I hang just out of sight of the hallway so I can hear what Dad’s saying. He does his best to talk Gran out of coming, even suggesting that he and Mum could visit her in Queensland instead when Mum’s up to it, but she won’t budge. I’ve heard about what Gran was like when Mum was growing up, so I don’t know why she’s decided to come over all maternal now. My theory is that it’s guilt.
Here’s how Gran’s annual stay with us usually goes:
Sunday (day before arrival): Mum in a complete tizz; recleans the already clean kitchen and bathroom; begs Ziggy to tidy his room; tells me to pack up my essential items and move them to her study, where I’ll be sleeping on the sofa bed. Dad hides in his study.
Monday: Mum picks Gran up at airport. When we get home they’re still all smiles and how-lovely-to-see-yous. Gran tells stories about when Mum was little; Mum pretends to be embarrassed, but you can tell she’s loving it. They drink endless cups of tea. Dad hides in his study.
Wednesday: Mum and Gran still smiling, but through slightly thinner lips. Mum suggests a visit to the art gallery/museum/State Library; they’re back before we get home from school. Gran tells us how rubbish whatever exhibition they saw was while Mum bangs pots and slams kitchen drawers. Dad still hiding.
Friday: Gran insists on cooking family dinner, refuses to pay extra for organic and won’t let Mum shop for her. Mum looks at every forkful before putting it in her mouth, as if she can see the toxins oozing out of it. Dad keeps his eyes down and cleans his plate.
Saturday: Atmosphere so tense you could carve it. Gran refuses to go on any more outings, sits in living room knitting and calling for endless cups of tea. Mum cleans. Dad hides in his study.
Sunday: Mum and Gran hug each other tersely at the door. Dad takes Gran to airport. Mum starts breathing again.
After the last disastrous visit, I asked Mum why she keeps inviting Gran to stay, since it never ends well. She told me it was complicated and that I’ll understand when I become a mother, myself. I said that if she turns into a pain in the bum like Gran, I won’t have her over. She told me to go to my room.
When Dad comes back to the kitchen his face is ashen. “We’ve got some serious cleaning to do in the morning,” he says gravely. “Right now, I need the soothing strains of Bach.” He gets Boris’s cat treats from their hiding place in the breadbin and walks slowly from the room, like a prisoner on his way to the gallows.
Dad’s knocking wakes me. “It’s seven o’clock, time to get up,” he calls through the door. He does the same outside Ziggy’s room.
I’m so tired I can barely open my eyes. Dan didn’t call until almost eleven and it was after one when we finally hung up. I told him about my friends’ reactions to the news about Mum (leaving out the bits about crying in my undies in the change room and Siouxsie’s snarky comments), and about Jay being so nice to me and Mum seeming a little better and Dad freaking out about Gran coming. What I really wanted to say was that I wished he’d been there, but even though we were on the phone for two hours there never seemed to be the right moment for it. Our call ended abruptly when Dr Phil, having got up to go to the loo, heard Dan talking and barged into his room to blast him.
I force myself out of bed and into the shower. When I get to the kitchen Dad greets me by pouring a lumpy ladleful of batter into the frying pan on the stove.
“A small token of my appreciation for you and Ziggy getting the house ready for your gran,” he says, mistaking my expression of horror for curiosity.
“Have you thought of a way to break the news to Mum?” I ask as I pour the pulpy dregs from the orange juice carton into a glass.
“I’ve considered the options and I think the bandaid approach is best: get it done as quickly and cleanly as possible and be prepared for screaming.” Even as Dad says it, he seems scared.
Ziggy finally gets up after Dad’s called him another three times. He comes to the kitchen wearing only his boxer shorts and sits down at the table as if this is perfectly normal.
“You can’t eat breakfast in your underwear,” I tell him.
Ziggy examines his bare chest and flexes his arms to admire his biceps. “Why not?”
“It’s unhygienic, for starters. And off-putting for the rest of us. You know Mum’d have a fit if she was here.”
“Well, she’s–”
“Enough,” says Dad, passing Ziggy a plate and motioning to the stack of pancakes on the table. “We have a lot to do and not much time.”
Ziggy gives me a shit-eating grin. It disappears when he tips the syrup bottle and only a single drop comes out.
“I can’t eat looking at that,” I say, nodding towards Ziggy as I push my plate away.
“Fine,” says Dad. “Let’s just get on with this, please. Thelma will be here in less than four hours.”
