Flying the Coop (3 page)

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 apparently 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.

As if on cue, Chris heard the front door open and Garth's voice murmuring up at the other end of the passage. Apprehensively recalling her meltdown this afternoon, she wondered how she would be able to explain without appearing even more of an idiot. As no bright ideas came to mind, Chris simply finished off her wine and then, reaching into the leadlight glasses cabinet, took down another goblet for Garth.

‘When're we moving to the farm, Mum?' Michael started
yelling a split second before the front door closed. ‘Will it be before Christmas?'

‘Where's your father?' Chris watched her son hurtle into the kitchen and then nervously scanned the space behind him.

‘He's not coming in.' Michael clambered up onto a stool at the bench. ‘So when're we moving? And c'n I have a horse?'

‘How come he's not coming in?'

‘Oh, he says he's had enough of you for one day. So c'n I have a horse? Please?'

‘Listen.' Chris bobbed down so that her face was at the same level as her son's. ‘You don't really want to leave your school, do you?'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘What about your friends? And Mrs Macgregor?'

‘They c'n come visit. And ride my horse.' Michael paused to give that some thought. ‘Except for Mrs Macgregor – she's too fat.'

‘Look, Mikey, it's like this. I shouldn't have said all that in front of you, about the farm. Because it's a bit complicated. See, it was pretty expensive – and I don't have enough money for what they wanted. So I made them an offer, but I really don't think they'll take it. Which means you mustn't get your hopes up. Understand?'

‘It'll be okay,' said Michael confidently, patting her on the shoulder. ‘And I c'n always give you my money, too. I've got sixteen dollars and some cents.'

‘That'll make all the difference,' commented Chris as she straightened, her knees making an unattractive popping noise as she did so.

‘So c'n I sleep in the huge barn?'

‘Sounds like a good idea to me.' Grace wandered into the kitchen, flashed a disdainful glance at her brother and then opened the fridge to gaze at the contents. ‘What's for tea?'

‘I had McDonald's,' announced Michael, smiling sweetly at his sister. ‘It was yum.'

‘Not fair!'

‘Well, you should've come with Dad then. He
did
ask you.'

‘No thanks.' Grace gave her brother a look that, if looks could kill, would have created instantaneous spontaneous combustion. ‘So what's for tea, Mum?'

‘Whatever you feel like making yourself.' Chris waved a hand around the kitchen grandiosely, and then refilled her wineglass. ‘I'm not hungry.'

‘Me neither.' Michael swivelled around on the stool to face his sister. ‘So did Mum tell you about the farm? Isn't it great?'

‘Michael, I told you–'

‘What farm?' Grace closed the fridge and, with a block of cheese in one hand and a tub of margarine in the other, looked suspiciously at her mother. ‘If this is a family weekend away or whatever, then count me out. Totally no way.'

‘No!' Michael squirmed with pleasure. ‘
Our
farm! We're buying a farm – you and me and Mum! And we're gonna shift out to the country and have chickens and horses and stuff. And maybe build a new house because this one won't last. Dad said it's probably got terdmites. I'm gonna sleep in the barn.'

‘Michael!' Chris put her glass down and her hand up. ‘Stop right there! I've already tried to explain to you that it
isn't
going to happen! Look, you're getting yourself all worked up over nothing. You
really
are.'

‘Well,
I
know it'll happen,' said Michael confidently. ‘I just know it.'

‘Mum, what's he talking about?'

‘Okay.' Chris took a deep breath. ‘I was looking at a farm this afternoon, in a real estate agent's window. A free-range chook farm. And I was just thinking about how lovely it'd be, in theory, to live in the country and all that.'

‘And it
will
be,' added Michael happily.

‘No, it won't. Anyway, while I was looking, your father came over and we got into a bit of a . . . a difference of opinion. And I got so – well, you know how I'm always telling you both that getting angry never helps, that it can just make things worse?'

‘Get to the point.' Grace put her supplies down and leant against the bench directly across from her mother. ‘What'd you do now?'

‘I told the real estate agent that I wanted to buy it.' Chris paused, reflecting that it sounded even
less
rational spoken out loud. ‘And I made an offer.'

‘You made an offer?' repeated Grace, raising her eyebrows in disbelief. ‘On a
farm
?'

‘Yes,' Chris sighed. ‘But you don't have to worry about it. That's what I keep trying to tell your brother. The offer I made was so low that there's no
way
they'll accept it. So we can just put it down to temporary insanity on my part, and go on as normal.'

‘They're gonna accept it,' Michael said to his sister confidingly. ‘And don't forget I've got first dibs on the barn.'

‘How come
he
gets the barn?'

‘No-one's getting the barn,' Chris said with exasperation, ‘because we're not buying the farm!'

