Six Impossible Things (6 page)

As they go through their introductions – he’s called Oliver – he admires what my mother’s done with the kitchen.

‘I wouldn’t have recognised it, Julie. I can see great things happening here.’

What is he? A mystic or something? The wedding cake psychic?

Then they yap on about Adelaide. And he’s showing no sign of leaving.

‘So, it’s just the two of you here?’ he asks.

What’s it to him? Is he planning to rent out the empty bedrooms?

My mother nods. ‘Rob and I separated recently.’

Oh, no, personal over-disclosing.

Uncomfortable pause.

‘I hope you don’t mind me being out there,’ Oliver says. ‘I feel like a bit of an interloper.’

You got that right, buddy.

‘Not at all. Please don’t think that for a minute. Adelaide adored Lettie. And she was terribly fond of you.’

‘It was mutual. She was an amazing woman.’

Now I’m going to puke.

Oliver looks at me. ‘Lettie was my grandmother.’

‘Right,’ I say. Like I care. What is he still doing here? Trying to crack onto my mum? Get an accommodation upgrade from the stables to the big house?

I try to figure out what sort of work he does based on his clothes. He’s wearing jeans, a funny blue-black colour, a green bean jumper with very long sleeves that halfway cover the backs of his hands, and black riding boots with red elastic. Straight blonde hair parted on the side, dull metal framed glasses . . . I’m tossing up between filmmaking and architecture.

‘What do you do?’ I ask.

‘I’m a trend analyst and forecaster,’ he says.

‘Which is what exactly?’

‘Dan.’ It’s the ‘rude tone of voice’ category reprimand but I can tell Oliver is way too sure of himself to be offended.

‘I plant myself in a city, spend time on the streets and in clubs and bars watching and talking to people to check out what they’re wearing, eating, drinking, talking about and listening to, what toys and gadgets they’re playing with. Then I make some recordings, take some pictures, shoot some footage – write it all up, show advertising agencies and their clients, and by the time I’ve done the presentations I’m ready to go away and take a look somewhere else. So I basically help advertisers chase their tails.’

‘What a fun job,’ my mother says.

It does sound good but this guy’s impressed enough with himself without me joining the fan club.

‘I’m taking the dog for a walk, ‘ I say.

Howard stands stiffly and walks slowly to the back door. He looks a bit . . . annoyed. Tail down. Aren’t dogs supposed to be up for a walk any time, night or day?

‘Look, he must know what “walk” means,’ my mother says.

‘Not a lot Howard doesn’t know,’ says Oliver, patting him on the way through.

Howard’s tail goes up. He shakes his head and stands tall – as tall as a little dog can, anyway.

My motive in taking Howard out is mixed. I’m also hoping to run into Estelle. A marrow-chilling half hour later there is still no sign of her. Strange the way you can feel relieved and devastated at the same time. I head for the shopping strip – I have to try to get a job. The shops are mostly cafés and specialist food shops, homemade pasta, an organic greengrocer, a few clothes shops, an art gallery. Then there’s the op-shop, a hardware shop and a newsagency. A tram squeals around the corner as I tie Howard to the leg of a bench and steel myself to approach the op-shop for work. I can’t believe my luck when they hire me on the spot, Tuesday and Thursday after school. Easy!

I’m heading for home when people start spilling out of a tall doorway between two shops. They look about my age, chatting away to each other. I notice they’re disabled, mostly Down syn-drome, I think. And Estelle comes out behind them, walking with a girl, holding her hand.

Estelle’s smile is a mile wide. She has light brown hair that’s dead straight, parted in the middle and tucked behind her ears. Her hair gleams; she must wash it every day. Her ears are neat and pretty. Her eyes are dark blue or grey. I haven’t had a long enough look yet to tell.

When she sees me, the smile amps down a bit – no mistaking it – but she can’t avoid me. I’ve walked into the group, and these kids are milling around, joking with each other, saying their goodbyes – they’ve got all day. Estelle is trapped. It’s probably the only reason she says ‘hi’.

‘Who are you?’ asks the girl she’s with.

‘Phyllis, this is . . . I’m sorry, is it Dan?’

‘Dan it is,’ I answer. Dan it is? What do I sound like? A leprechaun? This is bad.

‘He’s moved in next door,’ explains Estelle, probably hoping to make it quite clear to Phyllis that that is the only reason she’s speaking to me.

‘Adelaide’s house?’ Phyllis checks.

‘That’s the one,’ I say. Again, with the language. Couldn’t I have said ‘yeah’? Now I sound like a game show host.

‘She died in her bed,’ says Phyllis.

‘Yeah.’
Now
I pull a ‘yeah’ in entirely the wrong place. I sound heartless, the sort of guy who couldn’t care less where some old lady dies.

I’m desperate to prolong and preferably improve the quality of my time with Estelle, so I volunteer a bit of information, which is not an easy thing for me to do. ‘I just got a job.’

‘Where?’ she asks.

‘The op-shop.’

‘Volunteer work,’ says Phyllis. ‘You’re nice to help out.’

The obvious had escaped me. Not for the first time. Of course the op-shop doesn’t pay people. For someone supposedly smart I am the prize idiot of all time. I feel my face going red and blotchy with foolishness, and hope it might pass for the effect of the cold wind.

‘Yes, I think it’s just really important to make an, er . . . contribution. I’m looking for paid work too if you hear about any.’

‘We’ll let you know,’ says Estelle. She’s about to walk on, and I make a second herculean effort to keep her with me.

‘Where were you coming out of?’ This is killing me; I sound like English is my second or possibly third language.

