Drip Dry (15 page)

I close my eyes for a second or two to let this sink in. No doubt Alex thought he was being wickedly amusing. But I am
not
amused. For starters, I have learnt through bitter experience that it is never a good idea to send a joke like that via a teenager. They are like terriers when they latch on to something even
mildly
intriguing. Let alone something like this. I quickly decide that I had better act naturally, so I stop grinding my teeth, plaster a smile on my face, and open my eyes again. They are all now staring at me with open curiosity.

‘So what's with the swampbag, Mum?'

‘Yeah, I thought it was, like,
so
ugly!'

‘Perhaps it has some rather
special
meaning?' Phillip arches his eyebrows suggestively and looks at me with his head on one side. ‘Now
what
could that be?'

What could that be indeed? There's a good question.

11.23 pm

Terry once told me a story that, for some reason, has stuck in my head for many years now. It happened way back during the three years she spent as a member of the Royal Australian Air Force in her late teens, shortly before she married Dennis. Apparently
this friend of Terry's had gotten quite serious with a fellow she worked with in the air force and, after a while, they moved in together. Well, things were hunky-dory for about twelve months and then, as often happens, it started to fall apart so they made an amicable decision to go their separate ways and remain just good friends. The very next day after she had moved out of the unit and back onto base, her ex-boyfriend offered to sell her his Honda Civic, which she had been driving frequently and had grown quite fond of. I can't remember what the price was set at exactly but, whatever it was, he offered to knock off a further five hundred dollars – but only if she slept with him one last time.

The different contours of the moral dilemma involved here have always rather fascinated me. On the one hand, this was way back in the late seventies when five hundred dollars was worth a considerable amount more than it is today. Besides, five hundred dollars are five hundred dollars and not to be sneezed at. And she was sleeping with him right up to the day before anyway, so what difference would once more
really
make? On the other hand, regardless of whether she had ever slept with him or not, or
when
she had last slept with him, taking the deal was still putting a market value on her body. And then, of course, the tricky question arises regarding exactly where you draw the line. Four hundred? Two hundred? Fifty?

Apparently this girl told Terry that she rejected the deal outright and paid full price for the car but Terry claims that she is pretty sure that the girl
actually
did
take the discount, but just wasn't game to admit it. Either way, as I don't personally know this particular female, her subsequent actions have never been quite as interesting to me as the moral considerations of the situation. If you have slept with someone countless times, why is once more a mere few days later any different? Or even a few weeks later, or a few months or – as in my case – thirteen years, one month and twelve days later? I'm not exactly sure of the minutes.

In other words, why am I so worked up about sleeping with Alex one more time? After all, I have slept with the man more times than I could possibly remember, and in a variety of ways that I don't particularly
want
to remember. As soon as this thought meanders through my cerebral processes, I can feel my face grow warm as memories start to crowd back in, complete with full colour illustrations. I roll over, pull my doona up over my head and groan out loud.

What have I done? What
have
I done? I throw the doona back and sit up in bed to reach out for my warm milk. While I drink, I contemplate the ceiling and pray for divine inspiration. Nothing happens so I finish off the milk, flop back onto the bed and return to my original train of thought.

Obviously money wasn't an issue during my little jaunt into the past last night, although I did help myself to several slices of pizza. But that was before the sex, and had nothing to do with prior payment or anything. And I might be middle-aged, but I value my worth at a little higher than three slices of ham and pineapple and one supreme, that's for sure. A
bucket of KFC with potato and gravy would be more like it.

However, the issue of past sexual partners is still pertinent to the question in hand. I
did
sleep with the man on a frequent (extremely frequent, if my memory serves me correctly) basis at one stage so why is last night so upsetting? After all, why is it so different than if we had just gone to visit a favourite restaurant, or drove past the house we used to live in, or some such other slightly less tactile trip down memory lane? Because really, when all is said and done, that's all that it was. Just a little reminiscent detour, a particularly physical reunion, a testimonial to what was once so commonplace that we never gave it a second thought. Even as I smile and congratulate myself on being able to put things into perspective, a little voice, which has been trying to be heard for quite some time, says the word ‘
bullshit
' very loudly and rather rudely. I flop over on my stomach and bury my face in my pillow. What
have
I done?

