Flying the Coop (25 page)

‘Hang on.' Chris laid her hand over the flute as she suddenly thought of early morning egg collection in under six hours, and then the day to follow. With all the last-minute preparations for their new venture – like pamphlet delivery, and fence painting, and signage. Then, close on the heels of these cautionary thoughts came her modus operandi – cross that bridge when you come to it. She took her hand away from the glass slowly.

‘Well?' asked Jenny, with the champagne bottle poised to pour.

‘Fill 'er up. What the hell.'

E
verybody has one of those days, every once in a while, that they just want over and done with. From the moment of waking, with a panorama of hours, minutes and seconds excruciatingly stretched out before them, the uppermost desire is to somehow negotiate a passage through the day and then crawl back into bed, warmed by the knowledge that it's all over. Completed.

For Chris, that Sunday was one of those days. And, to make things even worse, it was one of the hottest October days on record, with the temperature peaking at 35 degrees mid-afternoon. This may have been more bearable had there been some sort of acclimatising build-up, but the preceding days had been a string of mid-twenty beauties bathed by a gentle sun and cooling afternoon breezes. Then on Sunday, the sun quite suddenly showed its vicious side, with the air hanging thick and humid, and not even a puff of wind in mitigation.

But all of that was still before her when the alarm clock went off on Sunday morning. At that time, Chris had been in bed for less than four hours, and asleep for only three – with the first hour having been spent trying to overcome motion sickness. And, as the sound of the alarm clock split her skull
asunder and she forced her lead-heavy eyelids partially open, she knew immediately that she was in for a bad day. A
very
bad day.

Chris slid her legs over the side of the bed and raised herself up into a sitting position. There, she spent a few moments trying to get her stomach under control before moving any further. She hadn't felt this sick for years, not since a bout of the flu had laid her up in bed for a week and her whole body had been one huge ache – even her
hair
had hurt. After counting to ten, Chris stood and was immediately hit by a wave of vertigo that sent nausea surging into her throat. As she clutched the bedpost to prevent herself from keeling over, she realised that there was no way she could collect eggs this morning. No way in the world.

Somewhat cheered by this decision, Chris released the bedpost and walked unsteadily out of the room and past the stairs, where she peered up the passage to see if the kitchen light was on. It wasn't, which meant that Zoe had obviously decided that one early morning per weekend was enough. Well, Chris thought tiredly, bad news for her. She took the stairs one at a time, using the stair-rail for support, and then knocked softly on Zoe's door. There was no answer. Ignoring the warning sign, Chris pushed the door open.

‘Zoe?' She peered at the doona-covered lump in the bed, illuminated in strips by the fringed lamp. ‘Are you awake?'

‘No. Go'way.'

‘I can't. I'm sick. You're going to have to do the eggs this morning.'

‘No. Go'way.'

‘Come
on
!' Chris could feel the desperation in her voice. ‘I am really,
really
sick. I must have picked up some bug or something. You
have
to do it!'

‘Fifty bucks.'

‘Why, you horrible little . . . twenty. And that's my final offer.'

Chris left her daughter pulling on the spare pair of bib and brace overalls and retraced her steps downstairs. But before she returned to the beckoning darkness of her bedroom, she made a detour via the broom cupboard to fetch a bucket. This she placed by the side of her bed ahead of crawling back under the covers and curling up into the foetal position. Her last conscious thought before she slipped back into the blissful numbness of sleep was that she would willingly pay hundreds for this – so twenty dollars was an absolute bargain.

About two hours later, Chris woke feeling much, much better. This, of course, still meant that she was decidedly ill, but she was no longer leaning against death's door. Now she felt at least four, maybe even five steps away from it. She glanced at the time and allowed herself exactly two more minutes to wallow before forcing herself up. The two minutes, as they always do, sped by, so she amended the number to four. Then five. Then seven.

Twenty-six minutes later, Chris reluctantly swung her legs over the side of the bed for the second time that morning and regarded the just-in-case bucket with a surge of gratitude that she no longer felt
quite
that bad. She grabbed her dressing-gown and then discarded it as she realised that it was already quite warm. So, wearing just the lime and purple striped t-shirt-style nightie she had slept in, she shuffled out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen. A strong sense of deja vu hit her with the nauseating smell of frying bacon and eggs, and the irritating sound of cheerful breakfast-voices.

