Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful Page 9

  When we pass the Welcome to Kingston sign Sooz presses the bell for the next stop. “Let the adventure begin.”

  The Old Dogs’ Home Charity Store is more like a boutique than an op shop; they definitely have a better quality of unwanted stuff in Kingston.

  The woman behind the counter glances up from her book and eyes us with suspicion. She casts a pointed look at the security camera above the door, as if she’s already preparing to identify us in a police line-up. She nods at the empty glass in my hand. “Is that from here?”

  Given that I’m barely even inside the door, let alone the fact that the homewares section is at the back of the store, it’s such a stupid question that I don’t know what to say. I shake my head.

  “Well, you can’t bring it in.”

  “Um … okay.” I’ve only brought a small shoulder bag with me, in anticipation of being loaded down with shopping bags at the end of the day. The bag has just enough room for my wallet, keys and lip balm; it’s not designed for carrying glassware. “Can I leave it on the counter for five minutes?”

  The woman sighs as if I’ve just asked her to babysit triplets. “I can’t be responsible for shoppers’ possessions. I’m a volunteer, you know – I don’t get paid for this.”

  My friends don’t seem to have noticed that I’m not browsing the Jackets and Slacksuits rack with them. Siouxsie is holding up a pink-and-yellow sequined jacket and nodding at Vicky, who shakes her head vigorously and turns her attention to the black section. Undeterred, Siouxsie tries to give the jacket to Steph, who laughs out loud. The fifth time the volunteer looks up from her book to make sure my glass and I haven’t moved, I can’t take it any more.

  Outside it’s even hotter than before. This is not good shopping weather. It’s the perfect day for a ride by the river, where you get a breeze off the water. Or for lying on a rug in the Botanic Gardens, watching the shadows of leaves flicker across Dan’s face …

  “What are you doing out here?” asks Steph. “We thought you were in the change room all this time. Siouxsie’s been in there chatting to someone for the last five minutes.” She goes back into the shop before I can explain, returning with Siouxsie and Vicky.

  “I wish you’d said you weren’t coming in,” says Siouxsie. “It was pretty embarrassing when that woman finally came out of the cubicle and told me she only liked one of the dresses I’d passed over the door to her.” She turns to look inside, where a middle-aged woman is chatting with the volunteer. The woman holds up an emerald green cocktail dress and gives Siouxsie the thumbs up. “At least someone appreciates my taste.”

  Before we part the beaded curtain over the door of Fran’s Frock Emporium, Vicky takes my glass and puts it in her backpack. Siouxsie steers me towards the middle of the shop and instructs me to go through the first large rack of dresses while she begins her search at the other end.

  The bulging clothes rack in front of me is daunting. The metal hangers are so tightly packed that there’s no way to inspect anything without pulling it out, and while the sign above the rack says Fabulous Frocks that’s as far as the classification goes. If only the dresses were arranged by size. Or era. Even by colour would be some help. I flick through the hangers as best I can, skipping past taffeta formal dresses, wedding gowns and anything that Mum might have worn in her younger days.

  After fifteen minutes I’ve reached the middle of the rack empty-handed. Siouxsie has got to the same point, but she’s holding an armful of dresses and has more thrown over her shoulder.

  “Nothing?” she asks in disbelief. “You must’ve seen something you liked.”

  I shake my head. “Nothing in my size, anyway.”

  “First rule of op-shopping, Fray: if you like it, pick it up, even if you’re not sure it’ll fit you. If you leave it on the rack and someone else gets it, you’ll be sorry.” She pulls the dresses from her shoulder. “Lucky for you I’m on the case. Try these.”

  Grateful not to have to trawl through the other half of the rack, I take the dresses and head for one of the two curtained change rooms at the back of the shop. I take off my jeans and T-shirt and slip on the first dress, a slinky black halter-neck. After a short struggle with the zip, I manage to get it done up and step back to study at myself in the mirror. Even with my bra on underneath, there’s a lot of boobage (as Steph calls cleavage) happening. There’s no way Mum will let me out of the house on New Year’s Eve wearing this; I can already hear the lecture about respecting my body and dressing for my age.

