by Ilsa Evans
‘Name one.’
I can’t. But then, I’m no medical expert – just an out-of-control librarian with a shaky job. That gives me an idea about how to approach this.
‘Look, when’s the next ultrasound?’
‘Friday morning.’
‘God, that’s quick!’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘But that’s all to the good, otherwise you’ll just fret. Is David going with you?’
‘No, I don’t want him to. That is, I know that he would if I asked him. But I haven’t even told him that it’s Friday, or even that there is another ultrasound. I didn’t tell him … it was so hard even …’ She drains her coffee and takes a deep breath. ‘It was so hard even telling him about the baby, that I haven’t mentioned the possibility that something might be wrong.’
‘Okay. Well, I’ll make a deal with you. We’ll both take the advice that you just gave me. What were your words exactly? There’s nothing you can do until you find out what’s going on for sure and you won’t find out until – Thursday in my case, Friday in yours. So there’s no point working yourself up about it. In fact, I’ll come with you so you’ll have someone there.’
‘Oh, would you? But what about work?’
‘In for a penny, in for a pound. I’ll take the day off. What are they going to do to me anyway – fire me?’
At that moment, the doorbell rings. I stare at Diane in consternation. For a split-second I’m sure that because I just uttered the words ‘fire me’ in jest, the library police have arrived to do exactly that.
But in fact it’s even worse. It’s my mother.
I open the front door and she steps neatly through, pausing to examine me from head to toe with her eyebrows raised before leaning her umbrella against the wall and removing her thick, camel-coloured coat in silence.
‘Mum, how great to see you.’ I smile weakly as I wrap my dressing-gown around myself securely and tie the cord. ‘Diane’s here too.’
‘Of course.’ She straightens the hat-stand and hangs her coat neatly on one of the hooks before leading the way back to the kitchen and greeting Diane with a magnanimity which I have patently been denied: ‘Why, hello, Diane dear, how pleasant to see you here as well. I was sorry to miss you on Monday. That outfit looks horrid, but I suppose it’s better than still being in pyjamas. How are David and the boys?’
‘Oh, fine thanks, Mum.’ Diane smiles sweetly and then, as our mother turns and begins removing her gloves, she gestures wildly at her stomach before putting her finger to her lips and frowning. I pride myself on being rather quick on the uptake, so immediately surmise that she has not yet informed Mum of the impending addition to her family. I nod back.
‘Is your head loose, dear?’ Mum has sat down and is now regarding me thoughtfully. ‘Or perhaps you damaged it wrestling with members of the police force, or whatever else you do in your spare time?’
‘Aaah, no. It’s fine. Would you like a cup of tea or something?’
‘No thank you, I’m due at the rectory in an hour to discuss Certain Things, so I won’t stay long. I just called in to ascertain for myself that you were still in one piece. I must say, though, next time you plan to get yourself involved in an unsavoury melee, could you do me the courtesy of letting me know in advance that I might receive a telephone call from members of the constabulary?’
Diane looks at me in sympathy while I open my mouth to answer but no words come out. Suddenly, a five-year-old whirlwind comes bucketing into the kitchen and leaps onto her grandmother’s lap.
‘Grandma! Grandma! I heared you talking! Guess what? Mummy broke the window!’
‘And whilst we are on the subject …’ My mother quietens CJ with consummate skill, rearranges her more comfortably and continues unabated: ‘Next time you decide to grace the front page of the newspaper, could you possibly attempt to have your hair brushed and your mouth closed? Or at least refrain from giving your name.’
‘I didn’t give my name! It was all a big misunderstanding, I was only –’
‘And why on earth that paper? The Age is really much more reputable.’
‘I didn’t even think –’
‘Quite. My point exactly. Now, on to more pleasant matters. Diane, I have been trying to reach you since Monday to give you my news but I assume your sister has filled you in by now. Well, what do you think?’
‘Grandma, Mummy wouldn’t let me see you when she saw you t’other day.’ CJ snuggles deeper into her grandmother’s lap and sighs contentedly.
