Odyssey In A Teacup (31 page)

Maude never, ever bought groceries—she bought ‘ingredients’. Dark mocha Java blend coffee beans were included in her list of ingredients.

‘How can a coffee bean be an ingredient if it’s not actually part of a recipe?’

This made Maude’s hackles rise. ‘It qualifies as an ingredient because one must combine it with water, milk and sugar, so it
is
part of a recipe!’

Maude taught me to grind the ‘ingredient’ that is the coffee bean, and infuse the coffee to perfection in a plunger. This plunged brew was only for her and the doctors; Sandy and I were unworthy of the recipe. We were only allowed instant coffee, which according to Maude was a grocery, not an ingredient. Sandy challenged Maude on this, saying it was as much an ingredient as dark mocha Java blend coffee beans because one does not consume it neat. Maude peered at her with sheer disgust. Not only did it take little to piss Maude off, one did not argue with her.

The first time I ground and plunged Maude’s coffee, I served it to her in one of the Pyrex mugs in the cupboard. She gave it back to me.

‘I do
not
drink from Pyrex. And I do
not
drink from mugs.’ Maude only drank from a Fine Bone China teacup delicately perched on its saucer.

On a frantically busy morning when Sandy had gone out to buy some more milk, and I was pouring Maude’s plunger coffee recipe into her Fine Bone China, I asked her to answer the phone.

‘I do
not
do phones.’

Maude, it seems, had limited horsepower. She was only really window dressing. She also didn’t ‘do’ appointments, referral letters, orders, postage, errands or invoices. But Sandy and I strongly suspected she was doing one of the doctors.

I think I stayed as long as I did because of Sandy. She reminded me of how I used to be—she often answered back. But there’s only so much crap you can take, and Sandy had had a gutful.

‘I’ve had enough of you. I quit!’ she yelled after Maude had befouled her once too often. ‘The children you never had are so lucky!’

It wasn’t so much what Sandy had said (which was kind of laughable), as her defiant stance that had Maude cowering under her glare. Another confirmation: bully = coward.

Sandy grabbed her bag and stormed out. ‘Good luck,’ she said to me.

Maude’s eyes narrowed. She stood up, flicked her mane like a whip and scowled at me. ‘I suppose
you
intend to leave, also!’

‘Um, er, no.’ Another confirmation: coward = coward.

Maude raised one eyebrow. ‘Good.’

She made an effort after that to be nice to me. I started to relax around her, even felt confident.

Until the day Baubo decided to make an appearance.

Maude had started returning to her overbearing ways, and I felt a little intimidated early one morning as she was impatiently going through the patient list and my tasks for the day. Suddenly, the image from years earlier of Sylvia neighing popped into my head, but it was more animated. Maude’s mouth shape-shifted into a horse’s. Not just any horse’s, though: it was Mister Ed’s. As a child,
Mister Ed
was one of my favourite television shows. It was about a talking horse. Mister Ed had a raspy voice, a bit like Maude’s was today (occasionally hoarse from too much smoking and yelling). The show’s theme song was catchy and the first verse of it started playing in my head. It says you can’t talk to a horse, unless of course, it’s Mister Ed. Not true. You can talk to
all
horses, and they all ‘talk’ back. But I don’t know of any that actually express their thoughts and feelings in words. Except for Mister Ed.

And it didn’t end there. I had a sense of Baubo smiling at me, her labia-lips parted to reveal one single, rotted tooth. I started to laugh. It didn’t end well. The next few months before I finally left the job became intolerable. Even armed with the knowledge that Maude was a bully, as long as my
cojones
remained undescended, I couldn’t muster the courage to take her on.

‘Still, the way you gave notice spoke volumes,’ Ralph reminded me. ‘Although ... maybe not as articulately as Mister Ed.’

Maxi had been listening in, and laughed; I grimaced as I recalled the moment. I was nearing the end of my first trimester of pregnancy but I hadn’t told Maude or the doctors I was expecting. Reuben and I were in a good position financially and he wanted me to give up work sooner rather than later. Suited me; I didn’t feel so great. I’d been throwing up every morning when I got out of bed, then felt nauseous for the rest of the day. At the three-month mark, when it was just starting to let up, I resigned.

Maude was outraged, appalled that I had the ‘sheer audacity’ to get pregnant. Her ranting was stomach churning; it felt like a kick in the gut. I could feel her hot breath on my face—she was the type who stands real close and invades your personal space. I felt squeamish, and unexpectedly projectile vomited all over her designer outfit.

