Spin Cycle (24 page)

‘Can I help you?'

‘I've lost my daughter.' I swallow and try to get my voice under control. ‘She's five years old, about so high, shortish blonde hair in a bob, wearing denim overalls with a pink windcheater underneath, it's got Spot on it – not
a
spot but Spot, the dog, you know – from the TV. Actually, he's more a puppy than a dog and he's yellow with a brown spot on him which is why he's called Spot and he's –'

‘Okay, okay. It's okay, ma'am. I'll just call it out over the intercom.' The adolescent speaks to me in a soothing tone as if she thinks I'm nearing hysteria. ‘We'll find her, don't you worry. What's her name?'

‘CJ – Christine Jain, that is, but she doesn't get called that very often so she probably wouldn't answer to that so CJ is better …' I force myself to wind down while the assistant waits patiently. I suddenly feel like I am being totally condescended to by a girl not that much older than the one I have lost, but I don't care at the moment. I scan the crowd for a possible sighting as the intercom crackles to life.

‘There is a little lost girl in the store. She is five years old and answers to CJ. Because it's her name. She is wearing denim overalls and a pink windcheater with a spot on it. Could anyone seeing CJ please bring her to the enquiries counter, her mother is
very
worried.'

Now everybody passing the enquiries counter pauses to give me the once-over (so
that's
the
very
worried mother who not only dresses her strangely
named child in soiled clothing but also manages to lose her into the bargain, how
very
careless). At least, with only about four hours' sleep under my belt, I look suitably drawn and haggard.

‘What colour did you say her hair was?' The acneed adolescent is leaning over the counter looking at me thoughtfully.

‘Blonde.'

‘In a bob?'

‘Yes, that's right!'

‘With overalls and a pink windcheater?'

‘Yes, yes, yes!'

‘Like the one over there by that trolley?'

I whip around and there, by my abandoned trolley, stands CJ with a lettuce in each hand and an angelic smile on her face.

‘CJ, my god! Where have you been?'

‘Here.'

‘You have
not
! I've been looking everywhere!' It's funny how during the whole time that she was missing, all I wanted to do was hug her but now that's she's in front of me, it is taking all of my willpower not to slap her stupid.

‘We-ell, I thought you said get a loaf of bread so I went all the way ober there and then I thought you pro'bly said lettuce, so I walked all the way back. I saw Joel! From kinder! With his mum, ober there.' She waves airily in the general direction of the frozen meats, which is incidentally nowhere near either lettuce
or
bread.

‘How
could
you think I said “loaf of bread” when I said “lettuce”!' I grab her with one hand (and I am
not
letting go), the trolley with the other and turn to the adolescent, who appears to be vastly amused by this little vignette of parenthood: ‘Thanks for your help, I appreciate it.'

I yank CJ behind me while we finish the shopping. This actually takes a lot longer than usual because (a) it is extremely difficult to steer the trolley
and
hang on to her, (b) she keeps interrupting my concentration to protest her innocence and the fact that ‘lettuce' does sound like ‘loaf of bread', and (c) I keep getting stopped by helpful souls asking whether that is the little girl who is lost and am I taking her up to the enquiries counter? Actually, I believe that they think I was attempting a kidnap because of my menacing expression, vice-like grip, and her obvious reluctance to be anywhere near me.

Naturally, I pick the slowest check-out lane
and
find myself beside Joel's mother, who proceeds to regale me with stories she has heard of various lost children (naturally, not her own –
her
children do not wander). And do I realise how drawn I look? I've obviously had a nasty shock and I really should go home and have a strong cup of tea, with perhaps just a smidgen of scotch, not
too
much mind (do I
look
like I can't be trusted with a scotch bottle before lunch?), and then perhaps go straight to my bedroom and have a nice lie-down (I wish). And was that
really
me in the paper on Wednesday?

She is still talking after I have packed and paid for my groceries, so I interrupt her to bid her a brisk farewell and head out to the car park with relief. Surprising me yet again, Ben hops out of the car
when he sees me coming and pops the boot open. I park the recalcitrant trolley behind the car and strap CJ firmly into her seat before I even start helping Ben load the groceries into the boot. Because I've had enough – and I'm not taking
any
chances.

