5
Cabbages And Kings
It was midwinter. The bathroom was finished, thank God. Of course it had taken longer than the male peer group had predicted, especially the walls, since Mike hadn’t been able to find the exact size, shape or shade—whatever—of Formica for ages. It was now Space Age white and Mum had had several fits of going in there, locking herself in and then wailing: “Where am I? Help, help, they’ve kidnapped me!” and a couple of times: “George! The aliens have got me!” Harriet had solved that one by unscrewing the lock. (Steve of course had then officiously gone over the raw place carefully with putty and paint, but— Yeah.) And once Mum had identified the bathroom unerringly as her brother’s, accusing Harriet of leaving her at her Uncle Bert’s place, when she knew she couldn’t stand that woman Bert had married! The late Mrs Bert Pinkerton, aka Aunty Peggy, had been one of the meekest, most inoffensive women Harriet had ever met. No, well, par for the course, really.
Today Mrs Harrison had yet another hairdresser’s appointment. She liked going, it was a warm, relatively safe environment and she seemed to behave herself there—familiarity, the doc had said, just see she keeps to her usual routine. Okay, the hairdresser’s at least once a fortnight was evidently part of the routine, and if it’d keep her quiet Harriet wasn’t gonna object, though it was taking quite a bite out of their fortnightly income. Though she’d cancelled the Baker’s Delight part of the routine—it was lovely bread, and their rolls and buns were gorgeous, but just too expensive on their budget. And the price of supermarket bread had shot up astronomically over the last few years—as-tro-nom-ically—never mind that they’d introduced all these fancy new brands with organic flour and old original recipes and how’s-yer-father—they were even dearer than the rest, nothing under four bucks a loaf! She gave up buying bread there at all and instead went to the servo every Wednesday arvo and Friday night when she didn’t have Mum with her trying to immolate herself on the forecourt under a 4WD or a semi-trailer, and bought sliced white at never more than a dollar ninety-nine and frequently even less. Trisha knew of a neato Vietnamese bakery where you could get a really nice sesame seed plait really cheap, but that would have meant a twenty-minute train ride, a half hour’s wait, and then a fifteen-minute bus ride, and vice versa to get back.
It was raining—Sydney winters could be very wet and miserable—but Harriet just made sure Mum’s good gabardine raincoat was buttoned up and she had her gloves on, tied a scarf over her hair, deaf to her objection that it made her look dowdy, waited patiently while she retied it in front of the hall mirror, handed her her umbrella that was right there in front of her in the umbrella stand but that she claimed wasn’t hers, snapped herself into her giant yellow plastic slicker that had been a very reasonable price at a rubber supplies shop some years back, the more so as it was a man’s coat, grabbed up Dad’s old umbrella, ignoring her mother’s point that that was George’s umbrella, he’d need it, and they went.
Clarysse usually did Mum’s hair: she was a free-lance, working part-time at Metro Central Hair Salon. Not part of a chain, the name was an inspiration of Kaylene’s, the owner-manager. Given Mum’s demonstrated antipathy to floozies, sluts, et al., you would have thought Clarysse’s wildly frizzed and spiky hair, giant dangly earrings, neon-bright lipstick, and spiky black lashes set against a pool of blue murk would’ve put her right off, not to mention the giant puce claws, the miniskirt and the fish-net tights, far worse than anything Kyla had ever got away with, but she seemed to like her. Well, perhaps it was familiarity, again. Gratefully Harriet left her to Clarysse’s tender mercies and a Who magazine (in which she’d be unable to identify a single celeb, but never mind), and hurried away.
The chemist’s was crowded—they were always busier in winter—so with any luck Wayne Macdonald would be too busy for a cosy chat. Over the past few months Harriet had come to dread these cosy chats. There was a wistful, longing look in Wayne’s eye, not to say, more latterly, a look of definite admiration. Help! But there was no other chemist for miles. Well, close if you had a car, yes. Not otherwise. Their road, misnamed Kurrajong Grove—there were no kurrajong trees in it, though there were some scraggy street trees—was quite long, but not a main road, and there were no buses along it. The next chemist was on a long road parallel to theirs, but three blocks over, and to get there you had to walk over two blocks—long blocks—take a bus for seven stops, then get off and walk across one block and up three. The buses ran every half hour, and as they were totally unreliable, if you missed one it could mean anything up to an hour’s wait.
Mrs O’Rourke from Number 65 Kurrajong Grove was sitting on one of the two chairs provided, waiting for her prescription to be filled, so after Harriet had handed her scrip over to Glenda—with any luck she wouldn’t have to see Wayne at all—she went and said hullo.
Mrs O’Rourke was more or less Mum’s generation, perhaps a bit younger, her kids had been a few years behind Harriet at school, and had all her wits about her, that was, still had what wits she had ever had, so she immediately embarked on an interrogation about “poor Pauline” and then gave a detailed report on the doings of Leanne O’Rourke Deering, Terry O’Rourke, and Bri O’Rourke, plus their spouses and offspring. It was quite restful, really: Harriet only had to look interested and make encouraging murmuring noises at times. Though it was a trifle surprising to learn that Melodie Deering, aged seven, had taken up river dancing—yes. Had to have the right shoes, mm, really? That would set you back a bit, mm. –River dancing? Had she misheard her? Oh, well!
After that somehow the topic of old Nanna O’Rourke’s church came up—Mrs O’Rourke herself was not a Catholic or her kids wouldn’t have been at Bells Road High or even Bells Road Primary, and Mr O’Rourke was definitely lapsed and in fact had told Steve Drinkwater over a beer that the local parish priest was a parasite, but Nanna still went faithfully to Mass every Sunday, and confession and the lot. Lit candles when the granddaughters were expecting—that sort of thing. Mrs O’Rourke thought it was disgusting, the things that were coming out about the Catholic Church these days, and it just showed you, didn’t it? It was an unnatural life and if you asked her, it attracted the sort of people that had a kink. Harriet was agreeing, but she didn’t need to, really, because at this the lady beside Mrs O’Rourke, a stranger to both of them or she’d have joined in the chat long since, burst out with the intel that it wasn’t only the Catholics, though of course those Brothers (unspecified) had always had a dreadful reputation and nothing that came out about them would surprise her, but look at what was happening in the Church of England, too! Her own cousin had had a boy at that school in Adelaide and the whole Church hierarchy had tried to sweep the thing under the carpet and Rosalie had said never mind if the man isn’t there any more and taken William away immediately. And they’d had the cheek to try and make her forfeit the fees! Another lady, in a rather up-market raincoat, with lots of leather buttons and neato flaps and things, at this joined in and after a while Harriet just edged away... Not that she didn’t thoroughly agree with them that it was disgraceful, and she’d have taken her child away from such a school, too, but she could never think of anything to contribute to such conversations. Other people always seemed to strike the right note automatically, and she never could.
After a bit the scrum cleared and Harriet realised with a sinking feeling that there were only the woman in the up-market raincoat and herself left. Ooh, help! Sure enough, Wayne himself surfaced with her prescription.
Why did he have to ask how Mum was? She wasn’t gonna get any better, was she? Harriet just said glumly: “About the same,” and fixed her eyes firmly on the packet of pills he was still clutching.
“And how’s yourself, Harriet?” he asked in horribly sympathetic tones. “Not letting it get you down, I hope?”
“No, I’m all right, thanks. I haven’t even had a cold or anything,” she added, then realising this was wrong, it’d encourage— Blast!
Wayne was beaming. “There! I told you getting a flu shot would be the go!”
“Mm.”
“It must be boring for you, though. Well, it’s bad enough being a lonely bachelor, but at least my time’s my own.”
What? What about all those spiels he’d given her about the hours he had to put in at the shop and Melanie not understanding? Harriet was beginning to feel considerable sympathy for Melanie.
“Um, yes,” she said desperately, “but you’ve got your hobby, haven’t you? You used to do those wonderful sponge-cakes for the school fair.” Wayne had been an only child and his mother was a superb baker who’d passed her skill on to him, faute de mieux. The boys at school of course had been inclined to tease him about it—until they realised that those who victimised him didn’t get favoured with any cake on the days he brought one in for the class. The sponges had always been double things, really towering, always filled with cream and jam and sometimes topped with cream as well, or sometimes just sprinkled with icing sugar, but always delicious.
