by Ilsa Evans
‘Thanks.’ I sit down on the edge of the bed so that my feet will still touch the ground and not swing in the air like a preschooler. Bronte doesn’t have this problem at all.
‘So where were you yesterday?’
‘Oh, Di, I had such a busy day on Tuesday that I was totally wasted yesterday.’
‘How was your party, CJ?’
‘It was fantastic, Auntie Diane! We were all dressed as fairies, and Caitlin won a bubbly thing, and she poked Jaime’s eye out with her wand and Zoe broke her nose and we watched a bideo of Mummy –’ She pauses as she shoots me a horrified glance. ‘I mean someone else, not Mummy – oh, look! The baby moobed!’
‘They do that, CJ,’ I respond dryly. ‘Listen, Di, any word on when you’re getting out?’
‘Definitely Saturday, probably in the morning. I can’t wait.’
‘Neither can we, Mum.’
‘Why, Nick! Are you missing me?’
‘Oh yes, of course. And Dad cooks total crap.’
‘Well, it’s nice to know that I’m missed,’ Diane says sarcastically, but she has a smug smile on her face.
‘But I’m cooking tonight, Mrs Woodmason, so I’ll make sure they eat something decent.’ Bronte smiles engagingly at her boyfriend’s mother. If she is trying to win her over, she is using the wrong approach. Diane’s smug smile fades rapidly.
‘Really, Bronte. How nice.’
‘Yeah, Bronte’s a fabulous cook, Mum!’
‘Great.’
‘But we’d better get going. I promised Grandma I’d give her a hand this morning.’
‘Oh, that’s nice of you, Nick!’
‘Didn’t have much choice, Mum,’ Nick replies with a wry grimace. ‘Wish to hell I did.’
‘Well, it’s still nice of you.’
‘Yeah, whatever. C’mon, Bronte. See you all later.’ Nick leans forwards and pecks his mother on the cheek before placing his hand on CJ’s and then each of the twins’ heads in turn. ‘Bye, girls!’
‘Bye, all.’ Bronte hands her sleeping baby over to me. ‘And don’t worry about them, Mrs Woodmason, I’ll take care of everything.’
‘Wonderful. Goodbye.’ Diane smiles tightly at her eldest offspring and his girlfriend as they leave the room, holding hands and waving.
‘Bye!’ CJ and I chorus brightly. I turn back to my sister and grin at the pained expression on her face.
‘It’s not that funny! She’s driving me nuts!’
‘Shh.’ I indicate CJ who is sitting in her chair listening intently. ‘Little pitchers and all that, you know. Besides, she’s not that bad.’
‘Not that bad! She’s so . . . so –’
‘So like you?’
‘Oh, rubbish! She’s just so obliging, and helpful – I can’t stand it!’
‘She’s only trying too hard, that’s all.’
‘You wait – your turn will come!’
‘Oh, Diane, there’s a lot worse.’ Although I do wish that Bronte was a bit more like her mother. She simply doesn’t seem to have that feisty quality, or quite the depth that Terry has, and I often wonder whether part of the reason that Nick is so enamoured of her is that she is so obliging, and helpful. That and the fact that she is so absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. Besides, fond as I am of my four nephews, I have to admit that they won’t win any prizes for profundity either.
‘Anyway, let’s change the subject. It’s depressing,’ says Diane as she adjusts CJ’s arms slightly. ‘So, when does Alex get back?’
‘He already has,’ I mutter as I tuck the bunny-rug around Regan. So far she hasn’t opened her eyes and looks for all the world like any other ordinary, innocent little baby.
‘You’re kidding! How is he?’
‘Fine. Look, we brought you some presents! Go on, unwrap them!’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Diane keeps one protective hand on the baby in CJ’s lap and takes a present with the other. She starts to unwrap it awkwardly.
‘I picked them out, Auntie Diane!’
‘Oh, lovely!’ Diane pushes the wrapping paper onto the floor and holds up a lemon Beatrix Potter beanie, mittens and bootee set. ‘This is so cute!’
‘The other one’s the same, Auntie Diane.’
