Max & Olivia Box Set

by Mark A Biggs

  My description of Jane as a piranha is neither kind nor generous; it illustrates a total and utter lack of regard for piranhas. Piranhas scavenge on dead carcasses; Jane excels in eating live meat. Many years ago I nominated Gordon for an Order of Australia Award for being married to Jane. The application was rejected; Olivia said the assessment committee probably believed it was a bogus nomination. I disagreed; it was rejected on the grounds of category. Instead of the Order of Australia, I should have applied for a bravery award.

  Our wellbeing was nearing its lowest point when Jane, with glee, took us to the driving test in Moonee Ponds, a suburb in Melbourne, famous because it’s the home of Dame Edna and her gladioli. An automatic car was to be used for the test although we always drove manual cars.

  ‘There’s something special about changing gears; real driving,’ Olivia used to say.

  With us not having fully recovered from the accident, driving an automatic was the best and only chance to pass. Living in Maldon, with a population of one thousand, but taking the test in the capital city, made the task of passing a hundred times more challenging than it would have been in Castlemaine.

  Castlemaine was the main regional centre near Maldon and usually where driving tests were conducted. We were far more familiar with Castlemaine than with Moonee Ponds but knew that there was absolutely no chance of Jane taking us there. A test in Melbourne was the only offer and, if we were to escape, pass we must, and pass we would. At least one of us.

  The day started well; the weather was fine and the test time was a perfect nine-fourteen in the morning. Peak hour traffic was over and the lunchtime rush yet to start. Driving test thus far: Max and Olivia one, Jane zero. The day became even better once I successfully lowered myself into the driving seat of the little Subaru Impreza in which I was to take the test. After a brief car familiarisation we were set to go. I remembered to put the seatbelt on, always a plus. Foot on the brake, start the engine. No problems. D for drive. Mirrors. Indicate. Head check. Move off from the curb. Bugger, no indicators. The windscreen wipers moved instead, a mistake explained by our always owning European cars where the indicators are on the left. The driving assessor didn’t appear fazed in the least.

  ‘European car,’ she said.

  I smiled my acknowledgment, engaged the indicator, and switched off the windscreen wipers.

  Tremors of apprehension caused my heart to race; you have to be a human date-and-time clock with radar eyes to drive in Melbourne. It’s a hostile environment but don’t be confused, this is not because of vehicle and pedestrians. Melbourne is a city of continual speed zone changes. Some are permanent, 50 kph on roads unless otherwise indicated; while others are dependent upon the day, date, and time. School Zones for example are 40 kph from 8.00 am until 9.30 am, and after 9.30 you drive at whatever speed the road was before the school zone sign. That is, of course, except on school holidays or weekends when the school zone speeds don’t apply. Some shopping strips also have time related speed zones, which, to increase confusion, are not the same speed as the school zones. To know the correct speed you must read the small print under the sign. This sort of works well when familiar with the road but is an impossible nightmare when navigating a road for the first time. To maximize every possible chance to raise revenue by catching unsuspecting speeding drivers, the government adds seven speed zone changes in five hundred metres. Finally, to record the trip for prosperity, mobile speed cameras, which allow a three kph error, are waiting to snap your picture and issue the fine. An expensive photograph I hear you say. No. If you want the photograph of your recklessness you must pay extra.

  It’s a delicate balance: driving with caution making sure you exceed none of the variable speed limits and driving with confidence, so as not cause mayhem from being too slow. As time passed, we navigated the quieter streets, two school zones and a shopping strip. I felt my confidence grow and my old self return. Driving became enjoyable again and, in that moment, that split second in time, I relaxed; a sensation not felt since returning to Australia. I even started a conversation with my assessor.

  We moved from back streets onto a major road with two lanes used by trucks but not trams. Again, all good. To add another level of complication for the unsuspecting country driver, when driving in Melbourne, some streets are shared by cars, trucks, trams and push bikes. The shared car and push bike lane can, at certain times, be used for parking cars, requiring push bikes and trucks to travel on the tram line, while also keeping clear of trams. But the gods had smiled and Jane’s pact with the devil had fallen on deaf horns, as this was not a challenge that fazed me.

