Flying the Coop (14 page)

‘Is he cute?' asked Cynthia, earning herself a scowl from her beloved.

‘Cute – hmm . . .' Dot appeared to give this some thought. ‘No, not
cute
. But bloody good looking. And he knows it.' She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips again: ‘
Pfft
!'

Chris helped herself to some food while she contemplated this rather interesting piece of news. So maybe her boast about the hunky farmer with rugged looks and biceps of steel might be true after all. She smiled happily to herself and then, looking up, caught her ex-husband eyeing her with disapproval. She flushed.

‘This is really nice, thanks.' Dot helped herself to another chicken wing and looked across at Garth and Cynthia. ‘
Really
nice.'

‘That's right,' added Chris sincerely, putting down her croissant for a moment, ‘it was a lovely gesture, thanks. But what would you have done if we'd made other plans?'

‘He'd probably just have slaughtered me,' interjected Grace before her father could answer, ‘because I was supposed to tell you that he'd be here. With lunch.'

‘
Thanks
, Grace.'

Garth frowned at his daughter momentarily before returning to the hamper and pulling out some lemonade and then a bottle of Brown Brothers Crouchon. ‘The lunch is by way of a welcome gift, and we can't do that properly without a toast, can we?'

‘Certainly not,' agreed Chris readily. ‘I'll get glasses.'

‘Any bordello?' Michael looked at the hamper hopefully.

‘Any
what
?' asked his father.

Chris left it to Garth to work out what his son was talking about while she shuffled her chair a few inches to the right and then, flipping open the lid of the uppermost box by the archway, started unwrapping the crystal goblets and flutes packed inside. As each was uncovered, Chris passed it to Grace, who passed it on around the table until everybody had either a flute or a goblet before them. Garth then ceremoniously popped the cork and filled each glass, with even Michael receiving a dribble of wine before having it topped up with lemonade.

‘To Chris, for having a go!' Garth raised his glass and everybody followed suit, with cries of ‘To Chris!' or ‘To Mum!' echoing around the table.

Chris smiled, feeling rather heartened by all this. ‘Why, thank you.'

‘Just don't come running to me when it all goes belly-up,'
continued Garth, before having a sip of wine and turning his attention back to the food.

‘Arsehole,' muttered Chris under her breath, her annoyance deepened by the fact that the remark resonated with her resident niggles and awoke them, again, from their slumber.

‘I'm drunk!' announced Michael, sticking his tongue out and lolling his head around.

‘No, you're just an idiot,' said Grace, sneering at her brother. ‘Which has the same sort of symptoms – lack of brain activity.'

‘That's enough!' Garth glowered at them both and then sent Chris a glance that spoke volumes about what he thought of their behaviour and, therefore, her parenting skills.

‘Arsehole,' muttered Chris again, feeling her temper start to slip and making a supreme effort to rein it back in again. She took a few deep breaths.

‘Seeing as we're all together,' Grace pushed her plate away, ‘can we talk about my name? I have to decide by tomorrow, you know, otherwise I'm not starting school.'

‘Not starting school?' repeated Garth with yet another frown. ‘You'll do exactly –'

‘Then give us your latest choices,' Chris cut him off and turned to Dot, who was looking understandably confused. ‘Grace has always hated her name, so we've decided to let her change it. Seeing as she's starting at a new school and everything.'

‘I see,' said Dot, who quite obviously didn't.

‘Okay.' Grace pulled a rather scrunched scrap of paper from her pocket and read from it. ‘First there's Parquetry. I really like the sound of it.'

‘Oh, that
is
pretty,' enthused Cynthia, dabbing her mouth with a serviette.

‘Parquetry?' repeated Garth, incensed. ‘That's a floor covering! I am
not
having my daughter called something that gets laid on the bloody floor.'

‘Dad! If you're going to be totally disgusting, I'm not telling you any more!'

‘
Me
disgusting? You're the one who wants to –'

‘What's next?' interrupted Chris, taking another deep breath. ‘And why don't you just read them all out and then we'll tell you which ones we like.'

