Odd Socks (22 page)

I grimace unhappily because this is
exactly
the sort of clutter I hate most – in fact, it almost makes me feel physically ill. Accordingly, I pour myself a glass of scotch and then get stuck into the mess.

I start by moving the pram pieces into the foyer, and the sterilising unit, formula, bottles and accessories into the kitchen. Then I read the instructions and make up the unit before submerging a few bottles and dummies in case they are needed. Next the suitcase, bunny-rugs and smaller bag of clothing are lugged upstairs, and put just outside Bronte's room.

While I'm up there, I strip off my gym clothing and jump into the shower for a brief wash before drying myself and pulling on my new pyjamas and a pair of fluffy red socks. I run
a brush through my hair quickly before collecting the dirty clothing and padding downstairs to the laundry. On the way I pick up a lone white sports sock from the lounge-room floor and take it with me. Here five minutes and she's already marking her territory. And that's the thing about sharing – it immediately opens the door to odd socks. I
never
have odd socks when I'm here by myself, just matched pairs that enter the washing cycle together and exit as neatly folded little bundles with a smile at one end.

I walk back into the lounge-room, tiptoe over to the capsule and check on Sherry before deciding what to do next. Perhaps another drink. This accomplished to my satisfaction, I remove the porta-highchair and the porta-potty into the broom cupboard because they are totally useless for a four day old infant. Then I fix up a corner of the lounge-room as a play area with the porta-playpen, weird-looking rocker/walker thing, and crates of assorted nappies. I use the box that was holding the sterilising unit as a repository for the toys and rattles. Finally, I dispose of the empty plastic bags to minimise any chance of me being tempted to GIVE BAG TO BABY.

Now the only things left are the porta-cot, and there's no point putting that up till it's in Bronte's room – and all the balloons. I duck energetically around the lounge-room, climbing on furniture and bopping balloons until I've got them all herded into a corner. Then it's just a matter of tying the strings together and dragging the whole lot into the powder room to abandon them.

I take a gulp of scotch and lean back against the wall, surveying my work. Not bad at all. I put my glass down on the coffee table and then straighten up my new rug, which I bought after we'd finished at the gym this afternoon. It's a semicircular high-pile with a rose and white swirled pattern that actually blends in quite well with its surroundings. I stand
back to admire it and nod with pleasure. Admittedly, I'd prefer the unblemished carpet, but beggars can't be choosers. Or so they say.

I tiptoe back over to the capsule and peer down at Sherry, who is showing signs of restlessness. I quickly slip her hair-band off, tucking it away under her mattress as she stretches one arm out of her wadding and flexes her impossibly small fingers. I tuck my hair back and reach down, putting my own finger within her palm and then watching with delight as she folds her hand around it, grasping tightly.

And then, when she has me well and truly lulled, she opens her little mouth and lets out the most piercing shriek possible. This initial cry is followed by a series of loud mewling noises as she scrunches up her face and shudders her body through each cry. I take back my finger and run over to the stairs.

‘Bronte!' I look back at the capsule and wonder how so much noise could possibly come from such a small container. ‘
Bronte!
Bronte!'

Giving up on the chances of her responding in the near future, I take the stairs two at a time and then run over to Bronte's room, flinging the door open. But she's not there. That is, the bed shows mute evidence of having been lain in recently, but Bronte is not in sight. I knock on her ensuite door and, when there is no answer, open it and peer inside. No Bronte.

I walk back onto the landing and stand there, wondering where on earth she could be. Sherry's cries echo up the stairwell and hinder my thinking processes dramatically. Before I run back downstairs, I throw open the study door without expecting any success. And there she is – at the computer, playing arcade games.

‘Bronte! What
are
you doing?'

‘Hi, Mum,' she replies without turning around. ‘I woke up
before and thought I'd have a go at this.
Damn!
He got me again.'

‘Bronte! Can't you hear the baby?'

‘Baby?' Bronte swivels the mouse around and taps her fingers rapidly across the keyboard. ‘Ha! Got you!'

‘Yes –
your
baby!' I exclaim, getting thoroughly irritated. ‘You know, the one you left downstairs who's now screaming her lungs out.'

