It's Not All About YOU, Calma!

by Barry Jonsberg

  ‘Who do you think is going to win the Premiership?’

  I scrunched my eyes tighter, as if this was an agonising question I had been pondering the entire evening. I puffed my cheeks out and blew through shuddering lips. Tricky, tricky question. I tried to drag up the name of the one soccer club I knew. Luckily, Jason continued, which gave me more time to dredge the murky depths of memory.

  ‘I mean, you did say you wanted to continue the conversation about soccer.’

  I nodded violently.

  ‘Sure. It’s just . . . well, there’s a number of teams that could win and . . .’

  ‘But on current form?’

  ‘Oh. On current form. Well, I’d have to say . . . and I’m sticking my neck out here, taking a bit of a punt, don’t quote me . . . I’d have to say . . . Liverpool.’The name popped into my mind at the last moment and I grabbed hold of it gratefully.

  ‘But they’re twenty points behind the leaders.’

  ‘I know, but there’s still time.’

  ‘With six games to go, you reckon they’ll overtake Crewe Alexandra?’

  ‘On current form, yes, I do!’ Be confident, Calma, and keep it simple.

  ‘What, even though the maximum points available are eighteen and they’re twenty points behind Arsenal and Crewe Alexandra aren’t even in the Premiership?’

  There was silence for a couple of seconds. ‘Stranger things have happened,’ I said, on the principle that I didn’t have anything left to lose.

  He laughed and his eyes got these terrific crinkles around them.

  ‘Well, no. They haven’t, actually.’

  ‘When did you know?’ I said.

  ‘That you didn’t know your midfield from your flat back four? Right from the start. I was cracking on about stuff and you were like a rabbit caught in headlights.’

  ‘Does it matter? That I lied to you about it? I mean, I’m interested in learning and everything. If you want, you could teach me . . .’

  He kissed me on the lips and my stomach, previously at a cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet, plunged to a whisker above ground level. His mouth was warm and he tasted faintly of cigarette smoke and popcorn. My first kiss! If we forget Kyle Colby in Year 5 who did it for a bet and wouldn’t talk to me afterwards. There, on the bench, by the river. It was soft, and plucked at something just beneath my rib cage. The kiss, I mean. Not the river. Or the bench. I felt dizzy.

  ‘Does it seem like it matters?’ he said, when we broke off.

  In the mellow afterglow I told him the real story behind my hairdo. It wasn’t something I had anticipated revealing, but it seemed right to get all the little deceptions off my chest. I thought he would see the funny side of it and he did. We spent so much time laughing.

  It was a brilliant date. I mean, I know there are some of you out there who’d consider a date a complete failure without popping a pill, experimenting with some of the trickier manoeuvres in the Kama Sutra, getting shit-faced on cask wine and ending up marinating in your own vomit on the floor of the ladies room at the local nightclub.

  Well, call me old-fashioned, but I couldn’t imagine anything nicer than walking along the riverbank, watching the lights of the city, hand-in-hand with Jason. Frangipani petals were blowing in the balmy evening breeze. Cupid had my heart in his sights at point-blank range and was in the process of loosing the arrow when I saw her again.

  The Fridge.

  She was walking slowly on the path directly opposite where we were standing. On the other side of the river. Like me, she was giving all the signs of being insufferably content, bathed in her own emotional glow, gazing into the night sky as if the world had been born afresh. Like me, she was hand-in-hand with a guy.

  I couldn’t see who it was. She was on the outside and obscuring my vision so I only got tantalising glimpses. Other people were strolling by and that didn’t help either. I grabbed Jason’s hand hard and looked for the nearest bridge over the river.

  ‘Come on,’ I said and pulled him back from where we had come.

  Jason may have been puzzled, but to be fair to him, he was game. Maybe it was all that interest in soccer, but he didn’t seem averse to a late-night sprint with a bald chick for no apparent purpose. Then again, I didn’t give him much option. I held onto his hand with a vice-like grip and towed him over the bridge. The Fridge had been some distance from us when I started and I wasn’t confident we’d catch her up, even though she had been wandering along like a drugged wombat.

