The incense made the shop smell exotic and a bit hippy, not like a musty op shop which was how I privately thought it smelt, even though Mum called it the rich perfume of the past.
It didn’t take long for Mum to uncover other changes. Aunty Ann’s homemade chocolates were lined up like little jewels near the coffee machine and Aunty Marita’s muesli slices looked overwhelmingly healthy in the cake fridge. There seemed to be quite a lot of them.
‘I told them, just coffee,’ Mum hissed. ‘I should have known they wouldn’t listen. When did they ever listen to me? I’m the youngest. Always little Lou.’
‘Oh Mum, they haven’t done any harm.’
‘I don’t know yet. What if the old ladies choked on a pumpkin seed?’
‘It doesn’t look as though the old ladies have had any,’ I pointed out.
‘You might be right,’ Mum said. ‘There are quite a few there, aren’t there. Poor Marita, cooking was never really her thing.’ She sounded slightly happier. ‘She can’t even make scones. They come out like biscuits.’
‘Aunty Ann’s chocolates look good,’ I said. I thought Mum was being a bit picky when the aunties had minded the shop, after all.
‘I suppose they do,’ Mum admitted. ‘Ann’s always been patient with fiddly little things.’
The way she said it didn’t make it sound like a compliment.
‘I’m sleepy,’ I said, trying to get her upstairs. ‘Come on, Mum. Can’t you look at everything in the morning?’ I knew how whingey I sounded, but I didn’t care.
‘I suppose so,’ Mum said. ‘It is late. Are you right with that backpack up the stairs?’
Upstairs there were little changes, but nothing Mum could object to. My bed was made more neatly than it had been for weeks. Even my pirate bear sat straighter, as though the Captain was making an inspection. There was new soap in the bathroom. It smelt faintly of tea and had little green things in it. The bath had been scrubbed and there was a little pot plant on the ledge near the window.
‘That’s doomed,’ Mum said. ‘I’m hopeless with indoor plants. I bet Ann bought that.’
‘It’s just like the one she’s got.’
‘We’ll try to keep it alive,’ Mum said, ‘but really, that’ll be the third or fourth she’s bought for me.’
We cleaned our teeth together and then Mum tucked me in.
‘Are you going to bed?’ I asked. It was weird being in my own room and not sharing a room with her.
‘Soon,’ she said.
But I heard her pottering around for ages before I drifted off to sleep. She turned the television on for a while and then turned it off again. Then she turned the radio on. She was probably writing in her notebook. She was getting ready to start her new life. That made me lonelier.
It’s her life, Ableth whispered.
I know, I said. But I’m part of it, and Dad was too. She won’t forget that, will she?
Never, Ableth promised. She’ll never forget that.
Even though she’d stayed up so late, Mum was awake before I was. I woke up and heard her talking to someone and for a minute it was as though everything was back to normal and she was telling, or asking, Dad something. Then I remembered and realised she was on the phone.
She waved at me when I peered into her room. I sat down on her bed and listened to her half of the conversation.
‘No, Marita, it’ll be fine. Of course I’ll call on you if I need you. And thank you, thank you very much for all your work. Do you want your muesli cookies back, by the way? There seem to be quite a lot here. Oh. Okay, then. Sure, I didn’t know they were such a big hit.’
I looked out the window while she talked. It was going to be a sunny day. Seagulls wheeled around in the sky and I thought of taking my kite down to the beach. There was no one who could go with me. Mum would have to open the shop and stay in it all day. She’d need me here, too. So much for kite flying. So much for the weekend. I could have cried, but that wouldn’t have changed anything, so what was the point.
Mum hurriedly said goodbye and put down the phone and came over to me.
‘It’ll get easier,’ she said, putting her arm around my shoulders. ‘It will, honestly, Mimi.’
But it didn’t. Saturday was awful. At first it wasn’t too bad. I ran errands for Mum – down to the supermarket for milk, to the organic vegie shop for bread and to the newsagents for the paper. Fergus served me in the vegie shop and that was thrilling even though we didn’t really look at each other. His hand almost touched mine when he gave me the change.
