Long Distance Communiqués

10

Long Distance Communiqués

    Given the old joker’s pretty much a box of birds, if gone slightly nuts where huge shiny German cars are concerned and getting away with murder where Thai food is concerned, not to mention not touching the Tupperwared casseroles the big chest freezer’s full of and that must’ve taken her weeks to prepare, there’s no reason for me to be here instead of downtown in swanky luxury— Oh, well. Mum’s rung up twice a day, so far, I kid you not. Both of us are all right, Mum. She won’t ask what he’s eating, in that case.—I wouldn’t, no.—And wouldja stop ringing up? He thinks you’ve gone bananas.

    So she goes: “Ye-es…” Vague as Hell. Boy, if that’s what the menopause does to ya I will seriously consider HRT when my turn comes.

    So I go: “What?’

    “Um, have you seen anything of the Walsinghams, dear?”

    Eh? Who’s she been talking to, for God’s sake? Well, Aunty Allyson thinks that Les Mizz is the summit of high musical art, wouldn’t of been her. Has Aunty Kate written to her saying— Well, saying what? And surely pregnancy can’t have addled Rosie’s brain to such an extent that’s she written to say— Well, what, for Pete’s sake? There isn’t anything to flaming say!

    “Why?”

    “Dot, must you answer a question with a question?

    Apparently, yeah. “Doesn’t it run in the family?”:

    “That isn’t funny,” she says with a sigh.

    Aw. Thought it was, quite. “Well, why?”

    “Have you seen anything of them or not?” she snaps.

    A vague light begins to filter through, so I go: “Look, if Aunty Kate’s wondering if he’s round there every other day making David feed him—”

    “No!” A short pause; then she goes weakly: “Well, is he?”

    “Not to my knowledge, but then I only been here three days. Dare say he could be, but if he is, don’t expect him to let on to me, given he knows about these interrogations.”

    Dunno if she's deliberately ignoring this but what she says is: “Well, have you seen her?”

    “What, Nefertite? No. She was in London not long since, there was a review of a concert she gave in one of Uncle Jerry’s Observers.”

    “So she’s not in SA?” she says in a relieved voice. What the fuck is up?

    “Not as of two-three weeks back, no. However, there are daily flights between London and—”

    “All right!”

    “Look, why do you wanna know?”

    Silence.

    “All right, be like that. I’m hanging up, I don’t give a fuck what stupid bee you and Aunty Kate have got in your—”

    “No! It’s not that!”

    “What is it, then?” Not that I’m that interested, I’d rather be watching TV, actually.

    Silence again, and I’m just gonna hang up on her, I’ve had it, when she says in a cautious voice: “Your Aunty Kate doesn’t know. And there may be nothing in it—well, I dare say there is nothing in it.”

    Goddit, one of the Adelaide moos that call themselves Aunty Kate’s friends will of spotted Uncle Jim’s keenness on Nefertite and rung Mum, to stir. First waiting until Aunty Kate’s out of the country—right.

    “My bet is there is nothing in it, whaddever it is, Mum—yeah.”

    Oops, I can hear her swallowing. And she goes: “Carolyn rang the other day to say she’s heard from an old school friend who, um, saw Jim with, um, well, from the description it can only have been her, in a restaurant in Norwood.”

    Yawn. Big deal. “It’ll of been the Norwood Thai. He did say Nefertite and David like it.”

    “The point is,” she says crossly, “that the brother wasn’t with them!”

    Yawn, yawn. “Mum, this is stupid Adelaide gossip. And if this is why you sent me over here—”

    “No! I said, Carolyn rang just the other day! But don’t you think it explains why he didn’t sound like himself?”

    No. Read my lips: N,O, no. NO!

    “No. It’s a truckload of bullshit, Mum. In the first place the old joker’s not like that and in the second place, never mind if Aunty Kate is on the other side of the world, he hasn’t got the guts.”

    “Dot,” she says in this cautious voice, “I know he must seem as old as the hills to you, dear, and of course he’s been under Kate’s thumb for years, but—”

    Yawn. “Ya reckon he’s going through the male menopause, that it?”

    “Mm. Well, it is possible. And, um, well, there’s no need to repeat this to anyone, dear,”—who’d be interested, for Chrissakes?—“but, um… Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s always had a roving eye. But, um, I know you can’t see it,”—Jesus, spit it out, Mum!—“he has always been a bit of a flirt.”

    Choke, gulp, choke! Swallow, gasp. “Geddouda here!”

    “Don’t laugh, Dot. Just try to clear your mind of any preconceived notions and think of him as a human being rather than as your old uncle. Remember how he went on, that time they were over here and Rahnee Armstrong came round?”

    “Who?”

    “Dot! Rahnee Armstrong! Deanna’s friend Katrina’s mother!”

    “Oh! The dame with the orange hair!” Uh—oh, help. Yikes, in fact. When ya think about it… “Cripes.”

     “You see? He is that sort.”

    “Yeah, but there was nothing in it, Mum!”

    “There couldn’t be, could there, in our lounge-room with Deanna and Katrina inflicting their blasted dress-ups on us and Kate due back from the Mall at any moment. But you see what I mean?”

    I do, actually. “Yeah, but I don’t think he’d go further than a mild flirt. Well, a meal at the Norwood Thai—yeah. He loves Thai food and she won’t let him have it.”

    “I wish you wouldn’t call Kate ‘she’ like that,” she says with a sigh.

    “I wouldn’t, if she didn’t ask for it.”

    “Mm.”

    She’s gone silent again. So what do I say? I could say: “I don’t give a fuck if Uncle Jim's got fifteen mistresses fifteen times the size of Nefertite all over Adelaide, and good luck to ’im.” Only I don’t think she’d appreciate it. Or: “I’m not interested, ta.” Only ditto. So I don’t say anything.

    And eventually she goes: “Couldn’t you just go round and see if she’s home, at least, dear?”

    “No.”

    “Dot, it can’t hurt! It’s just around the corner, isn’t it? And at least we’d know—”

    “No! And we wouldn’t know, because only the two of them can know. All we’d know is that what Carolyn’s mate told her she saw is possibly true rather than a piece of fabricated spite like the rest of the story! And what good can it possibly do you to know, even if it is all true? And if it is, what the fuck good can do her to be told? And I do mean the cat’s mother, yes, and ya can tell bloody Carolyn that with my compliments!” Slam!

    Ten mins later. Ring, ring! I gotta get it, the old joker’s still in his shed. It’s Dad, no prizes for guessing why. “Did you just hang up on your mother?”

    “Yes, because she was on about some spiteful piece of goss’, Dad! And whatever she thinks, I didn’t come down here to spy on the old joker!”

    “No. Well, your cousin Carolyn was bending her ear the other day. But if Kate pushes off for six months to the other side of the world, she’ll have to lump it, won't she?”

    “Yeah. Uh—six?”

    “Work it out, Dot: she’s been over there about a month and she’s not planning on the side-trip to Egypt until some time in January.”

    “Cripes, ya mean she’s gonna inflict herself on Rosie and John for the rest of the year?”

    “Apparently, yes. In between the tours of the stately homes of England.”

    “Thought she done that last time?”

    “There are a lot of stately homes, Dot. No, well, I know John’s back now, but no saying when the Navy’ll send him off for a six months’ stretch, love. And it sounds as if that mother of his is a dead loss: at least Rosie’ll have someone to help her with the baby.”

    “Ye-ah. In her last email she said—mind you, she’s getting vaguer and vaguer—she said John’s taken a job with the Admiralty. They’re at their flat in London.”

    “Jerry reckons that’s only temporary. Well, three months, tops. Could be off again before Christmas, at that rate.”

    “Ugh. But couldn’t he apply for a permanent shore job, Dad?”

    “Ye-es. Well, dare say if his father used his influence he could get him something decent ashore, yes. But it’s not like us civilians, love, they have to go where the Navy sends them. And that aside, John didn’t strike me as the sort to ask his father to use his influence.”

    “You’re right, there!” Bloody strong-minded, is what he struck me as, plus and the rigidly moral sort. Shit, wouldn’t fancy being in her shoes. “Shit, poor Rosie! I mean, she’s hardly laid eyes on him for the last four months of her pregnancy, then he’s off again when it’s barely three months old? Crikey Dick, you’d think he’d want to be with her! If I was her—”

    “Mm?” he goes on a dry note.

    “Well, I’d say something, Dad! I mean, doesn’t he owe her something? She is his wife, after all!”

    “Mm. Well, perhaps that’s the alternative to the lily-livered pseudo-hero, like your friends Ivanhoe and Macbeth and Co., Dot?” he says lightly.

    Hah, hah. Talk about the elephant never forgets! Gee, I only mentioned— No, well, maybe I did go on about it a bit, but heck, that was years back! “Very funny, Dad.”

    “Actually I’m not joking,” he says mildly.

    Uh—no, nor you are. Shit. “But crikey Dick! He’s twice her age, ya know! He marries her and gets her up the spout, whether or not in that order, then he goes off merrily to sea for over fifty percent of their so-called married life?”

