Spin Cycle (12 page)

This rather monotonous monologue is rudely interrupted by the sudden sound of anguished shouts coming from the general direction of the kitchen/meals area. I react quickly and race down the hallway, CJ still on my hip and bouncing heavily on every one of my bruises while her kinder-bag smacks me repeatedly in the back of my already rather delicate head.

‘Mum! Christ almighty! Just look at my fish!'

I come to a shuddering halt in the doorway (shuddering mainly because CJ keeps bouncing for several seconds after I stop), and take in the scene before me. Ben is standing in front of the fish-tank
with a container of fish-food in his hand and an aghast expression on his face. Samantha has paused with a piece of Nutella-laden bread halfway to her mouth and is observing the scene with considerable interest. And the fish-tank … well, I don't think Ben is going to need the container of fish-food after all. Every single one of his ugly goldfish is floating belly-up on the surface. Even so, the fish are not what draws my unwilling attention, and they are also not the reason that Ben is now staring at me accusingly. In the centre of the fish-tank, nestled between the aerated rocks, kitsch little windmills and colourful deep-sea divers, and taking up an inordinate amount of space, is one single, size eight-and-a-half imitation Doc Marten.

Oh dear.

I am terribly bored.

Although I still feel decidedly less than average and my head is thumping like the entire seven dwarfs have begun mining operations within, I don't feel like going to bed yet. Usually I really enjoy a whole day closeted inside the house but today, well, I just haven't seemed to be able to settle to anything. And tonight is no different. I feel all wired up with no outlet in sight.

From my position perched in the centre of my bed, I contemplate the opposite wall and think about what an unpleasant evening I have just had. I suppose I should be relieved that CJ isn't sleuth enough to put two and two together and connect the shoe in the fish-tank to Hanson's early demise. It's bad enough that Ben now firmly believes that I deliberately poisoned his collection of ugly goldfish. If I
had
meant to do away with them, I certainly wouldn't have used one of my favourite shoes. I still can't understand why they actually died. It's not as if I suffer from foot odour or anything. Maybe I stepped in something.

To rub it in, Ben refused to go through our traditional family funeral service for the fish, preferring instead to flush them down the toilet as a solitary mourner. All I could hear was a muted plop, silence, flush, plop, silence, flush, plop, silence, flush … until I thought I would scream. CJ brought out several Barbies (and I thought they were no longer her favourites?), who went windsurfing and snorkelling in the now deserted fish-tank, while Ken watched from the relative safety of the microwave. Apart from giggling every time she thought of what she now terms ‘the shoe that killed a thousand fish', Sam did feel sorry enough for her brother to retrieve the disputed letter from her bedroom. And I got a chance to read it because Ben never puts anything away – things just fall willy-nilly from his hands wherever he happens to be sitting, or standing, or lying. Anyway, it wasn't anything terribly exciting. Just a general hi, how are you? I'm coming back to Australia to live
near you, spend some time with you and try to make your mother's life a little more complicated. Well, all right, it didn't say the last bit – but it was certainly inferred.

Ben removed himself to his bedroom hours ago, after delivering each of the fish to their watery grave, CJ is fast asleep and Sam is ensconced in her room ostensibly doing homework. I should be enjoying the peace and quiet but instead I feel restless and antsy. I cast my eyes around my bedroom to see if I can see something that needs doing. That is, something that needs doing that I
feel
like doing. Not ironing, or cleaning, or dusting. I notice that one of the curtain hems has come down and is trailing on the floor in, as my mother would say, a most unattractive manner. I suppose I could always go and get my sewing basket and sew it up. But I hate sewing. Then again, I could get the stapler and just staple it up. Or I could skip both those options and move the bed over there in front of the windows, then no-one could see the torn hem.

I lie down on my stomach on the bed and perform a brief survey of the furniture around me. If I moved the bed over in front of the windows, then the bedside chests would follow suit and the dressing table could go where the bed is now, the wardrobe can stay exactly where it is because it would need a team of draught horses to move it even an inch, and the standard mirror could go, hmm, let me see. Yes, over in the opposite corner! Perfect! Changing my bedroom furniture around can be the first step in my quest for taking control of my life.

