by Ilsa Evans
I’m struck dumb. My carefully rehearsed speech is hovering on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be said, so I swallow it and attempt to change tack.
‘She’s a complete lunatic! You saw how she was when I turned up. I really didn’t do anything. She tried to get me and then I hit that policeman – but it was an accident – and then I got arrested, so I –’
‘Arrested! Oh my, you’d really better come in. Anyway, Alan has left word that he wants to see you as soon as you get here. There’s already been some flak from head office about the picture and if you aren’t here to answer whatever Joanne’s said, well, there’ll only be her word and no yours.’
‘No, you don’t understand, I absolutely can’t come in.’ If my stomach was playing up before, now it feels really, really bad. ‘I’ve picked up some sort of wog – I mean bug, and I feel so lousy. Um, listen, what’s this picture you’re talking about?’
‘Haven’t you seen it? You mean you haven’t seen the paper – the Herald-Sun?!’ Barbara’s voice rises sharply and my head begins to throb again so I hold the phone away from my ear and now she sounds just like my mother – a shrill monotone that goes on and on and on.
I put the phone back to my ear, interrupt her to say that I’m about to be sick and hang up.
It’s not a complete lie. I really do feel like I’m about to be sick. I don’t get any newspapers delivered so that’s no use, and I really can’t face getting dressed and going down to the shops, so there’s only one thing to do. I get up and tie the dressing-gown cord securely around my waist, check that CJ is still watching the morning cartoons on the portable in the meals area, and unlock the front door. It’s drizzling slightly so I grab an umbrella and intrepidly venture out onto the porch. As far as I can see there’s nobody about so I open the umbrella, nonchalantly wander over to the side fence and peer over at my ex-husband’s future front lawn. Sure enough, the paper is lying in one of the flowerbeds close by, securely wrapped in its protective plastic prophylactic thingy.
I close the umbrella, check to make sure that the miniature guard dog isn’t on the loose and then quickly lean over the fence, using the umbrella to drag the paper towards me. I scoop it up, step back and execute a perfect military about-turn before taking off at a rapid pace towards home. All of this is done in one fluid movement that I am very proud of until my foot slips on the edge of a puddle and I do a complicated gymnastic manoeuvre before flying lengthwise across the lawn, wiping out a bed of dahlias as I go and flinging both the newspaper and my umbrella towards my house. The newspaper just does a couple of flips before getting stuck on a rose-bush, but the umbrella sets a direct javelin-like course straight for the lounge-room windows, whistling cleanly through the air before hitting the right window with a resounding smash, followed by the tinkling sound of shattered glass.
I lie full-length on the wet lawn, one foot still in the puddle and my left side in the remains of the dahlias, while the rain chooses this particular moment to increase in intensity. A pair of kookaburras in a tree nearby burst into uncontrollable hysterics and I can see the curtains twitching in the house across the street, but I don’t think I can move. Maybe my spinal cord has been severed. Can dahlias do that? A good section of my own curtains is now blowing gaily out through the broken glass in my right-front window. I lie there feeling numb. After a minute or two, CJ runs out onto the porch and looks around wildly until she sees me.
‘Mummy, can I watch a bideo?’
I nod weakly.
WEDNESDAY
9.30 am
LIBRARIANS ON VIOLENT RAMPAGE
City workers watched in horror yesterday afternoon as hundreds of striking suburban librarians went on a violent rampage through the streets of Melbourne. A government minister, who had been attempting to address the crowd, was forced to flee as the librarians ran amok despite a heavy police presence. Several were arrested, including the woman pictured above, and were charged with a string of offences. A government spokesperson expressed baffled outrage at the behaviour of the librarians and pledged immediate disciplinary action against the offenders. CONTINUED Page 2
This is not good. It is also, without any doubt whatsoever, the worst picture I have ever had taken of me in my life to date. And believe me, that’s saying something. The photographer has managed to catch me with the placard – ‘I DESERVE MORE’ – hoisted high over my head just as I ripped it out of Joanne’s hands. Unfortunately this detail is omitted. Instead, all that can be seen in the frame are Joanne’s hands, which look for all the world like they are being held out in supplication. To make matters even worse, the policeman behind me is shown cringing, no doubt as he sensed that he was about to be whacked over the head. I look like a female version of Charles Manson, with bloodlust shining in my eyes and victims both before and aft. My pimple has distorted my chin to such an extent that it looks like one of those curvy ones witches are popularly supposed to have. The fact that it is such a bad picture would be to my advantage if it were not for the fact that the photographer has managed to get my name from someone and has helpfully printed it as part of the caption.
