The Making of Christina

by Meredith Jaffe

  Packing boxes were stacked in one of the spare rooms leading off the kitchen, each box labelled, numbered and itemised in Christina’s architectural script. Retrieving the one marked kitchen essentials, she unpacked the kettle and ran the tap. Brown water spluttered and shuddered into the sink and it was an age before the water ran clear. She plugged the cord into a suspicious-looking power point. She flicked the switch, squeaking when a small flash of blue light arced towards her. After all that, the coffee tasted metallic and she poured the remainder in the garden.

  Christina was teetering on a dining chair, cleaning the enormous window in the main lounge, when Bianca stumbled into the room. Half asleep, Bianca appeared so much younger than her ten years that Christina could not resist the urge to spring from her chair and wrap her in a hug.

  ‘Morning, sleepy head.’ Christina released her. ‘Okay. First things first. I’ve put towels in the bathroom off the kitchen. The water’s a horrible colour but don’t worry, it’s because the pipes are rusty.’

  Bianca peeled away and ambled off. Whilst she dressed, Christina finished cleaning the window and stepped back from her handiwork. ‘I don’t care what you do in life, Tina,’ her father often said. ‘Clean windows if it makes you happy. At least they always sparkle.’ And it did lift her spirits seeing the room transformed. Even if all she did over the next few weeks was clean the windows and cut back the camellia and rhododendron branches on the western side, by the time Jackson returned from Vietnam, the house would be unrecognisable.

  ‘Hurry up, Bee,’ she said. ‘We’re heading into town.’

  ‘What for?’ Bianca grumbled, pouring cornflakes into a bowl.

  ‘We need supplies and we need to find a hardware store,’ Christina said, scooping crumpled balls of paper towel into a plastic bag. ‘We need floor polish, a longer ladder, contact paper for the kitchen cupboards, which are beyond redemption, and the name of a decent electrician and plumber. Happy now?’ Christina lobbed a ball of paper towel at Bianca’s head and laughed when Bianca threw it straight back.

  At seven on the dot the following Thursday, two overweight blokes with matching tufts of hair sprouting from their blue singlets introduced themselves as Stan and Colin – the electrician and the plumber, and so obviously brothers. Given the extent of the house’s neglect, Stan and Colin agreed to go their separate ways and see what they uncovered.

  An hour later they regrouped on the terrace for smoko. Christina poured steaming mugs of sugary tea and passed around a packet of shortbread creams. In her ear she could hear Rosa chiding her for taking the cheap supermarket option – ‘Not even sandwiches, Tina!’ Tomorrow, Christina promised her. Tomorrow she would make a better effort.

  Slurping tea, Stan and Colin – ‘Call me Col love, everybody does,’ – revealed the list of problems and which repairs were most urgent.

  ‘Your hot water service is cactus,’ Col said, holding out his mug for a top-up. ‘I’ll pop into Kitchener this arvo and pick you up a new one.’

  ‘While he’s out,’ said Stan, ‘I reckon it’s just as easy to put in one of them new circuit boards rather than buggerising about with these old-fashioned ceramic circuits. They might be more authentic, love,’ Stan addressed Christina, ‘but they’re no fun when the power blows and you’re fiddling about in the dark.’ Stan winked at Col and took the last shortbread cream. ‘Someone’s got to be the old maid, hey?’

  Every day Stan and Col’s sour cigarette smell and whistling duets filled the house as they began the process of bringing the grand old lady to life. In the mornings, after she put a cake in the oven, Christina drank a mug of coffee that had the taint of nothing more than rainwater and watched the family of magpies chortling amongst themselves as they stalked the lawn for worms. For the first time in her life she wrote cheques for new copper pipes and tapware without worrying where the money came from. For now she was using her own funds but Jackson had promised he would reimburse her on his return. The freedom to pick exactly what she wanted without compromising quality for price was a fresh joy every time.

  Keeping out of the tradesmen’s way, Christina polished floors, scrubbed mould from tiles, baths and shower recesses and cleaned acres and acres of glass. After a couple of weeks of this, she had to wear a belt to stop her jeans from sinking over her hips and her T-shirts were indistinguishable from the rags permanently tucked in her back pocket.

