by Ilsa Evans
Dad died of a heart attack the first night she was away.
Diane, my eldest sister, occasionally comments on the irony of it happening when he finally had an evening to himself. Personally, I believe that it was the shock of the peace that did it. After his death, my mother sold the farm and bought a unit in Ringwood, unfortunately just over a stone’s throw away (unfortunate because if it were actually within stone throwing distance, at least I would have gained a hobby).
‘… and I can’t believe the lackadaisical attitude of that waiter, I tell you that I simply don’t know what is the matter with restaurants these days, in my day a waiter knew what his job entailed and …’ She has returned to her seat, given my choice of meal a withering glance, and continued her monologue without missing a beat. I nod to show that I am listening and tune out once more.
I am really quite fond of my mother (I firmly believe that one must retain a certain measure of affection for anyone who has breast-fed you in the past). However, she does have a few foibles that are rather difficult to take. The first, and most obvious, is that she imagines herself to be perfect when she really is basically a cantankerous old cow. Another is that she constantly refers to the refined upbringing with which she provided her children when, in actual fact, we grew up free range on a spectacularly unsuccessful farm in Castlemaine watching her attempt to browbeat the cows into giving extra milk. But I must admit she also has some rather amusing quirks, the weirdest of which has to be her hang-up with the afterlife.
One would imagine that treble marital tragedies would be enough to occupy any normal woman for a few decades (mine certainly have), but somehow my mother has managed to find a fresh concern. Always very religious and a believer in the doctrine that partners in life spend the afterlife together, basking in the glow of paradise as part of their blessed union, it has slowly dawned upon her that her three husbands present a rather large problem. Given half the chance (or just a pause in conversation – any pause, any conversation) my mother will elaborate on the choices that face her at her hour of reckoning. How can she do what is fair? Indeed, exactly what is fair?
I strongly suspect that the recent early retirement of the parish priest is due in no small part to my mother’s constant entreaties for a solution to her rather unusual problem. I myself just marvel at the woman’s incredible egocentricity. How in hell (probably a bad choice of words) can she assume that these men (certainly the first two, who barely knew her and especially the last, who did) are lounging patiently against the pearly gates, just chatting with St Peter while waiting for her to turn up so that they can fight over who has the pleasure of spending eternity in her company?
‘… of course Diane was going to join us for this lunch but apparently those boys of hers were playing up again. I just don’t know, in my day children knew exactly what was what and what they had coming if they so much as …’
I’m actually more than a bit annoyed with Diane for not turning up. She would have been happy to hear about my final session with the therapist as we have always been quite close, not all that surprising considering how much easier it is to face someone like our mother as a united front. Diane lives in Croydon, about nine or ten kilometres away, with her husband David, and their four teenage sons. David is a large, blonde, Nordic-looking guy and every one of the boys is a clone – only at various stages of growth. Their household is cosy, comfortable, extremely loud, and very rough and tumble. All the boys are addicted to sport and girls (in that order) and Ben is about as comfortable there as Hitler would have been at a Bar Mitzvah.
‘… and well, Elizabeth did promise but we all know Elizabeth and I’m sure that she is very busy with …’
Yes, we all know Bloody Elizabeth and we have all been making the appropriate excuses for her for a long time. Elizabeth is the baby of our family, six years younger than me and still a continual surprise. She is unmarried, unskilled, untalented, unexceptional and a right royal pain in the … and the apple of my mother’s eye.
‘… so I shall drop by Diane’s house directly I leave here and I am sure that Elizabeth will phone tonight – but perhaps I should tell you anyway, as you are here …’
What am I doing here? What’s wrong with me that I am sitting here while Diane is at home, probably relaxing on the couch and watching Oprah Winfrey (which I should definitely be doing now that I don’t have a therapist anymore), and Elizabeth, well, we all know Bloody Elizabeth.
