Chapter Three
Child finds Dubbo Plains tiger sleeping in her bed
Wollongong gone! PM says won’t rebuild
House still standing? You’re in the minority
Marauding Koalas on the attack!
Tent cities spring up on Sydney’s outskirts
It was twelve noon the next day when Tuesday staggered home. She’d woken up on Audrey’s sheepskin rug to the sound of distant sirens, swirling orange sky, and Audrey fiddling with the knob of the wind-up radio. Outside the ranch sliders a kookaburra hacked its lungs to death on the concrete patio with a wing over its face.
“Oh for god’s sake.” Audrey hopped off her kitchen stool and stalked over to the sliding doors. She pulled them open. “Come in, then.” She turned to Tuesday. “You know, the last time I did this, there was a whole family hiding in the bushes.” Audrey’s voice faltered. The kookaburra hastily recovered from coughing and sprinted inside, closely followed by four magpies, six cockatoos, and a pink galah. Two geese raced forward but Audrey closed the door in time.
The birds flew onto the ceiling crossbeams where they promptly pooped and one squawked, ‘Crikey!’
“What’s going on?”
“Back-burning around Bondi Junction.”
Tuesday nodded blearily.
“Oh. Right. God, what time is it? You’re up early.”
Audrey shrugged. “Twelve o’clock. And I never slept.”
Tuesday rubbed her head. Nope. No memory. This wasn’t unusual. Tuesday’s memory lasted approximately twenty-four hours. At any given time, if Ginny asked Tuesday what she had done the day before, she honestly couldn’t remember. Approximately two months and three days later – then she could remember. Her long term memory was perfect, thank you very much.
Still, there was a vague vision of Audrey on a spectacularly self-destructive coke spree. Of drops of blood, no – plasma– falling onto tin foil. Of a dirty nail file and party straws. Of Tuesday refusing vodka. Of Tuesday drinking what Audrey called ‘fortified water’ – which smelt suspiciously of vodka. Of Tuesday conveniently ignoring this. And of something Tuesday certainly couldn’t ignore – a walloping, thumping, god awful elephant that had found its way into her brain and was jumping up and down persistently.
“What a night, ay, Tuesday? If Bill knew what his witches were up to behind his back! I think the idea of destroying ourselves sent us high!”
Tuesday frowned. “About this suicidal bender you’re on…”
“That’s my business.” Audrey interrupted gently. “Just like you and Bill is your business. Agreed?”
Tuesday rubbed her face and nodded. “So I won’t crap on about you killing yourself…”
“…and I won’t crap on about Bill’s sexual prowess.”
Tuesday blushed. “Right.”
“By the way - Ginny rang. I took a message.” Audrey pointed to the fridge.
Tuesday squinted at the scrawled red lipstick which had been written in a less than steady hand. ‘Get your ass over here and help me cook.’
“Ginny said you’re having a party. I’m invited and Bill will be back from his flying visit to California.” Audrey dropped backwards into the couch. “I think we should come over.”
That wasn’t going to happen. “You have to dress up.” Tuesday cautioned her. “Wildlife.”
“Oh, I have just the thing.”
“Both of you.” Tuesday smiled. It couldn’t be done.
“It’s as good as done,” Audrey said.
Tuesday got up to leave. Bill’s house seemed different now that she was here with Audrey instead of Bill. It seemed to lose its mystique. It’s power. It seemed a kinder place.
“I’m going, Audrey. Will you be alright?”
“Of course I will.” Audrey’s shoulders slumped. A squirt of green kookaburra poo fell from the ceiling past Audrey’s forehead to the couch. “We’ll see you tonight. Bill will think he’s being so naughty in the company of his lover and his wife. I can’t wait!”
“Uh huh.”
“And Tuesday? This is for you.” Audrey opened her hand. “I washed it.”
Tuesday’s diamond butterfly ring glittered in Audrey’s shaking palm.
“Thanks.”
“No Tuesday,” she whispered, “thank you.”
Tuesday closed the door behind her and stepped out into the smash. Her head felt hot, steamy. Her feet skipped over the footpath, strangely detached from her brain.
All things considered, the mercury was rising off the scale, and everything was set to explode.
“Where have you been?” Demanded Ginny.
