Flying the Coop (7 page)

‘My lord!' said the After School Hours Care lady crossly. She picked up a large, elaborate walkie-talkie from the end of her desk and held it up to her mouth: ‘Carer One! Carer One! Do you copy?'

One of the teenagers on the bench could be seen extracting a similar walkie-talkie from her jacket pocket. Shortly afterwards came her voice: ‘Shit, which button do I press? Here, Casey, give us a hand. That old bat's after me again. She's driving me frigging crazy. So which button do I press?
What
did you say? Oh. Um . . . hello? Hello? This is Carer One.'

‘Really,' said the After School Hours Care lady in an icy voice. ‘Perhaps you could interrupt your conversation long enough to tell Michael Lloyd to get down off the monkey bars before he falls down. And I'd like to speak to you. Later.'

‘Sure thing!' The teenager, who seemed to have forgotten there was a large window between her and her employer, turned to her companion and thrust her finger in the direction of her mouth several times in a gagging motion. Then, rather languidly, she crossed to the climbing frame and started gesturing at the boys. Michael, who was now dangling by only one leg, grabbed a bar with one hand and did a flip that sent
Chris's heart straight into her mouth. Then he was on the ground and off, with the other two boys chasing him gleefully.

The After School Hours Care lady watched these proceedings narrowly and then, taking a pen and a small spiral-bound notepad from her pocket, commenced making notes.

‘Did you want to speak to me?' asked Chris.

‘Yes, Ms Beggs, I did.' She put the notepad back into her apron pocket and turned to face Chris, her face stern. ‘It's about Michael.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, really.' The After School Hours Care lady ignored the sarcasm and ploughed on: ‘It's not that I
don't
approve of imagination. I most certainly do. It's an integral part of childhood. But within limits. And we simply have to draw a line between creativity and outright lies. Otherwise we're no different from the animals, are we?'

‘I see,' said Chris slowly, who actually didn't but just wanted to go home.

‘Good. Because it can't go on.'

‘Obviously not.'

‘So you'll speak to him? About his lying? I can't have it, you know. It starts all the others up and then, before you know it, what have you got?'

‘Animals?'

‘Precisely.'

‘Um, what exactly has he been saying?'

‘All this absolute nonsense about a farm,' she sighed testily. ‘Out in the country, of all places. With a barn, and chickens, and horses and all manner of outrageous things. Would you believe he's been inviting all the others to visit? Because he's moving there soon?'

‘So he is.'

‘And that the farmhouse probably won't last but he'll be sleeping in the barn with a slide and . . . what did you say?'

‘I said so he is.' Chris glared at the woman as
her
imagination started to supply her with the details of how she had treated Michael's big news. With derision, and condemnation, and accusations of lying. Chris's lips thinned and she felt her temper slip.

‘Really, Ms Beggs, I don't think it helps when –'

‘Did it ever occur to you to
check
whether he was actually telling the truth? Because it so happens that we
are
moving in a few months. To a farm, in the country, with all of the things that he said it had. So I certainly hope you didn't call him a liar before all of the other kids, because if you did,
you
owe
him
an apology. And I shall make sure he gets it.'

‘Well, I . . . that is, I thought –'

‘I think the trouble here is that you
didn't
think. And
that's
where we simply have to draw a line. Otherwise, you know what? We're no different from the animals, are we?'

‘Is this seat taken?'

‘No, all yours.' Chris moved closer to the dirt-smeared tram window to allow the middle-aged suit enough room. He sat down, leaning his wet umbrella carefully against the rear of the seat in front and holding on to it so it wouldn't inadvertently fall on Chris.

‘Rotten weather, hey?'

‘Lousy.'

‘Rain's good for the farmers, though.' He unfolded his newspaper with his spare hand and started to read it.

‘
I'm
going to be a farmer soon,' blurted Chris.

‘Really?'

‘Yes, really. I've just bought a free-range egg farm down at Healesville. Twenty acres. Thousands of chooks.'

‘Fascinating.' Her companion rattled his paper.

‘I'll be moving down there with my kids in three months,' continued Chris confidingly. ‘It's got a two-storey house with a kitchen you wouldn't believe. Totally yellow. Like something from
That Seventies Show
. And the carpet! You should see it – looks like regurgitated mud!'

‘Oh, look! Here's my stop already! Gotta go.'

‘Hello, Mum?'

