by Ilsa Evans
‘Well, have it next weekend instead.’
‘I can’t, it’s too late to change now.’
‘Well, that’s up to you. Anyway, I’ll pick her up at ten.’
I feel like I’m going to cry. Dammit, I want CJ to be there tomorrow.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m still here.’
‘So I’ll pick her up at ten, okay, and can you please make sure she’s got some sort of warm coat this time?’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘I said no.’
‘Doesn’t she have a bloody warm coat?’
‘Not the coat! I mean no, you can’t have her!’
‘What!?’
‘Look, Keith, I’m sorry that your plans have changed but mine haven’t and can’t be, so I’m afraid that I can’t help you out this time.’
‘I’m not asking you to help me out! You have her all the bloody time!’
‘And I might have been able to work something out,’ I hesitate, surprised at how calm and reasonable my voice sounds, ‘if you had only given me more notice.’
‘More notice be damned! If I don’t have her tomorrow, I won’t get her on the weekend for another two weeks!’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You bloody well should be!’
‘Whatever.’
‘You know, you’re a selfish bitch, and I’ll remember this!’
I deliberately wait a few seconds after he hangs up before I pick up Diane’s call again. I’m actually shaking and my stomach feels like it’s contracted to the size of a walnut. But I did it. I did it. I actually did it. I stood up to him and, although I may well pay for this next Thursday, at the moment it feels really good. I did it and even I know it’s about time. I am taking back control! And I bet that Keith is standing by his phone shaking with rage about now because if there’s one thing he can’t stomach, it’s him not being in control. I transfer back over to Diane but decide not to tell her about Keith’s call. I simply don’t feel like listening to someone else telling me what a domineering bastard he can be. I already know that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I was once in love with him and he is, and always will be, CJ’s father.
‘Hello? Hello?’
‘Oh sorry, Di. I’m back.’
‘Who was it?’
‘All taken care of, now what were we talking about?’
‘Your famous winter barbecue, and what fun it’s going to be!’
‘And it will be, I promise! But I’ll talk to you more tomorrow, I really need to go to bed now. I only had about four hours’ sleep last night.’
‘Oh, for the single life! But you could have told me you didn’t want to chat before you kept me waiting you know!’
‘Sorry, Di.’
‘Doesn’t matter, get some beauty sleep and I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Bye!’
‘Bye.’
I hang up the phone thoughtfully. She sounds heaps better than she did the other day and Diane is not very good at hiding her feelings, so things must be looking up over there. I’m glad. Really glad. But I didn’t feel much like talking after my little confrontation with Keith; in fact my stomach still feels more than a little odd. Between that and the way my eyelids keep drooping in a most disconcerting way, I think I will go to bed.
I interrupt Benjamin’s fierce concentration on the Saturday night movie to inform him that I am having an early night and for him to turn the TV down and go to bed as soon as the movie ends. As an afterthought I add a warning about what will happen to him if he so much as touches any of the food in the fridge. Having covered every eventuality there, I wander into CJ’s bedroom where she has been asleep for well over half an hour. I remove the scattered books from on top of her, move her tape recorder from where it is balanced precariously beside her pillow, displace at least half the stuffed toys which are threatening to displace her, and tuck her in more firmly. Then I kiss her gently on the cheek and breathe in deeply. Sometime in the past year or so she finally lost the last remnants of that intoxicating baby smell, but she still has a delicious CJ scent, especially freshly bathed like she is now. I resolve not to tell her about her father’s phone call. There is absolutely no point making her feel as if she has to make choices between the two of us. And that’s it. I categorically refuse to think about Keith anymore until next Thursday when I have no choice.
In the bathroom, I systematically go through my brief facial cleansing ritual which is designed to make me look ten years younger than my true age, and is about nine years and eleven months short of its target on a good day. Next, my teeth are treated to a vigorous brushing before I head to my bedroom and strip off, pulling on my flannelette pyjamas.
