Part 7 (2/2)

'What's Welsh rarebit?' I asked. 'Is it really rabbit?'

'No, no,' Granny Carmelene chuckled, 'it's a type of mustardy cheese on toast.'

They had other strange things on the menu, like pinwheels, which sounded sharp as if they might get stuck in my throat. So, because the waiter was standing there and looking impatient, I quickly ordered some chicken sandwiches with crispy bacon and mango mayonnaise. Granny Carmelene chose a sandwich with red salmon and cuc.u.mber, as well as a pot of tea.

There were a lot of grannies at the Hopetoun Tea Rooms, as if it was the cool spot for grannies to go. Most of them had blue hair and wore pastel blue and pink, like babies' clothes. I was glad my Granny Carmelene didn't dress like a baby; she looked more like someone all dressed up for the Melbourne Cup.

'You know, Sunny,' she said, after the waiter delivered our sandwiches, 'there is something important I need to tell you, but you must promise me to keep it to yourself. I've not told anyone at all.'

Like I needed another secret! The Stash-O-Matic started humming even before Granny Carmelene told me her secret, because it has sensors that tell when a new one is hovering about.

Granny poured her tea slowly through the strainer and stirred in some milk. I didn't tell her about all the other secrets I was keeping, or how I'd had to invent the Stash-O-Matic to manage them all, because even if you are completely full of secrets it's still very exciting when someone gives you one more a especially one that absolutely n.o.body else knows about, and even more especially if you think it might be the big big secret about Mum and Granny Carmelene's divorce.

'I'm good at keeping secrets,' I said, as I bit into my sandwich, which was cold, obviously from having spent time pre-prepared in a fridge.

'Well, dear, I don't want you to get upset,' she said, placing the tea spoon carefully on her saucer. 'This is very difficult to say . . . It's about my health. I have, what you might call a condition.'

'Like a disease?' I asked, feeling my stomach tighten.

'It's called CLL, Sunday. Chronic lymphocytic leukaemia. It's a cancer of the blood.'

'But . . . can't you get better? Claud's auntie had cancer and got skinny and bald and everything, but now she's fine and the cancer's gone away. Can't there be a cure?'

'There's treatment, Sunday, but no cure I'm afraid. Besides, I'm not interested in becoming skinny and bald. There's no dignity in that at all.'

'But-'

'Sunday, I know you might not understand, but it's my choice to accept my time when it comes and pa.s.s gracefully when I'm called to go. It's a decision I've made. Now you must promise not to breathe a word of this, especially not to your mother.'

I didn't feel like the rest of my sandwich. All I could think about was Mum, and how if she knew Granny Carmelene was sick and dying she mightn't be so stubborn and angry towards her, and how the hugeness of Granny's secret was causing the Stash-O-Matic to ping loudly. I thought of Claud, and I suddenly realised I wasn't angry anymore, or even jealous. It was like the news about Granny Carmelene's illness had broken the curse. I could feel my eyes welling up and wanting to cry, so I looked down at the curly parsley on my plate, hoping that if I concentrated really hard, I could make the crying stop. Let's face it, breaking into a blub in front of someone you've only met once before would be dead embarra.s.sing.

'Come now, Sunny,' said Granny Carmelene reaching over to hold my hand. 'I've lived with this for many years now, and I intend to keep on living for as long as I can. Life is so precious a sometimes it's only when you know it might be taken away that you can begin to really appreciate it. I feel quite liberated, to be honest. There's nothing at all to fear, don't you worry.'

'Aren't you scared, Granny?'

'Of dying? Not at all. I'm more scared of not living. I intend to live and live, until I'm asked to let living go. And now that you're here to share some of my living, Sunday, I feel happier than ever. It's all just perfectly marvellous.'

It didn't feel so marvellous to me. I mean, you wouldn't read about it (except that you are): you find your long lost blood relative, only to discover she's got cancer of the blood. It was enough to put me off having any pavlova, even though I knew I'd be missing out on a chance to sneak some sugar without Mum telling me it's bad, or Dad and Steph reminding me it's banned. Then I thought of that old lady and the snake again and wondered whether, if it was your turn to die, it might be better to just pop off with a bite to the hand while picking a pa.s.sionfruit.

