Friday, June 6

For years I've reliably woken at 7 o'clock without the help of artificial aids such as alarm clocks or roosters.  Recently, though, I've been sleeping longer, sometimes not opening my eyes until after 8.  It's not necessarily a bad thing: the days can be long and it's unlikely I would have an early appointment.  Friday is different.  Our cleaning lady, Sandra, is likely to arrive quite early and I have a couple of chores to do before she gets here.

I strip the bed. The doona and pillows are transported to the front room. All the linen: sheets, pillowcases, are put into the laundry for washing, and fresh linen brought out from the cupboard.  There's a 'topper' over the mattress which has to be rotated regularly so I do that.  So, it's all ready for Sandra to get on with it.

At 8 o'clock, she still hasn't arrived, nor at 9.  Is she sick or is there another problem?  Finaly at 10, the doorbell rings.  But, it's a young man.  "I'm Stephen," he says.

There's no explanation but Marilyn explains the routine and he cheerfully gets on with it.  We still don't know what's happened to Sandra.

Today's story, Poor Relations, mentions whistling. It's not the only story I've written about whistling and I wonder why I'm so obsessed.

POOR RELATIONS

I suppose our family is just like any other.  Some members have had more success in life than others but, at the end of the day, we all have a roof over our heads and enough to eat.  I have five cousins: 2 girls and 3 boys; there are 5 years between the oldest and the youngest and, while we were growing up there was a lot of rivalry among us, comparing toys, marks in school, clothes (especially by the girls) but, generally, we got on well.

One Christmas, though, I realised that, in one important aspect of life, I stood out as superior to all the others.  We were all together at our usual family Christmas and all the kids were in Nana’s backyard getting over the big Christmas lunch.  Unconsciously, in my contentment, I began to whistle Jingle Bells.  A thought struck me.  Wouldn’t it be good if we could put together a whistling choir and the adults would be delighted if we showed how clever we were by whistling Christmas carols to entertain them.

To my surprise, though, none of my cousins could whistle.  The girls, I suspect, thought it unladylike and refused to take part but the boys blew and blew with no real tune coming out.

“Wet your lips, like this,” I said, “and make a little circle.  Put your tongue behind them and blow, but not too hard.”  I found it easy but they were hopeless.  I smugly thought that I was much cleverer than all my other poor relations

Life has moved on now and I find myself with time on my hand, having taken early retirement for reasons I don’t want to go into.  I live alone, my wife deciding to make a new life for herself with a bloke she met at the gym.  My constant companion is the TV set and I spend too many hours watching day-time soaps and right-wing crackpots telling me how they would run the country.

By chance I met my cousin, Greg, in the bottle shop one afternoon.  He was a bit aloof and told me I didn’t look too well.  What a cheek and I thought, ‘This is the fellow who couldn’t even whistle when we were kids.  I wonder if he’s managed to achieve that goal.  What makes him think that I want to hear his opinion?’

He said to me that it was about time we had a family reunion and that all my cousins would love to see me again and catch up.  I thought he was a bit patronising but I couldn’t see any harm in spending time with my poor relations and I would probably enjoy some company and a home-cooked meal.

I thought long and hard about the forthcoming get-together.  I didn’t want to appear as the failure of the family with everyone looking down on me because I had lost my job and my wife, and wondered how I could make sure that I didn’t appear to be the sad case that needed looking after.  My mind went back to that Christmas Day all those years ago when I was the one who outshone the others.  How could I bring back that feeling of superiority?

We were to meet for a barbecue at Greg’s.  I took particular care with my appearance, shaving neatly and wearing my best casual clothes.  I brought a bottle of a fairly expensive wine though I could ill afford it and turned up at the door.  I was made welcome, although I felt a definite atmosphere of sympathy for me.  I hated that.  I took the glass of wine I was offered and, before I knew it, the glass was empty. ‘Slow down,’ I thought. ‘Don’t push it too hard.’

I knew my cousin, Darren, went sailing on the weekend and I asked him if he ever had trouble when there was no wind.  “I’ve heard,” I said, “That sailors in the old days used to whistle up a wind if they needed one.  Have you ever tried that? Oh, no, I forgot.  You can’t whistle.” And laughed.

Later when my cousin Helen was telling us about the church she attended I asked her whether she had come across the verse which said that ‘a crowing cock and a whistling woman is an abomination to the Lord?’  “But that wouldn’t worry you,” I said. “I remember, you can’t whistle.”

I looked for other opportunities to remind them of my superiority but the rest of the afternoon is a blur.  I suspect I drank too much and Greg had to drive me home, to my lonely flat, but at least I didn’t have to put up with my poor relations any longer..