Miss Benson's Beetle

by Rachel Joyce

  Margery counted on her fingers, trying to find the date. Trying to learn the day that Enid’s baby had come into the world: February 16. The day they should have left New Caledonia to begin a completely different journey home.

  “Well, I never,” she said to the silence. “Fuckadoodledoo.”

  And when her eyes began to close, the person who came to her mind was not her father. It was her mother, sitting patient and solid in her chair at the window. Maybe not so much wasting her life as doing her best, as far as she knew how, to wedge herself between Margery and the outside world, and offer protection. Mad though it was, she wished she could have thanked her.

  A car’s headlights made their way slowly past the shantytown, and out toward the bungalow. But Margery did not see them. She was fast asleep.

  The beriberi was back, and he was sick. Very sick. He spent more time asleep than awake. If he tried to eat, he threw up. It hurt to move and it hurt to breathe. He had been ill for weeks.

  He didn’t like to be still. If he was still, the memories came back. He had to be doing something to stop them all the time. He counted the leaves on a tree. He counted every stone at his feet, or how many steps he took before he needed to be ill again. Because if he did not have his mind on numbers this inhuman fear came over him, and he did not know where he was, and he did not know what he was doing anymore.

  Then he would see Miss Benson. He would remember he was here to lead her expedition. He would look at his notebook and he didn’t know what day it was. He only knew there had been Christmas, and after Christmas he had waited for his passport, and then he had made his way here, and he had a room to go to, but he couldn’t find it. And he would look at the dates in his notebook and it said leaving Brisbane on February 18, and that must be soon, but he didn’t know why so many things kept getting in the way. The police who put him in a cell.

  The British consul. The blonde. A dog. There had been a dog that tried to kill him. And a gun. He had a gun. He couldn’t remember why he had stolen it. But it was the Japs that were the worst thing. They were everywhere.

  And now he was running. He was running fast. He didn’t know anymore if he was asleep or awake. He was pushing his feet through the red earth of the track toward the bungalow, but it was dark ahead and he couldn’t make his feet work. They were going to fall off. His legs were falling off because of the beriberi. And the lights of the Jap tanks were getting closer. He could feel them on his back. If he didn’t get away, they would catch him and take him back to the camp, but there were snakes. There were snakes everywhere he looked.

  He remembered them in Burma, coiled beneath the huts, slipping out of view, the whip of a long skin, like rope. Back then he’d found a way to bear everything. The dysentery and the lack of food and the fellows dying of cholera and the trudging for miles, and he could tell himself that the bodies weren’t dead, they were just lying in the sun, and he could say to himself he had the flame inside him, he was his mother’s special boy, he was not like the others, he was better than them, he would not get lost out there, he would not die, but what he couldn’t get away from was the snakes. There had been lads who’d chop off their heads and eat them, but he’d rather starve in a hole than see snakes.

  And then there had been the chaps who’d tried to escape and been brought back, and he remembered how they were left outside the barbed wire but no one was allowed to help because they must be punished. And all night Mundic had heard them screaming. And he’d tried not to listen, he tried not to feel, but someone kept shouting, “Snakes! Snakes!” And in the morning the bodies were black and half eaten. Even though he knew the snakes couldn’t do that to a human body, the idea was pinned through his head and it was all he could think about.

  And now Miss Benson had done something terrible. He had gone to the bungalow to have it out with her once and for all, and he had waited outside and he had heard the blonde screaming, and it had gone on for hours. Then he had seen Miss Benson come out of the veranda and she was covered with blood. And it was so terrible he had begun to run. He had begun to run back to Poum and he was almost there, he was running, he was running and his head was swinging, and then the car had appeared in front of him and he had no choice anymore but to fall to his feet and surrender.

  The car stopped. A Jap pulled him up and put his flashlight in Mundic’s eyes, and Mundic cowered, waiting for the first strike, but it wasn’t a Jap. It was a policeman.

  He said something Mundic didn’t understand.

  Mundic didn’t know what to do. He showed the guy his passport and his visa, and he crawled to his knees and begged for his life. He said, “Mercy, mercy,” like they said in New Caledonia.

