Drip Dry (18 page)

With impeccable timing, at this moment Keith's mother enters the aisle pushing her half-filled trolley. She stops dead when she sees me squatting by the toys and looks at the shelves, CJ and then back at me. Her eyebrows rise ever so slightly but the dour expression on her face does not change.

‘That little boy who's missing,' I announce loudly in her general direction, ‘he's in between the shelving here. Would you mind going to get an assistant?'

A few other faces turn back towards me as enlightenment dawns and the lady closest to me visibly sags with relief.

‘Oh, it's the little boy!'

‘I didn't know
what
you were doing!'

‘
I'll
go and get someone.' A portly young female with more than her fair share of chins pushes her
trolley against the opposite shelving and wobbles off to get some help. Two other women abandon their respective trolleys and come over to squat down and peer in at the little boy. Keith's mother pushes her trolley over and bobs down as well. The poor child recoils visibly at the combined sight of all our faces and starts to cry noisily.

‘It's all right, it's all right,' I say soothingly, ‘Mum'll be here soon.'

This makes the little boy cry even louder and his nose begins to run. What with that, and the chocolate that is already smeared over his face, he is not a pretty sight. CJ gets up quickly and backs away towards our trolley. She is fairly fastidious and has obviously changed her mind about taking the child home, which is just as well. I think I'd even prefer Bondage Barbie to a three-year-old boy with a penchant for shoplifting and crawling into small spaces to make a spectacle of himself. The loudspeaker crackles into life and the lost announcement is relayed again throughout the store.

‘There is
still
a little lost boy in the store. He is three years old and dressed in jeans and a Sydney Swans t-shirt. Could anybody finding Jordan please bring him to the service counter – his mother is getting
very
concerned.'

The little boy starts to wail even louder and rubs his eyes, smearing tears and chocolate and mucus into an unholy mess that only a mother could love. I grimace and the two women next to me do likewise. Keith's mother gets up, her knees creaking, and retreats over to where her grand-daughter is standing, still clutching Bondage Barbie. CJ, never slow off the mark, seizes her opportunity.

‘Nannie, I
lub
this Barbie.'

‘That's nice, dear.'

‘And Mummy won't buy it for me.'

‘That's too bad.'

‘She says it's rebolting.'

‘That
is
a shame.'

‘And she won't let me use my money neither.'

‘Well, Mummy probably knows best, dear.'

‘So instead of the whistle for my birthday, could I hab this?'

At this juncture, a thin, distraught female in jeans and a simply
gorgeous
short-sleeved Angora top comes around the corner of the aisle at a run and flies down towards us. She is closely followed by a youthful shop assistant and then, a little further back, by the portly young female who went to get help. With a shock, I realise that I actually know the thin, distraught female quite well.

‘Caron!' I automatically take another look at the chocolate-covered child and realise that, in between the smears, tears and mucus, he
does
look a little like one of Caron's three-year-old twins. ‘I didn't realise that this was
your
Jordan!'

Caron glances at me only briefly before falling to her knees and peering through the action figures at her wailing son. I suppose that now would be a bad time to ask her where she got that top.

‘Jordan? Jordan, thank
god
!' She takes a deep breath and clutches at her stomach. ‘Now get out of there this
instant
!'

Jordan stops wailing, but scrunches his eyes closed and wipes his sleeve across his nose before
shoving said sleeve into his mouth and sucking noisily. My stomach lurches and I get up quickly. So do the other interested observers. Leaning against the toy display with her hand over her mouth, the youthful store assistant elects to leave the situation to Caron, who is now alternately demanding and then pleading with her son to crawl out through the gap. Neither approach is having any success.

‘Mummy?' CJ is staring from Caron to Jordan and back again. ‘Is that really Caitlin's little brother?'

‘Sure is.'

‘I didn't know that,' she observes with some distaste, and then: ‘I don't
really
want to take him home. At all.'

‘Fine.' I quickly glance at Caron and then lower my voice as I reply, ‘Neither do I.'

‘Camilla?' Keith's mother approaches me with Bondage Barbie held aloft in one hand. ‘Do you have any objection to my buying this doll for Christine's birthday?'

‘What?' I look at her, and then at the revolting doll, and then back at her again. ‘You really want to buy
that
?'

‘It's just that Christine seems to have her heart set on it and it
is
for her birthday.'

‘Sure,' I reply, realising suddenly that there is every chance Bondage Barbie will make less noise than a whistle, especially a really
loud
whistle. ‘Sure, if you want. No problem.'

