Drip Dry (17 page)

‘More likely you're a captive audience.'

‘This is true. Anyway, what else has been happening? Apart from Mum, that is.'

‘Nothing much – really.' I give my sister a look of pure innocence. ‘The bathroom floor and the nits are probably the highlight of our week so far. Oh, and Phillip came over last night – but only to have a look at Ben's sick rabbits.'

‘What, have you been feeding them?'

‘
No
! Why is it that everyone holds me responsible every time an animal gets sick around our house?'

‘Britney just disappeared, Auntie Diane, it wasn't Mummy's fault.'

‘Yes, I know
all
about what happened to poor Britney.' Diane gives me a rather sardonic smile because she does, in fact, know all about what happened to poor Britney. At least it was a clean kill.

‘Sam and Ben were going to come in after school today, Diane, but I don't think I'll be coming in again – especially if you're getting out by Saturday.'

‘That's fine. I don't blame you. Look, Maggie sent some flowers yesterday.' Diane turns and gestures at a large floral arrangement sitting on the metal cabinet beside her bed. ‘And she's probably dropping in tonight as well.'

‘That's nice of her.'

‘Yes – and that reminds me! You haven't told me about Alex yet!'

‘What about him?'

‘Come
on
.' Diane looks at me with a slight frown. ‘You know – has he changed, is he fat, or old, or wrinkled? Is he pleased to be next door? Are the kids thrilled? Tell me everything and anything.'

‘There's nothing much to tell, actually,' I say with my wide-eyed innocent look firmly back in place. ‘He looks older, but still the same, if you know what I mean. Not fat, or particularly wrinkled. I think he was shocked about the house to start with, but he's settling in. And the kids are thrilled, I think. That's it.'

‘
That's
it?'

‘Yep, that's it.'

‘Do you know,' she says slowly as she gives me a searching look, ‘I don't think I believe you.'

‘It's the truth!' I say, lying through my teeth. I look across at CJ, who is following this exchange with considerable interest, and then back at Diane, who immediately jumps to the wrong conclusion.

‘Oh!
I
get it.' She gives me a conspiring wink. ‘Later. Little pitchers and all that.'

‘There. Is. Nothing. To. Tell.'

‘Okay, sure.' Diane smiles at CJ and then nods surreptitiously at me.

Sighing heavily, I decide to give up. ‘Anyway, we have to get going. What do you want me to do with this baby?'

‘Oh. Just pop her into her crib. Here, I'll get it.' Diane reaches over and pulls one of the wheeled metal trolleys towards the bed with one hand. ‘Go on, pop her in.'

I lean forwards and place Regan gingerly within the perspex crib. Then I tuck her bunny-rug around
her tightly and look at her after she is settled, willing her to wake up so that I can see whether I was merely imagining the likeness the other day. As if she knows what I am thinking, she suddenly opens her slate-grey eyes. The resemblance is uncanny. In fact, I don't think I would be surprised if Regan suddenly opened her mouth and began to lecture me on my outfit, my hairstyle – my life in general. But there is something about her resolute gaze and the stubborn set of her little mouth that is quite appealing, in an odd sort of way.

Diane pulls the other trolley over and I turn my attention away from Regan and lift Robin carefully out of CJ's reluctant arms then lower her in, tucking her up as securely as her sister.

‘There you go, you little sweetie.'

‘Bye-bye, Robin. Bye-bye, Regan.' CJ stands between the two trolleys looking from one baby to the other. ‘Auntie Diane, are they 'dentical?'

‘Not really, CJ, but –' Diane turns and gives me a hard look – ‘they do look very much like each other, don't they?'

‘No, they don't,' CJ says emphatically and then frowns in concentration, ‘because Robin's face is too reddish, and Regan –'

‘Yes?' I ask with interest.

‘Regan looks like –'

‘
Yes
?'

‘Regan looks just like my Mummy!'

1.00 pm

‘There is a little lost boy in the store. He is three years old and dressed in jeans and a Sydney Swans t-shirt. And he answers to the name of Jordan. Could anybody finding Jordan please bring him to the service counter – his mother is quite concerned.'

