Flying the Coop Page 2

  ‘You’ll what?’ said Garth incredulously.

  ‘You’ll what?’ said the real estate agent, even more incredulously.

  ‘Yippee!’ screamed Michael, punching a fist into the air. ‘I’m gonna sleep right up the top of the huge barn, coz I think that’ll last. And howsabout you put a slippery-dip in so as I c’n get down fast in the morning?’

  ‘But you haven’t even asked the price,’ stammered the real estate agent, looking from Garth to Chris and back again so quickly that his hairpiece slid sideways. ‘And maybe, ah, you need to discuss it with your husband here?’

  ‘Absolutely no need.’ The blossoming in Chris’s brain continued to speak for her, while deep down inside, the real her, the one with the excellent job and the lovely character-filled house and the entire inner-city life, curled up into a foetal position and went into shock. ‘He’s not my husband and I’m more than capable of looking after my own business, thank you. As for the price, I meant, of course, that I would be putting in an offer and, if it was acceptable, then I would be purchasing the property. Me. Not him. Now, unless you do most of your transactions out here on the pavement, I suggest we move into your office so that I can start filling out the necessary paperwork?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Chris hardly said a word on the long drive home. This was made possible by the fact that Grace appeared to be in one of her ‘I would rather dance naked on hot coals – or even wear pink – than chat with my mother’ moods. So the fourteen-year-old slouched down in the passenger seat as far as her seatbelt would allow and, while plugged firmly into her CD player, concentrated on a thin paperback entitled World Domination 101: How to take over the world in twenty-three simple steps. The only sign of life, other than a faintly metallic thumping that emanated from the CD player, was the occasional ‘oh yeah’ that was muttered either in response to the music or one of the simple steps.

  Garth’s 4WD was long gone. Although they had spoken earlier of stopping halfway home for coffee, Chris was guessing that this was no longer on the cards. Instead, as she had followed the real estate agent into the office, Garth had grabbed a very reluctant Michael and stormed off across the road. And hadn’t been seen since. In fact, when she returned to her car about twenty minutes later, Chris had fully expected Grace to have been spirited away as well, but even before crossing the street she had spotted the Doc Martens still sticking up by the window and realised that the girl had chosen to stay. Why, she had no idea. It certainly wasn’t for the companionship.

  As she drove in silence past the seemingly endless vineyards that stretched between Healesville and Coldstream, Chris wondered at herself, and the meltdown that had allowed the blossoming redness to take control. Not that this was the first time it had happened – although rarely before with such spectacularly stupid results. Nor, as usual, had it lasted long. In fact, she had started to come to her senses shortly after Garth left the scene, and had been jerked fully back into reality when the real estate agent had blithely informed her of the asking price for a slice of paradise. That had been enough to restore anyone to sanity. But, even if she was still reeling from her temporary descent into lunacy, she was proud of the way she had kept a straight face and quickly decided on a course of action guaranteed to extricate herself with the least amount of embarrassment. This simply entailed making an offer well below the asking price and then making out a cheque for the deposit that would be, of course, torn up as soon as the vendors formally rejected her offer. And no-one would ever need to know that, despite the flourish with which she had handed over the cheque, if it were ever actually presented at a bank, it would bounce higher than Tigger on a windy day.

  So that was that. The only thing left now was the official phone call this evening from the real estate agent, now better known as Frank, and life as she knew it could return to normal. Except for a couple of minor hiccups. One being how disappointed Michael was going to be when he discovered he was not going to be sleeping in a huge barn, and another being the fact that her ex-husband now had extra ammunition for his oft-stated theory that Chris, unlike himself, was impulsive and lacked control.

  As she passed Dame Nellie Melba’s former hedges with barely a glance and continued on down the highway towards Lilydale, Chris wondered if she needed therapy for these occasional lapses of sanity. Because although it had once been a daydream to live in the country, with dogs and chooks and fresh air, it wasn’t something to which she had given a great deal of thought for quite some time. Instead, it had been shelved away with other fantasies, like skydiving or joining the mile-high club. So did that mean the others were ticking time bombs also? Should she never board an aeroplane again, just in case?