  Sure enough, by the time we made it over the bridge, the crowds had swallowed her and her mysterious companion. I scanned faces and Jason panted for breath. Clearly his interest in sports didn’t extend to actually doing any, unless there was an Olympic category in marathon smoking.

  ‘I’m knackered,’ he said, gulping for air. ‘I hate to sound like a total wally, but was there any point to that?’

  ‘I thought I saw someone.’

  I didn’t feel like telling him more. It was our first date, after all. Anyway, what was there to tell? I smiled at him and tried to recapture the romantic moment we had enjoyed prior to spotting the Fridge. But my smile felt artificial and I knew the evening was effectively over.

  I felt upset by the Fridge’s behaviour. I suppose it was something as simple as jealousy. She had a private life, something from which I was being deliberately excluded, as if she didn’t even trust me to be pleased for her. Why would she do that? There was only one answer. Because I wouldn’t be pleased for her. Not if the guy was my dad. I didn’t see him properly, true. It’s not something that would stand up in a court of law, granted. But logic told me it had to be him. The more I thought about it, the more I felt sad. Worthless. I suddenly wanted to go home.

  I turned to explain this to Jason and my eye was caught by a figure sitting on a bench across the river. The very bench that had been the scene of my first kiss.

  Vanessa was sitting by herself, head bowed almost to her knees. Her overnight bag sat forlornly on the ground between her feet. There was something so unutterably pathetic and depressed about her posture that I knew she was crying. I couldn’t actually see it at that distance, but I knew it as surely as if I had been sitting next to her. I was tempted to make another run for it, but didn’t think Jason’s lungs would stand another pounding. What was it with this evening? I always seemed to be in the wrong place.

  Anyway, before I could even think about crossing that bloody bridge again, Vanessa got to her feet. She moved slowly, as if a weight was pressing on her and the effort of raising it was painful. She stood and wiped her eyes briefly with a sleeve. Then she picked up her bag and shuffled off along the river bank, away from me. I tell you, there was something in the way she moved that made tears prick behind my eyes. I had never seen anyone who seemed so steeped in unhappiness.

  I stood for a while watching her slow progress, unaware of Jason standing next to me examining my face.

  ‘What’s the score, Calma?’ he said eventually.

  I snapped myself out of it. I became aware suddenly that I was rigid with tension and I was gripping Jason’s hand so tightly my knuckles were white. It must have been unnerving for him. I forced another smile.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I want to go home now.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll walk you.’

  And he did. On the doorstep he asked if I wanted to go out with him again. I did. I certainly did. And I told him that. But I was worried and distracted. Maybe, as a result, my tone of voice wasn’t altogether convincing. His face was puzzled and closed as I shut the door. I was sorry about that, but only vaguely.

  All I wanted to do was go to bed. It had been a very strange evening and I couldn’t help but think it was a precursor to stranger evenings to come.

  Chapter 14

  Calma hits the trail

  ‘Did you have fun last night?’ asked the Fridge. ‘And why are you wearing a towel around your head?’

  It was Saturday morning and I was picking at a round of
toast. The Fridge was drinking coffee.

  ‘Yeah, great,’ I replied, ignoring her second question. ‘How was work?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Work is work. Nothing to write home about. Tell me about your evening.’

  Okay. There were two ways this could go. Let’s call the first one The Seriously Mature Daughter Tackles Her Mother Head-On about Issues Important to the Integrity of their Relationship. The plot would undoubtedly unfold like this:

  Calma Harrison popped the last piece of toast into her mouth and gazed steadfastly at her mother. She had come to a decision. She was not going to allow their relationship to become tarnished by omissions, half-lies and outright whoppers. The time had arrived for plain-speaking.