‘Okay.' Grace sent her father a withering glance before returning to her list. ‘And if you don't like something, just don't say anything. So there's
Parquetry
, then there's Tidal like I've already told you, then Wicca, and Grimoire, and Talisman. Oh, and Scry.'

Silence had greeted each of Grace's suggestions, and silence – except for the sound of her father clearing his throat briefly – was all that remained when she finished. Chris opened her mouth and then closed it again. Wicca? Grimoire?
Scry
?

‘Oh, dear,' said Dot, breaking the silence.

‘Scry,' giggled Michael, waving his drumstick in the air. ‘You'll be a scry baby.'

‘You hate them.' Grace, stating the obvious, flushed and then tore the bit of paper in half and threw it down on the table. ‘Well,
you
come up with something then! You hate all my suggestions but no-one else's got one!'

‘I
like
Scry,' said Michael, earning himself a wrathful look from his sister.

‘What about Zoe?' suggested Cynthia, rather hesitantly. ‘Zoe Lloyd sounds really nice, and it's a little bit different – just like
you
are, Grace. And then, see, you could even say the road's named after you. You know, Zoello Road? Zoe, and then the L-L-O for the first part of your surname.'

Once more, stunned silence fell around the table. But this time it was for a totally different reason. And, as Chris opened and then closed her mouth again, it wasn't because she
couldn't
think of what to say, but because she was worried that if she
did
say what she thought, then that would ruin any chance of Grace considering this suggestion seriously. Because it was brilliant. Not only because of the whole road thing, but because the name seemed to suit Grace perfectly – her contradictions, her prickly personality, her overall quirkiness.

‘That's very clever, love,' commented Dot to Cynthia, but without the element of surprise that everybody else was feeling with regard to said cleverness.

‘I
hate
it,' said Michael, pulling a face. ‘It's a horrible name. Scry's better. There was a girl in my class called Zoe and she's
real
nasty.
And
she said Spiderman was stupid.'

‘It doesn't matter what you think,' barked his father, rather harshly. ‘It matters what
Grace
thinks. So – what about it, Grace?'

‘Well . . .' Grace looked around the table at everybody, all waiting with varying levels of bated breath for her response. ‘I like it!'

‘Excellent!' cried Chris happily. ‘So do I!'

‘Specially the bit about having the road named after me. Very cool.'

Chris grinned at her daughter. ‘First the road, next the world!'

‘Exactly!'

‘Well then, that's decided.' Garth turned to Cynthia and picked up her hand. ‘And perhaps you might like to thank Cyn for her brilliant idea, hey?'

‘Thanks,' said Grace, with notably less enthusiasm.

‘Seriously – well done,' added Chris magnanimously, although she heartily wished that it had been anyone else who had come up with the idea. She smiled at Cynthia and then, just as she was turning back to Grace, saw Garth grin at his girlfriend and mouth the words ‘I love you' at her. Even though it was quite obvious that neither of them had seen her watching,
Chris flushed again, feeling like an intruder. She got up from the table quickly and started gathering plates together.

‘Here we go.' Dot levered her girth out of the chair and, after stacking the plates from that end of the table, passed them over to Chris. ‘And now Michael and I had better get back t'his room if we're going t'have it all done. Hadn't we, love?'

‘Yep,' said Michael agreeably.

‘We've brought chocolate as well.' Cynthia opened the hamper and showed them all a jumbo family block. ‘But how about we leave that for afternoon tea?'

‘Good idea,' said Garth approvingly.

‘You're
staying
?' asked Chris, surprised by the dismay she felt at this prospect.

Cynthia looked at her as if she were mad. ‘Of
course
we're staying. We've come to help. You just point us in any direction you want, and we'll go there.'

‘That's very trusting of you,' commented Grace/Zoe.

‘Oh, our gift!' Cynthia clapped a hand to her mouth and looked stricken. ‘Almost forgot! We've brought a house-warming gift. Gar, could you trot out to the car for it?'

‘Can't it wait till . . .' Garth trailed off as he looked down at her face. ‘Okay, okay.'

