Odd Socks (29 page)

‘Great.' She flops down and grabs the champagne bottle. ‘I only cleaned that room last week.'

‘I don't even know why you got that dog.'

‘Oh, Ben's had his heart set on a puppy for years.' Cam fills up our glasses and passes mine over. ‘I don't think I've ever seen him as happy as when he got Murphy.'

‘Exactly how many pets has he got now?'

‘Not that many,' says Cam defensively. ‘Murphy; the rabbits, of course; Sonic the blue-tongue; his fish; his hermit crabs – and whatever's out in the shed.'

‘Is that all?' I ask sarcastically.

‘Oh, and that.' Cam gestures towards a rectangular polystyrene box on the floor by the island bench. ‘But it's only temporary.'

‘What is it?'

‘A guinea pig he's looking after for Phillip for some reason.' Cam gets up and, bending over, picks up the box gingerly. ‘Here, have a look. He's quite cute.'

‘Okay, if I must,' I say unenthusiastically, moving my champagne glass quickly as Cam slides the box onto the table in front of me. On one side of it is a large colourful sticker bearing the name of Phillip's veterinary practice and a picture of a cat and a dog, who look a little too friendly for my liking. Phillip is engaged to Cam's sister, Elizabeth. He is very tall and rather good-looking, in a clipped Errol Flynn type of way that I must admit doesn't do an awful lot for me. But Cam's son, Ben, who wants to be a vet, has adopted Phillip as a mentor of sorts and spends a lot of his spare time helping out at the Boronia practice.

‘You must.' She levers the lid off the box with a hollow scraping sound and then stands back. ‘See? He's one of those cute ones with chunks of fur sticking out everywhere.'

I look down into the box before me. Sure enough, nestled in a mound of yellow straw is a medium-sized, multicoloured guinea pig who is obviously having a bad-hair life. Tufts of dark-brown fur stick out at right angles to tufts of black fur, with tufts of white, chestnut and mustard-coloured fur in between. This rodent has serious coiffure problems. I suspect that it also has serious health problems, judging by the lethargic way it is lying flat on its back with its head lolling to one side.

‘Cam?' I give the guinea pig a gentle prod, to no avail. ‘I think it's sick.'

‘What?' she shrieks, shoving me back as she leans over to take a look. ‘God! I didn't
do
anything!'

‘No one said you did.'

‘You're my witness! I never even
touched
him, did I?'

‘Not that I saw. Perhaps it's hungry?'

‘Ben fed him before he left,' Cam says distractedly, running her fingers through her short hair, ‘and he's got water and all. What's wrong with the damn thing?'

‘I don't know.' I reach in and place one finger gently on the pig's chest. ‘It's breathing quite rapidly.'

‘At least he's breathing. Do you think I should ring Phillip?'

‘It's pretty late,' I reply, glancing at the clock, ‘but it
is
his guinea pig, I suppose.'

We both lapse into silence as we stare into the box at the supine rodent. Its eyes are closed and I can see its chest rising and falling at a rate that surely can't be good for a long-term prognosis. And then I see something else as well.

‘Cam?'

‘What?'

‘Are you sure this thing's a boy?'

‘No, why?' Cam looks at me. ‘What difference does it make?'

‘Quite a bit, I think.' I gesture towards the rodent's nether regions. ‘See?'

Cam follows my gaze and her mouth falls open. Because between the tufts of multicoloured fur, a small pink thing can be seen emerging. I can't believe that, twice in one week, I'm about to witness the miracle of birth. At least this time I don't have to take an active part.

‘Hell's bells,' breathes Cam as she watches fascinated. ‘She's having babies!'

‘She sure is.'

‘Ben's going to be thrilled. Oh!' Cam turns to me questioningly. ‘Do you think I should wake CJ up?'

‘No!' I reply quickly. ‘Only because it might take ages, you know.'

‘I suppose,' Cam says reluctantly, ‘but she'd love this.'