By the time I’d been down to the vegie shop for the third time – to buy lemons so Mum could make lemon tart for the old ladies – I was used to seeing Fergus at the register.
‘Sorry to hear about your dad,’ he mumbled as he weighed the lemons.
‘Yeah,’ I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘It’s going to be hard, just you and your mum.’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’ I took the lemons and fled. What did Fergus know about how hard it already was? I’d been backwards and forwards half a dozen times. I’d stayed in the shop by myself while Mum went for a short break and some of the old ladies had come in and clucked over me. And then, when Mum was in the shop and I wasn’t, I couldn’t settle down to anything in case she called me.
‘When are you going to make the lemon tarts?’ I asked her, ‘I bought the lemons for you.’
‘Thanks,’ she said absently. She was reading the paper.
‘I could mind the shop while you do.’
‘Yes. I’ll make them tonight. They only have to be ready for tomorrow. You can help, if you like.’
‘What about Aunty Marita’s muesli slices?’
‘Oh, you can take them to school. She said a lot had sold. She said she’d found one customer in particular was a real fan of them, but between you and me, they haven’t exactly been walking out the door,’ Mum said.
‘What about lunch? Are we ever going to have lunch?’ I asked.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Mum! It’s two o’clock. Of course I’m hungry.’
‘Oh, that late. Sorry, Mimi. First day back. It’s hard, isn’t it?’
We ate nachos for lunch and took it in turns to keep an eye on the shop. It was a relief when five o’clock came and we could shut up. Or it would have been, except that the whole night stretched ahead and Dad wasn’t there.
I think Mum must have had the same thought at almost the same time.
‘Mimi,’ she said, ‘let’s get our books and write lists of what would make our lives just that bit better. They don’t have to be big things, just little things. Okay?’
I wanted to say no. Nothing was going to make my life better. It was just going to get worse and worse. I didn’t say it out loud, though, because she had such a hopeful smile on her face, even if it didn’t reach her eyes.
‘We’ll do it together and then it won’t be so difficult.’
She made some peppermint tea, which I didn’t mind so long as it had honey in it, and we sat on either side of the little kitchen table. She’d already taken the third chair away and I wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.
‘I want more friends,’ she said.
‘You’re going to write that in your book?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘It’s a really – private thing, isn’t it?’
‘It’s a private book, Mimi. So is yours. I won’t look at it, promise.’
I still personally thought it was brave at my mum’s age to write that she wanted more friends in a book, no matter how private it was. Just writing it felt brave to me.
‘You’ve got lots of friends,’ I said. ‘You’ve got Guy and the other people...’ I meant the other people at the funeral, but I couldn’t say that.
‘Yes,’ she sai
d, ‘sort of. There’s Guy, of course. I should make more effort. Your turn.’
I sat there for ages, thinking. There were lots of things I wanted. I wanted to know what to say to Fergus when he served me at the organic shop. I wanted to have normal weekends, like everyone else at school. I wanted my dad back.
‘You can start with something little, Mimi.’ Mum said gently.
I didn’t want anything little. I wanted big things. Mum looked as though she was going to cry and I felt like it. I chewed the end of my pencil fiercely to stop my chin wobbling.
In the end I settled for going to the movies once a fortnight and Mum gave me a big smile.
‘Done!’ she said. ‘See, Mimi, it’s not that hard, is it?’
It took us ages to get five things each. Mum was so happy when we got each thing. It was scary, as though she really believed that the movies each fortnight, a course on internet selling (her), a weekly trip to the library (me) and a bit of a clothes-buying spree (her and me) was going to change everything. Writing it down, though, did make me feel a tiny bit better. Then we cooked spaghetti and ate it in the back garden so it felt like a picnic, almost, while Mum talked about planting a herb garden. After dinner we made lemon curd for the tarts and I licked the bowl.
‘We’ll get there,’ Mum said when she tucked me into bed that night. ‘I promise you, Mimi. We’ll get there.’
