Life

There are three things I cannot live without. Or at least I have never ventured out of the house without them. Every journey begins with my watch, then the handbag, and the car keys. I check my watch because I hate to be late. I like to be in control. I like to know where I am at all times. If I am late I feel like I am not in control. I wear my watch all the time. I even wear it to bed. It is stainless steel and has Fiorelli stamped on the band. I did not buy it. It wasn’t given to me. I found it in the street, and I kept it because no one claimed it even though I wrote a message on the pavement in chalk. My previous watch, a gift, I lost, on a 4WD trip …

We own a 4WD. We (my husband and I) bought a 4WD because we like to go camping. We like to go 4WD camping because we like to be different; find different places; see things not many other people have seen. We also want a large family and we wouldn’t be seen dead in a Tarago. So we have a 4WD. We used to take it out bush nearly every weekend. Now we have four kids so we don’t go camping any more. We stay in caravan parks and motels and swim in chlorinated pools. But one day we will go camping again. And then we will need a 4WD. And I will ride in the front seat with my handbag propped up in front of me right inside the windscreen …

My handbag annoys my husband. When we are driving the clasp knocks on the window. He takes the bag down and drops it on the floor under the seat. I retrieve it. It has things in it that I need. It has my mobile. It has lip balm, a nail file, my credit card, my sunglasses, and so on. With these things I can survive any situation. Without them I am utterly lost. My husband bought me the handbag for my birthday. I chose it. It took several shopping trips and many hours. My husband was surprisingly patient but I doubt he will offer to buy me another one when this one wears out. He calls my handbag the black hole and refuses to search for anything in it. Each new handbag is bigger than the last. I don’t know where it will end. Perhaps when I have a bag like my mother’s …

 *****

A woman lies dozing on a sofa, facing outwards, her head on an old pillow with her arm shoved underneath it. It must be about 1 o’clock. The heater has just clicked off but it is still cold in the house. She pulls the cotton throw up closer to her chin and bunches up her legs. Her thoughts begin to wander. She closes her eyes again. Something about the air in the house reminds her. She can almost smell the cool dry dampness of her father’s workroom and feel her bare feet crossing over from warm cracked concrete to cool hard-packed earth; her eyes slowly growing used to the dimness. She can hear him moving around; lifting down a hammer or chisel or a set of drills, taking them back to his bench that he made himself out of great rough lumps of six by two. They are bolted together with enormous coach bolts. It takes three of her chubby fingers to cover one bolt when she stands on a milk crate beside him.

“Hello sweetheart. What are you up to?” He turns towards her. The light outside flashes on his glasses.

"I come to see you,” she answers.

“Have you been helping Mummy?”

“No.”

She can see his outline now. He comes closer and squats down in front of her, his bony knees nearly up to his chin. His bearded face peers at her. “What you got?”

“I made a pie.” She opens her small dirty hand to reveal a lump of sand with some leaves crushed on top. “It’s for you.”

“Oh thank you sweetie.” Her father holds out his large square palm and accepts the gift. He lifts it up to his face and pretends to eat. Then he empties his hand and dusts it on his King Gees. “All gone see.” He shows her his hand. “It was delicious.”

He stands up and goes back to his bench. She follows him into the space that has been dug from under the house for his work room. He spends most of his weekends there. Behind him the earth rises steeply up to the foundations of the house. Between the piers she can see greater darkness. But in the farthest distance there is a green glimmer of light that marks the front garden and the street. She has never been that far. The floor comes down too low, even for her small body and it would require that she get extremely dirty. Her father wouldn’t mind but Mum is a different story. It’s best not to push the boundaries with her.

A noise behind signifies the arrival of another small child. It is her brother; chubby, blonde, two years younger than her. His feet are bare too and he pauses on the threshold, as she did, trying to see in the dimness. In both hands he is clutching a short-handled mallet, and she sees that the effort of holding it is causing him to sway a little on his feet. Her father hasn’t noticed his arrival so she runs to her brother and quickly takes hold of the mallet. “Be careful Alex. You can’t hold that. You might drop it on your foot.” She is full of importance. “Give it to me.”

Reluctantly he releases his hold on the mallet but she has not grasped it properly. She holds it for a moment but the smooth wooden handle slides through her fingers. The mallet lands on the toes of her right foot.

Immediately she lets out a howl, and her brother begins to howl too. She feels her father scoop her up as she tumbles to the ground. His arms go under her knees and she falls back against his chest. She continues to scream as he carries her into the blinding sunlight, across the cracked concrete, and up the steep trembling wooden stairs into the house. She remembers seeing the blood on her second last toe and hearing her brother crying as he scampers after them. He crawls desperately up the wooden stairs at their father’s heels, terrified that he might be left behind, and looking for someone to comfort him too.