We watch as the rodent continues to pant shallowly, and the small, pink, hairless thing continues to emerge. I think it might be one of the baby's legs. However, after some minutes I note that the birthing process doesn't seem to be making much progress. In fact, just as it looks like the leg is about to be followed by something more substantial, it appears to get stuck and almost disappears only to begin its slow re-emerging all over again.

‘Cam?'

‘I know,' she says worriedly, ‘something's wrong, isn't it?'

‘Looks that way.'

‘God, I think the baby's stuck.'

‘Looks that way.'

‘Well, what can we do?' Cam glances at me with concern. ‘Because if I stuff
this
up, I'll never hear the end of it.'

I transfer my gaze back to the guinea pig. ‘I think you might have to give it a hand.'

‘Why me?' Cam squeaks. ‘
You're
the one who's got experience!'

‘Exactly why it's your turn,' I reply firmly. ‘Go on, just help – I don't know,
guide
it.'

‘All right,' says Cam grimly as she rolls up her sleeves. ‘Here goes.'

She reaches one hand into the polystyrene box and starts by gently patting the guinea pig's exposed belly. Then, after a few moments, she takes a deep breath and moves her hand down to the little pink leg, which is emerging once more. Gingerly she takes hold of the leg and tries to guide it out but, just when it seems she's going to be successful, it slips out of her fingers and disappears once more.

‘Bugger!'

‘Try again,' I say supportively. ‘You nearly had it then.'

So she tries again, and again, and again. For about fifteen
minutes or so. But each time she has the little pink leg in a firm grasp and it looks like the rest of the baby is about to follow, it seems to hit an obstacle and slips straight from her fingers and back into the body of its mother. I sip my champagne and watch with concern. Because, although I don't know much about the reproductive habits of rodents, I'm guessing prolonged labour doesn't bode well for the survival chances of the infants. And I can tell by the increased desperation of Cam's attempts to assist the birth that she's thinking much the same thing.

‘You'll have to ring Phillip.'

‘I know,' she sighs heavily as the leg slips out of her grip one more time. ‘This is going on too long.'

‘Yep.'

Cam rubs the guinea pig's belly gently. ‘Hang in there, girl, help's on the way.'

‘Here, have a drink first.' I pass Cam her champagne and she takes a gulp before putting it down and heading over to the phone. While she dials, I look back into the box and watch the poor little rodent as she pants with her legs splayed and her head sagging to one side. I feel a rush of camaraderie for what the valiant little creature is going through. All right,
I
might have had considerable help of the narcotic variety, but I did still go through a birth myself. It creates a bond. Maybe I should sing to her?

‘Hello?' says Cam into the receiver. ‘Phillip? Oh, I
am
sorry to be ringing you so late but it's that guinea pig you left with Ben. It's in trouble. It's giving birth and it seems that one of the babies is, well, stuck and it can't – what? What?
What
?'

I look up in consternation as Cam shrieks into the phone and then lapses into silence, nodding every so often as she listens to what Phillip has to say. Her eyes open wide and then narrow.

‘I see. Yes, I understand and I think it's damn disgusting. No, of course not. Okay, I'll remember. Sorry to disturb you so late. Thanks, Phillip – bye.'

Cam hangs up the phone slowly and walks over to the sink where she washes her hands thoroughly for a good few minutes. Only then does she turn towards me and, with her mouth set into a thin, hard line, walks determinedly across to the foam box on the table and peers balefully within.

‘I hate you,' she says with considerable venom to the prone guinea pig. ‘I
really
hate you.'

‘
What?
' I put my hand protectively over the box's opening. ‘What's
she
done? What on earth did Phillip say?'

‘She isn't a damn she, that's what he said,' spits Cam, still staring at the guinea pig malevolently. ‘
She's
a he.'

‘Is not,' I reply with exasperation. ‘How can she be giving birth if she's a he?'

‘Exactly.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Because she's
not
giving birth, that's why! She's just . . . just . . .'

‘For god's sake – just
what
?'

‘Just
masturbating
, that's what!'

