6.55 am
If men had periods, then I’m quite sure our whole calendar structure would be very different. It stands to reason because there is absolutely no way that guys would put up with the debacle that we have to face every twenty-eight days or so. Like when you wake up with a gigantic pimple and a certain feeling in your nether regions, and your first words are ‘Bitch, bugger, bum . . . I didn’t know it was that time again already!’ And then you hobble off to the bathroom cabinet only to discover that you used your last tampon in the last hours of the last day of your last period, and made a mental note to buy some more before they were needed again – and then forgot. So you flit frantically through the house up-ending every handbag that you find and rummaging through the resulting residue of your life to no avail before resorting to tissues and a pained expression.
Now, if men had periods, life would have been arranged far more logically long ago. When Julius Caesar needed something to take his mind off good old Cleo and decided on calendar reform, he would have started with the proviso that all months must have exactly twenty-eight days, and then simply chucked in an extra month at the end to even things out. Life would now be so much simpler. Just imagine it: ‘Oh, mate, I can’t start the job on the fifteenth – that’s the first day of my periods and I always feel like total crap,’ or ‘Christ almighty, Doreen! There’s no damn tampons in the cupboard and you know what today is!’ And of course Doreen would drop whatever she was doing (which is probably everything), and race straight down to the shops. So perhaps that much wouldn’t change, after all.
I pause in my mental meandering to stretch out luxuriously in the bath and raise one bubble-covered foot up so that I can check out my toenails. They don’t need cutting but I notice that my legs definitely need shaving (actually, they also need remodelling, reconditioning and probably even restumping as well), so I reach over to the vanity unit to grab a disposable razor. I fondly imagine that I am moving in a fluidly elegant manner, perhaps like Aphrodite emerging gracefully from foam-flecked waves. Mounds of perfumed bubbles adroitly make way as I settle with supple ease back into the welcoming water, thus creating a mini tsunami that sends half the bathwater cascading down the sides, drenching the bathmat (which is a bitch to dry), and snaking its way in relentless little rivulets under the door and out into the passageway.
I watch this development with all the practised placidity of a woman who has three children and has therefore grown accustomed to flooded bathrooms many moons ago. I reach over, grab a towel and fling it with awesome accuracy at the gap under the door where it settles down in a perfect blockade. Then I gracefully move my sylph-like body out of the way and turn on the hot tap to refill the bath. I’ll worry about any water in the passage later because there is no way I am getting out of this bath for at least another thirty minutes or so. Not that I had actually planned on having a bath this morning, and it has nothing to do with what I was musing about earlier (that little scene was played out about a week ago). But it just so happened that I woke earlier than usual this morning and the bathroom was free. Now, these two events rarely occur even individually in this household, let alone simultaneously, so I decided to take the plunge and, now that I’m in here, I’m damn well going to continue plunging for a while.
I turn off the tap, wrap my arms around my knees and sit in contemplation for a minute. Outside, some birds have begun to welcome in the morning with a rather melodious warbling contest. I love that sound. At the same time one of our resident possums scampers noisily across the roof directly over me and then flings itself into a tree outside the bathroom window. I can hear the branches rustle fiercely as it clambers up towards its nest and a day full of shady rest and relaxation. And it’ll need all the shade it can get – if the weather forecast is anything to go by (and frequently it’s not), we’re in for another revoltingly sticky, hot, mid-thirties day. I smile for no particular reason (certainly not the impending weather because I hate the heat), and sink slowly into the rapidly depleting bubbles, leaning my head back against the edge of the bath. I’ll worry about my legs later, for now I’ll simply relax. I have to close my eyes to help achieve this because, unfortunately, this bathroom is not particularly conducive for relaxation purposes. Whoever originally decorated it should have been certified severely artistically-disabled and promptly institutionalised. It is covered from floor to ceiling in a mosaic of tiny brown-flecked tiles and boasts an almost-matching chestnut brown vanity complete with chestnut brown basin. This would be bad enough without the bath being, for some unknown reason, a nauseous shade of fleshy pastel pink. One of these days I am going to tear the place apart and start over. I have managed to repaint and refurbish a great deal of the house, but the bathroom still remains both out of my expertise and my budget.