“It’s not much fun with no-one to cook for,” replied Wayne with a wistful and horribly meaning smile. “Though I do sometimes do one for the shop—we always have a bit of a celebration for everyone’s birthday, it encourages team spirit, I find.”
Harriet fell back on her usual defence mechanism. “Mm.”
“Actually I was wondering if you’d fancy coming out for a meal some time. Nothing fancy,” he said on a careless note.
She gulped. “Um, thanks, but I can’t, Wayne! I mean, I’ve got uni three nights a week and I can't ask poor Trisha and Steve to keep coming over to look after her. And Mrs Williamson’s already doing far too much for us.”
“Then I tell you what!” he said brightly. “What say I come over and cook for you? Make it a Sunday, we’re not open, so I’ve got all day. I could do you a sponge, if you like.”
Harriet’s jaw sagged. Oh, Jesus! “I don’t think that’d be a very good idea,” she croaked. “Mum’d probably play up, she can be awful when it’s a stranger—well, you’re not a stranger, of course, but—but someone she isn’t used to having in the house.” His face didn’t look as if it was gonna be convinced, in fact it looked as if he was making up his mind to rubbish this cheerfully. “And we haven’t got a stove,” she remembered in relief.
“Eh?”
“Mum nearly set the house on fire last Christmas so Steve’s unwired it.”
“No stove?” he croaked.
“No—well, I usually use the microwave, and if I want to do a stir-fry or an omelette or a frittata or like that, I’ve got a little single-burner thing, and I keep it in a cupboard, and Steve’s put a padlock on it so as she can’t get at it.”
“But— You mean you don’t use the oven at all?”
“No. Mum and Dad lived off microwaved stuff for years anyway, it doesn’t make any difference to her.”
“But what if you want to do a nice roast?” he croaked.
Harriet was conscious of a strong wish to tell him to stop thinking in clichés. “I don’t wannoo, roasts cost the earth, and anyway she’s decided she can’t digest red meat.”
“You mustn’t go without red meat, Harriet, it’s full of iron,” he said on an anxious note.
“I know, that’s why I have to buy all those ferociously expensive multivitamins from you, Wayne,” replied Harriet grimly.
“They don’t have generic brands, so I can’t give you an alternative. –Look, I can offer you a discount!” he said desperately.
Harriet went very red. “No—I mean, it’s very kind of you, but you mustn’t do that, you’ve got your living to earn, same as everyone.”
“Then at least let me give you a decent meal! Surely Trisha and Steve wouldn’t mind looking after your mother, if it was just for once!”
Harriet was backed into a corner. “Well, okay, then, it’s very nice of you. If I can manage to fix it up.”
“Next Sunday, then? I could pick you up whenever it suits you.”
“Yes, okay,” she said weakly. “If it suits Trisha and Steve.”
Oh, God! He was a nice enough fellow but they had nothing in common save their mutual attendance over twenty years back at Bells Road High School! How on earth was she gonna talk to him for a whole evening? …And would he expect something more than talk? Ugh! Well, she was no blushing virgin and doubtless he’d be no worse than any of the clumsy Aussie males she’d sampled in her inglorious career—but that didn’t mean she was looking forward to it. ...Did a superb sponge-cake, which there was no doubt at all he’d urge her to take the remains of home with her, compensate for inept, clumsy sex? Okay, she must be getting old, ’cos the more she thought about those sponges of Wayne’s the more she began to think maybe it did!
... On the other hand, it’d be really mean to encourage the poor little man just because she was too greedy to resist his cooking!—Uh, funny how that criterion never seemed to apply when the boot was on the male foot, wasn’t it?—Okay, she’d go out with him once and then end it. Besides, by that time it would probably have dawned that she was a rank outsider with no social skills and no small talk, who couldn’t conform to any of the nice Aussie suburban norms—in fact didn’t know how to. It usually did, after one painful date.
Trisha’s reaction was an unblushing: “Oh, good! Wayne’d be just the thing for you, he’s so steady! Of course we’ll come over!—Shut up, Steve!—We’ll see you about fiveish, okay?”
Fiveish? What time were they expecting Wayne to pick her up, for God’s sake? Harriet was so stunned that she didn’t think to point out that she wouldn’t be just the thing for a steady suburban chemist and her sister must be mad to imagine she would be, until it was too late.
Aw, gee, the Drinkwaters turned up at fiveish and Wayne turned up at five-thirtyish, so that was that. The victim trailed off to her fate, not looking particularly glamorous in spite of Trisha’s and Kyla’s feverish searching through her wardrobe and drawers after the initial horrified gasps at the sight of her. She had no clothes except those she’d worn to work—the best of those was a tired winter-weight black trouser-suit gone baggy round the bum and at the knees and with the cuffs rather the worse for wear—and her weekend gear, which was what she’d been wearing for everyday since she came back to Sydney. Tired jeans gone baggy round the bum, mainly. So she was in the pants of the trouser-suit (Trisha having discovered that the answer to her anguished cry of: “Haven’t you got anything better than those old things?” was in the negative), topped by her best winter jumper, which had been a bad buy—well, price-wise a good buy at a David Jones sale, but it was pale blue, which didn’t suit her—the lot topped by, perforce, her old parka. Well, not her old parka, but the one she usually wore to the shops. Harriet had pointed out that at least Wayne was used to it, to which Trisha had replied in an anguished tone: “Why didn’t you buy yourself a decent winter coat while you were on a good salary?” There were lots of replies Harriet might have made, not the least being the rent she’d been paying—her landlord had been a doctor, as grasping as the majority of his profession, and had relentlessly put the rent up every year before he’d let her renew her lease, regardless of the fact that he did no maintenance whatsoever and had let the flat to her with the oven uncleaned and thickly coated with grease. But she merely said: “You don’t really need a heavy coat in Adelaide.” Even Kyla spotted this one was a lie: that time they’d gone over for the mid-year break, it had been freezing! And all the grapevines had looked dead! This longstanding grievance (longstanding if you were sixteen: the trip had taken place when she was thirteen) was ignored by her elders and Trisha had hunted frantically for some nice earrings or a brooch to brighten the effect up, only to discover with anguish that her sister didn’t possess any jewellery.
Harriet couldn’t think of anything to say during the drive to Wayne’s place, so she didn’t say anything. It didn’t matter: he was telling her about the mileage he got out of the thing they were sitting in.
He had his parents’ old house! Harriet hadn’t expected this; she smiled. It was a nice old bungalow, not unlike the one down the road from them at Number 73, with the plastic bags (or aliens) in the plum tree: dating from perhaps the 1920s, with a rather low-pitched gabled roof and deep verandah, with heavy verandah posts. The Macdonalds’ old house had stuccoed verandah posts whereas the place with the plum tree had a mixture of brick and stucco, but otherwise they were very alike. Harriet loved the typical low, sweeping, rather heavy lines of these old bungalows. She would have said: “I love these old California bungalows” except that she was aware that the phrase not only meant less than nothing to her fellow countrymen, it would be soundly rubbished. So she just said pleasedly: “You’ve got your parents’ old place!”
“Yes, I took it over when Mum and Dad moved to the Gold Coast.”
Harriet had to swallow: lots of retired people did move to Queensland, of course, but it was such a cliché! Um, help, how on earth did you ask nicely if they were both still alive? She couldn’t get her tongue round the words “Are they both still with us, Wayne?”, though aware that this would be acceptable, so she just said limply: “How are they, Wayne?”
Phew! They were good, and Mum’s arthritis had really improved since the move. Dad had to avoid stairs these days but the retirement unit was one-storeyed and the area was really flat, and there was a nice shopping centre (she hadn’t asked) quite near. He opened the front door on this last and Harriet’s heart nearly stopped. She only just stopped herself gasping: “What have you done to the place?”