‘Sherry? Screaming?' Bronte jumps up and looks at me accusingly. ‘Why didn't you say so!'

‘What?' I ask, dumbfounded by the unfairness of that last remark. But Bronte doesn't answer; instead, she just pushes past and runs down the stairs towards the lounge-room. I follow at a distance, cheering myself with the thought that now she too has a daughter and therefore, sooner or later, she'll pay.

By the time I arrive, Bronte has ensconced herself on the couch with her windcheater up and Sherry at her breast. The sight of this stops me dead in my tracks. Because there sits
my
daughter, with her own daughter feeding at her breast. What an unbelievably touching, nostalgic moment. The sort of moment one files away and then retrieves in one's dotage. A lump forms in my throat.

‘Can you turn the TV on, Mum? Like, this is dead boring.'

Luckily, I filed the moment away before she opened her mouth. I walk over to the television set and turn it on, then pass Bronte the remote control so that I won't be called upon to change channels for her. The screen comes to life and fills with a weatherman who is waving a stick excitedly at a map of Australia.

‘Hang on, Bronte.' I put my hand in front of the remote control she has aimed at the set. ‘I want to see the weather for tomorrow.'

‘Okay.' She puts her hand down and glances across at me. ‘Hey – cool PJs, Mum. What's with the hands?'

‘They just mean I'm touched,' I reply, ‘
totally
touched.'

We watch as the weatherman recites the boating conditions for the next day. Personally I believe that anybody lucky enough to own a boat should source his or her own weather forecast, and not take up so much of ours. I pick up my glass from the coffee table and have a sip of scotch while I wait. Finally he gets to the actual weather: ‘There will be showers in Sydney, rain in Adelaide, drizzle in Perth, some precipitation in Alice Springs, several downpours in Brisbane, squally in Hobart, and some psychotic activity up in Darwin –'

‘Did he say ‘
psychotic
activity' in Darwin?' I ask Bronte, baffled.

‘Yeah, so?' she replies, moving Sherry over to her other breast. ‘And shh! I thought you wanted to watch this?'

‘I do!' I retort, annoyed. Psychotic activity. I've never actually been to Darwin, but surely they're not so bad up there it requires a warning as part of the weather report? Perhaps he meant ‘cyclonic' activity.

‘. . . and as for Melbourne, expect a cloudy day with occasional squally showers, some drizzle and several downpours. And that's it from me; now it's over to Mike with a fascinating story about the mating ritual of pandas.'

Unfortunately, Bronte works the remote control before I can observe the fascinating story about the mating ritual of pandas. Instead, a cartoon featuring a one-eyed female spaceship pilot comes on and she settles in to watch it. I grimace at the thought of rain tomorrow because I had planned on doing a little gardening. But, I suppose, at least we don't live in Darwin.

‘How about I take the porta-cot upstairs and set it up?' I ask Bronte. ‘And then you can put the baby straight to bed when she's done.'

‘Cool.' Bronte glances at me for a second before returning her attention to the television. ‘Thanks, Mum.'

I pick up the porta-cot by a handle embedded in the side and lug it up the stairs awkwardly. When I get to Bronte's room, I put it down by the side of the bed and then fetch in the bags and bunny-rugs that I'd placed outside earlier. Next I open the bag containing the porta-cot and examine the rectangular padded interior for clues on how to assemble it. There are none. After about ten minutes, I find some Velcro underneath the padding and, when I pull it apart, the entire contraption unfolds and
voila
! I've got a porta-cot and a mattress lying in front of me. I smile, flushed with success.

Unfortunately, however, it appears my flushing was a little premature. Try as I might, I can't get the four sides of the porta-cot to stand upright simultaneously. Finally, I decide to get a little more forceful and show the damn device just who's boss. Shortly afterwards there is a loud snapping noise and the entire rear end of the porta-cot collapses in a heap. A broken heap.

‘Where did you get all that baby stuff?' I ask Bronte when I arrive back in the lounge-room. ‘Who gave it to you?'

‘Oh, Nick's mum gave me some stuff the twins didn't need anymore and Dad gave us most of the rest,' replies Bronte, without looking up from the television. She has Sherry up on her shoulder and is patting her back rhythmically but the child is totally out for the count. Her mouth is slightly open with her tongue protruding wetly and a thin dribble of milk is running all the way down Bronte's windcheater.

