Drip Dry (13 page)

1.30 pm

I am scratching my head uncontrollably as I throw my bag neatly onto the hat-stand and take my purchases up the passage and into the kitchen. CJ follows.

‘Will it hurt?'

‘Let me see.' I stop scratching for a moment and take one of the small brown bottles out of the paper bag to read the label.

‘Well? Will it hurt?'

‘It might sting a little –' I look up from the label and catch sight of her wide-eyed face – ‘I mean no, it doesn't hurt at all. Perfectly fine.'

In a pig's ear is it perfectly fine. For a start, it is
extremely
embarrassing to be phoned in the middle of the day by your daughter's school and tersely informed that the Nit Nurse has found a colony of virile bloodsucking parasites gorging happily on the surface of her tender scalp. All right, those weren't the
exact
words used, but the end result was the same. I had to go to the school forthwith and collect CJ, who was sitting with the other parasitic hosts (whose number included several of yesterday's party guests), outside the school office and take her home. She is not allowed back until she is treated. Hence the bottles.

‘Mummy, I don't like nits.'

‘CJ, there are very few people who do.' I automatically start scratching again. I don't know whether it is the power of suggestion or whether I actually have nits. Perhaps god hath sent a plague of lice to punish the fornicator. I certainly don't remember scratching like this yesterday. I pull the rest of the bottles out of the paper bag. One for each member of the family. Samantha should be thrilled.

‘Are they really sucking my blood?'

‘Yes,' I answer distractedly while I read the label thoroughly.

‘Aaaaah! I don't want them sucking my blood!'

‘Okay, okay!' I grab her by the hand and pull her down to the bathroom. ‘We'll treat you right now and get rid of them. It'll all be over and done with then.'

We both come to a dead halt in the bathroom doorway. Which is just as well, because there is no longer any floor in front of us. CJ is now totally distracted from her unwelcome hair accessories and my mouth drops open. I clap a hand to my forehead in dismay. When I left to go and collect my infected offspring, The Handyman had still been hard at work so I had simply asked him to slam the front door behind him when he left. I hadn't had a really good look at what was being done. But now I am – and I am beginning to regret my half today and half on Friday decision. Because the floor is
gone
! All gone! I now have an almost uninterrupted view of a good section of the ground about four foot below, as well as several of the house-stumps complete with spider-webs. I try to think positively.

At least he is neat, all the debris has been removed and, if there's one thing my house didn't need, it was
more
debris. He has also thoughtfully placed a wooden plank from the doorway to the bath for our convenience. The bath itself is suspended in its wooden framework with the shower above and nothing underneath except a few joists. CJ lurches eagerly forwards to walk the plank. I pull her back with one hand.

‘Hang on a minute.' With my hands on her shoulders, I turn CJ firmly to face me so that I can be sure of her complete attention. ‘Look at me. You
are
not
to enter this bathroom. Under any circumstances. You can still use the toilet next door of course, but for the time being, you wash your hands in the kitchen sink. I'll put some soap and a towel out there. So the bathroom itself is
totally
out of bounds. Is that understood?'

‘But –'

‘No buts. Is that understood?'

‘Not fair. I want to play pirates.'

‘I don't care.' I take her by the hand and drag her forcibly back up to the kitchen. ‘No entry, no pirates, no bathroom. We'll do this in here instead.'

‘But, Mummy, what happened to the floor in there?'

‘It's getting fixed. So keep away from it.' I put my hands underneath her arms and hoist her up onto the kitchen counter. Then I read the label on the bottle yet again (I am a nit novice so I want to be
absolutely
sure of what I'm doing), and pour some of the concoction into my palm. Then I start to massage the foul-smelling gunk through her blonde hair.

‘Yuck! Mummy, it
stinks
!'

‘I know,' I mumble, breathing shallowly through my mouth, ‘but just keep still and keep your eyes closed. And your mouth.'