  The moment I imagine Mum’s voice, I feel guilty. Guilty that I’m having mean thoughts about her. Guilty that I’m out shopping with my friends instead of spending time with her. Guilty that I’m not looking after things at home like I promised I would. Guilty that I’ve got boobage and she only has boob.

  “Have you got it on yet?” Vicky asks through the curtain that separates our cubicles. When I don’t answer she lifts the curtain from her side. “Fray?”

  I lift my head from my knees, where it’s been resting since I slumped to the floor. I’m still clutching the too-sexy dress, wearing only my bra and undies, Dan’s plectrum necklace and Mum’s locket.

  Vicky’s eyes widen. “I’ll get Sooz.”

  15

  Steph puts her arm around my shoulder and hugs me towards her. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  We’re back at Switch after making a somewhat humiliating exit from Fran’s Frock Emporium. Vicky had returned with both Steph and Siouxsie and the three of them crowded into the tiny cubicle. I could hear them asking over and over what was wrong but I couldn’t make my mouth form the words to answer.

  Then a haughty voice outside the curtain said, “There are paying customers waiting to use the fitting rooms, you know.”

  “Sorry, Fran, we’ll be right out,” called Siouxsie. She and Steph pulled me to my feet and helped me put my clothes back on while Vicky ducked back to the other cubicle and got her stuff. Even though the shop wasn’t air-conditioned I couldn’t stop shivering. Siouxsie and Steph each put an arm around my waist and led me to the door, their momentum propelling me forwards since my legs still didn’t want to move.

  Outside, Vicky had already hailed a cab. “Do you need to go to hospital, Fray?”

  “Yes,” I said, wondering how she knew. “But morning visiting hours are over. They won’t let me see her till three.”

  That’s when Siouxsie told the driver to bring us to Switch. When we got here Vicky made me drink about a litre of water, in case I was delirious from dehydration. Then she got Jay to make me a sandwich in case my uncontrollable trembling was because I had low blood sugar. The four of them watched while I ate, as if they expected me to keel over. When I said I was feeling better the questions began. I had no choice but to tell them what was going on with Mum.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” asks Siouxsie, again.

  “I’m sorry, I just … I didn’t want this. I don’t want to talk about it all the time or have people doing stuff for me because they feel sorry for me.”

  “But we’re your friends,” says Steph. “We want to help you.”

  How can I make them understand when my reasons suddenly seem lame, even to me? “It’s just that Christmas Eve was the only time we were together after I found out, and we were having such a good time. I didn’t want to wreck it.”

  “You wouldn’t have wrecked it,” says Vicky. “We’d have understood.”

  Siouxsie raises her eyebrows. “I think she means she didn’t want to wreck it for herself.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again because I can’t deny that Sooz’s right and it’s obvious that she’s hurt; they all are.

  “Is there anything we can do for you now?” Vicky looks as if she’d fly to the moon if I told her it’d make me feel better.

  “Can you forget we ever had this conversation?” No one laughs at my attempt to lighten the mood. “Really, I’m fine. If I need any help, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’m sure Dan the Man’s taking care
of things,” says Siouxsie. “You told him, didn’t you?”

  Steph shoots her a scowl. “Sooz, don’t.”

  Siouxsie shrugs. “Whatever. I have to go. Say hi to your mum for me, Freia.”

  “I’ve got to get home, too,” says Vicky, apologetically. “I’m on twin patrol this afternoon. Call me if you need anything.”

  Steph checks her watch. “Do you want me to stay? I don’t have to be at work till four.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got stuff to do.” Perhaps it’s my imagination, but I think Steph’s relieved to be off the hook.

  After she leaves, I sit and stare blankly at Dan’s empty table. If I concentrate, I can almost see him there, fork in one hand, book in the other.

  “I thought you could do with one of these,” Jay says, putting a large slice of chocolate mud cake on the table in front of me.

  I take the fork he hands me even though I’m not hungry.

  “I heard what you said about your mum,” he says quietly. “Want to talk about it?”

  “Talking about it is what caused that scene.” I pick around the edges of the cake with the fork, concentrating on breaking off crumbs. “I wish Nicky was here. She’d know what I should do.”

