Spin Cycle (9 page)

I close the umbrella, check to make sure that the miniature guard dog isn't on the loose and then quickly lean over the fence, using the umbrella to drag the paper towards me. I scoop it up, step back and execute a perfect military about-turn before taking off at a rapid pace towards home. All of this is done in one fluid movement that I am very proud of until my foot slips on the edge of a puddle and I do a complicated gymnastic manoeuvre before flying lengthwise across the lawn, wiping out a bed of dahlias as I go and flinging both the newspaper and my umbrella towards my house. The newspaper just does a couple of flips before getting stuck on a rose-bush, but the umbrella sets a direct javelin-like course straight for the lounge-room windows, whistling cleanly through the air before hitting the right window with a resounding smash, followed by the tinkling sound of shattered glass.

I lie full-length on the wet lawn, one foot still in the puddle and my left side in the remains of the dahlias, while the rain chooses this particular moment to increase in intensity. A pair of kookaburras in a tree nearby burst into uncontrollable hysterics and I can see the curtains twitching in the house across the street, but I don't think I can move. Maybe my spinal cord has been severed. Can dahlias do that? A good section of my own curtains is now blowing gaily out through the broken glass in my right-front window.
I lie there feeling numb. After a minute or two, CJ runs out onto the porch and looks around wildly until she sees me.

‘Mummy, can I watch a bideo?'

I nod weakly.

LIBRARIANS ON VIOLENT RAMPAGE
City workers watched in horror yesterday afternoon as hundreds of striking suburban librarians went on a violent rampage through the streets of Melbourne. A government minister, who had been attempting to address the crowd, was forced to flee as the librarians ran amok despite a heavy police presence. Several were arrested, including the woman pictured above, and were charged with a string of offences. A government spokesperson expressed baffled outrage at the behaviour of the librarians and pledged immediate disciplinary action against the offenders. CONTINUED Page 2

This is not good. It is also, without any doubt whatsoever, the worst picture I have ever had taken of me in my life to date. And believe me,
that's
saying something. The photographer has managed to catch me
with the placard – ‘I DESERVE MORE' – hoisted high over my head just as I ripped it out of Joanne's hands. Unfortunately this detail is omitted. Instead, all that can be seen in the frame are Joanne's hands, which look for all the world like they are being held out in supplication. To make matters even worse, the policeman behind me is shown cringing, no doubt as he sensed that he was about to be whacked over the head. I look like a female version of Charles Manson, with bloodlust shining in my eyes and victims both before and aft. My pimple has distorted my chin to such an extent that it looks like one of those curvy ones witches are popularly supposed to have. The fact that it is
such
a bad picture would be to my advantage if it were not for the fact that the photographer has managed to get my name from
someone
and has helpfully printed it as part of the caption.

I open the purloined paper to page 2 and read it through in growing despair. There is another picture, this time a wide-angle shot of the crowd surging forward as the minister flees, but I still retain the dubious distinction of being the only miscreant named. I don't like the sound of ‘immediate disciplinary action' at all, and am beginning to have an uneasy suspicion that a scapegoat will be required. And it appears I may have unintentionally volunteered.

My head aches. So do my new bruises.

I decide to have a hot bath before making any more phone calls, in the forlorn hope that a long immersion (in something other than alcohol) will help my thought processes. As I fill the bath, I give
CJ strict instructions to avoid the lounge-room because Mummy had a slight accident. Then I look at her butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth expression thoughtfully and shut the lounge-room doors securely so that the room is barricaded off.