I open the purloined paper to page 2 and read it through in growing despair. There is another picture, this time a wide-angle shot of the crowd surging forward as the minister flees, but I still retain the dubious distinction of being the only miscreant named. I don’t like the sound of ‘immediate disciplinary action’ at all, and am beginning to have an uneasy suspicion that a scapegoat will be required. And it appears I may have unintentionally volunteered.
My head aches. So do my new bruises.
I decide to have a hot bath before making any more phone calls, in the forlorn hope that a long immersion (in something other than alcohol) will help my thought processes. As I fill the bath, I give CJ strict instructions to avoid the lounge-room because Mummy had a slight accident. Then I look at her butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth expression thoughtfully and shut the lounge-room doors securely so that the room is barricaded off.
Ten minutes later, I am fully immersed, surrounded by soapsuds and feeling a trifle better. Physically, at least. I wonder what Alan is going to say. I wonder what Joanne has already said. I wonder, wonder, wonder. I scoop up a handful of bubbles and blow against them gently, watching as they float towards the wall and then dribble back down towards the water. I try to tell myself that I wasn’t wedded to the job anyway, but unfortunately a little voice keeps rudely interrupting to insist that, although I might not be wedded to the job, I am wedded to the idea of regular meals and a roof over my head. I sigh heavily. What the hell, I might as well take a fatalistic outlook on this latest turn of events on the grounds that it requires considerably less effort than any other approach. Whatever happens, happens. After all, if this really is the roller coaster it feels like, then I might as well hang on and see where the ride takes me – it’s not like I have much choice, anyway. At this point the doorbell rings and I jump. Who would be at the door when I am supposed to be at work anyway?
I can hear CJ’s feet padding down the hall and remind myself to remind her that she is not supposed to answer the door by herself. She sticks her head around the bathroom door.
‘Mummy, can I hab fibe biscuits because I’m fibe?’
The doorbell rings again, this time a trifle more insistently.
I get up, wrap a towel around myself and go to peer through the peephole which affords me a perfectly angled view of the outside light, and nothing more.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Diane! Quick, open up, it’s pouring out here!’
‘Diane!’ I unlock both standard locks, the deadlock and the security chain and fling open the door. A gust of near-freezing wind accompanies my sister through and reminds me that I am clad only in a Mickey Mouse bath towel.
‘Great to see you! Go through to the kitchen and put on the kettle. I’ll just get dressed and be with you in a minute.’
I scuttle back to the bathroom and dry myself before redressing in
my yellow daisy flannelette pyjamas and dressing-gown. Fortunately, I know that I don’t have to stand on ceremony with Diane. She’s pretty decent for a big sister. We even resemble each other, except that she has now grown her hair past her shoulders and has blonde streaks put through on a more regular basis than I could afford. With a bit of effort, we can still both earn the classification of attractive, but Bloody Elizabeth has always been the one who drew the attention without having to go to any pains at all. Slightly taller than both Diane and I, and with natural chestnut hair, a sprinkling of freckles, glowing complexion, pert nose and even the requisite dimple, Bloody Elizabeth has always put us in the shade. Pity her personality is not as pleasant as her looks, but maybe that’s all part of life’s little roundabout. As I get ready, I can hear Diane talking to CJ and pottering around the kitchen. I hope she’s making me more coffee.