What had begun as a plain white ensemble became a collaboration in Haute Couture: Gold + Chanel / Balenciaga / Lagerfeld / de la Renta / Valentino / Dior / Versace / Saint Laurent ... who knew which? Didn’t matter. It was my Jackson Pollock splatter efforts down the side of the Centaur revisited. Only with a smaller ‘canvas’, it was more concentrated and more vibrant.

‘It was a good parting shot, but it was hardly courageous,’ I said.

‘Facing up to a bully is no mean feat.’ Ralph knew this well. ‘It takes time to get there; you’ve got to be grounded. It takes soul.’

‘Well, you’re in luck. It’s on the menu.’

Huh?

Both Ralph and I turned to look at Maxi.

‘Fillet of sole burger.’ She was holding up the lunch menu that the waiter had brought her.

‘Oh yes. Here we are ... grounded. Brought back down to earth with a thud.’ Ralph smiled and slowly shook his head. ‘Let’s just hope a harpy doesn’t do the same, and snatch the sole of your burger—’

‘And do whoopsie on what’s left on the plate,’ Maxi added.

We all ordered the sole burgers and then chatted about other things. After the food arrived, Vette, who’d taken in the tail end of my conversation with Ralph, asked him, ‘Is there a difference between soul and spirit?’

‘Um-um-um. Yes and no. They’re not separate but they’re kind of hyped as if they are, as if spirit’s pure and perfect and up there above human life’—he pointed upwards—‘and soul is, well ... down here. Humanness in all its messiness. Our roots. Down there.’ He pointed downwards. ‘Our base impulses and dark emotions and thoughts are made to look
bad
. Modern spirituality wants us to rise above them and focus on the good ... you know, like that old song, “Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive”.’

Maxi started singing the song and we all joined in. Only the first verse, though. None of us knew the rest.

Ralph continued, ‘I don’t have a problem with accentuating the positive. But that push to get rid of the negative ... that bothers me.’ He knitted his brow in concentration, and then his mouth curved into a small smile. He looked at me. ‘Remember that meditation night with Kishma, when someone farted and you cracked up?’ We all laughed at the memory. ‘She made the incident seem wrong and
un
spiritual. But the way I see it, fart plus laughter ... now there’s a great example of soul and spirit working together.’

What he just said triggered something. ‘Ooh.
Ooh!
I feel a lightbulb moment coming on ... but the bloody filament’s flickering and blinking!’ I said in frustration, but excitedly.

‘Just throw some words out. What comes to mind?’

‘Er ... ancient mythology. Ah, yes! I remember Mr Kosta saying the ancient myths weren’t popular. Maybe ‘cause the gods were divine
and
dark.’

Ralph nodded. ‘Yep. Just like humans. But the ancients gave equal value to both sides. Spirit and soul. We modern humans want the ideal, though—’

‘And God created man in His own image. Especially the fairy tale hero. No wonder
these
stories are popular.’ I looked at Vette. ‘No way would the hero scratch his nuts! He’s Godlike and flawless.’

The penny dropped for her. ‘Oh. My. God—’

‘Yes indeedy!’

‘We’ve been so set up, haven’t we? From when we were little! Not just looking for “The One”; looking for The
Perfect
One.’

We got lost in our thoughts for a few minutes; all reflecting on the implications of this in our own lives. Then Vette asked, ‘How can someone snatch someone else’s soul?’

‘They can’t. They can try to by controlling you and denying you your basic rights. But if you end up bending yourself out of shape to please them, you give it away. They haven’t taken it.’ Ralph eyed the fish scraps left on my plate. ‘Can I have the rest of your sole?’

Why not ... I’ve given most of it away.

I’d lost my appetite. Ralph had pretty much summed up the story of most of my adult life. I handed him my plate and left for my hair appointment.

I had a lot to think about during my time at the salon. Fortunately, Helen and Troy worked silently, until two hours later when Troy exclaimed, ‘Voila!’ and removed the hairdressing cape. He told me I looked fifteen years younger and ‘totally rad’ (and even the mirror agreed). Feeling giddy with radness, I dropped into the boutique next door and bought myself a couple of things including a slammin’, phat, low-cut, tight, sleeveless emerald-green dress zippered from knockers to hem. I wore it back to the hotel.

