Spin Cycle (3 page)

Which brings me neatly back to my mother, and it's probably just as well that I don't tell her my big news as I just remembered that I never told her that I was seeing a therapist to begin with. My mother's stated opinion (much-stated opinion) is that only Americans and the insane see therapists. So I concentrate on tuning out, which is actually quite easy with my mother. Like most five-year-olds, she doesn't really require a verbal response. Just an occasional nod keeps her running like a well-oiled machine.

‘Are you paying attention?'

I come out of my reverie to see my mother gazing at me suspiciously so I nod frenetically.

‘Well, come on then and please don't dawdle.'

‘What about Diane? And Elizabeth?' But I am talking to her back as she has already stalked off in the direction of the servery. Reluctantly I pull myself out of my seat, grab my plate and follow her to the salad bar where she has already begun to carefully select lettuce leaves. I'm beginning to suspect that both my sisters have thrown me to the lions and aren't coming. I decide that I'll ignore my Weight-Watchers' booklet for today. I shall definitely need something a little bit more substantial as I'm always extremely hungry when I'm uncomfortable, or stressed, or under pressure, or … well, isn't eating one of life's small pleasures? You have to take them where you find them, that's for sure. So I decide to ignore the salad bar and instead have a lovely time finding a tray and extra crockery to use for a bowl of fragrant pumpkin soup, a selection of assorted fried foods, and I even manage to beat the portly gentleman to the
remaining potato wedges which are just begging for lashings of sour cream. I retire in triumph to our table and begin to enjoy the repast (I won't be allowed to eat for the rest of the week so I'd
better
enjoy it), leaving my mother complaining audibly to a harassed-looking waiter about some wedges in the cranberry sauce.

‘… not that I have any intention of partaking of cranberry sauce at
this
time of the year, but the sight of that … that unpalatable
slop
– I can really think of no more appropriate word – has affected my appetite and I think that you should be made aware that the whole ambience of the establishment is negated by this type of negligence and I consider it my
duty
as a patron … '

I tune out again and return to my original train of thought.

Despite the fact that my mother chooses to ignore the fact that I have been married twice and never mentions this to her friends (yes, amazingly she
does
have some), she herself has been married three times and yet is also single. Then again, all of her husbands have died (perhaps understandably) so she is therefore absolved of anything as demeaning as a divorce. Her first marriage lasted only six months and was terminated during the closing days of World War II. His name was Thomas something and all I know was that he was considerably older than her. The second marriage followed with rather unseemly swiftness and appears to have been more romantic. She was still only in her early twenties and Richard barely a year older. Unfortunately the illusion
of young love was shattered somewhat when it was revealed that the new husband volunteered for service in the Korean War as soon as it was possible.

And he never came back.

I only found out about these first two marriages by chance when once, as a teenager, I was searching through the filing cabinet for my birth certificate (I had a strong suspicion at the time that I was adopted) and found the relevant papers neatly bound in separate folders and filed under ‘D' (for ‘departed'). My two sisters and I are the result of her third marriage and probably owe our existence to the fact that there were no wars during the intervening years. Although I do have memories of some rather wistful looks worn by my father as he read about the Vietnam War, but by then it was too late, and he was too old.

When I came home from hospital after having Benjamin, my mother hammered another nail in the coffin of my marriage by deciding to come down to Melbourne and look after me in my hour of need. She left my father with casseroles in the freezer, starched overalls and strict instructions on how the farm was to be run in her absence.

Dad died of a heart attack the first night she was away.

Diane, my eldest sister, occasionally comments on the irony of it happening when he finally had an evening to himself. Personally, I believe that it was the shock of the peace that did it. After his death, my mother sold the farm and bought a unit in Ringwood, unfortunately just over a stone's throw away (unfortunate because if it were actually
within
stone throwing
distance, at least I would have gained a hobby).

‘… and I can't believe the lackadaisical attitude of that waiter, I tell you that I simply don't know what is the matter with restaurants these days, in my day a waiter knew what his job entailed and …' She has returned to her seat, given my choice of meal a withering glance, and continued her monologue without missing a beat. I nod to show that I am listening and tune out once more.