  The policeman looked at Mundic’s passport. He studied the pages. He said, “Oui, Monsieur,” and he didn’t kick him; he helped him to his feet. He picked up Mundic’s haversack and helped him put it back on his shoulders. “Anglais?” he said. “Breeteesh?”

  Mundic nodded to say he was. The fellow offered him a cigarette, then struck a match and lit it for him.

  He said, “Les dames? Les dames anglaises?”

  Mundic hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. He shook his head to show he wasn’t trying to escape. He said, “Non.”

  “Elles sont ici?”

  “Non.” His heart was going like the clappers.

  “Il y a une maison?”

  “Non.”

  “Personne ici?”

  “Non.”

  The policeman shone his flashlight into the dark. He passed it over the track and the trees. Nothing moved. He nodded. He said, “Vous avez raison. Rien ici. Merci, Monsieur. Bonsoir.” He gave Mundic the packet of cigarettes to keep and then, just as he was about to walk away, something stopped him and he held out his hand. He said softly, “Monsieur, vous êtes malade, non? Vous venez avec moi? Vous êtes très malade.”

  Mundic turned on his heels and staggered into the dark.

  Safe. She must keep Enid and the baby safe. So long as they were safe, she would be able to live the rest of her life in peace. But so many things seemed to cloud her mind. Enid insisted she was well, but she was as pale as milk; she even had that bluish hue to her skin, and she was still bleeding. Margery needed to get her collection in order quickly, and sell it. She needed to raise enough money to get them off the island. But most bewildering of all was the baby. The baby had tipped Margery’s life upside down.

  Enid’s love for her child was so big and fierce, she couldn’t stop giving her names. She went through them like clothes, trying them on for size, then flinging them off. Nothing was right. Nothing offered the protection Enid wanted her baby to have, and she changed her mind by the hour. Hope. Greer, after Greer Garson, Mrs. Miniver being her favorite film. Betty, which had been her mother’s name. Little Wren, because she was so tiny. Things more biblical: Kezia, Rebecca, Mary. A brief flirtation with French names, like Cécile. In the end, she settled on Gloria. As for her surname, she wanted Benson. She wanted a proper name, not a bogus one, like Pretty. She wanted her daughter to have a name she could be proud of.

  “But, Enid,” said Margery, “that is my name.”

  “Yes, Marge. I know. I want to name her after you.”

  “But why?” Since the birth of Gloria, everything seemed to bewilder Margery and reduce her to tears, as if she were suddenly living with her vital organs exhibited on the outside. “I am not her father,” she said, blowing her nose.

  “I am going to call her Gloria Benson, because I know you will always look after her.”

  And already Margery knew this to be true. In fact, the words were small-fry. They didn’t even skim the surface of what Margery felt about this baby. This puking, bawling, yellow-shitting tiny thing of wonder. She had entered Margery’s life with the force of a missile and taken up residence in a place Margery hadn’t even known was there, let alone vacant. Despite her size—she was sma
ller than a doll, and her bones stuck out like beads inside all of Enid’s knitted baby clothes—she was clearly her mother’s daughter, and a survivor, even in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Margery had not enjoyed more than an hour of solid sleep since she’d been born. Gloria screamed and arched her tiny back until she had Enid’s nipple; then, sated, fell asleep, yellow milk caked around her mouth and spilling down her tiny chin. Enid set up camp in the middle of the main room, surrounded by blankets and mosquito nets, like a giant nest, with pots of hot and cold water, and whatever Margery could produce to feed her; Enid’s hunger was a monster. So Margery belted up and down, ripping up cloths to make new diapers, boiling everything that was soiled or bloody or covered with baby vomit, providing fresh rags for Enid, yet stopped by her every time she got anywhere vaguely near the door to come back, come and see what’s she doing, Marge. Look, look. I think she’s smiling.

  Margery gazed at the baby’s shut eyes with their regal lashes, and her good intention of a nose. Fingers that even came with their own miniature nails. The wild mop of her hair.

  “She has your hair, Marge.”

  “That cannot be true, Enid.” And yet. Her hair was thick and curly. It was marvelous hair.

