The Listmaker Read online

  ‘Dutch box has a pretty leaf,’ Aunt Dorothy said. ‘But then lavender would make a nice low hedge, too. What do you think, Sarah?’

  ‘What I think is that they’re all going to stare if you go upstairs and play cards in that holey old slip,’ I said. ‘It’s nearly quarter to eight, you know. And you’ve been smoking in here again! Spraying insect repellent around isn’t going to fool anyone.’

  She put the magazine aside reluctantly and just grabbed the first thing in her wardrobe.

  ‘Not that skirt, Aunt Dosh. The hem’s come down.’

  ‘Oh rats, so it has. But no one’s likely to notice sitting round the card table, are they?’

  ‘They’ll notice the top half of you, so you can’t wear that shirt, either. Two of the buttons are off.’

  Aunt Dorothy stood there looking helpless, like a toddler having to be got ready for playgroup. I began at one end of the wardrobe and worked systematically along the hangers, but as there weren’t many, it didn’t take long. Most of her clothes seemed to have creases, zippers that didn’t work or pockets dangling from a few loose threads. But halfway along, crammed underneath a terrible old duffle coat no one could coax her to throw out, there was a fairly decent dress which Aunty Nat had made for her last summer. It hadn’t been worn yet, and looked rather nice when she put it on. I even managed to find the belt that went with it, stuffed into the toe of a shoe.

  ‘Do I have to wear one of those?’ she grumbled. ‘They always dig into your bellybutton when you sit down.’

  ‘It’s meant to have a belt – that’s what those little loops on the waist are for, in case you haven’t realised,’ I said firmly, drawing it into the last notch. ‘There, that’s not too bad at all. You should wear blue more often, Aunt Dosh. It kind of suits you.’

  ‘I never even know what it means about colours suiting people, though your dad’s new girlfriend’s always going on about it, too. I’m going to have to take your word for it, anyhow, with the light in here being so crook.’

  ‘Maybe it can be moved to a different spot, not stuck away behind that rafter.’

  ‘The whole wiring should be checked, really. I suppose Mr Woodley might know a good electrician. He’s coming along tonight, as a matter of fact; Nat invited him on the spur of the moment. When he was here giving the quote, she found out he likes playing cards.’

  I seemed to remember Dad telling Aunty Nat once that it wasn’t a good idea to mix business relationships with social ones. (But it was a waste of time; she even used to invite the postman in for morning tea at their last address.) Aunt Dorothy’s hair was a mess. She obviously intended to blunder upstairs with no more attention given to it than a few extra hairpins, but I made her sit down while I did it properly. Her hair was quite nice for someone her age, and it was a pity she didn’t look after it better. It had a silvery/blonde/brownish sheen like new mushrooms. I made a French braid, feeling proud of myself for knowing how to do it from watching Piriel, who sometimes wore her hair that way. Piriel kept her hair shoulder length. She said it was versatile for choosing different styles to suit every possible social occasion. Some day I planned to get my own hair cut shoulder length, too. At the moment, all that could be said about it was that it was just long, clean, straight and neat.

  ‘Now you’ve made me look like something out of The Sound of Music!’ Aunt Dorothy complained ungratefully, but I pushed her upstairs before she could undo any pins. Cars scrunched the driveway gravel, which meant the visitors were starting to arrive. Aunty Nat would most certainly take them on a conducted tour all over her dream house, and I didn’t think I could stand another dose of her raving on about the pelican wall tiles which had recently been discovered in the downstairs bathroom. (They were hidden behind an old airing cupboard which Aunt Dorothy careered into and knocked off its moorings.) Going upstairs later and saying a polite hello to everyone would be quite enough to put up with, so I slipped out into the moonlit courtyard and hid behind one of the ferns.

