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Odd Socks

Page 22

by Ilsa Evans


  ‘Lord, I’d forgotten all this.’

  ‘Me too.’ I lift Sherry a tad higher, away from Dennis’s dessert, and then carefully lower myself into my chair. Unfortunately the menu comes too, leaving a trail of cream down my low-cut peasant blouse and across the lap of my jeans. Holding Sherry securely in my lap, I pluck a strawberry off my right breast and pop it into my mouth.

  ‘Be still my heart!’ Dennis gives an exaggerated groan and then looks around for a waitress.

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ Bronte pushes away her dessert plate. ‘Here, I’ll take Sherry.’

  I lean back so that Bronte can get both arms underneath the baby, who she then lifts up and takes with her back to her seat. One of the cheerful waitresses appears with a damp cloth in her hand. She begins to mop me up.

  ‘Hey, thanks – but I’ll do that.’ I snatch the cloth from her.

  Meanwhile, Sherry has progressed from being merely restless to downright agitated. While her mother tries in vain to pacify her, she begins a low undulating wail that causes every head in the restaurant to swivel in our direction. I take a gulp of wine and stand to finish my clean-up, brushing off the flakes of meringue shell and mopping up the cream. I now look like I’m auditioning for a wet t-shirt competition but at least it means that half the heads turned in our direction are no longer staring balefully at the baby.

  Bronte removes Sherry from her bunny-rug and lifts her up, placing her against a shoulder. Then, supporting her head and back with one hand, she uses the other to pat the baby’s padded bottom. At the very first pat, an extremely offensive smell issues forth and, when I turn automatically to look at its source, I notice that Sherry’s nappy hasn’t been entirely successful in retaining its contents.

  ‘Oh, disgusting!’ Dennis grimaces and waves one hand in front of his nose.

  ‘No,’ wails Bronte plaintively, ‘not again!’

  ‘Give her to your father,’ I suggest, sitting down and passing the sticky cloth to the hovering waitress. ‘He’s just been saying that he has to make up for lost time.’

  ‘Good idea,’ agrees Bronte readily, ‘here you go, Dad.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Dennis glances at his watch and stands up. ‘Love to help out but I have to be back at the surgery by two thirty. I’ve got a root canal.’

  ‘That’d be right,’ says Bronte darkly as she stands up with Sherry still on her shoulder. ‘Here, Mum, like, can you take her while I get the nappy bag from the car?’

  ‘Okay,’ I reply, less than enthusiastically, as the wailing baby is lowered back onto my lap. I grab the bunny-rug and try to arrange it around Sherry’s lower half while Bronte fishes her car keys out of her pocket and leaves the restaurant at a trot. After watching her exit, I pop the semi-wrapped Sherry up onto my shoulder and immediately the combined odour of strawberries, cream and a shitty nappy nearly knocks me out.

  ‘Dennis – give us a hand,’ I say threateningly, ‘or I’ll give you a root canal.’

  ‘Promises, promises. And I would if I could, but –’he shakes his head ruefully as he pulls his wallet out from his back pocket ‘– I’m afraid duty calls.’

  ‘Dennis, don’t you dare leave,’ I grind out through clenched teeth.

  ‘Do you know, that’s really bad for your bite. Which reminds me, you’re late for your check-up. Give me a ring and I’ll slot you in. Here –’ he fishes a few notes out of his wallet and passes them over to the waitress ‘– this should cover the bill. Keep the change.’

  ‘Dennis!’

  ‘No – I insist on paying, it’s the least I can do. And I tell you what, Terry –’

  ‘Dennis!’

  ‘Just because I like to cater to your appetites –’

  ‘DENNIS!’

  ‘You can finish off my pavlova.’

  FRIDAY

  1742 hrs

  ‘. . . and so we’d all like to farewell Barbara as she moves on to bigger and better things in the States. We wish her all the best with her new husband and fully expect to hear soon that the American library system has been completely overhauled by our indefatigable colleague here! So, here’s to Barbara! Good luck and best wishes!’

