Mrs Whitlam, page 4
‘Yeah,’ I replied, surprised by the sudden change in conversation.
‘I thought you guys were Indian or something like that.’
‘Nup, we’re one hundred per cent Australian.’
‘Well, my grandparents came from Greece. What does that make me?’ he asked with a laugh.
I nearly said good-looking but stopped myself just in time.
‘Um, do you want to come around for a barbecue to our place on Saturday?’ He’d gone about as pink as he could go. ‘It’s my mum’s birthday. She said to invite your family. So, do you reckon you’ll be able to come?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I reckon we will.’
‘Oh good. We’ve got a pool. You could have a … ’
‘Swim?’ I finished the sentence for him.
‘Yeah. Anyway, see you Saturday.’
And he was gone. I watched him run off down to the water and grab his surfboard.
Wow, how did that happen? We have a conversation and then, boom I’m invited over to his house. How is that possible? The Golden Boy and me? I looked down and realised, to my embarrassment that I had my shirt on inside out. Well he still asked me out. To a barbecue. With my parents. And my brothers. I’d have to make sure that Dad didn’t say anything daggy about the food. He was capable of saying anything and telling the most un-funny jokes.
Later, riding back along the river track, I made a point of stopping off at Aunty Veronica’s.
‘She’s a nice kid that one,’ said Aunty Veronica to Uncle Binny. ‘Even if she’s got her clothes on inside out.’
Fifteen
At the barbecue, George helped his father cook while Dad told them bad jokes and my brothers went feral in the pool. I spent most of the afternoon by the pool patting Zorba, the Costas’ blind labrador. Not quite what I had in mind.
Mum was too embarrassed to swim around people she didn’t know. Despite always telling us we were as good as everyone else and not to accept anything less, she spent a lot of the afternoon worrying about nothing.
Dad had a large collection of lame jokes, so I had half an ear on him hoping he wouldn’t think they were hilarious by his third drink. I also had half an eye on my brothers as they were pretty much out of control in the pool.
George grinned at me every time he walked by with trays of cooked sausages and steak. It gave me a chance to look at his eyes again. A smile crept across my lips.
‘What are you so happy about?’ Dad asked as he appeared beside me. ‘Still thinking about your photo in the paper?’
‘I was thinking about Maggie,’ I lied.
‘Of course you were, I knew that. Just gammin ya.’ He bent down and put an arm around my shoulder. ‘I love ya Marnie from Killarney. And you got good taste in friends too.’ He waggled his finger at me as he went back to the barbecue, intent on telling George and his dad another joke.
Zorba was nudging my hand to make sure I hadn’t forgotten that his head needed patting. When I looked up, I got the fright of my life. Mrs Arnold was walking up the path with a bowl of fruit salad in her hands.
When she first saw me, she stopped in her tracks but then she walked over to Mrs Costa and they chatted for a while. Later I watched Mrs Arnold go over to where Mum was sitting.
I started to think I could sneak off with the excuse that I had to work to do at the stables but I was too slow. Mrs Arnold was walking towards me. She sat down at the pool’s edge and didn’t seem to notice her dress getting wet.
‘Your mother thanked me for Mrs Whitlam,’ Mrs Arnold said quietly. ‘Mr Marriner told me how lovely you’ve been to the horse.’ She paused. ‘There’s something else ... ’
And just as suddenly as she had sat down, she stood up and hurried off down the path.
Mrs Costa watched her leave and then burst into tears. Looked like the party was over.
Sixteen
Crying must have been contagious. When I got home from school the next day, Mum was on the verandah, huddled on the old Holden seat, crying her heart out.
‘Look,’ she sobbed. ‘She left this at the front door. I must have been hanging out the washing and didn’t hear her come by.’
‘Who? Who left what?’ I asked Mum, confused.
Mum sat up and revealed the crumpled parcel in her lap. ‘Mrs Arnold,’ she sobbed again.
Mum ceremoniously pulled back the brown wrapping paper. Inside was a maroon velvet riding jacket. It took my breath away. I just knew it would match my dark blue velvet riding hat and Mrs Whitlam’s coppery-red coat.
It. Was. Perfect.
Bruce Pascoe, Mrs Whitlam
