Odd Socks Read online

  Ilsa Evans lives in a partially renovated house in the Dandenongs, east of Melbourne. She shares her home with her three children, two dogs, several fish, a multitude of sea-monkeys and a psychotic cat.

  She is currently completing a PhD at Monash University on the long-term effects of domestic violence and writes fiction on the weekends. Odd Socks is her third novel.

  www.ilsaevans.com

  Also by Ilsa Evans

  Spin Cycle

  Drip Dry

  Odd Socks

  I l s a E v a n s

  Pan Macmillan Australia

  To my father,

  Maurice Vivian Evans

  (1927–1988)

  I wish I could have told you . . .

  First published 2005 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited This Pan edition published 2006 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited St Martins Tower, 31 Market Street, Sydney

  Copyright © Ilsa Evans 2005

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Evans, Ilsa. Odd socks.

  ISBN 978 0 330 42219 2.

  ISBN 0 330 42219 7.

  I. Title.

  A823.4

  Typeset in Bembo by Post Pre-press Group Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  These electronic editions published in 2005 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Odd Socks

  Ilsa Evans

  Adobe eReader format 978-1-74197-075-3

  Microsoft Reader format 978-1-74197-276-4

  Mobipocket format 978-1-74197-477-5

  Online format 978-1-74197-678-6

  Epub format 978-1-74262-534-8

  Macmillan Digital Australia www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  Despite the efforts of

  the following:

  Lately I have come to realise that books are written not so much because of the efforts of many, but despite the efforts of many. Therefore, here is my list of those people/animals/inanimate objects despite whom this book was still written.

  This book was written despite the fact that children expect three meals a day, preferably served in a brightly coloured box or wrapped in butcher paper. And despite the tendency of children to get sick every time you have (a) given them too many meals in brightly coloured boxes or wrapped in butcher paper; (b) a deadline; and/or (c) a particularly important meeting you were keen to attend without vomit on your lapel and a feverish child in tow.

  This book was written despite the fact that all three of my particular offspring insist on using my computer despite ample evidence it loathes them. Thus, whenever I have carelessly left work up that hasn’t yet been saved, the house echoes with phrases such as ‘But I was only looking!’

  This book was written despite the fact that these children, although very lovable, are all a tad faulty and therefore require regular visits to optometrists, speech therapists, podiatrists, dentists, ear, nose and throat guys, etc. And don’t let’s forget the mandatory activities! Tennis, karate, saxophone, swimming, pottery, chess . . .

  This book was written despite phone calls from people I don’t even know selling me things I don’t even want and refusing to understand this is an invasion of privacy (you’re all going on a list of companies I will never use!). And despite phone calls from people I do know, who, apart from all evidence to the contrary, remain convinced that I enjoy a chat.

  This book was written despite bloody housework – and the bills to pay, washers to replace, walls to paint, bulbs to either change or plant (depending on the bulb) – and the myriad other incidentals that fill our days.

  This book was written despite my inability to set mousetraps without endangering a digit or two, and the Band-Aids that make it very difficult to type efficiently.

  This book was written despite ex-husbands. Full stop.

  This book was written despite the fact that we own the stupidest dog in the world, who firmly believes that peeing on my bed is an expression of love. And despite the fact that we also have a cat against whom we should apply for an apprehended violence order. And despite the fact that some entrepreneurial possums have established a singles bar in the roof and it appears to be a thumping success.

  This book was written despite the ongoing battle for ‘me’ time, and all the things, like tennis, champagne, good books, friends, family and the occasional convivial lunch, which lure me away from what I should be doing.

  Despite you all, because of you all, about you all – here is the book.

  CONTENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY ILSA EVANS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  COPYRIGHT

  DESPITE THE EFFORTS OF THE FOLLOWING

  MONDAY

  TUESDAY

  WEDNESDAY

  THURSDAY

  FRIDAY

  SATURDAY

  SUNDAY

  MONDAY

  Handy Household Hint No IV:

  Various stains of labour, including afterbirth, cannot be removed from pale-coloured carpets. Therefore, one is well advised to avoid the set of circumstances leading to the stain occurring.

  MONDAY

  0345 hrs

  Rafter’s serve comes whistling across at a severe angle into the forehand court, and I’ve got to perform a desperate lunge to reach it. Then, because I’ve been driven so far out, the most logical place to hit it seems to be past that Minogue female at the net. So I execute a perfect sideline that screams down the tramlines and raises chalk when it lands. She shuffles her feet and looks embarrassed. But stuff sportsmanship, that little blonde had it coming – I call it really bad cricket to try to distract your opposition by not wearing knickers.

  ‘Game over,’ announces the umpire solemnly. ‘Newcombe and Diamond lead five games to love. Diamond to serve.’

  ‘Fan-bloody-tastick, Terry!’ Newk comes trotting over and slaps my raised hand with a grin. ‘Sheer brilliance!’