    “I could point out that she is an adult and there was nothing forcing her to marry him. If it wasn’t a drastic over-simplification.”

    Scowl. “Of what?”

    “Well, specifically of the case of Rosie and John. But generally, of human relationships. Just don’t marry a sailor, Dot,” he says lightly.

    So I go weakly: “I wasn’t planning to.”

    “Nor was she,” he notes drily. “Well, never mind them. How does Jim strike you, love?”

    God give me strength! “Not you, too!”

    “Look, has he fallen out of his tree, or not?”

    “Uh—well, I told you about the Merc. But I’d say it isn’t a general indication he’s out of his tree, I’d say it’s compensation.”

    “Well, yes! …Oh. Oh, right! Well, that sounds better!”—Gee, Dad, don’tcha want the old joker to have a wild fling with a giant-economy-size Nefertite?—“Though by the sounds of ’er, she’d give him a bloody good time!” he notes with a dirty snigger.

    Uh—yeah, she would, I should think, now ya mention it. “Um, yeah. But like I say, I think he’s done his dash with the Merc. Well, and maybe the odd meal at the Norwood Thai.”

    “Yeah. He told Kate about the Merc, yet?”

    “Nope.”

    “Shit,” he says, think he’s standing there shaking all over: like, I’m getting sorta vibrations down the line, y’know?

    “Yeah. Well, he recognises there more or less can’t be a good time to tell her;”—“No!” he gasps—“but he’s planning to wait until after Rosie’s had the baby. Assuming that Aunty Kate’s gonna be the tower of strength she reckons she’s gonna be, kind of thing.”

    “Tactics,” he notes drily. “Yeah. Well, good luck to him. –All right, Deanna, you can speak to her, but do us all a favour and remember that that giant profit Telstra made last year came straight out of my pocket, wouldja?”

    “What does she want?”

    “No idea, but she was muttering earlier about pink gauze. Here you— No, hang on a minute. –Dot, gossip aside, if you could get on round to—uh, their erstwhile neighbours’,”—that’s for Deanna’s benefit, thinks she won’t understand “erstwhile”; on second thoughts, he is so right—“it’d certainly put my mind at rest to know the diva”—so’s that—“isn’t there after all.”

    “Right, and what if she is? Drop it, Dad, I’m not doing it! Ya better put her on. But I’m not gonna scour Adelaide for pink anything!”

    “All right, but don’t blame me if your mother bends your ear again. –Go on, Deanna. Just try not to ask her to buy anything pink for you, will you?”

    “Very funny!” So she comes on and goes: “Hi, ’s’me.”

    “I guessed that, Smee. Look, it’s no use asking me to buy—”

    “No!” All right, ya don't wamme to buy pink gauze. So what do ya— Right, beads to match the gauze. Given that I never seen it— Silver beads, eh? Right, from this special Adelaide shop miles from nowhere. It’s not miles from nowhere, it’s on a main road! Deanna, Adelaide is filled with fucking main roads, all going nowhere and connecting with nothing, least of all with one another. But there’s no point in saying that, so I don’t. Can she remember the suburb? Goodwood. She thinks. She remembers her and Aunty Kate went past a tram stop when they went there!

    “Deanna, the tram line runs for eleven K!” I shout at this point.

    Uncle Jim’s just surfaced from the shed. “That ya sister? She want ya to get something at Glenelg? We can nip over there, easy—”

    “No.—Shut up a minute, Deanna, I’m gonna ask Uncle Jim if he can figure out where it is.—She thinks it’s in Goodwood, and she remembers going past a tram stop to get there. On a main road, she thinks.”

    “Yeah? Goodwood Road, probably. But what is it, Dot, love?”

    Ulp. “Sorry. A special shop Aunty Kate goes to that only sells beads. Does that seem likely—”

    Of course! He knows that shop! Kate used to go there all the time, when Carolyn and Megan were doing the ballet stuff!

    Like, ten years back? Sigh. “Are ya there? Yeah, all right, me and Uncle Jim’ll drive miles into the hinterland so as not to find a special bead shop possibly on or near Goodwood Road that Aunty Kate used to go to back in the Dark Ages when Megan was still into ballet. And if you’ve got ya micrometer handy, we’d appreciate getting the exact specifications, ta.”

    So she goes: “What?”

    Sigh. “How big are these special silver—”

    So she tells me. Eventually I give in and hand her over to Uncle Jim and he writes it all down. “That make sense to you, Dot?”

    What a hope. “Nope. I’ll have to be guided by you. –Oy, Deanna! We’ll try, all right? And don’t you dare bend poor Uncle Jim’s ear if the answer’s a lemon. How’s work?”

    So the old joker wanders out to make us a coffee—genuine Instant, right, be buggered to the caffeine intake—and she goes: “All right. Mrs Blanchard was in the other day, she wanted some acrylic paint because she’s doing up their spare room. She’s gonna have a pale aqua—” And blah, blah. Gee, I really wanted to know the Blanchard rellies are coming out from England. Though yeah, it does explain why Ma Blanchard’s gone totally bananas over doing up the spare room that was perfectly all right to start w—And Harry Carter what?

    “Science project my eye, he’ll of wanted it for graffiti! Surely Bob didn’t let ya sell him one?”

    “Yes! Because he told us all about the project and Bob said he wasn’t making it up!”

    Like, he’d know, it’ll be thirty years since he done any science. Well, how old is Kyle Springer? Yeah. Which reminds me. “Seen anything of Kyle lately?”

    “No. Mum reckons he’s a rotten son. Last Christmas all he gave Bob was a mingy Kmart shirt, when he’s earning—” Blah, blah, and so forth. Possibly Kyle Springer wants to save the money he’s earning so as not to end up running a Mitre 10 when he’s his Dad’s age? Uh—not all of it, the mean little sod’s gone off to Bali!

    Hang on, does this explain the indignation over the meanness of his Christmas gift to his father? Cos let’s face, it when did she ever care what anybody else ever got for Chrissie? “Um, Deanna, you’re better off without him, if he’s the sort that gives his Dad a mingy Kmart shirt for Christmas when he can spring for holidays to Bali for himself.”

    “Better off without who? Ya don’t mean Kyle Springer, do ya? I wouldn't have him if you were giving him away with a bar of soap,” she says without—seemingly without—any interest whatsoever.

    No-o…

    “Anyway, he's got a girlfriend: he took her with him. Voula Gordon, he met her at happy hour.” Plus and the exact intel on the trendy bar all the trendy accountants and IT boys and Human Resources girls from Kyle’s neck of the business-suited woods go to on Fridays. This still doesn’t prove she isn’t peeved because it was this Voula he took to Bali and not her, though, does it? Though oddly enough she does sound genuine about it.

    So she goes: “Anyway, I don’t think he’s as good-looking as Bob!”

    Nor do I. But he wears much nicer clothes and drives a much flasher car, so in your terms, can it count? “Um, I’d agree, yeah. Bob’s quite a good-looking joker.”

    “Yes, and if he lost a bit of weight he’d look much younger, don’t you think?”

    Certainly, only this’d entail getting him to remove the bum off the broken-down couch and not stuff the gob with pizzas and beer while he’s sitting on the said couch, and he hasn’t got anyone to—Oops, yes, he has, she’s volunteered herself! He’s what?

    “Coming to the gym with me on Mondays and Wednesdays,” she repeats smugly.

    Gulp. Bob Springer, the original couch potato? Well, admittedly she’s got all the unstoppability of a Sherman tank combined with its insensitivity to other people’s feelings or desires, but gosh. Added to which, Wednesday was always one of her ballet nights!

    “What about ballet?” I croak.

    Jesus, they go to the gym for an hour after work, closing up at five sharp instead of hanging on for that one customer a year that came in after five on a Wednesday like he always used to, work out for an hour—that takes them to about six-thirty, given the Sydney traffic, even though the gym’s quite near; then they have a refreshing snack of vegetable juice and bran muffin at the gym’s so-called bar; and then he drops her off at ballet by seven. And what does he do after that? I hear you cry: head straight for the nearest Pizza Hut or McDonald’s? Nope, folks, he goes home and chops the veggies and the tofu for a sustaining vegetarian dinner, before picking her up at eight-thirty and going back to his place to cook and eat the aforesaid. Using the Teflon pan and no oil.

    Right, and has he asked ya to move in with him, yet, Deanna? Because it may not be in your head, given you’re thick as a brick, and given it sounds to me as if you’re victimising him because ya want someone go to the gym with and he’s there (the Everest syndrome), but Bob’s a pretty average bloke, so it’ll sure as Hell be in his!

    She’s stopped volunteering, so I go: “Um, does Mum know about this?”

    “Yeah, Mondays and Wednesdays are always my days for gym straight after work.”

    “What? No! Does she know Bob’s going with you and driving you around to ballet and etcetera?”

    “Why?”

