There is a respectful hush over the room. I only came here because Rory said I’d get a discount if I refer a friend, so I figured I’d better get some. When I arrived, Gladys gave me the rundown on everyone in the room. She told me that Jennifer has sat there more or less mute for six months, listening to everyone else. I wonder why she comes. She’s too young for this group of mouldy oldies. But here she is.
The silence in the room has become awkward. Jennifer has been staring at her computer-printed pages for a long time now. People are starting to reposition their sore buttocks on the unforgiving plastic chairs and lean more heavily on their elbows.
Jennifer shakes her head and speaks.
‘I’m sorry, I just don’t think I’m ready. Maybe next time.’
She looks up and smiles, showing her teeth and doing all the right things, but even with my rotten eyesight, or maybe because of it, I can tell the smile is all on the outside.
Gladys is sitting next to Jennifer. She puts her veiny, thin-skinned hand on Jennifer’s, pats it, and says, ‘Go on dear, you can do it. We are all friends here. It’s time.’
Gladys catches Jennifer’s eyes and holds them firmly. She is a formidable woman who has raised children, nursed soldiers during the war and was born in the shadow of the Great Depression. Gladys is all non-negotiable stoicism and expects it from everyone else.
Jennifer nods.
She looks down at the paper and begins to read.
‘At first everything went to plan. But plans are made to be broken. Or was that rules? There are no rules for having a baby, and all the plans in the world won’t make your hopes come true. Your body has other things in mind for you, the minute you decide to grow another life in it, before it’s even conceived, that life has already taken over. By the time my baby was born, he was damaged beyond repair, and so was I. He was ripped from me with bloodied, latex-covered hands, his nerves snapped and torn by the force of the ventouse, forceps and the doctor’s hands, as high up on the wall in front of me a TV played the Big Brother Final Eviction episode. The worst part of it all took about two hours – I know this because I watched the whole show from beginning to end, and that’s what haunts me now. When I hear the theme music to that show I shake, my eyes can’t focus, my heart seems to be jumping hurdles in my chest. They call it a PTSD trigger event. Sounds are the worst for me. But the images come too, blood-wet, everything blood-wet and violent. Doctors’ calm faces, but with knowing looks between them. Stitching, cleaning, bandaging, the swift cleaning away of human fluids by efficient nurses. All while Christian is evicted from the house for not doing the dishes.’
Jennifer stops at this point. It’s clear she hasn’t finished, but she can’t go on. She’s got the shakes. Gladys, next to her, pats her hand again with the knowing look of a woman who’s also seen too much blood. And that’s when I realise I’m shaking too, and people are looking at me, saying Hal? Hal? in harried voices. I’m clutching the table in front of me, eyes twitching, blood pumping, just like poor Jennifer, and I’m back there with the tanks and the boom of gunfire: the Nazis are coming. There is running and dust and blood and bodies and thundering noise and I can’t move.
Now, I fight the urge to cower under Gladys’ Formica table, where all those ancient legs are resting like a dormant forest, withered and aged and increasingly useless, just like me. I clutch the table in my bony hands, arthritis preventing me from holding it too tight and I nod my head at them, yes I’m fine, yes, yes. I push the images out first, and then the sounds, just like I’ve learned to do. Before I knew what this was called, Evelyn used to call it a ‘turn’. It was much worse then, in the early days. Of course she didn’t sign up for that – night terrors that happened in the days as well, too much drinking, too much sadness, too much violence. No one can bear that and stay whole. Certainly a marriage can’t.
Jennifer is bearing into kind Gladys’ eyes, matching her rapid breathing to the old lady’s slow and steady rate. They are holding hands. Gladys knows, she knows. We have all seen too much of this damn world.
‘Do you have a photo?’ Gladys asks Jennifer.
Jennifer fishes into her handbag and pulls out her purse, flicks it open and shows Gladys her broken baby, moments before he was gone. Gladys touches his image with her dry fingers. She smiles at the boy and then at Jennifer.
‘He’s a darling, isn’t he?’
Jennifer nods.
