I Have a Bed Made of Buttermilk Pancakes

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Radcliffe ordered champagne.

  The waiter allowed her a moment to continue, by setting off to fetch their drinks.

  ‘It’s not a celebration!’ she remonstrated, on account of the champagne. ‘Something awful has happened!’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t to know,’ Radcliffe grumbled. ‘You didn’t tell me what it was. You sounded like it was something exciting on the phone. Besides, we could celebrate the snow. Look at it out there! With the sun sparkling! It’s like diamond-flavoured ice cream, isn’t it? Don’t you think?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Fancy straightened her serviette on her lap, pressed the hair behind her ears, and announced: ‘Vernon has left Marbie!’

  ‘He has not!’

  He was so perfectly sure of this, that Fancy began to doubt.

  ‘He has!’ she exclaimed, remembering. ‘Marbie’s been crying all morning. It turns out that she’s been having an affair.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Radcliffe, ‘that I would believe.’

  ‘Radcliffe!’

  But Fancy had to stop because the waiter was back and wanted them to decide what to eat. Radcliffe chose Braised Lamb in Oyster Sauce. Fancy wanted the Atlantic Prawns.

  ‘It wasn’t an affair, really, anyway,’ Fancy said, as soon as permitted to continue. ‘It was just once, yesterday. With an aeronautical engineer, if you can believe it. And she told Vernon about it right away, that very night. Last night.’

  ‘Good for her,’ said Radcliffe.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Fancy, staring at him carefully. ‘It’s the right thing to do. To tell. You should always tell.’

  Radcliffe smiled slightly and looked down, which at first set off a panic in Fancy’s chest (he’s about to tell me!) until she realised he was thinking back in time. He had always been proud of himself for telling Fancy, when they were teenagers, that he had kissed another girl.

  ‘But he left her!’ Radcliffe exclaimed. ‘Whatever for?’

  Fancy regarded him shrewdly. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘confession isn’t everything.’

  Radcliffe nodded.

  ‘He moved out right away.’ Enthusiastically, Fancy tore her bread in half. ‘And she thinks they’ve moved back to the caravan where they used to live. You know, the one behind the Banana Bar?’

  ‘Good God!’ Radcliffe was impressed. ‘Back to the caravan?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Fancy. ‘Just when the renovations were practically done.’

  The waiter interrupted with their food.

  A little later, Fancy said idly: ‘Who do you think you’ll work with on Monday?’

  Radcliffe had his mouth full of crunching snow peas, but he tilted his head sideways to show confusion. ‘The usual, I guess,’ he said, once he had swallowed enough to speak.

  ‘Gemma?’ said Fancy, staring at him carefully. ‘Will you work with Gemma?’

  ‘Gemma?’ he frowned. ‘Gemma.’

  Fancy squinted scornfully. ‘The one who had her moles zapped,’ she reminded him, and peered at his mouth, his cheeks and his eyes.

  ‘Oh, Gemma, yes. She works in the pay office. I wouldn’t usually work with someone from the pay office, Fance. The moles! I remember. She also got her eyes zapped. You know, that laser operation where they burn open your eyeballs and scrape away whatever makes you short-sighted, and then you don’t need glasses anymore? She had that done.’

  This conversation was not actually part of Fancy’s plan, and was suddenly exasperating, so she stopped and looked around for the waiter.

  ‘I think I might drop by the Banana Bar,’ she changed the subject as she looked, ‘and see how Vernon and Listen are. Or is it too soon?’

  ‘Ah-hah,’ nodded Radcliffe. ‘Remind Vernon of his responsibilities vis-à-vis the Secret, eh? Remind him of all those confidentiality documents he signed?’

  ‘Well, no, Radcliffe, we don’t think Vernon’s the vindictive type. We’re not worried about him and the Secret. I just want to see if he’s okay.’ She raised her eyebrows at the waiter as she spoke, and wrote her signature in the air, including the flourish she always added to the ‘g’ in ‘Zing’.

  ‘Ha ha,’ chuckled Radcliffe, ‘not worried, eh? Because he seems like such a nice guy, such a gentle, laid-back, easy-going guy? You mark my words, Fance, it’s the quiet ones you’ve got to worry about. Underneath all that gentle wit is a seething mass of resentment.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that.’ Fancy frowned at him sternly, but also with a flicker of unease.