I have been living in this leafy little patch of Ferntree Gully for almost four years now, and I have absolutely no intention of ever moving. I have a theory that each person has only a certain amount of moves in them, and this last one of mine was quite definitely the last one I was capable of. I still shudder at the merest glimpse of a tea-chest.
Mind you, this last move was also the most stressful and traumatic one I have ever undertaken as, apart from the usual associated disarray and debacle, it signalled the culmination of my second marriage. And not a very amicable culmination at that. Keith did everything but lie in front of the removal truck (more’s the pity) to prevent me from getting away, and I am still missing a substantial number of my belongings because I simply wasn’t able to face another scene. At the time I decided it just wasn’t worth the trouble, but now I have some rather bitter moments of regret for not standing up for myself. Especially when I spend a couple of days looking for something that I’m sure I had, only to remember where I last saw it – and then have to replace it.
However, I did manage to retrieve the most important stuff. Amongst which I fondly count my youngest daughter Christine Jain (named after Keith’s mother, with whom I have had absolutely no direct contact since our split). CJ, as she is more commonly known, was fortunately only a toddler at the time of my break-up with her father, because if she had been old enough to understand the screaming that went on over her custody, she would still be in therapy today. Instead of that, she is a bright, bubbly, supremely overconfident little girl (in other words, spoilt rotten), who is firmly convinced that her mother and father, although they live apart, are as fond of each other as they are of her. This odd delusion is certainly going to be tested to its full extent tomorrow, when she has regally requested the attendance of both her parents at her sixth birthday party. Can’t wait.
CJ is not my only child, although she quite often acts that way. I have an eighteen-year-old daughter and a fourteen-year-old son, who are both the by-products of my first marriage. That marriage ended a hell of a lot more amicably than the second did (but then very few don’t). I suppose that basically we were both too young in the first place and the relationship merely ran its course and petered out with a half-hearted whimper, rather than anything even resembling a roar. Samantha and Benjamin are totally dissimilar in character, with Sam extroverted, self-assured and very independent, while her brother has always been dreamy and introspective. But in looks they are almost identical, both strongly favouring their father, tall with dark hair, hazel eyes and olive complexion (in Ben’s case a rather spotty olive complexion). At least, that’s what their father looked like when I last saw him quite a few years ago. As a mining engineer, he spent the first years following our break-up working around Australia (during which the kids saw him regularly) and then absconded for an open-ended stint over in Saudi Arabia (during which they only saw him twice), but all that is about to change very shortly. Thursday, in fact. Apparently Alex has thrown in his contract and is about to return to sunny Australia to spend more time with his children, a decision that takes the proverbial cake for pathetic timing.
When we first separated I fondly envisaged still being able to play happy families, just not strictly together. And for a while this is exactly what happened. And I even had the vague idea way back in the dim, dark recesses of my mind (crammed between the formula for long division and how to say ‘Can I milk your cow?’ in French) that we just might get back together one day. I really missed him when he decided to play footloose Mr Nomad, but that was nothing compared to how the kids felt, and how they acted up, and how they nearly drove me straight into a nervous breakdown. Why is it that the leaver gets off virtually scot-free, while the leavee is left having to repeat over and over again like a broken record that, no, you don’t really hate Daddy and, yes, Daddy does really love you and, actually, it’s not really his fault that he’s not here and, no, it’s not my fault either . . . while you grind your teeth and try to think up a new combination of abusive terms which best describe the happy wanderer.
It was while I was extending my vocabulary in this way and trying to pick up the pieces after he left for Saudi Arabia that I met Keith. So I suppose I can really blame Alex for the fact that my usually reliable decent-man antenna was not fully erect and I fell for a male chauvinist bully who is still trying to make my life miserable whenever he is given the least opportunity. And then, during that second marriage, Benjamin could really have done with his father around because he certainly was the one that suffered the most. Out of the children, that is. Samantha was mainly saved by her strong personality and a student exchange posting to Austria during the worst of the crisis, while CJ is simply the apple of her father’s eye. And even after the marriage collapsed, when I had a hell of a job getting both kids back on an even keel (or at least a keel that only wobbles slightly), I could have done with some help. But Alex chooses to come home now. Now, when I have finally established a good, secure life. Now, when I am finally starting to penetrate the shell Ben erected around himself and we can hold a meaningful conversation without one of us having to leave the room. Now, when I have managed to come to terms with a grown-up Samantha and we have forged a new, more equitable relationship. Now, when everything is going smoothly at last, and I don’t need him any more.
