Drip Dry (4 page)

‘I'm not even sure I understand that.'

‘Anyway,' continues Maggie, ‘his plane isn't due till late afternoon so, what with customs and all, by the time we get back here your party will be long over.'

‘Whatever,' I say airily as I decide to change the subject. ‘Guess what happened to me this morning? Part of my bathroom floor collapsed – any suggestions?'

‘Getting it fixed?'

‘Very funny. No, I mean do you know anyone you could recommend?'

‘Actually, I do. He's a bit of an all-rounder.' She smiles as if recalling something rather entertaining. ‘A bit odd but
very
competent.'

‘Oh.' I look at her suspiciously. ‘Do you mean he's a client?'

‘Why? Does it matter?'

‘Oh
no
, of course not,' I reply quickly. For
someone who is so incredibly open-minded, Maggie can get surprisingly sensitive at times. ‘Do you have his number?'

‘Not on me.' She gives me an amused look. ‘I'll dig it up when I get home and ring you with it. But, as I said, he's a bit of an odd character. Hey, if you mention me he'll probably give you a discount.'

‘Well, um, I don't mind paying what's fair.' I get this mental image of me being asked to pay for the job in kind rather than in cash. However, maybe that
would
kill two birds with one stone. After all, for longer than I really care to think about, the closest that I've come to sex is the unwelcome attentions of an irrepressible border collie.

‘Don't be silly. He's not going to try and race you off.'

Damn. There goes that idea. I sigh heavily and get up to collect the coffee cups and return them to the sink.

‘Oh, well. We'd better get on with it, I suppose. Especially if we only have today.'

‘Yeah, you're right.' Maggie levers herself up and fishes her keys out of her bag. ‘We can talk while we work. I haven't even asked you about what subjects you ended up choosing for uni. And how your family is.'

‘Humph,' I reply shortly as I lead the way to the front door. My family isn't my favourite topic of conversation at the best of times, and I already know that this week is going to be an especially trying one for me. So while we head out, instead I fill Maggie in on the joys of orientation day at Monash University.

You see, I am having a mid-life career change of my own. Albeit without the sex. Until about the middle of last year, I had been contentedly employed by the regional council in our local library. Certainly, I had occasional fantasies of doing something else and never really envisaged staying at the library
all
my working life, but neither had I ever had a reason to leave. The job paid well and the hours suited my situation, especially as CJ was not yet at school then. The fact is, I'm not really much of a risk-taker and, if it wasn't for being temporarily suspended over a total misunderstanding last year, the decades probably would have each rolled into the other and I would have been there until forced retirement. But I
was
wrongfully suspended, just because I had my picture in the paper and it
looked
like I was attacking a policeman at a rally. Needless to say, appearances can be deceiving and not only was I
totally
innocent, but also more victim than perpetrator at the time. Fortunately for me, the only witness to the entire debacle was totally on my side (well, after I had wined her, dined her and generally invited her into my circle of family and friends, that is), and she fronted the library service on my behalf. The upshot was that I was reinstated at the library and the police charges against me were dropped. The downside was that my new friend shouldered much of the blame. However, as she already had tickets to Tibet in her hand and dreams of finding her spiritual self in her heart, she was not fazed in the least.

But meanwhile, during my enforced holiday I took the time to reassess my life and where it was
going. And I didn't really like what I saw. Then, after I was reinstated by the powers-that-be, the union stepped in to negotiate a settlement for me (apparently my three weeks relaxing at home while being fully paid constituted undue pain and suffering) and I ended up being offered a rather handsome package that opened up all sorts of possibilities. So I applied to Monash University for mature age entry and eventually received notification that I was accepted back into a Bachelor of Arts degree (which is what I
had
been doing when I mucked up my timetable and fell pregnant with Samantha many moons ago). I took the package, paid off a sizeable part of the mortgage, and attended orientation day last week where, as planned, I elected mainly subjects that will steer me towards a major in sociology. I think I want to be a social worker.

