The Listmaker Page 4

  It was kind of depressing staring down at those blank appointment pages. There weren’t many entries in the telephone section, either; just Dad’s local, interstate and overseas contact numbers, a couple of girls from school, my dentist, and the aunts’ phone number from their last place. I rubbed that out and pencilled in the new one for Avian Cottage. Piriel had advised using pencil. People, she said, tended to be mobile these days, not living in the one place for very long, and if you didn’t have an electronic planner like hers, biro could look messy for information that might not be permanent. Even so, I hadn’t used pencil to jot down her number; I’d entered it in my neatest writing with a calligraphy pen. (I’d also borrowed that calligraphy pen from Tara McCabe, and she’d said quite snakily when handing it over, ‘Maybe you’d prefer to disinfect it first.’)

  ‘Are you checking who you have to send Christmas cards to?’ Corrie asked. ‘I’ve just posted mine off, though they’re kind of weird this year. I made them out of noodles pasted on cardboard.’

  They certainly did sound peculiar, I thought, getting up. Corrie Ryder was a bit weird herself, the way she’d plonked herself down and started chattering when we didn’t even know each other or anything. Asking this and that, peering into private memo books …

  ‘It wasn’t for Christmas cards, just checking a telephone number. I’m just about to give my stepmother a ring. So I might as well use the post-office phone, seeing it’s handy,’ I said, as a hint that she could take herself off now.

  ‘A stepmother? I didn’t know you had –’

  ‘Well, Piriel’s not exactly my stepmother yet, but the wedding’s early February. She’s more like a best friend, really. We’re going to be doing heaps of things together over the holidays. Maybe even this weekend.’

  ‘Jeez, how did she make it through school with a name like that! I always reckon mine’s funny, but Piriel …’

  ‘Piriel happens to like her name – and so do I.’

  ‘Well, whatever she’s called, I’ll mind Horace on the bench if you want to ring her.’

  I hesitated, but felt I had to go into the phone box now I’d mentioned it. Phoning Piriel on a Saturday was out of the question, though. It was her busiest day of the week for showing properties to buyers. I’d actually watched her in action once, in between going out for lunch with Dad and being dropped off at the aunts’. (The original plan was that as it was a long weekend, I could stay at Dad’s flat. That had fallen through because he had to work on an important report, so the lunch was a kind of consolation outing.) On the way to the aunts’, we’d called in to see Piriel at this cool townhouse open for inspection. That day she was wearing a linen suit with a shirt the same deep, rich shade of burgundy as her hair. Her only jewellery was a long gold chain and the engagement ring Dad had given her. Somehow it looked exactly right, and I’d felt choked with pride knowing she’d soon be part of our family. She was far too busy to chat when we dropped in, though she and Dad held hands for a few minutes behind her beautiful slim-line briefcase, which was reassuring.

  Sometimes I needed little signs like that to convince myself the wedding really was going to happen. It all seemed too wonderful to be true – Dad getting married again and all of us settling down in a permanent home. Next year, because I’d change into a completely different person from Piriel’s influence, my wallet/planner would always be chock-full of appointments and telephone numbers.

  Inside the booth, I glanced back at Corrie. Horace had fallen asleep, either hypnotised from watching the snail pace of Parchment Hills or because he liked having his ear scratched like that. It seemed a good chance to ring some of the girls from school and give them my temporary holiday number. Phoning from Avian Cottage didn’t seem advisable. Aunty Nat would be sure to suggest inviting them out to visit, and I didn’t want anyone from school knowing I had relations who lived in such a shabby old house. It wasn’t altogether snobbery on my part, either. That school was kind of posh. Some kids tended to stare a bit at the aunts when they dropped me off there. Not in a really rude way, but you could tell they thought the aunts didn’t somehow quite fit in. Avian Cottage was a dump, but I didn’t want the aunts’ feelings hurt by outsiders maybe saying it out aloud. There certainly wouldn’t be any danger of them thinking that about the city apartment, but in the meantime, all I wanted was someone to go to a movie with occasionally.

  First I rang a day-girl called Marnie Kydd. Her mother answered the phone, and had to go off to hunt for her. She came back sounding flustered. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said. ‘I could have sworn Marnie was in her room, but now she seems to have vanished into thin air!’ It had really been a waste of time calling in the first place, I thought. Just about every other occasion I’d rung before, nobody seemed to know where Marnie had got to!

  I called Belinda Gibbs next. One of her little brothers answered and said, ‘Yeah, what ya want?’

  ‘This is Sarah Radcliffe. May I speak to Belinda, please?’ I asked politely, trying to keep in mind that small children learn by good examples being set. (Not that Timothy Gibbs would find many set at his house, as I’d noticed when I went to Belinda’s birthday party. It was an expensive-looking modern house with a tennis court out the back, but I’d actually been quite pleased when that headachy party finished and I could go back to the orderliness of boarding school.)

