Odd Socks (9 page)

The most entertaining thing about the situation is that both Cam and Alex think they're being totally clandestine. Whenever they're in the company of others they go out of their way to avoid contact but, every so often, they can be seen giving each other long, dark, passionate looks which speak volumes about what they're going to get up to as soon as they have the chance. The whole thing is amusingly ridiculous because, with the exception perhaps of Cam's children, everybody knows exactly what's happening and, furthermore, everybody totally approves. Perhaps they simply like all the secretive extramarital side of things. Maybe it turns them on. Obviously, odd things do.

However, this is the first time anybody has actually caught them in the act, and I don't think Cam will be all that pleased about having their relationship exposed. So, if it makes her happy, I'll just go along with the notion she's having an affair with Father Christmas. Although, personally, I think I'd prefer Alex.

‘Humph,' says Cam, who is looking rather embarrassed again.

‘Well, tell Alex hi from me next time you see him,' I say as I head for the front door. ‘And while you've got Santa in a good mood, could you tell him I'm after new wall-to-wall carpeting for Christmas?'

‘What?'

‘Never mind. I'll explain later.' I back out the door and wave politely. ‘Merry Christmas!'

It's still too early to go home so I drive aimlessly in the direction of the mountains until I come to the Ferntree Gully National Park lower picnic grounds. I'm not sure if there are any higher picnic grounds – if there are I've never found them. I put my blinker on, turn into the park and coast into a spot opposite the children's playground. Then I unbuckle my seatbelt, wind down the window slightly, stretch out the kinks in my back and prepare to waste time.

About twenty or so people have braved the July cold for some sort of celebration, judging by the balloons and streamers that adorn the rustic wood shelter they're clustered underneath. And if the raucous laughter coming from that direction is any indication, alcohol has been flowing freely for a large part of the afternoon. It'd need to, otherwise the partygoers would be frozen. Apart from that group, the park is only occupied by one hardy family enjoying a midwinter barbecue tea and the playground is crawling with their numerous offspring. There's just a small amount of light left in the day and the sun has already begun its slow descent, bathing the treetops in a soft crimson glow that makes them look almost luminescent.

I watch the sun setting for a few minutes while I run over the scene I just witnessed at Cam's house. And, as soon as I get to the part where I push open the bedroom door, my face goes as red as the sunset. But one thing's for sure, after I've stopped feeling so embarrassed, I'm going to be able to get an awful lot of mileage out of this. Santa Claus indeed! Who on earth deliberately chooses a guy who only comes once a year? I chortle to myself at my wittiness.

But at least Cam has got someone. Not that I don't, but spotting Fergus outside the unit depressed me in some indefinable way. Either that or my
reaction
to spotting Fergus outside the unit has depressed me in some indefinable way. Whichever – I'm still a tad depressed. In some indefinable way.

I frown and then chew my lip thoughtfully while I mull this over for a while. And it hits me. I'll bet my bottom dollar that, subconsciously, I remembered that the carpet was a mess and so was I. After all, I've been running around all day and I didn't get much sleep last night so I'm feeling very tired and not at all up to entertaining. Yes, that's all it was, and nothing more serious. Amazing how the subconscious can work.

I smile happily and resume feeling content once more. What's not to feel content about when you've got a few days off and don't have to get up each morning and work away at your career? Well, if you could call it a career, that is. But I've got no one except myself to blame for the fact I'm destined to remain on the bottom rung of the library ladder.

Unlike my brother, who towed the parental line and became a lawyer like our father, I felt the need to rebel somewhat and joined the services instead. Unfortunately, the irony of my escape from one form of heavy-handed discipline straight to another eluded me at the time. But my three years in the Royal Australian Air Force were some of the most fun-filled of my life. For starters, the ratio of men to women in those days was about one hundred to one and, if I say so myself, I looked
very
good in uniform. I smile with reminiscent pleasure before moving back to the present and sighing.

Because the end result of all this disciplined frivolity is that, while my brother Thomas enjoys high-powered, well-paid employment, I labour in the local library for a rather average wage. And I'm not even a librarian because
that
requires a degree. I'm a Library Officer. A lowly position that's too far
away from the glass ceiling even to throw rocks at it with any hope of success. Instead, I'm required by my job description to maintain a helpful demeanour and ensure the requisite smile is plastered on at all times. And, to be frank, my facial muscles are getting very, very tired.

