Australian Dreams. Fiona McCallum

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      Claire dropped her box on the kitchen bench, kicked her shoes off and threw herself on the sofa. Now what? She looked around for answers and spied the cordless phone on the tinted glass coffee table.

      ‘Hi Bernie, it’s me, Claire. Look, sorry to disturb you at work but…’ Claire’s voice cracked.

      ‘What! What’s happened? Are you okay?’

      ‘Um, actually no. I’ve just lost my job and…’ The lump in Claire’s throat exploded and the tears began to flow. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she sobbed. ‘I feel so lost… I was wondering if… well, if…’

      ‘Don’t be silly. Come straight up. Are you okay to drive?’

      ‘I think so.’

      ‘Come to the house, I’ll shut the shop.’

      ‘I don’t want to be a burden – I’m happy to wait. It’s just…’

      ‘I know, and don’t be ridiculous. What are friends for? Just throw together some clothes and toiletries and get in the car.’

      ‘Thanks, Bern.’

      ‘No worries. And Claire?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Nothing is ever as bad as it first seems. I’ll see you soon – drive carefully.’

      ‘Thanks, I will.’

      Claire had been on the phone less than a minute, but just hearing her friend’s voice was a big relief. She didn’t feel so alone, so out of control. She smiled ever so slightly through her drying tears. Trust Bernadette to take charge. At least now she had a plan for the next forty minutes: she was driving up the freeway to the Adelaide Hills.

       Chapter Seven

      By the time Claire arrived at Bernie’s house she was exhausted and dishevelled, as if she’d been physically fighting the goings-on in her head – the war the left and right hemispheres of her brain had been waging the whole way. She was still no more certain. Was the redundancy a good thing, a chance to take a breath and get her life back into order? Or was it the catastrophe she’d initially thought it was?

      Bernadette ran down the steps, burgundy curls flying out like a cape behind her. Claire was quietly relieved at the prospect of shedding half her burden. She got out of the car, returned her best friend’s hug, and burst into tears.

      After letting Claire cling to her for a few minutes, sobbing, Bernadette gently turned her to the house. ‘Come on in,’ she said.

      Claire allowed herself to be helped like an invalid up the verandah steps and inside.

      Bernie deposited her on the lounge and went out to boil the kettle. Claire listened to her friend pottering about in the kitchen and thought to offer help, but felt fused to her plush surroundings. Her head was fuzzy.

      Bernadette brought in a tray with some mugs, a teapot, sugar, milk and a plate of homemade Anzac biscuits, and put it down on the coffee table.

      Claire frowned. She could see but wasn’t really seeing; she could hear but it was a muffle somewhere in the depths of her brain. Distantly she realised Bernadette was pushing at her arm, almost hitting her. Claire shook her head, trying to shake the cotton wool from her ears and milky film from her eyes. She fought the urge to curl up and go to sleep, pretend this day hadn’t happened.

      ‘Here, drink this. I’ve put some sugar in it to help with the shock.’

      Yes, that was what was going on. Shock. How could she have forgotten? Not so long ago she’d been in a similar state after news of Keith, and then, not quite so bad of course, her father.

      ‘Thanks,’ she said, accepting the mug. She wrapped her hands around it to try to draw its warmth into her. She took a tentative sip and ran the hot, sweet, milky liquid around her tongue before swallowing. She instantly felt comforted. No wonder tea was the first thing to come out in a crisis. Claire sighed and let herself relax slightly.

      Bernadette, who had been watching and waiting for the right moment, spoke. ‘Now, starting from the beginning, tell me everything.’

      Claire looked down into her cup, searching for the logical order of the day’s events.

      ‘Remember how I told you I’d finally decided to take some time off? Well I went into Derek’s office to get the form signed and instead I got handed my notice.’

      ‘He fired you, just like that?’

      Claire took a sip of her tea. ‘Not fired, exactly: made redundant.’