Drip Dry

by Ilsa Evans

  ‘Wonderful,’ replies Christine, smiling straight at me. ‘That’s settled then.’

  ‘CJ, say thank you.’ I stare back at the woman to let her know I’m not perturbed.

  ‘But I can’t coz I habn’t got it yet!’

  ‘That’s not the point –’

  ‘That’s fine, Christine dear. You can save the thank-you for when you visit me.’

  We say our goodbyes and part company. I watch her retreating back and wonder if it is easier to go through life ‘not getting involved’. Certainly she doesn’t seem particularly concerned to be missing out on such a lot of CJ’s childhood, so maybe the philosophy works for her. But I think it’s a bit selfish because it does entail a cost for others. Apart from what CJ has missed out on in terms of a close relationship with her paternal grandparents, I was actually quite hurt when she and James cut me off so abruptly. I had naively thought that we got on quite well and would be able to continue getting on quite well after the separation, as long as we didn’t discuss Keith. It wasn’t as if I was asking them to take sides or anything.

  But perhaps they were merely playing it safe, and Keith is their son, after all. All I know is that I personally find it difficult to understand, probably because playing it safe and not getting involved are not two of my strong suits. I simply can’t help getting involved – it seems to be one of my talents in life. Even when I’m trying desperately not to get involved, it seems to just happen regardless. Alex, for example. This thought brings me back to earth with a thud and I close my eyes briefly and put my hand on my forehead. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.

  ‘Hab you got a headache, Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, CJ. A really big one that won’t go away.’

  ‘Poor Mummy. Hey! You know those maths tablets? You should hab them on your list. But can you get me two lots? I told Mrs James about them and she said they sounded like a great idea and she needed some as well. So can we get her some too?’

  ‘CJ, they weren’t maths tablets. They were for something else.’

  ‘That’s not what you said the other day. You said they were for adding up stuff. That makes them maths tablets. And if you won’t get them for me then I can’t gib any to Mrs James and she asked for them.’

  ‘Well, I can’t get them. Because there’s no such thing.’ I look at CJ, who has crossed her arms over her chest and has that set look on her face I know so well. ‘Look, let me explain. It’s like this –’

  ‘Mummy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can I go to the toy aisle and meet you there?’

  ‘Don’t you want me to explain?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, all right. Um.’ I check which aisle we are in and mentally calculate how long CJ will be without supervision. ‘All right – but no touching, do you hear? Only looking!’

  ‘Yeay!’ She abandons me and my headache, and races off towards the toy aisle. I take out my grocery list and try to work out some correlation between it and what is actually in my trolley. There is none. And that is why you don’t take children shopping. And, I suppose, don’t go shopping when it is past lunchtime and you are on the verge of fainting with hunger. I resolve to stick to the list from now on and not to deviate unless it is strictly necessary. So I stroll slowly down that aisle and up the next one, successfully preventing the trolley from making a sharp left-hand turn either into the laden shelves or into a passing shopper. Occasionally I pause to place an item from the list (and a couple of ones which aren’t on the list but definitely fit the ‘strictly necessary’ category) into the trolley. My stomach rumbles. As I turn the corner into the aisle with the small display of assorted toys, I can see CJ kneeling in front of a shelf full of Barbies. In fact, she appears to be talking to them. I, and my trolley, move towards her as quietly as the retarded wheels will permit.

  ‘– and there’s plenty of room. We eben hab a big hole in the bathroom floor so we can go exploring, and we hab some rabbits, and a big puppy, and I’m going to get a cute fluffy kitten one day. My mummy is berry nice too – sometimes she yells but she gibs berry good cuddles. And she’s got big boobies. So you can come home with us, but only if you want to.’

  ‘Even if they want to, no Barbies are coming home with us.’

  ‘Mummy!’ CJ jumps in surprise but recovers quickly. ‘I wasn’t talking to the Barbies, silly. But look at this!’ She stands up to show me the doll she is holding, which is dressed in a weird combination of imitation leather mini-skirt and thigh-length plastic boots. It even has what look like several body piercings and a butterfly tattoo on the left shoulder blade. The label reads ‘Biker Barbie’ but I think it would be more appropriately named ‘Bondage Barbie’.