  I smile happily back while the cheering in the crowd turns into a methodical chant of my name: Terry, Terry, Terry. As the ball-boy bounces a couple towards me for my serve, the chanting gradually dies off – except for one persistent female fan, who is not so much chanting as screaming my name. Her noise makes it impossible to concentrate, so I practise my serving motion and take a few seconds to admire Newk’s posterior as he bends over at the net. Not too shabby at all. The umpire sternly asks for silence in the stands, but it makes no difference. Instead the incessant screeching just gets louder. And louder.

  I s
it up in bed with a jerk – or rather, I sit up rapidly but by myself as I’ve been divorced for years. Newk’s butt recedes as I fight my way out of the cotton wool of sleep with just the piercing shrieks accompanying me every step of the way. And then I’m out, staring around my bedroom groggily while I try to remember where I am, when I am – and what the hell is making all that racket.

  My first clue is the realisation that it is not my actual name being screamed, just ‘Mum, Mum, Muuum!’ over and over from downstairs. Which rules out the chances of it being a persistent fan who has followed me back from the land of Nod. And, as I’ll bet very few burglars accompany their nefarious exploits with loud pleas for their maternal parent, it only leaves one candidate: my twenty-one year old daughter, Bronte. Who just happens to be eight and a half months pregnant.

  ‘Mum – help, help!!!’

  A sudden surge of panic catapults me out of bed and I gasp as the icy chill of the mid-July night slaps me vigorously, causing goose bumps to break out across the length and breadth of my naked body. As my breath puffs out into plumes of mist that hover in the air before me, I hurriedly pull on my white candlewick dressing-gown and look around for my slippers.

  ‘Mum, Mum, Mum, Muuuum!’

  ‘I’m coming!’ I yell, forgetting about the slippers as I tie my dressing-gown cord securely and race out of the bedroom to attack the spiral staircase two steps at a time. ‘I’m coming!’

  Just past halfway down I realise light is flooding out from the lounge-room, so I hike up my dressing-gown and take the last four steps in a single jump before sprinting in that direction. As I approach, the screaming suddenly stops and is replaced by a low keening noise, almost primeval in intensity, that sends a frisson of fear vibrating up my spine. Then, arriving at the doorway out of breath, I take in the scene before me with one incredulous glance.

  Because there, on my pale moss-coloured, low-pile lounge-room carpet and lying flat on her back, is my one and only daughter. Which is probably how she got into this mess in the first place, but that’s neither here nor there at the moment. Especially since it looks suspiciously like the culmination might be in process. Dressed in a pastel pink and blue maternity tracksuit, her knees are bent and she is staring straight at the ceiling with her hands clasped across her very pregnant belly. The droning, guttural hum she is emitting ceases when she registers that I’ve arrived in the doorway and, raising her head, she looks at me out of puffy, reddened eyes while holding out one hand in a pleading gesture.

  ‘Mum, Mum!’ Bronte starts to cry piteously. ‘Mum – oh god, oh god.’

  ‘Bronte!’ I break out of my trance and move rapidly across the lounge-room towards her, squatting to take her outstretched hand and holding it tight. ‘Bronte! What’s going on? And what on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought . . . I just thought I’d –’ Bronte’s face suddenly goes pale and her mouth opens in a stretched, silent scream as her back arches and her body grows tense. I grasp her hand firmly to show support but she immediately grips it back with such unbelievable tightness that it cuts off my blood supply. My face goes pale too.

  After a minute or two, Bronte’s body begins to relax a little. At the same time, her mouth closes slightly and she begins to pant shallowly and rapidly. I wrest my hand away and shake it to get some circulation back.

  ‘Bronte, we need to get you to the hospital,’ I say, chewing my lip with concern – for her, for the baby, and for my pale moss-coloured, low-pile carpet.

  ‘No, no. I can’t go,’ pants Bronte rhythmically as she claws at my arm, trying to regain my hand. ‘And it’s too late, anyway. And I can’t get hold of Nick – I’ve tried and tried. And it’s coming, Mum – it’s coming now.’

  ‘All the more reason to get in the car quickly. Come on!’

  ‘Mum, it hurts – it really hurts,’ Bronte sobs as she wipes her nose with one pastel-pink tracksuit sleeve. ‘Make it stop!’

  ‘They’ll make it stop in the hospital.’ I try to help her up but she resists with a considerable amount of strength for someone in the midst of labour. ‘Come on, Bronte!’

  ‘No! I just want it to stop! And I want Nick!’

  ‘They’ll give you nice drugs in hospital, you know.’ I stop tugging her and try a little gentle persuasion. ‘And the nice drugs’ll be much better than Nick.’

