Flying the Coop (32 page)

‘Can I come in?'

‘Sure.' Chris stood back and then, as Stuart entered, closed the door behind him. Silently, she led him down the passage and into the kitchen, where Jenny, still rummaging in the cupboards, had her back to them.

‘Hello, Jen,' said Stuart quietly.

Jenny whipped around and stared at him, her mouth dropping open and then snapping closed again. Her gaze fell to the
huge bunch of roses and then returned to his face. She did not look happy.

‘I brought you flowers.' Stuart held out the roses.

Still without saying a word, Jenny accepted the roses and examined them musingly for a long minute. Then she took them by the tissue-wrapped stalks, lifted them up, and beat them methodically against the kitchen table. Bash, bash, bash. Rose petals flew in every direction, with several ending up in the lasagne meat sauce. After two minutes, during which Chris and Stuart just stared wordlessly, Jenny stopped bashing the roses and stood back, breathing heavily and now holding a crinkled mass of gold tissue-paper held together only by the curly ribbons, from which protruded a huge bunch of near-naked stems. A few rose petals floated gently to the floor.

‘I thought you liked red roses,' said Stuart, rather sadly.

‘I
do
like red roses,' Jenny bit out the words. ‘But I like husbands who don't fuck around even more.'

‘That's understandable.' Stuart gazed at the petals that littered the floor. ‘Can we go somewhere to talk?'

‘There's nothing to talk about.'

‘You can't mean that.'

‘Can't I?' Jenny, still holding the bunch of stems, looked at him furiously. ‘You
slept
with her. Well? Didn't you?'

‘It's not that simple.'

‘What!' shrieked Jenny, waving the stems at him. ‘Not that
simple
? What do you want to do? Give me some more details so that I can add some colour to the bloody story?'

‘No, of course not.' Stuart sent a fleeting look towards Chris before turning back to his wife. ‘But can't we discuss this outside?'

‘There's nothing
to
discuss. You
slept
with her, didn't you?'

‘I have to –'

‘Didn't you? Yes or no?'

‘Yes! All right? Happy now?' Stuart was starting to look
angry. ‘I slept with her, I admit it. But you've got no right to act like little Mrs Innocent, hey? What about
you
?'

‘Me?' Jenny went pale and flicked a glance across at Chris.

‘Yes, you. Why don't we talk about
you
? Last year? With Brian Bloody Baker?'

‘Ah . . . why don't we go outside?'

‘
Now
you want to go outside,' Stuart grinned nastily. ‘Why's that, dear? Doesn't Chris here know about your little affair?'

Chris looked at her friend in shock. ‘You had an
affair
?'

‘It wasn't an affair,' mumbled Jenny, staring at the rose stems. ‘More like just a slip.'

‘Just a slip?' repeated Stuart disparagingly. ‘Is that like when you're just strolling along and then whoops-a-daisy! You slip on something sticky and fall right on some bloke's penis? Is that what you mean?'

‘You
know
it wasn't like that.'

‘No. I don't. I wasn't there, remember?'

‘Let's do this outside.'

‘Great idea!' Stuart nodded obligingly. ‘Wish I'd thought of that!'

Feeling absolutely gobsmacked, Chris watched Jenny, still carrying her tissue-wrapped stems, lead Stuart out through the office and onto the veranda. Their voices started up again the minute they got outside but then faded as they moved further away. Chris wiped some petals off a kitchen chair and sat down, flipping her tail feathers deftly to the side. She took a deep breath and shook her head. Was there anybody out there who
didn't
play around during marriage? Or soon after? Was every marriage doomed from the start? And was she the only one who actually believed in all that ‘to death do us part' crap? It certainly seemed that way.

From:
Neil Mackaway

Date:
Saturday, 4th November 2006. 5.12PM

To:
Christin Beggs

Subject:
Hi again

Are you kidding about my uncle and my mother? I certainly hope so. My family is already fractured enough without starting to act like one of those daytime soaps. I'll give my mother a ring tonight and get to the bottom of it. In the meantime, please keep me posted. Anyway, seeing as it's Saturday night, I hope you've got some great date lined up. Enjoy!