‘I didn’t know whether you’d be home or not,’ Diane starts saying as soon as I re-enter the kitchen, ‘but I rang the library and they told me you weren’t well. I’m guessing it was maybe overindulgence last night? Or are you really sick? I’ve given CJ some biscuits, she said you’d promised her ten. You know, you probably shouldn’t be giving her so much sweet stuff. And what on earth happened to your lounge-room window? And oh my god! Have you seen the newspaper?’
I ignore all of the other questions in favour of the last and merely hold up my own (or rather, the neighbour’s) newspaper as an answer before wrapping my dressing-gown around me firmly and sinking down into a chair.
Diane looks at me in concern.
‘Are you okay? You really do look like hell. And my god – look at the size of that pimple! I’ll make you a coffee and you can tell me all about it.’
‘What’s to tell? It’s just a pimple.’
‘You twit. I mean what’s happened – what did you do?’
Somebody is finally willing to listen! Who am I to pass up an invitation like that? So I tell her all about my criminal history in considerable detail. One of the things I love about my sister – this particular sister – is that, as long as the issue has nothing to do with her husband and sons, she is so totally sane and level-headed. Whenever I get frenetic and overreact, I have a bad habit of losing sight of the forest while plunging headfirst into each of the trees, one by one. But Diane can always calm me down and put things in perspective with just a few words.
‘God, that is bad.’
Okay, those weren’t the words that I was expecting. I take the coffee she is offering, put it down on the table, and brandish the newspaper in the air.
‘But it’s so unfair! That, that lunatic was attacking me and I was just trying to defend myself. She’s the one who should have been arrested!’
‘Yes, I know that, and you know that, and probably the whole library knows that. I’m trying to be realistic. I mean, it doesn’t look good. They are going to be looking for a scapegoat and it’s your picture on the front page, not hers.’
‘Hell’s bells, I’m going to lose my damn job.’
‘Look, forget this, we’re being too negative. When you think of it, having today off was probably the best thing you could do. You know how these things always blow up and then over quickly. Tomorrow you’ll probably be a hero!’
‘Yeah, an out-of-work hero.’ I stare morosely into my coffee cup.
‘I don’t believe that. And anyway, on the very, very remote chance that you do lose your job – well, so what?’
‘What do you mean – so what?’
‘Well, you’ve been saying for ages about what a rut you’re in, and how bored you are. Maybe this is your chance to do something different – take control and do something more suited to what you want to do with your life.’
‘What life?’ I sigh heavily.
‘Don’t be so negative – it’s boring. If you don’t like your life, change it.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. I do need to put food on the table, you know.’
‘Oh, for god’s sake! If you’re going to be bloody defeatist, there’s absolutely no point even talking to you.’ Diane frowns impatiently at me and then turns pointedly away to stare out the window.
‘Hey, I’m not being defeatist – I’m being realistic!’
‘No, you’re not. There are other jobs out there – or you could start a business – or even go back to university. You moan about how unhappy you are, but you won’t do anything to change it. I just wish you’d start being a little more bloody positive.’
‘Oh, please don’t hold back, Diane,’ I reply sarcastically to try and disguise my surprise. Where is all this coming from? Have I really been complaining so much lately that I am beginning to thoroughly irritate those around me?
‘Look, I’m sorry. Really. It’s just, I don’t know … if anything crappy used to happen to you, you picked yourself up, dusted yourself off and then started working out how to change things. You used to have more guts. Now you just seem to give up.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes, you do. You’re so bloody fatalistic lately. I really wish you’d spend a bit more time looking on the positive side, that’s all. What’s the worst that can happen? You get fired. So, you capitalise on that to change your life. But I don’t think they’ll fire you anyway. I reckon it’ll just blow over. Or, how’s this? You tell them that your courageous actions were driven by selfless love of your chosen profession and frustration at governmental cutbacks. You’ll be a hero! Whatshisname, Alan, whatever – well, he probably only wanted to see you to award a personal commendation. A promotion, no less!’
