Okay, I probably deserved the horn blast.
Then again, why the fuck did it signal me to overtake and then speed up when I started overtaking??
Unless of course that signal meant “Do not overtake under any circumstances.”
Long story short, I spend twenty minutes mewing pitifully in the culvert before I dare venture out again. It actually takes that long for my hands to stop shaking. Also, I’m terrified that the bus is lurking around the next corner, waiting for me. Or worse still, I’ll find it wheels-up and sinking in the Tumut River. But anyway, after some difficulty trying to reverse my way out of the culvert (sorry, gearbox), I make my way very nervously, very trepidatiously, back to Talbingo. Thankfully no sign of bus (unless of course completely submerged in river, but surely I would have seen the skid marks??).
The minute I walk in my door, I crack open the carton of wine and guzzle an entire bottle. I don’t even wait to chill it, that’s how desperate
Well, I got to sleep, but I’m awake again. It’s 3 a.m.—3:09 to be precise.
I am just having the worst, most terrible dreams lately. Mostly about the cancer spreading, as usual. This one started with me flat on my back, being conveyed inch by inch into some kind of hulking great nuclear scanner molded out of white plastic like a giant scary kitchen appliance. (Which kitchen appliance am I thinking of? A slow cooker? A doughnut maker maybe?) They say, “We hope you’re not claustrophobic, but just in case you are, here’s a buzzer to squeeze to get our attention.” And then they all scuttle into another room like a bomb is about to go off. I just lie there, listening to the machine shuddering and clanking as it comes to life. And as I’m lying there, I’m thinking, There’s a word for this machine. What is it? And suddenly in my dream the word comes to me: remorseless.
This brutal fucker will find everything, no matter how infinitesimal. Every last little tiny metastasis, hiding out in my brain or my liver or my lungs. I haven’t got a hope.
And then I hear this voice, a male voice, eerily calm and kind of distant, telling me to breathe in, then breathe out, then hold my breath. The machine starts banging and shuddering very loudly and violently. I’m thinking, Is that normal? It doesn’t sound normal. And as I’m lying there holding my breath waiting for permission to breathe again, I suddenly realize that in fact I am not in an MRI machine, or whatever the fuck I thought it was, I am in James Cameron’s deep-sea submarine, and not only that, but it has hit the bottom of the Mariana Trench, which is like twenty billion leagues under the sea. And now the voice is telling me very calmly and reasonably that the weight of all that water above means we are experiencing some difficulty ascending, and it is imperative that I hold my breath because if I don’t, according to James Cameron, the deep-sea sub will literally implode. So now I’m starting to panic, because I feel like I’m going to pass out if I don’t breathe soon, and I don’t want this submarine to implode and for it to all be my fault. I’m squeezing my buzzer like a maniac but nobody’s coming to help me. And the worst thing is, I realize (in my dream) that I have seen this exact same situation on James Cameron’s Deepsea Challenge 3D, in which James Cameron had explained exactly what to do if you ever find yourself in this kind of life-and-death predicament at the bottom of the ocean, but I can’t remember what advice he gave because I wasn’t paying attention. In fact, at one point I took my 3D glasses off and had a little snooze. Which is my whole problem, according to James Cameron: I don’t pay enough attention, I never have, which is why I get myself into these terrible scenarios time and time again.
When I woke up, I had fingernail gouges on my palm from trying to squeeze the buzzer.
I’m sure it’s the tamoxifen causing these dreams. Though of course in this instance it could be all that wine on an empty stomach. Also, it’s not helped by the fact that there are a lot of weird sounds in the country that I’m not used to. Like a lot of dogs barking tonight. And weird night-birds making these horrible lonely mournful cries.
