by Ilsa Evans
SATURDAY
1711 hrs
‘Hi, Mum – it’s Diane. No, stop! That’s not why I’m ringing. Listen, you know those little vol-au-vent things you make? Do you think you could possibly whip some up for Nick’s thing tomorrow? Yes, I know I didn’t ring you back when you offered to bring something. Yes, I know that was dreadfully rude. Yes, I know. But could you still do some of them for us? And maybe some of those open sandwiches you do so well, and some of those puff pastry mustardy-cheese things, and you know that celery dip that Harold does? Perhaps some of that too. How many? Well, say one hundred of each – that should be enough.’
SATURDAY
1731 hrs
‘Hey, Cam! It’s Terry – how are you? You don’t want to talk about it? Great – because I don’t want to talk about that either. Listen, you know how you asked me this morning if there’s anything you could bring? Well, there is. Have you still got that enormous punchbowl? Great! Can you bring that along a tad earlier tomorrow? Terrific. And maybe a couple of platters with crackers and cheese because they go so well with punch. With some celery and carrots. And dip. And maybe some kabana as well. And don’t forget to clean the punchbowl, only because it’s probably dusty – and, oh, of course! Don’t forget to bring something to go in it as well.’
SATURDAY
1739 hrs
‘Hi, Elizabeth, it’s your favourite sister here. No, fool – it’s Diane. Yes, I know about the lunch – I was there, remember? No, I’m not ringing to have a chat about that. But I’m guessing you’ve been trying to get hold of me to ask what you should bring tomorrow? Ah, I thought so – I know you wouldn’t want to just turn up without anything, would you? Anyway, could you bring some finger-food dessert type stuff? Maybe some little éclairs, or profiteroles, or meringues, or a tray of baby pikelets with some bowls of jam and cream. Or, I tell you what – just bring all of them.’
SATURDAY
1746 hrs
‘Hey, Stephen! This is Terry – getting ready for your big date, are you? Well, best of luck. Listen, is it okay if we borrow that green wrought-iron outdoor setting of yours? It’s for tomorrow. And is there any chance we could raid that beautiful garden of yours for some flowers? You will? Fantastic. Thanks very much – I’ll send Nick and Bronte over to fetch them in a minute. Well, say hi to Sven for me and I hope it all comes off. Stephen! That’s not what I meant, but hey – have one for me.’
SATURDAY
2303 hrs
I sigh, and stretch, and snort simultaneously. It’s an art I’ve mastered over many years of dedicated practice. Then I prop myself up on my pillows and stare at the shadows flickering on the far wall. It’s still raining, and indeed has hardly stopped all day. It’s also blowing a gale, with huge breaths of gusty wind whooshing through the trees and battering the ornamental window shutters.
After all the work that went on here this evening, I should be exhausted. But instead I feel all hyped up and sort of agitated. My adrenalin isn’t just running, it’s zooming, and if the state government were able to install interior speed cameras, they’d be raking in a fortune. Well, more of a fortune anyway.
But, hell, have we accomplished miracles tonight. My lounge-room has been transformed into a balloon-strewn, streamer-hung, flower-decorated scene of impending celebration. Diane even found all the pink ‘It’s a girl!’ balloons I’d banished to the powder room, and tied them within the clusters of ordinary balloons. The couch has been pushed against one wall, with the armchair at an angle beside it and the coffee table in front. This has allowed for Diane’s two fold-up tables to be placed in an L-shape against the opposite wall and draped with Mum’s embroidered tablecloths in preparation for the array of delicacies due to arrive on the morrow. And a covered card table has been placed in the corner in expectation of presents.
The round table in my kitchen area has also been draped and decorated, and nearby a mesh playpen has been set up to house the twins. Throughout the two rooms, Diane’s spare chairs have been scattered around at appropriate intervals and vases of flowers have been placed on every available surface, and some that weren’t available but quickly became so. And we didn’t stop there. The covered courtyard has also been attacked and now resembles a magical grotto – with abundant greenery, roses and huge pots of Stephen’s maidenhair fern.
