I Have a Bed Made of Buttermilk Pancakes Read online

  ‘Look at all the strawberries in the punch!’ cried Grandma Zing. ‘Cassie, do you know, I almost forgot to bring your presents! Can you imagine?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Your place is looking gorgeous,’ said Fancy.

  ‘A garden apartment is such a lovely find!’ declared Grandma Zing.

  ‘What kind of a security system do you have?’ said Radcliffe.

  ‘Does it have a bathroom?’ said Cassie’s friend Lucinda, politely.

  ‘You got a pest inspection done, right?’ said Radcliffe.

  ‘That’s not termite damage, what you’re looking at there, Radcliffe,’ said Grandpa Zing. ‘That’s just regular wear and tear.’

  ‘Haven’t they done it up nicely,’ said Grandma Zing. ‘They’ve put silver covers on all their electrical outlets. Isn’t that a nice touch?’

  ‘Nice painting job here,’ said Radcliffe. ‘Professional or . . . ?’

  ‘This is not just a house-warming party,’ said Cassie, ‘this is also a birthday party. As far as I recall.’

  After Cassie’s presents had been opened, they toured the apartment, establishing, several times, that: there were six apartments in the building; that this one was on the ground floor; that they were almost finished renovating; and that Marbie had only been joking when she said they were going to tear down the outside bathroom wall and bathe al fresco. Then Cassie suggested they play Pass the Parcel.

  They played Pass the Parcel, Musical Chairs and Pin the Tail on Grandpa Zing. Cassie had painted a picture of Grandpa Zing for the purposes of this game, and Grandpa Zing was a good sport about it.

  Later, they sat down, still breathless from the games, and ate banana treats.

  ‘I’ll never get out of this beanbag,’ said Grandma Zing, now and then.

  Vernon took Radcliffe and Grandpa Zing onto the roof of the apartment building, to see where the air-conditioning vents came out. Grandma Zing remembered she had a house-warming present and returned from her car with a fig tree. Fancy remembered she also had a house-warming present and returned from her car with a cocktail shaker. Marbie watered the tree and Fancy made cocktails. She used vodka, vermouth, apple juice and apple gratings, then she put a curl of apple peel on the edge of each glass.

  ‘Look,’ she said, carrying the glasses carefully, as the contents tended to lap over the edges. ‘I’ve invented an apple martini.’

  Listen took Cassie and Lucinda into her bedroom so they could play Cassie’s new game of Valerio Rock. You took turns composing melodies on the keyboard, sang into the microphone, and then waited while the game added beats and back-up singers, so that you were, for a moment, a rock star. After that, the game became complicated and you had to spell, mime, draw pictures and do the hokey-pokey.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Cassie, and she ran into the living room, where she announced to the room: ‘Listen is such a great dancer, everyone’, before running back into the bedroom. ‘Keep dancing, Listen,’ she ordered, ‘until everyone comes and sees.’

  In the main bedroom, Grandma Zing admired the curtains, and then took them down so she could redo the hems.

  The game of Valerio Rock ended, and Listen said, ‘Cassie, your nose is bleeding.’

  ‘It’ll stop in a minute,’ said Cassie. ‘It’s because it’s summer.’

  ‘She just needs a hanky,’ explained Lucinda, ‘and I have to put a key on the back of her neck.’

  Listen gave Cassie a handkerchief and the front door key, and left the girls to work on the bleeding nose.

  In the living room, Marbie put on a Red Hot Chili Peppers album and asked Listen to teach Fancy how to dance. Listen jumped on the spot to the music, shaking her head wildly, and Fancy obediently copied.

  Quietly, Grandpa Zing and Radcliffe retreated to the porch.

  In the bathroom, Cassie leaned over the tub and allowed her nose to bleed. She tried to write her name but it just went: spot . . . spot . . . spot, each spot leaking in a different direction.

  Lucinda sat on the edge of the tub, holding the key against the back of Cassie’s neck, and watching the blood with interest. Every now and again she reached to turn the taps on and wash the blood away.

  Later, Grandma Zing asked Listen what she thought of her new school, and whether she had some new friends.

  ‘She likes her old friends, don’t you, Listen?’ Vernon said affectionately when Listen hesitated. ‘Tell everyone about the teachers, Listen. She’s got some funny teacher stories.’

