Page 89 of Weekends with the Sunshine Gardening Society
Kathy nods again. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Cynthia points to some rubbish. ‘Let’s start there. I know it looks like a lot but we’ll get through it.’
‘I believe you.’
They squat and start plucking rubbish and throwing it in the big bag, working in silence but occasionally smiling at each other, used to a joint endeavour that doesn’t require conversation so much as companionship.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Kathywas told not to bring anything because there would be more than enough food and drink for everyone, but she wasn’t brought up to go empty-handed to anyone’s house, no matter what they said. Especially on Christmas Day. So she’s made some of the rum balls that her mother had taught her to make when she was a teenager, and which Owen and their children always loved. Then she discovered what it’s like trying to make rum balls in extreme humidity, which isn’t a situation she’s encountered before. In short: trying to form the balls was difficult. She didn’t want to give up – partly because she didn’t have anything else to take – so she dragged her little air-conditioning unit into the kitchen, closed all the doors and brought the temperature down. Then she put the balls in the fridge, which she usually tries not to do because the chocolate can bloom, except she couldn’t leave the air con on overnight. If they bloom, they bloom.
That was her Christmas Eve: wrangling rum balls. And there was a phone call from Michelle saying she would miss having a family Christmas tomorrow. No rancour in it, which was nice; just a tinge of sadness.
In the morning Kathy takes the balls out of the fridge and drives the short distance over Motel Hill, down to Hastings Street, and around to Little Cove. ‘Motel Hill’ was what Cynthia calledit – she said all the locals do, and the reason is obvious. Kathy doesn’t mind having so many accommodation places close by. They remind her that she’s not the only one who thinks this place is worth journeying to, even if she’s staying a little longer than most.
As she opens Cynthia’s side gate she hears Christmas music and a woman’s voice – not Cynthia’s – calling something about prawns.
Before Kathy can think how to approach the bustling gathering, Cynthia appears on the verandah, beaming. Her hair is blonder than Kathy remembers – which is because she’s only ever seen it under a hat. Cynthia has make-up on – again, not something Kathy has seen. Plus she’s wearing a dress. Another first. It’s like there’s a whole other version of Cynthia that exists far from Kathy’s awareness. Although Cynthia may think the same of her, because she’s not wearing a hat either, nor is she slopping around in an old T-shirt. She put on a nice linen shirt and linen pants, and she’s even wearing shoes without dirt on them.
‘Hello!’ Cynthia says, coming halfway down the steps to greet her. ‘It’s so lovely you could join us!’
Kathy proffers the rum balls. ‘They need refrigeration,’ she says. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s summer.’ Cynthia laughs. ‘Everythingneeds refrigeration.’
‘I’ll take those,’ says a handsome man who looks to be around Cynthia’s age, although he’s more sunbaked than Cynthia and his hair is greying. He holds out his hand for the plastic container. ‘Great to meet you, Kathy. I’m Pat.’
‘Hi, Pat.’ Kathy knows who he is – not from Cynthia so much as Lorraine, whose voice carries wherever they are. If she’s working with Cynthia and the two of them are chatting, it’s not uncommon to hear Pat-this and Pat-that.
‘Please, come in.’ Cynthia is still smiling as she gestures towards a light-filled sitting room with low couches covered in white, and pots of poinsettias on side tables which, Kathy is sure,have been acquired just for Christmas. Their bright-red leaves are certainly festive.
A tall, slightly stooped older man is laying cutlery next to a young blonde woman. No prizes for guessing that this is Odette and her grandfather.
‘My father, Wilfred Scheffer,’ says Cynthia. ‘And my daughter, Odette. Papa, Odette, I’d like you to meet my friend Kathy.’
Kathy flushes with pleasure to hear herself described as a friend. It’s been a while since anyone claimed her as that.
‘Hi!’ Odette says, grinning, then she glances towards the corner of the room where there’s a bassinette on the floor. ‘That’s my little boy,’ she explains. ‘Just checking to see if he’s still asleep.’
‘Perfectly understandable,’ Kathy says, then she shakes Wilfred’s proffered hand.
‘Champagne, Kathy?’ Pat asks, and before she can reply there’s a cold flute in her hand and Cynthia is clinking it.
Kathy has barely had a sip before she hears noise and turns to see an elderly woman at the verandah door.
‘Von!’ Cynthia cries, putting down her glass and almost flying across the room. ‘I didn’t hear you arrive.’
Von smiles mysteriously. ‘I can still be stealthy when I want to be.’
Kathy isn’t sure how, for Von wields a walking stick and the stairs would have required some effort.
She can’t help feeling a little awed at Von’s presence: although they met when the Sunshine Gardening Society worked in her garden, Kathy didn’t know then the full extent of Von’s involvement in the society. Cynthia filled her in while they were picking up rubbish in the national park. Kathy thinks it’s not too much of a stretch to say that without Von she wouldn’t be at this gathering, because she wouldn’t have met Cynthia. She also wouldn’t be feeling such purpose in her life, a sense that she’s useful after so long feeling useless. Von could never have known, when she and her friends began the society, how far-reaching its effectswould be. Or perhaps she did; perhaps it was her plan all along. The woman standing before Kathy looks wise enough to foretell all manner of things.
‘Hello, Odette,’ Von calls, raising her free hand and receiving a beaming smile in return. ‘Where is your son?’
‘He’s sleeping,’ Odette says, pointing to the bassinette then glancing towards the nearby clock. ‘He’ll probably be awake soon.’