“Like it?” he said proudly. “I’ve more or less gutted the inside, I can’t stand those old dark houses.”
Harriet had only been round there a handful of times but its dark panelled passage and wainscoted lounge-room with its heavy ceiling beams had been part of its charm! Jesus! It was all gone, except the ceiling beams—presumably they were holding the roof up, or he’d have abolished them, too—but he’d painted them white, too right. The room they’d walked into occupied the whole of the frontage: an enormous combined sitting-dining space, with most of it floored in what she would have taken her oath was that new slot-together wooden stuff you bought ready-polyurethaned by the metre, instead of the original old, wide, dark-stained floorboards. “Floating floor”, that was it! Two giant Chinese rugs adorned Wayne’s very, very pale polyurethaned flooring, and they were very, very pale, too: palest oatmeal edged with palest grey and decorated with the occasional medallion of the same more or less in front of them, and in the dining area palest oatmeal edged with pale fawn and decorated with— Yeah. The main sitting area was carpeted in white. True, there was only him to spill coffee or red wine on it, but the man must be mad. The walls were white, too, and so were the huge leather, um, sort of settees: squarish-looking. Harriet was aware that this look had now replaced the squashy, puffy things that had been extremely popular some fifteen or twenty years back, but that didn’t mean she liked either look. Wayne’s monster set included a giant three-seater lounge, two huge easy-chairs that would each have seated two normal people easily, and another lounge that had a giant extraneous extension that by itself might have been a chaise longue but abutted the larger settee affair... Was the whole thing possibly intended to go in a corner? But it wasn’t, it was free-standing on the giant white carpet island. In front of a cold, chunky white oblong: a marble coffee table, ugh. The front windows had been retained, or she’d have noticed them, but he must have had long windows put in on both left and right walls and at the back: there were swathes of long curtains, all drawn: white silk-look with a silver shimmer to them, ugh! The room as a whole was so awful that you hardly noticed the dining suite: six white ladder-back chairs in a very severe style, with a white-painted table, also severely upright and plain.
Wayne was proudly demonstrating the room’s features; okay, curtains worked at the touch of a button—whoosh! Yes, he’d extended out the back, the house had been far too poky (for one person? Get real!) and the new back windows (wall of glass) gave onto the new patio (press of a button and Harriet gave a gasp as the patio lights came on), and he’d built out a wing—yes, round here to the left, Harriet, leading her past the dining area—and this was the kitchen, you see, you could throw it all open but he liked to keep the louvers between the kitchen area and the dining area closed when he had guests. The louvers of course were white-painted, too, Harriet had taken them for a wall, but they weren’t. Gee, the kitchen area was all cold grey-blue slate flooring, icy white Melamine cupboards and icy white walls, and cold grey granite bench tops, fancy that. This door that you thought was just a panel led to the passage—clever, wasn’t it? (no)—and the bedrooms and ensuites were down here in the new wing! Wall of glass facing onto the patio, but as she could see it was completely walled off from the neighbours (sandstone, not white, surprisingly), presumably it was private enough. Anyway, once you were in your palatial all-white bedroom presumably you just walked into its palatial adjoining all-white ensuite— Jesus! He had one of those bloody free-standing Queen Mary baths!
Very, very luckily he took her stunned horror for stunned admiration and blahed on happily about his ruined house’s frightful features for ages.
“Yes,” said Harriet faintly as he finally paused for breath and looked at her expectantly. “Very—very modern. It’s—it’s impressive what you’ve done with it, Wayne.”
This went down very well and he toddled off to get her a sherry from an all-white sideboard that she hadn’t even noticed against the white wall, not asking her what she’d like. Had his mum always had a sherry before dinner, perhaps? But recalling the cosy, smiling Mrs Macdonald, whose idea of luxury living had been the five o’clock flicks followed by a meal at a family restaurant where all the family plus Wayne’s mate Rog, Rog’s sister Karen, and the bewildered Harriet, aged ten, whose mother never ate out at all, drank Coke, she couldn’t see it. Not as a regular thing… Ah-hah! Got it! It would have been for a treat, of course! Harriet was so pleased by this deduction that she made the mistake of giving him a beaming smile as he handed her the sherry. The wrong move entirely: he got visibly encouraged, sat down far too close to her with his sherry on the white two-part monster—a sectional, was it possibly what they called a sectional?—and blahed on for ages about Melanie’s general unsuitability, selfishness and failure to consult his wishes or needs in anything you cared to name, and their complete (but fortunately unspecified) incompatibility.
He had done a roast, help! Not the greasy lamb roasts of Harriet’s childhood but a beautiful sirloin, it must’ve set him back megabucks! He told her all about his special butcher but this didn’t make her feel less guilty. With it he served roast potatoes, roast pumpkin and roast sweet potatoes, plain steamed broccoli, and steamed carrots coated with honey and lemon. Harriet had once been served this last combination by his mother: she couldn’t remember what the occasion was, though as Melanie had been there it must have been when she was at secondary school, as Melanie’s family had only come to the district when she and Wayne were in their first year at Bells Road High. She could, however, remember very clearly thinking there was something wrong with the carrots but not liking to say so, whereas Melanie, whose mother had been much more up with the play than Mrs Harrison, had cried: “Ooh, lovely, Mrs Macdonald! You’ve glazed them with honey and lemon juice, haven’t you? Yes, Mum sometimes does that!” Recalling this scene and how pleased Mrs Macdonald had been to have her culinary efforts recognised and appreciated, Harriet had an uneasy feeling that maybe Wayne’s mother had fixed on Melanie way back then as suitable for him and pushed him into the marriage... At the time she had been suffering her usual excruciating social embarrassment and had only been able to croak: “Yes, thank you very much, Mrs Macdonald,” in the wake of Melanie’s graciously phrased thanks for the delightful meal. Now she reflected that thank God, ’cos what if it had been her that Mrs Macdonald had chosen? Of course at the time she’d only thought of her as Wayne’s nice mum who was a marvellous cook, but she could now see that cosy, smiling Mrs Macdonald had ruled both her husband and her son with a rod of iron—the iron hand in the velvet glove, she was very much the velvet glove sort: it had always been done very sweetly, but nonetheless they had both been completely under her thumb.
There was quite a nice Shiraz to go with the roast and as he didn’t give her chapter and verse on where he’d got it or how it had been a special offer for the dozen, Harriet concluded guiltily that he must have spent far too much on it. He admitted modestly that he didn’t know much about wines, really, and as this wasn’t followed up with an oenological dissertation, it must have been true. Harriet had struck the other thing innumerable times. At least Sean Nesbitt, she reflected heavily, had made no bones about being a wine buff, if he had bored on and on about it.
Of course Wayne served the sponge-cake for pudding. Towering, naturally. Incorporating cream and strawberries, into the bargain. Harriet had skipped lunch but even so she had to croak: “Um, just a small slice for me, thanks, Wayne, after that lovely roast.” There was no such thing as a small slice in Australia, but he cut her a reasonable slice and assured her coyly he’d let her take the rest home with her!
Then an awful silence fell.
“I remember one time,” said Harriet desperately, “maybe it was a birthday party, your mum made a beautiful cake with blue icing, um, was it in the shape of a ship? She gave us all a slice to take home, it was lovely.”
“Oh, yeah! Uncle Dave’s anniversary, they came over from WA, and their twins, they were Trisha’s age, so Mum said we’d better invite Trisha and little Harriet as well!” He beamed at her.
Little Harriet concealed a wince. “Mm. Did Rog Barrett come?”
“Of course,” replied Rog’s best mate. “And Greg Monday, that weird mum of his let him come, for once. Mum was always inviting him—well, they lived right next-door—but she was a health-food nut, she reckoned Mum’s food wasn’t healthy, for Pete’s sake! Greg was the skinniest boy in the entire school!”
“Yes, he was thin, wasn’t he?
The solid Wayne shuddered. “Terrible! Miss Travers sent his mum a note once, she was sure he had worms.”
Help, Miss Travers, she’d forgotten all about her! So they must have been about eight. Harriet nodded.