“You rang me. You know where I’ve been. God, what’s that smell?”
“I mean - what kept you?” Ginny was in the kitchen. She was wearing an apron Tuesday had never seen before. She had a sneaking suspicion Ginny had bought it just for the occasion. Ginny took out a steaming hot pan from the oven. They both peered at it. “It’s goulash.”
“What? It’s 48 degrees outside!”
“It’s goulash.” They stared at it in silence.
There was a shriek from upstairs.
“Is that Jamie?”
“Jamie? God no. He’s long gone. It’s Damien. Our local fire warden. Seriously cute. He’s getting rid of the Huntsmans from my bedroom. There’s a bloody extended family up there.”
There was another shriek and the sound of running footsteps. Damien catapulted down the stairs. He jiggled nervously into the kitchen, sweaty and anxious.
“Bloody things run towards you!”
“Got rid of them, then?” Asked Ginny. Her tousled hair fell in ringlets past her rosy cheeks. She looked strangely like Snow White who had just finished milking a cow.
Damien puffed his chest out manfully. “Oh sure. They’re relocated anyway.”
“Relocated? Not into my bedroom I hope.” Tuesday smiled.
Damien looked down at his feet.
“Not into my bedroom I hope!”
Damien rubbed his neck. “You mean that spare room up there? Uh – maybe.”
“The spare room? The room with the bloody bed in it!”
“Now, now, Tuesday. Open your window – I’m sure they’ll die from the smust.”
That was the problem with Ginny. The presence of any male sent her over to their side. Any hope of collaboration under any conditions was hopeless if a man was in the room. Until Ginny had successfully fed Damien, flirted with him, fellated him, and fucked him she couldn’t function. She was a traitor to all women. The morning after was a different story. The morning after she’d be Tuesday’s friend again.
“Okay, fine. By the way…” Tuesday opened the larder, she was absolutely starving. On the musty shelves were a bag of carrots and thirty-six bottles of alcohol. “…your wife rang, Ginny. She said - did you want the pink dildo or the blue one? And should she shave her legs just for tonight and squeeze into that size sixteen dress…” Tuesday swung the larder door shut and smiled at Damien, “…after all, it is a special occasion.”
Tuesday watched as Damien backed out of the house with Ginny trying to woo him back with extended glimpses of flesh and calls of ‘no, no, I think you have the wrong idea.’
Tuesday glanced at her watch. Right. They had seven hours to cook the rest of the food, put on their costumes and argue over music selection. Their first ever party! Tuesday bit her lip. She didn’t care what it took. She didn’t care if she had to lock beautiful Ginny in the laundry. Tonight she was going to do it. Tonight she was going to pick up. Tonight she was going to fulfil John Goldman. Well not him personally - but his Checklist Item Number Four.
Tonight she was going to fulfil the Lustiness of her Goddess.
Ginny paced the floor in front of the front door.
“Where is everybody?” The invitations had clearly read seven pm. It was now half past eight. Ginny wore a furry grey bikini, Ugg boots, round Koala ears, and nothing else. In case she was mistaken for any other sort of animal, such as a polar bear or rat, she’d attached a label to her flat stomach with an arrow pointing to her vagina that read ‘Chlamydia’. It was indicative of Ginny’s pulling man power that she could wear this with confidence and still be certain of picking up during the night.
“No one arrives on time, Ginny.”
“We do.”
That was true. But Ginny and Tuesday were often roped in to be ‘starters’ to the main event. Starters were people who weren’t best friends and not complete strangers. They had to be willing to act as confidence boosters when still no one had arrived two hours after starting time. To make the party look like it was already happening before the ‘real people’ arrived.
Tuesday accepted her role graciously. Feeling her way around unknown territory (finding out where the toilet was) and loosening up her communication skills before the main event were advantageous.
Ginny was oblivious to all these facts. In her mind she was the party. And parties should start whenever she got there. Which was now.
Tuesday slouched on the couch and twiddled her thumbs nervously. Without any ‘starters’ Tuesday and Ginny had to pretend to the first guests that they had been having a gay old time on their own for the last two hours instead of sitting in a rising panic of silence.