And the kitchen is sparkling as well. Which is surprising considering the amount of baking, and mixing, and conjuring that went on in there over the course of the evening. A cheesecake, sponge-cake and dozens of fairy-cakes. Spicy meatballs and tiny quiches. Boiled eggs with their insides removed and whipped with mayo and chives before being replaced. Crackers with such an array of delicious toppings it beggars belief. The fridge is full to overflowing, and that’s without all the dishes Diane and I ordered from various relatives.
As the activity whirled around them, Nick and Bronte just did what they were told with rather stunned expressions. Pick up the crockery, Nick. Whip this cream, Bronte. Go fetch Stephen’s flowers, Nick. Sweep out the courtyard, Bronte. Blow up these balloons, the pair of you. I really don’t think either of them had any idea about what it entails to hold a party for over one hundred people. However, their pizza did come in handy for dinner while we transformed the unit.
Poor little Sherry was passed from person to person according to whoever was free. Fortunately I made myself available a lot of the time, a situation helped by the fact that Diane is a veritable organisational banshee when she gets the bit between her teeth. I suppose you have to be when you have six children, and four of them are boys. And when her husband arrived and unloaded the goodies he had brought, she barred his escape route and sent him to work on the courtyard grotto. But what a job he did! I never realised David had such a whimsical streak.
The only problem with all these arrangements was that the new semicircular rug looked so ridiculous in the centre of the room without the couch against its straight edge that it had to be moved. And therefore, once again, the bloody stain is centre-stage. But I suppose you can’t have everything.
So, with all this activity, by rights I should be exhausted. I should be so tired that the problem is not getting to sleep, but actually waking up in the morning. Instead I sit here, hugging a pillow and staring at a wall. I lift up one hand and, making the peace sign, clench the rest of my fingers together and hold the whole hand side on. Voila – a rabbit! I jiggle my hand along to make the rabbit hop. However, this activity has limited amusement potential after one passes the age of ten, so I soon give up and resume staring at the wall.
The thing is I’ve got a niggling little feeling in the pit of my stomach that I know why I can’t get to sleep. And it has something to do with what I’ve been pushing to the back of my mind ever since this morning. Perhaps, whether I like it or not, it’s time to go there. So I sigh – and then open the cerebral floodgates.
Richard Berry – son of Rose. Well, at least there’s one plus: he’s already forty-six so if he were going to develop a personality like his mother’s, he would have done so by now. But it’s a little scary realising I’m attracted to a person who is the spitting image of someone that Rose was also attracted to! Nevertheless, I do feel sorry for her. Sorrier, actually, than I feel for Richard. Because I’ve a sneaky feeling it weighed a lot more on her mind over the years than it did on his. By his own admission he had a happy, contented childhood – with no gaps.
Richard Berry– Dr Richard Berry, to be precise. University lecturer. I should have guessed. Anyone who knows what a dork really is has to be involved in academic life.
Richard Berry – brother of Cam. That I’ve got a little more difficulty with. I do believe Cam took the whole revelation a little harder than she let on. I know for a fact, from our many Friday night therapy sessions, that Cam has always wanted a brother. And to find out she actually always had one but was never told – well, I suspect that little item is going to fill many Friday nights to come.
Richard Berry – brother of Diane. I think Di
ane’s main stumbling block will be the whole abandonment thing. I don’t have the same problem, maybe because I’m outside the blood connection. I don’t know. But I appreciate times were different, and Rose would have had it a lot tougher than, for instance, I did when my marriage ended. I like to think that once Diane comes to terms with this mother leaving her only child bit, she’ll welcome Richard with open arms. If, that is, he wants to be welcomed.
Richard Berry – brother of Elizabeth. Who cares?
Richard Berry – father of Eve. Who is she? What’s she like? I believe that seventeen year old girls can be the pits – moody, rebellious and argumentative. Just because I struck it lucky with Bronte doesn’t mean everyone else does. And what extra baggage does a teenager carry with her when her mother is dead? For that matter, what extra baggage does her father carry when her mother is dead?