  ‘Definitely not,’ I reply with disgust. ‘It’s revolting.’

  ‘It’s not rebolting! And anyway, I hab my birthday money!’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Besides, you don’t seriously want to spend some of that on another Barbie, do you?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ She clasps Bondage Barbie to her chest and looks at me imploringly.

  ‘But you just got three new Barbies for your birthday!’

  ‘But I need this one!’

  ‘No. Definitely not.’

  ‘Mummy! It’s my money!’

  Well, that attitude isn’t going to get her very far in life. I sigh heavily and give Bondage Barbie a filthy look. She gives me a filthy look straight back. As I am mustering up my resources for another attack, I hear a strange rustling sound coming from behind the toy display shelf. I peer closer but can’t see anything. The shelf is overloaded with toys of every shape and size, and backs onto the shelving in the adjacent aisle. The rustling noise is coming from somewhere in between the two sets of shelving. I pull a couple of stuffed beanie bears off their hangers and peer into the gap. Still can’t see anything, but I can distinctly hear some heavy breathing.

  ‘You’re wrecking things, Mummy – you’re going to get in big trouble.’

  ‘Can’t you hear that?’ I squat down on my haunches and tug a highly muscled action figure out of the way to try and see what’s behind it.

  ‘Of course I can. It’s that little boy. He wants to come home and lib with us.’

  Now that I have created a rather large gap, I lean in and peer through. Two large, frightened blue eyes peer unblinking back at me.

  ‘Hello,’ I say politely. ‘And what are you doing in there?’

  ‘This is my Mummy.’ Still clutching Bondage Barbie firmly with one hand, CJ squats down and makes the formal introduction. The blue eyes start to blink rapidly and fill with tears.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say soothingly, ‘would you like to come out now?’

  The little boy shakes his head frenetically and puts his thumb in his mouth. I can see him much more clearly now. He has managed to squeeze himself in between the two sets of shelving and is sitting cross-legged with an opened packet of chocolate biscuits on his lap. Chocolate is smeared across his face and through his hair, while brown fingerprints obscure the logo on his Sydney Swans t-shirt. I know better than attempting to force him out so I swivel around to try and find someone to help.

  In the few minutes that I have been squatting here, seemingly talking to a shelf of toys, I have become quite an object of interest. Several shoppers have paused with their trolleys and are staring at my odd performance. Two women at the end of the aisle have stopped altogether and are obviously discussing the advisability of continuing up an aisle containing a woman whose stability seems to be open to question. As I turn and look around generally, the two at the end immediately cease their discussion and reverse their trolleys out and around the corner. The shoppers already in the aisle hurriedly break eye contact with me and busy themselves with their shopping. I fight down a sudden desire to start twitching spasmodically and really give them something to worry about.

  With impeccable timing, at this moment Keith’s mother enters the aisle pushing her half-filled trolley. She stops dead when she sees me squatting by the t
oys and looks at the shelves, CJ and then back at me. Her eyebrows rise ever so slightly but the dour expression on her face does not change.

  ‘That little boy who’s missing,’ I announce loudly in her general direction, ‘he’s in between the shelving here. Would you mind going to get an assistant?’

  A few other faces turn back towards me as enlightenment dawns and the lady closest to me visibly sags with relief.

  ‘Oh, it’s the little boy!’

  ‘I didn’t know what you were doing!’

  ‘I’ll go and get someone.’ A portly young female with more than her fair share of chins pushes her trolley against the opposite shelving and wobbles off to get some help. Two other women abandon their respective trolleys and come over to squat down and peer in at the little boy. Keith’s mother pushes her trolley over and bobs down as well. The poor child recoils visibly at the combined sight of all our faces and starts to cry noisily.

  ‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ I say soothingly, ‘Mum’ll be here soon.’

