by Marele Day
Who would have thought that it could happen on the annual Wives of Bowlers holiday tour? This year the Wives had gone to South Australia, the highlight of the trip being a visit to the Adelaide casino. Well, it had been the highlight till Norma dropped dead at Mt Gambier.
Much as she enjoyed the Wives’ trips, Mrs Levack was glad to be back. Especially this time. It was so wonderful to see Eddy again, to see the comforting sight of his stomach touch his knees as he bent down to put her luggage in the boot. She waved the other Wives goodbye. ‘See you later, Freda,’ she said, getting into the Corolla. Then she and Eddy began the journey home.
‘Pity about Norma dropping dead, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, Eddy,’ she said in a strained voice.
She waited three whole days before she rang Freda. ‘It’s me.’
‘Well that’s a coincidence, I was just about to ring you, Mavis. Eddy gone off to the library?’
‘It’s Wednesday morning, Freda. Of course he’s gone. What about Bill?’
‘Yes, Mavis. It’s Wednesday morning at my place too.’ There was a pregnant pause, strange for two people who could barely even remember menopause, then both of them spoke at once. They had a little giggle and tried again.
‘You go first,’ Freda finally conceded.
‘Like to come around for a cup of tea?’ invited Mavis.
‘That’s what I was going to ask you!’ exclaimed Freda.
Mavis and Freda had been friends for years. They had an almost psychic connection. Amazing the way they could practically read each other’s thoughts.
The kettle was whistling furiously as Freda walked into Mrs Levack’s kitchen. On the table was a nice tablecloth and Mavis’s best tea service, the one she’d got back in 1977 to commemorate the Queen’s silver jubilee. The tea service had weathered the years well. In fact it was in a lot better condition than the Royal Family.
Freda hovered around watching Mrs Levack’s every move as she prepared the tea—empty out the water that had been warming the pot, measure out the tea leaves, add the boiling water.
‘For heaven’s sake, Freda, sit down. I’m only making a cup of tea, not giving birth.’ Freda sat down.
‘Cake?’ Mrs Levack said, offering her the plate of neenish tarts. Freda shook her head. ‘But I made them myself,’ insisted Mrs Levack.
‘Not just yet, thanks,’ said Freda.
Mrs Levack poured the tea and went to add sugar from the royal sugar bowl.
‘Ah, no thanks, not for me,’ said Freda.
No cakes, no sugar. Something was wrong. ‘You’re not on some sort of health kick, are you, Freda?’
‘No, no,’ said Freda, allaying any doubt.
‘You’ll still have a drop of whisky in it, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ Freda assured her. Mrs Levack unscrewed the top off the Glenfiddich. Eddy said it was a waste putting good Glenfiddich in tea, but then Eddy wasn’t here, was he? He was off at the library enjoying himself. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Spouses had to have time on their own as well as share everything. That was the whole idea of Wives of Bowlers.
As she sat there fiddling with the bottle top, Mrs Levack wondered whether they shouldn’t change the name to Spouses of Bowlers, or Partners of Bowlers. People didn’t have ‘wives’ nowadays, they had ‘partners’. You had to keep up with the times. She got up to get a pen to write the suggestion down and when she returned was somewhat puzzled to find a bottle of Johnny Walker on the table.
‘I brought my own,’ explained Freda rather hastily. Freda laughed in an embarrassed sort of way. The two women looked at each other.
‘Do you believe in God?’ Freda asked suddenly.
‘Of course. At our age it’s best to be on the safe side.’ Mrs Levack had given God a lot of thought of late. In fact she was even thinking of converting to Catholicism so that she could have the blessed relief of confessing. ‘Are you having an end-of-life crisis, Freda?’
Freda poured herself a generous portion of whisky. ‘I was thinking about Norma, actually. About her dying like that.’ She looked directly at Mrs Levack.
Mrs Levack felt her heart miss a beat and she quickly poured some of the Glenfiddich into her own cup. Dr Mackintosh had said a little whisky before meals was a good way of warding off a heart attack. She couldn’t remember his exact words, but it was something like that. Why had Freda brought up Norma? Did she have an ulterior motive or did she just want to talk about it, the way you always do when someone dies?
