by Ilsa Evans
He looks much the same as he did in life. Hasn’t lost any more hair, hasn’t got any more wrinkles, hasn’t even put on any weight – which he could probably do with. In fact, he’s looking remarkably good. His darkish hair is only just tinged with grey and is only slightly receding. His nose is a tad larger than I remember but his eyes are still that deep-brown colour that I’ve always wished I’d inherited. And it’s pretty obvious he hasn’t been receiving any fashion tips up beyond the pearly gates either. He’s dressed in a beige pullover and a pair of oversized brown corduroy pants, which I bet are fastened around his thin waist with his favourite black belt.
‘Hello there,’ he says with a smile.
‘Hi,’ I whisper softly, willing him to stay for a while and chat. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine, fine.’ He shivers as he rubs his hands together. ‘Bit chilly here, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve turned the heat off,’ I reply, ‘but I suppose you’re not used to the cold anymore, are you?’
‘Don’t know about that.’ He frowns slightly. ‘Gets pretty chilly where I’m from.’
‘Does it?’ I ask, puzzled. ‘I thought it’d be sort of even all the time there.’
‘Not at all.’ He raises his eyebrows questioningly. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘Well, that’s what it says in all the books.’
‘Not the ones I’ve read,’ he replies. ‘In fact, sometimes it gets so damn frigid that you’d sell your soul for some heat.’
‘Oh no!’ I exclaim with horror as something suddenly occurs to me. ‘You’re not in heaven at all, are you? You’re in hell!’
‘We prefer to call it Tasmania, thanks,’ he says evenly. ‘We find it attracts more tourists that way.’
‘Tasmania?’ I reply, confused. ‘What on earth are you doing in Tasmania?’
‘I live there.’ He looks at me as if I’ve mislaid a few marbles. ‘I thought I told you that this afternoon?’
‘This afternoon?’ I repeat dumbly. ‘When this afternoon?’
‘When I met you,’ he explains patiently, ‘at your friend’s place. Camilla. I was with Joanne and we all had lunch. Remember?’
‘What!’ I lean forwards and examine his face. ‘It’s you!’
‘Of course it is. Who did you think it was?’
‘My father! I thought you were my father!’
‘Well, that’s odd,’ says Richard, frowning at me as he stands up. ‘That’s very odd indeed. Do I look like your father?’
‘Yes! Yes, you do!’ I shriek and, in doing so, wake myself up totally. I sit bolt upright and stare wide-eyed around the room as I convince myself there is nobody else here with me. Not my father, and certainly not Richard. What was that all about? I lie back down and will my heartbeat to return to normal. Then I go back through the dream slowly and call up an image of both my father and Richard. I stand them next to each other and examine them carefully.
And it’s true. Richard is my father! Well, not exactly my father, which would be impossible as the man was buried five years ago. But he looks very much like my father – the same tall, thin build, the same expressive eyes, the same air of intelligence, the same dated sense of dress. Then that’s why I turned into an adolescent! It wasn’t anything to do with something ridiculous like falling in love at first sight! It was just a simple reaction to a man who has the same body type and overall look my father possessed.
I take a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh of relief. I feel better already. I no longer have to do any sentimental soul-searching or mope around carrying an unrequited love like a millstone around my neck. My father! No wonder I felt so disorientated and weak-kneed. Who wouldn’t when their subconscious recognises and reacts to a likeness the conscious doesn’t pick up on?
I grin at the two images superimposed on my mind’s eye and then make them turn and shake hands politely with each other. After which my father gives me a wave and fades away, leaving Richard, in all his praying-mantis glory. His image hovers for a few seconds and then turns to give me a truly heartbreaking smile before walking slowly back into the recesses of my mind. Where I’ll swiftly shove him into an unused cupboard and lock the door tightly. And then all I’ve got to do is wait it out until the man returns to Tasmania and all will be well.
