Libby checked her watch. She’d have to get going to make her deliveries to the other suburbs in time.
‘Can you lock up, Sasha, and manage those two hampers?’
‘Trust me, dear cousin. Trust me. What is friendship without trust?’
Libby rolled her eyes. Friendship without trust. That was a summary of her friendship with Hayley Kemp, actually. She ruffled her cousin’s hair. ‘Thanks, Sash. See you Monday.’
Not long after Libby had driven off, Sasha turned off the lights and locked the front door.
She had just climbed into her car and was about to start the engine when she remembered she’d left her street directory in the boot with her two hampers.
She jumped out and opened the hatch. A gust of wind swept in, nearly tearing the door off its hinges. Two pieces of paper started flapping around. Sasha caught them just in time. And just as well, she thought. The delivery addresses were written on them. She secured them back onto the hampers and shut the hatch again.
As she got back into the car and started the engine, she looked back at the hampers. She had put the right addresses on the right hampers, hadn’t she?
After all, she wouldn’t want to make a mistake, would she? Like accidentally deliver Hayley Kemp’s hamper to the other address. And the other hamper to Hayley Kemp … Not when their contents were so drastically different.
That would never do, would it? she thought, a smile starting to form. She would hate to ruin Hayley Kemp’s night. Ms Hayley Old Cow Kemp. Who had been so mean to her lovely cousin Libby all those years ago. Who was so obviously still trying to pass off Libby’s ideas as her own.
Sasha stopped the car suddenly. She couldn’t think and drive at the same time.
She had promised Libby, hand on heart, that she wouldn’t touch the food in the hampers. But she hadn’t promised she wouldn’t make a simple mistake and deliver the hampers to the wrong addresses, now, had she?
She looked at her watch. Made her decision. Grinned and started the car.
She’d have to drive fast or she’d be late.
Good. She loved driving fast.
*
On the other side of Melbourne, Libby had just delivered the second of her hampers.
She was still smiling from the conversation. The fifty-year-old man was a true romantic. His house had looked lovely, the fire flickering in the grate, candles lit. It looked so cosy, especially with the wild weather howling outside.
Libby couldn’t wait to get home. She was always exhausted by Saturday night. The last thing she felt like was going out. She’d go home to her little flat, heat up a casserole, open a bottle of wine, light the fire and have a nice, long soak in the bath …
Her mobile phone rang. Uh oh, she thought. Sasha.
It wasn’t Sasha, though.
It was a male voice. But the line was so bad it kept breaking up. Oh hell, Libby thought, remembering that she hadn’t charged her mobile that morning. They’d been so busy she’d forgotten. She checked the battery. It was right down.
She pulled over. Maybe that would help. She could get this call at least. And then recharge the battery as soon as she got home. ‘I’m very sorry, could you say all that again?’
The voice crackled, breaking up now and again. ‘Is th— Big Ni— In? The caterers?’
‘Yes,’ Libby shouted. ‘Libby Smith speaking.’
‘Hello, Lib—, this is Ned Ra—. I’m lookin— aft—er my — bir—day par—y. Ord—ed the foo— you. —t of a prob— can you — ’
Libby felt like shaking the mobile. She’d only got a bit of that. But had she heard the word problem? She didn’t like that word. Not on her work mobile.
‘There’s a problem with your order, did you say? Ned, is it? What kind of problem?’
‘I—n’t qu— know what to —’
This was no good, Libby thought. ‘Where are you?’
He had to repeat his address three times before she got it.
‘I’m not far from you. I’ll be there soon,’ she shouted.
Fifteen minutes later Libby pulled up in front of a small terrace house. There was a bedraggled bunch of balloons tied to the gate, being buffeted by the gusty wind. She clambered out and ran up the path, ducking her head against the rain and knocked at the door.
An agitated orange-haired clown answered.
‘Ned?’ she said, trying not to laugh.
‘Libby? From the caterers?’
She nodded.
He smiled a big clowny smile. ‘Thank you so much for coming by. I’m sorry to sound so stupid, I’m actually just supposed to be helping my sister out. But she works in the emergency services and got called away to help with the storms. So I’ve been left in charge and, quite frankly, I’m baffled.’