Now for the moment I’ve been looking forward to all day. I literally fall into bed, pull the doona over me and stretch myself out luxuriously, immediately connecting my fist firmly with the side of CJ’s face.
‘Owww!’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, honey!’
‘Mummy, that hurt!’
‘I didn’t mean to! What are you doing here anyway?’
‘You woke me up when you breathed all ober me. Owww, my face hurts!’
‘I’ll have a good look at it in the morning.’
‘But it hurts now! You hit me right where I got kicked at swimming!’
‘If you want to stay in my bed, you’ll have to shoosh and move over.’
I nudge CJ over to the spare side of the bed and stretch myself as best I can on my half without physically assaulting her. Then I tuck my pillow firmly under my head (it has to be firm, otherwise CJ is quite capable of stealing it while I sleep) and curl over on my side. I’m too tired to check whether she sustained any facial damage. I’m also too tired to insist that she returns to her own bed. In fact, I’m too tired to do anything much except sleep … and sleep … and sleep.
SUNDAY
Thou source of all my bliss,
and all my woe …
Oliver Goldsmith
(1728–1774)
SUNDAY
2.00 pm
‘Well, you’ve certainly been lucky with the weather.’
‘You sure have – it’s absolutely glorious!’
‘Ja, es ist ein herrlicher Tag!’
‘Just like spring!’
‘Look, Caitlin, my Grandma’s hair is zackly the same colour as the sky.’
She’s right, although the colour does look a lot better up above than it does on my mother’s coiffured head. But the weather is glorious, the sky a perfect Wedgewood blue, with only a few tufts of cottonwool clouds lazily drifting towards the horizon. The nicest day that we’ve had for quite a while. I am standing behind the barbecue, suitably dressed in jeans, shirt and barbecue apron depicting Bart Simpson (minus genitalia), while expertly turning sausages and flipping hamburgers, having singlehandedly fought off every male who has tried to take over the job. The fact is I like barbecuing, it gives me something to do with my hands apart from drinking, and also allows me to abrogate the need to mingle. But, best of all, barbecuing provides a ready-made protective barrier between my assorted relatives and me – and I can look, listen and labour out of the limelight.
Everybody has now arrived and is seated at the outside tables with a drink in hand. My mother was the first to appear, early as usual. She bustled into the house leaving her companions to unload the car. The only things she carried in were her Mylanta (just in case, dear), and a small shoebox with a pink bow on top which she held out to me and then, ignoring my outstretched hands, gave to CJ. It turned out to be yet another budgerigar, this time a young blue-green bird with a very nice temperament. This gift merely confirmed CJ’s belief in her grandmother’s magical powers, and the two of them spent the next fifteen minutes blocking the way into the kitchen while they ensured the cage was escape-proof before inserting the bird. By the time they had finished everybody else had arrived and was milling around the kitchen area, trying to pass me bottles and plates of food while they dutifully
admired the new addition and generally got in my way. Then Mum took them in hand.
Earlier the kids and I had set up the large cedar outdoor table, inherited from my second marriage, in the centre of the lawn just in front of the barbecue. The cedar table comfortably seats three on each side and one at either end. After my mother had effected introductions all round, she adroitly ushered everybody outside and seated them to her satisfaction. She, of course, is now sitting at the head of the table, with Harold to her immediate right. Next to poor Harold is Bloody Elizabeth (maybe my mother is trying to test his mettle?), and Phillip is next to her with David at the opposite end of the table from his mother-in-law. Next to him on the other side is Diane, then Terry and finally Maggie, who is therefore on my mother’s left. This means that I have an expert view of the backs of the three people I would have most preferred to see – Di, Terry and Maggie, but a bird’s-eye view of Harold, Phillip and Bloody Elizabeth.