I found the three of them, still by the pool. The two fashionistas looked like beached whales—on their stomachs, fast asleep, legs and arms splayed out and hanging over the edge of their chairs. Both of them were snoring and dribbling. Ralph was semi-reclined in his chair and reading the paper. I snuck up and sat down on the chaise longue next to his.

‘Hello,’ I said in an affected tone.

Ralph turned to look at me, lowered the paper and put his hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the glaring sun. ‘Hi there.’ He stared at me then gave me a crooked, closed-mouth, flirtatious smile. ‘I’m Brill, Ralph Brill.’

As in, ‘Bond, James Bond’?

When we were kids, Ralph and I loved playing at being our favourite movie, television or book characters. I was either Pollyanna or Mary Poppins, and he was Zorro. Ralph was so into him, he wore a Zorro mask (under his glasses) for two weeks straight, even sleeping and bathing with it on. Ralph reinforced his standing as my hero when he made the sign of the Z on Zelda’s back with Presto Whip, a non-dairy whip topping in a pressurised can, which Uncle Isaac somehow managed to bring back (in an insulated pack) from one of their trips to the States.

When Ralph grew tired of being Zorro, he was either Tarzan or Noddy. So, Agent 007 was a departure for him.

‘And you would be ... ?’ He raised one eyebrow and slightly inclined his head.

Mirroring him, I raised
my
eyebrow, tilted
my
head, smirked and was about to say ‘Pussy Galore’. But the way he was looking me up and down unabashedly and lasciviously suggested he was thinking along those lines anyway. What the ... ?

Ralph was not playing!

Sure, I looked very different, but ...
yikes ...
he was actually hitting on me (with a naff come-on, to boot)! Oddly, though, it felt, um, nice.
No, no, no ... Eww!
Ralph, it’s me. ME!
I was tongue tied—couldn’t even squeak the words out. Just then, I saw Vette’s head pop up behind and above Ralph’s shoulder. She stared at me sleepily and squinted. Her breath caught sharply as recognition dawned.

‘Oh my God!’ she shrieked.

It woke Maxi, who also stared, then sat bolt upright and screeched along with Vette like a pair of teenagers at a rock concert.

‘Holy shit! Fire engine red ... and ... a
pageboy!
And ... with
a fuck-me
fringe!
’ Maxi fanned herself.

The hair colour, she already knew about (she helped pick it). But at the last minute, Troy had suggested ‘we’ take an extra couple of inches off the length and go for a full, heavy fringe. The last time I had a fringe was when I was five. ‘Give it a shot,’ Troy had said. ‘You can always grow it out if you don’t like it.’

Maxi and Vette said the hair was ‘bodacious’ and the dress ‘wicked’, but not a word from Ralph. He sat crimson-faced, open-mouthed and speechless as we stared at each other. I couldn’t resist raising my brow, tilting my head and smirking again but thought it best not to mention his initial come-hither move.

‘You don’t like it?

‘I, er. No. I ... ’ He was flummoxed.

‘Oh.’

‘N-no. I mean, yes. Yes! I do like it. I thought you were just getting a few highlights. But that looks, er—
you
look amazing. Um ... you’re sure making statement now.’

‘That she is!’ Vette said jubilantly.

As we three girls talked excitedly about my new hairstyle, Ralph got up, dived into the pool and did another dozen laps. He was no longer flustered when he emerged, but he didn’t say much during our last leisurely hour poolside.

At seven o’clock, Maxi, Vette and I waited for Ralph at the entrance to the hotel restaurant. He came up behind us.

‘Close your legs, girls!’ he commanded with a flourish of false bravado.

We turned to find him standing like a comical Spanish conquistador—minus the curly moustache—head defiantly tossed back, hands on hips, one jeaned leg outstretched. He was wearing royal blue patent leather alligator-print loafers. It looked like the statement-making supremo himself didn’t like to be outshone.

‘Those are no threat,’ Maxi said. ‘You’ll just end up seeing one big, cracked image.’

‘Hmm ... you mean ... as opposed to seeing many small images of crack?’

‘Whatever. Just one of your many special talents back then, hey.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN:
LATEST CRAZED

‘Back then’ was about twenty-eight years earlier. During our teenage years, stretchy, pull-up ‘wet-look’ boots were all the rage for girls. Boys loved them too. Not so much because of the way they looked on a girl, but because of what they could look
at
on a girl: her knickers reflecting in the boot’s shiny surface. Pity Ralph was unreflective when it came to how to go about reaping the rewards of this fashion item.