  ‘Aren’t you going to have dessert?’ said Radcliffe. ‘I was thinking of a coffee and now it’s too late. You’ve gone and asked for the bill.’

  ‘It’s never too late,’ said Fancy, mysteriously. ‘Nothing is ever too late, Radcliffe.’

  ‘Okay,’ he agreed, and when the waiter put down a slender leather wallet containing two chocolate mints and the bill, Radcliffe said, ‘Might I add a flat white to that, do you think?’

  ‘Easy,’ said the waiter, and smoothly whisked it back.

  Fancy skidded along in the afternoon light having dropped Radcliffe back at home. She was listening to a pair of excited radio announcers. In their excitement, they were cancelling flights, trains, ferries, parties, fetes and festivals, all on account of the snow. They were cancelling Harbour Bridge Walks (indefinitely), but replacing them with sleigh rides down the sides of the Opera House (hilariously). They sympathised with a caller who had never seen snow before, and had been saving the experience for her fortieth birthday: now it was too late! She had seen it! (‘Still,’ the next caller pointed out, ‘I suppose she could have stayed inside and kept the curtains closed.’) They were warmed by a caller who phoned to say she had opened her house to strangers, on account of her pot-belly stove. ‘It heats the whole house!’ They were fretful about what would happen when the snow melted. There would be floods, wouldn’t there? They invited callers to confirm or deny.

  ‘Hello!’ said Fancy, brushing snowflakes from her jacket as she jangled the Banana Bar door. ‘Busy today?’ She sounded odd and bright.

  ‘Nope,’ said Vernon. ‘Not one single customer. The weather, I guess.’

  ‘Well,’ (she could not stop the brightness) ‘I’ll be your first! I’ll have a banana milkshake, thanks.’

  ‘On the house.’

  ‘No! No!’

  And then Fancy looked at him meaningfully, to indicate that she knew, and Vernon shrugged to himself.

  ‘So,’ continued Fancy, building on her meaningful glance, ‘I just wanted to see how you were – see if there’s anything I can – and about the caravan – isn’t it a bit too cold?’

  ‘We won’t sleep in the caravan. We’ve got a generator for the shop, so we’ll sleep out the back there. And also, if your mother’s worried. I understand about the Secret. The Zing Family Secret. I would never –’

  ‘Vernon! No! Of course we’re not worried about that. I’m just hoping it will work out again. I mean, Marbie . . .’ She was going to say that Marbie was a brat, a fool, a wicked witch, but one with the right sort of heart – only there was something about Vernon’s eyes when she said the name ‘Marbie’. So she changed the subject. ‘Where’s Listen? How is she?’

  ‘She’s not so happy.’

  ‘Did you tell her about – about Marbie – about . . .’

  ‘I just said that Marbie and I had a fight. I said I didn’t think we’d ever get over it. The fight. I said that was most probably it between Marbie and me.’ He took Fancy’s milkshake back from her, although it was not quite finished, and dumped it in the sink.

  ‘Ah,’ said Fancy.

  Their eyes met for a moment and they both looked up at the giant plastic bananas hanging from the ceiling.

  ‘She’s out the back now in the caravan, I think. Practising her Tae Kwon Do.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Fancy, standing and gathering her purse. ‘Well, lovely to see you, Vernon. Make sure you call if you need anything. Or if you want to talk . . . And give Listen my love, won’t you? Tell her to –’


  But she didn’t know what to tell Listen, and simply waved.

  It took years before you could do a proper flying side kick. Carl Vandenberg could do one, but he was a black belt, and even he looked messy in the air. The other day Listen had been one of the four people who crouched on the floor in a row, so that Carl could jump over them and kick the piece of board held by the master.

  Listen had decided she would secretly teach herself the flying side kick. Out in the cold, she ran, leapt and fell onto her face. Her feet were bare. She wore summer pyjamas. She ran, leapt with her leg tucked under and she fell face-forward in the snow. She leapt and fell; leapt and fell.

  When she got up, she could not feel her face, except her nose, which ached. Her hands were purple, her fingers were stinging, her knees and elbows were bruised or grazed, and all the time she thought: I deserve this.