  This makes the little boy cry even louder and his nose begins to run. What with that, and the chocolate that is already smeared over his face, he is not a pretty sight. CJ gets up quickly and backs away towards our trolley. She is fairly fastidious and has obviously changed her mind about taking the child home, which is just as well. I think I’d even prefer Bondage Barbie to a three-year-old boy with a penchant for shoplifting and crawling into small spaces to make a spectacle of himself. The loudspeaker crackles into life and the lost announcement is relayed again throughout the store.

  ‘There is still a little lost boy in the store. He is three years old and dressed in jeans and a Sydney Swans t-shirt. Could anybody finding Jordan please bring him to the service counter – his mother is getting very concerned.’

  The little boy starts to wail even louder and rubs his eyes, smearing tears and chocolate and mucus into an unholy mess that only a mother could love. I grimace and the two women next to me do likewise. Keith’s mother gets up, her knees creaking, and retreats over to where her grand-daughter is standing, still clutching Bondage Barbie. CJ, never slow off the mark, seizes her opportunity.

  ‘Nannie, I lub this Barbie.’

  ‘That’s nice, dear.’

  ‘And Mummy won’t buy it for me.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’

  ‘She says it’s rebolting.’

  ‘That is a shame.’

  ‘And she won’t let me use my money neither.’

  ‘Well, Mummy probably knows best, dear.’

  ‘So instead of the whistle for my birthday, could I hab this?’

  At this juncture, a thin, distraught female in jeans and a simply gorgeous short-sleeved Angora top comes around the corner of the aisle at a run and flies down towards us. She is closely followed by a youthful shop assistant and then, a little further back, by the portly young female who went to get help. With a shock, I realise that I actually know the thin, distraught female quite well.

  ‘Caron!’ I automatically take another look at the chocolate-covered child and realise that, in between the smears, tears and mucus, he does look a little like one of Caron’s three-year-old twins. ‘I didn’t realise that this was your Jordan!’

  Caron glances at me only briefly before falling to her knees and peering through the action figures at her wailing son. I suppose that now would be a bad time to ask her where she got that top.

  ‘Jordan? Jordan, thank god!’ She takes a deep breath and clutches at her stomach. ‘Now get out of there this instant!’

  Jordan stops wailing, but scrunches his eyes closed and wipes his sleeve across his nose before shoving said sleeve into his mouth and sucking noisily. My stomach lurches and I get up quickly. So do the other interested observers. Leaning against the toy display with her hand over her mouth, the youthful store assistant elects to leave the situation to Caron, who is now alternately demanding and then pleading with her son to crawl out through the gap. Neither approach is having any success.

  ‘Mummy?’ CJ is staring from Caron to Jordan and back again. ‘Is that really Caitlin’s little brother?’

  ‘Sure is.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ she observes with some distaste, and then: ‘I don’t really want to take him home. At all.’

  ‘Fine.’ I quickly glance at Caron and then lower my voice as I reply, ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘Camilla?’ Keith’s mother approaches me with Bondage Barbie held aloft in one hand. ‘Do you have any objection to my buying this doll for Christine’s birthday?’

  ‘What?’ I look at her, and then at the revolting doll, and then back at her again. ‘You really want to buy that?’

  ‘It’s just that Christine seems to have her heart set on it and it is for her birthday.’

  ‘Sure,’ I reply, realising suddenly that there is every chance Bondage Barbie will make less noise than a whistle, especially a really loud whistle. ‘Sure, if you want. No problem.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah!’ CJ grins happily at her grandmother. ‘Thank you so much, Nannie. It’s the best birthday present I eber got!’

  ‘All right then,’ replies Keith’s mother with a pleased smile. ‘It’s all settled then. Camilla, is it all right if I take Christine up to the checkout now and pay for it?’

  ‘Certainly,’ I say, rather magnanimously for somebody whose almost two hundred dollars worth of birthday presents have just been dismissed out of hand. ‘Then, if you find me when you’re finished to drop CJ off?’

