Paula smiled at her children, proud of their efforts. They’d been preparing hearty meals with fresh, local ingredients, using recipes taken from Sid’s scribbler. A five-vegie omelette, stir-fried chicken and broccoli, beef skewers, cheesy frittata, corn on the cob. Every evening they’d rolled up their sleeves without complaining, even seeming to enjoy the job, from all the hollering and jibing that went on.
It was an unusual feeling for Paula to sit outside the caravan, wineglass in hand, while her children prattled and chopped their way through the dinner preparation. And she had her father to thank for it.
‘So, we’re starting our third life lesson today,’ her father said. ‘You still have to keep up the cooking, that’s an ongoing challenge. But I’ve got a new one for you.’ He grinned at his grandchildren. ‘What did your mum always teach you about strangers?’
Lachlan and Caitlin looked at each other.
‘Um, not to talk to them,’ intoned Caitlin.
‘Bingo.’ Sid slapped Caitlin on the back. ‘And that’s good advice, when you’re little. Don’t hop in strangers’ cars, don’t accept lollies from them, that sort of thing. But you’re not kids anymore, are you? You’re teenagers.’ He grinned at them. ‘That means you’re going to be adults soon enough, and adults talk to people they don’t know all the time. It’s one of the best skills you can learn. And I don’t mean “talk” on the computer.’
Paula gulped down the last of her coffee, wondering what her father was plotting.
‘So, this challenge is going to stretch over the rest of the trip too. And all of us are going to do it. Even your mum.’
Uh-oh, Paula thought.
‘Here.’ Sid pulled his scribbler from his top pocket and unfolded four sheets of paper, passing one to each of them.
Paula read the headings in the top margin: Date, Place, Person, Points of interest.
‘Your challenge is to talk to someone you don’t know every day, for at least ten minutes. After you’ve had a conversation, write down something interesting about them and share it with us at Drinkypoos. Righto?’
The children made noises of agreement.
For Paula, it sounded like a lot of hard work. She usually avoided the communal areas in caravan parks, and often went for long, solitary walks. She didn’t really want to engage with strangers, fearful they might ask her probing questions like, Where’s your husband?
‘You in, Paula?’
‘Sure.’
Her father looked up at the garish spines of the giant crustacean above them. ‘Let’s give Larry the big flick, eh? Adelaide awaits.’
‘Hang on, Gramps,’ said Caitlin. ‘Can you take a photo of me in front of Larry? Amy will think it’s hysterical.’ She removed an iPod from her pocket and passed it to her grandfather.
‘It takes photos, too?’ said Sid, inspecting the device.
‘It’s an iPod Touch,’ Caitlin replied, as if that explained everything. ‘Amy gave it to me for the trip.’
‘Whoa,’ said Paula, intercepting them. ‘No private technology, remember?’ She swooped down on the iPod and glared at Caitlin. ‘You didn’t tell me Amy gave you this. Are you sure it’s okay for you to borrow it?’
Caitlin reddened. ‘Yes.’
‘And have you been using my phone, too? You’re only supposed to use it for calling Dad.’
‘I’ve sent a few messages to Amy, that’s all.’
‘A few messages to Amy?’ Paula’s voice shook. ‘I know you’ve been posting some photos on Facebook again.’
Paula had been undecided about raising the matter with Caitlin at all. Since leaving Melbourne, she’d monitored the ‘Blow Queens’ post daily, as well as Caitlin’s own Facebook page. Much to her relief, traffic to both pages was low. But then Caitlin started uploading travel shots to Instagram and sharing them on Facebook, presumably by sneaking Paula’s phone out of the glove box. The people who ‘liked’ her posts were all the usual suspects—Amy and other school friends, her Aunty Jamie and her cousins—but it was the principle of the matter, Paula reasoned.
Caitlin looked guilty. ‘I’m just showing people what I’m up to, Mum. It’s not dangerous or anything.’
‘But you know that phones and computers have caused us a lot of trouble lately, Caitlin. I banned them on this trip for a reason.’ Paula glared at her daughter. ‘We can survive a few months Facebook-free, you know. And if you feel you can’t, maybe you should go home.’
Somehow the pain of Hamish’s betrayal felt new again.
