by Cate Kendall
'You'd think she'd be fluent by now,' Sera said. 'She's been taking those classes for ages.'
'Yeah, but she never uses it. Anyway, I'm off, gorgeous.' Tony smiled, blowing her a quick kiss as he bounded down the stairs.
Sera checked in on the sleeping children before heading down to the kitchen to prepare some snacks for her visitors.
'I'll have a cuppa thanks, Sera, if you're making,' Joan called.
In the kitchen Sera gritted her teeth and filled the kettle. 'Won't be long,' she sang out with false chirpiness.
Joan shifted to a more comfortable position on her Jason recliner. 'Chance'd be a fine thing,' she muttered under her breath. 'She'll probably get distracted by something shiny.'
Determined not to let her mother-in-law get under her skin, Sera made the tea to Joan's strict requirements. Dunk the teabag three times only, two sugars and very milky, but boiling hot.
As she was sending the teabag to its third dunking Sera tried to think good thoughts about Joan. It was, after all, her mother-in-law's stunning double-storey Victorian terrace they shared in the highly desirable suburb of Paddington. Sera and Tony would never be able to afford such a sterling address if it wasn't for Joan's generosity. But, boy, did it come with a price. Not just the emotional pricetag but the constant renovation the very beautiful but decrepit old building constantly required.
The first renovation Sera had insisted on was to create a day-spa-style bathroom on the second floor. She needed a high-calibre facility for her grooming and beauty routines, and Tony had, as specified, installed the mirrors only from waist height up so Sera never had to be confronted by the hideous scar that ran from her thigh to her ankle. To keep Joan and her geriatric toiletry mysteries at bay, Sera had also split the ground floor laundry and turned half into a practical, if minute, bathroom for her mother-in-law. As Tony was a builder it was crucial he had a practical space as his home office, so the children shared the second bedroom and the third upstairs bedroom was his office. The original front drawing room opposite the stairs made a perfect retreat for Joan, and the narrow hall led to the living area, which had been the terrace house's original dining room. The kitchen and laundry had been tacked onto the rear of the house in the early sixties.
Sera had much bigger plans for the rest of the house that would see some of the generous backyard sacrificed to become a second living room with an open-plan kitchen, which would allow Joan's TV-lifestyle to continue in one area, while the young family had their own space.
But it would all cost so much. Tony and Sera already had one hell of a mortgage. Although Joan owned the house, Sera and Tony paid for its constant upkeep. Sera had hoped to give up work completely after the kids were born, but with her renovation ambitions, and her taste for labels and expensive cosmetics, she had to work just to keep their heads above water.
But, with fingers crossed, Tony's big job at Potts Point would come off and they'd be able to begin the big reno within a few months. Sera cringed at the thought of six months of using their living room as family slash kitchen slash homework space while the building was under way, but hopefully it would all work out okay.
Shit, she'd dunked the tea bag for too long. And the tea was less than boiling. She sneaked over to the microwave, glancing furtively over her shoulder, and opened it as quietly as possible.
'You're not going to nuke it, are you, Sera?' Joan called out.
'Of course not, Joan,' she replied, swearing like a sailor under her breath as she dumped the tea down the sink. When Joan's perfect cup of tea was finally ready, Sera delivered it to her mother-in-law.
'Shame you're missing your Italian class night, Joan,' Sera said.
'No, not really, my diverticulitis is playing up again so it's for the best. I hope I'm not underfoot for you though, dear,' she said with a sly grin. 'What with your girlfriends' sewing circle. And what's this about a new boy who's joined? He'd be a poof then, would he?'
Sera swallowed her anger. 'No, Joan, he's straight. He's recently widowed and just needs to get out of the house and keep social, that's all.'
'Hmmph.' Joan was decidedly unconvinced. 'Bit odd, a bloke coming to a knitting group though; knitting's women's work.'
'Well, it's not really about the knitting, Joan,' Sera patiently explained yet again. 'It's more a chance to catch up. Like a book club, you know.'
'Book club! Ha! Don't make me laugh.' Joan's eyes never once left the television. 'I wouldn't have thought that Chantrea would choose reading as a favourite hobby and as for that Mallory, I'd be amazed if she could even read!'