  ‘Oh yeah,’ muttered Grace, nodding her head briefly.

  And how many people go on a perfectly normal outing and come back having put a deposit on a free-range chook farm? Because, despite telling Garth that she had once owned poultry, the truth was that this was limited to one half-grown rooster that, as a high-school student, she had brought home after a science experiment. And the fate of this particular rooster wasn’t anything to boast about either. After Chris’s mother insisted that he be housed in the huge aviary in the backyard, he had spent what little remained of his life underneath the resident rabbit. This rabbit, obviously both frustrated and a trifle confused, had mounted the rooster the moment he entered the aviary and spent every waking second thereafter futilely attempting penetration. The rooster had only lasted two weeks before choosing death over dishonour. So Chris was fairly certain that this limited experience wasn’t going to count for much in the running of a free-range egg farm. Unless, that is, she wanted to make a little under-the-table cash by producing bizarre animal pornography.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ murmured Grace, straightening her headphones.

  To distract herself from her own idiocy – and the intrusive image of the rabbit-rooster combo – Chris flicked a glance across at her daughter and decided to worry about her instead. Because Grace was a distinctly unhappy teenager – and not just in the sense that she had thus far been thwarted in her quest for world domination. Or even in the sense that many teenagers thrive on feeling miserable and/or victimised. No, Grace had already been unhappy for years, and simply slipped smoothly into the general misery of teenage-hood like a duck into water. As opposed to a rabbit into a rooster.

  Looks-wise, Grace strongly resembled her mother. Both were redheads, with pale, lightly freckled skin and brown eyes. But that was where the similarities ended. Where Chris’s hair formed a wavy auburn cap around her head, Grace’s was a short back and sides that displayed only about two inches of deep orange that was desperately trying to curl at the ends. And while Chris regularly had her brows and lashes tinted dark brown, Grace’s were so light as to be almost invisible, giving her a perpetually startled look that was distinctly at odds with her morose personality. But the biggest difference was their body type. Where Chris possessed a small, reasonably trim figure that, at thirty-eight, was only just starting to give her some problems, the genetic lucky-dip had given Grace her father’s solid build and a tendency towards plumpness that just made it worse.

  Nor was she like her mother in personality. Where Chris was volatile and impulsive, Grace was slow and brooding and, when she began something, she always followed it through, usually with above satisfactory results. Even Chris’s two different types of temper – the fast, furious one and the slow-burning, concentrated rage – were utterly different to Grace’s implacable vengefulness when crossed.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Grace stretched herself out briefly and then yawned.

  But the bottom line was that the world isn’t particularly kind to girls who don’t graduate through what Chris called the ‘Barbie’ mould, with pink frills, effervescent personalities, and skinny pre-pubescent figures. None of which Grace had ever possessed – not even the pink frills, as she had been born with the orange hair and the scowl, both of which clash with pink. So there she was, a plump, sullen teenager
with few friends and absolutely no social life. And Chris’s heart bled for her.

  There were a few things that made it even harder for Grace. One was her brother, who was the absolute opposite in personality – cheeky, outgoing and irrepressible, with a horde of like-minded friends who treated his house as their own. Another was her parents’ separation four years ago – which, it seemed to Chris, had actually hastened Grace’s slide into solitude. And then there was her name. According to Grace, and she had a rather valid point, her parents could not have come up with a less suitable name if they’d tried. While she did not actually spell out the irony of a sturdy, plump girl being called Grace, with its connotations of dignified elegance, her meaning was clear. But, as her mother pointed out many times, when you hold a tiny, six-pound baby in your arms, staring at her button nose and wondering at the minuteness of her various digits, it’s rather hard to presuppose a time when her name might be the bane of her existence.