‘But I have to stay in touch with Amy. She’s my BFF.’ Caitlin’s shoulders slumped, even as her grandfather put an arm around them.
‘What’s a BFF?’ Paula asked, irked.
‘Best Friend Forever,’ Sid explained.
Paula didn’t pause to ask how he knew that. ‘We haven’t even been away for a fortnight yet, Catie. You don’t have to be in touch with Amy all the time.’
‘But you’re in touch with Aunty Jamie every day,’ said Caitlin, her eyes accusing Paula of hypocrisy. ‘How come?’
‘Aunty Jamie needs to know that Gramps is safe,’ said Paula, knowing that wasn’t quite the whole truth of it. She texted her sister several times a day, simply because she wanted to. ‘And Aunty Jamie’s a member of our family, so it’s a bit different.’
Is it really? Paula could almost hear Jamie challenging her. Don’t deprive Catie of her social networks.
‘But Amy’s been updating me on the Facebook stuff. She’s been allowed to go back to school now, you know,’ said Caitlin.
‘And is she alright?’ asked Sid.
Caitlin nodded.
Paula watched her daughter blush again. Perhaps Caitlin’s not as ‘together’ as I thought. I need to talk to Jamie about it. As a teacher of teenagers, her sister was far better placed to understand Catie’s responses. I’ll call her later and workshop it.
The redness slowly receded from Catie’s cheeks.
‘Did you and Amy ever, you know—’ Paula cleared her throat—‘go out with older boys or anything?’
Caitlin rolled her eyes. ‘Not this again. You’re as bad as Dad. Can I have the iPod back please, just to take photos?’
Paula turned the device over in her hands, deliberating. Something’s not right here, I can feel it.
‘No.’ Paula slipped it back into her handbag. ‘You’ve breached a rule of our trip. But I’ll cut you a deal: if you miss Amy so much, write her a letter. Then you can use my phone every Sunday to contact her and do your Facebook posting.’
‘A letter?’ Caitlin repeated, incredulous.
‘Yes, you know—one of those things you write on a piece of paper? You’ll need a pen and an envelope too. It’s, like, so yesterday.’
It was immature to parrot her daughter’s speech, Paula knew.
Caitlin looked appalled. ‘But it’ll take forever to get there. And how will Amy write back?’
‘Well . . .’ Paula found her copy of the itinerary in her handbag. ‘You’ve already plotted our route and the dates we’ll arrive in each town.’ She traced her index finger along the red line. ‘You can use something called Poste Restante, Caitlin. Amy can send a letter to you care of any post office, and they’ll keep it for you there.’
Caitlin shook her head. ‘Mum, you don’t understand. Amy will hate me for not contacting her more than once a week.’
‘Well, she’s not your BFF then, is she?’
‘This isn’t fair,’ said Caitlin, her eyes flashing. ‘Are you going to write letters to Aunty Jamie? You’re just punishing me for what Dad did. It’s not my fault Dad’s been a dickhead.’
‘Watch your language,’ said Paula, noticing a group of Japanese tourists walking around the base of the lobster. ‘And this has got nothing to do with your father.’
‘You’re a liar,’ snapped Caitlin. ‘Or in denial, Mum.’
She stomped over to the ute and climbed into the back seat, slamming the door behind her.
Paula sighed. Am I lying or de
nying? She glanced at the others, a little self-consciously.
Lachie was kicking at a stone on the ground, avoiding her gaze.
Her father said nothing.
‘Where’s your iPod, Lachie?’ Paula asked.
‘In the glove box.’
Paula nodded, grateful for his compliance. She knew she wouldn’t have the same trouble with Lachie. Male friendships simply weren’t so all-consuming.
‘So’s mine,’ added her father.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Your iPod?’
‘No, my iPhone.’
Paula stared at him. ‘You have an iPhone too?’
‘Yep.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since about a month before we left. I went to Fonezone and bought one.’
She couldn’t believe it. ‘Aren’t you anti-technology?’
‘Thought it might come in handy for my Melbourne Cup research,’ he explained. ‘And there’s just so much good stuff on it, Paula.’ His eyes danced. ‘There’s a Great Ocean Road app, and even a natty little sheila inside the phone who fetches information for me. I can say to her, “What’s the weather in Adelaide tomorrow?” and she’ll come back with an answer right away.’
