Pip: The Story of Olive (14 page)

‘Olive Garnaut, what have you done?’ Clarissa was tall and clunky, with modern jewellery and a large pile of over-dyed hair that was so dry she ran the risk of igniting whenever she turned on the hairdryer. ‘Have a seat, have a seat,’ she bawled across the room. A double row of women in pink plastic ponchos looked up from their magazines.

‘Oh, I didn’t, well actually Pip . . .’ Olive stuttered.

‘What a lopsided job!’ bellowed Clarissa, and the ladies tittered.

‘Take a seat, love. I’ll fix you up in no time.’

Olive smoothed her hands over her wonky hair flaps. While Clarissa was very sensitive when it came to criticism of her own hairdos, she was not as sensitive when it came to others’.

‘It wasn’t meant to be hurtful, Ol. Don’t worry about it.’ Pip sighed. She may have been trying to sound comforting, but she sounded exasperated.

‘Don’t worry about it? Because you went and bought a top
just like that
, I can’t afford to pay,’ Olive sniffed.

Pip frowned. ‘We’ll think of something. We’ll put it on Visa. Come on, let’s sit down.’

Olive walked over to the chairs in a huff. It was difficult to stay cross with Pip when Olive only had one sister and one friend, and they were actually both the same person – but she wasn’t going to give in too easily.

To avoid Pip’s eye, Olive picked up a magazine. Olive was extremely partial to magazines. She adored poring over the beautiful women in their strappy dresses, but she was even more riveted by the stories of people who had Conquered All to Overcome Adversity – people who had lost relatives and limbs.

Olive read studiously, trying to ignore Pip, who was frolicking in the sacred space behind the counter, examining the tester tubs of hair product on the glass shelves next to the cash register. Olive waited for Clarissa to explode, but she had found a customer who was actually willing to chat.

‘Hmm, smell this.’ Pip offered a dollop of goo as sweet and sticky as potted caramel to Olive, who shook her head.

Pip put a dab on her tongue. ‘Yuck, that’s horrible,’ she said, spitting. ‘How can something that smells so sugary taste so bitter?’

Olive reached for a local paper.

‘I’m going to go and find some water,’ Pip croaked and ran out of the room.

Olive was as fond of local papers as she was of magazines. For years she’d turfed them into the recycling pile, until Mathilda had pointed out the personal columns, lodged deep in the back of each edition. Personal columns were chat rooms for old people, Mathilda had said, and Olive had read them ever since. She ran her eyes down the column. It was full of the usual collection of what Mog called life’s lonelies.

Are you Her?
Was that you – blonde, cute with m’cino and WW
in Booth’s Caf last Tues? Our eyes locked a-x room.
If it was, let’s lock again. Rob VMB 3136.

Gentleman prefers no blondes
Mature gentleman, cultured, long-time interest in Asia.
Wishes to meet young, slim Oriental lady to share
cultural interests. Barry VMB 7628.

Are you a lone parent?
Parents without Partners Tree Trimming Party
(Seaside branch) Sat 9 December 8 p.m.
Live band. No jeans. VMB 7759 for more info.

Olive tried to imagine getting Mog to attend the Parents without Partners Tree Trimming Party. No hope – Mog wouldn’t go even if she could wear jeans. If Pip and Olive did start searching for their father, though, Mog’s single status might be a good thing.

Olive closed her eyes and imagined a
Brady Bunch
ending to the hunt for Mustard Seed, in which he kissed Mog on the lips and swung her up and around. He then put his arms around the twins and all four of them drove to KFC, bought a family bucket of chicken, and fought over drumsticks the whole way home in the car.

Olive smiled and read on. Her eye fell on an ad under the ‘Massage and Alternative Therapies’ section. The ad was orange and cream and stood right out.

Mustard Seed Natural Health Clinic. Mustard Seed Natural
Health Clinic.
Olive felt two hands on her shoulders. ‘You okay, doll? You’re looking pretty pale, even by your standards.’

Olive nodded as Clarissa looped a towel and then a pink poncho around her neck.

‘Now what happened here? You’re the spit of Mog with that short hair.’

‘A friend cut it,’ Olive managed, clutching the local paper while Clarissa rattled on about the ins and outs of home-cut hair and the dangers of using unprofessional scissors.

