Head Over Heels

by Felicity Price

  ‘Tiny green algae are one of the simplest forms of life. They feed on the natural environment. Over time, the remains of algae, deep under the sea in the Earth’s crust, are changed into oil by immense pressure. So it is a naturally occurring process. It’s the source of the undersea oil reserves that are extracted offshore.’

  ‘But how does it work here on land?’

  He handed me the umbrella, knelt down and scooped up a handful of algae from on top of the water. Rather him than me, I thought, as he held out his hand towards me.

  ‘These wild algae feed on the natural nutrients in the treated sewage from the oxidation ponds and perform photosynthesis. Air bubbles float the algae to the surface and the paddlewheel system harvests it.’ He pointed to a huge vat off to the side, into which the evil-looking sludge was being piped.

  ‘But I don’t see how you can make oil out of that stuff.’

  ‘We take it over there,’ he said, indicating an ugly concrete building in the distance, ‘and put it through a giant pressure-cooker process where it’s eventually converted into crude oil and other useful by-products, like fertiliser.’

  ‘But it seems such a small amount. Does it make much oil?’

  ‘You’re right, it is a very small amount. But it’s just a trial at this stage. If it works here, it’ll work on a much bigger scale. And it’s much more viable than growing acres and acres of crops to convert to biofuel.’

  ‘It all sounds very environmentally savvy.’

  ‘Indeed it is, in lots and lots of ways,’ he said proudly. He pointed at a pipe spilling water into a neighbouring holding tank. ‘That water can be used industrially once it’s been through this process. Plus it significantly reduces methane, carbon dioxide and ammonia emissions from the sewage treatment plant. It’s better for the environment all round.’

  ‘Very admirable,’ I said.

  He walked me back to the ute, where I handed the umbrella back to him before climbing in.

  ‘So what is it you need me to help with? You seem to have it all sorted.’

  ‘We need funding,’ he said as he started the engine and put the truck into gear. ‘We have to publicise what we’re doing to the sort of people who can invest in it.’

  We talked all the way back to the main car park, where I once again had to breathe through my mouth to reduce the impact of the pooey pong.

  ‘Here, take these,’ he said, fishing a collection of research reports out of his bag and handing them over. ‘Have a read of those and let’s meet again once you’ve had time to look through everything and come up with a proposal.’

  I farewelled Ted and the odoriferous building, climbed back into Rosie and made for town through the mounting five o’clock traffic. At least heading into town when most people were heading out made for an easier ride. It had started to rain again and it was getting dark, making me think even less kindly of Stephanie jetting off to sunshine and long summer evenings.

  As a result, I drove most of the way grinding my teeth — a habit that seems to be directly related to sister envy.

  ‘Hey, it can’t be that bad!’ Nicky greeted me as I struggled out of the lift with all my papers and dumped the lot at reception. ‘You look like you’ve just seen an unflushed toilet.’

  ‘You would too if you’d just been where I’ve been. Not to mention the smell!’

  ‘Bottom end stuff, huh?’

  ‘That about sums it up! And the engineer was no Colin Firth either.’

  ‘Well, you can tell us all about him in a few minutes. Ginny’s shouting drinks to celebrate landing her new client.’

  ‘Who’s she been chatting up this time?’

  Sometimes I dreaded Ginny’s latest finds. Years of experience have taught me to approach her clients cautiously — like the diamond-studded crunk star she’d put in front of a crowded media conference only to find that in the five minutes he wasn’t in her direct line of vision he’d managed to fill himself with chemical substances and behaved like the crazy drunk he’d made himself famous for being. The media had loved it of course, and it had helped sell out his concert, but Ginny had conniptions for some time afterwards. She likes to be in total control, but crunk stars — in fact a lot of the celebrities she publicises — aren’t exactly submissive.

  ‘Santangela di Palmavera.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Well, I think that’s her name. Something like that anyway. She’s some big opera diva, here for La Bohème.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’d heard the opera company was staging the big Puccini opera in the spring but I hadn’t a clue who was starring in it. ‘Well, let’s hope she’s a pussycat and behaves herself.’

