Dinner at Rose's (37 page)

‘Afternoon, young Jo,’ he said, graciously inclining his head. His glasses fell forward onto Amber’s computer keyboard.

‘Dad!’ I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him, and he patted my shoulder in a sheepish sort of way. ‘Where’s Amber?’

‘She said something about a cup of tea,’ he said, picking up his glasses and replacing them carefully on top of his head. Why he doesn’t keep the things on his face and look through them I have no idea.

‘And Mum?’

‘Supermarket.’

‘The house is full of food,’ I said.

Dad shrugged. ‘The woman is fundamentally unable to visit anyone without taking groceries. You know that.’

I did indeed know that – on her last visit to see me in Melbourne she had brought toilet paper and washing-up liquid with her as well as enough food for a large hungry family. Graeme had looked at these offerings for a while and then enquired just what sort of a household she had thought she was coming to.

‘I thought you were going to stay at home and look after the goats,’ I said.

‘Bloody animals,’ said Dad morosely. ‘No, I’ve left Maurice from next door a list of instructions as long as your arm. It sounded as if I’d better not put it off if I want to see Rose?’ He made the last sentence into a question.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think it’ll be very long. And I hope it won't.’

Dad grimaced, and turned in his seat as Amber came back down the hall bearing a mug of tea. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Chocolate biscuit?’ Amber offered, sniffing as she handed over the mug.

‘No, thanks,’ said Dad. ‘Jo treating you right, is she?’

Amber pondered this. ‘She’s grumpy sometimes,’ she said at last. ‘But not as grumpy as Cheryl.’

‘Thank you,’ I said doubtfully.

‘And sometimes she’s really funny.’

‘Funny peculiar or funny amusing?’ Dad wanted to know.

‘Both,’ said Amber. ‘She sings along with the radio, even though she can’t sing at
all
– and yesterday she did cartwheels all across the car park.’

Dad raised an eyebrow. ‘Sounds to me as if she’s mentally unstable.’

‘Oh, no,’ Amber assured him. ‘She’s a really good physio. She’s really strong – she cracks people’s backs just like
that
.’ She attempted to snap her fingers and failed.

‘And if I get too enthusiastic and break them right in half there’s a skip just outside the back door,’ I said.

Amber giggled at this lame joke, and the sensor above the door buzzed as my next appointment, a delicate little elderly lady dressed all in beige, pushed it open.

‘Like a lamb to the slaughter,’ said my father under his breath.

HE WAS GONE
when I had finished with my beige patient and her sciatic nerve. As I emerged, Amber blew her nose
on a tissue
and said, ‘You look like your mum.’

‘Thanks!’ I said. I don’t, particularly – Mum has that classical, timeless beauty that depends on bone structure and so doesn’t diminish with age, and I look like an amateur sort of copy beside her. But at least I got the legs, and according to Chrissie I might not be all that pretty but you didn’t realise it when you were with me (which was such a nice compliment it almost made up for stealing my boyfriend).

When I got home at three both Hazel’s car and a teeny-weeny silver thing that was doubtless the very cheapest hire car you could get were parked beside the woodshed. I got out of the car and patted each member of the welcoming committee then, turning towards the house, spied my father kneeling on the roof with a hammer in his hand.

‘Have you been put to work already?’ I called.

‘Hmm?’ he asked distractedly. ‘This is like patching a sieve. Throw me up a handful of those nails there?’

There was a box of roofing nails on the path. I filled my pockets and went round the side of the house to climb the plum tree. The corrugated-iron roof was blotched with rust, and looking at it I was surprised it kept out as much of the rain as it did. I made my way carefully across to Dad and he held out a hand for the nails.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Better go in and see your mother, hadn’t you?’

‘I will in a minute. Why don’t you come? It must be time for a cup of tea.’

‘I think I’ll carry on here for a little while,’ said Dad.

I smiled. ‘Is it all a bit heavy-going inside?’

‘Just ever so slightly,’ he admitted, removing his glasses and putting them on top of his head. ‘Rose isn’t looking good, is she?’

‘Every time she falls asleep I wonder if she’s still breathing.’

‘And you’d almost hope she wasn’t.’

‘Mm.’

‘Go on in,’ said Dad. ‘Your mother wants to see you. I won’t be long.’

I climbed back down the plum tree and went around the side of the house to let myself in the kitchen door. Hazel was actually folding washing at the kitchen table and Mum had both hands in the sink. She pulled them out and dried them on the tea towel she had tucked into the waistband of her jeans, then crossed the kitchen to take my face in her hands and inspect me. I laughed at this painstaking scrutiny, and she gave a satisfied nod.

‘Hello, love,’ she said.

I put my arms around her and hugged her tightly – I adore my mother, although I reserve the right to laugh at her a little bit from time to time. ‘Is Aunty Rose asleep?’

