Drip Dry (6 page)

8.50 pm

As it turned out, I didn't have that much to do next door. I changed my sweaty t-shirt, opened all the windows, made tomorrow's lunches, unpacked CJ's schoolbag, read the assorted notices, and was standing in front of the open freezer staring at its contents and waiting for some inspiration regarding tea when Maggie and the kids came back bearing pizza. Lots and lots of pizza.

Maggie finally left only about half an hour ago. And now I'm going to have to stock up on some more champagne. But while we were sitting and eating, and drinking, she gave me a hand preparing the various party games for tomorrow and packing the lolly bags for each of the thirteen participants. We have even filled an empty ice-cream container with cupcakes for CJ to dole out at school tomorrow. Now all I have to do in the morning is buy a ton of junk food and make some chocolate crackles and fairy bread. Oh, and turn a couple of plain butter-cakes
into an elaborate, pink, ruffled fairy-doll cake complete with silver wand and intricate icing. A thousand curses on the
Women's Weekly Children's Birthday Cake Book
, which is CJ's favourite reading material at this time of year.

It's still quite warm inside the house but it's about as good as it's going to get so I do the circuit, shutting all the windows and closing curtains. CJ is now fast asleep, having been read to and tucked in by Maggie. I kiss her baby-soft cheek and straighten out the pink ruffled fairy costume that she has laid out ready for the big day tomorrow. As I head back up the passage, I note that the TV has been left on although there is nobody currently resident in the lounge-room. I lean in the doorway for a moment to see what's on – a documentary about some natives somewhere who are indulging in a bizarre ritual of body-piercing. I should tape it for Samantha, whose acquisition last year of a belly-button ring still annoys me thoroughly. Although I must give her full marks for persistence. The thing has been infected three times, has had to be reinserted twice, and has got caught on her jumper more times than I care to count. But still she won't give up.

The documentary seems rather interesting so I flop down on the couch to watch the rest of it. Right on cue, the phone rings so I sigh heavily, get up again and head out to the hall.

‘Hello?'

‘Darling!'

‘Mum. How are you?' Not for the first time I note that, ever since she got engaged last year, my
mother has sprinkled more ‘darlings' in her conversation than I have ever heard her use in my entire life. I never thought I'd say this, but it's beginning to wear rather thin.

‘Oh, fine! Preparations are going fairly smoothly.' She blithely assumes that her wedding is everybody's number one priority. ‘And fortunately they're saying that the weather will be quite mild on Sunday. And they had
better
be right.'

‘They wouldn't dare not be. But, Mum, why aren't you in bed? I mean, isn't it a bit late for you to be up and making phone calls?'

‘Well, I have had to rework my timings. Just for this week – there is
much
too much to get done. If a bit less sleep is the price I have to pay, well, then I have no choice, have I? And there's no point telling me I should ask you girls for more help, it just wouldn't work.'

‘Oh, yes,' I reply heartily, because I positively agree and, in fact, had no intention of even suggesting anything to do with sharing the workload. Besides, she's the one who's been married three times so she's the expert.

‘So I have to put my own personal requirements to one side for a while and focus on the job. You should see the lists I have before me!'

‘No thanks,' I say hurriedly.

‘But enough about me. Have you heard about Diane?'

‘Yes! Isn't it fantastic?'

‘It certainly is, and I have to admit I am very,
very
relieved. I was quite concerned, you know.'

‘Oh, Mum. That's nice.' Sometimes she surprises me. ‘And now you're a grandmother twice over again!'

‘Oh, yes. And
now
Diane will most likely be able to make it on Sunday too.'

‘Of course.' Well, she doesn't surprise me for long.

‘Now, in my day women were kept in for much longer and there was none of this rubbish where the baby sleeps in the room with the mother.' She continues smoothly, ‘No, Nurse would soon put paid to anybody who tried
that
sort of caper. Sometimes I don't know what the world is coming to.'

‘Well, Mum, perhaps it's their choice not to –'

‘Yes, well,' she sniffs audibly, ‘anyway, I shall be visiting her tomorrow.'

‘Oh! What time?' As I am also planning on visiting Diane tomorrow it is now imperative that I ascertain what time Mum is going so that we are not there at the same time. Only because it's a shame to double-up, that is.

‘About lunchtime. But that's not why I'm ringing. CJ picked a cake out of my
Women's Weekly Children's Birthday Cake Book
when she was here last week, so I whipped it up this afternoon and thought I'd better let you know. So that you don't go to the trouble . . . I know how you hate doing anything complicated – not that this one was
that
complicated, but anyway, there you have it. So what time would you like to collect it?'