Fancy letting your child wander off like that. Fancy actually
losing
said child. Fancy letting a child go out in public wearing a Sydney Swans t-shirt. I quickly look around to ascertain the exact location of my own child and, after I spot her, I continue pushing and pulling my recalcitrant supermarket trolley down the cereal aisle. Why can't I ever end up with a trolley that has (a) four wheels (b) four wheels that actually turn and (c) four wheels that actually turn in a fluid forward motion?

‘C'n we hab this, Mummy?'

‘Let me see the label.' I take the box of cereal from CJ and read through the list of ingredients. ‘It says here that there is enough sugar in each spoonful to feed a small third-world country for a year.'

‘Really?'

‘No. And no.' I put the box back on the shelf and take another one down. ‘What about this one – it looks really good.'

‘Yuck! It's got bits in it!'

‘Yeah, you're right.' I put that box back as well. Actually it was only the price that looked really
good – the picture on the cover looked like pre-digested chook food. I tug the trolley along as I examine the boxes on display and the prices underneath. The trick is to find a neat compromise between the two.

‘Oh, look!' CJ spots an intricately arranged pyramid of cereal boxes at the end of the aisle. ‘These are my berry fabourites!'

‘Really?' To my knowledge we have never had this particular brand but who am I to argue? I take a box carefully from the top of the pyramid. CJ grasps one in the very middle and, with some difficulty, manages to force it out. I'll say one thing for her, she's persistent. With consummate skill, I thrust my box into the gaping hole left by the removal of
her
box and thus prevent the toppling of the precarious pyramid.

‘Do you think you could be a little more careful?' I ask her rhetorically as I take the box from her hands and have a look at the ingredients label.

‘That was
my
box,' she says crossly and reaches out her hand towards the middle of the pyramid again. I grab her fingers mid-stretch and hold them firmly while I continue reading.

‘Okay, this'll do.' I toss the cereal box into the trolley and, still holding CJ securely by one hand, wrestle the trolley around the corner and into the next aisle, away from temptation. And straight into my ex mother-in-law.

‘Oh, my god – it's you! I mean, hi!'

‘Nannie!'

‘Why
hello
, Christine dear. And hello, Camilla. How are you?'

‘Fine! Just fine. And yourself?'

‘Good, thank you.'

‘Nannie!' CJ transfers her hand from mine to her grandmother's, and stands there smiling up at her. Now, if it had been
my
mother she had met unexpectedly, CJ would have flung herself on her grandparent with such wild abandon that she probably would have knocked her flying across the aisle. But even though she seems fond of Keith's mother, she is also far more reserved in her company. Which is rather odd considering that my mother is the one who is constantly carrying on about manners, and decorum, and the reprehensible lack of control exhibited by the young of today, while I cannot imagine Keith's mother lecturing her grandchildren about anything. But then I suppose she would consider such behaviour ‘getting involved'. And she certainly won't do that.

‘And how are you, dear?' She presses CJ's hand within her own and bends down to face her granddaughter. ‘I haven't seen you for a while, have I?'

‘No, Nannie, not for
ages
!'

‘Are you having a day off from school?'

‘No, I had nits. So Mummy had to keep me home because she fell through the floor.'

‘I see,' says Keith's mother, scratching her head. ‘Nits, you say?'

Christine McNeill Snr is a plump, white-haired, rather harassed-looking woman in her late sixties whose face, despite the plumpness, always looks pinched and drawn. This could be because she habitually acts like the worries of the world have been handed to her on a plate (and whereas my mother
would immediately set about categorising the worries in a list, Keith's mother would be more inclined to just wash the plate and then reload it). She starts to indulge in some small talk with her granddaughter and CJ grasps the opportunity to fill her in regarding her birthday, and her nits, and our temporarily absent bathroom floor. I stand there watching the touching reunion with a stiff smile on my face and feeling rather awkward.