    Why? Little cretin! “Deanna, Bob’s only a bloke, ya know. I mean, I know he’s old enough to be your dad, but heck, he’s got no-one in his life; he’s gonna read all this gym and vegetarian dinners stuff as encouragement. Especially if you’re letting him pay for the food!”

    Yeah, course she is. Her all over. But it’s not like that, and I’m old fashioned, am I? “All right, but if he makes a heavy pass, be warned.”

    “Pooh! ”

    “Okay, don’t be warned. We’ll look for ya bloody silver beads and if we get the wrong stuff, you can pay for them anyway.” All right, you can always use them. “Eh? No, I haven’t heard from Rosie, for all I know she’s having the baby as we speak. No, well, she hadn’t had it last night when Aunty Kate rang. It isn’t due for another week, is it? Round the fifteenth or sixteenth? Don’t worry, Aunty Kate’ll ring Mum when it comes. Well, she may ring The Sun first, given that Rosie’s Lily Rose Rayne, but Mum’ll be second. Or possibly third after she rings Aunty May.”

    That was a joke but it hasn’t registered. So she goes into the usual spiel of wondering whether it’ll be a boy or a girl, if it was her she thinks she’d’ve had one of those scans and got the doctor to tell her, then you can buy all blue or all pink things, and blah, blah, blah…

    “Me? Personally I wouldn’t care if it was a boy or a girl, I’d just hope it was healthy.”

    “That’s you all over, Dot Mallory!”

    So why ask?

    “I’d like one of each,” she sighs.

    Yeah, yeah, one in pink gauze with frills, and one in blue tripe like what Wendalyn’s currently got Baby Kieran decked out in. When last seen the poor little sprog was in a navy creeper-suit with a sailor collar and a little knitted sailor hat, actually a fair-sized hat, he's got a big head, reliably rumoured to be entirely hand-knitted by Philippine immigrants on slave-labour wages for this dinky boutique Aunty Allyson’s found in Double Bay. There is a funny side: Sickening Little Taylor doesn't know whether to do the doting little mother thing or lapse into just plain sulking sibling hatred.

    “Whatever. Ace. If we’ve finished dressing my non-existent nephew and niece I’d better hang up, I’ve gotta do some swot for  another business appointment tomorr—”

    “No! You haven’t told me about Ralph!” she wails.

    Unfortunately I have. Far too much, obviously. “There’s nothing more to tell.”

    “But ya did have lunch with him today, didn’tcha?”

    “Yeah, but it was a business lu—”

    “What was he wearing?” she pants.

    So I give in and admit: “Another dishy suit. Dark grey, quite a narrow cut but not too tight, have ya noticed how they crease? His didn’t. The shirt was very thin grey and white stripes, looked good, and the tie was red and black stripes, the old-school-tie look, y know?”

    “Was it?”

    Weakly: “Um, I didn’t ask him.”

    “What was his aftershave like?”

    Gee, I could say I didn't deliberately go and sniff him, couldn’t I? “Um, lovely. Same as before. He must always wear it. I've only ever smelled one as nice,” I admit, what a big mouth!

    “Ooh, who? Ooh, John?”

    “What, Rosie’s John?” (Weakly.) “His was lovely, wasn’t it? Ralph’s is a bit like that, now I come to think of it. Um, no, I was thinking of someone else.”

    “Who?” she pants.

    “You don't know him. And it was ages ago.”

    “Not that Alan Fairbright?”

    “Nah, he used to wear that Joop muck. It is expensive, I’ll give it that.”

    “Kyle Springer wears that, Bob says it reminds him of cat’s piss,” she reports with satisfaction. “You are the same type as Rosie,” she offers kindly. “And millions of men are mad on her, her Aunty June says the TV people get truckloads of fan mail for her!”

    “Do me a favour! I might be the same general type, but I’m not the Downunder Twenty-First Century Marilyn Monroe! And even if I was he wouldn’t look twice at me, he’s into the tall skinny model type that buys real leather handbags.”

    “Heck, I’ve got a real leather handbag!”

    Yeah? I musta missed it in amongst them five hundred vinyl ones, Deanna. “Yeah, but ya know what I mean:”

    “Mm, she’s one of those Adelaide ladies. Like that horrible lady Aunty Kate knows.”

    “Ma Fortescue,” I spot unerringly.

    “Yeah. I’d forget him, if I was you, Dot. Well, you know, it’s like when ya see a real model frock at D.J.’s or like that: you can still admire it, even if you know you could never afford it.”

    Crikey, for her that was almost brilliant. “Um, yeah. Stop pining, ya mean, and just admire it for what it is?”

    “Admire him. Yes.”

    “What about me hormones?” I whine.

    She must be able to hear the smile behind the whine because she goes with a laugh: “We’ve all got them, Dot! You’ll just have to put up with them, like the rest of us!”

    “Right, but some of us, unlike Sandra Bullock, don’t end up with Nice Guy or Real Dish.”

    “What? Aw. Like in While You Were Sleeping!”—Right, like what I only mentioned three times last time we spoke.—“Yes, well, you went and dumped that nice Jack King, Dot.”

    “Look, you never even met him: how do you know he was nice?”

    Uncle Jerry said he was all right, did he? Well, up his. Anyway, that’s damned with faint praise, but you're too thick to realise it. When Uncle Jerry uses your Dinkum Oz as she is spoke, apart from the times he’s with his mates at the race course, he’s almost never to be taken at face value.

    “Yeah. Anyway, I didn’t dump him, I just decided I didn’t want it to go anywhere. But unfortunately I don’t seem to meet anything that I fancy that’s available.”

    “You’re better off than me!” she says with feeling.

    Uh—well, yeah, at least I’m not stuck at Mitre 10 with Bob day in, day out. “Yeah. Um, only don’tcha meet a lot of blokes at the gym, Deanna? I mean, if you and Bob go on the same night, it must be mixed?”

    “Yes, only they’re all gay.”

    “They can’t all be gay. I mean, statistically speaking about four percent of the population’s gay.”

    “Yeah, and they all go to the gym!” she snaps.

     Uh—she’s got a point, actually. But I go: “Not all.”

    “No, well, I did go out with that stupid Bobby Reddick. All he could talk about was his abs!”

    Yeah? I thought that girls in your socio-economic bracket took it as normal that the blokes monopolise the conversation with large chunks of gratuitous information about their own interests—frequently interest, singular, as with Mr Reddick—while the distaff side merely waits her chance for a pause in the monologue in order to launch into a block of gratuitous information about her interests? That is, not conversation as the Oxford English Dictionary would understand it?

    “Well, abs are pretty boring, yeah. Specially if they’re not on something as dishy as that boxer Rosie used to go out with—’member him?”

    “Ooh, yes, he was gorgeous!”

    “Yeah.” I’m not gonna ask what you and Bob talk about, because I already know the answer: you talk about ballet and your diet and he talks about what’s selling at the shop with an optional digression into cars. “Well, I gotta go, I don’t wanna look like a twit in front of these business mates of Uncle Jerry’s tomorrow. Um, hang on a mo’. It’s Monday today. Didn’t you and Bob go to the gym, then?”

    “’Course we did.”

    “So—uh—didn’tcha have tea round at his place?”

    “’Course I did! I said, I always do on a Monday.”

    Goddit; then ya leave him flat while ya get on home and do ya thing. Watch whatever crapulous thing ya usually watch on a Monday, is Anorexia McBeal still going? I gave up watching it yonks back, shortly after—very shortly after—she started seeing dancing babies that weren’t there. Fancy Boston lawyer? Bullshit! The woman is unemployable. Unemployable.

    “I see. Well, see ya.”

    Threatening to ring me at Isabelle’s on Wednesday to see if I made it okay—why wouldn’t I make it okay?—she rings off.

    Sag.

    “Silver beads?” says Uncle Jim with a laugh as I totter back into the family-room that he’s moved the big TV into. (This house is almost a dead ringer for the last one, so why she hadda— Don’t ask.)

    “Her all over. Sorry, Uncle Jim.”

    “Shit, I don't mind getting over to Goodwood to look for silver beads for her! Hang on, your coffee’ll be cold, Dot, I’ll bung it in the microwave.”

    “No, it’s fine, thanks.” I down it thirstily. Aah! That’s better.

    “So what was she on about, or don't I dare ask?” he says, idly blabbing the TV channels on and off.

    “Nothing, really. Well, she doesn’t seem to be doing much except going to ballet lessons and the gym, actually, poor kid. Went out with a bloke she met at the gym but all he could talk about were his—uh, muscles. Like, abs: abdominal muscles, they’re all obsessed with them these days.”

    He looks blankly at his own skinny middle.

    “Yeah; like, around the waist. They do sit-ups and God knows what. Exercise stuff with um, thingos. Like, not bars or bikes, exactly, but—”

    “Oh! Yeah, I seen them on the late-night ads!”

    That’d be right. Quite recently, it would of been.. Like, since Aunty Kate took off for the other side of the world—yeah.

