Drip Dry (3 page)

‘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.

10.00 am

I don't believe this! The bathroom floor is caving in! I kneel down and cautiously prod the corner with my finger. My finger promptly disappears and so does that portion of the floor. Yep, it's definitely caving in. I feel like Chicken Little in reverse. Exactly what I bloody need.

I knew I should have just sat down with a coffee after I dropped CJ off at school, but instead of bowing to my instincts, I decided to clean up some of the mess around here. And
this
is where that sort of behaviour gets you. It wasn't even as if I was being that thorough either, just a rather haphazard mop in the bathroom to clean up the remainder of this morning's spillage. Then I noticed a slight indentation in the floor near where the bath meets the wall. And then I gave it a gentle push with the mop. And then of course the indentation indented even further. Hence the finger investigation.

I sit back on my knees and glare at the hole and those tiles most responsible. Although the ones
around them look like they will happily follow suit if given a little encouragement. At least the area where I am kneeling seems perfectly sound, so I suppose it's only this particular corner that will need patching or whatever it is that's required. I try to mentally calculate costs but give up because I have absolutely no idea about this sort of thing. And
that
is something that tradesmen can sniff out at thirty paces.

Well, I certainly know who is responsible. If it wasn't for the budding teenage filmmaker this morning, I would never have even noticed any indentation. It's not as if I wash this floor very much – in fact, I can't remember if I ever have. CJ always liberally washes it for me whenever she has a bath. So perhaps
that's
the problem. But anyway, I think I can still blame Ben. After all, he set the chain of events in motion that made me realise that there was a problem in the first place. And, as any parent can tell you, ignorance is often bliss. Just wait till he gets home.

I throw one more withering glance at the offending corner before collecting up an armful of wet pyjamas and towels and carting them off to the laundry where I throw them into my winsome brand new washing-machine, add detergent, and start the cycle. I push the bathroom floor to the back of my mind while I lean against the wall and lovingly watch the machine in action for a few minutes. It has the enviable ability to operate on a level so close to noiselessness that never fails to fascinate me. I did quite a bit of research before I settled on this particular model and, in fact, came
very close to being seduced by a futuristic machine that gave verbal bulletins during the course of each cycle. But then I fortuitously remembered that I have children who do that, and therefore the last thing I need is a garrulous appliance. I've only had it for about a month or so and, after nearly four years of coping with a washer that was about the same age as my mother but with even more idiosyncrasies, merely observing the sheer efficiency of this little number is pure pleasure. That probably says something rather pathetic about my life, but I don't care.

After the washing-machine has restored my equilibrium somewhat, I leave it to perform its little laundering miracles in peace and start cleaning up the remains of breakfast in the kitchen. Ben has an uncanny knack of leaving cereal in the most incredible places. In fact, the last time I cleaned the cover of the ceiling vent (and those things are a nightmare
obviously
designed by a man), I found two Fruit Loops and half a Nutrigrain wedged firmly within. Even Sam, who is definitely the most fastidious of my off-spring (not that
that
is terribly difficult), seems to be physically incapable of lifting her dead teabag out of the cup, crossing the two steps necessary to reach the bin, flipping up the lid, and actually placing the item inside. I wash the dishes and finish off the kitchen before turning my attention to the various livestock. Benjamin dearly wants to be a vet when he grows up (
if
he grows up), and has collected a rather varied menagerie, despite my best efforts to unintentionally kill them off. I am not very good with pets.

I take out the grubby water container in the
newest aquarium that houses Sonic, the blue-tongue lizard, and dump it on the sink to scrub out later. Then I fill a fresh one, walk slowly back over to the aquarium and place it carefully inside. Sonic promptly mistakes my pinkie for a snail and tries to latch on. After I forcibly disengage him/her (by having a tug of war and pulling his/her tail and my trapped finger in opposite directions), I check to make sure that the lid is firmly on the container of crickets sitting next to the aquarium. I
always
check this container now because, on one notable occasion, the crickets all managed to escape and, thirty years after I had fervently wished for it, I was finally able to experience what life was like for Laura Ingalls Wilder when her little house on the prairie experienced a locust raid. She was right, it was the pits.

