Hindsight Page 15

  “Love you too, bye,” I say as I float back down to Earth.

  Getting the boys up and ready for school is more challenging than it sounds. Ethan takes around thirty minutes to eat his Weetbix and is still two parts asleep as we walk out the door. Will is reasonably alert, consumes four pieces of toast and two bowls of cereal and Cal draws on the wall with his toast — probably confusing it with charcoal.

  We walk to school with Lily and the kids, chatting the whole way. She has to go into work for a few hours today and promises to pop over and help me make sense of the thing in the laundry. Instinct tells me that it’s a washing machine; it has a lid, is hooked up to taps and located next to what appears to be a hamper of dirty clothes, but it’s hard to be sure.

  Cal sits happily in the pram, but is eager for freedom by the time we get home. Alone at last, my first stop is the lounge room — the scene of the mysterious time travel. My plan is to stay until Will has secured his scholarship, but it can’t hurt to be prepared for a speedy departure soon afterwards. I crawl around on all fours, checking for dips, sways, buckles, holes, or cracks in the wall, bumps, slopes or unexplained creaks in the floor, damp patches, dry patches, flaky patches or discolouration in the ceiling and am disappointed to find nothing out of the ordinary. Science was never my favorite subject at school; neither was maths, so there is no academic background that will be of assistance. Inordinate amounts of time spent in the girls toilets, smoking and reapplying layers of makeup so thick that it resulted in a net weight gain of half a kilo, will not help me now. Our main topics of conversation, other than fashion, were boys, pop stars, and eating disorders. The time-space continuum, to my knowledge, was never discussed.

  The act of staring at the area yields no findings either. Even zooming my eyes in and out of focus to enhance peripheral vision, allowing me to see energies or auras that are not visible with normal sight, only results in a mild headache and eyestrain. However, my eyes are drawn to the book collection on the shelf, in particular The Time Machine by H.G.Wells. The thought of me building one myself is ridiculous — assembling flat pack furniture is harrowing enough — however, it may contain useful time travel concepts, even if it is only fiction.

  I close my eyes and feel my way around the room to determine if there are any holes in the space that may have caused me to slip through, which leaves me not only looking like a dickhead, but disappointed to find that it just feels like normal air. I decide to take it a step further, and begin to leap around the room, just in case there is a hole that requires a bit of enlarging to fit through. No such luck.

  An hour later, and out of ideas, it occurs to me that it would be wise to accustom myself with my personal belongings, because until my return home after Will’s scholarship, it’s important to fit in. I gravitate toward the mirror to have a better look at the 1961 version of myself and deflate like a pricked balloon at my reflection.

  My hair is still mousy brown, which is depressing in itself. It hangs in a shoulder-length bob and does absolutely nothing to emphasise my cheekbones or eyes. This style would be perfect on a woman whose wardrobe is filled with linen shorts, elastic waisted pants and Hush Puppies.

  My skin is clear, sunkissed, a bit glowy, which is surprising, considering the lack of chemicals, artificial rejuvenation, fillers and plumpers, sunscreen, serums and general crap that usually suffocates it. There are a few wrinkles around the eyes, but overall not too bad for a thirty-three-year-old. Oh, yes, and the black eye. It’s a little less swollen today and is a multi-coloured extravaganza of black, purple, red and yellow. Nice.

  Next I strip naked and stand in front of the full-length mirror, examining myself front, back and both sides. My skin is clear, with the usual assortment of smaller scars: patchwork kneecaps and hands showing that as a child I was fairly accident prone, a silver dash on my right shoulder and a Frankenstein-looking scar on my abdomen, slightly to the left. My guess is that either the surgeons did a dodgy cesarean, my appendix has been removed, or my true name is Frankentummy.

  Gymnasiums cause an anaphylactic reaction, so normally there’s no tone to my limbs, but here they are defined. It appears that this person engages in exercise regularly, and the results speak for themselves. My bum is round but perky, legs slim and well muscled and my tummy trim, despite three children. Not too bad at all.

  I move into the bathroom to see what goodies my beauty regime consists of and Cal pokes his head around the corner and smiles at me. He climbs into the empty bath and plays with the toys, watching me fossick around.