  The courtyard was looking much tidier. I thought it was a crazy way for anyone to spend the first week of their annual holidays, but Aunt Dorothy seemed to enjoy it. She’d trimmed the branches crowding the window, and begun weeding. You could see the original paving stones now, and a little round flowerbed in the centre. She’d suggested I might like to choose some plants to go in that round bed, because the courtyard was my part of the garden. It really wasn’t, because I wouldn’t even be living at Avian Cottage in a few weeks’ time. One of us would have to do something about putting in some plants soon, though, I thought critically; empty flowerbeds looked just as forlorn as bare shelves. I had plenty of time to gaze at it, because Aunty Nat didn’t exactly hurry through her conducted tour. The room-to-room progress could be mapped by the visitors’ squawks of admiration (they all had much the same taste as Aunty Nat), and when they’d all squawked through the downstairs part and then returned to the living room, I sneaked back inside.

  I’d made a list of jobs to fill up my evening while they played cards. The first one was sorting out my school things ready for next term. That usually would have meant covering work files and books with new adhesive paper, but next term we’d all be using notebook computers instead, hired through the school. They were taking a big risk, I thought, trusting such expensive equipment to people like Belinda Gibbs, who never even looked after her own belongings. I was always careful with mine. Every weekend, I’d empty my schoolbag, brush it out, sharpen every pencil, test each biro to make sure it still worked, then throw out the ones that didn’t, plus any scraps of loose paper. (I was always telling Aunty Nat she should do the same with her handbag, but she never got around to it.) This evening seemed a good opportunity to give my schoolbag an extra thorough cleaning, so I scrubbed it inside and out with pine detergent, then left it drying in the bathroom.

  The next job was checking through a carton full of personal items, to make sure they’d come through the move undamaged. (We’d finally found the master code list. Aunty Nat had slipped it inside the food processor so it wouldn’t get lost. Then, of course, she’d packed the food processor in an unmarked box.) None of my things were broken, because I’d wrapped them individually in tissue paper and also plastic bubble wrap. (A job worth doing is worth doing well.) I meant to repack them straight back into the carton ready for the apartment, but then glanced up at the wall of empty shelves. It wouldn’t be too inconvenient to leave at least one thing out on display. I chose a framed photo of Horace taken when he was a kitten. Aunty Nat had given me the frame, shaped like a cottage window with a pot of geraniums in one corner. Aunt Dosh had taken the photograph, which explained why it was a bit out of focus.

  Then I set out clothes for tomorrow, copying Piriel, who always did that after watching the weather forecast. She said it saved time. She’d also told me that an enormous collection of clothes wasn’t necessary for anyone. (Though I knew she didn’t mean to take Aunt Dorothy as an example and get by with a few old charity-bin type garments.) What Piriel meant was that people should concentrate on top-quality classic styles in colours that could be teamed together. When I moved to the apartment, my appearance would be transformed …

  There were dozens of other odd jobs listed, but I went upstairs to say hello, knowing it couldn’t be avoided much longer. I had to put up with being kissed by the Trentons, but luckily managed to dodge Joan Cordrice, who was crammed in between some of the packing cartons. (Being hugged by her was like being smothered in a feather doona.) The card-group members weren’t repulsive or anything, it was just that, like Aunt Dorothy, I preferred to keep my distance from people. (With her it was only shyness. I wasn’t particularly shy, but I always felt awkward if people touched me, not knowing how to react. Piriel wasn’t into hugging or kissing, either, which was most likely why we got on so well.) Apart from hugging each other every time they met, and also being absolutely boring, Aunty Nat’s mates were harmless enough. In fact, they were all very kind. Last year Derek Trenton had made a sleeping
basket for Horace. He made it as occupational therapy while recovering from his hip-replacement operation. And Sheila, his wife, sewed a quilted lining for it, even though she had bad arthritis in both hands. Arthritis never kept her away from Aunty Nat’s card nights, though. Right now they were all playing a round of Trivial Pursuit as a warm-up for cards. Everyone tried to talk me into joining in. They’d do that whenever I happened to be staying with the aunts on one of their card nights, but I usually got out of it by saying I had homework to do. (Elderly people always trustingly believed that excuse, even when it was school holidays.) Because it seemed rude to scoot right downstairs again, I sat on the arm of the couch for a little while and watched the game.

