I Have a Bed Made of Buttermilk Pancakes Read online

  ‘As you do,’ agreed Warren, nodding.

  ‘And Marcus Ellison’s dad is an astronaut.’

  Now his nod became a slow, impressed tilt: ‘An astronaut?’ He looked at Cath admiringly, as if she were the astronaut.

  She returned to her class plan, and flipped the page. This week she was going to start reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to the class, and they would build their own wardrobe, and talk about the worlds you might reach through the wardrobe door. Let’s say the worlds included a variety of environments: ocean, canyon, etc; and let’s say each world contained various occupations: sailor, orthodontist, etc – well then! She could then change the ½ √s to √s.

  At that moment, Warren leaned slightly into her shoulder, took the pen from her hand, turned a page in her notebook and wrote:

  THIS FRIDAY, THE CAROTID STICKS WILL BE

  PLAYING AT THE BORROWED CAT.

  (1) Does Cath like the Carotid Sticks:

  (a) Yes

  (b) No

  (c) Do not know them

  (2) Will Cath come along with Warren to see the Carotid Sticks:

  (a) Yes

  (b) No

  (c) Do not know them

  She leaned forward and marked the boxes ‘yes’ and ‘yes’. Warren studied her answers, and then he put a √ alongside each ‘yes’. Underneath, he wrote the word: Excellent.

  The next day, Tuesday, wandering her classroom aisles like a queen, Cath remembered that she didn’t actually know ‘the Carotid Sticks’. She had them mixed up with ‘the Clotted Creams’.

  She felt strangely embarrassed, yet also excited, to realise this, as if she had cheated in an exam. Also, she had a sort of heart-pumping moment of terror, remembering how close she had come to getting caught – she had almost mentioned to Warren how much she liked the goldfish in a small glass bowl that the drummer brought along to his shows. (She had seen the Clotted Creams a couple of years back.) She had almost drawn a sketch of the goldfish on her notes, and shown this to Warren! Showing off her knowledge. Imagine if she had! Warren would have frowned in confusion, and she would have tried to explain, and realised her mistake as she did so, and then she would have tried to cover up, and got flustered.

  She must look up the Carotid Sticks in HMV and listen to a CD, so she could prepare for the Date. Not a Date. You don’t know it’s a Date. Who said it was a Date?

  ‘Scrotum, scrotum, scrotum.’

  ‘Cassie?’

  Cassie Zing coloured by numbers, and murmured: ‘scrotum.’

  ‘Cassie? You want to keep quiet for us? Or see if you can find a new word?’

  Cassie looked up and blinked once. She leaned onto her elbow and spoke into her fist.

  I really should mention this habit to her parents. It’s been going on for weeks now. And her mother sends so many notes! Really, an amazing number of notes from that Mrs Zing. I wouldn’t even notice that Cassie was late if she didn’t bring notes from her mother. Maybe I shouldn’t have written back the other day? I’ve probably just encouraged her to write more. She may be a loony. Of course, the compliments are nice.

  I hope I’m not late on Friday. I’ll have to go straight from my law class to the Borrowed Cat. I’ll wait until Friday night to ask him what he meant by that comment about his weekend being ‘kind of a strain’. He will open up to me then, after we’ve had a few drinks, and I will listen sympathetically, and make him laugh with little jokes. Perhaps he’ll even cry on my shoulder!

  Okay, but it’s not a Date.

  What colour should I wear? What colour is the Borrowed Cat? I should try not to clash with the walls.

  It was a strange week then, for Cath, waiting for Friday and the Clotted Creams. Then remembering that it was not the Clotted Creams but the Carotid Sticks. (She found them at HMV and they were kind of bluesy. She didn’t like blues, but whatever.) She walked around under a spotlight, but a secret, private spotlight, because she didn’t mention the invitation to anybody.

  Not even Lenny and Suzanne, even when Suzanne suggested the two of them see a movie on Friday night. ‘I’m busy Friday,’ is all she said, ‘how about Saturday?’ Because here it was: the invitation. The first fragile step in the unfurling. She would not even whisper his name.

  On Wednesday afternoon, Cath and Warren were working on a class plan.