    “Yeah. Um, she seems to be hauling Bob Springer off to the gym with her,” I note cautiously.

    They met Bob one time they were over staying with us; in fact Uncle Jim spent a happy afternoon at Mitre 10 while she was shopping in town, so, sure enough, he laughs like a drain.

    “Yeah, well, she is bloody strong-minded, not to say simple-minded, not to say one-track-minded, and he is, um, a bit of a sheep.”

    He blows his nose. “A bit of a sheep with the usual number of hormones, though, is ’e?”

     Grimace. “I’d say so, yeah. Only she doesn’t seem to have noticed.”

    “Yet.”

    “Yeah. Well, he may toe the line, he is a decent bloke and he's got a son that’s about the same age as me.”

    He gives me a dry look., so I don't tell him about the cosy vegetarian dinners afterwards, I don't actually want me nose rubbed in it.

    So I go and do a bit of swot on the next lot of Uncle Jerry’s contacts, these ones aren’t in the bizzo either, what’s he on about? Or is it a crock, designed to please Aunty May (and by the by Mum) by getting me over to SA to spy on Uncle Jim? Well, irrelevant, really, I’m over here to see them so I’ll go and see them. That’s that, and I wander back into the family-room and gee, he’s still up, fancy that, even though it’s miles past his bedtime. Channel-hopping, as per usual.

    “Hang on, is that a movie?”

    “SBS. It’s in Croatian or something,” he objects.

    I don’t mention the sub-titles, I just agree we won’t watch it. “Hang on, what’s that?”

    “The ABC,” he replies sourly.

    Oops. Whatever is it is, we definitely won’t watch it! “Try Nine, it might be David Can’t-Spell-It Lederman.”

    “Thought it was Letterman?”

    “Whatever.” I watch as he tries Nine. No dice. Must be too early or the wrong day or they’re not having it any more or Ten’s outbid them for it or something. “What’s that?”

    “Dunno.”

    We watch it anyway… Ugh, it’s got doctors and nurses in it, I hate hospital shows! Apart from that really ace English one with the tall lady in it, she was a surgeon, Mrs Something, some Italian name but she wasn’t Italian, it was her ex’s name. Come to think of it, I haven't seen a good English comedy since then. No, well, Rosie’s show is quite funny but it’s an hour format, more like Heartbeat only without the typical-rural-life shit and with, I will say this for Varley Knollys, one hundred and twenty percent less schmaltz.

    “Doctors and nurses,” I note.

    “Yeah, any minute now they’ll start relating to the patients and suffering agonies over the deaths that they’ve caused by their own fucking incompetence,” he agrees cheerfully.

    We watch it anyway…

    Today’s been more of the same like yesterday, yours truly in her business suit, today with the sharp shirt that Aunty May reckons is too severe for me, being patronised by large beefy middle-aged blokes. This lot don’t wanna do business with Uncle Jerry’s consortium, either: in fact when the words “Japanese partners” were mentioned they blenched. So that leaves Old Man Crozier, dunnit? Gee, I'll look forward to further contact with ya, Dishy Ralph. Sigh. Pine… Though Deanna’s right, bugger her: I did ought to just think of him as something lovely to look at but you wouldn’t in your wildest dreams really think of having. …Easy to say: yep.

    I haven’t really got much packing to do and anyway I won’t have to wear a suit at Isabelle’s, so yeah, Uncle Jim, I’m more than ready for a last night at the Norwood Thai!

    This time we have a slightly different variety of soup (still no seafood, don’t fancy spending me last night in Adelaide holding his head while he chunders), a pork dish, a green chicken curry, and those ace veggies we had the first time. …Phew, this chicken curry’s hot! Why do they call it green, it gives you the wrong impression entirely! Sweat, pant. The old joker thinks they use green chillies. They’re probably stronger than the red ones! he offers. Phew, pant, gasp, gulp water. That’d be right!

    “Good, eh?” he grins, sweating like a pig.

    “Super-good!” I gasp.

    The pork by contrast is very mild and of course has got many secret Thai ingredients. Some similarity to the wonderful veggies is discerned: maybe that very unusual taste is sesame oi—No, I won’t wonder, I’ll just enjoy!

     We could have a strange pud, well, cram it in, kind of thing, but as we’ve got a choice of double chocolate or liqueur-flavoured cherry or Peter’s vanilla ice cream in the freezing compartment back home (we’re agreed that Peter’s is the best vanilla), we just finish up with jasmine tea and head on home.

    Maybe we won't have ice cream straight away, given the full tums. We’ll just have mugs of Instant and watch—uh, what is that? Never mind, we’ll watch it, it's not the ABC and it hasn’t got sub-titles, can it be all bad?

    … Um, yes. Oh, well. It was undemanding, that’s for sure. Yeah, actually, Uncle Jim, given it’s pretty late but not too late for ice cream, I could fit some in now. –What ya do, see, ya fill the bottom of the bowl with the vanilla, then ya cover half of it with cherry liqueur and half with double chocolate, then, this is his secret trick that she doesn’t know about (plus and she doesn’t know he’s been out and bought tubs and tubs of fattening ice cream, natch), ya grate cooking chocolate or any really dark chocolate over the top—no, wait for it: then ya fritz the lot with ya blow-torch! It is a real kitchen one, Aunty Kate bought it in one of her cordon blue phases, but apart from burning a couple of caramel custards before the enthusiasm wore off, she’s never used it. Mind you, he is fully capable of getting his industrial one from the shed if the notion—Ya got that, huh? Yeah. Anyway, it works good, and yours truly, I don’t mind admitting it, stands well back while he does it.

    … Ace. Sigh. Um, no, I couldn’t fit any more in, thanks, Uncle Jim. Nor could he, so we just sit back and stare mindlessly at the screen while he blabs channels in and out… Is this Nine? Could be. We watch it anyway. No ads for abs! he notes happily. Uh, no, nor there are. Must be too early. (He means abs developers. Never mind.) We watch mindlessly…

    What?

    Me and Uncle Jim sit there totally numb with our mouths slightly open as a frightful picture of a plane slicing into a skyscraper comes on with the cap “Breaking News” and their usual announcer, looking just the same, no, possibly he’s stunned, too, tells us that a plane just flew into one of the Word Trade Center towers in New York.

    “Here,” he croaks, handing me his hanky. Why? I’m not—Oh. Yes, I am, actually, didn’t realise it.

    We just go on sitting there numbly, tears keep trickling down my cheeks and every so often I wipe them away as it gets worse and worse and worse… . Nine’s given up on screening anything but the news, they’ve got CNN going. Every so often we check out Seven, they’ve got news, too, but on the whole we stick with Nine.

    “Rosie knows a nice guy that works at the Pentagon,” I croak at some stage.

    “Eh? Oh: yeah. Friend of John’s: Wes something? A colonel? John told me quite a bit about him when they were out here,” he says dully.

    “Um, no-o… Think the name was Fred.”

    “Oh, yeah! I know! Fred Stolz, that’ll be! Rosie met him in Washington last Christmas. She really liked hi—Oh, shit.” He stares at me in dismay.

    “Yes,” I say, swallowing hard.

    “Maybe it wasn’t his side of the building,” he croaks. “Or, um, well, it was pretty early, maybe he hadn’t started work yet.”

    Americans always start early but I don’t say it. The announcer’s just told us that there could be as many as seven thousand people in the World Trade Center Towers. Tears pour down my cheeks and I mop them with Uncle Jim’s soaking hanky.

    Aeons pass…

    He rouses and looks at his watch. “Just gone two-thirty. Um, well, looks like it's over for the time being, love. Ya better pop off to bed, eh?”

    “Yeah. So had you,” I say, blowing my nose hard.

    “Uh—I won’t sleep.”

    “Aunty Kate’ll be all right. Nothing seems to have happened in London.”

    “Yeah. Nevertheless. Well, might watch the small set in bed for a bit. Come on, Dot: nothing we can do.”

    So we trail off to bed.

    Something bad has happened, but what? Oh, Jesus! I sit bolt upright in bed with a gasp. All those innocent people… No, well, in reality no-one in a democracy is innocent: we’re all responsible for the sins of our governments, but telling myself that doesn’t help and doesn’t alter the feeling that all those little office-workers, conscientiously trotting off to the jobs that objectively are all meaningless and futile, were innocent victims of evil. Real evil.

    So I stagger into the kitchen in my dressing-gown and he’s making toast. Over on the far side of the giant granite bench-tops the TV’s on in the family-room. Still CNN.

    “No more news,” he says dully. “A few stats coming out but they’re pretty muddled. It was Arab terrorists, that seems pretty certain. Well, in New York. There’s not so much about the Pentagon.”

    “There wouldn’t be,” I say dully.

    “No.”

    “Was it airliners with passengers in them?” I croak.

    “Yeah. Seems pretty definite. Uh—shit,” he mutters as I start to bawl. “Come here, Dot, love.”