  ‘Well,’ said Listen, slowly. ‘There’s a Food Technology teacher who taught us how to make lamingtons. It’s not a funny story, but I can make some now?’ She was walking backwards towards the kitchen.

  ‘But will you need eggs?’ said Marbie. ‘Because I used them all in the pavlova.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Listen, hesitating again. ‘I’ll need eggs.’

  Fancy looked at her watch. ‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘It’s eight o’clock. Let’s go to the corner store and buy some eggs for Listen. Marbie?’

  ‘Tell us about 2nd grade, Cassie, while they’re gone,’ said Grandma Zing. ‘How’s your new teacher, darling? What do you think of your teacher?’

  ‘I prefer Mr Woodford to our teacher,’ chatted Lucinda. ‘He’s the other second grade teacher? And he’s REALLY funny. I wish I was in his class instead.’

  ‘Do you?’ Grandma Zing regarded Lucinda, and then turned back to Cassie.

  ‘I like my teacher,’ declared Cassie. ‘She’s nice.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Grandma Zing. ‘Come here and give me a hug.’

  Cassie gave her grandmother a hug.

  ‘We might be a while, okay, everyone?’ said Fancy, drawing a black chiffon scarf from her handbag. ‘Because I think we should go into Baulkham Hills for the eggs, don’t you, Marbie?’

  ‘I agree,’ said Marbie.

  ‘Be careful, eh?’ said Vernon, reaching for a handful of peanuts.

  ‘Over there, behind that station wagon,’ Fancy pointed, and Marbie pulled over.

  ‘Have you got it?’ said Marbie.

  ‘It’s in my scarf.’

  ‘And the new code?’

  ‘Apparently it’s in the mint.’ Fancy opened the back door, and reached into a wicker basket. ‘Got it.’ She fell into step alongside Marbie.

  ‘Final check,’ said Marbie, drawing out her pager, and tapping in a number. They walked on side-by-side, until a cat gave a faint ‘miaow’ from Marbie’s pocket. ‘That’s it,’ said Marbie. ‘You okay?’

  ‘You bet,’ said Fancy, and they separated smoothly, Fancy floating into the distance. Her earrings glinted in the moonlight.

  Lucinda had fallen asleep on her beanbag when Fancy and Marbie returned.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Fancy, opening the front door.

  ‘All right?’ said Radcliffe.

  ‘All right,’ agreed Fancy.

  Listen reached out for the eggs.

  3

  THE HOT AIR BALLOON

  At the time when Maude lay in bed for several weeks, loss and pain were put into context. Broken hearts, blisters, papercuts, scaldings; all grains of sand pouring regularly through an hourglass. She was used to them. But here was this sharp rock, lodged in the neck of the hourglass, choking the flow. No time, no breath, just monolithic pain holding everything still. If only she could pick up the glass, shake it loose, lose the pain as she had lost that life.

  Occasionally, she dreamt herself out of the hourglass, into the basket of a hot air balloon. But then she could only watch helplessly as an inverted parachute fell from the basket and crashed through the air to the ground.

  This was years after she first heard the story of the watercolour painter.

  4

  CATH MURPHY

  It was well known at Redwood Primary that Warren had a wife up the coast. He just hadn’t mentioned this, specifically, to Cath.

  In fact, in the weeks after the Borrowed Cat, it seemed to Cath that ‘Warren’s wi
fe, Breanna’ was the subject of constant conversation at Redwood, even among her friends. For example, Suzanne would say to Lenny, ‘What are you up to this weekend, Len?’ To which Lenny would reply, ‘Going up the coast to Terrigal, I think.’ To which Suzanne would declare, ‘Terrigal! Isn’t that where Warren’s wife, Breanna, lives?’ To which Lenny would demur, ‘No, Warren’s wife, Breanna, lives at Avoca. It’s the next beach around.’

  Or, for example, Mr Bel Castro (teacher, Grade 5A) would say, ‘These muffins are delicious!’ To which Miss Waratah (teacher, Grade 4C) would reply, ‘Oh, thank you! The recipe is Warren’s wife, Breanna’s!’ To which Mr Bel Castro would say, ‘Gosh.’

  That’s how it seemed to Cath in the weeks after the Borrowed Cat. Warren’s wife, Breanna was like one of those new phrases you learn and then find that it’s been kicking around for years.