‘
What?
'

‘Precisely what I said.' Cam smiles grimly. ‘Apparently those disgusting pig males just lie on their backs and, well, masturbate!'

‘But then what was the pink –' I hesitate as the ugly truth hits me between the eyes – metaphorically speaking.

‘Exactly.'

‘And when you were –'

‘Exactly.'

‘Flaming hell.'

Cam doesn't bother answering this time. Instead she casts one more venomous look into the box before picking up the
lid and forcefully ramming it back onto the polystyrene container. Then, with considerably less care than she had shown earlier, she picks up the box and deposits it back onto the floor by the island bench. I can feel the laughter starting to bubble up within me and I'm not game to meet her eyes.

‘Don't you dare.' Cam slides into her seat and polishes off her champagne with one gulp. ‘Don't you bloody dare.'

‘Damn, I wish you
had
got CJ up now. I would have loved to hear you explain this little number!'

‘Shut up.'

‘No wonder he was panting!'

‘Shut up.'

‘He must have thought all his Christmases had come at once!'

‘What did I tell you about mentioning Christmas?' asks Cam grimly.

‘Hmm. You realise you've gone from satisfying Santa to gratifying guinea pigs within the space of four days? That's not what I'd call an upward trend.'

‘God, I
hate
that furry rat.'

‘Well, I think he likes you – I could tell.' The laughter that has been bubbling away within me for the last few minutes finally spills over and, putting my arms on the table, I lower my face into them and let it out. My shoulders heave as the laughter wracks me, and tears drip onto the tabletop. After a few minutes, as my head starts to thump and my cheeks start to ache, I realise I can hear an echo. I roll my head to one side and see that Cam has folded up with laughter as well.

‘A
leg
!' she splutters helplessly. ‘We thought it was a leg!'

‘Well, Ben can never say that you won't do anything for his animals!'

‘Mummy?' asks CJ sleepily from the doorway.

‘Damn.' Cam stands up and, wiping her face, gives me an apologetic look. ‘Back in a minute.'

‘No problem.' I watch Cam drape an arm around her daughter's shoulders and guide her out of the room and back towards her bed.

I groan and pat my cheeks to cool them down. Then I run my fingers through my hair and try to tuck it neatly behind my ears to return some semblance of normality. I decide that what I need is some champagne but, when I grab the bottle to refill my glass, I discover it's empty. An examination of Cam's fridge is rewarded by another bottle of champagne so I open it and fill both our glasses before putting it down on the table within easy reach.

Just as I'm sitting back down, I hear some thumping coming from the polystyrene box by the island bench. I move my chair a tad closer and, leaning down, lever the lid off and peer inside at the recipient of our earlier good graces. Well, he is certainly no longer looking at all unwell. In fact, he is scurrying around his container very happily, his multicoloured tufts positively bristling with vitality and his beady little eyes twinkling. Yes, he looks extremely pleased with life in general. As well he might. Suddenly he registers that he is being watched and freezes, mid-scurry, for a few seconds before darting over to the corner and under a pile of straw. Then he pushes his head back out and, with his whiskers twitching, looks up towards me.

And winks.

Handy Household Hint No VIII:

If you've made your bed, for goodness sake don't lie in it – it will only mess it up.

Somebody is watching me. I knew the instant I woke by a certain prickling sensation between my shoulder blades. I slowly un-embed my face from the pillow, turn sideways and open my eyes. And am rewarded by a squinty view of a roomful of furniture and fittings I do not recognise. A white dressing-table covered with odds and ends of make-up. A matching tallboy. A corner desk with stacks of books and a daily planner poster above it. A wall-shelf holding a neat row of smiling porcelain dolls. A floor covered with clothing remnants and several odd socks.

It only takes me a few seconds to tune into reality and remember I stayed at Cam's place last night. And that I slept in Samantha's room. Then it automatically follows that I
am
probably being watched. And I even know by whom.

‘Good morning, CJ.' I flop over in the bed so I can face her. ‘And how are you this fine morning?'

