by Isla Evans
Kate put a hand on either side of the basin and leant forward, noting that her eyes were now exactly the same shade as her skin, which was gradually resembling a National Geographic exposé of soil erosion. Or an analogy for her life. Kate took a deep breath and consciously tried to relax. She had ten minutes to while away before a guaranteed glowing complexion so she sat down on the side of the bath, picking idly at the hardened mud on her fingers and flicking the flakes into the bathtub where they dissolved quickly into the puddles of soapy water. She watched the water turn brown and, with a sudden memory flash, recalled the mud pies she and Angie used to make as children. Clad only in knickers and dirt whilst patting their concoctions into containers and then scattering seeds on top before leaving them in the sun to dry. A rush of nostalgia warmed her, bringing a smile to her eyes. It had been an idyllic childhood, long on freedom and short on accountability: the despair of the neighbourhood women and the envy of their offspring.
It had also been an unusual upbringing, even by today’s standards. After a complicated miscarriage led to the death of her mother when Kate was only three, her father had sold his Gippsland farm and moved back to Ferntree Gully, where he had been born and raised. The plan was for James to buy into his brother’s profitable market garden and build on the property, thus giving Kate a sister figure in her two-year-old cousin, Angie, and a mother figure in her Aunt Sophie, a generous woman who was known to bend over backwards to help anybody out.
What was not general knowledge at the time was that most of Sophie’s recent bending over had been of the extramarital variety. This involved a twice-weekly trip up behind the radishes to meet a neighbouring market gardener whose only claim to fame, until then, had been the tendency to pop out his glass eye after a few drinks and put it on somebody’s shoulder whilst saying: ‘Watch it, mate, I’ve got my eye on you.’ Sophie clearly thought the joke had a certain longevity because, within a few months, she took off with her one-eyed paramour to places unknown.
In a time when a man bringing up a child alone was rather unusual, two men bringing up two children, both girls, was rare indeed. Nevertheless James and Frank decided to stick it out. While Kate and Angie were still small they simply tied a rope around each child’s waist and then leashed them to the nearest fence post while they worked. As the girls grew, the market garden became their personal playground: acres of freedom where the only rule was not to harm the produce. Long, lazy hours spent playing by the creek or at the orchard or, more often than not, at That Bugger’s neighbouring property where the blackberries had taken over much of the garden and the empty, echoing house was an ideal venue for fertile imaginations.
Neither father ever remarried, although Kate’s Uncle Frank brought a procession of girlfriends home over the years. But, perhaps still scarred by his wife’s particular brand of neighbourly largesse, he shied away from any meaningful relationship. Nor did Sophie ever return; even That Bugger’s land was sold in the mid seventies and subdivided into house lots. It was the obvious success of this venture, followed relatively quickly by Frank’s first heart attack, which led to the brothers doing the same with the market garden, making a tidy profit and retaining only the house and about half an acre to retire on. The tidy profit had also financed a year in Europe for Kate and the birth of Fully Booked, Angie’s bookstore that was still thriving in central Boronia. And it was just after Kate had returned from Europe and was settling into her new publishing job that, while visiting her father one weekend, she started chatting with a young builder named Sam who was working next door. And the rest, as they say, was history.
‘Mum! Angie’n’ Oscar are here! And can you hem up my black jeans for me?’
Kate jerked into alertness and jumped up, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Large sections of mudpack were now flaking forward and, with her facial muscles firmly plastered into position, she couldn’t have answered Shelley even if she wanted to. Kate picked up her watch from beside the basin and read the time. And then read it again. Five twenty-one. How could that be possible? Even now it seemed the thin gold hands had a speed out of sync with reality. Five twenty-two, five twenty-three.
Kate dropped the watch and turned on the tap, filling her cupped hands with cold water and splashing it onto her face. Flakes of mud pack fell into the basin, their edges quickly melting as they leaked a rich chestnut-brown. After the water finally ran clear, Kate groped for a towel, dabbed her face dry and stood back to examine it. Predictably enough the promised glow was simply a dull crimson sheen, like old beetroot, especially around her nose. She sighed as she clipped her watch back on, without looking at it, and then unpinned her hair, brushing the mud residue out before disguising her new sheen with moisturising foundation.
