Roadside Sisters (7 page)

Annie couldn’t help feeling that she was the victim of something as banal as ‘bad timing’. Sometimes she recorded episodes of
Desperate Housewives
, only to find that, on playback, she was coming in somewhere after the last commercial break. Sometimes she met a man she liked, only to find that he had broken up with his wife just three months before. Sometimes she woke up with bright enthusiasm about her future, only to find that she was thirty-nine and almost halfway through her life. Her timing was way off and it seemed the problem was cumulative. The older she got, the more it seemed that she was out of step and treading on her own toes.

She kicked over the pile of laundry on the floor in the vain hope there might be a clean pair of black trousers under there which had escaped her notice. No dice. Turning one pair of expensive Italian wool jersey pants right-side-out, she was appalled to see the pink of her palm through a neat round hole. A cigarette burn, right there on the front near the knee. She vaguely remembered jumping up from her bar stool and brushing away a smouldering fag end . . . When had that happened? Thursday, Friday, Saturday night? She cursed and threw the pants into a pile with the other clothes that needed mending. A broken zip here, a missing button there, a hem down. She’d get around to the pile one day. She would go to a haberdashery and buy a sewing kit.

Stowed under her old single bed back at the homestead on the family farm was a cardboard box—covered with floral
wrapping paper, lined with tissue and scattered with mothballs—containing all the items Annie had sewn when she was a girl. Dolls’ clothes, cushions, doilies, table napkins—even little blouses and jackets for herself. Her mother was keeping them in the hope that one day she would have a granddaughter to give them to. But that would probably never happen now. The box might as well be thrown on a bonfire.

Spying a corner of the conference invitation sticking out from the pile of documents on her coffee table, Annie retrieved the glossy card. She slowly and methodically ripped it into tiny pieces and threw the lot into the air. The multicoloured fragments of the next two weeks of her life floated to the floor.

Cradling her bottle of vodka, Annie crawled into a crumpled nest of bedsheets and blankets. She felt something cold and hard pressing against her left thigh; reaching down, her fingers curled around a remote control. All the smart apartments had them now—very modern, convenient and affordable—so that, from the comfort of your bed, you could set the recessed ceiling and wall lights and table lamps in an infinite number of configurations to match your mood.

In an instant the bedroom was pitch black.

‘Did you ever hear that story about a man in America who was driving his brand-new Winnebago on the freeway? He put it on cruise control, got out of the driver’s seat and walked through to the back to make a cup of coffee . . .’ Annie was telling this tale with her foot on the top stair of the RoadMaster Royale as she carted a half-dozen bottles of Rutherglen merlot through the narrow door.

‘Anyway, while he was making the coffee, the van ran off the road and crashed. And then he sued the company because the handbook didn’t tell him he had to stay behind the steering wheel!’

‘Bloody hell! Is that true?’ Nina was kneeling in front of a cupboard with a bottle of aged balsamic vinegar in one hand, and red wine and tarragon vinegar in the other.

‘No, no, no! I’ve heard that story before. It’s an urban myth.’ Meredith, down the back, was huffing with the effort of stripping off synthetic bed coverings and replacing them with her designer linen.

‘Is it? Well anyway, it’s a good metaphor for my life.’ Annie heaved her provisions onto the table and paused to capture her curls in a hair clip. ‘I’m in the back having a drink, and my life is driving itself straight into a concrete crash barrier.’ Nina and Meredith’s attention snagged on the sharp edge in her voice.

‘You can’t mean that?’ Meredith paused, up to her elbow in a pillowcase.

Nina snapped the cupboard shut. ‘I can’t imagine you not ever living an authentic life.’

An ‘authentic’ life? What the fuck did that mean? Annie wondered. Nina was a walking, talking self-help book. Annie wouldn’t last the distance with the Oprah of East Malvern spouting these ridiculous platitudes. She briefly and fondly entertained a highlight of last year’s real estate conference at Melbourne’s Crown Casino when she’d won $500 on the blackjack table. Maybe she’d been too hasty in writing off the entire event. She retreated down the stairs.

‘Hey, only joking! Now . . . champagne for all my friends!’ she called over her shoulder.

It was 2 pm on Saturday—two hours after the scheduled departure of the RoadMaster from Nina’s triple-fronted cream brick home—and the stocking of the vehicle was in full swing.

‘Here—take this crockery, and be careful. It’s from Finland.’ Meredith passed a cardboard box to Nina.

‘And then take this—it’s from France,’ Annie piped up from behind. The van rocked as she dumped another half-dozen bottles on the table.