‘Okay,' answers CJ, who, dressed in denim overalls and a pink skivvy, is leaning in the doorway eating an apple.

‘Is your mother up?'

‘Yep.'

‘Is she in the kitchen?'

‘Yep.'

‘Is she making coffee?'

‘Dunno.'

‘I see.' I sit up in the bed, yawn, and then stretch vigorously.

‘Did you sleep ober last night?'

‘Yep.'

‘In Sam's room?'

‘Yep.'

‘Why d'ya do that?'

‘Dunno.'

CJ rewards my chattiness with a narrow look before stalking away. I smile at her retreating back and then, after one more stretch, heave myself out of Sam's bed. I'm dressed in a spare pair of Cam's pyjamas that leave very little to the imagination on top, and about six inches of naked ankle flesh at the bottom.

I find my socks from last night and pull them onto my feet to stop them freezing. Because it's very cold in here this morning. I'd forgotten Cam doesn't have central heating. And it's also still pouring. Even though the curtains are closed, I can hear the rain drumming on the roof and splattering across the windows.

Once my socks are in place, I remake Samantha's bed quickly, making sure that it now features hospital corners, before running a comb through my hair and securing it into a tight, albeit messy, bun. Then I pad out of the bedroom and up the passage to the kitchen. From which a most heavenly aroma is issuing forth.

‘Ah, coffee!'

‘
There
you are.' Cam, fully dressed in jeans and a burnt-orange windcheater, hands me a steaming mug and waves me
over to the table in the meals area. ‘I sent CJ to tell you that coffee was on ages ago.'

‘Really,' I reply dryly as I settle myself down and blow at the steam coming off my mug. ‘It must have slipped her mind.'

‘Well, while I was waiting for you, Bronte rang to say someone called Pat from tennis phoned to say today's been declared a wash-out already. So no tennis, and you've got a free day.'

‘Great! I
really
wasn't looking forward to standing around and mopping courts between showers. It's the worst bit about tennis.'

‘Good for you. So, anyway, how did you sleep?'

‘Excellent.' I put my mug down and grin at her happily. ‘And did I need it! I went out like a light and didn't wake once
– I feel
great
.'

‘Well, you know what my mother always says.' Cam turns to me and adopts her mother's slightly acidic tone: ‘One hour of solid sleep is worth two hours broken – and don't you forget it.'

‘No wonder I feel great!' I wrap my hands around my mug. ‘Seeing as we went to bed around one-ish, then that's about seven and a half hours solid, which equates to fifteen hours of broken sleep. I'm a regular Rip Van Winkle.'

‘I don't think it works that way.' Cam smiles as she pops some bread into the toaster. ‘Toast?'

‘Yes, please – I'm starving!' I pat my stomach to emphasise my words. ‘And then I'll have a shower and get out of your hair before your mother's mystery meeting.'

‘No rush.' Cam glances at the microwave clock. ‘We've got an hour.'

While she busies herself making toast, I sip my coffee and watch the rain pelting down in the backyard. The dog is back outside, and back in the middle of the yard, watching me mournfully. As I turn away to avoid feeling guilty, CJ comes
wandering into the kitchen and helps herself to the toast her
mother has just finished buttering.

‘Hey,' Cam protests, ‘those were for Terry!'

‘Sorry,' says CJ around a mouthful of my toast. ‘Can I hab some too, then?'

‘You might as well have those now,' replies her mother, putting some more bread into the toaster. ‘But sit down at the table with them.'

CJ slides into a chair opposite me, and proceeds to nibble the edges of her toast wordlessly while she watches the dog watch her. Suddenly the front door is flung open and a few seconds later Benjamin, dressed relatively neatly in his St John's uniform, arrives in the kitchen out of breath. He looks around wildly.

‘Hello, Ben!' says CJ brightly.

‘Ben!' says his mother, holding my toast out on a plate. ‘What're you doing here?'

‘Where's my guinea pig?'

‘What?' asks Cam, going red. ‘Why?'

