Family Theatre

We beg. We borrow.

It seems like there’s no lengths or depths we won’t go to give the performance of our lives. We borrow some place mats, and matching cutlery; the rug we have to buy, but we find that second hand. It probably won’t hold out too long, but it’ll do for the night, and it’s plush and wine-coloured, lightened with shades of sunlight. Real pretty.

I ring Audrey up and ask her if I can borrow her dress. “The new one. The green one. I’m really sorry to have to ask…”

“What? No. Why would you be sorry about that? Mea wardrobe, su wardrobe. But you have to tell me what’s going on. You and Greg have a date-night thing you’re doing?”

“Mum and Dad are visiting.”

“Okay.”

“I want them to think… you know…”

“Oh, Gilly. You haven’t told them?”

“No.”

“Gilly, why?”

“They’re not… you haven’t met them.”

“If I was in your shoes, I would have gone crying to my mum right from the outset, as soon as I found out. And she would have comforted me and come up with some joke to make me feel better. And they’d have helped me out with stuff for a while.”

Well, aren’t you lucky? But I’m the one asking her for favours here. “If it’s no good…”

“It’s fine. Of course. Borrow anything you like. But are you sure you couldn’t just tell them what happened?”

Oh, quite sure.

#

And I call Selina up next. “The big casserole dish you guys have.  Would you mind…?”

“Sure. You having a party?”

“Just Mum and Dad.”

“Cool.  What are you making?”

Something cheap. But not obviously cheap. I don’t suppose you have any spare food in your fridge? “Maybe a lasagne,” I’m improvising.

“I have a recipe.  I’ll message you.”

“Okay. Thanks.

#

We get under each other’s feet a lot these days. Me and Greg. Always in each other’s hair. We try to find ways around that, but the apartment isn’t that big, and there’s nowhere to go all day.

He went first, when they laid-off half the guys down at the factory. We sat in the bedroom, and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, kneeling against his back, chin on the top of his head. “Don’t worry, we’ll be okay. I’ll pick up some more shifts at the café.”

Until, of course, that closed. Right out of the blue, big announcement, all of us gathered to hear it, not knowing what it was going to be – something about a Christmas bonus maybe? – only to be told that we had until the end of the month and then the doors would close and our pay cheques would stop coming.

That’s both of us, within a couple of months.

And you’d think we’d have been a bit more prepared: two incomes – even pretty half-assed ones like ours – no kids. But savings were limited and quickly used up. A joint benefit, topped with an accommodation supplement: the difference was shocking, and me and Greg, we didn’t have the experience. We just weren’t used to living poor.

#

We’re catching on.

I stand in front of the mirror in Audrey’s green dress.

“It suits you.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Hey, it’s just a dress. But I still don’t get it, they’re your mum and dad, can you really not just tell them?”

The thought of it, the ashy, deep-bitter taste of that idea against my tongue. Just finding the words and making them come out of my mouth… all the while with those looks in their eyes, waiting, revving up the great Judgemental Engine. Well, you know, I did tell you… you recall what I said last year…

“Aud, my family, they’re really not like yours.”

“All class, right?”

“Shiny like a new-minted coin.”

“You make that sound really sad.”

“Yeah. Thanks for the dress, Aud.”

And now. The show must go on.

#

The house smells like beef, onion, tomato, garlic, cheese. And I’m there in ‘my’ green dress to open the door and welcome them in.

“Is that new?”

“Uh, yeah, I think, since the last time I saw you.”

“It suits you, dear.”

“Oh, thanks.”

Wine. Sparkly borrowed cutlery. Dinner is served.

“So, your father’s thinking of expanding the business.”

My best attempt to look interested.

“Like a shark, he says, it has to keep moving forward to survive.”

Greg says, “I think that might by a myth. You know, about the shark and all that.”

I don’t think it is, but I agree with him, and start trying to throw in some myths and/or facts of my own, in the hope that’ll take the conversation off on a safe tangent: “Bulls; they can’t even see red. They’re colour blind. It’s the movement of the cape that attracts them.”

But the question comes in the end: “How’s work?”

“It’s fine.”

“Still in the same… job?”

Brazen, cool: “Yeah.”

“Greg?”

“Yeah. Yeah, things are running pretty smoothly. All good, yeah.”

Don’t oversell it.

“Do you ever think about going back to school, Gilly?”

It could be my moment: actually, as a matter of fact I was thinking I might quit my job and take up studying full time. Actually, the money’s a bit tight, but I want to devote my full attention… Those are words that I could never bring myself to say, a web my tongue just can’t spin. And if I could. And if she did: sooner or later I would have to deliver on the actual studying, and we all know how successful that’s ever been.

“Greg, you should think about a supervisor role.”

“Next time one comes up.”

“You’ve been there a few years now, you ought to apply.”

“Should. Sure. Sure should.” He’s not a natural at this.

And still. We finish an evening. We close a door behind us and listen to them walk away, hopefully convinced of our ongoing gainful employment; Greg’s trajectory towards management – apparently.

I look around at our makeshift and borrowed – and possibly soon to be vacated if we can’t figure something out about the rent - lounge. A painting on the wall that Albie lent us, a couple of candlesticks from Gretchen, that extra chair that’s also hers. Well, at least the rug is beautiful; and that at least, out of everything in here, is genuinely ours.

 

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work