‘What about the porta-cot?'

‘That's one of the things Dad bought.' Bronte finally looks at me. ‘Cool, isn't it? Why do you ask?'

‘Well, I was just wondering if you still had the receipt. Because it's broken.'

‘Broken!' Bronte stares at me, aghast. ‘
How
?'

‘Obviously faulty,' I reply with righteous indignation. ‘Bloody rubbish. So, have you got the receipt or not?'

‘Well, yes, I can get the receipt,' Bronte says as she gently lowers Sherry and then nestles the baby into her arms. ‘But, like, where's she going to sleep tonight?'

‘I'll think of something,' I say confidently as I finish off my scotch and then take the glass out to the kitchen sink. While I'm rinsing it, I suddenly remember neither of us has had tea yet. As soon as this realisation hits, my stomach rumbles and I feel weak from hunger.

‘Do you want anything to eat?' I put my head around the corner and look at Bronte. ‘A sandwich or something?'

‘No thanks!' she whispers loudly. ‘Nick and I grabbed some Maccas on the way from the hospital.'

No wonder they were so late! I check out what's available in the fridge and then fix myself two ham and salad sandwiches, which I carry upstairs on a plate, thinking furiously all the way. When I get to Bronte's bedroom, I repack the porta-cot haphazardly and then shovel it into the plastic bag before storing it by her wardrobe. Then, while I eat my sandwiches, I look around for inspiration – and find it among her bookshelves.

First I remove Bronte's seldom-used encyclopedia set from its shelf and stack the volumes on the floor. Next I cover the books, in sets of five, with bunny-rugs, and use the sets as impromptu bricks to build a rectangular enclosure on the floor. Finally I fold up an adult-sized blanket, put it in the enclosure as a mattress and pop in an old stuffed giraffe of Bronte's as the pièce de résistance. Am I good, or what?

I bounce down the stairs and into the lounge-room, where I find Bronte still watching television with the baby asleep on her lap.

‘All done,' I say with pride, ‘and I think you'll be impressed!'

‘What did you use?'

‘You'll see!' I grab a couple of extra bunny-rugs from the capsule and head back upstairs to put them in the middle of my invention as coverings. But the first thing I see when I get to the bedroom is that one side of the enclosure has caved in. Bugger. I look at it thoughtfully and decide that if the encyclopedias can't stay in place
without
a live baby in the middle, then it's probably not worth the risk of trying it out with her there. She'll be smothered by knowledge.

Accordingly, I dismantle my encyclopedia barricade and return everything to its rightful place. So now I've wasted another half-hour and still haven't accomplished a thing bed-wise. I run my fingers through my hair in consternation.

‘I thought you had something set up?' Bronte materialises in the doorway with the baby in her arms. ‘I've changed her and she's all ready for bed.'

‘It didn't work,' I reply with a sigh.

‘Why don't we just use the porta-playpen?' asks Bronte. ‘Here, you take Sherry and I'll go get it.'

I'm left there holding the baby and cursing myself for a total dork. Why didn't I think of the playpen – or even the pram, for that matter? Maybe because I'm always looking for complicated solutions when the simple ones suffice just as well. And usually better.

Bronte comes back in bearing the porta-playpen bag and dumps it on the floor. Within seconds, she has it out of its bag and completely set up by her bed. Then she grabs the pile of bunny-rugs and throws them inside the playpen before reaching out her arms for her daughter.

‘Now say goodnight to – what
do
you want to be called, Mum?'

‘No idea,' I reply as I kiss the top of Sherry's head. ‘Goodnight, precious.'

‘And I'm turning in myself, Mum,' says Bronte, lowering her daughter gently into her makeshift bed. ‘So goodnight, see you in the morning.'

‘Goodnight, Bronte. Sweet dreams.'

Shutting the bedroom door, I leave them alone and walk back down the stairs slowly, carrying my empty sandwich plate. After I rinse it off and put it in the drying rack, I lean against the counter and look out at the darkened night sky. The window has clear droplets scattered across it, evidence of an evening drizzle that now seems to have ceased.