I sigh heavily as I sit up in the bath and reach out for my watch to check the time. One glance tells me that I only have about ten or fifteen minutes before the tribe starts stirring and, as we only have one bathroom, my peace will soon be shattered. I suppose that at least, from Thursday on, they will be able to use their father’s bathroom as well when necessary. And this is possible only because he is moving very close. Very, very close. In fact, he couldn’t get much closer unless he moved in with us. Because he has bought the house next door. In all fairness I can’t really blame him totally for this – especially as he doesn’t even know about it yet. Apparently he asked his sister, Maggie, to find him something suitable in the neighbourhood, and the well-meaning twit promptly put a deposit on the house next door to mine. I sigh heavily again. I am very good at sighing heavily. It is an acquired art form, and one that I practise frequently in and out of the bath.
As I am flexing my toes in an effort to locate the bath-plug, I register some fierce whispering going on just outside the bathroom door. The whispering is promptly followed by the crystal clear tones of an almost six-year-old who, I know from aural experience, is physically incapable of whispering under any circumstances. I lean closer to the door in an attempt to make out what is going on. After all, forewarned is forearmed.
Whisper, whisper, whisper, whisper . . .
‘Why d’ya want me to?’
Whisper, whisper, whisper, whisper . . .
‘How much?’
Whisper, whisper, whisper, whisper . . .
‘Okay, but only if you gib it to me today.’
That conversation sounded decidedly suspicious, even with only one side of it audible. I decide that it might be advisable to dry myself off and find out what is going on. Accordingly I pull the plug, stand up in the bath and start to dry myself off with the towel. But before I can finish the job, the door bursts open, the blockading towel goes shooting across the floor, and CJ makes a speedy dramatic entrance with a video camera unsteadily obscuring her face. And that was her second mistake. Her first was making a speedy dramatic entrance when the floor was covered in water. That, and the fact that she couldn’t see where she was going anyway, results in a headlong skid that only ends when her kneecaps hit the side of the bath with a dull thud and she topples forwards in slow motion and splashes into the bath right at my feet. Fortunately, after watching her rapid propulsion across the room with open-mouthed stupefaction, I recover quickly enough to get my priorities in order, drop the towel in the bath and grab the video camera from one flapping arm a split second before she hits the water. So now I stand here, completely naked and semi-dry, holding the still running video camera while I watch her attempt to surface and regain her footing at the same time.
She sits up, takes a deep breath and starts to wail.
I carefully step out of the bath, switch off and put the video camera down on the vanity unit, kick the bathroom door closed with one foot, push the towel back under the door with the other, grab a dry towel from the rack, and gather up my youngest daughter in my arms.
‘Come on, come on. Are you hurt?’
‘Yes! Yes! All ober!’
‘We’ll have a cuddle and then you can show me where.’
‘All ober! All ober!’
‘Can you be just a little more specific?’
‘Ow!’
‘Okay, okay! But what were you doing?’
‘It was Ben! Ben said to do the bideo!’
Right on cue comes a discreet little knock at the door followed by the solicitous voice of my only son: ‘Is everything okay in there?’
‘Go and make yourself breakfast, I’ll be out to talk to you in a minute.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, I’ll be there in a minute.’ Although I don’t know whether he meant was I sure everyone was okay, or was I sure I wanted to talk to him, or even was I sure I’d only be a minute. But, boy, do I want to talk to him. I mean, the video camera could have been totally trashed.
‘You’re in big trouble!’ CJ vents her petulant little spleen as we hear his footsteps recede down the passage towards the kitchen. I strip CJ’s saturated pyjamas off, dry myself as best I can with her draped across my chest, and then shrug my dressing-gown on. After kicking the wet pile of clothing into a corner with the towel, I open the door and head down towards CJ’s bedroom. On the way, I make a mental note that the hallway will need mopping as soon as I have the time.
