Dinner at Rose's

by Danielle Hawkins

  I THOUGHT I’D better leave Rose in peace on Tuesday evening, but on Wednesday I drove up the valley through the gathering dusk. It was a spectacularly lovely evening with just the hint of a breeze stirring the golden leaves of the poplars along the roadside and the sun setting behind the ranges in a soft glow of apricot and green.

  Matt’s ute was already there, and Hazel’s zippy little white car. The dogs were evidently worn out from greeting this surfeit of visitors and got up rather reluctantly to wander over and sniff me. The ancient huntaway did manage to lift his leg and squeeze out a drop or two against my back tyre but you could tell his heart wasn’t really in it. Percy was busy under the walnut tree behind the shed and I could only see his well-padded ginger bottom.

  I let myself in at the kitchen door just in time to see Rose throw up copiously into the sink. She stood there a moment, gripping the edge of the bench with her head bowed, before looking up and saying, only a very little less emphatically than normal, ‘Why are there always carrots in one’s vomit even if one hasn’t eaten one of the beastly things for days?’

  ‘My friend Stu has a theory about that,’ I said. ‘He reckons the gall bladder is actually a carrot-storage organ, and whenever you throw up some are released.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Rose, nodding as she turned on the tap to rinse out the sink. ‘That explains it.’

  ‘Oh, Rosie,’ wailed Hazel from the living room. ‘I can’t bear to see you suffering like this.’

  ‘Then don’t look,’ Aunty Rose muttered, running herself a glass of water and taking a large gulp. ‘That’s better. Come through, sweet pea, the whole is here, bless their cotton socks.’

  In the living room Kim was curled in an armchair, Hazel was pacing the floor in a distressed sort of way and Matt was leaning against a heavy oak sideboard crammed with dusty willow-pattern dishes. ‘Hey, Jose,’ he said lightly. ‘Have you come to watch Rose throw up? It’s great entertainment.’

  ‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘I had a free evening, so I thought it might be a fun way to spend it.’

  Hazel looked at us more in sorrow than in anger. ‘Your aunt has cancer,’ she said. ‘It’s not funny. R-remember your father, Matthew . . .’ And pulling a wisp of lace from the sleeve of her cardigan she pressed it to her eyes in a touching display of grief. I looked at Matt’s face and wanted to hit her.

  ‘We might as well laugh. Much better than all sitting around sobbing. Pull yourself together, Hazel,’ said Rose briskly. She sank onto a sofa and leant her head back wearily. ‘Kimlet, don’t look so worried. It’s just the chemo; it’s only temporary. It will be making those cancer cells a lot sicker than it’s making me.’

  Kim nodded, and smiled at her tremulously.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I saw this in town, Rose, and thought of you.’ I passed her a small brown paper bag and sat down on the sofa beside her.

  Aunty Rose opened the bag and pulled out a bright purple Indian cotton scarf shot with silver threads. ‘Josephine, it’s fabulous.’ She smiled.

  ‘It won’t be very warm,’ I said, ‘but I thought it looked nice and glamorous.’

  ‘Darling, you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘It only cost seven dollars,’ I told her.

  ‘Stingy cow,’ she said.

  ‘Absolutely.’ I squeezed her hand for a second.

  ‘Matthew, there’s a bottle of ginger ale in the fridge. Be an angel and get me a glass?’ said Rose. As he went she added, ‘I may as well make the most of all this sympathy, don’t you think?’

  ‘Should I make you a poached egg, Aunty Rose?’ Kim asked eagerly.

  ‘Sweetheart, I don’t think it would stay down just at the moment. But thank you.’

  ‘How much chemo are you going to have?’ I asked.

  ‘One lot down, five to go.’ She sighed. ‘Yippee.’

  ‘Rosie,’ said Hazel, dabbing at her eyes again, ‘I’ll stay the night.’

  ‘Most unnecessary,’ said Rose.

  ‘I insist,’ said Hazel.

  ‘Well, if you like. But we’re not watching Dancing with the Stars. I couldn’t face it in my fragile state.’

  Chapter 9

  Any tips for getting scorch marks off ceilings greatly appreciated! In future must remember to have fondue night separate from tequila night – it’s a dangerous combination. But so much fun!