‘Yes,’ said Hazel. ‘
Don’t
go in and wake her, please, Josie dear.’ She pulled my black lace bra out of the washing basket and looked at it with distaste before folding it in half and laying it on the table. I wondered how she’d react when she came across the matching g-string – perhaps well-bred girls are supposed to wear flesh-coloured cotton knickers.

‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘Cup of tea, guys?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Mum, but Hazel shifted her shoulders wearily and shook her head.

‘Not for me. I’ve not even
looked
at my own housework yet.’

As she backed her white car round, Aunty Rose appeared in the kitchen doorway, steadying herself against the doorframe with one hand. ‘Is she gone?’ she hissed.

AFTER HER SHOWER
that evening Aunty Rose sat on the edge of her bed and tipped her jewellery box out beside her in a glittering heap. Frowning, she picked up a wide and only slightly tarnished silver bangle and slipped it over her left hand. It dangled pathetically from her skeletal wrist. ‘Perhaps not,’ she murmured, taking it off again.

I knelt at the edge of the bed, passing her the green satin cap. ‘How about the pearls?’

She nodded, and held out her hand so I could do up the catch of the little bracelet. ‘That’s better,’ she said. Then, very quietly, ‘Josephine?’

‘Mm?’

‘Is it getting too pitiful, like poor old Barbara Cartland?’

I took her hand gently – she was so fragile now. ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s like a – a warrior chief putting on his war paint.’

‘Right,’ said Aunty Rose. ‘Very good.’ She twitched the lapel of her dressing-gown straight. ‘And my silver brooch, I think.’ She fastened the brooch, dabbed perfume onto her wrists and held out an imperious hand for her stick. As a lesson in courage it was unsurpassed.

In the kitchen Kim was mixing mustard powder and water to a paste in the little green china mustard jug. Aunty Rose felt that buying one’s mustard already made up was a slovenly, immoral sort of way to run a kitchen. Dad was setting the table, Mum was on her knees feeding the wood stove and Hazel, looking distinctly put upon, stood at the sink washing dishes.

Aunty Rose had just lowered herself onto the chaise longue when the phone rang.

‘I’ll get it,’ said Mum, standing up and dusting her hands on her jeans. She plucked the portable phone off the kitchen table. ‘Hello?’ Then, ‘Matthew, it’s Edith here. What can we do? Really? Are you sure? Well, then, we’ll see you when we see you.’ She put the phone back down. ‘Matthew’s been held up – he’ll be another forty-five minutes.’

HE WAS AN
hour, and it was past eight when his ute came up the driveway. Kim and I were clearing the table and our elders had retired to the lounge, but as the dogs sped barking to meet him his mother bustled back into the kitchen to retrieve his plate from the oven.

‘Stop!’ said Kim as she opened the microwave door, plate in hand. ‘That plate’s got gold edging – it’ll spark.’

‘The poor boy can’t work all day and have his dinner lukewarm!’ Hazel protested.

I held out a plain china plate, freshly dried. ‘You could put it on that.’

‘Hi, guys,’ said Matt, opening the door. He met my eyes for just a second with a fleeting, lopsided smile. ‘That looks good.’

‘I’ll just heat it up for you, darling,’ said Hazel tenderly.

‘Don’t worry – I like it better cold.’ This was true, come to think of it. I’ve never known anyone else who would cheerfully tuck into a bowl of cold porridge.

‘Nonsense.’ She took the plate from me and began to transfer potatoes and slices of pot roast with a fork. ‘Now, Matthew, sit down and your sister will bring you a drink.’

‘And then she can fan me while I eat,’ he agreed, and Kim, who had looked ever so slightly sour at being pressed into service, grinned.

Mum came into the kitchen with a smudge on her nose and her hair escaping its bun. ‘Matthew, love,’ she said warmly, reaching up to kiss him. ‘I presume you’re well, under all that hair?’

‘I was thinking about shaving today,’ Matt admitted. ‘But thinking’s about as far as I got.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘It’s a big decision. You wouldn’t want to do anything hasty and then regret it later.’

‘Besides, the hairier he gets the less of him we can see, which has got to be a good thing,’ said Kim.

‘Kimmy!’ said Hazel reprovingly. ‘Don’t listen to them, darling, you have
such
lovely hair. Now, would you like a cup of tea or a cold drink?’

‘Neither,’ he said, taking the still-unheated plate out of her hands. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ He rummaged in the cutlery drawer for a knife and fork and escaped into the lounge with Hazel hard on his heels.

Mum looked after them thoughtfully, then put her arms around Kim and hugged her. ‘It’s okay,’ said Kim, her voice muffled in the folds of Mum’s jumper. ‘It’s worse for Matt than me.’

Mum laughed and let her go. ‘Good girl,’ she said.

LIKE THE THEATRE
nurse at the surgeon’s elbow, I handed a hot-water bottle in a hideous purple crocheted cover to my mother. She slid it deftly beneath the small of Aunty Rose’s back, rearranged a pillow and lowered the patient down with delicate precision.