Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,38
says in here they have better weather in their winter than we do in our summer. That’s one thing she says she doesn’t miss—the bloody English weather.”
My mother scanned the letter as I slid the chip pan onto the top of the cooker. I turned on the gas, struck a match, and held it close to the burner. A huge bloom of purple-blue flames burst forth. I jumped back, wrinkling my nose at the smell of burned hair.
“You know, if your father’s serious about fixing this place,” my mother said, wagging a finger at the cooker, “the first thing he needs to see to is that gas. One of these days we’re all going to be blown to kingdom come. Your grandma’s got an all-electric kitchen, you know. She said it’s the best thing that’s happened to her in years.”
I put the pan over the burner and began slicing the potatoes into chip-size pieces.
“She says here that she went on a tour of the Sydney Opera House. And do you know what the tour guide told them? He said that when they built it they wanted it to have the best acoustics of any theater in the world. You know, so the voices of all those opera singers and such could be heard in the back rows. Trouble was, they made the sound carry so well that you could hear everything—even the sound of the loos flushing. Right in the middle of a performance. Now, will you think about that!” She started laughing as if she’d just heard the most enormously funny joke. “Oh,” she concluded, slapping her hand down on the table. “Your grandma could always make me laugh. She sent us a picture of herself—you want to see?” She took a photograph out of the envelope. I peered over to see a picture of a white-haired buxom woman in a knee-length cotton dress and flat, sensible white sandals. Her legs were bare, and they looked veined and blotchy—old women’s legs. “That’s her house.” My mother pointed to the flat-roofed oblong building that Grandma stood so proudly next to. “And those trees there are eucalyptus trees. She had a koala bear in her back garden. She saw it sitting right there. As close as you are to me.”
“I know, Mum, you told me before.” The fat in the chip pan was starting to sizzle and spit. I turned, lifted the wire basket out of the pan, and put several handfuls of chips into it.
“Yes, but don’t you think that’s brilliant? I mean, you’d never get anything like that to happen here.”
“I suppose not. But maybe things like that are just normal in Australia.” I placed the basket of chips into the pan and the oil rose, sputtering and hissing and covering the chips in frothing yellow foam.
“I know,” my mother said, sighing and staring through the window toward our garden as if she were picturing a koala bear scrambling through the trees back there. “Sometimes I think the best thing I could do would be to go over there and live with your grandma. You wouldn’t miss me, would you? And your dad—well, let’s face it. Your dad would be glad to get rid of me.” She began laughing again, even more hysterically than before, throwing her head back as if the thought of this was just hilarious. Then, abruptly, she stopped, letting one hand fall to her uncombed mass of hair. She began pushing her fingers into its thick tangles. “At least your grandma would appreciate me. At least she’d be glad to see me. At least she cares.” Then, as if collapsing on itself, her face folded, she let out a choked little cry, and tears began rolling down her pale cheeks. “Nobody cares about me here,” she said, pulling a wrinkled handkerchief from the pocket of her dressing gown.
“Do you think Dad will be home soon?” I asked, glancing at the wall clock, which was leaning against the kitchen window because no one had gotten around to hanging it yet.
“See,” she said, gasping as the tears flowed copiously. “Not even my own daughter cares about me.” She blew her nose in a loud, wet snort.
“Mum, I’m trying to make the tea right now.” I tried to disguise my irritation, but my words came out hard and slow through tightly clenched teeth.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, I really don’t. Am I that terrible of a mother? Am I? Tell me, am I?” She