I Have a Bed Made of Buttermilk Pancakes

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Best wishes,

  Fancy Zing

  Well, said Cath, rereading the part about what a ‘delightful’ teacher she was. She had heard something about Year 7 students using the new demountables at Redwood next term, but she had only thought, wisely: Billson would never have allowed this if it wasn’t that he’s distracted because he’s so in love with Lenny.

  Now she drafted a polite reply to Fancy Zing, agreeing to look out for ‘Listen’, and pointing out (for the sake of something to say) that she herself had a toothache today, and wished it was a matter for the tooth fairy! (Who ARE you, Cath Murphy? she scolded, as she wrote.) Then she turned to the next letter in her pile.

  Cath Murphy

  c/o Redwood Primary

  Dear Ms Murphy,

  The Harvey K. Whatsmeyer and Dorothy P. Ruckleman Scholarship in part-time Law

  It is with great pleasure that we inform you that you have been awarded the Harvey K. Whatsmeyer and Dorothy P. Ruckleman Scholarship in part-time Law.

  This scholarship covers the full cost of tuition for your part-time law degree, and offers a textbook and photocopying allowance each term.

  It is awarded to students at the Barhill University School of Law, who are studying law part-time, and seem to be particularly brilliant. Congratulations! We are very glad to have you join the ‘prestigious’ and ‘exclusive’ club of Harvey K. Whatsmeyer and Dorothy P. Ruckleman Scholarship in part-time Law holders!

  Your tuition will be paid directly on your behalf, and we now enclose your first textbook cheque.

  Kind regards,

  The Trustees,

  Harvey K.Whatsmeyer and Dorothy P. Ruckleman Scholarship in part-time Law

  Cath read the letter five times, maybe six, noting that the paper was thick, that the font was elegant, and that a bank cheque was pinned to the back. Her cheeks began to ache from the smile of it all. She turned the TV loud, danced with her cat, and danced into the kitchen to make celebration chocolate-chip cookies. This is wonderful, she danced, wonderful!

  Still, she thought, in a more reasonable voice, it’s not all that surprising.

  Chocolate chips spilled in a shower to the floor. What did she mean by that? Why should it not be surprising? Certainly, she had never applied for the Harvey K. Whatsmeyer and Dorothy P. Ruckleman Scholarship in part-time Law. She had never even heard of such a thing.

  But she had to admit that, in fact, she had won a scholarship like this every year of high school, and every year of her Education degree. So that, even the other day when she was talking to Warren and Suzanne about how worried she was about the cost of tuition – even then, she was more impatient than actually concerned.

  Violin skidded among chocolate chips as Cath reflected that this sort of attitude – impatient to win a scholarship! – was both conceited and spoiled. Furthermore, such an attitude – unsurprised when she actually won one! – was likely to ruin the excitement of almost any happy event. So she collected her excitement about her again, danced the chocolate-chip cookies onto the top shelf of the oven, and danced back to the TV.

  There was one last letter waiting for her, an internal letter, a two-word CATH MURPHY envelope, in handwriting that she knew. She had known that it was there all along, actually, and partly, the careful piles of Things-To-Do and the chocolate chip excitement at her scholarship letter – partly all those things were nothing more than self-imposed suspense.

  Cath,

  This is just something ridiculous that I made for you. It’s to say thank you, because you helped to make my birthday so special the other day.

  How about we have dinner this Thursday night? In honour of the end of the term. I have a favourite Moroccan restaurant which would do the trick. The 442 takes us to the door if you don’t want to take that Merc of yours.

  Warren

  Cath looked at the letter as a rectangle of paper. She looked at the letter as geometry, at the handwriting as angles and curls, and finally, she looked at the enclosure. It was a cross-stitched bookmark (stitched with a crescent moon and three stars, all in midnight blue).

  No, well, of course I cannot go. A Moroccan restaurant! The idea! This Warren Woodford had such tall skinny legs that his head was stuck up in the sky. She grew angry at him for a moment, because what did he think he was playing at? What was he doing to her face and her cheeks, and her forearms and the space behind her knees, WHAT DID HE THINK HE WAS DOING, when he sent her the moon and the stars?