‘… so Harold and I thought that the thirteenth of February would be a good choice, being a Sunday and …’
What! February the thirteenth is my birthday! I realise that I must have missed something very important so I immediately reverse thrust and attempt to tune in.
‘… really like them both to be flower-girls, but I thought long and hard and decided against a matron of honour as I didn’t want either you or Diane to have your feelings hurt, so there will be just Elizabeth as the bridesmaid, she has never been a bridesmaid before so it’s not unlucky and …’
Bloody Elizabeth! I bet she’ll get a new dress. It is so typical that Diane and I miss out while she gets all the attention. Bridesmaid indeed! … Bridesmaid? … Bridesmaid … for whom?
‘… and so I’m getting married! Well, I shall assume that because you’ve not said anything, you’re just pleasurably stunned, and so you should be! Do you know what the ratio of women is to men at my age? Do you have the least idea? Three to one! But never mind that now, let me tell you about the preliminary arrangements I’ve decided on for the flowers. I thought that a delicately pale petunia, or maybe a salmon pink with a slight …’
MONDAY
3.00 pm
I have parked the car at the top of the driveway, even though I would dearly like to be able to park it in the garage. Unfortunately the garage could not accommodate a Morris Minor, let alone a vintage Holden, and even if I could squeeze it in, the chances are that is where it would stay for the rest of its days (though admittedly there are probably not all that many of them left). The garage is now home to miscellaneous bikes, boxes, tools, an old fridge and a recuperating galah with a personality disorder. I rarely enter the garage anymore as the galah tends to attack me. Ben wants to be a vet eventually and has a rather distressing habit of practising his skills on unsuspecting wildlife. Yet instead of giving our property a judiciously wide berth, idiotic birds and animals home in on us in plague proportions. In the case of the galah, it was actually trapped (by Ben) in the backyard and since its forced recuperation (read incarceration), it seems to have decided that life in the wild is not all that wild after all.
CJ scrambles out of the car while I decoy the vicious hellhound from next door and relieve my pent-up aggression by practising my soccer skills and lobbing the damn animal towards the centre of the ‘O’ in the FOR SALE sign adorning its front garden. The reason it fits so perfectly into an ‘O’ is that it is a very small chihuaha-cross, but a very small chihuahua-cross that is perfectly capable of putting a large pack of feral Dobermans to flight.
Just as I congratulate myself on my marksmanship, the dog, accompanied by the affronted yells of its approaching owner, launches itself back into full attack. I race to check the mailbox and haul out what looks like a handful of bills. I promptly decide to postpone the thrill of opening the mail until the evening, when hopefully I will have had a few drinks to anaesthetise myself … and I won’t have a six-inch hound from hell aiming to gnaw its way through my left Achilles tendon. I run to unlock the front door and CJ and I hurriedly enter and slam it safely shut behind us before abandoning our temporary truce.
I lean against the wall to catch my breath. But the idea of moving further into the house makes the ongoing battle with the neighbour and his vicious canine almost seem a preferable option. The view from the hallway looks very much like World War III was fought – and lost – within the various rooms. I sigh deeply, shrug my coat off and hang my bag on the hat-stand – which immediately topples over and strikes me on the crown of my head
. With remarkable self-control I get off my knees and pick my bag up from the floor before adjusting the hat-stand and hanging my bag on the other side. Holding my head with one hand I reach the other out to CJ but she has already ascertained that I am not in need of her kindergarten first-aid training and has turned her back.
CJ has not been speaking to me since I inadvertently let drop that I had lunch with her revered Grandma while she had kindergarten. I tried to tell her that I would gladly have swapped but this has not made any difference. She deliberately neglects to give me any of the kinder paintings she has tucked under her arm (and the fridge really needed another one), and marches off to her room, no doubt to package them up for her father.
