by Ilsa Evans
‘I was?’ Cam looks at me with disbelief. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ I fill Cam’s glass almost to the brim, then put the bottle on the table and sit down opposite her. ‘But the funny thing is that I used to be a real risk-taker. I mean, that whole Air Force thing was a rebellious gamble against Dad, and even marrying Dennis after only having known him a few months was a huge risk. That was spontaneous.’
‘So what changed? Or was I right about that too?’
‘I think you might have been,’ I reply slowly as I unclip my hair and shake it out. ‘But there’s not much I can do about it now.’
‘I was right!’ Cam shakes her head in wonder. ‘I was right!’
‘Don’t let it go to your head,’ I suggest, running my fingers through my hair to comb it, ‘unless you can suggest a remedy.’
‘Of course I can!’ Cam says eagerly. ‘Do something outrageously adventurous! Quit your job, or at least take extended leave, and go overseas – live a little!’
‘But that doesn’t help me with the whole Richard thing.’
‘Tasmania is sort of overseas, isn’t it?’
‘Sort of.’ I grin at her. ‘But it’s not a terribly adventurous type of overseas, is it?’
‘Now, that depends on whether you take the risk with Richard, doesn’t it?’
Rather than answer, I fiddle with the stem of my champagne flute and stare out into the dark, damp night. Cam’s outside light only illuminates a small slice of her backyard and the falling rain slithers silverly through the patch of light. Her dog, a Border collie cross, is sitting in the middle of the glow, like an actor centre-stage within a personal spotlight. Dripping wet, he is staring mournfully up at the window.
‘Look at your poor dog!’ I exclaim. ‘Don’t you have a kennel?’
‘Yes, a perfectly good one,’ replies Cam, following my gaze to the dog, ‘but that animal is an idiot.’
‘I’m surprised that Ben hasn’t dragged him in here.’
‘He probably would have if he was here.’ Cam looks away from the dog and back towards me. ‘But he’s over at Jeff’s for the night and he’s going to St John’s with them in the morning. And Sam’s at a friend’s as well so it’s just me and CJ. Want another drink?’
‘I’ll have one more and then I’d better switch to coffee.’
‘Why don’t you stay the night?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I’m serious.’ Cam pauses, with the champagne bottle poised over my glass. ‘Look at the weather! It’s revolting. Besides, you can have a few more drinks then. And you can sleep in Sam’s room; she won’t mind.’
I watch her continue to pour the drinks as I reflect on this unexpected offer. I’ve been coming over to Cam’s every Friday night for an awfully long time and have never stayed the night before. But, then again, I’ve also never had a week where I’ve fallen in love twice – and where one of the objects of my attraction is at home, ready, waiting and primed to keep me awake for most of the night. And it’s the wrong one.
‘Go on,’ urges Cam, putting the bottle back down on the table. ‘But make up your mind quickly so you can ring Bronte before it’s too late to let her know.’
‘Okay!’ I grin at her. ‘Why not?’
‘Why not indeed? You know where the phone is.’ Cam gets up and grabs the bottle. ‘I’ll put this in the fridge and then go make sure Sam’s room is relatively neat while you’re ringing.’
I walk my chair backwards until I reach the island bench and then stretch up and unhook the wall-phone. I dial my number and listen to the phone ringing at the other end. When a sleepy Bronte answers, I explain the situation and promise I’ll be back home mid-morning. As I hang up, I reflect on the fact she definitely became a lot more lively when she realised I wasn’t coming home.
‘Everything all right?’ Cam walks back in carrying the platter from the lounge-room and puts it down on the table as she sits. Then she takes a long sip of wine as she watches me curiously.
‘Just a minute.’ I lean backwards, unhook the phone again and redial my number which, just as I suspected, is engaged. I laugh as I hang up.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I wondered why she got all chirpy when I said I was staying here.’ I pick up my chair, move it back over to the table and sit down. ‘I bet she’s ringing Nick and inviting him over.’
‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No, and it’ll give him a chance to see what night-feeds and bad-tempered babies are all about.’
‘The baby wasn’t that bad last night, was she?’ asks Cam curiously, helping herself to a cracker piled with dip.
