Drip Dry

by Ilsa Evans

  I throw one more withering glance at the offending corner before collecting up an armful of wet pyjamas and towels and carting them off to the laundry where I throw them into my winsome brand new washing-machine, add detergent, and start the cycle. I push the bathroom floor to the back of my mind while I lean against the wall and lovingly watch the machine in action for a few minutes. It has the enviable ability to operate on a level so close to noiselessness that never fails to fascinate me. I did quite a bit of research before I settled on this particular model and, in fact, came very close to being seduced by a futuristic machine that gave verbal bulletins during the course of each cycle. But then I fortuitously remembered that I have children who do that, and therefore the last thing I need is a garrulous appliance. I’ve only had it for about a month or so and, after nearly four years of coping with a washer that was about the same age as my mother but with even more idiosyncrasies, merely observing the sheer efficiency of this little number is pure pleasure. That probably says something rather pathetic about my life, but I don’t care.

  After the washing-machine has restored my equilibrium somewhat, I leave it to perform its little laundering miracles in peace and start cleaning up the remains of breakfast in the kitchen. Ben has an uncanny knack of leaving cereal in the most incredible places. In fact, the last time I cleaned the cover of the ceiling vent (and those things are a nightmare obviously designed by a man), I found two Fruit Loops and half a Nutrigrain wedged firmly within. Even Sam, who is definitely the most fastidious of my off-spring (not that that is terribly difficult), seems to be physically incapable of lifting her dead teabag out of the cup, crossing the two steps necessary to reach the bin, flipping up the lid, and actually placing the item inside. I wash the dishes and finish off the kitchen before turning my attention to the various livestock. Benjamin dearly wants to be a vet when he grows up (if he grows up), and has collected a rather varied menagerie, despite my best efforts to unintentionally kill them off. I am not very good with pets.

  I take out the grubby water container in the newest aquarium that houses Sonic, the blue-tongue lizard, and dump it on the sink to scrub out later. Then I fill a fresh one, walk slowly back over to the aquarium and place it carefully inside. Sonic promptly mistakes my pinkie for a snail and tries to latch on. After I forcibly disengage him/her (by having a tug of war and pulling his/her tail and my trapped finger in opposite directions), I check to make sure that the lid is firmly on the container of crickets sitting next to the aquarium. I always check this container now because, on one notable occasion, the crickets all managed to escape and, thirty years after I had fervently wished for it, I was finally able to experience what life was like for Laura Ingalls Wilder when her little house on the prairie experienced a locust raid. She was right, it was the pits.

  I am strictly forbidden to feed the fish, or to go anywhere near them, so I merely check from a distance to see if there are any floaters before going outside through the laundry. A wall of thick warmth hits me as soon as I open the door. Yep, it’s going to be another sticky, humid day. I give a handful of pellets to the rabbits and then put some dry food out for Murphy, our border collie pup (Ben’s birthday present last spring), who demonstrates his undying devotion by vigorously trying to mount my left leg. We really need to get him fixed soon. I categorically refuse to enter the garage, which usually houses an assortment of recuperating wildlife, so I shake Murphy off my leg with some difficulty and go back into the house. And that’s it for the livestock.

  We used to have a budgie called Britney, or rather CJ used to have a budgie called Britney, but it disappeared shortly before Christmas under mysterious circumstances (I vacuumed it up by mistake). So CJ and I chose a rather attractive stuffed kookaburra and wired its feet onto the perch in the birdcage where it stands perpetually upright, staring regally into the distance. I can thoroughly recommend it as a pet. It looks good, never needs cleaning, makes absolutely no noise, costs nothing to feed – and I can’t do it any harm. Unfortunately, CJ is not as thrilled as I am. She is actively campaigning for a cute, fluffy kitten, but I am holding firm, not because I dislike cute, fluffy kittens, but because they tend to grow up into cute, fluffy killing machines. We did have a cat here for a few years, her name was Golliwog and she was a beautiful, black part Persian. But she decimated so much of the surrounding wildlife that I was almost relieved when she died after a short illness at the end of last winter. So, while we live in an area that is crawling with native wildlife, I am holding firm on the no-cat edict.