Gabriel Gaté would be proud of me. I have been stretching my culinary skills to the limit for over four hours now in preparation for tomorrow's shindig. I have prepared marinated steaks and non-marinated steaks, satay chicken, chilli chicken and teriyaki chicken, home-made hamburgers, a variety of rather daring kebabs, three different types of sausages, an assortment of palatable salads as far as the eye can see (certainly a lot more lettuce than I needed),
and
some mouth-watering desserts which would
never
feature in any Weight-Watchers' leaflet: pavlova, cheesecake, meringues and a sour-cream chocolate slice to die for. I have rolls and buns, chips and dips, pretzels and crackers.

I have wine, beer, soft-drinks and a fruit-juice punch with sliced strawberries and oranges just waiting to be plopped in when the timing is right. In fact, I have bought and prepared so much food that the fridge is majorly overloaded and the monthly
food budget is totally blown. But my cunning plan is to have enough food to keep each of the guest's mouths full for the entire duration of the barbecue, which, while admittedly unattractive, will negate the chances of any verbal confrontation taking place between the various combatants.

I have also checked the weather forecast and there is
no
rain on the horizon, or anywhere else within spitting distance. In fact, it's going to be a lovely mild day of around 17 degrees, which is the best we've had for quite a while. It's really more than I deserve – fancy planning a barbecue in winter. Sometimes I amaze myself.

I have also had the kids working hard all afternoon. Sam spends every Saturday morning working at the local hot bread shop but she pitched in along with the others as soon she got home. She has mowed the lawn to within an inch of the earth and Ben has trimmed the edges, cleaned the cages of his various livestock, and washed down the outdoor furniture. They have even tidied up the front verandah and used their own initiative to drag a very large potted umbrella tree around to hide the broken window. Now, as long as people stay out of the lounge-room itself, they won't even notice that it's damaged. Unfortunately, in their enthusiasm they also disposed of my ‘dangerous bird' sign, but I can always make another one. CJ started off as my helper but, when I objected strenuously to the amount of food she was splattering liberally onto the bench-top, cupboards an
d
my clothing, she decided to transfer her services to the outside workers. From where I am standing at
the kitchen window I can see all three of them bent over the garden beds, actually
working together
while performing veritable miracles with the weeding. Click! I take a mental snapshot and store it away carefully for my old age. It's moments like this that make everything else worthwhile.

I put on the kettle for a well-deserved cup of tea and watch the kids for a little while longer. From the time they were each born I have always received an almost guilty pleasure from watching them surreptitiously, through the kitchen window like now, or peeking into rooms where they have set up some elaborate game, or even quick looks through the classroom window at school after dropping them off. Furtive glimpses which reveal how they react and interact with themselves and their peers without me running interference. Suddenly they are individuals. And it's a glimpse into their personalities, which is sometimes really heartening, sometimes rather worrying, sometimes even totally gut-wrenching, but always irresistibly fascinating.

While I watch, Sam leans forward and passes something over to her little sister, who pops it into a glass jar. Probably a slater. CJ loves the ugly little critters and I'm always finding mummified remains around her bedroom. Or the cat is. I can hear that ridiculous dog next door going ballistic at the fence, probably trying to tear his way through. Ben throws a handful of weeds to one side and goes over to the fence where he squats down and starts to talk to the dog trapped on the other side. The yelping ceases immediately. Boy, do I wish I had that sort of power!

Sam and CJ haven't even looked up. Their two heads, one blonde and one dark, are now side by side peering into the glass jar to observe the activities of the inmates. I smile contentedly and reflect that I must have done
something
right. Apart from the occasional spat, my two girls get along very well together and even Ben seems to fit quite well into the equation. And when it is required, they do rise to the occasion and stick together. Look at Tuesday when I was delayed in town, or today when there is an enormous amount of work to be done in preparation for tomorrow. Yes, they are pretty good kids. And I love them dearly. If I'm going to start counting my blessings and being more positive about life then they come right at the top of the list of life's little blessings. And life's
big
blessings. Between the three of them they may have given me stretch marks and somewhat saggy boobs, but what the hell? What would I do with a perfect body anyway? And as for those extra wrinkles they've caused over the years, well, most of them are laugh lines that have been formed by watching their antics and smiling at them while they are asleep.