  ‘Of course,’ says Keith’s mother as she takes CJ by the hand and, abandoning her trolley by the side of the aisle, heads off towards to the checkout counter. I watch them go and then turn back to the drama unfolding between the action men and the beanie bears. The shop assistant, obviously deciding that some effort on her part is required, has now begun methodically removing the toys from the shelving and piling them on the floor so that they will eventually be able to extract Jordan from within. Caron has given up all semblance of maternal pleading and is reeling off a list of the dire consequences the boy will be facing when she gets her hands on him. None of which are tempting him to come out without being forced to. In fact, if anything, he has dug in even deeper. But at least he has stopped wailing and just sits, glaring at his mother balefully through reddened eyes and with a face covered by various sticky substances, some of which are starting to congeal.

  ‘And you just wait till your father gets home! Boy, is he going to have something to say about your behaviour!’ Caron catches sight of me and groans, ‘Do you know, I always swore I would never say that when I had kids of my own. But there’s a lot of things you swear you won’t do before you know any better.’

  ‘Very true.’

  ‘Listen, thanks for finding him. I honestly thought that, this time, something really bad had happened.’

  ‘That’s fine. I didn’t even know it was him until I saw you.’

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ Caron says, wiping her blonde hair back with one hand. ‘God, what have I done to deserve this?’

  This rhetorical question, asked by all religious and non-religious parents at one time or another, remains unanswered – simply because there is no answer. The interested observers have by now all departed to finish their shopping and, while every now and again somebody stops to see what’s happening, we are relatively alone. The shop assistant, who really doesn’t look any more than fifteen, removes the last of the merchandise and sits back on her skinny haunches with a sigh of relief.

  ‘Okay, then. Out you come, buddy.’

  ‘I’d better do that.’ Caron leans forwards and reaches in between the shelving. ‘Come on, Jordan, don’t fight me.’

  She emerges with Jordan wrapped around her like a particularly grubby koala with his face pressed against her neck. I grimace involuntarily and meet the eyes of the shop assistant who is doing exactly the same. She ducks her head and starts restacking the shelves with the unmistakable air of one who has put all thoughts of having children off her
agenda for life.

  ‘I’m suh-suh-suh sorry, Mummy,’ sobs Jordan in a voice muffled by his mother’s neck. ‘I’m really suh-suh-sorry!’

  ‘I know, darling,’ replies his mother, holding him tight. ‘I know.’

  ‘Please don’t tell Daddy!’ Jordan raises his head and looks at his mother imploringly. ‘Puh-puh-puhlease?’

  ‘I won’t. It’s all right,’ says his mother soothingly as she pats his back.

  I smile, touch her lightly on the shoulder and, when she turns to look at me, wave goodbye. Jordan also looks up and, with his arms still wrapped tightly around his mother, wipes his nose against her shoulder, leaving a dull pea-green and chocolate trail across the angora. I retreat to my trolley quickly and reflect that my good deed has at least brought a couple of handy little financial rewards. Firstly, I no longer covet Caron’s top, and secondly, I should have no trouble sticking to my list now that any appetite I had has been well and truly destroyed by Jordan’s nasal antics.

  As Caron gets to her feet with her son still firmly attached, I leave and head off to continue my shopping unencumbered by CJ. Another reward. In fact, without her I finish in record time and am moving towards the checkouts as she and her grandmother finish paying for Bondage Barbie at the express lane (always a trap) and approach me.

  ‘Make sure you keep hold of that receipt, Christine,’ advises Keith’s mother, ‘otherwise they will think you haven’t paid for your doll.’

  ‘Oh, I will, Nannie,’ replies CJ, clutching a plastic bag to her chest. ‘I’ll be berry careful.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ I say politely to Keith’s mother. ‘It was very nice of you.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  I nudge CJ, who has opened her bag and is peering into it. ‘Don’t you have something to say to Nannie?’

  ‘Oh sure!’ CJ closes her bag and gives her grandmother an angelic smile. ‘Thank you so much, Nannie. Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, Christine. And I’ll see you next time you come around.’ Keith’s mother glances at me quickly and then back at CJ. ‘I mean, with your father, that is.’