An Anglo-Australian talking about "football" usually means Australian Rules football. Historically in Australia soccer was viewed as a game for middle-European immigrants, sometimes derisively nicknamed "wogball", although it's gradually become more mainstream.
*
The day after I got back from Sydney, Peter called everybody in the office together for an important announcement.
From my past experience with Peter, "important announcement" almost always translated to "pompous waste of time". A change to our expenses system, or a fatuous motivational speech straight out of whatever trendy management text he'd just read, guaranteed to take at least half an hour. The man liked to hear himself talk.
But this time it was clear that he actually had something big to tell us, because Janelle had brought a bottle of champagne and glasses for everybody. Skipping ten minutes of buildup and ten more of self-congratulation, the part that mattered: we'd won the Redmond Barry contract and Peter would be overseeing the project, with Susan deputised to handle the details.
It was fantastic news for R.J. Churchill, and as Peter popped the cork I was surrounded by excited realtors already planning how to spend the commissions they were expecting to earn. But for me, in the short term, it mostly meant a lot of extra work. I had to build a sales site for the Redmond apartments with different branding to our main website, and set up a fancy 'virtual tour' plugin so buyers could preview the apartments online. Throw in a dozen lesser complications, all on top of my regular work, and it meant a lot of staying late. As March rolled on and the days grew shorter, it became rare that I'd get from work before dark.
At least I wasn't staying back all alone. Susan had plenty on her plate, and most nights she worked later than I did. Occasionally when I got fed up with wrangling our website I'd wander over to her office and we'd chat. One evening, though, it was she who came to my desk. "Yvonne?"
"Yeah? What's up?"
"Do you know how to get a Facebook group taken down?"
"...um, in theory. What's this about?"
She showed me the group:
Zara T Is A Tubby Dyke
. It had eight members, all smiling-faced girls of around Zara's age.
"Oh, ouch. Her classmates?"
"Yep. I don't know how they even found out. She only told her best friend, and her friend says she didn't tell anybody else, but... now they're not talking. Zara was off school today with 'cramps', poor thing. I don't know what to do."
"Shit. Okay, um, here's what I'd do." I took some screencaps (number one rule of dealing with arseholes, always document everything) and then showed her how to report the page. "I'd take it to the principal, they should be able to talk to the little darlings."
But I had my doubts; real life rarely works out that simply. This time the girls had been stupid, putting their name to it, and no doubt they'd be told off and ordered to make some sort of insincere apology. Next time they'd cover their tracks better.
I said all this on the phone to Phoebe when I got home. I said most of it more than once, because I tend to repeat myself when I've got something stuck on my mind. She listened patiently until I'd let off enough steam for her to get a word in, and then she said: "You can't fix the whole world, love. All you can do is work on your part of it and hope other people will go work on theirs."
"I know. It just bugs me."
"I'm not surprised." A pause. "I miss you, Von."
"Miss you too, love. I'm sorry, I haven't asked you how you've been. Getting in plenty of cello practice?"
"Thirty-five hours this week, plus teaching. One thing about you working late, less incentive for me to get lazy and finish early."
"Well, if you've been
that
good, I think you should get some sort of reward when I see you next."
"I like the sound of that. What did you have in mind?"
"Oh... a box of chocolates, maybe? A gift card? What would you like, sweetie?"
"You know
very well
what I'd like. That reminds me. Easter weekend, I'm coming down on the Friday morning, going back Sunday night. You still up for helping at Yaya's?"
"Sure thing. Starting Friday?"
"Yup. I'm staying at Dad's, but I'm taking the Saturday night off, and I'll be at your disposal. Anything you'd like to do?"
"Oh, so many things. Starting with wrapping my arms around you and kissing you... actually, there is one thing I'd
really
like."
"Anything."
"Would you come to dinner with John and Cat?
"Um. Yes, okay."
***
I was shocked by how much Yaya had changed since I'd last seen her. In February she'd been tired and crabby, but there'd still been a sharpness about her. Less than two months later she was grey-faced and weary, bone-thin in a new wheelchair, and she barely acknowledged me when I arrived.
Leon was in the front room, and he took me aside to whisper: "She's not good today. She had the chemo Wednesday, usually she's starting to feel better again by now. But tell her she looks well anyway, it'll do her good."
So I did — I doubt she believed me, I'm an awful liar — and then I settled in to exchange pleasantries with Leon while we waited and Hamish made tea. Phoebe and RJ had arrived earlier, but they'd gone out to fetch a few things; not knowing what needed doing, we couldn't start without them, and Yaya was in no state to tell us.
I noticed her grasping a bundle of leaves with her good hand, folding and twisting them. Not having had a religious upbringing, I didn't realise what she was about until Leon took a couple of fronds from the bundle and showed me. "Palm fronds. We make them into crosses for Sunday." It was a simple task, and after watching Leon demonstrate it once I could have done it easily. But Yaya's left arm was still out of action and she kept losing her train of thought, setting the crosses aside half-finished and starting new ones as the old began to unravel.