Wayne then launched into extended reminiscence of Miss Travers’s class. Harriet didn’t remember any of it, and certainly not most of the names he trotted out. Well, of course he still lived in the district, and she’d moved away, but good grief! The doings of Wendy Barker and her best friend Marilyn McInnes, of Dave-o Johnson, Scotty Taylor and Chris Hahn, all aged eight, were as clear in his mind as if it had been yesterday!
“Um, yes,” she agreed weakly. Chris Hahn had been very bright—in fact the one member of their class at Bells Road Primary who’d ever given her a run for her money—so she added feebly: “Um, what did happen to Chris Hahn, do you know? I remember his parents sent him to a private secondary sch—”
Wayne was thrilled to be able to tell her that Chris Hahn was now a top Sydney barrister, a Q.C., slated to be a judge very soon, and pulling down megabucks, with a huge house at— Blah, blah. After a bit it became horridly apparent that Wayne had never been inside this mansion and that the eminent Q.C. hadn’t rolled up for the Bells Road Primary School Seventy-Fifth Anniversary, for which Wayne had been on the organising committee; but somehow Harriet wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t made it to the anniversary, either, but as it had been towards the end of the academic year she’d had the valid excuse of being snowed under with marking. Besides, she’d already made trips to Sydney that year at Easter and at mid-year break and was slated for another trip at Christmas. But flaming Chris Hahn lived not much more than a half-hour’s drive away!
“He’d be too busy, of course,” ended Wayne wistfully.
Yeah, right. “Too up-himself, more like,” replied Harriet in a hard voice. “Too good for Bells Road Primary. I wouldn’t bother giving a top Sydney lawyer the benefit of the doubt, Wayne: not everybody’s as nice as you, ya know.”
“I do always try to give people the benefit of the doubt. And he’s always getting his picture in the papers, with his big cases, I’m sure he is busy.”
Had anybody that had moved out of the suburb and gone on to a successful career turned up to the anniversary? Harriet fought down an awful desire to ask him, and said in would-be rallying tones: “Well, shall we do the dishes?”
This galvanised him into action. Of course he had a dishwasher, and she was the guest, she must go and sit down and listen to some nice music! Harriet winced, he’d been playing Vangelis throughout the meal on the giant sound system concealed within one of his giant white sideboards. But she went to sit down obediently, pursued by Wayne’s merry order to choose something nice! Oh, God. Resignedly she got up and after some fumbling opened the right cupboard door. Oh, God. All the schmaltz of the last thirty years. Vangelis, of course, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Elton John, André Rieu, yuck! The Three Tenors, ugh! Christ, a DVD of Dame Kiri in the Aussie Outback? Recorded at Yalkarinha Gorge in 1997: right. She’d been doing her Ph.D. at that stage and Betty Campbell, who hadn’t even been her supervisor but had taken a motherly interest in the luckless Ph.D. and M.A. students, had tried to drag her into a group to go to it. She’d had to come down with “flu” to get out of it. Oh, lawks: Dame Joan, an ABC offering of selections cobbled together from stuff she'd done for them in the 1990s. Naturally he didn’t have any of the diva’s earlier recordings, before the voice went, that’d be too highbrow. There were some semi-pop things—ballads, perhaps. The smirking faces on the CD jackets certainly suggested as much, and Harriet, looking at a list of titles from a young male singer she’d never heard of, shuddered and concluded that was probably how they’d be categorised. Um... did Elton John sing as well as play the piano? Ugh, yes, he did: that dreadful Diana’s Funeral thingo. Okay, that was out. Uh—well, this wasn’t ballads, it wasn’t electronic and/or stringed wailing, it wasn’t an ageing pop star or an ageing diva, it certainly wasn’t an elderly diva who ought to be quietly put down, it wasn’t a bloody tenor well past his prime— Yeah, okay. With some fumbling—modern technology hated her—she managed to put on a CD of themes from well-known TV series. Uh—sort of, she certainly didn’t recognise this.
It had been a tactical error to sit on one of the giant lounges, she recognised glumly: Wayne came and sat beside her with a happy smile, saying: “Ooh, this is nice! Know this?” He hummed along happily with it.
Then it was: “’Member this? Reilly, Ace of Spies! That was ages ago: Mum was really keen on it, she’s got a DVD of it.”
Oh, really? Harriet would have said it was something else entirely, but she nodded and tried to smile nicely.
He thought they might have a nice liqueur with their coffees. Coffee? With this white carpet? Hastily she refused it, claiming untruthfully it gave her the flutters if she had it at this time of night.—The flutters being Mum’s favourite symptom, the phrase rose quite easily to her lips.—Wayne immediately offered her decaff, the bloke was bats! She managed to convince him she’d just like a liqueur, but it was uphill work. Nobody could possibly need a sweet liqueur after that miraculous sponge, and it was cherry brandy, sickeningly oversweet, but she sipped it valiantly. And very carefully: it looked to her as if was full of the sort of food colouring that would not come out of expensive white pure-wool carpet and would stain expensive white leather horribly. Never mind what stain-proofing the things had undergone, as Wayne, perhaps with an atavistic memory of little Harriet Harrison spilling a whole goldfish bowl of water complete with two goldfish over her peers at the age of six, was now telling her they had.
The cherry brandy made him get rather close while he demonstrated his one-size-fits-all electronic gizzmo that allowed him to control the TV—Harriet gasped as a giant black screen rose out of a white sideboard—and the curtains, of course—Whoosh! Swish!—and to switch the CD player off (but apparently not to eject the CD, at least he didn’t do so) and to adjust the lighting—he leered meaningly at her as the lights dimmed, shit!—and of course to adjust the TV. Flash! Stereo, mono, sound-surround— God! These were lovely, she’d like these—yes, it came with them! Luridly over-coloured Impressionists, why? There were no captions and no voice-over, just something sickeningly schmaltzy—uh, Strauss? Dazedly Harriet identified the artists, sort of automatically, the whole thing was so fascinating in a dreadful way that she couldn’t stop herself. Wayne thought she was very clever! Um, there was a list of the titles somewhere—lots of pointing, pressing and flashing ensued but no list.
“Help, you’ve got loads of channels,” said Harriet dazedly, as he then pointed and flashed through them. Well, of course he had all the HD channels, they hadn’t all come on line yet, but— Yeah, yeah. They appeared to be showing the same dreck as the ordinary channels, or at the most rescreening bad movies or very bad comedy series that the ordinary channels had shown years back, but if he said they were HD, so be it. And of course he had Foxtel! Flash, flash—movies, all the good blah, blah... Same dreck as what the commercial channels showed for free: quite. She’d like this! Really bad American nature documentary, patronising and puerile as to its informational content and over-bright both as to its colouring and its commentary—actually the commentator managed to sound both over-bright and blank, a fascinating phenomenon.
Unfortunately Harriet got so interested in this last that she said: “Help, does he understand a single word he’s saying?”
There was an offended silence and then Wayne said with an effort: “You always were a kidder, Harriet! Well, they only have to read it, you know.”
Mm. Unlike David Attenborough.
“Well, shall we watch a nice movie, instead?” he said brightly.
“All right,” said Harriet weakly.
Oh, God, he dimmed the lights even further, got even closer, and said cosily: “Isn’t this fun! Just like the old days at the Rialto; ’member how the kids used to roll Jaffas down the aisle?”
She remembered that Mum had supervised their pocket money very carefully and they’d never been able to afford Jaffas to chuck away—yeah. And unlike some, hadn’t been allowed to go to the pictures more than once a month. And only if it was something deemed suitable, which didn’t by any means encompass everything that other people’s mothers deemed suitable. And the pictures in town cost so much that if they went there, that was it for the next three months, whether or not Mrs Harrison had had to take them in person (in which case it wouldn’t be anything like Star Wars, but something she wanted to see). It wasn’t that they couldn’t afford it, either: Dad had been on a good salary, though Mum hadn't worked except for a short stint helping out at a lawyer’s office upstairs in the mall, where she’d got up everyone’s noses so much that she’d been let go after six weeks.
