by Ilsa Evans
‘Thanks, Val – much appreciated. And that finishes it then.’ Jan closes her ledger and lays her pen across the top with a sigh of relief. ‘That is, unless anybody has anything else to add? No? Excellent. I declare this meeting closed.’
There is a smattering of applause around the table and then the level of conversation immediately increases as small groups of women begin discussing various topics, the standout favourites being Lorraine’s impending breast reduction and Caron’s terrible twins. As I don’t know either of these ladies or their appendages, I eat my cream-cake in silence, looking out at the row of en tout cas courts shimmering in the low winter sun. I wonder if Richard plays tennis? And, whether or not he plays tennis, I wonder if he has left for Tasmania yet? I finish off my cream-cake and Pat offers me a platter of sausage rolls. I take two, one for now and one for my plate.
‘Too small, aren’t they?’ the hatchet-faced woman asks me politely.
‘Actually, I thought they were perfect,’ I reply, eyeing the sausage roll I’m about to devour. ‘Exactly a mouthful and no more.’
‘I meant the plates.’
‘Oh, hmm,’ I answer diplomatically as I catch Val’s eye on me from across the table. ‘Not sure about that.’
‘So, enjoying yourself yet?’ asks Pat with a grin. ‘Not quite what you’re used to, hey?’
‘Not at all,’ I agree truthfully, ‘but it’s surprisingly entertaining.’
‘Yeah, they’re a good bunch.’
‘And the tennis was really great.’
‘You sound stunned,’ interjects a youngish female who looks just like one of CJ’s Barbies, complete with meticulous make-up and an elaborate blonde hairdo. ‘What did you expect?’
‘Well, I . . . um . . .’ I look around and realise that there is considerable interest in my answer. ‘Actually, I don’t know what I expected.’
‘Fair enough,’ says the blonde, laughing as she looks away.
‘Can’t stand her,’ Pat whispers loudly to me. ‘Look at her hair – it’s got that much hairspray on it, it doesn’t move at all. One of these days I’m going to hit a ball right into it, and I bet it’ll get stuck.’
‘I can’t believe Lorraine is getting a breast reduction,’ exclaims a redhead whose own combination of bra-lessness and buxom figure I’d personally found very off-putting when I played tennis against her earlier. ‘Why would anybody want to have a breast reduction?’
‘My husband’d kill me if I had one of them,’ interjects Blondie. ‘Really kill me.’
‘Maybe she’s doing it for herself,’ says Pat, ‘and not her husband?’
‘Hmm.’ Blondie seems intrigued by this novel concept for a second before shaking her head in dismissal. ‘Nah.’
‘So who won the round robin?’ asks a white-haired, bushy-browed woman from across the table. ‘Does anyone know?’
‘I think it was Siewyee,’ replies Pat.
‘Siewyee again!’ says the woman, bringing her abundant brows together so that they look like an oddly positioned mohawk. ‘Then who came runner-up?’
‘Heather came runner-up,’ calls Jan from the end of the table. ‘Cathy came in third and Sue was fourth.’
‘What about fifth?’
‘Helen.’
‘Sixth?’
‘Glenys.’
‘Mandy, you must give me the recipe for these scones!’ the slim brunette on my left leans across in front of me and yells up to the other end of the table. ‘They’re delicious!’
‘No way, Sharyn,’ replies Mandy emphatically, ‘it’s a family secret. Sorry.’
‘Bitch,’ mutters Sharyn under her breath as she takes another mouthful of scone. ‘They’re not that bloody good.’
‘Did I come seventh then?’ asks the bushy-browed woman of nobody in particular. ‘Or eighth?’
‘So, are you ever going to join us?’ Pat asks me. ‘Lots of these women work full-time, they just have Wednesdays off, that’s all.’
‘Do you know, I wouldn’t mind,’ I reply, surprising myself by actually meaning it. ‘There certainly seems to be a lot more going on than with Saturday tennis.’
‘There sure is!’ laughs Pat.
‘Ninth?’
‘Can I have your attention, please!’ Jan, the secretary, is standing up and holding out an ice-cream container. ‘It’s time to draw the raffle. And the winner will get this, um, lovely plant that Joyce so kindly donated. So, first of all, a round of applause for Joyce’s generosity.’