Richard Berry – love of my life. And that’s the real problem – I think I love him, I really do. It’s more than a big fat crush and maybe I’ve got to face up to that. I’ve been with quite a few guys and I’ve never felt like this. The fact he resembles my father is probably incidental, whether I like it or not. All that means is that maybe I’ve got the same taste in men as my mother – as well as Rose Riley.
And the really odd thing is that he seems to bring out all my maternal instincts, and I never thought I had any maternal instincts. In fact, I’d have to be the least maternal person I know – and that’s counting all the men of my acquaintance, as well! But the way he dresses, and the way he struggles to meet your eye, and the way he fumbles his words – I just feel like reaching over, grabbing his hand and saying: ‘Never mind, I’m here, I’ll help.’
I flop myself down and pull the doona up over my head to plunge myself into darkness. Because the whole thing won’t be going anywhere – there’s just too much in the way. Bass Strait for starters. And besides, wouldn’t it be asking for trouble to start a relationship with someone who is related to people I know quite well? Hasn’t Sherry already tied us all together enough without me adding to the mix? Or maybe I just don’t want to share him, not with Rose Riley, or Diane, or even Cam.
Or perhaps what I really don’t want is to face the fact he’s most probably gone by now. Winging his way back to the Apple Isle, because what’s to keep him here? He’s met all the relatives, even lunched with them, and now it’s back to his life. And I don’t want him to go. No, what I want is to hire a restaurant or something, and just sit with him for, oh – about a week or so. Watching the way his eyes twinkle when he’s amused. And talking. I’m sure I could get him to open up if I had half the chance. About everything and anything, and maybe nothing at all. Finding out where he’s been and where he’s going. What’s his favourite colour? What does he like to eat? Why does he dress the way he does? Which side of the bed does he prefer? I want information, and I want to soak it up like a sponge, wring it out and then come back for more. No, I don’t want to share him and I don’t want him to go.
Not at all.
SUNDAY
Handy Household Hint No XXX:
It doesn’t really matter if the grass is greener or not, it still needs to be mown.
SUNDAY
1445 hrs
‘Terry, can you move that way just a trifle?’
‘Could you please stand over there instead, Teresa?’
‘Hey, that’s exactly where I need to put this Esky, so can you – thanks.’
‘Sorry, honey, but would you just –’
I give up. I leave Rose Riley, Diane, my mother and David in complete control of my kitchen and make my escape. As I move away, I spot Nick and Bronte hiding out in the grotto and give them a wave. Bronte frowns quickly and puts her finger up to her lips, gesturing towards the whirl of activity taking place in the kitchen area. I smile acknowledgement and then start picking up a variety of toys and rattles that have been flung out of the playpen in the corner. When I drop the toys back in, the two occupants immediately toss them back out again with screams of delight.
So, after collecting them up once more, I store the toys under the table and give the twins a self-righteous nod. Then, ignoring their shrieks of dismay, I wander into the lounge-room where I fling myself into the armchair. Because there’s nothing left to do, except greet the hundred-odd guests in fifteen minutes or so. The place looks great – it’s festive, and brimming with food and drink. Even the weather has been kind, with the rain holding off thus far and the gusty winds of last night reduced to mere asthmatic puffs of wheezy air.
And I look great also, if I say so myself. Partly because I’ve dismissed unrequited love and timid Tasmanians for the duration of the day and partly because I took quite a bit of trouble over my outfit. I am, after all, the mother of the mother of the guest of honour. I’m dressed in a pair of flared black hipsters with a very wide, snug, gold-buckled belt made of the same cottony material, and a three-quarter-sleeved, flesh-pink little cardigan that does not quite reach the top of the hipsters. I’ve pulled my hair back into one of the waterfalls I’ve been favouring lately and have completed the ensemble with a pair of large gold-hoop earrings. Not bad at all for a . . . grandmother. There! I said it.
