Read Online Spin Cycle by Ilsa Evans - Free Book Online

pending ‘big schoolgirl’ status, I was to be surprised with a room of my own. So, I waited with bated breath and walked around with what I fancied was a rather knowing smile, which actually earned me more than my fair share of slaps. When, a week before the big day, Diane and I were suddenly informed that we were to spend a few nights with Auntie Lenore, I just figured that our parents needed that time to put the finishing touches on my room. Auntie Lenore could not possibly have been the surprise – her only claim to fame was her rather amazing moustache (a decade later she was to earn instant celebrity status as the surprise winner of a nationwide John Newcombe lookalike contest).
    Sure enough, as I waited patiently with my packed bag by Auntie Lenore’s door on ‘big schoolgirl’ eve, my father arrived to collect us. I can still recall the choked anticipation with which I hurriedly exited the car and entered the house, only to find it full of people and, in the centre, my mother proudly posing for a pictorial version of ‘Madonna with child’. My big surprise, and the new occupant of the redecorated spare room, turned out to be thepuce-coloured infant in her lap – Bloody Elizabeth. In retrospect, I do remember that my mother also got increasingly plump around that time but I was only six and things like ‘pregnancy’ or ‘hey, just thought I’d forewarn you that you’ll be getting a little brother or sister soon’ simply weren’t mentioned in our house.
    God! I’ve only just fired my therapist and already I’m confronting issues head-on! I shake myself and make a valiant effort to put the past behind me while I walk back around to the rear door and let myself in with my key (never having opened up before, it takes me ten minutes to find it), and proceed to telephone Teresa (hell’s bells, I just remembered that I forgot to ring her back last night!). I hang up on Bronte’s voice cheerfully informing me that she and her mother are not home but would simply love to talk to me as soon as possible, and try a few of my other colleagues in turn but there is no answer anywhere. I finally track down a mobile number and dial that instead.
    â€˜Hello?’ (Lots of static and road noise.)
    â€˜Barbara! What’s going on? I’m at work and you’re not!’
    â€˜It’s the strike today, you dummy! Remember we discussed it last Friday?’
    â€˜Vaguely … but I didn’t know it was definite – or today!’
    â€˜We talked again yesterday, but Joanne said she’d remind you. She’s supposed to be picking you up from your house at eight-thirty. God, she’s going to be furious.’
    â€˜I don’t remember that at –’
    â€˜Listen, I can’t talk now, I’m in heaps of traffic. Meet us somewhere along the route. We’re meeting all the others at ten-thirty and then marching towards Parliament House, okay?’
    â€˜I suppose so. What’s the route though?’
    â€˜Well, lucky you! See you soon!’
    Lucky me? What others? What the hell is she talking about? Number one: I am quite sure that nothing definite was agreed on Friday, I remember listening. Number two: I never made any arrangement to drive in with Joanne, I can’t stand Joanne, if I had known about any of this I would have made an arrangement to be driven in by someone else (probably Terry, certainly not an oddball like Joanne), because I HATE driving in the city. Number three: where the hell is Parliament House anyway?
    I suppose I could drive to Ringwood, leave the car and catch the train into Melbourne. It’s just as quick and I won’t have to park it. Once I’m in the city I could ask directions and then meander towards Parliament House generally, having a look at a few shops along the way. And if I don’t see the marchers (or if they don’t see me), well at least I can say that I