by Ilsa Evans
Helen’s tape clicks back to the start so I stop hugging myself, press play and go over to the windows to check out how my cardboard repairs are holding up. As I approach the window I spot a pair of religious types in suits striding down the path to the front door. Hell’s bells, I hate having to get rid of them. Never mind, I am woman and I’m feeling pretty damn invincible. While I wait for the knock on the door, I mentally begin to practise the firm but gracious spiel I’ll use. Instead I see them rapidly retreat back up to the relative safety of the footpath from where they cast a rather worried look at the house before continuing on up the street. I decide there and then that the sign on the front door stays, whether the damn bird is ever recaptured or not.
Benjamin slunks (I cannot think of a better word to describe the way that boy walks) past the pair of nervous zealots and down the path. A few seconds later I hear his key noisily attacking the lock. I stop accompanying Helen Reddy and walk into the hallway to meet him.
‘Hi! How was your day?’
‘Yeah, okay.’
‘Did you like my sign?’
‘What sign?’
‘Never mind. Do you want to do me a favour –? No, come back, it’s to do with animals!’
‘What?’
‘I bought CJ a bird to replace Hanson – and I’ve also bought you a little something, but I want to wait to unveil it later – and anyway, the bird got out and it’s in the laundry. Can you catch it for me?’
‘Okay.’
I follow Ben to the kitchen where he grabs a tea-towel and flings open the laundry door. Nothing moves. We both slowly peer around the corner and then leap back as the bird propels itself from the top of the dryer through the open door and into the larger confines of the house itself.
‘I’ll leave it with you, shall I?’ I say brightly as I leave him with it.
I head off to my bedroom to get changed just as the front door opens a few inches and Samantha sidles through, looking around carefully as she does so. I figure there must be some sort of divine intervention that sort of balances kids out. What one lacks in abundance, the other will be brimming over with.
‘Where’s the bird?’ she whispers, putting her schoolbag neatly behind the hat-stand.
‘I don’t know, Ben’s trying to catch it,’ I whisper back, although I’m not sure why.
‘I’ll help him. And you’d better make sure the cat stays outside.’ She tiptoes quietly off towards the lounge-room, from whence can be heard sounds of furniture being noisily rearranged. Helen Reddy is no longer in aural evidence.
I still don’t get any further before I hear a car pull in to the driveway. I don’t believe it, Keith is actually on time for once! Just when I really didn’t want him to be. Not for the first time, I wonder furiously whether he and my mother are actually related somehow. I open the door carefully, shut it behind me, and walk out the front to welcome CJ home. Keith gives me a grin and a cheery wave from the car (what’s up with him?!) and, before I can even think twice, I find myself waving back just as cheerily. I absolutely resent having to be pleasant to him, but I hate even more being on the receiving end of one of his sulks, and the effect that it can still have on my life. I have finally faced the fact that, while I have CJ, he will always be an influence on my actions – and it’s simply much easier if he is kept happy. While I am still standing there, waving like he is my best friend, he reverses quickly up the driveway, leaving CJ on the other side leaping up and down and blowing kisses in his general direction.
‘Hi, darling! How was your day?’
‘Fan-tas-tic! We went to roller-blading and we had McDonald’s and I had a slurry thing and Daddy said that Ben is an idiot and then we went to the park and then we bisited Nanny and she gabe me this.’ CJ pauses for breath as she digs a large silver whistle out of her pocket and blows it. When my hearing returns I realise that she is still talking: ‘… and then I told Daddy about Hanson so we went to three pet shops and I don’t like birds now I want a lizard instead …’
At this point in the still-running monologue, we have reached the front door so I quickly check to make sure the cat isn’t trying to get in with us, pull the door open – and the new bird sails neatly out over CJ’s head and off into the distance. She continues, totally oblivious to the fact she just had a pet again, albeit briefly.
‘… because they’re nice and slimy and you only hab to feed ’em snails which we hab got heaps of and they stick their tongues out and sort of waddle so Daddy said he’ll get me one for Christmas and – Sam! I missed you!’