Ten minutes later, I am fully immersed, surrounded by soapsuds and feeling a trifle better. Physically, at least. I wonder what Alan is going to say. I wonder what Joanne has already said. I wonder, wonder, wonder. I scoop up a handful of bubbles and blow against them gently, watching as they float towards the wall and then dribble back down towards the water. I try to tell myself that I wasn't wedded to the job anyway, but unfortunately a little voice keeps rudely interrupting to insist that, although I might not be wedded to the job, I
am
wedded to the idea of regular meals and a roof over my head. I sigh heavily. What the hell, I might as well take a fatalistic outlook on this latest turn of events on the grounds that it requires considerably less effort than any other approach. Whatever happens, happens. After all, if this really is the roller coaster it feels like, then I might as well hang on and see where the ride takes me – it's not like I have much choice, anyway. At this point the doorbell rings and I jump. Who would be at the door when I am supposed to be at work anyway?

I can hear CJ's feet padding down the hall and remind myself to remind her that she is not supposed to answer the door by herself. She sticks her head around the bathroom door.

‘Mummy, can I hab fibe biscuits because I'm fibe?'

The doorbell rings again, this time a trifle more insistently.

I get up, wrap a towel around myself and go to peer through the peephole which affords me a perfectly angled view of the outside light, and nothing more.

‘Who is it?'

‘It's me, Diane! Quick, open up, it's pouring out here!'

‘
Diane
!' I unlock both standard locks, the deadlock and the security chain and fling open the door. A gust of near-freezing wind accompanies my sister through and reminds me that I am clad only in a Mickey Mouse bath towel.

‘
Great
to see you! Go through to the kitchen and put on the kettle. I'll just get dressed and be with you in a minute.'

I scuttle back to the bathroom and dry myself before redressing in my yellow daisy flannelette pyjamas and dressing-gown. Fortunately, I know that I don't have to stand on ceremony with Diane. She's pretty decent for a big sister. We even resemble each other, except that she has now grown her hair past her shoulders and has blonde streaks put through on a more regular basis than I could afford. With a bit of effort, we can still both earn the classification of attractive, but Bloody Elizabeth has always been the one who drew the attention without having to go to any pains at all. Slightly taller than both Diane and I, and with natural chestnut hair, a sprinkling of freckles, glowing complexion, pert nose and even the requisite dimple, Bloody Elizabeth has always put us in the
shade. Pity her personality is not as pleasant as her looks, but maybe that's all part of life's little roundabout. As I get ready, I can hear Diane talking to CJ and pottering around the kitchen. I hope she's making me more coffee.

‘I didn't know whether you'd be home or not,' Diane starts saying as soon as I re-enter the kitchen, ‘but I rang the library and they told me you weren't well. I'm guessing it was maybe overindulgence last night? Or are you really sick? I've given CJ some biscuits, she said you'd promised her ten. You know, you probably shouldn't be giving her so much sweet stuff. And what on earth happened to your lounge-room window? And oh my god! Have you seen the newspaper?'

I ignore all of the other questions in favour of the last and merely hold up my own (or rather, the neighbour's) newspaper as an answer before wrapping my dressing-gown around me firmly and sinking down into a chair.

Diane looks at me in concern.

‘Are you okay? You really
do
look like hell. And my god – look at the size of that pimple! I'll make you a coffee and you can tell me all about it.'

‘What's to tell? It's just a pimple.'

‘You twit. I mean what's happened – what did you
do
?'

Somebody is finally willing to listen! Who am I to pass up an invitation like that? So I tell her all about my criminal history in considerable detail. One of the things I love about my sister – this particular sister – is that, as long as the issue has nothing
to do with her husband and sons, she is so totally sane and level-headed. Whenever I get frenetic and overreact, I have a bad habit of losing sight of the forest while plunging headfirst into each of the trees, one by one. But Diane can always calm me down and put things in perspective with just a few words.

‘God, that
is
bad.'

Okay, those weren't the words that I was expecting. I take the coffee she is offering, put it down on the table, and brandish the newspaper in the air.

‘But it's so unfair! That, that
lunatic
was attacking me and I was just trying to defend myself. She's the one who should have been arrested!'

‘Yes,
I
know that, and
you
know that, and probably the whole library knows that. I'm trying to be realistic. I mean, it doesn't look good. They
are
going to be looking for a scapegoat and it's your picture on the front page, not hers.'