On one side of the barbecue, CJ has set up the small pine table from her bedroom and she, her friend Caitlin and a variety of dolls are having a pretend tea party while they wait for the real food to be cooked. Caitlin is absolutely no trouble to have around – on the rare occasions that she actually opens her mouth, it is usually to agree with whatever CJ has just said. They have raided CJ’s dress-up box and are decked out in a variety of frills, fringes and feather boas which they have already managed to trail through the punch, leaving a few bits of hot-pink fluff to mingle with the floating strawberries. On the other side of the barbecue, I have covered three card tables with a cloth and have laid out the array of salads, bread and assorted condiments. Under the card tables are two large Eskies, one which David and Diane brought, and one that I supplied. Both are full to the brim with bottles of beer, champagne and soft-drink wedged amongst copious amounts of ice. I must admit that, apart from the hot-pink fluff in the punch, it all looks rather nice.
After they had finished helping me with the larger table, Sam and Ben set up our spare oval, plastic table as far from the adults as possible, so far in fact that three of the people sitting around it have their chairs in the garden bed. Over there are my four nephews: Nicholas, Christopher, Evan and Michael, with Ben, Sam and her friend Sara. Bronte, who I hadn’t really expected to turn up, took one rather thoughtful look at my mother and another at my two elder nephews and obviously decided that there was no contest. She headed straight for the plastic table without any prompting. They all seem to be enjoying themselves, even Benjamin, judging from the laughter coming from over there.
At the cedar table, conversation is more stilted, but at least it is flowing, and hopefully the flow will increase as the afternoon wears on and the alcohol soaks in. Terry and Diane are talking rather animatedly in front of me about nothing in particular while David is doing his brotherly duty and is chatting amicably to Phillip, who is holding hands with Bloody Elizabeth. Harold is looking distinctly uncomfortable, but I suppose he will have to get used to that, and my mother has Maggie trapped and is in for the kill.
‘But what does your company actually do, dear?’
‘Hmm, we offer a variety of services, Mrs Riley.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, it’s difficult to explain.’
‘Humour me, dear.’
‘Well, we tailor our services to the individual client so it’s rather hard to put your finger on specifics, although we can do that as well. For instance, sometimes we might act purely as a consultant, but more often we arrange for personal service involvement. It all comes down to the individual, you see, although our group discount is becoming more popular. But my particular position is more managerial. All I can say, Mrs Riley, is that I enjoy the work far more than I did when I was teaching. But you haven’t told me about yourself and it’s been such a long time since I last saw you. How are you?’
I start to laugh and Maggie turns to flash me a quick smile. My mother frowns as she tries to digest this verbal riposte and looks at me suspiciously.
‘Have you told Maggie your news, Mum?’
‘No, I thought we’d announce it after lunch.’
‘But everyone already knows!’
‘But, it hasn’t been announced,’ she replies firmly and turns back to Maggie, having decided to take her up on her request to hear the saga of her life over the past ten years or so. I tune out as I hear her start with the story of the move from country to town. I must say that, even if Maggie had said straight out what she does for a living, it would have been hard to believe her. She is dressed ultra-conservatively, with tailored black slacks, matching shirt and a loose black-and-white checked vest over the top. She looks a bit like a rotund chessboard. Not that I expected her to turn up dressed in a leather ensemble with fishnet stockings and brandishing a whip, but she looks the least likely person here to earn her living as a madam. CJ and her friend, for instance, look like they are definitely in training while Terry’s size and stature are just begging for a little leather à la Xena. As for Bloody Elizabeth, she is dressed in a pair of skin-tight red leggings, black boots and a baggy, loose-knit jumper that displays different parts of her lacy black bra every time she moves. If I wore an outfit like that, I would look like serious mutton. She just looks cute – slightly flashy maybe, but still cute.
‘I know you from somewhere. Is that right?’
Everybody goes quiet as Harold speaks. Not because he has a particularly unusual or melodious voice but simply because he hasn’t opened his mouth thus far. He is staring questioningly at Maggie. Terry chokes on her wine and Diane reaches over to slap her on the back.