  Instead of answering, Bronte stiffens as yet another contraction begins to rack her body. And this time there’s nothing silent about it as she lets out a wail that sends sharp chills through me. I lean forwards and hold her shoulders securely because I really don’t know what else to do. As the contraction reaches its climax, she sits bolt upright and stares rigidly ahead whilst her breath whistles through her clenched teeth. Then the whistling gradually turns to panting as the pain starts to recede and she collapses back onto the floor, crying again.

  ‘Come on now, Bronte.’ I let go of her shoulders and, slipping my hands under her arms, try to pull her up off the floor. ‘Come on, we have to get to the car!’

  ‘Leave me alone!’

  ‘Come on!’ I give up trying to lift her and instead start dragging her backwards, an inch at a time. ‘A tad of cooperation wouldn’t go astray, you know!’

  ‘I said leave me alone,’ Bronte shrieks as she digs her heels in, ‘or I’ll have it in your freaking car!’

  ‘What?’ I let go of her quickly. ‘You’ll what?’

  ‘Have it in your freaking car!’ she repeats hysterically as she wraps her arms around her lower abdomen and groans. ‘And I’ve changed my mind, anyway – I don’t want to do this anymore! At all!’

  ‘I’m calling an ambulance.’ I get up without making even one sarcastic crack about how it’s a bit late for regrets now, which just goes to show how worried I am. She can’t possibly have the baby here – I don’t know the first thing about what to do or how to do it. Because it’s not like I was paying attention when Bronte herself was born – all I remember, between heady injections of potent painkillers, are my attempts to rally the medical staff with a rousing rendition of ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes’. And I can’t even remember the words now. I pat Bronte on the shoulder reassuringly and head over to the phone by the armchair.

  ‘Mum! Don’t leave me!’

  ‘I’m not. I’m ringing an ambulance,’ I reply soothingly. Now that I’m taking decisive action and feel a little more in control, I realise how cold it is down here. I also register that for some time my bare toes have been sending regular little distress signals that have been washed away by the adrenalin. Accordingly, I lean across, flick the central heating thermostat to full, and then flop down next to the phone and try to cover my feet with my dressing-gown hem. I pick up the receiver and the doorbell rings. For a second I stare at the phone in astonishment because it’s never made that sound before, and then the doorbell rings again and I grasp the fact there’s actually somebody at the door. At four o’clock in the morning.

  I put the phone down and hurry over to the front door instead, glancing quickly at Bronte, who appears to be mid-contraction again. While I try unsuccessfully to smooth my hair, I send up a brief prayer that it’s someone useful. Like perhaps one of those multiskilled male doctors from All Saints, who are apparently capable of performing everything from a facelift to brain surgery. One measly baby would be chicken-feed. He’d probably deliver it with one hand while the two of us sit on the couch, having a glass of wine and a convivial little chat. After I do my hair, that is.

  But it’s not one of the good doctors and, in fact, it’s not even close. It’s my plumpish, thirty-something neighbour, Stephen, dressed in a pair of black satin pyjamas with black fluffy scuffs on his feet and a fluorescent green beanie on his head.

  ‘Teresa!’ Stephen grasps my hand, his normally ruddy complexion pale with concern. ‘Are you okay, schnooks? I heard screaming! What on earth is happening?’

  If the situation wasn’t already so fraught, and if Bronte hadn’t chosen that moment
to begin crying again, I probably would have burst out laughing. Because, of all the people I know, Stephen is almost certainly the most useless in the current circumstances. Apart from the fact his intimate knowledge of females is non-existent, he’s the first to admit that even ads for sanitary napkins make him feel faint. But beggars can’t be choosers, so I reach out, grab his arm and drag him across the threshold, shutting the door firmly to cut off any escape route.

  ‘I need you.’ I lead him towards the lounge-room. ‘Bronte’s having the baby and you’ll have to hold her hand while I ring an ambulance.’

  ‘What!’ Stephen grabs the doorframe with both hands, plants his fluffy feet firmly and starts shaking his head as soon as he spots Bronte lying on her back next to the couch. ‘Oh, no. Oh, no. Anything but that – because I can’t. I just can’t!’

  ‘Well, you have to.’

  ‘Where’s the father then?’ Stephen looks at me accusingly, as if I’ve just buried him under the hydrangeas. Which, tempted as I have been over the past eight months, I haven’t. It’d be far too messy.

  ‘Don’t know and don’t much care.’ I leave him in the doorway and head back to the phone, calling over my shoulder, ‘Come on, Stephen, you don’t need to deliver it! Just hold her bloody hand.’

  ‘Mum!’ Bronte hefts herself up onto one elbow and fastens me with a glittering eye. ‘I want this to stop – NOW!’

  ‘I really need you.’ I look at him beseechingly as I pick up the receiver. ‘Please?’

  ‘Oh . . . all right! All right!’ Stephen grimaces at me and then lets go of the doorframe and, flexing his fingers as if he is about to perform surgery, advances across the room towards Bronte. ‘Now then –’