  Because she had ruined everything. She was a stupid, selfish person and she stamped her bare feet in the snow to prove this, and found herself stamping up the stairs into the caravan to burn the book.

  A SPELL TO MAKE TWO HAPPY PEOPLE HAVE A HUGE FIGHT OVER ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

  She could not believe she had done a spell like that. She could not believe it meant Vernon and Marbie. She never thought these spells even worked.

  She took the Spell Book from her backpack and slapped a hand scornfully against the lime green cover. She would never open it again. Excuse me, but why had she even bothered? The spells were useless. A spell about making somebody catch a taxi. A spell about breaking a vacuum cleaner. And then, the first spell that actually worked was an evil spell to make two happy people have a fight.

  She was supposed to do the next spell today but she was actually going to throw it away, burn it, tear it up, or maybe just throw it in the recycling bin.

  She would drown the book. She slammed it down into the tiny caravan sink, although it just made a slow popping sound, not the THWACK she wanted, and she reached for the tap, but of course nothing happened. The water pipes had frozen.

  It was then, looking down into the sink, that she saw the inside flap of the back cover. She had never noticed it before, since she had been careful not to turn the pages. But it had slipped out in the caravan sink now, and she could see a square of print:

  This Book really truly works! You’ve got to do all the Spells of course but boy oh boy! Until I did those Spells, I was the unhappiest girl in the State. I didn’t think I’d make it through another day! I thought I’d maybe peg myself to the clothesline and hang myself out to dry. Praise be for the Spell Book is all that I can say – it saved my life!’

  Elinor Daisy Weaver, Jacksonville, Alabama

  Listen took the book out of the sink and read the endorsement again. And then she noticed, at the bottom of the back cover itself, in tiny silver italics, this:

  This Book will make you Fly, will make you Strong, will make you Glad. What’s more, this Book will Mend your Broken Heart.

  Her face throbbed cold and goose bumps pricked her pyjama sleeves. She opened the Spell Book and read the next spell.

  A Spell To Make Someone Give Someone A Rose

  Put your finger on your nose and say: ‘Golly!’

  This Spell will work in about eight weeks, or so. You can do the next Spell next Saturday!

  ‘Cassie, honey, you know you don’t need cushions and things for the snow. It’s okay to fall on it. It’s soft.’ Fancy explained this as she drove Cassie home from Lucinda’s place, keeping the car in low gear and skidding to the wrong side of the road occasionally.

  ‘Not soft enough. See, there’s not enough snow so you have to get the pillows and take the cushions off the couch and put them around on top of the snow so you can fall on them.’

  ‘Hmm. Well. I’m sure that’s wrong.’

  ‘And we used Lucinda’s mum’s cake tins and frying pans to slide on, but you had to push yourself along with your legs because they don’t really have any kind of hills in Lucinda’s back yard.’ Cassie drew a picture of herself on a cake tin in the window steam. ‘See, Mum? This is how we pushed ourselves along.’

  Fancy glanced over and said, ‘Oh!’, then, a few moments later: ‘I suppose that’s okay, about the cake tins. I suppose you can’t really hurt them.’

  ‘But I think we broke their VCR.’

  ‘Oh, Cassie, I thought you were outside playing the whole time.’

  ‘We were. We broke the VCR when we were sliding on it.’

  ‘Cassie! Did Lucinda’s mother know about this?’

  ‘No,’ explained Cassie. ‘Lucinda hid the VCR under her bed. They should get a DVD anyway.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fancy, ‘I suppose so.’

  Then they listened to the radio together for a moment: all over the city, people were tripping over, tobogganing down Martin Place, catching skis on parking metres, and leaving ski poles outside shops.

  ‘Brrrrrrrr,’ said Cassie as they walked through the front door.

  ‘Here’s trouble,’ exclaimed her father. ‘Cass, you’re walking snow into the house, kiddo. I think you ought to take your shoes off. Call me old-fashioned.’

  ‘Come and sit on the steps beside me,’ her mother offered. ‘I bet this is what they do in cold countries. They take off their shoes on the steps. Radcliffe, shouldn’t we put snow chains on the tyres?’