CJ launches herself at her rather surprised sister who, with Ben close behind, has just arrived breathlessly in the doorway.
‘Did you see the –?’
I cut her off by holding a finger up to my lips and pointing with the other hand to the distant trees. They both stare out the door as though the bird will suddenly rematerialise, and then Sam laughs and picks her sister up.
‘Come on, Liebling, I’ll make us some hot chocolate and you can tell me all about your day.’ She carries CJ down the passageway and they disappear into the kitchen. I turn towards Ben but he has headed outside, no doubt to examine the skyline in search of the budgie. I sigh heavily. Oh well, I’ve still got one more trick up my sleeve – or rather, several of them, each uglier than the one before.
In my bedroom I peel off the responsible-looking skirt and angora jumper that I had so carefully selected this morning and pull on a navy tracksuit instead. Much more suitable for my present status of lady of leisure. If I had a pair of moccasins, I’d put them on as well. Instead, I opt for runners and note that my shoe-tree is beginning to look like winter has struck. While I’m here, I unplug the orange extension cord and drape it over my shoulder as there will be hell to pay pretty soon if the television can’t be turned on.
I walk over to look in the standard mirror and realise, thankfully, that my pimple has obviously passed its climax at some point during the day and is now on the wane at last. Just when I was beginning to suspect that it wasn’t a pimple at all, but rather a terminal tumour of some particularly virulent type. If that had been the case, not only would I soon have been dead, but I wouldn’t even have been able to lie about on a strategically placed chaise longue looking suitably tragic because the grotesque disfigurement would have negated the overall effect. I take a step back from the mirror and realise that, with my tracksuit and runners, I am looking rather sporty – perhaps I should flow with the theme and go for a jog? No, best not to get carried away.
I drop the extension cord off in the lounge-room on my way to the kitchen where the big unveiling is due to take place. Sam and CJ are sitting at the kitchen table and, as soon as she sees me enter, CJ blows her whistle.
‘… thought you should know.’
I nod at Samantha, although I have no idea what she’s just said and she looks at me with a rather puzzled frown.
‘Oh, did you already know? Poor Ben. But it serves him right for eating some of my muffins this morning. Okay, then what I really wanted to tell you is that at lunchtime, when Sara and I went down to Knox City – we needed, um, biros – but anyway we couldn’t use the escalator coz there’d been an accident or something so we couldn’t get to the newsagent so we stayed downstairs and well, we, like, just happened to notice that on special at –’
CJ blows the whistle again (probably bored by the conversation – I know I am). I lunge forward and firmly confiscate the whistle while my ears stop ringing and readjust themselves to normal sound.
‘… what do you think?’ Samantha looks at me expectantly so I nod again. After all, it worked the first time. Meanwhile, CJ sets up a howl for her whistle which I have no intention of returning. Even at her worst, CJ’s whining is far more melodious than that damn ear-piercing whistle. Thank you so much, former-mother-in-law number 2. Benjamin wanders in, no doubt to see what all the noise is about, and I seize this opportunity to gain some semblance of control over the situation.
‘Now for the great un
veiling! Everybody ready? Over here, Ben. Ta-da!’ With that, I whip the cover off the fish-tank and stand back waiting for the happy response.
There is none.
Ben is just staring dumbstruck at the fish-tank, CJ is just staring dumbstruck at Ben, and Samantha is just staring dumbstruck at me.
‘But I thought you said you knew?’
‘Knew what?’ I follow her gaze to the fish-tank and experience a sinking feeling of déjà vu. Once again, every single one of the ugly (and rather expensive) goldfish is floating belly-up on the surface. One of them has even managed to get itself tangled in the long, blonde hair of a solitary Barbie, who had evidently stayed behind to catch some waves (and how did I not see her when I tipped the damn things in?). I whirl around to face Ben, terrified that he is going to think this is some sort of sick joke. But once again, I’ve misjudged him.
