West Wyalong is in flames. Hay is clutching at its last straw. Motels are reeling.
Draw together, defenceless ones.
The grandchildren are coming.
Everywhere relatives are putting on their best face. Welcoming banners are being erected. Warning signs are in place. The toilet wall awaits its graffiti.
The bathroom is ready to become a flooded paddyfield and a soapy swamp.
Vulnerable tablecloths are being hidden and the tough old plastic, wipe me-downs are being brought out.
The grandchildren are coming and they are drawing near.
My wife already is planning the blankets and the beds that need borrowing.
The kinky ice-cream with its leering litres of raspberry ripple is going into the refrigerator.
Prepare, prepare.
The hordes are being released. The mini-Goths are upon us, the kindy Huns are on the loose, the teeny Vikings are preparing to sack the sitting room and plunder the pantry.
The holidays are coming.
My eardrums are tingling with dread at the thought of erupting stereos, of telly and transistor in raucous accord.
“They’ll be a year older,” says my wife.
They’ll be a year older and a year bolder; a year prouder and a year louder.
Adjust your face, you old sourpuss. They are your flesh and blood even though they make your flesh creep and your blood boil. OK, they are nice on the telephone, nice and offhand. They are mostly background on the telephone when you are talking to other people.
“That’s the kids in the background”, says your dear one.
“You mean it’s not a tank battle?” you shout from your end.
It’s all nice because they’re a long way off, like distant thunder.
Now they are coming. Take cover, Truro. Stand by, Smithfield.
They are on their way, sticky-faced and relentless, pouting and looting.
Today we had an emergency meeting on food supplies. The shelves are piled high with trendy cereal, crunchy, munchy and crackly. They’ll have it all over the floor like the brown snow. The milk will run in rivers. The cordial, green and orange, will rainbow its way in restless tides over kitchen tiles or cataract down the cupboards.
Our blackbirds are folding their wings and sub-letting their nests. Small rodents are leaving our house. They know when an earthquake is coming.
Oh, the rich smell of rancid sun lotion, the trail of discarded under wear, the stumbling impediment of discarded thongs, the ceaseless interrogation about food, about the anatomy, about going to the beach How can I wait?
My wife says that of course the grandchildren will be asking a lot of questions.
When didn’t they? And they’ll have learnt a lot of new words. When haven’t they?
Last year they came out with an affectionate nickname for me. It sent other adults into hysterics and I was mildly pleased.
Hullo, Whale Bum, they said.
So the poodle and I are enjoying our last few days of peace, sharing a brave gingerbread and stitching every nerve-end tight.
Everything combustible, edible; anything that will mark, paint or perforate… all are being put on the higher shelves.
It is a fulfilling time for us, says my wife. And the filling will start as soon as they arrive, mark my words.
Move over, Genghis Khan. Stand by, the Riot Squad.
The grandchildren are coming Whale Bum is on red alert!
Max Fatchen