I finish off the bottle and then fasten the stiffening hair loosely on top of her head with a red scrunchie. Then I drop a kiss on each of her eyelids, and another on her mouth. This shows the depth of affection I hold for the child because up close she now reeks something chronic.
And
I have a very delicate stomach.

‘Mummy?'

‘Yes?' I ask distractedly as I attempt to fit the child-proof cap back onto the nit bottle with little success.

‘You know at my party?'

‘Yes? Yes?' I try banging the lid on but it still won't fit.

‘When we watched the bideo of you?'

‘Yes?' I forget about the bottle and look at CJ with some trepidation. ‘The video. What about it?'

‘You told a lie.'

‘Well . . . ' I look at her trusting little face and try desperately to think of some legitimate, believable excuse. Finally I decide that sometimes the simple, unadulterated truth is the best form of defence.

‘Yes, I did tell a lie. But only because I was embarrassed. There were all these people looking at me with no clothes on and I was really,
really
embarrassed. How would you feel if it was you? So I decided that the best way out was to tell them all that the person on the video wasn't me. And then I wouldn't be so embarrassed. See?'

‘But it was still a lie.'

‘Yes, that's right. And lying isn't very nice. But sometimes a lie isn't as bad as other times. I mean, sometimes lying is really, really bad, and sometimes lying is just a little bit bad. It's like if I asked you whether you liked my hair and you really didn't but you didn't want to hurt my feelings, you might say that you
do
like my hair. And that wouldn't really be
bad
lying, would it?'

‘Yes, it would still be lying. And I
don't
like your hair.'

‘What, why not?' I put my hand to my head self-consciously. ‘What's wrong with it?'

‘It's too short.'

‘Oh. Well that's a matter of taste, isn't it? But do you understand what I am talking about?'

‘No.'

‘I see.' I sigh heavily and decide a change of strategy is in order. ‘All right then. Listen up. I am the adult and, despite what you think, I know best. The lie I told last night was
not
a bad lie. And I wouldn't have had to tell a lie at all if you and your brother hadn't decided to film me in the bath. Right?'

‘I suppose.'

‘Well, then. There is a way that you can make it up to me. You can just not tell anyone
ever
that it was me in the video. And that includes your father, actually
especially
your father. Or Alex. Or Maggie. Or – anyone. Just don't tell anyone. It'll be our little secret, okay?'

‘Yes, but –'

‘No buts. No anything.'

‘You still lied,' CJ says sulkily as she folds her arms across her chest and looks away from me. ‘And you always say lying is berry bad.'

‘It is. Usually.' I lift her down and place her back on the floor. ‘And now you can go and start tidying up your bedroom.'

‘What? No! Not fair – I hab nits!'

‘I'm afraid nits don't stop you from cleaning your room – but good try.' I point with one finger down to her bedroom and she goes, albeit reluctantly. I follow her only as far as the bathroom where I stand
in the doorway, shaking my head slowly. I can't even close the door because the wooden plank is in the way. Thank god it's not winter, we'd freeze. As it is, today is the first day in quite a while that we haven't needed some sort of air-conditioning. Typical. I suppose that the lesson here is to check what the halfway point actually
is
before opting for the half and half option.

After shaking my head one more time for good measure, I turn and go to check the answering machine. So there, Mum – I
do
check it on a regular basis. That's twice today so far and it's not even teatime. There are another three new messages already so I press the playback button.

‘You'll no doubt be quite disappointed to learn that nothing particular has ever happened on this day. Apart from Custer getting married in 1864, that is. Are you ever home? Ring me.'

One thing is for sure, Terry will know as soon as she looks at me – or even listens to me – that I have just had a night of wild, unadulterated passion. Or at least fifteen minutes of it, anyway. She is uncanny with her perceptions – I think I'll leave it till tomorrow to ring her.

‘Still not home? It's Alex – I'll ring again later.'

Has Alex always been this persistent? He certainly wasn't when our marriage fell apart. I resolve to screen the calls for the rest of the day. I
do
realise that I have to talk to him eventually, but I want a bit of time.

‘Are you ever home, darling? How are the shoes? Ring me.'