“Biggie’s mum is picking me up at ten,” announces Ziggy, switching his plate for mine and cutting off a chunk of syrup-soaked pancake.
“Not if you haven’t finished your half of the cleaning,” I tell him. “I’m not doing this on my own.”
Dad pulls the chore roster off the fridge. “That’s right, everyone has to do their share, and a bit more since Mum and I won’t be here. I think you should give bedrooms and studies a miss and just concentrate on the living areas. Agreed?”
“Yes!” says Ziggy.
“But I still have to get my room ready for Gran,” I point out. “And make up the sofa bed in Mum’s study. Ziggy should have to take on something extra, too.”
“It’s not my fault you have to switch rooms,” says Ziggy, stuffing another big chunk into his mouth.
“Yes, it is. If your room wasn’t a complete biohazard, Gran could stay there and you could sleep downstairs.” I study the roster to check which of this week’s allotted tasks I hate the most. “Ziggy should have to do the bathroom, as well.”
“Be a sport, Zig,” says Dad. “We all have to pitch in while Thelma’s here. Do it for Mum, eh?”
Ziggy looks as if Dad’s guilt trip has done the trick, until he spots my previous roster amendment that put him on kitty litter duty. “No deal. Mrs Biggie’s taking us to the indoor climbing range and I’m not missing it just because Freia’s got her panties in a wad.”
I give Dad my best are-you-going-to-let-him-get-away-with-that look, but he’s too busy draining his coffee mug. “I have to get to the hospital,” he says. “Fray, I’m leaving this in your capable hands. Zig, please do your share and stop talking about your sister’s underwear.” He kisses each of us on the head and pulls his car keys from his pocket.
“You could at least put your dishes in the dishwasher,” I call after him.
“I guess whoever’s down for cleaning the kitchen will have to do that,” says Ziggy, holding up the roster. “Oh, look, it’s you.”
“If you want to go climbing, you’d better get every chore on that list done, and done properly,” I say, stacking Dad’s plate on top of mine and standing to take them to the dishwasher.
Ziggy’s face goes from smug to furious in an instant. He stands up and leans over me, which – since he’s now taller than Dad – forces me to crane my neck to avoid being up close and personal with his bare chest.
“You are not my mother and you do not tell me what to do,” he says in a low snarl, like a dog protecting a bone.
I remember what Vicky told us about how to get away from a dangerous animal without being attacked, and keep my eyes locked on Ziggy’s until he takes a step back and leaves the room. My heart is pounding.
After I’ve cleaned the kitchen and dusted and vacuumed the living room, I set about removing anything even vaguely incriminating from my room. It’s not that I think Grandma Thelma would go through my things but … well, actually, yes, I do. During one of our you-don’t-respect-my-privacy fights last year, Mum told me that when she was my age Gran used to go into her bedroom while she was at school and read her diary and look through her drawers. She meant that I should be grateful that she only eavesdropped on my phone calls and checked my homework, but all it did was make me suspicious of Gran.
I grab a cardboard box from the recycling pile. Into it goes the photo of me and Dan, and his T-shirt, and the note he left for me at Switch that time he had to leave before I got there. On impulse, I throw in my battered old copy of Charlotte’s Web. After a tense stand-off with Boris, who’s seriously unimpressed about having the sheets changed for the third time in as many days, I make the bed and switch my pillow for one of the old, lumpy ones Mum keeps in the linen cupboard. It’s a petty revenge for being chucked out of my room, but quite satisfying all the same.
A car honks outside, followed by the sound of the front door slamming as Ziggy makes his escape. We’ve carefully avoided each other since breakfast, but I know he’s done some cleaning because I heard the vacuum in the upstairs hallway. I’m banking on having to do it all again. The last thing I want is for Gran to tell Mum off about the house being a sty.
To my surprise, the bathroom gleams – he’s even put a new bar of soap in the shower. The only evidence that this is Ziggy’s handiwork is Boris’s untouched litter tray in the corner of the room, on top of which sits the chore roster. If Dan was here, he’d chalk this battle up as a win for Ziggy.
I’m just about to take my box of stuff and sheets and pillow downstairs when the screeching starts outside. At first it sounds like a woman shouting, but then it turns into a sort of guttural squawking. Boris wakes in fright and jumps off the bed, taking cover in the wardrobe. Looking out the window, I’m not surprised to see Grandma Thelma in the driveway, arguing with the taxi driver. I am, however, surprised to see that she’s holding a large cage.