I look at my watch to find that all this deep and meaningful thought has only taken twenty-eight and a half minutes. But the night is rapidly approaching and the picnicking family has begun the long process of packing up and finding children. The father lugs a bag of rubbish over to the bin near my car and glances in at me curiously. I stare straight ahead and avoid eye contact. Then it occurs to me that this probably makes me look even weirder, or perhaps spaced out on drugs, so I whip my head around quickly and grin at him in a reasonably friendly fashion. I immediately realise this was a mistake because he looks back at me askance, shoves his rubbish in the bin and hastily rejoins his wife. They begin a rapid conversation punctuated by several telling looks in my direction. He probably thinks I was trying to pick him up. Huh! He should be so lucky.

And then there's Bronte. Bronte is the most loving, kind, thoughtful daughter anybody could ever want. I can count on one hand the number of problems I've had regarding that girl in the entire time she was growing up. She cleaned her room, studied hard, had nice friends, confided in me – and totally lulled me into a false sense of security. Which was abruptly shattered when she turned twenty, met Nick, fell pregnant and dropped out of university. So now, just like her mother before her, she's a twenty-one year old degree-less parent with a fragile, or at least fledgling, relationship.

But then again, I've got to remind myself that Bronte is not
me
. As Cam has pointed out numerous times, what didn't entirely work for me may well work for Bronte because we are
very
different. In fact, I sometimes think Bronte is like a six-foot, slightly more highly-strung version of my mother. And my mother married young, had children early and lived a very contented life. Still does, actually.

Besides, no matter what does or doesn't happen between Bronte and Nick, they've still managed to create something pretty damn special. It's all rather ironic, really, because when I first heard about the baby's existence, I was devastated – even apart from the realisation I was about to become what is known in certain circles as a
grandmother
. But who'd have guessed that they would produce such a delightful, delectable, utterly
gorgeous
little mound of brand-new humanity? I suppose that's what they mean by silver linings.

I glance back at my watch and note that forty-two minutes have now passed since I parked here. Dusk has given the playground an eerie, deserted look and the only people still remaining are the stalwart party residue, and even they're in the process of gradually packing up. I push my hair behind my ears as I yawn sleepily and then stretch. It occurs to me I've been up for over fourteen hours and it isn't even teatime yet.

A warmly coated elderly couple with a golden retriever walking obediently at their side stroll slowly past, gloved hand in gloved hand, and head towards the thousand steps at the rear of the park. As they pass the playground, the woman turns to her partner, who is wearing a bright-red cloth cap, and says something indistinguishable. Without even looking at her, he raises their joined hands and delivers a kiss to her glove. I smile as I watch them go and then lean back in my seat. Only a little while longer and it should be safe to go home. I put the radio on and Kylie Minogue's voice warbles out so, even though she is a better singer than she is a tennis player, I turn it off again. Instead I decide to close my eyes for a minute, or perhaps a second.

Yep, just a second.

I sit bolt upright in shock as a sharp knock echoes right next to my ear. Then I blink several times and, staring straight ahead, try to place myself. All I know is that it's pitch black and bitterly cold.

‘Lady? Hey, lady? Excuse me?'

Still confused, I turn to the source of the gravelly voice and immediately jump as I see a rather distorted face pushed very close to the glass. My adrenalin speeds as my heart threatens to jump out of my mouth and race screaming off into the dark. Then the face backs off a bit and becomes relatively normal. It seems to belong to an elderly gentleman with snow-white hair and a red cloth cap. And I recognise suddenly that it's the same guy who went strolling past with his partner just before I closed my eyes for a second. My heart starts to return to its normal rhythm and I stare at him, still open-mouthed.

‘Are you all right?' he asks with concern, his voice muffled by the window-glass.

‘Um, yes. Yes, of course.' I wind the window down and slowly realise I must have fallen asleep out here, so I glance quickly at the clock in the dashboard and register that it's past eight o'clock. ‘Hell! Look at the time!'

‘Exactly,' says the face by the window. ‘Bit late for a young lady like you to be out here alone, isn't it?'

‘Yes, it is,' I agree. ‘I must've fallen asleep.'

‘Well, perhaps you'd better head home then.'

‘I will. And thanks.'