‘What do I think?’ Diane is looking at me but there’s nothing I can do. What with everything else, I had completely forgotten about the other potential newcomer to our family. I shrug helplessly.
My mother frowns as she looks from Diane to me, and then slowly back again. ‘You don’t know, do you? Your sister hasn’t told you about my news. Well, I don’t know why I feel surprised. After all, I suppose you girls had much more important matters to discuss than my impending nuptials.’ With this, she kisses CJ on the cheek and starts to draw back on the gloves that she has only just removed. Diane is sitting there with her mouth half open and a stunned expression on her face. I try to make amends.
‘I thought you would want to tell her first.’ Even to me that sounds rather lame, but it’s the best I can do.
‘Tell me what? What impending nuptials?’ Even as she speaks, Diane’s eyes widen as she slowly grasps the significance of the conversation. ‘Don’t tell me you’re getting married … again!’
‘Well, as nobody else considers it significant, I suppose I shall have to be the one to tell you.’ Mum puts CJ down and gets up, fixing me with one of her I-am-so-indescribably-hurt looks while her granddaughter drapes herself lovingly around a leg. Traitor. ‘Diane, perhaps we should leave your sister to get dressed. After all, it is almost lunchtime. And maybe you could possibly see your way to giving me a ride. It would save me a bus-trip, and then I’ll be able to fill you in on all the details that your sister hasn’t mentioned, being too busy, one assumes, breaching the general peace. Have you been crying? Hmm, I think we had better have a little chat. CJ darling, if you let go of Grandma, she might be able to find you a little something in the bottom of her bag.’
Having successfully organised everybody in the room, she walks out without a backward glance and stalks down to the front door with all of us obediently following. There she retrieves her coat and umbrella, reaches down into her capacious handbag, pulls out a largish, brightly wrapped gift and hands it to CJ.
‘Now, darling, don’t open it till Grandma leaves. It’ll give you something to do whilst Mummy gets herself organised. And then perhaps she could do something about her front window – it looks dreadful. Come along, Diane.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I was just about to tell her.’
‘I am sure you were. Diane, please.’
The front doorbell rings.
‘Well, if it isn’t like Grand Central Station here.’ My mother opens the door. ‘I marvel that you even find the time to make a spectacle of yourself. Why, hello – Bronte, isn’t it? And how is your lovely mother?’
‘Hello, Mrs Riley.’ Bronte is standing on the doorstep, looking rather disconcerted. ‘My mother’s fine. I only dropped in to see –’
‘Of course, dear, of course. Don’t let me hold you up. Diane and I are just leaving. Give my best to your mother.’ She bends down to kiss CJ, turns and gives me another Look before gesturing testily at Diane: ‘Do come along, dear.’
‘God, god, bloody god,’ Diane mutters at me as she grabs her gear and follows Mum out to the car. I watch Diane open the passenger door and settle our mother within, then I turn to Bronte.
‘Come in. I’ve been trying to ring your mother for days. What on earth’s going on?’
Suddenly Diane is back in front of me hissing urgently, ‘Don’t tell anybody. I mean it, because I haven’t decided anything. I’ll ring you, okay?’
She waits for me to nod before jogging back to the car where our mother is g
laring straight at me through the windshield. I decide to ignore her. But I do feel a bit affronted that Diane would even suspect that I might tell someone. She is under a lot of strain, though, so I mentally shrug and forgive her. Then I turn my attention back to Bronte.
‘Are you coming in?’
‘No, I can’t, I’m late for uni already.’ Bronte stands aside for CJ to dash back in after farewelling her grandmother. ‘Hi, CJ! The thing is, Mum rang last night and asked me to let you know what’s happening. She said you’d worry.’
‘And she’s right! What on earth is happening?’
‘Well, she did say she tried to ring you on Monday, to ask your advice or something. So, like, maybe I can blame you for what’s happened!’ Bronte gives a strained little giggle at this and then her face lights up as she obviously remembers something that she found amusing: ‘Loved your picture in the paper! I’m saving it for Mum!’
