Good News, Bad News

by Maggie Groff

  On the whiteboard, in the box headed Hermione, I noted her details and the highlights of our meeting, and then a memo to find out what ‘something else’ she had given to Daisy. Under the heading O’Leary Accident 1983, I noted the information I had learned to date.

  Returning to my desk, I resumed street watching. What can I say? Of all the windows in all the towns in all the world to daydream out of, mine has to be the best.

  Since my encounters with Rafe, the daydreams have taken on a brazenly lustful tone. It’s quite shameful, but way more fun than working. I was pondering this very fact when a splendid-looking man of about forty, wearing jeans and a loose white linen shirt, strolled past. He was tall, broad-shouldered and tanned with fashionably long dark hair. In a flash I was on a fur rug in front of a roaring fire while Dante, for I’d named him Dante, licked a frivolous Barossa Valley red from my navel. As Dante tipped the bottle and refilled the dip in my belly, a little wine overflowed and trickled sensuously across my waist and around to my back, exciting nerves as it slowly moved over my naked body. I shivered with pleasure . . .

  See what I mean? It’s quite easy when you get the hang of it.

  The phone rang and broke my reverie. It was my nephew Sam, Harper’s second eldest.

  ‘How’s Mum?’ he asked without preamble.

  ‘She’s at the hairdressers.’

  ‘Did she tell you?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About Dad porking one of the theatre nurses.’

  I reeled from his terminology and what I assumed was his guess as to the young woman’s identity.

  ‘We shouldn’t jump to conclusions about what Jack saw,’ I advised.

  ‘Mum has,’ Sam said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So, is she okay?’

  ‘Not really. I’m hoping beauty therapy will help. Harper can’t deal with anything the state she’s in, let alone teach. Does Max know?’

  ‘Yep, I called him in Sydney.’

  Poor Max, I thought, dealing with this on his own. I made a mental note to contact my daughters in Sydney and ask them to get in touch with their cousin.

  ‘What about Fergus?’ I asked. At seven, Fergus would be old enough to have fathomed that there’d been an earthquake in his, until now, stable existence.

  ‘Fergus asked Jack why Mum keeps crying. Jack told him Mum was reading a very sad book.’

  ‘He won’t have believed that.’

  ‘He didn’t. He asked Mum if she had PMT.’

  I doubted my sister had laughed, but it made me smile.

  ‘Who took Fergus to school?’ I asked.

  ‘Me. I stayed with friends last night and nipped home this morning to get things for an early lecture. Dad was angry and I didn’t want him driving Fergus.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be on his surgical list today,’ I quipped.

  ‘Dad’s a professional. You know that, Aunt Scout,’ he said sharply.

  Uh-oh! Time to change tack.

  ‘I think your mum will be home this afternoon,’ I said. ‘If she needs to stay with me, can you look after Fergus and keep the home fires burning?’

  ‘Yeah, if you’ll look after Mum.’

  We were both quiet for a while.

  ‘Are you still there?’ I said at length.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Was she pretty?’ I wanted to know.

  ‘Jack said she had a face like a hatful of spiders.’

  I grimaced. I bet that wasn’t all he said.

  ‘Are we still on for tomorrow night’s meeting and mission?’ Sam suddenly asked.

  ‘Not if your mum stays here.’

  ‘If she doesn’t?’

  ‘Then yes. We meet on my back verandah at midnight. How’s the knitting going?’

  ‘Okay. I’m bringing along some squares of garter stitch for approval. Mum thinks I’m struggling with my sexuality.’

  I laughed. ‘You haven’t told her what you’re really doing, have you?’ I asked nervously.

  ‘I took the oath, remember?’

  Inwardly I sighed with relief, knowing how tempting it was to tell of our secret activities. You see, Sam and I are yarn bombers, members of an underground organisation known as the Guerilla Knitters Institute—GKI for short. We creep out at night and decorate public property (and some not so public) with artistic creations made from wool.