Cheers, Neil

From:
Christin Beggs

Date:
Saturday, 4th November 2006. 5.40PM

To:
Neil Mackaway

Subject:
Re: Hi again

Well, in the interests of keeping you posted, I'll tell you that your mother took your uncle square dancing this afternoon and they've gone out for dinner this evening. As for me, no, I'm home tonight. I did have something lined up but it fell through. Hope you have better luck.

Chris

C
hris climbed slowly up the loft ladder. She was wearing high heels and a snug black evening dress, which made the task considerably more awkward but she was about to go out for dinner. It was just that she couldn't possibly leave until she had discovered exactly what it was that her daughter was going to use to take over the world. She reached out a hand to grasp the side of the opening in the loft floor and used that to pull herself up and into the loft. Once there, she took a minute to catch her breath and then looked around. There was hay everywhere. Piles of it by the far window, stacks of it against the walls, and a carpet of it laid thickly across the floor.

Chris crawled slowly towards the window, the hay blades stabbing and prickling against her bare legs. On the way, her knee banged into something hidden beneath the straw, and she squatted back on her haunches to uncover the object. It was heavy, some sort of machinery that glowed with a flat metallic blackness. She frowned, increasingly puzzled – and then her brow cleared as she realised what it was that she had found, and she gasped with shock as she held it up to the light that filtered through the far window. It was an M-60 automatic machine gun, fully loaded and ready to go.

‘What's that you've got?'

Chris dropped the weapon with a thud as she whirled around to face the voice that had come from behind her. And there, climbing up the loft ladder and holding an enormous bunch of red roses, was a man – a very
good looking
man – with dark hair, vivid blue eyes and an Errol Flynn style moustache. He smiled at her and held out the flowers.

‘For you.'

‘Thank you,' said Chris, crawling across the floor to take the roses.

‘I'm Neil Mackaway.'

‘I know.' Chris closed her eyes and leant forward to kiss him on the cheek as that was only polite. But suddenly her face was grasped gently but firmly within his two hands and she knew that, any second, his mouth was about to come down –

Chris sat bolt upright in her bed and looked around wildly. The thud that had woken her sounded again and echoed along the veranda roof. Then the heavy footsteps commenced, walking away from her bedroom towards the rear of the house. Chris threw herself back down with disgust and thought murderous thoughts about the possum whose timing, on this occasion, had been the absolute pits. She closed her eyes and willed herself back into the loft, holding her flowers, her lips ever so slightly pursed – but it was no good. It was long gone.

Chris rolled her head to one side and glanced at her clock – 6.18 am. Nearly time to get up. Her stomach sank as she remembered that there would be no help with the egg collection this morning. Mac took Sundays off, the kids were with Garth, and Jenny – Jenny was gone. With this thought, Chris sighed and curled up under the doona, feeling rather dispirited.

Because Jenny had left last night. They never even had that ‘let's get dressed up' dinner out on the town. Instead, after
spending almost two hours talking – and yelling – with Stuart in the garden while Chris finally got changed and then started cleaning up the kitchen mess, Jenny only came back in to announce their imminent departure. Apparently they had decided the best course of action was to continue their discussion in a hotel in the city and then collect Lauren from Garth's the next day and go straight to the airport. And fly back to North Queensland. It was unclear what was actually going to
happen
when they arrived back home – but the fact that they were about to spend the night together pointed to some form of resolution.

Chris had been crushed. Although she had known, from the moment Jenny arrived on her doorstep, that she would be leaving at some point, she always expected at least a couple of days' notice. And, if she was perfectly honest, deep down there had been growing a little nugget of hope that they wouldn't be able to work things out and Jenny would be able to stay. Not necessarily in the same house, but at least in the same suburb. Chris wasn't terribly proud of the little nugget because she quite honestly wanted what was best for her friend – but it was there nevertheless.

So the house had gone from noisily overcrowded one minute to frighteningly empty the next. And Chris would have given the world even for Dot to pop over and keep her company. But instead it seemed everyone had a life except her. So, rather than kick up her heels while she discovered the Healesville nightlife, she spent the evening picking rose petals off the floor and out of the lasagne mix.