Well, that's short and sweet. Shoes, shoes, shoes – I must write that down before I forget. I wipe the messages, drag out my address book and dial Caron's number. I get
her
answering machine.

‘Hi, Caron? It's Camilla Riley, CJ's mum, here. I thought I should let you know that CJ got sent home with lice today and it might be a good idea for you to check Caitlin's hair as well. Before she shares them with the twins. Sorry. Anyway, just thought I'd let you know. Bye.'

That's my good deed for the day. The way CJ and Caitlin have their heads together all the time, I would be very surprised if Caitlin wasn't infected as well. Then I dial the maternity ward of the Angliss Hospital and ask the nurse on duty to let Diane know that I definitely won't be in today but I'll see her tomorrow. I'm not going anywhere for the rest of today. I am going to de-nit my hair and then hibernate. Of course, as soon as I hang the phone up, it rings.

‘Hello?' I answer as I belatedly remember my decision to screen my calls. Damn.

‘Hi.' Keith waits for a second before continuing, ‘Have you got a minute?'

‘Well, yes.' Thank god it's not Alex.

‘I wanted to talk to you about something.'

‘Oh. What?' My heart starts to sink – please, please don't talk about that damn video or ask me out or anything.

‘It's about CJ.'

‘Well, of
course
it is.'

‘Don't you think that, for her age, she's a little . . . well, immature?'

‘No,' I answer in surprise. ‘No, she's really quite bright.'

‘I didn't say she wasn't
bright
, I said she was immature.'

‘Well, she's not that either. She's fine!'

‘I don't know.' He pauses for a moment. ‘I reckon she's a bit babyish.'

‘But, Keith, she's the youngest in the family. The youngest is
always
a bit babyish.'

‘And then there's her speech,' he continues regardless. ‘I'm a bit worried about her speech. The way she still can't say “v”.'

‘What?'

‘Don't tell me you haven't noticed? It's so obvious!'

‘Of
course
I've noticed! But hell's bells, she's only five!'

‘Actually, she's now turned six. Yesterday – remember?'

‘All right! Six then. It's still not an issue.'

‘Well, I'd like her to see someone.'

‘Oh, that's not necessary at all!'

‘I think it is.'

‘Keith, it's a waste of time. She'll grow out of it, I assure you.'

‘And you're an expert?'

‘There's no need to get smart. I only think you're overreacting, that's all.'

‘Well, that's
your
opinion.
I
disagree and
I
want her to see someone!'

‘Well,
you
can take her!'

‘Fine! I'll arrange it then!'

‘Good for you!'

‘
And
I'll remember how uncooperative you were!'

‘Oh, write it down, Keith –
just
in case you forget.'

‘Christ almighty, I was a fool when I married you!'

‘Yes, but I was so infatuated I didn't notice!'

‘Go to hell!' The phone is slammed down in my ear. Ah! That's the Keith I remember! But I do feel a little bit guilty, because he
did
start off being rather polite and he
was
obviously concerned. But even a little bit guilty is a vast improvement on how I would have felt even a year ago after a disagreement with Keith. I would have been flustered and jittery for the rest of the day. Now, I am able to put things in perspective and not let it
get
to me – especially when I think he's overreacting about something. And in this case, I'm sure he is. Because there
isn't
anything to worry about, and I'd say her v's will start falling into place within the next year. In fact, I remember that one of my nephews – I think it was Christopher – would say ‘y' instead of ‘l' until he was almost eight years old. I grin as I recall that unfortunately, when he learnt to read, his favourite book was called
The little caterpillar
and he read the first page as: ‘In the yight of the moon, a yittle yegg yay on a yeaf.' I'll never forget it – it was hysterical. And I don't think Chris ever worked out why everybody always asked him to read that particular book to them. CJ has absolutely nothing to worry about.

Right on cue, she comes bouncing out of her room and skips up the passage before coming to a
sudden halt. Then she holds her arms out and pirouettes around in front of me, with her hair standing rigidly still and upright.