‘Yeah, thanks, Mum, but …’ He looks at me with an exact replica of the look I give CJ when she’s done something particularly silly. ‘Did it ever occur to you that the other lot died because there was something wrong with the water – that it would need changing first?’
Um, well, actually no.
THURSDAY
9.35 pm
This time I take the castors into account when I push the mattress and base back across the room and into the original position. I also remember that the bed-head is not actually attached and therefore I am easily able to avoid it keeling over. The fact that I remember these little details means that I accomplish the reverse shift with little stress, no near-fatal accidents, and no echoing sounds of crashing furniture. Which also means that I am not joined by Little Miss Trampoline, and it follows that I accomplish the entire operation quickly, quietly, and in peace.
The bedside chests are back where they belong, the electric blanket and clock are both plugged in and set, and the standard mirror is in the corner near the window, where it hides the dint in the wall perfectly. In fact, I have everything back in place so expeditiously that I am able to spend a considerable amount of time straightening up the litter spread across the dressing table. So here I sit, trying to be ruthless with the array of dusty clutter. On one side of me I have a bowl of nacho-flavoured corn chips for sustenance, on the other I have a basin of soapy water and, as I decide that something stays, it receives a quick immersion before being awarded final placement.
The little basket that Ben made out of lacquered bread about a decade ago has been sprouting tan tufts of mould through the cracks for a few years now, and is probably well past its use-by date. It definitely goes. Same for my collection of single earrings and all the perfume bottles which still contain a dribble of scent but not enough to actually travel up the atomiser. My crystal dressing table set is washed and rearranged. Behind it sits the vase containing the artificial snowdrops CJ got me for Mother’s Day last year, and Sam’s purple pottery walrus, and my complete collection of baby teeth (which I do hope none of the kids ever wants, because I have absolutely no idea whose is whose).
And of course my trio of framed pictures are definite stayers. I pop a few corn chips in my mouth as I pick up the photo of Alex with a baby-faced Ben on his lap and his arm around a kinder-aged Sam, and wash it down with the cloth. Next is the matching frame containing a beaming Keith holding a swaddled CJ so fresh that the vernix is still marbling her face. I tell people that I keep these pictures here because it’s good for the kids to see their respective fathers as part of our lives, but I also keep them here for me. Both these guys were incredibly important to me once. No matter that our relationships ended, or even how they ended, these two men once occupied a lot more space in my life than a few centimetres on my dressing table. I position the pictures carefully and then pick up the gilt-edged frame containing my mother and father on their wedding day. Black and white, arms around each other, they laugh happily out at the camera. I look particularly hard at Dad and sigh heavily because, although I can just about forget him for long periods of time nowadays, reminders like this also bring home to me how much I miss him.
‘Hey, Dad,’ I whisper as I clean down the frame, ‘what do you think about your wife getting married again?’
He doesn’t need to answer because I already know exactly what he would say. Whatever makes her happy, kid. I put the picture down at an angle to the pair containing my ex-husbands, grab another couple of corn chips, and begin to sweep the pile of dead tissues and assorted debris into a plastic bag for the rubbish bin. I hesitate when it comes to the bread basket, earrings and other more solid junk. Then I sweep these items into one of the drawers just in case I need them at a later date. You never know.
I lean back, look critically around the room and nod with satisfaction at a job well done. The plaster dint is hidden, the carpet is a lot cleaner, and my pictures don’t need to be moved. Everything is back where it should be and looking damn good. Except perhaps for the curtain hem that is still down, and still trailing on the floor in a most unattractive manner.
I grin wryly to myself as I fetch the sewing box and start threading a needle. Now this is what I should have done straight off last night instead of spending a lot of time and energy rearranging a room that I was perfectly happy with.
Sometimes the best answers are also the ones right under your nose.
FRIDAY
Life is mostly froth and bubble
Two things stand like stone
Kindness in another’s trouble
Courage in your own.
