Odd Socks (15 page)

‘No problem.' I start rocking the baby again as they leave the room and shut the door behind them. I can hear them talking furiously just outside in the corridor but it doesn't make much sense so I concentrate on Sherry instead. She's probably more interesting anyway. Although I hadn't quite planned on spending as much time with her as it looks like I'm going to. I might be in love with the child, but I'm not stupid. I
know
how much work a new baby demands in the first week or so. I remember.

I look up as the door is pushed open again but it's only the room's other occupant returning from her walk. She pokes her feathery head through, peers around and then sidles in and looks at me questioningly.

‘Nurse been here?' she asks me in her flat, Eeyore voice.

‘Ah, no,' I reply, slightly confused by her behaviour. ‘Did you want her?'

Instead of answering, she turns and pulls the door open a fraction again. Then she peers outside and, obviously not liking what she sees, suddenly jumps back and flattens herself against the wall. Almost immediately the door is pushed fully open and obscures her as a plump nurse, pushing a fully loaded Perspex baby trolley, bustles through and stares around the room with a frown.

‘Have you seen Mrs Cobb?'

‘Mrs Cobb?' I repeat stupidly, trying to work out what the hell is going on.

‘Tsk. Never mind.' The nurse sighs with annoyance and then, after having another good look around, backs out of the room pulling the trolley along with her. The door swings shut again as she leaves and Eeyore, or Mrs Cobb as I now suspect she's called, is revealed once more. She hops up and down for a few seconds, counting under her breath, and then heads for the door herself.

‘Going for a walk,' she mumbles to nobody in particular before slithering out through the door. I'm beginning to think the woman has severe psychiatric problems. Whatever, she's left the door ajar and I can now hear every word from the corridor.

‘I said
no
– we'll ask her tomorrow!'

‘But it'll be fine, Bron – she won't mind.'

‘I tell you – not yet!'

‘But don't you reckon she'll want as much notice as possible?'

‘Like, no
way
.'

‘Hey, guys?' I call out to Bronte and Nick. ‘You do realise I can hear every word you're saying, don't you?'

‘Oh, can you?' Bronte pokes her head around the door-frame and looks at me sheepishly. ‘How much did you hear?'

‘Enough that you might as well ask me whatever it is now, and get it over and done with.'

‘I
told
you so.' Nick comes in pulling Bronte along by the hand. ‘Come on, Bron.'

‘Anyway, I thought you
had
just asked me,' I say as I look at them both with my guard well and truly up. ‘Wasn't that what went on before?'

‘No, this is something else,' says Bronte as she leans against the bed.

‘Yeah, another favour.' Nick puts his arm around her and looks at me. ‘But just a little one.'

‘No it's not.' Bronte looks at him with irritation. ‘We might as well be honest – it's, like, a really
big
favour.'

‘I can't see it,' Nick says, shaking his head. ‘What's so big about it?'

‘That's because you won't be doing any of the work,' says Bronte. ‘I
know
you.'

‘Still don't reckon it's that big.'

‘Well, it is.'

‘Not.'

‘Is.'

‘Hey!' I look at them both with amazement. ‘Will you two grow up! And why don't you let
me
decide if it's big or not. So what the hell
is
it?'

‘
Shh
, Mum,' whispers Bronte as she leans over to check on Sherry. ‘You'll wake the baby!'

‘
I'll
tell you.' Nick plumps up a pillow and makes himself comfortable on the bed. ‘It's like this. Bron and I decided ages ago we didn't want the baby christened, like in a religious
ceremony or whatever. But we wanted
something
instead. Then a friend of ours had a naming day for their kid and it was exactly what we were after. Something to celebrate the arrival with family and friends and all, but with no religion involved.'

‘I know all this,' I say impatiently, ‘Bronte told me.'

‘Did she also tell you we wanted the same celebrant?' asks Nick. ‘Because she was
really
fantastic.'

‘Yes, she did,' I reply, rocking Sherry gently. ‘And I thought you'd already booked the woman, so what's the problem?'

‘Well, we
had
booked her.' Bronte starts playing with her bracelets again. ‘But we booked her for about six weeks from now because, like, Nick had this stupid theory that the baby would be late, because he was.'

‘Well, I
was
,' says Nick defensively.

‘Yeah, but
she
wasn't.' Bronte gives him a disparaging look. ‘Anyway, we really wanted to have the naming thing for when she was about a week or two because it's all about being, like, a welcome thing, and if you wait till they're months old, then what's the point?'