“Um, yes. We never had Jaffas, but I do remember. Um, isn’t that Mr Darcy?” said Harriet, blinking dazedly.
“Yes, ’course, from Bridget Jones’s Diary! It was good, wasn’t it? Well, a chick flick, of course!” Wayne chuckled complacently. “If you liked that, I’m sure you’ll like this.”
As Mr Darcy—she couldn’t remember the actor’s name but she did recall he’d been Mr Darcy twice, very confusing—as he was coming on like the Pommy wet to end all Pommy wets, Harriet didn’t think she would, but she just murmured: “Mm,” and sat back resignedly.
Boy, it was bad. Inoffensive, yes—but bad. He was a wet Pommy nit that was over in the U.S. to do some sort of art—bad art—and the girl was a small-town American girl-next-door and inevitably his evil girlfriend turned up—skinny eyes, which was how Harriet and Trisha had categorised these evil ladies who gave the sweet, innocent heroine a bad time and were fated to lose the hero, ever since a screening of The Courtship of Eddie’s Father on TV one wet Saturday afternoon when Mrs Harrison had actually let the two girls, aged sixteen and seventeen, watch the movie, the alternative being sports on all the other channels.
At the end of it Wayne put his arm round her shoulders and said: “It wasn’t bad, was it? The scenes of the American trees in autumn were pretty. –Fall, I should say!”
“Yeah.” Abruptly Harriet made up her mind that that was it. She pulled away and got up. “Look, I’m sorry, Wayne, it was nice of you to ask me over and I like you but I don’t want to take it any further. It was a mistake, I shouldn’t have come.”
Poor Wayne went very red and stuttered: “Just a meal, heck, it’s not a real date, or— Heck!”
“Just as well it isn’t a real date, then,” said Harriet bleakly. “I’d better go. –You don’t have to drive me,” she said as he immediately got up and produced his keys: “I can walk.”
Of course he wouldn’t hear of that, so they got in the car and went.
On the way he said: “Look, Harriet, we’ve known each other for ages, I’m sure we can work it out; I mean, we’ve got lots in common: if we just take it slowly—”
“No, we haven’t got lots in common!” cried Harriet in desperation. “I’m sorry, but I think your house is soul-destroying and I hate Vangelis and—and every other CD in your cupboard! I’m not saying I wouldn’t have watched that film, but it was dreck!”
Very red, Wayne protested: “But those sort of things don’t necessarily matter! I mean, heck, we need to get to know each other again—”
“No, we don’t. You’re not my type,” said Harriet grimly. “I’ve known that since kinder, if you must have it!”
His jaw sagged. “Kinder? That’s just silly, Harriet, we were kiddies!”
“It may be silly, but it’s the truth, and it’s the refusal of people like you to recognise precisely that sort of truth that makes me know I could never put up with a relationship with you.”
“All right, have it your own way,” he said in a trembling voice.
Harriet sighed. “I’m sorry, Wayne, I should never have accepted your invitation.”
“And what the Hell do you mean by people like me?” he suddenly burst out.
“Well, people like you. Nice, ordinary people that—that really like the suburban life.”
“You grew up here, too!”
“Yes, that’s why I know I can’t stand it.” As they’d reached the house she said: “Thank you for the dinner. And the ride.” And got out.
Predictably, Trisha cried: “What? Harrie, you didn’t even make an effort, did you?”
Rather less predictably, Steve noted: “Toleja. Wayne Macdonald’s a bit of an old woman.”
“Well, find someone better!” shouted his spouse.
“I might,” said Steve, looking thoughtful.
Trisha just snorted and led them out, with the parting remark that Mum had had a mug of Ovaltine before she went to bed, and don’t look at her, she knew she’d always said it was an artificial drink, and watch out, next thing she’d be trying to put it into the Milo pot.
Harriet fished the back door key out of the Milo pot and, since it was still quite early, went to bed with a mug of Ovaltine and an old Dick Francis that she hadn’t read for ages. She’d forgotten how violent Dick could be, or perhaps she was getting old, but she just skipped the nasty bits. His bright, slim, athletic and non-suburbanite hero was certainly an antidote to Wayne Macdonald.
Steve’s suggestion—or perhaps threat—that he might find someone better than Wayne Macdonald for his sister-in-law didn’t bear fruit for some months. A barbie. Trisha had arranged for Aunty Mary and Uncle Don to have Mum—now don’t argue, they were only too happy to be able to do something for her. Harriet told herself afterwards that she shouldn’t have been surprised: spring was, after all, the season when the suburban sap quickened, the do-it-yourselfers came out in droves in their 4WDs, heading eagerly to Mitre 10 and Bunnings, and barbies, not to mention self-appointed barbecue chefs in silly aprons over the long baggy shorts and the droopy tee-shirts, flowered all over the anally neat paved “outdoor living” areas that had largely replaced the traditional scruffy stretch of back lawn in affluent middle-class Australian suburbia.
Steve had found two candidates for Harriet. Well, two and a half, actually. The half was the younger firie whom she’d encountered on the occasion of the great shed fire: Bryce. He wasn’t a very young man, but he was a lot younger than her, perhaps in his mid-thirties. His over-eager greeting was rather like that of one of those large, floppy dogs: bounce all over you and if you’re not careful, lick your face.
“Yeah, gidday, Harriet! ’Course I remember you! Great to see you again! How’s the old lady doing?”
What could you say? “All right, thanks,” replied Harriet warily.
At around this point it dawned on her that it had been a great mistake to let Trisha take her down their mall and into a shop which sold very nice tops and buy her a very nice top. Harriet had a strong feeling that it was meant for someone two sizes smaller than her and quite differently shaped around the bust, because it was cut horribly low on her and was skin-tight. That or the saleswoman had packed the wrong one of the two sizes Trisha had picked out for her to try on. Apart from its horribly low neckline—sort of a vee-neck, but cut very wide across the shoulders so if you moved or breathed your bra straps showed—it was unremarkable, being made of tee-shirt fabric—almost everything these days seemed to be, certainly everything in that shop—with short sleeves. It was a shade between pink and orange, which she couldn’t define. Quite bright, but not luridly so. According to Trisha it was just her colour. Harriet hadn’t worn anything this conspicuous since she was in her early twenties and she felt a complete twit in it. In the hope of minimising the amount of pink-to-orange on display she'd tucked it into her best jeans, Trisha having assured her that she could wear them, everybody wore jeans to a barbie. Of course “everybody” didn’t. Most of the blokes were either in jeans or those stupid-looking long, baggy shorts with pockets on the thighs, but most of the women were in smart slacks or smart little light-weight skirts and tops. A couple of them were in jeans but these were designer jeans.
Bryce was leering happily at the pink-to-orange top, help! Desperately Harriet said: “Um, I’m surprised to see you here, Bryce. Aren’t this lot a bit old for you?”
To her astonishment his round, snub-nosed tanned face went rather red and he said crossly: “No! How old do you think I am?”
“At a guess, a good ten years younger than any of us.”
“I’m thirty-six, for Pete’s sake!” he said crossly.
“I’m forty-two and Trisha’s a year older than me and Steve and most of his mates are ten years older than you.”
“Six years is nothing,” he said, looking hungrily at the top. “Anyway, my son Derek, he’s in the same class as Jimbo.”
Taken completely unawares, Harriet gaped at him and croaked: “How old were you when you got married, for Heaven’s sake?” Not reflecting until the words were out of her mouth that this was the twenty-first century: people didn’t necessarily get married before having kids, you saw it on the TV news all the time, whether it was soldiers with young families that they hadn’t actually taken on the official responsibility for being blown up in Afghanistan, or sobbing mother of three bereft after the unofficial father had, take your pick, immolated himself round a lamppost in the middle of the night speeding on the highway, kidnapped the unofficial offspring and staged an armed siege until the cops, with luck, talked him out of it—
Bryce was telling her that him and Joelle had both been twenny-one, his parents were right when they’d said it was too young to get married—etcetera.
“I see,” said Harriet weakly. “I’m sorry, Bryce.”
