by Helen Brown
I felt humbled. Any frustrations we had wrestling with one cat’s lion-sized ego evaporated alongside the challenges of nine live-in felines. Vivienne might be mad about cats, but she was no mad cat lady. No wonder she hadn’t been perturbed when asked if she thought she could look after Jonah and Ferdie at our place for the wedding weekend.
Intrigued, I poured Vivienne a glass of wine and delved discreetly into her background. Not only was she a qualified cat behaviourist, she was an animal activist. Having never met someone who fought for animal rights before, I realised my prejudices were just as inaccurate as they’d been about mad cat ladies. I’d always imagined animal activists were on the loony side. But when I learned about the work Vivienne and her friends did, I was abashed.
One of Vivienne’s friends had recently received a tip-off that the council was planning to trap some wild cats in an old bus depot and take them away to be destroyed. In what sounded like an action movie adventure, Vivienne and her friends broke into the depot around midnight and collected the cats themselves.
‘A lot of the cats weren’t feral at all,’ she said. ‘They were quite friendly. They were just family pets who’d been abandoned there.’
She and her friends transported the felines to a no-kill shelter, where efforts would be made to find good homes for them. Rescuing animals from death row required enormous commitment and funding. It was heart-warming to learn that animals had human guardians like Vivienne and her friends.
While she was talking, Jonah crept along the back of the sofa behind her and toyed idly with her ponytail. The game soon became vigorous. He rolled on his back, snared a bunch of purple curls between his front paws and ran them like dental floss through his teeth.
Apologising, I untangled him from the nest he’d made of her hair. As I lowered him back on to the rug, I became aware of Vivienne’s watchful gaze. I waited for the usual ‘Isn’t he cute!?’ comment, but her expression was serious.
‘It’s the breed,’ she said. ‘Orientals are high-maintenance. How old did you say he was when you got him?’
‘I’m not sure. At least a couple of months, possibly older. He was certainly the largest kitten in the shop.’
‘Hmmm, that would figure,’ Vivienne said as Jonah scampered off to claw the stair carpet. ‘He was probably a reject.’
‘What do you mean reject?’ I asked, affronted on Jonah’s behalf.
‘Because he was older than the other cats, somebody could’ve bought him before you did. They probably decided they didn’t like him for some reason and took him back to the shop. Do you have any idea why they might’ve done that?’
I wasn’t sure how to answer.
‘The pet shop man said he’d had conjunctivitis, so they’d had to keep him a bit longer.’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything a pet shop man tells you,’ said Vivienne as a streak of chocolate and cream sprinted between us meowing loudly.
‘Well, he is a full-on cat . . .’ I said, as Jonah bounced on to the window ledge and promptly fell off in a muddle of legs and paws. ‘But he’s very affectionate. And he helped me recover from a mastectomy and write a book. He’s just so . . . funny.’
‘He is funny,’ she said, smiling warmly as Jonah tugged at the lace of her purple shoe. ‘But he’s also dysfunctional.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, there’s the pica, the separation anxiety and he strikes me as obsessive compulsive too,’ said Vivienne. ‘Did you notice when you opened the front door he ran to greet me then went straight down the hall to scratch the stair carpet?’
‘In all honesty, no,’ I said, thinking that I hadn’t experienced such defensiveness since crouching on a dwarf-sized chair at parent–teacher interviews (‘My child is not disruptive/a slow reader/hopeless at handwriting. You just think he is’). No way was I going to tell Vivienne the really deranged things Jonah got up to: stealing hats and gloves from people’s wardrobes, collecting socks and key rings, hiding in the rubbish bin cupboard.
‘We’re all a bit crazy here,’ I added. ‘Jonah fits in.’
Vivienne suggested some of his problems stemmed from boredom. I asked if she meant we should let him be an outdoor cat, but she was quick to say no. With Jonah’s jumpiness, an encounter with a dog, let alone a car, could be disastrous.
She asked if the scratching post in the corner was the only one we had. If we wanted him to stop destroying the stair carpet, she said, he needed more scratching poles, and taller ones.
