by Doug MacLeod
After a small reception at Auntie Margaret’s house, we drove back to Samsara.
‘What an awful funeral,’ Grandma said.
‘It wasn’t awful,’ said Mum. ‘Everyone said it was lovely.’
‘I’m only glad that Reginald didn’t see it. All that stupid stuff I said about going to the shop.’
‘It was nice,’ Mum insisted.
‘It was the worst speech in the history of funerals. Goodness knows what came over me. I’d worked out exactly what I wanted to say. What made me talk about the blasted shop? It’s a wonder I didn’t say that Reginald has now gone to that big shop in the sky.’
‘Everyone understands, Mum.’
A strong smell of tomatoes filled the car. We discovered that Xander stole some bubble packs of tomato sauce from the reception and some had burst in his pocket.
‘Perfect,’ said Dad.
‘Auntie Joyce wet herself at the funeral,’ said Xander.
‘I thought we’d agreed not to talk about that,’ Dad said.
‘She said the fountain made her do it.’
‘Xander, I forbid you to mention Auntie Joyce’s toilet accident again,’ Dad said.
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ said Grandma. ‘I made such a terrible speech, it doesn’t matter what Joyce did. She could have peed a whole ocean. But I’m the one who ruined the day. What an idiot I am. Reginald must be so disappointed.’
Whatever we said to Grandma, she wouldn’t stop being angry with herself.
That’s how ‘Grandpa walked to the shop’ became a forbidden phrase in our family. Xander managed to use it every day.
Dad has made curried mince and mashed potato for dinner. Xander makes a little igloo out of his mashed potato.
‘Don’t play with your food, Alexander,’ says Grandma.
Xander continues playing with his food. Mum talks too loudly about the events of the day, which really aren’t that interesting, but Dad and I pretend they are, because we know it’s what Mum wants.
‘Bananas are fourteen dollars a kilo,’ says Mum.
‘Goodness. I wonder if they let you buy bananas on hire purchase?’ says Dad.
Mum and Dad laugh. But it’s fake; not their usual chuckling.
‘Reginald liked bananas,’ says Grandma.
‘Yes,’ Mum nods. ‘He certainly did like a banana.’
‘He often walked to the shops to buy them,’ said Xander.
‘Alexander, hold your fork properly,’ says Grandma.
‘He always holds his fork like that,’ I say.
‘He looks like a monkey,’ Grandma says.
‘3.141592653589793238,’ says Xander.
‘The guests have been quiet,’ Dad says, with forced casualness. ‘Nathan and Marika haven’t had much to do lately.’
‘Did you know that Nathan is in love with Marika?’ I say.
‘Of course, Adam,’ says Dad. ‘Anyone can see.’
‘Except Marika,’ I say.
‘She wouldn’t know if her bum was on fire,’ says Dad. ‘Even if it had a fire alarm on it.’
Dad and Mum do their artificial laugh again. Grandma just scrapes up her mince and eats slowly.
After we finish the curried mince, Dad brings out fruitcake and puts it on the table.
‘Reginald used to make fruitcake,’ says Grandma.
‘I remember,’ says Mum.
‘It was the most awful fruitcake in the world. So heavy you could have moored a boat to it.’ Grandma smiles sadly. ‘I miss his fruitcakes.’
‘There are turnips in the cake,’ says Xander.
‘What? What are you talking about?’ says Dad.
‘They use fake cherries in supermarket cakes,’ says Xander. ‘And they’re made from turnips.’
‘I got it from the bakery, not the supermarket,’ says Mum. ‘I’m sure they’re real cherries.’
‘They aren’t,’ says Xander.
‘How can you tell?’ asks Dad.
Xander sticks his finger in the cake. Grandma pulls his hand away. ‘Alexander,’ she snaps. ‘Behave yourself!’
Xander looks angry.
‘I’ve told you before not to stick your fingers in food,’ says Dad.
‘3.1415926535897932384626433832,’ says Xander.
‘Would you like some fruitcake, Mum?’
‘No thank you, Georgia,’ says Grandma. ‘Not now that Alexander has filled it with his germs.’