Flushed with motivation, I leap off the bed before remembering that I am not feeling quite as robust as usual. So I wait a few moments for the throbbing in my head to regulate itself, and then get to work. I move the bedside chests first because they are relatively easy. Next I move the standard mirror over to the doorway, and then I transfer all the items scattered across the top of the dressing table onto the floor in the corner. This accomplished, I take a breather before tackling the big job – the bed. I formulate a plan whereby I shall move the heavy old bed a few inches at a time with the aid of my back. Accordingly, I unplug the electric blanket and then sit down on the floor with my back snug against the side of the bed, taking a deep breath before using all my force to push it across the room. As soon as I exert the least pressure, the bed shoots off until one corner strikes the wall next to the window with a dull thud and my momentum carries me backwards until I hit the floor with the back of my head. Then, from my position flat on my back, I watch horrified as the bed-head slowly topples forward and bangs flat onto the floor a scant two inches from my head.

God, I could have been killed! I take a few deep, steadying breaths and will my heart-rate to return to normal and my vision to clear. Now I remember. The mattress and base are on castors. It's the bed-head that is old, heavy, and not actually attached to the bed itself.

‘Mummy, what're you doing?'

I turn my head stiffly towards the doorway and
CJ is standing there peering around the mirror, rubbing her eyes and staring blearily at my partially rearranged bedroom. With some effort, I hoist myself up to a sitting position.

‘I'm just changing my bedroom around. And what're you doing out of bed, young lady?'

‘You woke me up. All the banging.'

‘Well, hop back into bed. I'll come and tuck you in.'

‘What're you doing on the floor?'

‘Resting. Now back to bed.'

‘C'n I help?'

‘No, you can't,' I reply firmly as she hops across the room and leaps on top of my angled bed, causing it to skitter back across the floor a few inches. ‘CJ, I mean it. Off to bed.'

‘I am in bed!'

‘Not my bed. Your bed.'

‘Please, please c'n I help you? I never get to moobe furniture around.'

‘Now, CJ …' I look across at her squatting on my bed and smiling angelically at me. ‘Oh, all right. Only five minutes and you have to stay on the bed and just watch. Deal?'

‘Deal!' she agrees joyously as she starts to use my bed to practise her trampoline routines. ‘Thank you, best Mummy in the whole wide world!'

I get up off the floor and hoist the bed-head back up and against the wall where I lean it at an angle to ensure it stays where it is supposed to. Then I survey the residue left from several years of lackadaisical vacuuming under the bed. There are odd
socks balled up with ribbons of dust, a pair of knickers which vanished quite some time ago, a Barbie doll leg, a library book, a rather large indistinguishable lump of something disgusting and what looks like a half-sucked Butter Menthol.

‘Gross!' pants CJ as she launches herself back into the air. ‘That's really gross!'

I leave her to her gymnastics while I fetch the vacuum cleaner and a plastic bag in which to place all the bits and pieces. After I finish the vacuuming, I realise that the square of carpet where the bed had been is a considerably brighter shade than the carpet throughout the rest of the room. I shrug philosophically.

‘CJ, you'll have to hop off the bed now while I straighten it up.' I lift her down and pull the mattress and base over to the new position in front of the window. I inspect the wall that was hit and discover a medium-sized dint in the plaster. Now, if the standard mirror was positioned here, which is where it
used
to be, then the dint would be completely hidden. Then again, if the standard mirror had been here ten minutes ago, it would now be in a lot of pieces. Although it would have protected the wall. But, if the standard mirror had been here ten minutes ago, then that would probably have meant that I
wasn't
shifting furniture around and, if I
wasn't
shifting furniture around, then the wall would not have been dinted in the first place. By the furniture being shifted. I think.