But all I can think is that at least that lad will never see war.
MARG, SCARLETT, DENISE AND JEREMIAH
Scarlett’s Shed
My daughter visits less and less. There’s only so much time I can spend looking at my swimming pool getting brown over winter. And the neighbour’s cat swimming in it. I have to admit that, as a distraction, I have become a little obsessed with the World Wide Web. I can find out what’s happening anywhere on the planet. War in Syria. Abductions in Africa. Mud slides in Peru. The planet is a mess, quite frankly.
I push the little button with the circle and line and wait for the machine to switch on. Out the window I see Jeremiah dipping his paws into the dirty water.
It would be nice to read something harmless for a change from all this war and terror, so I go to the OnlineShopper website. I leave all the search boxes blank, except for location. There I enter Plane Tree Drive. I want to know what’s going on in my neighbourhood. Is someone selling baby clothes? Maybe someone wants to buy a bookshelf. Perhaps someone is selling a guitar that has been discarded by an ungrateful teenager.
Two entries come up – one is Jill down the road who is always selling agaves she’s propagated from her garden. And the other one is Scarlett’s Shed.
Ad placed 6 months ago
Category: Outdoor
Sub Category: Sheds
Sub Category: Other
The shed is made from corrugated iron, Mangrove Colourbond, very discreet, and has a solid iron roof. There are stairs to enter the shed – you must be able to walk to enter.
There is no rust on the panels and there are no holes.
Inside the shed is fully lined with plywood and red velvet wallpaper, providing a warm and sensual feel. The floor is fully carpeted with hard-wearing, easy-clean, commercial-grade carpet.
Fitted with electricity and running water, including a bathroom with spa and double shower. (Please note that you will be asked to shower in the shed prior to services being rendered, towels and soap are supplied.)
The shed is fitted with a king-sized bed and other miscellaneous purpose-built equipment.
Please note that there is a side entrance off Jessie Street and your discretion is essential.
Phone Scarlett for an appointment to view the shed.
Price: $200 p/h (note: ONO not accepted, extras charged accordingly)
Location: 21 Plane Tree Drive
Replies
5/8
Mike1968
I’d like to see a picture of the shed before I buy.
5/8
JesseJames69
saw the shed last week. top notch product, but a bit past its prime.
5/8
Stew9999
The latch on the gate sticks. You gotta jiggle it. Could do with some oil.
6/8
BobMcBobby
Is that a euphemism?
6/8
Stew9999
Nah mate.
7/8
BobMcBobby
I took some oil and fixed the gate. Scarlett’s happy coz it doesn’t bother the neighbours now.
JesseJames69, past its prime? Don’t think so mate.
7/8
JesseJames69
i got standards mate.
7/8
BobMcBobby
Yeh, me too mate. And I know a good shed when I see one. Blokes like you don’t know your sheds from your shoes.
7/8
Stew9999
McBobby I’m with you. Scarlett’s is one of my favourite sheds.
7/8
BobMcBobby
Scarlett’s shed is going on holidays. Closed until further notice.
28/11
Stew9999
You can’t do that, McBobby. Scarlett, what’s going on?
28/11
ScarlettsShed
Scarlett’s Shed is still for sale. Business as usual.
28/11
BobMcBobby
Scar, what about Bali? I thought you were coming with me?
28/11
ScarlettsShed
Bob, darlin, what happens in the shed stays in the shed, including the fantasies we act out AND the dreams we talk about after.
SCARLETT’S SHED IS OPEN FOR BUSINESS
28/11
BobMcBobby
Some dreams are bigger than your shed, Scar. I had dreams for us that are bigger than it seems you can imagine.
28/11
ScarlettsShed
ALL DREAMS COME TRUE IN SCARLETT’S SHED. BUSINESS AS USUAL ;)
28/11
TonyTone01
Make my shed dreams come true, 10pm tonight?
28/11
ScarlettsShed
TonyTone01 all bookings by phone, please call me.
I go for a walk. Mercifully, it is a bitterly cold day and there is no one around as I make my way to number 21.
