6. Scarlett
CHAPTER 6
Scarlett
B less Mum for investing in a Thermomix. Our trip down memory lane this afternoon has included batches of rum balls, white Christmas, peppermint slice and mini Christmas puddings. The shiny white machine has crunched, whipped and mixed and, as per my usual baking style, there is not a clean patch on any benchtop. And I can’t say just how many balls I’ve consumed.
My phone vibrates on the counter. Gum Creek ELC pops up on the screen. With a floury finger, I tap the decline button, as I’ve been doing all day, and I’ll continue to do so until my former place of employment gets the message I no longer want anything to do with them.
‘So, how is work going?’ Mum flicks her eyes from the phone screen to the oven. She pulls another tray of honey biscuits out and rests it on top of the stove.
There’s a tone to her voice I’ve not heard before—a mix of curiosity and concern. In an attempt to avoid scrutiny, I busy myself by washing the bowl, splashing water and forming bubbles. I don’t want to lie, but it’s the best for everyone at this point if I do. Just keep it close to my chest. There’s a lot of shit going down, threats being made, and the last thing I want is for Mum or Dad to worry. ‘Fine, demanding, tiring, cranky kids, frazzled parents. You know how it is this time of the year. Glad I could get a few days’ leave, along with the public holidays, to come home.’
‘Hmmm.’
When I turn around, Mum is leaning against the bench, arms crossed. I know this stance. This is her you-can’t-pull-the-wool-over-my-eyes stance. The one I often saw during those last few years of school.
‘What?’ After wiping my hands, I mirror her stance. Stick to your story, Scarlett .
Mum tips her head to the side. I do the same. It’s childish.
‘Is this how you’re going to play it?’ Mum walks over to the answering machine (I’m still not sure why they have one when no one rings the home phone anymore) and presses a button.
‘Hello, um, Mr and Mrs Reynolds. Sorry to bother you. My name is Stephanie, the owner and director of Gum Creek ELC in Adelaide. We’re trying to get hold of Scarlett without much luck.’ There’s a pause with paper shuffling. Her voice is as nice as pie and I want to reach through the machine and do something unsavoury to her. ‘Scarlett finished up unexpectedly, and we need to finalise her employment and some other matters that have come to hand. Can you please get her to call ASAP. Thank you, and Merry Christmas.’
Shit, shit, shit. Damn you, Stephanie, for dropping me right into it. And how dare she bring up the other issue in a message?
When I meet Mum’s eyes, they are glassy. Her bottom lip trembles. This isn’t the reaction I was expecting. I’d predicted disappointment, questions and concern. A lump forms in my throat; swallowing it is hard.
‘Oh, Mum.’ I fall into her outstretched arms. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why are you sorry, dear? You love what you do, and I know you wouldn’t have quit unless you had a good reason to. You’re a determined little bugger.’ She sniffs in my ear.
I pull back and grab her some tissues from the box on the windowsill. ‘Why are you crying then?’
‘Because you’re home for Christmas. Because we can finally spend time together. To chat about stuff and life and your job that you no longer have and what your plans are. And there’s no rush for you to go back to the city now. Maybe you could do some day care here in Point Perry for a while. So many families would benefit.’ She squeezes my hand, then presses the tissues to her eyes.
‘No, Mum. My life’s in the city. I have appointments, commitments. I can’t stay here. Everything will work out, I promise.’ I send her a smile, though it feels forced and tight. God, I hope everything does work out. The ‘other matters’ Stephanie referred to could get messy, but I need to see it through.
‘Well, you can stay here as long as you need and keep me company. I’ve missed you an awful lot since your brothers moved out and started their families and it’s just been your dad and me out here on the farm.’
It hits me. Mum’s lonely. And although Dad is ‘officially’ retired, he still gets up and goes to work on the farm, doing whatever my other older brother Pete tells him to do. From sunup to sundown most days. And although the farm is only fifteen minutes from town, Mum never really talks about spending time there doing anything with friends other than catching up with Marge and Greta for a coffee every Thursday when she does the grocery shopping.
Guilt piles on me. Guilt about not being home during the last five years, for letting our relationship become a quick phone call every few weeks and the occasional text.
‘So, you’re crying happy tears that I quit my job and came home?’
She nods and swipes a tear from her cheek, leaving a floury streak. ‘I know it’s selfish, and I have a million questions, and I don’t want to pressure you, but …’
She’s going to beg me to stay. Right now, my head is a jumble, and all my plans to keep this from my parents have gone out of the window. I have nothing to hide behind.
‘How about I whip up a batch of Reynolds’ Family Recipe Eggnog, pop on the carols and I’ll fill you in?’ I have a knack for always finding a way to shift the focus away from the current subject.
‘I’d love that. Let me turn the oven off.’
When I turn back to the counter, bowl in one hand and a dozen eggs in the other, a pair of lights flicker up the dirt driveway.
‘You expecting visitors, Mum?’