‘Don’t bother and don’t change the subject. Where’s your mother?’
‘Yeah, that.’ Bronte’s face has fallen again. In fact, she looks more than a little distressed.
‘Bronte, will you please just tell me what’s going on?’
‘Sex! That’s what’s going on!’ Bronte blurts out with evident disgust. ‘She’s, like, having a mid-life crisis or something, and she’s gone off for a week of – what did she say? – “a week of unadulterated sex and unbridled passion”. I nearly threw up.’
‘But, Bronte, good on her! At least someone’s having fun! But why did she want my advice and what was all the urgency? She wasn’t planning on having any holidays.’
‘That’s because it all hit the fan on Monday. I came home from uni and they were in the bath together! With nothing on! Naked! At their age! And I couldn’t believe it so when I’m, like, cracking it, which is better than being violently ill, which is what I felt like, she tells me they’re going away together the next day for “a week of unadulterated” … but I told you that. Anyway, I wouldn’t be so upset except that he’s such an arsehole, you know.’
‘Who’s an arsehole?’
‘Mummy! Look! Look at what Grandma gabe me! A Wiggles beanie hat and scuff – just what I always wanted!’
‘Why, Dad’s an arsehole, of course. Oh, sorry, CJ! Arsehole’s a naughty word but my dad is one – an arsehole, that is.’ Bronte turns back to me and continues bitterly: ‘That’s the whole thing, he’s finally managed it and I’ll bet they’re getting back together, whether I frigging well like it or not.’
This is all doing absolutely nothing for my headache.
WEDNESDAY
1.00 pm
It has taken me a solid hour of plastering myself up against the lounge-room windows but I have finally managed to sticky-tape patches of plastic and cardboard across the segmented pane of glass. Every time I got the tape in position, the soaking wet curtain managed to wrap itself around my body or slap me across the face on its way out through the hole in the glass. It probably would have been more sensible to have attempted this task before I had a shower and got dressed in my only clean jeans and windcheater, because I am now freezing, as well as having pulled at least another three muscles. However, the job is done – and there was no other choice as I certainly cannot afford new glass in the foreseeable future. Especially if I am laid off.
CJ has departed for kindergarten, complete with footy thingy monies and clad in a rather vulgar Wiggles beanie and scarf set featuring Dorothy the Dinosaur. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, Dorothy and the Wiggles have long replaced Barbie as her all-time favourite. I was rather glad to see CJ go. Not only because of the repetitive way she kept murmuring, ‘But how did Grandma know I lubbed Wiggles the best?’ and ‘She must be really magic!’, but also because she kept insisting on helping me collect pieces of broken glass.
Anyway it’s all done now, and I have the house to myself. I turn the heater up, prepare myself a cup of tea and make a start on my list of VIPs – Very Important Phone Calls. Well, I can cross Diane off the list, that’s been sorted out until Friday. I can also cross Mum off, as there’s no way I’m ringing her now until she rings me first. Barbara Sullivan also gets a line through her name. I don’t see the point of ringing the library back until I find out what’s what tomorrow. Ignorance can be bliss.
I can’t ring Terry, she’s off experiencing unbridled passion with Dennis, her ex-husband. I shudder at the thought. The man is such an egotistical creep that I can’t believe she is doing what Bronte says she is doing. One thing is for sure: if they do effect a reconciliation, then our friendship is probably doomed. He can’t stand me, and she’ll start to remember all the bitch sessions we’ve indulged in at his expense. Never mind that she did most of the talking, it’ll be me who shoulders the blame. Anyway, married people tend to hang around other married people – safety in numbers, I expect. Selfishly, I hope Bronte has got it all wrong. Anyway, for now I cross her off the list, which is a bummer as I would have loved to discuss Diane’s predicament with her and get some neutral advice.
At this point the timer on the stove rings to let me know that the washing machine needs to be manually clicked over to the next cycle. The machine’s internal timer gave up the ghost over a year ago but it is well down the list of things I can afford to do. Even further down now that I have managed to break the lounge-room windows. I hoist myself up from my seat and go off to the laundry to flick the dial over to Spray Rinse, and then reset the oven timer.