‘It’s a studio program,’ says Phyllis. ‘Artists work with us, up there.’ She’s pointing to the first floor, above the shops. Then anticipating my next question: ‘They don’t need anyone.’

‘Except me,’ says Estelle. ‘But that’s volunteering too.’

‘Did you two meet there?’

They laugh.

‘No. Primary school,’ says Estelle.

‘Do you know what’s happened to Adelaide’s dog?’ asks Phyllis.

That hits me over the head like a gigantic cartoon frypan, with a ringing clunk.

Howard! I’ve completely forgotten about him. He’s still tied to the bench across the road – if I’m lucky. If he hasn’t already been picked up by the RSPCA or dognapped.

‘He sort of comes with the house. Only, I’ve left him over there . . . Gotta run,’ I burble, taking off, almost collecting a cyclist who spews a stream of vivid abuse in my trail.

It is such a relief to see old Howard, patiently sitting there. He gives a sharp bark as I untie him.

‘I know, I know. Dog ownership for dummies: take dog out, bring dog home.’

Usually it’s the human who trains the dog. But when Howard wags his tail, I’m the one responding to the approval, and remembering for next time.

Estelle and Phyllis are heading off and I’ve missed my chance to walk with them. Although, with my level of smooth moves, I don’t know how I would have managed the three abreast, plus dog on lead, walk and talk without tripping over someone, probably myself.

Howard and I mooch on home, checking all the windows for real jobs. The only one is in a clothes shop and says ‘retail experience essential’. Mrs Nelson at the op-shop waves as we walk past. I wave back, feeling like a complete knob.

By the time we get home my mother and Oliver are looking pretty damn chummy, with an almost finished bottle of wine on the table. He must have supplied it seeing as wine is a luxury. From the way he looks at me – sympathetic, understanding (why does everyone think they understand?) – I can tell she’s blabbed the full family catastrophe. What is the woman on? We don’t even know this guy. After years of warning me about it, has the whole stranger-danger concept suddenly escaped her? Do I have to do all the worrying around here? Yes, and yes, apparently. And what happened to the notion of privacy? Stuff that’s my business, stuff that I might not want to share with the whole world? Out the window.

I can’t believe my ears when she invites him to stay for dinner. Thankfully, he’s got other plans. What would Dad think? Well, of course, he wouldn’t care. If he did, he’d be here, going through all this crap with us. Instead of . . . I don’t know what he’s going through by himself, but it’s his choice. So screw you, Dad, I hope you feel as shit as I do. But still somehow I feel a whole lot worse thinking of him by himself.

I try to escape straight after dinner, but no such luck.

‘Dan, you’re not going anywhere; I need your help,’ says my mother. I stay, but she’s cracking it now because I said ‘whatever’. She hates that word. Her rave goes on in the background while we give the kitchen an almighty scrub down and I wonder about my dad. How
is
he going? Where’s he staying? Is he hungry like me, now there’s no money? How often does he think about us? Should I talk to him when he rings? How long will he keep trying before he gives up on me? Before he drifts off, another iceberg that used to feel so securely attached?

‘Dan, watch what you’re doing! You’re flooding the place.’

An exaggeration. I tipped one bucket of water over the floor. The way they wash down decks, in movies. How else do you wash it? Since I was little we’ve had a procession of nice Mrs Somebodies doing all our dirty work around the house, so it’s not as though I’ve participated in this sort of thing before. Does she think it’s instinct? Are babies born knowing this stuff? Is it contained in our DNA? I doubt it.

‘
Dan
!’

Uh-oh. More water down. I’m not concentrating.

‘Leave me to finish this, you’re no help at all,’ says my mother, red in the face with anger and effort. She’s not used to this cleaning caper either.

‘And tomorrow, I’m going to show you how to clean a bathroom.’

I can’t wait.

Inventory of can’ts:

1 Can’t wash floors.

2 Can’t talk to girls, especially Estelle.

3 Can’t get a job that pays.

4 Can’t mind Howard when I take him out.

5 Can’t trust the stables guy.

6 Can’t talk to my dad.

There are more. Let’s be frank. This list could run to thousands.

O
VER BREAKFAST – CEREAL AND
four pieces of toast with peanut butter and jam – I try to warn my mother about getting too friendly with Oliver, but she’s not buying it.

‘You’re being silly. He’s perfectly pleasant.’

‘That’s how they lure people in. The best psychopaths are the plausible ones. Everyone knows that.’

‘He seems well adjusted, he’s employed, he has a sense of humour, he has a girlfriend.’

‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’

‘She’s in London.’

‘London, or feeding fish in the Yarra? And how do we know Adelaide didn’t come to a sticky end, for that matter?’

‘Dan, she was ninety-one. All her money’s gone to the gallery. And Oliver wasn’t even here when she died. He was in New York.’

‘The smart ones always have watertight alibis.’

My father would have handled this better. I didn’t mean to end up in the middle of a murder mystery. I just don’t want my mother going all instant-best-friends with the guy.

‘All I’m saying is, we don’t really know him.’

‘Adelaide virtually grew up with his grandmother
and
knew his parents, and he’s part of our life now, for as long as we’re here, so it makes sense that we get to know him.’

‘That doesn’t mean you have to tell him everything.’

‘I decide what I will or won’t tell people. And you can decide what you tell people.’

We never used to argue all the time like this.

The phone rings. My mother nods at me to answer it. But she’s got this brilliant idea now that we have to answer the phone saying the business name, so I shake my head ‘no’ and take another huge bite of my toast, chewing defiantly. She spits her mouthful into her hand and answers in a calm way, belying the murderous look on her face. ‘I Do Wedding Cakes, how may I help you?’ It’s a wrong number. We sit there glaring at each other.