‘No problem.' He straightens up and walks over to join his wife, who is standing on the path holding their dog on a lead. Obviously he'd left them both out of harm's way just in case
I was a raving maniac. I wind my window back up as my heart warms to him and I smile in gratitude. They both smile back and raise a gloved hand each in farewell. Then, hand-in-hand, they stroll down the path to the outer reaches of the park and back towards suburbia. I turn the ignition over and put the heater on full as I rub my hands together and watch the couple go. Every bone in my body aches from cold and stiffness. Forty-one is clearly too old to be able to fall asleep in a car and suffer no ill effects. I might seem like a young lady from that old guy's perspective, but it sure doesn't feel like it from mine. I stretch out painfully and groan.

What on earth am I doing here when I've got a perfectly nice, warm home to go to? I shake my head and sigh. The elderly couple have now reached the highway and are waiting for the lights to change. He lets go of her hand and, instead, puts his arm over her shoulders and pulls her closer. I watch them as I wait for my kinks to warm up and suddenly wonder whether Bronte will still be with Nick at their age – whether she will have someone she's so evidently close to, to wander with hand-in-hand through a tree-lined park in winter.

And I wonder if I will.

Handy Household Hint No VII:

A successful dinner party hinges on a beautifully laid table. This is all the more crucial if your skills as a cook leave something to be desired, as the attention of your guests will thus be distracted from the standard of your fare.

‘What did you do, lady, slaughter someone in 'ere?' The carpet cleaner, who could easily be that horrid ambulance man's clone but for his blue bib-and-brace overalls, stares with awe at the big stain in front of my couch. To my untrained eye, it appears to have spread.

‘That's right,' I reply jovially. ‘That's all that's left of the last guy who couldn't get my carpet clean.'

‘Funny,' he says, visibly unamused.

I feel a bit embarrassed now so I speak quickly: ‘It's from my daughter. You see, she gave birth there yesterday. On the carpet. So it's a birthmark – get it? A birth
mark
, because she . . . oh, okay.'

I peter out in the face of his stony silence. After I finish rambling, he looks slowly from me to the stain and then back again, obviously having trouble digesting the information. His offsider, a very plump guy who is completely bald and has a gold stud through one side of his enormous hooked nose, comes trundling in dragging some machinery behind him.

‘Look 'ere, Matt,' says the first guy, ‘some bird 'ad a baby 'ere yesterday.'

‘On the carpet?'

‘Yep. So they say.'

‘On the
carpet
?'

‘Yep.'

‘Bloody hell.'

‘Yep.'

‘Haven't they heard of hospitals?'

‘Actually,' I chime in, getting pretty irritated, ‘we
have
heard of hospitals, thank you. There just wasn't time.'

‘Bloody hell.'

‘Yep.'

‘So, what can you do?' I decide that this could go on and on unless I get them to the point. ‘Can you get it out or not?'

‘Let's see . . .' Matt props one elbow on the machinery he has dragged in, and contemplates the stain. ‘Hmm. Bloody hell.'

‘Yep.'

‘Perhaps I should just leave you to it?' I suggest with annoyance, ‘and you can let me know after you've discussed it.'

‘So what're we talking here?' asks Matt, looking at me for the first time.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Fluids. What're we talking?' Matt points at the stain with his foot. ‘I'm guessing bit o' blood, some amniotic fluid – that be about it?'

‘Well, we didn't stop for a glass of red wine, if that's what you mean,' I say sarcastically. ‘Why, does it matter?'

‘Of course!' sniffs Matt. ‘And you shouldn't have left it overnight, that's for sure. You'll have set it by now.'

‘Yep,' agrees his offsider.

‘Well, I
tried
to get an appointment yesterday but I couldn't!'

‘Amniotic fluid, mate.' Matt ignores me and turns to his partner. ‘Ever had amniotic fluid before?'

‘Not personally.'

‘Me neither. Bloody hell.'

‘Yep.'

‘What about coffee or tea?' I ask politely, because sometimes a friendly gesture can have a positive influence on the willingness of people to work miracles.

‘Coffee! Tea!' Matt stares at the stain with fresh horror. ‘You didn't mention them!'

‘Not there! I mean do you
want
a cup of tea!'

‘Thank god! Tea's a real bitch,' says Matt with relief.

‘So would you like some?' I ask patiently.