Sera walked away before she lost control and slapped the old biddy. Dear Lord, how was tonight going to pan out? Where was she going to sit everyone? She knew there was no chance of Joan retiring early. Even though Sera had made Joan's downstairs bedroom into a quaint, Laura Ashley-style bedsit with its own armchair and television, she still preferred the main living room. 'Not going to be shut away in that prison,' she'd grumbled when Sera first proudly showed her the expensively re-decorated suite.
Sera decided her kitsch kitchen would be a perfect Stitch 'n' Bitch venue for tonight. They could all pretend to be 1970s housewives. Even Sam.
Embracing her theme with vigour, she dug around in the back of the pantry for red and green cocktail onions. Luckily cabanossi was a weakness of Tony's and she sacrificed her vintage cheddar by cutting it into cubes. And with any luck – she rummaged through the drawer Joan proudly titled 'entertaining' – and yes, she hit the jackpot: tasselled toothpicks. She whipped up a little hors d'oeuvres selection and presented it on Joan's finest Bessemer party dish. She was tickled pink with her irony and even donned a frilly apron. All we need now are Splayds, she thought with wry amusement.
'Door,' Joan yelled helpfully when the doorbell rang.
*
Mallory greeted Sera with her usual squeal of excitement, wrapping her best friend in a rapturous welcoming hug. She was the same ball of energy and enthusiasm that Sera had been drawn to when they met at their tiny Tasmanian primary school more than thirty years earlier.
Their hellos were accompanied by a loud derisive snort from Joan.
'What's she doing here?' Mallory hissed in horror. 'I thought she had Italian lessons.'
'Mavis's car has a flat battery,' Sera whispered back, pulling a face.
'Curse the Corolla!' Mallory scrunched up her little fists in frustration.
'When you two have finished your schoolyard gossip, some manners might be in order,' interrupted Joan.
The young women swapped grimaces, then Mallory readjusted her expression to her usual infectious smile. 'Good evening, Joan.' She skipped in and bent over to kiss her. 'Lovely to see you again.'
'Hello, Mallory,' Joan replied proffering her cheek and tearing her eyes away from the free-earrings-with-ring offer on the screen to assess the younger woman's appearance. She peered over her half-specs.
'Plaits, Mallory? Aren't you a bit old for a the schoolgirl look?'
Mallory simply turned up the wattage on her incandescent smile. 'Love your jumper, Joan,' she responded. 'You don't see enough appliqué nowadays, and that's such an interesting gum-tree motif.'
'Hmm, thanks,' Joan said, looking down at her sweater and matching track pants. 'I like teal.'
'As you should. It works so well with your skin colouring,' Mallory assured her as Sera gripped her arm and the two nearly wet themselves with silent laughter. They made it to the kitchen and shut the door behind them before they collapsed in fits.
'You're wicked, you know that,' Sera said, grinning at her life-long friend. 'But I forgive you because you're wearing great shoes.'
Mallory turned her wedged espadrilles from side to side for inspection.
'Thanks, I just hope I don't fall off them: they're very tippy.'
Sera almost regretted her flat bejewelled choice of footwear, but another glance at them reassured her.
The doorbell announced Chantrea and Sam's arrival.
'Ah, it
's our knitting boy, is it?' Joan demanded, sizing Sam up like a prize bull as he stepped nervously into the lounge room.
'Joan, this is Sam,' Sera introduced her mother-in-law reluctantly, waiting for a clanger to fall from her lips – and she wasn't disappointed.
'So, got no mates, is that the problem, eh? Is that why you want to sit around with a bunch of married women . . . Or is it something else more interesting, hmmm?' Joan winked meaningfully at Chantrea, who simply smiled and looped her arm through Sam's.
'Yep, Joan, we're lovers and poor old Sam just can't keep away from me; you got it in one,' Chantrea said cheekily.
'Well, there's no need for that sort of talk,' Joan said, returning her focus to the jewellery sale once more.
Sam didn't know where to look and Sera wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry, but Chantrea calmly led the way through to the kitchen and took her place at the table.
'Christ, about time for a wine,' Sera exclaimed, pouring generous glasses for each of them.
'Please,' Sam said gratefully.
'Hit me,' Chantrea added, holding out her glass.
