And so you have these weird, breathy discussions with complete strangers:
Man: ‘Yes, well, we tried the Laminex top and found it quite hard-wearing, especially in heavy wear areas.’
Woman: ‘Yes, we used to have Laminex, but then Patrick and I changed over to the Corian benchtops. Which are great.’
And all through this, you’ll be sort of leaning towards each other slightly, both of you sucking in your tummies and going all moony in the eyes.
Naturally nothing is going to happen. You are two middle-aged parents, with mortgages and families. Finding a spare five minutes to pay the gas bill is a minor miracle, never mind taking off a whole morning for a torrid affair.
And so, after about thirty minutes, you’ll both wander off, a strange tingle in your head, thrilling to your shock discovery: ‘I AM STILL ATTRACTIVE TO THE OPPOSITE SEX! (Even if only when the OPPOSITE SEX is very DRUNK because it’s CHRISTMAS).’
But still Jocasta remains suspicious. And now, of course, she wants to come to my party. Especially, she says, as her work party will be really dull, full of ‘office types’.
She’s suggested I shouldn’t even bother going to her bash. Apparently, I’d only be bored. It’s wonderful, isn’t it, how she always puts my welfare first?
Griswold’s Christmas
Frank, over the road, has installed some Christmas lights, strung across the front of his house. They twinkle merrily. On Saturday I visit Target, to check out the prices. Outdoor Christmas lights cost $65, and I make the purchase.
When I get home, Jocasta is not happy. She says $65 is a lot of money, plus there’s all the electricity. She mentions the National Lampoon film in which Chevy Chase played Clark Griswold — a daggy American whose dedication to Christmas illuminations results in the conflagration of his own home. She also states that decorating the outside of a suburban house with lights is a bit ‘goofy’. (And this from a woman who last month purchased an item of garden statuary.)
I’m used to this sort of abuse. With quiet dignity, I turn on my heels and proceed outside to string my lights. I don’t want to go on about it, but I did a pretty amazing job — creating several Christmas-tree shapes across the front of our house before the line of lights ran out.
Jocasta didn’t get to see the effect straight away. We drove off before it was dark, heading for Carols by Candlelight two suburbs away. These ones are down on the bay, and the carols aren’t the only attraction. The houses fronting the park have been done up with lights and decorations. And all the way there, Jocasta is calling me Clark Griswold. ‘You’ll be able to pick up a few tips for next year, Clark. That’s if our house isn’t a smouldering ruin by the time we get home.’
It’s a real scene down at the park. There’s a couple of hundred people singing carols, and as dusk falls, all the household lights come on. They’ve been at this for decades, and fierce competition has sprung up. Everyone is going for a different look, and Jocasta pokes me in the ribs with each new concept: a model Santa climbing onto a roof, a line of cut-out elves, even a householder who has dressed in a Santa suit to add a live element to his display. ‘Now, there’s an idea for you, Clark,’ she says, giving me a squeeze. ‘Perfect body for it.’
The next house along has gone for the religious look — beautiful glass models of Joseph and Mary, lit from within. Next up, there’s Vegas — a house throbbing with lights. ‘Compared to that, Clark, your effort is a bit like Reno — fewer lights, and a bit further west.’
She’s trying to be ironic and detached, but I know my Jocasta. Ever so slowly, she’s becoming taken with the idea. ‘So, tell me again,’ she says, finally, ‘how much is each extra set of lights?’
We come around the corner, and a particularly big crowd is in front of one house. There’s much excited talking and pointing. It’s hard to imagine what the householder has done to create such interest. Already we’ve seen every imaginable permutation: toy trains with elves aboard, electric angels singing hymns, cut-out reindeer teams spread over two front yards.
We peek through the crowd, and then we understand. It’s a manger scene, constructed in the front garden. There’s a patch of ‘snow’ — white polystyrene cubes covering the ground — and a thatched roof to indicate the manger. A three-year-old girl sits cross-legged in a beautiful white dress, her hair specially curled and coiffured. She is spotlit. Next to her, on the ground: a crib. In the crib — and I swear I’m not making this up — A REAL BABY.
