‘How did you go in Spotlight last week?’ Jeff asks Mum.
Jeff has a passion (and, it might be said, unquestionable skill) for interior design (I think I may have written once or twice before that he has a particular affection for cushions) so, again, when they moved from their house on the Central Coast to be near us, he took control of styling and ‘helped’ Mum decorate. The subtlety of his design prowess is often lost on me until he points out that the pattern on that table leg is mirrored in the print of that one cushion in the far corner of the room. So needless to say, everything in Mum and Dad’s new house was chosen very deliberately.
Like the garden, however, we should have known it was all in vain. When we helped them move, Jeff completely eradicated all trace of net curtains and gave away three charity shops’ worth of trinkets – countless ‘love lives here’ and ‘grandma is the best’ gifts Mum had to be forced to throw away, grief-stricken because her twelfth cousin thrice removed gave it to her forty-six years ago. But unadorned areas are a personal affront to Mum and cannot be tolerated, so, inevitably, she has found new stuff to fill that inexcusable void.
The more lurid the better. Penguin pot planters in a garish shade of pink. A zebra with red strips! Did you ever?
‘Jeez, Jude, when you die, we’ll have a lot of shit to throw away before we can put this house on the market,’ Jeff jokes.
‘Well I don’t care, I’ll be dead then, won’t I?’
So in asking Mum how she went at Spotlight, Jeff is actually dreading the worst-case scenario.
‘Oh, they had a lovely dark blue material with orange and brown flowers on it. And a touch of maroon. I got a few metres of it to re-do my cushions.’ Mum confirms Jeff’s fears.
If history is anything to go by, no sooner will Mum have recovered one set of cushions than she will be off to ‘Spotlights’ (as she calls it) to gather some new gaudy material of dark hues and never-before-seen florals to re-upholster another set. The material is usually picked up from a pile labelled ‘Never used by anyone ever before, and with good reason’.
If Shaynna Blaze judged my mother’s design aesthetics she’d be hard-pressed finding a solitary thing in the house that even subtly referenced Jude’s latest choice of fabric. She might even reach for a sick bag. A score of zero would create ‘The Block’ history. Then again, what percentage of grandparents’ decor would ever score above a three? It’s not often you hear your friends talk about borrowing a style concept from their parents’ place.
The older we get, the less we seem to care about what’s on trend or considered fashionable. (I wonder if this means Jeff will one day purchase the world’s ugliest cushions?) Already I appreciate how liberating it is to make design choices based solely on what appeals to us and us alone (comfort, price, convenience).
For Mum, filling a space means flexing handicraft muscles that, pre-retirement, hadn’t once been used (aside from knitting). Perhaps our parents were too busy then, raising kids and holding down their jobs, to turn their hands to craft. But did they secretly yearn to or is this string of tried (and often failed) hobbies a desperate attempt to keep boredom at bay? A lot of us certainly felt the same urge during seemingly endless Covid lockdowns with baking, colouring books, origami – or I don’t know – pasta collage! Jude has attempted dried floral arranging, stencilling, furniture making, sewing, painting, watercolour, scratch-boarding, bedazzling . . . you name it, she’s given it a whirl. With differing levels of success.
Meanwhile, nothing is safe from Jude’s wandering ‘crafty’ eye.
‘Hmm, that doorway would look nicer with a ten-foot ostrich feather taped around its frame,’ she must think as she walks into the bedroom. ‘Maybe I can pretty up those curtains with some of the batik I saw that lovely Tara Dennis do on Better Homes and Gardens? I’ve never done it before but it didn’t look that hard. Darl? Where are the old birthday candles?’
* * *
In the car, Mum’s phone begins ringing again and I seriously consider performing a double van Gogh on myself for what is bound to ensue, if only there was a razor close by.
‘It’s Jo,’ Mum announces before pressing the magical green button. Jo is my father’s bingo boss and seems to have worked out for herself that it’s pointless trying to reach Dad on his phone, so is probably calling Mum for her to relay a message.