  ‘Mother,’ she said. ‘I saw you last night, in the company of a gentleman. Now, for some reason, possibly to protect me from potential feelings of jealousy and abandonment, you have kept this liaison quiet, even to the extent of fabricating alibis that you were in gainful employment during the time of these romantic trysts. I feel, Mother – and I have to be brutally frank here – betrayed by your lack of trust. I am no longer a child. If you have found a soul mate, even if it is someone I might consider to be less than the dust beneath your chariot wheels, then the very least I deserve is that you share your feelings with me.’

  Mrs Harrison looked into her coffee cup and a tear slid down her cheek. She didn’t speak for a moment, but when she did, her voice cracked with emotion.

  ‘Oh, Calma,’ she said. ‘I have been foolish not to trust you. What you have said, albeit rather wordy, bordering on the embroidered, has hit the emotional and intellectual target. I am, indeed, involved in a romantic association and, furthermore, have made the serious miscalculation of indulging in duplicitous practices with regard to communicating such a state of affairs with the only fruit of my loins. I stand justly accused. But Calma,’ and here she raised her eyes to meet her daughter’s, ‘you must believe I was acting according to the dictates of my conscience.’

  ‘I freely acknowledge this, Mother,’ said Calma, ‘though, incidentally, I feel a touch aggrieved at your accusations of overblown linguistic flourishes, which, coming from you, is a little akin to receiving a sermon on pacifism from al-Qaeda. But enough of that; the identity of your new amour?’

  ‘His name is Jerome. He is the chairman of a large multinational telecommunications company, owns apartments in Sydney, Paris, London and New York, not to mention a luxury ocean-going yacht and a medium-sized island in the Whitsundays. He has proposed and I have accepted . . .’

  Let’s call the next The Seriously Pissed-Off Daughter Spits the Dummy.

  ‘Tell me about your evening,’ said the Fridge.

  ‘It was good.’`

  ‘Is that it? “Good”? This was your first date!’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Movies.’

  ‘What film did you see?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘You don’t know? How can you have forgotten already?’

  ‘Something with pirates.’

  ‘Was it good?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Come on, tell me. What was Jason like? How did you guys get on?’

  ‘All right.’

  You get the picture. I wasn’t in the mood. And before you start blaming me, put yourself in my position. Here’s my mother trying to get me to dish the goss on my date, yet she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge that she’d been on one herself. Maybe you’re a saint, but I’m certainly not. I was going to tell her bugger all. I kept the towel wrapped tightly. Everyone else might know about my shaved head, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction, even of common knowledge. She didn’t deserve it.

  Okay, I was angry. And confused. And worried. Not just about the Fridge, but about Vanessa as well. I hadn’t slept much. The image of a girl, hunched on a bench, had come between me and sleep. She seemed so lonely, so defeated. I regretted not running after her the previous night, but there was no point in berating myself with things that couldn’t be changed. I needed to talk to her, but had no idea where her father lived. I wasn’t even sure Aldrick was his last name, so the phone book was unlikely to help. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Nessa and her mother had reverted to a previous name after the divorce. It was only a niggling half-memory – like I said before, I couldn’t remember Vanessa talking about her father – but it felt right.

  The Fridge tried to draw me out, but I was like a clam with additional superglue. Then she changed tack. I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  ‘Calma,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think it’d be a good idea to talk to your dad? He told me he’d tried, but you wouldn’t have anything to do with him. Couldn’t you give him a chance? Just listen to what he has to say?’

  I didn’t bother replying and eventually she gave up and disappeared somewhere in the car. I didn’t ask where. Why bother, when you have no idea if the answer you’re going to get has even a passing acquaintance with the truth? Anyway, she left, all tight-lipped and seething with resentment at my lack of communication. She’s got a bloody nerve, I’ll give her that. And my dad. When was he going to stop screwing up my life?

  As soon as she was out the door, I was on the phone. Mrs Aldrick answered after a few rings.

  ‘Hi, Mrs Aldrick,’ I said. ‘It’s Calma. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to get in touch with Vanessa and I don’t have her father’s number. I wondered if you could let me have it?’