It was a little bit hard to take a man in a frizzy orange wig seriously. She had to ask. ‘And your clothes? Are you normally dressed like this?’
He laughed then. ‘Believe me, this is the first time. And the last too. My sister asked me when I was jetlagged last week and I was in no sound mind to say no. It’s her daughter’s birthday party.’
Libby followed him inside as they spoke. ‘Jetlagged? Where had you flown from?’
‘Canada,’ he said. ‘I’ve been working over there for the past four years. Just came home last week.’
She nodded. She thought he had a touch of an accent. ‘Well, lead me to the kids. And the hamper. What exactly is the problem?’
He looked very embarrassed again. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m too thick. Debbie, my sister, said she’d ordered a whole lot of kids’ food from you. But I’m just not sure how to serve it.’
Libby remembered the order now. It was standard kids’ party food. No tricks to serving it. Poor man must still be jetlagged.
Libby walked into the living room. It was like walking into a fairy glen. Eight little girls, all dressed as fairies, were waving their wands and doing trit-trotty dances across the floor.
Music was blaring out of the CD player. Libby winced. It was some sort of modern jazz. All squealing trumpets and snare drums. Very modern kids in this house, by the sound of things.
Libby followed Ned into the kitchen. The hamper Sasha had delivered was on the counter, with a long row of little foil containers lined up beside it.
‘It won’t take me a moment to sort all this out,’ Libby said cheerily. ‘Those kids must be getting very hungry.’
‘They’re like wild animals,’ Ned admitted. ‘Hyenas. Ready to tear me limb from limb with hunger. It’s more like Dances with Wolves in there than Swan Lake.’
She grinned at him. He was really very sweet. She wondered what he looked like without all that face make-up. And that orange wig. And dressed in something other than a baggy orange all-in-one suit.
‘Well, don’t worry, I’ll have them fed in just a moment.’ Libby opened the first container and her stomach gave a flip. She opened the second. Then the third. And the fourth. Faster and faster, until they were all open.
She looked down at them. Then looked up at Ned.
He smiled again, the effect spoilt a little by the mad make-up. ‘I’m happy to help serve it to them. I’m just not sure where to start.’
Libby swallowed. She could tell him where to start. It was quite easy. You started with the sushi and sashimi. Followed by the emu pâté. Then the wattleseed pasta. Then the other six dishes which perfectly demonstrated innovative Australian cuisine.
It was obvious what had happened. Sasha had dropped off the wrong hamper. Which meant that she had dropped off the wrong hamper to the other address too.
Which meant that around about now, just a few kilometres away, Hayley Kemp was probably opening her hamper. Opening her little foil containers. And preparing to serve the influential 4C magazine journalist a fine dinner of Vegemite sandwiches. Mashed potato and sausages. Aeroplane jelly and lolly snakes.
Washed down with hot, milky Milo.
With the Best of the Wiggles CD playing in the background.
Libby looked at her watch. There was still time. She could pack this up again. Drive across town. Switch the hampers. Make sure Hayley Kemp’s evening wasn’t ruined after all. Or …
She could turn down the volume on her mobile.
Switch it off, even. Because she’d bet a million dollars it was just about to ring.
She could reassure Ned that everything was just fine. That this was standard Australian children’s party fare these days. Tell him a lot had changed while he’d been in Canada.
She looked at him. He looked back at her. She noticed what lovely eyes he had. The blue clown make-up seemed to accentuate the colour.
There was a sudden chant from the living room. ‘We want food! We want food! We want food!’
Ned looked really worried. Scared, almost. He touched her arm briefly. ‘Libby, if you stay, I owe you. For ever. Lunch, dinner, whatever you like.’
That clinched it.
‘Of course I’ll stay. And don’t worry, this food looks much scarier than it is. It won’t take me a minute to show the girls how to use chopsticks. Or eat the pâté. If we need to, we’ll tell them it’s magical fairy food from a land far, far away …’
He smiled in relief. ‘Thanks, Libby.’
