“But Sandra said help yourself. It’d be rude not to take her up on her kind offer.”
This is an argument I’m not likely to win. Men are quite happy to capitulate on any number of subjects if it means an easy life, but the state of their stomach is not one of them. It even seems to take precedence over their sexual appetite in terms of importance a lot of the time, which, when you think about it, must be some kind of miracle.
“Okay, we’ll have a look at what they’ve got, but we’re making sure we leave the place as clean as we found it, alright?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“You say that Newman, but your idea of cleaning up and mine are completely different. We’re going to do more than wipe a kitchen towel across the kitchen counter and half-fill the dishwasher.”
I shift in the bed and catch a whiff of myself. It isn’t pleasant.
“But before all of that,” I say with a wrinkled nose, “we’re having showers. I may have to wear yesterday’s clothes again until we get home, but I don’t intend to spend another minute wearing the rest of yesterday as well.”
The shower is glorious and invigorating. It’s one of those enormous walk-in ones that you usually only see in posh spas. Were it not for the fact that Jamie is preoccupied with Poppy, I might have dragged him in here for some vigorous soapy sex, thus ending the recent drought. Then I remember Sandra ordering Bob around in bed last night and my desire is instantly extinguished. I may have been only half-joking when I told Jamie we’d never be able to have sex again.
If there’s anything worse than having to put on dirty clothes after you’ve just had a cleansing shower, I don’t know what it is. Yet this is my fate on this hot, sunny Coolangatta morning.
I grimace as I pull on my shorts. I frown as I slip the T-shirt back over my head. All I can say is thank God we’re living somewhere hot so I don’t have to wear much.
By the time all three of us are cleaned up and dressed, the day’s heat is really starting to gear itself up. Having all these glass walls may look aesthetically very pleasing, but it does rather turn a house into something you’d usually grow tomatoes in.
We creep downstairs to the cooler environs of the kitchen and dining area. Why we’re creeping I have no idea. We have permission to be in the house, but it still feels weird to have the run of a place you’ve spent only one night in at the behest of its owners.
The blast of cold air from the enormous double fridge is wonderful, as are the contents. I’d be amazed if there were any pigs left in Queensland such is the amount of bacon Bob and Sandra have got stacked up on the shelves here. They also appear to have completely cleaned out the local farmers market, given the piles of fresh fruit and veg on offer.
I’ve never looked into the fridge of a rich person before. It’s enough to make you feel quite inadequate. I always like to think I keep ours pretty well stocked with a wide range of perishable foodstuffs, but when presented with a layout that resembles the entire refrigerated section of the average Walmart, I can’t help but feel I might be letting my family down a bit.
My husband doesn’t appear to be having any of my reservations about using Bob and Sandra’s belongings as he’s got the kettle on and has hunted down the tea bags before I even get over the shock of seeing a whole watermelon the size of a basketball in the crisper.
“I wonder if they have any porridge?” he says, banging and clattering his way around the fifty or so cupboards that ring the kitchen area. “Pops likes a bowl of porridge, don’t you Pops?”
“Yes Daddy!”
God bless childhood. It’s the only time in life you can get truly excited about oats.
“You want a bacon sandwich, Jamie?”
I can tell by the way my husband’s eyes light up that he’d like nothing more in the world right now. I decide to have the same. We couldn’t put a dent in the mountain of smoky back Bob and Sandra have collected at the rear of the fridge, so I feel a bit less guilty about eating their food.
I join my husband in the grand kitchen cupboard search and am pleased to discover the frying pan just before Jamie lays eyes on the porridge. It’s these small competitions that keep a marriage interesting, I find.
In no time at all, the kitchen is full of the smell of frying bacon, and I’m already worrying about leaving a stranger’s house stinking of dead pig. Poppy is happily munching her way through a bowl of hot, oaty goodness, and Jamie is merrily burning some toast, adding to the stench that will greet Bob and Sandra on their return later that day.
I knew this was a bad idea. We should have just left straight away. Now I’ll have to spend a good hour hunting through this ridiculously big house for the air freshener.
The bacon tastes wonderful, though. Jamie wasn’t the only one who woke up starving this morning, I realise as I tuck into my second half. Such is our combined hunger that we decide to go back for more.
Now chez Bob and Sandra smells like somebody’s firebombed a meat factory. I would feel even guiltier, but I’m too busy eating Miss Piggy to notice that much.
With two bacon sandwiches in me, I’m completely stuffed. I nurse my full belly with a second cup of tea while Jamie does his level best to fill the dishwasher. I know how bad he usually is at this, so I watch carefully as he puts the plates in the rack. He’s doing it with an unusual level of delicacy, it has to be said. I give him grief a lot of the time for being careless, but he’s treating Bob and Sandra’s belongings very well, to give him his credit.
The same can’t be said for Poppy. “Stop banging the spoon on the table and give it to Daddy, young lady.” I chide gently and take another sip of warm tea.
I then watch a game of wills between my husband and daughter for a few moments in a warm haze of bacon and tea. Pops has taken a real liking to that spoon and is refusing to hand it over to her father. I’m assuming this is her way of berating him for getting her locked out of the apartment all night and having to hear Sandra being molested by a noisy battery-powered device.
