I Have a Bed Made of Buttermilk Pancakes

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  It was not until they were all back home in Sydney that he began to telephone.

  He carved off an edge of his voice for the phone calls, making it cool and restrained, which caused her to press her forehead into the wall, hushing even her breath so she could hear.

  ‘Are you there?’ he would say, in his nonchalant voice.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ And then she would fall silent, at once, so that his voice would go on in that way.

  On Friday, Marbie met the aeronautical engineer.

  Tabitha (Marbie’s supervisor) had arranged for an aeronautical engineer to visit the small boardroom, the one with the views of Darling Harbour and the bowls of mints on the sideboard. He was there to demonstrate the tendencies of airborne cars.

  They were always dealing with airborne cars in their work. Cars seemed to leave the ground at the slightest suggestion: a little tap from a semitrailer; the bark of a dog on the side of the road. One claimant even said that her car took flight when she changed the radio station.

  Marbie and her colleagues tended to be dubious about these claims, but perhaps, they often said, we are wrong.

  Fridays at work, everyone was cocky and buoyant, saying cheerful things with their heads tilted sideways. The aeronautical engineer arrived with his swinging paisley tie and his plump, petal-pink face, and right away he recognised their Friday mood. He put both hands on his almost bald head (which was actually covered in very slight spikes) and said: ‘To begin. The aeroplane!’ Then he asked for a page from Marbie’s notepad and showed them how to make a paper plane.

  They spent the afternoon making paper planes, paper fans or paper swans, and drinking all the wine from the small boardroom fridge, while the aeronautical engineer wandered around with his hands behind his back. He praised Marbie’s fan, exuberantly.

  Toni got the key to the big boardroom, and came back with seven half-bottles of white wine, and the aeronautical engineer praised her, which made Marbie slightly jealous, so she showed him the paper turtle she’d been working on. He didn’t understand what it was, but still praised it. Then Rhamie interrupted with a handful of toy cars, and the aeronautical engineer remembered why he was there and made them throw the toys at one another to demonstrate the tendencies of airborne cars.

  It was wonderful.

  At four o’clock, everyone decided they had done enough work for the day, and they invited the aeronautical engineer to join them at the Night Owl Pub for their Friday drinks. He said he had to run and move his car because he had just that moment remembered it was in a one-hour parking spot! Oh no, they cried, you could have parked in our building! They wanted him to park in the building now, but he wondered if there was any point, as he had a meeting in Chatswood and maybe didn’t even have time to have a drink? But he said he’d try to join them for five minutes or so, once he had moved his car.

  Marbie ran to phone Vernon at the Banana Bar and tell him she was having a drink but would be back in time for the Zing Family Secret Meeting.

  ‘Don’t get hit by a semitrailer on your way,’ instructed Vernon.

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Marbie. ‘Where’s Listen?’

  ‘Well,’ said Vernon, ‘I suppose she’d be at home.’

  HELLO AGAIN! YOU DID IT! IT’S 4 PM ON FRIDAY!

  You can go ahead and do the First Spell now. The First Spell is simple. You probably already know this one, but you still have to do it, I’m afraid. You know what I’m talking about?

  The Spell To Make Someone Decide To Take A Taxi.

  Of course! That old favourite. You know the drill. Take two lemons and cut them in half, take five bananas and peel them. Fill up the bathtub with lukewarm water, toss in your lemons and banana peels. WAIT UNTIL 5 O’CLOCK AND THEN say the magic words – ‘Bob’s your uncle’ – and Bob’s your uncle! The Spell is done.

  Now put the Spell Book back under your pillow. Don’t turn the page until Thursday week!

  At the Night Owl Pub they were all a little depressed because the aeronautical engineer had not shown up. They had made aeroplanes out of beer-damp coasters and wanted to show him. And now Tabitha and Toni had to go to their step class, and Abi and Rhamie had their husbands waiting, so Marbie said goodbye, and she would just stay and finish her beer and take care of their coaster aeroplanes, and then she’d go home.

  ‘You’ve all gone home!’ It was the aeronautical engineer. Standing beside her in the Night Owl Pub.