The baby is tiny enough that it is still sucking on the back of its hand. It’s probably about nine weeks old. It’s pretty much the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen.
Back on the street corner, two Mr Whippy vans have pulled up, and are doing a roaring trade. They know a real attraction when they see it. The blokes down the road might be burning three hundred bucks worth of power each night, but without a real baby …
The mother is on the porch, checking on the children, but she keeps clear of the limelight. It’s just the main players. The sister. The baby. The white polystyrene snow. I must say they look quite happy. That little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes.
Suddenly, I realise the sort of competition I’ve got myself into. It may start with $65 at Target, but victory takes so much more.
We get home, our new lights twinkling, and Jocasta lets out a little sigh of pleasure. She’s even stopped calling me Clark. It seems Jocasta is converted, but I’m left wandering just how serious she is about us having something special for next year. I consult my calender and calculator, then throw a casual arm around her: ‘How about a weekend away, just the two of us, about March 25?’
The Christmas Cheer
Here’s what should happen on Christmas Day: 9.15 a.m. Awake to share perfect presents with perfect family.
12 noon Sit down to light but varied meal. Discuss world affairs. Enjoy single glass of semillon.
3.20 p.m. Retire with selection of Penguin Classics given by thoughtful relatives. The Balzac, you discover, is particularly good.
I don’t know about your place, but here is what is more likely to occur at ours:
5.17 a.m. The Space Cadet runs into bedroom. Debate ensues over precise meaning of the word ‘morning’. Allow him to look in Santa stocking. Discover stocking contains half the sugar production of Queensland in easily digestible form.
5.25 a.m. Marvel at the effect of sugar on the young human. Suggest he plays ‘somewhere else’.
5.34 a.m. Attempt to re-erect Christmas tree, clearing away all breakages.
6.15 a.m. Help Space Cadet unwrap presents. Explain Santa forgot batteries for the Action Explorer Belt Kit.
6.30 a.m. Suggest Space Cadet jumps into your bed and goes back to sleep.
6.31 a.m. Realise this would have been less painful if he’d first removed the Action Explorer Belt Kit.
6.32 a.m. Remove embedded pieces of Action Explorer Belt Kit from own body. Apply Band-Aids.
6.45 a.m. Fall asleep.
6.46 a.m. Awakened by Batboy. Suggest he might open Santa stocking. Marvel at the effect of sugar on the preteen body. Suggest he quietly opens his presents, and allows you to sleep.
6.50 a.m. Awake to sound of the Regurgitator CD being played very loud. Curse Santa for his musical taste.
6.57 a.m. Disassemble both CD player and son. Return to bed and sleep.
7.00 a.m. Awakened by Jocasta, who says she ‘slept like a log’ but is now ready for her cup of tea. Stomp down hall and prepare tea, impaling self on several pieces of the Action Explorer Belt Set.
7.05 a.m. Take Jocasta tea and breakfast on tray, walking in with tray held high, displaying the skills learnt when working as a waiter at the Hilton. Smile indulgently as Jocasta says: ‘Stop showing off or it will end up all over me.’
7.06 a.m. Help Jocasta out of bed and bathe injured and burnt areas. Change sheets. Suggest you both might as well open presents now.
7.15 a.m. Open presents and immediately use/wear/eat anything that is opened.
7.
25 a.m. Sit in new tropical shirt, matched by fresh Ugh boots, listening to Batboy’s Regurgitator album, while eating panforte and watching new Elvis video. Does pleasure get any more intense than this?
9.00 a.m. Realise Ughies are becoming a trifle warm, Elvis movie is over, and that your early consumption of panforte is creating waves of nausea.