The doorbell rang and Ginny froze. “Quick!” She hissed. “Put the music on.” Ginny ran to the hall table and picked up a half-drunk glass of rum so that she could open the door and look stylishly suave.
Tuesday waddled as fast as she could to the stereo and put on the first thing she saw. She didn’t think Ginny had The Smurfs Hits in mind but it was a particularly rousing version of Macarena.
They both took a deep breath and Ginny opened the door.
It was Audrey and Bill.
Tuesday groaned but Ginny sounded suitably impressed. She completely lost her ‘barely have time to open the door, we’re having so much fun’ image and instead fawned over them as if they were – well, Audrey and Bill.
Why, oh why, did they have to be the first to arrive? Tuesday looked around for somewhere to hide but hiding places in their living room for an Aborigine dressed as a cane toad were few and far between. Thinking quickly, Tuesday picked up the cordless phone.
“Ha ha ha ha ha.” She waved to Audrey and Bill as they emerged from the hallway. Sorry she couldn’t talk - she was too busy having a hilarious conversation.
“Ha ha ha ha ha ha -”
The phone rang and everybody looked horrified at Tuesday. Tuesday held the ringing phone in her hand and stared at it. She would kill them. She would dice and quarter them. Whoever was ringing at this particular moment would eternally regret it.
Audrey smothered a giggle.
“Crossed lines!” Ginny hastened to explain. “We get them all the time.” She glared at Tuesday.
Tuesday blushed. “Hello?”
“Are you a fifty year old man thinking of buying an erection enhancing sexual aid?”
It was market research of course, ringing around night time as they were instructed to do for a maximum antagonistic response. Tuesday had never more in her life wanted to be fifty years old and sexually dysfunctional. If there was ever a time for a thirty minute sexually loaded phone conversation with a girl called Pratima - this was it. It was tempting to pass the phone onto Bill and say it was for him.
“I’m afraid not,” said Tuesday and hung up.
Bill leant causally against the fire place and ran his fingers through his hair. He had the contented air of a man certain of seeing a snarling cat fight between two women. His eyes ran from Audrey to Tuesday and back again. Audrey and Bill both winked at Tuesday at the same time. Ginny narrowed her eyes - something was going on and she didn’t know about it. She glanced at Tuesday reproachfully.
The rum and coke shook in Tuesday’s hands, the ice rattling. “So. Bill. What sort of animal are you?”
Bill had dressed all in black to a degree. He wore a garbage bag. It fell to his pale bony knees and his thin arms stretched out along the couch from round cut holes.
“Road kill.”
Ginny laughed uproariously.
“And Audrey?”
Audrey was dressed in a fur coat, long legs, and haute couture heels.
Her red lipped mouth smirked. “Dead mink.”
Ginny clutched her sides in mirth. Everybody stared at her.
The doorbell rang again and Ginny couldn’t get up fast enough. She rushed to the front door.
“Do you want some help in the kitchen, Tuesday?” Audrey asked.
“Thanks.”
Bill’s head swivelled back and forth between them, confused. “Shall I help?”
“No.” Replied Audrey and Tuesday in unison.
Bill was quickly enveloped by fifteen drunken people who came storming through the front door and Tuesday and Audrey snuck away to the kitchen together.
“Okay, I give up. How did you get Bill to wear a garbage bag?”
“I threatened him with divorce.”
“What! What did he say?”
“He was shocked. He was devastated. He still loves me deeply you know. And just between you and me, Tuesday – I’m getting very disillusioned. I’m not sure raking in Bill’s money is the basis of a good marriage anymore.”
“Oh, come on! Yes it is!” Tuesday poured them both a glass of Jack Daniel’s. Audrey and Bill had to stay together. Otherwise they would no longer be married and Tuesday would no longer be having an exciting affair with a married man.
“No, Tuesday, I’ve had an eclipse.”
“You mean an epiphany.”
“That’s right. I’m going to leave Bill.”
“What?” Tuesday lost her grip on the bottle of whiskey and it fell to the floor and smashed. There were distant cheers from the living room.
“But you can’t!”
“Why not? Then you can have him all to yourself.”
“But I don’t love him!”
“Neither do I.”
“But…but…”
“My mind’s made up. I’m leaving him tonight.”
Tuesday slumped against the kitchen counter. This was it. The official end of the only sex she had going. “Are you moving in with your lover?”