I haven't seen or heard from either James or Christine McNeill since Keith and I went through our less than amicable separation. I did phone them at the time because I thought the right thing to do would be to reassure them that, although our marriage was over, they were still welcome to drop in anytime to visit their youngest grand-daughter exactly as they always had. But apparently that would be ‘getting involved' and, as Christine gently but firmly informed me,
that
was something they would not do. So they only see CJ when Keith feels like taking her around there, which obviously hasn't been for a while. Their choice.

‘Well, I had better get a move on, dear. So lovely to see you both again.' Keith's mother gently disengages CJ's hand and gives me a rather polite smile.

‘Likewise. You're looking well.' I smile politely back and lie through my teeth because I can't really think of what else to say. But CJ hasn't finished yet.

‘Nannie, did you get me a birthday present?'

‘CJ,' I say quickly, ‘that's not polite!'

‘I'm only asking!'

‘That's all right, dear. I'll have a little something for
you next time you visit, never you mind. What about a new whistle? A really
loud
new whistle?'

‘Oh, I love whistles!'

‘Likewise,' I say tightly, giving the woman a searching look. Could it be that under that docile exterior is a spiteful, vindictive female who is just a little more subtle than my own mother?

‘Wonderful,' replies Christine, smiling straight at me. ‘That's settled then.'

‘CJ, say thank you.' I stare back at the woman to let her know I'm not perturbed.

‘But I can't coz I habn't got it yet!'

‘That's not the point –'

‘That's fine, Christine dear. You can save the thank-you for when you visit me.'

We say our goodbyes and part company. I watch her retreating back and wonder if it is easier to go through life ‘not getting involved'. Certainly she doesn't seem particularly concerned to be missing out on such a lot of CJ's childhood, so maybe the philosophy works for her. But I think it's a bit selfish because it does entail a cost for others. Apart from what
CJ
has missed out on in terms of a close relationship with her paternal grandparents,
I
was actually quite hurt when she and James cut me off so abruptly. I had naively thought that we got on quite well and would be able to continue getting on quite well after the separation, as long as we didn't discuss Keith. It wasn't as if I was asking them to take sides or anything.

But perhaps they were merely playing it safe, and Keith
is
their son, after all. All I know is that
I personally find it difficult to understand, probably because playing it safe and not getting involved are not two of my strong suits. I simply can't help getting involved – it seems to be one of my talents in life. Even when I'm trying desperately
not
to get involved, it seems to just happen regardless. Alex, for example. This thought brings me back to earth with a thud and I close my eyes briefly and put my hand on my forehead. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.

‘Hab you got a headache, Mummy?'

‘Yes, CJ. A really big one that won't go away.'

‘Poor Mummy. Hey! You know those maths tablets? You should hab them on your list. But can you get me two lots? I told Mrs James about them and she said they sounded like a great idea and she needed some as well. So can we get her some too?'

‘CJ, they weren't maths tablets. They were for something else.'

‘That's not what you said the other day. You said they were for adding up stuff. That makes them maths tablets. And if you won't get them for me then I can't gib any to Mrs James and she asked for them.'

‘Well, I can't get them. Because there's no such thing.' I look at CJ, who has crossed her arms over her chest and has that set look on her face I know so well. ‘Look, let me explain. It's like this –'

‘Mummy?'

‘What?'

‘Can I go to the toy aisle and meet you there?'

‘Don't you want me to explain?'

‘No.'

‘Oh, all right. Um.' I check which aisle we are in
and mentally calculate how long CJ will be without supervision. ‘All right – but no touching, do you hear? Only looking!'

‘Yeay!' She abandons me and my headache, and races off towards the toy aisle. I take out my grocery list and try to work out some correlation between it and what is actually in my trolley. There is none. And
that
is why you don't take children shopping. And, I suppose, don't go shopping when it is past lunchtime and you are on the verge of fainting with hunger. I resolve to stick to the list from now on and not to deviate unless it is strictly necessary. So I stroll slowly down that aisle and up the next one, successfully preventing the trolley from making a sharp left-hand turn either into the laden shelves or into a passing shopper. Occasionally I pause to place an item from the list (and a couple of ones which aren't on the list but definitely fit the ‘strictly necessary' category) into the trolley. My stomach rumbles. As I turn the corner into the aisle with the small display of assorted toys, I can see CJ kneeling in front of a shelf full of Barbies. In fact, she appears to be talking to them. I, and my trolley, move towards her as quietly as the retarded wheels will permit.