‘Okay, I think I see what you're getting at,' I say as I put one hand up to my temple and massage it lightly. ‘But I still don't see the problem. Why don't you just rebook her for a couple of weeks time?'

‘Because we can't!' wails Bronte. ‘She's going away next Monday to Europe for five weeks!'

‘And we don't want to wait five weeks,' adds Nick, ‘because it's supposed to be a welcome thing so if she's that old, well . . . '

‘Then what's the point?' I finish for him. ‘Yes, I get it. What I
don't
get is where I come in. What's the favour?'

‘Well, I rang her today, and she goes, “You've really only got this Sunday”. But that'd be it – until she gets back, that is.'

‘I see,' I say slowly, because I think I
do
see. ‘And you want to have it this Sunday. And you want to have it at my place because you'll be there then.'

‘And because it's so much nicer!' says Bronte eagerly.

‘And warmer!' adds Nick.

‘Hmm.' I look down at the sleeping baby and sigh. ‘How many people?'

‘Oh, only family,' says Nick dismissively, ‘so not that many.'

‘And it'd be only a little afternoon tea.' Bronte is finally looking at me. ‘I'd help you, of course.'

‘Of course!' adds Nick. ‘And so will I!'

‘I can't believe I'm doing this,' I say, shaking my head, ‘but – all right. You can use my place.'

‘Oh,
thanks
, Mum!' Bronte leans forwards and kisses me on the cheek. ‘You're the best! Thanks so much!'

‘Yeah – thanks, Mil!' Nick grins at me and then turns to Bronte. ‘See? I told you she wouldn't think it's a problem!'

‘And I promise you won't have anything to worry about, Mum. Like, I know how you are about your place, and we'll take really good care of it.'

‘We sure will.'

‘
And
we'll clean it after,' adds Bronte earnestly, ‘every inch.'

‘Every inch!' repeats Nick.

‘Oh, and your carpet!' says Bronte, ‘I
know
how you are about your carpet. Well, you won't have a
thing
to worry about!'

‘Not a thing!'

‘Not a mark!'

‘Not a spot!'

‘Like, it'll look exactly the same as it does right now!'

‘Absolutely perfect!'

I'm just drifting happily off to sleep when my father comes wandering over from the edge of my consciousness and looms large behind my closed eyelids. I smile at him and he smiles affectionately back before sitting his tall, angular body down and looking thoughtfully at me, his chin resting on one bony hand.

He looks much the same as he did in life. Hasn't lost any more hair, hasn't got any more wrinkles, hasn't even put on any weight – which he could probably do with. In fact, he's looking remarkably good. His darkish hair is only just tinged with grey and is only slightly receding. His nose is a tad larger than I remember but his eyes are still that deep-brown colour that I've always wished I'd inherited. And it's pretty obvious he hasn't been receiving any fashion tips up beyond the pearly gates either. He's dressed in a beige pullover and a pair of oversized brown corduroy pants, which I bet are fastened around his thin waist with his favourite black belt.

‘Hello there,' he says with a smile.

‘Hi,' I whisper softly, willing him to stay for a while and chat. ‘How's it going?'

‘Fine, fine.' He shivers as he rubs his hands together. ‘Bit chilly here, isn't it?'

‘I've turned the heat off,' I reply, ‘but I suppose you're not used to the cold anymore, are you?'

‘Don't know about that.' He frowns slightly. ‘Gets pretty chilly where I'm from.'

‘
Does
it?' I ask, puzzled. ‘I thought it'd be sort of even all the time there.'

‘Not at all.' He raises his eyebrows questioningly. ‘Why would you think that?'

‘Well, that's what it says in all the books.'

‘Not the ones
I've
read,' he replies. ‘In fact, sometimes it gets so damn frigid that you'd sell your soul for some heat.'

‘Oh no!' I exclaim with horror as something suddenly occurs to me. ‘You're not in heaven at all, are you? You're in
hell
!'

‘We prefer to call it Tasmania, thanks,' he says evenly. ‘We find it attracts more tourists that way.'

‘Tasmania?' I reply, confused. ‘What on earth are you doing in Tasmania?'

‘I
live
there.' He looks at me as if I've mislaid a few marbles. ‘I thought I told you that this afternoon?'

‘This afternoon?' I repeat dumbly. ‘
When
this afternoon?'

‘When I met you,' he explains patiently, ‘at your friend's place. Camilla. I was with Joanne and we all had lunch. Remember?'

‘What!' I lean forwards and examine his face. ‘It's
you
!'