The alarm went off stridently by her right ear, so Chris reached out and whacked the clock with the flat of her palm. The piercing ring stopped abruptly and she forced herself to crawl out of bed before she fell back to sleep. Then it was straight into the routine – overalls, beanie, coffee, boots – and
out to the barn in the early morning crispness to collect her buckets.

This morning Chris had decided to forgo the garlic concoction and try a different tack. Despite her fear of the alpaca, guilt had gotten the better of her – that and the fact she really didn't want to have to face a huge vet bill. So instead she had spent some time the night before researching alpacas on the internet, and discovered that they possessed brains the size of a dried pea. And they, like many animals, could smell fear and were attracted to it like bees to a honey-pot. The best method, apparently, was the one Geraldine used – to simply act as if they didn't exist. Unfortunately the website author had neglected to mention how one ignored something that was drooling into your hair or snacking on your body parts, but Chris was running out of options anyway. So she was going to give it a try. After all, if she couldn't outwit one stupid alpaca without resorting to the use of pseudo-chemical warfare, there was something seriously wrong with her.

Nevertheless, it was with some trepidation that she exited the barn without her trusty spray-bottle and headed across alpaca territory towards the furthest enclosure. Sure enough, halfway there she heard the unmistakable sound of hooves trotting up behind her and Chris immediately stiffened nervously. She forced herself to think happy thoughts to counteract the smell of fear. Bunnies gambolling in the morning sunshine, fluffy kittens playing with a ball of wool, herself sitting on a Southbank balcony getting sloshed.

Ergo slowed as he came up to her and plodded along just behind, breathing heavily into her beanie but leaving it where it was. And, although her heart was beating so loudly she could hear it, Chris forced herself to keep her pace steady and not break into a run. She reached the enclosure unscathed and ducked inside, letting her breath out with a sigh of relief. But she
still didn't look in Ergo's direction. Instead she just acted as if he didn't exist. And, from the amount of snorting that was now going on, it seemed that he might be finding this quite annoying.

Chris kept this pretence up as she collected all the eggs and lugged the full buckets over to the barn, followed all the way by Ergo, who kept exhaling loudly at the back of her head as if to remind her of his presence. Every so often she would peek towards the alpaca out of the corner of her eye and was rewarded by the sight of what she chose to read as bewilderment. But he didn't spit at her, didn't bare his teeth and, best of all, didn't try to devour her.

By the time the collection was completed and Chris was pulling the double barn doors closed, Ergo had retreated over to the oldies' compound and was staring at her as if planning his next move. Chris waved at him happily and locked the doors. Then, feeling like she had accomplished something of considerable moment, she walked jauntily towards the doors at the back of the barn to finish up the morning's work. First she checked the baby chickens, who were now even uglier than they had been when she first saw them. Patchily covered with feathers, fluff and unsightly bare skin, they all raced for the furthest corner and huddled there, staring at her with their bug eyes. She checked the heater and refilled their water and food containers before closing the door securely and turning towards the washroom.

Just as she put her hand on the doorknob to open it, she paused and glanced up towards the loft instead. What was it that was up there? The chances were pretty good that it wasn't Neil Mackaway with a bunch of red roses, and she was fairly confident that there was no M-60 machine gun either. But didn't she owe it to her daughter to make sure it wasn't something dangerous? Surely it wasn't an invasion of privacy if one had someone else's best interests at heart?

Chris crossed slowly to the loft ladder and began to climb. When she popped her head through the hole in the floor, she half expected to see hay spread over the entire area but instead it was clean. In fact, it was so clean that it must have been swept very recently. Chris put an arm through the hole and, much like she had in her dream, used it to pull herself up and into the loft. But once there she didn't need to crawl anywhere as there was enough room for her to stand and still have about six inches to spare between the top of her head and the sloping barn roof. Certainly at either end she would have had to bob slightly, but in the middle she could walk around without any problems.