Well, if she’s going to sulk, I’m just going to let her. After all, it’s my day off and it has not been particularly relaxing thus far so I might as well take advantage of the peace and quiet and do something for myself. I could give myself a facial, take a few aspirin, clean the laundry window, read a book, write a book, leap on the exercise bike or even spend some quality time staring at myself in the mirror and wondering why my life is going rapidly down the toilet. Instead of any of this, I negotiate my way into the lounge-room where I turn the heater on high and warm my hands for a few minutes. Then I take a deep breath, stop putting off the inevitable and head into the kitchen. I stare miserably at the mess that awaits me. The hypothetical facial will have to wait; now I know how my free afternoon will be spent. Why is it that some people have houses that always look immaculate no matter what? My best friend, Teresa, is like that. She never seems to spend any time at all doing housework yet her place could grace the pages of Home Beautiful at a minute’s notice. I, on the other hand, would need a year’s advance warning and one of those miracle-working teams from television.
I begin by sweeping the dirty dishes into the sink (fairly gently) before slamming my fist down onto the counter (not at all gently) and kicking one shoe off my foot. It goes whistling past the island bench and across the room, hitting the opposite wall with a resounding BANG! That feels (and sounds) extremely satisfying so I immediately proceed to do the same with the second. Unfortunately this one obviously wasn’t watching what it was supposed to do. Instead of whizzing towards the opposite wall, it immediately does a vertical flip straight up into the air, hitting the ceiling hard before being propelled downwards at approximately 60 km/h, striking the budgerigar’s cage full on and ricocheting off into the fish-tank.
I stand at the bench frozen in disbelief. I really don’t believe how this day is going but self-pity will not get me anywhere (it cost me quite a lot to learn this so I plan to remember it whenever appropriate; not necessarily use it, but definitely remember it), so I wipe the plaster flecks off my shoulders and go to inspect the damage.
The bloody bird is dead.
Now I really don’t believe this. This creature has never had a worry in the world, has food and drink delivered daily, has its abode cleaned for it regularly, even though it consistently displays an ignorance of even the rudiments of toilet training, and it drops dead just because an imitation Doc Marten strikes its cage? I stare rather blindly at the corpse for a few minutes before remembering that the dear departed is CJ’s one and only pet (her words), and she is already not speaking to me! I briefly consider mouth-to-mouth or the equivalent, but dismiss the notion on the grounds that if my day is going to get worse, I prefer to take a more passive role. However, I do open the cage and prod gently at the body in the hope that it has merely fainted, but no such luck.
At times like these it is always best to stop, pause and think … panic never solved anything. I stop, pause and think … and throw the bird’s night-cover over the cage. I shall worry (and stop, pause, think, probably panic) about this little problem later. I have other problems at the moment, the major one being the one that I keep relentlessly shoving into the recesses of my mind – where it just as relentlessly refuses to remain. Instead, it keeps peeking coyly around the edges of my psyche, making me flinch and shudder uncontrollably at the most inopportune moments – like when I was handing over my change to the lady at the deli counter. I give up and morosely open the cerebral gates. There it is: my mother has just told me she is getting married. And I didn’t even know she was seeing anyone, let alone someone she was serious enough about to consider marrying! Can this day get any worse?
Brring, brring … brring, brring …
There are probably those who would be totally justified in suggesting that I bring crap on myself by tempting fate with stupid questions like that. I shall valiantly attempt to ignore the telephone because it is sure to be either the budgie branch of the RSPCA or the merry widow ringing to discuss another bright idea regarding her fishy salmon-tinged floral bloody wreaths.
… brring, brring …
Salmonella would be more appropriate as far as I am concerned. All I wanted was a relaxing lunch with her, maybe to talk about myself for a change. I mean I actually fired my therapist and I haven’t been able to tell anyone about it! This is the therapist I practically own … well, at least I have a considerable share in her latest office redecoration and even those nauseating ‘Picasso’ reproductions in the waiting room that strongly resemble the graffiti that I can see on the train for free.
