Jane Bitomsky

It started with a bunch of bananas.

Lady fingers, to be precise.

One

It is a truth commonly known among the geriatric population of Brisbane that Wednesday is the best day for grocery shopping. One might say, with an air of experiential superiority, that it is the smart choice. For Wednesdays are when supermarkets put out new produce, and advertise mid-week specials. Also, quite simply, there’s nothing better to do. No bridge, no lawn bowls, no morning teas.

Hazel and Betty meet in the foyer of two Sandford Street, St Lucia at 9.30 am, as they do every Wednesday. Together, they walk the hundred odd metres from the apartment building to the number sixteen bus stop around the corner, the wheels of their trolley bags clicking on the concrete pavement. Betty’s proud as punch of her trolley bag. Her daughter Anne gifted it to her at Christmas. It has a lime green fabric pattern with daisies. Much more stylish than Hazel’s tweed.

The bus shelter is plastered with advertising for a local real estate agent. Unnaturally white veneers are on prominent display, along with an ebony bob so symmetrical it could be a wig, and a face as unlined as a mannequin. Hazel wrinkles her nose, but refrains from voicing that said agent has changed considerably since that photo was taken, gaining more than a few kilos, wrinkles and gray hairs. Betty has no such compunction.

‘Hah. They’re in for a rude shock when they see what Lori Randall looks like now.’ Someone’s stuck googly eyes on Lori, which Hazel thinks shows foreplanning on the vandal’s part. The devil horns and moustache in black marker are less original.

Giving the empty aluminium bench in the shelter a perfunctory scan for bird droppings, the women seat themselves, pleased to be undercover. The Australian sun is unforgiving, even on a cloudy autumn day. Hazel’s pale freckled skin and strawberry blonde hair, once natural but now dyed every six weeks, make her a prime candidate for melanoma. There’s only so much that long-sleeved blouses and pants, which Hazel wears regardless of the season, can do. She’s avoided skin cancer thus far. The same can’t be said for her late husband Martin.

Betty’s olive skin, a throwback of her Spanish heritage, is a cause of no small jealousy. She doesn’t feel Hazel’s compulsion to cover up. Her beige, belted corduroy dress, which years of washing has shrunk, leaves an ample amount of leg bared. It would be wise, for both Betty and passersby, to exercise caution in the event of a strong breeze.

Despite being of similar vintage to Hazel, Betty’s complexion makes her age somewhat indeterminable, with her face and skin significantly less wrinkled. Regardless, should anyone be uncouth enough to ask either woman their age, they would receive a prim, a lady never tells, and a pointed, nor asks.

It’s a strategic time to catch the bus as the roads are experiencing a lull, with city commuters and students at work and school respectively. When you get to Betty and Hazel’s age, outings are planned meticulously to avoid inconveniences like crowded buses. As recently as six months ago, Betty drove the pair to buy groceries, but after several mishaps with the poles in Toowong Village’s underground parking lot, the bus was deemed safer. Her grey Toyota corolla, its wheels heavily scraped and bumper covered in myriad dings and dents, is safely at home in the garage. The change in transport has had a positive effect on both their fitness and Hazel’s heart, which suffered frequent palpitations while a passenger in the corolla.

A blue and yellow bus swings onto the street. The two women squint at the banner on the bus front, trying to read the number. Hazel’s wearing glasses, Betty isn’t. Never show weakness is Betty’s motto. And, if in doubt, follow Hazel’s lead and stand.

The bus pulls up beside the shelter. Releasing a sound similar to an air pressure hose filling up a tyre, not that either woman knows how to use one, its doors swing open. Betty peers up at the driver, a small ethnic man in the standard dark blue uniform who’s barely tall enough to see out the windscreen. Instead of querying whether there’s a minimum height requirement for drivers, she asks a much more important question.

‘Where’s Gerald? He always drives the 411.’

‘He’s not sick, is he?’ Hazel asks worriedly.