  The first time she heard Gloria burp, she almost exploded with joy. How could such smallness contain so much perfection? Margery’s feelings for Enid were pale and ordinary beside this primordial expansion of her heart. It was so vast and painful, she couldn’t see where it ended—she could barely step away from Gloria without rushing back to check she was still breathing in and out. How shallow Margery’s existence had been until now, how naïve and small and ignorant. Suddenly she worried about things she hadn’t even noticed before. A rain cloud. A spider. For Gloria’s sake, she wanted to live in a clean, fresh country where there was no illness, no dirt, and people were only kind.

  But there was work to be done. Her collection must be correctly pinned and labeled, her notes must be finished, before she could even try to sell it. When Enid and the baby slept, she took herself to her study. She shut the door, not to keep them away but to keep herself inside. She forced her eyes to focus. A specimen must be taken out of alcohol and dried and then it must be pinned while it was still soft. But the pinning was an exact process. The first pin must be guided through the right side of the upper half, taking care that the height of the beetle on the pin was correct: half an inch. The antennae must be carefully positioned, the legs displayed, without flattening them or losing even the tiniest hair, the elytra coaxed open to display the papery wings beneath. And there was not much time. There was so little time. She needed to get Enid and the baby to safety before anyone came searching. So long as they stayed north, they would be fine.

  * * *

  —

  “Enid?”

  “Hm?”

  “Enid, are you all right?”

  “I think I have a headache, Marge. That’s all.”

  Five days after Gloria’s birth, Enid became ill. She made light of it. She even pretended she was tired. But as she crossed the veranda, she went very slowly, almost creeping, clinging on to things with one hand as she passed, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. Out of the blue, she asked if her mother was coming for tea.

  “Your mother?” said Margery. “Your mother’s not here, Enid. We are in New Caledonia. Your mother died when you were small.”

  Enid paused, the baby cradled now in both arms, like someone about to step into a busy street, who pulls back at the last minute. “What am I saying?” She laughed.

  But it got worse. Later she appeared wearing two blankets when it was now broad daylight and boiling hot, even in the shade. Her skin was covered with goosebumps. She couldn’t face food. Didn’t want to drink. All she wanted was sleep. She dropped off even while she was feeding Gloria. Then she began to shake.

  “What is it?” said Margery. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m cold,” she said. “I’m so cold.”

  Margery grabbed every item of clothing they owned between them, and piled them on top of Enid, even the old pink dressing gown. It made no difference: Enid was still freezing. She lay bundled up, shaking so hard her teeth rattled. And there was a smell, too. Margery didn’t like to say it, but there was a smell coming from Enid and she knew it wasn’t right.

  A terrible thought dawned on her. It was so awful she didn’t even want to give it words, but she had to.

  “Enid? You did have vaccinations. Didn’t you? Before you came away?”

  Even as she got to the end of the question, she knew the answer. There’d been far too little time for Enid to have vaccinations. Besides, she had been sitting at home with a dead body, waiting for the police to appear. She didn’t even own a passport. Vaccinations would have been the last thing on her mind.

  “Enid, is the bleeding worse?”

  “I’m fine, Marge.”

  “No, Enid, we have to get you to a doctor.”

  “We can’t go to a doctor. They’ll arrest me. It’s nothing, Marge. I want to stay here with you and Gloria.”

  Enid continued to refuse to accept she was ill. “I’ve just had too much sun,” she kept saying. “I’ll be fine.” But since the birth, she’d been nowhere near the sun. She slept all day, waking only to feed Gloria. She complained of a headache that was like a pole being pushed through her head, and then she tried to get up and doubled over, grabbing her belly.

  “What is it now, Enid?”

  “Nothing, Marge.”

  “Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?”

  “I’m fine, Marge. I just need to sleep.”

  Margery tucked Gloria safely into Enid’s arms and lumbered down the steps to the dirt track. She needed air. She needed perspective. She couldn’t tell if she should be afraid. Or, rather, she wasn’t ready to be afraid. She felt they’d already had their fair share of fear, as if bad luck was something that came in reasonable portions, when people were prepared. A bit for you, a bit for me.