  ‘Hang on a bit,’ Timothy mumbled, sounding as though he could have been gnawing on a slice of pizza and dribbling bits of it into the phone. He was gone for a long time. I began to think he might have been sidetracked and forgotten all about me. Their household was pretty casual, with everyone obviously allowed to do anything they wanted. Some kind of noisy background argument was going on there now, but eventually Timothy picked up the phone again and said, ‘She’s busy putting a bandage on our dog – he just got skittled by the motor mower.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘The poor little thing …’

  ‘No worries – what’s a bit of blood and guts? See ya.’

  I hung up, feeling puzzled, because I’d distinctly heard their dog barking in the background. It sounded an ordinary, cheerful kind of bark – not the kind a dog would make after being run over by a motor mower. Still, everything was so rackety at their house you probably couldn’t count on normal reactions from the family pets.

  I also had Tara McCabe’s number, but there didn’t seem much use ringing her. She lived on a sheep property in Gippsland somewhere. (Besides, even before the jacket incident, she kept dropping hints that she might move into the big dormitory next term, with Lauren Gray and all that horsy lot. So next term she mightn’t even want to know me.) Seeing there was no one else to call, I left the phone box.

  ‘That phone’s dodgy sometimes, it cuts you off right in the middle,’ Corrie said. ‘Did you get through to your stepmother?’

  ‘Yes, no worries. She’s picking me up late tomorrow afternoon. We’ll probably go out for dinner somewhere, then to a show,’ I said, then stopped, wondering why I’d come out with all that. It wasn’t as though it was any of Corrie Ryder’s business.

  ‘Oh, that’s too bad. Some kids from my school are coming round tomorrow for a video night. You could have come over, too.’

  I had to pretend what a pity it was all the way back to Avian Cottage. Corrie had finished her messages, so she was going home at the same time, and although it was easier carting Horace up that long hill with someone else sharing the load, I felt edgy. Aunty Nat might just happen to be looking out the kitchen window. If she saw me strolling along with a local kid, she’d probably rush out and invite Corrie inside for morning tea, lunch, the rest of the afternoon and maybe to stay the night as well. But luckily, she was nowhere in sight. I dumped Corrie firmly at her front gate, turning down her offer to help carry Horace the rest of the way and get him settled in.

  There was a utility truck parked in our drive, which meant that the re-blocker must have arrived. Someone was tapping away at things under the house, with Aunty Nat’s muffled voice supp
lying a running commentary. (I hoped she hadn’t been optimistic enough to try and squeeze through the little access door.) I would have liked to go around the back to make sure she’d remembered Piriel’s advice, which was that people should always get at least three quotes for any repair work, otherwise they could be ripped off. But Horace was more important.

  I took him inside and downstairs, where I’d already set up his water bowl, sleeping basket and a litter tray. Cats, I knew, should be kept inside any strange house for a couple of days until they got their bearings. With Horace, I suspected that might take a whole lot longer, because much as I loved him, there was no denying he was a bit dim as far as cats went. He certainly showed no interest in getting orientated straight off. I couldn’t even prise him out of the carrier until Aunt Dorothy came in through the back door to retrieve a cigarette hidden in the soap dish (even though she’d sworn faithfully last night she’d flushed them all down the toilet). Back doors don’t normally open directly into bathrooms, but Avian Cottage followed its own strange rules. She fielded Horace’s panicky dash for freedom and held him gently against her shoulder. He stopped twitching his tail and began to purr. For a person who couldn’t walk down a supermarket aisle without knocking tins off shelves, Aunt Dorothy didn’t show any clumsiness at all with animals.

  ‘That re-blocking man’s here,’ she whispered. ‘Mr Woodley, his name is. It was awful, Sarah – I had to talk to him all by myself until Nat finished having her shower!’

  I’d made a list for her once, suggesting remedies for shyness. Some of them were excellent ideas, like joining a public-speaking group, but she hadn’t really tried very hard so far. Her idea of a social life was a pre-breakfast swim, because hardly anyone else went to council pools so early. If we went out anywhere together and had to ask for directions, she’d make me do it. Even when we’d all celebrated Dad and Piriel’s engagement at a restaurant in town, she’d blushed every time Piriel tried to include her in the conversation. It wasn’t because Piriel was alarming or anything; Aunt Dorothy was so shy she didn’t like speaking to strangers over the phone, either. Usually she wouldn’t even answer it if Aunty Nat was out. So I could see that having to deal with an unknown tradesman must have been as much an ordeal for her as poor old Horace’s stay at the vet’s (but it still seemed ridiculous for someone her age).

  ‘He kept calling out things from under the house,’ she added. ‘And I didn’t know if he was just talking to himself or expecting me to make comments back. Am I glad Nat’s taken over! She always knows what to say to people, so now I can get on with my gardening in peace.’

  I followed her outside to have a look for myself, first making sure the bathroom door was as tightly shut as it could be with only one hinge. Aunt Dorothy scuttled off down to the terrace, but I joined Aunty Nat at the access door. She looked bewildered, and it wasn’t hard to understand why. Mr Woodley, crawling about under the house with a torch, seemed to be yelling at her in a foreign language.

  ‘One bearer’s a dead-set goner and the joists don’t look too crash hot, either,’ he shouted. ‘Not to mention that slab work further along – the airhead who laid that oughta be pilloried!’

