Spin Cycle

by Ilsa Evans

  ‘When I say right near, I mean right near … like right next door!’

  ‘Right next door? You mean next to our house next door or a little bit further away next door?’

  ‘I’ll tell! I’ll tell!’

  ‘Like, really right next door! Mr Waverley’s house! You know the one with the cute little dog?’

  I rapidly cast my mind back to a mental image of the cute little dog encircled by the ‘O’ on the sign, and realise what my mind didn’t quite register at the time. The ‘O’ wasn’t in the FOR of the FOR SALE which has been there for at least six months. It was in another ‘O’ which was itself in a large sticker plastered across the sign, and which read SOLD. That’s it. Now I’m over the edge. This must be all some huge cosmic birthday joke. I shall turn forty while my mother marries for the fourth time, my sister delivers for the fifth time, and my first ex-husband shifts right next door. When they said that life begins at forty, I always assumed they meant it as something to look forward to. Not one nightmare on top of another. No wonder people go grey.

  ‘Sam, you’re a real bitch, you really are.’

  I don’t bother to chastise Benjamin this time. Somehow I don’t think that I’m capable of it and besides, he’s quite correct. His sister is a bitch … but her bitchiness is the least of my problems at the moment.

  Anyhow, she’s not the only one.

  Life’s a bitch, full-stop.

  TUESDAY

  If all be true that I do think,

  There are five reasons we should drink;

  Good wine, a friend, or being dry,

  Or lest we should be by and by

  Or any other reason why.

  Henry Aldrich

  (1647–1710)

  TUESDAY

  5.45 am

  I am naked, except for a pair of purple-trimmed Reeboks.

  I am naked and walking along a meandering path which is edged on one side by a picturesque brook and on the other by a series of grassy knolls that are blanketed by pearly-white flowers. A gentle wind lifts and bows the blossoms so that they almost seem to be genuflecting as I pass by (they probably know how much Reeboks cost). The air is fresh and invigorating, and I stop every now and then to close my eyes and just breath in great enormous lungfuls. There is an incredible sense of peace and a serenity so precious that its embrace feels almost tangible. Silence reigns supreme and the only thing babbling is the brook. After a while I sit down at the edge of the little stream, take off my Reeboks, and close my eyes as I lower my toes slowly into the water.

  ‘AAAaaiah! AAaaiah! AAaaiah!’

  Suddenly my eyes are open, the brook is gone, the flowers have vanished, and my toes are dry. I immediately close my eyes again and desperately try to picture the knolls.

  ‘AAAAAAaaiaaah! AAAAaaiah!’

  What is a knoll anyway? Is it sort of like a bunion, or a corn? Whatever they are, they have definitely gone with the wind now. I open one eye and fix it on the luminous green numbers of the bedside clock.

  ‘AAAAaaiaah! It’s not even six o’clock!’

  ‘AAAaaiaah! Mummy! Mummy!’

  I fling the doona aside, clamber out of bed (not naked and no Reeboks) and hobble quickly down the hallway towards the kitchen because that is where the screaming seems to be coming from. It’s freezing out here. I skid to an abrupt halt in the doorway as I see my youngest daughter standing precariously on a kitchen chair at the uncovered birdcage – and holding out one tremulous hand towards me. Reluctantly I let my gaze travel slowly from her pale, tear-stained face to what she has clutched in her fist. Sure enough, it’s the dead budgerigar and from the looks of it, rigor mortis has definitely set in. I think quickly.

  ‘CJ, what’s happened? What’s wrong with Hanson?’

  ‘Aaahaiah, he’s dead, Mummy, my one and only pet – and he’s dead!’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. Here, give him to me and let’s have a cuddle.’ I barely finish talking before she thrusts the dead bird into my outstretched hand, and then launches herself at me. ‘CJ – no! Wait till I’ve put him down!’

  ‘Oh, Mummy! Is he berry squished?’

  Now that she has managed to use the two of us as some sort of weird avian flower-press, she seems to have cheered up remarkably and proceeds to examine the corpse in minute detail. I think I’m going to be sick.

