by Ilsa Evans
‘Are you staring at me?’ Cam looks at me curiously as she puts my mug down in front of me and returns to the kitchen to start assembling salad platters.
‘I was just thinking how good you’re looking, that’s all.’ I peer around for a coaster and then give up, instead just wrapping my hands around my mug and blowing at the steam. ‘What’s your secret?’
‘No secret,’ she laughs self-consciously, ‘just good clean living, that’s all.’
‘In a pig’s ear,’ I say shortly. ‘So, how’s Alex?’
‘Alex?’ Cam looks at me narrowly. ‘Fine, I suppose. Why do you ask?’
‘Mummy! C’n I hab something to eat? I’m starbing hungry.’ CJ, Cam’s six year old daughter, wanders into the kitchen with a Barbie in each hand and, ignoring me totally, focuses the full force of her rather imperious gaze on her mother.
‘CJ, be polite and say hello to Terry.’
‘Lo, Terry.’ CJ looks at me briefly and then turns back to her mother. ‘Mummy, I’m really starbing!’
‘Hello to you too, CJ,’ I reply politely to her back. ‘I thought you’d be at school.’
‘School finished last week,’ says CJ over her shoulder. ‘Mummy? Food?’
‘CJ, you’ll just have to wait. We’re having guests.’
‘I’ll starb to deaf by then,’ replies the plumply rounded juvenile as she stomps over to the kitchen table and slides into a chair opposite me. ‘My stomach’s eben rumbling, you know.’
I watch CJ with interest as she dumps her Barbies on top of the pile of debris at the end of the table, slides a toy catalogue out and begins to study it intently. CJ is a very attractive little girl with bobbed blonde hair and large blue eyes who is, unfortunately, spoilt rotten by both her mother and her father. We have a rather uneasy relationship, as I’m sure she understands that I see right through her shenanigans. However, we seem to have settled into a tacit understanding of the place each other occupies within Cam’s life, and therefore manage to avoid stepping on each other’s toes. Too much.
She finds a large blue texta and starts to circle items in the catalogue. Mainly Barbies and related accessories. Perhaps she realises Santa Claus has been around, and is getting ready to place her order. After circling eight or nine items, she pauses and looks up at her mother.
‘Mummy, I need this Barbie, and this one coz she’s got lubly brown hair, and this one coz Caitlin’s got one. And I really need this horse ’n carriage coz it’s pink. And my Barbies really need this couch thingy and a hairdryer for when I take them in the bath. And I really, really need this –’
‘Hang on,’ her mother interrupts, holding up a hand. ‘What have I been telling you about Barbies? They’re totally warped! Look at her feet, for a start!’
‘What’s wrong with them?’ asks CJ petulantly, holding up one of her Barbies. ‘I think she’s got lubly feet.’
‘CJ! How can you say that!’ Cam waves a salad server in the air excitedly. ‘They are permanently arched! How could she play tennis? Or swim, or even walk normally? I’m telling you, young lady, Barbies symbolise everything that is discriminatory about the way the female body is represented – they extend unrealistic expectations which set cultural goals that are simply unattainable. I mean, look at the size of her boobs, for god’s sake!’
‘That’s not fair! Terry’s got eben bigger boobies –’ CJ points disparagingly at my chest ‘– and you still like her!’
‘That’s not the same. She’s in proportion, for a start.’
‘No she’s not.’ CJ sneers at the region in question and then, folding her arms across her own chest protectively, turns back to her mother. ‘What’s pro-paw-shon, anyway?’
‘Excuse me,’ I chime in sweetly, ‘could we leave my proportions out of this, please? And what the hell are you taking at uni, Cam? Barbie 101? Let’s get back to what we were talking about before.’
‘What was that?’ asks Cam, thrusting the salad server into a bowl while she frowns at both her daughter and the cultural icon of representational evil she’s holding.
‘I believe it was Alex. And don’t play the little innocent with me. I know –’
‘Hey!’ Cam interrupts rather rudely. ‘You haven’t told me about the baby.’
‘What baby?’ asks CJ, dropping the Barbie back on the pile and bestowing her attention upon me. ‘Hab you got a baby now?’
‘My daughter had a baby,’ I explain to her. ‘Yesterday. On my carpet.’