    I go over to him with tears running down my cheeks and he puts his skinny arms round me and hugs me tight and we just stay like that for ages.

    “Have some toast,” he says at last, sniffing a bit. “I’m not claiming it’ll make ya feel better, mind.”

    “No. All right, I will, thanks.”

    “Strawberry jam?” he offers on a hopeful note. “Peanut butter?”

    “All right, thanks.”

    So we sit down illegally in front of the TV with plates of illegal strawberry jam and peanut butter toast. Separate: he hasn’t latched on to the American idea that they’re really ace tog—Blast!

    He hands me his rather used hanky and goes to get the box of tissues from their ensuite.

    “Thanks!” I gasp, blowing hard. “They were just ordinary people!”

    “I know. Drink ya coffee, love.”

    We have our breakfast watching the screen…

    “What’s the time?” I say at last.

    “Dunno.” He looks at his watch. “Uh—oh. Ya missed ya plane to Brizzie, love. Sorry, forgot all about it.”

    “So did I,” I admit, sniffing and blowing. “Maybe I better ring Isabelle.”

    “Doubt if she’ll be expecting you. Well, you could try, but you may not get through.”

    I stare at him, frowning.

    “Nothing’s happened on the East Coast, love, but the Telstra infrastructure doesn’t seem to be coping with all of Australia trying to ring its rellies at once. Well, that or your Mum’s been solidly on the blower all morning, or left the receiver off, or something. Anyway I couldn’t get through. And don’t suggest ringing Kate and Rosie,” he says, swallowing. “It’s impossible to get an overseas call through.”

    “No. Okay.”

    So we just watch the news…

    “Ya better have ya shower, Dot.”

    “Eh? Aw—yeah.” I trail off to it.

    The trouble with having a shower is it starts your mind working. Mine’s remembering that we didn’t see David or Nefertite at the Norwood Thai and that quite recently she was singing in London. So she could be anywhere. Like, she could be in New York, she often sings there. Jesus, he could be in New York! Conducting one of his works or just passing through on his way to do some film stuff— No, too big a coincidence. …Surely?

    Numbly I go and get into a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt and a heavy jumper, the old joker doesn't bother with the central heating, he just runs a little heater in the room he’s in. What exactly did that cretinous old mate of Carolyn’s say? Cos if Nefertite was in Norwood just a few days back… Though that won’t prove that David’s safe, will it? I have got Carolyn’s number but she’ll be at work, she’s well over that cyst. Um… Anyway, will I even be able to get through to WA? Besides, they’re, uh, is two hours behind SA? So what is the time over—Oh. Well, she’ll be at work, so there’s no point in trying her at home. I try her at home.

    “Hullo,” she says dully.

    Crumbs!

    “Uh—yeah, hi, Carolyn, it’s Dot.”

    “Is Dad all right?” she gasps.

    Shit! “Yeah! Sorry! He’s good. Well, uh, depressed. You see the news?”

    “Yes. I couldn’t go into work, I just… I dunno,” she says dully.

    “Mm.”

    “Philip had to go to school, of course,” she says dully. He’s a teacher, so yeah, s’pose he did have to turn up, there’ll be working parents that had to send their kids along like it was a normal day. Only I bet the rest of them have kept them home. “He took the little TV set, he didn’t think any of the kids’d be able to concentrate. Though how you explain something like that to kids of ten or eleven…”

    “Mm.”

    “Are you okay?” she asks dully.

    “Mm. Um, I was wondering, you know your friend that reckons she saw Uncle Jim with Nefertite—”

    “Oh, that!” Short pause. “Dot, it all seems totally irrelevant now. Um, did Aunty Sally ring you about it? I’m sorry. Just forget about it. Poor old Dad, let him enjoy himself, why shouldn’t he? Mum’s bullied him for years, and she never lets him do anything he really wants to do.”

    Yeah, well, she isn’t all that bad, I mean she’s got her good points. But I’m not gonna argue. “No, I mean yeah. I mean, I agree, it is irrelevant. Um, only, I was wondering, what day was it that your friend saw Nefertite? I mean, she’s always off on concert tours.” Swallow. “Like that.”

    “Oh, help. Um, well, it was last week, Dot; um, Wednesday or Thursday, I think.”

    Shit, then she could be in New York! “I see. Thanks. Sorry I gave you a fright.”

    “No, it’s nice to hear a friendly voice,” she says wanly. “We ought to get together more, Dot.”

    “Yes. Maybe next year I could come over in the wildflower season?”

    “That’d be lovely! We could go together, I’ve never seen them!” she says eagerly. “Philip’s always stuck at school, of course, they never seem to have the holidays at sensible times, do they? But I can easily take a week’s leave!”

    “Okay, we’ll do that. Book a tour, eh? Then we won’t have to bother about the driving.”

    “Yes. Or get lost and not find them, like that time we all went up to Queensland and Uncle Andy couldn't find the Big Pineapple!” she remembers with a laugh.

    “Yeah! Well, Dad’s a rotten navigator, he shoulda let Aunty Kate lead the way!”

    “Of course!”

    Her laugh dies away as we both come to.

    “Oh, dear, I'm dreading having her ring up, Dot,” she confesses. “She’ll want to chew it all over, you know what she is.”

    Ye-es. “Um, she’s not all bad, Carolyn.”

    “You haven’t had to live with her all your life. Oh, well. It’s been lovely talking to you, Dot. I’ll look forward to next year. And we’ll keep in touch, okay?”

    “Definitely. Bye-bye for now.”

    “Bye-bye, Dot.”

    And we both hang up.

    Too late I realise I shoulda let Uncle Jim talk to her while I had her on the line. Blow! So I go slowly into the family-room. “Um, I just rung Carolyn. She’s at home.”

    “I couldn’t get through earlier.”

    “I got through on my mobile okay. You wanna borrow it? Maybe it’s the fixed lines that aren’t working so good.”

    “They are Telstra’s responsibility,” he acknowledges heavily. “Well, yeah, love. Thanks. Um, how do ya work it?”

    I show him and say quickly: “I’m going for a walk.”

    “Okay, love. Mind ya rug up, it’s brass monkeys,” he says dully.

    “Yeah.” So I wait just to see he gets through to her and go out.

    … This is stupid, Dot Mallory. Stupid. Yeah, it is, but I won’t think about it, see? I walk briskly down to the corner, turn, and head along their old street. The place is dead, but I have to admit this is nothing to do with terrorist attacks in New York, it’s Norwood normal. Nobody walks, of course. …If he is home he’ll think I’m a stupid, interfering—I won’t think about it.

    The place looks exactly the same. I can’t hear the piano, oh God, does that mean he is overseas? Fat Cat’s on the verandah, he gets up and rubs against my legs, croaking. This means less than nothing: David could be home and still in bed or Fat Cat could be full of breakfast but still trying it on, or— Stop it, Dot Mallory! Ring the bell!

    Ring, ring! Nothing. I ring it again. Nothing.

    “Croak, croak, croak!”

    “Yeah, where is he?” I mutter, scooping him up. Jesus, he starts to purr! Oh, God, does this mean David’s waltzed off overseas—

    The door opens. “Dot,” he says numbly.

    “He’s purring,” I say idiotically.

    “He remembers you, he’s not thick. Come in.”

    “N—Uh, I didn’t come to pester you, I just came to see if you and Nefertite were okay.”

    “It’s freezing, Dot, for God’s sake come in!” he shouts, flinging the door wide.

    All right, I will. “It’s not really freezing, just windy,” I mutter, coming in..

    He doesn’t say anything, he just scowls and shuts the front door and heads for the lounge-room. Slowly I follow him, still hugging Fat Cat, he isn’t struggling, he’s still purring. It’s just beginning to dawn that he hasn’t got a television, what if he doesn’t even know, I’ll have to tell—

    “You have got a TV,” I go, sagging.

    “What? Oh—yes, it’s new. The film company people gave it to me.”

    So I go blankly: “What?”

    “The film company—Never mind. I have, yes, and as you can see, I’ve got the news on. Sit down,” he says heavily, subsiding onto the grungy old sofa in front of it.

    Numbly I come and sit beside him, putting Fat Cat on my knee, he’s purring like mad.

    I’m waiting, but David doesn’t say anything, he just stares at CNN.

    So finally I go: “Where’s Nefertite?” That sounded horribly bald, but what other way is there to put it?

    “New York,” he says grimly.

    “Oh.”

    After a bit he turns his head and says heavily: “Don’t cry, Dot Mallory.”

    “I’m not.”

    “Yes, you are,” he says, mopping my face with a filthy hanky. Why I’m thinking at this juncture will I get awful spots from it, don’t ask me. As if spots matter, at a time like this!

    He gives me the hanky. “The World Trade Center isn’t her stamping ground, and certainly not at nine in the morning. She’ll be at he hotel, or rehearsing, possibly at the Met itself. Um, sorry: the Metropolitan Opera.”

    “I know.”

    “Mm.”