  Mr Woodley seemed to be making himself very much at home for someone on their first social visit. He even jumped up to fetch a cloth from the kitchen when Aunty Nat’s charm bracelet sent someone’s drink flying. (As usual, Aunty Nat looked totally overdressed in a flowery skirt and matching top, a white lace cardigan, and big rose earrings clamped on her ears like pink barnacles.) Not only did Mr Woodley mop up the table, but he insisted on moving the chairs around so Aunt Dorothy, whose drink it was, could sit next to him and have more room. It wasn’t even necessary, I thought. She’d been comfortable enough at the far end of the table.

  ‘Don Bradman!’ Aunty Nat yelled. (Every time she landed on a sports question, she’d say Don Bradman or Muhammad Ali, which seemed to be the only famous sporting names she knew.)

  ‘Well, I guess we could pass it, seeing the question was about cricket,’ Sheila Trenton said. ‘Now, Joanie, you landed on a green one, didn’t you? Green – that’s science kind of things; oh yes, here it is. What word describes the sort of gold found in river sand?’

  ‘I know it, just give me one little minute! Allusive?’

  ‘Warmish, but not quite right, dear.’

  ‘Alluring, then!’

  ‘Getting warmer …’

  ‘It’s alluvial,’ I interrupted.

  ‘So it is, but no one can say gold isn’t alluring, too. What say we pass it, seeing Joan got the first syllable right?’

  It was really pathetic, the bending of rules that went on in their warm-up games of Trival Pursuit! Luckily, Eileen Holloway arrived then, late as usual, which meant an excuse to escape by hopping up to let her in. (It also meant having another wrinkled old cheek pressed against mine and not being able to do anything about it.) Eileen floated into the living room to join the others. Aunty Nat’s famous card group, relocated to its new premises at Avian Cottage, Parchment Hills, was in full swing. I’d done my duty as far as politeness went, and could now go downstairs with a clear conscience and finish off the jobs on my list. Except it didn’t seem a very fascinating way to spend the evening …

  I hung about in the hall, listening to the cheerful din, feeling rather out of things. Which was stupid. I knew that if I’d actually wanted to play Trivial Pursuit or cards, all those kind old dears would have been delighted. But because I’d already practically snarled at poor Aunty Nat for suggesting it, it seemed too embarrassing to go back in there. I glanced at the phone, wishing I could ring Dad. It was depressing when people could only talk to each other with a lot of fussy details about time zones. (Actually, Dad always preferred to call me when he was overseas, not the other way around. That was so I wouldn’t disturb him if he was busy or catching up on sleep after a heavy work schedule.) It seemed ages since he’d last phoned. It would be nice, I thought, if he didn’t just keep vanishing for weeks on end. It must feel good to have a parent who was around permanently, in the same place. Then you wouldn’t have to built up a relationship all over again, each time you met.

  ‘Sarah, would you mind checking Eileen’s car?’ Aunty Nat called. ‘She can’t think if she locked up properly. Oh, and while you’re about it, just make sure the headlights aren’t still on, dear.’

  Eileen’s car was parked outside in the road (she was a bit nervous about getting herself in and out of driveways). The curtains weren’t drawn in the Ryders’ living room, and you could see in. I suddenly remembered Corrie’s invitation from yesterday, about watching videos. That invitation had been genuine; you could tell by the way she’d said it. She’d made it sound the easiest thing in the world, just a matter of turning up and banging on their front door. Maybe I could still do it, even if I only stayed for half an hour or so. I could use their phone to let Aunty Nat know where I was, so she wouldn’t think I’d been kidnapped out on the street. It wouldn’t be hard to invent some convincing reason why I hadn’t gone out with Piriel, either, as I’d said I would. Corrie would just say, ‘That’s okay, it’s great you could make it after all, Sarah. Come in and meet all my friends.’

  It wouldn’t happen like that, though; it never did at school. Somehow, I just didn’t seem to have any talent for mixing with other kids. It was a mystery, because I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. Once, Tara McCabe had even yelled at me, ‘I bet if there’s such soppy things as guardian angels, the one you’ve got keeps begging for a transfer!’ (We were out visiting a museum exhibition at the time. Tara had sneaked off and bought a bag of crisps, eating them behind Mrs H.’s back. She’d offered me some, but I’d reminded her about the rule of not eating in public places while wearing school uniform.)