‘Yeah, yeah!' CJ grins happily at her grandmother. ‘Thank you so much, Nannie. It's the
best
birthday present I eber got!'

‘All right then,' replies Keith's mother with a
pleased smile. ‘It's all settled then. Camilla, is it all right if I take Christine up to the checkout now and pay for it?'

‘Certainly,' I say, rather magnanimously for somebody whose almost two hundred dollars worth of birthday presents have just been dismissed out of hand. ‘Then, if you find me when you're finished to drop CJ off?'

‘Of course,' says Keith's mother as she takes CJ by the hand and, abandoning her trolley by the side of the aisle, heads off towards to the checkout counter. I watch them go and then turn back to the drama unfolding between the action men and the beanie bears. The shop assistant, obviously deciding that some effort on her part is required, has now begun methodically removing the toys from the shelving and piling them on the floor so that they will eventually be able to extract Jordan from within. Caron has given up all semblance of maternal pleading and is reeling off a list of the dire consequences the boy will be facing when she gets her hands on him. None of which are tempting him to come out without being forced to. In fact, if anything, he has dug in even deeper. But at least he has stopped wailing and just sits, glaring at his mother balefully through reddened eyes and with a face covered by various sticky substances, some of which are starting to congeal.

‘And you just wait till your father gets home! Boy, is he going to have something to say about your behaviour!' Caron catches sight of me and groans, ‘Do you know, I always swore I would never say that when I had kids of my own. But there's a lot of
things you swear you won't do before you know any better.'

‘Very true.'

‘Listen, thanks for finding him. I honestly thought that, this time, something really bad had happened.'

‘That's fine. I didn't even know it was him until I saw you.'

‘Thanks anyway,' Caron says, wiping her blonde hair back with one hand. ‘God, what have I done to deserve this?'

This rhetorical question, asked by all religious
and
non-religious parents at one time or another, remains unanswered – simply because there is no answer. The interested observers have by now all departed to finish their shopping and, while every now and again somebody stops to see what's happening, we are relatively alone. The shop assistant, who really doesn't look any more than fifteen, removes the last of the merchandise and sits back on her skinny haunches with a sigh of relief.

‘Okay, then. Out you come, buddy.'

‘I'd better do that.' Caron leans forwards and reaches in between the shelving. ‘Come on, Jordan, don't fight me.'

She emerges with Jordan wrapped around her like a particularly grubby koala with his face pressed against her neck. I grimace involuntarily and meet the eyes of the shop assistant who is doing exactly the same. She ducks her head and starts restacking the shelves with the unmistakable air of one who has put all thoughts of having children off her agenda for life.

‘I'm suh-suh-suh sorry, Mummy,' sobs Jordan
in a voice muffled by his mother's neck. ‘I'm really suh-suh-sorry!'

‘I know, darling,' replies his mother, holding him tight. ‘I know.'

‘
Please
don't tell Daddy!' Jordan raises his head and looks at his mother imploringly. ‘Puh-puh-puhlease?'

‘I won't. It's all right,' says his mother soothingly as she pats his back.

I smile, touch her lightly on the shoulder and, when she turns to look at me, wave goodbye. Jordan also looks up and, with his arms still wrapped tightly around his mother, wipes his nose against her shoulder, leaving a dull pea-green and chocolate trail across the angora. I retreat to my trolley quickly and reflect that my good deed has at least brought a couple of handy little financial rewards. Firstly, I no longer covet Caron's top, and secondly, I should have no trouble sticking to my list now that any appetite I had has been well and truly destroyed by Jordan's nasal antics.

As Caron gets to her feet with her son still firmly attached, I leave and head off to continue my shopping unencumbered by CJ. Another reward. In fact, without her I finish in record time and am moving towards the checkouts as she and her grandmother finish paying for Bondage Barbie at the express lane (always a trap) and approach me.

‘Make sure you keep hold of that receipt, Christine,' advises Keith's mother, ‘otherwise they will think you haven't paid for your doll.'

‘Oh, I will, Nannie,' replies CJ, clutching a plastic bag to her chest. ‘I'll be berry careful.'

‘Thank you for that,' I say politely to Keith's mother. ‘It was very nice of you.'

‘Not at all.'

I nudge CJ, who has opened her bag and is peering into it. ‘Don't you have something to say to Nannie?'

‘Oh sure!' CJ closes her bag and gives her grandmother an angelic smile. ‘Thank you so much, Nannie. Thank you, thank you, thank you.'

‘You're very welcome, Christine. And I'll see you next time you come around.' Keith's mother glances at me quickly and then back at CJ. ‘I mean, with your father, that is.'