‘Actually,’ Meredith began, ‘all champagne is from—’

‘I know, I know—from the Champagne region, or else it’s “sparkling wine”. Let’s not start arguing now, Meredith. We’ve got ten glorious days to do that. Let’s just get this lot on board.’

‘There’re bottle shops along the way,’ Nina mentioned helpfully as she tried to think where she could possibly store all of Annie’s alcoholic supplies. The procession of boxes, suitcases and shopping bags seemed endless. As each one was unpacked, its contents were the subject of a running commentary.

‘Dim sum dipping sauce? Satay skewers? Cinnamon sticks? Are you
sure
you’re going to use all this stuff?’

‘
Seven
pairs of shoes? And you’re not really bringing this illuminated make-up mirror, are you?’

‘
Cotton
table napkins? What’s wrong with a roll of paper towel?’

There was a final swipe from Meredith. Annie had swung by Toorak Road on the way to Nina’s and bought herself a couple of new outfits for the trip; now she was stuffing glossy shopping bags sprouting tissue paper under the bed in the rear of the cabin. Meredith watched her, shaking her head in amazement.

‘There
are
boutiques in Byron Bay. I’m sure even you’ll find a couple of wearable items in the provinces.’

‘Yeah? Well, that’s what they say about Noosa—and you get there and it’s just a load of last year’s tat that’s been hauled up in the boot of someone’s Beemer.’

‘Oh, my God! Imagine being spotted in last season’s sarong!’ Meredith threw up her hands.

‘Oh, my God! Imagine having to actually eat off a plastic plate!’ Annie countered.

Meredith ignored the comment and retreated to her Audi to fetch one last item. She returned carrying a large box exquisitely wrapped in silver and white embossed paper.

‘Now, where will I put this?’

‘Oooh, Sigrid’s wedding present!’ Nina fingered the gorgeous silky ribbons. ‘What did you decide on?’

‘It cannot—and I repeat,
cannot
—be damaged in any way. There’s a thousand dollars worth of Fabergé crystal stemware in here.’

‘Lucky Sigrid and . . . what’s his name again?’ Annie was blithely unaware of the depth of the sorrowful swamp she was wading into.

‘Charles Newson. Although it’s written as “Charlie” on the invitation.’

‘But didn’t you say the other night that you’ve never met him? He might be some scruffy seaweed-head who’s never seen crystal in his life. Maybe you should have waited and bought something that suits their house.’

Meredith stiffened. She didn’t like this casual intrusion into her private life. She’d revealed far too much over dinner last week and was now regretting it. If she hadn’t opened her big mouth, they wouldn’t be making this trip in the first place. And she’d
cried
! That was unlike her. It must have been the dessert wine.

She regarded Annie as if she were an errant snail in her
whitlof and pear salade belge
. ‘I don’t care if he drinks that vile wheatgrass juice or Bollinger—everything tastes better out of Fabergé crystal. And, in the end, it doesn’t really matter what their taste is. It’s about
good
taste. I’m not going to give them
some revolting earthenware mugs, am I? Now where’s the safest place to put this?’

Nina led the way down the stairs to the side of the van. The gift box was stowed in a corner of the storage bin with the camp chairs and picnic table. As she turned the lock Nina thought, with weary satisfaction, that at least this was the last of it. There was so much stuff in the van that if they were ever to meet with a natural disaster—stranded by floodwater, say, or lost in the desert—they would be able to survive for months . . . years. Start a new civilisation. Probably even manufacture a range of durable household items. There was not one thing she could think of that they might require that wasn’t on board. Saffron strands? Check. Deck of cards? Check. Caramel-scented candle? Check. They were ready for take-off.

Stepping back inside the van, Nina and Meredith were alarmed to see Annie tearing the golden foil from the top of a bottle of champagne. ‘This one’s cold. I thought we could have a celebratory drink before we head off.’

Nina and Meredith both glanced at the van’s wall clock. It read fifteen minutes past three.

‘No thanks, I have to drive,’ said Nina.

‘And I have to navigate,’ said Meredith.

‘Well, I have to sit here in the back, and I’m not doing it stone cold sober.’ Annie popped the cork. It thwacked into the front windscreen. She upended the bottle into an earthenware coffee mug which she’d found at the back of a cupboard and chosen precisely because she knew it would annoy the hell out
of Meredith. ‘Cheers!’ She raised her mug. ‘Here’s to life on the open road!’

Nina saw Meredith’s fists slide up to her skinny linen-swathed hips. ‘Yes, yes! Let’s get going!’ she blurted. ‘I’ll just say goodbye to the boys and then we’re off.’

