‘Why?’ he asked, unfolding several portable chairs. ‘We’re on holidays, love. And “normal” is just a cycle on the washing machine.’
Paula smiled; she’d heard that quote somewhere before. She took some plastic bowls, cutlery and four mugs from a drawer, then began laying them on the card table outside. The table was wobbling on uneven ground; she scouted around for something to wedge under it. Spying Lachie’s Chess World magazine, she jammed it beneath a table leg.
‘Jamie told me I shouldn’t destabilise the kids too much,’ Paula explained. ‘I need to keep some sort of routine on this trip, and a healthy breakfast is a good start.’
Her father’s silence spoke volumes. He began piling Weet-bix bricks into a bowl.
The children returned dripping from their showers, and Catie was now carrying Paula’s phone.
‘We want to call Dad,’ she said, wrapping herself in a towel.
‘Oh. Of course.’
It was an obvious exception to Paula’s ‘no private technology’ rule.
Caitlin held the phone to her ear for a minute.
‘He’s not answering,’ she said, her expression flat.
Lachie took the phone from her hand. ‘I’ll email him. Can I send him the itinerary, please Mum? We typed it up on Brenda’s computer this morning and sent it to your email address.’
Paula could hardly say no.
She watched her son’s fingers move across her phone; the deft movements of a digital native. None of the clunky backtracks she was always making.
‘Sent,’ said Lachie, handing it back to Paula. He eyed the Weet-bix box. ‘Six please, Gramps.’
‘Six?’ Her father pulled a shocked face. ‘Are you a man or a machine?’ They sat down to eat. It wasn’t like their vast island bench at home, at which everyone sat at a distance. Outside of the car, this was the closest their bodies had been for a long time. It reminded Paula of when the kids were younger, invading her physical space for seemingly endless kisses and cuddles.
Only it had ended, and their cuddles were so rare now she was enjoying nudging knees with them.
‘Nothing like eating al fresco, is there?’ said her father, yawning. ‘I need a nanna nap. But I guess we’ve got to break camp.’
Paula nodded and began clearing the plates. ‘Why don’t you two do some homework while Gramps and I pack the car?’
Caitlin and Lachie looked aghast.
‘Homework?’ said Caitlin. ‘But . . . we’ve got none.’
‘I brought some for you,’ Paula said, retrieving a large paper bag of workbooks from the caravan. ‘English, maths and social science. You don’t want to fall behind.’ She placed the books on the table. ‘You can start with maths. You’d normally be at school at this hour.’
‘Hogwash,’ said her father.
‘Pardon?’
‘You’re talking hogwash.’
Paula tried to appear unflustered. ‘How so?’
Her father clasped his hands behind his head and stretched back in his chair. ‘Look, I’m just an old fella . . . I only finished third form in high school.’ He leaned back further, balancing on one chair leg, which unnerved Paula no end. ‘But if I learned anything as a butcher’s apprentice and a small business owner, it’s this: the things that help you most in life are the things you learn outside the classroom.’ He swung forward again, much to Paula’s relief.
‘Like what?’ asked Lachie, slathering honey on another dry Weet-bix.
‘Like the value of a job well done, mate. Like valuing money and what it can do for you, and knowing what it can’t buy . . . like respect and integrity and a decent night’s sleep. I studied people, Lachie. Butchers know the community like the back of their hands.’ He held up his for emphasis, scarred with countless nicks of the butcher’s trade. ‘Most of what happens in life is about relationships, not talent or hard work. It’s about who knows who, and whether they like each other or not.’
Paula didn’t disagree. ‘Sure, Dad. But there’s a role for formal education too, you drummed that into us.’ Her father had worked hard to put her and Jamie through university.
‘Yes, Paula, but look at these kids.’ Her father thumped the table with his palms, causing his spoon to flip out of his empty bowl and onto the ground. ‘They’re bright, they’re inquisitive; they’re not going to fall behind in a month off school. You’ve got to relax a bit. And if you want ’em to learn on this trip, you can chuck that homework away.’ He wrenched the study aids off the table, then pitched them into the rubbish bin, right on top of her travel curlers.
‘Shot, Gramps,’ said Lachie.