I smile ruefully while I start unloading my groceries onto the conveyor belt and reflect on how life is so predictable at times. That is, some things change, but some stay just the same. As if to prove my point, the loudspeaker crackles to life and yet another announcement issues forth:

‘
There is a little lost girl in the store. She is three years old and dressed in jeans and an Adelaide Crows t-shirt. She answers to the name of Jade. Could anybody finding Jade please bring her to the service counter – her mother is quite concerned.
'

I smile, purely because children like Jade and Jordan make me feel a hell of a lot better about my three offspring. However, my pleasure is short-lived because CJ chooses that moment to announce loudly that she has, in the last twenty seconds, managed to lose the receipt for Bondage Barbie. She has also managed to lose the plastic bag. I grit my teeth at her and proceed to look under the trolley, under
the counter, under the display shelf, and under CJ. Then I check her pockets, her clothing, and her mouth. Lastly, I do a quick scan of the supermarket for Christine but she is nowhere in sight. Of course.

CJ starts to cry as she no doubt senses the impending cessation of her association with Bondage Barbie. There is no
way
I am paying for the damn doll. The teller has finished scanning the items I had placed on the belt and is waiting patiently for me to empty the rest of my trolley. The lady behind me is waiting for the same thing, but not quite so patiently. And I massage my temples slowly as I reflect once more on the predictability of life. My life, anyway. Because it doesn't seem to matter what happens to whom, I end up paying for it.

4.40 pm

I dump the two bags of groceries I am carting on the floor next to the hall-table, hang up my bag on the hat-stand, and press the button on the answering machine. It whirs busily backwards for a couple of seconds and then starts to speak to me.

‘On this day in 1950 Mark Spitz was born – you know, the guy who won seven golds at the Munich Olympics? Nice abs. Anyway, I'll be a bit late tomorrow night but I should be there by eight. See you then!'

Hmm, I'm still not sure whether a few drinks with Terry tomorrow night is a good idea. The practical side of me says that it might be beneficial to talk about what happened on Tuesday night but the emotional side of me (which
has
been holding the reins for almost forty years and isn't about to give up now) is saying don't talk about it, don't think about it, don't even acknowledge it – then maybe you can pretend that it simply didn't happen.

‘Hello, Mrs McNeill – or is it Mrs Riley? This is the canteen supervisor from Christine's primary school. Ringing to remind you that you are rostered on for canteen duty tomorrow. See you then.'

Well, that's something to look forward to. And it's
Ms
Riley, thanks all the same. But I daren't let her down – that canteen supervisor has a mean streak as broad as her build. If I don't turn up, CJ won't get sauce on her hot dogs for the rest of the year. A third message kicks in with a whir.

‘Oh, you're not at home. It's ten-thirty. In the morning. I hope that means that Harold and I can expect you soon. You
do
remember that you promised to help out at Harold's house today? I'm sure you do. Elizabeth is already here, of course. So we'll see you soon.'

Oh my god! I totally forgot about helping out at Harold's today! And it's too late to go up there now – my mother is going to
kill
me. I shall have to think of a really good excuse before she rings me – or simply not answer.

‘It's Alex. Are you ever home? Catch you later.'

Not if I can help it. I rewind the tape over the messages and pick up the two bags of groceries. Ben
comes wandering down the passageway and glares at me.

‘Where have
you
been?' he says accusingly.

‘I had a million things to do today. Sorry I'm late.'

‘Did you do the groceries? We're out of biscuits.'

‘Yep, they've been melting in the boot all afternoon. Go and give CJ a hand with them, will you? And bring in those boxes of tiles from the boot as well. You can stack them outside the bathroom door, thanks.' I actually dropped the frozen stuff off earlier on my way to Mega-tile City, the home of every variety of floor and wall tile you could possibly imagine – and many more that you probably couldn't – so there shouldn't be anything actually melting in the boot, I hope. Ben opens the door and heads outside.

‘Mum! Where have you been?' Sam comes out of her bedroom and looks at me with concern. ‘I was getting really worried.'

‘I was just getting some bits and pieces done, that's all. And picking out the new tiles for the bathroom.'

‘Well, you could have rung or something. You'd, like, scream if I did that.'

‘True. Okay, I'll remember that.' I shake my head in disbelief because, until only a short while ago, I was working until five o'clock every day and there didn't seem to be any problems with me coming in late. It certainly hasn't taken them very long to get used to me being at home when they walk in the door every day, and carrying on like two-bob watches when I'm not. I go down to the kitchen, dump the
groceries on the table, and put the kettle on. Sam follows me and starts to unpack one of the bags.