I am still talking as I lock my front door behind us and head across to the side fence, which I clamber over awkwardly and Maggie, despite her extra kilos, steps over neatly. She has parked her car in the next-door driveway already so we begin to unload and carry the various boxes up to the front verandah. She fishes a key out of her pocket, unlocks and opens the door. We both reel back with our hands over our noses.

‘Hell's bells! It stinks!'

‘Har
rumph
! It reeks of dog!'

‘They
did
have a dog, but they've been gone for ages! Should it still smell
this
bad?'

‘All I know is that it's sure on the nose. We'd better do something or, what with the heat, this place
is going to be unbearable by lunchtime.' Maggie squats down and digs a couple of containers of carpet deodoriser out of her supplies. She thrusts one into my unwilling hands and enters the house intrepidly with her nose still covered.

‘It's even worse in here! I'll open all the windows – you start sprinkling.'

‘I should have known that damn dog would have the last laugh.' I open up my container and reluctantly enter the house that, apart from the dreadful smell, looks quite presentable.

While most of the houses in our street are weatherboard, like mine, this one is a more modern ranch style made out of reddish-brown clinker bricks. Apparently it was originally part of a market garden that stretched back behind for another three blocks until only about ten years ago, when the land was sold and subdivided. Subsequently, everything about this house looks newer than mine, the driveway is straighter, the garden more landscaped, and the roof less covered with layers of moss. It's also fresher inside. Nice carpets, more modern windows, brighter kitchen and, I'll bet, no hole in the bathroom floor. In fact, as I sprinkle powder liberally throughout, I discover that Alex not only has a bathroom with a separate shower, but an ensuite as well. And both floors are perfectly intact. Not fair.

We meet up again in the kitchen where Maggie has dumped a box of her supplies next to the air-conditioner (
another
item that I don't possess). We grin at each other in relief and Maggie turns it on to high. It doesn't take long after that for the smell
to start dissipating, or perhaps I'm now getting used to it. Maggie delves into the box on the counter, produces a roll of Contact and proceeds to line every drawer in sight (I haven't even lined my
own
kitchen drawers yet). I find a sponge and some Ajax, and desultorily start to wipe out the oven.

‘D'you know, I'm a bit envious. I think you're going to have a ball at university.'

‘I hope so. I know I'm really nervous about the whole thing.'

‘Don't be. You'll be great. And I think you'll make a great social worker eventually.'

‘Oh well, if it doesn't work out – I'll just get a job with you.'

‘Hmm.'

‘It's okay, I'm only joking.'

‘Oh! I haven't asked yet. How's your sister? Still hanging in there?'

‘Yes, still. She's bored stiff and can't wait, but her doctor is thrilled that she's lasted this long. They were worried she wouldn't make it past Christmas, let alone all of January!' We are talking about my older sister Diane, who has been languishing in the William Angliss Hospital since shortly after her forty-third birthday last October. No, she is not dying of some incurable disease but merely expecting the arrival of twin girls at any moment. They are actually due on Sunday but nobody really expected the pregnancy to last this long. Not only because twins are notoriously early, but also because Diane has suffered from pre-eclampsia with each of her previous pregnancies and I think her doctor expected real problems
this time given her increased age. I am very fond of Diane, and her husband David, who live about fifteen minutes' drive away in Croydon. They already have four boys, Nicholas, Evan, Christopher and Michael, who range in age respectively from twenty down to fourteen, and are all large, blond and Nordic-looking like their father. This latest pregnancy came as a bit of a shock to everybody, except perhaps Diane. I try to get into the hospital to visit her every second day or so.

‘Took some magazines in to her after the New Year, but I haven't been since. I might try to get in on Thursday, that's always a slow day.' Maggie deftly flips out another length of Contact and slices it neatly with a Stanley knife.