  ‘Mummy, why is he so hard and –’

  ‘I’ve got a good idea!’ I quickly drop the corpse onto the counter (I know that’s not terribly hygienic but I can tell you a dead bird in the hand feels – well, indescribably disgusting). ‘Why don’t you get your shoebox from your new runners and we’ll give Hanson a really nice burial?’

  ‘But … but why’d he die, Mummy?’

  I am riddled with guilt as I look down at the little face gazing at her dead pet. I don’t feel guilty because of the damn bird – I still feel it overreacted totally by dying – but because of last night and yesterday afternoon. Indeed, it seems like every time I spend any time at all with CJ lately, she spends it in her room and I spend it somewhere else. Either that or she is tear-stained. I have always had such a comfortable relationship with CJ in the past that it has become perhaps too easy to concentrate on other areas that I imagine might need work, like Benjamin. It occurs to me now that perhaps I should not have taken so much for granted, that CJ is also growing up and she needs me, and affirmation of the security I represent, just as much as the others.

  ‘You know, you know! I c’n tell! What happened?!’

  I come out of my reverie to realise that CJ has ceased her postmortem and is staring at me with narrowed eyes and an extremely suspicious expression.

  ‘I didn’t do anything!’ Even to me that didn’t sound convincing so I try again: ‘Why do you ask? Did you find something suspicious?’

  Oh, for god’s sake, pull yourself together. This is a five-year-old you’re dealing with, not bloody Quincy or some other forensic specialist. Take a few deep breaths and use a bit of parental authority.

  ‘Look, CJ, sometimes things like this just happen. It doesn’t mean that anybody is to blame and it’s certainly not fair to try and blame someone just to make yourself feel better. It’s just one of those things. Now, I’m not going to get annoyed because I know you’re upset, so just go get the shoebox and we’ll arrange a lovely funeral for Hanson.’

  TUESDAY

  7.35 am

  Close-up to scene: a suburban backyard desperately in need of a mow. Four jacketed figures can be discerned amongst the grass – a woman of indeterminate age comforting a small child, an adolescent boy eating rapidly from a bowl of cereal and a female teenager-type brandishing a piece of paper and clearing her throat rather theatrically. In front of them is a freshly dug hole that holds only a pitifully small shoebox.

  ‘We are gathered here together to mourn the sudden passing of our little Liebling Hanson, a member of our family for well over a year. Some might say that he led a useless life – he never travelled, never formed a relationship, never read a book, never even contributed to the day-to-day running of the household in which he lived. But, we beg to differ, because if a life is measured by the joy it brings to others, then Hanson’s life was full. Although his intellect was on a par with that of his namesake, and his horizons were limited by the gilded bars which surrounded him, his dulcet melodies filled our home with perpetual music all the more appreciated because he was the only member of our family who could actually hold a tune.

  ‘And I must ask you – in reality what is a cage? Was Hanson’s cage essentially any different from mine, or yours? Is it not the truth that we form our own personal cages throughout life? Who amongst us can deny the existence of these quintessential barriers that yield not? Barriers such as people’s ignorance regarding body piercing? And just because Hanson’s cage was ready-made and visible does not make him fundamentally any different from you or I. So I say to you, my brethren, heed my words and do not judge neither man nor bird by the colour of his cage!


  ‘Now it is time to lay poor Hanson to rest, time to say “Auf Wiedersehen”. But as we leave this hallowed ground, I would like you all to spare a few minutes to reflect that whatever foul spirit or leprous disease entered our home at or around midnight last and struck down poor, innocent Hanson – it’s still out there!’ (Reprinted with the kind permission of Ms Samantha J. Brown.)

  TUESDAY

  8.58 am

  Amazingly enough I am actually early for work. I have buried the bird, fed the children, spent a fruitless twenty minutes trying to contact my sister, delivered Samantha to her friend’s house (where apparently she is studying for the first two periods), dropped Ben off at the school gates, taken CJ to kindergarten from where she will be picked up later by one of the other mothers and minded for the afternoon, accepted an invitation to a birthday party on her behalf, declined an invitation to a Tupperware party on mine and still managed to get to work before … damn! Now it’s nine o’clock!