‘Christin! How lovely to hear from you. I was just thinking of you today when Nora Gallagher's cat had kittens and I thought, wouldn't Christin have liked one of these when she was little. You were always after having a kitten but your father wouldn't have it. I think that damaged you, you know.'

‘I doubt it,' said Chris, rolling her eyes without bothering to close them as she was using the phone.

‘No, far be it from me to set myself up as an expert, but I think one develops certain
needs
if they're not met as a child. And often one even –'

‘Mum, could we not talk about my needs?'

‘– shies away from discussing them. See? It's quite possible that's why you're divorced.'

‘Okay. I have shy needs. Now, can we discuss something else? The weather?'

‘Well, it's
glorious
up here! I tell you, moving to the Gold Coast was the best thing I ever suggested. Even your father admits that.'

‘How is Dad?'

‘Oh, he's fine. Did you want to speak to him?'

‘Not necessarily, I only –'

‘Graham! Graham!' Chris's mother suddenly shrieked, without bothering to move the receiver away from her mouth. ‘Graham! Christin's on the phone! Did you want to say
hello? Just tell me if you do, though, because she's rung to talk to me this time. Not you.'

‘Fine.' Chris's father's deep, gravelly voice came quite clearly, indicating that he was probably in the same room as his wife.

‘Look, Mum, the real reason I rang was to tell you my news.'

‘You have news? Graham, she has news!'

‘She's not pregnant, is she?'

‘Of course not. What a stupid thing to say.' Chris's mother lowered her voice: ‘You're
not
pregnant, are you?'

‘Of course not,' snapped Chris irritably.

‘Thanks be. So what's the news?'

‘I've bought a farm!'

‘A farm?'

‘Yes, down in Healesville. It's a free-range chook farm. A thriving business. The kids and I are going to move down there after settlement.'

‘Graham, she's bought a farm.'

‘What the hell for?'

‘
I
don't know. Christin, why did you buy a farm?'

‘Because I wanted to!'

‘Because she wanted to, Graham.'

‘Girl's a fool. Hope she didn't use all her money.'

‘Of course she wouldn't, Graham! What a thing to suggest!' Chris's mother's voice dropped again. ‘Chris, dear, you didn't use all your money, did you?'

‘It's an
investment
, Mum!'

‘Oh dear. This isn't one of your . . . well,
impetuous
ideas, is it?'

‘Certainly not.'

‘And you're sure you want to do this?
And
follow it through? Because, far be it from me to cast a bit of gloom
and doom, but you're not exactly
known
for commitment, are you?'

‘I don't think that's quite –'

‘Like your accountancy degree. I don't know that your father ever got over you throwing that in halfway through. Then there was your netball. You were
really
good at that until you tossed it all away. Oh, and what about that saxophone you
had
to have? Halfway through the first term of lessons and you'd had enough. And then, of course, there's your marriage.'

‘Thanks for all your support,' said Chris bitterly, picking up her wineglass with her spare hand and taking a gulp.

‘And it's not like you actually
know
anything about farming, do you?'

‘I'll learn.'

‘She says she'll learn, Graham.'

‘Huh!'

‘The owner's staying on for a month to teach me everything. It won't be a problem. Besides, how hard can poultry be?'

‘Remember Fluffy?' asked Chris's mother in an ominous tone of voice.

‘Fluffy was a rooster. And seeing as I won't be having any roosters, or rabbits – because neither lay eggs – I can't see history repeating itself.'

‘Ask her if she still thinks battery hens run on batteries,' called Chris's father clearly.

‘Tell Dad that was when I was about three. I've matured a bit since then.'

‘She says she was only three, Graham, so don't be stupid.'

‘She was
six
, not three. Because it was when she went on that prep excursion to the farm. And some little boy put cow dung in her pocket and she lost her temper and socked him with her lunchbox and gave him concussion. We had to go up to the school.'

‘Far be it from me to point the finger but she gets that temper from your side, you know. Same as the red hair.'

‘That's right, blame me.'

‘Okay,' replied his wife obligingly.

‘Hey!' called Chris loudly. ‘You two can discuss my genetic abnormalities later. I only called to give you my news.'

‘Well, thanks for ringing, dear, it's always lovely to hear from you. And, rest assured, I have faith in you even if your father obviously hasn't. Now, would you like a kitten?'

From:
Christin Beggs

Date:
Friday, 21st July 2006. 9.16PM

To:
Jenny Parker

Subject:
Start taking me seriously!