  One by one, the stack of packing boxes diminished as homes were found for their contents. Bianca spent a whole day choosing first one bedroom then another until Christina put her foot down, warning, ‘I am not moving that chest of drawers again, Bee.’

  Stan insisted she get their younger brother up to sweep the chimneys. ‘It gets colder than a mother-in-law’s kiss up here once the wind comes across the mountains,’ he said, adding with a wink, ‘Plus his wife’s sick to death of him being under her feet so he may as well make himself useful.’ His brother also cheerfully chopped a winter’s worth of timber for seven fireplaces.

  Col introduced her to an expert in restoration plaster and paintwork who began stripping the architraves back to the western red cedar beneath. Between the tradesmen, their apprentices and whoever else was called in for an extra pair of hands, on any given day Christina fed a small army.

  In this manner January disappeared and it was only as she added items to a shopping list tucked in the pages of her diary that Christina realised Bianca was due to start at Valley View the following Tuesday. Scribbling uniform shopping under tomorrow’s date, she rushed outside to wave goodbye to the tradesmen. She stood in the drive, stretching first one way, then the other, listening to her body crack and pop in protest. The trail of tail-lights disappeared around the bend and darkness snuffed out twilight, leaving Venus alone to glow in the sky.

  She checked her watch and calculated the time difference between Bartholomews Run and Hanoi. She could hear Bianca singing in the bath, washing away the grime that accumulated every day she spent emptying the stables of clutter and scrubbing the stone floors. Christina had tried to tell her she was getting ahead of herself but it made Bianca happy and she admired her dedication to a task with no immediate reward. When she had offered to help, Bianca shook her head and said, ‘No, it’s my special job, Mum. I can’t get a pony until I’ve made it safe for him.’

  Christina trudged up the driveway until her mobile had reception. Despite living on a mountain, the phone coverage came and went on a whim. She had rung the telephone company about getting a landline and the girl on the other end had told her, ‘Eight weeks – provided there is cabling nearby.’ It was probably an optimistic estimate but Jackson needed phone lines in order to run his businesses. Without them, as he reminded her time and again, it was unfeasible for him to spend more than a day or two a week here, and Christina knew she needed to keep Jackson close if she was going to keep him at all. An image of Sarah and her smug smile flashed across her mind.

  Pulling her shirtsleeves down against the chill evening air, she waited for Jackson to answer. She hadn’t the heart to tell Bianca that ponies were a long way down the list. Not now the tears and tantrums that had preceded their exodus from Sydney had subsided. Perhaps, she hoped, Bianca was beginning to realise how lucky they were to live in such an amazing place.

  When Jackson picked up, it sounded like he was in the middle of a party. Jackson hated parties, she wondered where he was.

  ‘I’m at an embassy trade function,’ he yelled, sounding tinny and far away. The bad connection and the time delay meant they kept talking over the top of each other.

  ‘Maybe we should hang up and try for a better line?’ she yelled across the oceans.

  ‘Can’t. Gotta get across town for a meeting. I’ll call you later,’ and the line went dead.

  Christina scanned the inky void, seeking signs they were not alone on the mountain. Where her parents lived, clusters of light spotted the surrounding hillsides. You
could hear neighbourhood dogs barking, the growl of a trail bike and, when the wind blew in the right direction, a mother shouting at the kids to come inside for dinner. On this moonless night the hills had disappeared. She felt like she was suspended in the middle of nowhere. Out of the darkness came the ribbit of frogs, the snuffling of bandicoots and other unidentifiable squeaks and wheezes. A cool breeze lifted her hair from her shoulders and she shivered. Rubbing her arms, she turned back to the house.

  Maybe it was time she shouted Bianca lunch at the pub. Country people always congregated at the nearest watering hole and with Jackson away so much she needed to know they had neighbours they could call on for help. Slipping inside, Christina let out a grateful sigh and turned on the lights, chasing away the shadows that haunted such a rambling old house. Jackson raved about the privacy up here but in his absence Christina felt isolated.