I am really quite fond of my mother (I firmly believe that one must retain a certain measure of affection for
anyone
who has breast-fed you in the past). However, she does have a few foibles that are rather difficult to take. The first, and most obvious, is that she imagines herself to be perfect when she really
is
basically a cantankerous old cow. Another is that she constantly refers to the refined upbringing with which she provided her children when, in actual fact, we grew up free range on a spectacularly unsuccessful farm in Castlemaine watching her attempt to browbeat the cows into giving extra milk. But I must admit she also has some rather amusing quirks, the weirdest of which
has
to be her hang-up with the afterlife.

One would imagine that treble marital tragedies would be enough to occupy any normal woman for a few decades (mine certainly have), but somehow my mother has managed to find a fresh concern. Always very religious and a believer in the doctrine that partners in life spend the afterlife together, basking in the glow of paradise as part of their blessed union, it has slowly dawned upon her that her three husbands present a rather large problem. Given half the chance (or
just a pause in conversation – any pause, any conversation) my mother will elaborate on the choices that face her at her hour of reckoning. How can she do what is fair? Indeed, exactly what
is
fair?

I strongly suspect that the recent early retirement of the parish priest is due in no small part to my mother's constant entreaties for a solution to her rather unusual problem. I myself just marvel at the woman's incredible egocentricity. How in hell (probably a bad choice of words) can she assume that these men (certainly the first two, who barely knew her and especially the last, who did) are lounging patiently against the pearly gates, just chatting with St Peter while waiting for her to turn up so that they can fight over who has the pleasure of spending eternity in her company?

‘… of course Diane was going to join us for this lunch but apparently those boys of hers were playing up again. I just don't know, in my day children knew exactly what was what and what they had coming if they so much as …'

I'm actually more than a bit annoyed with Diane for not turning up. She would have been happy to hear about my final session with the therapist as we have always been quite close, not all that surprising considering how much easier it is to face someone like our mother as a united front. Diane lives in Croydon, about nine or ten kilometres away, with her husband David, and their four teenage sons. David is a large, blonde, Nordic-looking guy and every one of the boys is a clone – only at various stages of growth. Their household is cosy, comfortable, extremely loud,
and very rough and tumble. All the boys are addicted to sport and girls (in that order) and Ben is about as comfortable there as Hitler would have been at a Bar Mitzvah.

‘… and well, Elizabeth did promise but we all know Elizabeth and I'm sure that she is very busy with …'

Yes, we all know Bloody Elizabeth and we have all been making the appropriate excuses for her for a long time. Elizabeth is the baby of our family, six years younger than me and still a continual surprise. She is unmarried, unskilled, untalented, unexceptional and a right royal pain in the … and the apple of my mother's eye.

‘… so I shall drop by Diane's house directly I leave here and I am sure that Elizabeth will phone tonight – but perhaps I should tell you anyway, as you are here …'

What
am
I doing here? What's wrong with me that I am sitting here while Diane is at home, probably relaxing on the couch and watching Oprah Winfrey (which I should definitely be doing now that I don't have a therapist anymore), and Elizabeth, well, we all know Bloody Elizabeth.

‘… so Harold and I thought that the thirteenth of February would be a good choice, being a Sunday and …'

What! February the thirteenth is my birthday! I realise that I must have missed something very important so I immediately reverse thrust and attempt to tune in.

‘… really like them both to be flower-girls, but I
thought long and hard and decided against a matron of honour as I didn't want either you or Diane to have your feelings hurt, so there will be just Elizabeth as the bridesmaid, she has never been a bridesmaid before so it's not unlucky and …'

Bloody Elizabeth! I bet she'll get a new dress. It is
so
typical that Diane and I miss out while she gets all the attention. Bridesmaid indeed! … Bridesmaid? … Bridesmaid … for whom?

