Flying the Coop (34 page)

‘Don't you dare,' said Elsie flatly.

‘Too late.' Chris untied the top of the bag and then upended it, pinching her fingers over the other bag inside so that it remained behind. The contents, of all different consistencies, fell out onto the grass with the last, and freshest, having to be shaken before it, too, slid down the plastic and broke free. Then, holding the two plastic bags fastidiously, Chris looked around until she spotted Elsie's rubbish bin, placed neatly on a concrete square within a bed of roses. She walked over to it, opened the lid and dropped the plastic bags inside, noting happily that Elsie obviously washed and disinfected the inside of her bin regularly.

Elsie, who still hadn't moved, glared at her venomously. ‘You . . .
you
. . .'

‘What the
hell
are you doing, lady?'

Chris glanced quickly across at the fence, from whence this voice had come. A shortish middle-aged man, dressed in an old white t-shirt and shorts, was standing on the other side with one hand on his lawnmower. He was staring at Chris, obviously astounded.

‘Let me explain,' said Chris sweetly. ‘Elsie here has been bringing her dog over to my house every day – maybe even
twice
a day – for the past week to relieve itself. So I'm just returning her property. And I'll
continue
returning her property for as long as she continues to foul up mine.'

‘Christ, Elsie.' The man shook his head. ‘You'd reckon you'd learn.'

As he bent down to fiddle with his lawnmower, obviously dismissing the pair of them, Chris turned back to Elsie. ‘Do you understand what I'm saying here?'

There was no answer from Elsie, who just stared narrowly at the faeces scattered across the centre of her lawn. Chris decided to take this as a yes, so she smiled victoriously and walked back over to the car. As she started the engine, she
glanced back at Elsie to find she still hadn't moved. Only the chihuahua had come to life, running across the lawn to sniff at the scatterings as if they had been produced by something other than itself.

Chris drove home slowly, her anger now dissipated. As soon as she arrived back, she ran to the bathroom and stripped off, stepping under the shower and scrubbing herself vigorously, paying particular attention to her hands. Which, no matter how hard she washed them, could still feel the soft consistency of what they had recently mushed between their fingers.

An hour later, sparkling clean and dressed in cargo three-quarters and a fresh lemon t-shirt, Chris leant against the kitchen sink and stared out of the window, wondering what she would do to fill the time before the kids got back. Not that there wasn't plenty she
should
be doing – like washing, or ironing, or the never-ending paperwork – but she felt a sudden urge to spoil herself. Grab a coffee and spend some time out on the veranda with a good book. Food for the soul. And, today of all days, her soul deserved it, having conquered two demons in spectacular style. First Ergo, now made manageable, and then Elsie, now put in her place. Chris grinned and nodded – the veranda it was.

Ten minutes later and this plan was being put into action. Chris pushed the screen door open with her butt and backed outside, carrying her coffee and a novel by a new Australian author that a friend had recommended ages ago. She plonked herself down into the papasan chair and, leaving the book on her lap, wrapped both hands around the coffee mug and stretched her legs out onto the balustrade railing.

It was a beautiful afternoon, warm but without the mugginess of last weekend. Just true spring weather, with only a breath of wind to push along the few clouds that studded the sapphire sky. The cat, back in his favourite patch of sunlight, rolled over
and regarded her meditatively through slitted eyes. Chris smiled happily and, nestling the coffee between her thighs, picked up her book. But rather than begin reading, she simply held it as she thought over the events of the last twenty-four hours. First Stuart arriving, then finding out that Jenny had had an affair, and then them both leaving. It had all been so quick. And then there was the discovery of Zoe's hidden talent – and the guilt involved with having
discovered
Zoe's hidden talent.

Chris put her head on one side and let these musings filter through her mind while she tried to come to terms with things. After a few minutes, she put the book down again and took a sip of coffee. The loud click of Dot's gate interrupted her reverie and she sighed. Dot's incessant chatter was the last thing she wanted right now. But as soon as Dot came into view, Chris realised that she was not heading for the house. Nor was she alone. Instead, with an anorexic-looking hen struggling under one arm, she was heading straight for the oldies' enclosure and muttering fiercely.