I might as well face the truth, unpleasant as it may be. And the truth is that, in all likelihood, I have seriously affected what could have been a very convivial relationship with my next-door neighbour. A relationship without undercurrents of depravity, debauchery and desperation. And there are other players involved as well. Samantha, Benjamin, Maggie. They each have an investment in what is going on. Although it occurs to me that all the aforementioned players are probably not having the trouble sleeping that I am at the moment. Will I ever
sleep the sleep of the righteous again? A better question would be, will I ever sleep again? If tonight is any indication, I may well have to visit the doctor and get a prescription for sleeping tablets. And then take the lot. That would solve my immediate problems anyway.

Now
this
is why sensible people are celibate. No matter what the temptation. Because just one little itty bitty slip-up, just one little illicit plunge into the rampant fires of all-encompassing, intoxicating, promiscuous, tempestuous, rapturous, carnal passion for fifteen minutes or so – and you always have to pay the price. And if I had known the price I was going to have to pay, well – I would have stayed for seconds.

Mark Twain 1835–1910

7.00 am

When I first realised that I was going to have an extended period of time between finishing my job at the library and starting my university course, I set myself a few goals that seemed quite attainable at the time. One involved buying some of my set textbooks and reading them before I started so that I would be way ahead of all the other less organised types in the class. Yeah, right. The textbooks are sitting untouched in a pile on my dressing table and their virginity isn't even under threat. In fact, the only instructional things I've read in the last month have been the directions for my new washing-machine, and an innovative recipe which called for the inter-racial marriage of jelly crystals and meatloaf. Which incidentally wasn't a raving success – apart from the raving that is.

Another easily attainable goal involved a list of
things to do around the house that have needed doing for some time. And it didn't include the bathroom floor. But, as that looks like the only thing that
will
be getting done, I had better add it to the list so that I can have the thrill of crossing at least one thing off.

My only other resolution concerned CJ. As my period of unemployment happily coincided with the start of her first year of school, I reasoned that it would be great to spend some quality time helping her settle in. Like volunteering to help with book-share, or being a classroom helper, or whatever it is that is asked of willing parents nowadays. So far I have done absolutely nothing. And this week has been even worse than usual. On Monday I virtually flung her in the direction of her classroom, and on Tuesday I didn't even go near the school as Caron dropped her off and picked her up, and yesterday – well, Keith delivered her and all I had to do was pick her out from the line-up after nit-check. Well, today will be different. I am going to take her to school (and I'm going to be on time as well), and then I am going to volunteer for whatever is required. I shall spend all day there if necessary – it is my parental obligation. So, unfortunately I shall be quite unable to go furniture shopping with Alex, or even be around the house if he happens to drop by. Duty calls.

I roll over in my bed and gather my youngest daughter up in my arms. Actually, it will be quite fun to see how she has settled in, what new friends she has made, and how she copes in a classroom situation. Perhaps I can even get some practice in for myself. I tickle CJ under one ear.

‘What are you doing in my bed?'

‘The birds sang,' she mumbles sleepily as she nestles herself spoon-like against my body. She is referring to a rule that I established a few months ago to try and prevent her clambering into bed with me at odd hours of the night. She is now not allowed to leave her bed, unless she has a nightmare, feels sick or there is a genuine emergency, until she can hear the birds start singing in the morning. Well, she must have pretty keen hearing because she's obviously been here a while, and I have only
just
heard the birds begin their morning warble.

‘Hmm.'

‘They
did
! I heared them!'

‘Listen, what do you say to me asking Mrs James if she needs any help this morning?'

‘Oh
yes
!' she says rapturously as she turns and flings her arms around my neck. ‘That would be fantastic!'

‘Okay then, I'll ask her.' I cuddle CJ back and feel inordinately pleased with myself. Sometimes it doesn't take very much at all to make a child happy. Then again, at other times it takes everything you have . . . and a little bit more.

‘You can stay here for a bit if you like.' I give CJ another cuddle and then clamber out of bed. I look in the full-length mirror as I pass and recoil with shock at the sight of my hair. I look like I am positively bald in places, while in others tufts of dark blonde spikes stand up like the sole surviving vegetation on a windblown prairie. Oh, that's right! I've still got the nit stuff in – and so does CJ.

‘Change of plans. You'll have to have a shower with me.'

‘But I'm so comfy! Why do I need a shower?'

‘Remember the nit stuff?'

‘Oh yeah.'

