Drip Dry (8 page)

‘So. Diane. Who do you think they take after?'

‘Oh,
really
!' she replies dismissively. ‘I thought
you
of all people wouldn't ask such a silly question. I mean, they're only tiny babies, they don't look like anyone yet.'

‘Sure they do. Just look at Robin – she looks exactly like a tomato I've got at home.'

‘Ha bloody ha. Don't listen to your aunt, darling, she's a bitch.'

‘So, what about Regan?'

‘What
about
Regan?' Diane looks at me narrowly.

‘Oh, nothing . . . except – do you think she looks like anyone?'

‘No. I. Don't.'

‘Oh.' I look at Diane curiously, and she looks implacably back. Well, that's it. Proof positive that she knows. And now she knows that I know. And she knows that I know that she knows that I know. And so on. But perhaps it might not be as bad as it seems. After all, knowledge is power and this could actually end the age-old debate of nature vs nurture. With care and a good upbringing, and twenty-four hour surveillance, and perhaps a bit of therapy, Regan need not necessarily be doomed to being my mother reborn, but could be bigger, better . . . and more noticeably human.

‘Have you got everything for CJ's party?'

‘Yes, even the cake.' I recognise a change of subject when I see it so I decide to play along. I also shift Robin gently over to my other side. For such a little thing she is definitely a dead weight.

‘Tell her happy birthday and give her my love.'

‘I'll do more than that, I'll bring her in tomorrow. Actually, I'll bring them all in. They're dying to see the girls.'

‘That'll be nice.'

‘And I'll bring some presents. I haven't had
time to get anything yet. Do you need anything in particular?'

‘No, not really. I think we've covered everything so why not an outfit each? That way you can have some fun choosing. You should
see
what they have available for babies now!'

‘Okay, that sounds good. We'll do that. Listen, when do you get out? Seeing as the babies were such healthy weights.'

‘Well, we're being monitored but, if everything goes smoothly, we should be home by Saturday at the latest. And I know what you're thinking. I've already had it from Mum. Yes, we'll be at the wedding – wouldn't miss it for the world.'

‘Great! Safety in numbers and all that.' I shift Robin around again but this time she scrunches up her little red face and starts to mew plaintively. ‘Oh! What have I done?'

‘Nothing. It's about time for their feed, that's all.'

‘In that case, perhaps I'll leave you with it.'

‘You
can
stay, you know. I'll be discreet if it bothers you.'

‘As if I care!' I say airily, but the truth is that even the sight of my own breasts has done nothing for me for a number of years. ‘However, I do have a ton of things to get done for the party so I'd better get going.'

‘Well, okay, if you must.' Diane reaches over to take the still mewling Robin from my arms. I pass the baby over and then do some quick arm exercises to get the circulation back. I am way out of practice in this.

‘But I'll be in again tomorrow. I'll bring the kids.'

‘I'll look forward to it.' Diane has already shrugged down her dressing-gown and begun to unbutton the floral nightie beneath. ‘Here you are, sweetheart.'

Sweetheart latches on and begins to suckle noiselessly. At that moment Regan also wakes and begins to emit an undulating, keening sound totally different from her sister's squawks. My gaze is unwillingly drawn over to her crib and I shake my head in wonder. She really,
really
does look like a little version of my mother. All she needs now is a blue rinse put through that abundant head of hair and an array of crocheted twin-sets to alternate throughout the week. They even have about the same number of wrinkles. As if she senses my undivided attention, Regan reopens her slate eyes and raises the crescendo of her cries while she clenches and unclenches her tiny fists in growing fury. I look over at Diane, who is beginning to look somewhat harassed. I am about to open my mouth and volunteer to do something with Regan when a casually dressed nurse bustles in, sweeps the wailing child up with one arm and delivers her neatly to her mother's bosom.

‘There you are, Diane. Can you manage them both now or do you need some help attaching?'

‘I think I need some help,' Diane mumbles as she tries to adjust her armful of babies. Robin's little rosebud mouth promptly plops off her chosen nipple and after a few seconds suckling at the air, she begins her mewling again. Regan hasn't even stopped hers. The nurse begins to competently arrange babies, one
to each breast, before opening Robin's mouth with a finger placed firmly on either side and plunging her face straight down onto a nipple. Diane flinches and I watch in absolute fascination. But when it is Regan's turn I decide that I can live without the image of my favourite sister breastfeeding a miniature version of our mother – some things really
are
above and beyond the call.

