Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful (14 page)

“I know I'm a poor substitute for Nicky, but I'm here if you want to talk to someone who's been through it.”

“You mean you'll be my beagle?”

“Exactly. Plus, I have the advantage of having opposable thumbs, so I can keep up a steady supply of iced chocolates and mud cake and other endorphin-releasing foodstuffs to make you feel better.”

There are a lot of questions I'd like to ask Jay about what it was like when his mum came home from hospital, and if she was different after her treatment, but I'm not ready to face honest answers to those questions yet. I tell him I'd better get home and start making dinner or we'll be eating dodgy takeaway again. Jay nods and picks up my plate without commenting on the fact that I haven't eaten a mouthful or that I've reduced the slice of cake to a pile of brown mush.

As I'm unchaining my bike, he comes out and slips a piece of paper into my hand. It's a page ripped off his order pad with his mobile number on it. Above the number it says “24-hour beagle hotline”.

I tuck the slip of paper into my wallet. I can't imagine myself calling Nicky's boyfriend in the middle of the night, but it is oddly comforting to know that it's an option.

“What is this?” asks Ziggy, poking his fork at his plate.

“Curry.”

“Curried what? It looks like sh–”

“It's Quorn – the meat substitute. After last night's artery-clogging dinner, I figured we should have something vegetarian.”

“Well, that explains the lumps, but why is it fluoro yellow?”

I admit it's not the most appetising meal I've ever made, but the only savoury recipe I've mastered is spag bol, and I couldn't find any vegie mince in the pantry. When I saw the jumbo tin of extra-hot curry powder I figured it was time to expand my culinary horizons.

“It's not bad,” says Dad when his coughing fit subsides. “Just a little strong, perhaps. Did you put in anything other than curry powder?”

Ziggy pushes his plate away before I can answer.

“You haven't even tried it, wussburger,” I say, spearing the smallest chunk of Quorn on my plate. The moment it touches my tongue, my mouth is on fire. Ziggy's watching me so I force myself to chew even though the spicy heat is making its way up my sinuses. After a long drink of water, I can breathe again.

Ziggy gets up and goes to the breadbin. “Anyone else want a toastie?”

“No, thanks,” says Dad. “I'm enjoying this.” He takes another forkful and smiles at me. I hope I'm more convincing when I tell him his pancakes are delicious.

By the time Ziggy's made and devoured his golden-brown toasted sandwich, oozing with melted cheese, I'm only half-finished my curry, but I've drunk about two litres of water to wash it down and I feel like I've swallowed a cannonball. I scrape the rest of the curry into the bin and begin filling the sink to wash the pot, which has taken on a lurid yellow tinge.

Dad takes the scrubbing brush from me. “We'll clean up. It's the cook's reward.”

“I don't think you should reward her for
this
,” says Ziggy, eyeing the dirty bowls and measuring spoons and chopping boards piled up on the counter. “If anything, she should be punished for trying to poison us.”

“That's enough, Ziggy,” says Dad, but he doesn't sound fierce like Mum would, just tired. “Off you go, Fray. And thanks for making dinner.”

The phone rings while I'm in Mum's study, scouring her bookshelves for a basic-looking cookbook to find a recipe for tomorrow. I have a premonition that it's Dan returning my call from this afternoon, asking if he wanted to come for dinner (thank God he didn't get the message in time to say yes), and race to the hallway to answer it before Ziggy. Once again, my psychic abilities let me down.

“Hello, Bloss.”

“Oh. Hi, Grandma Thelma.”

“How are you? It's been ages since we've had a natter!” In the background, Rocky, her demented parakeet, squawks maniacally.

“I'm fine thanks, Gran. And thank you for the cardigan. It's … very colourful.”

“My pleasure. I'm looking forward to seeing you in it.”

“Yeah, well, maybe next time you'll visit in winter and it'll be cold enough to–”

“We won't have to wait that long – I've just booked my ticket to come down tomorrow! Don't tell your mum. I want to surprise her.”

“Oh, she'll be surprised,” I agree.

Mum was probably the most relieved of all of us when her mother announced she was moving to Queensland three years ago. Gran loves it up there – she reckons her perm lasts twice as long with the extra humidity, and her parakeet loves hearing all the wild birds – which suits Mum just fine, as it means she only comes to stay for one week a year. By the end of those seven days of mother-daughter bonding, Mum's a wreck.

Dad's face falls when I tell him Gran's on the phone.

“I already spoke to her this afternoon. And this morning,” he says, handing Ziggy the scourer. “What does she want now?”

I shrug. There's no way I'm going to be the bearer of this bad news.

I hang just out of sight of the hallway so I can hear what Dad's saying. He does his best to talk Gran out of coming, even suggesting that he and Mum could visit her in Queensland instead when Mum's up to it, but she won't budge. I've heard about what Gran was like when Mum was growing up, so I don't know why she's decided to come over all maternal now. My theory is that it's guilt.

Here's how Gran's annual stay with us usually goes:

Sunday (day before arrival): Mum in a complete tizz; recleans the already clean kitchen and bathroom; begs Ziggy to tidy his room; tells me to pack up my essential items and move them to her study, where I'll be sleeping on the sofa bed. Dad hides in his study.

Monday: Mum picks Gran up at airport. When we get home they're still all smiles and how-lovely-to-see-yous. Gran tells stories about when Mum was little; Mum pretends to be embarrassed, but you can tell she's loving it. They drink endless cups of tea. Dad hides in his study.