9.05 a.m. Prepare sit-down dinner for 15 relatives, discussing how to avoid usual tensions between Grandfather Ryan and Uncle Steve. Decide lots of alcohol will ‘probably help them relax’.
9.30 a.m. Begin preparation of own fancy-pants showoff dish, congratulating self for being so well prepared.
9.55 a.m. Turn page in cookbook and see ‘Step 7: soak beans for 7 hours, then refrigerate overnight.’ Throw book on floor and weep.
10.00 a.m. Decide to pour brandy onto pudding. Decide to test brandy ‘just to make sure it’s not gone off’.
10.05 a.m. Remain unsure about quality of brandy. Test again.
10.15 a.m. One can’t take too many precautions before one serves to guests …
12.15 p.m. Welcome relatives, staggering slightly. Open oven and realise turkey is in traditional shape: stuffed.
12.30 p.m. Share presents with relatives. Tell sister: ‘I wanted this book from the moment it came out.’ Fail to disclose: ‘That’s why I bought it three months ago.’
12.45 p.m. Help Space Cadet assemble kid’s tent he’s been given by grandparents.
12.50 p.m. Realise why shops are closed on Christmas Day. Not for religious reasons, but so you can’t complain they forgot to pack the tent pegs.
1.05 p.m. Serve four-course meal in 35-degree heat, with wide range of traditional thirst quenchers such as red wine and whiskey.
1.30 p.m. During pudding, casually introduce topic of funny old family rift — the one that everyone used to be so ‘thingy’ about, but now can all have a good laugh over.
1.40 p.m. Discover family not at the ‘good laugh’ stage quite yet.
1.45 p.m. Use broken piece of Action Explorer Belt to separate Uncle Mark from Pa. Use fire extinguisher on tree. And turkey.
2.00 p.m. Stagger towards room with copy of new Bryce Courtenay novel. Discover it’s beyond you.
5.00 p.m. Wake up. Apologise. Share out left-overs.
5.10 p.m. Watch amazed as Uncle Mark complains that pubs are forced to close on Christmas Day. ‘I mean they let the churches open — so it’s just another damn double standard.’
7.00 p.m. Farewell guests, and discover the meaning of ‘Christmas cheer’. It’s the yell that goes up when it’s all over.
In Bed with Jocasta
The Space Cadet is in the back seat, crying — not the bunged-on hysteria he sometimes employs to get his own way, but the painful, broken sobbing of a boy who has come to a sudden and shattering realisation: that his father is a total joke. Jocasta is in the passenger seat, staring stonily ahead, no doubt wondering how she, a woman who once had some choices in life, has ended up here — in this car, with this man, in this town.
The town is Geurie, a dusty one-pubber just east of Dubbo, in western New South Wales — and we’re parked in the long grass out the back of the pub, nestled in beside the stack of smashed empties. It is dusk, and I’ve just explained my big plan for the night: that we sleep the night right here, all four of us, under a borrowed blanket in the back of the family station-wagon, using our T-shirts as pillows.
Somehow they are not impressed. I don’t know why. I’ve already seen the publican and borrowed the blanket. It’s a sort of a prickly ex-army thing, but it’s better than nothing. And nothing is what’s been on offer at the twenty-three pubs we’ve already tried — all of them refusing us a bed as they tried to cope with an unlikely influx of vacationers, railway workers and reps.
My problem is that Jocasta, sitting grimly silent, is equipped with an unbeatable ‘I told you so’, a gold-plated, Exocet missile of an ‘I told you so’. Before we left, she’d rung every pub and motel on the road to Dubbo. She’d thoroughly established the lack of vacancies, and said we should postpone our trip.
That’s when I made what, in retrospect, was my unwise rejoinder. ‘Don’t be stupid — who’d go to Dubbo? We’re sure to get a bed.’
Back behind the pub, I unpack the car in the gathering dusk, trying to imagine how we’ll all fit — two adults, Batboy and the always wriggly Space Cadet. ‘It’ll be an adventure,’ I say with a hollow brightness.