‘This is the 402 bus, Ladies,’ he says in a monotone.

‘Ah.’ They totter back to the bench.

‘He has a good voice for public service announcements,’ Hazel says. Betty makes a noise of agreement.

The 411 bus arrives moments later.

‘Morning, Betty, Hazel,’ Gerald says.

‘You’re a minute late,’ Betty informs him, scanning her seniors go card. She was highly offended when TransLink didn’t require ID to process her seniors card. Everyone says Betty could pass for Anne’s sister rather than mother. She’d taken both her driver’s licence and passport along as proof of age.

‘Caught every red light.’

‘How’s Edith?’ Hazel’s tone is caring.

‘Still on bedrest.’ Gerald grimaces. ‘And not happy.’

‘It’s not for much longer.’ Hazel pats his dark blue shoulder, which is more muscular than expected. ‘A few more weeks and the baby will be here. Then she’ll wish for bedrest.’ Betty nudges Hazel to get a move on. Gerald has time to make up. ‘Give her our best.’

Five passengers are scattered throughout the bus. A boy in his late teens is sprawled across two seats in the priority section, his oversized headphones blaring vacuous “dance” music that even Betty can hear. A dusty-looking backpack rests on the ground between his stretched out lanky legs, and his shoulder-length brown hair is styled with more hair products than an Elvis Presley impersonator. Younger generations, honestly. Betty scans him for a disability, detecting none. She shifts her trolley bag so it runs over his feet, making him draw his legs in and straighten up. Then she sits down beside him, ignoring the many other vacant seats. Hazel claims the spot on his other side, smiling warmly.

‘So lovely how they provide seating for those less able, isn’t it?’ she says.

The teenager is more shameless than expected. He doesn’t budge from his seat, doggedly ignoring the stares boring into him from either side. Betty worries she’s losing her touch. It’s with dismay that she presses the red button for their stop. If only they were on the bus longer, they might have had him. Maybe they’ll have a rematch next Wednesday.

‘Thank you, Gerald.’ Hazel and Betty wave as they hop off at the ramp to Toowong village. It’s a pretty shopping centre. The blue glass exterior reflects the sky on clear days. Hazel thinks of it as Brisbane’s equivalent to the London Shard. Stretching outwards rather than up. The architect of Toowong village doesn’t have the size compensation issues of the Shard’s, though Hazel must admit that the Shard does do a good afternoon tea. The date scones are divine. There’s just something about clotted cream when in England. Of course, it did spark a heated debate between her and Betty as to whether jam or cream goes on scones first. Hazel is a firm proponent of the Cornish method. Those who favour the Devon method of putting cream on the bottom are utter heathens. She clucks her tongue at the notion. Being born with an umbilical cord wrapped around her neck clearly affected Betty’s brain.

They trundle their way up the ramp, walking two abreast, blocking anyone behind from overtaking. The distinctive green and white panelling of Sizzler comes into view at the top, conjuring images of cheese toast, crispy potato skins and tomato pasta. Not to mention the dessert bar. A visit to the salad section may be obligatory for health reasons, but it is neither Hazel nor Betty’s preferred offering.

‘Must be more than a year since I’ve eaten there.’ Hazel motions to Sizzler. ‘I loved going there after the girls’ netball games and dance recitals.’ Betty’s memories of her last visit are not so fond. She overindulged on the dessert offerings, resulting in a distended belly that belied her menopausal condition. Apple crumble has not been eaten since. ‘Nora was the cutest little darling in that penguin costume you made.’

‘Well, somebody had to make it. Not as if Anne can sew.’

‘Oh, she’s far too busy for that.’ Hazel flaps a hand. ‘What are grandmothers for? Not that I’m much for sewing anymore.’ She holds her left hand up, the knuckles swollen and stiff with arthritis. ‘Can’t even wear a ring.’ After having been cut off her finger twice and resized, Hazel’s wedding ring hangs on a necklace around her neck. Betty’s tactful enough not to comment that she doesn’t need to wear a ring. Martin’s been in the ground five years.