  ‘I’ll ring up the Living With Snow Help Line,’ agreed Radcliffe.

  ‘Gosh,’ said Fancy. ‘There’s a Help Line? So they think the snow’s going to last?’

  ‘I think we should have chicken noodle soup for dinner,’ suggested Cassie, ‘and then roast beef and roast potatoes, and then cherry pie, and then we should get a fireplace with a fire and marshmallows and games. That’s what they do in cold countries when it snows.’

  Over the next few days, the snow slowly melted, but the weather stayed exceptionally cold and everyone expected more to fall. Just in case, the City of Sydney commissioned a series of television ads under the slogan Living With Snow. The ads advised on such things as shovelling the driveway and not wearing slippery shoes. Also, they pointed out that snow was designed to be ‘fun’ so nobody should panic if it did happen again.

  Meanwhile, the Bureau of Meteorology cautioned that more snow was highly unlikely since snow in Sydney was a freakish event. It could not resist adding now and then: but still, you never know!

  Each morning, the Canadian sat on his front porch, dressed in his overcoat and a black woollen hat, drinking coffee and breathing mist as he answered Fancy’s queries about cold.

  Each morning, Marbie woke at her parents’ place, tangled in her childhood bed. She could not bring herself to go home, or to go to work. She took long hot baths and showers, left phone messages for Vernon at the Banana Bar, and asked her parents whether he had called while she was in the bath. He never had.

  On the first Friday of the two-week school holidays, Fancy visited her parents for morning tea.

  ‘Marbie’s still asleep,’ explained Fancy’s mother, sitting down and taking the teabag out of her cup. ‘And your dad’s in the shed. He’s taking it hard, this break-up of Marbie’s – you know how fond he was of Vernon – and really, I wonder what Marbie thinks she –’

  At that moment, Marbie walked into the kitchen, wearing slippers and her mother’s pink dressing gown.

  ‘Hello,’ said Marbie, seeing her sister. ‘Did you bring Cassie?’

  Fancy raised her chin towards the kitchen window, and Marbie turned around. In the back garden, Cassie and her friend Lucinda were stamping around in the mud.

  ‘Oh,’ said Marbie vaguely. ‘I felt like talking to her.’

  ‘Never mind, darling. Have some ginger cake with us. It’s still warm!’

  ‘Why aren’t you at work, anyway?’ Fancy wanted to know.

  ‘Well,’ explained Marbie, ‘I phoned Tabitha on Monday, she’s my supervisor, and I told her what happened and she said I should take as much time as I needed.’

  ‘You can’t stop working,�
� interrupted Fancy, pointing her teacup at Marbie, ‘just because you’ve got a broken heart. It’s no excuse. It’s like when you have a hangover. You have to go to work even then.’

  ‘I would think it’d be pretty quiet at Marbie’s office these days,’ their mother soothed, ‘what with this funny weather.’

  ‘Actually, imagine how many claims are coming in with all the skidding cars,’ Marbie admitted thoughtfully.

  ‘Cassie and Lucinda have been outside playing every day,’ said Fancy. ‘They’ve adapted to the cold, and my point is, Marbie, there are some things you just have to do.’

  ‘I’m going to have a bath,’ Marbie said to her mother. ‘See if you can find out what’s wrong with Fancy. She’s gone all right wing and Protestant.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fancy, ‘if the children can get on with their lives . . .’

  ‘Vernon? Is that you? It’s me. I’m calling from the bath.’

  ‘Marbie, you’d better stop phoning me, okay?’

  Marbie was quiet.

  ‘Marbie? Did you hear me?’

  ‘You prefer me not to call?’

  ‘That’s right. Please stop leaving messages. Okay? This is not going to work.’

  ‘I can’t even leave messages to say I’m sorry?’

  ‘Not even that.’

  ‘But it makes me feel better.’

  ‘That’s not really a concern of mine.’

  ‘Can I speak to Listen then?’

  ‘No, you can’t. She’s at the library working on her assignment.’

  ‘Choose two creatures of the sea?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Is she still doing seahorses and whales?’

  ‘I’m hanging up now, okay?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Marbie, I’m hanging up the phone.’

  On Friday night, Marbie drove to the Night Owl Pub but the only person there was Toni.