‘Because I'm taking it to St John's, that's why.' Ben looks at his mother suspiciously. ‘I left it near the front door – c'mon, they're waiting for me out there, what've you done with it?'

‘
Nothing!
' exclaims Cam, as she avoids looking at me. ‘I just moved it in here yesterday so it'd stay warm, that's all. It's next to the island bench.'

‘Oh!' says CJ, putting her remaining slice of toast down. ‘Can I see it?'

‘Excellent!' Ben dives around the island bench and picks up the polystyrene box carefully. Then he places it on top of the island bench, takes the plate his mother is holding and puts it on top of the box. He grins at her.

‘Haven't had any breakfast. S'okay, isn't it?'

‘Yeah, sure.' Cam gives him a rather resigned smile and turns away to put another two slices of bread in the toaster. ‘It was Terry's, that's all.'

‘Cool.' Ben sends an apologetic grin in my direction and starts shovelling toast into his mouth.

‘Hadn't you better hurry, Ben?' asks his mother as she looks back at the clock. ‘Especially if they're waiting for you?'

‘I can't go out there with this toast, can I?' says Ben reasonably. ‘It'd be rude.'

‘Ben, can I see your guinea pig?' asks CJ pleadingly. ‘Please?'

‘Ben doesn't have time,' replies his mother, ‘now eat, CJ!'

‘Okay.' Ben suddenly dives across to the table and, lifting up his astonished sister's arm, proceeds to suck on it noisily.

‘Yaaah!' screams CJ, trying to fight her way loose. ‘
Mummy!
'

‘Ben!' Cam stares at him, astounded. ‘What on
earth
are you doing?'

‘Just doing what I'm told,' replies Ben equably, letting go of his sister's arm. ‘You said “eat CJ”, so I was.'

‘Yuck, yuck,
yuck
!' CJ wipes angrily at the soggy spot on her skivvy. ‘I hab got bits of toast all ober me now! I
hate
you, Ben! You're rebolting!'

‘Yes, you
are
rebolting,' says Cam, scowling at her son as she takes his now empty plate off the box and drops it in the sink with a clatter. ‘Grab your box and go to St John's before I beat you up.'

‘Okay, okay!' Ben laughs cheerfully as he leaves his sister and picks up the box carefully. ‘But, CJ, be warned – I'll be back for lunch!'

‘
Mummy!
'

Ben grins at her and then exits the kitchen. Shortly afterwards, the front door slams. I take a sip of my coffee and stretch as I watch CJ unhook her overalls clumsily and pull her skivvy over her head. Her mother ducks next door into the
laundry and comes back out holding a lemon windcheater that has a lost-looking Paddington Bear on the front.

‘Here, CJ.' Cam drops the windcheater on the table in front of her daughter before returning to the kitchen to wait for the toast to pop. ‘You can put this on.'

‘I
hate
Ben. And I wanted to hold the guinea pig,' grumbles CJ, dropping the skivvy on the floor. ‘Guinea pigs
like
me.'

‘They like your Mum too,' I observe mildly.

Cam sends me a grim look as she holds the butter knife up threateningly. ‘That'll be quite enough from you, Terry.'

‘I haven't even started.'

‘That's what I'm worried about.'

At this point the front door can be heard opening once more, albeit not as loudly. A few seconds later, Samantha, dressed in a slinky black number and with a pair of black high-heeled shoes dangling from one hand, arrives in the kitchen. Her face still exhibits streaks of smudged make-up and her eyes look like those of a racoon after a wild night out. She smiles generally at us all and grabs a piece of buttered toast off the plate her mother is holding.

‘Hi all! Just have to get dressed for work – see you in a tick.'

‘Here, Terry – grab this toast before someone else does and I'll put some more on.' Cam dumps the plate containing the remaining slice of buttered toast in front of me and reloads the toaster as Samantha leaves the kitchen in the direction of her bedroom.

‘Thanks.' I take a quick bite of my toast before it can be filched.

