Page 96 of Weekends with the Sunshine Gardening Society
‘I always thought you would,’ Odette says. ‘But I don’t assume it. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
They smile at each other.
‘Let’s float for a while,’ Cynthia says.
Without another word Odette pops up on her back, buoyed by the salt water. Cynthia watches her for a few seconds, remembering the time she taught Odette to do just that, then she arranges herself similarly and closes her eyes, feeling the sun on her face and listening to the waves.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
‘Mike,as I’ve said ten times already, you can’t stay here.’
Lorraine is brandishing a wooden spoon, although she didn’t anticipate having it in her hand when Mike turned up looking for forgiveness and dinner. She told him to take his li-lo elsewhere because she doesn’t want him staying on the premises and since then he’s been staying who-knows-where.
She wasn’t planning to wear her ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron either, but that’s what she’s got on, over her house dress, as she likes to call it, which is really a favourite old sarong because who wants to wear anything more than a sarong at this time of year?
‘But it’s my house!’ he says, with a little less force than he’s used the past few days.
They’ve been through this routine several times, although usually he tries it after dinner when he’s had a few and stumbled over from whichever neighbour’s house she supposes he’s staying in. He’s been cultivating all of them for years, helping out with lawns, taking out bins when they’re away. Maybe he was buttering them up in case he ever needed a place to stay because he knew he was likely to stumble sometime with all of his comings and goings.
‘Not yours any more,’ she says, putting the spoon back into the pasta sauce and regretting that she agreed to make the kids theirfavourite spaghetti dish for dinner, because she’s sweating up a storm over this stove. ‘The bank owns it now.’
‘Then it’s not yours either,’ he fumes.
‘That’s for a lawyer or a judge to decide.’ She gives him a fake smile. ‘Since you cheated me out of money. Remember? You wanted the house in your name and now it looks like that was so you could use it however you wanted.’
There’s a noise at the kitchen door, which Lorraine closed as soon as Mike snuck in the back way. She doesn’t want the kids to hear them arguing. They know what’s going on because she’s told them everything – no interest in protecting Mike from his own mistakes – but knowing it is different to hearing your parents yelling it at each other.
‘Dinner’s not ready!’ she calls to whoever is turning the handle.
‘Michael,’ says a feeble voice, and it’s Cora standing there in the doorway. Of course it is. Cora come to pat her naughty son on the head and tell him everything will be all right.
Lorraine has barely been able to tolerate having Cora in the house. She’s dealt with it by not talking about Mike at all, just going about her business making meals and beds, cleaning and tidying and giving Cora no opportunity to complain about anything. That worked while Mike wasn’t turning up to plead his case until after Cora had gone to bed. Lorraine can’t help thinking his earlier appearance tonight is tactical: he wants his mother to back him up and to get the kids on his side. Well, he can get stuffed if he thinks that’s happening. He probably hadn’t counted on Lorraine telling them how their father has arranged it so they’re probably going to be chucked out of the house.
‘Michael, what are you doing here?’
Cora’s jaw looks set – but that can’t be right. She’s meant to take Mike’s side and tell Lorraine off for being an unforgiving wife. Et cetera, et cetera, et bloody cetera.
‘I want to come home, Mum,’ Mike pleads.
As Lorraine watches the show she can see his eyes are bloodshot and he seems to have developed jowls in the past few days.Good.
‘What is wrong with your hair?’ Cora walks over to him and yanks one of his cowlicks. ‘You have not brushed it?’
‘Ow, Mum, get off me. I’m sleeping on couches, all right? It’s hard to keep my hair looking good.’
Mike sounds like Terry when he whines like that and Lorraine raises an eyebrow.
Cora glares at him. ‘Couches have nothing to do with it. Use a comb!’
Lorraine stifles a titter. Her mother-in-law has told off her husband before – usually for dressing like a slob – but it’s a remark here or there, not the campaign this seems to be.
‘I left it here,’ Mike grumbles.
‘Then get it,’ Cora orders and points upstairs.
Mike’s eyes widen. ‘But I want to – ’