‘And so then Mrs Scanlon says that me 'n Damien have to sit up the back! Don't you think that's unfair?'

‘Another egg, Lauren, love?'

‘No thanks, Dot. I don't think I can get through this lot!'

‘Dot! Aren't you listening to me?'

‘Of course I am, Michael, and I agree – that was
terribly
unfair. Another egg, Zoe?'

As Chris came slowly through the doorway, a charming little domestic scene unfolded before her. Lauren, Zoe and Michael were all seated at the kitchen table, each with a plate of bacon and eggs, and a glass of orange juice before them. Michael was still in his pyjamas but the girls were both dressed – in very different outfits. Zoe, with her carroty hair plastered flatly to her scalp, wore a pair of old, faded army khakis and a t-shirt featuring a strange little spaceman with a thought bubble proclaiming: ‘I
like
you, so your death shall be quick and painless'. While Lauren, with her hair in two short blonde plaits, had on a fashionable pair of three-quarter jeans and a mauve Roxy tank-top. Dot, in exactly the same outfit as last Sunday – even down to the flouncy apron and yellow floral oven mitts – was standing by the stove using a spatula to flip eggs.

Chris liked to think that under normal circumstances such a cosy scene would have put a smile on her face. Today, however, with her stomach somewhat delicate, it just made her feel decidedly ill.

‘Well,
there
you are, love!' Dot waved the spatula at her. ‘We were beginning to think you were going t'sleep the day away! Sit yourself down and I'll get your breakfast. Some nice crispy bacon, hey, and two of these lovely fried –'

‘No!' Chris's stomach churned. ‘I mean, no thanks. Nothing for me, sorry. I'm feeling a bit off today.'

‘Oh, poor you,' said Lauren. ‘Must be some sort of bug coz Mum's sick too.'

‘Maybe it was something you both ate.' Zoe speared a piece of bacon and dipped it into her egg yolk. ‘Or drank.'

‘Maybe.' Chris dragged her eyes away from Zoe's rising fork
just as a thick droplet of egg yolk which had hung from the bacon all the way up to her mouth suddenly liberated itself and fell back onto the plate with a soft plop. Chris's stomach surged upwards again. She coughed, and then fought the urge to gag.

‘Poor Mummy!' said Michael sympathetically. ‘Dot, c'n I have more bacon?'

‘D'you know, Mum,' Zoe said, regarding her critically, ‘your hair clashes with your face, and both of them clash with that t-shirt. Which, by the way, is foul.'

‘I think it's lovely.' Dot slid some more bacon onto Michael's plate. ‘Nice and colourful. Given up on the Blues, have you, love?'

‘Something like that,' muttered Chris weakly.

‘You should stay in bed,' advised Lauren. ‘That's what Mum's doing.'

‘Is she now?' asked Chris, narrowing her eyes as she recalled exactly who it was that had encouraged her to stay up to the early hours of the morning. ‘We'll see about that.'

Rather than walk past the kitchen table, with the bacon and eggs and droplets of congealing egg yolk, Chris retraced her steps towards her bedroom and then took the front stairs up to the second floor. When she reached the boxroom, she didn't bother knocking, just pushed the door open and then peered into the gloom within.

After the unexpected arrival of Jenny and Lauren the previous day, this room had been cleared out and furnished with a folding bed and a blow-up mattress. They had only just fitted on either side, with a passageway of about two feet between them. Since then it looked like a few suitcases had exploded in here, with entrails of clothing scattered around and across both beds. But it wasn't difficult to work out which bed was currently occupied as the blow-up mattress had a round,
blanket-covered hump in the middle of it. And the hump was moaning.

‘Get up,' said Chris cruelly. ‘Breakfast awaits. Crisp rashers of bacon with generous strips of juicy fat, freshly fried eggs with golden, runny yolks, and –'

‘Shut up,' muttered the hump. ‘You're gonna make me throw up.'

‘Actually, I think I just made myself worse too,' Chris grimaced. ‘But that's beside the point. You're the one who forced me to stay up drinking all night. So get up. I'm not going to be the only one suffering today.'

‘But I'm the guest,' moaned the hump plaintively.

‘All the more reason not to leave you all alone.' Chris flicked on the light switch, flooding the small room with harsh brightness. The hump flinched and buried itself deeper, even the swath of brown hair that had been visible disappearing under the covers.