  In clean jeans and polished riding boots, Christina swung open the frosted glass doors of the Grand Hotel, anticipating a room full of rowdy locals sucking down beers and playing one-upmanship. Instead, she encountered nothing more than the exhausted odour of stale beer and cigarette smoke. In the corner an old couple tucked into meat pies swimming in pools of tomato sauce and peas grey from overcooking. At the end of the bar a man hunched over a half-folded newspaper and scratched away at the crossword. The publican was keeping a weather eye on the TAB odds scrolling across the bottom of a TV screen mounted on the far wall.

  Christina made her way to the bar and ordered a pink lemonade for Bianca and a shandy for herself. Passing the barman a twenty-dollar note, she said, ‘Hi, I’m Christina Clemente and this is my daughter Bianca. We’ve just moved up here from Sydney.’

  Sliding an eye over them, the barman grunted, ‘G’day,’ and poured ice into a schooner glass, keeping one eye on race 3 at Rosehill.

  Christina waited for the race to finish before ordering two steak sandwiches and a basket of hot chips. Back at the table, she put down their drinks and a red raffle ticket required to collect their meals. Christina glanced at the old couple and the man at the bar and smiled into her beer. Who needed a red ticket?

  With Bianca’s attention absorbed by her mobile phone, Christina took the chance to study her surrounds. Across the corridor, the dining annex was furnished with the predictable captain’s chairs crammed around tables too small for four comfortable place settings. A wide staircase lead to what she guessed was accommodation, though she couldn’t imagine it was used any more. She was startled back to reality by the nasal whine of a woman’s voice announcing, ‘A24! A24!!’ over the tannoy. Christina went to the bar and handed the publican her ticket, amazed that he made a point of checking the number before banging her meals onto the countertop. No wonder there were so few customers.

  ‘The chips are delicious.’ Bianca dunked a crinkled golden finger into the pot of tomato sauce.

  ‘Mmmm. So are the sandwiches. Don’t eat all the chips, Bee,’ Christina said, wiping beetroot juice from her chin with the back of her hand.

  She watched Bianca nibble her sandwich. The school year began on Tuesday and as the day drew closer, Bianca grew more and more despondent. Jackson’s insistence that Bianca catch the bus to school made matters worse. The pub was neutral territory; it was as good a time as any to tackle the issue.

  ‘Did I tell you that I rang your new headmistress, Mrs Hardcastle, yesterday and she confirmed that the bus run picks up at the general store at seven-thirty and drops off at four? That’s nice and handy, isn’t it?’

  Bianca stopped shovelling chips into her mouth. ‘Don’t make me catch the bus, Mummy. I don’t know anyone. Pleeeease?’

  Christina’s heart clenched. She wanted to say yes, she really did. After all, it was her fault Bianca was in this position. It was easy to forget how shy Bianca was because in Sydney she always travelled with Izzy and Maddy. How could she expect her to bluster her way into an existing circle of friends who had also probably known each other since they were newborns. Worse, over the summer, the hormones had hit Bianca hard, a physical reminder that very soon she would be turning eleven. Christina had been startled to notice that Bianca’s budding breasts formed small lumps under her singlet and her sweat had begun to carry a sour tang. But it wasn’t the only issue. She sighed.

  ‘All right, only this week though. Jackson’s back on Friday night, so after that you’ll have to catch the bus. Rules are rules.’ Although if Christina had her way, she’d be more than happy to drive Bianca to and from school. But Jackson said it was a waste of her time and in the end it wasn’t a big enough issue to force an argument.

  Bianca sunk her teeth into the steak sandwich. A mouth full of food stoppered a response.

  Christina ate a chip, relieved Bianca didn’t make a fuss. Her joy was short-lived.

  ‘Mummy, when can I get a pony?’

  Christina swallowed. ‘Heaven’s, Bee. We’ve only been here five minutes!’

  ‘But, Mummy, you promised!’ Bianca’s tone escalated as Christina’s shoulders sagged.

  ‘I know I did, sweetheart, but the house has to be fit for human habitation before I worry about the comfort of ponies.’