  I moved further along the footpath, to the Ryders’ gate. From there you could see the whole of their living room, and what everyone was doing. They had their Christmas tree decorated already. There were four sleeping bags arranged in a semicircle facing the television set, but no one seemed to be watching properly. Corrie’s friends were racketing about all over the place. Mr Ryder came in with a handful of ice-cream cones. He sat down to eat one, too. Corrie did something to the footrest on his reclining chair and his feet shot up in the air. He hit her with a cushion. They all hit him back. Mrs Ryder brought in a big plate of cocktail sausages, which everyone ate with their hands. Corrie put on a different video which nobody watched, either. They were all too busy chattering to each other and mucking around.

  I felt like a traveller passing through a strange town late at night, gazing through a lighted window at a party. There was no way I’d fit in with that crowd of girls who already knew each other. I didn’t belong down there. Slowly, I turned around and went back to Avian Cottage. In the front hall, I looked at the phone again. Piriel Starr was different; I never got on her nerves. She’d said right from the start that she knew we were going to get along just fine. I picked up the phone, then dialled her number …

  ‘Guess what, Aunty Nat!’ I cried a few minutes later, bursting in on the serious business of the card night, which was a mind-numbing jackpot game that went on for ever and ever. ‘Piriel said if I meet her tomorrow at the Moreton Shopping Centre she’ll help me choose something to wear to the wedding! Oh, and by the way, Eileen left her car keys in the ignition. Here they are.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. And that’s very thoughtful of Piriel; it should be a nice outing for you,’ Aunty Nat said.

  The card-group members didn’t have to ask whose wedding it was – Aunty Nat had kept them up to date on every little detail since Dad and Piriel first met. Eileen Holloway said gooily, ‘What a sweet way to start off the new year, having a family wedding! Have you ever considered holding the reception here at Avian Cottage, Nat? I think garden settings are always so romantic.’

  Aunty Nat glanced up from her hand of cards. (It was always quite easy to tell from her expression if she’d been dealt good ones. She would have made a terrible secret agent.)

  ‘That darling little porch out the front would be just perfect for bridal photos,’ Eileen added. ‘Almost as lovely as a gondola in Venice.’

  Aunty Nat laid down her cards in full view, not even realising everyone could see she had the joker. ‘Now why didn’t I think of it myself?’ she cried. ‘Not just the reception, but having the whole caboodle here – the marriage ceremony and everything! It would be a bit of a rush, but I don’t see why I couldn’t get everything rea
dy in time. It would be so much nicer than a registry office! That’s what they were planning, would you believe – a registry office, then going on to some restaurant straight afterwards. It’s certainly not my idea of a proper wedding. I wonder if I could talk them into changing their minds –’

  ‘But Piriel’s already made her own plans,’ I said quickly, trying to stop her getting carried away. There was nothing Aunty Nat liked more than buzzing around arranging things that involved a lot of eating. ‘You can’t just –’

  ‘They could have the actual ceremony down in our little summerhouse,’ Aunty Nat prattled on, as though she hadn’t even heard. ‘Catering wouldn’t be any problem, either. If the weather’s nice enough we could use the deck … though maybe not with all those greedy rosellas hanging around. A kind of buffet thing set up inside might be better. And I could make the wedding cake, too!’

  ‘But Piriel wasn’t even planning on having one …’

  ‘Even if I do say so myself, my cake decorating is every bit as good as a professional’s. You remember that beauty I rustled up for your niece’s twenty-first, don’t you, Joanie? Once Christmas is over we’d have a few weeks clear run. Ed, could you perform some kind of miracle and get all the repairs and painting done by early February?’

  ‘No worries,’ Mr Woodley said. ‘Just let me bung in those new stumps first before I start on any fancy-work, though, Nat. Can’t have the old place sliding off down the hill with a mob of wedding guests inside.’

  First-name terms already, I thought darkly, eyeing him across the card table.

  ‘Let’s see, now,’ Aunty Nat said, starting to jot things down on one of the score pads. ‘There’s the stumps, then painting the house inside and out, summerhouse ditto, new gravel for the paths … Sarah, maybe I should delegate this list to you, dear. You’re always such a dab hand at them.’