  As I glance at the clock and register that Maggie is late, the doorbell rings. I bounce down to the front door (because I really rather like my ex sister-in-law) and fling it open. Standing on the doorstep is Maggie, her short round body snugly encased in a natty pair of khaki shorts and a camouflage t-shirt. She looks like a circular hedge.

  ‘Hi, you! Ready for a hot day?’

  ‘Maggie!’ I blink rapidly at her outfit. ‘Are you on manoeuvres?’

  ‘Huh! No, I keep telling you that I don’t do that stuff!’

  ‘Well, you sure look the part.’ I grin back at her and stand aside for her to enter. ‘Come in and have some coffee before we go over.’ I shut the door behind her and lead the way down the passage to the kitchen where I put on the kettle.

  ‘The car’s packed. Hmm, I brought some basic foodstuffs like tins of soup and coffee, a few plants and things, and a heap of cleaning gear.’ Maggie sits down, plonks her elbows on the table and rests her chin in her hands while she watches me get the coffee ready. ‘Have you lost weight? You’re looking a bit slimmer.’

  ‘I wish. I haven’t even been to Weight Watchers for ages, been too busy with getting the kids back to school.’

  ‘How did CJ settle in? Is she enjoying preps?’

  ‘Like a duck to water.’ I look across at Maggie and think about what a nice person she is. CJ isn’t even related to her, really, yet Maggie always displays a genuine interest in whatever the child is doing. Maggie is forty-eight years old, about eight years older than Alex, her brother, and has become a very dear friend of mine. We didn’t actually get on all that well during the marriage itself, and sort of drifted apart after the divorce, but met up again last year and have seen an awful lot of each other ever since.

  ‘Caught up with Sam last week. She tells me she and Ben have settled in well. And she’s enjoying VCE. Knows exactly what she wants to do with her life, that one.’

  ‘You know why she’s enjoying VCE? Because some idiot teacher told her that each VCE student should be treated as the most important person in their family. She’ll be driving us nuts by the end of the year.’

  ‘Ha! Why d’ya think I gave up teaching! They’re all like that! Ha, ha!’ Maggie gives another of her unique laughs, which are the closest things to guffaws I’ve ever heard. In fact, until I heard Maggie laugh, I didn’t even know what a guffaw was. I glance over at her and note, as I often do, that the genes in the Brown family are very strong. Despite the difference in actual body shape, Maggie looks like Alex who looks like Sam who looks like Ben. It’s only that where the rest of them have put the extra inches into their height, Maggie has used hers for breadth alone. But she has the same olive skin, hazel eyes and brownish hair, although in her case the brownish hair has a few added bronze highlights and is worn in a straight, shining, shoulder-length bob. Quite attractive. She really has aged very well (I only hope that Sam will be that lucky), and her mid-life vocational change seems to suit her admirably. Obviously a career with the Board of Education is a lot more stressful than a position as a brothel madam. Although Maggie and her live-in business partner, Ruby, prefer to be called joint entrepreneurs who specialise in the catering field. It’s just that what this particular operation caters for is a trifle more fleshy than most. The brothel goes by the rather unimaginative name of ‘Pleasant Mount’, but Maggie insists that this is only because it is situated on the corner of Pleasant Avenue and Mountview Road – and apparently the name makes it easy fo
r clients to remember where they’ve been.

  ‘Here you go.’ I put her cup in front of her and sit down opposite. ‘Is Ruby coming over as well?’

  ‘Hmm, thanks.’ She takes the coffee in both hands and blows at the steam coming off the top. ‘No, Ruby’s over at Pleasant Mount doing the paperwork. Can’t get her away from the place.’

  ‘Do you know, I haven’t seen her for ages,’ I comment, because it’s true. Nobody (except, presumably, the individuals themselves) is sure of exactly what the relationship is between Maggie and Ruby, and the fact that we hardly ever see them together doesn’t help.

  ‘Well, you know Ruby’s not the social type.’ Maggie chuckles as she takes a sip of coffee and then looks up with a huge grin. ‘Guess what. Alex rang last night – change of plans, he’s coming in tomorrow! Late afternoon.’