‘Of course it is. Who did you think it was?'

‘My father! I thought you were my father!'

‘Well, that's odd,' says Richard, frowning at me as he stands up. ‘That's very odd indeed. Do I
look
like your father?'

‘Yes! Yes, you
do
!' I shriek and, in doing so, wake myself up totally. I sit bolt upright and stare wide-eyed around the room as I convince myself there is nobody else here with me. Not my father, and certainly not Richard. What was
that
all about? I lie back down and will my heartbeat to return to normal. Then I go back through the dream slowly and call up an image of both my father and Richard. I stand them next to each other and examine them carefully.

And it's true. Richard
is
my father! Well, not
exactly
my father, which would be impossible as the man was buried five years ago. But he looks
very
much like my father – the same tall, thin build, the same expressive eyes, the same air of
intelligence, the same dated sense of dress. Then
that's
why I turned into an adolescent! It wasn't anything to do with something ridiculous like falling in love at first sight! It was just a simple reaction to a man who has the same body type and overall look my father possessed.

I take a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh of relief. I feel better already. I no longer have to do any sentimental soul-searching or mope around carrying an unrequited love like a millstone around my neck. My father! No wonder I felt so disorientated and weak-kneed. Who wouldn't when their subconscious recognises and reacts to a likeness the conscious doesn't pick up on?

I grin at the two images superimposed on my mind's eye and then make them turn and shake hands politely with each other. After which my father gives me a wave and fades away, leaving Richard, in all his praying-mantis glory. His image hovers for a few seconds and then turns to give me a truly heartbreaking smile before walking slowly back into the recesses of my mind. Where I'll swiftly shove him into an unused cupboard and lock the door tightly. And then all I've got to do is wait it out until the man returns to Tasmania and all will be well.

I bury my head in the pillow and then roll over, clutching the doona up around me. My father! It occurs to me that Sigmund Freud would probably say all of this means that I'm lusting after my own father. Because I
did
have a rather physical reaction to Richard this afternoon, not just emotional. And that's pretty twisted. I frown to myself, and then my brow clears as I recollect a certain image of Santa Claus and his loyal reindeer. Lusting after a guy who looks like one's father is positively healthy compared with that little number.

Handy Household Hint No IX:

Always walk a mile in someone else's shoes before you judge them. That way, apart from gaining valuable insights, you'll be a mile away when you judge them and you'll have new shoes.

I'm lying in bed enjoying the decadence of sloth and tossing up whether to invite Scarlett O' Hara to join me when the phone rings. I reach out languidly and pluck the receiver off the reproduction antique phone by my bed.

‘Hello?'

‘Terry!' Pat, one of my Saturday tennis partners, shrieks happily in my ear, ‘I hear congratulations are in order,
Grandma
!'

‘How did you know?' I ask curiously, sitting up in bed and pulling my doona to my chin. ‘I haven't even told any of you lot yet!'

‘Oh, news travels fast,' continues Pat in her slightly-too-loud voice. ‘Debbie saw your daughter's name on the hospital admissions list, and she told Mary, and she told Joyce, and then Joyce was playing tennis on Monday night with Marg and Jan, so she told them, and then I go for walks with Denise, and she lives next door to Val, whose cousin is married to Jan's son. So there you are.'

‘I see,' I answer rather untruthfully as I hold the receiver a little way off from my ear. ‘Nothing's a secret for long, is it?'

‘Not a chance,' agrees Pat cheerfully. ‘And there's another reason I'm ringing. I hear you've got the week off.'

‘How did you – never mind.'

‘Anyway, I know you don't play midweek tennis because you work but, seeing as you've got today off, how would you like to join us? We're having a round robin and then our annual general meeting. Which you don't have to stay for, of course, but the tennis is fun and then we have a cup of tea and everyone brings a plate. You'll enjoy yourself. Want to come?'

‘Um. What time?'

‘Starts at nine thirty. But you don't have to be there right on the dot. And don't bother bringing anything yourself, you're a guest. C'mon, what do you say?'

‘Well, I
would
like to stretch my legs,' I reply, mulling it over. ‘Okay! You're on. I might be a tad late but I'll see you down at the club. Sure you don't want me to bring anything?'

‘No, just you and your racquet. See you there.'

