Like a whirlwind, the family entered the breakfast room, gave their excuses and left. Don sat there, somewhat stunned. He had made pancakes and coffee for five. The smells cheered him. It was his birthday today, and he was hoping for a surprise birthday cake. He was also a sneakerhead. But no, it was a muted eighteenth.
He accepted Dad’s offer of a paid degree in wine making but in Adelaide, not France or Italy. It was simpler and cheaper to hire qualified wine makers from abroad rather than train overseas. Yes indeed. And it would be prudent to check our vineyard soils before hiring an expert. Nobody was listening.
He must go into Adelaide to make a very late enrolment today. Then on Wednesday he had a try-out with Port Adelaide; talent scouts had spotted him. Playing league football would be more than great. Of course, the family dismissed the idea. A footballer and wine maker! His brother Alex said you’ll soon be on cocaine: his sister Megan giggled.
For accommodation, Don didn’t want to live in college or flat by himself. His aunt Sylvia lived in Paradise Hills, overlooking the bay. Maybe he could board with her.
He found her house with some difficulty, after driving past it. It was a shock when she came to the door. She was very skinny, unkempt and smelled of oil or butter. She needed a haircut and a new dress. Totally unlike her sister, his chic mother: she entered Fashion in the Field at the Barossa races. The sisters had never clicked.
He stepped inside, offering to cook something for tea. Do you like soup? Nothing in the kitchen except a little bread. Was this her dare – how long does it take to starve yourself to death? He ordered two Thai soups.
It was too late to find a motel; he slept in the car. He planned to see a doctor first thing. He wanted advice. Dr Leong met him at reception. How to get Sylvia medical or hospital attention, and how to get her into Care? Dr L asked him a million questions about things he didn’t know or have. In frustration, he walked out.
The try-out went well; he signed on. He called home but the numbers were engaged. He started to hunt for a flat and city gym. Oh, Friday 10 am, publicity shots and interviews please. Football was part religion, part Hollywood. He was the new number ten.
Megan rang. You can take me to the Annual Football Awards ceremony, can’t you? Best and Fairest and all that. Of course, I’ll need a knock-them-dead ball gown … and shoes. Right, Cinderella.
Thursday morning. He decided to explore the university campus. En route, he passed a pretty Salvation Army lady and wanted to talk. Better still, he found the campus medical centre and a calm helpful doctor, Dr Subramanian. Told her his woes.
Some neglect can be undone, Don. It depends on Sylvia’s general health and attitude. Don’t expect too much.
The plan was this. Dr S would arrange a local doctor to visit and check Sylvia, then hold a must-attend zoom conference with his parents on the findings and next steps. The relentless, hurly-burly of business and domestic worlds would have to wait.
No, the calls went unanswered. Too busy, too busy by half. The new wine vats, the trip to New Zealand, the Gourmet Food and Wine magazine feature, the Bridge tournament …
Sylvia wasn’t much interested in eating, talking or living. The Japanese have services to cleanse the apartments and scatter the ashes of the lonely dead, Don mused. That would be handy. He struggled to arrange things, a mountain of things, after Sylvia. Guilt and prayers came next. He felt unclean.
Bio
A man’s a man, wrote Berthold Brecht. That says it for Peter Wright, now writer.