Poor Norma, a cruel victim of fate. Mrs Levack had gone over and over it in her mind. It couldn’t have been Mrs Levack’s fault, it couldn’t. Norma was so sweet, so kind. She made such wonderful pavlovas. It wasn’t fair the way she died while that pain in the neck Millicent Morgan lived on and on.
Mrs Levack had never liked the look of Millicent from the day she’d first met her. Beneath those layers of lipstick was a mean little mouth. Mrs Levack noticed things like that straightaway. She considered herself something of a sleuth, and while she hadn’t yet cracked a case, she knew her powers of observation would come in handy sometime.
No-one enjoyed Millicent Morgan’s company on the Wives of Bowlers tours, but as this one wore on, everyone found they had more complaints than ever about her. This year most of it had to do with her ‘allergies’. She was allergic to this, she was allergic to that. She was allergic to butter, she was allergic to sugar, she was allergic to tap water. Now she was even allergic to travelling in the back of the coach and so always got the seat up near the driver. Normally everyone took turns but this year no-one but Millicent Morgan had that privilege.
At meal times she would pick over the buffet food to make sure there was nothing in it she was allergic to. ‘I’m beginning to get fed up with Millicent Morgan’s fingers in my dinner,’ Freda confided privately to Mrs Levack. In fact by the time they got to the South Australian border, the rumblings of mutiny were loud and clear.
One day while Millicent was hogging the bathroom—it took her ages to get the lipstick just right—someone said, ‘I think we should put her off at Adelaide and send her back on the train. She’s spoiling the trip for everyone.’
It had been dear sweet Norma who pointed out that it was hardly charitable, that the purpose of Wives of Bowlers was for everyone to get together and to get on together. Her Harry knew Millicent’s long-suffering husband Clarence. He depended on this holiday from Millicent to preserve his sanity. He was the one who made sure she had all her special dietary requirements, he was the one who did everything. ‘Even when he makes her a cup of tea he does everything but drink it,’ Norma gently joked.
‘Why does he put up with it?’ queried Mrs Levack. ‘I mean, it’s not what it was like years ago. It’s perfectly acceptable to leave if you’re not happy in marriage.’
‘He can come round to my place anytime he likes,’ said one of the other Wives. ‘My husband wouldn’t even know where to find the kettle.’
Mrs Levack had to concede that, apart from the thin lips, Millicent would have been a bit of a looker in her day. It must have created quite a ripple in the university chemistry department when Clarence, the shy retiring lab assistant, had married the glamorous Millicent.
Anyway, even though Mrs Levack thought she was above such pettiness, she couldn’t resist the opportunity, when it came, of testing Millicent’s allergies. This is how it happened.
They were at Mt Gambier. Mrs Levack was waiting outside the bathroom, crossing and uncrossing her legs. She needed to use the bathroom and she needed to use it badly. So she was extra cross when Millicent finally came swanning out. Mt Gambier was a very scenic spot and everyone else was busy taking photos of the blue lake. The cakes and Scotch Finger biscuits lay in wait for the happy photographers, and so did the cups of tea.
When Mrs Levack returned from the bathroom Millicent was picking up the cup that had been specially put aside for her and popping a couple of her saccharin pills into it. When she went to put the pi
lls back into her crocodile skin handbag (apparently she wasn’t allergic to reptiles) she seemed to notice something was missing.
‘Oh, Mrs Levack,’ she said in her most saccharine voice, ‘you didn’t happen to notice my powder compact in the bathroom, did you?’
Mrs Levack had noticed it. In fact she was so annoyed that Millicent Morgan’s time in the bathroom had almost resulted in Mrs Levack’s incontinence that she’d been in half a mind to pocket it. ‘Not sure that I did, Millicent.’
‘I’d better go and check, dear.’ Mrs Levack felt the honeyed tones oozing all over her. It was enough to make a person go into a diabetic coma.
It wouldn’t take Millicent a minute to retrieve her compact, or for the photosnapping Wives to make their way back. Before her left hand even realised what her right hand was doing, Mrs Levack found herself swapping Millicent’s cup of spring water tea over for one of the ordinary ones. Any second now Millicent Morgan would drink it and break out in a horrendous rash. Mrs Levack wanted to see just how horrendous that rash would be.
But something went horribly wrong.