  ‘Turn right at the traffic lights please sir,’ said the assessor.

  It is not a difficult manoeuvre, although a little more warning would have been appreciated. The move was from the left lane to the right lane and then finally into the turning lane, all before reaching the traffic lights. Traffic was not heavy but it was consistent. My pulse rate climbed; some anxiety is good and it takes my concentration to a hundred percent. I contemplated the move. Mirrors. Indicate. Head check (indicate for a minimum of two seconds). Truck, but safe gap. Merge over while maintaining progress. Mirror. Check indicator is off. The traffic lights turned red as I prepared to move into the turning lane. Mirrors. Truck behind. Second gear—SHIT! As I thrust my left foot to where the clutch should be, I hit the brake pedal with considerable force. The car nosedived to an instant stop. The truck had closed in behind the car—more than it should; it had no chance of stopping and slammed into the rear. My foot now firmly planted on the brake pedal, a David and Goliath battle that lasted but a fraction of a second, we were concertinaed into the car in front. A symphony of smashing glass, crushing panels and airbags followed. We were surprisingly unhurt except for pride.

  ‘I take it that’s a fail,’ I said sheepishly.

  The assessor was not amused.

  The crash kept the local papers and current affairs programs entertained for days. Archive footage of the accident in Europe and pictures from Moonee Ponds accompany sensationalised headlines: ‘The danger of old drivers.’ ‘Keep our roads safe.’ ‘Over 70—not fit to drive.’

  The local tabloid ran a series of articles recommending everything from compulsory driving tests for those seventy years and over, to banning older people from the road altogether. One article by a medical boffin suggested brain deterioration in older drivers makes them a danger to all other road users. Road safety experts produced pretty graphs with complex tables to prove the point. What’s really amusing however, following the Global Financial Crisis, countries around the world, including Australia, are progressively lifting the retirement age to seventy and beyond. The expectation is for people to work well into their seventies. ‘Don’t discriminate against older workers’ has even become a TV ad campaign run by the Australian government. A beautiful irony. We want you to work and be independent of the pension, lifters not leaners, but you can’t drive because you’re brain dead, a danger to society.

  After my failed test, Olivia declined her driving assessment and expectations of moving back to Maldon slowly diminished. After overhearing Jane’s interview with a local tabloid, the fight rekindled in our bellies.

  ‘They are not safe to be on their own,’ she said.

  It was two, maybe three, days after the driving incident when we hatched, as Baldrick from Blackadder would say, our ‘Cunning Plan.’ The plan was brilliant in its simplicity: annoy Jane into demanding we leave. To make life in her home unbearable, we would become the teenagers or hotel guests from hell. And so we did.

  Unbeknown to us at the time, our behaviour only succeeded in a hastened secret family meeting. Secret from us, that is. The unholy trinity, Gordon, Jane and Melissa, unanimously agreed that we were incapable of living on our own. Gordon, much later, perhaps in a moment of guilt, recalled what transpired at the meeting.

  ‘They are incapable of making rational decisions; I can give you plenty of examples of their deteriorating mental sta
te, lapses in memory and unacceptable social behaviour,’ Jane had said.

  ‘Despite repeated reminders, they leave all of the lights on. They used blow heaters in their room and put the central heating on during the day. Can you imagine our power bill? They complain there’s nothing to eat and they are bored. It’s like having children in the house. On one night we came home to find them watching TV naked. Naked, can you imagine the sight, bodies like old prunes. Mum could have tucked her breasts into her socks, if she was wearing any. I’m still traumatised. Worse, we were expecting a guest, my boss. The evening had to be cancelled. They’re losing their minds. There’s nothing for it, they need care.’

  The best solution, agreed the trinity, was a nursing home. The house would have to be sold to pay for it—but in secret.