‘On your carpet!’ says Cam, astounded. ‘Nobody told me that! What was Bronte doing at your house? Where was Nick? Don’t tell me – you didn’t deliver it, did you?’
‘Hang on,’ I laugh, ‘slow down! Firstly, yes – on my carpet. Secondly, she came around in the middle of the night because she didn’t feel well and Nick was at work. And, thirdly, yes I delivered it. And did a pretty good job too, if I say so myself.’
‘Wow! How did you know what to do?’
‘I didn’t. She did most of it and I just went along for the ride. Stephen from next door helped as well. Although he fainted when we got to the main bit. The ambulance guys got there after it was all over. And if you don’t believe me, I’ve got the proof – a bloody great stain right in front of the couch that the carpet cleaners can’t get out.’
‘Terry, I’m impressed.’ Cam is still looking stunned. ‘You, of all people!’
‘What do you mean, me of all people?’ I ask curiously.
‘Well, you’re not usually the most hands-on type of mother, you know. And you freak if anyone drops a pretzel on your carpet. Let alone a baby.’
‘That’s not quite fair,’ I frown at Cam. ‘So I’m a tad neat – so what?’
‘A tad neat?’
‘But, if the baby came out on the carpet,’ says CJ slowly, ‘then where did it come out from?’
‘From?’ repeats Cam, with a confused look at her daughter. ‘What do you mean – from?’
‘Well, Auntie Diane had her babies in the hospital so I thought that . . . well . . .’ CJ thinks furiously. ‘See, if the baby was in Bronte’s tummy and it was all ready, and then it came out – well, Terry, you were there, you must hab seen it get out – where did it come from?’
‘I’m sure your mum will explain the whole process to you later,’ I smirk at Cam agreeably. ‘I’d tell you myself but I’ll be too busy tidying my house.’
‘But I want to know now. Because there’s nowhere big enough for a whole baby to come out from.’ CJ pauses for a second, and then continues rather doubtfully: ‘Is there?’
We are saved from answering this age-old query by the sound of a car honking in the driveway. Glancing with relief at each other, we both head towards the front door and, with CJ bouncing beside us and still requesting some answers, go outside to greet Joanne.
The car she is driving is a huge bronze 4WD that makes my little hatchback look like it is in desperate need of steroids. Joanne grins and waves excitedly from up behind the steering wheel before pounding the horn once more for good measure. I flinch and put my hand to my head.
‘She’s here!’ Cam states needlessly as she goes over to greet the new arrival. Even CJ momentarily stops her rather irritating bouncing. I wander over to the garden, pick up the Rollerblade from the top of the shrub and place it carefully on the edge of the porch so that it will be easily found later on. Then I walk over to the 4WD to give Joanne, who has clambered down from the driver’s seat, a welcoming smile. But instead my eyes are irresistibly drawn to the apparition that is slowly emerging from the passenger side of the car. Because it looks for all the world like a human praying mantis. Out of the corner of my eye I notice that Cam is now staring transfixed as well and, next to her, Joanne is looking on with a huge grin.
The praying mantis unfolds his various lengthy limbs and gradually turns into a very gangly, very badly dressed adult male of about my age. I focus on his lower half simply because the boniness of his knees demands that I do so. And, even apart from the knees, there sho
uld definitely be a law regarding the wearing of shorts by anyone that thin. Especially in winter. They are what my father would have called ‘walking shorts’, crisply pleated in a pale mustard colour reminiscent of the effluent of breastfed babies. The hideous shorts, and the bony knees below, proceed to advance towards us in an unexpectedly coordinated fashion.
‘Richard,’ the owner of the knees announces in a deep, melodious voice as he folds Cam’s hand within both of his and gives it an enthusiastic shake. ‘You’re Camilla. Ah, pleased. Very pleased.’
‘Likewise,’ stutters Cam as she tries to disengage her hand. Joanne beams at them both while CJ scuttles closer to her mother’s side and stares up at the apparition with her mouth hanging open. Miracles will never cease – this is the longest I’ve ever seen her go without contributing to the conversation.
‘Mummy, who’s that?’
‘I’d better make introductions.’ Joanne is still beaming happily. ‘Cam, Terry – this is my friend, Richard. Richard – my old friends, Cam and Terry. And this is Cam’s youngest daughter, CJ.’