Diane’s voice starts to rise with enthusiasm as she warms to the task at hand. ‘I tell you, they probably have that picture framed on the wall already! Okay, perhaps not that picture – a slightly more flattering one. You know, I bet your bag wasn’t stolen. It’s been purloined by a souvenir hunter and is already being auctioned on the web for thousands! You’re a hero! A “striking” hero at that! I feel humbled by being in the same room, listening to words of wisdom drip from your lips, and sharing the same genes even! Can I have your autograph?’
I am grinning despite myself. After a rocky start she has done it again, so I magnanimously decide to forget about her little outburst regarding my shortcomings.
‘That’s better.’ Diane grins back at me. ‘Anyway, it really is an absolute waste of time worrying. There’s nothing you can do until you find out what’s going on at the library, and you won’t find out until tomorrow, so there’s no point working yourself up about it. If the worst comes to the worst and they fire you, well, you can sue them for unfair dismissal, make a mint and live in luxury for the rest of your life.’
‘Mmm, nice. I could live with a tad of luxury.’
‘Good. Then that’s that problem solved.’ Diane puts down her coffee and leans back. ‘Now – on to me and mine.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Di.’ Belatedly I remember that she has a few upsets going on in her life as well. ‘I’m so wrapped up in what happened yesterday that I forgot all about you. Well, not forgot exactly, but –’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘Hey, I’m sorry that I didn’t seem happy the other day, too. I was in shock. Because I didn’t expect it. But congratulations, I really mean it.’ I reach across and grab her hand and make an attempt at a winsome smile.
‘No you don’t. You’re worried, just like everyone else. Including me.’
‘Oh, Diane, come on. What’s to worry about?’
‘A lot of things.’ She looks at me and I realise that she really is worried. I have been so involved in my unexpected front-page appearance that I haven’t given her appearance much thought. Now I absorb the fact that she looks rather strained and her eyes have that slightly puffy, pink-tinged look that invariably comes after a lot of tears the evening before. Even her clothes – brown slacks, a navy jumper and a black and grey striped blazer – look like they were thrown on this morning with very little regard to their compatibility. And that’s not like Diane at all.
‘What’s happened? You were so excited on Monday. Have you let David and the boys get to you? What’ve they done?’
‘No, of course it’s not them. I mean, the boys were actually rather pleased when they got over the shock. They were lovely about it all. And Michael was just thrilled that he wouldn’t be the youngest anymore.’
‘Yeah right. What about David?’
‘Well, he’s still in shock, I think. And of course he’s worried – about me, that is. The pre-eclampsia and all that. He hasn’t spoken about it much at all but the thing is that I think he thinks …’ She pauses as obviously it’s a struggle for her to say anything that might conceivably show David in a bad light. ‘I think that he thinks that I did it on purpose. You know, that it wasn’t an accident. He isn’t speaking much at all. But it’ll be even worse if…well, if …’
‘If what? Just tell me!’
‘If there’s something wrong with the baby!’ Diane blurts out as she stares down into her coffee cup for a moment, deliberately not meeting my eyes. ‘See, I’ve been thinking and I was so thrilled at the ultrasound that it was a girl so, well, I didn’t really think about what he was saying. There’s something wrong with the baby, I know there is.’
‘Oh, Di, there’s nothing wrong. They would have picked it up!’
‘That’s just it!’ Diane wails. ‘I think they did! Why else would they order another ultrasound? All that business about not drinking enough, or a bad position, it’s utter rubbish!’
‘Why? How do you know it’s rubbish?’
‘Because they saw enough to work out the sex, didn’t they? What else do they need – unless there’s something wrong, something they’re not going to tell me until they double-check.’
I must admit, I think she has a point. It’s also one of the things I was initially worried about. Everybody knows that the chance of problems goes up with age and Diane is nearly forty-three years old. My own concerns must have shown on my face because Diane turns even paler, so I take a deep breath and pull myself together. ‘I bet there’s nothing wrong. There might be one hundred reasons why they need another ultrasound.’