‘– and there's plenty of room. We eben hab a big hole in the bathroom floor so we can go exploring, and we hab some rabbits, and a big puppy, and I'm going to get a cute fluffy kitten one day. My mummy is berry nice too – sometimes she yells but she gibs berry good cuddles. And she's got big boobies. So you can come home with us, but only if you want to.'

‘Even if they want to, no Barbies are coming home with us.'

‘Mummy!' CJ jumps in surprise but recovers quickly. ‘I wasn't talking to the Barbies, silly. But look at this!' She stands up to show me the doll she is holding, which is dressed in a weird combination of imitation leather mini-skirt and thigh-length plastic boots. It even has what look like several body piercings and a butterfly tattoo on the left shoulder blade. The label reads ‘Biker Barbie' but I think it would be more appropriately named ‘Bondage Barbie'.

‘Definitely not,' I reply with disgust. ‘It's revolting.'

‘It's
not
rebolting! And anyway, I hab my birthday money!'

‘Doesn't matter. Besides, you don't seriously want to spend some of that on
another
Barbie, do you?'

‘Oh,
yes
!' She clasps Bondage Barbie to her chest and looks at me imploringly.

‘But you just got three new Barbies for your birthday!'

‘But I
need
this one!'

‘No. Definitely not.'

‘Mummy! It's
my
money!'

Well, that attitude isn't going to get her very far in life. I sigh heavily and give Bondage Barbie a filthy look. She gives me a filthy look straight back. As I am mustering up my resources for another attack, I hear a strange rustling sound coming from behind the toy display shelf. I peer closer but can't see anything. The shelf is overloaded with toys of every shape and size, and backs onto the shelving in the adjacent aisle. The rustling noise is coming from somewhere in between
the two sets of shelving. I pull a couple of stuffed beanie bears off their hangers and peer into the gap. Still can't see anything, but I can distinctly hear some heavy breathing.

‘You're wrecking things, Mummy – you're going to get in big trouble.'

‘Can't you hear that?' I squat down on my haunches and tug a highly muscled action figure out of the way to try and see what's behind it.

‘Of course I can. It's that little boy. He wants to come home and lib with us.'

Now that I have created a rather large gap, I lean in and peer through. Two large, frightened blue eyes peer unblinking back at me.

‘Hello,' I say politely. ‘And what are you doing in there?'

‘This is my Mummy.' Still clutching Bondage Barbie firmly with one hand, CJ squats down and makes the formal introduction. The blue eyes start to blink rapidly and fill with tears.

‘It's okay,' I say soothingly, ‘would you like to come out now?'

The little boy shakes his head frenetically and puts his thumb in his mouth. I can see him much more clearly now. He has managed to squeeze himself in between the two sets of shelving and is sitting cross-legged with an opened packet of chocolate biscuits on his lap. Chocolate is smeared across his face and through his hair, while brown fingerprints obscure the logo on his Sydney Swans t-shirt. I know better than attempting to force him out so I swivel around to try and find someone to help.

In the few minutes that I have been squatting here, seemingly talking to a shelf of toys, I have become quite an object of interest. Several shoppers have paused with their trolleys and are staring at my odd performance. Two women at the end of the aisle have stopped altogether and are obviously discussing the advisability of continuing up an aisle containing a woman whose stability seems to be open to question. As I turn and look around generally, the two at the end immediately cease their discussion and reverse their trolleys out and around the corner. The shoppers already in the aisle hurriedly break eye contact with me and busy themselves with their shopping. I fight down a sudden desire to start twitching spasmodically and really give them something to worry about.