CJ’s room is not one that should be entered with a hangover (not that I actually have a hangover today, but I know this from experience). She is currently poised in the epicentre of several warring phases, and this is wholly reflected in the decor of her living space. Animal print curtains frame the window beside a frilly, canopied bed, which is adorned by a Barbie doona cover and various iridescent throw cushions. A framed picture of her father sits centre-stage on her bedside table, with his dark, rather intense eyes following your every movement. A Pokemon beanbag chair leans against the corner wall, bearing a family of stuffed leopards and thirty-three multicoloured beanie bears. The overall impression actually hurts my eyes whenever I enter. Accordingly, I blink several times as I plonk her down on top of the mother leopard in the beanbag chair. The problem is that whenever she mentions a new fad on a visit to her father, she brings home yet another disparate addition to the bedroom. I’m not sure if he is doing this out of love for her or because he suspects (correctly) that it is driving me crazy.
While CJ whimpers tragically on the beanbag chair, I make her bed and rearrange the covering of stuffed toys. Then I pull up the blind, turn off the light, pick up and put away a few dozen books, drag her school dress out of the wardrobe and lay it out neatly on the bed for her. Finally I turn to look at my youngest daughter. CJ does not resemble her elder siblings in the slightest, but I suppose that’s only natural as they take after their father who isn’t her father. She’s all pink and white, with a round little face, big cornflower blue eyes and fine blonde hair that she wears in a shoulder-length bob. The overall impression is of defenceless cherubic innocence – until you get to know her. She has a will of steel.
‘Here you are, CJ, dry yourself off and get dressed. I’ll go and make you some hot chocolate, how about that?’
‘Can’t you dress me?’
‘No. You’re a big-school girl now.’
‘But I’m hurt . . . all ober!’
‘And whose fault is that?’
‘Ben’s!’
‘Well, I’m going to find out about that. Anyway, I’ve just made your bed and cleaned up for you. All you have to do is get dressed and surely you can manage that.’
She is still complaining volubly as I walk out the door. I head around the corner into my bedroom where I brush my hair haphazardly and spend some time selecting a sloppy red t-shirt and a pair of baggy nondescript shorts. Then I slip on some sandals and take a look at myself in the full-length mirror. Average height (well, almost anyway), average weight (more or less), dark blonde hair (or mousy-brown if you want to be pedantic – although I have livened it up recently with some blonde streaks), bluey-green eyes, and a mouth, nose and two ears. There’s not really much to say about those, except that they’re there and they work. I have always known that if I wanted to stand out in a crowd I would have to develop a scintillating personality. Maybe I’ll develop one at university. After a few moments’ contemplation, I make a mental note to get rid of the full-length mirror.
I can still hear CJ complaining as I exit the bedroom and head up towards the kitchen. I doubt she has even moved from the beanbag chair yet. As I pass the linen cupboard I grab a clean towel and stand on it so that I can shuffle up the passage drying the water spillage as I go. I can hear the shower going full-pelt in the bathroom so I leave the towel outside where it will remind me to mop up in there later.
In the kitchen the kettle is boiling away merrily so I turn it off and make myself a cup of coffee. CJ is still complaining. From the scattering of dry cereal across the bench and on the floor, I deduce that Ben has already breakfasted. Nursing my coffee, I close my eyes and lean against the counter while I take a deep breath and try to think serene thoughts.
‘Is the video camera okay?’
I open my eyes and look at my son for a moment before answering. He is now dressed in his school uniform but even so manages to give the impression of having only now got out of bed. Apart from the rumpled clothing, one side of his hair is totally flattened against his skull while the other side is sticking out at right angles as if it has been electrically stimulated.
‘Brush your hair.’
‘Can’t. Sam’s in the bathroom. Is it okay?’
‘No, it looks like your left half is going punk.’
‘I meant the video camera!’ he says with some exasperation.
‘I know,’ I reply as I fix him with a steely gaze, ‘and yes it is, but no thanks to you. What on earth were you trying to prove?’
‘How d’you know it was me? You never blame CJ!’