As Garth left the room, the lunch party started to break up, with Michael and Dot heading upstairs, Grace towards the office area, and Cynthia standing up to repack the picnic hamper. Chris took the stack of plates out to the kitchen and piled them in the sink. Then she peered out of the window to see if she could spot Mac up in the chicken area, but, apart from the usual gathering of chooks by the gate in the hedge, there was nobody to be seen. Turning away, Chris desultorily flattened an empty packing box and stacked it with the twenty-three other flattened boxes against the far wall. Then she pulled the next box over to the cupboards and levered the flaps open to peer inside.

‘Looks like the kitchen appliances,' she commented, mostly to herself.

‘Don't you label your boxes?' asked Cynthia, opening her eyes wide with surprise as she came in with some of the glasses. ‘So you'll know what's in them?'

‘I know what's in them when I open them. See? Kitchen appliances.'

‘But . . .' Cynthia, not for the first time, looked at Chris as if she were the vanguard of a new, and entirely unfathomable, species.

‘Everyone's different,' said Chris shortly.

‘True.
Very
true.' Cynthia fingered the end of her ponytail as she peered around the kitchen. ‘And you're
so
brave doing this. Taking on
all
this on your own! A farm! I mean, it's not my thing at
all
.' She shuddered to emphasise this point before continuing: ‘And I'm
so
glad it's not Gar's either. Can you see
him
on a farm? But just because it's not
our
thing doesn't take away from our . . .
awe
that you're willing to risk
everything
on a . . . no, not a
whim
. What's the word I'm looking for? I'll think of it in a second . . .'

At this point Chris switched off. She continued to unpack the box but did so on autopilot, her mind fully occupied on imagining Cynthia in various life-threatening situations. Such as tied to a railroad track, or falling into shark-infested waters, or undergoing a facelift at the hands of an incompetent plastic surgeon. The problem was that, even though it had been several years, she still
hated
it when Cynthia spoke of Garth in such a proprietary fashion. Especially when it was so clear that she didn't know him at all. Chris hauled the mix-master out of the box and thrust it roughly into a cupboard. Next out was the portable grill, then the iron. Just as the toaster made its appearance and its rear metal flap flipped open, scattering a collection of crumbs over the floor, Garth came in from the passage lugging a huge, oblong silver-wrapped object.

‘That's unhygienic, you know,' he commented as he offloaded the gift at Chris's feet and gave the crumbs a disparaging glance. ‘Don't you ever empty your toaster?'

‘Weren't you watching?' snapped Chris irritably. ‘I just did.'

‘Yeah, all over –'

‘No matter,' interrupted Cynthia brightly. ‘Open your present! I
know
you'll love it!'

Obediently Chris stripped off the metallic wrapping to reveal a large, deep Baltic-pine box with a hinged wooden lid. She looked inside curiously.

‘It's a country-style rustic rubbish bin!' said Cynthia, clapping her hands delightedly. ‘Don't you just
adore
it!'

‘Now all you need is a dustpan and brush and you can clean up those crumbs.' Garth picked up the discarded wrapping paper and, scrunching it up, deposited it in the country-style rustic rubbish bin.

‘Thank
you
, Cynthia,' said Chris pointedly. ‘What a really thoughtful gift.'

Cynthia beamed. ‘Yes. I couldn't decide
what
to get. So I thought and thought –'

‘How taxing,' said Grace/Zoe, coming out of the office with a tape measure in hand.

‘Grace!' said her father sternly.

‘Zoe!' she retorted testily.

‘And then I thought – oh!' Cynthia, having ignored this last exchange totally, slapped herself on the forehead with one manicured hand. ‘You twit! Get Christin something that she's not likely to have!
And
that she really needs! So – voila!'

‘Ah . . . thanks.'

‘Yeah, thanks,' added Zoe. ‘We'll call it our cyn-bin, just to remind us where it came from.'

‘Grace,' said her father warningly while Cynthia herself
looked torn between accepting the ‘cyn-bin' as a compliment or not.

‘God, Dad! At least make an effort! It's
Zoe
!'

‘Whatever!' snapped Garth, who hated to be corrected.

Chris decided to butt in before Grace, or Zoe, stormed off. ‘Anyway, thanks both of you. Very thoughtful.'