  Of course, the night of the Borrowed Cat itself, she only knew that Warren had kept the wife a secret, and then sprung it on her, cheerfully, like a novelty mousetrap. Driving home that afternoon, she felt a flash of terror at how stupid she had been. Then the terror became a fierce blush of self-loathing at how VERY VERY STUPID SHE HAD BEEN.

  The blush lasted almost all the way home, and blazed up again when she found her favourite dress set out neatly on the ironing board. Also, her black opal necklace, whimsically looped around the fridge door handle as a reminder to herself to wear it. She opened the fridge and slammed it so hard that the kitchen shook.

  Then she opened the fridge again and poured herself a glass of apple juice, in order to calm down. ‘So what? He’s married. Big deal.’ She wandered carelessly into the dining room where she stamped once and flung the juice at the window. It dribbled over her reflection.

  At her law class, tears began to well in her eyes. She realised, drawing sad little squiggles in her notebook, that there would be no shy, meaningful glances tonight, no bluesy conversation. No! There would be Warren-and-his-Wife-Breanna. They would sit opposite her with their hands intertwined.

  Actually, now that she thought about it, it would be more than just Warren-and-his-Wife. It would be the whole gang!

  ‘Come along’ he had written in his quiz at the Monday assembly. ‘Come along to see the Carotid Sticks where we will meet a jolly circle of my friends, my wife, incidentally, among them!’

  That’s what he had meant. It was so obvious she was blinded by her tears, and her breathing became tangled. Doctor Carmichael, the lecturer, leaned towards her from his podium and his turban almost fell off.

  Warren’s friends, she realised, would stand up noisily when she arrived, their ashtrays and drinks in a clutter. There would be a shortish woman in a large-collared blouse, who would swap a cigarette to her left hand, and squint a smile at Cath through the smoke. There would be two skinny men in corduroys, each saying ‘hi!’ in a witty friendly way. Also, a little later, breathless from the Central Coast train, there would be Warren’s wife, Breanna.

  By the time Cath reached the Borrowed Cat, she was furious with Warren and his gang. Don’t you smoke in my face, she commanded, angrily, as she pushed open the door. And: What’s with the corduroy, boys? she sneered as the waitress welcomed her.

  The Borrowed Cat was in a basement. An unexpected spotlight roamed the room, but otherwise it flickered darkly like a shaded candle. The waitress led Cath to a corner table where Warren was sitting alone.

  She gave him a vicious, complicated smile, which he returned with a dazzling beam, stretching out his arms in welcome.

  ‘You’re not late at all!’ he said.

  ‘Yes I am. I am fifteen minutes late.’

  ‘It’s okay, they’re not starting for another hour,’ he reassured her.

  ‘Where’s your wife, Breanna?’ she said archly. ‘And everybody else?’

  ‘There is nobody else,’ he apologised. ‘And Bree just called. She’s not going to make it and she’s disappointed. She wanted to meet you. She said to say “hi”, okay?’

  Cath was so shocked she sat down and snatched the menu from Warren’s hands.

  That night, their knees touched under the table several times, and each time she moved away, abruptly. She drank a reckless pitcher of sangria, and she made a little monster out of Warren’s bread roll, so he couldn’t eat it. Also, she told him the facts of some brutal murder cases, all the time glaring and glowering at him, while he leaned forward, delighted.

  When the Carotid Sticks began playing, she turned her chair around so she could see the band, and fell asleep against his shoulder.

  When she woke, she told Warren that the band was crap and that was a word she never used. ‘I only agreed to come,’ she said, ‘because I was thinking of the Clotted Creams.’ He shouted with laughter and suggested they see the Clotted Creams together some other time. ‘No,’ she said, ‘because you have a bony, uncomfortable shoulder and I hardly slept a wink.’ He shouted again, and then apologised sincerely.

  While the band packed up, she asked a lot of ironic questions about the wife. What does she do for a living? Oh, and why does she live up the coast? Uh-huh, and where did you two meet?

  The wife was a psychologist, and was having trouble finding work in Sydney, so she lived up the coast during the week. She did relationship counselling up there. They had met through friends or something dull like that. Breanna had a late appointment that day, and would come down on the early train tomorrow. Usually, she arrived, Fridays, on the seven fifty-three.