‘Give the kids to me instead,’ he said, slapping his chest with gorilla-like vehemence. ‘I’ll give ’em some life lessons they’ll never forget.’
Paula hesitated. It wasn’t the reaction she’d been expecting. Throughout her upbringing, he’d always prioritised the value of a solid education, primarily because he’d missed out on one himself. But something she’d noticed about older people was their tendency to behave differently as grandparents, compared to when they were parents. Disciplinarians mellowed, the exclusive became more inclusive, the rigid became less controlling. It was as if they’d spent their parenthood learning the lessons they needed most, only to be applied at their next point of contact with children—as grandparents.
‘Go on, Mum,’ Lachie urged. ‘Let’s do Gramps’s homework instead.’
Caitlin was sitting at the table like the Mona Lisa, her expression unreadable.
It would be nice for the kids to spend some quality time with their grandfather, Paula thought. He won’t be around forever.
Her eyes smarted at the memory of her mother’s untimely death from breast cancer. The grief had knocked Paula sideways for months afterwards; she couldn’t contemplate the gym or lovemaking or almost any activity beyond her basic household routine. Eventually, the initial, searing agony became a dull ache in her chest, but even now, more than a year on, Paula sometimes caught herself thinking, I must tell Mum about . . . only to remember, Mum’s not here.
Paula looked at her father, then at her children. Stuff the rules.
‘Alright,’ she said. ‘Let’s bin the homework. You two can take life lessons with Gramps.’ She smiled at them. ‘But you’ve got to show me that you really are learning something, okay?’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that.’ Her father grinned. ‘It’ll be as plain as the nose on your face.’
Later that morning on arrival in Apollo Bay, Sid set the children’s first challenge.
‘How much will we spend on groceries this week, Paula?’ he asked, parking the caravan in a wide bay adjacent to the main road.
‘No more than two hundred and fifty dollars,’ she replied. She’d done the sums prior to their departure and their budget was tight. Her father wasn’t in a position to contribute, either; he was a pensioner, with most of his money tied up in his unit at Greenleaves Retirement Village.
‘Okay, hand it over.’
She stared at him.
‘You heard me,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Gramps’s first life lesson coming up.’
She took out her purse and counted out five fifty-dollar notes.
Sid passed them immediately to Caitlin.
‘Back in Lorne you said your mother’s cooking “sucks”, Catie. Well, there’s the supermarket. Go buy what you’d like to eat.’ He nodded at a shopfront across the road, barely a glorified corner store. ‘Kids, it’s your job to buy our supplies for the coming week and to prepare the meals. You can get whatever you want, but it’s got to last us a week.’ He pointed to the notes in Caitlin’s hand. ‘Because there’s no more dough.’
It took all of Paula’s self-control not to slip the children a hastily written list.
Instead, she watched them disappear into the supermarket and emerge thirty minutes later with enough junk food to host a five-year-old’s birthday party. Had none of her healthy eating messages ever sunk in? She didn’t expect much o
f Lachie—he didn’t give a hoot what he put into his body—but Caitlin was the athlete of the family. Paula couldn’t conceal her disappointment.
Later that night, in a caravan park in Port Campbell, the children prepared an unsavoury meal of hot dogs with tomato sauce, wrapped in white-flour tortillas.
‘I’m still hungry,’ whined Lachie after demolishing his allocation for the evening.
‘I’m sure you are, matey,’ said his grandfather cheerily. ‘So next time, choose a different cut of meat.’
‘One with more nutritional value than sawdust,’ added Paula, swallowing the last of her hot dog.
Lachie and Caitlin looked at each other.
‘We’ve got jelly for dessert,’ Caitlin ventured.
‘Hallelujah,’ said Paula. ‘Now that will keep us going.’
They stayed another two nights at the Port Campbell Paradise Park, with an unobstructed view of the famed Twelve Apostles, limestone towers jutting skyward from the sea. Their first improvised meal of hot dog wraps was followed by an unappetising plate of sausage rolls on the second night, and pre-packaged pizza on the third.
Who exactly is this lesson for? Paula wondered, glaring at her father as she inspected the pizza’s paper-thin crust. She was sure she’d lost some weight without even trying.