Any wedding ring tan disappeared from Betty’s hand a decade ago. Not that Edgar’s dead. Though he might as well be. He was dead to Betty the moment she learned of his affair with that no good slapper Heather Morris. Real estate agents, can’t trust them. The women are worse than the men. Employ a male realtor with slicked back hair and weasel-sized eyes, and you get the slimeball you expect. Employ a smartly dressed female realtor with a lion’s smile, and she could simply be abiding by the maxim that appearance is everything in the property industry, or she could be after your good for nothing but well-off husband.

Betty breathes in deeply and exhales, letting go of the sudden red-hot spike of rage, and takes comfort in the fact that their daughter sided with her. Also, from all accounts, Heather’s last bout of Botox went poorly, resulting in a droopy eye and lips painfully close to popping like a balloon. Ah, one can dream.

Taking the grey tile corridor past Sizzler, the two women walk slowly and mindfully in their orthotic sandals. Neither possesses the shuffle gait of the neurologically impaired, nor do they require a walking aid, but both are leery of succumbing to the much dreaded plight of those who reach a certain age: a fall. A “fall” takes on a new meaning when you’re over seventy-five. Ahem. Not that Betty or Hazel are over seventy-five. Wink, wink.

As a child, a fall meant a scraped knee or bruise. A fall as a senior, however, may mean a broken hip, a concussion or, in the case of Irene Watts, a former member of Friday book club at Indooroopilly library, death from kidney rupture. Hazel read recently that falls are a leading cause of death among the elderly, occasioning 684,000 deaths every year. Why bother worrying about cancer or heart disease when a mere trip of the feet is drastically more likely to take them out?

Hazel must make a note that the word ‘fall’ is not to be used in her obituary, should it be what does her in. A ‘sudden’ or ‘unexpected incident’ is more appropriate. Unless the obituary implies that it was a waterfall, and not water on the floor, that occasioned her death. What a daredevil of an old bird she’d sound then. Hazel greatly regrets choosing ‘Grandma’ as her title for the grandchildren, and not ‘Glamma’ or ‘Grandy.’ At least she didn’t pick ‘Gran’ like Betty. For some reason the word ‘Gran’ evokes images of old egg custard flans. Not that she would tell Betty.

Trolley bags humming along on the tile like suitcases at the airport, they go through the large automatic glass doors into the first floor of Toowong Village Shopping Centre, and slow from a turtle to a snail’s pace at the sight of a yellow “caution: wet floor” sign.

‘Shopping?’ Hazel says.

‘Then coffee.’

Passing several retail shops intended for a younger demographic, they come to the main circular thoroughfare. The middle of the complex is a hollowed out cylinder encased in a glass fence. Thick silver escalators convey passengers across, traversing the four levels. The escalators remind Betty of the Harry Potter movie she watched with Nora last weekend, and the changing staircases at Hogwarts. She must mention it to Nora at dinner tonight. It gives her a sense of satisfaction, being up to date on her youngest grandchild’s interests. She’s quite the hip gran, really.

Ambling along the thoroughfare, they make their way around to the red and white of Coles supermarket. Toowong pharmacy is a blinding fluorescent beacon on the left. Given the pharmacy’s most reliable customers are typically of poorer vision, Hazel surmises they must be trying to lure the elderly in like moths to a flame. It does remind her to buy calci-chews on the way out.

Zarrafa café has a queue of several people in office attire waiting impatiently, as desperate in their need to suck down their first coffees of the day as anaemic vampires are for blood. A strong smell of ammonia and chlorine permeates from the butcher, concealing the scent of blood and raw meat on display in their cabinets.