All this philosophy is a bit too much for my head at the moment, especially since I managed to
reawaken the seven dwarfs a-mining when I bashed it against the floor. So I help CJ off the bed and, with considerable effort, manoeuvre the bed-head across the room and behind the rest of the bed. This I shove firmly up against the bed-head to wedge it securely in place. The last thing I need is the damn thing toppling on me during the night and giving me brain damage. CJ leaps straight back onto the bed while I examine the results critically. Hmm, the bed-head does block out quite a bit of the window, but it hides the torn hem, that's for sure.

‘
I
like it.' CJ gives her stamp of approval as she commences her energetic trampolining once more. ‘It looks berry good.'

I straighten the bedside chests and realise that I now need an extension cord to plug the electric blanket and clock back in. Of course, we don't have a spare so I steal the bright orange super-long one that is coiled behind the television in the lounge-room and make a mental note to get another one tomorrow. Preferably before anyone tries to watch television. Then, after checking to make sure that the dressing table has not suddenly sprouted castor wheels, I tug it across the room and into the position that the bed had formerly occupied. Next I transfer the pile of nail polishes, perfumes and assorted precious odds and ends (like the container holding every single one of my children's baby teeth and the purple pottery walrus Sam made me in Grade 1) from the corner back to the top of the dressing table. Last of all, I lift the standard mirror up awkwardly and stagger it across to the now cleared corner,
placing it at an angle to reflect the rest of the room. I sit on the floor with my back against the wall and look around with my head on one side. Not bad, if I do say so myself. Not bad at all. Perhaps I'll go into interior decorating if I get the sack from the library.

‘Hey, Mum, can I make some muffins?' Samantha sticks her head around the doorway. ‘What
are
you doing?'

‘Muffins?' I glance over at the clock on the bedside chest. ‘Samantha, it's past ten o'clock!'

‘Yeah, I know. But I forgot that I need some for tomorrow – we're all supposed to bring something for a morning tea.' Samantha looks around the room while she explains. ‘This sucks big-time! Why d'ya change it all around anyway?'

‘What, don't you like it?'

‘No way. You can't even see half the window now, and there's a dint in the wall over there, and that bit of carpet looks real stupid.'

‘Oh. I thought it looked quite nice.'

‘Well it doesn't. So can I make muffins?'

‘Yes, I suppose so. As long as you don't ask for my help, that is.' I watch as Samantha gives the room one more derogatory inspection and then heads off to the kitchen to make a mess. ‘Well, at least you like it, CJ.'

‘No, I don't.' CJ has finally run out of bounce and instead has settled herself underneath my doona. ‘It looks big-time sucky.'

‘You said you liked it before!'

‘Now I don't.'

‘Well,
I
do and it's staying this way.' I pull my yellow daisy flannelette pyjamas out from the drawer
and start to get changed for bed. ‘And you can go back to your own room, you little traitor.'

‘Mum! Hey, Mum!' Samantha's voice comes wafting along the hall from the kitchen. ‘Where's all the stuff to make muffins with?'

I sit down on the bed with just my pyjamas pants and bra on, and sigh heavily. CJ immediately drapes herself across my back and starts planting kisses on my neck. I pull her into my lap and give her a quick bear hug before standing up, with CJ still attached, and taking her into her own room where I deposit her in the bed.

‘Can't I stay up a little longer?'

‘No. It's way past your bedtime and you're going to sleep.'

‘But can't I help Sam make muffins?'

‘Absolutely not.'

‘Okay.' CJ gives in fairly easily, which probably means that all that trampolining has worn her out and she
is
feeling pretty tired. She reaches up to give me another hug. ‘Goodnight, Mummy. Lub you.'

‘Goodnight, sweetheart.' I plant a kiss on her forehead and tuck her in firmly. ‘See you in the morning. Don't let the bed bugs bite.'

I turn off her light and half close the door as Samantha calls out from the kitchen once more.

‘Mum! I've got a bowl out, now how much flour do I put in?'

‘Hang on, Samantha, I'll come and help you.'

‘Oh, Mum, you don't
have
to.'

‘Really?' I reply with a generous dollop of sarcasm.

‘No, I'll call out and you can tell me stuff as I go.'

‘Look, I'll be there in a minute.'

‘Oh, thanks, Mommie dearest. You're a real gem.'