  ‘Have I gone home?’ said Marbie, rhetorically.

  ‘May I?’

  He was carrying half a beer and tilting his chin at the seat opposite.

  ‘Of course.’

  He sat down and nodded to himself, as if agreeing with a thought.

  ‘My car got towed,’ he said sadly. ‘That’s why I was late. So now I’ll have to take the train to my meeting. And look at this, I’ve missed everybody.’

  He looked around sadly at the empty beer glasses and soggy aeroplanes.

  ‘Am I not somebody?’ said Marbie.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Five o’clock.’

  ‘So late!’ cried the aeronautical engineer. ‘I’ve got to run!’

  But he moved his chair closer, and smiled.

  CATH MURPHY

  In the early light of a birthday once when she was small, Cath woke to the shapes of presents huddled by her bed. One was a short-fat-barrel-shaped present, wrapped in bright pink paper.

  I know what that is. She sat up from her pillow with a whisk of excitement. That’s a pair of rollerblades!

  Only rollerblades would come in short-fat-barrel-shaped presents like that. Under the pink wrapping, there would be a barrel. The barrel would be silver. She would prise the lid open with her fingers and inside, wrapped in bubble-paper: sleek black rollerblades.

  Cath had never tried rollerblading before, so she lay in bed thinking about how she could learn. On the front lawn first. Maybe her father would mow the lawn, leaving a trail of grass clippings, so she could build grass castles to fall on?

  Opening her presents on the verandah that morning, Cath saved the rollerblade present until last. Her father ate his bran flakes, and her mother peeled an orange with her fingers, wiping her sticky hands now and then on a roll of paper towel. They watched while Cath opened each present until there was nothing but the rollerblades left. All the time, she had been tempering her reactions, conserving energy for this particular gift. Now she regarded its pink wrapping. What would she do when she saw the rollerblades? She would let out a high-pierced squeal. She would shout: ‘NO WAY!’ She would jump to her feet and dance.

  She felt intensely nervous as she opened the wrapping. Then the paper fell away.

  It was not rollerblades. It was not even a silver barrel.

  It was a wastepaper basket, with pink plastic butterflies sewn into the straw.

  Cath held the basket for a moment. It was shaped like a barrel.

  ‘Butterflies,’ she whispered. She had one of those moments of dissociation: can this be happening? Am I really here? Is it a dream?

  Then she rallied: ‘Butterflies! Hey, Mummy, you know how I’ve got birds on my curtains? You know what’s going to happen? The birds are going to fly off the curtains and play with the butterflies on my new basket!’

  Her parents laughed happily.

  Cath joined them at the table feeling shaky at the knees. ‘Okay there?’ said her father. ‘You look kind of white.’

  Her mother explained that it was just the excitement.

  Cath sat quietly, feeling strange and wise. She had been tested. She had passed. For here was an important lesson in life, and one she had never suspected:

  sometimes you get a bad surprise, but you have to act calm and un-amazed.

  The first few weeks of the school year seemed to Cath to be stage-lit. She was always shading her eyes from the sun, blending her squint into a smile. Often, she threw back her head in laughter; or tilted her chin as if struck by an inspired thought. She smiled warmly or ironically at
children, and she told quick quirky stories to Lenny and Suzanne, who obliged her by shrieking, ‘Cath! Cut it out!’

  While they hooted – or while she shaded her eyes or tilted her chin, opened her car door or adjusted her rear-vision mirror – Cath would glance around quickly, and sometimes, there he would be:

  Warren Woodford.

  Watching her.

  He often had a single eyebrow raised.

  In the first few weeks of the school year, also, Cath and Warren became friends. This was only natural – they were the 2nd grade teachers and had to hold curriculum meetings after school. When they held their meetings, one or the other of them would run across the highway in the heat to bring back iced café lattes. Then they would have a break and Warren would ask Cath’s advice about difficult children. This was his first year of teaching, whereas it was her third, so she had wisdom to share. He also liked to hear about her part-time law classes, and she would memorise the best cases to describe to him. As she talked, he would gasp slightly at surprising facts, and ask innocent questions, and she would explain the law to him, feeling articulate and smart. It was good revision too, reciting the facts of cases like that.