    “Um, well, that sounds all right,” I go unconvincingly.

    “So I keep telling myself.”

    “Yes. Um— No, nothing.” I wipe more tears away, what a watering-pot.

    “What?”

    “Well, I was only gonna say that my cousin Rosie’s husband’s got friends at the Pentagon, but, um, you don't know them, so—Sorry.”

    “That’s all right, Dot.” We both wait, because CNN seems to have a new piece of intel, but there’s nothing in it after all. So he goes on: “There doesn’t seem to be all that much news out of Washington, but whether that’s because it’s less newsworthy or because the powers-that-be are playing it down, given it’s the nerve-centre of their defence network, God knows.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Your cousin is Lily Rose Rayne, is that right?”

    “Yeah,” I croak, staring at him.

    “I haven’t met her, but I’ve been hired to do the music for the film of The Captain’s Daughter.”

    My jaw’s dropped ten feet.

    “Don’t you think I can?” he drawls, raising an eyebrow.

    “N—Yes! Not that. Last time I heard anything about a film, yonks back, she was swearing she wasn’t gonna do it!”

    “Mm. I gather she hasn’t yet agreed, but this is all part of Derry Dawlish’s master plan. –The director, don’t know if you’ve heard of him?”

    “Ilya, My Brother. That Midsummer Night’s Dream with Adam McIntyre in Maori tattoos and a pearl G-string,” I croak.

    “Yes. Dawlish is giving it time to dawn that a naval officer’s wife spends over fifty percent of her life waiting for him to get back from sea.”

    “Jeez. The cunning bugger.”

    “Puts it well,” he says drily.

    We watch numbly while CNN produces some more unverified stats and a brief shot of the mayor of New York.

    “Nothing in it,” he concludes limply.

    “No. Could you try ringing Nefertite?” I croak.

    “I have tried. Can’t get through. Don’t think anything much is getting in or out of New York. The news reader advised us not to try, a little while ago. Foreign Affairs are handling all communications from this end. I couldn’t get through to them, either.”

    “Oh. I missed that, musta been when I was talking to my cousin Carolyn in WA.”

    “Mm.”

    “Um, John’s got a shore job in London at the moment,” I croak.

    “Your cousin’s husband, is this? Isn’t he a captain?”—I nod numbly.—“Then my bet’d be he’ll be back at sea in very short order, Dot.”

    I stare numbly at him. “Ya right.”

    “Very possibly Derry Dawlish is behind these attacks,” he says nastily.

    “David!”

    “Damn,” he goes, rubbing his hand across his eyes. “What a bloody stupid thing to— Sorry, Dot.”

    “Here,” I croak, handing him back his hanky.

    He mops his eyes and blows his nose hard. “Sorry.”

    “Don’t apologise, it’s natural. I’d be out of my tree if it was my sister or brother.”

    “She can’t possibly have been anywhere near the damned—Hell!”

    I’ve put my arm round his shoulders before I realise I’m gonna do it. “Cry all you like, David.” Well, what the Hell, I’m crying myself, does it matter what he thinks of me or—Nothing matters, actually. So he turns round and bawls into my shoulder.

    “Miaow!”

    “Ow!” I gasp as Fat Cat digs his claws into my leg and then leaps off my knee.

    “Sorry. I think I squashed him. That or he’s jealous, the stupid bugger,” he says shakily, sitting up.

    “Yeah. Or fed up. Gimme ya hanky? Thanks.” I blow my nose on it, by this time it's got so many mixed germs on it I don’t care any more. “Have you fed him this morning?”

    “Not exactly. I have given him a saucer of milk, but since I gave him a nice piece of fillet steak at three this morning, I don’t think he needs any breakfast.”

    “Fillet steak?” I echo numbly.

    “Reaction,” he says, sniffing a bit and taking the hanky back. He blows his nose. “I was out boozing last night, and missed dinner: got back around—well, I’m not sure. Late. I’d decided that the steak would just hit the spot when I made the mistake of turning the television on.”

    “I see.”

    “Mm.” He gets up, sighing.

    “Croak, croak, croak!”

    “You’re not getting any food, Zingingerber, so shut up. –The creature’s brainwashed into a daily routine, it’s frightful,” he says, passing his hand across his forehead and rumpling his hair.

    “Yeah, well, they been domesticated for thousands of years, ya know. Dare say we long since bred out the ability to ignore a routine.”

    “Mm,” he says with a limp smile. “Fancy a coffee? Food?”

    Oddly enough I am quite hungry but I better not desert Uncle Jim. “Um, I better just have coffee, thanks, David, I’ll have to get back to Uncle Jim. Um, dunno if you know, but Aunty Kate’s in England with Rosie.”

    “Oh—yes,” he says dully, wandering out.

    Damn, was that the wrong thing to say? But I can hardly just leave the old joker by himself, today of all days.

    … He’s taking ages, is he okay? I tear myself away from the TV and go cautiously down to the kitchen. Oh, shit, he’s sitting on a kitchen chair bawling over the bloody cat.

    “Don’t,” I say, going to put a hand on his shoulder.

    “I’m all right,” he says weakly. “Not really brooding about Antigone. Just can’t stop crying, it’s ridiculous.”

    “No, I’m the same.”

    “He got on my knee, and I— Shit,” he says feebly, digging in his pocket for the hanky. He blows his nose and says with a shaky smile: “I’m not kidding myself for one instant it’s sympathy: the brute wants food.”

    “Yeah, he’ll be thinking of that fillet steak.”

    “Mm. The coffee’s ready.”

    “Good.” As he’s just sitting there I find his tin tray and put the pot and two mugs on it. And the sugar. I can’t remember whether he takes milk or not, but I open the fridge and Fat Cat’s over here like a shot. Croak, croak, croak. Rub, rub, rub. Must ya make it so obvious, ya bloody brute? Ya might pretend some of it’s sympathy for him!

    “Give him some milk, he is only a dumb animal.”

    “Croak, croak, croak.” Rub, rub.

    “Not that dumb, in either sense of the word. Here ya go, Fat Cat. –Come on, David.” And I scoop up the tray and we go back to the sitting-room.

    He doesn’t take milk, thought he didn’t. His coffee’s very strong, I remember that, but also ace, or I thought it was when I was twenty, so I’ll try it without milk. Ooh, boy! Even better than I remembered it.

    “You can sure make coffee, David.”

    He smiles—just a bit, but at least it’s a smile. “My Greek relations would disagree.”

    “Yeah, ’course.”

    And we drink our coffee quietly, watching CNN.

    Fat Cat’s just come back in and taken possession of the big armchair when the phone rings in the passage. David’s gone a very funny colour so I get up real quick and say “I’ll get it”. And shoot out. I’m not gonna think who it might be. “Hullo?”

    Silence. Then a stunned voice says cautiously: “That you, Dot?”

    Uncle Jim. Yeah, well. “Yeah, hi, Uncle Jim. I came over to see if the Walsinghams were okay.”

    “Yeah. Are they?”

    “David’s here. Um, she’s overseas. Um, New York.” Blast! The tears are trickling down my cheeks, what a nong, I don’t wanna upset the old boy! Deep breath. “He doesn’t think she’ll be anywhere near the World Trade Center, she’ll be at her hotel or rehearsing at the opera house.”

    Silence. Then he says: “Is that anywhere near the disaster area, though?”

    Shit, I dunno! “Um, don’t think so.”

     More silence, then he says grimly: “Didja get any sense out of him, at all?”

    “Not much. But he did seem convinced she’d be okay. Well, he’s anxious, that’s natural, isn’t it? But not really upset.”

    So he shouts: “Has he got the sense to be really upset when he oughta be?”

    Oh, shit. “Yes. He’s not as bad as you think,” I say firmly.

    “Not bloody half! Has he been playing that fucking piano?” he shouts.

    “No! He’s been watching CNN, like us! You’re being really unfair, Uncle Jim!” I shout back without stopping to think.

    All of a sudden he’s at my elbow. “Give that here. –Jim? It’s David. As far as I know, Antigone’s perfectly all right. She’d have no reason to be anywhere near the World Trade Center, the opera house is miles away.”

    Gee, that’s telling him. Uncle Jim seems to have stopped shouting, can’t hear what he’s saying. David says tiredly: “No, that’s all right Jim. I’ll send Dot back, shall I?” The phone yacks for a bit, can't hear, and he says: “No, I—Won’t it be an intrusion?” Avoiding my eye as he says it. The phone’s shouting again, I think, but it dies down, what’s the old joker on about now? David’s gone very red, Christ, is he giving him his unvarnished opinion of him? So he goes: “Yes, very well. Thanks, Jim,” and rings off.

    “David, if he gave ya the unexpurgated version—”

    “What? No, nothing like that.”

    Sag. “Oh. I was only gonna say it’ll have been reaction.” –Very feebly.

    “Yes. Come on, he thinks we’d both better go over there,” he says, holding out his hand.