As I told you yesterday, and the day before, etc – I really
have
bought a farm! Just because you've known me almost my entire life doesn't mean that you know me – if you know what I mean, which you probably don't. Because of the aforementioned reason. As for farming experience, what sort of idiot do you take me for? As part of the purchase I also get on-the-job training from the former owner who will be staying on for a month to teach me
everything
. And I'll have you know the former owner is this young bloke who spends most of the day wandering around flexing his biceps while wearing nothing but a pair of bib & brace overalls. Okay, I made that up but here's hoping. I've always fancied being plundered on a haystack. But the point is – I really have gone and done it!

Love, Chris

From:
Jenny Parker

Date:
Friday 21st July 2006. 10.03PM

To:
Chris Beggs

Subject:
Re: Start taking me seriously!

Okay, I believe you. But I don't believe
it
. All jokes aside – Chris, are you sure you're doing the right thing? I mean, a
farm
?
Chooks
? Don't you remember what happened to Fluffy? Seriously, Chris – isn't this whole thing a huge risk? And what about the income – will it be enough? And,
please
don't take offence – but what about your aptitude for
commitment
?

Love from Jenny.

PS Anyway, what about ‘Garth Vader'? Doesn't he still own half the house?

PPS Speaking of the above, didn't the two of you once plan to buy a farm when you got older? Please tell me you're not doing this because of that?

PPPS I believe haystacks are vastly overrated as a place in which to engage in activities of a sexual nature. Hay can be very itchy and, if you're not careful, you may need to have a few bits of it surgically removed. Anyway, knowing your luck, you would probably find the proverbial needle – the hard way.

B
y the weekend following her unexpected property purchase, Chris had told everybody who needed to know about her planned move. She had also told quite a few people who
didn't
need to know, like the man who delivered her junk mail, and the lollipop lady at Michael's school, and a young man in a wheelchair who jammed one of his wheels in a grate and hadn't been able to get away.

One of the reasons she found telling her news almost compulsive was that the reaction was more often than not the same – admiration and envy. And she found that these alone were capable of quelling the niggling doubts that sat in the pit of her stomach like lead weights. But what was
not
helping quell the damn doubts was the fact that Garth was not only refusing to discuss any details, but he was even refusing to return her calls. And she couldn't put the house on the market without his signature unless she took him to court. Which, she was guessing, wouldn't exactly improve their strained relationship.

But things couldn't go on the way they were because she was holding all the cards. Or rather two of them – and they were both currently sitting at the kitchen island bench, dressed neatly and waiting patiently for their father to collect them for
an outing to the Melbourne Immigration Museum. Or rather,
Michael
was dressed neatly – in jeans and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle windcheater. Grace, on the other hand, was wearing an old khaki-green army shirt and an extremely baggy pair of cargo pants with ragged hems that dragged along the ground.

‘Why can't we go to the zoo?' moaned Michael, kicking out at the bench with his runners. ‘That 'gration place sounds boring.'

‘It is,' replied Grace, who had visited it last year on a school excursion.

‘So why d'we have to go?'

‘Because he wants to show us our cultural history.' Grace cast her eyes up to the ceiling. ‘Could have just shown us a bloody family tree.'

‘Don't say bloody.' Chris, who was emptying out the dishwasher, put a stack of dinner plates away in the overhead cupboard. ‘Besides, you should be grateful that he's trying to teach you something. A family tree wouldn't show you how it was for those first settlers out from England. You know, things like how they lived, or what the kids did in their spare time.'

‘I bet it wasn't visiting stupid 'gration places,' mumbled Michael.

‘No, it was fun stuff like starving and being beaten,' commented Grace.

The sound of a key in the front door heralded Garth's arrival. Chris's stomach immediately did a few flip-flops and she took a couple of deep breaths in an effort to calm her nerves.

‘Dad's here!' yelled Michael unnecessarily, clambering off his stool and launching himself on his father just as he entered the kitchen.

‘Hello, Garth.' Chris was surprised by how calm her voice
sounded. She smiled tentatively at Garth and was relieved to see him immediately smile back. He was dressed in her favourite outfit: blue jeans, t-shirt and black sports jacket. It made him look much more casual and relaxed than his usual, more formal work clothes.

‘Dad! Let's go!' Michael, now clutching his father's hand, started towards the doorway.

‘In a minute, Mikey,' Chris took another deep breath. ‘First your father and I need to talk.'

‘Talk? About what?' Garth, still being tugged by his son, looked at her questioningly.