As she walked through her front door, Nina heard the familiar drone of a televised football game coming from the lounge room. She could scarcely recall a time when her life wasn’t punctuated by the exclamations of hyperactive footy commentators: ‘Oooh! It’s a goal! Millimetre perfect! Richmond ten points in front, going into the third quarter!’ Or: ‘The Tigers need to score here to even have a chance of staying in the game! Oh, no! He’s dropped it. Aaaarggh!’

The only time she noticed the football soundtrack was when it wasn’t playing. Last week she’d heard classical music and had raced in from the kitchen to make sure Brad hadn’t had a heart attack and expired, remote control in hand, right there in the recliner. Brad had looked up in surprise as his wife flew into the room. Looking at the TV, Nina realised that what she’d heard was an edited montage of the game’s all-time greatest marks set to Stravinsky’s
Rites of Spring
.

‘Did you see that? Absolute screamer!’ had been Brad’s comment as Nina leaned against the wall with one zebra-striped oven mitt clamped over her racing heart.

This afternoon, as Nina slid open the lounge room door, she found a scene as intensely comforting as it was utterly irritating. The TV was blaring with the usual pre-game blather. Tigers v. Bombers. Brad was in the recliner, boots up on the coffee table.
Anton and Marko were lying on the floor pinging buttered popcorn at each other, and Jordy was curled up on one end of the sofa cradling his mobile.

‘Right then, I’m off,’ Nina stood at the doorway and announced, half hoping they would all leap to their feet and beg her to stay.

‘Shit! Coughlan’s gone for the season!’ Brad threw the remote across the room.

‘Piss off, Marko! Stop it.’

‘You started it, you dickhead!’

‘Can everyone just shut up? I’m on the phone!’

Nina took a breath and tried again. ‘I’m going . . . RIGHT NOW!’

‘Oh, OK . . . ow!’ Brad hauled himself to his feet, clutching at his lower back, and sidled up to her, eyes still on the screen. ‘Boys, say goodbye to your mother.’

They all raised their hands in her direction. ‘Bye, Mum! Have a good time! See ya! Bye!’ Nina bent over to kiss each cheek and steal a cuddle. She inhaled the familiar teenage-boy aroma of sweaty T-shirts, pimple cream and damp socks. She turned and stretched out her arms to her husband.

‘I can’t believe it,’ he groaned.

‘You’ll be fine—it’s only two weeks,’ Nina soothed. They would miss her after all.

‘Two weeks? Coughlan’s gone for the rest of the year! It’s his fucking knee. And we’ve got Polo out with his shoulder. Hall’s done his hip. We’ve got no chance. The whole year’s a total write-off. Christ, my back! I’m the friggin’ team manager—I should be there.’

‘For God’s sake, Brad, I’m talking about ME. I’m the one who’s going for two weeks.’ As Nina turned on her heel to leave, Brad caught her by the waist and bent to nuzzle her neck. Nina stood for a moment letting ‘Kingie’, the giant former Richmond full forward, put a smothering tackle on her. ‘Everything you need’s in the freezer. I’ve left a note for the rest on the fridge.’

Brad stepped back, sensing the umpire had blown the whistle on the sensitive moment, and took up Nina’s bulging handbag. As he hobbled to the front door, he ran through the drill one more time: ‘Right. Now remember what I told you. It takes diesel, not petrol. If you’re not on a powered site, you switch the fridge to gas and the generator to number 2. Don’t forget to check all the latches, vents and windows before you take off. And close down the gas cock. Put the fold-out step up, and secure that hook. Watch out for height limits. Don’t panic, it’ll only start in neutral. Just jostle the gear stick. If something goes wrong, all the roadside assist numbers are in the glovebox. And don’t forget what I told you about the annexe—you have to wiggle that bottom bolt. It’s got a mind of its own. And remember what I said: if there’s a problem, DON’T TRY AND FIX ANYTHING!’

Nina nodded. She possessed a fully functioning brain, despite what Brad might think. They’d been through the van’s routine a dozen times. He’d only driven it once during the school holidays to the campground at Bright but now, apparently, he was an expert on its operation. Nina was confident she was up to the challenge of the mighty RoadMaster. After all, during those years when
Brad Brown—first as ‘BB’, then as the legendary ‘Kingie’—had spent every weekend toughing it out on the oval, she was the one who had been captain of the home team. She had wrangled pushbikes and bouncy castles, skateboards and scooters, kayaks and tents. She had cleared the guttering on the roof, pruned trees and used an electric eel to unblock the drains. The carport was all her work too—she’d drawn up the plans, found the builders, even stapled the shade cloth on top. After shepherding three boys under five, there was nothing a first-grade footballer could teach her about stamina or perseverance . . . or driving a 3500-kilogram motorhome with an inscrutable annexe.