‘Tad less of the old, thanks,’ I comment dryly as it’s my turn to have my hand enveloped in Richard’s and given a vigorous shaking that makes me wish I had worn a more supportive bra. When the shaking eases off, I look up at Richard with the vague intention of muttering something polite and noncommittal once I’m able to focus – but instead my world promptly collapses as I fall in love at first sight for the second time in my life.
Everything around me suddenly ceases motion as I literally feel the blood drain away from my face. I can’t seem to take my eyes away from the person peering down at me yet, try as I might, I also can’t quite register any of his details. Instead, my stomach leaps into my chest cavity where, of course, there’s no spare room for it and the subsequent compression causes my breathing to become rather restricted. I gasp for air involuntarily and, as if it was just waiting for some small action from me, the world suddenly comes back into play. I lean against my car in shock.
‘Hey, are you all right, Terry?’
With a mammoth effort I pull myself together and close my mouth as I realise Cam is staring at me with concern. So is Joanne, and so is – no, I refuse to go there.
‘I’m fine,’ I say as I try to get my breathing under control, ‘I’m fine.’
‘You look very pale,’ says Cam anxiously. ‘Perhaps we’d better go inside – then you can sit down.’
‘Help you.’
A large male hand is placed firmly under my elbow and, before I can even draw breath to reject the offer, I’m hoisted upright away from the car. My stomach immediately plops back to the area it’s accustomed to hanging around and there’s a sudden rush of blood to my cranial region. This makes my head swim – and swim badly at that.
‘Are you sure you feel okay?’ asks Cam with a frown.
‘I’m fine – really,’ I reply, trying desperately to get rid of the hand. ‘Really!’
‘Well, let’s get inside anyway.’
‘Yes, let’s go!’ Joanne says cheerfully. ‘Cam, lead the way – I’m starving!’
‘Damn! My quiche!’ Cam shrieks suddenly as she turns and rushes back inside with CJ running behind, one hand tugging insistently at her mother’s cardigan. ‘God, god, bloody god!’
Joanne follows them and I’m left with the Good Samaritan, whose hand is still positioned under my elbow despite all my efforts to shake it off. To avoid eye contact, I stare at his feet, fully aware I’m acting like a brain-damaged adolescent. He’s wearing brown sandals and cream socks with a dinky brown pinstripe running around the tops. I suppose that at least they match each other – and the outfit. Flaming hell.
‘Ah, sure I can’t help?’
‘No, I’m all right,’ I insist as firmly as I can under the circumstances. Although just what the circumstances are, I’m not quite sure.
‘Certain?’
‘Positive.’ I take a step away from the car and am relieved to find my balance is almost restored. ‘Come on, I’ll take you inside.’
He follows a step or two behind, no doubt preparing to catch me if and when I collapse in a girlish heap. For the first time ever I feel short and I find that, after a lifetime of wishing fervently to be short, it’s not a feeling I particularly enjoy. Then again, at the moment the only feeling that I would enjoy would be the earth opening up and swallowing me whole. But it doesn’t oblige, so we walk slowly inside and make our way past the assorted toys up to the kitchen. Where the quiche smell isn’t quite as appealing as it had been and there’s now a pall of greyish smoke hovering around the ceiling. Cam is bending over the oven and cursing.
‘I can’t believe I’ve done this,’ she mutters crossly, ‘it’s totally ruined. Hell’s frigging bells.’
‘Mummy said a rude word. Mummy said a rude word,’ CJ sings melodiously as she leaves the room and heads down the passage.
I slide into a chair in the corner opposite Joanne and angle it so that I can see the kitchen as well. As soon as I sit down, my rubbery legs send a thank-you message as they collapse with relief. Then I try to take stock of what just happened but I can’t. Because it doesn’t make any sense.
‘Sit down, Richard.’ Joanne gestures towards the seat next to her and then, as he settles himself down, gives him a bruising nudge with her elbow and a huge wink. ‘So, what d’you think?’
‘Ah . . .’ Richard flushes and looks at Cam with embarrassment written all over his face.
‘Okay, okay! Forget I asked!’ Joanne grins at him and then turns to me. ‘So, Terry, tell me everything. What’s been going on around here?’