  ‘I am,’ said Warren, ‘extremely hungry,’ and he looked around the room.

  Cath opened the fridge and found her cheese and pickles sandwich. She hadn’t eaten it at lunch, on account of buying a sausage roll instead. ‘You can have it,’ she offered generously.

  Warren was pleased with her, opening up the sandwich from its greaseproof paper, as if it were a birthday present. But then he paused and said, ‘Imagine if this were toasted.’ He held out the sandwich towards her.

  ‘Are you saying you want me to toast it for you?’ demanded Cath. ‘Because I won’t.’

  ‘It’s ten to five!’ Warren slid back his chair and leapt to his feet. ‘We will buy a sandwich maker. Quick! Let’s go!’

  They ran across Castle Hill Road together, amongst the lanes of traffic; skidded to the department store; scanned the directory for kitchen appliances; ran down the up-escalators accidentally; and got there just in time.

  They went halves in a Breville Sandwich Maker, and carried it back in its box. They were sweaty from the heat and the excitement, and the fading sun blinked in their eyes.

  ‘We keep it here,’ said Warren, showing Cath the second shelf of the corner cupboard. ‘And it’s for us, and us alone. We alone get toasted sandwiches for lunch. Is it a fact? Is it a pact? Is it a tac-tic?’

  On Thursday night, she felt jittery, and had to go to the corner store. The corner-store girl had such long plaits they drew attention to her hips. ‘Hello there, you!’ she always said to Cath, who felt she could never live up to this greeting.

  ‘You know what I dreamed last night?’ declared the corner-store girl as she reached for Cath’s 60-watt light bulb. ‘I dreamed I was in a bathtub, right? With an antelope! What did you dream?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Cath. ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘Come on! You always have the best dreams! And it’s been so hot lately! Doesn’t that make you dream? It makes me dream. Look at the time! It’s so late and it must be what? Thirty-six degrees? Any nightmares?’

  ‘Well, okay, I had this great dream where Doctor Carter from ER wanted to cure me of this disease which made me pale and beautiful, and I was hoping I’d get to stay pale and beautiful even when I was cured. Also, I’ve been dreaming a lot about extra rooms for my apartment. In the dreams, I keep finding doors in my hallway which open out into things like sewing rooms or saunas. I’m so happy when that happens. Maybe I think my apartment’s too small? So. Those aren’t nightmares, I guess.’

  ‘How is your health anyway, Cath? I notice you’ve picked up some lozenges there. Sore throat?’

  ‘Just hayfever,’ explained Cath. ‘It makes my throat itchy. How about you?’

  Sometimes the corner-store girl liked to chat, but often she was vague and glassy-eyed when asked about herself.

  When she got home, Cath was still jittery so she got out the bucket, the Windex and a roll of paper towel, and washed all the windows in the apartment.

  On Friday afternoon, she was sleepily supervising children whose penalty was to hunt down apple cores, orange peels, paper bags, and ice-block wrappers – that is, rubbish – after school. She would let them stop soon because she wanted to get home, shower, change into a summer dress, get to law class, and then to the Borrowed Cat to meet Warren.

  Warren, striding past, his arms and legs moving like the spokes of a wheel, slowed to a helicopter hover.

  ‘Still on for tonight?’ His eyes went straight into Cath’s.

  There was a whisk of excitement in her stomach. ‘You bet,’ she said.

  ‘Breanna might be a little late,’ explained Warren.

  Cassie Zing, walking past at that moment, swi
nging her school bag in circles, said ‘Ms Murphy?’

  ‘Yes, Cassie?’ said Cath. Also, to Warren: ‘Breanna?’

  ‘I wanted to tell you something important,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Breanna,’ said Warren. ‘My wife?’

  ‘Did you, Cassie?’ Cath turned smoothly. ‘What did you want to tell me?’

  ‘That it’s my birthday tomorrow,’ whispered Cassie.

  ‘If she misses her train from the coast,’ Warren explained, ‘and she says that she might.’

  Cath had bent forward so she could hear Cassie Zing. She kept her eyes on Cassie’s face and said, ‘Your birthday tomorrow! What are you going to do? Will you have a party? Happy birthday! That’s so exciting.’