‘It’s called Siri, Gramps,’ said Lachie, rolling his eyes.
‘Well, it’s marvellous. And come to think of it, maybe we could use it for taking photos.’ Sid looked at Paula. ‘And the kids could use it to contact Hamish, too?’
It was a reasonable suggestion; Paula wasn’t thrilled that the children kept using her phone to stay in touch with their father. Or trying to—he’d been offline for more than a week now. After initially accepting some groceries from Jamie on release from hospital, he hadn’t answered the front door since. The children couldn’t reach him on the landline, either, which made Paula suspect he was staying at Doggo’s.
‘But if you don’t want to, no worries, I respect all your rules on this trip,’ her father continued. ‘No private technology. It’s only there for an emergency.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Paula, still attempting to digest the fact that her seventy-year-old father, formerly a technophobe, was now an avid iPhone user.
‘Come on,’ she said, conscious of Caitlin waiting in the ute. ‘Let’s get to Adelaide before the big race.’
‘Yee-ha,’ said her father, whinnying and tossing his head, before trotting off towards the car park.
It was the first Tuesday in November, the day of the Melbourne Cup, and they were due to meet an old friend of Sid’s who’d retired to North Adelaide some years back. The timing was going to be tight: it was already nine-fifteen and they had at least four hundred kilometres to cover.
They travelled on through Salt Creek and into the Coorong, speeding past its deserted saltpans. Flocks of birds—cranes, galahs, pelicans and others they’d never seen before—rose in flocks from the lagoons, shimmering in the air like silver clouds, momentarily blotting out the sun. Paula wanted to stop the car and run beneath them, her arms outstretched, swooping across the sand flats in the searing glare.
Instead, they pressed on through Murray Bridge and Hahndorf without stopping. Finally, some four hours later, they found themselves in the Walkerville sub-branch of the Adelaide RSL with Barry and Shirl Gillespie. Sid and Barry had been Rotary friends and fishing mates in Doncaster for decades, before the Gillespies had moved to Walkerville five years earlier to be closer to their grandchildren. Sid had arranged to park the caravan in the Gillespie’s front yard for the coming week. From there, the two men were planning to catch up on five years’ worth of fishing, while Paula, Caitlin and Lachie explored Adelaide.
Paula was mindful of her father’s new challenge—talk to strangers—as she tried to make conversation with the elderly couple. But it was an uphill battle. Barry was deaf, responding to most of Paula’s questions by cupping his hand behind his right ear and bellowing, ‘Can’t ’ear ya.’ Shirl was unanimated, mostly, except when recounting an incident involving her ageing Rottweiler, Robbie.
‘It happened a fortnight back, chicken-wire injury to the groin. They had to cut off one of his testicles,’ she said gravely. ‘His personality’s been a bit different since.’
I should think so, Paula thought wryly. It could be an option for Hamish.
If someone had told Paula only a month ago that she’d be sitting at the Walkerville RSL on Melbourne Cup day discussing the state of a Rottweiler’s privates, she would’ve called them crazy. Looking around at the lunchtime crowd—mostly aged pensioners wearing fascinators and top hats—Paula’s resolve began to waver for the first time since leaving home. What exactly am I doing here?
The club’s food was stodgy, the lights low, Paula’s morale lower. She watched Lachie flicking beer nuts across the table at Caitlin, who was making a valiant attempt to consume a half-frozen slice of Black Forest cake. They were all wearing hats, at the request of her father, who’d borrowed an old bowler from Barry. Lachie had decorated his beanie with pictures of horses clipped out of the Adelaide Advertiser, while Caitlin had found a plastic Viking helmet in a two-dollar shop in Mt Gambier. It made her look Teutonic, with all that blonde hair cascading down her back. Paula had wrapped a red silk scarf around her favourite straw hat, but she doubted it would pass at Flemington. She couldn’t get too excited about a horse race, even for the ‘race that stops the nation’, as the club compere kept bellowing into his microphone.
Paula sighed. There was still half an hour until the race started. She wondered, for a moment, where Hamish would be watching it. Probably at Doggo’s, with Tina fussing over him.
‘You alright, Paula?’