5.00 pm

‘. . . Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you!
Happy birthday, dear CJ! Happy birthday to you!'

With the encouragement of twelve of her peers clapping out of sync, CJ leans forwards and spits liberally over the beautiful pink fairy-doll with the silver wand (I don't actually blame her, it's what I've felt like doing ever since I saw it). She succeeds in drowning just four of the candles so she draws in a deep breath and has another go. This time she manages to extinguish not only the candles, but also any chance her father had of filming her. He pulls his sleeve down over his hand and uses it to wipe the lens of the video camera. It's not
my
video camera, which can't be found at present, but the one he brought himself.

‘I think I'll pass on the birthday cake.' He grins at me ruefully. I smile tightly back and, kicking some
balloons out of the way, head into the kitchen to fetch a knife and some paper plates. It's too damn hot for this – so much for the mid-afternoon cool change I was promised. Although, thankfully, I must admit that so far I cannot fault Keith's behaviour. He has single-handedly organised both pin the tail on the donkey and musical chairs with the minimum of damage to my property, and has even volunteered to supervise pass the parcel straight after the Cutting Of The Cake.

I elbow my way back through the throng of pink fairies crowded eagerly around the table and put down the plates near the cake. I notice that the rest of the party food has just about disappeared. All that is left are a few puddles of congealing tomato sauce, a couple of smashed meringues and the dried-out crusts from fifty-odd triangles of fairy bread. Oh, and the healthy platter that is laden with unsullied carrot sticks, celery and sultanas. All of which are quickly wilting in the heat – like me. These aren't fairies, they're sugar-craving winged parasites. But the natives are getting restless so I pass the knife reluctantly to my daughter.

‘Here you go, CJ, but be
very
careful.'

‘If you touch the bottom you have to kiss the nearest boy, CJ!'

‘Yeah, you do! You do!'

‘I don't care. I'll kiss my Daddy.' With that CJ slices neatly through the soggy pink fairy cake and deliberately thuds the knife audibly onto the plate beneath. I take over the cake cutting as she throws herself on her father with abandon and kisses him
soundly on the cheek. I pass paper plates of cake out to each of the party guests and usher them firmly outside onto the verandah to eat. I took the precaution of chaining Murphy way down at the end of the yard so that there'd be little chance he could rob any unwitting fairy of her innocence. But I must say, little girl parties are much easier than little boy parties. Hardly any rough stuff, no breakages (of possessions
or
bones) and, generally speaking, they do what they are told.

Keith stands at the sliding door and aims his video camera at the children while they eat, chat and merrily fling their food around the yard. I watch him surreptitiously. He is dressed rather formally in a pair of black slacks and grey short-sleeved shirt (by comparison I look positively casual in a pair of jeans and natural cotton sleeveless vest – my lemon shift has been relegated to the back of the wardrobe) and he actually looks rather good. Keith has always been a compulsive exerciser, and the dividends are certainly paying off. Even at forty-seven, he still carries not one ounce of extra fat on his rather stocky, muscular frame. His hair, which has always been a dullish black, has developed wings of steel grey over each ear which give him a rather distinguished look, especially as he has recently grown a well-manicured beard to match. I used to think of him as my pocket dynamo, not simply because of his shortish stature but because of his eyes, which are deep-set, dark and passionate. I remember that there was once a time when I would melt under the full force of his fervent gaze. Now I just think that he looks like a rather
intense Ned Kelly, except that his beard is more trimmed. He turns and catches me looking at him so I quickly break eye contact and head back to the kitchen.