She smiled back. ‘It’s my pleasure, really.’ She reached into her handbag and turned off her mobile phone. ‘Now then, where would we find the plates?’
One hour later, the little girls were having sword fights with the chopsticks Libby had found in the bottom of a kitchen cupboard.
But Libby and Ned hardly noticed them. They were too busy talking, eating and laughing.
Four months later, Libby and Ned were curled up on her sofa, reading the Sunday newspapers and finishing their Thai takeaway.
The afternoon sunshine spilled into their flat. A light breeze ruffled the curtains at the open window behind them.
‘More wine, sweetheart?’ Ned said.
Libby looked up. ‘Oh, great, thanks, Ned.’ She held up her glass and smiled at him as he poured the wine. She loved their Sunday lunches. Long, leisurely afternoons that usually stretched into long, leisurely nights together.
He grinned at her. His smile still made her heart skip. And his eyes had turned out to be even nicer without the clown make-up. Who’d have thought such a treasure was lurking under that bright-orange wig and costume that night?
Ned refilled his own glass, then went back to the newspaper. The room was quiet for a moment.
Then he laughed out loud. ‘People really are unbelievable. Listen to this, Lib: “A respected trend-forecasting magazine has predicted a return to childhood food as the next big thing in cuisine, with an Australian food expert playing a major role in the resurgence.” ’
Libby looked up. Childhood food? Australian food expert?
Ned read on.
‘ “In the new issue of 4C magazine, Sydney-based food queen Hayley Kemp explains the new theory. ‘As the world gets faster and more impersonal I believe we will all be looking for safety and a return to the innocence of childhood. It isn’t so much a fashion statement as a return to traditional values, in food as well as behaviour.’ ” ’
Libby shut her eyes.
Ned looked at her and smiled. ‘Come on now, Lib. Pay attention, your customers will be queuing up for this soon.’ He started reading aloud again. ‘ “If Hayley and her fellow futurists have their way, dinner parties of the future will feature simple fare like Vegemite sandwiches, sausages and mashed potato, hot milky Milo to drink and for dessert …” ’
Libby interrupted. ‘Don’t tell me, Ned. Jelly and lolly snakes?’
He looked up in surprise. Libby was now lying stretched out on the sofa, the cushion over her face. She seemed to be groaning. Or laughing. He couldn’t tell which. ‘Yes, jelly and lolly snakes for dessert … Sorry, Libby, have you read this already?’
She looked up at him, shook her head and smiled. ‘No. No, I haven’t.’
‘Then I’m even more impressed with you. You really do have your finger on the catering pulse, don’t you?’
She stood up suddenly, came over to him and planted a big kiss right on his lips.
‘Yes, I do, don’t I?’
Then she took the newspaper out of his hand and threw it out the window.
Sweet Charity
Lola Quinlan leaned over the counter and took the bundle of second-hand clothes from the grey-haired woman. ‘Margaret, you are not just one of my dearest friends but one of my best suppliers. Thank you so much.’
‘They’re seriously back-of-the-wardrobe outfits, Lola. Nothing too flash at all, I’m afraid.’
‘Someone will love them, I’m sure. I’m delighted you came in. I’ve put aside a new outfit just for you.’
‘Oh, Lola, no. I can’t buy anything else. I’ve just done a big clear-out at home.’
‘But you can’t leave a charity shop empty-handed. Or charities shop, as I should call it. Do you know, last year alone we helped fund a new playground, bought the equivalent of two tyres for a runabout bus for the old ones in the nursing home and sent two poor families away on breaks. All from a small shop filled with second-hand clothes and bric-a-brac. Imagine. So it’s not so much about buying a new outfit, Margaret, as being a part of the community.’
Margaret shook her head, laughing. ‘You just won’t take no for an answer, will you?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ Lola said, smiling. ‘Now, let me fetch this suit for you. You always look so stylish in darker colours and I think this one will be right up your street.’
Margaret waited while Lola went through the floral curtain into the stockroom. Her friend really did have a good eye for other people’s style. It was just her own clothing that would nearly take the eye out of you. Tartan with paisley prints. Culottes with vests. Sometimes as many as six strands of beads. Last year she’d taken to wearing flowers pinned to her outfits, often with a matching one in her hair. It was her Rio look, she’d told Margaret.