  Meanwhile, Warren quickly gained the reputation, among teachers, as a charming and light-hearted young man, quick to give an inquisitive look whenever someone said something silly. ‘He cuts through the crap,’ Lenny declared to Cath, and she nodded, feeling proud to be his friend.

  Among children, Warren had a reputation as VERY funny, and you never know what he’s going to do next, and sometimes he doesn’t make sense, but he’s nice if you hurt yourself.

  It was now acknowledged by Lenny and Suzanne that, so far as information was concerned, Warren Woodford belonged to Cath. ‘Hey, did Warren do any acting work before he became a teacher?’ Lenny might say. ‘He’s so funny with that face of his at staff meetings!’ And Cath would explain: ‘No, he only did two years of drama training – then he transferred straight into Education.’ ‘How come?’ Suzanne would ask, humbly.

  ‘Well, one day,’ Cath explained, ‘he was doing this practical drama exercise with a bunch of kids, and he realised he just loved working with them, and he thought: what if I could do MORE than entertain them?’

  ‘Huh,’ Lenny and Suzanne would say, impressed, and then move on to other topics.

  Sometimes, Cath would watch their faces, waiting for some hint that they expected romance between herself and Warren. Had they not noticed how he watched her? Did they not think she was good enough for him?

  But there was never even a suggestion; instead, the three talked about the romance between Lenny and Frank Billson (School Principal). Suzanne liked to suggest new hair colours for Lenny, to help the relationship along, and was pushing for a rich dark red to bring out Lenny’s cheekbones, but Lenny thought blonde with candy lipstick. Sometimes, Cath thought wistfully: shall I die of boredom? But she was pleased for Lenny.

  The late afternoons were sultry and hot, and, once all the other teachers had gone, Cath and Warren would sigh in the heat of the staffroom, leaning forward over their work, elbows sliding out in either direction so their chins were low above the table. They would flick sweat from their foreheads, and open all the windows. Or agree that the windows were only letting in hot air, and close them.

  Once, Warren slid an ice-cube along the back of Cath’s neck to cool her down.

  During school days, they held joint singing or arts-and-crafts lessons, with all of 2nd grade in a circle on Assembly Hall floor. Warren had a surprisingly deep voice when he sang, which made the children stare and sometimes giggle.

  One brightly lit Thursday, Cath sat on the edge of her desk in her classroom, swinging her legs and looking around at the room full of small, fidgeting people. I’m pretty happy, you know, she thought. She was the Queen of Her Own Life! She had so many little kingdoms! Her classroom, the staffroom, her car, her apartment! And in between the kingdoms, she went to law classes, or had iced café lattes with friends.

  ‘Let’s talk about the environment,’ she said to her class, happily. ‘Anybody here know what the environment is?’

  They all nodded, and many said, ‘Yeah.’ Anthony McMasters said, contemptuously, ‘The enviroh-ment?!’ and put his fingers in his ears.

  ‘Take your fingers out of your ears, Anthony.’

  Lucinda Coulton said, ‘I know, Mssssss Murphy, because do you know why? My dad’s a biological engineer.’

  ‘Hands up, Lucinda,’ chided Cath. ‘Is he really?’

  Marcus Ellison said, ‘My dad’s an astronaut.’

  ‘He is not.’ Cassie Zing turned to Marcus in a fury.

  ‘You don’t have to put both hands in the air,’ Cath explained to Lucinda.

  ‘My dad is an astronaut. He already went to Venus, okay for now?’

  Cassie Zing lifted the lid of her desk and slammed it down hard. The slam ruffled her hair and surprised her eyes.

  ‘We’ll do careers then, shall we?’ Cath said smoothly, imagining her voice through the wall between the classrooms, imagining how gentle and sensible it might sound. ‘We’ve had biological engineers and we’ve had astronauts. Anybody know another career?’

