My mother saw the grey heads first, bobbing up and down through the Venetian blinds, like a line of yachts seesawing towards a finish line. It was a trickle of grey-haired women stepping down the path towards our front door.
‘What are they doing?’ she said, watching the women. Like a determined flank of soldier ants they marched closer.
‘What do they want?’ She jogged nervously on the spot.
The inevitable knock on the door sent my mother into a spin, zig-zagging across the cool wooden floorboards. We dived for cover. It struck the same chord of recognition in all of us. They resembled so completely the grey stream of women who came to our house the afternoon after our father’s funeral. It brought back the pots of tea, the muffled voices, the sniffling, the occasional howl, then the sound of tissues being plucked.
It was a terrible return to that fearful hot day. The heat in the church had been unbearable, even with all the doors open. That much black cloth on a February day in a church in the sub-tropics with only the ceiling fans to churn up the air can push the temperature beyond the tolerable.
It was too much for the old folk. Aunt Kit folded at the knees ten minutes in and the rest of the church swivelled to watch as she drifted to the pew, so convinced they were that she was going to drop dead and upstage the service and the untimely death of her niece’s husband. Waiting in the wings for such an event, Uncle Jack in the seat behind extracted the smelling salts from his chest pocket. Once Aunt Kit had come round and her hat, a flat, black saucer darted with a purple feather, was rearranged on her white tufts of hair, Uncle Jack offered her his hip flask of brandy. When it became clear Aunt Kit was revivable and she’d had more than a few nips of brandy, the congregation returned to their ruminations. They bowed their heads to the power of their Creator, they thanked him again that it hadn’t been their turn this time.
I could see from my seat beside my mother, through the wall of louvred glass, my class lined up outside the church. The blood-red glass was difficult to see through, but the yellow and orange panes were less opaque though they distorted their faces giving them all monstrous chins and shallow foreheads.
The heavy box in the aisle beside us seemed too black for my father. I wished it was decorated, painted with some swirls and messages.
Now, as the women, the busy beavers who had supplied the tea and sandwiches at our house for the mourners, came down our path, we scattered in fear, leaving our mother to open the door.
‘Yes?’ Her bare feet and thin legs greeted the women. Gladys Havelock led the way holding up her Neighbourhood Watch folder. ‘Dawn, the rota! It’s your turn.’
Mrs Sanders patted my mother on the arm on her way into the house.
‘I thought you were going to remind her,’ she whispered to Gladys.
‘Didn’t I?’ Gladys looked at my mother who shook her head.
‘Too late, the gang’s all here.’ Gladys clamped a clipboard to her side.
The mass of grey-haired widows pushed into the lounge, pressing elbows into each other’s sides and exchanging worried glances. The unspoken consensus seemed to be it would be good for everyone to continue as normal.
My mother watched the stream of women take up their seats in her front room. They shuffled and sighed and waited to be offered tea. But mother didn’t drink tea, so she didn’t offer.
‘Anyone have anything to report?’ Gladys started.
‘It’s been dark, this last week, at night,’ said Mrs Sanders.
‘I’ve seen someone dark,’ Mrs Drummond, old and deaf, chipped in.
‘Were they black?’ Mrs Layton was on the edge of her seat trying to choke back her fear.
‘Very . . .’ Mrs Drummond hesitated. ‘Black as the night. I couldn’t really see they were so black.’
‘I saw you looking at something the other night,’ said Mrs Sanders.
‘I was watching Sandra.’ She nodded towards Mrs Layton.
‘I was watching, Daisy.’ Mrs Drummond referred to the woman sitting next to her.
‘I was watching Gladys.’ The old woman spoke gruffly, not sure what she was being accused of.
‘What were you watching, Gladys?’ Mrs Layton sucked in her lips and the skin of her chin shrivelled.
‘I thought I saw you, Dawn.’ Gladys leant over to my mother. ‘Up your tree.’
Lying on the cold tiles in the hall, I slid an inch closer to see how my mother would respond. There was a pause and it felt to me like the ceiling was starting to lower. They’d seen my mother up the tree. They might try and take her away from us, that was my first thought.
I noticed though she didn’t comment. I saw her perfect non-reaction. Mrs Layton tried again. ‘There has been a lot of noise coming from up there, the last week.’
‘Maybe it was the fruit bats.’ My mother spoke without a hint of sarcasm.
Her face had tensed slightly, but no more than it was already from being confronted in her own home by a group of uninvited pensioners.
It was true my mother had made very little effort to cover her tracks. The Johnsons who lived directly beside us were old and the Kings behind had a noisy house full of children, so she was safe from the nearest neighbours. But she had made no attempt to conceal her tree climbs or to disguise the noise they made. Especially the night the drain man called. After he left she was so loud I was sure the entire suburb must have heard. Vonnie, who lived next to Megan’s house and directly behind the Johnsons, saw my mother struggling for another excuse. She cut in.
‘All the kids were up there again. I noticed the other evening.’ She sounded as if she was displeased, but there was a playful tone in her voice.
‘After what happened, you’d think you’d be a little more careful.’ Gladys challenged my mother with a look of scorn.
‘I see the roots have got in the drains again,’ she continued.
‘Not badly,’ said my mother.
‘Not what the Johnsons said.’ Gladys sounded very pleased with her private knowledge.
‘It’s been worse,’ Mum countered.
‘Have you got any plans’ – Gladys hadn’t finished yet – ‘for the future, assuming present root growth continues. Not that it affects our side of the road, but I would have thought your immediate neighbours may be interested.’
‘Doesn’t bother me,’ said Vonnie. ‘And the Johnson’s back yard is so full of gum trees. It’s questionable which tree is doing the most damage.’
Mum was off the hook for the minute, thanks to Vonnie, and the old girls huffed and puffed and waited for the cups of tea my mother had no intention of offering them.