  ‘Ah,’ agreed Cath, ‘the seven fifty-three.’ She felt wonderfully cutting.

  The next day, Saturday, she felt so vicious and vengeful that she phoned Suzanne and cancelled their movie. But Suzanne called back and said she had been so looking forward to a night without the kids, and her husband was all set to babysit and had the Finding Nemo DVD ready to go. So Cath agreed, and sat through the movie with her eyes half-closed, pressing her fingernails into her palms, imagining each palm was Warren’s face. Suzanne, beside her, ate a choc-top.

  But the following week, back at school, Cath discovered the wife’s renown, and felt contrite. It was not Warren’s fault. He must have assumed that she knew about the wife! He had just kept her out of conversation!

  The weather shifted one shade down: the sky cast a light that was cautious and reserved, and the air took on a disapproving chill. Cath walked around in cardigans and in a dull private shame.

  With Warren, she became gentle and polite, as if she had discovered he had a terminal disease rather than a wife. Sometimes he tried to liven her up, doing things like jogging on the spot in the playground and crying: ‘Cath! What’s happened to my legs? They’re moving too quickly!’ But Cath just gave a sad little smile and continued walking, while the children fell about in hysterics. Some of them grabbed at Warren’s knees to help him stop.

  Often, he looked at her in a puzzled and disappointed way, as if to say: what has happened to my friend?

  But, she cried in the middle of the night, he is married! How can I continue as his ‘friend’? At the same time, she wondered what had happened to their friendship. Could it just end like that?

  Coincidentally, the day after one such sleepless night, Cath attended a law class on:

  Principles of Statutory Interpretation: Lesson 1

  She always began her law notes with a flamboyant heading. Begin as you mean to go on. After a while, though, the lecturer’s voice would drift, taking its own meandering path, and her notes in turn would grow drowsy. Today, Cath’s notes paid attention, at least for the first principle of statutory interpretation.

  Generalia specialibus non derogant: if a special Act is followed by a general Act, the special Act remains as an exception to the general.

  Doctor Carmichael explained: ‘For example. Let us say Parliament enacts the Care for Pigs Act. This is an Act requiring all pet pigs to be dyed a lurid shade of orange.’

  He paused, but nobody ever laughed in law class.

  ‘E.g.,’ Cath wrote in her notes: ‘Care for Pigs Ac
t. Must dye pigs orange.’

  ‘And one month later,’ continued Doctor Carmichael, ‘Parliament enacts the Care for Animals Act. This Act requires all pets to be dyed blue. Okay, guys, let’s say you have a pet pig. What colour do you dye your pig?’

  ‘1 mnth ltr,’ Cath wrote. ‘Care for Animals Act. Must dye pets blue.’ She waited with her pen poised for the lecturer to give the answer.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ said Doctor Carmichael, looking around the room. ‘Take a guess! Do we dye our pig orange or blue?’

  Ask the pig, thought Cath, which it prefers.

  ‘Orange,’ said Doctor Carmichael, calmly. ‘You must dye your pig orange.’

  ‘Dye pig orange,’ wrote Cath, and drew a little doodle of a pig.

  ‘You see?’ Doctor Carmichael had bright blue eyes and little wisps of orange hair escaping from the edges of his turban. ‘The first Act was specific, so it stays on as an exception to the second. Your dogs and cats and turtles must be blue, but your pig has got to stay orange.’

  At this point, Cath’s notes faded into half-finished words – ‘dog, cat, turts, bl’. Then she wrote: Surely it is wrong to dye a pig any colour at all?

  She drew a circle around the question mark, and added petals to the circle. The petals made her think of Warren. We have bought a Breville Sandwich Maker together, she remembered sadly. If I can’t have an unfurling romance, why can’t I at least have the friendship?

  But she knew that the special little act, the purchase of a Breville Sandwich Maker, had been eclipsed by his announcement: ‘My wife.’ She could never be friends with him again.

  Generalia specialibus non derogant.

  Ah-hah! Cath realised, with a sudden thumping heart: if a special Act is followed by a general Act, the special Act remains as an exception to the general! So it’s all right! Her face was burning. The sandwich maker is allowed to carry on! It remains as an exception to the Wife!