  Personally Chris sometimes wondered if Grace actually thrived on feeling miserable – certainly she made no attempts to join groups or make friends. On the other hand, Chris’s best friend Jenny, who she had known ever since they attended prep orientation day together thirty-three years ago and who now lived with her husband and daughter in Far North Queensland, had a theory that outstanding adults often have a difficult childhood. Some obstacle that required the development of a certain strength of character. And that, therefore, Grace’s almost palpable unhappiness virtually guaranteed her a shining future.

  Somewhere past Ringwood, the future outstanding adult stirred, stretched and took the headphones off. Then she turned to look at her mother. ‘Have you always been attracted to wankers?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Chris slammed on the brakes to avoid running into the back of the semi-trailer she was following and glanced across at her daughter with considerable surprise. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Have you always been attracted to wankers?’ repeated Grace in a reasonable tone of voice. ‘I was just curious, that’s all.’

  ‘Do you even know what a wanker is?’

  ‘Why?’ Grace looked at her with disdain. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do! It’s a guy who –’ Chris stopped herself in time – ‘doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Well, that’s a bit harsh. I’d just have said a guy who masturbates too much.’

  ‘Thank you, Grace.’ Chris put on her blinker and moved around the semi. ‘But I did know that. What I don’t know is why you think I’m attracted to them.’

  ‘Well, Dad of course. I’m guessing you were attracted to him once. That you didn’t marry him for his conversational skills.’

  ‘I don’t think I approve of you calling your father a wanker,’ said Chris primly, moving back into the left-hand lane. ‘He does have some good points, you know.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Grace derisively, signifying the end of the conversation by fitting her headphones back over her ears, sliding down in her seat and returning her concentration to World Domination 101. And that was fairly typical of dialogue with Grace nowadays – hard work and ultimately pointless.

  Chris took a deep breath and tried to reach a zen-like state – or whatever it was when you were able to clear your mind and operate on autopilot. But this proved rather difficult to do. First the semi-trailer passed her on the right, and she noticed that there was a six-foot hen with a manic grin painted on the side, with the words ‘Happy Hen Poultry – delicious!’ emblazoned above it. Then, to take her mind off the paradox of jovial hens and death by roasting, between Box Hill and Canterbury she counted five KFCs, four Red Roosters, thirteen independent barbecue chicken shops, and one Chinese takeaway that she included because it was called Le Wing. Finally, just as she was turning into her street, a silver Mercedes passed by on the other side with the numberplate EGG 23. Chris shook her head in amazement. Was it karma, or had she just not noticed until now how intertwined her life was with all things poultry?

  ‘Oh yeah,’ sang Grace flatly, nodding along in time to the beat.

  As she pulled into the driveway, it occurred to Chris that ‘zen’ rhymed with ‘hen’, and that ‘karma’ rhymed with ‘farmer’ – well, just about. But it definitely rhymed with ‘llama’, which was part of the animal kingdom, just like hens. It was all, she decided as she lugged the picnic basket out of the boot, part of the great circle of life, just like a glass of wine was part of the circle of her day – and an absolute necessity at the moment.

  Grace followed her into the house bearing the picnic blanket, which she deposited on the kitchen floor with a scattering of pine needles before heading off to her bedroom. Chris flicked on a few lights and, as the house was frigid, the ducted heating. Then she opened a bottle of cold riesling, poured herself a much needed glass, and looked around in yet another effort to ground herself in normality.

  The house in which Chris lived was of an elaborate Californian bungalow style, dripping with ornamental edifices and architectural extravagances. Like curlicues and decorative woodwork on the outside, and ceiling roses and dado on the inside. It was the epitome of what real estate agents liked to describe as ‘character-filled’. One of the smallest houses in Chris’s rather affluent neighbourhood, the backyard had just enough room to swing a cat, but not enough room to hide from the cat once you’d put it down – as Grace had painfully discovered at the age of five.