  She would, of course, say NO. Sternly and firmly: NO.

  But Warren Wishful Woodford had long skinny legs and wishful flecks of gold in his wistful eyes. Warren Wishful Woodford was as good as gold can be, and his long thin fingers had taken up a needle and some cloth. These long thin fingers had taken her, Cath Murphy, and threaded her, like cotton, through the needle. He had thrust her (Cath Murphy) straight into the cloth (her eyes closed tight against the shock) – then gently, his long thin fingers had tugged her through the other side. Then down again, and gently, up above the cloth, always gentle but firm, these fingers had taken Cath Murphy and transformed her into Moon and into Stars.

  Cath Murphy had a beanbag and a slender cat. She had the Harvey

  K. Whatsmeyer and Dorothy P. Ruckleman Scholarship in part-time Law. She was delightful, she was brilliant, she was lucky as a cat, and everything was sewn in midnight blue.

  She took up her pen to reply.

  On Thursday night, at dinner with Warren, Cath leaned forward and told him it was her destiny to be a lawyer. He poured her another glass of wine, and she explained that each year in high school she had received a special award, and it had always turned out to be a book about justice or the law.

  ‘Every single time?’ said Warren.

  ‘Every single time.’

  ‘Well,’ said Warren. ‘Who chose the books? It was probably the legal studies teacher or something.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Cath, confused, ‘I don’t know who chose them, but listen to this!’

  ‘Listen to what?’ He poured himself some wine, and held the bottle above the glass allowing it to drip, drip, drip, until a waiter saw and said, ‘Shall I bring you more?’

  ‘Yes please,’ they both said together.

  ‘Every single career guidance counsellor I ever had told me I HAD to study law!’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Warren.

  ‘And once. Once! A palm-reader told me I was going to be a lawyer. And my star sign often tells me that. And Chinese fortune cookies – no . . . But once I had a swimming coach, Ella her name was I think, she was some former Olympic champion or something, anyway, Ella told me I did backstroke like a lawyer. “Forget the swimming,” she said, “you go straight to law school, little one.” I was only ten or eleven at the time. And plus, I just remembered, I got offered a scholarship to study law in my last year of high school! Without applying for one! What do you think about that?!’

  She ate a mouthful of couscous.

  ‘But you still became a school teacher,’ said Warren, admiringly. ‘You know what you are? You’re a destiny fighter.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she blushed.

  ‘So what happened? How come you started law this year, Cath Murphy?’

  ‘That doesn’t count,’ she explained. ‘I had a broken heart. And then I got this leaflet in the mail about a new law school, and the classes were at convenient times, and it was easy to fill in the application form. But, you know, I had a broken heart so it doesn’t really count.’

  ‘You can’t fight destiny if your heart’s not in it,’ agreed Warren. ‘But what I want to know is, what brain-dead moron broke your heart? Look at you! Would you just look at you? And tell me, who could break that heart?’

  She laughed and looked down at her food. ‘Do you believe in omens?’ she said, to change the subject.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Don’t you?’

  Their eyes caught for a moment, and held, and continued to hold, until Cath felt her whole body tremble.

  ‘Why
?’ said Warren.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just that we got the 442 tonight, and the Friendly Bus Driver was driving.’

  ‘The friendly bus driver?’

  ‘Yes, didn’t you notice him chatting to me when we got on the bus?’

  ‘Cath, I’m sorry, but who is the friendly bus driver?’

  ‘You don’t know the Friendly Bus Driver!? He comes by Redwood every afternoon – he drives the Glenorie bus? And he always leans out and chats to me while the kids get on board, and he is so friendly, Warren.’

  ‘And so,’ said Warren, gazing at her. ‘And so, it’s an omen that he drove us here tonight. An omen of what?’ He leaned forward on his elbows and stared at her, waiting, while she stared back.

  ‘Guess what,’ she panicked, suddenly. ‘I’m always cutting competitions out of magazines!’

  ‘Are you?’ said Warren, archly, leaning back into his chair again and straightening the serviette on his lap.