‘I could do with a good steak,’ Betty says. ‘As long as it’s not chewy. I hope John’s barbequing abilities have improved. His last attempt was charcoaled on the outside, and blue in the middle.’ A feat one would think impossible. Tough meat is hell on Betty’s dentures. She hates sending poorly cooked steak back at restaurants, but what can you do when the alternative is that your teeth fall out from excessive mastication? She could order fish or chicken instead, Betty supposes, but where’s the fun in that? Pity her son-in-law can’t remedy his cooking like a restaurant. It’s fortunate Anne has the sense to ply guests with the good scotch and chocolates.

‘You know how sensitive Johnny is about his cooking,’ Hazel chides. ‘He’s trying, which is more than most men. Do be kind.’ Betty makes a noncommittal noise. She’ll try to fill up on dips and chips beforehand.

Testing the wheels of several large metal carts for ease of pushing, they settle on a cart each. A small cart might be more suitable given they’re both shopping for a single person, but they need somewhere to stow their trolley bags. Retrieving their respective handwritten grocery lists, they push through the bollard gate marked with a forwards arrow, into Coles.

‘Supermarkets never used to have a gate,’ Hazel remarks.

‘It’s because they think we’re fools who don’t know how to get into a supermarket otherwise.’ Betty wags her head.

‘I thought it might be to steer people to the produce section first.’ Hazel gestures at the crates of apples and bananas. ‘Australia’s obesity rates are dreadful.’ A plump woman in a vibrant muumuu stops to stare at the pair, wondering whether this was a jab at her weight. ‘Oh, what an angel.’ Hazel smiles sweetly, wriggling her fingers at the child in the woman’s cart, uncertain if they’re a boy or girl from the neutral-coloured clothing and short hair. His mother continues on, mollified. ‘Nora and Melanie were far cuter,’ Hazel says discreetly to Betty, who nods.

They set to gathering the items on their lists. Hazel’s blue-veined hands test the firmness of the royal gala apples, while Betty inspects the bananas with the scrutiny of a banker searching for fraudulent currency.

‘Oh no, you can’t put the bananas in there.’ Betty looks bemusedly at her chosen bananas. They’re perfectly yellow and unbruised. She arches her thin brows at Hazel, the speckles of grey hair painted dark brown every morning. ‘Bananas in the top of the cart mean you’re looking.’

‘Looking for what?’

‘A male companion.’ Hazel’s voice is hushed. ‘A swain.’ Betty’s forehead furrows. ‘A sweetheart, a paramour.’ Hazel grasps for another term to clue her friend in. ‘A lover.’ Realisation dawns.

‘Huh.’ Betty eyes the bananas, their tips pointed upwards. She does not move them. ‘I am widowed.’

‘Divorced,’ Hazel corrects.

‘Do you think I should swap the ladyfingers for bobbys? I don’t want to give the wrong impression, and imply I’m a,’ she leans in, putting a hand to her mouth, ‘lesbian.’ Hazel gapes like a fish out of water. Betty, meanwhile, studies the other bodies in the produce section, seemingly surveying her prospects.

‘You’re not serious?’ Hazel can feel her blood pressure rising. She should request a quarter shot of coffee at the café after shopping.

‘I’m a lady of a certain age, Hazel, not dead.’

‘That doesn’t mean you should trawl the supermarket with provocative fruit.’ Her lips are pressed together primly. ‘Strike up a conversation at bowls or golf.’ She sticks up a finger, struck with inspiration. ‘Or do what modern people do. Go online.’

‘Online.’ Betty’s nose wrinkles in distaste.

‘Precisely. Now, I’m off to look at some nuts.’ Hazel holds her head up high, affecting a superior air, and pushes her cart forwards, making a squeaking sound that could have come from the wheels or her trousers.

Betty stares after her. She doesn’t think Hazel is capable of innuendo, but her dear friend does surprise her occasionally. Selecting four granny smiths, she places them gently in her cart. Brazil nuts are next on the list. A good source of selenium. She should ask whether Hazel’s tasted any nuts from Brazil, to gauge her reaction. And if she prefers them salted.

A small, devious smile curving her lips, Betty strolls towards the health food aisle.