  Chris was very fond of the house, which she had lived in for the past seventeen years, and her leafy, peaceful neighbourhood. At the time, the purchase was only possible because of her parents, who had made the obligatory retirement to the Gold Coast and, from the sale of their house, had given Chris and Garth enough money to get them started. The newly engaged couple looked high and low before settling on a rather rundown house in Canterbury which they then spent the better part of the next decade renovating. And just a glance at the real estate section of the local paper nowadays revealed the almost obscene increase on their initial investment.

  The main problem with this increase was that the more the property was worth, the less chance Chris had to ever pay Garth out and actually own it herself. Which meant that discussions about selling would commence in earnest within minutes of Michael turning eighteen, as opposed to the casual comments that were dropped into conversations at the moment. Like how much he hated renting, and wasn’t it amazing what the house on the corner had fetched at auction, and was she aware that the apricot she had painted the hallway didn’t go with the period décor and therefore brought down the overall value of ‘their’ house? It didn’t help that Chris knew she should be grateful that he hadn’t demanded his share the minute he moved out. To give him credit, it was Garth who’d suggested that, rather than uproot the children at a traumatic time, they should stay there and he would even continue to pay the lion’s share of the mortgage in lieu of child support. But he would also continue to have a fifty per cent interest in the property.

  It was a good, generous plan and one that had painted him in a decidedly favourable light in the eyes of their friends and families, but Chris knew that the real reason Garth, despite desperately wanting the money to re-establish himself, had not insisted they sell up was guilt. Pure guilt. Because just getting away from each other had taken precedence over everything else. Because their marriage had become stale, and stifling, and suffocating. Because they had both been desperately unhappy, with the love they once shared having become a weary tolerance that made each day a trial. Because thinking of spending the rest of their lives with each other was utterly soul wrenching. But mainly because she had been totally unaware of any of that until he told her. Just like she had been unaware of the fact that she needed to separate in order to ‘rediscover’ herself. No, as far as she had been aware, they had been quite happy. Sure, they didn’t communicate like they once had, but then they didn’t flit naked through the house anymore either. Things change, and she had always assumed that the relationship would just change too. Mutate, so to speak. But apparentl
y not. It had been like owning a painting that you saw on the wall each day, and which gave you a sense of security and contentment, and you’d expected it to go on doing so for quite some time to come. Only to be told one day that it was a fake. And then to have it torn up, and stomped on, and thoroughly destroyed.

  Chris put her glass down and smoothed the frown lines on her forehead. Then she picked it up again and took a deep gulp. She knew she was still bitter, and she supposed she would always be bitter. Especially given the fact that, within six months of leaving, Garth had met and then moved in with Cynthia. Who obviously didn’t stifle and/or suffocate him to the same degree.

  Hearing that news had probably been the lowest point of Chris’s life, and if it hadn’t been for the constant phone calls to and from Jenny in Queensland, she didn’t know whether she would have survived intact. Either that or she really would have suffocated Garth. However, after another six months, when even Jenny’s easygoing husband started getting hysterical over the phone bills, they had given up that practice in favour of almost daily, but much more economical, emails. And now, four years after Garth had left, they were an integral part of Chris’s life – a way of discussing issues, getting advice and purging herself. Almost like having a diary that talked back.

  And they helped enormously. For instance, it was Jenny who pointed out, about a year after the separation, that Chris was still living her life around Garth. His expectations, his requirements, his visits. And, with Jenny’s encouragement, she had gradually started to see Garth clearly for the first time in her life, and it wasn’t a particularly appealing picture. He was selfish, arrogant, opinionated and sanctimonious. Plus a whole heap of other things that Chris had written on a list. Including wanker. And, while there were also quite a few good attributes that she had noted in a corresponding column – like generous, good in bed, protective, affectionate, good father – the negatives had definitely outweighed the positives.