Falling into Place

by Pamela Mc Casker

  There’s a knocking on the front door. Cynthia struggles from her chair and, turning more agilely than a woman with her catalogue of complaints ought, she applies her finger to Hal’s shoulder, jabbing him back into his chair. “This is me,” she says, and scurries out, bumping the tokens clean off the table as she goes.

  “Now she’ll fudge the outcome,” he says, gloomily. “The cunning ways Cyn cheats you’d never believe. Unless I’m watching with an eagle eye, she moves my chess pieces around of a night. It’s Rafferty’s Rules.”

  “She cheats in front of you?” Claire asks.

  “Whenever I go to the loo or to replenish my glass,” says Hal, “whichever eases my most urgent need, Cynthia swaps things about cunningly.” An undertone of awe in is heard in Hal’s voice. “She convinces me I’ve made the stupid move she has me making. I’ve sent away for a land camera, Claire. From now on I’m documenting the state of the board. That’ll fix her.”

  Claire wonders at Clive’s progenitors; both look decidedly dotty.

  Chapter 26

  Fliss Arrives

  Cynthia enters the conservatory beaming. “Guess what?”

  “Guess what what?” asks Clive.

  “A little visitor happened by,” says Cynthia.

  “A short-ass?”

  “Don’t be rude, Clive. A visitor who’s petite but substantial.”

  “Really?” Clive drawls like a rich twit in a BBC series. “Why announce him fulsomely?”

  “He’s a she. Quite someone in these parts. She’s making us high tea as we speak,” says Cyn.

  “I only want Bonnie at teatime.” Clive makes a slashing gesture to silence Ma.

  “We’d be lost without your little friend,” says Cynthia.

  “Uh-oh!” says Clive. He gives Claire a brief assessing glance; it carries a wealth of meaning.

  He’s saying: oops, I should have told you, earlier, Hon.

  “Felicity awaits in the kitchen, with a wee small favour.”

  “Let her ask her wee favour publicly,” says Clive.

  “Fliss just now happened by with her organic eggs. They’re super fresh, laid by her free-range hens; now she happens to be turning them into sandwiches with her home-baked sour dough bread warm from the oven. Let’s not lay waste their freshness with jaw jaw!”

  Why is Cyn repeating ‘just now’ ‘laid’, and ‘happens’ over and over? Claire wonders. Is she faking spontaneity?

  “Hallelujah!” says Hal. “I could murder a sanger.”

  Me too, thinks Claire.

  “All right, then. Tonight’s the LCP’s Bachelors’ and Spinsters’ Ball. Fliss happens to have mislaid her partner.”

  “He went free-ranging onto greener pastures, then?” asks Clive.

  There’s too much delaying mislaying and free-ranging, Claire decides. She’s sitting calmly, keeping her emotions in check for fear they’ll free-range from hysteria to jealousy and back.

  “Fliss was your first fiancée, Clive,” his mother reminds him.

  Claire, having her first adult onset asthma attack, struggles to breathe, awaiting Clive’s denial. But he squeezes her hand. Looks deep into her eyes. “Sorry, Hon.”

  “How many fiancées altogether?” she asks.

  “Oh. I…” He waves his hands about as if dispersing smoke.

  Cyn barges on while Claire sits like an unlovable lump. Ugly, un-petite, yet insubstantial.

  “I said to her, ‘Fliss, now I’ve met Claire, I know she’ll let Clive partner you at the B&S.’”

  “You said what?”

  Mama prepares her final address to the jury. “Fliss is our community’s mainstay.”

  “Ha!” Clive says, caressing Claire’s hair. She doesn’t lean in to acknowledge his touch. She sits straight backed, eyes forward.

  “Fliss has become pals with dear Tammy F.” Ma looks at Claire, taps her nose meaningfully.

  Claire examines her blue runners, says nothing.

  “For poor Fliss to miss the ball when everyone’s in attendance…Do postpone your engagement for the one evening,” Cynthia implores.

  “What? Call a truce to catch up with old girlfriends, Ma? No.”

  Claire’s heart, diaphragm and chest expand at Clive’s protestation of loyalty under duress.

