Her boredom trick - Page 4
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 26: Stories for Today
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Georgia Blain
WHEN LUNCH IS served, Sinead and Clara both wish they'd ordered a burger and smoothie, rather than lentil patties and a herbal tea.
‘Don't drink it all.' Zoe leans forward, arm outstretched, to take the glass back as Sinead takes a long sip.
‘It is hers,' Clara adds as Sinead keeps drinking.
‘It's enormous,' Sinead tells them both. ‘And I paid for it.'
Clara has a piece of paper and is jotting down figures.
‘We can do the first house or the last,' she says. ‘But it means no trip to Europe.'
Shortly after she was diagnosed with cancer, she had told Sinead and Zoe she wanted to take them both to Italy. Why not spend the money before she died, she said. Why not have fun? Sinead had been furious. It wasn't practical to organise a trip now. They didn't know how the operation would go, and how she would feel after the follow-up treatment? They were sitting in the kitchen at Sinead's house, the night warm, the cicadas throbbing outside. Zoe had the television turned up, but she had come in the moment she'd heard mention of overseas travel.
‘Can we go? Can we go?' And she jumped up and down, short sharp bounces that rattled the table and all the plates and glasses on it.
‘I don't see why not,' Clara had replied, pouring herself a third glass of wine. ‘But then you and I have adventurous spirits, my darling.' She took Zoe's hand in her own. ‘We are alike.'
After dinner Sinead had told her it was all very well to play a little ‘let's go to Europe game' with her, but not with Zoe. ‘You could see how excited she was. And you're only going to let her down.'
Why not be optimistic, Clara had insisted. They could book for six months after the end of her treatment and if she couldn't go then, well, so what? The worst that could happen was that she might lose some money on the tickets.
‘No,' Sinead had replied. ‘The worst that could happen is that you might be dead.'
The trip hadn't been mentioned again, not until now. Sinead pushes her plate away, leaving the last of the barely edible lentil patties untouched.
‘I'd rather go to Europe than rent a bloody dump,' Zoe says, and then, realising her error, grins. ‘Correction: a nasty dump.'
Sinead just looks at her mother.
‘Well, let's face it,' Clara tells her. ‘If we're assuming I'm going to be well enough to come for weekends away down here, we might as well assume I'll be able to travel to Italy.'
There is quite a difference between an hour's drive down the coast and a twenty-four-hour plane flight, Sinead replies.
‘All I'm saying is, it's one or the other.' Clara raises her hand as the waitress walks by, trying to catch her attention. ‘I can't afford both.'
LATER, SINEAD SWIMS out into the flat, still bay. The water is cool with the first autumn tides, but as she takes strong strokes forward she begins to feel the warmth of her blood coursing through her body.
Behind her Zoe is holding onto a kickboard, not really following her, just making her own way a little to the left, and beyond them both Clara leans back against a rock with Pepper beside her, her head tilted up to afternoon sun, her eyes closed.
It is almost empty. Midweek, end of summer, and only a father and his son sit on the sand. Far in the distance, a woman in pink tracksuit pants jogs to the other end, her dog following, chasing the stick she throws out into the ocean. Sinead lets herself float into shore.
It is a beautiful beach, she thinks, grateful that this, at least, hasn't disappointed her, and that she can still hope she might one day rent a shack down here, a place to get away and do some of her own work, have friends to stay. As the sea becomes shallow, she turns over onto her knees and stands, looking up to where Zoe is jumping up and down agitated on the sand.
‘There are sea lice,' she calls out, and it's true: Sinead is also starting to feel itchy.
They grab their towels and rub them over their skin until the sting begins to ease.
‘I'm not going in again,' Zoe says.
Sinead walks to the water's edge, looking out to the distant jagged line of the city opposite and then down to where the beach becomes scrub, a sharp tangle of green against the sky. A cob of corn washes against her feet and she steps back, irritated. It is the father and his son. They are tossing them out to sea as soon as they finish eating them, the gnawed ends floating straight back into shore.
‘It's disgusting,' she tells Clara in a loud voice.
‘Shh,' Zoe urges, embarrassed.
‘I want them to hear,' Sinead replies.
‘Well, why don't you just tell them directly?' Clara asks, and she tries to lift herself up slowly, holding onto the rock behind her as she pulls herself to her knees and then to a standing position.
Sinead helps her. ‘Because I'm too pathetic.' She smiles wryly.
‘I'm a little like that myself,' Clara says.
The woman in the tracksuit pants walks past them, raising a hand in greeting. They watch her head over the rocks and up to one of the larger brick houses on the water's edge.
‘I'll probably never go jogging again.' Clara sighs.
‘You never did go jogging.' Sinead gathers their towels and tells Zoe to take the kickboard and Pepper. ‘Shall we head home?' she asks, and Clara nods.
They walk back up the path to the car, Sinead leading the way, Zoe following and Clara taking her time. Out on the street, most of the houses have driveways, flat green lawns and oleander growing over the brush fences. As they pass one of the original shacks, paint peeling and garden overgrown with grevillea and bottlebrush, Sinead looks back at Clara, who has also paused to peer into the yard.
‘Now that's what I like,' Clara says. ‘If that one was for sale -' and she catches her breath for a moment before she continues to where Sinead and Zoe brush the sand from their legs and arms, as they pull their clothes over their still-damp swimmers.
It is later than they thought. They stop for an ice cream, knowing they will not go to the agent's and fill out a rental form for any of the houses, nor will they look at the last of the places for sale. Instead, they will head out through the national park and back onto the highway that leads into the city, talking about how they might come back to see the last place again (‘Not the first – it was a dump,' Sinead will insist, and Clara will continue to disagree), while in the backseat Zoe will sit, cheek against the window, wanting to experience only the boredom the whole way home. ♦