  TIGHT-LIPPED, I LOGGED out of Facebook. I shouldn’t keep doing this – I should just remove the slapper from my Friends list – but it was like picking off a scab. You know you’re making it worse and that it would heal much better if you left it alone, but the compulsion to do it is almost irresistible.

  I looked at my watch and found that it was three twenty-seven. I had a three-thirty appointment but Carol Abbott was chronically late. I had intended to grab a cup of tea before she arrived, but instead I opened my email and started a message to Stu.

  Hey, dude, have you been round to the house lately? According to my BFF Chrissie’s Facebook updates there’s a party there every evening – it all sounds much more exciting than it was in my day. I was a bit concerned to read her comments about scorch marks on the ceiling, though. If they trash the place during their high-spirited capers it won’t impress potential buyers.

  Life here in sunny Waimanu is ticking along quite happily, though contrary to your predictions the place isn’t bristling with virile and rugged farming types like those seen in McLeod’s Daughters. Or if it is, none of them need physio. I can’t complain, though – just yesterday a man in his late forties with halitosis and pores like the craters on the moon brought me an African violet and asked me to go to the rugby with him on Saturday. It’s nice to know I have another option apart from tie-dying my clothes, throwing away my bras and living in a shack with seventeen cats. The only thing standing between me and perfect happiness is that Aunty Rose has just been diagnosed with cancer. She is quite determined not to let a silly little thing like that slow her down, but the chemo’s knocking her round quite a bit.

  Anyway, must go and strap an ankle. Are you still coming to Wellington for that orthopaedic conference? It would be very cool to see you.

  Love, Jo

  After pressing ‘send’ I got up and went to chat with Amber. She was currently having boyfriend troubles (or rather, the boy that she liked but had never had the courage to even speak to in passing had started going out with Freda at the petrol station) and she needed sympathy and chocolate biscuits to get through the day without bursting into tears. Amber was pretty damp and snivelly at the best of times; in tears she all but flooded the front of the shop.

  ‘OH GOD, TWO down, four to go,’ said Aunty Rose weakly on Tuesday evening.

  She was in her crimson satin dressing-gown, reclining on the chaise longue that sat under the kitchen window. This was the most magnificent piece of furniture I’d ever seen. Built of heavy dark oak and weighing about a tonne, it had great clawed feet and a leering griffon that surveyed you from above the seat’s balding velvet back. When I was little I firmly believed that griffon was alive, and to be honest I still wouldn’t be all that surprised to catch him stretching his wings and yawning.

  ‘I know you feel like total poo,’ I said, ‘but you look very elegant lying there.’

  ‘Total poo,’ Aunty Rose repeated. ‘Really, Josephine, with all the glorious adjectives of the English language to choose from, you decide on “total poo”?’

  ‘Can I take you to chemo next week?’ I asked. Matt had taken her to both appointments so far because his mother felt that visiting the oncology department at the hospital would rake up far too many painful memories. Hazel wasn’t worried, apparently, about the painful memories her only son might be reliving when he took Rose to chemo (despite the woman – and here I quote dear Hazel herself – living solely for the happiness of her precious children).

  ‘It’s not very exciting, sweet pea. And don’t you have a job?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter at all,’ I said, dismissing the job with a flick of the wrist. ‘We
can shut for a day – it’ll give Amber a chance to catch up on her computer work.’ Actually, if I wasn’t there for a day it would give Amber the chance to photocopy thousands of fliers for her father’s Lions Club barbecue, treat herself to a pedicure and play Spider Solitaire on the computer, but never mind.

  Outside, the dogs, who had been lying in a heap on the back step, began to bark hysterically. Looking out the window I saw them dash across the lawn to meet Matt’s ute. Percy, hampered by his increasing girth, laboured along in the rear.

  ‘Matthew?’ Rose guessed.

  ‘And Kim,’ I said, passing her a glass of ginger ale. Kim was wearing her school uniform, which at five-forty was odd given she claimed the Waimanu High School Year Thirteen uniform had been carefully designed by an evil genius to be the most unflattering outfit on the planet.

  Matt paused to scratch Percy between the ears while Kim came straight up the path.

  ‘How are you, Aunty Rose?’ she called as she came through the door.