  To my utter astonishment there are only a few items: some cold cream for cleansing, witch hazel for toning, one moisturiser and a bottle of baby oil. The cold cream Mum used was so heavy and oily that it never actually rubbed into the skin, just covered the surface in a white film that made you look as though you were preparing to swim the English Channel. Even then it took about two hours of splashing with hot water to dissolve it. It got in my eyes once and I suffered impaired vision for two days.

  There is no facial mask or exfoliator, anti-wrinkle cream, eye serum, eye makeup remover for sensitive eyes, décolletage cream, anti-aging serum, wrinkle-freezer or Botox in a bottle. The moisturiser doesn’t even have a sun protection factor rating on it, but it is a very pretty pastel pink.

  My make up bag contains a small bottle of foundation, and a sponge, one lipstick and a tube of mascara, eyebrow tweezers and an emery board, plus one small bottle of perfume. Talk about the bare essentials. No eye shadow, eyeliner, eyebrow pencil or brush, blusher, concealer, finishing powder or bronzer and no mineral makeup. The mascara is plain, no references to lengthening, conditioning, or amplifying on the bottle.

  Tucked away in the corner is a box of sanitary pads wider and thicker than the copy of The Time Machine. How the hell do women walk around with those between their legs? It will be easy to spot women who are menstruating here, because they will be the ones walking like John Wayne. There isn’t even a sticky bit on the back, just long sheaths of material and a belt looking thing in the box. Clearly they aren’t into femme cups yet.

  In regards to hair care, there is nothing other than a set of hot rollers, a simple comb-and-brush set and a small tin of hair lacquer. Apparently this Juliette is a miracle worker, because God knows what can be achieved with this bunch of oddments.

  Next I move onto my wardrobe to see what gorgeous 1961 clothing lives within. Cal follows me and sits on the bed. The vintage look is so glam — figure hugging clothes and stilettos, it’s always been a favorite of mine. However, to my utter disappointment, there are only ten outfits. Yes, you heard me, ten. There are large gaps in-between each item, unlike my own wardrobe where the clothes fight for space, sometimes throwing themselves out onto the floor in resignation.

  They are simple cotton dresses, skirts and shirts with a couple of pairs of trousers — corduroy trousers, for God’s sake. I haven’t worn cords since high school and even then it was under protest. Who wants to wear pants with furry grooves in them?

  There are four pairs of shoes, two flatties, one pair of winter lace-ups and one pair of stilettos — black patent leather. Yes! Yes! Yes! My hands throw themselves in the air in salute of victory. Cal copies me and throws his hands up as well. I slip my feet into them and they fit as though they were made especially for me. Gorgeous. Although the sole is quite worn, they are in mint condition, so clearly they aren’t worn very often.

  Chris’ wardrobe has one suit and eight other outfits, namely shorts, jeans and shirts. Our drawers contain hand-knitted jumpers, as well as our underwear. Mine are beige and look like something my granny would have referred to as ‘unmentionables’ rather than undies or knickers. Once again, the rainbow of hope has disappeared; it is now raining despair.

  After a quick tour of the house I come to the conclusion that every morsel of food we eat is either grown in our garden or bought in bulk from the butcher. There are no pre-made meals or jars of simmer sauce, so this family will be in for a culinary ex
perience that resembles the house of horrors after the neighbours’ generosity runs out.

  It’s probably time to go and see my relatives; there’s no reason to put it off any longer. Gran scares me a little, so Uncle Din can have the first visit. I change back into my flatties, walk to the house diagonally behind us in the next street and knock on the door. A man limps up the hallway towards us. He’s a good six inches taller than me, even though he is stooped by the limp.

  “Juliette, dear girl. How are you?” he asks, hugging me and chuckling Cal under the chin. The weathered appearance of his skin makes it hard to guess his age, but if he’s Mum’s oldest brother then my guess would be around sixtyish. Mum’s brother from my lifetime died shortly before I was born, so this man is new to me. The same with my grandmother.

  “Much better, thanks Uncle Din. Just a black eye and a bit of a headache, that’s all.” Got to act normal. Mrs O’Shane.