  Cassie nodded. ‘I know. And I’m having a party at my auntie’s place tomorrow.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ said Cath, still leaning forward. ‘We’ll have to sing ‘happy birthday’ on Monday, but you know, we could have sung today. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

  Then there was a HONK, and Cassie cried, ‘My mum!’ and skidded away.

  Cath straightened up and looked at Warren. ‘Your wife?’ she said, with a friendly smile.

  ‘She lives up the coast during the week,’ he said, ‘so we only get the weekends? Which is a strain. Which is a drain. Which is a brain drain.’

  Cath considered him.

  ‘You didn’t like that one?’ he said. ‘Fair enough. But anyway, I hope you’re not planning to be late?’

  ‘No, Warren, that’s not what I was planning.’

  ‘Great!’ he said. ‘See you there!

  FANCY ZING

  In the afternoon light of a summer day, Fancy, a teenager then, sat on her beach towel and watched Radcliffe’s toe. The toe sprouted from his foot like a plump little table tennis bat. It also sprouted hairs, like an unkempt hedge. The toe was writing in the sand:

  Radcliffe Mereweather

  LOVES

  Fancy Zing

  The toe took a long time to write this.

  Next, Fancy was distracted by Radcliffe’s hands. The hands were thin and knobbly, and were clutching at her sunburnt shoulders. I should put some suncream on those shoulders, Fancy thought. But now was not the time.

  Radcliffe’s hands clutched tightly. He had a tear on the edge of each eye. ‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he was saying. ‘I never meant to hurt you.’ She stared at him. He was hurting her shoulders, but, apart from that, it didn’t really hurt.

  ‘I appreciate you telling me,’ she said, feeling pleased at her own maturity.

  Radcliffe had kissed another girl. He had gone to the surf club party the night before, leaving Fancy at home with an asthma attack.

  ‘Did you meet a girl?’ she teased the next day, side-by-side in the sun.

  ‘Well, kind of,’ he replied, alarmed.

  ‘Did you kiss her?’ She did not think for one moment that he had.

  ‘Well . . .’ and then he was silent, and the odd feeling started, her face stretched out, and she thought: perhaps he did!

  And he had.

  Radcliffe! Her First True Love! Her long-lashed boy with the sneakers and guitar! Radcliffe, who bought her marzipan and chocolate, had kissed another girl! They had only been together for a month.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said, fervently, and his toe had just proved it by etching in the sand: Radcliffe Mereweather LOVES Fancy Zing.

  They sat solemnly, looking at the words, their legs stretched out to the sun. A man shouted, ‘Turkey! Win a turkey in the raffle!’ Nearby, Marbie shook her towel and Daddy growled, ‘Marbie! The sand!’ Mummy called, ‘Look, everyone! There’s a skywriter!’ and an announcement warned about the dangers of the rip.

  ‘If you will only forgive me,’ Radcliffe was anxious, ‘I will love you forever and ever. Even, say you get old and wrinkled? I will love you. Even, say you get as fat as your mother?’

  At that, Fancy pounced. ‘Don’t call my mother fat!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I mean it. That’s a stupid thing to say.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t know,’ he explained. ‘I didn’t know you were sensitive about your mother’s weight.’

  ‘That’s not the point! You don’t know a thing about my mother.’

  ‘What do you mean? What’s to know?’

  Strange. How she told the whole story, in a flood, right then. Radcliffe stared, the sun burned freckles onto Fancy’s shoulders, and the Zing Family Secret ran straight into the letters of:

  Radcliffe Mereweather

  LOVES

  Fancy Zing

  The first few weeks of the school year were hot, and, as usual when the sun burned white, Fancy remembered the day at the seaside when Radcliffe revealed he had kissed another girl. Fancy had trumped him with the Zing Family Secret.

  Also during the first few weeks of the school year, Fancy wrote seventeen notes to her daughter’s 2nd grade teacher. She was just finishing the third of these notes –

  Dear Ms Murphy,

  Thank you so much for teaching Cassie (and the rest of your class, I suppose) that lovely song about the sparrow and the ironbark tree etc etc. She has been entertaining her father and me with the song (on and off) all week, and it is such an unusual tune!