  Jay sits down opposite me. “Would it help you to know that my mum had breast cancer?”

  “Really?” I look up from my cake demolition.

  “Yep. When I was seventeen. My aunt had it, too, a couple of years earlier. She’s been in remission for almost twenty years.”

  “And your mum?”

  “Mum was okay for a while, but they found a secondary tumour a few years later and …”

  “Oh.” Suddenly the old-fashioned “Mum” tattoo on his forearm makes sense. I’d assumed it was part of his pseudo-kitsch rocker look, like the fuzzy dice that hang from the mirror of his big old Kingswood.

  “My point is, I know a bit about what you’re going through. I remember how scary it was when Mum had her operation. She had a double mastectomy and all of her lymph nodes removed, so it was pretty major surgery, especially back then. She did her best to make out she was okay, but I could tell she wasn’t. The worst part was I didn’t have anyone to talk to about how scared I was. My older sister was backpacking round Europe and we’d hardly seen Dad since the divorce, so it was just me and the dog at home. Lucky for me, beagles are very good listeners. Unlucky for me, they’re no good at cleaning, cooking or paying the bills.”

  I force out a chuckle to let Jay know I appreciate him trying to make me feel better.

  “I know I’m a poor substitute for Nicky, but I’m here if you want to talk to someone who’s been through it.”

  “You mean you’ll be my beagle?”

  “Exactly. Plus, I have the advantage of having opposable thumbs, so I can keep up a steady supply of iced chocolates and mud cake and other endorphin-releasing foodstuffs to make you feel better.”

  There are a lot of questions I’d like to ask Jay about what it was like when his mum came home from hospital, and if she was different after her treatment, but I’m not ready to face honest answers to those questions yet. I tell him I’d better get home and start making dinner or we’ll be eating dodgy takeaway again. Jay nods and picks up my plate without commenting on the fact that I haven’t eaten a mouthful or that I’ve reduced the slice of cake to a pile of brown mush.

  As I’m unchaining my bike, he comes out and slips a piece of paper into my hand. It’s a page ripped off his order pad with his mobile number on it. Above the number it says “24-hour beagle hotline”.

  I tuck the slip of paper into my wallet. I can’t imagine myself calling Nicky’s boyfriend in the middle of the night, but it is oddly comforting to know that it’s an option.

  “What is this?” asks Ziggy, poking his fork at his plate.

  “Curry.”

  “Curried what? It looks like sh–”

  “It’s Quorn – the meat substitute. After last night’s artery-clogging dinner, I figured we should have something vegetarian.”

  “Well, that explains the lumps, but why is it fluoro yellow?”

  I admit it’s not the most appetising meal I’ve ever made, but the only savoury recipe I’ve mastered is spag bol, and I couldn’t find any vegie mince in the pantry. When I saw the jumbo tin of extra-hot curry powder I figured it was time to expand my culinary horizons.

  “It’s not bad,” says Dad when his coughing fit subsides. “Just a little strong, perhaps. Did you put in anything other than curry powder?”

  Ziggy pushes his plate away before I can answer.

  “You haven’t even tried it, wussburger,” I say, spearing the smallest chunk of Quorn on my plate. The moment it touches my tongue, my mouth is on fire. Ziggy’s watching me so I force myself to chew even though the spicy heat is making its way up my sinuses. After a long drink of water, I can breathe again.

  Ziggy gets up and goes to the breadbin. “Anyone else want a toastie?”

  “No, thanks,” says Dad. “I’m enjoying this.” He takes another forkful and smiles at me. I hope I’m more convincing when I tell him his pancakes are delicious.

  By the time Ziggy’s made and devoured his golden-brown toasted sandwich, oozing with melted cheese, I’m only half-finished my curry, but I’ve drunk about two litres of water to wash it down and I feel like I’ve swallowed a cannonball. I scrape the rest of the curry into the bin and begin filling the sink to wash the pot, which has taken on a lurid yellow tinge.

  Dad takes the scrubbing brush from me. “We’ll clean up. It’s the cook’s reward.”

  “I don’t think you should reward her for this,” says Ziggy, eyeing the dirty bowls and measuring spoons and chopping boards piled up on the counter. “If anything, she should be punished for trying to poison us.”