‘Mum! Didja hear me? I need my jeans hemmed before I go out!’
‘Here, Shell, let me do them.’
The low, rescuing tones of Angie mellowed out Shelley’s demands and then their voices faded into the background of music and television. Kate wrapped the towel around her and took a deep breath before padding quietly down the passage to the master bedroom. There were clear signs that Sam had already changed, as a T-shirt and overalls were abandoned by the bed with grey-white socks sticking out from the pant legs. Kate knew that if she picked up the overalls a pair of jocks would also fall out. Because her husband had the rather odd talent of being able to shed his clothing like a snake’s skin and, like a snake also, he’d dump them wherever they fell.
Feeling a shaft of annoyance out of all proportion to the deed, Kate collected the bundle and threw it into the clothes hamper. Then she dressed herself, neatly but casually, in a khaki layered skirt and a loose crushed-cotton cream shirt. For once, contemporary fashion was ideal for women in their late forties with a slight spare tyre, less than slim thighs and an almost pathological hatred of ironing.
Kate flicked off the game show on her way through the lounge room and then continued into the kitchen where she poured herself a glass of water and then gazed through the scrim-covered window at the decked area outside. The decking abutted the entire rear of the house, with the barbecue at one end near the sliding door and the cedar outdoor setting. Three wide steps led down to a forked path, one side heading straight towards the hinged, childproof gate in the swimming-pool fencing, and the other meandering off to the right until it reached Shelley’s bungalow at the far corner of the garden. The bungalow itself was mostly obscured by a high jasmine-covered trellis, but the dark green Colorbond roofing was visible, juxtaposed against the cobalt blue of the sky.
It had been a beautiful day, warm without being overly humid and with a light wind that carried the scent of the jasmine up to the house. Threads of smoke came from where Sam was firing up the barbecue; Oscar stood next to him, leaning against a pillar. Apart from the fact Sam was slightly taller and a little more solid, the two men were very similar looks-wise, both with olive skin and short, dark hair that had not yet receded but was beginning to sport flecks of grey over the ears. The type that looked distinguished on a man, but unkempt on a woman. Their personalities, though, were very different. Sam was a quiet man, self-contained and easygoing, yet a hard worker who enjoyed manual labour so much that, years before, he had thrown in an architectural degree in favour of a career as a builder. On the other hand Oscar loved nothing better than a deep philosophical discussion in which he solved the ills of the world by pontificating about each and every political or social dilemma. He was saved from complete pomposity only by a keen intelligence and the occasional ability to laugh at himself.
As Oscar passed Sam a beer and waved his hands in the manner he had when explaining some pertinent point, Kate transferred her gaze to her cousin Angie. Her best friend, her surrogate sister. Who was sitting at the cedar table bent over Shelley’s jeans, her hand rising and falling as she pushed a needle through the denim. Angie was only a shade shorter than Kate’s five foot five but was, and always had been, a good deal plumper. Kate thought it suited her, softening her fea
tures and creating an overall roundness that was charismatic in itself.
Oscar and Angie had separated five years ago, soon after their daughter Melissa left for university. Like many, they had declared their intention of remaining friends for the sake of their child but, unlike most, they had managed, almost effortlessly, to achieve this. In fact, if anything, they were better friends now than they had been during the last years of their marriage. Whilst giving some credit to Oscar, Kate attributed this mostly to her cousin, and to the neutralising effect of her serenity.
If Angie could best be described as serene, then the person sitting next to her and tapping one foot impatiently on the decking was her polar opposite. Michelle was a tall, thin girl with straight, almost waist-length nut-brown hair and a rather hyperactive edginess. No matter what she was doing, whether working or resting or playing, one foot would be tapping, or a hand fidgeting, or her eyes blinking as a million thoughts whipped through her mind. And she had been like that since infancy. Always on the move, always edgy, always demanding.