‘About the farm. About Healesville.'

‘Christ, are you
still
on about this farm fantasy? I thought if I gave you a bit of time, you'd have come to your senses.'

‘I
have
come to my senses,' replied Chris with annoyance. ‘That's why I'm moving.'

Garth shook off Michael and looked at her disbelievingly. ‘You're not serious.'

‘Perfectly serious.'

‘Well, don't come crying to me when you blow your dough.' Garth stared at her narrowly for a moment and then suddenly his eyes widened. ‘Hang on a minute. If you're actually serious about this, then what about the kids?'

‘I'm going to sleep in the barn!' piped up Michael. ‘With a slippery-dip!'

‘You're
what
?' Garth turned to look at Chris again. His eyes were flat with fury. ‘You want to make an idiot of yourself, that's one thing. But you are not, I repeat
not
, taking my kids down to the back of beyond on a frigging whim. No bloody way.'

Chris glared back, just as furiously. ‘And exactly how are you going to stop me, hey?'

‘By taking you to court! That's right,
I'll
sue for custody!'

‘Why're you both yelling?' Michael looked at them with anxious confusion.

‘Because they don't listen to each other, that's why,' replied his sister, rolling her eyes scornfully.

‘
I'm
listening,' said Garth, making an obvious effort to calm down. ‘It's just that your mother's not making any sense. I mean, you tell me, how the hell do you expect to
pay
for this damn farm anyway?'

‘By selling the house, of course.'

‘Selling the house!' Garth's voice shot up in indignation. ‘
My
house!'

‘
Our
house!'

‘Is everything all right?' Cynthia, dressed to the nines in heels, expensive denim and a frothy shirt with a linked gold belt around her midriff, stood in the doorway, looking from Garth to Chris with wide eyes. Chris unclenched her teeth and counted to ten quickly under her breath in an attempt to regain some control. Because the
last
thing she needed at the moment was to have this Australian prototype of a Stepford Wife watch her and Garth have a screaming match.

‘I didn't know
she
was coming.' Grace hunched over the island bench and sent her father a filthy look.

‘Don't be rude,' said both Chris and Garth in unison.

‘Can't we just
go
, Dad?' asked Michael plaintively. ‘I just wanna
go
.'

If there was one thing Chris hated about these hand-over/takeovers, it was Michael always sounding as if he was being kept with her against his will. Certainly that was the way Garth seemed to take it, and Michael's eagerness to be gone always brought a smug look to his face.

‘Sure, mate.' Garth cast Chris one last narrow glance and then took his son by the hand. ‘We're outta here.'

‘Just wait one damn –'

‘Mum!' interrupted Grace, leaning over the bench and grabbing her mother by the sleeve. ‘For god's sake, leave it for now. Now that he realises you're serious, give him some time to think it through. And I'll talk to him today. Explain some stuff. Okay?'

Chris opened her mouth and then closed it again when she realised that Garth, with Michael, had already left. She clenched her hand around the cup she was holding and fought the impulse to heft it after them.

‘That's a great idea, Grace.' Cynthia looked nervously at the cup in Chris's hand. ‘Wait till he calms down. Talk to him then.'

Grace let go of her mother and slid down off her stool. ‘Don't worry, Mum. Leave it to me.'

‘And me!' added Cynthia brightly.

‘Yeah.' Grace grabbed her backpack from the floor and headed out of the room, brushing past Cynthia rather rudely as she left.

‘Oh.' Cynthia stepped back quickly and then remained in the doorway for several moments, obviously unsure of a polite way to end the conversation.

‘Bye, Cynthia,' said Chris pointedly.

‘Yes, bye! Have a lovely day!'

‘Idiot,' muttered Chris as the front door closed behind them. Staring at the now empty doorway, she tossed the cup from hand to hand while reliving the entire conversation, then brought her arm back and flung it with all her might across the room.

For Chris, days spent without her children were always extremely pleasurable both in theory and in practice. They were a way of recharging her batteries, even if all she did was
puddle around the house tidying up, or flop down on the couch with a good book, or just watch a movie from beginning to end sans interruption. Even better were the very rare times when Garth took the kids for the
entire
weekend, and she would wallow in bed until mid-morning, and stay in her pyjamas for the better part of the day. But Garth's preference was to collect Grace and Michael after breakfast on a Saturday, and drop them back after tea, so that Chris had to be up to make sure both kids were dressed and fed and ready to go. And then, at the end of the day, she would be handed back two tired, disgruntled, argumentative offspring who, more often than not, were desperately in need of a shower before any prolonged human contact.