‘Isn’t that one tall enough?’ I asked, worrying that the house already resembled a pet shop.
‘See how long his body is?’ Vivienne said. ‘That pole isn’t nearly tall enough for him to stretch out properly against and have a good scratch. And have you thought about getting an outside enclosure for him?’
‘You mean a cage?’ I asked, even more dispirited.
‘I’ve seen some amazing cat runs,’ Vivienne said, scribbling phone numbers on our kitchen note pad. ‘Take a look on the web, or try some of these people.’
Which is how, a week before the wedding, Jonah became the luckiest cat in the neighbourhood. A fresh delivery of scratchers, balls, puzzles and an infrared torch for chasing red dots made us look even more overrun by a cat.
When the world’s tallest cat scratcher was delivered, Jonah circled it first with curiosity, then delight.
Vivienne’s assessment had been spot on. Not only did he relish stretching his body out against the length of the ridiculously tall pole, he loved sitting on the platform at the top, which put him at the perfect height to preside over family meals. When the girls were cooking or doing dishes, they slid Jonah on his pole into the kitchen where he inspected their activities with the authority of an Egyptian slave-driver overseeing the construction of the pyramids.
Soon after (and despite Philip’s fear it was going to be ugly) an elaborate cat run was erected in the back garden. From a cat door inside a laundry cupboard, Jonah emerged into a wire mesh tower that led him through several metres of tunnel above the iceberg roses which ended up in a larger tower near the olive trees. The second tower was a substantial enclosure containing several wooden ledges and two cat hammocks. To complete the luxury lodge, the girls and I planted bunches of cat grass under the hammocks.
I was relieved Mum was no longer around to witness this spectacle of feline worship.
Joy
A mother’s greatest moment is to see her child happy
Enamel sky arched over the pre-wedding barbecue in our back garden. With Jonah safely inside his run, we threw open the French doors. It was a perfect evening, if a little hot.The drought remained so severe I didn’t bother apologising about the dusty patch where grass should be.
Guests gazed curiously at the new cat run and its handsome inmate while Philip cooked up mountains of prawns, steak and designer sausages. The girls laboured over salads in the kitchen. I was secretly proud of Lydia’s skill in the kitchen these days. Like all top chefs, she could rustle up a curry or a batch of melting moments without any signs of effort. She was practically a domestic goddess, apart from a tendency to leave the bench top in a mess. But that was a minor quibble.
It was great to see Mary again, along with her husband Barry and their grown-up children. Our old friends and neighbours from Wellington, Ginny and Rick de Silva, arrived in a blaze of laughter. Ginny, Rick and their son Jason had been such a source of strength to Rob and I after Sam’s death, having them at Rob’s wedding brought a sense of completion – and a reminder to open another bottle of champagne.
When Rob and Lydia’s father Steve arrived with his wife Amanda and their daughter Hannah, it was good to be reminded my ex-husband had moved on and found contentment. His response was offhand when I thanked him again for paying for Lydia’s return to Australia while I was in hospital. He probably thought it an inappropriate subject to mention just now.
Sitting alongside his lovely fiancée on the circular seat under the tree, Rob looked so happy. I was
touched, too, that so many of his school friends had travelled thousands of kilometres for the occasion. Among them were the boys Rob had gone on a road trip into the outback with not long after his surgery. Most of them were grown-up now and married to good-hearted women. From that group, Rob had chosen his oldest friend, Andrew, to be his best man.
Music, laughter, dreams and reminiscences. As the sky faded to pink, only one individual made it clear he wasn’t enjoying the celebration. Standing on the top ledge inside his five-star cabana, Jonah yowled to be let out.
We rose early next morning and hurled clothes into suitcases. A country wedding sounds simple. We’d been so intoxicated by the notion of celebrating in a hilltop convent, we hadn’t realised how obsessive we’d need to be about details.
A lot of overseas guests had arrived crazed with jet lag and with no idea how to get to Daylesford. Philip did the maths and allocated them into available cars. Lydia opted to travel with Steve and Amanda. Katharine squeezed in with the de Silvas and us. Rob and Chantelle had made arrangements with their friends.