  ‘There’s no other way,’ said Melissa. ‘The house must go. They can’t know until it’s sold; if they do, they are just as likely to run naked down the street screaming obscenities.’

  ‘We also need to take control of the bank accounts, to pay for the retirement home, the rest can be equally shared between us, so we can visit and give them the best care,’ suggested Jane.

  According to their plan, we were to remain with Gordon and Jane until the house was sold. Being the kind, caring and considerate family they are, (I say this with some sarcasm) all agreed the plan was in our best interests. Using their power of attorney, the house was put up for sale and most of our money secretly transferred to new accounts—accounts controlled by them. The price asked for our home was a bargain; it was sold within two weeks.

  The next family meeting did include us. Summoned, like convicted prisoners being led to the dock, we were seated solemnly at the kitchen table. The tense silence was cut by Jane who, without pausing for breath, declared our home had been sold and settlement was to be in three weeks. We were speechless and the surprises continued to leave us shocked and dismayed.

  ‘You will be moving to a retirement facility and we will manage your money,’ they said.

  Graciously or begrudgingly, I’m unsure which, a weekly allowance was to be given for what Jane described as ‘those little things, bits you require at the facility.’ Most of our savings, including the proceeds from the sale of the house, was needed to pay for our care—or so they said.

  ‘The only suitable nursing facility,’ said Melissa, ‘is an hour and half’s drive away.’

  Sentence pronounced, we left the dock not knowing if our prison was a retirement village or nursing home. They were to visit once a week; was this a promise or threat? But the truly frightening part: we were to leave on Monday 16 March—in only five days’ time.

  It’s difficult to describe the range of emotions: numbness, despair and, finally, wretched acknowledgement of the inevitable surrendering of independence. It’s not that moving into a retirement village or nursing home was necessarily the bad thing; it was the alarming realisation and unavoidable acceptance of our one-way journey. The final episode of life had begun with death at its end. In this new identity, nursing home resident, the uniqueness of contribution, adventures enjoyed and individual distinctiveness would be forgotten.

  As with our parents before, we were destined to be remembered as old people in a home, a burden, an annoyance for a family compelled to visit once a week.

  We felt bitterly betrayed, not only because our family believed we needed care, for in many ways they were right, but because of their misuse of their power of attorney to strip away assets and make decisions that didn’t involve us. I will grant you one thing, they knew us well. We had no intention of leaving large sums of money to them and had planned to give it away progressively to charities and causes we cared about. Alas, too late, the money was theirs.

  ‘Well, that worked well,’ Olivia had said. ‘Rather than annoying them into sending us home, there’s no home! Max are you listening to me?’

  My attention was drawn to the conversation but, still in deep contemplation, I’d replied, ‘You are right, this has not turned out well.’

  ‘Not turned out well? It’s a bloody disaster, excuse the French.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do at the moment. I’ve logged into the bank accounts and most of our money has gone. As they said, they have control of the finances. Perhaps we will be paid the allowance they promised. Our biggest problem, however, is to persuade them to take us back to our old home before settlement. Everything can go, the home the furniture the cars, but we must get the Box. Under no circumstances can anybody else find it.’

  That evening, after the family meeting, we joined Gordon and Jane for dinner. Melissa, by this time, had gone and Penny, Gordon’s and Jane’s daughter, dropped in for the meal. Despite the day’s events, Olivia and I agreed to be on our best behaviour; a departure from our recent conduct; often we were ‘naughty’ when Penny visited because we knew she quite enjoyed seeing her mother becoming flustered and angry as our mischief caused annoyance.

  ‘You are right,’ I said, seated at the dinner table. ‘We are not the same after the accident, sadly and slowly we are coming to terms with being frail. A retirement village is perhaps best.’

  ‘A nursing home,’ interjected Jane.

  ‘A nursing home,’ I continued. ‘It would help, moving into the facility, if we could say one final goodbye to our old home and its memories. To see it, just one more time.’