‘Hell's bells, I'm going to lose my damn job.'

‘Look, forget this, we're being too negative. When you think of it, having today off was probably the best thing you could do. You know how these things always blow up and then over quickly. Tomorrow you'll probably be a hero!'

‘Yeah, an out-of-work hero.' I stare morosely into my coffee cup.

‘I don't believe that. And anyway, on the very, very remote chance that you
do
lose your job – well, so what?'

‘What do you mean – so what?'

‘Well, you've been saying for ages about what a rut you're in, and how bored you are. Maybe this is
your chance to do something different – take control and do something more suited to what you want to do with your life.'

‘What life?' I sigh heavily.

‘Don't be so negative – it's boring. If you don't like your life, change it.'

‘That's easy for you to say. I do need to put food on the table, you know.'

‘Oh, for god's sake! If you're going to be bloody defeatist, there's absolutely no point even talking to you.' Diane frowns impatiently at me and then turns pointedly away to stare out the window.

‘Hey, I'm not being defeatist – I'm being realistic!'

‘No, you're not. There
are
other jobs out there – or you could start a business – or even go back to university. You moan about how unhappy you are, but you won't do anything to change it. I just wish you'd start being a little more bloody positive.'

‘Oh,
please
don't hold back, Diane,' I reply sarcastically to try and disguise my surprise. Where is all this coming from? Have I
really
been complaining so much lately that I am beginning to thoroughly irritate those around me?

‘Look, I'm sorry. Really. It's just, I don't know … if anything crappy used to happen to you, you picked yourself up, dusted yourself off and then started working out how to change things. You used to have more guts. Now you just seem to give up.'

‘
Do
I?'

‘Yes, you do. You're so bloody fatalistic lately. I really wish you'd spend a bit more time looking on
the positive side, that's all. What's the worst that can happen? You get fired. So, you capitalise on that to change your life. But I don't think they'll fire you anyway. I reckon it'll just blow over. Or, how's this? You tell them that your courageous actions were driven by selfless love of your chosen profession and frustration at governmental cutbacks. You'll be a hero! Whatshisname, Alan, whatever – well, he probably only wanted to see you to award a personal commendation. A promotion, no less!'

Diane's voice starts to rise with enthusiasm as she warms to the task at hand. ‘I tell you, they probably have that picture framed on the wall already! Okay, perhaps not
that
picture – a slightly more flattering one. You know, I bet your bag wasn't stolen. It's been purloined by a souvenir hunter and is already being auctioned on the web for thousands! You're a hero! A “striking” hero at that! I feel humbled by being in the same room, listening to words of wisdom drip from your lips, and sharing the same genes even! Can I have your autograph?'

I am grinning despite myself. After a rocky start she has done it again, so I magnanimously decide to forget about her little outburst regarding my shortcomings.

‘That's better.' Diane grins back at me. ‘Anyway, it really is an absolute waste of time worrying. There's nothing you can do until you find out what's going on at the library, and you won't find out until tomorrow, so there's no point working yourself up about it. If the worst comes to the worst and they fire you, well, you can sue them for unfair dismissal,
make a mint and live in luxury for the rest of your life.'

‘Mmm, nice. I could live with a tad of luxury.'

‘Good. Then that's that problem solved.' Diane puts down her coffee and leans back. ‘Now – on to me and mine.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry, Di.' Belatedly I remember that she has a few upsets going on in
her
life as well. ‘I'm so wrapped up in what happened yesterday that I forgot all about you. Well, not forgot exactly, but –'

‘I know what you mean.'

‘Hey, I'm sorry that I didn't seem happy the other day, too. I was in shock. Because I didn't expect it. But congratulations, I really mean it.' I reach across and grab her hand and make an attempt at a winsome smile.

‘No you don't. You're worried, just like everyone else. Including me.'

‘Oh, Diane, come on. What's to worry about?'