Wednesday: Mum and Gran still smiling, but through slightly thinner lips. Mum suggests a visit to the art gallery/museum/State Library; they're back before we get home from school. Gran tells us how rubbish whatever exhibition they saw was while Mum bangs pots and slams kitchen drawers. Dad still hiding.

Friday: Gran insists on cooking family dinner, refuses to pay extra for organic and won't let Mum shop for her. Mum looks at every forkful before putting it in her mouth, as if she can see the toxins oozing out of it. Dad keeps his eyes down and cleans his plate.

Saturday: Atmosphere so tense you could carve it. Gran refuses to go on any more outings, sits in living room knitting and calling for endless cups of tea. Mum cleans. Dad hides in his study.

Sunday: Mum and Gran hug each other tersely at the door. Dad takes Gran to airport. Mum starts breathing again.

After the last disastrous visit, I asked Mum why she keeps inviting Gran to stay, since it never ends well. She told me it was complicated and that I'll understand when I become a mother, myself. I said that if she turns into a pain in the bum like Gran, I won't have her over. She told me to go to my room.

When Dad comes back to the kitchen his face is ashen. “We've got some serious cleaning to do in the morning,” he says gravely. “Right now, I need the soothing strains of Bach.” He gets Boris's cat treats from their hiding place in the breadbin and walks slowly from the room, like a prisoner on his way to the gallows.

Dad's knocking wakes me. “It's seven o'clock, time to get up,” he calls through the door. He does the same outside Ziggy's room.

I'm so tired I can barely open my eyes. Dan didn't call until almost eleven and it was after one when we finally hung up. I told him about my friends' reactions to the news about Mum (leaving out the bits about crying in my undies in the change room and Siouxsie's snarky comments), and about Jay being so nice to me and Mum seeming a little better and Dad freaking out about Gran coming. What I really wanted to say was that I wished he'd been there, but even though we were on the phone for two hours there never seemed to be the right moment for it. Our call ended abruptly when Dr Phil, having got up to go to the loo, heard Dan talking and barged into his room to blast him.

I force myself out of bed and into the shower. When I get to the kitchen Dad greets me by pouring a lumpy ladleful of batter into the frying pan on the stove.

“A small token of my appreciation for you and Ziggy getting the house ready for your gran,” he says, mistaking my expression of horror for curiosity.

“Have you thought of a way to break the news to Mum?” I ask as I pour the pulpy dregs from the orange juice carton into a glass.

“I've considered the options and I think the bandaid approach is best: get it done as quickly and cleanly as possible and be prepared for screaming.” Even as Dad says it, he seems scared.

Ziggy finally gets up after Dad's called him another three times. He comes to the kitchen wearing only his boxer shorts and sits down at the table as if this is perfectly normal.

“You can't eat breakfast in your underwear,” I tell him.

Ziggy examines his bare chest and flexes his arms to admire his biceps. “Why not?”

“It's unhygienic, for starters. And off-putting for the rest of us. You know Mum'd have a fit if she was here.”

“Well, she's–”

“Enough,” says Dad, passing Ziggy a plate and motioning to the stack of pancakes on the table. “We have a lot to do and not much time.”

Ziggy gives me a shit-eating grin. It disappears when he tips the syrup bottle and only a single drop comes out.

“I can't eat looking at that,” I say, nodding towards Ziggy as I push my plate away.

“Fine,” says Dad. “Let's just get on with this, please. Thelma will be here in less than four hours.”

“Biggie's mum is picking me up at ten,” announces Ziggy, switching his plate for mine and cutting off a chunk of syrup-soaked pancake.

“Not if you haven't finished your half of the cleaning,” I tell him. “I'm not doing this on my own.”

Dad pulls the chore roster off the fridge. “That's right, everyone has to do their share, and a bit more since Mum and I won't be here. I think you should give bedrooms and studies a miss and just concentrate on the living areas. Agreed?”

“Yes!” says Ziggy.

“But I still have to get my room ready for Gran,” I point out. “And make up the sofa bed in Mum's study. Ziggy should have to take on something extra, too.”

“It's not my fault you have to switch rooms,” says Ziggy, stuffing another big chunk into his mouth.

“Yes, it is. If your room wasn't a complete biohazard, Gran could stay there and
you
could sleep downstairs.” I study the roster to check which of this week's allotted tasks I hate the most. “Ziggy should have to do the bathroom, as well.”

“Be a sport, Zig,” says Dad. “We all have to pitch in while Thelma's here. Do it for Mum, eh?”

Ziggy looks as if Dad's guilt trip has done the trick, until he spots my previous roster amendment that put him on kitty litter duty. “No deal. Mrs Biggie's taking us to the indoor climbing range and I'm not missing it just because Freia's got her panties in a wad.”

I give Dad my best are-you-going-to-let-him-get-away-with-that look, but he's too busy draining his coffee mug. “I have to get to the hospital,” he says. “Fray, I'm leaving this in your capable hands. Zig, please do your share and stop talking about your sister's underwear.” He kisses each of us on the head and pulls his car keys from his pocket.

“You could at least put your dishes in the dishwasher,” I call after him.

“I guess whoever's down for cleaning the kitchen will have to do that,” says Ziggy, holding up the roster. “Oh, look, it's you.”

“If you want to go climbing, you'd better get every chore on that list done, and done properly,” I say, stacking Dad's plate on top of mine and standing to take them to the dishwasher.