Flying the Coop (10 page)

Love from Jenny

O
ver the next few months, Chris found the perfect antidote to her persistent lead weight of niggling doubts. Time – or rather, lack of it. With all that had to be done, there was simply no time to worry about whether or not she was doing the right thing. Even at night she was usually so exhausted that when her head hit the pillow she would barely be able to formulate the thought ‘what will happen if . . .?' before she was fast asleep.

The first week or so was spent getting the house in order – cleaning it from top to bottom, revitalising the garden, filling any dents in the plaster, retouching the paintwork. Then, after the house was put on the market, there was all the effort involved in
keeping
it tidy. And most evenings when she walked in the front door – juggling handbag, mail, catalogues, Michael's latest pictorial offerings, a take-away food container or two – there would be a neat little pile of real estate agent's cards, signifying the number of times they had brought people through that day. Then there were the open house days, three in all, when the whole place had to be immaculate. After them it looked like a regiment of soldiers had emerged from the jungle to march through each room and up several walls.

Next the offers started coming in. And Garth started getting stubborn. Chris, who would have taken the first reasonable offer, began to panic, but Garth held out for top dollar. And, in this instance, he turned out to be right. By the end of August they had a bidding war and were soon signing off on a very handsome selling price.
With
a two-month settlement period. Chris was ecstatic, Garth noticeably smug.

But the sale simply meant that Chris had to turn her attention from the house itself to its contents. And start packing. Seventeen years of accumulated belongings to be organised into boxes within six weeks. Now every evening was spent emptying out cupboards, wrapping crockery, stacking books – and packing. To make things even more interesting, the new buyers developed the less than appealing habit of popping around every few days to measure this or check out that. Once they even arrived with an interior decorator, who hemmed and hawed his way around the rooms, had a mock fainting fit when he saw the apricot hallway, rejected Chris's forest-green curtains as not being ‘authentic' enough, and generally made a pain in the ass of himself.

In the meantime, Grace waged a continuous campaign regarding her name change. First she started with propaganda. Scanned photos of herself looking particularly ungainly would appear blu-tacked to the walls with the tagline: ‘Call
this
Grace?' or ‘Choice! Every person's basic human right!' Photocopied lists of all the reasons why she should be allowed a new name would be found in Chris's handbag, or in the mail, or on the back of the toilet door. And, with her father on her side, capitulation was really only a matter of time. By mid-September, Chris gave in.

Then, after a brief hiatus of about an hour or so, came the suggestions. First up was Tidal, apparently because it signified the ‘ebb and flow' of Grace's life. Then there was Gaia,
reportedly the Earth Mother, and Gorsedd, the Welsh word for throne. Only when Michael took to calling his sister ‘Gay Horse-head' did she give up on the last two. But every other day there would be a couple more suggestions, each one seemingly more ridiculous than the last.

One good thing that had eventuated was that Jenny, who Chris relied on heavily as a sounding board, suddenly did a complete about-face and became totally supportive of the move. This, she explained, was because she had now decided it was worth the risk to get Chris to start a new life. Away from Garth, and
their
house and
his
rules. And while Chris knew she was overexaggerating Garth's ongoing centrality within her life, it was still excellent to have her on board and no longer so negative. And Chris needed their regular exchanges even more now that she had almost given up her friendly Saturday lunches. This was not just because she was so busy, but because Garth rarely had the kids as he himself was now busy house-hunting.

Towards the end of September, Chris gave the kids a day off school and they drove down to Healesville. Firstly they enrolled Grace in her new school, a huge sprawling assortment of buildings that was set in picturesque bushy surroundings and boasted a network of bus services. One of which, they discovered to their delight, stopped in Harrison Road at the back of the estate near the farm. But best of all, according to Grace, the school was not only co-ed but also offered a choice of girls' uniform: dresses or trousers. Educationally it didn't seem to quite measure up to her old school, but obviously this wasn't a priority. They left with a multitude of paperwork and an entirely new uniform. And no skirts.