  Just thought I should let you know.

  Best regards,

  Fancy Zing

  – when her husband, Radcliffe, arrived home from work.

  ‘FANCY THAT! MY FANCY IS AT HOME!’

  Fancy sat up straight and waited patiently for the sound of his key in the front door, the scraping of his feet on the welcome mat, then the little ‘huh!’ of pleasure as he put his umbrella in the stand. He had given Fancy the stand for a birthday, and he used it assiduously, taking his umbrella back and forth to work each day, even during heatwaves.

  The footsteps approached. Fancy scraped a wisp of hair out of her bun.

  ‘Mwah!’ said Radcliffe, at the study door.

  ‘Hello,’ she replied. ‘How was your day?’

  Radcliffe leaned into the room and smiled around at the bookshelf, the scanner, and the corkboard. He looked at the printer next and gave a little chuckle. ‘What have you done with Cassie?’ he said, wandering away down the hall.

  ‘I haven’t done anything with Cassie,’ murmured Fancy. She opened her desk drawer and took out her secret notebook.

  They had frozen quiche for dinner, and watched Hot Auctions! and the next day, the moment she woke up, Fancy remembered this: it is possible to change a person.

  Fancy had always believed this, even though people went around warning her: never imagine you can change someone, for people NEVER CHANGE. Then they talked about leopards and spots. Forgetting altogether about chameleons. Or that octopus which lives on the ocean floor and can change its shape to become a stingray, a sea anemone, or even an eel, depending upon its fancy.

  Furthermore, Fancy recalled, she herself had changed. There had been a time when, after a shower, she would leave the shower curtain where it was when she stepped onto the bath mat: crowded together, pressed against the bathroom wall.

  Radcliffe explained, a month or so after they were married, that this was unhygienic. ‘The shower curtain should be drawn closed,’ he explained, demonstrating, pulling the curtain all the way along its metal bar as if somebody were taking a shower. This would help to prevent mould.

  Just like that, Fancy changed, and began to close the shower curtain tight.

  Stepping out of the shower that morning, and drawing the curtain closed behind her, Fancy regarded her husband, shaving at the basin. Tap, tap, tap, said his razor.

  ‘So, that’s how you get the whiskers out of the razor, is it?’

  He turned to her. He had a white towel around his waist, a white smear of shaving cream around his chin, and he was squinting in the steam from Fancy’s shower.

  ‘Is there another way you could get the whiskers out?’ she suggested.

  ‘We should change this routine,’ he replie
d, turning back to the steamy mirror. ‘Me shaving, you showering. Same time, eh? Look at the mirror here. Can’t see a thing.’

  She leaned around him and flicked the switch on the overhead fan, so the room was filled with its buzz.

  ‘What’s with that rash on your arm there?’ he said, shouting now over the buzz.

  ‘I know.’ She reached for her skin cream. ‘I feel like a fish. It’s just dry skin. I burned my skin too often as a teenager.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be that, would it? It’s eczema. Or what? Psoriasis?’

  ‘No,’ said Fancy, coldly. ‘It is not.’ But Radcliffe was picking up her arm, turning it this way and that to catch the light, and whistling through his teeth.

  ‘Here, Cassie, don’t forget to take this note to your teacher, okay? Where are you going to put it so you don’t forget?’

  ‘In my pocket.’

  Cassie stood on the footpath, next to the open car door, and showed her mother her open pocket.

  ‘Good girl. Will you remember it there?’

  ‘Yes, because I’ll sneeze and then I’ll have to get out my hanky, and then I’ll find it there and I’ll go, I HAVE TO REMEMBER TO GIVE THIS TO MS MURPHY.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Fancy.

  ‘See over there.’ Cassie pointed to a bench just inside the school gate. ‘That’s Lucinda.’

  ‘So it is! We’ll have to invite her over again one day soon. What do you think?’

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Cassie, nodding. She walked through the school gate and, without turning back, raised one hand to farewell her mother.

  ‘Eczema, eczema, eczema.’

  Cassie had a new word. It was a disease which made your skin fall off and then your blood went everywhere, like a laundry flood. Then you turned into a fish. Then you died.