‘
You
did her cake?'

‘Yes, darling. Aren't you listening?'

‘Well, thanks for letting me know,' I say sarcastically, inwardly fuming as I look through to the kitchen bench where my two butter-cakes are cooling in preparation for their decoration. If she knew last week, why couldn't she have let me know then? What on earth am I going to do with all the fairy bits . . . and the miniature silver wand?

‘That's fine, darling. Now, what time exactly?'

‘Oh, I don't know, Mum. I'm flat out tomorrow.'

‘Really? It's not like you're working at the moment.' She manages to inject such astonishment into her voice that she sets my teeth on edge. ‘I tell you what, why don't I drop it around in the afternoon during the party?'

‘No! I mean, that's okay, I know you're really busy too – lists and all that.' I have a brief and nasty mental picture of Keith and my mother walking in at the same time. She can barely be civil to him nowadays, not that I blame her, but I do want CJ's party to be a success. One of the good things about this week being a particularly hectic one for my family was that nobody really expected an invitation to CJ's children's party. Instead I held a little family birthday afternoon tea on Saturday, at which CJ collected presents from all and sundry. Mum gave her a new doona cover and matching lampshade. They are covered with sparkly blue dolphins that should blend in just
perfectly
with her bedroom when I get around to putting them on.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes! Absolutely! You've done enough.' More than enough if the truth be told. ‘I'll pick it up after lunch when you're back from the hospital.'

‘All right then, darling. If you have the spare time. And I'll see you on Thursday.'

‘Thursday?' I repeat foolishly.

‘Yes, Thursday. When you volunteered to help with the house, remember? It won't be much, merely a little vacuuming and such. Although I think I might take all those curtains down and wash them. Or you can do that with your new washing-machine. Goodbye.'

I hang up the phone feeling slightly confused. I don't remember volunteering to clean any house. She must mean Harold's, because that is where the wedding ceremony is going to be held on Sunday. This is getting ridiculous. I spent all day today cleaning
Alex's
house, and now I'm going to spend all day Thursday cleaning
Harold's
house. What is it with these men? I have barely taken my hand off the phone when it rings again. Sighing heavily, I pick it up.

‘Hello?'

‘Listen, we're
frantically
busy so I can't chat. But I've rung with that phone number I promised you. Hmm, have you got a pen?'

‘Just a tic, Maggie.' I scramble about in the drawer underneath the phone and come up with a biro and a scrap piece of paper. ‘Shoot.'

She barks out a phone number and then hangs up. I decide to dial and get it over and done with. It's not like the hole in the floor will mend itself. The phone rings several times before an answering machine clicks in and, to my astonishment, a male voice yells stridently into my ear:

‘Who
can?'

My eyes widen and I automatically wrench the phone away from my ear before slowly, and cautiously, bringing it closer again to hear what happens next. Am I supposed to answer the question? Or was it rhetorical? But before I can come to any conclusion, the disembodied voice, with a vague Irish lilt and without quite so many decibels, answers itself confidently with:

‘The
handyman
can! To be sure he can! So please leave your name and number after the beep . . . BEEP!'

Okay, I am totally incapable of leaving my name and number or anything else after the beep. I am too stunned. I
know
Maggie said that this guy was a bit odd but this takes the cake. Thinking of cakes (and the inevitable association with my mother, CJ and the
Women's Weekly Children's Birthday Cake Book
) shakes me out of my stupor and I decide to go with him anyway. Maggie
did
recommend him and she might be offended if I don't use him and, what the hell, us social workers need to tread on the wild side occasionally. So I dial again, being careful to hold the phone away from my ear for the initial, earsplitting question and then obediently leave my name and number after the beep. I also make a mental note to tell the kids not to dance frantically on that particular corner of the bathroom until it is repaired. I mean, as far as I know they have never danced frantically in the bathroom before but, if
there is going to be a first time, it will definitely be right now when the floor is in such a state. I
know
my kids.

Humming the Candyman tune from
Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
under my breath, I wander into the kitchen and fill a bowl with some potato chips, which I carry into the lounge-room. As I collapse back onto the couch, Benjamin comes in from outside where he has been feeding animals, grooming animals or just playing with animals. I notice that he has the video camera tucked under one arm, and he notices that I notice so he says a quick goodnight and slunks off to his room before I can confiscate it. I make another mental note to wrest this morning's tape off him before he sends it in to
Australia's Funniest Home Videos
. With everything else going on today, I totally forgot.