I bury my head in the pillow and then roll over, clutching the doona up around me. My father! It occurs to me that Sigmund Freud would probably say all of this means that I’m lusting after my own father. Because I did have a rather physical reaction to Richard this afternoon, not just emotional. And that’s pretty twisted. I frown to myself, and then my brow clears as I recollect a certain image of Santa Claus and his loyal reindeer. Lusting after a guy who looks like one’s father is positively healthy compared with that little number.
WEDNESDAY
Handy Household Hint No IX:
Always walk a mile in someone else’s shoes before you judge them. That way, apart from gaining valuable insights, you’ll be a mile away when you judge them and you’ll have new shoes.
WEDNESDAY
0845 hrs
I’m lying in bed enjoying the decadence of sloth and tossing up whether to invite Scarlett O’ Hara to join me when the phone rings. I reach out languidly and pluck the receiver off the reproduction antique phone by my bed.
‘Hello?’
‘Terry!’ Pat, one of my Saturday tennis partners, shrieks happily in my ear, ‘I hear congratulations are in order, Grandma!’
‘How did you know?’ I ask curiously, sitting up in bed and pulling my doona to my chin. ‘I haven’t even told any of you lot yet!’
‘Oh, news travels fast,’ continues Pat in her slightly-too-loud voice. ‘Debbie saw your daughter’s name on the hospital admissions list, and she told Mary, and she told Joyce, and then Joyce was playing tennis on Monday night with Marg and Jan, so she told them, and then I go for walks with Denise, and she lives next door to Val, whose cousin is married to Jan’s son. So there you are.’
‘I see,’ I answer rather untruthfully as I hold the receiver a little way off from my ear. ‘Nothing’s a secret for long, is it?’
‘Not a chance,’ agrees Pat cheerfully. ‘And there’s another reason I’m ringing. I hear you’ve got the week off.’
‘How did you – never mind.’
‘Anyway, I know you don’t play midweek tennis because you work but, seeing as you’ve got today off, how would you like to join us? We’re having a round robin and then our annual general meeting. Which you don’t have to stay for, of course, but the tennis is fun and then we have a cup of tea and everyone brings a plate. You’ll enjoy yourself. Want to come?’
‘Um. What time?’
‘Starts at nine thirty. But you don’t have to be there right on the dot. And don’t bother bringing anything yourself, you’re a guest. C’mon, what do you say?’
‘Well, I would like to stretch my legs,’ I reply, mulling it over. ‘Okay! You’re on. I might be a tad late but I’ll see you down at the club. Sure you don’t want me to bring anything?’
‘No, just you and your racquet. See you there.’
I lean over to hang up the phone and then, yawning, stretch myself out across the bed and pull the doona snugly around me. After my rather disturbing dream last night, I couldn’t get back to sleep for quite some time. Which was odd because, once I had discovered the root of my reaction to Richard yesterday, I fully expected I would immediately fall into the deep, blissful slumber of the truly deserving. But it wasn’t to be. Instead I lay awake till the early hours before drifting into a restless sleep that’s left me full of kinks this morning. Hence my agreement to join in the round robin at the tennis club. Because normally I steer well clear of the midweek lady brigade, as they’re a rather odd bunch. And that’s putting it mildly.
I stretch out once more before hefting myself up and, shivering in the brisk morning chill, make my bed quickly and neatly before having my shower. Ten minutes later I’m clad in a towel and selecting a
tracksuit, skirt and top from my wardrobe. After careful deliberation, I choose a navy-blue and white Sfida ensemble that matches my runners perfectly. I examine my fully dressed self in the mirror and wonder why Richard didn’t even give me a second glance. Because although quite a lot of men find my height a bit of a turn-off, my measurements alone usually warrant a raised eyebrow or two. But with Richard – nothing. He obviously likes his women smaller, judging by the extra attention he paid Cam throughout the afternoon. I wonder if I can get a height reduction while I’m getting my butt reduction and breast reduction. And, if I’m getting four things reduced, perhaps I’d qualify for a bulk discount.
I shrug philosophically and walk back into the ensuite to blow-dry and then brush my hair back into a ponytail. Next it’s just a splash of deodorant, a touch of moisturiser, a dash of foundation and I’m all ready for some physical exertion. Although, given the fact it’s the midweek ladies I’ll be joining, I doubt I’ll get too much of a workout.