  Bianca slumped in her chair and twisted a large chip until it broke. She shovelled both halves in her mouth and chewed with her mouth open, daring her mother to admonish her.

  ‘Don’t look at me like I’m the wicked witch of the west,’ Christina chided. ‘Ponies are a lot of work and it won’t be me getting up at the crack of dawn to feed and muck out. I know you think Papa’s an old softy but when I was a girl I wasn’t allowed to eat breakfast until Pizzazz was fed and watered. Rain. Hail. Or shine.’ Christina tapped the last out on the tabletop, certain of her ground.

  Despite Bianca’s sullen pout, she battled on. ‘Anyway, good ponies are as rare as hen’s teeth. It’ll take us months to find a decent one.’

  Bianca frowned and Christina relented. She was hopeless at being the tough cop. After all, she had promised. ‘Look. How about we visit the pony club lady one day after school and see if she knows of a suitable mount. Maybe we can lease a pony for now, see if you cope with the responsibility before we fully commit. Is that fair?’

  Christina made the promise thinking she’d bought herself plenty of time. Plus she didn’t feel comfortable making a commitment until she’d discussed it with Jackson. He’d definitely want to put in his two cents worth. Of course, as luck would have it, the pony club lady, a reed-thin imposing woman called Mrs Pryde, knew of the perfect beginner’s pony for Bianca.

  Even so, Christina put off the decision until Jackson’s return. This had been a long trip and the six weeks seemed to have exhausted him. He was tetchy and tired, citing jet lag, so Christina gave him a couple of days to settle in before she broached the subject. She used the time to practise what she would say. With Bianca turning eleven in a few weeks, maybe the pony could be an early gift. Jackson loved showering the children with gifts. He was bound to like the idea.

  Christina paused at the door to his office, listening to the tap of the keyboard. Jackson hated being disturbed when he was working, so she hesitated before giving the barest of knocks and waited for him to say if she could come in. When he did glance up, she hovered in the doorway and explained the situation.

  Jackson shrugged. ‘One thing’s for certain, it’ll keep her mind off chasing boys.’

  Christina expected more but he picked up the phone, indicating that the matter was dealt with, and waited for her to leave.

  The telephone company’s nonchalant dismissal of Christina’s request had become Jackson’s challenge, one he solved with apparent ease. Despite the difficulties of conducting such a transaction from Vietnam, within a week of him ‘making a few calls’, two phone lines and a separate fax line were installed. Undermined as she felt by his success, it did mean Jackson could now spend the better part of his week at Bartholomews Run. He’d chosen a room with a north
-easterly aspect overlooking the gardens as his office. It had the added benefit of a clear line of sight to the driveway, allowing him to track the comings and goings on the property. His clothes hung on one side of the closet in their bedroom and occupied an entire set of drawers. His disposable razor and toothbrush sitting next to hers on the bathroom shelf was a daily thrill. She just resented that now he had phones, he spent so much time on them.

  Christina had to wait until dinnertime to raise the subject again. She watched Bianca jump up to fetch Jackson a tonic, desperate to win his seal of approval. It reminded Christina of when Bianca had wanted to learn to surf. Almost three years ago, but it felt like a lifetime. So much had changed since then.

  After they’d cleared the dinner table, Christina tackled Jackson again. She sold Jackson on the benefits of having a pony before dropping the bombshell. ‘She’s five thousand dollars. Plus tack will easily add another two grand to that.’

  Bianca glared at her but what did she expect Christina to say? Good ponies cost money.

  ‘What’s this horse’s name?’ Jackson asked.

  ‘Sugar. She’s a purebred Welsh Mountain Pony. She’s brown with a white stripe down her face and she has four white socks,’ Bianca rushed out.

  Jackson studied Bianca’s earnest face then turned to Christina. ‘If she’s such a good horse, why are they selling her?’

  Bianca answered before Christina had a chance. ‘Because the girl who owns him, she’s at my school, she’s got a new horse called Caramel. He’s a . . .’ Bianca faltered and looked to Christina for guidance.