  “A headache, no wonder, look at that shiner. Chris said you have a fuzzy memory? Nothing wrong with that my girl, I’m told I forget things all the time,” he laughs. “Probably because I wasn’t listening in the first place,” he whispers and winks.

  His cheekiness is sweet, and, despite everything, this house has a comforting, welcoming feel to it.

  “Come on in love, the old bird’s just made a pot of tea. Come and have a cuppa,” he says, lifting Cal from my arms with his dinner plate-sized hands.

  The old bird? Surely he’s not referring to his wife? I’d kill Chris if he called me an ‘old bird’.

  “Old bird,” he yells, “look who I found out the front, come back from the wars she has.”

  A man who calls his wife ‘old bird’ to her face — brave or crazy?

  “Juliette. Oh darlin’ girl, we were so upset to hear of ye fall. Chris told us ye were alright and kept us up to date, didn’t he Din,” says Aunty Maeve as she rushes over and engulfs me in her arms. At about half his height, they make an odd-looking couple when they stand next to each other. “And how’s my little man Callum? You’ve gotten even more handsome since I saw ye on Saturday, how’s that possible?” As she gives his cheek a soft pinch he lets out a squeaky giggle and smiles at her in awe. “Oh, the beauty is in the young, isn’t it Din? May ye always keep it inside ye, Callum me love.”

  “She’s always telling me the same thing. You obviously got your good looks from your Uncle Din.” He laughs and squeezes Cal.

  “Oh, listen to him Juliette, humble as always,” she says, craning her neck to look at her husband and giving him a playful slap on the arm.

  Aunty Maeve is like a collection of precious gems, hair the colour of a ruby, twinkly emerald eyes, a diamond smile and an Irish brogue like gentle rainfall. “Now, me darlin’ girl, come and sit down. Have a cuppa and some tea cake, fresh out of the oven this mornin,’” she says as she maneuvers me over to a chair and plonks me down, with surprising strength. “Callum me little love, look what Aunty Maeve has for ye,” she says, handing him a piece of cake. His eyes light up as he takes it gently from her hand.

  “Tank you,” he says.

  We chat and laugh for a good thirty minutes and by the time my visit has come to an end, my tummy is joyous at having eaten that heavenly cake. The sugar and cinnamon dusting is clinging to the inside of my mouth, allowing me to relive the deliciousness all over again.

  “See you on Saturday night, Jules,” Uncle Din calls. “Get ready for a thrashing, my girl,” he cackles.

  That comment makes no sense to me, but I smile at him as we wave goodbye. Maybe he is a bit dotty?

  Before venturing over to Gran’s house, we make a detour to change Cal’s nappy at home. My nappy changing prowess is coming along, slowly. It’s all in the technique, although thankfully he hasn’t crapped himself yet, but no doubt one is brewing.

  Approaching Gran’s door and reassuring myself that she’s not going to scare the hell out of me, I lift my arm to knock.

  “Juliette? Is that you?” a voice calls from the back of the house.

  Jesus, my knuckles haven’t even connected with the door yet. Does she have bionic hearing?

  “Yes Gran, it’s me.”

  She pops around the side gate, unexpectedly.

  “Come on down the side, love, I’m just doing the gardening.”

  I head over as she wraps her long, strong arms around me and Cal, taking us both in her grasp. She is a tall woman, even taller than she looks in the photo. She must be at least six foot and is solid, but not fat. She looks as though she’s done many a hard day’s work and is in no hurry to take it easy now.

  “Oh, my beautiful Juliette,” she says as she cups my face in her hands and kisses me on the forehead, “thank goodness you’re alright. I’ve let Dash know and she sends her love. That’s a nice bruise you’ve got there. “

  “You spoke with Dash? How is she, is she alright?”

  “Yes, she’s fine love,” she answers “Now, bring that splendid great-grandson of mine over here and let’s have a cuppa.”

  We sit down at the outside garden setting and have tea and scones with fresh strawberry jam and cream so laden with dairy fat that it’s pale yellow, delicious. They are little puffs of scone heaven, and even though my tummy is full of cake from Aunty Maeve, my self-control has been left in my modern life. Great, old-fashioned baking is rare in my era. Not that it’s something I would indulge in.