I am strictly forbidden to feed the fish, or to go anywhere near them, so I merely check from a distance to see if there are any floaters before going outside through the laundry. A wall of thick warmth hits me as soon as I open the door. Yep, it's going to be another sticky, humid day. I give a handful of pellets to the rabbits and then put some dry food out for Murphy, our border collie pup (Ben's birthday present last spring), who demonstrates his undying devotion by vigorously trying to mount my left leg. We really need to get him fixed
soon
. I categorically refuse to enter the garage, which usually houses an assortment of recuperating wildlife, so I shake Murphy off my leg with some difficulty and go back into the house. And that's it for the livestock.

We used to have a budgie called Britney, or rather
CJ used to have a budgie called Britney, but it disappeared shortly before Christmas under mysterious circumstances (I vacuumed it up by mistake). So CJ and I chose a rather attractive stuffed kookaburra and wired its feet onto the perch in the birdcage where it stands perpetually upright, staring regally into the distance. I can thoroughly recommend it as a pet. It looks good, never needs cleaning, makes absolutely no noise, costs nothing to feed – and I can't do it any harm. Unfortunately, CJ is not as thrilled as I am. She is actively campaigning for a cute, fluffy kitten, but I am holding firm, not because I dislike cute, fluffy kittens, but because they tend to grow up into cute, fluffy killing machines. We
did
have a cat here for a few years, her name was Golliwog and she was a beautiful, black part Persian. But she decimated so much of the surrounding wildlife that I was almost relieved when she died after a short illness at the end of last winter. So, while we live in an area that is crawling with native wildlife, I am holding firm on the no-cat edict.

As I glance at the clock and register that Maggie is late, the doorbell rings. I bounce down to the front door (because I really rather like my ex sister-in-law) and fling it open. Standing on the doorstep is Maggie, her short round body snugly encased in a natty pair of khaki shorts and a camouflage t-shirt. She looks like a circular hedge.

‘Hi, you! Ready for a hot day?'

‘Maggie!' I blink rapidly at her outfit. ‘Are you on manoeuvres?'

‘Huh! No, I keep telling you that I don't do that stuff!'

‘Well, you sure look the part.' I grin back at her and stand aside for her to enter. ‘Come in and have some coffee before we go over.' I shut the door behind her and lead the way down the passage to the kitchen where I put on the kettle.

‘The car's packed. Hmm, I brought some basic foodstuffs like tins of soup and coffee, a few plants and things, and a heap of cleaning gear.' Maggie sits down, plonks her elbows on the table and rests her chin in her hands while she watches me get the coffee ready. ‘Have you lost weight? You're looking a bit slimmer.'

‘I wish. I haven't even been to Weight Watchers for ages, been too busy with getting the kids back to school.'

‘How did CJ settle in? Is she enjoying preps?'

‘Like a duck to water.' I look across at Maggie and think about what a nice person she is. CJ isn't even related to her, really, yet Maggie always displays a genuine interest in whatever the child is doing. Maggie is forty-eight years old, about eight years older than Alex, her brother, and has become a very dear friend of mine. We didn't actually get on all that well during the marriage itself, and sort of drifted apart after the divorce, but met up again last year and have seen an awful lot of each other ever since.

‘Caught up with Sam last week. She tells me she and Ben have settled in well. And she's enjoying VCE. Knows exactly what she wants to do with her life, that one.'

‘You know why she's enjoying VCE? Because some idiot teacher told her that each VCE student
should be treated as the most important person in their family. She'll be driving us nuts by the end of the year.'