“Come on Poppy, give me the spoon,” Jamie says, holding out one hand.
“No!” Poppy shrieks, giggles, and skips just out of her father’s reach.
Jamie is trying his best to remain serious, but—as ever—our daughter’s innate charm and downright cheekiness is hard to resist. He can’t help but laugh as he pursues Poppy across the kitchen.
The war of the spoon comes to a climax over by the fridge, with the plucky young upstart being finally bested by her older, heavier opponent when he distracts her by turning a nearby oven glove into a puppet. This is a decidedly underhanded tactic. No small child can resist it when an everyday item is given a silly speaking voice.
“Oooh, why don’t you give me the spooooon, Poppy?” The oven glove says from Jamie’s right hand. “I eat spoooons and am very, very hungry…”
Pops giggles again and holds out the object of their combined attention. It seems that her desire to see Oven Glove Monster fed overrides her need to retain the spoon for future use.
Oven Glove Monster grabs the spoon and starts to make overblown chomping noises, causing further giggly emissions. I have to laugh, myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen such a happy, silly thing, and it warms me even more than the cup of tea, which I’m sadly getting to the bottom of. Time to leave, methinks.
“I’m going to write a thank-you note,” I say to both husband and daughter.
“Good idea,” Jamie agrees, slotting the spoon into the dishwasher and shutting the door. “You do that, and Pops and I will go make sure we’ve got everything from upstairs.”
To the sound of the gurgling machine I start to construct a short but heartfelt note using the pad and pen sitting on the counter next to the fridge:
To Bob and Sandra,
Thank you so much for letting us stay the night. We don’t know what we would have done without you.
Best wishes to you both, and we look forward to seeing you around the apartment complex.
We must take you out for a meal to show our appreciation properly.
Many thanks,
Laura, Jamie and
Oh dear. I have to stop writing as I’m overcome by a rather insistent stomach cramp.
The combination of bread, bacon, and hot brown tea appears to have woken up my bowels. They gurgle at me again in no uncertain terms, indicating that I should retire to the nearest convenience as soon as possible. I hadn’t factored in this development in my decision to eat breakfast on Bob and Sandra’s dime. The unlovely realisation that I’m going to have to take a poo in their house becomes apparent.
Oh dear, oh dear.
While I am not what you’d call a nervous pooer (despite what my idiot husband may claim to any Australian hippy who might be passing by), the prospect of having to go number two in Bob and Sandra’s house is not one I take any pleasure in. Still, needs must and all that.
I leave my note having not quite finished it yet and head in speedy fashion over to the downstairs bathroom that sits just off to one side as you come in the front door. Inside, things proceed rapidly and in time-honoured fashion. So healthy are my bowels this morning that I deliver a single, large package to its intended watery destination. I clean myself and stand, flushing the toilet as I do so.
Embarrassingly, the flush in this toilet isn’t all that effective and my contribution refuses to make itself scarce around the U-bend. I wait a few moments for the cistern to fill and press down on the flush again. This second attempt also ends in failure. As does the third.
Oh good grief.
“Er, are you alright, Laura?” I hear Jamie say from beyond the door.
“Yes! I’m fine!” I snap back.
“Okay, well I’ve got everything. Pops and I will go wait out by the car for you until you’re…you know, finished.”
“That’s fine! Everything’s fine! You go do that, then!”
This is awful. No, it’s more than awful. It transcends awful, dreadful, terrible, and appalling—and is headed right towards cataclysmic at the speed of fucking light. I flush again, hoping and praying the end result will be different. Nope. There it floats, bobbing up and down gently without a care in the world.
Now we’ve even sped right by cataclysmic, out past the event horizon of calamity and into some hideous alternate universe where the laws of physics break down completely. What the hell am I going to do? I can’t just leave my deposit where it is. The idea of Bob and Sandra returning home to find their house clean and tidy, but with my recent brownness happy to greet them the second they step into the bathroom is truly, truly stomach churning.
But I repeat: what the hell am I going to do? Then hideous realisation dawns on me.
If I can’t get it to flush away, I’m going to have to remove it in some other fashion.
The mere prospect of retrieving my poo from the toilet bowl makes me gag. But what other choice do I have? If I can get it out of here somehow, I can dispose of it elsewhere. It looks pretty damn solid—thanks to my healthy digestive system—so it shouldn’t be too hard to…oh God in Heaven…pick up.
Not empty-handed, though. Screw that. I have to find something to put as a barrier between me and it. Toilet roll is out, that’ll disintegrate in seconds. I need something more robust.
Tentatively, I open the bathroom door. From here, I can see Jamie and Poppy playing outside by the car. Jamie has found a bright pink ball from somewhere, and they’re preoccupied with throwing it to one another while they wait for me to come out.
Good. The last thing I need is any attention from my family right now. I hurry back to the kitchen and start to look for something that can come to my rescue, banging the cupboard doors open in desperation.
Wax paper? No, too stiff. Kitchen roll? No, that’ll go the same way as the toilet roll. A Tupperware container? No, Sandra will miss it. Ah ha! I see a roll of cling film and grab it. Perfect!