  ‘Seedy,’ said Rose. ‘But I shall live. How are you faring in your travels along the road of knowledge?’

  ‘Poorly, actually,’ said Kim, opening the fridge door and beginning to forage. ‘Hi, Josie. Been asked out by any dirty old men this week?’

  ‘Just the usual,’ I told her. ‘Very disappointing, really. Why the school uniform?’

  Emerging from the fridge with a cold sausage in one hand, Kim said, not without pride, ‘Detention. Mum’ll go spare.’

  ‘Foolish child,’ said Rose. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Apparently, I was rude to old Williamson, the paedophile.’

  ‘Kim,’ said her aunt sternly, ‘you cannot say things like that about people – it’s both slanderous and extremely cruel. Unless it’s true, in which case you need to go and talk to the police.’

  ‘Well,’ Kim muttered, hanging her head, ‘he looks like a paedophile. Anyway, he’s a dick.’

  ‘He’s not, you know,’ I said. ‘If you can get past the hairy ears – and I admit they’re not pretty – he’s kind of cool.’

  Kim didn’t bother to reply, but merely shrivelled me with one scathing look. Oh well, I never was going to pull off the tag of trendy-Jo-with-the-wicked-city-clothes for long.

  Kicking off his work boots at the door and coming across the kitchen to kiss Rose’s cheek, Matt remarked, ‘Being nasty to teachers isn’t as cool as you seem to think it is.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Kim crossly. ‘What would you know about being cool?’

  ‘Actually, although you wouldn’t think it to look at him now, Matt was quite cool once,’ I said, risking further damage to my image.

  ‘I’m still cool,’ he protested.

  I shook my head. ‘Cool people don’t tuck their jeans into their socks, my friend.’

  He looked down. ‘It stops my jeans getting all wet and muddy round the bottoms.’

  ‘Cool people don’t care about muddy hems.’

  ‘He probably tucks his singlets into his undies, too,’ said Kim witheringly.

  ‘I don’t wear singlets,’ Matt said mildly.

  ‘Or undies,’ I put in.

  ‘Jo, you’re an idiot.’

  ‘I know,’ I admitted.

  ‘Especially if you ever thought Matt was cool,’ said Kim, still trying hard to pick a fight. She was in a truly foul mood.

  ‘Define “cool”,’ Aunty Rose ordered. ‘I’m out of touch with the younger generation. Does it have anything to do with having the crotch of your trousers hanging somewhere around your knees and not bothering to lift your feet when you walk?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘That’s not cool at all – that’s just silly little boys trying way too hard. Real proper coolness is when you don’t waste your time trying to impress people because you know you’re awesome, so you don’t care what anyone else thinks.’

  ‘Then I was never cool,’ said Matt, opening the pantry and extracting the peanut jar that had lived on the second shelf for as long as I could remember. ‘I spent most of my teenage years trying to impress you.’

  ‘Did you?’ I asked, touched.

  ‘Well, I didn’t know any other girls. I had to practise on somebody.’ He tipped about half the contents of the peanut jar into his hand and threw the entire handful into his mouth. I looked at him enviously; if I ate peanuts like that I’d be the size of a house. Damn boys and their testosterone-driven metabolisms.

  Kim stopped looking cross and started looking like a girl hatching a Plan. Probably a foolproof, Matt-and-Jo-have-actually-been-in-love-with-each-other-their-whole-lives-if-they-can-only-be-brought-to-realise-it Plan, guaranteed to cause maximum embarrassment all round.

  ‘Hey, Kim,’ I said hastily, in an effort to distract her, ‘it wouldn’t hurt to apologise to Mr Williamson. You know, on the grounds that teachers have feelings too.’ This reminded her nicely of her grievances and she ignored me pointedly for the next half-hour.

  Chapter 10

  ‘I GOT OUT Burn After Reading,’ Sara announced, coming down the hall and leaning against the bathroom doorframe.

  ‘You’ll have to let me know what you think of it,’ I said, carefully applying a second coat of mascara. Graeme and I had watched it last year and decided that it should have been called Burn Before Watching. I think the only movie I’ve ever enjoyed less was Scent of a Woman, which meandered on for three slow and painful hours and made me want to chew off my own leg.