  “You persuaded Fliss’ hens to lay so late in the day, it’s a bleeding miracle. Kept us on light rations, so we’d swallow anything you cook up. All to test the strength of my feelings for Claire. Well, I love her.” He draws Claire close and kisses her temple tenderly. “Tell Fliss, no.”

  Claire wonders if Clive’s keenness to thwart Cynthia has intensified his love for her.

  Clive makes a stabbing gesture with his finger. “You persuaded Fliss to make us tea on the promise of a date with me. I do not equal a curried egg sandwich!”

  Alex gives an involuntary yelp of mirth too soon cut off by a coughing fit.

  “Stop planning others’ lives. You take the cake, Ma.”

  Cynthia beams. “It’s Bonnie’s boiled fruitcake with extra cognac to celebrate your engagement with the eggs.”

  “I’m not affianced to Fliss’ curried eggs!” says Clive.

  “Don’t be facetious, dear,” says Cyn.

  Claire gets a vivid picture of eggs curried as soon as they were plucked from under hens lined up in a row ready to let loose one each. Plop, plop, plop. She gets the giggles. Claire can see Fliss plucking her own curry leaves while they played ‘Snakes and Ladders’; her leaves thriving out of season as plants do in these parts. She sees Fliss forking eggs onto the sourdough loaves baked in anticipation of Cyn’s recent phone call. They’ve been set up.

  Claire covers her face with hands. To an observer she could be laughing or crying.

  Cyn moves into her Academy Award winning performance. “Clive, I’d never manipulate you, dear boy. But Claire has a lifetime to enjoy you. The gel’s delighting in your company just now. Buck up, Claire. You’d let Clive help an old friend in a pickle, surely?”

  Claire knows she must show Cynthia she’s no fool to be ambushed by her. That she’s spirited. Whichever way she jumps now Ma’s perception of Claire will stick. Even married, she’ll be deemed rigid, or weak according to what she does right now.

  The conservatory has cooled somewhat; the fire’s not been stoked by Alex, who’s entranced by the drama unfolding on the hearth.

  Suzy shakes her head slightly. Claire feels buoyed. Suzy knows what’s right for her.

  Yet Alex, sitting beside her sends a contrary message – he nods vigorously. What the…?

  Claire can neither give in nor seem to have Clive on too tight a leash. She’s been schooled to believe sexual jealousy a pathetic emotion. Programmed to be a good sport. What a con!

  Cynthia is hoping for a bonus throw of fate’s dice; a last chance to throw a six, to obtain a grandchild from their set.

  Fortunately, ‘fate’ is not what your mama-in-law thinks should happen, Claire reminds herself. Fate is what actually happens.

  Cynthia stands by the wicker whatnot admiring her favourite carnivorous plant, running her finger over its lip, awaiting Claire’s verdict.

  Claire gives the only reply a hardscrabble upbringing permits – compliance with a sting in the tail.

  “Of course, Cynthia. Any friend of Clive’s…”

  Cynthia’s glance barely lingers on Claire now she’s given in. The gel’s a pliable dumb-cluck, she decides. Her gaze wanders, bored, from Claire’s face towards the kitchen door.

  “It’s okay, provided Hal comes as my partner. Bertie as yours,” says Claire.

  Clive guffaws loudly. “Good on you, Claire. You’ve outwitted Mama.”

  Hal looks up his eyes alight with mischief! “A domino couples’ thing. We’ll raise some eyebrows in the district. Capital!” He claps his hands together.

  Mama’s mouth curls involuntarily, as if she’s swallowed something sweet with an unexpectedly sour filling.

  Chapter 27

  Fliss’ S
andwiches

  In June 1987, Claire first observes the Sins at play in their native environment. They’ve been engaged in Snakes and Ladders, a game supposed to remind us humans that goodness pays.

  Felicity comes in with a plate of sandwiches. She hams up her entrance so much you’d think she bore a severed head on a plate. She wears snug-fitting jodhpurs – not that jodhpurs are normally snug but Fliss’ hips have adapted to their habitat, taking up all available space and showing off her horsewoman’s seat. Her bosom is unremarkable, Claire notices, pleased.

  Fliss scans the room and singles Claire out; she wriggles her fingers and says in her sweet soprano voice, “Hi, I’m Felicity. Congratulations on your engagement, Claire.”

  Claire tries to struggle free of the low-slung couch. It’s like a huge hand has her in its grip.