    “Uh—okay. Um, ya better turn the TV and the heater off and put ya parka on.” Why have I gone red as fire? I mean, what does anything matter, what he thinks of me or anything, on a day like this?

    “Oh—yes.” He looks around him blankly so I go into the sitting-room and turn the TV and the heater off. Fat Cat’s in possession of the big armchair, he opens one eye and gives me a baleful look so I back off. It may be the worst day of my life but I haven’t gone barmy.

    “Hey— Now where’s he gone?” I go into his room. He’s holding a coat but just standing there looking blank.

    “Come on, lemme give you a hand. Heck, what’s it made of?” I gasp as he simply lets go of it. It weighs a tonne.

    “What? Oh—it’s my English overcoat. Broadcloth, Dot.”

    Clear as mud. I hold it up and help him into it. Crikey, it’s spiffy and a half, what’s he wanna wear it to Uncle Jim’s for? Forget it, at least it’s warm.

    He looks down at himself uncertainly. “Habit. I must be as brainwashed as Zingingerber. I haven’t worn it since I came out here.”

    “Yeah. Never mind. Um, he’s on ya big armchair, he gimme a dirty look so I’m not volunteering to toss him out.”

    “He can stay there,” he says vaguely, following me out.

    “Yeah, but what if he pisses in a corner, David?”

    “I don’t care,” he says simply.

    Gulp. No, well, if ya sister’s dead in a fucking inferno in New York, nor do I. And we go out. He forgets to lock the front door but is any burglar gonna strike today? Anyway, there’s nothing to steal. He holds out his hand as we go down the footpath so what the Hell, I take it. Gee, it’s as cold as ice.

    Uncle Jim’s in front of the TV, of course, so I just tell David to siddown. He doesn’t take his coat off but given the temperature of his hand, that’s just as well. So I go: “I’m putting the central heating on, David’s shaking like a leaf, and I don’t care about ya ruddy power bill, see?”

    David jumps and says: “No—” but good old Uncle Jim goes: “Eh? Aw, Hell, yeah, put it on, Dot. I only had it off because it seemed dumb with only one— Uh, yeah, put it on and leave it on, love.” So I do that.

    They’re both still just sitting there so I go: “It’ll kick in in a bit.”

    “Yeah. Get him a coffee, eh, Dot?” says the old joker, eyeing him uneasily.

    “No, we just had some of his real coffee. Think I’ll make some hot soup and toast: how’s that grab ya?”

    “Yeah, good, only is there any soup? Well, ya might find a tin in the pantry,” he says uneasily. Dunno if this means he’s eaten all her emergency tins—less bother than heating up one of them Tupperwared casseroles—or not done the shopping she told him to do, or— What the fuck, I’ll find something.

    So I go round the huge granite-topped room-divider and forage. Crumbs. She’s got tins and tins and tins of stuff, like, prepared for a siege, only none of them are tins of soup. Packets and packets of stuff, but now of them are ya good old Maggi packet soup. No instant noodles either, blow. If there was a nice fresh hunk of pumpkin I could chop it up and microwave it and purée the result in her super-blender but the old joker doesn’t buy fresh veggies and she’s been gone long enough for that piece she left in the crisper to have grown a crop of blue whiskers. Quite interesting, actually, never knew pumpkin’d do that. All right, I’ll improvise: um, one, no two of these tins of tomatoes in tomato juice—aren’t they the most expensive sort ya can buy?—too bad, and one of these tins of mixed beans. …There! Uh, gee, those mixed beans had a lot of bean juice in them. Right. Wrench open another. Most of her tins have got those tear-tabs like the beer cans, they may look convenient but actually they require brute strength, gasp! Dump. That looks better. Any instant rice? Yep. Right, it can have a handful of that. I turn the heat on and have a go at the tomatoes with a sharp knife, think I’ve reduced them to a reasonable size. Good thing she’s got that four-slice toaster…

    Taste, taste, help, tasteless. Um, well, could just dump salt into it but, um… Goddit, Vegemite. Stir, stir… taste. That’s better. Add a bit of salt as well and a good handful of her dried oregano…There!

    “Um, ya better sit at the table,” I say weakly.

    Uncle Jim opens his mouth to object and then takes a look at the carpet she’s got in here. Oatmeal body carpet, the blue slate that’s murder to stand on ends at the divider. So we sit at the table but he turns the TV round a bit so as we can see it as we eat.

    … Gee, that blue look’s gone from round David’s mouth, thank God.

    “You can take ya coat off now, David.”

    “What?” he says vaguely.

    So I get up and stand over him. “Take ya coat off, the central heating’s kicked in.”

    “Oh—yes; thanks, Dot.” He lets me peel it off him and stagger out with it to hang it up on the brass Federation-style hall stand they’ve had for ages. First tine I’ve seen it in use. Just a pity the cause of it hadda be— Yeah.

    Given the memory of that coffee of his I make a cup of tea to end the meal and as Uncle Jim thinks there’s some chocolate biscuits left, we have those. I won’t tell him the rest of the country calls them Tim-Tams, they are generically chocolate biscuits, yeah.

    Nobody asks anyone if they feel better, manifestly we don’t feel better but at least we’ve all got some solid food inside us, why we were hungry God knows, but we were. And we just get on with watching the news. Every so often tears trickle down my cheeks and every so often the two of them wipe their eyes and blow their noses.

    By now it’s dark and the old joker’s put the lights on and drawn the curtains but hasn’t said anything about tea. The news isn’t better but I suppose you could say it isn’t worse. Shit, I forgot to do the lunch dishes! But good old Uncle Jim bungs the lot in the dishwasher, noting by the way that it can earn its fucking keep for once. And if it doesn’t get the pot clean, it can go round again. He fetches his whisky and pours us all good slugs without asking me or David if we want any. Well, good on him, we don’t say no.

    They’re not having the usual news, just more CNN and summaries of what’s happening in New York and Washington, and a bit from world leaders, like Tony Blair, wonder if Aunty Kate and Rosie saw that. Everybody that comments looks shocked and teary, and the media actually aren’t licking their chops at all, all their commentators are shocked, too, by this time I'm over the initial shock enough to notice.

    Uncle Jim pours us all a second slug but still doesn’t say anything about tea. It dawns that this could go on all evening and as the stats out of New York aren’t getting better, in fact nothing out of New York is getting better, David isn’t gonna say no, is he? So do I let the pair of them sit there getting bombed, or get some solid nosh into them? Maybe it’d be kinder to let them—The phone! Gasp. Maybe it’s only Megan.

    “I’ll get—”

    “No ya won’t, Dot, I will.”

    He goes out, why the fuck have they got it in the passage, if she hadda throw megabucks at the bloody house why couldn’t she have had an extension in the family-room?

    After a bit he’s back. “It’s ya Dad, love.”

    Shit. I mean, it’s good that Dad’s got through but it’s pretty bloody bad it isn’t Aunty Kate managing to get through from London.

    “Hullo?” I say, blast, didn’t mean my voice to come out that small.

    “Hullo, Dotty-Daddles,” he says, thinks he’s trying not to bawl.

    “I’m all right,” I croak.

    “Yeah.” There’s a short pause, I can hear him blowing his nose and in the background Deanna’s saying: “Here; you can use my tissues.”

    “Jim says you’ve been making soup and generally being a tower of strength,” he says.

    So I go lamely: “What? Yeah. We just been watching TV. I didn’t go up to Queensland.”

    “No, well, I think all flights are grounded, Dot.”

    “Yeah. I hope Isabelle and Scott didn’t drive all the way in to Brizzie for nothing.”

    “Hasn’t she managed to ring you?”

    “No,” I say, sniffing.

    “No. Well, dare say she’ll get through tomorrow. Uh—look, Dotty-Daddles, your mum doesn’t want you to fly, okay?”

    “Don’t think I can, Dad, I mean, it was an Ansett ticket and I missed the flight, they won’t refund the money.”

    “N—Uh, no. Well, if they cancelled the flight— But anyway, do us a favour and don’t fly, okay?”

    “No. All right.”

    “How’s old Jim holding up?”

    “Pretty good. Well, he’d be more comfortable if we’d heard from Aunty Kate, but everything seems to be okay in London, doesn’t it?”

    “Yes. Well, so far—yes. Here’s your mother. Take care, Dot.”

    “You too, Dad.”

    I can hear him blowing his nose as she comes on the line. “Hullo, dear.”

    “Hi, Mum.”

    “How are you, Dot?”

    “I’m okay. Are you okay?”

    “Yes. Well, I didn’t go in to the library today, I did try to ring Pauline a couple of times but the phone always seemed to be engaged,” she says dully. “I hope she doesn’t think I’ve let her down.”

    “She won’t think that. Did the twins go to school?”

    “Yes, they wanted to, so I— But they didn’t do much, Mr Masters held an assembly and said that anyone that wanted to go home could. They spent most of the day in their home-room, Mr Hutchinson had the big-screen TV on with the news, and he seems to have spoken quite sensibly about it all to them. Goodness knows if anything connected, though,” she says dully.