‘Ha! Why d'ya think I gave up teaching! They're all like that! Ha, ha!' Maggie gives another of her unique laughs, which are the closest things to guffaws I've ever heard. In fact, until I heard Maggie laugh, I didn't even know what a guffaw
was
. I glance over at her and note, as I often do, that the genes in the Brown family are
very
strong. Despite the difference in actual body shape, Maggie looks like Alex who looks like Sam who looks like Ben. It's only that where the rest of them have put the extra inches into their height, Maggie has used hers for breadth alone. But she has the same olive skin, hazel eyes and brownish hair, although in her case the brownish hair has a few added bronze highlights and is worn in a straight, shining, shoulder-length bob. Quite attractive. She really has aged very well (I only hope that Sam will be that lucky), and her mid-life vocational change seems to suit her admirably. Obviously a career with the Board of Education is a lot more stressful than a position as a brothel madam. Although Maggie and her live-in business partner, Ruby, prefer to be called joint entrepreneurs who specialise in the catering field. It's just that what this particular operation caters
for
is a trifle more fleshy than most. The brothel goes by the rather unimaginative name of ‘Pleasant Mount', but Maggie insists that this is only because it is situated on the corner of Pleasant Avenue and Mountview Road – and apparently the name makes it easy for clients to remember where they've been.

‘Here you go.' I put her cup in front of her and sit down opposite. ‘Is Ruby coming over as well?'

‘Hmm, thanks.' She takes the coffee in both hands and blows at the steam coming off the top. ‘No, Ruby's over at Pleasant Mount doing the paperwork. Can't get her away from the place.'

‘Do you know, I haven't seen her for ages,' I comment, because it's true. Nobody (except, presumably, the individuals themselves) is sure of exactly what the relationship is between Maggie and Ruby, and the fact that we hardly ever see them together doesn't help.

‘Well, you know Ruby's not the social type.' Maggie chuckles as she takes a sip of coffee and then looks up with a huge grin. ‘Guess what. Alex rang last night – change of plans, he's coming in tomorrow! Late afternoon.'

I choke down the mouthful of coffee I had just taken rather than spit it across the table, and immediately experience a paroxysm of coughing.

‘Hey! Are you okay?' Maggie jumps up and begins whacking me on the back with such force that I bounce straight forwards and hit my midriff on the table edge.

‘Hell's bells! Stop! Maggie – stop!' I hold my hand up in desperation while I try to get my coughing under control. ‘You're killing me!'

‘Okay, okay! I'll get you some water.' Maggie rushes over to the sink and turns on the tap. ‘Here you go.'

I take a huge gulp before I notice that the receptacle she has used is Sonic's grubby water container
and then I splutter helplessly while trying to remember whether blue-tongue lizards have any infectious diseases that could prove fatal to humans. I put the water down on the table as my breathing returns to normal. Now it's only my midriff that aches.

‘God, you're vicious! Are you sure you're not a dominatrix?'

‘We don't do that sort of stuff,' she replies offhandedly as she returns to her seat. ‘Now, are you sure you're okay?'

‘What, apart from the broken back?'

‘Ha, ha!' she guffaws.

‘All right, now that I can breathe properly again, please tell me that you
didn't
say that Alex was arriving tomorrow?'

‘Well, he
is
. But, hmm, why are you so upset?' Maggie gives me a searching look. ‘I mean, what difference does it make whether it's tomorrow or Thursday?'

‘Oh, I don't know. I just like to have things planned, that's all.' I remember in the nick of time that it is lethal for me to show anything that might be construed as undue interest in her brother in front of Maggie. She is desperate for us to get back together.

‘Hmm.'

‘Besides, it's CJ's birthday tomorrow so there's going to be hundreds of six-year-old fairies running around. And Keith.'

‘Hmm.'

‘It's just not as convenient, that's all.'
And
I sort of thought I might get a haircut before Thursday, and
a facial, and a new outfit, and maybe lose a few kilos or something. It's not that I want Alex back or anything, simply that I would like . . . well, what
is
it I would like? For him to see me leaning nonchalantly yet sensuously in the doorway and be immediately smitten by such stomach-churning desire that his knees turn weak? Actually yes, that's exactly what I'd like. Odds are pretty good that it won't happen, but it
is
what I'd like. I come out of my reverie to notice that Maggie is looking at me rather thoughtfully.

‘Hmmm.'

‘Oh, Maggie. Don't read stuff into things that isn't there.'

‘It's a bit hard to read
anything
that isn't there, isn't it?'