‘What's on the TV?' Samantha wanders in and looks over at the television screen. ‘Apart from dust, that is.'

‘Very funny. Feel free to take over the housework any time you like,' I say sarcastically, knowing full well there is little chance of my offer being taken up. Samantha's idea of house cleaning is to sweep the room with a glance and then make disparaging comments about the efforts of others. Sure enough, she ignores my invitation and, after sneering briefly at the program that is screening, leaves the room. No doubt to tune in on the portable she has in her own room. I grab a handful of chips, stretch out and prepare to relax.

The documentary featuring the much-pierced
natives has ended, and in its place is a courtroom drama where a woman is making a stressed spectacle of herself on the stand. The drama is interrupted briefly by an attractive blonde weather-woman who cheerfully informs me that it is going to be a stinking hot thirty-nine degrees tomorrow. Great. However, apparently there is relief on the horizon with a change expected mid-afternoon and a much cooler day is forecast for Wednesday. The weather-woman smiles superciliously (she probably has air-conditioning), and then it's back to the courthouse where the nervous-looking female is apparently in imminent danger of losing custody of her children to her more affluent ex-husband. He is impeccably dressed, with impeccable credentials, and has an obviously impeccable lifestyle complete with requisite impeccable blonde girlfriend (actually, she looks a lot like the weather-woman). The children's mother, on the other hand, has what definitely looks like a smear of Vegemite on the front lapel of her crumpled suit, and keeps jumping nervously every time somebody makes even a moderately loud noise. I vote that she lets him have the children, enjoys a prolonged holiday, and then returns when he has had enough – which, by the look of those kids, shouldn't take very long at all. After all, I know from experience that it is the every-second-weekend parent who is worshipped, Vegemite-less and cannot do a thing wrong.
And
has a life.

I also know that she won't give them up without a fight, and I can't say I blame her.

It's a funny world.

Matthew 19:19

8.00 am

There were two things on my mind as I woke this morning. The first was CJ's birthday party this afternoon, and what I needed to get done beforehand, and the second was the imminent arrival of Alex this afternoon. Actually, also on my mind was the fact that Keith, my
other
ex-husband, would be present at the birthday party, and that I didn't really want Ben around while he was here . . . and that there is a hole in my bathroom floor, and that my mother has gone ahead and made CJ's birthday cake, and that the day already feels hot and sticky, and to remember to say happy birthday to CJ, and that my sister gave birth to twins yesterday. So, I suppose there were really a lot more than two things on my mind as I woke this morning. In fact, now that I think of it, my mind was a veritable cauldron. No wonder I needed a couple
of headache tablets before I could even think about coffee.

Well, at least I did remember to say happy birthday when CJ got into bed with me for a cuddle at the crack of dawn. So now I am leaning against the kitchen counter, freshly showered and dressed in a rather attractive new lemony shift-dress, waiting for the kettle to boil and watching the birthday girl hand-pick her cereal. This has been a morning ritual ever since she once managed to score a faulty cornflake that had somehow adhered itself to several of its mates and formed an unattractive and unchewable lump. Apparently the experience was traumatic. As I watch her examine each flake in minute detail, I resolve to restrict her to toast in future.

‘CJ, just pour them in already, will you?'

‘No way! Then I get the yucky ones.'

‘We're running late! And you're not even dressed yet!'

‘Okay, this'll do.' She pushes the cereal box aside and pours some milk over her eight carefully selected cornflakes. ‘Oh! Did you do my cupcakes for today?'

‘All thirty of them. They're in an ice-cream container and I've put them in your schoolbag so don't crush them.'

‘Cool! But I wish you'd sabed one of my presents for today.'

‘Well, CJ, if you remember I
tried
to, but you insisted that you wanted them
all
on Saturday.' I turn off the kettle and pour hot water over my coffee granules in the plunger as a semi-dressed Benjamin saunters in and slides into the chair next to his
younger sister. He picks up the cereal box and pours a liberal amount into his bowl
and
all around it. Now there's someone who definitely goes for quantity over quality.

‘Mum, you know the smell next door?' Ben looks at me while he pours his milk, with predictable results. ‘At Dad's new joint?'

‘You habn't said happy birthday to me yet, Ben.'

‘Here.' I throw him the sponge which he places neatly next to his plate and continues to look at me questioningly. ‘Yes, I know the smell. Why?'

‘Well, you know how Mr Waverley's wife disappeared?'