‘Aaargh . . .'

‘So here's what's going to happen,' continued Chris. ‘I'm going to have a shower now and when I get out I expect you to be waiting outside the door for your turn. And then, while you're making yourself look human, I'll organise coffee, and alka-seltzer, and headache tablets. Okay?'

The lump wriggled its way towards the head of the blow-up mattress, and presently Jenny's head appeared, looking considerably worse for wear. ‘D'you know, I'd forgotten you could be such a bitch. First you ply me with alcohol, then you make me sleep in an over-sized cupboard, and now you won't even let me repair my damaged psyche in peace. To think I came here for sympathy!'

‘I'll give you all the sympathy you want,' Chris grinned. ‘When we're both out painting the fence.'

‘Oh my god.' Jenny flopped backwards and groaned. ‘Oh, my, god.'

Chris flicked the light switch on and off several times for good measure and then, leaving it on, went back down the stairs and into the bathroom. There she turned the shower on, stripped her t-shirt off and stepped underneath the spray. It was almost orgasmic. The torrent of warm water was like a multitude of tiny blunt needles ceaselessly massaging her head, while the damp humidity felt like a sauna that was steadily drawing out all the impurities from the pores of her skin. After she washed, Chris stood underneath the heavy spray with her arms hanging by her sides, and just let the water wash down over her and pool around her feet. It was almost impossible to leave. But after some time she registered an impatient knocking at the door and, with extreme reluctance, turned off the shower and stepped out.

‘About time!' came Jenny's voice. ‘I'm going to report you to the water board!'

‘Just a minute!' Chris dried herself off, slid her t-shirt back on and brushed her hair, shaking her head so that the auburn waves settled. Then, feeling considerably better, she opened the bathroom door and smiled apologetically at Jenny, who was leaning, clean towel in hand, against the opposite wall. With her hair matted in chestnut clumps, pouchy bags under her eyes, and her skin pale and shiny, she looked about ten years older than she had the day before. In the interests of their continuing friendship, Chris decided not to share this information.

‘Sorry! But it's worth the wait. You'll feel amazingly better after a shower.' Chris closed the door behind Jenny and then went up the passage and into the kitchen, where the breakfast/brunch shift was obviously just finishing up.

‘Here you go, love.' Dot held out a plate on which three rashers of bacon sat beside two fried eggs that looked like yellowy, white-rimmed eyes. ‘I saved some for you.'

‘Ah, thanks, Dot, but I'm really not hungry. I'm still feeling a bit off.'

‘No problem.' Dot put the plate in the oven and then stripped off her mitts. ‘Coffee then?'

‘Now you're talking.' Chris slid into a spare seat at the kitchen table and forced herself to smile amiably at the three children. ‘So, how are we all feeling today?'

Michael rubbed his stomach happily. ‘Full!'

‘Very good,' said Lauren as she got up and, to Chris's relief, started collecting the dirty plates together to take them away.

‘Where's my twenty bucks?' asked Zoe.

‘You'll get it.' Chris sighed as she looked from one teenage girl to the other. By now Lauren had placed the pile of plates on the bench and was filling the sink with soapy water. Zoe, meanwhile, was picking scraps of congealed egg off the table and flicking them onto the floor.

‘So what's on the agenda today?' asked Dot as she placed a steaming hot cup of coffee in front of Chris.

‘God, thanks, Dot.' Chris wrapped her hands around the mug and smiled up at the older woman gratefully. ‘And thanks for feeding the kids too.'

‘It's tradition,' announced Michael.

‘What's tradition?'

‘Dot cooking us eggs 'n bacon. Every Sunday.'

‘We've only been
here
two Sundays,' Chris pointed out.

‘Yeah, and she's done it both times,' said Michael reasonably. ‘That makes it tradition.'

‘And it's a lovely tradition too.' Dot ruffled Michael's ginger hair and then returned to the stove, which she began to wipe down methodically.

‘We've got to do the flyers today.' Zoe suddenly stood. ‘I'll go finish them.'

‘And you can get dressed, Michael.' Chris took a heavenly sip of coffee. ‘Now. Work clothes, please.'

‘Okey-dokey.'

As both Zoe and Michael left the room via the stairs, Jenny entered through the passage doorway and stood glaring at Chris. She was dressed rather fetchingly in a white towel, with her hair brushed back and plastered wetly to her scalp.