  She hopes Fliss will see her awkward struggle and come over to greet her. But Fliss stands as if rooted to the cracks in the black slate flooring.

  Eventually, Claire gives up her awkward wriggling. “Hello, Felicity,” she says, “Clive’s told me heaps about you – all good.” Claire is surprised when her fib lowers the emotional temperature. Fliss smiles sweetly but she seems to be waiting for Claire to make a speech.

  Claire’s mind goes blank. Should she apologise for her prior carnal knowledge of Fliss’ former fiancé even though she’d had no prior knowledge of her prior role in her fiancé’s life till now? Claire has the floor, yet she’s exhausted all discussion topics. She waits for Cyn to pick up the conversational yoke.

  But Cyn is cross with Claire. She punishes her shy daughter-in-law by switching off the gushy river of chatter that she does so well. This minute is Claire’s; it stretches on interminably. Claire starts to understand the theory of relativity.

  At last Cynthia relents. “Yes, Fliss. Great news. Claire is from the bush,” she says, making Claire seem an insignificant hayseed. “Alex’s fiancée, Suzy’s one of the Forsyth’s of Berwick!”

  “Ma,” Alex intervenes, “Suz and I are friends. We don’t believe in conventional ceremonies.”

  “Suz, this is our next-door neighbour, Felicity.”

  Now Felicity detaches herself from the slate floor, frees herself from the sandwiches by shoving them onto the antique table. She approaches Suz, who’s occupying a double beanbag with Alex and hasn’t a hope of rising gracefully. Fliss showcases her agility by squatting to speak to Suz. “Did you have a sister, Fiona, at PLC?”

  “Yes,” says Suz, pleased. “She married Tom, a diplomat; they’re in the Middle East,” she says. “We miss them.”

  “Remember me to her.”

  “I shall,” says Suz.

  “It’s nice the gels are all pals,” says Mama.

  “Gosh, we’d better make the tea,” says Fliss, “before the sandwiches dry out.” She hands the first lot of sangers around.

  “Let me help, Felicity,” says Claire having arisen while Fliss and Suz were busy bonding.

  “Or would you prefer that I helped with tea?” Claire’s pleased at having used the subjunctive correctly under the strain of meeting her fiancé’s former love. She hopes Clive noticed. And Alex. And Suz too. And then she wishes fervently she didn’t care. Why are so many of the people Claire loves grammar pedants?

  “Your help with tea would be super,” Fliss says – she’s no slouch in the pedantry stakes.

  “Suzy might help too,” she continues, picking up the subjunctive baton and running with it agilely. “I’ll put my faith in Cynthia – hope it’s not misplaced,” she teases “– to hand these around even-handedly.”

  In the kitchen, there are more cucumber sandwiches; these are garnished with a huge curly specimen of the genus. Fliss holds it out to Claire as if daring her to take it from her.

  “Impressive,” Claire says, reaching across the bench-top. Her thumbnail caresses the cucumber’s crinkly skin and explores the curl on its end as it lies in state on her palm. “Go on,” Fliss says. “You’ve touched it now. It’s yours. I’ve little ones on the way.”

  And yet Claire daren’t take it from Fliss completely. They remain attached each to an end of this colossal agricultural specimen until Fliss lets it go. Claire holds it with both hands, wanting to rid herself of this freak while fearing she might damage it. Could Fliss be enjoying seeing Claire hamstrung and indecisive, she wonders. No. Fliss is too sweet.

  Fliss busies herself with the tea caddie. Eventually, Claire centres the monstrosity on the plate and backs away respectfully.

  “It’s my biggest so far. I won’t eat it however hungry I become,” Fliss declares.

  “Why not?” Claire asks.

  “It’s a blooming miracle, of course. I’ll pickle it for the Royal Agricultural Show in November.”

  “It’s your own produce?” Claire asks.

  “Grown in my soil, but the seeds came from Bonnie’s kitchen garden, I saved them, grew them under glass. I love it when neighbours cooperate to achieve something grand: a cucumber greater than the sum of its parts.”

  “I didn’t realise cucumbers had parts. I thought they were part of something greater like a green salad,” Claire says, hoping for a laugh.

