‘You’ve lost them between the carpark and the front door? Jeff, that’s twelve metres!’
‘You wish,’ he jokes. ‘Jude went straight to the gambling area to check some Keno ticket that’s been sitting at the bottom of her bag for god knows how long.’
‘Of course. And Dad?’
‘He was taking a breather on the seat out the front of the pub before working up the energy to walk to the lift.’
I stare at him. ‘It’s one flight of stairs.’
‘Yes, his point exactly. Now, what can I get you to drink?’
‘How about a triple Long Island Iced Tea?’
‘Really?’
‘No Jibbuz, a rosé will do just fine.’
By the time Jeff returns from the bar with a tray full of drinks, my parents have joined me at the table. Dad is plonked across from me and Mum hovers next to me.
‘Isn’t Jiffy sitting there?’ Dad asks her.
‘Oh,’ she starts.
‘No, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘I want you to sit next to me, Mum.’
Mum starts to sit down.
‘But Jiffy was sitting there,’ Dad insists, as Jeff stands there awkwardly, holding the drinks like he’s waiting for a game of musical chairs to be over.
Mum starts getting up from the seat, bending unsteadily to collect her handbag.
‘For Chrissakes, I said it’s fine!’ I reprimand my pesky toddlers. ‘Now don’t you start, you two. Here, take a look at the menu.’
I pass the menus around and Mum and Dad act like they’ve opened a treasure chest of never-before-seen delights, even though we’ve been here so many times I could more or less recite the contents of the menu by heart and, give or take, my parents order the same thing nine times out of ten.
Jeff hands out the drinks: a lemon squash for my father, a large sauvignon blanc (from New Zealand) for my mother, the rosé for me and a Coke Zero for himself. Mum tops hers up with water and a handful of ice – her chosen method of consumption. Our winemaker Dan would be having kittens!
‘To Lambs Valley,’ Mum says, and raises her sacrilegious glass.
‘Thanks for coming along today,’ I say. ‘We’re over the moon with the property and very happy that the two of you get to stay in the house you love so much.’
‘Proud of you boys,’ Dad says. ‘Well done.’
‘And here’s to Irene Fairchild,’ Jeff says, making another toast.
‘Tsk tsk tsk,’ Mum says.
‘What are you going to order?’ I ask my parents.
Mum and Dad turn to the specials chalkboard over near the bar. They’re both convinced that this time the writing will be in 580-sized font, or that their eyesight will have miraculously improved.
‘Does that —?’ Mum begins.
I cut her off and read it out for them. ‘You’ve got fettucine, rissoles, lasagne or fish of the day.’
‘What’s on the fettucine?’ Dad asks.
I’ve been dining out with my parents for the best part of thirty-seven years. I would happily bet every cent I have ever earned in those four decades on the fact that my father will never, ever order fettucine. Not even if it were topped with chips, steak and gravy.
‘Chicken, mushroom and asparagus.’
‘Hmph.’ He promptly dismisses it.
‘And the fish?’ Mum asks.
‘Barramundi, Jude.’
‘Oh, I love barramundi,’ Mum reminds us. ‘But . . .’
‘Do they do anything for your “diet” here?’ Dad asks.
He has Mum’s pink-framed glasses on to read the menu because he’s left his at home. He looks like a bald Phyllis Diller and this brings a smile to my face.
‘Actually, did you know your vegan diet was invented in the 1940s?’ Dad says like a quizmaster.
‘How did you learn that?’ I ask, choosing not to correct him on the term ‘diet’ or his confusion over its ‘invention’. I think Neolithic people were probably vegan ninety per cent of the time, when they couldn’t find an animal to hunt.
‘It was on the telly,’ he says, delivering the line with such conviction that this time there’s an implied full stop to the end of the conversation.