Bryce didn’t enquire whether this was an apology for the impertinence of her enquiry or an expression of sympathy for his marriage’s having broken up, he just said eagerly: “Heck, that’s okay!”
She was now dying to ask him if he lived above the fire engines like the firies in that TV series. “Um, do you see much of your son?”
“Yeah, sure, I have ’im every weekend, unless I’m on duty. Well, sometimes he comes round to the fire station—he’s okay, knows to keep ’is head down.”
It was the weekend now. Harriet stared at him. “Then where is he?”
“Over there with Jimbo,” replied Bryce simply.
Harriet swallowed, and looked. Sure enough, Jimbo was at his father’s elbow, interfering in the serious Men’s Business of singeing meat, and next to him was a small, skinny boy who apart from being the same colour, looked as unlike the well-built Bryce as was possible within the limit of human genetics. Bryce’s thick, short curly hair was a rich brown—it’d probably be called chestnut on a woman—and little Derek’s was pale fawn and straight: it was shaven to above ear level and then stood up in a dead straight fuzz something over a centimetre high. Bryce looked as if you’d have to take a bulldozer to move him if he didn’t want to be moved, whereas Derek looked as if a puff of wind would blow him away. Not uncared for—no. He looked very clean and spruce in what even from across a piece of the Drinkwaters’ remaining lawn and a fairly crowded if very large paved outdoor living area Harriet could see were extremely well-pressed navy shorts—they stuck out ludicrously from his pale, stick-like legs—and a spanking-clean lemon tee-shirt. No doubt Bryce’s ex did look after him properly: he was just one of those naturally skinny, wiry little boys.
“Well, I’m glad you could bring him. He doesn’t look much like you,” she said limply.
“Hasn’t got ’is growth, yet. Starting to, though: those shorts are new, grown out of everythink else, and I hadda buy ’im some new sneakers, his mother reckoned he was trying it on, but I checked them and the ruddy things did seem a bit short—only had ’em for three months, ya see—so I took ’im down The Athlete’s Foot and had ’im measured: the poor little tyke wasn’t lying, he had grown out of ’em.”
“I see,” said Harriet, smiling at him. He was manifestly thick as two short planks and far too young for her, not only in years, but mentally, but it was obvious he loved his son. “Jimbo’s at that stage, too, Trisha said his shoes are costing them a fortune, she bought two pairs of footy boots for him this year and he’s out of the second lot, now. He eats like a horse, too.”
“Yep, they do,” he agreed proudly. He peered at the drink she was holding. “Hey, lemme top you up, there, Harriet.”
“No thanks, beer on an empty stomach makes me awfully drunk,” said Harriet quickly. –Oh, blast! That would have been an excuse to get rid of him! She stared at him in dismay.
“Dare say there’ll be some food soon. So your mum hasn’t burnt down any more sheds lately, eh?”
Witty, wasn’t he? “No, there aren’t any more to burn down. Anyway, you’d be the first to know if she did.”
Bryce laughed cheerfully. “Yeah, sure would!”
Harriet couldn't think of any further repartee so she just smiled palely and fell silent.
“So do they often have barbies?” was his next gambit.
“I don’t really know, Bryce. I’ve been living in Adelaide for over twenty years,” returned Harriet with precarious politeness.
“Nice house, isn’t it? Never been round the back before, only collected Derek—you know. I like what they’ve done to the garden,” he offered approvingly.
“Do you? I can’t say I do, though they’ve certainly done a lot,” replied Harriet drily. “I prefer the traditional style: the best part of a quarter acre of flat grass interspersed with some struggling fruit trees and a Hills Hoist, with a bit of a veggie garden.”
“Yeah, hah, hah,” he said with an uneasy grin. “People don’t want that, nowadays.”
“You realise that these stupid pavers—what do they call it? Outdoor living area, that’s it—that it reflects the heat into the house horribly and that now they’ve gone to the humungous expense of having it put in they’re gonna have to spend even more on doing something drastic about that wall of glass in the family-room? The air conditioning cost them a fortune last year, even though they’ve got insulation.”
“Um, well, maybe they could put in roller blinds,” he fumbled.
“At humungous expense, yeah.” Suddenly inspiration struck and she said quickly: “’Scuse me, I think I’d better see if Trisha needs a hand in the kitchen,” and hurried away from him.
She was so relieved to escape that she said without thinking to her sister, who was working at the bench: “Phew! Thank God one can always fall back on playing Kitchen!”
“You’re supposed to be out there socialising, not here in the kitchen!” snapped Trisha.
“I can’t do it, you know that.”
“You can do it! Just make an effort!”
“You’re beginning to sound like Mum,” replied Harriet drily.
Trisha had the grace to gulp. “Well, who have you met so far?”
Harriet sighed. “Millions of fancy dames in neat little skirts or neat slacks or designer jeans and neat tops that they don’t bulge out of. Don’t ask me who; their names are Legion.”
“The men don’t mind a few bulges,” replied Trisha on a smug note.
“That stupid firie, Bryce Whatsisname, certainly doesn’t, he’s been leering down this ruddy thing for the last half hour!” she snapped.
“Bryce Cadell, he’s very nice.”
“Trisha, he’s thick as two short planks!”
“Brains don’t count for everything, you’re too particular, that’s your trouble!”
Sounding like Mum again—yes.
“He’s got a lovely figure,” Trisha added on a longing note.
Er—not sounding like Mum! Harriet blinked. “Well, yeah. Muscly, but well-shaped, yeah. I bet he spent ages in front of his mirror this arvo before deciding that the way that tight navy tee outlines his pecs ’ud be just the go!”
“Rubbish,” replied Trisha mildly. “Men don’t think like that. Anyway, the effect’s good.”
“Yes, but somehow it doesn’t make up for the solid concrete between the ears. I didn’t use my ‘Do you know what’s on at the Sydney Opera House?’ line on him, but that was only because I thought of the standard Kitchen excuse first.”
Trisha sighed. “Shut up; stop talking rubbish. Take this bowl of salad out, if you must.”
“The blokes won’t be round this like flies to a honey pot, that’s for sure!” replied Harriet pleasedly, seizing it.
“The women always want salads!” snapped Trisha automatically. It wasn’t until her sister was out of the kitchen that she realised what she’d meant. “Oh—blow,” she said dully.
Harriet had let Steve pile her plate with protein that she didn’t want, had managed to get some potato salad, there was plenty of that, the ladies weren't eating it, and a few wilted bits of lettuce, and had gradually retreated to the shelter of a handy bush—fortunately nobody was taking any notice of her, they all knew one another, of course, and the peer groups were now in full swing.
“Gidday, Harriet! There you are!” said a hearty voice.
Oh, God. The amiable Mike Barraclough. He’d done a lovely job on the bathroom and she was grateful to him and he was a nice bloke, but of course there’d be nothing whatsoever she could think of to say to him.
He came up unnecessarily close, grinning at her pink-to-apricot top, she didn’t think she was imagining that was the direction of his glance, and said: “Enjoying the barbie, are you?”
“Not really, I hate burnt meat,” said Harriet with a sigh.
“Aw, heck! Lessee what you’ve got.” He inspected her plate narrowly. “Look, lemme cut this steak up for you, you can leave the burnt bit. The squid looks okay. Might be a bit rubbery for ya. The lamb’s okay, you can just pick this chop up by the bone. –That knife you’ve got there’s no good. Hang on.” He produced a giant knife that might technically fall within the definition of pocket knife but to Harriet’s eye looked more like a proscribed weapon, and, managing to touch her hand that was supporting the plate with one of his while he added extra support, sawed the steak and squid up competently. “There ya go!”
“Thanks, Mike,” said Harriet with a sigh. “It’s so stupid, this whole barbecue idea, they give you this giant plateful and then there’s nowhere to sit down so as you can cut it up.”
“Aw, yeah, you're right,” he discovered. “Well, got some nice seats over on the patio, but not enough for this crowd.”
“I knew a nice American couple once—” Harriet broke off. She didn’t want to hold a conversation with him, why had had she started?
“Yeah?”