… brring, brring …
And she had to burst my bubble, just like always. After I actually had the courage to stand up and tell that therapist where to go! Well, to be completely honest, the actual words I used were ‘I don’t think I can make it anymore, I’ll get back to you.’ But the real message had clout and it was there in my eyes and she read it, I could see that she read it!
… brring, brring …
Things like this always happen to me. Here’s a perfect example. About three years ago, there was I, poised to finish a 5000-piece jigsaw puzzle of the Great Wall of China which she had given me for Christmas. Despite the fact that I loathe jigsaw puzzles, I was determined to persevere and it had taken me over six weeks of concentrated effort to put the damned thing together. The feeling as I arranged those last five pieces was indescribable. Oh, the sense of accomplishment! I had planned to glue it and frame it as a symbol of my ability to conquer anything my mother put my mind to.
… brring, brring …
It was not until I triumphantly went to place those five pieces in their five spots that I realised that the empty spaces actually numbered six. In absolute dismay I screamed hysterically, peering under the table and around the room. I think I expected the missing piece to materialise in mid-air and float obligingly into my hand; instead, what I saw was a petrified boy running for cover and a stunned two-year-old with something in her mouth.
… brring, brring …
By the time I’d tipped CJ upside down, shaken her vigorously and then forcibly removed the puzzle piece, it was beyond repair and I had three nasty dents on one finger and actual broken skin on another. The moral of this story is that just when you think you are getting ahead, something is invariably devoured. Well, I know what I mean anyway.
… brring, brring … brring, brr –
‘Hello?’
‘God, it took you long enough to answer. I was just about to hang up!’
‘Diane! How could you have done that to me!’
‘That brings me to my first question – how was your lunch?’
‘Where the hell were you?’
‘Actually, I was dying to join you but, well … I decided I was being incredibly selfish and that you deserved some quality time with Mum and Elizabeth, bonding and all that. But don’t thank me now, I can wait.’
Diane has a rather warped sense of humour, which probably explains why she is so incredibly sane while I … well, let’s just say that I have some itsy-bitsy problems coping with life in general. And with therapists, and children, and ex-husbands, and dead budgerigars and mothers remarrying …
‘Are you still there? It wasn’t that bad, was it?’
‘Yes, I’m still here, which is a lot more tha
n you deserve and it was worse than just bad. Bloody Elizabeth wasn’t even there and Mum – she said she was going to drop by your house. Did she?’
‘I’ve only just got back so I probably missed her. But never mind about all that, I had a good reason for not being there, wait till I tell you my news!’
‘It can’t possibly be as big as what you missed at lunch! Mum said –’
‘No, don’t tell me about it just yet. I won’t let her spoil this – first my news! I’ve been bursting to tell you all afternoon and I can’t wait. Guess what? You’ll never guess!’
‘You’re getting married again too?’
‘Don’t be silly, for some of us once is enough! No, I’m having a girl! Next February I’m actually going to have a girl!’
‘Di, slow down …’ Although I am beginning to have a horrible idea of what she is talking about, I make a feeble attempt to make light of it. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re making advance plans for becoming a latent lesbian?’
‘No, you twit! I’m pregnant! I didn’t want to say anything because I knew you would all say I’m mad, but I had the tests today and she’s a girl! A daughter, I never thought I would ever have a daughter. Please don’t say I’m crazy because I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy. You don’t know what it’s like, surrounded by so many males all the time. Men, bloody men everywhere I look.’
This could be a rather thought-provoking statement if I didn’t know Diane’s family as well as I do, so it’s not. Anyway, I am more stunned by what I have just heard to concentrate on the image of men, men everywhere … surrounded by males all the time and men, men every –
‘Are you even listening to me? I’m telling you that I’m pregnant! Aren’t you even going to say congratulations?’
‘I’m sorry, Di … congratulations. I’m really happy for you but I, well, I suppose you’ve caught me a bit by surprise. I never even realised you wanted another baby, or that you were ever upset that you didn’t have a girl. I mean you never said, I never thought …’