The loft itself was quite large, with the entry hole set against the wall to one side. There were posters stuck up all around the walls, some of dragons, one of Keanu Reeves in full Matrix ensemble, and one of a satellite view of the earth. The only window, which she knew from seeing it down below, was set towards the front of the barn with a commanding view of all the chook enclosures. In front of this window was a removalists' box, tipped on its side, with a purple-fringed tea-light candle lamp on it. On either side of the box were two of her green plastic outdoor chairs, a couple of braided and beaded cushions scattered across them, and a low, wide bookcase that she had never seen before had been placed against the far wall. The only other piece of furniture was a small pine chest of drawers that she distinctly remembered the removalists carrying into Zoe's room in the house. How on earth had the girl managed to carry it up the ladder?

Chris shook her head in amazement and moved over towards the bookcase. Here was Zoe's collection of horror stories, as well as a dictionary and various other reference materials. There were also quite a lot of candles and, judging from their height and the bubbly wax adhering to their sides, they had been used quite frequently. A box of matches sat next
to one of the fatter candles. Chris involuntarily glanced at the wooden construction of the loft and shuddered.

But where was this mysterious means of world domination? She stood still and stared around. There was nothing else up here. No obscure boxes, no pirate chests, no intricate plans stuck on the walls, no cases of ammunition – and no strange men bearing flowers. Chris picked up a couple of books and flicked through them but no maps marked with handily large X's fell out. She sighed and then, as she looked around the loft once more, her gaze fell on the bedside chest of drawers. That had to be it. There
was
nothing else.

Chris squatted down in front of it and opened the top drawer. There was an old Arnott's biscuit tin inside. She picked it up and, with some trepidation, prised the lid off. Only to find biscuits. A jumble of assorted creams and shortbreads that had quite obviously been pinched from the biscuit barrel in the kitchen. Chris shoved the lid back on and replaced the tin in the drawer. Then, shutting that one, she opened the drawer below. This one contained stationery. Several foolscap notepads as well as pens, pencils and erasers, many of them clearly labelled PROPERTY OF BEGGS EGGS. The poltergeist uncovered.

Chris shook her head wryly as she pushed the well-stocked stationery drawer closed and, with a growing sense of futility, pulled the last drawer open. And found something interesting. A deep pile of manilla envelopes all bearing Zoe's handwriting in block letters with the date and what looked like a title. Chris picked up the first one, which was called ‘Patience', dated just two weeks earlier. She opened the envelope, pulled out an A4 computer-printed sheet of paper and started reading.

The sun sets over a blood-red sky, illuminating a barren land. Jagged ruins of twisted metal lay strewn across the waste, mirroring the end of mankind. The final war may
have taken over a thousand years, but it is over now and little but rubbish remains on this deserted, desolate world.

There were dreams once, when there were no nightmares. All gone now.

One lone figure sits on a pile of scrap, gazing bleakly up at the red sky with the slowly fading hope that one last boat might appear, and fly down in rescue. Her wings, torn and useless, are veined with blood and her hair hangs in clotted, dirty blonde strands. She has seen many horrors and heard many lies. Yet always she had clung to the hope that her race continued – and that she would see them once more before it all ended.

Chris read on. About how the angel waited throughout the long night, but by the time the sun rose, finally faced the fact that no-one was coming for her. That no-one was left. And with this thought, she simply lay down and gave up. The story was bleak, but so compelling that, by the time she finished, Chris's eyes were moist. She put that story down and picked up the next, ‘Rebirth', slipping it out of its envelope. This one was two pages long, and told of a woman who, after growing up in a series of foster homes, had just given birth to her own child. It simply described her feelings – her sense of inadequacy and responsibility, her wonder, and her joy. It was brilliant.

One after another, Chris read through the stories. She read ‘Can you make me whole again?', then ‘The last goodbye', and then ‘Revolution of the souls'. Most of them, like ‘Patience', were quite dark, but every now and again one shone with hope. All of them, however, displayed a remarkably perceptive introspection.

Chris looked down into the drawer at the remaining envelopes. She was about halfway through and there were at least thirty to go. How long had Zoe been writing these? And
how in the hell did she get so good? The girl had always received fine marks for English but no-one, ever, had suggested that she was gifted. Because these
were
gifted. Very, very gifted. In a state of shock, Chris neatly replaced the envelopes she had removed, closed the drawer and then stood to stretch her legs.