make up her mind, one way or the other. But that was Miki for you, she reasoned. Always looking at things a hundred times before she made up her mind about anything. Just do it, was her way. Just do it!
‘It’s a mortal sin,’ came the sulky reply from the lounge room.
God, Miki! She’d already stepped out of her own uniform and had been waiting ages for Miki to get in here and do likewise. They were wagging school today, at home with the blinds drawn and the doors locked. A deadlock on the kitchen door. Unlike Miki’s mum whose job was only a part-time one, Poppy worked five and a half days a week at the frock shop.
‘Hey, what gives?’ she said, coming into the darkened room, seeing Miki standing where she had left her minutes ago and still holding the wedding photo––Adele in a pretty floral dress and Monty in his US Marine Corp uniform. She took it from Miki’s hands and replaced it on the sideboard. ‘The sooner we start, the sooner––’
‘She must have been something special, your mum,’ said Miki, staring down at the framed photograph in her hand.
‘Why? Because a Yank was prepared to marry her?’
‘Because he was prepared to cop her child as part of the deal.'
‘Get out. I was gorgeous. Look at this.’ She thrust another picture at Miki, this time it was a snapshot of the three Brenners. She treasured this rare family photograph. Adele and Monty and her, the child between them, both adults gripping one of her hands and smiling at the camera. She remembered the day it was snapped, a photo taken in Gregory Terrace during the war. The moment before it had been taken, she’d been skipping along, her mother and Monty swinging her by her arms.
‘She must have been a special lady,’ Miki whispered.
‘Monty thought so, I’m sure.’
‘Very special,’ said Miki dreamily.
‘Or a good Donald,’ she called over her shoulder from the bathroom.
‘A good “Donald”?’ queried Miki, following Jude in. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘A good Donald Duck. Y’know!’
Miki took a while to catch on. When she did, the blush began at her toes. ‘God, Jude, don’t you ever think of anything else?’
‘Sometimes. Like when I’m crossing a busy highway. C’mon. Move it, you idiot. Get that uniform off and get in this bath.’
‘I’m going straight to hell for this.’
‘I’ll see you there, sweetheart.’ Her Humphrey Bogart routine. ‘C’mon. Let’s do it. You’re in good hands. Relax, kid. You do know how to relax, don’t you?’ Lauren Bacall.
Miki’s response was a long, loud sigh as she lifted her navy blue tunic over her head.
‘Off with this.’ She had Miki’s tie off and was unbuttoning her white blouse. They had gone through the charade of dressing for school this morning although they knew they wouldn’t be putting a foot on the bus.
Miki, in her singlet and school bloomers and a forlorn look on her face, was a sorry sight, thought Jude, appraising her dearest friend. Her heart went out to Miki, the truest, best in all the world friend. This was too awful to be true but it was true.
She understood that Miki just wanted to turn and run away from what they were going to do this morning, bury her head in the sand and hope it would go away. But it wouldn't. She winced when she saw the look on Miki's face when she spotted the Gordon’s Gin bottle sitting on the vanity basin.
The cost of the phone call to Naomi in New Jersey would horrify Poppy when she got the bill and she would have some explaining to do. But she had desperately needed to make the urgent call to her cousin. And Naomi had assured her that this mustard bath routine worked. She just hoped the eighteen-year-old knew what she was talking about.
She would say to Poppy that she just felt like making the call to the States. Poppy would probably be okay with that. Poppy was having trouble talking to her about the birds and the bees thing, anyway. She would guess that’s why she phoned her cousin.
‘What do you reckon?’ she said, from where she sat on the side of the bathtub, the tin of Keen’s mustard powder in her hand, looking up at Miki. ‘Goes in the bath or in the gin, this stuff?’
‘You’re the expert,’ said Miki, kicking her singlet across the room so that it landed near the chip heater.
‘Let’s put a bit in each. Just to be on the safe side.’ She spooned yellow powder into the two glasses of gin. The powder floated on the surface. She grabbed a comb from the vanity basin, and with the end, vigorously stirred the concoction. She held the tin over the bath and feathered a small amount into the water and then upended the tin. ‘Bugger it, Mik. Let’s put it all in.’
‘Don’t you put gin in the bath as well?’
‘I think you do, actually. Gin and mustard.’ She examined the half bottle of gin. ‘Christ, if only Naomi was here.’
‘Were here.’
‘What?’
‘It’s “were”. You said “was”.'
‘Oh for Chrissakes! Don’t get smart with me now. Not now, Mik.’
‘And don’t blaspheme, either.’
‘Who’s blaspheming?’
‘Don’t say “Christ” all the time.’
‘You say “God”.’
‘God’s not Christ.’
‘I thought he was. And the Holy Ghost, as well.’ She stirred the gin into the hot bath water. ‘Jesus, Miki. Lighten up!’
‘I said don’t blaspheme!’
‘And I’m saying don’t lecture me, okay? Mother Bloody Superior.’
This brought tears to Miki’s eyes.
‘Forget it, chum.’ She came up to Miki and hugged her. ‘Mucho sorrito. That’s Mexican for “I apologise”. Relax, already.’ She moved past Miki and out the bathroom door. ‘We’re gonna need more gin.’
'No more Gordon’s, just this teeny bit of Gilbeys,' she said as she returned, pulling up when she saw Miki staring at the wire coat hanger on the back of the door. She should have hidden it. It was for Poppy’s dressing gown, nothing else.
'God, Mik, I could never come at that!' She came up behind Miki and undid her brassiere and waved the garment in Miki's face. ‘Strip, girl. All the way.’
When they were both standing naked she clinked their glasses. ‘Cheers.’
Miki stepped into the hot bath water. ‘Murder,’ she muttered. ‘A mortal sin.’
‘The hell it’s murder. It’s the rest of your life, that’s what it is. Forget their voodoo. All that stupid Roman Catholic stuff. “Resist much. Obey little! Lord Byron.’
‘Walt Whitman.’
‘The cocktail hour!’ She held up her glass and clinked Miki’s glass again, noting that Miki had not yet taken a sip. ‘Salootay! Mazal Tov!’ Whitman or Byron, who cared? She followed Miki into the bath, lowering her body into the healing waters. She wished her cousin was here. Were here.
‘Isn’t there another way?’ Miki moaned.
‘Yep. It’s called “Motherhood”. But are you ready for it?’
‘Oh God, Jude. What have I done?’
‘Here’s looking at you, kid. Down the hatch. C’mon, one, two, three. Drink!'
She watched as Miki took some of