I lean over to hang up the phone and then, yawning, stretch myself out across the bed and pull the doona snugly around me. After my rather disturbing dream last night, I couldn't get back to sleep for quite some time. Which was odd because, once I had discovered the root of my reaction to Richard yesterday, I fully expected I would immediately fall into the deep, blissful slumber of the truly deserving. But it wasn't to be. Instead I lay awake till the early hours before drifting into a restless sleep that's left me full of kinks this morning. Hence my agreement to join in the round robin at the tennis club. Because normally I steer well clear of the midweek lady brigade, as they're a rather odd bunch. And that's putting it mildly.

I stretch out once more before hefting myself up and, shivering in the brisk morning chill, make my bed quickly and neatly before having my shower. Ten minutes later I'm clad in a towel and selecting a tracksuit, skirt and top from my wardrobe. After careful deliberation, I choose a navy-blue and white Sfida ensemble that matches my runners perfectly. I examine my fully dressed self in the mirror and wonder why Richard didn't even give me a second glance. Because although quite a lot of men find my height a bit of a turn-off, my measurements alone usually warrant a raised eyebrow or two. But with Richard – nothing. He obviously likes his women smaller, judging by the extra attention he paid Cam throughout the afternoon. I wonder if I can get a height reduction while I'm getting my butt reduction and breast reduction. And, if I'm getting four things reduced, perhaps I'd qualify for a bulk discount.

I shrug philosophically and walk back into the ensuite to blow-dry and then brush my hair back into a ponytail. Next it's just a splash of deodorant, a touch of moisturiser, a dash of foundation and I'm all ready for some physical exertion. Although, given the fact it's the midweek ladies I'll be joining, I doubt I'll get too much of a workout.

I tidy my ensuite briskly before leaping down the stairs two at a time and heading towards the kitchen to put the kettle on. On the way, I turn the heat on full and stop in front of the couch to stare at the dull pink stain on my carpet. Slowly, I look from the stain to the lounge-room walls and back again, and realise they actually match. Interesting – but still unacceptable.

In the kitchen I light the gas under the kettle and, while it's busily heating itself up, I pour a generous serve of muesli into a bowl and add some skinny milk. Then I make my coffee, grab a coaster, a pad of paper and a pen, and take all the
assorted items over to the table, where I settle myself down. It's time to write today's list while I have my breakfast.

WEDNESDAY

It occurs to me that today's list is very similar to yesterday's list, which was very similar to Monday's list. So I make a mental vow that I
will
get all these things done today. It would be simply too ridiculous if I ended up going back to work next week with my tax return still not completed. And it's equally stupid that the only person who hasn't supplied Bronte with a gift is her own mother.
And
an afternoon spent with my feet up watching videos is just what the doctor ordered.
And
I don't want to spend another evening minus a dressing-gown.
And
everybody keeps telling me what a fantastic book
Gone with the Wind
is, so it's about time I found out for myself.

So these are my aims for today and if anything else comes up, it will just have to wait. Because frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

‘But then we'll have to buy all new plates. And is that
really
economically responsible? I don't think so.'

‘Perhaps
not
, Val,' replies a hatchet-faced female sarcastically, ‘but I for one have had enough of trying to squeeze a slice of quiche and some salad onto those bread-and-butter plates we're using at the moment. It's a ludicrous situation.'

‘Well, they're fine if you just have rolls for lunch.'

‘But who on earth wants rolls for lunch
every
single Wednesday?'

There are nods and murmurs of agreement all around the tables as everybody starts to discuss what they would like for lunch on Wednesdays if they had their choice and/or larger plates. While the discussion takes place, the secretary, a pleasant-looking woman of about my own age, frantically writes something down in the large ledger before her. Val sighs deeply and looks sulkily at her cup of tea, muttering under her breath.

‘All right then,' says the secretary looking up at the assorted ladies, who immediately fall quiet. ‘Have we a general consensus that new, larger plates are required?'

Everybody, except Val, nods in agreement. The secretary scribbles again for a few minutes while a middle-aged woman wearing a hot-pink tracksuit and bright-red lipstick wanders around the table offering a plate of lamingtons. When she reaches me, I take one and put it on my plate with the other assorted goodies I've been collecting. The meeting might be excruciatingly boring but the food is scrumptious. The women are all sitting around three or four octagonal tables, which have been lined up in a row and covered with food. Sponge cakes, meringues, sausage rolls, tiny quiches, scones,
rumballs, pikelets – everything homemade and everything delicious.

And even if it wasn't for the food, I don't think I'd be capable of moving anywhere for a while as I'm totally and absolutely knackered. What I expected to be a mild workout turned into a test of endurance that I failed miserably. In fact, when they were asking for volunteers for the last group of sets, I hid in the bathroom. Because these midweek ladies could run rings around the Saturday mob I usually play with – they are fitter, more consistent, and a great deal more feisty. They also have a collective killer instinct that would make Lleyton Hewitt's knees tremble.