  She walked in the shade of the palm trees, the day clicking with insects, the thick smell of the forest. A bird flew ahead, like a blue doll, cutting its path through the air. To her right rose the rumpled flanks of the mountain, warmed and reddened by sun, the forest covering it in pleats and folds. Then something made her freeze.

  Someone called her name. “Miss Benson?”

  She stopped. Dead still. She felt a flash of fear, an actual physical jolt. A man had called her name. She knew it. She scanned the wall of trees on either side, the undergrowth. No one. And yet she knew a man was close. She heard a smaller sound: a snap, a shuffling of leaves. Breathing. She listened so hard, the silence was like something solid. Not even the shantytown boys were around. “Hello?” she called. Her voice was small. Almost defying anyone to hear it and reply.

  A breeze took up and rattled the leaves. All around her the trees whispered and shifted. Her body turned to rubber. Before anyone could appear, she turned. She fled to the bungalow, dragging herself up the steps, pushing open the flap of a door.

  The moment would have continued to unsettle her, but by the time she got back, Enid was even worse. She was still on the mattress, and still covered with everything they owned between them, still shaking. Margery touched her forehead: hot as a furnace and soaking wet. And her mouth. Her mouth was so blue she looked as if she’d eaten the nib of a fountain pen.

  Margery fetched more firewood, boiled more water. She was frantic at the idea of something happening to Enid. She hated the sky for staying so clear, as if nothing was the matter. Hated the birds, calling indifferently. But, most of all, she hated herself for bringing Enid here in the first place, for not getting her to a hospital to have her baby, for not even fetching proper help. She had no idea how she’d bear the rest of her life if Enid did not survive. Yet she still seemed to be stuck in the present.

  She tried to lift Enid, bu
t Enid screamed that it hurt too much, and begged to be left where she was. She lay another hour on the mattress, while Margery hunkered beside her, batting off flies with her hand. She felt like a radio that had lost its frequency. She still had a vague notion that if she delayed long enough, things might get better of their own accord. But as the sun went down, Enid began to hallucinate. She was sweating heavily one moment, cold as stone the next. And the smell was even worse.

  “I had so many babies, didn’t I?” Her eyes were wide and frightened.

  “No, Enid. But you have Gloria.”

  “I loved them all.”

  “You need to feed Gloria, Enid.”

  “Tell me their names.”

  “Their names?”

  “I think one was called—what was she called? I think she was called Table.”

  “Enid?” said Margery. Less of a question, more a command. “Don’t be so stupid. You never called a baby Table. Stop doing this, Enid.”

  Enid’s eyelids fluttered up and down, but behind them, her eyes were blank, like a shop that is closed for the night.

  And then the truth occurred to Margery, so fast it was like becoming another version of herself. Just because Enid didn’t want to leave the bungalow, and didn’t want to see a doctor, didn’t mean she was right. Enid hadn’t a clue. Margery experienced a plummeting feeling inside. What had she been doing all this time? Waiting for Enid to get better? She had only made things worse. She’d been wrong to believe she could be a true friend to Enid. She was just as afraid and useless and dithering as she had been all those months ago when she’d limped through the school, unable to find a door that even opened. She bundled Enid up, ignoring her cries and whimpers, and bore her to the jeep, where she laid her on the back seat. She rushed back for Gloria, and placed her beside Enid in a box that could act as a makeshift cradle. She went and threw a few things in the red valise. Blankets. They also needed blankets. She couldn’t find any. She couldn’t remember what she was looking for. Blankets. She was looking for blankets. And water. Enid needed water. She remembered the blankets. But what else? In her panic, her mind had become full of holes. Water. But if she put water in a pan, it would spill. She was running out of the bungalow, then straight back in. Nothing made sense. Food. Enid needed food. It was not safe to take her to a hospital but she needed a doctor and a clean bed, and she needed them immediately. Suddenly she had no idea why she was worrying about blankets and food and water when Enid might be dying. She dropped the blankets, the pan of water, the food. She hurtled down the steps with Enid’s valise. She flung open the passenger door and dived in, ready to depart.