'I'll just have a half,' Mallory said. 'You know how giggly wine makes me.'
Sera reached for Chantrea's glass and noticed with an unhappy jolt that she too was wearing espadrilles. How could that be?
'Yoo-hoo, ladies.' Sera's next-door neighbour Jacqueline popped her pretty powdered nose around the corner of the back door.
'Good evening all,' she said, enjoying her grand entrance. 'And this must be Sam? How delightful to meet you.' She smiled primly in his direction as she proudly placed a magnificent tropical-fruit-encrusted pavlova onto the centre of the table. There were gasps of admiration.
Jacqueline's ears soaked up their compliments for a few seconds, closing her eyes happily to breathe in her triumph before shrugging daintily and lifting her hands in protest.
'Oh, it was nothing really,' she tinkled, swinging the pink cashmere cardigan off her shoulders and hanging it on the back of a kitchen chair.
Jacqueline knew exactly how the evening would pan out. Everyone would bleat about their failings, how difficult their petty lives were and intermittently remark on her pristine life. She knew they were all secretly jealous of her; with her two perfectly behaved teenagers, her loving orthodontist husband and her perfectly maintained home. Her life didn't have the cracks the lives of the others did. Her life was as unblemished as the petals of an English rose.
~ 5 ~
Sera should have been relaxed and relieved. They had escaped Joan's scathing tongue with little damage done. Everyone was comfortable, the snacks were cute and kitsch and the team was knitting industriously. But she wasn't relaxed at all. Instead she could feel a familiar fashion-disaster headache forming around the edges of her mind.
How could she have misread the footwear zeitgeist so badly? How was it possible that both Mallory and Chantrea had picked up on the espadrille trend while she – the proudly up-to-the-minute Sera Walker – was so obviously out-of-step with the look of the moment?
Her fashion radar had clocked the espadrille, taken careful note of the new look, but had somehow miscalculated the shoe's fashion trajectory. She knew they were going to be big – almost as big as white linen – but not yet; not tonight, for goodness' sake. Besides, they were in four years ago. How dare they come back into fashion so quickly?
She shook her foot vigorously, now thoroughly disenchanted with her bejewelled flip-flops which suddenly seemed gaudy and silly.
'You look gorgeous tonight, darling,' Chantrea said to her with a smile.
'White linen is going to be so big this season,' Mallory said.
'Love the chocolate toenails,' Jacqueline added.
Sera smiled vaguely at them all, their kind words sailing past her, wasted. She surreptitiously checked out Jacqueline's footwear as she pretended to concentrate on her knitting; even Jacqueline's standard issue ballet flats seemed more appropriate than her own spangled sandals. With a final angry glare at her stupid, shiny flip-flops, she forced herself to tune back in to the conversation and focus on helping Chantrea with her mohair scarf.
'Oh my . . . well . . . those nibbles do look absolutely intriguing, but I think I'll say no,' Jacqueline said with the tiniest of shudders, as Mallory passed around Sera's kitsch hors d'oeuvres.
'So Chantrea, how was work today?' Sera asked.
'Oh, it was a fairly standard Honkers flight, complete with vomiting child and blocked toilet, but back in time to pick up Sally, which is always a plus,' Chantrea said with a faint smile which didn't quite reach her tired eyes.
'I can't imagine how awful it must be to have other people bring up your child,' Jacqueline said.
'Excuse me?' Chantrea demanded, her face flushing with instant anger. 'What do you mean by that?'
Sera and Mallory swapped nervous looks while Sam bowed his head over his wool.
Chantrea was a prickly sort at the best of times, but particularly defensive about the amount of time Sally spent in child care.
'Why nothing, darling,' Jacqueline replied, all wide-eyed innocence. 'I'm just saying –'
'Yeah, well don't, Jacqueline.' Chantrea's spiked hair seemed to bristle with energy. 'It's all right for some whose work week doesn't get more stressful than Thursday bridge morning and a weekly appointment with Mr Sheen but some of us have a bit more on.'
Mallory wanted to laugh, but one look at Chantrea's face told her that this wasn't the time for girlish giggles.
'Oh dear, I'm sorry if you thought I was attacking you. I wasn't, I was just sympathising with your situation,' Jacqueline replied quietly.