  Alan, the big boss, beams as loud applause echoes throughout the library. One of the teenage shelvers pushes a madly blushing Barbara forwards and Alan leans over to shake her hand. Then he turns behind him and picks up a small but brightly wrapped gift, which he passes over to Barbara with a flourish.

  ‘Just a token of our gratitude,’ he says, looking straight over Barbara’s head towards the crowd of library employees, ‘to take along as you enter this new, and no doubt challenging, phase of your life. And seriously, folks, I for one would like to tell Barbara how much I’ve enjoyed working with her all these years, and that I’ll miss her friendly face every morning . . .’

  I quickly slip around the corner of the new releases display, and walk over to the row of fiction books behind a planter at the far end of the library. Then I choose one at random, and settle myself on a seat beside a large overhanging palm where I can’t be seen. Because, as much as I like Barbara, I can’t stand Alan and his interminable speeches. Any chance that man gets he will drone on and on, delighting in the sound of his own voice. Missing Barbara in the mornings, hell! He probably didn’t even know who she was until she put in her resignation. What a hypocrite.

  I push myself back into the chair and smooth down my jeans. My clean jeans, as I took the time to get changed before I came over to the library to farewell Barbara. Besides them, I’m now wearing my black boots and a red angora square-cut jumper, without a bit of pavlova to be seen. Just as I make myself comfortable, there is a loud tapping on the glass to my right so I look over towards the rain-splashed window. To my astonishment, I see a dripping wet, middle-aged, rather rotund female dressed in a see-through rain poncho standing outside the library. With the rain running in rivulets off her hair and down her face, she’s drumming her fingers on the glass, waving a hardback at me, and mouthing what look like obscenities. Using hand gestures, I indicate that the library is closed and for her to return the book via the after-hours chute. She immediately uses a few hand gestures back and continues mouthing what I now realise definitely are obscenities. And impressively inventive ones at that.

  Rather than engage in an exchange of X-rated lip-reading, I decide to ignore this shining example of what I’ve got to deal with day after day in my chosen career. Instead I turn my back and reflect on the chosen career itself. The choosing of which is made even more stupid by the fact that I don’t particularly like dealing either with the public or with the books. I don’t mind reading them, if I get the time, but I find the haphazard piles and untidy shelves of the library more than a little frustrating. I like my books all in a line, categorised by size, not author, and with their spines about six centimetres from the edge of the shelves. Give or take a millimetre.

  I idly flick the pages of the book in my lap, wondering why Cam hasn’t shown up. Or Joanne. Or – I sigh deeply and lean back in the chair, my hairclip immediately digging itself into the back of my scalp. I straighten up and mutter a few choice obscenities of my own.

  ‘Want to be alone?’

  I glance up and my mouth falls open. For, peering down at me from his rather impressive height, is none other than Richard. And he looks exactly as I remembered, apart from a slightly more coordinated outfit of bone corduroy pants and a burgundy cable-knit v-neck. One look and I immediately realise that after three days of thinking about him, analysing my reactions, dissecting my responses and justifying my emotions – nothing has changed. He still makes me feel like a gawky teenager with a first crush. Without taking my eyes off him, I close both my mouth and the book in my lap.

  ‘No, I mean, yes. No, I mean –’ I pause, take a deep breath and pull myself together. ‘I mean, please join me if you’d like. And how are you? I thought you’d have left for Tasmania by now.’

  ‘Ah, would have.’ Richard folds his thin frame into the chair next to me and starts exa
mining his fingernails. ‘But something came up. Leaving Sunday now.’

  ‘Oh.’ I pat my hair surreptitiously as I rack my brain for something intelligent to say. Just as I open my mouth to emit what would no doubt have been words of wisdom, there is another series of sharp raps on the window to my right. I look up automatically and, as soon as she sees she has my attention, the middle-aged, plump female proffers me a rather damp finger.

  ‘Friend?’ asks Richard curiously, looking over as well.

  ‘Not quite.’ I watch the woman stomp off towards her car through the rain, which is now positively pelting down. ‘But we take our overdues seriously here.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Just look at the rain out there.’ I turn again to Richard, and fall back on the age-old conversation filler: ‘Horrid weather, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ghastly,’ he agrees with a grimace. ‘We got soaked.’