“Can’t.” Audrey blew her nose into her napkin, honking like a decoy in duck hunting season. “He’s married.”
“Then where are you going to go?”
Audrey scratched her long neck. “This is a three bedroom terrace, isn’t it?”
Tuesday choked. “You can’t move in here!”
“Why not? I’m a great tenant. I could have this whole place renovated in two weeks.”
“The third bedroom’s the size of a closet. It’s attached to the kitchen and filled with rusty things. It doesn’t have a door. The water supply’s unreliable. Ginny walks around naked. So do I for that matter. And we have rats this big.”
“Perfect! It will be like a slumber party!”
“Audrey! NO!”
Audrey sighed. “Couldn’t you do with the extra money?”
Audrey went home to pack her things.
A week at the most thought Tuesday. Just until I get my next pay cheque from Mr Georgeopoulouissis. By that time Audrey and Bill will surely have patched things up, Audrey will be well and truly sick of their Third World standards of living, and everything could go back to normal.
The kitchen was filling up with people and Tuesday waddled into the living room. The room was packed and the doorbell seemed to ring continuously. Tuesday lost track of how many guests arrived. The Smurfs Hits had apparently survived one chorus before being replaced by Ginny with 1001 Techno beats.
Tuesday spent most of her time in the kitchen explaining her fake native food to ravenous guests. Despite her warnings that she wasn’t sure if the Witchetty grubs were entirely cooked and to ignore them if they started to wriggle, this just seemed to bring out the bravado in people and Tuesday watched the crowd congratulate themselves for successfully devouring tempura – even if they did have to swallow it without chewing.
Tuesday watched her midnight feast disappear and ducked up to her bedroom to apply more lip gloss. She found a couple copulating on her bed. Ginny would be ecstatic – this was the official sign that the party was a success.
“Don’t mind me,” Tuesday said.
They didn’t. Tuesday picked her towel off the hook, waited until both bottoms were thrust into the air, then threw the towel onto the sheets beneath them. One bottom and a dangly bit fell onto the towel with a squelch. Tuesday groomed herself in her mirror with the reflection of tangled limbs behind her and the sound of ‘OH MY GOD, I’M COMING!”
Tuesday left them alone to their silent post-coital daze. “Please don’t smoke,” she added before leaving the room.
Tuesday herself wasn’t having much luck fulfilling her lustiness. Being dressed as a fat brown cane toad appeared to be a disadvantage. Ginny on the other hand was surrounded by men, like bees to the honey pot.
As for all of these people – who were they? Tuesday thought they were vile. Not like the friends Ginny used to have. But then Ginny seemed to be enjoying their company tremendously. Tuesday thought she would well and truly vomit if she heard one more conversation about real estate. How they had just sold their smoking Surry Hills terrace for $400,000 to some poor sucker who hadn’t done a water check. Or how they’d recently renovated a half-burnt house in Redfern and expected to make a $150,000 profit.
Everywhere she turned there were conversations about interest rates, and shares, and property, and everywhere, everywhere, money, money, money. Tuesday asked a group what they thought of the new controversial horse and carriage give way rule and was greeted with silence.
“I’ve got a horse and carriage depot outside my house in Zetland.” Offered a man politely.
“Really?” Enthused a woman. “I’ve heard Zetland is the new Clovelly.” And so it went.
At around eleven pm Tuesday was well and truly sloshed and amusing the crowd with a Peter Garret impersonation. Tuesday wasn’t sure how successful this was inside a cane toad suit so she switched to a rousing version of Yothu Yindi’s Treaty and soon had the crowd shouting along with her.
Tuesday wondered where Ginny was – she usually liked to join in with her impression of Christina Amphlett and both of them would finish off with a duet of Ebony and Ivory. Instead Tuesday caught sight of Ginny staring at her from the crowd with the blood drained from her face and drawing her finger across her neck. That couldn’t be right. Tuesday rubbed her blurred vision.
“Hey! Quiet!” Someone shouted. “The Blue Mountains are on fire!”
The crowd hushed and huddled around the television.