  ‘I’ve heard she can be a bit of a cat, actually,’ Nicky said, ‘so I wouldn’t count on her behaving.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Ginny intervened, coming out of the lift behind me, carrying two bottles of Moët in a chiller bag.Ginny is well known for overdoing it as far as champagne is concerned, yet you’d never think it to look at her. She’s the personification of the saying that too much of anything is bad but too much champagne is just right. Somehow she always manages to look together, no matter how much she’s imbibed: her lipstick never smears, her mascara never smudges, and she never falls off her vertiginous heels. ‘Santangela’s going to be just fine. Come on, let’s drink a toast to her.’

  ‘I can’t see that calming her savage breast,’ Nicky giggled, pointing at the champagne then following in Ginny’s wake to the lunchroom.

  Like me, Nicky looks like a short, rounded bun next to Ginny’s French stick. And, like me, Nicky has tried every diet under the sun, but somehow — and not for want of trying — the positive effects of the champagne diet, as evidenced by Ginny’s figure, have eluded us.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ I said to their departing backs. ‘I’ll just get rid of this lot.’

  I scooped the algae papers off the reception counter and deposited them on my desk, adding to the pile of stuff to be attended to — later. When real champagne is in the offing, who am I to turn it down? Work could wait. And so could Mum, I thought guiltily.

  Briefly, I flicked through my emails and resisted the urge to start answering them. Ditto the clutter of phone messages on my desk from Tracey. My Way started up on my phone then died: a text message. I checked it quickly. It was from my son Adam, saying he’d arrived home with his granddad and what was for dinner.

  Xlnt. Chops I texted back, relieved they were home.

  When Dad moved in, Adam had cut a deal with him. He would pick Dad up from St Joan’s every day after school and bring him home on the condition that he was allowed to drive Dad’s car. The arrangement seemed to be working well. Dad’s Ford Falcon was old but reliable — Dad had seen to that, lavishing attention on it at every opportunity. Since he’d retired from running his service station and attached workshop, the Falcon had become a sort of surrogate occupation. For his part, Adam got to drive a car that, even though it was far from new, was powerful enough to gain him some kudos among his peers. Adam’s driving was still a bit shaky, but with his grandfather riding shotgun, he was in good hands.

  For me, the deal was a win-win: Adam got home in good time from school and Dad had a deadline to tear himself away from St Joan’s after an afternoon coping with Mum. Without that deadline he’d probably try to stay there all night, such was his reluctance to leave her. He was as loyal to his wife as he’d always been, never once complaining that she often didn’t even recognise who he was or that she’d been difficult in any way.

  I shut my laptop and piled up the papers to one side of my glass-topped desk — a nod to the modernity that Ginny and Nicky favoured over comfort. I was the only one who’d resisted the office makeover the previous year, but I had to admit the black filing cabinets and furniture and green-tinged glass desks were much more professional looking than the dark woodgrain desk and pink office chairs I’d had before.

  ‘Congratulations, Ginny,’ I said as I entered the room, with its comfy bla
ck sofas and plump red cushions, and walked over to give her a hug. She was standing by the black glass coffee table pouring the Moët like a pro — which, of course, she is, having consumed more champagne than you could find in the cellars of the Baroness de Rothschild.

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ she said, handing me an elegant stemmed glass. Not for Ginny the plain stuff from the bargain basement down the road; arriving back at the office with the best crystal flutes she could find, she’d pulled them out of the packaging, held them up and announced, ‘Champagne has to be given the respect it is due.’

  ‘But do you still respect it the morning after?’ I’d asked with a smile.

  ‘Here’s to Madame di Palmavera,’ Ginny said now, raising her glass. ‘May she earn us lots of money.’

  ‘To Madame,’ we chorused.

  ‘Or should it be Signora?’

  ‘Madame, Signora, whatever — as long as she behaves herself,’ Nicky added.

  ‘Or doesn’t,’ Tracey said, raising her glass with a wry smile.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if she misbehaves, you can earn even more money sweeping up after her!’