At the moment, though, Shelley’s outfit was more striking than her personality. A filmy, spaghetti-strapped number on top, and a pair of pink polka-dotted pyjama pants on the bottom. Together with full make-up and gold beaded earrings that sparkled between the strands of flowing hair and brushed against her shoulders as she turned. On her mother’s pyjama-clad lap, and getting a free jiggle, was little Emma. Seven and a half months old and adorable as only a baby could be. A perfectly symmetrical head covered by sparse blonde waves that were currently secured in a waterfall, huge blue eyes, button nose and a coral-pink rosebud mouth.
‘What’re you doing, Mum?’
‘Watering the plants,’ said Kate, immediately pouring the remaining contents of her glass over a few potted herbs on the windowsill before turning to her eldest son.
‘Well, if you’re not doing anything, can you drive me over to Box Hill? I want to have a few drinks tonight.’
‘Ditto. And do you happen to know where your brother is?’
‘Already left. But can’t you drive me over before you have a few drinks?’ Caleb raised an eyebrow and gave her his most winning smile, which may well have worked but for the fact her guests were already sitting on the decking. Kate pointed wordlessly and Caleb leant in closer to have a look. He was a tall boy, an inch or two over six foot, and well built in the bargain. The best-looking of Kate’s children as well as the most easygoing and the most popular. At one stage, of all the phone calls received each day in the Carson–Painter household, about three-quarters would be for Caleb. With the advent of mobile phones, Kate was at least saved from having to continually take messages from laconic boys and eager, breathy girls.
But she could well understand why Caleb was so well liked. He was a person without subterfuge, so that there was never any game-playing or point-scoring or sidelong glances. What you saw was what you got. A personable, educated, laid-back bloke with all the easy confidence that comes from twenty-one years of security and good looks. Everything, in fact, that his twin brother was not.
Caleb straightened and then grinned down at his mother. ‘Okay, you’re off the hook. I’ll ring around and find someone who’s heading in that direction.’
‘Good idea.’ Kate watched her son stroll away, already flipping open his phone. Why, she wondered with a flare of irritation, hadn’t he just done that in the first place? Was it so much easier to persuade her to give up her time than it was to get organised in the first place?
The glass sliding door was sent shuddering across its tracks as Shelley bounded through, the finished jeans hanging over one arm. She glanced at her mother with an instant frown. ‘Mum! What’re you doing there? Doesn’t matter, haven’t got time. Gotta run.’ And she was gone, heading rapidly towards the bathroom. Her perfume hung in the air; a musk aroma that felt thick and vaguely suffocating.
Kate took a deep breath and left the safety of her position by the sink. As she walked, she turned her head as far as it would go to the right and then to the left, feeling the tendons stretch with some satisfaction. It was an exercise she had read about which was designed to assist tension, and perhaps even lessen the headaches that beset her from time to time. Thus far it had achieved minimal success. She pushed the sliding door open with less gusto than her daughter and went through onto the decking, fixing a smile to her face.
‘Kate! There you are!’ Angie turned awkwardly, the baby on her lap having a firm grip on her black beads. ‘I thought we’d have to send out a search party!’
‘Just got caught up.’ Kate sent a wave in Oscar’s direction. The barbecue was in full sizzle now; marinated steaks hissed on the grill and a few chilli-speckled burgers browned beside them.
Angie peered at Kate. ‘Have you got eczema or something?’
‘No, just flushed with vitality.’ Kate sat down beside her cousin and reached over to slip the hair tie out of Emma’s hair before running her fingers through the blonde waves and smoothing them down. The baby chuckled approvingly.
‘Vitality, hey? Sure you haven’t got a head start on us?’
‘I wish.’
‘Well, you can catch up now then. Have a glass of this.’ Angie wrapped one arm around Emma’s waist so that she could use the other to push a bottle towards Kate. ‘It’s a very nice chardonnay.’
‘From up near Seymour,’ called Oscar. ‘A great little winery that’s off the beaten track. Superb place. Hardly anyone knows about it.’