Nevertheless, these Saturdays were still very enjoyable. They were also a chance to catch up with friends without having to worry about what the kids were doing or what time they had to be collected from wherever they were. These catch-ups, and even the people she was catching up
with
, were quite different from back in her married days. Then it had been mostly barbecues or dinner parties with other couples but, after the divorce, many of these relationships had simply petered out. In fairness, as the majority of those friends were
still
married, for them weekends were a time to spend with
their
families. Or with other couples.

And as time passed and Chris had not re-partnered, the invitations arrived less and less frequently. When they did, more often than not she would arrive as the
only
single female present, for whom the male host had been forced to find some eligible bachelor. Usually his cousin's wife's step-uncle's best mate who, they would discover during the course of the evening, was definitely faulty. Either stupefyingly boring, or the possessor of a multitude of chins, or with a drinking problem that saw him end the evening vomiting in the hostess's
flower arrangement. And the next day Chris would get an extremely apologetic phone call from her friends, and then not hear from them again for months. If ever.

Now most of the people that Chris spent her downtime with were fellow singletons, women who, whether or not they had children, did not have the constraints of married life. And it didn't seem to matter that their marital status was often the
only
thing they had in common. Like Ebony, whose idea of fun was a 50 kilometre bike ride, preferably across a mountain range, or Annie, who liked nothing better than to spend her weekends trawling through second-hand shops in search of Royal Winton chintz-patterned porcelain. Or Kim, who loved museums and musicals, or Janice, who was totally into the singles scene and would spend every Friday and Saturday evening dressed in minuscule skirts and plunging necklines while eyeing off the available – and not so available – men. One of whom she would usually go home with, only to be back the next weekend, still all dressed up and still alone. There were the happily single, like Ebony, and the unhappily single, like Janice, and the not yet sure, like Chris. Brought together by proximity and circumstance, they would meet for a late, mainly liquid, lunch most Saturdays at Southbank, where they would exchange stories for a few hours before going off to build biceps, or collect porcelain, or bed men.

Shortly after her separation, Chris had met Ebony at a martial arts class she'd joined in an attempt to work off her frustrations in some proactive way. And while the opportunity to fell men with a single two-fingered jab to the eyes had never eventuated, her convivial Saturdays had. The group had been something of a lifesaver because, at the time, she'd
really
needed them. There had been no sense of recharging batteries, or pleasurable freedom back then. Just a gut-wrenching bitterness that coloured each of her days, and made those childless
Saturdays nothing less than hell on earth. Then, when Garth had introduced Cynthia to the children, there had also been a disturbing sense of replacement. Chris would rush to the window to watch the car pull away from the kerb with her kids in the back seat and
that
woman leaning over the front seat to chat with them. Fury and frustration would bring tears to her eyes and she would usually end up crying on the phone to Jenny.

So, although she would never dream of unloading herself to the Southbank women the same way she did with Jenny, the Saturday lunches had forced her out of her shell and out of the house. They were relaxing, enjoyable, interesting, and even educational. Without these women, Chris would never have known that glazing wasn't just what happened to her eyes at school concerts, but could also be applied to porcelain. Or that, at a singles bar, it's usually the men who
can
meet your eyes that are married. They've had practice.

So Saturday afternoon found Chris leaning back in an imitation wrought iron chair on a balcony overlooking the Yarra River. The weather was crisp but the balcony was their standard meeting place regardless, as both Janice and Kim were habitual smokers. Accordingly, Chris always dressed warmly for the lunches and on this occasion had even added her camel-coloured knee-length coat over jeans, a black angora twin-set and black high-heeled boots. At present there were four of them there. To Chris's right was Ebony, a compact, muscly woman in her mid-thirties who had recently dyed her short hair a flat shade of black to match her name. On the left was Kim, an imitation blonde who had been having a ten-year affair with her ex-husband, an arrangement that seemed to suit them both as neither wanted to live together or to share anything much except the actual sex. And directly opposite was Annie, a tall, angular brunette in her early forties who worked
in advertising and had a high-rise apartment over at the Docklands. Having all arrived by methods other than car, the four women were sharing a bottle of chardonnay with the hot topic of the moment being Chris's impromptu purchase and her planned tree change.

‘I still can't believe you did it.' Annie shook her head.