Xander has a very small finger and it’s a very large cake. I doubt that he has contaminated the whole thing. Under his breath Xander mutters, ‘Grandpa walked to the shop.’ Fortunately, I am the only one who hears. I kick him under the table.
‘Could you switch on the TV, please?’ Grandma asks.
Dad doesn’t like it when the TV is going while we’re sitting at the dinner table, but Mum turns it on. It’s a wildlife documentary. Sir David Attenborough tells us about migrating wildebeests.
‘This looks interesting,’ says Mum, as Sir David Attenborough tells us that wildebeests usually mate after the rainy season in the African grasslands.
‘Reginald looked a bit like Sir David Attenborough,’ says Grandma.
‘He did,’ says Mum.
‘Back in the days when he had hair, of course,’ says Grandma. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t keep mentioning him.’
‘We don’t mind,’ says Mum.
‘Of course we don’t,’ says Dad.
‘3.1415926535897932384626433832,’ says Xander.
Sir David tells us that wildebeests are very good at mating, with one of the highest success rates of impregnation. We contemplate the wildebeest’s impregnation rate.
‘What annoys me most about Reginald is that he didn’t leave a ghost,’ says Grandma. ‘I’d like to be haunted by Reginald. The least he could have done was leave a ghost.’
I have a lump in my throat.
‘It’s such a big house,’ says Grandma. ‘There are plenty of rooms to haunt. But the lazy blighter hasn’t turned up in a single one.’
‘Mum, why don’t you stay with us for a little while?’ Mum says.
‘I’ll be all right in the big house,’ says Grandma.
‘Come on, Mum. You won’t be a bother. Will she, Ken?’
Dad gazes at the wildebeests. ‘Of course you won’t,’ he says.
‘You could stay in one of the cabins,’ says Mum. ‘Number two is free. We’ll be right next door if you need us.’
‘Who’ll look after the big house?’ says Grandma.
‘We’ll arrange something.’
‘But you’ve a business to run.’
‘We’ll manage. Won’t we, Ken?’
‘It would be our pleasure,’ Dad says, because he knows it is the right thing to say. ‘We insist.’
‘We’ll organise it right away,’ says Mum.
Mum drives to Grandma’s house and collects three boxes of stuff. We spend the rest of the evening unpacking the boxes and making cabin number two into a granny flat. I find an old black-and-white photo of Grandma and Grandpa at the seaside. Grandpa looks odd with his long floppy hair. I don’t recognise the beach in the photo. We set up Grandma’s computer. She says she doesn’t want to leave it in the big house on The Escarpment because burglars might take it. In one of the boxes is a bottle of multicoloured balls the size of marbles. Xander opens the bottle and takes out one of the balls. It’s a milky pink colour. Its surface is soft and dimpled. Intrigued, Xander rolls it between his fingers. Then he squeezes and the ball bursts open. Sweet-smelling goo oozes out. He wipes the perfumed mess on his shirt.
‘Alexander, please leave those things alone,’ says Grandma.
‘What are they?’ Xander asks.
‘Bath beads,’ says Grandma.
‘What are they for?’
‘You eat them with ice-cream.’
Mum has a minor panic attack. ‘Grandma’s making a joke, Xander. Don’t eat them. They’re probably poisonous.’
‘He knows I’m making a joke,’ says Gra
ndma. ‘Don’t be silly. He only pretends to be odd.’
When Grandma’s back is turned, Xander grabs a handful of the bath beads and stuffs them in his pocket. I don’t know why he wants them, but I’m sure he isn’t going to put them in the bath. In the bottom of the box is the little silver urn that contains Grandpa’s ashes. It’s a plain metal container with a wooden base and a screw top, the sort you’d find on a jar of pickles. It’s about twenty centimetres high. Grandma looks around, trying to find a suitable place for it.
‘I’ll look after it, if you like,’ Mum says.
‘No, I’d like to keep him here,’ Grandma says. She talks about the urn as though it is Grandpa himself. ‘Adam, could you move one of those chairs so that it’s facing the TV set?’