It looks just like any other house. In fact it looks almost the same as mine. Built around the same time, possibly the same builder. The frontage is the same cream brick and I can identify the main bedroom on the left and lounge room on the right, with a corridor down the middle. I can imagine the entire floor plan, even the decor. It could be my house, except that the front yard is a shambles of weeds and rampant couch grass. It’s funny that I’ve never really noticed the house before – it’s nonchalant, if a house can have such a demeanour, or any demeanour at all. It looks like it doesn’t care what you think of it and dares you to pay it any attention at all. Maybe I’m being fanciful – a house can’t have a demeanour. But the curtains are all drawn, silent, like a secret, a cat on the still-warm bonnet of your car in the winter; if it could talk it would say mind your own business and leave me alone.
I turn down Jessie Street. The Shed can be seen from Jessie Street, even though the house faces onto the Drive. I can only assume Scarlett had a gate installed on Jessie Street so that her patrons have direct access to the shed and don’t need to enter through the house. But Jessie Street, being one of those small utility streets that is all backs-of-houses, has the benefit of anonymity. Residents only end up on Jesse Street once a week, when they put their smelly bins out. I walk up to the gate and examine the lock. It’s not been oiled in a while. Dried up grease has attracted grime from the road and gummed up the lock. I feel sad for BobbyMcBobby, his greased latch neglected along with his heart.
It occurs to me that I have the right to feel angry or indignant, but although I can access those emotions as ideas, I can’t summon them as feelings. I find it impossible to care, although there is a small flicker in my heart for poor Bobby taking his trip to the mountains of Bali alone.
I walk back to Plane Tree Drive in time to see a figure disappear into the front door of Scarlett’s house. It has to be Scarlett – all I can see is a tangle of red hair, fluorescent like fireworks, trailing down her back as she passes through the gaudy green door. She’s left a grocery bag on the porch and the door reopens, pushed by buttocks, and Scarlett reaches down to pick up the bag. She sees me staring at her. She winks at me, grabs the bag and disappears inside.
That Cat
Denise’s house sits at the very top of the street, and from her veranda she has a view into my pool. She must see what her cat does in there. A fence has been built around a huge gum tree that straddles our two properties. The tree allows Denise’s overfed cat to roam freely into our yard. The cat, called Jeremiah and named after a bullfrog in a song from a long time ago, refuses to play on the playgym Denise bought for him, refuses to use the run she built for him, refuses to stay in the house at night. He finds a way and quick as lightning, he’s out the door. He’s a nimble and speedy animal, despite his size.
He refuses to use his litter box, too. Instead he likes to use our pool. He can hold on for days until he has an opportunity.
The tree is heritage listed and cannot be cut down. Never mind that it drops leaves all year round which stain the pool water, making it look like tea. Never mind that the limbs creak and groan murderously and threaten to fall right onto my bedroom roof. Never mind that they give that cat an entry into our yard so that it can defecate in our pool. When she was young, my daughter thought it looked like Tim Tams floating in tea and wanted to know if she could eat one. ‘Tim Tam slam!’ she said as she reached into the water.
Never mind.
‘The cat has to go,’ I say to my husband, Martin.
‘Yes, yes, but what can we do about it, Marg?’
‘Plenty. Leave out poisoned meat. Set a trap. Plenty.’
After years of cleaning cat crap out of my pool, I’ve quelled any notions of animal rights.
‘Can’t we complain that it’s killing local fauna or something? Get the council to put it down?’
‘I don’t think the law allows that,’ Martin says.
‘Well it should.’
‘Yes, yes. It should.’
Jeremiah, fat as a bullfrog, likes to swim. Since when did any normal cat like to swim? There’s more than a little bit wrong with Jeremiah. One day he climbs down the tree into our yard and sits by the pool, sunning himself for a full hour before going to the toilet, in the pool, and then having a swim.
I watch the whole thing.