'More hors d'oeuvres girls,' Sera thrust the tray of nibbles between the women in an attempt to ease the discomfort.
Chantrea sighed and ran her hands through her hair, her short burst of anger spent. 'Oh, I'm sorry, too, Jacqueline. I know I'm touchy about childcare.'
'So are your girls at school yet, Sam?' Jacqueline asked, happy to focus on a safer topic.
'The older one, Isabelle, is in Prep this year but our –' a look of pain crossed his faced and he corrected himself '– er, my little one, Alexandra, is in the kindergarten room at Baby Face Childcare with Chantrea's Sally.'
'How lovely, and does their mother share custody?' Jacqueline asked.
'Jacqueline!' Chantrea said sharply.
'No, that's okay, Chantrea,' Sam reassured her. Turning to Jacqueline he explained, 'Their mother died two years ago so I'm doing the single parent thing.'
'Oh, my dear, I am so sorry.' Jacqueline touched her fingertips to her temple with concern. 'And it's so much harder for a man to do the work–kids thing than a woman.'
'JACQUELINE!' This time, a chorus of voices admonished her.
'Okay, I think it's time for some pav,' Sera announced, carefully checking to ensure her leg was fully covered before she rose from the table. Jacqueline needed distracting, and her giant airy meringue was just the thing for the job.
Thankfully, Jacqueline became distracted with the serving of her dessert. And with the help of more wine, the group relaxed into laughter and idle chatter, the big issues of life put to one side for the moment.
~ 6 ~
The white light stippling across the charcoal carpet told Joan it was still night time. She'd long accepted she would never again enjoy the luxury of a full night of unbroken sleep.
She stood up, slipped on her maroon velvet slippers and shuffled down the hall to tend to her impatient bladder. She was fully awake now, she realised, as she washed her hands and squinted at the blurry reflection in the mirror. It was truly a blessing that your eyes went at the same time as your skin's elasticity, she thought. If you got a clear view of what your face looked like after ten rounds with Father Time you'd give up for sure.
She shuffled down the hall to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. In Joan's mind tea was the answer to everything, a cure-all that never failed to remedy any ailment – from conniptions to the shakes, that little black leaf
worked magic. It had never occurred to Joan that her complete dependence on the Tonic of the Colonies was most likely the cause of her insomnia.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, her eyes darted around the room, drinking in the memories that were always so much more potent at night. This had always been her favourite room of the house. So stylish at the time it had been decorated. She remembered when the olive-green doors and orange laminex benchtops were the height of fashion. She remembered the moving-in day and how as a young bride she had unpacked her first shopping bags as excitedly as a little girl playing house. Bonox, Vegemite, Bex, Arnott's Iced Vo-Vos, Gravox: all lined up in orderly domestic rows ensuring her success as the dutiful wife she had vowed to be the week before in front of family and friends at St Matthias'. It didn't take too many more trips to Donahue's market before the novelty of grocery shopping wore right off, though.
In her mind Joan saw the hordes of friends and neighbours laughing and drinking in the kitchen and living room, she heard the Beatles on the stereo, saw martinis in stylish glasses. All the girls with their Audrey Hepburn fringes, elaborate black eyeliner and up-to-the-minute fashions.
The photograph that stood on her nightstand had been taken right here in the kitchen on their first anniversary. She was wearing a bottle-green sleeveless dress with a tight bodice that ballooned out at the waist to a knee-length skirt. Barry was slim and blond, but quite severe-looking. He never smiled for the camera, or much in real life for that matter. No one looking at the young couple would guess at the silence that had already grown between them, or how hard Joan had to work just to keep up the appearance of a happily married life.
Even now she kept the photo beside her bed only because it seemed the right thing to do.
In the photo she was serving Barry a drink from the lead-crystal punch bowl that had been handed down from her great-grandmother. It was tradition to give it to the first bride in the family.
Sera had seemed pleased when Joan had handed it on to her on their wedding day but Joan doubted that she appreciated the significance of the piece. She looked at the bowl now, shoved in the corner of the bench, overflowing with the detritus of family life. Everything from Lego and bills to hair elastics and prescriptions blocked the glorious sparkle of the bowl. She hadn't seen the cups in years. They were probably all broken by now.