I decide that, now I have this unexpected break from work, I am definitely going to set aside some quality time to spend with them. Especially Benjamin. I shall try to share his interests a bit more; in fact I
will
even go on a tour of the garage with him and have a look at the inhabitants. I'll just have to have a stiff drink first, that's all, and hold my breath. But it is of vital importance that I break down the barriers, build on our bonds – and all
before February, when his father returns to stake a claim.

While I have been musing on the vagaries of parenthood, the ménage à trois and its temporary truce have broken up and, leaving a large pile of vegetation (including quite a few plants which look suspiciously un-weedlike) on the lawn, have departed for places and parts unknown. Well, unknown for approximately twenty-five seconds then, as usual, they pop up behind me.

‘Why're you staring out the window? Have you been
spying
on us?'

‘Mummy! Look at all my slaters!'

‘Sam's such a bitch.'

It has just occurred to me that Diane never rang to confirm her presence on the morrow. This has the potential to be positively catastrophic; I really
really
need her to act as a buffer between certain relatives and me. I'm quite willing to beg if required. Besides, I'm dying to find out how her family took her big news. Twins! I decide I'd better ring her.

I head to the phone in the hall and settle myself down for a chat. Unfortunately, David answers brusquely and informs me that she'll ring back as
soon as she is able. Don't tell me they're having another family discussion? My soft spot for my brother-in-law is beginning to harden. I was always aware that Diane spoilt her family but I never would have thought that they were this selfish. I hope to God that they soon start sharing in her delight, maybe a little, before it sours. They could at least pretend.

Maybe it's just as well if they don't come tomorrow. I don't know whether I could watch her pale face all afternoon without saying anything. Or maybe she could come and the rest of them can stay away if they can't handle what's going on. At least then Diane will get a little peace and quiet. I decide that, if she's still having problems, I'll suggest it. I just hope that she doesn't wait too long before she calls back. I'm planning on going to bed
very
early tonight. Sam, dressed in skin-tight black jeans and a minuscule red jumper, flits down the hallway and stops when she spots me sitting on the telephone stool.

‘I need to use the phone.'

‘Well, you can't. I'm waiting for a call.'

‘I need to ring Evan.'

‘What for? You'll see him tomorrow.'

‘But I need to ask him who he's bringing!'

‘Samantha! Your cousin is
not
bringing anyone and don't you dare tell him to!'

‘Why not?'

‘Because this is
not
a teenage social event! It's a
family
get-together!'

Samantha gives me a filthy look and stalks back down the hallway towards her room. Just as she gets
to the door, I hear a car pull into the driveway. It honks twice.

‘Sam, your lift's here! Don't forget your jacket!'

‘I know! I can hear!' She slams her bedroom door, hurries up the hallway and is halfway out the front door before she turns and drops a brief kiss on my cheek. ‘See you tomorrow.'

‘See you. Have fun, and don't ring your cousin from Sara's house. Oh, and grab a jacket!'

‘God, Mum, sometimes you're just like Hitler! I can't wait till Dad moves next door!' She casts yet another filthy look in my direction and slams the door behind her.

I grin despite myself. She is so transparent sometimes that just foiling her can make my day. Then again, I am really pleased that she gets on so well with her cousins. I can remember once, many moons ago, when a five-year-old Sam was granted the singular honour of being the only girl invited to Evan's sixth birthday party. The theme was monsters, and the pièce de résistance was when each of the party guests got to choose a particular monster from Evan's brand-new ‘Monster Club' book. Despite being given first choice, Sam rejected each of the monsters in turn, electing instead to become her own invention: Flora, the Flower Bunny. When the rest of the party guests expressed their disgust in no uncertain terms, her gallant cousin informed them that, if they insisted on picking on Flora, they would all have to go home. I still have Sam's official monster membership certificate somewhere – with ‘Flora, the Flower Bunny' printed on it loud and clear.