It was hot in the car in the sunny suburban street. A cool breeze was whispering over the grass outside, but one window was only open a crack. Little tendrils of air crept in through the gap, just enough to prevent him from suffocating. No one had thought to leave the ignition on so that he could wind the windows all the way down, and the door beside him was child locked.

It had been cold in the house where he had previously sat alone for two hours. The move from the house to the car had been a relief. For the first half hour he sat happily in the grey plush seats as his blood warmed up and the heat flowed pleasantly to his face. But now he was too hot. The cardigan that had seemed pitifully thin in the chill dimness of the house now felt thick, and clinging, and heavy. He desperately wanted to shed it but he was wedged in that seat between the door and the centre console. He was a big man.

 

He had intended this day to be a day of respite. Not for himself. It was easier for him to be at home where everything was convenient for him. But he knew how hard his wife worked to keep him at home, knew she didn’t go out because she was worried about leaving him alone for too long. So he had agreed to this outing. Now he was fiercely regretting it. Days were long, especially days like this. At home he slept a lot, sitting in his chair with the TV remote control in his lap. He woke for lunch. He woke for dinner, and for the late news at 11pm. But in the suffocating heat of the car he could not even doze. He watched the minutes tick by on the digital clock in the dash and longed to be able to turn the radio on.

 

Suddenly a movement caught his eye. A small spry little woman of 73, his wife, appeared on the front step of the house. Relief swept over him. She came hurrying down the path, her eyes on the parked car. As she approached and caught his eyes she smiled, and though he didn’t smile back she read happiness in his face.

 

“Hello my darling man. How are you keeping?” she said through the narrow gap in the window. “Are you warmer now?”

“Yes love. Could you open the door for me?”

Obediently she tried the latch.

“It’s locked,” she said, through the narrow gap again.

“Yes. It’s needs the key.”

“I don’t have it.” She turned to look across the lawn to the house. “I’ll have to go and get it.” Turning back to the car she said through the gap “I didn’t know they’d locked you in. I’ll be back in a minute darling.”

And she left, walking quickly and purposefully away.

He watched the clock change 23 times before he caught sight of his wife’s figure leaving the house and hurrying towards him again. She was not smiling. He couldn’t see if she had the keys in her hand. She stopped at the window and spoke through the gap.

“I’ve got them darling. Richard had them and he was on the top floor, climbing out onto the roof. He dropped them down through one of the sky lights.”

He watched the top of her head through the window as she slipped the key into the lock and turned it several times. On the third turn the button popped up. She opened the door. Cool air fluttered over him, touching his damp cheeks.

“Oh yes,” she said, leaning in and caressing his face with her hand “you are nice and warm.” She gave him a light little kiss on the mouth. “Would you like a cup of tea?”           

“I would love.”

His daughter arrived then and peered in at him.           

“How you doing Dad?”           

“I could do with a cuppa.”

 *****

“Th-Th-Th-This is h-h-h-how y-y-y-you t-t-t-talk.”

The second grader laughed as if he was the first person ever to have noticed her speech impediment. The 10-year-old girl stood still for a moment and regarded him dumbly, then turned away. It wasn’t that she couldn’t think of an answer. The boy’s observation was so common that she easily had half a dozen replies. But to answer was to invite more ridicule. It was easier just to melt away.

20 years later she wanted to melt away again. 30 pairs of eyes looked at her intently as she stood at the front of the classroom. She had a brief mental picture of herself as a rabbit caught in a circle of headlights, stupefied, unable to run. She was intensely aware of the wall at her back.

She looked down at the papers on the table in front of her. She shuffled them absently, looked up, and began.

“M-M-M ...”

She stopped. A wave of heat rose from her feet and threatened to make her swoon. She gripped the edge of the table, afraid she might burst into tears. In a sudden flashback she saw herself sitting at another table, with tears in her eyes, trying to explain to her father what had just happened but the words stuck to the roof of her mouth.

“Stop. Think about what you want to say. Take a breath, and say it slowly.”

The 30-year-old raised her head again and took a deep breath.

“My name is Louise.” Pause. Breath. “Today, I will be speaking to you about Professional Indemnity …”

An hour later and the 30 pairs of eyes had left the room. Her supervisor approached from where she had been watching from the back of the classroom.

“Well done,” she said. There was genuine approval in her eyes. “You fielded some really tricky questions, and you didn’t let them get to you. Well done.”

Louise watched the supervisor leave the room, waited until the door had swung shut behind her, then broke into a little victory dance on the spot.

“Th-th-th-this is not how you talk.”

*****

I was thirteen when my parents decided that we needed the experience of visiting Expo 88. Actually, it was my mother’s idea. She is big on experiences. The rest of us just tag along.

We boarded the bus to Brisbane in Penrith and I was at first impressed and relieved that it had a toilet. I had never considered this possibility and the question of how these things were taken care of had troubled my mind in the lead-up to the trip. It had not occurred to me to ask my parents such an inane question. It didn’t appear to be something that bothered anyone else. So I was secretly glad that this bus had a toilet.