Jamie and Pops are still preoccupied with their game so don’t see me scuttle back to the bathroom, unravelling the cling film as I go.
Back inside, I tear off the large strip of cellophane I’ve gathered in one hand, gird my loins, and plunge towards the offending article. Trying my hardest not to regurgitate my breakfast, I squidge my cling film–covered hand around my waste material and pluck it from its watery home. As quickly as possible I wrap it completely in the cling film, creating a small brown parcel of unloveliness that I can’t wait to get rid of.
I walk back into the kitchen to find the bin. My plan is to drop the package into it, then take out the bin liner to the enormous refuse bin Bob and Sandra have next to the garage. That’ll solve my problem, as well as make it look like we’ve gone that extra mile in tidying up the house before we leave.
The location of the bin is not immediately apparent. It must be one of those internal jobbies that fasten to the cupboard door. Jamie cleared away all the breakfast mess, so I have no idea which cupboard it may be behind.
Great, now I have to hold a cling film–wrapped poo in my hand while I search through somebody else’s kitchen cabinets for what feels like the tenth time this morning.
I start the ritual of opening and closing once more, but am interrupted by a sharp child’s scream coming from outside.
Poppy!
Without thinking twice, I fling my poo parcel onto the counter next to the thank-you note and run towards the front door, calling my daughter’s name. Out by the car, I can see her in Jamie’s arms, wailing at the top of her voice.
“What happened?” I ask, taking her from her father.
“She fell over, that’s all,” he explains. “Got a little too carried away playing ball and went arse over teakettle.”
“Aw baby,” I console, and start to rock Pops back and forth in my arms. “Don’t worry, it’s alright. You’re fine, sweetheart.”
I know I’m probably being overprotective, but that sharp, shrill screech of pain was absolutely horrible.
“Hurt my hand, Mummy,” Poppy says between the tears and shows me her newly scratched palm.
“I know sweetheart.”
Jamie really should be more careful with her when they’re playing on a hard surface. I turn to berate him appropriately and see that he has gone from my side. I look round and to my horror I see him closing the front door.
“No Jamie!” I bark and hold out one hand.
But it’s too late. Far, far too late.
The door slams. “Oh Christ no!” I shriek.
“What’s the matter? You were all done, weren’t you?” Jamie says. “I got everything out okay.”
All thoughts of Poppy’s scratched hand are gone. I may love my daughter, but even her misery has to take a backseat when her mother has just left a smelly brown present on a kitchen counter with no way of retrieving it.
“No, Jamie,” I splutter, my mind trying hard to comprehend the disaster that’s just befallen me. “I left something, Jamie…I have to get back in, Jamie.”
“You can’t. They said the door locks behind when you close it. What have you left in there? We didn’t have anything else, did we?”
I look from the door to my husband, back to the door again, and for a final time back at Jamie. I open my mouth to start to explain, then immediately close it again.
How exactly do I describe the current situation? How do I explain that when Bob and Sandra return home later they will discover a thank-you note left by me, along with a very special gift? The kind they are not likely to forget in a fucking hurry?
And what’s even worse is that I never got a chance to finish the bloody note by signing Poppy’s name, so they’re likely to get the impression that I’m including my poo parcel in the thank-you…like it’s a member of our bloody family.
I can picture their honest, hard
working faces as they discover their prize.
Actually, no I bloody can’t. I doubt that anyone has ever returned home before to find faeces covered in cellophane on their kitchen counter. There simply hasn’t been a facial expression invented yet to deal with such a bizarre occurrence.
I flap one hand at the front door and give my husband a distraught look. “There’s poo, Jamie.” Hand flap, hand flap. “Poo, Jamie. There is poo.”
Now he really thinks I’ve lost it. “What? Poo? What are you on about?”
I try to slow my breathing and come up with a coherent way of telling him why I’m so distressed, but the calamity of it all robs me of the ability to think straight. All I can do is flap my hand at the door again. “Poo, Jamie. Poo.”
Now the word has ceased to mean anything. I’ve said poo so many times in the past minute that it’s lost all connection to the real world.
“Poo, poo,” I repeat. I sound like a pigeon with a speech impediment.
“Laura, for crying out loud, stop saying poo and tell me what’s going on.”
It takes me a good five minutes to calm down and make Jamie fully comprehend the horror of what’s happened.
“Are you fu—fudging mental?” he says when I finish my tale of woe, which doesn’t really help matters. “We’re never going to be able to look them in the face again!” His face has gone very pale.
“I don’t know what you’re worried about, it was my poo.”
“Well they don’t know that, do they? I hardly think it matters which one of us was responsible! Either way it looks like we’re rewarding them for their hospitality with a lump of shit wrapped in cling film!”
“Daddy said a swear!”
“Sorry, honey.”
“I know, Jamie! What are we going to do?” I ask desperately.
“Move back to the UK? I can get us on flights by this evening if I go on Expedia right now.”
We both lapse into silence, trying to think of a way out of this horrendous state of affairs. Even Poppy has gone quiet, but I think that has more to do with inspecting the new scratch on her hand than her parents’ current predicament.
Love...Under Different Skies Page 16