  Gran takes Callum from me and gives him a gentle hug, then props him up on her knee. He smiles and plays with her nose. She makes funny sounds each time he touches it, which makes him laugh. Before long he’s in hysterics. She then puts him on the ground and tells him to water the garden with the toy watering can she’s filled for him. He does so obligingly and toddles off amongst the vegetables, roses and grapevines, leaving us to talk.

  “Now, Juliette, what’s this about your memory being lost?” she asks, concerned.

  “It’s just temporary, Gran, the doctor said it’s common with head injuries. Nothing to worry about.”

  “OK,” she says, looking doubtfully at me. “If you say so, but if you feel ill, you must go back to the hospital, alright?”

  “I will, I promise.”

  “Good. Now tell me, what can I do to help you while you convalesce?”

  Convalesce? Even the language is charming. Everything’s so proper.

  “Nothing really Gran, thanks for offering. I’m feeling much better now, Lily’s been a wonderful help, and there’s a small stockpile of casseroles from everyone in the street. Thank you for your contribution too, it looks delicious.”

  “Ah, that’s good. Lily is a wonderful girl, and a great friend to you. None of us in Spencer Street are rich, but we gladly share what we have.”

  “Gran, I was hoping that you could fill in some blanks in my memory?”

  “Of course dear, what is it you’re wanting to know?”

  “Well, Dad died when I was ten, right?”

  “Correct, yes,” she nods her head.

  “Chris said it was the beginning of a difficult time for Dash and I. What was he talking about?” My own story, of a mother who couldn’t cope, is clearly connected here, but how?

  Gran shifts in her seat, looking at the ground and then at me. The look on her face articulates her thoughts. She’s holding back, but why?

  “Your mother, my daughter Eleanor,” she starts, “had…difficulty in coping with many things. Her disposition was always delicate, unpredictable, but after she met your father, she improved. She bloomed and grew into herself, much more than I had ever expected.”

  “What was he like, my Dad?”

  She relaxes in her seat and her mouth smiles, but her eyes are sad. “He was a wonderful man, Jules. He worked in the timber yards after moving here from Elphinstone in the country. There wasn’t a thing he didn’t know about timber, like an encyclopedia he was. He met your mother in church one Sunday. He was smitten, I could tell. And so was she. Love at first sight it was. He courted your mother for a respectable length of
time, and during those months I saw a change come over her. No longer the little churchmouse, she grew into a creature full of life; a beautiful butterfly. Within a year of marriage Dash was born, followed by you two years later. And still, she bloomed. Motherhood and marriage brought out the best in her, or perhaps I should say that your father brought out the best in her, until…” Her face flashes with indecision.

  Engrossed, leaning so forward in my chair I am in danger of falling off, Cal’s calling out to me doesn’t register until he climbs onto Gran’s knee. Immediately we are both hit by the poo fumes emanating from his small bum. Gran looks at me and says “Well, Juliette, I think your visit has come to an abrupt halt. Young Callum seems to have filled his nappy. And you look so happy with yourself Cal, don’t you?”

  Cal smiles at her and points to his nappy. “Poo,” he says.

  “Yes,” she throws her head back and gives a hearty laugh. “Yes, you have filled your nappy. You clever boy.” How is it clever to shit yourself? If I shat myself no one would congratulate me on a job well done. They’d scoop me up and plonk me next to Mrs O’Shane.

  “But what about…”

  “Another time, my love. You have more pressing needs right now.” She hands Cal back to me.

  “I can go and change him and come back, if that’s alright with you?”

  She looks at her watch, “I’m sorry Jules, I have to go to War Widows. We’re fundraising for the Repatriation Hospital, you know.”

  “Oh, OK.’ The thought of having to wait to hear this story stirs my natural impatience. “But what about later today?”

  “How about you come back tomorrow lunchtime. We can pick up where we left off,” she says.

  Twenty-four hours is a long time to wait, but she’s not budging, so there’s no choice.

  “OK, tomorrow, lunch. Then you’ll tell me the rest?”

  “Yes, I will.” She pats my hand. “There’s no hurry, darling girl, we’ve got all the time in the world.”

  But what if we don’t? What if tomorrow morning I wake up in my own time, through no fault of my own again? This story is really important to me.