I move the chair until Grandma is satisfied. She carefully places the urn containing Grandpa’s ashes on it.
Mum shakes her head. ‘No, Mum, you can’t leave it there.’
‘Why not?’
‘Someone might sit on it.’
‘They’d have to be an idiot. I suppose Alexander might.’
‘Please put the urn somewhere else,’ says Mum.
‘I like it where it is.’
‘We are not leaving Dad out on a chair.’
Mum picks up the urn then looks around, trying to find a more suitable location. Where do you stick an urn full of ashes? Grandma takes the urn from Mum and places it back on the chair.
‘Reginald liked watching Sir David Attenborough,’ says Grandma. ‘I want him there.’
‘All right,’ says Mum. ‘And Xander has Asperger’s. Please don’t make fun of him.’
That night I ring Sam to see if there’s any hope for us after the disastrous thing that happened in the general store. I wonder if Sam is wearing tights and what colour they are. I don’t ask, in case she thinks I’m a tights-pervert.
‘Today was unfortunate,’ I say. ‘Can we just forget it happened? I liked talking with you.’
‘Me too,’ says Sam.
I get tingles. There is still hope.
‘We should go to a movie,’ Sam suggests.
I’m being given a second chance. Suddenly the world is a happier place where wildebeests can procreate happily and successfully.
‘You choose the movie,’ I say.
‘There’s a good one on at Flanders,’ says Sam.
‘Great.’
‘It’s pretty sad. You might not like it.’
‘I like sad movies,’ I insist. ‘The sadder the better. I only ever see movies that are sad.’
‘It’s called Eternal Winter. Do you want to go this weekend?’
‘I’ll have to make sure I’m not needed here. After all, I’m the assistant manager,’ I say. ‘And the possums might get diarrhoea.’
There is a pause as Sam wonders if I have lost my mind.
‘I’ll email you the session times,’ says Sam. ‘I should go now. I need to practise.’
‘I haven’t heard you play your flute yet,’ I say.
‘You will. But I’m no James Galway.’
‘That’s okay. Neither am I.’
Later that night in the darkness, Xander is lying in bed doing Sir David Attenborough impersonations about the miracle of migrating underpants.
‘Xander, go to sleep,’ I say.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s late and I have to start work early.’
‘But I’m being funny.’
‘Underpants are only funny for a little while, not for half an hour.’
Something lands on my face and startles me. For a moment I think it might be a giant moth. I brush it away then realise it isn’t a moth at all.
‘I am going to murder you,’ I say to Xander, tossing the thing back at him. ‘I am really going to murder you for throwing your underpants at me.’
‘I didn’t,’ says Xander. ‘They migrated.’
He laughs loudly. I toss the pants aside then lie back and think about next time I see Sam. I could really use the world’s funniest joke that makes people fall in love with you, but Grandpa died before he could tell it to me. I feel guilty for wishing Grandpa could be alive just to tell me a joke.
There is a loud bang as something lands on the roof.
‘The Martians have landed,’ says Xander.
‘With any luck they will abduct you,’ I say.
Xander and I pull on our shorts and run outside to see what caused the noise. Grandma is in her dressing gown, throwing stones at something neither of us can see.
‘Go away!’ she yells.
Holiday-makers are calling out to her to be quiet.
‘Go away, you wretched possums!’ she yells.
Mum appears, wearing her tracksuit. She has a quick word with Grandma, who drops a stone to the ground.
‘I’m very sorry about this,’ says Mum, to the disturbed holiday-makers. ‘Everything is under control.’
On the second night of her stay, Grandma again throws stones and swears at the possums. Some of the guests wake up and swear at her. I think I’d prefer Martians. Mum appears and gently directs Grandma back to her cabin. The guests retreat and close their doors. Dad watches, shaking his head. I have never seen a more troubled look on Dad’s face, which is bad for someone who works in the hospitality business.
Saturday comes. Sam and I have arranged to see Eternal Winter. I’d prefer to see a movie with special effects, but I don’t mind, provided Sam and I get to hold hands again. We may even have our first proper kiss. I think about this as I help to prepare the breakfasts with Mum and nearly burn my fingers on the industrial toaster. Then the phone rings. I can tell the call is coming from cabin number two, where Grandma is staying. I pick up and do my best hospitality business voice.