‘Well, let me see. CJ doesn’t know where the video camera is kept, doesn’t know how to insert the battery, or turn it on, or which button is for taping. And then when you add the fact that I heard you outside the door, well, sorry but I jumped to the hasty conclusion that you were probably at least partly responsible!’
Grunt.
‘So, spill it. What’s going on? And, Ben –’ I take my coffee over to the table in the meals area and sit down – ‘just be honest.’
‘Well, it’s for all of us,’ Ben says with righteous indignation, ‘not just me. That’s right – I thought I’d do something for the family! See, I saw on Funniest Home Videos last night, well, this really stupid tape won. It was only about this dumb kid who flipped his bike over and then these two other kids came screaming around the corner and hit the first kid so the first kid was stuck under the other two bikes but the first bike went west and the second kid somersaulted over the third bike but the third kid got airborne and ricocheted off the first bike and –’
‘Enough about the bikes!’ I interrupt with growing exasperation. ‘Who cares about the damn bikes? And what’s it got to do with you and the video camera?’
‘Well, if you’d let me finish I could tell you.’ Ben plasters an affronted look on his face. ‘You see, what I was trying to explain was about the quality of the tapes on the show, coz they were really, really pathetic. And, see, I thought I could get better. Because you should see the prizes! They’re so cool, and they give them away to just about anyone!’ Ben gestures wildly around the room, getting more and more animated as he goes on. ‘A wide-screen TV! A DVD player! A Sony Playstation! A new video camera!’
‘We almost needed one,’ I comment dryly as he pauses for breath.
‘But we could have two! It’d be fantastic!’
‘But you still haven’t told me what –’ I pause as the scenario sinks in. I look at Ben. Ben looks sheepish. My sneaky suspicion is confirmed but I pride myself on my control.
‘Was I going to be the funny bit?’
‘Well, yes but –’
‘Were you going to film me in the bath?’
‘Well, yes but –’
‘And send it to strangers?’
‘Well, yes but –’
Ben starts to edge cautiously out of the kitchen but backs into the doorframe so decides to make a stand. ‘I don’t think you’re funny naked . . . that is, I don’t think you’re anything naked – well, you are something . . . but no! Not – well, I don’t think anything about you naked! Ever! At all! It wasn’t you naked, anyway – it was your face I wanted, not, um . . . ’ He winds down and looks at me pleadingly. ‘It was only for the surprise, you know.’
‘Hmm.’ I gaze into my coffee cup for a moment or two (always make them sweat for a while before you capitulate – besides, I have to stop myself from laughing out loud). Then I look back at my highly embarrassed son. He has blushed a uniform shade of ruddy red, which makes his hair look even stranger than ever.
‘Really, it was.’
‘Okay, listen up – and listen good. I want that tape back. Right now. And never, ever film me without my permission again, especially naked, and never, ever bribe your little sister to do things which you’re not game to do yourself.’
‘But I thought you’d rather her see you naked than me!’
‘Hell’s bells, Benjamin! You were about to send it in to Funniest Home Videos, for god’s sake! The whole damn country would have seen it!’
‘Seen what?’ Samantha saunters into the kitchen. Freshly showered with her long brown hair pinned up in an intricately arranged waterfall and dressed in a neatly ironed school dress, she makes her brother look like a street kid we are trying to rehabilitate. Without much success.
‘Good morning!’ I say brightly. I say it brightly because the sight of Samantha in the morning always gives me a little flush of success as I have actually bred a child who can not only function autonomously but can do a good job of it at the same time. It gives me hope for the future with the other two. One of whom can still be heard complaining bitterly down in her bedroom, and the other of whom has used the distraction of his sister’s entrance to make his getaway. I do hope he has gone to brush his hair. And get me that tape.
‘Guten Morgen, Mommie Dearest. So, what’s he done now?’
‘Only tried to film me in the bath. For Funniest Home Videos, you know.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘They wouldn’t have shown it.’ Sam pops two slices of bread into the toaster. ‘Like, otherwise it’d be so easy and everyone’d be doing it.’
‘What? Filming me in the bath?’
‘No, silly. Filming other old people in the bath.’
If I had more energy, I’d be offended. I’m not even forty yet – not until Sunday, anyway – but even then I don’t think I qualify for the old age pension quite yet. However, I have been living for a long time now with people who think that everyone over thirty has one foot in the grave, so I just shrug my elderly shoulders and take another sip of coffee.