‘Yeah, great!' says the first guy enthusiastically. ‘White and two for me and black with none for Matt.'

‘I'm on a diet,' confides Matt morosely. ‘Bugger it.'

‘Yep, 'is missus won't let 'im 'ave nothing decent.'

‘Bloody hell.'

‘Yep.'

I leave them leaning on the machinery discussing diets and amniotic fluid, and go to the kitchen to put the kettle on. While it's heating up, I open the window slightly to try to coax some fresh air into the unit. It's pretty cold out there, but it's pretty stale in here. Then I straighten Tutankhamen on the fridge and study today's list to see if I've forgotten anything.

TUESDAY

It promises to be a much more relaxing day than yesterday so I give the list a nod of satisfaction before reaching out to turn the kettle off. The phone rings just as I'm pouring hot water over the teabags so I tuck one side of my hair behind an ear and answer it.

‘Hello?'

‘Terry, my love!' Fergus's lilting voice comes through crackly with static from his mobile. ‘And what was happening to you last night?'

‘Oh, I'm
so
sorry! But, guess what? Bronte had her baby!'

‘You're kidding me! A lass or a lad?'

‘A lass. They've called her Sherry.'

‘Well, isn't that bloody great!' Fergus says cheerfully. ‘And they're both after doing fine?'

‘Sure.' I think quickly and decide to postpone filling Fergus in on the exact whereabouts of the birth. He'll want to know all the ins and outs, literally, and I just don't have time at the moment. ‘And it all went well and she's in the Angliss for a couple of days. I've taken the week off work.'

‘Well, I'll have to be getting in there to see her. Perhaps tonight – are you?'

‘Um, I don't really know,' I say slowly. ‘I haven't decided.'

‘Great!' Fergus's voice starts to break up slightly. ‘I'll be picking you up then and we'll be going in together.'

‘Oh. Okay.'

‘It's a date then! I'll be seeing you directly after work.'

‘Terrific. See you then.' I hang up the phone and stare for a few moments at the steam wafting up from the two mugs
before me. I realise I don't feel terribly enthusiastic about visiting Bronte with Fergus in tow, probably because I wanted Sherry all to myself. I shrug mentally. I can always go in this morning as well – I
am
the mother of the mother, after all.

Matt and his offsider appear in the kitchen doorway and look expectantly at the mugs on the counter, so I fish out the teabags and pass the black tea over to Matt. Then I add sugar and milk to the other and pass that over as well with instructions to please use the coasters on the coffee table. They thank me profusely and wander back into the lounge-room, no doubt to lean on the machinery again. I put some coffee in the plunger, fill it with hot water and let it sit while I call up a mental picture of Sherry's gorgeous face and examine each of her features in turn. The phone rings once more just as I reach her shell-like little ears and I hesitate before answering it, trying to decide whether it's Fergus again or not. Only one way to find out, I suppose.

‘Hello?'

‘Congratulations, Grandma!' says Cam warmly. ‘You didn't tell me about the baby yesterday!'

‘Ho, ho, ho,' I reply with relief, ‘if it isn't Santa's little helper!'

‘Very funny.'

‘Besides, it was a bit hard to tell you
anything
yesterday!' I continue cheerfully. ‘You were much too busy decking the halls and jingling the bells!'

‘Okay, okay. You've had your fun now, so let's drop it.'

‘What's the matter? Won't anybody join in your reindeer games?'

‘I said drop it!'

‘You wish! I'm only getting started!'

‘I'll hang up,' threatens Cam. ‘I swear to god, I'll hang up if you say one more word about yesterday.'

‘There's no satisfying you, is there?' I reply brightly. ‘First
you have a go at me for not telling you about the baby and now you say you'll hang up if I talk about yesterday at all!'

‘You know what I mean,' says Cam darkly. ‘Now, tell me about the baby or else.'

‘All right,' I laugh in resignation. ‘Well, she's very cute.'

‘Come on! Even
you
can do better than that!'

‘Well, she's small, red, wrinkled and cute. What more do you want?'

‘A lot more. But I see I'll have to visit Bronte to find out. Now, I gather you've taken a few days off?'

‘I've taken the whole week. I decided I deserve it.'

‘Great! Because I'm on semester break, so we'll be able to do some stuff. Starting with lunch today.'

‘Okay,' I reply with enthusiasm. ‘To celebrate the baby?'