‘I was going to get different colours,’ I say as I pass the other present over, ‘but then I thought that this way, if you lose a mitten or whatever, then you can still make up matched sets. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Perfectly.’ Diane unwraps the second present and puts them both together on the bed. ‘And it’s very good thinking. Thank you very much. They’re gorgeous.’
‘That’s okay. And we got winter outfits deliberately because I thought you’d already have loads for the summer and it’s nearly autumn anyway. Besides, they were the cutest things we saw. It was fun, wasn’t it, CJ?’
‘Oh, it was!’ CJ enthuses as she gazes adoringly at her baby cousin. ‘Will they eber wake up?’
‘I certainly hope so,’ responds Diane, ‘but they just had a feed before you came so they’re pretty tired. Now, how come you’re not at school, young lady?’
‘Oh, Mummy fell down the bathroom floor and had to hab another shower. Not because of the nits this time, but because she got all yucky. And then she couldn’t get ready on time.’
‘What?’ Diane looks at me questioningly.
‘I did get ready on time, CJ! It was you who was still mucking around at nine o’clock!’ I glare at my daughter before turning to Diane and offering an interpretation. ‘We’re having the bathroom floor replaced because part of it collapsed on Monday so there’s only a plank there at the moment – and I just slipped. Anyway, then we – I mean, CJ – wasn’t ready on time, so I decided to give her a day off so that she could come and see the twins, that’s all.’
‘You forgot your nits.’
‘They aren’t my nits! CJ was sent home with nits yesterday so we all did our hair just in case.’ I start to scratch my head involuntarily and notice that Diane is doing the same. ‘But it was only a precaution.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Yeah!’
‘Sounds like you’re having a fun week!’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’
‘So tell me all then. I’m going stir crazy stuck in here with no one to talk to except these two.’ She gestures at the twins who are behaving themselves admirably at the moment. I only hope that they are this good for her when they get home. But I doubt it. It’s been my experience that babies tend to lull you into a false sense of security so that you take them home brimming with confidence, and then they hit you right between the eyes with their true personality. And it’s too late to return them because you’ve taken the tags off. I look down at Regan who is breathing deeply but evenly with her little rosebud mouth ever so slightly open. She looks quite adorable with her eyes closed.
‘Come on! What’s been happening?’
‘Well, apart from Mum with her incessant wedding arrangements. I tell you, you’re lucky you’re cooped up in here and don’t have to get involved. Oh, damn!’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. I just remembered that I’m supposed to be picking up the rotten shoes from Boronia. For the girls. You know, the ones with the pinkish trim.’
‘Oh, lovely,’ Diane says with a grin.
‘Yep, that’s exactly what Sam said when she saw them,’ I comment sarcastically. ‘CJ, can you remind me to pick up the shoes after we leave here?’
‘My lubly pink shoes?’
‘That’s right – those ones.’
‘Anyway, if you think that I’m getting away from it all in here, you’re wrong. Mum rings me every night and fills me in on all the details for about an hour. Every night. I think she believes she’s doing me a favour.’
‘More likely you’re a captive audience.’
‘This is true. Anyway, what else has been happening? Apart from Mum, that is.’
‘Nothing much – really.’ I give my sister a look of pure innocence. ‘The
bathroom floor and the nits are probably the highlight of our week so far. Oh, and Phillip came over last night – but only to have a look at Ben’s sick rabbits.’
‘What, have you been feeding them?’
‘No! Why is it that everyone holds me responsible every time an animal gets sick around our house?’
‘Britney just disappeared, Auntie Diane, it wasn’t Mummy’s fault.’
‘Yes, I know all about what happened to poor Britney.’ Diane gives me a rather sardonic smile because she does, in fact, know all about what happened to poor Britney. At least it was a clean kill.
‘Sam and Ben were going to come in after school today, Diane, but I don’t think I’ll be coming in again – especially if you’re getting out by Saturday.’
‘That’s fine. I don’t blame you. Look, Maggie sent some flowers yesterday.’ Diane turns and gestures at a large floral arrangement sitting on the metal cabinet beside her bed. ‘And she’s probably dropping in tonight as well.’