Mavis and Freda had had several cups of tea, each laced with their own individual whisky, before they got around to the serious talk. Mrs Levack cleared her throat. ‘Freda,’ she said in a husky whisper, ‘you know how I’ve never mentioned to a soul about you and Danny Weinburger that time Bill was laid up in hospital . . .’
‘Yes, Mavis,’ said Freda in a resigned tone. This wasn’t the first time she’d brought up the matter of Danny Weinburger. She’d referred to it when she’d needed Freda’s help to remove a dead man from her bed. ‘Another body turn up, is that it?’
‘No, Freda, nothing as solid as that. Do you think . . .’ she hesitated, not quite knowing how to phrase it, ‘do you think a person could be allergic to spring water? Norma, for example?’
Freda looked at her sternly, as if her worst suspicions had just been confirmed. ‘You did something, didn’t you?’ she accused. Silence reigned. Freda reached over and gently put her hand on Mrs Levack’s hand. ‘You can tell me, Mavis,’ she said softly. ‘I’m your friend. Whatever you’ve done, large or small, you can tell me.’
Another slug of whisky gave Mrs Levack the strength to carry on. It wasn’t precisely that she felt completely guilty, although she did a little bit, it was just that she had to discuss with someone the thing about it that was niggling her, and who better to discuss it with than an old friend that you had something on. It was a lot easier than converting to Catholicism.
‘You know that day when you were all out taking photos of the blue lake? Well, I was so fed up with Millicent Morgan, I swapped her cup of tea for Norma’s. I mean, Norma’s was the same as everyone else’s, it was just chosen at random. I just wanted to see what the allergy looked like. But you know, Millicent drank a cup of ordinary tea made of ordinary tap water and nothing happened to her. But Norma, poor dear Norma died.’ Mrs Levack felt a small tear start the long winding road down her cheek.
‘There, there, dear, don’t blame yourself.’ It was a general comforting tone, but soon a similar tear was finding its way down Freda’s cheek. ‘You can’t blame yourself.’
‘Oh, but I do,’ burst out Mrs Levack.
‘No, I mean, you can’t blame yourself. Well, not just yourself,’ Freda added in an almost mumble.
Mrs Levack’s tear seemed to dry up in midstream. ‘Whatever do you mean?’ she asked her friend.
‘Well, you see . . . well, actually, the reason we were all out taking photos was a kind of alibi.’
‘Alibi?’ Mrs Levack looked horrified. Alibi was a word you used when murder was involved. ‘The Wives of Bowlers didn’t conspire to kill Norma, did you?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ Freda hastily assured her. She started playing with the empty cup in front of her. ‘Actually, Mavis, we all had the same idea you had. We all put a little tiny bit of what Millicent was allergic to in her cup—sugar, tap water, a tiny blob of butter, you name it, we all put a little bit in.’
‘But . . . but Norma wasn’t allergic to any of those things. She ate them every day.’
‘Yes,’ sighed Freda, ‘that’s the perplexing part. I must admit, it crossed my mind that you yourself might have had something to do with this. Now don’t get me wrong,’ said Freda when she saw the shocked look on Mrs Levack’s face. ‘I just thought, you know, the way you like to investigate things, that you might have been a bit overzealous. The boys are a bit late, aren’t they?’
‘Some new books might have come into the library. I know Eddy had ordered Women on Top. But don’t try to put me off, Freda, there’s something very fishy about all this.’
‘Have another drink,’ said Freda. ‘That might clear things up. Why don’t you have some of my Johnny Walker? I’ll have one of your neenish tarts.’
Mrs Levack hesitated, then took a swig. If you couldn’t trust your best friend, who could you trust? ‘The police said Norma had been poisoned but none of those things you mentioned were poisonous.’ Mrs Levack narrowed her eyes. ‘You have told me the truth, the whole truth, haven’t you? None of the Wives added anything to the cup when you weren’t looking?’
‘There was only you and Millicent in there, Mavis.’
‘But I didn’t add anything to the cup at all,’ spluttered Mavis. ‘I merely exchanged it.’ In her mind she saw herself and Millicent in the coach at Mt Gambier, heard Millicent’s saccharine tones. Millicent’s saccharine tones . . .
Mrs Levack was putting two and two together and coming up with plenty. ‘Freda, you’re never going to believe this, but you know what I think?’
