House Guests on the Lake
By JPYoung
‘It’ll be wonderful staying with the Wilsons! They’re so much fun!’
Indeed, they were.
His wife worked with Gilbert Wilson for many years; he knew Gilbo as his union representative who helped him fight a bullying manageress. They enjoyed Gilbo’s artistic wife Lucy as well; she had many creative hobbies. Both were fine conversationalists and had a wonderful sense of humour.
After the Wilsons purchased and renovated a house on a lake far to the north of them in Bogonwoy, they were invited as weekend house guests. Leaving early on an unusually hot day, road construction delayed their arrival.
The Wilson’s new home was still having work done on it, but their backyard adjoining the large lake had an impressive view. Unfortunately, their home smelled like a Bangkok canal due to the lake weeds and algae. It was apparent that the Wilsons had grown accustomed to the stench.
The lake itself was grey, that seemed unusual as the sky was blue. Usually, a lake that colour reflected grey clouds, not the brilliant blue cloudless afternoon.
First off was the Grand Tour of their new home, then tales of battling the builders and lawsuits with litigant locals.
‘We couldn’t live anywhere else! How would you like to come fishing?’
He was of the same opinion as Billy Connolly's ‘fishing was transcendental meditation with a punchline’, but he feigned enthusiasm.
The pair changed into T-shirts and shorts, then boarded the Wilson’s ‘yacht’, a small metal boat with an outdoor motor called a ‘tinnie’.
‘Have another type of tinnie!’
Gilbo passed him a tin of beer from the ‘Esky’, a portable ice box with its name derived from the word "Eskimo".
In Australia, a person or item wasn’t endearing unless its name ended in a vowel.
‘No thanks, Gilbo. I’m giving up the grog.’
‘Awwww, you’re a real party pooper!’
Lucy pointed out a cask of white wine inside the Eskie; the ladies indulged with some plastic glasses. He drank cold soda water used for mixing drinks.
To his chagrin, Gilbo was ‘fishing’ through trolling; dragging the fishline through the water to snag, rather than catch the fish. His fisherman father perpetually lectured him that trolling was a barbaric practice done by people without the knowledge, intelligence, patience and maturity for matching their wits against a fish’s mind.
Gilbo was having the time of his life acting like Captain Nemo at ramming speed. The laughing ladies held on as they enjoyed their wine.
The blazing afternoon passed as Captain Gilbo waved at other tinnies and jet-skis that made the lake sound like a buzzsaw factory.
They caught four large bottom-feeders.
‘This is our dinner tonight! How fresh can it get?’
‘Sorry, Gilbo, but I’m allergic to seafood.’
Lucy joined Gilbo in making faces of disapproval, but her joyful demeanour returned.
‘That’s no problem. I can make you something else, but I’ll have to do you another salad because I use fish sauce and fresh greens from the lake!’
After changing clothes for dinner, he had tea, the ladies enjoyed champagne and Gilbo continued with the lager.
Gilbo croaked out the mother of all large belches,
‘Can you beat that one?...Better out than in!’
The women cackled; he’d rather be anywhere else…
His wife and the Wilsons squeezed wedges of lemon on both their salads, that smelled like the lake, and their fish that they ate with skins and heads on.
He imagined the fish’s mouths moving and moaning,
‘Get out of here as fast as you can!’
Lucy made him a wonderful meal that was perfection in simplicity. A bowl of fusilli pasta with olive oil, Pecorino Romano and just the right amount of garlic accompanied by a colourful salad of home-grown cherry tomatoes, capsicum and cucumbers, topped off with balsamic glaze.
Dessert was ice cream with coffee and amaretto combined as Affogato.
His wife’s sunburn became noticeable soon after dinner.
The alcohol flowed with their conversations; perhaps the Wilsons thought it the best thing for sunburn.
Darkness fell; frog horde cacophony rose.
‘Why don’t we have a swim? There’s nothing better for sunburn than a swim and some of our lake’s mud.’
‘We didn’t pack our suits.’
‘We don’t wear them either!’ Gilbo sneered as he looked at him, ‘If he doesn’t like fish or grog, he’s not up for skinny-dipping!’
Both women cackled.
The evening passed, it was time for bed in the guest room.
He fell asleep to the sound of his wife’s nonstop whispering about her painful sunburn…
* * *
He awoke in the wee hours of the morning; his wife was gone.
The sounds of splashing and laughter came from the lake. He looked out the back window, the Wilsons and his wife left the water in the nude, but his wife was covered in lake mud.
The light made the Wilson’s look as if they had green skin, but his wife didn’t appear green at all…
They entered snickering to see him silently staring.
The Wilson’s eyes grew, their pupils resembled those of giant frogs…
‘Don’t you think you’d better get back to bed, party pooper?’
* * *
He awoke in the coolness of the morning, his wife entered in a bathrobe provided by their hosts.
‘You’ve had a long sleep! Your robe is over there. After your shower we’ll have breakfast. I told Lucy you loved scrambled eggs with parmesan and fried tomatoes. We’re having fish omelettes.’
‘How’s your sunburn, dear?’
‘All gone!’
‘How was your swim?’
‘What swim?’
‘You were out in the morning having a swim.’
She laughed,
‘You’ve been having some wild dreams! All I did was go straight to bed! The wine and champagne knocked me out!’
The Wilsons were bright over the breakfast table, his wife didn’t have a hangover as he feared, nor did she complain of any sunburn.
They laughed as they always did as they retold their old stories and caught up with the lives of mutual friends they hadn’t seen in years.
Did she go skinny dipping whilst being tipsy? Was he imagining his wife and the Wilsons giving each other conspiratorial looks? Or was it his paranoia?
Had anything happened the previous night? He must have been dreaming...
It was soon time to go to make it home before nightfall.
* * *
‘I love it on the lake! I feel so at home there! Wouldn’t it be lovely to buy a house and have the Wilsons as our neighbours forever more?’
His self-discipline kept him from slamming on the breaks and screaming,
‘SWAMP HELL ON EARTH!!!’
He didn’t want to argue on the long drive home, so he told his wife about his nightmare that made her laugh.
A distracting fly buzzed in his face; he tried to drive it out the window.
His wife’s tongue shot out catching the fly on the stickiness of her long reptilian tongue that zapped back into her mouth…
FIN
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