I suppose you could say that he is ageing gracefully. Physically, at least. It's probably because he has given up drinking to excess at every opportunity – I believe that can make a world of difference. I
know
that it could have made the world of difference to our marriage, anyway. Most of the arguments and fights and casual abuse happened while he was either drunk, well on the way to being drunk, or recovering from being drunk. Like, I can remember one memorable occasion when, after consuming the better part of a bottle of scotch, he suddenly decided to take a then ten-week-old CJ on a drive to visit his parents. I tried reasoning, and then screaming, and then nonstop ranting and raving, but there was nothing I could do short of having a tug-of-war with him over the baby. He marched determinedly out to the car and strapped her into the capsule with me shrieking at him like a fishwife. It might sound all very undignified but dignity counts for next to nothing in situations like these. All the rules and regulations that we are taught with which to govern our behaviour towards others are useless when the person you are dealing with cannot be reasoned with. Because behaving in a civilised manner holds an assumption of mutual reasonableness. And if this assumption is not met, the rules simply do
not
work.

In desperation, I clambered into the back seat next to CJ and wrapped my arms around the capsule. Keith
tried pushing me, pulling me and dragging me out but, because of the awkward positioning, couldn't make me budge. After a stand-off that lasted for almost an hour, he stormed inside the house and I waited for a while before shakily unstrapping the baby, taking her inside and tucking her securely back in her cot. Keith was stretched out across our bed snoring loudly, Benjamin and Sam were stretched out across their beds crying softly . . . and the neighbours just kept themselves to themselves.

I shake myself out of my reverie and load some dishes into the sink. Sometimes I have to remind myself that it really
is
over. I can hear the fairies flitting back inside for their game of pass the parcel, so I start to collect armfuls of discarded wrapping paper and shove it into an empty garbage bag. I grab a pen and scribble what I can remember of who gave what on the appropriate card, and then stack them neatly on the table. Under ordinary circumstances, I would be out in the lounge-room listening to the children squeal each time the music stopped, helping them fling shredded newspaper over their shoulders, and ensuring that each child got at least one chance of unwrapping a sheet. But with Keith out there, I simply don't feel like it. I don't
want
to play happy families. He is here because CJ wanted it so much, but I don't need to make it out to be more than it is – for her sake as well as my own.

The squeals increase in pitch as the hidden prize comes closer. Finally, the music stops for the last time, the squeals reach a level that the uninitiated would think impossible, and the last sheet of
newspaper is flung skyward. By this time I have edged out from the kitchen and am standing in the doorway watching with a smile on my face.

‘Caitlin! You got it!'

‘Caitlin! What is it?'

‘Just a
minute
.' Caitlin tears the wrapping off the gift and holds up a colourful bubble-making kit for inspection.

‘Oh! Caitlin!'

‘C'n we play with it now?'

‘I've got one of
those
at home.'

‘C'n we take it outside? C'n we?'

Keith looks at me questioningly and I nod. He takes CJ and Caitlin by the hand and ushers the others back out onto the verandah where they proceed to flit excitedly around him while he peels the plastic wrapping from the bubble kit. En masse the fairies look like a plague of short, pink, fluffy vaudeville dancers. I start to collect the sheets of newspaper together and fold them for the recycling bin. As I check the time to see how much longer I have to endure this situation, the doorbell rings. At last, salvation is nigh. I hurry over and open wide the front door expecting an early, devoted mother eager to collect her frothy offspring. But it's not.

Instead Maggie beams at me. Next to her stands Samantha, also beaming. But my eyes just flick briefly over them both as my gaze homes in on the man standing a few steps behind them. A man I haven't seen for quite a few years but who was once so familiar that I'd know him anywhere. Anytime. And he hasn't changed all that much either. A bit
more weight spread over his six-foot frame, a bit less hair, and a bit more chin. And his hazel eyes still crinkle up at the corners when he smiles – even more now that he has permanent laughter lines in place. Yep, he
still
looks good. Good enough to eat in fact.

‘Guess what? The plane was early,' says Maggie, looking like the Cheshire cat complete with the cream, ‘so we thought we'd pop over and say hi.'

‘Mum, close your mouth – you look
so
ridiculous,' adds my stalwart daughter, ‘and you could at least, like, say hello.'

‘Hello,' I say obediently as I try to rearrange my facial expression into something that more closely resembles mature sophistication than dumbstruck idiocy.

‘Hi,' replies Alex with a rather attractive smile. I think he's had some work done on his teeth.

‘Hmm, can we come in?' Maggie is smiling at us both benevolently so I drag my eyes away from my ex-husband's teeth and stand back so that they can enter.