  ‘Hush your mouth, Tracey, that’s a terrible thing to say,’ Ginny said. ‘I’ll be held personally responsible if she gets into trouble.’

  ‘Then you’d have to call me in to get her out of trouble,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Tracey, nodding with conviction. ‘So then we get to earn twice as much. As the one who does the accounts around here, I can tell you it makes quite a difference.’

  Trim and neat in both appearance and manner, Tracey keeps us all in line at Project PR, even though she’s younger than the rest of us by at least ten years. If we forget to keep receipts or account for the petty cash, we know we will eventually bear the brunt of Tracey’s wrath — which is why we rarely forget to keep track of anything.

  ‘Stop right there!’ Ginny said dramatically, downing the rest of her glass in one gulp and immediately pouring another. ‘It’s got to be bad luck to talk like that. I don’t care how much more we can earn as fixer-uppers, I want the old diva to have a smooth run under my watch. I don’t want people saying I can’t keep my celebrity clients under control. A girl’s got a reputation to maintain, you know.’

  We all chuckled at that.

  ‘Your reputation isn’t going to be dented by some crusty old opera singer,’ I laughed. ‘Everybody knows you’re solid as a rock when it comes to getting celebrities lots of good publicity.’

  ‘Well, anyway, let’s not tempt fate,’ Ginny replied.

  Tracey downed her glass and said she had to go to rescue her neighbour, who’d agreed to mind her three boys after school so she could stay late, then Nicky excused herself to shoot off home to relieve the nanny taking care of her seven-year-old son, Dylan.

  ‘Lord, Penny, I hope you’re not going to desert me too!’ Ginny cried. ‘I can’t celebrate on my own.’

  ‘I am going to have to disappear, I’m afraid. I’ve got to see Mum on the way home tonight. And besides,’ I indicated my now empty glass, ‘I’ve got to drive. One’s quite enough when you’ve got to get Rosie home through rush hour.’

  ‘That dreadful old car, I don’t know how you cope with it,’ Ginny said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. ‘It seems to spend almost as much time in the garage as it does on the road.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I said, springing to Rosie’s defence. ‘She’s not been into the repairer’s for months.’

  ‘Come on, it wasn’t that long ago you had to fork out megabucks to get her back on the road, and that was after she’d broken down in the middle of the motorway in the pouring rain. You should get a cab, like me. Then you don’t have to worry about how much you drink.’

  Ginny wisely leaves her grubby four-wheel-drive at home on weekdays, so she can party with equanimity and not have to worry about being over the limit. She saves the truck for weekends when she tows her big horse float to three-day events, where she and her big bay mare plough through watercourses then leap the equivalent of tall buildings.

  ‘This is terrible. I’ll have to save the other bottle for another day.’

  ‘Yes, save it to celebrate when you wave goodbye to Signora di Palmavera,’ Nicky chimed in on her way to the lift. ‘You’ve got four weeks of rehearsals and two weeks of performances to survive yet.’

  ‘That’s a very long time for her to be on her best behaviour,’ Tracey added.

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ Ginny said warily.

  Chapter 3

  I got to St Joan’s just after six, having threaded my way through bumper-to-bumper traffic while watching Rosie’s petrol gauge edge its way down towards empty. But there was no time to stop; it would have to wait until the morning.

  Mum was in her usual place in the big lounge, with its discreet, elegant House & Garden décor in magnolia, with touches of burgundy and sage green. It was everything she would have wished for in earlier, less muddled days: soft green plush-pile carpet, deep-winged armchairs covered in rich burgundy brocade with gold script detailing. No expense had been spared. Everything was comparatively new, tasteful, ordered. To one side, a gas-flame fire flickered on a wide marble hearth, and to the front, an enormous flat-screen television blared out a rock music video. Each frame was full of youth, vitality, energy and movement. It couldn’t have been more out of place, less appropriate to the setting.

  Carefully placed in a neat semi-circle in front of the television were eight elderly men and women, covered in rugs and propped up with pillows. All were in their seventies and eighties, frail, thin and wasted. All were asleep, heads lolling to one side. All but one had their mouths wide open, dribbling, their ears deaf to the youthful cacophony a few feet in front of them.