I tidy my ensuite briskly before leaping down the stairs two at a time and heading towards the kitchen to put the kettle on. On the way, I turn the heat on full and stop in front of the couch to stare at the dull pink stain on my carpet. Slowly, I look from the stain to the lounge-room walls and back again, and realise they actually match. Interesting – but still unacceptable.
In the kitchen I light the gas under the kettle and, while it’s busily heating itself up, I pour a generous serve of muesli into a bowl and add some skinny milk. Then I make my coffee, grab a coaster, a pad of paper and a pen, and take all the assorted items over to the table, where I settle myself down. It’s time to write today’s list while I have my breakfast.
WEDNESDAY
Phone calls – Fergus, Bronte, Cam, another carpet-
cleaning mob
Morning – Round robin with the midweek ladies!
– Shopping: baby present, new d/gown
– Get some videos
Afternoon – Visit Stephen & say thanks with
chocolates
– Relax/watch videos?
– Do my tax return
Evening – Visit Bronte
– Start reading Gone with the Wind?
It occurs to me that today’s list is very similar to yesterday’s list, which was very similar to Monday’s list. So I make a mental vow that I will get all these things done today. It would be simply too ridiculous if I ended up going back to work next week with my tax return still not completed. And it’s equally stupid that the only person who hasn’t supplied Bronte with a gift is her own mother. And an afternoon spent with my feet up watching videos is just what the doctor ordered. And I don’t want to spend another evening minus a dressing-gown. And everybody keeps telling me what a fantastic book Gone with the Wind is, so it’s about time I found out for myself.
So these are my aims for today and if anything else comes up, it will just have to wait. Because frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.
WEDNESDAY
1215 hrs
‘But then we’ll have to buy all new plates. And is that really economically responsible? I don’t think so.’
‘Perhaps not, Val,’ replies a hatchet-faced female sarcastically, ‘but I for one have had enough of trying to squeeze a slice of quiche and some salad onto those bread-and-butter plates we’re using at the moment. It’s a ludicrous situation.’
‘Well, they’re fine if you just have rolls for lunch.’
‘But who on earth wants rolls for lunch every single Wednesday?’
There are nods and murmurs of agreement all around the tables as everybody starts to discuss what they would like for lunch on Wednesdays if they had their choice and/or larger plates. While the discussion takes place, the secretary, a pleasant-looking woman of about my own age, frantically writes something down in the large ledger before her. Val sighs deeply and looks sulkily at her cup of tea, muttering under her breath.
‘All right then,’ says the secretary looking up at the assorted ladies, who immediately fall quiet. ‘Have we a general consensus that new, larger plates are required?’
Everybody, except Val, nods in agreement. The secretary scribbles again for a few minutes while a middle-aged woman wearing a hot-pink tracksuit and bright-red lipstick wanders around the table offering a plate of lamingtons. When she reaches me, I take one and put it on my plate with the other assorted goodies I’ve been collecting. The meeting might be excruciatingly boring but the food is scrumptious. The women are all sitting around three or four octagonal tables, which have been lined up in a row and covered with food. Sponge cakes, meringues, sausage rolls, tiny quiches, scones, rumballs, pikelets – everything homemade and everything delicious.
And even if it wasn’t for the food, I don’t think I’d be capable of moving anywhere for a while as I’m totally and absolutely knackered. What I expected to be a mild workout turned into a test of endurance that I failed miserably. In fact, when they were asking for volunteers for the last group of sets, I hid in the bathroom. Because these midweek ladies could run rings around the Saturday mob I usually play with – they are fitter, more consistent, and a great deal more feisty. They also have a collective killer instinct that would make Lleyton Hewitt’s knees tremble.
‘All righty then,’ says the secretary, ‘any other general business?’
‘Yes.’ A tiny female with Asian features puts her hand up. ‘Has anybody else noticed the smell in the big urn? Well, I did and I investigated. Apparently, it was utilised by the Monday night men’s team as a vehicle for boiling frankfurts.’