Everybody claps agreeably while Joyce blushes and looks suitably humble. I stare transfixed at the ‘lovely plant’, which appears to be some kind of cactus that has been inbred to the point of deformity. Standing about three feet tall, it’s covered with incredibly large, fleshy protuberances that are each topped with a red, bulbous, carnivorous-looking flower. If the ladies were to place this particular plant in the vicinity of Caron’s twins, I don’t think they’d have to worry about them being around for too long.
‘And I thought we’d ask Terry, as our guest here today, to draw out the winning ticket.’ Jan comes over to me and holds out the ice-cream container. ‘Terry, would you like to do the honours?’
‘Sure.’ I reach up and pull out a ticket, which I then pass over to Jan. ‘There you go.’
‘And the winner is . . .’ Jan makes a great show of unfolding the ticket while everybody holds their breath. ‘Terry! The winner is Terry!’
‘Me?’ I splutter around a mouthful of lamington. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely!’ Jan shows me the raffle ticket with my name written in large letters. ‘See? So Terry wins the cactus!’
‘Rigged!’ calls out Blondie loudly.
The room breaks into fractured applause, punctuated by laughter, and Jan lugs over the dreadful cactus and deposits it onto the table in front of me. I eye the plant doubtfully, and move my plate of food out of its reach.
‘Look, that’s really rotten,’ I say with feeling. ‘You know, pulling my own name out and all. Let’s redraw it.’
‘No way,’ replies Jan emphatically, with a sidelong glance at the cactus. ‘You won it fair and square.’
‘Yes, it’s all yours,’ adds Blondie. ‘You can think of us when you water it.’
‘Christ,’ mutters Pat to me, ‘that girl’s a total flake.’
‘Damn,’ I mumble, chewing my lip while I look at the cactus warily.
‘Here, put it on one of these so it doesn’t leak,’ says the hatchet-faced woman, passing me over a plate. ‘They’re just the right size. For a plant, that is.’
‘Tenth?’ asks the bushy-browed woman. ‘Did I maybe come tenth?’
‘So what exactly do they take off?’ inquires Sharyn, holding the neck of her top out so that she can get a good view of her almost flat frontage. ‘I mean, how do they get to the . . . flesh? I don’t get it.’
‘Has anybody seen my car keys?’ calls Val. ‘I left them over here near Joyce’s plant. Has anyone picked them up?’
‘Eleventh? Or what about twelfth?’
‘So I’ll let you know when we have our next round robin,’ says Pat, ‘and see if you can get the day off.’
‘And you never know your luck,’ adds Jan, with a grin at my plant, ‘because Joyce donates a cactus each time. So, if you’re really lucky, you could win another one.’
Double damn.
WEDNESDAY
1433 hrs
Looking at myself in the changing-room mirror, I frown and strip off yet another dressing-gown. It joins the growing pile in the corner. Why is it that all the dressing-gowns I like are too short? Why is it that all the dressing-gowns I don’t like are too short? I tug on the last one, a leopard-print number that makes me look as if I should be out stalking zebras on the African plains. And it’s too short as well.
I smooth my hair down, drape all the dressing-gowns willy-nilly on their hangers and stomp out of the changing-room in disgust. Then I dispose of them en masse at the first available rack and stand there, wo
ndering what to do next. Because I’ve now exhausted every shop in the centre that stocks dressing-gowns and haven’t had any luck at all.
While I’m thinking, I notice a stand overflowing with thick flannelette pyjamas and decide that a pair of those will have to do. After all, in about a decade or two I’ll probably start to shrink and then I can come back and buy myself a lovely dressing-gown that will flow on the ground around me. Until then, it’ll be pyjamas all the way. I select a particularly fetching pair decorated with a multitude of hands. Interesting concept.
I take my selection up to the registers and join a queue that stretches mid-store. In front of me is a young woman with so many preschool-aged children that it defies belief. She definitely needs my flannelette pyjamas more than I do, and a chastity belt to go with them. There’s one child sitting at the front of the trolley, three sitting inside the trolley, two holding on to the trolley, and one unwrapping chocolate bars at a display next to the trolley. She also doesn’t seem to have any actual purchases as the only things in her trolley are her children, so I’m not sure what she’s doing in the queue. Maybe she’s after a refund. Good luck.