The responsibility of transporting the bridal gown from my study cupboard to the country was so great only the bride herself was willing to take it on. When she arrived to collect her gown, she deposited a cat-carrying case on the family room floor. There wasn’t a sound from the carry case, or from Jonah, who was casting a steely eye over it from his tallest scratching post.
All of a sudden the carry case burst open and a silvery creature rose into the air. We watched open-mouthed as Ferdie flew like a genie out of a bottle, straight at Jonah’s face. Jonah sprang back, locking wiry limbs around the invader. The young cats tumbled to the floor and rolled over each other.
We didn’t have time to work out if they were playing or fighting. Ferdie was the larger and stockier of the two. If they were enemies, Jonah was bound to come off worse. I hoped Vivienne would sort them out.
Just when it looked as if everything else was under control, the wedding cake was delivered. We’d assumed it would be in three separate tiers that could be farmed out to sit on obliging passengers’ laps. But the cake’s tiers were firmly glued together with icing roses. There was no room for such a lofty creation in any of the cars.
After several panicky phone calls we found out Chantelle’s aunt, Trudy, had space in the back of her station wagon. It was fitting for Trudy to be bearer of the wedding cake since she was the one who’d arranged Rob and Chantelle’s first date to a footy game nearly a decade earlier.
Ginny and Rick squeezed into our car and we joined a convoy of vehicles packed with wedding guests heading to the country. Wedged in the back with Katharine between us, Ginny and I reverted to the outrageous banter that’d sealed our friendship all those years ago while our men gazed good-naturedly at the scenery.
We stopped at Mount Macedon, where we’d arranged to rendezvous for lunch with other wedding cars. Dry wind blasted like a fan heater through the tree-lined street. There were extreme fire warnings throughout Victoria and the temperature in Daylesford was predicted to be in the high 30s. When we first moved to Australia, hot weather had distressed me. Though it didn’t worry me much anymore, I did wonder how anyone survived before air-conditioning. Maybe those who weren’t tough simply melted. I hoped our visitors from temperate climates weren’t going to faint inside the chapel tomorrow.
We scurried in from the furnace to arrange ourselves around a long cafe table. Rick wondered aloud if it was always this hot in Australia, and ordered a bottle of cooling white wine. Alcohol intensifies its effects in hot weather – a fact some guests seemed aware of. While they sipped juice and mineral water, Ginny and I became shamelessly louder. We anointed ourselves the noisy end of the table. Some things never change.
Tumbling back into the car, we laughed and gabbled the last leg of the journey away.
If ever a town was designed for romance, it must be Daylesford. Sprinkled over volcanic hills and basins, it has a delightfully colonial atmosphere. A history of gold digging and mineral spas add a touch of glitz. Shops, shaded by deep verandahs, specialise in everything from handmade chocolates to alpaca wear.
With its clear country air, Daylesford’s pleasures are simple and sensuous. If there isn’t a wedding to attend, you can stroll around the lake and have a soak in the hot pools. Good food and wine plentiful. The coffee’s passable too.
A large group of us met for dinner that evening at the Farmers Arms. Tables full of happy faces prepared for a boisterous night ahead. Much as I wanted to join them, the words on the menu started dancing in a sickening blur. A rockslide of exhaustion, combined with a reaction to our lunchtime excesses, rumbled in.
These black holes of tiredness were a new thing. I used to be able to dig deep and push through weariness. But this time, when I’d most wanted it, the energy reserves were empty. I simply had to retreat. It was a reminder that major surgery takes more than five months to recover fully from. I made embarrassed excuses and retired to the cottage where I filled the spa bath and watched the hills turn purple, then suddenly indigo.
Next morning, a roll of thunder startled us awake. Dark clouds clustered malevolently around the hills. While the landscape was parched, and local farmers would be praying for rain, I hoped Rob and Chantelle’s day wasn’t going to be marred by it. I needn’t have worried. The clouds quickly evaporated into transparent blue and the thermometer started sprinting upwards.