  Sometimes our artwork carries a meaningful message, and other times we just like to satisfy our quirky sense of the ridiculous. Our activities are secretive because they are a form of illegal graffiti and frowned upon by the authorities. And that’s a big part of what makes it such fun and so addictive—the adrenaline-fuelled thrill of the risk of being caught.

  Not long ago, in the dead of night, we’d installed large black cobwebs in hard-to-reach corners of a new aged-care facility, right before the official opening. It was particularly satisfying as the developer had spared no expense on soft furnishings and tasteful artefacts. All six GKI members had trundled along to the opening and we weren’t disappointed. The managers were furious and an added bonus had been the delight on the faces of the elderly residents and visitors.

  We preserve our identities by using tags, similar to mainstream graffiti artists. My tag is Adam’s Rib (rib is a knitting pattern), Sam’s tag is Headlice (nits—sounds like knits), and the other members are Bodkin (a blunt needle used to thread ribbons through knitted objects), Needles (obvious), Purl One (a knitting stitch) and Old Blood and Guts (the nickname of General George S Patton . . . sounds like pattern . . . and thankfully not a reference to her profession, which is general surgeon at a Brisbane hospital).

  As we never do permanent damage, our urban beautification projects are well received by locals, and so far none of us has been caught, despite a radio phone-in where the community was invited to expose the local yarn bombers. Strangely the radio station received a lot of calls from people claiming to be us and taking credit for our artwork. It’s criminal how dishonest some people are.

  Sam had fallen into GKI quite by chance and was the newest member of the gang, so to speak. He was also the only person, apart from the other members, who knew of my involvement with the organisation.

  Back in March, Sam had been in Byron Bay celebrating a friend’s birthday and had ended up in a spot of bother. In the early hours I’d rescued him from the police station and brought him home. The night was firmly imprinted on my brain, as it was the first time Rafe had kissed me.

  The following day Sam’s blood alcohol level still would have sent a rocket to the moon, so he’d stayed with me another night, which happened to be GKI mission night. After some deliberation, I’d told him about GKI and asked if he wanted to join in the fun.

  From the word go, Sam had embraced yarn bombing, and he had been learning to knit with instruction from yours truly and Knitting for Dummies. He had told Harper that learning to knit was part of his engineering program at university, an inspired rationale I considered entirely in keeping with the spirit of GKI.

  ‘I’m really looking forward to this next mission,’ Sam said.

  ‘Me, too,’ I admitted.

  We both knew that tomorrow night’s plan was delicious and had the wherewithal to make the national news. Bodkin had dreamed up the mission, which was highly original and exceptionally cheeky. He’s a senior partner in a prominent law firm and likes to poke fun at the establishment whenever he can. Happily, this caper certainly ticked that box.

  Although Sam hadn’t managed to knit anything yet, his engineering skills had been challenged to provide the required infrastructure for the upcoming artistic installations.

  ‘I want to punch Dad’s lights out,’ Sam said, abruptly changing the subject.

  ‘Why are you believing the worst-case scenario?’ I asked. ‘You, your brothers and Harper are everything to him, and you know that.’

  ‘How can you defend him?’ he argued, avoiding my question.

  ‘You defended him earlier. You said he’s profession
al.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s my dad, not yours.’

  Careful, Scout . . .

  ‘Just don’t take sides,’ I advised. ‘And don’t say anything you’ll regret later.’

  After we’d hung up, I did what I always do when perplexed.

  I made tea.

  Chapter 10

  Chairman Meow joined me in the study. He jumped onto the Windsor chair and sat upright and still like an attentive and diligent assistant.

  ‘I accept your apology for staring at Miss Longfellow,’ I told him. ‘Please see that it doesn’t happen again.’

  There were considerable unread emails in my inbox, two of which were from Rafe. There was nothing from Toby. Come to think of it, he’d hardly written lately.

  Filled with anticipation, I opened Rafe’s first email. He wrote that he was missing me, Chairman Meow and Byron Bay, in that order. The community policing course was, he reckoned, so-so, he was swimming daily at Bondi Beach and the water was colder than here, and he was enjoying the book that I’d lent him, Deer Hunting with Jesus by Joe Bageant. He had also attached an article by American writer Hal Crowther about the Republican Party, which I read and thoroughly enjoyed.