‘
Ben
! You habn't said happy birthday!'

‘Oh, Ben! She did
not
disappear! She left him and went back to Tasmania, that's all. And for god's sake, say happy birthday to your sister!' I frown at him as I depress my plunger and then pour my coffee into a cup. Oh, what an aroma! Elixir of the gods.

‘Well, what if she didn't go to Tasmania at all? Yeah, happy birthday, CJ. You know, what if
she's
the smell?'

‘Sometimes I wish that you'd put that imagination to good use . . . like schoolwork.' I fetch the milk from the table, pour a dribble into my cup and lean back against the counter nursing my coffee between both hands. I don't really want to even
think
about the smell next door, I only want to breathe deeply and simply lose myself in the much more heavenly fragrance of fresh coffee.

‘No, seriously. I reckon she's under the house. And with this hot weather she's
really
going to go
off.' Ben finally stops talking as he concentrates on shovelling cereal into his mouth. CJ, on the other hand, has stopped eating altogether and is staring agape at her brother.

‘CJ, swallow what's in your mouth, please. And, Ben, don't put ridiculous ideas in your sister's head. She'll probably have nightmares now.'

‘It's not ridiculous,' he answers thickly, while chewing cornflakes. ‘I'm going to check out under there after school today. I'll need a gasmask. Can I bring a friend?'

‘Oh, Ben! Can I come?'

‘Seeing as how your father will be arriving some time later today, Ben,' I say as my stomach contracts at the thought, ‘perhaps you'd better ask his permission before you go hunting for dead bodies under his house. But you can have a friend over if you want. Is it Jeff from down the street?'

‘No, it's a new guy. Called Max.'

‘Is he nice?'

‘Yeah, he's cool.' Ben looks thoughtful for a second. ‘Well, as long as he remembers to take his meds.'

‘What!' I look at Ben in horror. ‘You mean medication? What sort? What for?'

‘Oh, just tablets. For A.D.D. or something, I think.' Ben tips his bowl forwards to get the last of the contents. ‘But usually he's cool.'

‘I see,' I comment, but actually I don't. I mean, what happens when he
doesn't
take his meds? I don't really care if he just becomes a little ‘uncool', but I
do
care if he starts screeching like a banshee and climbing
up onto the school roof with his eyes gyrating fitfully in his head.

‘A.D.D.' repeats CJ slowly. ‘That spells add. So are the tablets for his maths? Is he bad at maths? We don't do maths at school yet but Sam gibs me maths sometimes. So can you take tablets when you're bad at maths? Because I'm not berry good at maths too. Can I hab some? Can you put them on the shopping list, Mummy?'

‘No, they're not for maths. And have you forgotten that it's your birthday party today?' I finally give up trying to lose myself in any coffee aroma and just take a gulp instead.

‘Oh
yes
!' CJ says rapturously.

‘Is that party
today
?'

‘Yes and we're all dressing up as fairies. There's Caitlin and Jaime and –'

‘That reminds me, Ben, I meant to tell you –' I wait patiently until I have his full attention – ‘Keith is coming to CJ's party this afternoon. I just thought I'd let you know.'

‘Oh.' Ben's face immediately closes down and I feel a rush of sympathy for him, and also the usual degree of impotent anger for being in this position. Bugger Keith.

‘– and Parris and Stephanie and Banessa and Sarah and –'

‘Shoosh up, CJ.' I am watching Ben for some clue as to how he is feeling.

‘– and there's no
boys
allowed!'

‘Shoosh
up
, CJ!'

‘Mummy! Can I take my friends next door for
the body hunt?' CJ brightens as she thinks of an idea. ‘It could be a party game!'

‘We will
not
have a party game which involves searching for putrefying corpses. Let's stick to pass the parcel and musical chairs, please.' I suppose I should be pleased that CJ is blissfully unaware of the unpleasant undercurrents regarding her father. She
does
know that he doesn't like Ben (mainly because Keith tells her all the time), but she simply accepts this as par for the course. I give Ben full marks for this. Soon after the split, I asked him not to run Keith down in front of CJ, even though he had good reason to, but to save it for when she wasn't there. And he has done exactly that – apart from saving it for when she's not there, that is. He just doesn't talk about Keith at all, or even mention his name. I did tell him that, if he ever needed to talk, I was right here for him. But he hasn't ever taken me up. Perhaps he senses that I don't want to talk about it much either.

Samantha strolls into the kitchen carrying her schoolbag, grins at her sister, ignores her brother, gazes narrowly at the table – which is strewn with cornflakes and droplets of milk – and then gives me the once-over.