‘Come through to the kitchen and I'll get you all a drink.' I lead the way while surreptitiously smoothing down my vest which has got a smear of something indistinguishable across the left breast area. ‘You'll have to ignore all the pink fairies though, it's CJ's birthday party.'

‘Oh, is this a bad time?' Alex looks around the disaster area that is masquerading as a kitchen before bringing his gaze back to me. ‘I can come back later if it's more convenient.'

‘No, no . . . this is fine. Here, sit down,' I answer
distractedly while pushing an unwrapped present and several half-eaten chocolate crackles up to one end of the kitchen table next to a video-camera case.
Keith's
video-camera case. And that's when it suddenly occurs to me that I have one ex-husband in the backyard and another ex-husband brushing potato chips off a chair in my kitchen. ‘Oh – my god.'

‘What's wrong?' asks Maggie, looking at my face with concern. ‘You've gone as white as a sheet.'

‘She's right, you have,' comments Alex as he stands back from the chair he has just cleaned. ‘Do you want to sit down?'

‘No, I'm fine,' I mutter distractedly as I try to calculate how long Keith and co have been outside, how long they can be expected to remain outside, and how long this lot in here might be expected to stay. But this intellectual effort is all a bit much for me at the moment so I mentally shrug and throw it into the lap of the gods. Unfortunately, as I have had cause to discover on numerous occasions, the gods are all male.

‘Are you sure? Because I
can
easily come back. After all –' Alex pauses while he gives his sister an indecipherable look – ‘apparently I am living right next door.'

‘So you know about that?' I glance at him fleetingly while they all settle themselves down at the table. ‘I bet it was a bit of a shock.'

‘Not at all. He was thrilled, weren't you, Alex?'

‘I'm not sure whether “thrilled” is the right word, Maggie, but it'll do for now.'

‘Well,
I'm
thrilled, Dad,' says Samantha emphatically. After all, what else matters?

‘You're getting your colour back,' comments Maggie, looking at me thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it was the pleasure of seeing Alex here again after all those years. Hmm?'

‘Ha, ha,' I chuckle jovially. ‘No, really – it was the heat.'

‘Sure?' Maggie gives me what she no doubt fancies is a meaningful look.

‘Absolutely sure,' I answer through clenched teeth as I glare at her and avoid Alex's curious gaze. ‘One hundred
per cent
sure.'

‘So you're
not
glad to see Dad, then?' asks Sam accusingly. ‘That's, like, really rude.'

‘That's not what I meant,' I say helplessly as I finally make eye contact with Alex and my stomach contracts. ‘I am glad to see him – I mean you.'

‘Likewise, my dear,' drawls Alex in his best impersonation of Clark Gable. ‘In fact I'm delighted to see the whole lot of you. It's been too damn long.'

‘Too right,' agrees Maggie, finally turning away from me to face her brother. ‘Much too long.'

‘Long enough for this one to grow up into a stunner.' Alex throws a casual arm around his daughter's shoulder as he says this and she grins happily at him. ‘And where's Ben? I'm really looking forward to seeing him too.'

‘Oh, I'm afraid he went to a friend's after school. But he'll be back by six.' I focus on a point somewhere over his left shoulder because now I'm finding it difficult to meet his eyes again. So much
for all my fantasies – I'm behaving like an idiotic adolescent.

‘Great! Look, I might take both the kids out for tea, do you mind?'

‘Not at all,' I say, trying not to look like I'd love to join them. Which I would.

‘Fantastic!' says Samantha enthusiastically.

‘What about you, Maggie?' Alex asks his sister.

‘Sorry. I'd love to but . . . hmm, it's a busy night.'

‘O-
kay
. Enough said.' He grins amicably at her and then turns back to Sam. ‘But perhaps we can eat a bit early at my place instead. Then your aunt can stay for a while. How's pizza sound?'

‘We had pizza, like, yesterday. How about KFC?'

I stare out the kitchen window so that I don't look like I am particularly interested in the ensuing discussion regarding the vagaries of fast food, which ends with them deciding on pizza after all. While I watch, a flock of bubbles streams past the window followed by a hysterical mob of screaming fairies with wilting wings, each attempting to burst the bubbles with their wands.
That
looks like a recipe for disaster.