  At the end of the line, the only one showing any sign of movement was my Mum. She seemed to be saying something, but not one of her companions was taking a blind bit of notice.

  I crossed the room to listen. It took me a while to work out her plaintive refrain, repeated again and again, hoping someone would listen, someone would take notice.

  ‘Get me out of here,’ she was whispering, eyes still shut, addressing no one and everyone. ‘Get me out of here.’

  Out of where? Out of the chair and back to bed? Out of the room? Out of the hospital? Or out of this awful life?

  Not so long ago, Mum had been the rock of our family, as solid physically as she was in the conviction of her homilies: do unto others, never put all your eggs, waste not want not, once bitten, there’s a silver cloud, look after the pennies, all is not gold, a bird in the hand — the whole gamut of trite sayings that helped her get through the day with three noisy, warring kids and a husband who spent most of his daylight hours greased up under the engine of a car. The only homily she needed for him at the end of the day came in a Persil box.

  She ruled Dad and us three kids with a firm but kind hand, never working from the day she was married, but running her home like an advertisement for country cooking, in which you can almost taste the home-baked scones covered with home-made raspberry jam. Not for her the supermarket bakery or plastic-packaged cakes, the beauty salon or the gym. She said she got all the exercise she needed wielding the vacuum cleaner, or the sponge around the dirty bath, or hanging out the washing — and suggested we try it sometimes if ever we dared tell her to take up aerobics.

  But now her strong arms were withered muscle, her upright back stooped, her sturdy legs dangling weak and shuffly under a knee rug, her thick, curly hair thin, grey and unkempt. The powerhouse that was my proud mother was now savagely diminished by Alzheimer’s, surely the cruellest and saddest disease someone you love can be cursed with.

  It had taken us a long time to work out what was wrong with her. Sure, we’d all heard of Alzheimer’s, but for a long time we’d had no idea Mum had it. It was one of those things that happened to other people’s parents, not ours.

  Slowly, insidiously, it crept up on her. Eventually it dawned on us
what was happening. Sure she was forgetful, but not much more than me really, what with the menopause turning my memory banks to mush on a regular basis.

  She’d got a lot crankier than usual — complaining about meals being too salty or too hot, the tea too strong or too weak, the dog tripping her up all the time, the kids being too loud or too sullen. There was a lot of truth to her complaints; it wasjust that the kids’ behaviour hadn’t changed noticeably, nor the dog’s, for that matter — he’d always been badly behaved. And she’d never said anything like that before.

  Then she’d get restless, wanting to be off almost as soon as she’d arrived at our house, worrying about people talking behind her back, her friends not inviting her for tea any more, saying they were ganging up on her.

  As the only one of her children living in the same town — my brother Mikey was in Sydney with his wife and kids,and Stephanie, when she was at home, lived over a thousand kilometres away — it had fallen to me to make excuses forMum, cover up for her, try to protect her from the barbed comments and odd looks that were increasingly comingher way. And, similarly, it was my lot to come to the awful realisation that there was something really wrong — something more than just the endearing dottiness that people accept as being part of old age.

  The specialist had explained — without Mum in the room, thankfully, or we’d never have got to hear it — that her brain was gradually shrinking, the first sign of debilitating dementia, and that it would get worse, without any chance of recovery. He’d put her on Aropax at first, but by now she was beyond medicinal help; by now she was away with the fairies,in another world that only occasionally admitted Dad and Stephanie, but never me. I’d never been the favoured child. That pinnacle had always been Stephanie’s lot, and it was my sister, much to my chagrin, who still managed to find favour with our mother. It was Stephanie who managed to calm her with ease, to stroke her hand without having her touch rejected, even to be recognised, although that was increasingly rare. Despite my animosity towards her, I’d actually found myself feeling sad when Mum first failed to recognise her firstborn. Any joy I might have felt at having my big sister brought down to my persona non grata level was immediately overtaken by the realisation that Mum had descended one step further into the darkness of the disease that was slowly killing her.