Adam Lindsay Gordon
(1833–1870)
FRIDAY
8.45 am
The kindergarten is a veritable hive of activity with parents making out-of-hour arrangements, polite conversation, or just a quick getaway, and the children, well, they are an absolute smorgasbord of foot ball colours with beanies bouncing, flags floating (and occasionally catching someone in the eye), scarves waving, and siblings screaming (usually because it was their eye). Sue Van Vuren, the small, dark assistant kindergarten teacher opens the door and, as an avalanche of bodies threatens to swamp her, holds up her hand for our attention.
‘Just before you all go, is there anybody who can help out for an hour or so?’ She looks around beseechingly. ‘Jenny’s just rung in sick and the replacement won’t be here for at least an hour. Anybody? Ideally, I’d like three of you. Anybody at all?’
A couple of parents fortunate enough to be at the back of the crowd sneak out the doors quickly. The rest of us shuffle our feet and look around at the walls, the ceiling, the noticeboard, anywhere but at Sue. She’s not about to give up that easily, though.
‘C’mon, we don’t even have anyone down for kinder duty this morning so it’s just me and I don’t think that’s even legal, so can anyone help – just for an hour or so?’
Everybody politely stops shuffling as she is speaking, and then starts up again as soon as she stops and tries to establish eye contact with someone.
‘Mummy, please, please, please, pl-ea-se?’
I look down at CJ’s face, put my finger to my lips and shake my head emphatically before she gets her hopes up. That is not what I feel like doing in the small amount of time I have free before Diane picks me up. With a sigh of relief I notice that two mothers have just volunteered and are moving forward with large, helpful smiles on their faces. I recognise them. They are both what I fondly call committee junkies. This particular pair are on the committee of the kinder, as well as the playgroup next door, the parents and friends of the nearby primary school, and no doubt a variety of sporting clubs. They are usually seen running around distributing fundraising literature, organising meetings, arranging out-of-hours shopping tours and assorted get-togethers while taking self-improvement classes in their spare time for their own personal gratification. Kindergartens and suchlike couldn’t get on without them (and neither could the government, which relies heavily on unpaid slave labour), but I certainly can. Although I do feel a little guilty because I haven’t even done one kinder duty this term, I still opti
mistically wait for someone else to volunteer.
‘Mummy, please – I lub-you lub-you lub-you, please?’ CJ is jumping up and down and everyone is now looking at me to release them from any sense of obligation. They all know from personal experience that exact moment when a child has you by the throat, your defences are down and the kill is inevitable.
‘Please, bestest mummy in the whole wide world, ple-e-ease?’
‘Okay, I’ll do it.’ I sigh heavily, but I’m in such a good mood that it’s hard not to share it around. ‘Only for an hour, then I have to go.’ CJ whoops with delight as I walk past the relieved parents and into the kinder, minus anything even resembling a large, helpful smile. Caron, a fellow kinder-mother who helps me out with transport quite frequently, leans forward and taps me on the shoulder.
‘Aren’t you working today?’
‘Um, no – took the day off.’
‘Nothing to do with that flattering picture of you in the paper, was it?’
‘God, don’t remind me.’
‘What on earth happened?’
‘Seriously – don’t remind me. If I talk about it, I’ll get depressed.’
‘Okay.’ She laughs. ‘But anyway, Caitlin wanted to know if CJ would like to come around after kinder today for a play?’
‘I’m sure she’d love to. Actually, it suits me because I would have been racing to get back here on time – okay, if you collect her, I’ll pick her up from your place around, say, four?’
‘No problem, now go enjoy yourself !’
Easy for her to say. With one last wistful look at the great outdoors, I wander through the double doors and into the kinder proper. By the time I get in, the children are already grouped around Sue, who is reading to them from a fascinating book about an unkempt mutt called Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy. Apparently this adventurous pooch goes for a walk, collecting an array of other strays along the way (all with equally odd names such as Bottomley Potts all covered in spots, or Hercules Morse as big as a horse). I sit down on a low table to listen and, just as the gang has been joined by the unfortunate Schnitzel Von Krumm with a very low tum, a small angelic-looking boy in front of me turns around, leans against my knee and looks up at my face earnestly.
