Page 105 of Thursdays at Orange Blossom House
‘Are we being dismissed?’ Grace Maud says, laughing.
‘Yes. My lover is waiting for me.’ Sandrine winks. ‘We are going out on a boat.’
Grace Maud and Dorothy each take one of Patricia’s arms as they leave the house and the three of them walk wordlessly to the street.
‘Whatever you decide,’ Dorothy says as they reach their cars, ‘I will think it’s great.’ She kisses Patricia on the cheek.
‘As shall I,’ adds Grace Maud.
Patricia smiles. ‘Thank you. I have some thinking to do.’
‘Then we’ll let you do it.’
Grace Maud opens the passenger door, waves Dorothy goodbye, then pulls her seatbelt across and straps herself in for the ride home.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The last thing Patricia feels like doing is having her brothers and sister to lunch. She’s distracted – she has been ever since Sandrine gave her quite rational reasons for considering Dennis’s suggestion. It’s made her think about all the ideas she’s held onto. Some of them are ideas others have foisted on her – that her life should turn out a certain way. If she examines herself, her past, she can see that she could have steered herself in the direction of marriage, children, house, garden. That might have been an enjoyable life – but she could never be sure that it would be. She had friends who weren’t happy even though they did everything ‘right’.
There was also the fact that Patricia never wanted to give up her work. It is her nature to work; at school she never shirked homework, never questioned the need to learn and improve. It’s what she does. Who she is. She knew herself well enough to understand that and her choices have, whether conscious or unconscious, kept her on the path of work.
Except she has always castigated herself for not trying harder to have the other. To be the conventional woman sending her husband off to work instead. To be satisfied with a domestic life. She’s never let go of the idea that what she wants for herself isn’t as valid as what others told her she should want.
Until Sandrine basically gave her permission to be free of any and all preconceptions. The liberation has been heady. And preoccupying.
However, her mother is turning eighty years of age and, even though she probably doesn’t even realise it, Patricia thinks they should celebrate. Or, rather, her father suggested they celebrate and Patricia didn’t disagree, even though she knew what it would mean: John, Peter and Annette, along with their families, in the house together for the first time in a while.
There’s another reason to gather. Her father finally spoke to his sons and informed them of his decision, so next week their mother will go into a nursing home. That means it’s probably the last time they’ll have a family meal with her present in this house. Patricia is trying hard not to feel like a hanging judge, but her guilt makes her breath catch every now and again.
So here they all are, crammed around the dining room table that was a good size when it was just the four children and two adults but isn’t adequate when three of those children bring others. Elbows are clashing, along with opinions about the prime minister – Annette has pronounced him ‘dishy’ while John and Peter think he’s a weasel and say they’d rather see the National Party running the country – and the moviePriscilla, Queen of the Desert, which, unsurprisingly, has moved Peter to a tirade about the outrageousness of ‘blokes in frocks’, poked by John, who says he found Guy Pearce half attractive. Their mother has sat, silent, at the head of the table throughout.
Patricia has taken her usual place in the kitchen, organising platters and realising they don’t have enough cutlery so she has to keep washing up after each course. This time, however, her father helps her to clear plates and serve drinks.
By dessert time, her brothers have drunk a few cans of beer and Annette is several glasses into a cask of moselle.
‘Acask?’ she had almost shrieked when she saw it in John’s hand. ‘A CASK?’
‘Yeah,’ he’d said, nonplussed. ‘That’s all they had at the bottlo in town. Nothing stopping you bringing something else, Annette.’
Annette had sniffed and Patricia knew why: it isn’t Annette’s usual policy to bring anything to anyone at any time. So she’s been drinking the cask wine at pace, and now her eyes are glazed and her tongue sharpened.
‘You know,’ she says, waving her hand so vigorously that it almost connects with Patricia’s face as she deposits a piece of limp pavlova on the table. She should never have tried to make meringue at this time of year with the build-up thickening the air; even the strawberries on top are sagging.
‘Know what, Nettie?’ says Peter as he manoeuvres his rotund self around the table to remove a can of beer from his teenage son’s hand.
‘Don’t call me that,’ Annette spits.
‘You never used to mind,’ he says, although his facial expression shows that he knows she did.
‘I was five when I didn’t mind.’ Annette goes back to hand-waving. ‘You know, I really think it’soutrageousthat Mum is going into a home.’
‘Oh yeah?’ says John, examining a fingernail.
Patricia had asked him to help her with the arrangements to move their mother but he had said, predictably, that he was ‘too busy with sport’. Now he’s coaching cricket. Or so he says.
‘She should be able to stay in her own home. She’s not that bad!’ Annette points at their mother, who looks bewildered.
‘She’s just been sitting quietly,’ Peter adds. ‘How is that a problem?’