‘She was worse,’ I say with feeling as I remember trying to burrow my way into my mattress. ‘She woke up every hour or so and screamed the whole damn house down.’
‘Ah, so that’s why you agreed to stay here so quickly.’
‘Exactly.’
‘She is pretty cute, though.’
‘Actually, she’s not just cute – she’s gorgeous!’ I smile at the thought of Sherry’s physical perfection. ‘And apart from last night, she’s perfectly behaved as well. And she’s really placid, and alert, and bright-eyed – really inquisitive, and –’
‘Well, well, well,’ Cam interrupts rudely, ‘who would have thought that you, of all people, would be carrying on like this about a baby? Wonders will never cease.’
‘Well, she is,’ I mutter crossly.
‘I’m not saying she’s not,’ continues Cam with a grin, ‘I’ve just never seen your eyes light up quite like that before. Hang on! Yes, I have!’
‘When?’ I ask curiously.
‘About twenty minutes ago – when you were talking about Richard!’
‘Ha, ha.’ I raise my eyebrows derisively. ‘You’re just hysterical.’
‘No, actually I’m serious.’
‘Oh,’ I say with some bafflement, because I really did think she was trying to be funny. I cast my mind about for an appropriate change of subject. ‘Did I tell you we had lunch with Dennis today?’
‘Really?’ She curls her lip scornfully. ‘And how is the oral playboy?’
‘Cam, you dag,’ I chortle with amusement. ‘What the hell’s an oral playboy?’
‘I meant because he’s a dentist,’ says Cam, as she too starts to grin. ‘Not what you’re thinking!’
I’m incapable of answering because I’m laughing too hard. After a few seconds, Cam starts to laugh as well and the moment rapidly turns into one of those occasions where you feed off each other’s laughter, and every time you start to wind down, you catch sight of the other’s face and break up once more. Even though what actually started you laughing wasn’t really all that funny to begin with. Accordingly we roll around in our seats, gasping for breath in between near hysterical shudders of hilarity. Finally, I clutch my stomach and bend over as tears run down my cheeks.
‘No more,’ splutters Cam. ‘Don’t look at me!’
‘You dag!’
‘That’s twice you’ve called me that!’ Cam wipes tears from her eyes and groans.
‘It’s my new word.’ I start laughing again, this time because I remember my old word and am hit by the image of a whale’s penis.
‘Mummy?’
Our laughter abruptly ceases as we both look towards the kitchen doorway, where a pyjama-clad CJ is staring at us uncertainly. She rubs her eyes hard, yawns and then wanders over to crawl into her mother’s lap.
‘CJ!’ Cam wraps her arms around her daughter. ‘What’re you doing up?’
‘You woke me,’ mumbles CJ, ‘with all your screaming. I thought you were here with that Rudolph.’
‘I keep telling you that there is no Rudolph!’ says Cam, sending me an accusing glance. ‘It was just a joke!’
‘It’s not a bery funny joke.’
‘Quite right. And now it’s back to bed you go.’ Cam tries to lever herself out of the chair with CJ wrapped around her like a limpet. ‘Terry and I’ll be going to
bed ourselves in a minute.’
‘Whoa!’ I hold up a hand. ‘I’m not bedding anyone, and especially not you! What’s the matter, Santa gone off the boil?’
‘Shut up, Terry!’
‘Who’s boiling Santa?’ CJ, now rather wide awake, looks at her mother, horrified. ‘And what’ll happen to Christmas if Santa’s all boiled?’
‘Nobody’s boiling Santa.’ Cam manages to get herself upright. ‘It’s just an adult expression. Christmas is definitely still on, and now – you’re off to bed. Thanks, Terry.’
‘No problem.’ I watch them go and then finish off my champagne as I stare out of the window at the dog, who is still sitting in the spotlight and looking miserable. I wonder if I should do something spontaneous? Something adventurous? Unfortunately, an overseas trip now is out of the question – babies of Sherry’s age change too much, too quickly. And I don’t want to miss any of it. But I could look around for another job, I suppose. Something more challenging, more interesting, more intellectually fulfilling. But then again, it’s not like I hate my job – and how stupid would it be to give up a reasonably paid job that is not only tolerable, but also nice and close to where I live?