‘Hmm, do you know, your face does look a little familiar.’
‘Food’s ready!’ I shriek loudly, and everybody jumps. ‘Come on, come on, grab it while it’s good and hot!’
The youthful crowd from the plastic table are the first to the barbecue and I dish out a staggering amount of meat before they pick sparingly at the salads and head quickly back off to the parent-free zone. Harold fills my mother’s plate, Phillip fills Elizabeth’s and Diane gets her own – there’s marriage for you. I pass some food down to the roaring twenties tea party and then wait till everyone is eating before filling my own plate and pushing a chair between Terry and Maggie.
‘Delicious chicken.’ Terry pulls her own chair over to make more room for me.
‘Thanks. Did you try the teriyaki as well?’
‘No, I’ll get some of that next.’
‘How was tennis yesterday?’
‘We won. But listen, I brought a present for you.’ Terry puts her cutlery on her plate and bends down to rummage through her handbag. She hands me an audiotape.
‘Okay. Um, thanks.’ Rather puzzled, I take the tape from her and turn it over. ‘It’s The Life of Brian. By Monty Python. Um, thanks again.’
‘Dork. Read the first song.’
‘“Always look on the bright side of life”.’ Suddenly my brow clears as I realise what she is getting at. ‘Very clever! And I’m going to anyway. I told you, I’ve made a resolution.’
‘Good! I’m very glad to hear it. Otherwise our Friday therapy nights would have got real boring real quickly. And I saw the paper on the fridge – well done.’ Terry picks her cutlery back up and continues eating.
I look at the tape for a few more minutes, feeling strangely touched. Then I realise that Maggie, having been released by my mother, has been watching this exchange with considerable interest. Which reminds me …
‘Where do you know him from?’ I lean over and whisper in her ear, inclining my head in the general direction of Harold.
‘Don’t quite know …’
‘Hell’s bells, I hope my mother doesn’t find out.’
‘I do have other interests besides work, you know.’ Maggie sounds a bit affronted.
‘Oh, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything … really.’
‘That’s okay.’
I mentally kick myself while I concentrate on eating for a few minutes. On the opposite
side of the table Harold has lapsed back into his habitual silence, looking up at Maggie every few minutes and frowning as he tries to place the face. Next to him, Samantha has abandoned the youthful set in favour of telling her grandmother all about her father’s impending arrival and potential new abode. She waves her hamburger vigorously in the air to punctuate the story while my mother sends various questioning frowns in my direction. No doubt I’ll be subject to a lecture later on regarding (a) when did I find out about this? (b) why didn’t I let her know about this? (c) what do I plan to do about this? Then I’ll have to listen to her advice on how best to deal with the situation. I think I can wait. To avoid her gimlet-eyed gaze, I look across to where Elizabeth is giggling while she feeds Phillip various morsels of food from her plate. I think I’m going to be sick. Terry nudges me.
‘Introduce me.’
‘To him?’
‘No, you dork … to Maggie.’
‘Oh, I thought you’d already met. Didn’t my mother introduce you?’
‘No, she was too busy giving her the third degree.’
‘Maggie, this is my friend Terry.’ I lean back so that they can shake hands. ‘Terry and I work together, or at least we used to. Terry’s looking for a new position – a more laid-back one, preferably. Perhaps you could give her some ideas.’
Terry grins hugely and Maggie gives one of her guffaws as I abandon my plate, pick up my chair and move it over towards Diane, leaving them to get to know each other. Behind me I can hear CJ telling Caitlin to be careful of her cheek; it is berry berry sore because her mother hit her there during the night – hard. I turn around to remonstrate with the little truth-stretcher and meet Caitlin’s horrified gaze. She cringes.
‘CJ, tell the truth otherwise Caitlin’s mummy won’t let her come over anymore.’ That should do the trick. I turn back to Diane, who is looking at her niece with concern.