Angie leant towards Kate. ‘Unless they read the huge-ass signs along the highway, that is. And then follow the arrows.’
Kate poured herself a glass while she examined her cousin more closely. Her long, curly chestnut hair was pulled back into a plait from which a few tendrils had escaped to frame her face. Apart from the black beads, she was wearing a pair of thin linen pants and matching loose vest that covered a black T-shirt.
‘Have you lost weight?’
‘No such luck.’ Angie paused with a dip-laden cracker halfway to her mouth. ‘Why? Do I look like I have? I am on a diet, so maybe it’s working.’
The sliding door bounced open again and Shelley emerged, her long legs now encased in tight black denim. Kate, who had pulled the salad bowl over to start tossing the salad, paused to eye her critically, deciding that she preferred the pyjamas. They made her daughter look somehow more vulnerable and less predatory.
‘Thanks Auntie Angie, you did a great job. Much better than Mum would’ve.’ Shelley leant down to give her daughter a kiss on the cheek. ‘Bye, bye precious. Shoot, has Grannie taken out your pretty hair tie already?’
‘If I’m looking after her I prefer the child not to look like an onion.’
‘Grannie,’ repeated Angie, with a grin at Kate.
Shelley gave Emma another kiss. ‘Anyway, I’d better go. Running late.’
‘Bye sweetheart,’ called Sam, waving the spatula. ‘Have fun.’
‘I will. Bye all. Happy New Year and all that.’
After they had each echoed this sentiment, Shelley flew back through the sliding door and disappeared into the house. Shortly afterwards, her Astra could be heard firing up in the driveway and then reversing out with a high-pitched scream.
‘She makes me feel exhausted,’ said Angie.
‘You and me both.’ Kate took one of Emma’s fat fists. ‘Lucky you’re a bit more relaxed than Mummy, isn’t it?’
‘Ker-choo!’ spluttered Emma, her body shuddering with the effort as a fine spray of mucus and spit rained down on her grandmother’s hand.
‘Bless you!’ said Angie as Kate retracted her now damp hand and stared at it.
Sam threw a roll of paper towel towards the table, striking his wife squarely on the shoulder. The paper towel bounced off, hit the side of the table and rebounded into a potted plant where it nestled amongst the fronds.
‘Great catch!’ Oscar toasted Kate while Sam held up his hand in apology, although with a grin that robbed it of any real sincerity.
&n
bsp; As Sam turned away again, Kate glared towards the back of his head and then retrieved the paper towel, tearing off a piece to wipe down her hand. It still felt sticky, but rather than go inside and give it a good wash, she topped up her wine and took a deep sip instead.
‘Are you getting a cold then, gorgeous?’ asked Angie in a singsong voice. Kate passed over a piece of towel and Angie used it to dry the baby’s face and nose deftly as Emma batted at her with chubby starfish hands, finally managing to strike herself on the nose. Her eyes widened with surprise and she stared at her hands, spreading and then clenching her fingers as if a clue lay just within their grasp.
‘Ever smelt mothballs, Katey-loo?’ asked Oscar suddenly, apropos of nothing.
Kate frowned at him. ‘Don’t call me Katey-loo. And of course I’ve smelt mothballs. What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Then how’d you get their legs apart?’
‘How did I . . . ?’ Kate’s frown cleared as she got the joke. She smiled wanly and took another long sip of wine.
‘Good one, huh?’ Oscar slapped his thigh happily and turned back to Sam.
‘Idiot,’ said Angie. ‘Can’t believe I stayed with him for twenty years. Are the boys here tonight?’
‘Are you kidding? New Year’s Eve? No, Jake’s already gone and Caleb’s inside waiting for a lift. Or he might have left by now.’
Angie readjusted Emma and then straightened the baby’s candy-striped rompers. ‘So Jake’s gone out? That’s a good sign, isn’t it?’
‘Who knows?’ Kate shrugged. ‘If I try to ask him anything, he just gives me this look. As if I’m being amazingly intrusive.’
‘I know that look. Melissa’s an expert at it.’