Perhaps I could move. That would be something adventurous, and then I could change jobs because the nice and close bit would no longer be applicable. But I like my house, despite the carpet. It makes me feel secure, and permanent. Maybe I could keep the house, and the job, and instead just do a course to inject something challenging into my life. I’ve always wanted to learn lead-lighting, or pottery, or even self-defence.
‘Well, she’s settled,’ says Cam, coming back into the room and flopping down onto her chair. ‘But we’d better keep it down for a while.’
‘What do you think of karate?’
‘In what context?’
‘For me.’ I slide my empty glass over towards her as a hint. ‘To add a bit of challenge to my life.’
‘That’s your answer?’ Cam looks at me quizzically as she goes over to the fridge. ‘Taking up martial arts?’
‘Well, it’d be something different,’ I say defensively, ‘and probably pretty useful too.’
‘Yeah, you could kick my butt next time I psychoanalyse you.’
‘Yet another plus,’ I say brightly. ‘So when are we going to the gym again, anyway?’
‘Never,’ says Cam shortly, putting the bottle on the table and sitting down.
‘Next Tuesday’s good for me.’
‘I’m still in agony from yesterday! God, you should have seen me this morning!’
‘Exactly why you need to persevere,’ I say unsympathetically, because I’m not going to admit that every muscle in my body is still complaining as well.
‘Okay then,’ she sighs, and looks at me threateningly. ‘But I’m not going near that damn treadmill again. You can forget about that!’
‘Excellente!’
‘Humph. Hell’s bells, look at that damn dog,’ groans Cam, doing exactly that. ‘I give up.’
She gets up again and goes over to the laundry, where I can hear her opening the back door and whistling. The dog pricks up his ears and looks around for a few moments before registering that hearth and home are calling. He leaps up and goes racing across the backyard and in through the door. Cam backs out of the laundry and closes the door quickly. She comes over to the table and looks at me ruefully as we listen to the unmistakable sounds of a medium-sized dog giving himself an almighty shake to rid himself of accumulated water, mud and general sludge.
‘Great.’ She flops down and grabs the champagne bottle. ‘I only cleaned that room last week.’
‘I don’t even know why you got that dog.’
‘Oh, Ben’s had his heart set on a puppy for years.’ Cam fills up our glasses and passes mine over. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen him as happy as when he got Murphy.’
‘Exactly how many pets has he got now?’
‘Not that many,’ says Cam defensively. ‘Murphy; the rabbits, of course; Sonic the blue-tongue; his fish; his hermit crabs – and whatever’s out in the shed.’
‘Is that all?’ I ask sarcastically.
‘Oh, and that.’ Cam gestures towards a rectangular polystyrene box on the floor by the island bench. ‘But it’s only temporary.’
‘What is it?’
‘A guinea pig he’s looking after for Phillip for some reason.’ Cam gets up and, bending over, picks up the box gingerly. ‘Here, have a look. He’s quite cute.’
‘Okay, if I must,’ I say unenthusiastically, moving my champagne glass quickly as Cam slides the box onto the table in front of me. On one side of it is a large colourful sticker bearing the name of Phillip’s veterinary practice and a picture of a cat and a dog, who look a little too friendly for my liking. Phillip is engaged to Cam’s sister, Elizabeth. He is very tall and rather good-looking, in a clipped Errol Flynn type of way that I must admit doesn’t do an awful lot for me. But Cam’s son, Ben, who wants to be a vet, has adopted Phillip as a mentor of sorts and spends a lot of his spare time helping out at the Boronia practice.
‘You must.’ She levers the lid off the box with a hollow scraping sound and then stands back. ‘See? He’s one of those cute ones with chunks of fur sticking out everywhere.’
I look down into the box before me. Sure enough, nestled in a mound of yellow straw is a medium-sized, multicoloured guinea pig who is obviously having a bad-hair life. Tufts of dark-brown fur stick out at right angles to tufts of black fur, with tufts of white, chestnut and mustard-coloured fur in between. This rodent has serious coiffure problems. I suspect that it also has serious health problems, judging by the lethargic way it is lying flat on its back with its head lolling to one side.