I didn’t have to ask her where there was. I knew she meant we’d get to a place where it wasn’t so awful remembering Dad all the time. We’d get to a time when thinking about him didn’t make us feel winded, as though someone had punched us hard and unexpectedly. We’d stop thinking he was just up the stairs, round the corner, out the back or down the street.
Will we? I asked Ableth, but the old pirate wasn’t talking. He waved a bottle at me as he climbed the rigging and I knew he was going somewhere else, where he could sleep it off, as far away from questions and memories as could be.
An old guy came into the shop while Mum was on a toilet break and asked me where Aunty Marita was. Fortunately Mum came back while I was trying to explain that she didn’t really work here, but he was welcome to buy some of her muesli bars.
‘I can’t really give out her phone number,’ Mum said.
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, but that’s okay because I’ll leave you my card. Please do pass it on, won’t you? She’s an amazing woman and I’d love to continue our discussion.’
When he left, Mum and I high-fived each other and then Mum rang Aunty Marita straightaway and put the phone on speaker so I could hear, too.
‘Marita, your beau came in!’ Mum said as soon as Aunty Marita picked up.
‘My what? Oh, you mean Neville. Oh, did he? Did you give him my number?’
‘Of course not,’ Mum said, winking at me, ‘I can’t give out the phone numbers of my employees. That’s breach of confidentiality.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lou. Of course you can give my number to Neville. He’s so ... interesting.’
‘Handsome, too,’ Mum said. ‘That kind of hippy-meets-money thing. It’s a good look.’
‘He’s retired IT,’ Aunty Marita said sharply, ‘not really hippy, Lou. That ponytail’s geeky.’
‘Well, whatever it is, he’s very attractive. Good bum for jeans.’
‘Mum!’
‘Lou! Did I just hear Mimi? You shouldn’t be saying that kind of thing in front of her. You haven’t got me on speaker, have you?’
Mum put her finger to her mouth and mock-glared at me. ‘Why would I do that?’ she asked innocently. ‘Now, Marita, I didn’t give him your number, but I did get his card. I know he’d love to hear from you. Shall I give you both his numbers – landline and mobile?’
‘I can’t call his mobile,’ Aunty Marita said, and just the way she said it, I could see her getting more flustered as she stood at the phone. ‘That would be just weird and needy. Wouldn’t it?’
‘He bought four of your muesli slices,’ I said before I remembered I was supposed to shut up.
‘Four! Good heavens! Mimi – what are you doing on the phone? She’s got me on speaker, hasn’t she?’
‘Settle your chakras,’ Mum said, laughing. ‘I’ll give you both numbers, but I’d hold the mobile in reserve, if I were you. Or you could just drop by and get his card yourself.’
‘Maybe that would be best,’ Aunty Marita said. ‘I’ll bring some soup. We can have dinner together.’
‘That would be lovely, Marita,’ Mum said. ‘We both look forward to it, don’t we, Mimi?’
‘What kind of soup?’ I asked. I’d had a dark green soup of Aunty Marita’s once and it had tasted like freshly mown grass, which is a nice smell, but not a good taste. ‘Not green,’ I added for good measure. ‘I don’t eat green soup.’
‘Orange?’ Aunty Marita said. ‘What about pumpkin?’
You can’t go wrong with pumpkin soup no matter how many strange extra bits you put into it, so I agreed to pumpkin and then Mum sent me down to the organic shop for some fresh sourdough.
Fergus was there. ‘School tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Do you want this in a bag?’
‘Thanks,’ I said. That’s all I ever said to him.
‘It won’t fit,’ he said looking between the bag and the bread. ‘But you can carry the bagged end.’
‘I will.’ I hoped I made the two words sound purposeful and clever. I reached for the bread, but he held on to it.
‘So, what’s it like selling old stuff?’ he asked.