‘I wanted some more too, Mummy,' complains CJ as she redoes her overall straps. ‘I hab only got one bit left and I'm starbing.'

‘Sure, CJ, just wait a sec,' Cam fills the kettle and puts it on the stove. ‘More coffee, Terry?'

‘Most definitely.' I drain my coffee and take the empty mug over to Cam before returning to polish off my toast. ‘Oh, I love being waited on!'

‘Enjoy it while it lasts.'

‘Okay.'

‘Yum! More toast!' Sam helps herself to one of the just popped slices and proceeds to butter it. She has performed miracles in minutes, with the black outfit now replaced by a burgundy uniform with the words HOT 'N HEAVENLY emblazoned across the front in gold lettering. Her face has been scrubbed free of make-up and her long dark hair has been pulled back into a smooth bun that is encased within a black hairnet.

‘Do you need a lift to work?' asks Cam as she inserts more bread into the toaster and then butters the remaining slice of toast.

‘I can take you,' I offer politely. ‘I'll be leaving soon anyway.'

‘No!' Cam says rather loudly, before continuing in a more normal tone. ‘I mean, no thanks because–'

‘Dad's taking me.' Sam takes her plate over to the table, where she sits down next to her sister. ‘But thanks anyway.'

‘D'you know Terry stayed in your room last night?' CJ puts her two cents into the conversation. ‘In your bed?'

‘I guessed by her clothes in there.' Sam grins at me. ‘Hope you found it comfy. And, by the way, love your jammies. Totally sick.'

‘Just what I've always wanted – sick nightwear,' I comment, ‘although personally I'd prefer them a tad longer, and wider, and less revealing.'

‘Can't say as I agree there.' Alex comes wandering into the kitchen and, after raising his eyebrows at me suggestively, sends such a warm smile in Cam's direction I turn green with envy.

‘Hi!' she beams back, and her whole face lights up. ‘I didn't even hear you come in!'

‘That's because I am as sure-footed as a panther, and as stealthy as a tiger.' Alex proceeds to demonstrate by creeping across to CJ with his arms outstretched for capture. ‘All the better to get
you
!'

‘Yaa
ah
!' shrieks CJ with delight as he grabs her and, lifting her out of her chair, flips her neatly over his shoulder. Bits of toast fly everywhere but Cam doesn't say a word. She just stands in the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea-towel and watching the proceedings with a beatific smile on her face.

‘And now, come on, Sam,' says Alex, depositing CJ back onto her chair with half a piece of toast mashed against the front of her overalls, ‘otherwise you'll be late.'

‘Okay.' Sam dumps her plate on the island bench, grabs another piece of toast and kisses her mother quickly on the cheek. ‘See you later, Mommie Dearest.'

‘Likewise.' Alex grabs the remaining two slices, which Cam has just buttered, and grins at us all. ‘Good to see you, Terry–
especially
like that.'

‘Thanks.'

He turns to give Cam a meaningful look. ‘I'll see
you
a little later. By the way, your answering machine is having a blinking attack down there. I bet you've forgotten to check it for days. Again.'

With one last grin all round, the sure-footed panther/tiger leaves with his stealthy offspring. The door closes behind them and Cam puts another two slices of bread in the toaster. The kitchen smells warm and friendly and delicious. I yawn and reflect that, although it might smell pretty good, life certainly runs at a more frenetic pace in this house. I don't think I could stand it.

‘How many have you got coming tomorrow?' asks Cam as
she passes me over the hot buttered toast. ‘Do you want me to bring anything?'

‘Mummy!' says CJ, staring at my plate crossly. ‘What about me?'

‘Of course you're coming. Why wouldn't you be?'

‘Coming where?'

‘To the party.' Cam frowns at her daughter as she loads the toaster once more. ‘Tomorrow. At Terry's.'

‘
You're
habing a party?' CJ looks at me with disbelief. ‘With
people
?'

‘No, CJ. With animals,' I reply sarcastically, ‘and your mum's bringing the guinea pig.'