‘Terry!’
‘Diane! What are you doing here?’ I grin down at Cam’s sister, who has joined the queue behind me with a super-wide trolley that holds her twins and an assortment of purchases. The twins are dressed identically in lavender woolly jumpsuits and matching padded jackets. They are both sleeping peacefully.
‘I had to grab a couple of work-shirts for David and a pair of footy boots for Michael. And then, of course, I found some clothes for the girls that I couldn’t resist. Here, look!’ Diane holds up a small bright-red tracksuit with diagonal green stripes and a matching beanie. ‘What do you think?’
‘Very nice,’ I reply, shading my eyes, ‘and you won’t lose them in that either.’
‘Oh, do you think it’s too bright?’ Diane eyes the tracksuit doubtfully.
‘No, it’s fine,’ I lie encouragingly. ‘Hey, have you seen Bronte today?’
‘Yes, I popped in this morning.’ Diane puts the tracksuit back in the trolley. ‘And you’ve saved me a phone call now.’
‘I have?’
‘Yes, because Bronte tells me she’s staying with you for a week or so. Which, incidentally, I think is an excellent idea and it makes me feel a great deal better about the whole thing. But anyway, she also says you’re hosting their naming day for the baby. And good on you – that’s very generous.’
‘I thought so.’
‘Well, of course I don’t want you left with everything so I offered to do the ringing around. Because obviously it’s too late for proper invitations. So Bronte and I put our heads together and came up with a tentative list for the party. I’ve left it at home but I really want you to cast your eye over it and see if there’s anybody we’ve missed.’
‘Excuse me?’
Diane and I both turn to look at the speaker, an elderly lady behind us in the queue who is leaning on a metallic walking frame. She frowns at us and points, with a shaky finger, towards the registers. When we turn to see what she’s on about, we notice that a big gap has formed in the line between us and the fertile female with the trolley full of children. But while we’re registering this, a young bearded man comes strolling along and, humming pleasantly, deposits himself neatly in the gap.
‘Hey!’ I exclaim with justifiable annoyance.
‘Yes?’ he replies politely, turning to look at me. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You’ve jumped the queue!’
‘I think you’re mistaken,’ he says, smiling at me. ‘There was no queue.’
‘There certainly was!’ interjects Diane, leaning across. ‘And it was here!’
‘No, sorry.’ The young man turns his back on us and resumes humming.
‘I’ll deal with this.’ The elderly woman from behind hobbles slowly around us and then, by tilting her walking frame, manages to jab the young bearded guy deftly in the ankle with one of the legs. When he gasps with pain and turns to see what’s going on, she gestures wildly to the back of the queue.
‘Get in line – now!’
The young guy glares at his assailant for a second or two while he patently decides whether to stand his ground. Then, obviously coming to the conclusion he’s outmatched, he hops over to the adjoining queue and stands at the end with a face like thunder. Diane and I watch the elderly lady with stunned admiration as she hobbles slowly back into place. Looking up, she sees us watching and gestures impatiently towards the registers. Hurriedly we move forwards.
‘That’s what I want to be like when I’m old,’ I say with awe. ‘A force to be reckoned with.’
‘Hmm,’ says Diane. ‘She reminds me too much of my mother.’
‘True.’
‘Anyway, your computer’s online, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I say doubtfully, ‘why?’
‘Well, I’ll send you the list by email. Hey, quick, move forwards, Terry.’
‘You can try,’ I reply, shuffling forwards obediently, ‘but I’m not very good at that sort of stuff.’
‘But you work in a library!’
‘And?’ I question, keeping an eye on the slow-moving queue. ‘Your point is?’
‘I see.’ Diane raises her eyebrows at me. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll manage. I’ll get your email address off Cam and send it over to you tonight. Then, if you think of any more names, you can just let me know.’
‘Okay, but I’m sure Bronte’s covered our family so it should be fine.’
‘What about Dennis?’ Diane looks around me at the registers. ‘Terry – you’re up!’
