Lisa Heidke

hers is pure white.
‘What have you been doing while the children were at camp? You didn’t return any of my calls. And Bella says there’s absolutely no food in the house.’
‘There is food. I bought some. The builders have probably scoffed it. Drunk half the cellar as well, no doubt. They’re a disgrace. But I can’t watch them twenty-four seven.’
‘But Mum,’ says Bella, waving a piece of paper in the air, ‘the builders left two days ago - it says so in this note. It also says that if you’re not going to talk to them in a civilised manner, they’re not coming back. Patch has left a number for you to call when you’re ready to apologise.’
‘Give that to me,’ I say, snatching the note out of her hand. I have a hazy recollection of a minor altercation about turning off the ear-splitting power tools that had been going full speed fourteen hours a day. I might even have mumbled something about fucking power tools operated by a bunch of fucking imbeciles. Not sure.
‘Off you go now, Bella. I need to talk to your mother,’ says Mum. Her voice has its what-have-I-done-to-deserve-a-daughter-like-this tone.
Oh dear.
Bella eyes me suspiciously. ‘My school uniform hasn’t been ironed, my camp clothes need washing and I’ve almost run out of other clothes to wear.’
‘I hear you,’ I say, slipping further under the doona.
‘Where’s Max?’ Mum barks after Bella has gone off to find more dust and grime to complain about.
‘Away on business.’
It’s not such a lie. He could be away on business. Mind you, that doesn’t explain why I’m lying in bed with the curtains drawn, sporting greasy hair and spots, and surrounded by vintage Grange empties and experiencing a headache that’d reach at least three point five on the Richter scale.
Mum’s itching to question me further, but still working out how to go about it. Quite frankly, I’m not up to any quizzing about Max. If I confide in her, she’ll ask the hard questions and I have no answers.
‘Okay,’ she says finally. ‘Let’s get you up and into a warm bath.’
‘What for? I’m living in hell, Mum, in a half-finished house -’
‘Don’t talk to me about hell, Lucy, we all have problems.
It’s a question of how you deal with them.’
Half a bottle of Henschke is just within reach. I grab for it and miss. Just as well. I’d have been torn between wanting to drink it and wanting to hit Mum over the head with it. She stares me down and I slowly pull back my hand.
‘There’s no hot water,’ I say.
‘I’ve boiled water for you. The bath is perfect.’
‘But Mum,’ I protest, as she pulls the doona off the bed.
‘But Mum, nothing.’
It’s only after I ease myself into the scalding bath that I realise I’ve barely been out of my bedroom all week. I certainly haven’t left the house. I wonder what’s been going on in the wider world. Perhaps there’s been a change of government? George Clooney might have married? Amy Winehouse might have gone straight? Maybe my concrete slab has been poured - Yeah. Like that will have happened.
Half an hour later, I’m squeaky clean and I wander downstairs. The house - what still exists of it - resembles a bomb site. There’s dust everywhere, and the floors are littered with nails, wood, half-drunk cups of coffee in filthy mugs and throwaway polystyrene cups. Gross.
And Bella’s right. The builders have downed tools and disappeared.
This is all I need.
Outside in the garden - otherwise known as the ten-centimetre patch of greenish grass that hasn’t yet been destroyed by wood piles, a skip and other assorted garbage - Mum has barbecued sausages for the kids’ lunch.
‘I told you there was food in the house,’ I say with a smirk.
Mum glares at me. ‘I did some shopping on the way over here.’
‘So nice to have a home-cooked meal after all the takeaways we’ve been eating for the last few months,’ says Bella as she and Sam stuff their faces.
‘We’ve had no kitchen to cook in,’ I say in self-defence.
‘What on earth are you wearing?’ Mum asks, staring at my green puffer jacket and black woolly Ugg boots. ‘You look like a caterpillar larva.’
I ignore her as I wolf down three sausages and several cherry tomatoes in rapid succession. I’m starving.
‘You should have told me Max was away. I would have come and stayed earlier,’ Mum goes on.
‘Staying? What’s this about staying?’
‘Bella thinks it’s a good idea, just till her father’s back.’
‘I am perfectly capable of looking after my own children, thank you very much.’ I speak with such authority I almost convince myself.
‘Lucy, there are newspapers littering the driveway, piles of washing to be done, the house is full of dust -’
‘I have no clean clothes,’ adds Bella sulkily.
‘Quite right,’ says Mum. ‘I was surprised to find Oscar still here.’
Startled and guilty, I look over at Oscar, our snooty Persian, who looks very thin and is currently choking on a chop bone.
‘I was sick,’ I say. ‘I’m better now. After lunch you can go home, honestly. I’m sure Dad’s missing you.’ I can only hope.
‘He’s at the footy all afternoon and will probably go out afterwards. He’s a big boy. He can manage by himself,’ says Mum.
‘What? And I can’t?’
‘I’ll just stay for the night,’ Mum insists. ‘Just to make sure you’re all okay. You are okay, aren’t you, Lucy?’
God! It’s so depressing that the highlight of the evening is watching Big Brother in the makeshift laundry/kitchen/ family room.
I know how the inmates feel, trapped in their prison and at the mercy of BB - or in my case, Patch and my mother. I drift off to sleep with the words ‘Big Brother will be speaking to you in the morning,’ except I hear them in my mother’s voice. It’s rather unsettling.

Day 7
Mum has finally departed. In the last twenty-four hours she’s shopped for even more groceries, picked up umpteen newspapers from the driveway, and done five loads of washing, which