Sensing her frustration, Sid waved a bottle of alcoholic cider in her direction.
‘Drinkypoos, Paula?’ he asked.
Her father had instituted ‘Drinkypoos’ as a nightly ritual. Everyone was required to congregate outside the caravan at six o’clock sharp. Then, with all the solemnity of a priest dispensing the Eucharist, her father opened his small blue esky and doled out drinks. The children consumed soda water and, much to Paula’s chagrin, cans of Coke they’d purchased at the Apollo Bay supermarket. Paula usually had an alcoholic cider, which her father lampooned as ‘lolly water’. He preferred a few beers at these sessions, which quickly became public events, on account of her father’s unflagging sociability. Watching her father interact with complete strangers in caravan parks, Paula suddenly understood why he’d been agitating for weekend trips away.
Their first night of Drinkypoos at Port Campbell attracted five fellow travellers to their caravan, most of whom her father had met while walking to and from the toilets. A good chunk of the conviviality revolved around counting the limestone stacks after everyone had drunk too much; and to Paula’s great mortification, her father insisted he could only see eight apostles. She’d deemed this preposterous, ridiculing him as he swayed back and forth in his thongs, only to have Lachie verify the next morning that his grandfather had actually been right. She was forced to eat her words that breakfast, alongside her Weet-bix.
When even the Weet-bix ran out on the fourth day of her father’s challenge—with Lachie tipping the box upside down in disgust—the children began to complain.
‘Can’t we buy some more food?’ asked Catie, sitting outside the caravan clutching her stomach. ‘I’ve been hungry since breakfast.’
They’d spent the day meandering along the coast of western Victoria, admiring its lighthouses and shipwrecks, bays and piers, old sandstone buildings flanked by futuristic wind farms. All novel enough to distract the children from their rumbling stomachs, if only temporarily.
‘I have a headache,’ complained Lachie.
‘And I’m all bunged up, kids,’ said her father. ‘Your dietary choices aren’t keeping me regular. And frankly, it sucks.’
‘Gross.’ Lachie covered his nose with his hand.
‘Way too much information, Gramps,’ said Caitlin.
‘Or maybe not enough?’ Sid asked. ‘I mean, don’t you two know what keeps bodies and minds healthy?’
He seized a long stick and drew a triangle shape in the dirt, close enough to the caravan for light.
‘This is the healthy-eating pyramid, see? Fruit and vegies at the bottom, then unrefined carbohydrates like bread and pasta and rice. Protein and dairy next, then fats.’ He waved his stick in the air. ‘Where are the lollies on this pyramid? The pizzas? The soft drinks? The expensive junk that can never satisfy you?’
Catie rolled her eyes. ‘We know all this, Gramps.’
‘Then why didn’t you shop responsibly when you took your mother’s money into that supermarket in Apollo Bay and spent it all?’
Caitlin and Lachie looked uncomfortable.
‘I’ll tell you why, kids. It’s not because you don’t know the facts. No, siree. It’s because you’ve spent your whole life with your mother running around after you, making good choices for you. Deciding what you eat, what you drink, what you wear, how you should behave.’
Paula began to feel uncomfortable too; she’d spent the best part of the last fifteen years doing just that.
‘And that’s why you’ve got to take some responsibility and start making some decisions for yourself,’ Sid continued. ‘Because one day your mum won’t be there to help you.’
Lachie and Caitlin gaped at their grandfather—as if they were actually listening.
‘What are you, a pair of stunned mullets?’ he demanded, pointing at the caravan door. ‘Go to bed, that’ll help with the hunger.’
And to Paula’s astonishment, they did.
The following night in Warrnambool, their dinner menu took a turn for the worse. In the absence of anything else in the pantry, the children raided the canned supplies packed specifically for the Nullarbor Plain.
‘Yumbo, I’ll eat those,’ Sid said, pointing at a one-kilo can of baked beans that Caitlin had found. ‘But I can’t be held responsible for what happens tomorrow.’
‘Huh?’ Lachie was riffling through a drawer, looking for a can opener.
‘He means he’s going to fart,’ said Caitlin, pulling a face.