There are five of us in my family. This was an unfortunate occurrence. My parents of course sat together. My brother and sister sat in front of them, together. I am the eldest and therefore given the dubious honour of being the most responsible, so I had to share with a stranger. For me, this was the ultimate horror.

“Don’t worry,” my mother said comfortingly “someone will swap with you part way.”

Not surprisingly, nobody did.

The bus left at 5pm. We stopped at MacDonald’s for dinner. We were to drive through the night. At first the woman beside me tried to talk to me, but after several short, mumbled answers she gave it up and got out a magazine. This was a relief. I read for a while. I got tired. I stopped reading. I stared at the seat in front of me. I plucked at the elastic net attached to it. It buzzed. I did it again. My mother told me to stop it. I looked past the woman beside me to the window. It was dark. Only my reflection looked back. I studied it anyway until my fellow passenger caught my eye and smiled, seeming as if she would talk again. I hastily got out my book. It was 8 o’clock.

About 8.30 the challenge of visiting the toilet presented itself. Because of my shyness I had put it off until I was desperate and every bump and sway was causing me distress. I finally got up, shuffled and stumbled past rows of faces, eyes, and elbows, negotiated the steep narrow steps and found the door locked, the toilet engaged. I waited. Then I became afraid of waiting so shuffled and stumbled back to my seat. I sat 20 minutes in agony then began the journey again. This time the toilet was free. But I couldn’t find the light. And I couldn’t work the latch. The door opened outwards so I sat on the toilet and held the door closed. I heard shuffling steps outside. Someone tried to open the door. I clung desperately to the tiny handle, teetering on the edge of the toilet seat. After two tries they gave up. I prayed that they would be gone when I came out. I stayed an extra five minutes to make sure, sitting in the dark, bumping against one wall of the cubicle and then the other. The bus seemed to be going very fast. I didn’t want to be killed sitting on the loo, so I left and fumbled my way back to my seat. It was 9.30.

Now at least I could go to sleep. Here was another difficulty. I had nowhere to put my head. The armrest was too low. The headrest was too high. The seat had no shape at all. It was virtually flat, and terribly upright. The woman beside me appeared to be asleep. Her head was resting comfortably on a thick pillow folded against the window. I looked around. Everyone else had their eyes closed. I sighed, took off my jumper, folded it thickly and laid it on the plastic arm rest. I slid down in my seat until I could put my head on it, and settled in for the longest night of my life.

 

*****

 

Percentage of children who by age seven have had at least one imaginary friend: 65. Percentage of these friends who are animals: 41.

And I thought only weirdos had imaginary friends. It would appear that only weirdos don’t have imaginary friends. So I am a weirdo. I am unhappy about this. Previously if anyone had asked me if I had an imaginary friend I would have laughed, scoffed, and denied it. Now I see that I must analyse myself and prove that I am not a weirdo by citing the existence of at least one imaginary friend. Here goes.

I am glad that animals can be counted as imaginary friends. If it was only human friends then I have no case. I was not, at age seven, sophisticated enough to create a whole human personality for myself. I had enough to do entertaining a brother and a sister and a friend from school, let alone a friend who depended entirely upon my own imagination to make her walk, talk, play, and eat. I preferred friends with a will of their own whose company I could enjoy, or not. And who would go home at the end of the day, or had to go to bed before me. Therefore I never considered an imaginary human friend.

I did however create countless animals to assist me and my human friends in our imaginary lives. For instance I had a whole stable of horses. They had names like Black Beauty, Phar Lap, and Pegasus. I brought them out most afternoons after school to ride them against my friends’ horses. Sometimes we held a steeple chase up and down the terraces at my parents’ house, or through the bush block that adjoined their land. Sometimes it was a sprint from one side of the yard to the other. But most often it was a gymkhana; jumping our steeds over logs we dragged out of the bush or old gates we found under the house. For these events I used Black Beauty; my favourite and the best horse in my stable. She was tall and quick and completely obedient. She utterly adored me, and no wonder. I was a natural rider. No one else could ride Black Beauty. She was spirited as well as beautiful, and only I had the skills to manage her. Of course, we didn’t win all the time. Most events were tied. When we did win we tended to loose the next event, so a tie was most often favoured.

Often after we had stood in front of the judges to receive our first place sash we would celebrate with a victory lap around the yard. Then I would take Black Beauty home and brush her down and give her a special meal of oats in her stable under the turpentine tree. We were together for years, probably until I was twelve years old. Then I stopped riding her, or sold her, or gave her away, or something. I forget now. Maybe she’s still at my parents’ place grazing around the back yard and getting into Dad’s vegetable patch. I will have to go and see. Then I can introduce her to my daughter so she can ride her too some day.