Back in my seat, I pick up the list and examine it. Okay, well this is turning out a lot easier than I expected. Only halfway through my cup of tea and I have already been able to cross off four names! Next is Bloody Elizabeth, but I only wrote her down in case I couldn’t get on to Diane or Mum. So I cross her off as well. Hell’s bells, I’m veritably speeding through this list! Efficiency in action. If the library does let me go, they won’t know what they’re losing. Fatalistic, my foot!
Now here’s a name I can’t cross off – Maggie. I need to ring her to establish the facts about this real estate purchase of Alex’s. I still don’t believe that he would want to live next door to me. Not even I would particularly want to live next door to me. The oven timer rings again shrilly and I jump. Bloody washing machine. I get up, flick the switch to Deep Rinse, reset the timer, and return to the task at hand. Which is to ring Maggie. I take a deep breath and make the call, but just get that rather odd recorded message again. This time I hang up and dial again so that I can listen to it properly: ‘Hello! You have reached Mary Magdalene at “Pleasant Mount Personal Services” and our motto is “please come again”. Our hours of operation are 5 pm till 3 am, no appointment necessary. If you would like to leave a message please do so after the tone …’
I stare at the phone as I sit in thoughtful silence. Now, I have never rung a brothel, but that is exactly how I imagine one would sound – not that I spend a lot of time contemplating answering machine messages for brothels, of course. And Maggie does live on the corner of a Pleasant Avenue and Mountview Road – but Pleasant Mount? What the hell is a Pleasant Mount? And what about ‘please come again’? Could I have been that wrong all these years? No, it’s impossible. I categorically refuse to leave a message after the tone. Maggie must have changed her number since I last called. The oven timer shrieks at me again and I resolve to question Samantha and Ben a little more closely about their last visit – and in the meantime put it firmly out of my mind.
WEDNESDAY
1.45 pm
The washing all completed, I ring the number again and listen to the message.
No, impossible! But, Pleasant Mount? I mean to say, Pleasant Mount, for god’s sake? And I’m not even religious but Mary Magdalene? It almost seems sort of sacrilegious. And what sort of motto is ‘please come again’? It’s not even close to subtle!
WEDNESDAY
2.00 pm
I press redial. My uptight, prudish lesbian sister-in-law a lady of the night? A madam? The person who called divorce morally reprehensible? No, impossible
.
WEDNESDAY
2.30 pm
I press redial.
I mean, she’s older than I am! And she looks like a constipated Shetland pony!
WEDNESDAY
3.00 pm
I don’t need to press redial, I now know the message off by heart.
It occurs to me that everybody is getting sex except yours truly. It appears Maggie is getting it regularly, Diane has obviously had it recently, Terry is getting it right at this very minute, and my mother … no, cancel that thought.
But this observation does bring my mind back to the source. And I think that the evidence is mounting for sex as the main contender. Or to be more succinct: a root is a root is the root. So perhaps the problem is that I have a sexual blockage and that is what is causing the heaviness inside. Like a plumbing build-up that needs some sort of release. After all, it’s been a long, long time – since Keith, in fact. As he pops into my head I reflect on the fact that at least my therapist brought me a long way from the days when I couldn’t even mention his name without a range of conflicting emotions making me feel ill. For a start, she said that I didn’t need to forgive him to come to terms with how he had slowly chipped away at my self-confidence. But even if I didn’t ever forgive him, I had to forgive myself. And take back control.
I stare out of the kitchen window at the thick ridge of trees blocking the horizon and run that thought back through my mind again. Take back control. Take back control. And then suddenly – it hits me. You know when a couple of thoughts are just mulling around in your mind, and then a reasoning or two happen to intersect, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, a thought comes screaming out of left field and wham! The fallout from the resulting collision causes the nucleus of a revelation (this is known in some circles as the big bang hypothesis).