Michael's new primary school was a considerable distance away and much smaller. It was a cosy looking place with the standard classrooms, play equipment and multitude of small
children. There, things went much as Chris had expected. Michael loved the school, loved the principal, loved the classrooms, loved the uniform and, by the time they had left the school grounds, had already made a number of lifelong friends.

After a quick lunch in central Healesville, they headed off to the farm where Chris had arranged to meet Frank. And assorted tradesmen. As they drove past the milk can cum letterbox this time, Chris was hit with the realisation that all this would soon be hers. The double-storey farmhouse, the old metal fencing, the willow tree. Not that she hadn't known that already, in theory, but to actually
see
it and know it created a whole different kind of nervous amazement. It was the same when she wandered through the various rooms, now knowing that she would soon be moving
her
couch here, and
her
table there – it gave her a buzz that made her feel agitated and exhilarated at the same time. Adding to her overall sense of excitement was Michael's childish wonder as she and Grace showed him over the property. Unable to contain his pleasure, he kept jumping up and down with energetic enthusiasm and then flinging himself on Chris to express his delight.

Once again, the little old lady from next door was not to be seen and Chris, re-examining the proximity of the two houses, was relieved at her new neighbour's obvious hermit-like tendencies. Also absent was Mac, who Chris had been hoping to meet, if only to prove or disprove her theory regarding his physique.

The floor-polisher was the first tradesman to appear. He was given a deposit to begin pulling up the carpet and polishing the floorboards five minutes after settlement. It would take three days to complete the job and then another three before they could move in. But at least it would all be over and done with and getting rid of the carpet would, as well as improving
the aesthetic quality of the house immeasurably, also hopefully purge the musky smell of stale cigarette smoke.

The internet guy arrived next and was shown where the computer cables would have to go and then, last of all, was the painter. Chris had decided to only paint the kitchen initially, as the rest of the house wasn't too bad and could be done later, at her leisure. All the pots and pans wallpaper was to be pulled off and the walls painted an unobtrusive eggshell white. Then, later on, Chris would see if the finances could stretch to a complete refit.

They returned home tired but elated. Even Chris's niggling doubts remained temporarily acquiescent as she and the children bubbled over with plans for the farm and the future. But that was the last day they had time to wallow, or even dip their toes in euphoria. From then on things became even more frantic. Electricity, water, gas and telephone to be organised, house and contents insurances to be transferred from one house to another, meetings with the bank to organise the bridging loan, quotes from removalists . . . the list just went on. And all the while packing. Yet it seemed that the more boxes Chris packed, the more belongings she discovered she had. Even the garage sale they held seemed to make little difference – apart from the fact that they now wouldn't have to move the one-year-old $600 jarrah outdoor setting that Grace mistakenly sold for thirty-five bucks.

Then there were the farewells. A farewell at her legal firm, for which Chris caught the train in anticipation of free champagne, only to be given a huge, throne-like, papasan wicker chair as a goodbye present. Which meant that she had to negotiate a peak-hour walk from work to the train station, and then board the train, whilst hugging a chair that was both taller and wider than she was. And all this after she had consumed the better part of a bottle of champagne (which was the main
reason she had decided that she
could
carry it home in the first place). The only plus was that when she
did
manage to get on the train (after bouncing off the side several times), the absence of seats wasn't a problem. She simply plonked her chair down and sat on that instead.

That farewell was followed in short order by a goodbye lunch with the Saturday girls where, as expected, all promised faithfully to visit but no-one actually asked for her address. Then a goodbye party for Michael at his swim centre, another with his class at school (for which she had to provide two plates of fairy-cakes), and yet another thrown, rather unexpectedly, by the After School Hours Care lady during his last day in the program. And suddenly, arriving far more quickly than seemed reasonable, was the very last farewell of all – the farewell to the house where she had lived for the past seventeen years. Longer, in fact, than she had ever lived anywhere else.