‘Reception. How may I help you?’
‘Hello Georgia.’ Grandma is on the line. How can she think I’m Mum?
‘It’s me, Adam.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘I’m thirsty,’ says Grandma. ‘Could you please bring me some juice?’
‘Sure. What juice would you like?’
‘Apricot.’
‘Sorry, Grandma, we have only orange, apple or pineapple,’ I say.
‘No apricot juice?’
‘Only orange, apple or pineapple.’ There is a pause.
‘Do you have mango?’ asks Grandma.
‘No,’ I say. ‘And we don’t have wombat juice.’
‘You really should have mango juice. It’s unprofessional not to.’
‘I’m sorry, but we don’t.’
‘I can see a lady from my window and she’s drinking mango juice.’
‘It’s probably orange juice.’
‘What about blackcurrant?’
‘Only orange, apple or pineapple. Can I bring you some orange juice?’
‘Please. But tell your parents they should have a wider range of juices.’
‘I’ll tell them.’
The toast is coming off the conveyor belt and piling up. Mum has the radio on, as she does every morning. The presenter tells a joke and I try to listen as I deal with the toast. His jokes are usually good, but not as good as Grandpa’s. This morning it’s one I’ve heard before. ‘A burglar breaks into a house after the owners have left. He’s about to take the computer, when he hears a voice. “Jesus is watching.” He thinks he must be hearing things, and he bundles the computer into his bag. Then he hears the voice again. “Jesus will punish you.” He shivers. Then he sees a parrot in a cage and breathes a sigh of relief. He creeps over to the parrot and says, “Did you say that?” The parrot says, “Yes.” The thief is curious. “What’s your name?” he asks. “Moses,” says the parrot. “What sort of person would call a parrot Moses?” the burglar asks. The parrot replies, “The same person who called that Rottweiler behind you Jesus.” ’
Grandma rings again to remind me that she is thirsty and asks if I think that she’s a camel. I reply that I’m pretty sure she isn’t.
‘Then please bring me something to drink,’ she says. ‘Even if it’s just orange juice, which will probably make me sick.’
After the breakfasts are served, a shy couple enters the office. They have been staying with us for three nights. Nathan says they look like tarsiers, wide-eyed monkeys from Borneo.
‘Our two children are concerned about the old lady,’ says the father. ‘They think she might be a witch.’
I chuckle and Mum shoots me her glare, the one that can kill flies mid-flight.
‘It seems a strange thing for an elderly woman to do. Throwing stones like that,’ says the father.
‘I’m very sorry,’ says Mum. ‘My mother is upset. She lost her husband not long ago.’
The guests are sympathetic. They offer their condolences and Mum thanks them. But before they leave, the mother asks, ‘It won’t happen again, will it?’
‘You have my word it won’t,’ says Mum. ‘Please enjoy the rest of your stay at The Ponderosa.’
Marika and I push the trolley laden with buckets and sponges and other cleaning products towards cabin number two. Grandma has taken her carrier bag and gone out for a walk to the store. Marika and I start cleaning the cabin. Working with Marika is like working with someone who lives in another dimension. It’s impossible to get through to her, even though I try. I ask Marika if she has a grandmother like mine. Marika replies that she is saving up to have liposuction because she doesn’t like her thighs. She says it’s genetic. All the women in her family have big thighs.
Marika picks up the urn.
‘Put that down,’ I gasp. ‘My grandpa’s ashes are in there.’
‘My mother has the biggest thighs of all,’ says Marika, calmly putting down the urn on its chair.
Marika is incredible. Not even an urn full of human ashes is enough to distract her from the endless dramas of her life.
When she returns from the general store, Grandma calls me over. She’s carrying something that I don’t recognise.
‘Adam, I need you to do me a favour,’ she says.
‘Sure.’
‘Could you set this up for me?’
I realise that Grandma has bought a possum trap. I try to hide it, so she doesn’t get arrested.