I watch Jocasta’s face, and for a moment it looks as though she’s going to say it — that ‘I told you so’. But she holds her fire. And, as every spouse knows, nothing’s so terrifying as an ‘I told you so’ held in abeyance — lying there between you, softly ticking.
The Space Cadet is still weeping. Between sobs, he explains how we will almost certainly get killed by robbers, who will come up while we are asleep and stare at us through the windows, their evil noses pressed to the glass.
Jocasta agrees that my plan may result in murder. Considering the level of provocation, she’d probably only have to serve a year of the sentence. Finally she speaks, and it’s something even tougher than the ‘I told you so’. What she says is: ‘It’s like your whole petrol-tank thing.’
That’s how unreasonable Jocasta can be. Just because we happen to be sitting in a motionless car in the gathering dusk, she has to mention every other time we’ve sat in a motionless car in the gathering dusk — even though they’re unrelated. (This time: because I thought we’d find a hotel. The last time: because I thought we’d find a petrol station.)
I tell The Space Cadet I’ll hang our towels over all the windows so the robbers can’t see us. He says: ‘I knew there were robbers here — and you said there weren’t.’ The sobs come harder.
Jocasta adopts that far-away philosophical look, and I know she’s going to call me by a really dirty name. Yep — here it comes — I’m ‘a man’.
‘It’s something about men, isn’t it?’ she says, finally. ‘You’re just totally convinced the world’s been built for your personal convenience. And that’s why you drive around with the needle on empty. You’re certain there’ll be a petrol station just when you run out. Or that somehow you’ll get a bed.’
No way was I going to let her get away with that. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t prepared for every contingency. I’d even packed two bottles of Hunter shiraz — long favoured as an aid to sleeping in the back of a station-wagon. But it’s those acts of thoughtfulness that never get a mention.
‘Actually, I think it’s good,’ says Jocasta. ‘Sleeping here might finally teach you a lesson: that things don’t always turn out right.’
The night darkens with a big-sky sunset glowing red on the horizon — everything quiet save for the boy’s rhythmic sobbing. Then I spot him — the publican walking briskly towards the car. It’s all I need. He probably wants his blanket back.
He addresses Jocasta: ‘Ah, I just can’t let you all sleep out here — it would be terrible with two young ones.’ His eighteen-year-old son can sleep on a spare bed in his sister’s room. We can have the boy’s bedroom.
Somehow, miraculously, things have turned out for the best. We wander inside, and all leap into the son’s huge water bed, laughing and giggling.
I know I’ll rot in hell, but I can’t resist it as I lean close, and whisper the sweet words. ‘Jocasta … I told you so.’
I am in bed with Jocasta, and things couldn’t be better.
About the author
Richard Glover is the author of five books, and three stage shows, including Lone Star Lemon. Richard’s weekly column has appeared in the Sydney Morning Herald since 1985. He presents the Drive show on ABC Radio in Sydney.
Also by Richard Glover
Grin and Bear It
The P-Plate Parent
(with Angela Webber)
Laughing Stock
(with Angela Webber)
The Joy of Blokes
(with Angela Webber)
Maps, Dreams, History:
Ra
ce and Representation in Australia
(with Noel Pearson, Patty O’Brien
and Lucy O’Connor)
Acknowledgments
The author would like to thank Debra Oswald, Amanda Higgs, Brian Curran, Linda Funnell and Belinda Yuille.
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in Australia in 2000
This edition published in 2011
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
ABN 36 009 913 517
harpercollins.com.au
Copyright © Richard Glover 2000
The right of Richard Glover to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Glover, Richard.
In bed with Jocasta.
ISBN 978-0-7322-6864-0 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-7304-9429-4 (ePub)
1. Australian wit and humor.
2. Australia — social life and customs — Humor.
I. Title.
A828.302
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
In Bed with Jocasta Page 15