Sure enough, the female in front has moved away with all of her numerous offspring still in tow and it’s finally my turn. I shoot the elderly woman behind a quick glance of apology for not being quicker off the mark and move forwards, putting my singular purchase on the counter. After I’ve paid and collected my bagged pyjamas, I move over to one side and wait for Diane to get through her transaction. A few minutes later she joins me and we pick up the conversation where we left off.
‘According to his receptionist, Dennis is off cruising at the moment.’
‘Cruising?’ Diane looks at me, confused.
‘Cruising as in on a cruise,’ I reply. ‘Not as in trying to pick someone up. Although . . .’
‘Yes,’ says Diane sympathetically, ‘hmm.’
‘Anyway, he’s supposed to be back by the weekend so she’s going to pass on the message about Bronte. And then, when he rings, I’ll let him know about Sunday.’
‘Good,’ says Diane, tucking her purse securely into her handbag. ‘And I’ll handle all the rest. Just let me know what you want me to bring.’
‘Hey, Diane?’ I ask as something occurs to me. ‘Did Cam tell you about your mother yesterday? At lunch?’
‘Yes!’ Diane hangs her bag on her shoulder and looks at me, nodding. ‘She did! That is so weird. I can’t wait to find out what it’s all about.’
‘Then you don’t know?’ I ask, disappointed. ‘No ideas?’
‘Not a one,’ she replies. ‘I mean, it sounds like she knows him – otherwise why have a reaction like that? But as far as I’m aware, she’s never even been to Tasmania so I’ve got no idea. But I’m going to find out.’
‘When you do, can you tell me? I’m just curious.’
‘No problem.’ Diane looks at her watch as one of her twins starts to yawn, stretching herself out and bopping her sister neatly on the side of the head. ‘Hey, Regan! That’s not very nice, sweetheart!’
The bopped twin immediately starts to scream blue murder while Sweetheart looks on imperturbably. Diane hurriedly unclips the restraint and picks up her injured offspring, nursing her against one shoulder and murmuring appeasements. As the baby’s sobs turn to hiccups and she starts to calm down, I watch Regan with considerable interest. She is now paying absolutely no attention to her sister and has instead started to examine her fingernails carefully. Then, as
if she senses me looking at her, she turns, cocks her head on one side, and stares evenly back. And it suddenly hits me that this must have been exactly what Cam’s daughter CJ was like six years ago. Oh, the power of genetics!
Poor Diane.
WEDNESDAY
1600 hrs
With some difficulty, I fill out all the blanks through to the end of Section Three of Part B, and then follow the instructions directing me to Section Four of Part D. However, when I read through the first two paragraphs of this section, I discover they seem to be in direct contradiction to the circumstances outlined in Section Two of Part A. Accordingly, I flick back to Section Two of Part A, and examine the tiny print at the bottom of the page, which now tells me to go straight to Question Six of Section One of Part E. And I’m quite sure it didn’t say that before.
But my particular tax return form doesn’t seem to have a Question Six of Section One of Part E. In fact, try as I might, I can’t even find Part E. I flick the pages backwards and forwards, naively assuming that Part E would be sandwiched between Parts D and F. But it’s not. So I flick back to Section Two of Part A and re-read the tiny print. And now it says to skip Questions One to Eleven of Parts C, D and E and instead read Question Twelve of Part F to see if it applies. I briefly consider attempting to flick forwards to Part F, and decide instead to flick the lot. So I do. Right over to the other side of the room. Then I flick the pen for good measure.
Pushing my ponytail over my shoulder, I stare balefully at the bundle of papers now scattered over the floor by the television set and decide that perhaps investing in a tax agent mightn’t be a bad idea. Instead of wasting my time on such stressful matters, I’ll start reading Gone with the Wind. I’m pretty sure Scarlett never had to bother her head with Parts A to F of annual tax returns. Fiddle dee dee to that.
So I stretch out on the couch and open the book to immerse myself in the days of buggies and courtship and whalebone corsets. But it’s a tad difficult because I can see the scattered papers out of the corner of my left eye and their haphazardness offends my sense of order. I re-read the first paragraph three times and then give up. Hauling myself off the couch, I head towards the offensive paperwork just as the doorbell rings, so I change direction to answer it.