  It was never a burning ambition of mine to work in a library, but this particular job virtually fell into my lap at a rather opportune time, meaning just as I was leaving Keith. The work itself is rather mundane, but it’s not far from home and it pays the bills. One of these days I am determined to decide on a career path. Until then, this will have to do. Actually, I’m almost looking forward to work today. My day off turned out to be made up of one unmitigated disaster after another, so it will be rather restful to be able to think things through in relative peace and quiet. And if there is one thing a library is supposed to have in abundance, it’s relative peace and quiet. Besides, my best friend works at the library with me, and yesterday was made even worse by the fact that I’ve been unable to discuss anything with anybody. I want someone to tell me I’m overreacting, that two new family members are something to be happy about, and that an ex-husband as a next-door neighbour is better than a feral chihuahua-cross with a penchant for human flesh.

  I’ve known Teresa – Terry to her friends – for a number of years. In fact we first met just after Alex and I separated, but we didn’t become really close until after we started working together. By that time she had found out that her dentist husband had been practising his drilling out of surgery hours ever since their first wedding anniversary, and she had performed a non-anaesthetised extraction of her own. I have only met Dennis once or twice and the only thing we shared was an instantaneous and mutually intense dislike. But then I’m sure he doesn’t need admirers – he seems fond enough of himself. As far as looks go, Terry and I are opposites. She is a six-foot tall, statuesque blonde with great teeth, who more closely resembles one of the Valkyries from a German opera than a suburban librarian. She lives with her twenty-year-old daughter, Bronte, who coincidentally is also a six-foot tall, statuesque blonde with great teeth. They make me look like a neglected garden gnome.

  I park in the car park behind the library and am halfway to the back door before it registers that my car is looking extremely lonely all by itself. Usually at this time the car park is almost full with all those dedicated types who get here before nine o’clock on a regular basis and consider this feat par for the course and not a matter for intense self-congratulation and a celebratory drink that evening.

  I would like to think that they all slept in, but I doubt it.

  I walk slowly around the side of the building and up to the double doors at the front of the library, hoping that the extremely large cardboard sign I can now see sticky-taped there will give me a clue as to what is going on. It does.

  THE STAFF OF THIS LIBRARY ARE ON STRIKE TODAY

  WE ARE MARCHING IN PROTEST

  BECAUSE THE GOVT HAS CUT OUR FUNDING

  YET AGAIN!

  WE APOLOGISE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE TO OUR PATRONS

  Well, if that isn’t typical! Don’t apologise to me, don’t let me know what’s going on! I could have slept in or something. Actually, maybe I am supposed to be doing something like marching in protest myself. Now that I think of it, I feel like marching in protest today – in fact, that’s exactly what I feel like. Maybe I could be nonconformist and make up my own sign, something with flair like ‘MOTHERS & EX-HUSBANDS SUCK’ … or perhaps not.

  I’m sure I could come up with a less suggestive slogan given a bit of leisure time, but then I’m sure I could come up with a lot of things given a bit of leisure time – like a tidy house, ironed clothes, well-mannered children, a best-selling novel. Never mind, one thing I did decide during the night (at 2.13 am, to be more precise) was that there is no point worrying myself sick about anything while I am working (or striking, as it turns out). Apart from talking with Terry, and enjoying a wee bit of commiseration, I have put everything on hold until I am able to make a few phone calls tonight to see if I can put things into some sort of perspective.

  However, I can’t believe that nobody rang me last night to let me know what was going on today. I have an absolute horror of being kept in the dark and not being told what’s going on – which I think dates back to my childhood, and the year I started school. At that time, Diane had already been at school for two years and I was terribly excited about becoming a ‘big schoolgirl’ myself (escaping my mother for six-and-a-half hours a day no doubt contributed to the appeal).