  ‘What on earth is he talking about, Sarah?’ Aunty Nat whispered.

  I scrambled under the house to find out. Mr Woodley might be thinking that all his Christmases had come at once with only two vague old ladies to deal with. The sooner he realised they had someone capable of looking after their interests, the better for him! He was scraping the soil away from a post, which looked quite ordinary above the ground, but was worn into a spindle shape underneath.

  ‘Is that the stump that has to be fixed? They’ll be pleased you found it so quickly,’ I said, holding my nose. (The ground below Avian Cottage was really more like a big pond of stagnant water.)

  ‘One? The whole blooming lot have to come out,’ Mr Woodley said rather crushingly.

  He began to prod with a screwdriver at a long beam thing just overhead, showering us with little damp black flecks. I crawled back out hastily, and he followed, but didn’t stay put. He set off around the outside of the house, kicking at bits of it every now and then. Then he wandered about on the back lawn, probing it with a long metal stick. Aunty Nat trailed after him uncertainly, and so did I, feeling quite protective. Mr Woodley looked honest enough. He would have made a very convincing department-store Santa Claus if you put a white beard on him. But if he had any secret plans for overcharging, he’d find it a lot harder with someone whose stepmother-to-be was a real estate executive staring him straight in the eye. He went down the steps to the terrace and aimed a kick at its retaining wall. Aunt Dorothy, who was snipping away at some vines there, dropped the secateurs from nervousness.

  ‘Er … about the house,’ Aunty Nat said, no longer able to bear the suspense. ‘Were you able to find out what’s making the floors slope, Mr Woodley?’

  ‘Just call me Ed,’ Mr Woodley said. ‘And first things first – did I happen to hear someone mention a cup of tea?’

  4 ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

  Useful proverbs

  Perseverance is the bridge by which difficulty is overcome.

  Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today.

  A great ship needs deep waters.

  Who never tries cannot win the prize.

  If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

  Action stations

  Solve nail-biting habit! (Gloves in bed, soap under fingernails, willpower, 20 cent fines.)

  Stop taking teddy bear to bed. (Childish.)

  Find a library book about wine (to know what Dad and Piriel are talking about in restaurants).

  Start a get-fit, stay-thin exercise program. (Don’t eat so many of Aunty Nat’s donuts, either!)

  Stop checking up in the middle of the night that the aunts haven’t died in their sleep from old age.

  ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙

  ‘This living room looks like a bunker lined with sandbags. I bet Piriel wouldn’t dream of inviting visitors before everything’s been unpacked.’

  ‘Piriel won’t even be here,’ Aunty Nat said huffily. ‘She hasn’t got anything to do with my card nights, either. And if you’re suggesting I cancel just because of a few stray boxes, Sarah, I’ll have you know my monthly card nights are a tradition. There’s been the odd occasion when someone couldn’t turn up, like poor Derek with his hip replacement last year, but they’re very rare. Those boxes won’t upset anyone. Supper’s always the main thing, anyway.’

  She’d spent all afternoon baking. Aunt Dorothy hadn’t helped with that; she was hopeless at cooking unless it was sausages, chips and frozen peas. Aunty Nat’s cooking was altogether different. The dining-room table was spread with one of her embroidered cloths, edged so thickly with crochet lace that it looked like a coastline at high tide. The tide had cast up cucumber sandwiches, savoury rolls, meringue shells filled with hazelnut cream, chocolate orange truffles, brandy snaps, and a sponge cake as big as a tricycle wheel.

  ‘Our first card night in Avian Cottage deserves a good spread,’ Aunty Nat said rather smugly. ‘But goodness, just look at the time, and here’s me with no warpaint on yet – let alone my girdle! Duck downstairs and make sure Dosh has changed into something halfway respectable, will you, love? I did remind her earlier, but you know what she’s like.’

  I had to wriggle past the two card tables to reach the staircase. They were wedged together to make one large cosy one, loaded with pencils, score papers, bowls of nibbles, drink coasters and Aunty Nat’s gambling money. (She kept it in a plastic container she got from playing the poker machines somewhere, and it made the room look disgracefully like a casino.)

  Bird motifs flitted about all over the place. She’d bought some new penguin-shaped drink coasters, plus a wooden card box with a mother-of-pearl peacock on the lid. Piriel’s taste certainly didn’t include objects like that. I’d been with her once while she bought a house-warming gift for someone where she worked. She�
��d chosen a set of very plain, straight-sided water glasses made from thick glass. Everything in that shop had been plain and beautiful: wooden bowls, white china, cutlery as simple as feathers. (Aunty Nat’s teaspoon handles were all decorated with little wildflower badges – though most likely she’d be hunting around for ones with kookaburras on them now!) But it didn’t really matter, I reminded myself. Soon I’d be living somewhere else, where tables would be set with flair and style …

  I went downstairs to hurry Aunt Dorothy along, and it was just as well I did, because she hadn’t even changed yet. She was just sitting on her bed reading a gardening magazine, with Horace curled up next to her. (Shutting him in the bathroom hadn’t really worked. He kept getting stuck under the bath, so we’d had to give him the run of the rest of the house.)