part of my palette so I tattoo fast, which is good for you. I’ll measure you up for the design today.’ She plucked a tissue from the box and honked
into it. ‘Bloody plane trees. I’ll pencil you in for the first available and if you want you can go on my cancellation list. I get a cancellation, I text whoever’s next on the
list. I don’t hear back within the hour, I text the next person.’
‘I’d love to come in as soon as possible.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Rhys smiled. ‘You want it, like, now. ’
She took a deposit, and motioned Marie to the stairs.
Afterwards, what Marie remembered most about the tattoo studio was the photo above the stairs of what appeared to be a cadaver.
Marie walked down the path beside Susan, trowel and pots in hand. She was debating with herself whether to apologise for vomiting in the homewares shop. When Susan had arranged
to come and get plants, she hadn’t mentioned it, but plenty of things were never mentioned let alone apologised for. Marie decided to wait. Overnight, fifteen centimetres of rain had dumped
on the east coast and a thin cloud cover kept the air cool and damp. A couple of lorikeets shrieked as they alighted on the angophora blossoms. Marie noticed a track through its shedding bark,
probably made by a possum. The trunk beneath was raw and pink as skin beneath a scab.
Susan kept a hand clamped on her large white hat. ‘Wooh! It really does pong.’
‘It smells happy; it smells like death.’
‘Your garden’s really surviving, isn’t it.’
‘It always perks up after rain. But some things are dying.’
‘My last azalea’s dead, thanks to these bloody water restrictions.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about azaleas, Susan. I’ll give you some broms.’
‘And I hear they’re going to toughen them even more.’
‘The dams have dropped to forty-five percent.’ Marie arrived at the patch of bromeliads and bent down to dig. ‘Sometimes I think we’re going to run out of water
altogether.’
‘Not with the desalination plant.’
‘I mean in the long term. The whole country.’
Susan stood above her, scanning the garden despondently. ‘I’m very unhappy with my gardener. He charges through the nose.’
On her knees beneath this cascade of mild rebuttals, two feet from Susan’s gold sandals, from her freshly painted russet toenails, Marie was assailed by a sudden sense of incongruity. What am I doing with this woman? She had been friends with Susan since their husbands formed King Jones in the 1970s; even after the cataclysmic split of the advertising agency twenty years
later, and worse, they had endured. We hardly know each other , she thought as she potted the bromeliads. They walked back up to the house.
‘I saw Louise out the window of my car the other day. She looks like she’s about to drop,’ Marie said.
‘It’s due in the new year.’
‘God, it goes quickly. You’re going to be a grandmother!’
‘We’re getting old, Marie.’
‘We’re all getting old at the same rate. Nature’s democratic by nature.’
Pleased with her platitude, Marie stopped to pick some mint and lemongrass.
‘And how’s Clark?’ Susan asked. ‘Has he found another job?’
‘He’s applied for a PhD.’
‘Oh yes. Robert moved home when he did his PhD. He was only twenty-three. Watch out you don’t have Clark back on your doorstep, wanting three meals a day.’
‘Susan, he’s thirty-nine. He’s a father.’
‘Well, they do say that mature-age students apply themselves better. And Blanche?’
They discussed their children briefly, mechanically, like cuckoos coming out to strike the hour.
‘Anyway,’ Susan reverted, as they walked up the side path, ‘nature doesn’t have much to do with ageing anymore. Honestly, Marie, the lengths people go to these days.
Sometimes when I’m at the hairdresser’s I think I’m the only one in the room who hasn’t had something pulled out or put in.’
‘You don’t need to. You look
into it. ‘Bloody plane trees. I’ll pencil you in for the first available and if you want you can go on my cancellation list. I get a cancellation, I text whoever’s next on the
list. I don’t hear back within the hour, I text the next person.’
‘I’d love to come in as soon as possible.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Rhys smiled. ‘You want it, like, now. ’
She took a deposit, and motioned Marie to the stairs.
Afterwards, what Marie remembered most about the tattoo studio was the photo above the stairs of what appeared to be a cadaver.
Marie walked down the path beside Susan, trowel and pots in hand. She was debating with herself whether to apologise for vomiting in the homewares shop. When Susan had arranged
to come and get plants, she hadn’t mentioned it, but plenty of things were never mentioned let alone apologised for. Marie decided to wait. Overnight, fifteen centimetres of rain had dumped
on the east coast and a thin cloud cover kept the air cool and damp. A couple of lorikeets shrieked as they alighted on the angophora blossoms. Marie noticed a track through its shedding bark,
probably made by a possum. The trunk beneath was raw and pink as skin beneath a scab.
Susan kept a hand clamped on her large white hat. ‘Wooh! It really does pong.’
‘It smells happy; it smells like death.’
‘Your garden’s really surviving, isn’t it.’
‘It always perks up after rain. But some things are dying.’
‘My last azalea’s dead, thanks to these bloody water restrictions.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about azaleas, Susan. I’ll give you some broms.’
‘And I hear they’re going to toughen them even more.’
‘The dams have dropped to forty-five percent.’ Marie arrived at the patch of bromeliads and bent down to dig. ‘Sometimes I think we’re going to run out of water
altogether.’
‘Not with the desalination plant.’
‘I mean in the long term. The whole country.’
Susan stood above her, scanning the garden despondently. ‘I’m very unhappy with my gardener. He charges through the nose.’
On her knees beneath this cascade of mild rebuttals, two feet from Susan’s gold sandals, from her freshly painted russet toenails, Marie was assailed by a sudden sense of incongruity. What am I doing with this woman? She had been friends with Susan since their husbands formed King Jones in the 1970s; even after the cataclysmic split of the advertising agency twenty years
later, and worse, they had endured. We hardly know each other , she thought as she potted the bromeliads. They walked back up to the house.
‘I saw Louise out the window of my car the other day. She looks like she’s about to drop,’ Marie said.
‘It’s due in the new year.’
‘God, it goes quickly. You’re going to be a grandmother!’
‘We’re getting old, Marie.’
‘We’re all getting old at the same rate. Nature’s democratic by nature.’
Pleased with her platitude, Marie stopped to pick some mint and lemongrass.
‘And how’s Clark?’ Susan asked. ‘Has he found another job?’
‘He’s applied for a PhD.’
‘Oh yes. Robert moved home when he did his PhD. He was only twenty-three. Watch out you don’t have Clark back on your doorstep, wanting three meals a day.’
‘Susan, he’s thirty-nine. He’s a father.’
‘Well, they do say that mature-age students apply themselves better. And Blanche?’
They discussed their children briefly, mechanically, like cuckoos coming out to strike the hour.
‘Anyway,’ Susan reverted, as they walked up the side path, ‘nature doesn’t have much to do with ageing anymore. Honestly, Marie, the lengths people go to these days.
Sometimes when I’m at the hairdresser’s I think I’m the only one in the room who hasn’t had something pulled out or put in.’
‘You don’t need to. You look
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