‘The towns of Katoomba, Leura, and Wentworth Falls are on fire with the fire storm unable to be contained. The town of Medlow Bath has already been lost. Residents in suburbs south of Bullaburra, including residents of Richmond, Springwood, and Penrith are advised to stay with their houses and hose down their property. A twenty kilometre fire front is advancing North East from Cedar Creek. However, with the Nepean River and Lakes nearly stone dry and Prospect Reservoir down to four weeks supply, the New South Wales’ Fire Service is unable to get adequate water pressure. Smash and smust make it too dangerous for Elvis the helicopter to fly over urban areas. There is now a mass exodus of people making their way into the inner echelons of Sydney…’
The television switched off abruptly along with all the lights and music. A power blackout! The crowd hushed. The lights flickered back and forth. On and off. In each burst of light Tuesday could see people taking advantage of the anonymity of darkness and kissing someone other than the person they’d arrived with. To Tuesday’s dismay she caught sight of two very familiar figures engaged in a tongue pash in the hallway.
That surely couldn’t be right! Tuesday’s jaw dropped. She refused to believe it. When the lights flickered on again there was no sign of them. Tuesday craned her neck over the quiet crowd but through the mass of costumes they had disappeared.
Tuesday shook her head and put the vision down to a hallucination brought on by the whiskey and the three joints she’d had (even though they’d been supplied by Bill and smelt suspiciously of dried parsley).
The lights and music burst on again and this time they stayed on. There was babble from the crowd and an echidna leapt onto the coffee table.
“SURVIVOR PARTY!” He screamed. There was an enormous roar from the crowd and the dancing began again in a frenzy along with the thumping music.
Tuesday squeezed her way through the hordes to the kitchen. She needed to chill out and take a breather, clear her head. She wondered where Bill was, she hadn’t seen him all night. Perhaps he couldn’t find Audrey, felt naked without her, and had left for home.
The kitchen looked like it had been ransacked by the starving homeless. Anything that could have been ripped open, broken, or spilt, had been. It was entirely empty of food, alcohol, and people except for a man dressed as a piece of toast leaning against the table.
She walked to the sink and scooped out a glass of musty water. She smiled at the toast. At least she think she smiled, she couldn’t actually feel the bottom half of her face. She concentrated on hand-eye-glass co-ordination.
“What are you?” The toast asked her.
“Oh…isn’t it obvious?” Tuesday said. There was a slight delay between her lips moving and the production of sound.
The toast stared at her. Between the crust and the butter he had a very nice face and lovely blue eyes. “Are you, well…are you - you know…a turd?”
“What!” Tuesday lurched towards the kitchen mirror. Oh. The toad’s eyes on top of her head had sunk inwards and the forked tongue had got caught inside the gullet and was stuck down Tuesday’s shorts after she’d been to the toilet. Her webbed feet were all rolled up so that she could hold her wine or smoke cigarettes with her toes or some such party trick. All that was showing in the end was a lot of brown lumps with her own black feet poking out.
“No! I’m a tane coad. I mean a toad cane.” Tuesday stopped and concentrated. “A cane toad.”
The toast laughed.
“And you – what sort of wildlife are you?”
The toast grinned. “Why – I’m a Welsh Rabbit.”
“Oh! Ha ha! Very funny. That’s an English breakfast, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but you don’t want to try it. My name’s Tom, by the way. But you can call me Mr Rabbit.”
They shook warm hands. Tuesday felt a shoot of electricity flow up her spine. She looked into his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Tom By-The-Way, also known as Mr Rabbit. My name’s Tuesday. Like the day of the week. But you can call me Mr Toad.”
“You remind me of someone, Mr Toad.”
“Let me guess. I look like the black version of Sinead O’Connor on top and Whoopi Goldberg down below.”
Tom laughed. “You’ve got the first part right.”
“It’s what my ex used to say,” said Tuesday, immediately regretting everything she had just said. Damn it! She’d put herself down and mentioned the ex! Insecure and needy to boot. Why did she have to open her big mouth?
“Ouch.” Said Tom. “It’s the ones we love that can hurt us the most.”
“Too true.”
“Anyway. I was thinking more along the lines of Natalie Cole. The jazz singer. With soul.”