Olive tried to keep up with the sentences, but she couldn’t. Everything around her fizzed. Mustard Seed lived there. WilliamPetersMustardSeed lived in Weesborough. He did yoga – just like Mog in the pictures.

Clarissa paused to adjust a black bib around Olive’s shoulders, then sent her scissors snapping along Olive’s hairline.

Olive stared at the reflection of the shop’s kitchen door in the mirror, desperate for Pip. ‘Clarissa, where’s Weesborough, exactly?’

‘Weesbowa? Lemesee. Not too far fwom ’ere. Defin’ly Seaside. Thinkit’s just ona nummer two twam,’ replied Clarissa through a mouthful of clips.

Olive watched Pip walk back into the room and sank into a smile.

Clarissa shot off to approve another client’s blow-dry. ‘Gorge. Just gorgeous,’ she said to the woman. ‘Now let me introduce you to a new treatment we’ve got for those ends . . .’

Pip snorted. ‘Your hair looks exactly the same. Mathilda and I could open a salon. Why did you want to know about “Weesbowa”?’

‘Weesborough.’ Olive pulled the paper out from under the pink plastic poncho. Pip’s eyes went straight to the orange ad. ‘Can my spam. It’s him. It has to be. Where the bezoozus is Weesborough?’

‘I already asked,’ whispered Olive. ‘It’s not far – on the number two tramline.’

‘That’s this line. We passed a stop on the way here.’ Pip looked as shocked as Olive felt. Olive hadn’t really expected to find Mustard Seed at all – and she certainly hadn’t expected to find him on their doorstep.

Olive handed the paper to her sister. The ink was smudgy where she’d held it. ‘Quick, go and jot down the details.’

‘Bugger that. Rip it out.’ Pip lunged at the page. Olive tucked the torn piece of paper up her sleeve for safekeeping.

‘Come on, let’s go.’ Pip headed towards the door.

‘Go? Pip, I’m still in a smock, and in case you’ve forgotten, I haven’t paid yet.’ At the very mention of payment, Olive all but forgot the excitement of the big new clue.

Pip looked up at the clock. ‘Well hurry. It’s
him
, Olive. It has to be. I’ll meet you outside in five.’

Clarissa checked Olive’s hair and helped her out of her poncho. ‘Okay doll, that will be fifty-five dollars, please. GST-inc.’

Olive squinted. ‘Um Clarissa, I’m . . . well, I’m really sorry, but I lost the money Mog gave me. Do you mind if I pay with the Visa card?’ Olive blushed and tried to hide Pip’s cardboard bag behind her knees.

Clarissa looked at the gelato emblem on the bag and winked. ‘It doesn’t matter, love. We share the same weakness. There’s no need to use the Visa card, love – I’ll just get Mog to square it up next time.’

‘Thank you, Clarissa. Thanks.’

Olive tried to conceal the anger in her step as she left the salon. It
did
matter; it mattered dreadfully. Olive was responsible; she didn’t share the weakness, ‘love’; and she wanted to throttle her sister.

17

Square One

The twins pushed through the Friday shop-traffic. The street was full of mothers picking up last-minute chops for dinner and businesspeople sipping beers in unravelling suits.

‘Okay, okay. I said I’m sorry,’ said Pip. ‘But how can you talk about a top at a time like this? We’ve found him, Olive, and we didn’t even have to try. It’s fate. Besides, at least I’ve got something to meet him in.’ The bag bumped against Olive’s right knee.

They walked on for a bit in silence; Olive stepping over the cracks in the pavement, Pip stepping squarely on them.

‘There’s the tram stop over there.’ Pip pointed at the green shelter. ‘Shall we go now? Just turn up and demand a Pilates?’

‘It’s
Pil-ar-tays
,’ said Olive, pronouncing it like someone who owned a poodle. ‘Amelia’s mother has it.’

‘Pie-lates, Pil-ar-tays, whatever. Want to get one now?’

‘Let’s ring first.’ Olive wanted to think. Launching right into this seemed wrong.

‘Why?’