‘What's
this
cereal?'

‘I thought we'd try a new one for a change.'

‘Gross.'

‘Anyway, I thought you and Ben were going to visit Auntie Diane after school today?'

‘We did – or actually, I did. We had the last two periods off so Sara and I went over then. The babies are
gorgeous
! And did you know she's called them Robin and Regan? And Regan looks like Grandma.'

‘But I thought you were going to take Ben over?'

‘Not likely!' Sam looks at me as if I have just suggested that she eat dirt.

Meanwhile CJ comes staggering down the passage holding a bag of groceries with two hands and lurches herself into the kitchen, grunting with the effort. I reach out and take the bag from her. It only has tissues and toilet paper in it, and weighs about as much as two feathers. However, it was obviously enough to exhaust CJ, who throws herself onto a chair, breathing heavily.

‘Can't carry any more. Look, Sam! It's my new doll what my Nannie bought for me!'

‘Really,
Nannie
bought it for you? How nice of her,' I comment sarcastically, still feeling extremely bitter about the fact that I have added considerably to the profit margin of the grocery store by purchasing the same item twice. I did try to state my case to the checkout operator but to little avail. She simply asked CJ to point out the teller who had served her only ten minutes earlier, but apparently she had
suffered spontaneous combustion or something. So that was that. On the way home, I came up with a slightly paranoid theory that Christine had surreptitiously lifted the receipt and bag so that she could lurk around the corner and smirk at my discomfiture. She and Keith are probably going to have hysterics over it next time they meet.

‘Are you looking, Sam? See, she's eben got black knickers on!'

‘Cool. I like her boots.' Sam peels the plastic off the toilet paper rolls and takes them down to the bathroom. The doorbell rings and she detours to answer it. I can hear her talking to somebody. I hope to god it's not Alex – or my mother either, for that matter. I fill the coffee plunger with hot water and then start to put some of the groceries away. Ben comes down the passage with three bags in each hand, heaves them onto the floor in front of me, gives his little sister a filthy look, and heads back out to the car for some more.

‘Mum! Look – flowers!'

‘My god!' My mouth drops open as I turn to see Samantha, who is standing in the doorway partially obscured by a large arrangement of white camellias and assorted greenery. She moves forwards and places the arrangement gingerly on the counter in front of me.

‘Mummy! Lubly flowers!' CJ and Bondage Barbie come over for a closer look.

‘Look, there's a card.' Sam plucks a small white envelope from amongst the foliage and reads it. ‘And it's addressed to
you
!'

‘My god!' I am just as amazed as she is.

‘Can I read it?'

‘No!' I grab the envelope out of her hand as Ben comes back in with another load of bags, dumps them on the floor next to the others, gives everybody a filthy look in general, and starts to rummage through the groceries in search of something to eat.

‘Did you put the tiles outside the bathroom, Ben?'

‘Yep.'

‘What does the card say, Mum?'

‘Yes, Mummy! What does it say?'

‘Thanks for all your help, you lot,' Ben says with an attempt at sarcasm as he finds a packet of biscuits and tears it open.

‘
Does
it?' CJ says with a frown on her face.

‘Of course not, CJ. Come on, Mum, what does it say?'

‘I'll open it later.' I tuck the little envelope into a pocket in my skirt and pat it to make sure that it is secure. ‘After we've put everything away.'

‘Oh! It's a secret!'

‘Hey, Ben, Mum's got a secret admirer. Look at the flowers.'

‘Humph,' Ben replies grumpily around a mouthful of milk arrowroot biscuit. I pick up the flowers to move them somewhere more suitable, but then change my mind and place them back on the counter. I finally manage to push Christine McNeill, Bondage Barbie and their joint financial sting out of my mind. These flowers look beautiful. Samantha grins at me and starts to unpack the groceries in double-quick
time, even folding the plastic bags neatly after she empties each one. But I don't want to share the note with her. Or with anybody for that matter. I try and distract her.

‘Did I tell you that I picked out the new tiles for the bathroom floor? They're really nice. Do you want to have a look?'

‘No. I want to see what your card says.'

‘I told you I'd open it later.' I glance up at the clock. ‘And what time did you say your father was collecting you two?'

‘Oh, I'd forgotten about that! Ben, come on, we need to get changed!' Sam abandons the groceries and heads off to her bedroom. Ben follows, with considerably more reluctance – and a handful of biscuits.

‘Not fair! I want to go too!'

‘Well, we'll have a yummy dinner anyway. How about macaroni cheese?'

‘Yuck.'