Before Freda got a chance to find out, Eddy and Bill breezed into the kitchen, although breezed wasn’t quite the right word. In fact the two of them looked very downcast.
‘Women on Top hasn’t come in yet?’ asked Mrs Levack, wondering why Eddy looked so forlorn.
‘We didn’t get to the library. We called into the club on the way and got some bad news.’ It must have been serious—Eddy didn’t even help himself to a neenish tart.
‘Bad news?’ repeated Mrs Levack.
‘About old Clarrie Morgan. I didn’t think he looked very well when he came to pick Millicent up from the coach. Not exactly sick, but kind of strained looking. Funny, really, because we’d played bowls with him just the week before, while you girls were away. He looked quite chirpy then, not a care in the world.’
‘Whatever’s happened to him?’ asked Freda.
This time it was Bill who spoke. ‘Poor old bugger’s topped himself.’
‘Committed suicide?’ repeated Freda, trying to absorb the shock of the news.
‘Yes. They interviewed Millicent, of course. He’d said to her, “I’m just going outside, I may be a while.” They found him in his back shed, in the middle of morning tea. There was a packet of biscuits and a half-empty cup. Strange thing about it was, the tea was all frothy. He’d used the whole container of saccharin. There has to be more to it than that, though. I wouldn’t have thought saccharin was poisonous, no matter how much you took.’
‘Perhaps he made up his own concoction,’ suggested Mrs Levack. ‘He did used to work in a laboratory.’
Eddy looked at his wife. ‘How did you know that, Mavis? You’ve never even met Clarrie.’
‘I keep my eyes and ears open,’ she said, as enigmatic as a sphinx.
‘Makes you start to think, though, doesn’t it?’ commented Bill. ‘First Norma and now Clarrie.’
Mavis and Freda exchanged glances while Bill and Eddy stood there thinking about Life and Death.
‘No point in dwelling on it,’ said Mrs Levack finally. ‘Why don’t you sit down? I’ll make us all a fresh pot of tea.’
Unpleasantness at the Big Boys Club
A body lay on the steps. One hand rested just above the level of the water and a narrow watchband was visible below the cuff of a light-coloured coat. Dark hair curled damply to the nape of the neck. The legs were a little apart; the ne
w sole of a woven brown leather shoe faced upwards. No marks could be seen on the head or hands, but beside the face lay two items, a train ticket from Adelaide and a small silver rose. A dawn walker had called the police from The Rocks station: they arrived as the mist was lifting from the Opera House.
‘Eddy, Eddy,’ called Mrs Levack as she breezed into the flat. ‘It’s in!’
Mrs Levack plonked the paper on Mr Levack’s stomach, which overhung his trousers by a good few centimetres. He looked a bit untidy but he was at home and a man’s home is his castle. When he went out to bowls, all spruced up in his whites, he made a different picture altogether.
It hadn’t taken Mrs Levack’s beady eyes long to find the item they were looking for. She had excellent eyes for a woman her age and was very proud of them. ‘It’s all the bleeding exercise they get,’ Eddy would say. ‘Peering here, peering there, minding everyone’s business but your own, spying on the neighbours.’
‘Well, it helped solve a murder case once, didn’t it?’ snorted Mrs Levack.
‘Yes, Mavis,’ Eddy said tiredly. Everyone at the bowling club, everyone in the street, in fact everyone in the whole of Bondi knew how Mavis Levack had helped solve the murder of the boy who’d died in the flats at the back of their block.
Eddy read the item intently, reread it, then looked up over his glasses. He’d held off getting the glasses for a long time, what with Mavis going on about how good her eyes were, but finally he had to admit defeat. However, other opportunities for small victories presented themselves and Eddy wasn’t slow in taking advantage of them.
‘Doesn’t say anything here about the famous sleuth Mavis Levack,’ he said triumphantly.
‘No,’ she frowned. ‘I’ll have to ring the papers about it. They’ve called me “dawn walker” and they didn’t even use capitals.’
‘Probably that New Age journalism,’ remarked Eddy.
Mrs Levack pursed her lips. ‘Heaven knows what they teach them at school nowadays. They wouldn’t know punctuation if it reared up and kicked them in the face.’ Mrs Levack sailed into the kitchen and put a couple of eggs on to boil.