  ‘We? I see – Joanne. How is she?’

  ‘Fine, fine. Nice girl.’

  ‘Yes, she certainly is.’ I look at him curiously because he didn’t sound much like a man in love, or in lust, or whatever. ‘So she was okay with you staying on longer?’

  ‘Joanne?’ Richard glances at me with his eyebrows raised. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I play with the book nervously and, after a few seconds of silence, Richard reaches across and plucks it out of my lap, holding it up and looking at the cover.

  ‘Lust in the Desert,’ he reads before looking at me with interest. ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘No, no.’ I snatch the book back and fling it over onto the returns trolley. ‘I’m not reading it, I just picked it up because I was bored.’

  ‘Wouldn’t work, anyway.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lust in the desert. All that sand.’

  ‘Yes! And the dust-storms – yech!’

  ‘Communal tents.’

  ‘No showers!’

  ‘Curious camels?’

  We look at each other, burst out laughing – and I’m hooked. One hundred percent, totally, absolutely hooked. The only thing missing as far as I know has been that all-important sense of humour, and it seems not only has he got one, but it’s also on the same wavelength as mine. Albeit slightly more monosyllabic. Now visibly relaxed, Richard leans back in his chair and stretches while I tuck my legs underneath me and make myself comfortable. A few moments of fairly companionable silence go by, and then I decide to throw caution to the wind. After all, I’ll probably never see him again.

  ‘Just out of curiosity, do you remember Camilla, the woman we had lunch with on Tuesday? Remember how her mother turned up? Well, we were wondering – did you by any chance already know her from somewhere?’

  ‘Who, Camilla?’

  ‘No, her mother.’

  ‘Already know her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah, no . . . not really.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I reply, although I don’t actually see at all. The mystery is no clearer and now I also have to wonder why he put emphasis on the word ‘really’. I puzzle over how to frame my next question without it appearing that I’m sticking my nose into what is none of my business, while still doing exactly that.

  ‘Nice city, Melbourne,’ says Richard, obviously trying to change the subject. ‘Enjoyed myself.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever been here before?’

  ‘Never.’ Richard smiles at me without quite meeting my eye. ‘Ah, might visit more now.’

  ‘And why would you do that?’ I query quickly in my best Sherlock Holmes manner. ‘Have you met someone you might want to catch up with again?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Have you met . . .’ I peter out as I realise that what I’ve just said could be construed several ways, when really I was just referring to Rose Riley. I chew my lip thoughtfully.

  ‘Met someone?’ Richard turns towards me but still doesn’t quite look me in the eye. ‘Ah, maybe.’

  ‘I see,’ I reply slowly, with a heavy feeling that the conversation might just have taken a sharp turn in a direction I was not quite ready for.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then,’ I say brightly, deciding that another change of subject is called for, ‘where has Joanne taken you?’

  ‘Ah!’ Richard groans, leaning back again. ‘Everywhere!’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve been busy.’

  ‘Understatement.’

  ‘And has she introduced you to everyone here?’ I wave my arm to indicate the library, not all of Melbourne.

  ‘Tried to.’ Richard crosses one corduroyed leg and I notice that he is wearing red socks. ‘But, ah, the speeches . . . ’

  I laugh and roll my eyes expressively. ‘No wonder you found cover! That Alan is a pompous dork.’

  ‘A dork?’ Richard turns to me and finally meets my eye as a smile lights up his face. ‘You know what a dork is? Really?’

  ‘Sure! An idiot, or a twit, or . . .’ I trail off when I see the amusement crinkling around his eyes. ‘Why – what is it?’

  ‘Whale’s penis.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Whale’s penis,’ he repeats. ‘You know, a–’

  ‘I know all about whales’ penises!’ I exclaim, at which he raises his eyebrows. ‘What I mean is, I don’t actually know all about them, like I don’t know what one really looks like . . . I mean – hell! I can imagine.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sort of,’ I say with embarrassment, trying to work out how on earth I’ve ended up sounding like I spend my spare time conjuring up images of whales’ penises.