  ‘Don’t you want to watch it?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, sounding disappointed. ‘So’s Andy.’

  I finished my mascara and frowned critically at my reflection. I’m a bit scared of makeup, which is a ridiculous thing for a grown woman to admit. I always worry that I will look as though I’ve tried too hard, and as a result I apply the stuff so sparingly I may as well not bother. But I thought of Chrissie with her enormous smoky eyes and dark spiky lashes, put my shoulders resolutely back and turned away from the mirror without rubbing my eyeliner off again with a flannel. ‘Scott Wilson’s having a barbecue. You could come along if you like – I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’ Instantly I wished I had bitten my tongue.

  But Sara shook her head. ‘The DVD’s only for one night, and I’ve been wanting to watch it for ages,’ she said.

  This was a relief; Sara masks intense shyness behind a loud and crass manner in public, talking over people she doesn’t know in a voice so penetrating that nobody else can make themselves heard at all. I pitied her, although had she known it she would have been deeply offended – it’s got to be the most miserable feeling in the world to realise you’re not a social success but not understand why.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Well, I’d better go.’ Not that I was late, but if I spent another ten minutes drifting around the flat she might change her mind and come with me after all.

  Carrying four bottles of designer cider, a packet of beef and tomato sausages and a bag of Twisties I walked across town. Down the hill from the flat, past Mrs McClintock who was, for some inexplicable reason, hanging out her washing at half past six on an overcast May evening, around the back of the soccer fields and across the railway lines. One of the low fogs that plague Waimanu’s residents during winter was already gathering and the town looked dilapidated and dreary. But to be fair I think that if you frequented the railway lines of Prague or Nice on a foggy autumn evening you would decide they were pretty dreary places, too.

  Scott lived in a tiny little box of a house on one of Waimanu’s dodgier streets (and in Waimanu we do dodgy quite well). His section was fenced in three-metre-high corrugated iron and his lawn was home to about five dead cars. I was pretty sure he lived like that mostly to annoy his parents, a prim couple who wore matching beige shoes and were leading lights of the local bridge club.

  His tiny living room was overrun by small children – Clare’s biggest boy Michael had wrapped himself in a Harley-Davidson flag and was running around like a small caped crus
ader, while Lucy was sucking hopefully on the top of an empty beer bottle. I smiled widely; it was very nice to see Scotty with his unkempt goatee and leather vest balancing a baby on his knee as he opened a bottle of bourbon and cola.

  Brett and Clare were there, obviously, and Cheryl and her husband Ian/Alan. I didn’t know anyone else by name, although a couple of people looked vaguely familiar.

  ‘Aunty Jo!’ Charlie shouted, and threw himself at my knees in a frenzy of welcome that gave me a little warm glow inside until I realised it wasn’t me he was interested in but the junk food I was carrying.

  After half an hour or so Scott returned the baby to Cheryl and wandered out to the garage to light the barbecue. All of the men went with him to supervise (although even with a whole team of barbecue experts the sausages still turned out burnt on the outside and pink in the middle), while the women stayed in the lounge to chat and wipe noses and break up the fights that broke out between overexcited preschoolers.

  ‘It’s frightening, isn’t it?’ I said to Cheryl, putting my bottle of cider under my chair so I could have a turn cuddling her baby. ‘Look at us; you’d think we were grown-ups.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I suppose our parents felt the same – like they were only pretending to be adults but they were actually still sixteen.’

  ‘This is a particularly cute child you’ve got here,’ I told her, letting young Maxwell chew my index finger. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said seriously. ‘I quite like him. You should consider it yourself.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think you’re right. I just have to decide between Bob McIntosh and Dallas Taipa as potential fathers.’ Dallas was grossly overweight with trousers that sat somewhere mid-bum and personal hygiene issues, and he had a severely inflamed tendon sheath in his right foot.

  Cheryl spluttered a little on her glass of orange juice. ‘What a depressing thought,’ she said. ‘Surely you can find someone a bit more useful than that.’ She smoothed a strand of cobweb-fine hair off her small son’s brow. ‘Do you think you’ll stay round here, Jo? I’m only going to want to come back to work part time, and Sue at the hospital was telling me she’s keen to get you onto the staff up there.’