  Perhaps it was the tone in my voice, the tear in my eye, or just that Jane had had her victory. For a second I thought she would agree, but sadly I was mistaken and with no energy left to fight, my eyes met Penny’s.

  We have two grandchildren, both now grown up. Simon is twenty-eight and Penny is twenty-three years of age. Like many grandparents we are blessed with a special relationship, aided I think, because their mother is such a dragon. It is wrong to rank bonds but, of the two, Penny is closest and dearest. She is bright, alert, considerate and the child we dreamed Jane of being when she married our son. From quite an early age, both Olivia and I believe she saw behind our façade, giving knowing smiles as if to say, you’re not what you seem. She never said anything or asked any probing questions; it was just an air of understanding.

  After dinner with Gordon and Jane, I spoke briefly and quietly to Penny in the kitchen. ‘It’s imperative and urgent that you come and see us tomorrow when Gordon and Jane are at work.’

  Penny nodded in her knowing way and with a smile said, ‘Ten o’clock?’

  Penny arrived as agreed and seated around the kitchen table she, with a sigh, conveyed her disbelief and disappointment at what her parents were doing.

  ‘We need your help,’ I said. ‘At our house in Maldon there’s a package we hid many years ago. We would like you to retrieve it for us.’

  ‘A package? That sounds very secret.’

  ‘Secret is a good description. It’s hidden in a concealed compartment built into the bookcase. You know the one; the bookcase against the back wall in the library. On the fourth shelf from the floor you will see a book called Ruminations of a Rambling Idiot. Directly above this book, on the next shelf, is a book with a plain spine. Pull the book from the top and it will open a compartment built into the bottom of the bookcase. In the compartment you will find a metal cash box. We need that cash box.’

  ‘Will you tell me what’s in the box?’

  ‘Penny, we would like to, but it will only lead to more questions, questions we are not ready to answer. I promise you this, we will tell you everything. One day, one day soon. There’s something else. You must keep the cash box safe until we move into the retirement village. Sorry, I mean nursing home. Don’t bring it here.’

  My dream flashes forward to the first Saturday in the home, when Penny came to visit. I see her telling Olivia and myself the story of searching the house, looking for the cash box. It was as vivid and clear as though it were yesterday.

  ‘I think it was more than two years ago when I last went to your house. Sometime before you left for Europe,’ said Penny. ‘Seeing the hou
se again brought it all back. All that time I spent with you and Gran seems just a heartbeat ago.

  ‘Other old stately manors I’ve visited have been cold and uninviting, but your place was always warm and welcoming. A real home.’

  Penny talked of a happy childhood, but Olivia and I knew she had not been particularly close to her mother and, during some of those difficult times, the growing pains, she had found comfort with us. It was in Maldon that she was able to play with old cars and motorbikes and experienced a freedom not found in Moonee Ponds. Many city kids found country towns boring but not Penny; Maldon had always been a blank canvas, full of adventure and opportunities.

  In later life, Penny had often said, ‘There was something exciting about staying with you, Gran and Pops.’

  I think, in many ways, she knew that we had helped her find her way in life but what she may not have known was that she had given us love and with it renewed interest in life.

  ‘The spare key was under the flower pot, where it’s always been,’ I recalled Penny saying. ‘When I got the door open I was struck by the smell. It always used to smell sweet and homely but, this time, it was different; all smelling of damp and mildew. It felt sad, as if the house missed you.

  ‘If I had not always felt safe in this place, I might have turned and gone out, but I knew you needed the box, so I went on. “It’s me,” I said, just to make sure the house knew me. Maybe I imagined it, but I thought the sun just peeked out from behind a cloud to shine through the side windows. Things both looked and smelled better after that but it was still sad to know you’d never be there again.

  ‘Following your instructions I went to the library. Seeing it again, it was not the romantic image of a grand library from a British castle or Beauty and the Beast that I remember, but it was an impressive collection of books nonetheless. The burgundy chesterfield was still near the open fireplace and I remembered sitting there reading with you two. We used to save the world, discussing everything from football to euthanasia.