Page 57 of Special Delivery
‘I’m redecorating!’ called her mother from behind a tangled mess of eucalyptus branches and what appeared to be Paterson’s curse.
‘Mum, are they weeds?’
‘I foraged them, darling! It’s the new thing! The girls and I went down to the wetlands and we found all these glorious branches. Desmona said you’d pay a fortune for them in Sydney. I’m going to hang them from the light fixtures in the kitchen. It will be very French provincial. Like giant bushels of lavender, only—’
‘Only Paterson’s curse.’
‘No need to be so snippy, darling, I hear this is all the rage in the city. Now, where is my beautiful girl?’ She heaved the bunch of branches onto the kitchen bench and dusted herself down, looking around Poppy for the pram.
‘I left her with Dad. They’re in the front room watching the Panthers game.’
‘We can’t have that,’ said Chrissie, brushing past her daughter to walk down the hall. ‘Paul! I’m coming to get Maeve. I will not have you indoctrinating her with all this rugger-bugger palaver. It is her right as a child of a single mother to never have to endure a sports match unnecessarily.’
They entered the front room to find Maeve bouncing happily on her grandfather’s knee and sucking a Jatz cracker.
‘Dad!’ cried Poppy. ‘Maeve hasn’t started solids yet.’
‘What?’ asked her father, oblivious.
‘Ugh,’ groaned Poppy, pulling the cracker from her daughter’s mouth. ‘I was hoping her first food would be slightly less trans-fatty.’
‘She’s enjoying it,’ her father insisted.
Poppy picked up a teething ring from the carpet, wiped it on her shirt and gave it back to her daughter. ‘Here, Maevey. This is a more age-appropriate chew toy.’
‘I gave youone job, Paul—make yourself scarce—and you still manage to stuff it up,’ groaned Chrissie theatrically.
‘If you want my help in the kitchen, I’m ready,’ he replied.
‘No!’ cried Poppy and her mum in unison. Paul had a habit of burning everything, including the utensils, which infused everything with a poisonous plasticky smell.
Paul laughed and squeezed his granddaughter. ‘Your first life lesson, Maevey: incompetence brings rewards.’
Chrissie rolled her eyes and took Maeve from her husband. ‘My granddaughter is not being raised on this drivel. Modern men are not hapless fools, like the men of our generation. She will marry a man who can mow the lawnandcook her dinner.’
‘Or awomanwho can mow the lawn and cook her dinner,’ countered Poppy’s dad.
‘Or she’ll be single and do it all herself,’ added Poppy.
‘Of course she will,’ agreed Chrissie. ‘My point is, Paul, you need to start helping around here so Maeve has some positive male role models in her life. She can’t grow up seeing you glued to the television screen all the time. You need to contribute …’
Poppy and her dad shared a glance, barely stifling their amusement. They knew this rant back to front. It was long and superlative-laden, with just a touch of truth to it. (Poppy’s dad may have been prone to burning things but he was also Chief Washer-Upper and Chief Calmer of the Head Chef—both critical duties in the kitchen.)
‘Oh bugger!’ cried Chrissie suddenly, thrusting Maeve at Poppy. ‘I forgot to turn the oven off!’ She raced into the kitchen, swearing at herself.
Poppy’s dad smiled. ‘Don’t worry—I put the timer on. I knew she’d forget.’
Poppy laughed. Her dad was always quietly fixing things in the background.
A voice rang down the hall. ‘I must have put the timer on! Clever me! Don’t worry, lunch is saved!’
Poppy and her dad chuckled. Chrissie McKellar would never change.
Half an hour later, they sat down to a steaming homemade moussaka, the Panthers game still playing in the background and a bushel of Paterson’s curse festooning the ceiling above them.
‘This is going to be a lovely family tradition now you’re back in Orange,’ declared Chrissie. ‘We should have family lunch at least once a month.’
‘Why not weekly?’ asked Paul.