  ‘Yes, and guess what else? I practically always win.’

  ‘Like what? Like what competitions?’

  ‘Like, I won a free flight to go see my parents in Perth last year, and that’s from a coupon I cut out of a magazine. Always cut them out, Warren. Okay? I don’t mean from big newspapers like the Herald – I never win those competitions but small ones, like Travel Schmazzle.’

  ‘Small ones like Travel Schmazzle?’

  ‘Right,’ she said, nodding excitedly. ‘Or Cat Nap.’

  ‘Never in my life have I heard of a magazine called Travel Schmazzle.’

  ‘Or Cat Nap?’

  ‘No, not Cat Nap either, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘The Journal of Dreamy Window Boxes?’

  ‘Cath Murphy, you are priceless. Come home with me tonight.’

  ‘Well, how about Elf Epistles? I won a blender from them. Just the other day.’

  ‘Cath, you are beautiful. Come home with me. Please.’

  The next day, the last day of term, Cath watched Warren through the window of the classroom, and felt the chill of the ice storm in her chest. Because: what if that had been her only chance?

  She had not gone home with him. She had ignored his invitation. At the end of the night, she had held her head haughtily and climbed into the taxi, while he watched her through narrowed eyes. Then he slowly pressed her taxi door closed, took one step back, turned his shoulder to the wind, and flagged down a taxi of his own.

  At first, in her taxi, she had felt proud, but she quickly found herself appalled. Her lips ached from not having kissed. She held her arms around her body to comfort it. Because the next day it would be Friday! Breanna would be down from the coast! Then two whole weeks of school holidays, during which time Cath would be alone with the empty space where his body should be. Two whole weeks during which time Warren would forget their flirtation and remember himself and his wife.

  Cath, you are beautiful, come home with me, please. It had been her last chance. If she had just stepped back from the taxi for a moment, and kissed him, just that, the kiss might have held him for the holidays.

  She watched him now in the lunchtime playground, through the iced-over windows of her classroom. He seemed to have agreed to referee a game of rounders.

  Marcus Ellison took the bat, Severino lined up with a tennis ball, and then, in a whirl out of nowhere, there was Cassie Zing. She was sprinting on the iced-over asphalt, in a wildfire skid towards Marcus. Cath, behind the window, gasped.

  But Warren Woodford, calm as snow, took two long strides toward the wildfire. He lowered his body, caught her in her skid, straightened her up, and dusted the ice from her hair. Then, crouching crookedly, he turned and spoke to Marcus. Cassie’s fists relented, her hands fell by her side. Marcus shrugged and turned back to the game. Cassie hopscotched towards her friend Lucinda, who caught her just before she fell.

  From the window, Cath watched as Warren Woodford stood and smiled like a gentle king, and clapped his hands once, meaning: ‘Right! Play on!’

  Later, sharing bus duty with their shoulders close against the cold, Cath pressed her fingers together through her gloves, and tried to think of something to say. What could she say that would hold him until next term?

  ‘What are you and Breanna doing tonight?’ she tried, hopelessly.

  Warren cried: ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard! How could you not have heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Lenny D’Souza is leaving, and wait, there’s more, she’s leaving today!’

  While Cath stared, Warren explained that Lenny and Billson had had a HUGE fight about ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, in front of EVERYONE, in the STAFFROOM, at the end of RECESS that day.

  ‘And she resigned?’ whispered Cath.

  ‘She resigned! But she left a message saying she’s having a farewell party at her place tonight, and everyone’s invited.’

  ‘Including Billson?’

  ‘No, Cath. Not including Billson.’

  ‘Well!’ said Cath, importantly. ‘Lenny’s my friend. I have to get over there, right away. She must be wondering where I am. And she must not realise that you can’t have a farewell party and then change your mind about resigning. I have to stop her!’

  ‘Don’t stop her,’ said Warren. ‘I feel like going to a party tonight.’

  ‘You’re coming?’ cried Cath, startled, and almost giddy. Then she said, lightly: ‘So you’ll bring Breanna along? I finally get to meet her!’