Lola emerged carrying a beautifully made tailored jacket with a matching mid-length skirt. ‘What do you think, Margaret? I thought of you as soon as I saw it.’
‘That’s because it’s my suit. I donated it to you last week. Don’t you remember?’
‘Oh, so you did. Well, I think you acted too soon. You’ll get a few more wears out of it yet. I’ll pop it in a bag for you, will I?’
Two schoolgirls came into the shop just as Margaret left. She’d not only taken the suit back home but also paid ten dollars for it.
‘Hello, girls. Can I help you?’ Lola’s Irish accent rang clear across the room.
‘No, we’re right, thanks.’
‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’
The taller one spoke. ‘Um, actually, we’re having a fancy dress theme for the end-of-school-year disco and we’re looking for something.’
‘Oh, that would be the bad taste party, would it?’
They looked relieved. ‘You know about it?’
Lola stepped out from behind the counter, turning slowly so they could see the paisley kaftan she was wearing. ‘I’ve had three offers for this dress already. Imagine. Wouldn’t you think they’d have more sympathy for an elderly lady like myself, getting dressed in the morning, eyesight fading …’ She stopped and looked at the shorter of the two girls. ‘Emily, hello there. I didn’t recognise you in your school uniform.’
The girl was now bright red. ‘Hello, Lola.’
‘Will we be seeing you again this weekend? I heard from my son that you did a marvellous job waitressing at the wedding last week.’ Lola and her family owned and ran a motel with function rooms just north of the town. ‘It’s certainly not the easiest of jobs for a first-timer either, but I know he was very pleased indeed with you.’
Emily nodded enthusiastically. ‘I really enjoyed it. Mr Quinlan asked me to come and work this Saturday night too. And maybe Sunday lunchtime if you get enough bookings.’
‘Isn’t that terrific! I’ll
pop over to the dining room and say hello. Now, don’t be shy. Have a good poke around. I’m unpacking new things all the time too, so if you don’t find anything here today, be sure to come back tomorrow.’
Fifteen minutes later, Lola was alone in the shop again. Two schoolboys had come in after Emily and her friend had left. The boys had rustled half-heartedly through the rack of CDs and old records before wandering out again, all without any eye contact with her. She was used to that. It didn’t bother her. Teenage boys were much more fun to watch than talk to, she had discovered. They gave away so much, for all their strut and confidence and swagger. Bags of nerves and hormones.
She had learned more about people by working in a charity shop than in all the years of running motels and guesthouses. She had never been snobbish about selling – or buying – second-hand goods. In fact, when she moved from Ireland to Australia as a twenty-year-old, nearly sixty years ago now, charity shops had been her lifeline. Shortly after arriving she had found herself on her own with a small son. She had dressed herself and her son, and in later years her three granddaughters, too, in second-hand clothing.
She liked to make up a story for each item in the shop. She imagined the goods talking to each other after she had closed up for the night. ‘I used to belong to a lady who breeds horses,’ a tweed jacket would say. ‘Did you? I came out from Italy when my owner emigrated ten years ago,’ a CD of opera songs would answer. ‘I’m from overseas too,’ a French scarf would pipe up from the scarf rack.
Lola had just finished polishing the wooden counter-top when the door opened. A rush of hot air came in with the new arrival. Late November in South Australia was like living in an oven, Lola thought. The heat still astounded her.
She smiled a welcome at the woman, assessing her quickly. Fifty-ish. A faded, soft prettiness but some sadness in the face. A weariness. Lola didn’t know her. She was either a new arrival to the area or a visitor. People often dropped their clothes in to charity shops far from their own homes. ‘Good afternoon. Can I help you?’
‘Good afternoon.’ The woman hesitated, then moved closer. ‘I was wanting to donate some clothes if I could.’
‘How kind of you. We’re always grateful to receive whatever people can give.’ She waited. The woman was carrying a suit bag but seemed reluctant to pass it over. ‘Would you like me to take that?’
All Together Now Page 3