‘Cam?’ I give the guinea pig a gentle prod, to no avail. ‘I think it’s sick.’
‘What?’ she shrieks, shoving me back as she leans over to take a look. ‘God! I didn’t do anything!’
‘No one said you did.’
‘You’re my witness! I never even touched him, did I?’
‘Not that I saw. Perhaps it’s hungry?’
‘Ben fed him before he left,’ Cam says distractedly, running her fingers through her short hair, ‘and he’s got water and all. What’s wrong with the damn thing?’
‘I don’t know.’ I reach in and place one finger gently on the pig’s chest. ‘It’s breathing quite rapidly.’
‘At least he’s breathing. Do you think I should ring Phillip?’
‘It’s pretty late,’ I reply, glancing at the clock, ‘but it is his guinea pig, I suppose.’
We both lapse into silence as we stare into the box at the supine rodent. Its eyes are closed and I can see its chest rising and falling at a rate that surely can’t be good for a long-term prognosis. And then I see something else as well.
‘Cam?’
‘What?’
‘Are you sure this thing’s a boy?’
‘No, why?’ Cam looks at me. ‘What difference does it make?’
‘Quite a bit, I think.’ I gesture towards the rodent’s nether regions. ‘See?’
Cam follows my gaze and her mouth falls open. Because between the tufts of multicoloured fur, a small pink thing can be seen emerging. I can’t believe that, twice in one week, I’m about to witness the miracle of birth. At least this time I don’t have to take an active part.
‘Hell’s bells,’ breathes Cam as she watches fascinated. ‘She’s having babies!’
‘She sure is.’
‘Ben’s going to be thrilled. Oh!’ Cam turns to me questioningly. ‘Do you think I should wake CJ up?’
‘No!’ I reply quickly. ‘Only because it might take ages, you know.’
‘I suppose,’ Cam says reluctantly, ‘but she’d love this.’
We watch as the rodent continues to pant shallowly, and the small, pink, hairless thing continues to emerge. I think it might be one of the baby’s legs. However, after some minutes I note that the birthing process doesn’t seem to be making much progres
s. In fact, just as it looks like the leg is about to be followed by something more substantial, it appears to get stuck and almost disappears only to begin its slow re-emerging all over again.
‘Cam?’
‘I know,’ she says worriedly, ‘something’s wrong, isn’t it?’
‘Looks that way.’
‘God, I think the baby’s stuck.’
‘Looks that way.’
‘Well, what can we do?’ Cam glances at me with concern. ‘Because if I stuff this up, I’ll never hear the end of it.’
I transfer my gaze back to the guinea pig. ‘I think you might have to give it a hand.’
‘Why me?’ Cam squeaks. ‘You’re the one who’s got experience!’
‘Exactly why it’s your turn,’ I reply firmly. ‘Go on, just help – I don’t know, guide it.’
‘All right,’ says Cam grimly as she rolls up her sleeves. ‘Here goes.’
She reaches one hand into the polystyrene box and starts by gently patting the guinea pig’s exposed belly. Then, after a few moments, she takes a deep breath and moves her hand down to the little pink leg, which is emerging once more. Gingerly she takes hold of the leg and tries to guide it out but, just when it seems she’s going to be successful, it slips out of her fingers and disappears once more.
‘Bugger!’
‘Try again,’ I say supportively. ‘You nearly had it then.’
So she tries again, and again, and again. For about fifteen minutes or so. But each time she has the little pink leg in a firm grasp and it looks like the rest of the baby is about to follow, it seems to hit an obstacle and slips straight from her fingers and back into the body of its mother. I sip my champagne and watch with concern. Because, although I don’t know much about the reproductive habits of rodents, I’m guessing prolonged labour doesn’t bode well for the survival chances of the infants. And I can tell by the increased desperation of Cam’s attempts to assist the birth that she’s thinking much the same thing.
‘You’ll have to ring Phillip.’
‘I know,’ she sighs heavily as the leg slips out of her grip one more time. ‘This is going on too long.’
‘Yep.’
Cam rubs the guinea pig’s belly gently. ‘Hang in there, girl, help’s on the way.’