The doorbell rings just as I’m congratulating myself on this minor breakthrough, so I get up, smooth down my hipsters and answer the door. It’s Cam – or at least I think it’s Cam. Because, although I recognise the black silk pantsuit, the only identifying facial feature I can see are her eyes. The rest is hidden behind a silky blue scarf she has wrapped around her head and is holding up against the lower half of her face.
‘Quick!’ She peers around suspiciously and then pushes past me. ‘Quick! Up the stairs!’
‘Are you being followed?’ I ask in a stage whisper as I lean outside and check to see if there is anybody casing the joint. ‘Should I be carrying a piece?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ she hisses, already three steps up the spiral staircase. ‘Just come up here, and quickly!’
‘You go ahead, Mata Hari,’ I say as I shut the door, ‘and I’ll watch your back.’
But she has already disappeared towards the upper floor so, more than a little curious, I follow. When I get to the landing she is nowhere in sight so I check my bedroom first and there she is, sitting on the side of the bed and still holding the scarf to her face.
‘Look what I’ve done!’ she wails as she unwraps the scarf and flings it onto the bed. ‘Just look!’
So I do – and do an immediate double-take. Because the entire lower half of her face is red-raw – a throbbing, aching crimson that looks extremely painful. After I get past the initial shock, I walk over to the bed and bend down for a closer examination. And it seems that it’s not the entire lower half of her face, just all around her chin and the area between her lips and her nose. Sort of like a neat ruby-blotched moustache and matching goatee.
‘Hell.’ I reach out a tentative finger and then drop it again. ‘What have you done?’
‘Oh god! Oh god!’ Cam flops backwards on the bed and puts her hands up to her head. ‘Why do these things always happen to me?’
‘What things? What happened?’
‘You’re not going to believe this.’ She sits up again and looks at me with disgust. ‘Alex took all the kids out so that, just for bloody once, I’d have a few hours to myself. You know, for a bath and stuff. A bit of me-time. Anyway, I get out of the bath and when I’m looking in the mirror, I find a big black hair.’
‘Where?’ I sit down on the edge of the bed next to her. ‘On the mirror?’
‘No, on me! And it was enormous – this long!’ Cam holds out her finger and thumb about three inches apart, and shakes them at me. ‘Growing out of my chin! So of course I pulled it out, but then when I looked closer I thought I looked a bit, well – furry. So I hunted around and found Sam’s cream for her legs and put that on.’
‘What sort of cream?’ I ask with foreboding.
‘You know, those damn debilitating ones that are supposed to work mi
racles.’
‘Depilating,’ I correct absentmindedly, ‘they’re called depilating creams.’
‘Who the hell cares what they’re called!’ she spits with fury. ‘Look what it did!’
‘Did you read the instructions?’ I ask slowly, examining the redness and hazarding a guess as to what the answer will be. ‘And how long did you leave it on for?’
‘That’s just it!’ Cam starts wailing again. ‘I did read the instructions – well, sort of. But then I got distracted with other things and before I knew it, I felt this awful burning sensation and remembered I had the damn stuff on, so I washed it straight off – but look! Just look at me!’
‘I am looking,’ I reply, as I try to think what the best course of action might be now. ‘You stay here. I’ll go and get some cream for it.’
‘Just what I need – more cream.’
I leave Cam sitting on the bed, staring miserably at herself in my dressing-table mirror, and run back downstairs. As I pass through the foyer, Bronte is just opening the door to her father, who is neatly dressed in a dark-brown suit and loaded down with alcohol.
‘Excellent!’ I exclaim heartily. ‘Bronte, grab Nick and give your father a hand with the grog. Take it over to David in the kitchen and he’ll sort it all out.’
‘Hello to you too, Terry,’ says Dennis as he looks me up and down. ‘And aren’t you looking good?’
‘Yes, aren’t I?’ I reply sweetly as I turn into the powder-room and fling open the cabinet where I keep my medicines. After rummaging around for several seconds, I find what I’m looking for and slam the cabinet shut before heading back out. The front door is still open, but this time it’s Alex and the three offspring standing on the threshold.