As Jeremiah swims, I go to the garden shed. He circles his floating faeces like he’s training for water ballet. I take bits of old chicken wire and fashion them into a funnel-shaped net. I attach it to the end of an old broomstick. I sneak out of the shed and watch Jeremiah swim. His mottled tabby fur looks darker, tea-stained from the pool water. I stalk him from behind and slam the net down over him. Jeremiah remains nonchalant and continues to swim.
‘Got you!’ I say, giving Jeremiah a look that might well have stopped a lesser animal’s heart from beating.
‘Now what?’ Jeremiah says, not bothering to hide his disdain.
‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead,’ I say before I realise I am talking to a cat. To a cat. ‘Wait, you talk?’
‘Don’t you?’ Jeremiah says.
‘I don’t like that sneer in your voice,’ I say, as if I were speaking to a wayward child.
I squat down to look Jeremiah in the eye. I decide to try reason.
‘Why do you defecate in my pool?’
‘As good a place as any,’ Jeremiah says.
‘No, not really. Not at all. I can think of many better places. Like your own yard, for example.’
‘Would you shit in your own yard?’
‘Well…I…no I wouldn’t,’ I say. ‘But, you swim in it after you do it, so what’s your point?’
‘My point is not about hygiene. You humans are all the same. You will never understand cat logic,’ I swear I hear him sigh. ‘Now, will you let me out of this ridiculous net? I can’t swim for much longer, I’m getting tired.’
I see my opportunity. Clearly. I can just make him swim a bit longer and he will drown. He’s an old cat. Nobody will question it. Everyone knows the cat swims in my pool. I feel murderous. Mad enough to do it. I push the net deeper into the water, making it harder for Jeremiah to come up to catch his breath.
‘Can we come to an…arrangement?’ he pants.
‘No, no we can’t. The time for arrangements passed when you defecated in my pool.’
‘Are you sure, now? I can be very,’ he splutters as he inhales a mouthful of pool water, ‘…helpful.’
Despite myself I am intrigued. ‘What kind of arrangement? Helpful how?’
‘Well. You know that woman Scarlett? She has a dog.’
‘Well, sort of. She’s not my kind of person, really.’
‘Yes, no one likes her. She talks about you, you know. I would be doing the whole neighbourhood a favour, really, when you think about it. I could really tip her over the edge. You know, white jackets and padded walls, that kind of thing.’
‘What do you mean, she talks about me?’
Jeremiah splutters some more, gasping for air as his legs slow to a near stop. He can’t tread water any longer. I ease up on the net, allow him to stick his paws onto the broomstick so that he can rest and catch his breath.
‘Thank you. That’s terribly kind.’
‘Well. Go on. What does she say about me?’
‘She calls you crazy.’
‘She does?’
‘Yes, says you walk past her house talking to invisible people.’
‘Well. Well.’
‘So, let’s give her something to really be concerned about.’
‘Such as?’
‘What if I, say, start having chats with her? She’ll think she’s gone mad, won’t she? She’ll stop calling you crazy!’
This gives me pause. ‘I’m standing here talking to you. You are talking back. That must make me the crazy one.’
Jeremiah realises his tactical error.
‘I’m struggling here, can you let me out, please? We can keep talking on dry land. I’ll explain. I think I’m over swimming pools anyway.’
‘Let you out? Why, so you can go around telling people I’m the crazy women who talks to cats! I know your plan!’
I press harder on the broomstick, pushing Jeremiah under water. I have to lean in to push it deep enough, and that is my mistake. Jeremiah’s claws are poking through the wire and he swipes at me, drawing blood on my forearm. I scream and pull my arm back. In a flash, he swims to the edge of the pool and uses my broomstick to crawl out, while I drip blood onto my pavers.
‘You vile creature! And to think I was about to trust you!’
Jeremiah is breathing heavily. He shakes furiously, hisses at me, just like a regular cat might, and scoots up the tree and into his yard, as though the whole thing never happened.
‘There you are, Jeremiah,’ I hear Denise coo from over the fence. ‘Why are you so wet? Come here, darling, let me dry you off.’
‘He’s been in my pool again, Denise!’ I screech over the fence.
Plane Tree Drive Page 10