‘WilliamPetersMustardSeed might not work on Fridays, and besides, it’s getting late.’ Although it was not the first time Olive had spoken his name out loud, it still felt foreign in her mouth – like the wads of cotton her dentist stuffed in to stop dribbling.

‘Have you got your mobile on you?’

‘No,’ said Olive, knowing full well that it was in her bag.

Pip pointed to a phone box a little further along the street. ‘I bet you haven’t used one of those for a while.’

When they reached it, Olive saw that the door had been smashed and had shattered into little chunks of glass. The whole booth smelt of urine.

Pip stepped over the glass and picked up the payphone receiver. ‘Still works.’ She took out the ad and crammed some coins –
Change from that tarty top
, Olive thought sourly – into the slot.

‘Don’t.’ Olive reached up and across Pip to cut the call, but Pip blocked her. Olive stood wedged between the glass wall of the phone box and Pip’s left arm.

‘Mustard Seed Natural Health Clinic, this is Melé.’ Even though Olive wasn’t holding the phone, she heard each syllable as clearly as if the receiver had been pressed to her own ear.

‘Oh, hello,’ said Pip. ‘I was wondering if you could help me.’ She looked at Olive and pulled a hoity-toity face. She’d put on her proper voice, her charm-the-grownups-while-serving-
hors d’oeuvres
-at-a-cocktail-party voice; a voice which showed she knew her
vol-au-vent
from her
crudités
and always offered a
napkin
and never a
serviette
.

Pip spoke straight into the receiver. ‘I’d like a Pilar-tays for my mum. May I please come down and get one?’

‘Is this a prank? Because I am getting very sick of prank calls,’ the lady snapped back, uncharmed.

‘No, no,’ said Pip. ‘She wants one, so I thought I’d get it for her birthday.’

The lady on the phone paused, then laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Pilates is similar to yoga. You could buy her a course, I suppose, but Pilates is not something you can giftwrap!’

‘Oh, thanks. Can I – I mean, may I – come now?’ Pip winked at Olive.

‘Of course. Last class is at 7.30 p.m. If there isn’t anyone at the desk, just ring the bell.’

The phone clicked neatly. The girls looked at each other. Stepping punctiliously over the smashed glass, they headed towards the tram stop; glass cubes flickered like crystal in their wake.

Olive and Pip found Hunt Street without too much fuss – its mouth was only two tram stops from Chez Clarissa. Hunt Street was, however, longer than Olive had expected; long and sparsely lined with skinny gum trees that cowered from the traffic-roar.

By the time the girls finally reached number 222, Pip was walking with an exaggerated limp. The cardboard bag containing the
just like that
top dragged along the ground. The girls were hot and dusty.

The Mustard Seed Natural Health Clinic was hard to miss. It was the exact middle house in a row of seven terraces linked like paper chains. It stood out because it had been painted cream and orange, while the other buildings were skim-milk grey. A chocolate-coloured sign soared above the fence.

Olive looked at the words
Mustard Seed
. When she was little, that name had seemed so exotic in a class where all the other dads were Lukes and Petes and Jameses. It had suggested a father who travelled; who read; who could reel off the names of one hundred and one spices. But now, here in the suburbs, it just seemed silly.

‘Well, this is it.’ Olive smoothed her skirt. She wished that they’d thought this through; it was all too rushed. A girl should never go to meet her father for the first time with freshly cut hair stuck to the back of her neck.

Pip marched confidently up the front stairs, apparently oblivious to dust and hair clippings. Olive followed.

Twelve Tibetan bells chimed as the girls walked into the Mustard Seed Natural Health Clinic. Inside, it was at once wholesome and luxurious. The furniture was low and wooden and covered in plump canvas cushions.

A woman with loose white pants and skin the colour of almonds wafted in to the reception to greet them. She put her hands in a praying position and lowered her forehead to her fingertips.

‘Namaste,’ she said with a voice that was deep and nutty. Her limbs were long and floppy under the white linen; her skin, eyes and hair all shone. She smiled to reveal big square teeth. Olive could tell immediately that she was the sort of woman who enjoyed her bran. ‘How can I help with your journey?’

‘I’d like to make an appointment for my mother – for Pie-lates,’ said Pip, reverting back to her charming voice, but saying it wrong again.