‘What!’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘That’s Siewyee,’ Pat, who is sitting on my right, whispers to me. ‘She’s the club champion. Killer forehand.’
‘Disgusting!’ The hatchet-faced woman who had put Val in her place earlier shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Something has to be done!’
‘Quite right. I’ll bring it up at the club annual general meeting next week,’ says the secretary, writing furiously. ‘Now – anything else?’
‘Yes, I’ve got something!’ calls the lamington lady in the hot-pink tracksuit from the far end of the table. ‘Could you please ask the section one girls to stop allowing their toddlers to play musical instruments while competition is in play?’
‘Hear, hear!’
‘Yes, please!’
‘And, while we’re on the subject, could you ask Caron from section one to keep her twins out of the clubhouse at all times. They went through my handbag last time and posted my car keys down the ball-chute!’
This time the agreement around the table is particularly vociferous, with several of the ladies embarking on lurid tales of exactly what Caron’s twins had got up to during the season. The secretary writes furiously on her paper before picking up her spoon and hitting it on the side of a cup in a request for silence.
‘Okay, anything else?’
‘Well, I’d like to bring a motion for new tables,’ pipes up Val, with a sidelong smirk at the hatchet-faced woman. ‘After all, if we’re to have these new large plates, then the current tables are going to be awfully crowded.’
Once again, there are murmurs of agreement around the table and several women nod sagely as they break into discussion. The hatchet-faced woman narrows her eyes at Val while she tries to think of something appropriately cutting. I reach across for the teapot and top up my cup before taking a deep sip. Doesn’t taste of frankfurts at all.
‘You know she’s right, Jan,’ says Pat to the secretary, ‘these octagonal tables only just hold eight of the bread-and-butter plates each, so with normal dinner plates they’re going to be all hanging over the edge. And you couldn’t possibly have any guests, there wouldn’t be the room.’
‘But we can’t afford new tables,’ replies Jan, looking increasingly stressed as she checks her books. ‘They’d be terribly expensive.’
‘Quite so,’ agrees the hatchet-faced woman sternly.
‘Well, then –’ Val isn’t givin
g up so easily ‘– perhaps we ought to save up for the tables before we buy the plates. Makes much more sense.’
‘I’ll put it to the vote,’ says Jan, and she hits the cup with her spoon once more. ‘All those in favour of saving up for the tables and then buying the plates, please raise your hand.’
The majority of the women raise their hands, so, because I don’t want to be left out, I put up mine too. Val beams proudly and the hatchet-faced woman sends her a truly malevolent look before leaning back and staring thin-lipped at the ceiling, her arms folded across her chest. I do hope they don’t play against each other in the near future. I wouldn’t bet much on Val’s chances of surviving the encounter intact.
‘Moving on,’ says Jan, performing her cup trick again, ‘we’ve arranged for Deb to take flowers up to Lorraine, who’s in hospital for a breast reduction tomorrow – oh, stuff it!’ Jan claps her hand to her mouth and, with a horrified expression, looks up and around the gathering. ‘I wasn’t supposed to say what she was having done. Could everyone please pretend they didn’t hear that?’
‘Oh, sure!’
‘No problem.’
‘Didn’t hear a thing.’
‘Great.’ Jan doesn’t look all that convinced but continues regardless: ‘Then I think that’s about it. Oh, except that Genny has asked whether some others, apart from just her, could take the tea-towels home to be washed occasionally.’
‘Hear, hear,’ says Genny with feeling.
‘And we’ll need a volunteer to price some bigger tables so we know exactly how much money we don’t have. Anybody got some free time?’
‘I’m sure Val would be happy to oblige,’ says the hatchet-faced woman quickly, ‘wouldn’t you, dear?’
Val opens her mouth and then closes it again, no doubt deciding that a partial victory is better than nothing. I take advantage of the lull in conversation to select a piece of decadent-looking cream-cake with pineapple icing and a couple of tiny meringues. If this is standard fare for midweek ladies, I think I’m going to sign up. Perhaps I could even get to meet Lorraine and ask her if it was worth it.