‘All righty then,' says the secretary, ‘any other general business?'

‘Yes.' A tiny female with Asian features puts her hand up. ‘Has anybody else noticed the smell in the big urn? Well, I did
and
I investigated. Apparently, it was utilised by the Monday night men's team as a vehicle for boiling frankfurts.'

‘
What!
'

‘You're kidding!'

‘That's Siewyee,' Pat, who is sitting on my right, whispers to me. ‘She's the club champion. Killer forehand.'

‘Dis
gust
ing!' The hatchet-faced woman who had put Val in her place earlier shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Something
has
to be done!'

‘Quite right. I'll bring it up at the club annual general meeting next week,' says the secretary, writing furiously. ‘Now – anything else?'

‘Yes, I've got something!' calls the lamington lady in the hot-pink tracksuit from the far end of the table. ‘Could you please ask the section one girls to stop allowing their toddlers to play musical instruments while competition is in play?'

‘Hear, hear!'

‘Yes,
please
!'

‘And, while we're on the subject, could you ask Caron from section one to keep her twins out of the clubhouse at
all
times. They went through my handbag last time and posted my car keys down the ball-chute!'

This time the agreement around the table is particularly vociferous, with several of the ladies embarking on lurid tales of exactly what Caron's twins had got up to during the season. The secretary writes furiously on her paper before picking up her spoon and hitting it on the side of a cup in a request for silence.

‘Okay, anything else?'

‘Well, I'd like to bring a motion for new tables,' pipes up Val, with a sidelong smirk at the hatchet-faced woman. ‘After all, if we're to have these new large plates, then the current tables are going to be awfully crowded.'

Once again, there are murmurs of agreement around the table and several women nod sagely as they break into discussion. The hatchet-faced woman narrows her eyes at Val while she tries to think of something appropriately cutting. I reach across for the teapot and top up my cup before taking a deep sip. Doesn't taste of frankfurts at all.

‘You know she's right, Jan,' says Pat to the secretary, ‘these octagonal tables only just hold eight of the bread-and-butter plates each, so with normal dinner plates they're going to be all hanging over the edge. And you couldn't possibly have any guests, there wouldn't be the room.'

‘But we can't afford new tables,' replies Jan, looking increasingly stressed as she checks her books. ‘They'd be terribly expensive.'

‘Quite so,' agrees the hatchet-faced woman sternly.

‘Well, then –' Val isn't giving up so easily ‘– perhaps we ought to save up for the tables
before
we buy the plates. Makes much more sense.'

‘I'll put it to the vote,' says Jan, and she hits the cup with her spoon once more. ‘All those in favour of saving up for the tables and
then
buying the plates, please raise your hand.'

The majority of the women raise their hands, so, because I don't want to be left out, I put up mine too. Val beams proudly and the hatchet-faced woman sends her a truly malevolent look before leaning back and staring thin-lipped at the ceiling, her arms folded across her chest. I do hope they don't play against each other in the near future. I wouldn't bet much on Val's chances of surviving the encounter intact.

‘Moving on,' says Jan, performing her cup trick again, ‘we've arranged for Deb to take flowers up to Lorraine, who's in hospital for a breast reduction tomorrow – oh,
stuff
it!' Jan claps her hand to her mouth and, with a horrified expression, looks up and around the gathering. ‘I wasn't supposed to say
what
she was having done. Could everyone please pretend they didn't hear that?'

‘Oh, sure!'

‘No problem.'

‘Didn't hear a thing.'

‘Great.' Jan doesn't look all that convinced but continues regardless: ‘Then I think that's about it. Oh, except that Genny has asked whether some others, apart from just her, could take the tea-towels home to be washed occasionally.'

‘Hear, hear,' says Genny with feeling.

‘And we'll need a volunteer to price some bigger tables so we know exactly how much money we don't have. Anybody got some free time?'

‘I'm sure Val would be happy to oblige,' says the hatchet-faced woman quickly, ‘wouldn't you, dear?'

Val opens her mouth and then closes it again, no doubt deciding that a partial victory is better than nothing. I take advantage of the lull in conversation to select a piece of
decadent-looking cream-cake with pineapple icing and a couple of tiny meringues. If this is standard fare for midweek ladies, I think I'm going to sign up. Perhaps I could even get to meet Lorraine and ask her if it was worth it.