‘… and so I'm getting married! Well, I shall assume that because you've not said anything, you're just pleasurably stunned, and so you should be! Do you know what the ratio of women is to men at my age? Do you have the least idea? Three to one! But never mind that now, let me tell you about the preliminary arrangements I've decided on for the flowers. I thought that a delicately pale petunia, or maybe a salmon pink with a slight …'

I have parked the car at the top of the driveway, even though I would dearly like to be able to park it in the garage. Unfortunately the garage could not accommodate a Morris Minor, let alone a vintage Holden, and even if I could squeeze it in, the chances are that is where it would stay for the rest of its days (though
admittedly there are probably not all that many of them left). The garage is now home to miscellaneous bikes, boxes, tools, an old fridge and a recuperating galah with a personality disorder. I rarely enter the garage anymore as the galah tends to attack me. Ben wants to be a vet eventually and has a rather distressing habit of practising his skills on unsuspecting wildlife. Yet instead of giving our property a judiciously wide berth, idiotic birds and animals home in on us in plague proportions. In the case of the galah, it was actually trapped (by Ben) in the backyard and since its forced recuperation (read incarceration), it seems to have decided that life in the wild is not all that wild after all.

CJ scrambles out of the car while I decoy the vicious hellhound from next door and relieve my pent-up aggression by practising my soccer skills and lobbing the damn animal towards the centre of the ‘O' in the FOR SALE sign adorning its front garden. The reason it fits so perfectly into an ‘O' is that it is a very small chihuaha-cross, but a very small chihuahua-cross that is perfectly capable of putting a large pack of feral Dobermans to flight.

Just as I congratulate myself on my marksmanship, the dog, accompanied by the affronted yells of its approaching owner, launches itself back into full attack. I race to check the mailbox and haul out what looks like a handful of bills. I promptly decide to postpone the thrill of opening the mail until the evening, when hopefully I will have had a few drinks to anaesthetise myself … and I won't have a six-inch hound from hell aiming to gnaw its way through my
left Achilles tendon. I run to unlock the front door and CJ and I hurriedly enter and slam it safely shut behind us before abandoning our temporary truce.

I lean against the wall to catch my breath. But the idea of moving further into the house makes the ongoing battle with the neighbour and his vicious canine almost seem a preferable option. The view from the hallway looks very much like World War III was fought – and lost – within the various rooms. I sigh deeply, shrug my coat off and hang my bag on the hat-stand – which immediately topples over and strikes me on the crown of my head. With remarkable self-control I get off my knees and pick my bag up from the floor before adjusting the hat-stand and hanging my bag on the other side. Holding my head with one hand I reach the other out to CJ but she has already ascertained that I am not in need of her kindergarten first-aid training and has turned her back.

CJ has not been speaking to me since I inadvertently let drop that I had lunch with her revered Grandma while she had kindergarten. I tried to tell her that I would gladly have swapped but this has not made any difference. She deliberately neglects to give me any of the kinder paintings she has tucked under her arm (and the fridge really needed another one), and marches off to her room, no doubt to package them up for her father.

Well, if she's going to sulk, I'm just going to let her. After all, it's my day off and it has
not
been particularly relaxing thus far so I might as well take advantage of the peace and quiet and do something for myself. I could give myself a facial, take a few aspirin, clean the laundry
window, read a book, write a book, leap on the exercise bike or even spend some quality time staring at myself in the mirror and wondering why my life is going rapidly down the toilet. Instead of any of this, I negotiate my way into the lounge-room where I turn the heater on high and warm my hands for a few minutes. Then I take a deep breath, stop putting off the inevitable and head into the kitchen. I stare miserably at the mess that awaits me. The hypothetical facial will have to wait;
now
I know how my free afternoon will be spent. Why is it that some people have houses that always look immaculate no matter what? My best friend, Teresa, is like that. She never seems to spend any time at all doing housework yet her place could grace the pages of
Home Beautiful
at a minute's notice. I, on the other hand, would need a year's advance warning
and
one of those miracle-working teams from television.