  Rafe’s second email was full of delicious musings on the things he wanted to do to me. By the time I’d read the whole letter I was blushing and consumed with such desire that I wanted to jump in the car and drive to Sydney. Instead, I decided to call Rafe later and discuss his options.

  Forcing myself to concentrate on the rest of my mail, I was pleased to see several responses to an article I’d written on internet dating. The piece had been picked up by a few magazines and syndicated to numerous community newspapers across Australia. I replied to supportive emails with the usual platitudes, and deleted the ratbag responses. Never feed the animals.

  Each of my daughters had written. Tasha was surviving her surgical rotation at St Vincent’s Hospital. It was hard yakka, she said, and she had no social life and no sleep. Niska was working hard, had a chaotic social life and no sleep.

  Both girls had recently visited my parents in North Sydney and all was well on that front. It’s always a good move to have the young folk near the old folk. I knew that my mother kept an eagle eye on the twins, and vice versa. They all appeared to meddle in each other’s lives with impunity, yet put me in the equation and it was pistols at ten paces. I could never figure it out.

  Writing one email addressed to both girls, I filled them in on the latest Byron doings, reminded them it was their grandma’s birthday in a couple of weeks, and asked them to contact Max. I didn’t say why—Max would tell them if he wanted to.

  Suddenly Chairman Meow tilted his head, jumped off the chair and scampered out of the room, a cat on a mission. Ten seconds later I heard Harper climbing the back steps and singing ‘I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair’. I smiled and whispered, ‘Thank you, Rainbow.’

  Chairman Meow was already in my sister’s arms when I went out to the kitchen. A radiant smile beamed from Harper’s face.

  ‘Wow!’ I exclaimed. ‘What have you done with my sister?’

  She put Chairman Meow on the floor and then sashayed playfully across the kitchen. He trotted along beside her, wanting to be part of this new game.

  Standing still, she put her hands on her hips and looked coquettishly at me. ‘You like?’

  ‘More to the point, do you like?’

  ‘I feel a million dollars.’

  The broad beans on the table caught her eye. ‘Are they a gift from an enemy? I’ll take two pods to push up Andrew’s nostrils while he’s sleeping.’

  I gestured for her to give me a hug, but she held her hand up like a traffic cop. ‘Stand back. I need room for my inner beauty to shine through.’

  I laughed in delight, already impressed by the outer beauty. Harper’s china-white skin shone with a translucent glow and the sparkle had returned to her forget-me-not-blue eyes. Her hair was jet black and had been shaped into a short bob. The style suited her and showcased her head and neck beautifully. I thought she looked taller. Classier.

  ‘Who did your hair?’ I asked.

  ‘Honeysuckle.’

  ‘Is she new?’

  ‘She’s a he.’

  ‘Tell all.’

  ‘I’ve been plucked and pruned and prodded,’ Harper revealed.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And Rainbow made me hug a tree in the street before we started. She said she didn’t want my bad vibes to block Honeysuckle’s creative pathways.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Uh-huh. I think I may have killed a tree with emotional poison.’

  ‘Did it help?’

  ‘Well, here’s the thing. I wasn’t nearly as angry when I walked back into the salon as I was before I hugged the tree.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t been there myself.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I listened to whales calling each other, lined up my chakras and did breathing exercises. And Rainbow did Ricky on my shoulders, to ease the tension.’

  ‘I think you mean reiki,’ I suggested.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  I chuckled. This was classic Byron.

  Harper waggled her manicured fingers at me. The nail beds were clear and the tips were glittering gold.

  ‘Eye-catching,’ I commented.

  ‘I’m afraid I fell asleep during the pedicure,’ she admitted apologetically.