  “I’m aiming at self-sufficiency,” Fliss says, ignoring Claire’s attempt at a joke. “I’ve the best incentive. My parents died last year. Sad. They left debts. If I can’t pay my way, I’ll have to sell up, leave the district.”

  Now Claire feels awful for disliking Clive’s former girlfriend on principle. She wonders if she should abdicate her attachment to Clive. It’s hardly fair to lose a fiancé, parents and find oneself saddled with debts so young. Claire wants to pat Fliss’ shoulder but fears seeming patronising.

  “I’m okay,” Fliss says, noticing Claire’s concern and rubbing her arm. “I’ve a small riding school. It’s growing via mouth to mouth recommendations.”

  “Gosh!” Claire says, wondering if Fliss meant ‘word of mouth’.

  “I try to be…versatile.” She pushes a wisp of hair behind her ear then slices more bread. “I knew nothing about business until I enrolled in a distance education course. I’ll soon know how poor I am. The bloke I was taking to the ball tonight is my tutor. He had a bereavement.”

  “It’s okay with me that you’re partnering Clive tonight,” Claire says.

  “Cynthia told me. Thanks muchly.”

  While Fliss deals with the kettle, Claire examines her rival critically. She is as wholesome as the weather on a fine day at the beach, with light to moderate breezes and five-centimetre swells. Her blonde hair has been coiled like rope on a trawler the way it’s piled up on her crown. It’s gone feral under the responsibility of tea duties but this minor untidiness makes her seem less soignée and all the more attractive for being natural.

  “How did you do it?” she asks, turning Claire.

  “Do what?”

  “Get slippery Clive to commit.”

  “By not caring too much, I suppose,” Claire says.

  Fliss stares at Claire, her puzzlement obvious. “How clever of you,” she says eventually, “I’m aware of that strategy but with Clive I don’t have the genuine detachment to feign disinterest.”

  Boy, this girl is smart perceptive plucky. She has all the virtues and she’s managed to put Claire down while being nice to her. She’d have killed their ‘Snakes and Ladders’ game.

  “You’ll find someone.” Claire sinks into verbal quicksand to produce this cliché. “You’re pretty.” God, I hope I’m blushing, she thinks. I can’t believe I’m saying this. I hate how we women are only admired for our looks!

  “You’re the pretty one,” Fliss says, “with your dramatic colouring and exceptional height.”

  Now Claire feels like a great big red lump. “No,” she protests. You’re…"

  “Short, dumpy and so fair it looks like I collided with a powder puff.”

  “But your colouring…your skin’s as transparent as rice paper. You’ve a self-deprecating sense of humour. It helps…”

&
nbsp; “…with life’s disappointments?” says Fliss, finishing her sentence for her, fortunately because Claire’s floundering was becoming terminal.

  Suz is shaking her head as if to say, Claire, it’s one thing to be nice but to flatter someone you can never be friends with – that’s nuts.

  But Claire won’t play politics where love and friendship are concerned. Fliss is open about her feelings, and Claire admires her candour.

  “Okay,” says Fliss, “we’d better bring them in here closer to the feed trough. Better than risking Cynthia’s last few antiques. The conservatory’s a junk shop. When Bonnie’s away, I tidy up. Otherwise, they get themselves in such a muddle. Always fighting bushfires, never planning ahead. And as for maintenance…Be careful the wiring up there,” she points towards the upper floors and shudders. “Get a torch, Claire. Don’t touch those Victorian era switches.”

  A frisson of fear runs through Claire like dodgy electricity.

  “Okay, everyone, tea’s up!” Fliss calls through the door.

  Chapter 28

  Bonnie Home

  While Suz and Fliss joke and flick soap suds at each other, Claire worries about the ball.

  Bravado aside, how will she feel about Clive partnering Fliss? What will she wear?

  The three girls are washing up. Suz and Fliss are getting on famously – a ridiculous expression – what’s famous about getting on? ‘Like a house on fire’ is Claire’s preferred simile – all that warmth and spark seem apt. But Claire can’t throw herself whole-heartedly into the conviviality. So, she muses on the sidelines instead of acting all gossipy confiding and gigglesome. Fliss and Suz are snapping tea towels at each other, and swapping stories of disastrous first dates. Claire doesn’t know whether to be exultant or horrified at how quickly women let down their defences when familiarity is on offer. Is she a friendship prude?