‘I prefer the word “fluff”. Much more genteel,’ said Sid.
Baked beans in Warrnambool were followed by corned beef in Portland and tinned tuna in Dartmoor. They’d run out of milk and other fresh dairy entirely, so had tea and toast for breakfast. Lunch wasn’t much better: an unusual mezze of onion-flavoured rice crackers, cheese slabs and generous smears of Vegemite. As Sid had anticipated, this curious cocktail created a perfect storm in his bowels. The fumes were noxious, making Paula’s eyes water and the children gag. But her father seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, chortling away as the children hung their heads out of Hillary, gasping for air.
‘All part of the lesson,’ he said, winking at Paula. ‘They’ll never buy that crap again.’
By the week’s end, the children were pleading for fruit and vegetables like they were rare treats.
‘I’ve had it, Gramps,’ said Lachie, en route to Mount Gambier. ‘You’ve gassed me out. I surrender.’
He threw an unopened bag of jellybeans into his grandfather’s lap from the rear seat. ‘Please can we have some real food tonight?’
‘Sure.’ Paula looked at her son in the rear-view mirror. ‘There’s a big supermarket in Mount Gambier. We can buy a roast chook.’
‘Oooh, yes,’ said Caitlin. ‘And can you make, like, peas and broccoli?’
‘You can,’ Sid replied. ‘As part of my next life lesson, you’re going to show us what you’ve learned this week. You can go shopping for groceries in Mount Gambier, then cook for us all until Adelaide, maybe even the whole way around Australia. It’ll be like MasterChef.’
‘In a caravan?’ Caitlin sounded outraged.
Lachie groaned. ‘But I can’t cook, Gramps.’
Sid turned back to Paula. ‘Would you mind pulling over, please?’
She parked across a gravel driveway adjacent to a gated paddock.
Her father looked sternly at the children. ‘So, neither of you are very clever in the kitchen, eh?’
The children shook their heads.
‘Well, none of us are. But we all have to learn how to cook ourselves a proper meal, and maybe even share it with ungrateful family members.’ There was a flint-like edge to his voice. ‘Now, I’ve hea
rd both of you complaining about your mother’s efforts in the kitchen, so that’s where you’ll be. You can learn what it takes to whip up a decent meal. Balanced food, not like the past week.’
Sid looked at Paula. ‘When your mother died, I couldn’t even scramble an egg. I suppose she thought she was doing me a favour, mollycoddling me all those years.’ He gave a wry chuckle. ‘But after she’d gone, I had to find out how to make myself simple, healthy meals. In the caravan, too.’ He turned back to the children. ‘It’s no fun learning to cook when you’re an old fogey. So you’d better start now. When you’re thirteen and almost fifteen years old, you should be able to look after yourselves. Understand?’
‘Yes, Gramps,’ they said in unison.
‘And Caitlin,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘if I ever hear you use the word “suck” again, especially in relation to your mother, there’ll be trouble. You can hop out of Hillary and run the next kilometre for that.’
Paula could barely recall what Caitlin had said or when, but it had obviously made an impression on her father.
Caitlin looked chastened. She climbed out of the ute and, without another word, began running in the road’s narrow shoulder. As they watched her disappear over a small crest, her father grinned at Paula, victorious. ‘South Australia, here we come.’
6
‘Nice lobster,’ said Lachie, eyeing a gargantuan orange sculpture in the grounds of the Kingston visitor centre.
They’d broken camp that morning after whiling away five lazy days in a picturesque caravan park in Mount Gambier. Paula felt so relaxed now, she hardly recognised herself.
‘Here,’ said Sid, handing her a coffee and pushing a box of sticky buns at the children. ‘Let’s sit near Larry.’
‘Larry?’ Lachie looked wary.
‘The Big Lobster, mate. Didn’t you read the sign?’
They sat cross-legged on the grass, in the shade of the sculpture.
‘So,’ said Sid, sipping at a takeaway cappuccino, ‘you’ve been cooking up a storm with life lesson number two. And the grub’s not bad, is it, Paula? The kids are doing a bonza job. Might be getting a bit easy for them, in fact.’
Wife on the Run Page 11