  “That’s enough, Ziggy,” says Dad, but he doesn’t sound fierce like Mum would, just tired. “Off you go, Fray. And thanks for making dinner.”

  The phone rings while I’m in Mum’s study, scouring her bookshelves for a basic-looking cookbook to find a recipe for tomorrow. I have a premonition that it’s Dan returning my call from this afternoon, asking if he wanted to come for dinner (thank God he didn’t get the message in time to say yes), and race to the hallway to answer it before Ziggy. Once again, my psychic abilities let me down.

  “Hello, Bloss.”

  “Oh. Hi, Grandma Thelma.”

  “How are you? It’s been ages since we’ve had a natter!” In the background, Rocky, her demented parakeet, squawks maniacally.

  “I’m fine thanks, Gran. And thank you for the cardigan. It’s … very colourful.”

  “My pleasure. I’m looking forward to seeing you in it.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe next time you’ll visit in winter and it’ll be cold enough to–”

  “We won’t have to wait that long – I’ve just booked my ticket to come down tomorrow! Don’t tell your mum. I want to surprise her.”

  “Oh, she’ll be surprised,” I agree.

  Mum was probably the most relieved of all of us when her mother announced she was moving to Queensland three years ago. Gran loves it up there – she reckons her perm lasts twice as long with the extra humidity, and her parakeet loves hearing all the wild birds – which suits Mum just fine, as it means she only comes to stay for one week a year. By the end of those seven days of mother-daughter bonding, Mum’s a wreck.

  Dad’s face falls when I tell him Gran’s on the phone.

  “I already spoke to her this afternoon. And this morning,” he says, handing Ziggy the scourer. “What does she want now?”

  I shrug. There’s no way I’m going to be the bearer of this bad news.

  16

  I hang just out of sight of the hallway so I can hear what Dad’s saying. He does his best to talk Gran out of coming, even suggesting that he and Mum could visit her in Queensland instead when Mum’s up to it, but she won’t budge. I’ve heard about what Gran was like when Mum was growing up, so I don’t know why she’s decided to come ov
er all maternal now. My theory is that it’s guilt.

  Here’s how Gran’s annual stay with us usually goes:

  Sunday (day before arrival): Mum in a complete tizz; recleans the already clean kitchen and bathroom; begs Ziggy to tidy his room; tells me to pack up my essential items and move them to her study, where I’ll be sleeping on the sofa bed. Dad hides in his study.

  Monday: Mum picks Gran up at airport. When we get home they’re still all smiles and how-lovely-to-see-yous. Gran tells stories about when Mum was little; Mum pretends to be embarrassed, but you can tell she’s loving it. They drink endless cups of tea. Dad hides in his study.

  Wednesday: Mum and Gran still smiling, but through slightly thinner lips. Mum suggests a visit to the art gallery/museum/State Library; they’re back before we get home from school. Gran tells us how rubbish whatever exhibition they saw was while Mum bangs pots and slams kitchen drawers. Dad still hiding.

  Friday: Gran insists on cooking family dinner, refuses to pay extra for organic and won’t let Mum shop for her. Mum looks at every forkful before putting it in her mouth, as if she can see the toxins oozing out of it. Dad keeps his eyes down and cleans his plate.

  Saturday: Atmosphere so tense you could carve it. Gran refuses to go on any more outings, sits in living room knitting and calling for endless cups of tea. Mum cleans. Dad hides in his study.

  Sunday: Mum and Gran hug each other tersely at the door. Dad takes Gran to airport. Mum starts breathing again.

  After the last disastrous visit, I asked Mum why she keeps inviting Gran to stay, since it never ends well. She told me it was complicated and that I’ll understand when I become a mother, myself. I said that if she turns into a pain in the bum like Gran, I won’t have her over. She told me to go to my room.

  When Dad comes back to the kitchen his face is ashen. “We’ve got some serious cleaning to do in the morning,” he says gravely. “Right now, I need the soothing strains of Bach.” He gets Boris’s cat treats from their hiding place in the breadbin and walks slowly from the room, like a prisoner on his way to the gallows.