  ‘Good, that means you were totally relaxed.’ I couldn’t remember ordering a pedicure, but I didn’t care. It was money well spent and the results were incredible, though I wasn’t sure if it was champagne, beauty therapy, trees or whales that had lifted my sister’s spirits.

  ‘Tea?’ I offered.

  Harper nodded. ‘Darjeeling, darling.’

  While I fussed around preparing tea, Chairman Meow hopped onto a kitchen chair, ready for a tea party. Adopting a stern demeanour I shooed him off—the kitchen furniture and benches are a no-no.

  ‘You are aware, aren’t you,’ Harper said, ‘that your apartment reeks of lavender?’

  ‘I’ve just had a meeting with Miss Longfellow, the woman I told you about who bailed me up in the supermarket. She grows lavender.’

  ‘And broad beans?’

  ‘Sadly, yes.’

  We took our tea into the study and I sat at my desk, Harper sat on the Windsor chair and Chairman Meow sat on Harper.

  As Harper is always keen to hear what I’m working on, I told her about my meeting with Miss Longfellow, the Anemone Sisters, O’Leary, the inheritance, the whole shebang. It was apparent that she hadn’t been listening to me last evening because when I retold the story of O’Leary having his dirty way with Nemony in the lavender shed she laughed.

  ‘It sounds interesting,’ she said when I’d finished. ‘Is this what’s called a cold case?’

  ‘So cold it’s practically frozen,’ I informed her.

  ‘But what about your holiday?’

  ‘It can’t be helped. Sometimes I have to take work when it finds me rather than the other way around.’

  She looked concerned. ‘Are you short of money? If so, I—’

  Shaking my head, I interrupted her, ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘I suppose it will keep you occupied until Toby comes home. You must be excited. When does he get back?’

  ‘Saturday.’ I tried to sound enthusiastic but I could tell from her expression that she saw through my charade.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘Well, I expect you’ll tell me when you’re ready. Of course it’s obvious something’s wrong, which is why you weren’t at the beauticians as well, tarting yourself up.’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ I lied, forcing a smile. She already had enough on her plate without my self-inflicted romantic woes.

  Her eyes settled on the copy of Bleak House that was open on the wooden beer barrel I use as a side table. ‘Didn’t you make a new year’s resolution to read all of
Dickens this year?’ she said.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘How many have you read?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Umm. Let’s see. I’ve seen the musical Oliver. And I’ve read two chapters of Bleak House.’

  ‘Gosh, and it’s only July,’ she said.

  Ignoring her, I asked, ‘What are you going to do about Andrew?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘Right now I want to find out who this woman is and ask her what she thinks she’s giving Andrew that he’s not getting at home.’

  Whoa! It had already crossed my mind that the only way to find out if Andrew was having an affair was to have him followed, and I waited to see if Harper asked me if I knew of a private detective. When she didn’t, I assumed she hadn’t yet thought things through that far. As always, she’d get to it in her own good time.

  ‘Sam phoned,’ I said, ‘to see how you were.’

  ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘Not really. He wants to punch his father’s lights out.’

  ‘I already did that when we were arguing,’ she admitted.

  ‘What, you hit Andrew?’ This was unbelievable.

  ‘More like slapped.’

  ‘Did he hit you back?’

  She shook her head. ‘He cried.’

  Mentally, I conjured a vision of confident Andrew, jogging Andrew, surgeon Andrew, and I found the idea of my big strong brother-in-law weeping difficult to grasp.

  Tears burned my eyes and I looked away. I couldn’t bear to hear my sister talking like this.

  ‘Don’t you start,’ Harper ordered, and she picked up the copy of Bleak House and threw it onto my lap.

  ‘Read chapter three aloud,’ she said.

  Sniffing, I flipped pages until I arrived at the relevant chapter. Harper and Chairman Meow were looking expectantly at me, waiting for me to begin.

  I had read three pages when Harper held up her hand.

  ‘I’ll just stop you there,’ she said, ever the schoolmistress. ‘Have you any idea how I’m going to explain my magical transformation to the principal at school tomorrow?’

  We looked at each other in horror.

  And then fell about laughing.