‘Come on then.' I hoist her out of the bed and carry her with me down to the bathroom. She weighs a ton. I can see the light spilling out from the doorway as I approach and that reminds me of the temporary absence of the bathroom floor. I put CJ down with a sigh of relief and, holding her by the shoulders, walk her carefully along the plank to the edge of the bath. Then I help her clamber in and turn to shut the door. I can't. So I stand in contemplation for a minute as I reflect that, although I realised showering with CJ would limit my privacy, I had sort of counted on being able to shut the damn door. I sigh heavily again and begin to strip the child off, flinging her nightie and knickers into the passageway. Then I pull the shower curtain across, step in and begin to take my own clothing off. CJ watches this entertaining show with considerable interest.

‘You hab boobies.'

‘You
know
that.' I reach forwards and turn the shower on.

‘Yes – but you hab big boobies.'

‘Not
that
big.' I adjust the temperature of the flow and ease myself underneath with my eyes closed. Ah, heaven.

‘When I get old, will I hab
that
?'

‘Yes.' I don't have to open my eyes to know what she is pointing at. We have this same conversation every time we share the shower. She's out of luck if she thinks that the answer will change one day.

‘Yuck.'

‘Don't act all surprised. Didn't you see the video?'

‘Yes, but it's worser up close.'

‘Well, that's life, kid.' I squeeze a liberal amount of shampoo into my hand and wash my hair thoroughly. Then I put some conditioner on, swap places with CJ, and do a thorough job on her hair as well. We had better not take too long as everybody will need a shower this morning – even Ben. I rinse out CJ's hair and then my own. It is not until I turn the shower off and peer around the curtain at the single towel, which is hanging on the rail on the other side of the plank, that I begin to wonder how we are going to get out of here both covered and in one piece.

‘Mummy, I'm cold.'

‘Samantha! Sam-
an
-tha!' No response. I mentally gauge the distance between the bath and the towel rail and calculate how long it will take me to reach it – and what the chances are of somebody walking past while I am balanced on the plank, stark naked. I don't know why I'm acting all prudish. Sam has all the same equipment only smoother, and I don't know how many times Ben watched the video before he left it on top of the television. Well anyway, there's no choice. I gingerly step out of the bath onto the plank and pause with my arms outstretched while I get my balance. It's harder when you're dripping wet. Ben should have his video camera ready right now –
this
would definitely make a funny home video. Perhaps even I would laugh about it one day. I edge carefully over to the towel rail and am
reaching out to grab the towel when I suddenly spot somebody in my peripheral vision. I try to turn and grab the towel at the same time – and immediately lose my balance. For a few panic-stricken minutes I teeter precariously on the plank, my arms waving wildly as I try to regain my balance. And then I slowly topple straight off the edge and plunge into the depths. Actually, I only plunge about four feet because this is the low side of the house, but it still hurts when I land. Smack on my bottom into something that feels totally indescribable. I groan as it squelches accommodatingly around my buttocks.

‘
Mum
! Are you all right?' Sam's worried face appears above me.

‘Mummy! Mummy!'

‘What's happening?'

I realise that I have the towel still grasped in one hand so I wrap it around me awkwardly before Ben can join the group above. Then I start to check for broken bones.

‘Should I ring for an ambulance?'

‘No!'

‘I know! I'll go next door and get Dad!'

‘
NO
!'

‘Hey, don't yell!'

‘Sorry. I'm okay. Really, I am.'

‘Hey, Mum! What're you doing down there?'

‘Mummy! Mummy! Gib
me
the towel – I'm cold!'

‘Sam, take your sister away and get her a towel please. Ben, can you go and put the kettle on. I'm fine. I'll just hoist myself back up as soon as you all go away.' Actually I'm not fine, but I'm not badly hurt either –
apart from my ego. However, one thing is for sure, I'll be having another shower as soon as I get back up.

Now that my eyes have adjusted to the semi-darkness down here I can see that my lower half is covered in a black, mushy sludge – or something else that I don't want to even think about. It would be a lot easier to crawl out from here and walk around to the front door, but knowing the way my luck is running at the moment, Alex would probably be out the front trimming his hedge. And I'd never live
this
down. So I'll just get up in a minute when my heart palpitations ease somewhat, and see if I can slowly hoist myself back up onto the plank.

Suddenly, the ‘slow' part of my plan is upgraded dramatically as I realise that the snuffly noise I can hear getting gradually louder is not me, but the relentless approach of that damn dog. And he is bad enough when I am fully clothed, on two legs and able to defend myself. In my current position, and smelling like shit, he'll probably think that I've given in to the inevitable and capitulated at last.

I move – and I move fast.