‘Happy birthday, CJ liebling. I'm not having breakfast, I'm late. And I don't like that dress
at all,
Mommie Dearest. It makes you look like a boiled lolly.'

‘Sam! You have to have something to eat.' I ignore the comment about my appearance because Sam rarely likes my outfits anyway. If I could wear
one of the minuscule little numbers she favours, believe me I would.

‘Too hot. I'll, like, have one of my sandwiches on the way.'

‘Well, all right I suppose,' I say grudgingly. ‘But don't forget your father's coming back later today.'

‘How could I forget
that
? Actually, Aunt Maggie said I could probably come to the airport with her so I might go straight there after school.'

‘Well, let me know. Did you want to go too, Ben?'

‘No
way
. I hate airports.'

‘Okay, bye! And have a great party, CJ!' Sam gives us all a general wave, hoists her bag onto her back and heads down towards the front door.

‘Oh, Mummy! We didn't tell Sam about the dead person next door!' CJ abandons her half-eaten breakfast (and as she only had eight cornflakes to start with, this means she has had the equivalent of barely one mouthful for breakfast), and races after her sister to rectify the omission.

‘Get dressed
quickly
!' I call after her and turn my attention back to Ben, who has been looking rather glum since I told him that Keith would be here this afternoon. I wonder whether I should say anything else. The problem is that the last thing I want is to give him the impression that he is not wanted at his own sister's birthday party. After all, this is his
home
. Bugger Keith. I decide to leave it as it is.

I finish off my coffee and head down to CJ's bedroom to make sure that she is getting dressed. Sure enough, she is sitting on the floor playing with her newest Barbies.

‘CJ! What did I say about hurrying?'

‘Um, nothing?'

‘Come here!' Exasperated, I pull her towards me and tug her nightie up over her head.

‘Ow! You hurt my ears!'

‘Well, you should have done it yourself then.' I grab her school uniform and get her dressed in record time. Record time for her that is, not me. I tuck her nightie under the pillow, straighten up her bed and drag her school shoes out of the wardrobe.

‘Put these on
quickly
, and then go and brush your teeth. And hurry, don't forget Caitlin's mum is taking you to school today.'

‘Oh! I
did
forgot!' Suddenly she switches into fast forward and manages to get her shoes on before I even leave the room. Typical.

I had originally arranged for Caron, the mother of CJ's best friend Caitlin, to collect and drop off CJ today because I thought I was going to be flat out getting ready for the birthday party. As it is, with the most time-consuming task already consumed by my mother, I should have plenty of time. That reminds me.

‘CJ, did you ask Grandma to make your birthday cake?' I lean around the bathroom door as CJ squeezes a remarkable amount of toothpaste out onto her brush.

‘She said she would. Didn't she do it?'

‘Oh no. Grandma never forgets,' I say with feeling as I grab the hairbrush and start to drag it through CJ's hair. ‘So, what cake did you pick?'

‘Mummy! You're hurting!'

‘Sorry.' I brush her hair back into a short ponytail and secure it with a hot-pink hair-tie. ‘Well? What was the cake?'

‘Oh! A lubly fairy! She's got lots of pink icing, and a dress, and a silber wand!'

‘Right. Okay, hurry up and brush your teeth.'

I head back to the kitchen where Ben has finished his cereal and is staring intensely out the window. I clench my fists against my sides in frustration. Because Ben had a long road back from his treatment during my second marriage and it has only been in the last six months or so that he has really started to, not so much open up – that wouldn't be
Ben
– but to chat, make jokes and be truly part of the family rather than a somewhat disinterested observer. And all that progress seems like it's for nothing when it just takes something like this and he goes straight back into his shell. I can't stand it, I'll have to say something.

‘Ben, look . . . don't worry about Keith. Please. He'll only be here for the party and you're more than welcome . . . don't let him put you off.'

‘I don't
care
,' he says disdainfully, not even looking at me. ‘I'll go to Max's place instead.'

‘Oh, Ben.' I can't think of what else to say. And anyway, what else is there to say? So I just sigh heavily and repeat to myself softly as I watch him staring out of the window at something that perhaps only he can see, ‘Oh, Ben.'

‘God, Mum, will you
stop
saying “Oh Ben” like that! No
way
am I going to a
fairy
party! With all
her
friends! And you
can't
make me! But come here and look outside. Murphy's got a possum trapped
up that tree over there, and it's going absolutely berserk!'