  I choke down the mouthful of coffee I had just taken rather than spit it across the table, and immediately experience a paroxysm of coughing.

  ‘Hey! Are you okay?’ Maggie jumps up and begins whacking me on the back with such force that I bounce straight forwards and hit my midriff on the table edge.

  ‘Hell’s bells! Stop! Maggie – stop!’ I hold my hand up in desperation while I try to get my coughing under control. ‘You’re killing me!’

  ‘Okay, okay! I’ll get you some water.’ Maggie rushes over to the sink and turns on the tap. ‘Here you go.’

  I take a huge gulp before I notice that the receptacle she has used is Sonic’s grubby water container and then I splutter helplessly while trying to remember whether blue-tongue lizards have any infectious diseases that could prove fatal to humans. I put the water down on the table as my breathing returns to normal. Now it’s only my midriff that aches.

  ‘God, you’re vicious! Are you sure you’re not a dominatrix?’

  ‘We don’t do that sort of stuff,’ she replies offhandedly as she returns to her seat. ‘Now, are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘What, apart from the broken back?’

  ‘Ha, ha!’ she guffaws.

  ‘All right, now that I can breathe properly again, please tell me that you didn’t say that Alex was arriving tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, he is. But, hmm, why are you so upset?’ Maggie gives me a searching look. ‘I mean, what difference does it make whether it’s tomorrow or Thursday?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I just like to have things planned, that’s all.’ I remember in the nick of time that it is lethal for me to show anything that might be construed as undue interest in her brother in front of Maggie. She is desperate for us to get back together.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Besides, it’s CJ’s birthday tomorrow so there’s going to be hundreds of six-year-old fairies running around. And Keith.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘It’s just not as convenient, that’s all.’ And I sort of thought I might get a haircut before Thursday, and a facial, and a new outfit, and maybe lose a few kilos or something. It’s not that I want Alex back or anything, simply that I would like . . . well, what is it I would like? For him to see me leaning nonchalantly yet sensuously in the doorway and be immediately smitten by such stomach-churning desire that his knees turn weak? Actually yes, that’s exactly what I’d like. Odds are pretty good that it won’t happen, but it is what I’d like. I come out of my reverie to notice that Maggie is looking at me rather thoughtfully.

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Oh, Maggie. Don’t read stuff into things that isn’t there.’

  ‘It’s a bit hard to read anything that isn’t there, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not even sure I understand that.’

  ‘Anyway,’ continues Maggie, ‘his plane isn’t due till late afternoon so, what with customs and all, by the time we get back here your party will be long over.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I say airily as I decide to change the subject. ‘Guess what happened to me this morning? Part of my bathroom floor collapsed – any suggestions?’

  ‘Getting it fixed?’

  ‘Very funny. No, I mean do you know anyone you could recommend?’

  ‘Actually, I do. He’s a bit of an all-rounder.’ She smiles as if recalling something rather entertaining. ‘A bit odd but very competent.’

  ‘Oh.’ I look at her suspiciously. ‘Do you mean he’s a client?’

  ‘Why? Does it matter?’

  ‘Oh no, of course not,’ I reply quickly. For someone who is so incredibly open-minded, Maggie can get surprisingly sensitive at times. ‘Do you have his number?’

  ‘Not on me.’ She gives me an amused look. ‘I’ll dig it up when I get home and ring you with it. But, as I said, he’s a bit of an odd character. Hey, if you mention me he’ll probably give you a discount.’

  ‘Well, um, I don’t mind paying what’s fair.’ I get this mental image of me being asked to pay for the job in kind rather than in cash. However, maybe that would kill two birds with one stone. After all, for longer than I really care to think about, the closest that I’ve come to sex is the unwelcome attentions of an irrepressible border collie.

  ‘Don’t be silly. He’s not going to try and race you off.’

  Damn. There goes that idea. I sigh heavily and get up to collect the coffee cups and return them to the sink.