  ‘Ah, interesting,’ he smiles in my general direction.

  ‘Not really.’ I grin back as I shove the embarrassment away. ‘In fact, I’d prefer lust in the desert any time.’

  ‘Quite right!’

  ‘Even with the sand –’

  ‘And the dust-storms –’

  ‘And the curious camels!’

  Looking at each other with pleasure, we laugh again and I notice that his warm brown eyes actually develop a distinct twinkle when he is amused. He certainly seems to be more relaxed now than the last time I saw him, if the number of words he is stringing together is any indication. If I can keep this conversation going for another twenty minutes or so, it may well get to the stage that I’ve got to interrupt him to get a word in edgeways.

  I smile with contentment and look down at his loose corduroy pants. He definitely looks a lot better with his knees covered – less like he should be standing on one leg in shallow water searching for fish. My gaze travels slowly up to the burgundy v-neck, which has seen better days. Although, by the looks of it, not for quite some time. I get a sudden urge to lean across, rip it off him, throw it to the floor – and then drag him off shopping for some decent clothes. Taking a deep breath and looking away before I do something stupid, I glance through the palm towards the throng of people over on the other side of the library. There appears to be a tad more action happening there and I note that the chatter has started to build up: a sure sign the speeches are over and the fun has begun.

  ‘Do you miss your wife?’ I blurt, and then blush fiercely when I realise what I’ve said. ‘Sorry! None of my business!’

  ‘That’s okay.’ Richard looks down at his fingernails again. ‘Yes – I do. But we were separated before. She died. For five years or so. Still miss her. So does Eve.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, when it becomes obvious he isn’t going to add anything further. ‘I see.’

  ‘Ah, Terry –’ Richard abandons his fingernails and stares at my right ear instead.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How long are these things? Usually?’

  ‘Oh, a couple of hours, that’s all.’

  ‘You doing anything? Afterwards?’

  ‘Afterwards?’ I repeat idiotically as my heart slips a cog and then tries to compensate by increasing its pump-rate dramatically. ‘You mean, after this?’

  ‘Richard!’ Joanne shrieks excitedly as she pops her head aroun
d the potted palm. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to! And, look! Here’s Terry! Oooh, what are you two up to?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I mumble as I feel my face go red. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Hey, Barbara, I found her!’ Joanne yells over her shoulder. ‘She was hiding out with that guy I was telling you about.’

  ‘Terry!’ Barbara’s round, plump face joins Joanne’s. ‘Well, well, well. What are you doing tucked away behind here? And what would Fergus say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I repeat with irritation as I untuck my legs and sit up straight, ‘because there’s nothing to say!’

  ‘Who’s Fergus?’ Joanne looks from Barbara to me curiously.

  ‘Nobody!’

  ‘Well then, we might just have to tell him and find out,’ laughs Barbara, obviously under the mistaken impression she is being amusing.

  ‘Fine!’ I snap, now thoroughly annoyed. ‘You do that!’

  ‘Hang on! I was only teasing, you know.’ Barbara does a double-take and then looks at me apologetically. ‘Hey, I’ll grab you some wine to make up. Don’t move!’

  ‘And I’ll grab a couple for us, Richard,’ says Joanne, ‘then I’ll join the two of you. Terry can tell me all about this mysterious Fergus of hers. It’s got to be better than making small talk with Alan and Co!’

  To avoid looking at Richard, I twist my head around and watch the two of them walk away. They make an odd pair – redheaded Joanne in a flowing red outfit that’s not quite the same red as her hair, and Barbara with her generous frame clothed in her usual black. They head towards a large trestle table that has been set up near the autobiographies and loaded with several opened packets of chips, a couple of wine casks and a stack of plastic tumblers. This library is one class establishment, that’s for sure. My neck starts to ache so I sit back and massage it lightly.

  ‘Good while it lasted,’ Richard says wryly.

  ‘The peace, you mean?’

  ‘What else?’ He looks at my right ear with his head tilted to one side. ‘Who’s Fergus?’

  ‘Fergus?’ I give up on my neck and start massaging my forehead instead. ‘Fergus who?’

 

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