the seat next to Terry.
‘God, I just assumed,’ I say to Terry remorsefully. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘You know what they say about assuming,’ replies Terry with a sanctimonious smirk. ‘It’s the ass between you and me.’
‘Is it me that you’re talking about?’ asks Fergus nervously. He happens to be sitting between the two of us. ‘What’ve I been doing now?’
‘No, you dorks.’ Terry gives us both an impatient look. ‘The ass is the ASS between you, that’s the U, and me, that’s the ME. Get it?’
‘No, it’s not,’ I reply pedantically. ‘That would be “assume” not “assuming”.’
‘Besides,’ comments Fergus with a thoughtful frown, ‘the ASS is before you and me, not between.’
‘Anyway,’ says Maggie in a loud voice, ‘so Fergus just works for us at times, as well as being a friend. A very welcome friend who often has drinks with us too.’
‘And to be sure,’ Fergus adds, ‘I’ve never been having to pay for it in my life.’
‘Well, just stick with Terry,’ I say, picking up my wineglass, ‘and that will soon change.’
‘Bitch,’ replies Terry, giving me a playful punch on the arm.
‘Anyway, I’m glad that’s all been sorted,’ I say as I rub my arm. ‘And that reminds me – Fergus?’
‘Yes?’ Fergus looks at me with trepidation.
‘I only wanted to say thanks for the floor, that’s all. You’ve done a great job and I’m really pleased. It looks fantastic.’
‘Ah,’ says Fergus, breathing a sigh of relief.
‘Is this a private party, or can anyone join?’ Alex slides into a seat next to me, puts a glass of beer down on the table, and turns to Fergus and Terry. ‘I don’t believe I’ve met you – I’m Alex Brown.’
‘Fergus O’Connor,’ says Fergus as they shake hands, ‘and this is Terry . . . my girlfriend.’
Maggie starts to question her brother as to where he had disappeared to, while Terry and I exchange a couple of meaningful glances that communicate (a) her surprise at being called Fergus’s girlfriend, (b) my surprise at her being called Fergus’s girlfriend, (c) my query as to what she thinks of Alex, and (d) her opinion of him as being not half bad for a bounder.