  As the big day slowly approached, I became aware of a lot of whispering going on around me. If my mother had some friends around they would stop talking as soon as I entered the room and whenever I questioned her, she would look mysterious and tell me to just be patient, a surprise was on its way. As well as this, suddenly there was a lot of activity in the spare room and for the first time that I could remember, my father cooked meals and took us for long walks – when we asked after our mother, he would just say that she was rather busy.

  Well, Diane and I mulled over the goings-on and deduced that, obviously, to celebrate my pending ‘big schoolgirl’ status, I was to be surprised with a room of my own. So, I waited with bated breath and walked around with what I fancied was a rather knowing smile, which actually earned me more than my fair share of slaps. When, a week before the big day, Diane and I were suddenly informed that we were to spend a few nights with Auntie Lenore, I just figured that our parents needed that time to put the finishing touches on my room. Auntie Lenore could not possibly have been the surprise – her only claim to fame was her rather amazing moustache (a decade later she was to earn instant celebrity status as the surprise winner of a nationwide John Newcombe lookalike contest).

  Sure enough, as I waited patiently with my packed bag by Auntie Lenore’s door on ‘big schoolgirl’ eve, my father arrived to collect us. I can still recall the choked anticipation with which I hurriedly exited the car and entered the house, only to find it full of people and, in the centre, my mother proudly posing for a pictorial version of ‘Madonna with child’. My big surprise, and the new occupant of the redecorated spare room, turned out to be the puce-coloured infant in her lap – Bloody Elizabeth. In retrospect, I do remember that my mother also got increasingly plump around that time but I was only six and things like ‘pregnancy’ or ‘hey, just thought I’d forewarn you that you’ll be getting a little brother or sister soon’ simply weren’t mentioned in our house.

  God! I’ve only just fired my therapist and already I’m confronting issues head-on! I shake myself and make a valiant effort to put the past behind me while I walk back around to the rear door and let myself in with my key (never having opened up before, it takes me ten minutes to find it), and proceed to telephone Teresa (hell’s bells, I just remembered that I forgot to ring her back last night!). I hang up on Bronte’s voice cheerfully informing me that she and her mother are not home but would simply love to talk to me as soon as possible, and try a few of my other colleagues in turn but there is no answer anywhere. I finally track down a mobile number and dial that instead.

  ‘Hello?’ (Lots of static and road noise.)

  ‘Barbara! What’s going on? I’m at work and you’re not!’

  ‘It’s the strike today, y
ou dummy! Remember we discussed it last Friday?’

  ‘Vaguely … but I didn’t know it was definite – or today!’

  ‘We talked again yesterday, but Joanne said she’d remind you. She’s supposed to be picking you up from your house at eight-thirty. God, she’s going to be furious.’

  ‘I don’t remember that at –’

  ‘Listen, I can’t talk now, I’m in heaps of traffic. Meet us somewhere along the route. We’re meeting all the others at ten-thirty and then marching towards Parliament House, okay?’

  ‘I suppose so. What’s the route though?’

  ‘Well, lucky you! See you soon!’

  Lucky me? What others? What the hell is she talking about? Number one: I am quite sure that nothing definite was agreed on Friday, I remember listening. Number two: I never made any arrangement to drive in with Joanne, I can’t stand Joanne, if I had known about any of this I would have made an arrangement to be driven in by someone else (probably Terry, certainly not an oddball like Joanne), because I HATE driving in the city. Number three: where the hell is Parliament House anyway?

  I suppose I could drive to Ringwood, leave the car and catch the train into Melbourne. It’s just as quick and I won’t have to park it. Once I’m in the city I could ask directions and then meander towards Parliament House generally, having a look at a few shops along the way. And if I don’t see the marchers (or if they don’t see me), well at least I can say that I tried and even wave my train ticket around tomorrow to prove it.

  Now that’s what I call lateral thinking.

  TUESDAY

  9.56 am

  I, and a multitude of other potential passengers thronging the Ringwood railway platform, eagerly watch the approach of the 9.50 am train bound for Flinders Street Station via the city loop. Intrepidly we board with the minimum amount of fuss.