So I lie in bed for a while listening to this cacophony, and then finally I get up and drink some Coke because I’m really dehydrated, and take about four Panadol for my headache. And, of course, I can’t get back to sleep because I’m obsessing about Josh. He’s the one who took me to see the James Cameron movie in the first place, and it’s true that at one point I did take my 3D glasses off and have a little snooze, and I don’t think Josh was very impressed by that because he is a science nut, also an underwater exploration nut. I actually met Josh on a dive boat on the Great Barrier Reef when we were paired up as dive buddies, and let me just say that initially I was extremely pleased about this pairing because I had already decided that Josh was the hottest guy on the boat. As a dive buddy, however, he left a lot to be desired. He literally just swam off with his Go-Pro and ignored me, which is fine except the whole point of the buddy system is safety, and at one point I did actually get my buoyancy vest snagged and had to break off a whole chunk of coral just to extricate myself. So I was a little annoyed with him. But then—and as long as I live and breathe, I will never forget this moment—when we were hanging out at the five-meter safety stop on our way back up to the boat, he suddenly turned to me and he pulled out his regulator. I’m thinking, What’s this jerk doing now, for God’s sake? And then he reached over, pulled out my regulator and kissed me full on the lips.
Oh my God. It was unbelievable. I still swoon when I think about it now. Bubbles everywhere, literally surrounding us. And it wasn’t a short kiss by any means; he wasn’t hurrying. If anything, he was taking his time. It was lingering and delicate and explorative and absolutely bar none the best kiss of my entire life. Unforgettable. The imminent likelihood of us drowning only added to the thrill.
Can I just say, the fish were staring at us. Like, they were goggle-eyed. They’d never seen anything like it.
After that, there was no going back. It was all on between us, we were inseparable. But as far as diving safety went, this only made matters worse because Josh’s unusual idea of courtship was to swim past me at speed and pull my mask off. Or worse—and this was perhaps the single most terrible thing he ever did, unforgivable really when I think about it—on the third day of the dive trip he actually turned off my air supply. As a joke. While I’m underwater, twenty-three meters down. Seriously, one minute I’m happily watching clown fish duck in and out of anemones, the next minute I’m sucking desperately on my regulator thinking I’m gonna die. I mean, he turned it back on again maybe ten seconds later (he disputes this, and claims it was two seconds later), but still … Even now, I just have to glance at a poster of Finding Nemo and I practically want to vomit.
All of which should have given me fair warning …
To be absolutely honest with myself, though, to judge from how sad I’m feeling right now, I don’t think I’m completely over Josh. I mean, I make him sound like a lunatic, but really I think he’s just a bit of an odd guy, a bit on the spectrum maybe, whatever that means. He claims never to have had a serious girlfriend before me, and I think all that crazy stuff he was doing when we first started dating (turning off air supply, etc.), well, honestly, I don’t think he knew any better. He was genuinely surprised that I was upset—I remember him saying, “But it was just a bit of horseplay!” I mean, he was mortified that he’d done it when he thought about it. And the truth is, maybe I actually encouraged it a bit—the horseplay, I mean. We were so nuts about each other in those early days, we were like a pair of overexcited puppies. We were just always egging each other on. Like, one of our favorite games when he moved in with me was to hide in wardrobes, broom cupboards, etc., and leap out at each other when least expected. Josh was better at it than me; he has more patience—also he’s more devious. One time he spent the whole day lurking in our wardrobe when I thought all along he was at work. He was even texting me photos, supposedly from work—the colossal photocopier jam he’d caused, his lunchtime chicken burger, etc.—but actually he’d taken these photos the day before. And if I’d looked clos
ely, there were small clues he’d left deliberately, like a newspaper with yesterday’s date propped next to the chicken burger. Anyway, around 5 p.m. I innocently go to the wardrobe to get my jacket and GOTCHA! He springs out at me. Seriously, in our four and a half years together, he gave me about forty billion heart attacks.
I mean, he was completely obsessed with me. It was almost exhausting how obsessed he was. Until he wasn’t.
But then again, sometimes I wonder, Was it ever really a proper relationship? You know, like adults have. Open and honest, give and take, there for you through the tough times—like Sally has with Brett. Because sometimes I suspected that maybe Josh just liked having an audience, specifically a compliant female audience with great tits. He could pontificate about things for hours, often things I had no hope of understanding or absolutely no interest in, like quantum physics or German U-boats or medieval musical instruments. It used to make me feel dumb because I had nothing intelligent to contribute to the discussion. I did a lot of smiling and nodding and saying things like “Wow.”