    Shit. “Um, they’re not totally dumb, ya know.”

    “No. –I just wish we didn’t live in Australia’s biggest city!” she goes angrily.

    Shit. “Um, Mum, Australia’s real obscure to the rest of the world, ya know. If anyone’s gonna be attacked it’ll be Britain and Canada and France and Germany and probably loads of other European countries before us.”

    “Your father said that,” she says wanly.

    “Yeah. Uh—did he go to work?”

    “What do you think?” she says sourly.

    Ouch. “Um, Mum, Mr Bensimon and Mr Finch and Mr McIntosh wouldn’t have been too pleased if he’d just taken the day off.”

    “Dot, they’re on the twenty-eighth floor of that horrible tower block!” she goes angrily.

    Quite. “I know,” I say lamely.

    “They didn’t do any work, anyway: he might just as well have been at home with me and Deanna!” she goes angrily.

    “Yeah. Um, did she stay home, too?”

    “She was crying so much I couldn’t send her in, Dot. Anyway, Bob Springer rang around half-past nine to say he was closing the shop for the day, so I asked him to come round here. Well, he hasn’t got anyone, poor man.”

    “Good on ya, Mum.”

    “Um—yes,” she says lamely. “He’s been a tower of strength all day, actually. He fetched the boys from school, and made milkshakes and toasted sandwiches for them, and then when it looked as if your father was never going to get home, he went and got fish and chips for us all.”

    I don’t say anything about vegetarian diets and missing their gym session, I just say: “Yeah, he’s a decent joker.”

    “Yes. Thank God Deanna didn’t go off and get a job in the city,” she says with a sigh.

    I could say lots of things to that one, but I just go: “Yeah. Bob’s okay. I’m glad you’re all okay. Um, we haven’t heard from Aunty Kate yet. I s’pose Rosie hasn’t managed to get through to Aunty May?”

    “No. May’s in a terrible state, of course. Jerry didn’t go in to the office today. Um, I was wondering, could you look on your email, dear? Just in case Rosie’s managed to contact you that way?”

    Ulp. Her IASSS address is an American one— I don’t say any of that, I just say: “I’ll check. Hang on.” And I rush into my room and get the laptop up but although I do connect to Hotshots there are no messages for me. So I rush back and report there’s nothing.

    “No. I did tell May— Oh, well. Maybe tomorrow. Have you have your tea, yet?”

    “Um, no. Just wondering what to get.”

    “Something solid, Dot. Don’t worry about calories at a time like this.”

    Calories were the last thing on my mind. “No, right.”

    “Take care, dear. And—and duh-don’t come back by air,” she says, her voice starting to wobble for the first time.

    “No, ’course I won’t. Ta-ta, Mum. I’m glad ya got through.”

    “Bye-bye, dear!” she gulps.

    “Have another tissue, Mum,” says a very firm voice. “Hullo, Dot,” it says firmly.

    “Hi, Deanna,” I go feebly. “You’re okay, are you?”

    “Yes. It’s been awful, of course. Mum and me have been crying off and on all day, we can’t seem to stop ourselves, y’know? But I’m all right, really. Bob’s here.”

    “I know; good on him.”

    “How’s David?” she says kindly, in a lowered voice.

    Who told— Oh, Uncle Jim musta told Dad. “Well, not too good. As good as ya might expect, given”—I glance cautiously at the door to the family-room but it stays closed like I left it—“that Nefertite’s in New York and he hasn’t been able to get any news at all.”

    “Mm,” she goes, blowing her nose. “I wish there was something we could do.”

    “Yeah. Um, Uncle Jim and me haven’t managed to get out to Goodwood to look for your beads, yet.”

    “What? Oh—them. Heck, who cares?”

    “Um, yeah. Well, ordinary things seem irrelevant, don’t they?”

    “Yeah,” she gulps, blast, think she’s gonna cry.

    “Um, how are the twins?”

    She blows her nose hard and goes: “They’re okay. Um, well, between you and me, pretty scared, I think. Mr Hutchinson seems to’ve been pretty good, but personally I wouldn’t of let them go to school at all.”

    “No. Can I talk to them?”

    “Yeah. Bob’s playing Nintendo with them. Hang on, I’ll get them.”

    After bit a little hoarse voice goes: “Hullo?” and tears pour down my cheeks.

    “Hi, who’s that?” I manage to croak, mopping my face.

    “Danno. Are you crying?” he goes in this scared little hoarse voice.

    “Yeah. Hang on.” I blow my nose hard and manage to say: “I’m all right. It’s just shock, Danno. So Bob’s been helping out, has he?”

    “Yeah, he’s a neat Nintendo player!” he says eagerly, sounding much more like himself.

    “Yeah, he plays it at home.”

    “Yeah.” He tells me what score Bob got in something or other.

    “Good on him.” I wait but he doesn’t volunteer anything more so I’m just gonna out with some sort of platitude, dunno what, when he goes: “Mum was really wild with Dad.”

    Oops. “Because he went in to work?”

    “Yeah. She said he was a spineless worm,” he reports in a dubious voice.

    Puts it well. “Uh—well, ya know what parents are. But he hadda go to work, Danno, it wasn’t as if anyone was sick at home.”

    “No, Bob said that,” he reports dubiously.

    “There you are, then.”

    “Yeah, but he closed up the shop, himself, didn’t he?”

    “Who’s gonna go off to Mitre 10 on a day like this, Danno?”

    “Aw. Yeah, I never thought of that. Here’s Jimbo,” he says quite cheerfully, phew.

    “Hullo,” says Jimbo cautiously.

    “Hi, Jimbo. You two are okay, are you?”

    “Yeah. I said ya wouldn’t of gone up to Isabelle’s!”

    “No. I forgot all about it, actually.”

    “Oh,” he says, very disconcerted.

    “Um, me and Uncle Jim saw the news last night, ya see,” I explain cautiously.

    “I geddit. Hey, Bob’s been playing Nintendo with us, he’s an ace player!”

    I don’t say his twin told me that, I just let him burble on. Out of the blue he goes: “Adelaide’s not a strategic target, is it?”

    Cringe. “Um, no. Arse-hole of the world, more like it.”

    “Yeah,” he says in relieved tones. “Mr Hutchinson said it wasn’t,”—three cheers for Mr Hutchinson—“only that dill Toby Weatherall said it is, because they build the Collins Class submarines there!”

    Christ, what can ya say? Well, that those submarines are sinkholes of taxpayer funds that don't actually work. Hadda have all the guidance system that cost multi-million dollars ripped out and replaced, kinda thing, and helped to bring the last Labor government down. Uh— “Jimbo, ya just said yaself Toby Weatherall’s a dill, who ya gonna believe, him or Mr Hutchinson?”

    Dubious silence.

    “Added to which, Toby Weatherall’s bloody Darien McKenzie’s cousin, isn’t he? What sorta genes do you reckon he's got?”

    Hoarse laugh, so let’s hope that’s satisfied him.

    “I better let ya go, this call must be costing Dad megabucks. Mind yaself, okay?”

    “Yeah, you, too,” he says in relieved tones, hanging up before I can say I better say bye-bye properly to Mum or like that.

    So I totter back into the family-room and help myself to another belt of Johnnie.

    “They okay, love?” says Uncle Jim cautiously.

    “Yeah. Only I was talking to the twins… Shit.”

    “I see,” he says cautiously. “Your Dad said they seemed to be taking it okay.”

    “Given that he’s letting Bob Springer keep their minds off it with Nintendo, I don’t see how he’d know! Um, didn’t mean to say that. Dad’s okay, just shit-scared of his bosses.”

    “Yeah. Well, not easy, being the breadwinner.”

    “I know.”

    He gets up, sighing a bit, and pours another belt for himself and David.

    So I go: “I think we better have something to eat. Help sop the whisky up.”

    “Yeah. Well, there’s heaps of casseroles in the big freezer, love. Bung one of them in the microwave.”

    At this David rouses and says: “I shouldn’t impose—”

    So the old joker goes, real loud: “Ya not imposing, ya silly bugger! Which ya wanna do, sit and shiver in that draughty front room of yours on your tod, or help me and Dot eat one of Kate’s casseroles in the central heating?”

    “When you put it like that,” he says with a twisted smile that almost reminds you of his old self, “no contest, Jim. I’ll stay, thanks.”

    “You bet,” he grunts. “–Ya might find some frozen peas in there, too, Dot. Put it like this, I haven’t disturbed them.”

    So we have huge helpings of microwaved casserole with enormous mountains of frozen peas running with marg, washed down with frosties from one of those illegal six-packs he’s crammed the fridge with, followed by giant bowls of ice cream with Uncle Jim’s special topping. Because as it turns out we’re all hungry.

    Around midnight David shows signs of falling asleep in his chair so Uncle Jim forces him into one of the spare rooms, noting that the central heating’s ducted, turns the TV off, and forces me into my room. So that’s today over.