‘D’you want a bit?’ Sam’s toast has popped up so she proceeds to spread them both so lavishly with butter that it drips off the crusts onto the bench as she turns to me.
‘No thanks.’ Even if I did want a bit, I’d probably be too old.
‘Where’s my hot chocolate?’ CJ finally makes an entrance, her blotchy face bearing evidence as to how she has occupied herself for the last fifteen minutes. Although at some stage she must have been able to hold the pain at bay long enough to pull her school dress over her head.
‘CJ! What’s wrong, liebling?’ Sam looks at her sister with concern.
‘Ben hurt me . . . all ober.’
‘Sam, can you put the kettle on, please? CJ, I’ll make it in a minute. Come and sit down next to me and I’ll give you a cuddle.’ I pull a chair over and pat it invitingly. ‘And I want to talk to you about using the video camera.’
‘Oh! I won’t eber again!’ CJ launches herself at the chair – and me – and buries her face in my shoulder. I do up her buttons and then pat her back comfortingly.
‘It’s just that you know you’re not allowed to use it.’
‘I hate the bideo. And I hate Ben too.’
‘You don’t hate anyone.’
‘Do so. And he owes me two dollars.’
‘Kettle’s boiling, Mum.’
I pick CJ up and lever myself past her before plonking her back on the chair. Then I proceed to make her hot chocolate, and her cereal, and her toast. It’s clear that I am not going to get anything even resembling autonomous behaviour out of her this morning.
‘I’m off now, Mum.’ Samantha dumps her plate in the sink and heads over to kiss her little sister on the top of the head. ‘What’re you doing today?’
‘Mummy’s making me go to school.’
‘Not you, I meant Mum.’
‘Well, after I make CJ go to school, I’m meeting your Aunt Maggie next door at ten. Apparently we’re going to clean up there a bit for your father.’
‘Oh! If I didn’t have double English today, I’d help!’
‘That’s okay.’ I wouldn’t have dreamt of asking Sam anyway. She is taking her last year of VCE very, very seriously, and I’d like to encourage her. She has even declared boys off limits for the duration and, although she still goes out to quite a few parties and the occasional nightclub, she hasn’t produced a boyfriend since the spotty beanpole with two-tone hair that she dragged around for a couple of months at the end of last year. Mind you, I’d also like to meet that VCE teacher who told his students, of which my daughter was one, that during the course of this all-important school year, they were now the most important person in their families and should be treated accordingly. At least, that was Sam’s interpretation of his speech and those were the words she used when she informed us of her enhanced familial status.
‘I hate Ben infinity.’
‘Don’t worry about Ben, liebling.’ Sam moves back over to her little sister and plants another kiss on the top of her head. ‘There’s a lot worse out there, believe me.’
With those words of wisdom, she exits the kitchen and, shortly thereafter, the house. Sam is always organised early, her bag packed and ready to go by eight o’clock. Ben, on the other hand, is still looking for his bag at nine o’clock . . . and his shoes, and his tie, and a hairbrush. I put the kettle on for another cup of coffee (it always takes me at least two to feel remotely human in the morning), and glance over to where CJ is methodically crushing her cornflakes between her fingers with a studied vengeance which makes me glad not to be in her brother’s shoes.
‘I hope you’re going to clean that up,’ I say automatically but with little hope of a response. Of course she’s not going to clean that up – and even if she tried to, we’d end up with a far bigger mess than we started with.
‘Mum! Mum!’ Ben comes skidding into the kitchen waving the video camera in one hand, his hair still looking like one side was neatly starched and ironed. ‘Guess what! It worked!’
‘What worked?’ I ask with foreboding.
‘I hate you, Ben.’
‘The tape worked. You should see it. It’s cool!’
‘And Mummy says you hab to pay me my two dollars.’
‘I – I mean we are going to win the first prize for sure! And you don’t have to worry at all! CJ was moving so quickly it’s all really, really fast and you’ve got the towel in front for most and, anyway, there’s hardly anything of you when you’re naked!’
Hardly anything of me when I’m naked? That I have to see.