‘Oh, she'll enjoy that. She is
really
bored.' I give up on the stove and look around for something else that might need cleaning. ‘But one good thing that's come out of this is that David and the boys have had to look after themselves for a change. And perhaps she'll realise that they
are
capable of doing their fair share.'

‘Huh, doubt it,' Maggie grunts. ‘Besides, I don't think she
wants
to realise it.'

‘True.' I reflect on the insightfulness of that observation. In many ways Diane
does
make a rod for her own back. She protects and pampers those males of hers to such an extent that I personally believe her doctor threw her into hospital as much for an enforced rest as for the pre-eclampsia.

‘Even so, that David really should set a better example for his sons.' Maggie is not having a go at
David's personality, which is perfectly pleasant, but at the way he lets Diane hover around him all the time. Maggie herself claims to be a rabid feminist, although I've never been able to work out how she can reconcile her career choice with feminism. She says it's no different from supplying any service, like being a doctor, or a physio, or even a hairdresser. I'm sorry, but I can see quite a number of little differences. However, we have agreed to disagree.

‘Oh well, perhaps these babies will make a difference.'

‘True. And what's up with your other sister?'

What
is
up with my other sister? That's a question I have been asking for many years. Thirty-four to be exact, ever since she was brought home from the hospital with much fanfare and promptly took over my room. Bloody Elizabeth. Tall, slim, with long
naturally
curly chestnut hair, intensely blue eyes and the lightest dusting of freckles across her pert little nose. She rarely keeps a job for more than six months yet somehow still manages to survive, never seems to have any friends yet still always has somewhere to go, and has very little personality – yet has still managed to land the nicest boyfriend this side of the black stump. And probably the other side as well. We don't see very much of each other, although, since around the time that she landed the nice boyfriend last year, I have actually asked her over a lot more than I used to (and as I
never
used to, this is quite easy).

‘She's okay, I think.'

‘Still like that, are you?'

‘Like what?'

‘Oh, this sibling rivalry thing.'

‘It's
not
sibling rivalry – there's nothing she's got that I want!' Even as I speak an image of tall, dark, handsome Phillip (a
vet
, no less!) with his liquid brown eyes and Errol Flynn moustache (I have
always
had a thing for moustaches) pops into my head and I can't help smiling.

‘Yeah, I can tell,' Maggie says sarcastically. ‘He's not your type, you know.'

‘Oh
please
, Maggie! Did I say he was?' As far as she's concerned only
Alex
is my type. ‘He's just a nice guy, that's all.'

‘Sam says he comes over quite a lot.' She has stopped Contacting and is looking at me narrowly with her Stanley knife held mid-air.

‘Oh,
really
!' Why is it I feel guilty? I've been divorced from Alex for years, I've even been remarried since, had another child – and I really wish she'd put that knife down when she looks at me like that. ‘For your information, he's usually with Elizabeth when he comes over, otherwise he's only checking out the animals. He's taken Ben under his wing a bit because he wants to be a vet, that's all . . . and it's good for Ben, he loves it.'

‘Hmm.' Maggie lowers the knife and goes back to measuring a drawer. I stand watching her for a moment. I do hope that when Alex shifts in and starts to meet people and go out, it doesn't cause problems between Maggie and me. Because she really seems to have her heart set on us reconciling, and it just
isn't
going to happen. There's too much water under the bridge. In fact, I think there has
been so much water under the bridge that it's knocked down the pylons and the bridge has washed clean away.

‘Sorry.'

‘What for?'

‘It's none of my business who you see or whatever.'

‘You're right, it's not. But I'll tell you anyway, there's
nothing
going on there at all.'

‘But you'd like there to be?'

‘Maggie!'

‘Okay, I'll drop it. How's your mother?'

‘God! I think I'd rather talk about Phillip!'

‘Huh! That's the plan!'

I laugh and set to work on the hotplates with a bit more gusto than I'd intended. My mother as a topic of conversation is definitely limited. Or at least my
patience
with my mother as a topic of conversation is definitely limited.