On that last evening in the house, Chris wandered from room to room. Cardboard boxes were stacked along the walls, waiting for the removalists the following day. Pictures had been taken down, curtains removed, and ornaments packed. The house had already begun the transition from hers to theirs, but memories still remained wherever she looked. This was where she and Garth had uncovered the ornamental wainscoting, here was where Michael had taken his first steps, over there was where Grace had hidden when, at the age of five, she had shaved a good portion of her head with her father's electric razor.

Chris ran her fingers along the passage wall until she reached Michael's bedroom. There she pushed the door open and quietly entered. The boy was fast asleep, curled in the foetal position at one end of the bed, with his Spiderman doona crumpled in a heap on the floor. Chris picked it up and
gently covered him, tucking it in at the edges in an attempt to make it stay that way. At least for a while. Then she smoothed his ginger hair gently and kissed him on the cheek before leaving the room, pulling the door closed behind her. Next door was Grace's room, with a slither of light showing underneath the doorframe. Chris knocked lightly.

‘What?'

‘It's me.' Chris opened the door and went in. The room looked so completely different from usual that for a few minutes she was silent, just looking around. For the first time in several years, the walls were poster-less and the sky-blue paint-work could be clearly seen. Chris had even forgotten that it
was
sky-blue. The corner study unit was naked, the bookshelf empty. A few boxes were stacked by the bed, with books piled inside and, on the bed itself, sat Grace, dressed in a very baggy black t-shirt that had ‘Tortured Artist' scrawled across the chest in red writing. She had a large spiral-bound writing pad on her lap and was looking at her mother impatiently.

‘D'you want something?'

‘Just a chat.' Chris sat down on the edge of the bed, fully aware that she was both uninvited and unwelcome. And she didn't usually do this either, but tonight she simply didn't want to be alone.

‘A
chat
?' Grace looked at her as if she'd just suggested they do each other's make-up.

‘Yes, a chat. Is that so bad?'

‘Well . . . no, suppose not.'

‘What are you writing?'

Grace turned the pad over and then shoved it under her pillow for good measure. ‘Nothing. Why?'

‘No reason. So, tell me, what do you want to be when you grow up?'

‘
What
?'

‘I'm just curious.' Chris picked up Grace's stuffed teddy bear from the end of the bed and sat it on her lap. ‘I mean, I
know
you want to take over the world and all. But what about in your spare time?'

‘I
don't
want the whole world.' Grace snatched the bear off her mother and placed it on her pillow. ‘That'd be stupid. I just want a little bit. Now, is that it?'

‘No, it's not.'

‘Well, come on. I've got stuff to do.'

‘God, you're a pain.' Chris looked at her daughter with frustration. ‘I'm going to have to give interviews when you stage your military coup or whatever, and what am I going to tell them? I know
nothing
.'

‘My plan exactly.' Grace grinned, despite herself.

‘Well, at least tell me how your last day at school went.'

‘Was okay.'

‘Come
on
, Grace,' Chris said impatiently. ‘Give me something to work with here.'

‘Well it
was
okay. Even better because I'm never going back.'

‘Why did you hate it so much?' asked Chris curiously. ‘Did the other kids give you a hard time or something?'

Grace looked surprised. ‘No. Why would they?'

‘
I
don't know. I'm just trying to work out why you wanted to leave so badly.'

‘But I've
always
wanted to leave. I've been telling you that since Year Seven.'

‘Seeing that was only last year, forgive me for not reacting sooner.'

‘Well, that's still two whole years,' Grace pointed out. ‘Which happens to be a seventh of my entire life. How would you like to spend a seventh of your entire life in hell?'

Chris had a sudden mental flash of the night Garth told her
that the marriage was over. She had been curled up on the couch with a bowl of corn chips, watching an episode of
Everybody Loves Raymond
. And while Garth told her how they were both being stifled, Raymond was telling his brother Robert that marriage was a prison, and that it robbed a person of their freedom. Except at the end of the episode, Raymond and his wife Debra remained together and obviously wouldn't have it any other way. While she, Chris, was still curled up on the couch but her world had just been torn out from under her.