  While the children listed careers for her, against a background of Cassie slamming her desk-lid, Cath imagined a knock on the classroom door. She imagined Mr Woodford leaning into the room, and bumping his head on the doorframe (he was that tall). ‘Ouch!’ he would say, quietly to himself. Then: ‘Word with you for a moment, Ms Murphy?’ She would nod and then explain to her class: ‘Keep it down, guys? I won’t be a moment,’ in a firm yet casual voice. Then she would sidestep to the door, where she would look up at Warren with her short, smart hair, and say, ‘Hi.’

  What would he say in reply?

  Cassie Zing put her desk-lid down and announced: ‘My mum is a writer of erotic fiction.’

  ‘Anthony,’ said Cath, ‘take your fingers out of your nose.’

  Driving home, Cath wondered again why Lenny and Suzanne never mentioned Warren as a potential boyfriend for her. Did they not realise how good-looking he was? Did they not see that he was sexy?

  Or were they, like her, simply waiting? Perhaps they sensed that this would be romance of a different kind – romance so fine it was as fragile as crystal, romance unfurling delicately, like a silken bud, or a cygnet hatching. It had to be watched through binoculars with steadiest hands.

  Cath changed gears, and her hand seemed to tremble on the gearstick. Perhaps, when she was not looking, Lenny and Suzanne glanced at one another, and held the glance a moment, silent and steady, glad for their young friend, Cath.

  At home that night, Cath phoned her mother across the country and her mother said, ‘Darling!’ and wept a little. It was a recent habit, this weeping, and must have been hormonal. After all, it was not her but her parents who had moved interstate, leaving Cath with no home, no Mum, no Dad, no my-room-become-sewing-room, no Sunday baked dinner, no cappuccino-Sunday-afternoons.

  After her mother had wept, she called: ‘Dad! It’s Cath! Pick up!’

  Cath’s parents were named ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’, even when she was not around. She had paint-stripped their names, and now they existed only so long as she herself existed. Too much power for one girl to have, she sometimes decided, grimly.

  ‘I was just reading that the child you love best is the one who is far away,’ said Mum. ‘And aren’t you far away, Cath, darling?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Cath. ‘So you love me best.’

  Cath was the only one. There were no siblings. But anyway.

  ‘Cath, you all right, love? How goes the new school year? Any little monsters in your class?’

  That was Dad on the extension, his voice a layer closer than Mum’s.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘Yes, I also read that the child you love best is the one who is ill.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Dad.

  ‘Well, I’m perfectly healthy, so where does that leave us?’

  ‘Who kn
ows!’

  ‘Breaking any hearts over there?’ said Dad.

  ‘Any young men on the horizon?’ agreed Mum, returning abruptly to her more familiar, businesslike voice.

  Breaking any hearts was funny. Cath got her own heart broken so often it was just about a write-off. But she always considered the horizon, obediently, for her parents, and there he was on the edge of a sunset sky: Warren Wishful Woodford, a little self-conscious, damp with drops of ocean mist.

  ‘No,’ she explained. ‘Not really.’

  She shook the horizon gently, tipping him off the edge. Let him climb back up in his own time.

  ‘Hey, Cath,’ whispered Warren, sneaking into the Assembly Hall and sitting down beside her, late on Monday morning. Mr Billson was giving a lecture on punctuality, so a lot of kids pointed at Warren and said: ‘WAH – HAH!’

  ‘Hi,’ she murmured. ‘How was your weekend?’

  ‘Oh, fine, fine. Kind of a strain, you know? Eh, cut it out,’ sternly, to some kids who would not stop pointing and trying to get the Principal’s attention.

  ‘Kind of a strain?’

  He nodded, distracted, and she raised her eyebrows, watching him. His shirt was already patched with sweat: he must have run from his car to the Assembly Hall. He must be in some kind of trouble – kind of a strain – and mentioning it like that, he must want to talk. She would find a gentle way to ask him later.

  For now, she looked down at the folder of papers on her lap; at Monday assemblies, she always pretended to be making notes of what Billson was saying, but in fact she was catching up on class records. She was ticking through last week’s lesson plan when she came across this word: Environment.

  She put a tick beside it. Then she thought, hmm, and changed it to: ½ √, before writing at the end of the list: Careers: ½ √.

  ‘Did you know,’ she whispered to Warren softly, ‘that Cassie Zing’s mother writes erotic fiction?’