There was obviously a pattern with these Mackaways using her backyard as a thoroughfare for their clandestine goings-on, Chris reflected as she put her coffee down on the veranda and stood up, moving over to the balustrade for a better view. As Dot tried to open the gate, her captive made a sudden bid for freedom and they had a brief tussle that Dot won by wrapping one hand around the chook's neck. Then, having opened the gate, she flung the chook through and slammed the gate securely behind it.

‘There you go, you little bugger,' said Dot quite clearly. ‘I'll teach you t'have a go at your mates.'

‘What
are
you doing?' asked Chris curiously.

Dot started guiltily, and then whirled around to stare at Chris leaning against the veranda railing. ‘Why, Chris love! I thought you'd gone out shopping!'

‘Obviously.'

‘Ah – what am I doing, you ask?'

‘That's right.'

‘Well, you see it's like this.' Dot came over to the veranda and looked up confidingly. ‘That Howard of mine needs more chooks around t'keep her in line. With just my few, she tends t'rule the roost. Literally. And she gets a bit nasty with the others. So I thought I'd give her t'you. As a gift, like.'

‘I see.' Chris glanced over at the oldies' gate, through which Howard could be seen sitting in the dirt and shaking her head in a dazed fashion. ‘So you thought you'd give me this sociopathic chook of yours?'

‘That's right,' said Dot jovially. ‘Cup of tea, love?'

‘No thanks. I've got a coffee. Now, Dot, back to Howard. Why didn't you just have her for dinner? Like you did with Meg Lees?'

‘No meat.' Dot looked disgusted. ‘That chook eats like a horse and is as skinny as a rake. But she's a good layer, you know. Is that my cat over there?'

‘About Howard – that's all very well and good, but if I see her attacking any of my chooks, I'm chucking her back over your fence. Okay?'

‘Sounds reasonable,' Dot nodded agreeably. ‘And then I'll cook her, meat or no meat.'

‘Fair enough.'

‘By the way, I heard about what you did to Elsie De Bries.'

‘
Already
?'

‘Helen from the community centre rang me. The woman's a terrible gossip.' Dot shook her head reproachfully. ‘But anyway, her son's in-laws live next door to Elsie and the husband was out mowing when you went round. About time.'

‘Pardon?' Chris frowned, unsure whether Dot was referring to Helen's son's father-in-law's mowing habits or what she – Chris – had done to Elsie.

‘About time someone paid her back for some of her pettiness. She's a nasty piece, she is. And I was wondering how come, all of a sudden, you had dog business all over your lawn. I mean, we've never had any problems with that sort of thing before. Now it all makes sense – what a bugger. Excuse my French. But well done, love. Well done.' Dot suddenly laughed. ‘I would've loved t'see her face.'

‘It
was
pretty good,' Chris grinned.

‘I bet. Actually, while I'm here –' Dot paused while she used the balustrade to help her up the steps – ‘I might just check t'see if Neil's answered my email. Did you make a pot of coffee, love, or just one cup?'

‘Just one cup,' replied Chris meaningfully.

‘Well then, I'll pop the kettle on, shall I?'

Dot opened the screen door and headed into the house, humming the theme song from
Gilligan's Island
happily to herself. After watching her go, Chris shrugged philosophically and, picking up her coffee, took it back inside to heat up. The doorbell rang just as she was putting it in the microwave oven, so Chris went down to answer it. Another two dozen eggs.

‘You're getting a few more sales today, aren't you, love?'

‘We sure are.' Chris threw the money into the tin. ‘That makes eight dozen.'

‘Told you it'd all work out, didn't I?'

‘Let's not count our chickens yet.'

The doorbell sounded again so Chris bounced back down the passageway to welcome more sales. But this time it wasn't so much consumers as consum
ees
– in other words, the kids were back.

‘You need to get me my own key.' Zoe pushed past rudely and ran straight up the stairs towards her bedroom.

‘I missed you too,' Chris called after her.

‘
I
missed you, Mummy!' Michael wrapped himself around her waist affectionately.

‘Well, I've got to get going.' Garth jangled his car keys at her and then waved vaguely at the car, where Cynthia was sitting patiently. ‘Long drive, you know. So I thought you could have them next weekend? Then, the following one, how about you bring them into the city on the Saturday. I've got my auction at ten, then I thought I'd take them out to celebrate. I'll bring them back late Sunday.'

