She considered that a shame given the gorgeous green tinge to the spring weather. A shame given the chance to mix and mingle. ‘You have your work to get you out of the house. You get to have normal conversations. I slip back into hermit mode much too easily. I’m housebound again, Colin.’ The Escort van had clapped out permanently, towed for scrap. I had the Wheatman Commodore. Tilda had nothing till we could afford a replacement vehicle. She said, ‘I sit in my studio and go bugger it.’ She flopped her arms down in a defeated motion. ‘Take me to the races, sweetheart. We’ll have fun. Let’s invite someone to be our guest. We’ll be like hobnobbers. We’ll take bubbly and roast chicken like we’re hobnobbing at the races.’
Truth is, I had every intention of going. My ‘I see no point’ was just for Tilda’s sake. I wasn’t about to come straight out with ‘Let’s call Donna Wilkins. I want to see her again.’
Harmless flirting, that’s all I intended. I was not setting out for love or congressing. Just flirting, a bit more than I’d had at Donna’s lunch. Her grieving period would be up by now, her twelve months had just been reached. We could spread a picnic rug near the racecourse rail and I would find a way around Tilda’s presence to enjoy the charge of simmered yearning. No harm in that—everybody does it, I bet.
‘Sweetheart,’ I said—using sweetheart was always good politics, particularly in this instance: I wasn’t sure about the state of Tilda’s jealousy-guard regarding Donna. ‘Sweetheart, it just occurred to me, we should probably return the hospitality of your friend Donna. It’s been months since her soiree. She might be an option.’ I paused—a clever pause. ‘Or maybe not. We can cross her off the list.’
‘What list? Our list consists of blank.’
‘Perhaps ring her and ask her then. Up to you, sweetheart. Makes no difference to me.’
Simple as that. Donna was invited. She told Tilda that Ruth would adore it—the hoof-thunder of horses, it would delight and scare the wits out of the child.
I was curious to know after the call if I was mentioned. A ‘How’s Colin?’ or something. Tilda didn’t say so and I wasn’t about to ask. I doubt I was, which disappointed me. But it was pleasant disappointment. I smiled to myself and winked to myself and muttered, ‘Oh well, c’est la vie.’
Chapter 67
The family ticket allowed us two car spaces. Donna was able to reverse her green station wagon in such a way that the tail door could be lowered as a smorgasbord table facing the home straight. The Commodore was parked beside it, which kept the next group of people along at bay. Perfect for not being too sociable with them. We even had willow shade, which added intimacy to the outing, like blinds drawn down while others sweated.
This was not like Donna’s lunch, however. I did have her on the right of me again, but I did not have her to myself. I had Tilda directly on my left and Ruth straight in front. Tilda was in a talkative mood. Christ, she can talk sometimes. All her housebound inactivity must have stored talk up in her. Not ordinary talk. Health talk. That’s the thing about people with health problems. You give them the chance to explain their afflictions and it’s as exciting to them as party time. We’d only just sat down and chinked glasses to say ‘Happy race day!’ when Donna asked, ‘I hope it’s not rude of me, but I’m curious about your sleeve. What’s it for, exactly?’
Tilda put the arm behind her back and said, ‘This bloody thing,’ as if she despised it. She’d fretted about wearing the sleeve that day. Such a glamorous day. What was worse, having it stared at or having swelling to explain? Midday heat and sleevelessness would be heaven to the elephants in her.
Donna apologised and said, ‘I just wondered if it’s uncomfortable.’ She reached over and touched Tilda’s thigh to try and erase her faux pas.
I thought Tilda might take all this as snideness: a putdown by a flawless woman to the unfortunately maimed. To her credit, or rather the goodwill in champers, she brought the arm forward for display. ‘It’s my uniform. And this little glove is my gauntlet.’ She said it like a boast.
If she had left it at that I would have admired her as gutsy. But on and on she went about swelling and massages. She referred to me as Mr Fingers, her indispensable personal massage mate. I picked up a stick from the dirt and touched wood she wouldn’t get me to demonstrate massaging. Don’t do it, I touched—I could tell it was in her mind. I didn’t want Donna seeing me intimate with my wife.
Tilda did it. ‘Colin, show Donna your stroking method.’
‘Can’t. Races are starting.’ I stood up and took $10 from my wallet. ‘I’m off to place a bet.’ I hurried away wishing Tilda would just melt into the ground. Melt and not be seen or heard from just for an hour. Half an hour would do, instead of being an interference to flirting.
I placed no bet—I’m no gambler. Gambling always seemed too sleazy an activity. I walked around the betting ring disdainful of bookies, the way they thumped their white money bags and spruiked 5 to 2 on Baron’s Boy as if offering me a favour. Yet, between bookies and me that day, bookies were the more wholesome. I should have demonstrated the massaging as Tilda wanted. I told myself as much—‘Do the right thing by Tilda.’ But by the time I returned to the rug, topped up my glass, nibbled at a chicken thigh, I was thinking of ways to have Tilda leave Donna and me alone.
Ruth was an option. Or I could get Tilda so drunk she needed a lie down. Drunkenness would take hours, however: she held her drink like a shearer. Ruth was the better way. If only I could get Ruth to take Tilda’s hand and ask her to play. There are a dozen opportunities on racecourses for children’s amusement. There are jockey-midgets in their harlequin costumes. The swaying ambulance that follows the race to the finishing post. When the barrier shoots open the metal bang is bone-jarring; it’s a wonder the horses don’t drop dead of fright. I said this to Ruth. I said, ‘I would drop dead from the terror of it. But horses have wings inside them.’ I let out a great exhaling of wonder at horse wings. ‘No matter how terrified they are they run and run and refuse to drop dead.’
It worked. She was O-mouthed with fascination that horses don’t die from noise but sprint instead and sometimes fart very loudly from the sudden lunge.
‘I reckon farting makes them run faster,’ I said. I had her in stitches from saying a rude word like farting and making a fart sound with my mouth. Donna was giggling too, and burping up champers fizz. ‘Ruth, I’d take you and show you, but I’m going for another bet.’ She begged me to take her and show her the farting but I said no.
Tilda said, ‘Don’t be so mean.’
‘I’m not mean, it’s just—a person in my position, wearing my Wheatman hat, so to speak, I have to be seen participating. You take Ruth. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Ruth?’ I tapped Tilda on the forearm to suggest she hold out her hand for the child. I said, ‘Don’t you be mean.’
Ruth had the most innocent, pleading smile. It brought on the melting I needed. Tilda wiggled her fingers to have the girl come near. The moment they touched Tilda held her close and kissed her hair. She said, ‘But who’s going to look after Donna?’
‘As if I require looking after.’ Donna reclined on her elbows, her drink almost tipping too far.
As Tilda led Ruth away it occurred to me she might pretend she was the actual mother of the girl. I hoped it would be a pleasant fantasy. I hoped it would mean she stayed away a while. I guessed their walk would take ten minutes to reach the barrier at the 1600- metre chute. Watching the horses circle around and get loaded into their gates would be five minutes. Then ten minutes’ walk back after the barrier crashed open: twenty-five minutes in total.