Sharing the cottage with Ginnie and Rick turned out to be a bonus. Ginnie had packed an array of fashion accessories to solve every imaginable style crisis. When Katharine realised she’d forgotten the belt to her purple dress, Ginnie whipped a black sash from her suitcase and tied it so expertly around Katharine’s waist that it looked better than the original.
Rob and Andrew, freshly shaved and nervous, knocked on the cottage door. They needed somewhere to iron their shirts.
My throat went dry as the momentousness of the occasion set in. Nobody has to get married any more. When wedding vows were invented, people didn’t expect to live much past their thirties. Staying together for a lifetime probably meant only ten or twenty years. Today’s couples, even those who marry in their thirties, can realistically hope to celebrate a fiftieth wedding anniversary. To promise fifty years of love and loyalty to one person in today’s world is beyond daring.
‘Do you know how to do this?’ Rob asked, handing me an ivory rose with its stem encased in green tape, and a long pin.
Attaching a rose to my son’s wedding jacket was the last thing he was going to ask of me as a single man. While we’d always be close, I was officially stepping back. It was time for him to carve a future of his own making with Chantelle.
None of the surge of jealousies and insecurities mothers are supposed to experience at times like this surfaced. All I could feel was immense happiness for Rob. For a man in his early thirties, he’d had a lifetime’s heartache after losing his older brother. With help from loving friends and family, not to mention Cleo, he’d grown into a fine man. Having recovered from the mire of debilitating illness, he was a successful engineer. More importantly, he had loyal friends – and now love. This day deserved to be celebrated in style.
The only hint of sadness came from Sam’s absence. If he’d lived and grown to adulthood, he’d have been in the cottage with us too. Sam the extrovert, the joker, would be revelling in the fun. He’d be ribbing his brother, throwing his head back in laughter and later on giving a toast designed to cause his brother monumental embarrassment. If he’d lived, perhaps by now Sam would have been married with a family of his own – though it was hard to imagine he would have succumbed to conventional patterns.
I thought of my parents, too, and how much they’d loved a party. Dad, his eyes twinkling, would be raiding the fridge. Mum, ravishing in some outfit she’d thrown together for the occasion, would be waving her hands about and enthralling a circle of admirers with an outrageous yarn.
They were all with us anyway, curling around us like shimmerin
g ribbons. They were in our laughter, our mannerisms, our physical features. They’d always be part of us. Narrowing my eyes, I could almost see a small black cat weaving around Rob’s ankles. Yes, Cleo was with us, too.
As Lydia, gorgeous in her floral dress and makeup, stepped through the door, she brought some of Mum’s glamour. Watching Katharine bounce her freshly tonged curls as she twirled in her purple dress recalled Mum’s theatricality.
Wandering past the bathroom and glimpsing Rob adjusting his gold wedding tie in the mirror, I saw Dad’s style and sensitivity. Past and present merged in celebration.
Handsome as a prince, Rob planted a damp kiss on my cheek. Our son was too grounded to be aware of his movie star looks. He and Andrew climbed into a car to arrive traditionally early at the chapel.
‘Are we ready?’ asked Philip, taking my hand. The girls weren’t quite. Even though they were perfect as summer flowers, they needed one more coat of lip gloss each. Tissues, lipsticks and powder compacts were tucked away in evening bags. I checked my waterproof mascara. The cottage door finally clicked shut behind us.
Celebration
Blessings take many forms
A skylark’s melody pierced the summer air as Philip, the girls and I climbed a grassy lane to the convent, its domed tower looming over us as we reached its gates. Bees bustled in lavender bushes. Petunias dazzled red and white. The rooftops of Daylesford spread below us, melting into golden fields and blue hills.
Rob and Andrew pulled up in their car seconds after we’d arrived. It would’ve been quicker for them to walk. Guests waved from an upstairs verandah. They’d arrived early. We weren’t the only ones excited about this wedding.
The photographer greeted us and arranged us in family groups. He pretended not to be irked by the enthusiastic amateurs clicking away at his elbow, stealing his shots. His photos were going to turn out better anyway, he said.