‘HI MATE!’ Mum screams. Not only has she pressed the green button but this time has thoughtfully also hit speaker so we can hear both sides of the conversation. Mum appears oblivious to this fact, however, and has the phone pressed against her ear.
‘Hi, Judy, how are you?’
‘GOOD THANKS.’
‘Can you see if Peter can work for me on Sunday?’
‘YEP! OKAY! LET ME CHECK.’
Mum leans forward to Dad and repeats the conversation in a scream: ‘JO WANTS TO KNOW IF YOU CAN WORK SUNDAY?’
I search beneath my seat in the hope that perhaps Jeff has left a Stanley knife from one of his building projects there.
‘No problem,’ Dad says. ‘Tell her I’ll meet her there at the usual time.’
‘NO PROBLEM, MATE,’ my mother tells Jo. ‘SAME TIME?’
‘Perfect, thank him for me, please.’
‘OKAY.’
‘Have a great day, mate.’
‘OKAY! YOU TOO, MATE!’
As there is nothing sharp beneath my seat, I say to Dad in civilised tones but loud enough for my mother to hear: ‘Jo says same time, Dad.’
I hope this simple gesture prevents further screeching.
* * *
A few years back, Mum and Dad started going to bingo together (or housie, as they call it). For decades they’d been attending clubs to bet, eat or play the pokies but only in retirement did they venture into bingo halls within their local clubs. People deride clubs, but I’ve joined Mum and Dad on several occasions and it has made me realise that clubs provide much more than just a place to gamble. They are a social meeting spot, and an outing to look forward to with friends and likeminded people. In many respects I think clubs have been the lifeblood of my parents’ retirement years.
Mum and Dad eventually formed quite a large social circle at the various bingo meets around the Central Coast, when they lived there, and got to know the event organisers too. When one of her callers resigned a few years back, Jo asked Dad to step in.
The night before his debut shift, he was as nervous as a schoolboy on his first day. Bingo calling was a bit like asking him to sing again. Dad has a lovely singing voice and employs just the right level of vibrato, if not the bravado. It’s not often we can get him to sing these days, sadly. Deep down he knew he could call bingo numbers, and I think he also knew he’d be good at it. And sure enough, much to no one’s surprise, he was a smash hit. Gone are the days of bingo callers adding ‘good time’ and ‘two fat ladies’ after certain numbers, but Dad enunciates very clearly and keeps just the right pace. And this is one job he doesn’t need sharp hearing for, because when anyone gets a full house to win twelve bucks, they scream out so excitedly he can even hear them over the constant chiming of the 6000 poker machines in the room next door.
Dad is special at bingo in other ways. When you walk into a bingo hall, it is very rare to see an example of the male species. Of all those women in attendance, at least ninety per cent are single or widowed. My charismatic and elevated-to-the-role-of-caller father is therefore quite often the recipient of both attention and affection. Home-baked slices, tarts, biscuits, Christmas cakes – you name it. He laps up the attention and very happily accepts any gifts that are brought his way. A handful of the women stop just shy of out-and-out adoration, or throwing certain items of apparel at him, as they might once have at Tom Jones. Mum can’t understand why.
Dad’s absolute favourite environment is one in which he is revered. There is a skip in his step when he walks into the room, and a sparkle in his eyes. Yes it’s me, ladies, your favourite caller. He’d call bingo twenty times a week if there were enough halls to grace with his presence.
Bingo brought a new lease on life for Dad. Trotting in after a shift, dressed in his little uniform and carrying his Tupperware full of bingo tickets and cakes, there was a certain undeniable joy about him.
Over the past few years those bingo ladies have come to mean the world to Mum and Dad, so they still drive the ninety minutes to the Central Coast twice a week just to see their club friends. As demonstrated by the stream of calls to his or Mum’s phones, Dad may even refer to a few of the women as his ‘mates’.