'Sunny?' said Granny Carmelene, who must have sensed I was off on a tangent. 'You know those caves I told you about, in Tasmania?'

'King-?'

'Yes, those are the ones. King Solomon's Caves. I went there once as a girl, and I've never forgotten. For some reason, I just have to go back. It's my intuition, Sunday. Have you ever been inside a cave? This one is over twenty million years old. Can you believe it?'

'I find caves a bit freaky, actually,' I said, happy that the topic change had made my tears go away.

'Well I think you'd be surprised at just how majestic a cave can be. Will you come with me to Tasmania? We'll go for a weekend and I'll show you. Do tell me you'll come, Sunday.'

It was a bit tense that night at dinner. Carl and Lyall had been arguing about Lyall forgetting to put the bins out that morning, and when people argue it makes me feel uneasy, as if it might all be my fault, even though I know it isn't.

'It was up on the whiteboard, Lyall, there's no excuse,' saidCarl. 'Now we're going to have stinking rubbish hanging around all week long.'

'Yeah, Lyall,' said Saskia, 'You should have to do the dishes tonight all by yourself. Shouldn't he, Dad?'

'That's enough from you, miss,' Carl said, spooning some brussels sprouts onto Saskia's plate.

'Dad-duh! You know I hate brussels sprouts, they look like green sparrows with no heads and legs-uh!'

'Please stop whining, Saskia,' said Carl.

'Yeah, Saskia,' said Lyall, and he punched her arm.

Mum had the look she gets when her nerves are jangled a her lips were all thin. She was probably having a craving because she'd started hypnosis and hadn't had a cigarette in three days.

'Come on, everyone.' she said, 'Let's just enjoy our meal. Sunny, would you pa.s.s the salad please?'

And I said, 'Sure.' But what I really wanted to say was Sure, and if you care at all, your mother's dying and I said I'd go to Tasmania with her for a weekend, if that's okay with you.

I mean, the thing is, I really did want to go to King Solomon's Caves with Granny Carmelene, even though I didn't like the idea of being underground. I'd even done some research on the net and read about how a farmer had discovered the caves back in the nineteen twenties when his dog was chasing a wallaby. The wallaby disappeared down a hole, which turned out to be an entrance dropping nine metres below the surface to the caves. I also looked up CLL, which was totally depressing because there's not much hope for you if you're an old lady with cancer of the blood. Especially when you're the sort of old lady who thinks medical treatment is undignified and doesn't believe in drugs.

'What is it, Sunny? You look miles away,' said Mum, 'And you haven't touched your chicken.'

'I'm just not that hungry, thanks, Mum.' I said, pus.h.i.+ng the food around my plate.

'Did you hear the one about the cat who swallowed the ball of wool?' said Carl, trying to improve the mood. Lyall and Saskia rolled their eyes.

'She had mittens!' said Carl. 'Or how about this one? Why don't cannibals like eating comedians?'

'Daad-uh!' squealed Saskia 'Would you just stop?'

'Because they taste funny!' giggled Carl.

We all laughed too, except for Lyall who said, with a deadpan face, 'Dad, that's not funny, that's just lame,' and he started clearing the plates so that we could wash up.

Just then there was a sudden yelp from Willow and she ran into the shed with her tail between her legs and Boris chasing close behind. Boris was all puffed up with his ears down flat. Willow cowered in a corner as Boris growled and closed in on her with sideways steps. Then Boris flung himself at Willow a just like one of those gliding marsupials. Willow let out another yelp as Boris hissed and scratched her on the face three times, then Boris bolted outside and jumped up onto the fence. Willow burrowed into the couch and curled into a ball with her head hidden between the cus.h.i.+ons.

'Did you see that?' laughed Lyall, 'Go, Boris!'

'Yay, Boris!' shrieked Saskia, 'You show 'em, Boris!'

Mum and Carl looked around in a daze. 'Can I get you a vodka, darl?' Carl asked.

'Perhaps a peppermint tea,' said Mum, tight lipped.

I gave Willow a big hug. She had a deep scratch right across the end of her nose. There was even blood. She was shaking and crying in a dog way, which doesn't involve tears or making noises, but just looking up sorrowfully and showing the whites of her eyes.

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