‘Nothing much,’ I mumble as I reflect dourly that Joanne doesn’t seem to have changed at all. Still just like a redheaded bull in a china shop.
‘Come on, something must have happened in the past year!’
‘Not really.’
‘Absolute rubbish!’ Cam says as she turns on the ceiling fan and waves ineffectually at the smoke with a chequered tea-towel. ‘Tell her about your new grand-daughter!’
‘Bronte had a baby?’
‘Yes, a little girl. Yesterday.’ I sneak a glance at Richard to see if he is paying attention but he is playing absent-mindedly with the corner of CJ’s deserted toy catalogue while watching Cam curse in the kitchen. It suddenly occurs to me he must think this is standard behaviour for me. Weak-kneed and feeble-minded.
‘Congratulations! So you’re a grandmother!’ says Joanne excitedly.
‘I hate that word,’ I reply grumpily as I pull my tea over and then fiddle with the handle of the ceramic mug. The cold tea within has now started to form a film over the top so I pick the mug up and slop the contents sideways to break it. While I’m thus engaged, CJ reappears with an armful of soft toys that she dumps unceremoniously on the floor beside Richard’s chair.
‘That’s my Barbies on the table. They hab boobies just like Terry’s. And this here–’she holds up a stuffed brown and gold giraffe ‘– is my giraffe called Lolly and she has a berry long neck.’
‘Very nice,’ says Richard, who appears to have regained his poise. ‘Impressive.’
‘And this is my new hippo. I got him from my father. His name is Otto and he has an udder.’
‘Ah, your father – or the hippo?’
‘The hippo, silly,’ says CJ, giggling. ‘Men don’t hab udders!’
‘Something for which I shall be eternally grateful.’
I look at Richard in surprise because that was the longest sentence I’ve heard him string together so far. In fact, I’m guessing he’s not quite as comfortable as he’s pretending to be – probably one of those guys who, while not quite antisocial, don’t shine in company. So why am I suddenly feeling the way I am? It certainly can’t be his dress sense. The hideous shorts are topped with some sort of stretchy cream shirt with two brown buttons directly under the collar, and a loose, dark-brown cardigan. The whole ensemble looks like something the father in Leave It to Beaver would have worn – on
a bad day.
I examine his face for clues instead. Maybe it’s his eyes, because they are very nice eyes at that – deep-set and warm brown surrounded by thick dark lashes the same colour as his ever so slightly receding, ever so slightly greying, shortish hair. And I love brown eyes – they always remind me of hot chocolate in front of an open fire, old-fashioned teddy bears, and faithful cocker spaniels.
I tilt my head to the side and chew my lip thoughtfully while I decide that, in fact, Richard looks like an elongated version of Alan Alda with a slightly more prominent nose. I try to pinpoint his best feature – probably those eyes, although he does have rather nicely shaped lips. As if he senses my inspection, he glances across at me and immediately flushes. I turn quickly to stare at Joanne instead.
And her looks seem to have changed as little as her personality. Still the same flaming red hair, numerous freckles and plump body, encased today in a flowing green smock over a long brown skirt. She looks like a bonsai tree that’s caught fire. Surely she and Richard can’t be an item? They seem totally mismatched. She catches my eye and grins at me.
‘So you’re a grandmother. Unbelievable. How does it feel?’
‘Fine.’
‘Oh. Well, how’s Bronte, anyway?’
‘Fine too.’ I sneak another glance at Richard but he is staring at Cam again, who is bending over the oven with her denim butt sticking up in the air. Bloody male.
‘Look, I’m really sorry everyone, but the quiche is ruined.’ Cam straightens up and holds out a blackened pie-dish for our inspection. ‘Totally ruined.’
‘Now I will starb,’ comments CJ as she tries to interest Richard in a pair of spotty leopards.
‘No matter,’ he says helpfully as he pats the leopards. ‘I’ll fetch something. Ah, in Joanne’s car.’
‘No, let me see . . .’ replies Cam slowly as she opens the fridge door and stares within for inspiration. ‘Here we go! I’ll slice up this ham and we’ll have it with the salad and bread. It’s fresh from that deli in Bayswater where they cure all their own. How does that sound?’