‘That’s nice of her.’
‘Yes – and that reminds me! You haven’t told me about Alex yet!’
‘What about him?’
‘Come on.’ Diane looks at me with a slight frown. ‘You know – has he changed, is he fat, or old, or wrinkled? Is he pleased to be next door? Are the kids thrilled? Tell me everything and anything.’
‘There’s nothing much to tell, actually,’ I say with my wide-eyed innocent look firmly back in place. ‘He looks older, but still the same, if you know what I mean. Not fat, or particularly wrinkled. I think he was shocked about the house to start with, but he’s settling in. And the kids are thrilled, I think. That’s it.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yep, that’s it.’
‘Do you know,’ she says slowly as she gives me a searching look, ‘I don’t think I believe you.’
‘It’s the truth!’ I say, lying through my teeth. I look across at CJ, who is following this exchange with considerable interest, and then back at Diane, who immediately jumps to the wrong conclusion.
‘Oh! I get it.’ She gives me a conspiring wink. ‘Later. Little pitchers and all that.’
‘There. Is. Nothing. To. Tell.’
‘Okay, sure.’ Diane smiles at CJ and then nods surreptitiously at me.
Sighing heavily, I decide to give up. ‘Anyway, we have to get going. What do you want me to do with this baby?’
‘Oh. Just pop her into her crib. Here, I’ll get it.’ Diane reaches over and pulls one of the wheeled metal trolleys towards the bed with one hand. ‘Go on, pop her in.’
I lean forwards and place Regan gingerly within the perspex crib. Then I tuck her bunny-rug around her tightly and look at her after she is settled, willing her to wake up so that I can see whether I was merely imagining the likeness the other day. As if she knows what I am thinking, she suddenly opens her slate-grey eyes. The resemblance is uncanny. In fact, I don’t think I would be surprised if Regan suddenly opened her mouth and began to lecture me on my outfit, my hairstyle – my life in general. But there is something about her resolute gaze and the stubborn set of her little mouth that is quite appealing, in an odd sort of way.
Diane pulls the other trolley over and I turn my attention away from Regan and lift Robin carefully out of CJ’s reluctant arms then lower her in, tucking her up as securely as her sister.
‘There you go, you little sweetie.’
‘Bye-bye, Robin. Bye-bye, Regan.’ CJ stands between the two trolleys looking from one baby to the other. ‘Auntie Diane, are they ’dentical?’
‘Not really, CJ, but –’ Diane turns and gives me a hard look – ‘they do look very much like each other, don’t they?’
‘No, they don’t,’ CJ says emphatically and then frowns in concentration, ‘because Robin’s face is too reddish, and Regan –’
‘Yes?’ I ask with interest.
‘Regan looks like –’
‘Yes?’
‘Regan looks just like my Mummy!’
THURSDAY
1.00 pm
‘There is a little lost boy in the store. He is three years old and dressed in jeans and a Sydney Swans t-shirt. And he answers to the name of Jordan. Could anybody finding Jordan please bring him to the service counter – his mother is quite concerned.’
Fancy letting your child wander off like that. Fancy actually losing said child. Fancy letting a child go out in public wearing a Sydney Swans t-shirt. I quickly look around to ascertain the exact location of my own child and, after I spot her, I continue pushing and pulling my recalcitrant supermarket trolley down the cereal aisle. Why can’t I ever end up with a trolley that has (a) four wheels (b) four wheels that actually turn and (c) four wheels that actually turn in a fluid forward motion?
‘C’n we hab this, Mummy?’
‘Let me see the label.’ I take the box of cereal from CJ and read through the list of ingredients. ‘It says here that there is enough sugar in each spoonful to feed a small third-world country for a year.’
‘Really?’
‘No. And no.’ I put the box back on the shelf and take another one down. ‘What about this one – it looks really good.’
‘Yuck! It’s got bits in it!’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’ I put that box back as well. Actually it was only the price that looked really good – the picture on the cover looked like pre-digested chook food. I tug the trolley along as I examine the boxes on display and the prices underneath. The trick is to find a neat compromise between the two.