‘It’s...’ I looked around the shop as though I’d magically find a better word for good on the shelves. I saw lettuces, tomatoes and some avocados that didn’t look ripe. It was always difficult to know whether or not avocados were ripe. ‘It’s tricky,’ I said, inspired by the avocados. There were some strawberries next to them, from Queensland. I loved the smell of strawberries. ‘And smelly,’ I added.
‘Smelly? Tricky?’ Fergus repeated.
‘Tricky to know what things are worth,’ I explained, ‘because we often buy them at an auction. You know, from people who have ... died.’ I still didn’t like saying that word.
‘Smelly?’ Fergus moved right along as though I hadn’t said anything that could be taken personally.
‘Old things smell different,’ I told him. ‘You can sometimes almost smell other lives on them. Or in them.’
He nodded. ‘Like fruit,’ he said. ‘I could tell you, just by looking at them, that these strawberries come from the Henderson organic farm in Queensland. Know why?’
I looked at the strawberries. They looked like anybody’s strawberries to me. I shook my head.
‘Their strawberries are always small ones,’ Fergus told me. ‘They don’t have big tasteless ones. They grow a smaller variety that has more flavour. Once you’ve had a Henderson strawberry, you never want to eat a different one. Here, you want a punnet?’
‘I’ve only got money for bread,’ I said. ‘My aunt’s coming over with soup. That’s why we need bread.’ I still couldn’t see the connection between bric-a-brac and strawberries.
‘Not to buy,’ Fergus said. ‘I’ll give you a punnet. So you and your mum and your aunt can have them after the soup. But you’ll need cream. You’ve got enough change for cream. Would your mum mind?’
I shook my head. He was going to give me a punnet of strawberries. Did he like me? Was he sorry for me because my dad had died? I handed back enough money for the cream.
‘Thanks. Thanks a lot. Fergus.’ I almost whispered his name because it felt so wrong to say it aloud.
‘That’s okay, Mimi.’ He said my name easily, as though it wasn’t odd at all. As though he was used to saying girls’ names. ‘Good to talk to you. I like the idea of old things. Even if they do smell of other people’s lives. That was a beautiful thing to say, Mimi. You’re good at that, aren’t you?’
> ‘Good at what?’ I couldn’t think of one single thing I was good at, except gawking stupidly.
‘English and stuff. Dad says you must read a lot. I’ve seen you reading so I told him he was right. You do read, don’t you.’
I nodded.
‘Do you read girly books?’
‘Girly books?’
‘You know, the ones with those pink covers and shopping bags on them?’
‘I read books about pirates,’ I said. ‘Old books. They definitely don’t have pink covers.’
‘Pirates.’ Fergus’s eyes widened. ‘Pirates are good.’
I swallowed. ‘You could borrow one, if you wanted.’ My voice went up at the end of the sentence in a little mouse squeak. I’d just offered to lend Fergus one of my books!
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you up on that sometime. Enjoy the strawberries.’
‘Thanks.’ I’d just had the longest conversation with Very Veg Fergus that I’d ever had in my entire life. It made me all pink and tingly.
‘Strawberries!’ Mum said. ‘That’s lovely, Mimi. And he gave them to you?’
‘We’re at school together,’ I said, as though that explained everything.
Aunty Marita’s pumpkin soup was much better than her dark green soup. She kept holding up Neville’s card and saying things like, the colour he’s chosen shows an open mind, and, this lettering is quite distinctive, isn’t it. They must have had more than one discussion while Mum and I were away because Neville seemed to have views on everything from astrology (he went so far as to read his weekly horoscope) to Zen (he believed in living in the present).
‘He’s not married or anything?’ Mum asked suddenly.
Aunty Marita sat up straighter in her chair and looked a lot like Aunty Ann for a moment. ‘He certainly is not, Lou,’ she said. ‘We established our relationship status very early on in the piece, thank you. He’s divorced. Twice.’
‘Twice?’ Mum raised her eyebrows.
‘Lou, I’m not leaping into anything. He’s left his card. I’m phoning him. That’s all.’
Mum’s eyebrows stayed right where they were.
Mimi and the Blue Slave Page 5