‘I'm the eldest,
I
should get the barn! In fact–' Grace's eyes narrowed for a second – ‘I really
need
a barn. You don't.'

‘But I saw it first!'

‘How come
he
saw it first?' Grace looked at her mother accusingly. ‘That's not fair. Where was I?'

‘In the car. And he didn't actually
see
anything, it was only a picture in a window.' Chris frowned and then waved her hand impatiently. ‘Anyway, none of this matters because we're
not moving
!'

‘Well, it doesn't count then.' Grace pointed her finger at
Michael. ‘Because it was only a picture. It only counts when you get there. So first one to the barn gets it.'

‘Not fair,' wailed Michael, ‘you're faster than me!'

‘IT DOESN'T MATTER!' yelled Chris, feeling her temper slip rapidly. ‘DO YOU HEAR ME? BECAUSE WE'RE
NOT
BUYING A BLOODY FARM!'

As usual, Chris's loss of control immediately quelled all noise in the vicinity. Even the clock seemed to stop ticking. The two children froze, mid-argument, long experience having taught them that this was the best reaction to such situations. But, as their mother opened her mouth to contribute the next instalment, the telephone rang and broke the spell. They all looked at the cordless perched in its base by the bench, and then Michael, who had lately become very attached to answering the phone, made a dive for it. In the meantime, Chris hauled her temper back in and took a few deep breaths to regain control. Then, before her son could actually speak, she grabbed his wrist with one hand and extricated the phone with the other.

‘Hello?'

‘Is it them?' Michael asked excitedly, rubbing his wrist. ‘Is it the farm people?'

‘Shhh! Hello?'

‘Ah, hello? Mrs Beggs? Christin Beggs?'

‘Speaking,' replied Chris, closing her eyes briefly to send up a prayer to whatever higher power looked out for those whose senses temporarily abandoned them.

‘This is Frank McNeal, from Fielders Real Estate. We met this afternoon?'

‘Yes, yes.' Chris crossed her fingers and then, for good measure, managed to cross her toes inside her shoes as well. ‘I remember you. Any news?'

‘She's crossing her fingers, Grace!' Michael whispered loudly. ‘C'mon, we better cross ours too!'

‘Well, I spoke to the vendors, and put your offer to them . . .'

‘Yes?' prompted Chris nervously, as cramp started to set in to her toes. ‘And?'

‘They were, ah, hoping for more, you know. So they wanted me to ask if that was your final offer.'

‘Unfortunately, yes.' Chris started to smile with relief, which immediately caused Michael to clench one fist and thump it into the air in a triumphant gesture. So Chris started shaking her head frenetically, and mouthing the word ‘no'. Michael, who was now doing his version of an Indian victory dance, ignored her completely but Grace, who had been leaning across the bench with her fingers crossed, registered what her mother was trying to say. The girl's face immediately crumpled and she turned away to stare out of the kitchen window, her body language speaking volumes. Chris stared at her in amazement. She could understand Michael getting all excited, but Grace? It had never occurred to her that
she
might be keen on the whole idea – in fact, she would have thought the opposite would be more likely. Surely world domination would be more difficult from a rural setting?

‘Mrs Beggs – Christin, are you there?'

‘Yes! Yes, of course!' Chris dragged her eyes away from her daughter and forced herself to concentrate. ‘I'm sorry, I got distracted.'

‘Oh, I thought you must have been too excited to speak!'

‘Too – too excited to speak?' repeated Chris hesitantly, as everything around her suddenly moved into slow, exaggerated motion – Michael's dance decelerating into a series of jerky movements, and Grace, turning ever so gradually away from the window and looking towards her mother with her mouth slowly opening, and the kitchen clock emitting an extraordinarily loud
tick – tick – tick
, and Chris's heart plummeting leisurely down towards her cramped toes as she forced herself
to ask the necessary question. ‘Um, why would I be too excited to speak?'

‘Because they'll take it!' said Frank enthusiastically, his voice echoing metallically in Chris's left ear. ‘And you're about to become a bona fide poultry farmer! Congratulations! Mrs Beggs? . . . Christin? Are you there?'

From:
Christin Beggs

Date:
Saturday, 15th July 2006. 9.56PM

To
: Jenny Parker

Subject:
You're not going to believe this!

You're not going to believe what I did today. It was our annual ‘family day' – you know, when Garth and I are supposed to present a united, friendly front for the kids. So this year we went to Healesville Sanctuary, had a picnic, saw all the wildlife, and I bought a chook farm. True. Call it temporary insanity. Can you see me knee deep in chickens? The only good news is that you get a cooling off period on purchases here, so tomorrow Grace and I are heading down there, having a quick look at it (did I mention I haven't actually
seen
it yet?) – and then I'm cancelling the whole thing! The real bugger is that the kids are excited – and I feel like a total idiot. Actually, I think I'm having a nervous breakdown.