SIX
Site Supervisors
I take a sharp bend and just as I round it, a water cartage truck pulls out in front of us and I’m forced to brake yet again.
‘Arrrrrrrgh!’ Mum screams while simultaneously gulping for what is clearly her very last breath.
Because I slowed right down for the bend, I haven’t had a chance to re-accelerate and am only doing about twenty kilometres an hour so I have ample time to casually apply the brakes. There is, however, not enough time to prevent Mum from heading towards the light in what can only be interpreted as yet another near-death experience. Because it is me making the driving decisions, not her.
‘You still alive, Mum?’ I ask, as cool as I can be when my abilities are under such intense scrutiny. Clearly her earlier reprimand at using the ‘rear safety brakes’ when I slowed down just around the corner from their house has been forgotten.
‘I thought you didn’t see him . . .’
‘Thankfully for all of us, I heard your gasp. Would you like to do the driving? Because I’m okay —’
‘No fear!’ She cuts me off like a semi-trailer. ‘I hate these country roads with all the big cars and drivers who never stick to the speed limit.’
‘Because if you do want to —’ I can’t stop having a little more fun.
‘Sorry,’ Mum says as I continue driving on, safely.
In the rear-view mirror I can see Mum’s body remain rigid with utter terror for another full minute or two as she wrestles with the belief that I cannot be trusted with her life.
Our parents’ picking and choosing as they delegate some, but never total, control reminds us of the (frequently reinforced) fact that they were here first, raised us and should therefore retain a superior position of authority. But to most of us – their children – it’s generally a case of: You got me through to the age of eighteen, thank you, but I’m good to take it from here.
As if reading my mind but probably only sensing the tension in my shoulders, Dad delightfully chooses this moment to hit home the inequality in our relationship, and my (in)abilities in matters other than driving.
‘Hey, Skeet, next time you come over to ours can you bring the hedger back please?’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘What do you need it for? I just did your Red Robin hedge last week.’
‘Ah . . . just a few things,’ he mumbles.
‘It’s bloody heavy to hold up, Dad, I’ll have to do it for you. What needs trimming?’
‘Well, you didn’t . . . that Red Robin needs to be cut back to exactly ten inches above the top of the fence. It’s a bit higgledy-piggledy in parts. And don’t worry, I spoke to the young fella next door and he’s already said I can go in and pick up the cuttings that fall on his side.’
My grip on the wheel tightens, my left eye twitches.
‘No problem at all,’ I say through a forced smile.
‘Eh?’ Dad prompts. Mum sighs.
‘EASY!’ I yell.
‘Just ten inches,’ he repeats. ‘I’ll stand behind you to watch and make sure you’re keeping in a straight line.’
‘Oh, that’s awesomely helpful, thanks Dad,’ I say just soft enough for him not to hear.
A fed-up boss of mine once insisted I had a ‘disdain for authority’. For inept authority, I wanted to correct him but did not, because that would have been disdainful. Then again, isn’t ‘adept authority’ an oxymoron?
Today, it would appear my parents are on a roll.
‘And your roses too, Jude,’ Dad adds.
‘What’s wrong with the roses?’ Jeff asks.
‘Nothing!’ Mum responds a little too efficiently.
‘Darl, you said you couldn’t do the weeds.’
‘But we did them for you a few months ago . . .’
‘Yes, but,’ Mum begins cautiously, ‘I think you said you used Basta not Roundup . . .’
For the previous eight years Jeff has managed all of the toxic chemical spraying on our property. It’s not that I’m unable or unwilling to help, it’s just that I need to be around to write his story should he die from some horrific skin-melting death. How else will people learn of his continuing affection for decorative cushions? He not only seeks regular advice from the chemical warehouse where he buys the poisons, but also from our grape consultant Jenny, who knows about forty encyclopaedias worth of information about crops and spraying. To further support the notion that Jeff may have the slightest inkling of what he’s talking about, he’s also undertaken a chemical-handling course . . . twice.
‘Yes, because they’d already sprouted —’
‘That grass has come back with a vengeance,’ Mum interjects. ‘It’s so stubborn, I think only Roundup will do the trick.’
‘It’ll also kill all your roses if there are any green shoots.’ Jeff channels some of Jenny’s wisdom.
‘Everyone uses Roundup in the nursery industry,’ Dad adds. It’s an industry he retired from some fifteen years ago, and one in which he supplied plastic pots to growers, not chemicals.
‘Well, if that’s what you want,’ Jeff finally surrenders, ‘but I would strongly advise waiting until they’re dormant, like we do with the grapes.’
‘I’ll just use something from Bunnings in the meantime,’ Mum says.