‘All right. What about sausages? Or spaghetti and meatballs? Or chicken schnitzel?'

‘Yuck. Yuck. Yuck.'

‘Well, with that sort of attitude you can just have baked beans on toast.'

‘Yum!'

‘Fine. Consider it done.' I edge my way into a corner of the kitchen, turn my back on CJ, and take the envelope out of my pocket. I look around quickly to make sure nobody is watching and slowly slide the card out.

‘Mum, how does this look?'

‘Lovely.' I give Sam a cursory glance as I shove
the card back into the envelope and back into my pocket. Then I turn to give her my full attention. I was right the first time, she does look lovely. She is wearing a pair of black cotton hipsters and a black halter-neck top that is shot through with silver. Oh, to be eighteen again.

‘Do you think so?' she asks as she does a little pirouette.

‘I know so.'

Ben comes back into the kitchen wearing scruffy runners, jeans, a torn t-shirt, and a hangdog expression.

‘Ben! Dad said dress neatly!'

‘Ben, that won't do. Go and get changed.'

‘I don't even want to go anyway,' he grumbles as he heads back to his bedroom. Sam leaves also, but continues down the passage in the direction of the bathroom. CJ has started to undress Bondage Barbie on the table. This is my chance. I pull out the envelope, remove the card and rapidly read the four printed words:

Are you avoiding me?

Well, actually – yes, Alex, I am. How astute of you. But I have a smile on my face as I push the card back into the envelope and then stare out into the backyard for a few minutes. Murphy has managed to dislodge one of the staghorns from a tree and is dismembering it with gusto. Am I acting a bit childishly by not facing this thing head-on? Is Alex in fact displaying a lot more maturity and commonsense by
wanting to talk about it and get it out in the open? I mean, it
did
happen and it isn't going to go away. I only wish that I knew what I wanted. The doorbell rings.

‘That'll be Dad!' Sam calls out as she rushes from the bathroom to answer it. I freeze at the window for a second and then turn, grab the flowers and shove them quickly into the laundry on top of the washing-machine. I duck back into the kitchen, shut the laundry door and try to get my breathing under control. Act nonchalant. Act nonchalant. Act nonchalant. Bloody hell.

‘What're you staring at, Mummy?'

‘Nothing. Nothing.' I take a deep breath and brush my fingers through my hair. Then I walk slowly down the passage towards the front door where I can hear Samantha talking to her father. But by the time I get there they have already left and are walking over to the metallic bronze Holden Commodore parked in Alex's driveway. Even from the back Alex is looking
very
nice in a pair of tailored navy trousers and patterned shirt. He carries the little bit of weight he has put on rather well. My stomach does a couple of flip-flops and my legs feel weak. Resolutely, I smooth down my batik outfit and wander over to the side fence where I lean casually.

‘Have a good time,' I call courteously.

‘Oh, my god! It's
you
!' Alex whirls around, clasps his hand to his chest and acts as if he is absolutely astounded to see me. ‘Be still my heart.
What
a surprise!'

‘Ha, ha. I've been busy.'

‘You
must
have been.'

‘I do have a life, you know.'

‘What're you talking about?' Sam has paused with her hand on the car door and is looking at us both suspiciously. ‘What life?'

‘Nothing. Only your father's idea of a little joke.'

‘How little?' he asks with a grin on his face.

‘
Very
little,' I answer through clenched teeth. Ben comes slunking across the yard and over to his father's car, dressed exactly as he had been fifteen minutes ago – except for a slightly cleaner pair of runners.

‘You can't go out like that,' I say, looking him over. ‘Hang on, Alex, and I'll grab him another shirt.'

I walk back towards my house, affecting a slightly hip-swaying, languid semi-stroll that I have seen Cameron Diaz use to perfection. When I reach the house, I glance back to see if anyone was watching my performance, but they are deep in discussion. So I break the stroll and simply run up the passage into Ben's room and throw open his wardrobe. There is absolutely nothing hanging up but I find a reasonable looking button-up shirt draped over the top of his guitar. It even still looks ironed. Probably because, after declaring that music was his destiny and he would die without a guitar for his tenth birthday, he only ever used it once or twice. I grab the shirt and take it back outside.

By the time I reach Alex's car, without bothering to use the slightly hip-swaying, languid semi-stroll, Ben has ensconced himself in the back seat. I knock on the window and hold out the shirt.

‘Come on, Ben, you can't go out in that shirt. It's disgusting.'

‘Your mother's right, Ben,' adds Alex. ‘The restaurant we're going to won't let you in with a t-shirt. Especially
that
t-shirt.'