‘Oh, look!’ CJ spots an intricately arranged pyramid of cereal boxes at the end of the aisle. ‘These are my berry fabourites!’
‘Really?’ To my knowledge we have never had this particular brand but who am I to argue? I take a box carefully from the top of the pyramid. CJ grasps one in the very middle and, with some difficulty, manages to force it out. I’ll say one thing for her, she’s persistent. With consummate skill, I thrust my box into the gaping hole left by the removal of her box and thus prevent the toppling of the precarious pyramid.
‘Do you think you could be a little more careful?’ I ask her rhetorically as I take the box from her hands and have a look at the ingredients label.
‘That was my box,’ she says crossly and reaches out her hand towards the middle of the pyramid again. I grab her fingers mid-stretch and hold them firmly while I continue reading.
‘Okay, this’ll do.’ I toss the cereal box into the trolley and, still holding CJ securely by one hand, wrestle the trolley around the corner and into the next aisle, away from temptation. And straight into my ex mother-in-law.
‘Oh, my god – it’s you! I mean, hi!’
‘Nannie!’
‘Why hello, Christine dear. And hello, Camilla. How are you?’
‘Fine! Just fine. And yourself?’
‘Good, thank you.’
‘Nannie!’ CJ transfers her hand from mine to her grandmother’s, and stands there smiling up at her. Now, if it had been my mother she had met unexpectedly, CJ would have flung herself on her grandparent with such wild abandon that she probably would have knocked her flying across the aisle. But even though she seems fond of Keith’s mother, she is also far more reserved in her company. Which is rather odd considering that my mother is the one who is constantly carrying on about manners, and decorum, and the reprehensible lack of control exhibited by the young of today, while I cannot imagine Keith’s mother lecturing her grandchildren about anything. But then I suppose she would consider such behaviour ‘getting involved’. And she certainly won’t do that.
‘And how are you, dear?’ She presses CJ’s hand within her own and bends down to face her granddaughter. ‘I haven’t seen you for a while, have I?’
‘No, Nannie, not for ages!’
‘Are you having a day off from school?’
‘No, I had nits. So Mummy had to keep me home because she fell through the floor.’
‘I see,’ says Keith’s mother, scratching her head. ‘Nits, you say?’
Christine McNeill Snr is a plump, white-haired, rather harassed-looking woman in her late sixties whose face, despite the plumpness, always looks pinched and drawn. This could be because she habitually acts like the worries of the world have been handed to her on a plate (and whereas my mother would immediately set about categorising the worries in a list, Keith’s mother would be more inclined to just wash the plate and then reload it). She starts to indulge in some small talk with her granddaughter and CJ grasps the opportunity to fill her in regarding her birthday, and her nits, and our temporarily absent bathroom floor. I stand there watching the touching reunion with a stiff smile on my face and feeling rather awkward.
I haven’t seen or heard from either James or Christine McNeill since Keith and I went through our less than amicable separation. I did phone them at the time because I thought the right thing to do would be to reassure them that, although our marriage was over, they were still welcome to drop in anytime to visit their youngest grand-daughter exactly as they always had. But apparently that would be ‘getting involved’ and, as Christine gently but firmly informed me, that was something they would not do. So they only see CJ when Keith feels like taking her around there, which obviously hasn’t been for a while. Their choice.
‘Well, I had better get a move on, dear. So lovely to see you both again.’ Keith’s mother gently disengages CJ’s hand and gives me a rather polite smile.
‘Likewise. You’re looking well.’ I smile politely back and lie through my teeth because I can’t really think of what else to say. But CJ hasn’t finished yet.
‘Nannie, did you get me a birthday present?’
‘CJ,’ I say quickly, ‘that’s not polite!’
‘I’m only asking!’
‘That’s all right, dear. I’ll have a little something for you next time you visit, never you mind. What about a new whistle? A really loud new whistle?’
‘Oh, I love whistles!’
‘Likewise,’ I say tightly, giving the woman a searching look. Could it be that under that docile exterior is a spiteful, vindictive female who is just a little more subtle than my own mother?