  ‘Oh, well. We’d better get on with it, I suppose. Especially if we only have today.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Maggie levers herself up and fishes her keys out of her bag. ‘We can talk while we work. I haven’t even asked you about what subjects you ended up choosing for uni. And how your family is.’

  ‘Humph,’ I reply shortly as I lead the way to the front door. My family isn’t my favourite topic of conversation at the best of times, and I already know that this week is going to be an especially trying one for me. So while we head out, instead I fill Maggie in on the joys of orientation day at Monash University.

  You see, I am having a mid-life career change of my own. Albeit without the sex. Until about the middle of last year, I had been contentedly employed by the regional council in our local library. Certainly, I had occasional fantasies of doing something else and never really envisaged staying at the library all my working life, but neither had I ever had a reason to leave. The job paid well and the hours suited my situation, especially as CJ was not yet at school then. The fact is, I’m not really much of a risk-taker and, if it wasn’t for being temporarily suspended over a total misunderstanding last year, the decades probably would have each rolled into the other and I would have been there until forced retirement. But I was wrongfully suspended, just because I had my picture in the paper and it looked like I was attacking a policeman at a rally. Needless to say, appearances can be deceiving and not only was I totally innocent, but also more victim than perpetrator at the time. Fortunately for me, the only witness to the entire debacle was totally on my side (well, after I had wined her, dined her and generally invited her into my circle of family and friends, that is), and she fronted the library service on my behalf. The upshot was that I was reinstated at the library and the police charges against me were dropped. The downside was that my new friend shouldered much of the blame. However, as she already had tickets to Tibet in her hand and dreams of finding her spiritual self in her heart, she was not fazed in the least.

  But meanwhile, during my enforced holiday I took the time to reassess my life and where it was going. And I didn’t really like what I saw. Then, after I was reinstated by the powers-that-be, the union stepped in to negotiate a settlement for me (apparently my three weeks relaxing at home while being fully paid constituted undue pain and suffering) and I ended up being offered a rather handsome package that opened up all sorts of possibilities. So I applied to Monash University for mature age entry and eventually received notification that I was accepted back into a Bachelor of Arts degree (which is what I had been doing when I mucked up my timetable and fell pregnant with Samantha many moons ago). I took the package, paid off a sizeable part of the mortgage, and attended orientation day last week
where, as planned, I elected mainly subjects that will steer me towards a major in sociology. I think I want to be a social worker.

  I am still talking as I lock my front door behind us and head across to the side fence, which I clamber over awkwardly and Maggie, despite her extra kilos, steps over neatly. She has parked her car in the next-door driveway already so we begin to unload and carry the various boxes up to the front verandah. She fishes a key out of her pocket, unlocks and opens the door. We both reel back with our hands over our noses.

  ‘Hell’s bells! It stinks!’

  ‘Harrumph! It reeks of dog!’

  ‘They did have a dog, but they’ve been gone for ages! Should it still smell this bad?’

  ‘All I know is that it’s sure on the nose. We’d better do something or, what with the heat, this place is going to be unbearable by lunchtime.’ Maggie squats down and digs a couple of containers of carpet deodoriser out of her supplies. She thrusts one into my unwilling hands and enters the house intrepidly with her nose still covered.

  ‘It’s even worse in here! I’ll open all the windows – you start sprinkling.’

  ‘I should have known that damn dog would have the last laugh.’ I open up my container and reluctantly enter the house that, apart from the dreadful smell, looks quite presentable.

  While most of the houses in our street are weatherboard, like mine, this one is a more modern ranch style made out of reddish-brown clinker bricks. Apparently it was originally part of a market garden that stretched back behind for another three blocks until only about ten years ago, when the land was sold and subdivided. Subsequently, everything about this house looks newer than mine, the driveway is straighter, the garden more landscaped, and the roof less covered with layers of moss. It’s also fresher inside. Nice carpets, more modern windows, brighter kitchen and, I’ll bet, no hole in the bathroom floor. In fact, as I sprinkle powder liberally throughout, I discover that Alex not only has a bathroom with a separate shower, but an ensuite as well. And both floors are perfectly intact. Not fair.