Tuesday tittered and blushed. She tried to remember the American singer’s looks but her nerve endings were being rejected by the heavy bouncer at the brain stem. Was Natalie fat? She was fat, wasn’t she? But it didn’t matter! Mr Rabbit thinks Mr Toad has soul!
“God, this suit itches.” Tom said, pulling at his crotch. “My girlfriend came dressed as a Galah and she keeps losing her feathers.” He pulled a quill out of his groin and dropped it in the bin.
Tuesday winced. A girlfriend. With her feathers stuck down his groin no less. Of course he was taken. Tuesday tried to put a brave face on it. Galahs squawk after all, she told herself. Cane toads are where the action is. Everyone knows frogs fuck like rabbits. In fact somewhere near her knees there was an egg sac looking very much now like one large teste.
At that moment Ms Galah floated through the swing doors and Tuesday could see how stupid she had been to ever think toasty Tom would be interested in her.
Ms Galah belonged to Bondi Beach. She had fine blond hair and angelic blue eyes and smooth white English skin with a sheen of a golden tan. She had the sand wrapped around her little finger. The tide would refuse to go out until Galah had gone to sleep and the full moon rose every time Galah menstruated. She was Bondi.
What the hell was Tuesday doing here?
“Oh, hello.” Ms Galah smiled angelically. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I know Tom has a special interest in your people.”
My what?
Tom groaned. “Swan, I don’t think…”
Swan? But Tuesday had the monopoly on unique names! It was all she had!
“Tom, come and have a look at the baby emu outside! Come and have a look!” Swan grabbed Tom’s arm and propelled him towards the door.
Tom picked up his beer and smiled apologetically at Tuesday. “Nature calls.”
Tuesday nodded. So Tom had a special interest in Aborigines. What sort of special interest? A photographic interest? An anthropological interest? A sexual interest? An ‘I’m a white man and I’ll save you from extinction’ interest?
“Hope we’ll talk again soon,” Tom said over his shoulder.
“Yeah, sure.” Tuesday grumbled. “We’ll talk about me and my people.”
Tom blushed and his stricken face disappearing through the swing doors was the last Tuesday saw of him before hoisting up her egg sac and waddling up the back stairs to bed.
It took Tuesday a confused ten minutes to get out of her costume. She sat on her bed with one hand suctioned to her foot and the other arm bent over her back. She was considering calling for help when she heard the sirens turning into their street.
Fire! She fell over to the window and stared out of a hole in the toad’s nipple.
Not fire. The police. Noise control. She watched their starched blue uniforms move onto the front verandah. The doorbell rang and there was a muffled conversation amongst the noise. The top of their heads moved aside and Tuesday watched as Bill’s lean body stepped out onto the porch. So he’d been here all along.
He shook hands with the policemen. Their hands curled over little packets of tinfoil. The aluminium shone in the darkness. The policemen didn’t leave. They took off their hats and jackets and stepped inside. A cheer rose from the house.
Tuesday hopped back to her bed and hung her head at the copulating couple’s wet patch, her arms stuck to her sides.
Someone opened the door and a rush of noise entered the room.
Tuesday bent round and peeped out of the nipple. It was Ginny.
“Tuesday! What are you doing! The party’s going off!”
“In oo pel ee?”
“What?”
Tuesday bobbed up and down like a cockatoo.
“Oh.”
Ginny held open the rubber suit and Tuesday eased herself out and fell over at Ginny’s feet.
“Where have you been, Ginny? I haven’t seen you all night.”
Ginny blushed. “Being the hostess. Making sure everyone’s having a good time. This party’s important to me, Tuesday. There are a lot of important people here.”
Tuesday sighed. “Most of them seem like a bunch of wankers to me.”
Ginny frowned. “Well, they’re not. They’re my friends.”
Tuesday blinked at her and stood up. This wasn’t like Ginny. Not like Ginny at all. They were a team, weren’t they? Her and Ginny against the world.
“And why did you have to go off and dance like that, Tuesday? You looked stupid.”
Tuesday hiccupped. Ginny had never called Tuesday stupid before. “But you were supposed to join in, Ginny. That’s what we do!”
“They weren’t laughing with you Tuesday, they were laughing at you.”
Tuesday stared at her. “What’s wrong, Ginny? You don’t care about these people.”
Ginny shrugged. “Maybe I’ve just gro