Does he ever think about me? Is he sad too sometimes that we didn’t last?
Answer, if I’m honest with myself? Probably not. He has Delores. Delores plays the lute, so that’s one thing she has over me already.
Sometimes, as a form of self-torture, I like to watch Delores play “Greensleeves” on YouTube, wearing a mournful expression and some kind of medieval wench outfit. Then I scroll exhaustively through the comments to see if anyone has said anything mean about her. But no. Everyone thinks she’s delightful, so talented, “this makes me so happy,” etc. etc. Maybe no such thing as trolling in medieval lute world? Although there’s one comment in Russian that has about a billion exclamation marks and a winking face with the tongue sticking out. I need to Google Translate it.
How was it that I came to stumble across this YouTube clip? Sally found it. She is an A-grade sleuth when it comes to digging up dirt on ex-boyfriends, plus she never liked Josh in the first place. She sent me a link to the clip in the hope it would give me a laugh. But I wasn’t laughing. I was too busy staring at Delores’s dewy white cleavage, displayed to perfection in her medieval peasant blouse.
I mean, let’s face it, Josh has always been a teensy bit deficient in the sensitivity-to-others department. Case in point: as soon as your ex-girlfriend gets her breast cut off, make sure you start going out with a girl with the biggest, bounciest tits ever. Just to reinforce the point: Yes, Eleanor, breasts are important to me. Hello, Delores of the double-D cups.
So I rock up to school this morning very tired and headachey from my bad night, and I find the children crying and Glenda looking absolutely ashen. Because all the chickens are dead. Massacred. Just feathers, claws, and a couple of random heads left. No wonder the dogs were carrying on last night.
And Glenda says to me in this accusatory tone, “We’ve kept these chickens for over five years and we’ve never had the slightest bit of trouble.” And I immediately feel like she’s suggesting that I am somehow responsible for the chicken slaughter. Possibly she believes that I was so enraged by the seating arrangement fiasco that I crept in by cover of darkness and hacked them to death myself. But I refuse to rise to the bait, so I say, “Well, it’s obviously a fox.” And she shouts, “What fox? We don’t have any foxes in Talbingo! Besides, where did it get in?” She’s got a point, because there’s no sign of any holes dug or any other form of entry. It’s all very weird. And then Ryan picks up a dismembered chicken head (Silkie’s poor little feathery head, actually) and starts chasing the girls with it. And they’re screaming very shrilly, very ear-piercingly, which is not helping my headache. So I start yelling at him, “Ryan! Stop it!” and he’s completely ignoring me, so I run after him and grab him by the arm, and he spins around and rubs the horrible bloody chicken head into my chest. And then he grins at me.
I’m in shock. Absolute shock. And I’m thinking, This is assault. So I go very calm, very composed, very icy, and I say, “Ryan, go and sit in Glenda’s office. I am going to call your parents.” Whereupon all the kids scream at me like I’m a complete fucking idiot: “HE DOESN’T HAVE ANY PARENTS! HIS PARENTS WERE KILLED IN A CAR CRASH!!” And Ryan slumps down and puts his head in his hands and starts to cry. And I’m thinking, Gee, Glenda, thanks for telling me this in advance. Don’t you think it would have been useful for me to know that one of my pupils has been tragically orphaned???
But of course, I didn’t dare say it because frankly the woman terrifies me.
I wonder if Ryan killed the chickens?
Probably.
Let’s just say I wouldn’t put it past him …
So anyway, apparently Ryan is looked after by an older brother. But the older brother is often away for extended periods due to his work, leaving Ryan to basically fend for himself. I learned all this when Glenda was sponging chicken gore off my shirt in the kitchenette. So I say, “Well, that doesn’t sound like a very satisfactory arrangement if his brother is away half the time.”