‘Okay, sure.' Chris watched as he took the steps two at a time and then paused at the bottom, looking back at her as if he had just remembered something.

‘Listen, Grace – I mean,
Zoe
is pretty upset about Jenny's daughter leaving early. Just thought I should let you know. Oh, and she blames you.'

‘There's a surprise,' said Chris, rolling her eyes in exasperation. Garth grinned at her and headed over towards his 4WD. Michael, realising that his father was about to depart, detached himself from Chris and ran down to the front yard to say goodbye. Chris watched from the veranda as Garth started the car up and leant over to say something to Cynthia, who smiled at him before turning to wave happily at Chris. And, as she waved back, it suddenly hit Chris that they made a good couple. That what she had dismissed as feather-brained idiocy in Cynthia could also be interpreted as simply a mild-mannered, albeit slightly thick, nature. And that this nature, with its placid approach to life, went well with Garth's opinionated dominancy. Much better, in fact, than Chris's ever had.

Chris's eyes widened as this epiphany unfolded, making more and more sense. Where she had got defensive with Garth's self-righteousness, Cynthia just seemed to shrug it off, like it didn't even register. And where she herself had taken offence at his off-the-cuff remarks and bitten back, Cynthia
just let them slide like water off a duck's back. When all was said and done, she was probably the perfect partner for Garth, and he was the perfect partner for her.

Leaving the door open for Michael, Chris walked slowly back inside and headed to the kitchen to set the table for tea. While she worked, she thought about the farm, and Jenny's theory that she might have bought it in the subconscious hope of attracting Garth back. Chris honestly did not know whether that had played a part – certainly the
dream
they had once shared had played a part, but wanting Garth himself back? She just didn't know. But what she
did
know, without any shadow of a doubt, was that she certainly didn't want him here now.

‘Mum!
Mum
!' yelled Michael up the passage.

‘If you want me, come
here
!' replied Chris loudly as she laid out three placemats on the table. If Garth
was
here, she knew exactly what would happen – he would take over. Beggs Eggs would be Lloyd's Eggs and
his
name would be everywhere as proprietor. And there would be a roster of chores for
his
workers, herself included, pinned up on at least three walls and everything they did, every egg they washed, would be checked by him at some stage. Despite her background in finance, she wouldn't be allowed near the office, except to walk through on the way outside to collect the eggs or hang up washing or whatever. And Mac would already have been told that he had it all wrong, and that there was a better way –
Garth's
way – to do things.

‘Mum!
Mum
!'

‘I said come here!' repeated Chris, irritated to have her chain of thought broken.

‘No, I
need
you!'

‘Then come
HERE
!'

‘Goodness!' said Dot from the office, where she was composing her latest email.

Heavy footsteps up the passage indicated that Michael was finally doing what he was told. Chris turned to the doorway to reprimand him, for the thousandth time, but the words died in her mouth as she took in the trail the boy had left behind him. Dark brown splodges that were smeared at six-inch intervals all the way from the front door. As Chris stared, aghast, a certain odour started to permeate the kitchen and she realised that the dark brown splodges were in fact –

‘I stood in dog poo,' confirmed Michael placidly.

‘Then why on earth didn't you say something!' yelled Chris furiously.

‘I
tried
to, but you said to come here!'

‘Euw,' commented Dot. ‘What's that smell? That's not your dinner, is it?'

‘Christ almighty!' Chris threw her handful of cutlery down on the bench and glared at Michael. ‘Get your runners off and take them outside to the laundry. NOW!'

‘Do you need a hand?' asked Dot, still with her eyes fixed on the computer screen.

‘No,' replied Chris tiredly. As Michael trotted past in his socks, the offending runners hanging from one hand, Chris took a small bucket from under the sink and filled it with soapy water. Then she grabbed a plastic bag and pulled a rag out of the box she kept under the sink. It wasn't until she was halfway out of the kitchen that she noticed the rag was, in fact, the old Carlton t-shirt of Garth's she used to sleep in. Chris hesitated, holding the t-shirt up and staring at it for a moment, before grinning – really, she couldn't think of a more fitting end. The grin lasted all the way down to the front door but faded quickly as she knelt to begin the clean-up, her stomach turning in revolt. There must have been one pile of Elsie's revenge that she had overlooked. Trust Michael to find it without even trying.