Shit. “Um, well, he always did the barbie outside and then brought the meat inside and we ate in civilised comfort at the dining table. It meant you didn’t have to stand in the smoke, either. –Your mate, Bryce, seems to be enjoying it but then, it’s his profession,” she added sourly.
Mike looked round in bewilderment, as well he might. “Uh—aw, Bryce Cadell, do ya mean, the firie? Yeah, I saw him talking to you, before. He’s not a mate of mine, barely know ’im. I never heard anyone complain about the smoke before.”
Harriet sighed. “Forget it. Just take it that I came because Trisha’s my sister and my life woulda been Hell if I hadn’t.”
“I see, you like a nice sit-down dinner with a proper table,” said the plumber and master builder kindly. “Lotsa ladies do, I s’pose. Well, tell ya what, why not lemme take you out for a nice dinner some time?” He beamed at her.
Out of the blue? Harriet’s ears rang. After a moment she croaked: “Mike, it’s very kind of you to offer, but— Steve put you up to this, didn’t he?”
He went very red. “No! ’Course not! Whaddaya think I am? No, well, heck, there’s me on me tod at my place, and you on yer tod as well—well, with your mum, of course, can’t count her—why shouldn’t we go out for a decent feed?”
Well, yes, but why this sudden offer?
“Mike,” said Harriet cautiously, “I don’t think we’ve got much in common. And—and I have to say it, you could’ve asked me out any time these last six months, if you were really interested.”
“I was, but, um, well, I was busy, lot of plumbing jobs over winter, people’s drains stop up and ya get lots of trouble with the gutters—you know, the spouting.” He gave her a look of wistful hope.
With those ridiculously long, curled black lashes he looked just like a little boy hoping she was gonna award him a Coke! Oh, dear! “Um, well, if it was just a meal—nothing too fancy!” she added quickly. “Um, bearing in mind that I don’t think we’ve got much in common, really, Mike.”
He brightened horribly, help! “Yes, ’course! Great! Well, I’ll give you a bell next week! Like Thai?”
“Y—um, yes, I do like Thai. But I’ll have to find someone to look after Mum. Um, Aunty Mary and Uncle Don have got her today but I can’t be always asking them.”
“We’ll jack something up. Me sister might be able to come over. We can make it whenever it suits you.”
“So long as it’s just casual,” said Harriet very limply indeed.
“Yeah, sure! And ya don’t have to have everything in common, do ya? Okay, I’ll ring ya!”
To her relief this seemed to be a signal that the exchange was at an end, and he walked away, grinning.
Oh, help, what had she got herself into? There was nothing wrong with him, and he was very attractive, but... Help.
The beer and wine were still flowing but the smoke had died down, though Steve’s mosquito coil was now doing its best to asphyxiate his guests. The crowd had dispersed, breaking up into smaller groups, so Harriet was able to sink thankfully onto one of the wooden benches that adorned the outdoor living area. She knew that Trisha and a gaggle of females had retreated to the kitchen but there was no point in going in there—well, she’d be safe from Mike, but she wouldn’t be welcome.
“Saw you with Mike,” a deep voice said out of the gloaming.
Harriet blinked, and peered. “Uh—oh, hullo Dean,” she said weakly to the older Barraclough brother. Help, had she imagined that accusatory tone?
Dean came and sat beside her. He was in pristine pale blue jeans and a tight dark blue tee, whereas Mike had been in pristine dark blue jeans and a tight pale blue tee. Help, had they coordinated it or was it just a coincidence?
“Hey, was he slinging you a line?” he said on gloomy note.
“Um, I don’t think so. He asked me out,” replied Harriet very weakly indeed.
“Huh! Gave you the lonely bachelor crap, did ’e?”
“Um, he—he did mention that he was on his own.”
Dean snorted. “E is now, yeah! Been knocking off that Cherie Walker dame from up Melton Heights Road all winter!”
“He—he said he had a lot of plumbing jobs this winter,” she faltered.
He sniffed. “One way o’ putting it. No, well, she’s given ’im the push—found better game. If ya call a fat bookie in ’is fifties better. ’E drives a Beamer, not a ute, I’ll give ya that.”
“I see. Well—well, Mike doesn’t know me that well, Dean, there’s no reason why he should have told me... He did give me the impression he was lonely all winter, that’s true, but he didn’t actually say so. I mean, he didn’t lie.”
“Nah, he wouldn’t. His specialty. Look, I’m not saying he won’t give you a good time, but just don’t expect it to last, eh?”
“I see!” said Harriet with sudden amusement. “It’s very sweet of you to warn me, Dean. And to think I was worried that he might get too involved! It’s all right, I don’t want anything that lasts. I’ve had one of those, that dragged on for years, and it was a huge mistake.”
“Yeah, Steve told me,” he admitted, scowling.
What? Big-Mouth strikes again! Harriet was rendered speechless.
“Look, where is ’e?” he added irritably.
“Um, Steve? I think he’s showing some mates something in the garage.”
“Not him, ruddy Mike.”
“I don’t know. He went off with a male peer group ages ago. Well, they do, don’t they? It’s the Aussie norm,” said Harriet calmly.
“Nits do, yeah,” said Mike Barraclough’s big brother grimly. “He hasn’t changed since he was in ’is teens!”
Harriet laughed. “I don’t think they ever do, Dean!”
“Some of us get a bit of sense,” he growled. “If it was me, I'm buggered if I’d of walked off and left you, Harriet.”
Oh, cripes!
“Did ’e offer to drive you home, at least?” he demanded.
“What? Um, no,” she said blankly.
Dean’s rather nice, wide mouth tightened. “No, right. Got other plans for tonight.”
“He is a free agent,” said Harriet limply.
“I dare say. Look, it’s getting too chilly out here for you. Come on inside; if we can stop that moron Greg Merriweather from playing Country and Western we can put some dance music on.”
What? Oh, heck! But she was getting cold, it was only spring, after all. Limply she let Dean lead her inside. He took her elbow and Harriet felt herself blush like an idiot as his fingers sank into the flesh of her arm. This was ludicrous! First one Barraclough brother and now the other? But perhaps he was only being kind?
Greg Merriweather, whom Harriet didn’t know from Adam but discerned from the boots and the strange shirt with the pointed metal bits on the collar must be a Country and Western fan, all right, thought they could line-dance if Dean wanted to dance, but Dean thought they couldn't, the ladies (generically) didn’t like it as much as nits like him did, and went ahead and put something else on. As Greg didn’t appear offended but immediately seized a lady and dragged her into the middle of the family-room and several other couples followed suit, Dean and Harriet weren’t as conspicuous as she’d been afraid they were gonna be. Not that Trisha or Steve were in the room at the moment, but you could bet your R.M. Williams boots that the minute she started dancing with someone they would be. She did protest feebly that she was a hopeless dancer but as Dean said cheerfully: “Good, so’m I, we’ll match!” this didn’t work.
... No, he wasn’t only being kind: this was only too evident after he’d pulled her very closely against him and pressed the hard-on against her for three very slow and shuffling dances. Into the bargain breathing in her ear: “Hey, I really like that pink top of yours.”
They sat down and it did cross Harriet’s mind to say “Do you know what’s on at the Sydney Opera House?” but he was such an attractive bloke, and really nice—and if he was interested, why not? Though encouraging both brothers did seem a very silly move. And she did recognise that she’d now drunk rather a lot of red wine on top of that initial glass of beer.
Some of the couples had now gone and some others had got up a couple of games of cards. Harriet was hopeless at all card games: she eyed them warily.
“Play cards?” asked Dean.
“No. What are those people playing?”
“That lot over there are playing poker and if those nits think that Andy and Julie Carter only play for fun they got another think coming. Especially her.”
“I didn’t know that ladies played poker,” said Harriet limply.
He grinned suddenly and put a hand on her knee, and squeezed it. “Don’t think ladies do! She’s more like a shark in a dress!”
“And what about those ones over there, is that poker, too?”
Dean laughed. “No, love, that’s not poker! Dunno what it is—don’t play cards much meself, except a hand of poker with the boys from the station.”