‘Yes – that, of course, and also . . . guess who rang me last night?'

‘Um, Mrs Claus? And I'm betting she was really peeved, as well.'

‘I'll hang up, I will!' says Cam seriously. ‘And you can jam your lunch –'

‘Now, now!' I say, with mock horror. ‘Naughty girls don't get what they want from Santa, you know. No sirree. You'll be stuffing stockings all on your lonesome, and –'

She hangs up.

I park my Barina neatly behind Cam's old Holden and stretch happily. I'm really looking forward to this lunch. Apart from the fact that Cam can't hang up on me if we're face-to-face,
she's also invited an old friend we haven't seen for over a year. We all used to work together at the Ferntree Gully Library before Cam decided to turn her life upside down, go back to university and start studying again, while Joanne flitted off overseas to some retreat in an effort to find herself and/or inner peace and contentment on some level. It should be very interesting to see if she has succeeded because Joanne has never been known for inner peace and contentment on
any
level. Before she left she was riddled with insecurities, had a temper to match her flaming red hair, and didn't believe in retreating – only attacking.

I open the car door and step out, straight onto the toe of a deserted Rollerblade that flicks up and hits me in the shin with one of its wheels. I curse roundly and kick the Rollerblade over to the garden, where it rebounds off a neglected-looking tree fern and falls onto a shrub. Where, no doubt, it will remain for the rest of its days. I love her dearly, but Cam has three of the messiest children I've ever met in my life – and a messy life to match.

Like me, she is divorced but has two ex-husbands to contend with. The first ex-husband is, of course, Alex, and a really nice guy to have around, whether or not he is masquerading as Santa Claus. But Keith, the second ex-husband, is a real pillock who set a record for obnoxious behaviour during the marriage that he's been at pains to surpass ever since. Unfortunately, he's also the father of Cam's youngest daughter, CJ, whose temperament is showing clear signs of being an inheritance from his side of the family.

I shake myself out of my reverie and rub my shin, which is still smarting. Then I reach back into the car to grab the box containing my contribution to lunch. I slam the car door shut with my butt before crossing the lawn to the porch and knocking loudly on the front door. There's no way I'm
ever
letting myself in again after yesterday. While I'm waiting, I check out my reflection quickly in the lounge-room window. Blonde hair waterfalling down from an oversized bronze clip at the back, black cowl-neck jumper, denim jeans, black ankle boots – not too bad. After a little while the door opens and Cam, dressed in identical jeans but with a cream cardigan, grins up at me.

‘You're late.'

‘Yes, but I brought cheesecake,' I say as I hand her the brightly coloured cake box. ‘It's one of those creamy chocolate ones that makes you put on weight simply by looking at it.'

‘Just what I need,' replies Cam with a grimace as she takes the box and shuts the front door behind me, ‘but I appreciate the effort you've gone to. Must have taken you hours.'

‘That's right. I spent all morning cooking and then packed it in this bakery box so you'd think it was a bought one.'

‘Well, it worked. I think it's a bought one.'

‘See?' I say as we walk down the passage and towards the kitchen. On the way, I negotiate my way past a single Rollerblade (probably the mate to the one now in the garden) with a purple sock dangling from it, and then step over a Barbie bus loaded with an assortment of well-dressed blonde occupants and a one-armed, naked Ken doll who looks inordinately pleased with himself.

‘Sorry about the mess.' Cam kicks the Rollerblade over to one side and then bends down to pick up a lunch-box lid that she balances on top of the cake box.

‘What's new?' I comment as we arrive in the kitchen, where various salad vegetables are spread haphazardly across the island bench. ‘And, anyway, where's the happy wanderer?'

‘She's running late too.' Cam throws the lunch-box lid into the sink, puts the cake box down on the bench and then goes
to check the contents of the oven. As soon as she opens it a delicious aroma wafts out.

‘That smells good!' I sniff appreciatively and clear some assorted debris from the kitchen table as I settle myself into a chair. ‘What's on the menu?'

‘Quiche and salad. With fresh-baked bread.'

‘Sounds great!' I say with considerable feeling. ‘Have you been taking lessons?'

‘Of course not! I
can
cook, you know.'

‘Hmm,' I reply noncommitally. ‘Anyway, I'm starving. Do we
have
to wait for Joanne?'