  ‘Cath Murphy,’ said Warren. ‘Where exactly have you been all day? Has it passed you by that the weather is really weird? That this is Sydney’s first ice storm on record? That the whole public transport system has been completely shut down? Have a look at these school buses here, Cath, and tell me what’s happened to their tyres. They have chains on their tyres, Cath. School buses are the only ones allowed to travel today, to get the kids home, and that’s it. Do you think they’d let trains run today? How exactly do you think Breanna’s getting down from the coast tonight? And another thing, how exactly did you get your class to talk about anything other than weather today? You’re a better teacher than I am, that’s for sure.’

  Cath giggled, pleased, and said, ‘I wonder how we’ll get to Lenny’s party?’

  Then she explained, casually, that she lived down the road from Lenny’s place, and that Warren might as well share a taxi with her. After the party, he could take a taxi to his home, and she could walk back to her own place.

  Warren was pleased with this idea.

  Lenny wept into Cath’s neck. ‘Oh my God, Cath! I loved my job! I loved that man! I will miss you so much!’

  Cath, on the couch beside Lenny, tried to balance a gin and tonic around her sobbing shoulders. Also on the couch, sipping a cup of tea and turning the pages of Lenny’s photo albums, was Heather Waratah (teacher, Grade 4C).

  ‘Lenny,’ murmured Cath. ‘You know you could just change your mind and come back? You want me to call Billson for you right now?’

  ‘I can’t,’ sniffed Lenny, shaking her head. ‘But you have to keep in touch,’ she sobbed again, drank from her beer, and dribbled beer alongside her tears. ‘You have to promise you’ll keep in touch!’

  ‘Ha!’ exclaimed Miss Waratah, pointing to a photo of Lenny and her brothers dressed as reindeers.

  ‘All right,’ said Cath. ‘I promise.’

  Warren was as plastered as a wall, he said. Cath said that she was too.

  They caught one another in the kitchen, and made some rude sentences with the magnet words on the fridge. Katie Toby (teacher, Kinder A) and Jo Bel Castro (teacher, Grade 5A) wandered into the room, and Katie Toby said: ‘Ice? Where’s the ice?’

  Jo Bel Castro put a friendly arm around Katie’s shoulder and declared, ‘Where would a person find ice?’

  Warren opened the dishwasher and took out the cutlery container. ‘Not here,’ he shrugged, and put it back.

  Katie Toby stared and frowned. ‘Thank you, everyone,’ she said, and left the room. Jo Bel Castro raised
an eyebrow, and walked in the other direction.

  Cath giggled and fell against Warren, on purpose more or less, by the fridge. Warren held her up, with his arm around her shoulders, and pressed his face into her hair. He was saying something.

  ‘What?’ she said, not wanting to let go. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Thank you,’ he murmured, in his muffled voice. ‘I’m saying thank you for last night. For not coming home with me. Cath? I don’t trust myself around you anymore.’

  Cath stayed still. His nose was pressed just above her ear and the warmth of his face was in her hair. ‘Well,’ she said, eventually. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means,’ said Warren, ‘that I’m relying on you. You have to be the stronger one, okay?’

  ‘Right,’ said Cath. ‘Right.’

  She pressed her whole body against his for a moment, as hard as she could, and then she stepped clean away.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’m going to the bathroom.’

  Lenny’s bathroom had an apricot theme and an art nouveau pattern around the tiles. Cath looked at herself in the mirror and immediately knew that she was drunk: it was just as she’d suspected.

  ‘Nine times seven is sixty-three,’ she said to the mirror. So she was not all that drunk. She was still there, inside her head, doing her nine times tables. But that woman there, that woman in the mirror? Who is that, Cath Murphy, who is that?

  Seven times nine is –

  In reverse, it was not so good.

  ‘You’ll never get a cab in this.’

  It was snowing outside.

  ‘Freakish weather!’ whispered Katie Toby, gazing through the window. Then, to the room: ‘Snow in Sydney! I mean, maybe a few flakes, once in a blue moon! But heavy snow! I mean, it’s really kind of heavy? You know? In the hippy sense. Ha ha!’