Her father’s knowing gaze. She nodded, not wanting to talk about it.
‘Look, Paula . . .’ Sid leaned towards her. ‘Can I get my iPhone out of Hillary, just this once? Shirl’s been looking after Robbie, her dog—’
‘I’ve heard all about it,’ said Paula.
‘Well, she likes to have a flutter at Cup time,’ Sid continued. ‘Can I help her place a bet on the internet?’
‘I thought you were anti-gambling?’
‘There are exceptions to every rule. The Melbourne Cup’s a bit of harmless fun and Shirl’s been feeling down lately.’
Paula relented. ‘Sure, Dad.’
‘Great.’ He nudged his friend. ‘Come for a walk, Bazza?’
As they made their way to the door, Paula turned to Shirl.
‘So, what’ll you spend the money on, if you pick the Melbourne Cup winner?’
The old woman laughed. ‘Oh, I’m not serious about betting, I never put more than two dollars on a horse. But if I won Lotto . . .’ She looked thoughtful. ‘I’d buy a new roof for the animal shelter. Barry and I volunteer there. Seen some awful things too, these past five years.’ Her pale blue eyes became misty. ‘People who abandon their pets when they go on holiday. Folks who change their minds about the Christmas kitten before January’s even over. Poor little things can’t speak for themselves, you know?’
Paula nodded.
‘The shelter leaks when it rains, but the repair work’s been quoted at fifteen thousand. Someone reckons there’s asbestos up there too. Our Rotary club’s raised two thousand, but we’re all pensioners. How are we supposed to find the rest?’
Paula noticed how quickly Surly Shirley had transformed into a passionate animal advocate. She’d enjoy describing this at Drinkypoos later.
‘Well, I hope you find the funds somehow,’ Paula said, suddenly aware that Lachie and Caitlin had moved away from their table.
She spotted Lachie nearby, sitting next to a war veteran on a vinyl lounge. The elderly man was relishing an audience, fingering his medals and leaning so close to Lachie that his trembling lips were almost touching the boy’s ear.
Caitlin had moved further afield, and was standing next to the bar talking to an athletic-looking young man. Late twenties or early thirties, Paula guessed. He was slightly shorter than Caitlin, with dark cropped hair. Even at a distance, P
aula could see a razor-wire tattoo spiralling down his tanned arm, beneath a fitted white t-shirt. His jeans were faded and he wore flat grey sneakers. Attractive in a compact sort of way, Paula thought, wondering if perhaps he was a club security guard.
The man seemed respectful, a little guarded even, as he listened to Caitlin talk—what was she saying to him?
Paula decided to go over and make her maternal presence felt; he was clearly much older than Caitlin.
As she stood up, her father appeared at her side, with Barry puffing behind him.
‘Look at this, love.’ Sid brandished his telephone. ‘That nice young fellow over there helped me . . .’ He waved at an attendant in a tartan waistcoat. ‘I opened up an account myself first and did a dummy run, placed a few bets with my own money. They make it so easy. Then I opened an account for Shirl.’ He patted Shirl’s arm. ‘You’ve got ten bucks to blow now. That’s the minimum for opening an account, but there’s no minimum bet.’
Shirl looked as if Sid was speaking Spanish.
Paula noticed that Caitlin was still chatting to the man at the bar.
‘So, which horse do you fancy, Shirl?’ Sid prompted. ‘They’re calling for last bets.’
‘But I haven’t even looked at the form,’ Shirl objected. ‘You just take a punt for me, Sid. Barry’s told me you’ve got some sort of magic formula.’
‘Alrighty, at your own risk.’ Sid began moving his fingers across the screen. Paula smiled to watch him; there was something utterly incongruous about it, yet he was quite adept already.
A minute later, her father looked up. ‘Okay, you’ve spent just over three bucks, Shirl. That’s about your usual budget, isn’t it? You can blow the rest on next year’s Cup.’
‘Which horse?’ Barry asked.
‘Horses,’ corrected Sid. ‘I picked a few for you. Three single bets and ten cents on a first four, just for fun.’
‘And you did all that with that little whatsit?’ Barry peered over Sid’s shoulder at the iPhone, impressed.
‘Yep.’
Wife on the Run Page 12