And Glenda says, No, it’s not ideal, and that’s why Miss Barker used to have Ryan over a lot on weekends and take him on special outings, just to fill in the gaps, because of course she was terribly fond of him. And I’m thinking, Fond of Ryan! She was a better woman than I’ll ever be, that’s for sure, if she could somehow summon up some affection for this doughy lump. And of course, we must make allowances for the doughy lump’s behavior because he’s terribly upset since Miss Barker went AWOL, and sure enough, Glenda’s lip is trembling and she’s bawling again.
But I find myself feeling very impatient with Glenda’s waterworks, so I say, “How old is Ryan anyway? He looks at least fourteen.” And then Glenda goes a bit sheepish and says, “Well, of course, Miss Barker held him back.” And I’m like, What??? And Glenda immediately gets her back up and says, “Well, she felt he wasn’t ready for high school, and frankly I agree with her. Physically, he’s a big boy, but emotionally he’s blah blah—” I don’t let her finish. I’m up on my high horse immediately. “That is the worst thing Miss Barker could have possibly done,” I say. “That boy was ready for high school three years ago. Here he is stuck in the classroom with all these babies!” And Glenda goes puce with rage and says, “I will not have you talk about her like that!” And she flings her sponge down and storms out.
At lunchtime, I try to go online on the school computer to find out what the Education Department protocols are when an orphaned student who should be in high school goes at his teacher with a disembodied chicken head. The computer is so infuriatingly slow to load that I give up. I type a note for Ryan’s brother, asking him to arrange an appointment to come and see me at his earliest convenience so we can discuss in detail Ryan’s multiple “issues.” Of course, the printer won’t work so I need to ask Glenda to help, which she does very sulkily with a lot of ill-tempered huffing and puffing. This is bad. I need to somehow repair the situation, because obviously this can’t go on. Even though I blame Glenda entirely. God knows I have really, really tried with her. Mother Teresa herself would not be able to fill Miss Barker’s shoes, in Glenda’s estimation.
After school, I ask Ryan to stay back for a few minutes, and I attempt to have a little talk with him. I say, “Ryan, I’m very sorry I didn’t know about your parents. But what you did to my blouse today with Silkie’s gory little chicken head was not good. I need you to give this note to your brother so he can come and see me asap.” And of course Ryan is staring at my breasts as usual and doesn’t answer, so I repeat the whole thing and he finally lifts his gaze from my breasts and says, very sullen, “My brother’s away, Miss.” And I say, “Well, that’s not very good, is it? When is your brother going to be back?” And he just shrugs, like he has no idea. And then something really strange happens.
This mustard-colored Valiant Charger with black tinted windows suddenly screeches up outside and sits throbbing and lurching at the curb. Ryan’s whole demeanor instantly changes. He looks out at the Charger, and he’s no longer
a big doughy lump of a kid but all sort of nervous and highly charged and alert. And he says, “That’s my brother, Miss. I got to go,” and I detect a note of panic in his voice. So I begin to say, “Well, I would like very much to talk to your bro—” but before I can finish, there’s an ear-splittingly loud blast of “Dixie,” courtesy of the Charger’s air horns. Seriously. As if this is The Dukes of Hazzard or something. And suddenly I realize: this is the car I almost plowed into when I was overtaking the bus!
Meanwhile Ryan’s getting all agitated, and he’s saying, “I got to go, Miss.” And for some reason, even though I know I should seize this opportunity and go out and talk to Ryan’s brother, I suddenly really, really, really don’t want to. So I say, “Okay, Ryan, well, just make sure you give your brother the note,” and he flies out of there like a bat out of hell. He jumps into the Charger, which then proceeds to execute this huge screeching three-point turn at speed, at one point actually mounting the curb and gouging up the grass, before roaring off in a cloud of blue smoke.
All this in a school zone, for Christ’s sake.
I am so stunned, I just stand there for a solid minute, hearing my breath go in and out of my chest. For some reason, I feel really shaken up. I go to find Glenda in her office. I’m thinking maybe this could be a bonding moment, discussing Ryan’s maniacal petrolhead brother. We could get all indignant together. Possibly even have a laugh about it, like a team-building exercise. But the office is locked—she’s already gone for the weekend, without even bothering to say goodbye.
The Bus on Thursday Page 6