“Yes, of course, it’s something the male peer group would expect you to join in,” said Harriet seriously, if a trifle drunkenly.
He laughed again and this time put his arm round her shoulders. “Yeah, too right! Well, looks as if it’s winding down, doesn’t it? I’ll drive you home, okay?”
“Um, that’s very kind of you, but you don’t have to, Steve said he’d take me home.”
“Not with what he’s put away tonight, ’e won’t,” said the policeman drily, standing up. “Come on.”
Harriet let herself be led over to her host—again going red as his fingers sank into her upper-arm and this time being aware of a smirk on Dean’s wide face as they did so—help, the bugger knew what he was doing, he was far from being as naïve as he came on as!
“Oy, Pissed-Brain, I’m taking Harriet home, you’re not going near a car tonight, geddit?” Dean addressed his host jovially.
Steve blinked at them. “Aw, yeah, I’d forgotten. Sorry, Harrie. Yeah, Dean’ll look after you.”
Trisha, now immersed in a gossiping, giggling peer group, looked up at their approach to say brightly: “Ooh, good, you got one, Harrie!” Forthwith collapsing in giggles.
“Bourbon and Coke,” discerned the experienced Dean on a dry note. “Yeah, gidday, Lucille, I can see ya,” he added to one very lipsticked, frizzed and curled red-haired lady who was giggling madly and waving at him from all of a metre away. “Just don’t any of you moos dare to drive tonight, geddit?”
“It’s all right, Barry’s a desi-deshi—desi’nated driver!” explained a plump, blonde, very curled and frizzed lady with a loud giggle.
“Is ’e, just? In that case my lads’ll be round here with the breathalyzers, ’cos that was straight Scotch he was knocking back not two minutes since! –Get a taxi, all right? All of you!”
There was a short silence and then one of them squeaked: “Isn’t he masterful!” and they all collapsed in helpless giggles.
“Yeah, well, thanks for the barbie, Trisha,” said Dean on a very dry note, leading Harriet away.
“I—I’m sorry, Dean, Trisha’s not usually like that,” she said very limply indeed.
“She isn’t at the things she asks you to, I dare say. But anything Lucille Marsden’s at, the Bourbon and Cokes’ll be flowing, you can betcha boots. –Used to live next-door to them,” he grunted.
“I see.”
In the car he made sure she had her seatbelt done up and then made a call on his mobile phone.
“Yeah, gidday, Murray. –Yeah, ’course it is, who’d ya think it is? –No, nothing’s the matter, just shut up and listen. –No, I’m at the address I said, will ya shut up and listen? They’re all pissed as farts, just get the boys round here and tell ’em not to let any of them drive, okay? Yes, the same address I gave you, are you deaf? All right, read it out to me.” He sighed. “Yeah, that’s it, 3A Acacia Crescent, very good, Murray, you can read. No, it’s not down a right-of-way, whaddare you on ab— Oh. All right, some A’s are but this isn’t, geddit? Right on the street. They can’t miss it, there’s cars everywhere and the place is a blaze of light,” he added drily. “Yeah, pronto, and stay here till they’ve all gone, right? –What? Thank you for your kind concern, Constable Wheeler,” he said awfully, “but I’ve had one glass of beer, four hours back! –Yes, it would of gone through me by now!” he shouted, ringing off. “Jesus!”
“How old is he?” asked Harriet with a smile in her voice.
“Who, Murray Wheeler? Not a day over three,” he groaned. “Nah, he’d be twenny-two.”
“He was just making sure he’d got it right,” she said kindly, trying not to laugh.
“Yeah. Up to and including my glass of beer going through me. Well, better than taking it for granted and getting it wrong, I suppose I’ve managed to make that much sink in,” he said with a sigh, starting the car.
“I see, you’ve been teaching them to be careful and responsible and double-check things.”
“Yeah—well, trying to—yeah. Part of the job.”
Harriet could see that he was that sort of person in any case.
He didn’t talk during the drive. Well, there were always a fair few idiots on the roads on a Saturday night, and he was concentrating on his driving.
He pulled up in front of Mum’s place and said: “Didn’t you sell your parents’ car? Whose is that, in the drive?”
“Um—Uncle Don’s, they must have brought Mum home.”
“Good, so they’re back; you don’t have to go into an empty house.”
What? “I am an adult,” said Harriet with dignity. “You’ve got a real responsibility thing, haven’t you?”
“Dare say I have, yeah. Goes with the job,” he said grimly. “Look, are you gonna go out with that nit Mike, or not?”
“Um, I did say I would... I don’t know,” admitted Harriet feebly.
“Well, what about coming out with me, instead?”
Oh, God! “Um, look, like I told him, I don’t think we’ve got much in common.”
“If ya mean ya don’t like drunken barbies with the Bourbon and Coke flowing, nor do I!”
“I don’t actually like barbies at all.”
“That’s a real good reason for turning down a bloke’s invitation, Harriet! Look, ya seemed to like it all right when we were having a dance,”
She swallowed. “I think you know very well I did.”
Dean slid his arm along the back of her seat. “Yeah, well?”
Harriet looked up at him doubtfully. “This is silly, Dean.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said mildly, kissing her.
Harriet shuddered all over and kissed him back eagerly.
“See? Two people don’t have to like all the same things to get on,” he said in a muffled voice into her hair.
What he meant was, to have sex: why couldn’t they ever be honest about it? “Mm.”
“So will ya come out with me?”
She swallowed hard. “No. I like you, but I think we want different things from life, Dean.”
“Eh? Well, what do ya want?”
“Absolutely nothing found in Kurrajong Grove, Acacia Crescent, or parts in between. Not the shiny space-age kitchens with all the appliances that open and shut and the fridges that connect to the Internet, not the two-car garages, not the cars—they all smell and those dangly air-fresheners are revolting—definitely not the outdoor living areas and the rest of the anally neat made-over gardens, and not the frightful soulless lounge-rooms and family-rooms with the giant walk-in TVs. None of it. And not the closed minds and the fixation on consumables that go with them.”
Dean looked bitterly at his pine-scented car air-freshener. “All right, I’ll chuck the bloody air-freshener out. And if ya wanna know, I’m living in a perfectly ordinary flat since the divorce, I haven’t got any of that stuff!”
Harriet began to tick them off on her fingers. “Large shiny car. Large shiny fridge. Reverse-cycle air conditioner.”
“Ya NEED a fridge and air-con in our climate, what are you ON about?” he shouted.
“Large TV that does that new stuff as well as the digital crap—um, HD. Yeah, HD. And a matching sound system. Huge comfy bed with super-special mattress as advertised endlessly on TV. Sealy Posturepedic, probably. Giant settee half the size of the lounge-room—and I dare say one of those huge La-Z-Boy chairs to go with it. I dunno what your specific hobbies are but my bet’d be either a huge shiny set of golf clubs, or a shiny boat and all the fishing gear to match.”
That must have struck a nerve. “Look, you’re mad! Most blokes have got a hobby!” he cried. “And bloody Mike’s got a boat!”
“Has he? I think that’s made up my mind for me,” said Harriet thoughtfully. “It’s not the hobby itself, it’s the belief that to support it one has to buy extremely expensive consumer junk, and the associated belief—almost a religion, really—that extremely expensive consumables are worth aspiring to.”
“I think you must be nuts,” said Dean limply.
“I know. That’s a very good reason for not starting up any sort of relationship, however casual. You’re a lovely man, Dean, and obviously very good at your job, and I’d be all wrong for you. And I hope you find someone very, very nice. And thank you very much for taking the trouble to bring me home.”
She got out, leaving the bewildered Dean Barraclough to swipe his hand across his face and mutter: “Jesus! Bats!”
In the morning when the effect of the best part of two bottles of red wine had worn off it didn’t all seem so sparkling clear to Harriet, but when Mike rang up sounding hopeful it was somehow quite easy to say firmly: “No, thanks, Mike, I’ve changed my mind.” And hang up.
Next chapter:
https://trialsofharrietharrison.blogspot.com/2023/09/the-legacy.html
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