  There was a gasp at the end of the line, as if I’d told her I was holding her daughter ransom and unless she dropped three million dollars in a rubbish bin at the local mall, I’d be mailing amputated extremities to her at regular intervals.

  ‘I’m sorry, Calma,’ she said eventually, ‘but I can’t give out her father’s number. He’s very strict about that.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mrs Aldrick,’ I said, with a hint of exasperation. ‘It’s me. Her best friend. I mean, I’m not going to post it on the internet, or anything. And I do need to talk to her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Calma. His number is unlisted for a reason.’

  I could tell by her tone of voice that I was up against an immovable object. I had to think laterally.

  ‘Well, how about you ring her and tell her to contact me? That would be okay, wouldn’t it?’

  There was silence at the other end of the phone. I could almost hear the cogs whirring. I mean, it was a perfectly reasonable request. No one could object to it. So why was her silence swollen with reluctance?

  ‘I can’t do that, Calma. This is Vanessa’s time with her father and I will not intrude on it.’ There was triumph in her voice, as if she’d found a foolproof defence against a seemingly inevitable checkmate. The trouble was, the defence did seem solid. And yet I was convinced she was being deliberately unco-operative. However, short of tying Mrs Aldrick up with garden twine and inflicting cigarette burns on her exposed flesh, I couldn’t think of a way to break her resistance. I hate losing. It makes me mad. And then I want to get even.

  ‘Okay, Mrs Aldrick. Vanessa’s back . . . when? On Sunday evening?’

  ‘Yes. Quite late, usually.’

  ‘Can you get her to ring me as soon as she gets back? Doesn’t matter how late.’

  ‘I’ll tell her, but you might have to wait until school on Monday. She normally just wants to drop straight into bed.’

  What was it with this woman? Talk about putting obstacles in the way. I hung up, my politeness stretched to breaking point, and sat in the garden for a while, thinking. As far as Vanessa was concerned, I couldn’t see a way around the problem. Her dad must live close to the CBD – I couldn’t imagine Vanessa getting a bus or a taxi at that time of the evening, so it was a reasonable assumption she was walking to his place immediately after her tearful spell on the bench. I suppose I could have wandered around the CBD in the hope of spotting her, but the chances were remote, to say the least. I reluctantly came to t
he conclusion that I would have to wait until school on Monday.

  That left the Fridge. The mystery surrounding her might have been solved by the direct approach, but my pride wouldn’t allow it. If she was going to be secretive, I could be even more secretive. I’d find out, in my own way, who she was seeing. If it was my father, then I’d head for the Galápagos Islands by myself. But if it was a new boyfriend, I’d humiliate her with prior knowledge. I had visions of a conversation in which I’d say, ‘Oh, a boyfriend, Mum. You mean that Mr Jones you’ve been seeing for the last month and a half? Tall guy, works in insurance in the city, lives in an apartment on Mitchell Street, divorced, forty-two, has a birthmark shaped like a sperm whale on his left buttock? Oh, I’ve known about him for ages . . .’

  Yes. I was going to solve this enigma.

  The trouble was, I didn’t have a clue how.

  The solution presented itself when the Fridge reappeared, carrying bags of groceries. Call me genius if you must, but the idea flashed fully formed into my mind. I needed some information first, though, so I bustled through to the front of the house and helped the Fridge get more bags from the boot. She was surprised by this spontaneous act of helpfulness. When she left I’d been displaying the co-operation of a Buddhist in an abattoir. I tried a cheery smile, exuding the air of someone now entirely at peace with the world, instead of the premenstrual harridan I’d been impersonating before.

  ‘Do you want me to put these away, Mum?’ I said.

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied.

  ‘Are you going into work today?’ I shoved packets of pasta into the kitchen cupboard and attempted to sound nonchalant. Have you ever tried to sound nonchalant? It’s more difficult than you might think. In fact, the very attempt at nonchalance is guaranteed, in my experience, to achieve un-nonchalance. If you know what I mean. Anyway, the Fridge didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Yes. Four o’clock. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I just wondered if you could give me a lift, that’s all.’