The Love Story of Missy Carmichael

by Beth Morrey

  I don’t know why I signed up for it, but I felt that my laughing alter ego would have thought nothing of offering to read for a group of rowdy children. Of course, it led to a series of restless nights, watching the shadows and then dreaming that I’d gone out without any clothes on.

  Later that week, I took Otis’s copy of Glenys the Itchy Witch to the library, quaking and cursing myself for being so foolhardy. By that point, the party animal in the second photo from Mel’s wedding had been thoroughly banished by the withered old shrew in the first. The last night had been the most sleepless, tossing and turning until even Bobby was disturbed, jumping off the bed and retreating to the floor in a huff, where she proceeded to fall asleep again and snore loudly, doing nothing for my insomnia. I lay and made shapes out of the silhouettes, wishing Leo was there to buck me up. Remembering Mel’s auditions at school, encouraged and buoyed by her father, I really had been very unsympathetic.

  In the morning I couldn’t keep anything down but dry toast and was ravenous by the time I arrived. The librarian, who was called Deirdre, greeted me with a cup of tea and a custard cream, then compounded my nerves by saying some of the children had already arrived. By the time I sat down in the story corner, my hands were shaking and my throat was arid. The children and their parents—mothers—were standing in the main part of the library, running around and chatting, respectively. Deirdre had set up little chairs and cushions in rows in the children’s section; she stood next to me and clapped her hands.

  “Sit down, everyone, we’re about to begin!”

  The children filed through and sat down on the cushions, still twittering away, while the mothers ranged themselves at the back. Why had I said I would do this? There was still a low hum of noise and I had no idea how to get them to be quiet. I took a deep, shaking breath.

  “The owl swooped down over the witch’s hat,” I croaked.

  Deirdre nodded encouragingly, and the children subsided a little, fingers twiddling, eyes sliding but occasionally focusing on me.

  “And with his beak he tweaked her plait.” I had inadvertently worn my own long hair in a braid and remembered Otis calling me a witch—with Halloween coming up, it seemed appropriate. I flicked it, the children giggled, and—finally—the laughing me woke up and started to take over.

  “The witch gave a hiss and flicked her cane, turning him into a weather vane!”

  And so I continued, my voice carrying over the little corner and drawing in the children and their mothers as I switched between the characters in my story. I saw to my delight that they were transfixed, gazing at the pictures I held out toward them, whispering and pointing. The mothers were smiling at their little ones, Deirdre mouthing along. As we progressed, everyone joined in for the “Hiss!” refrain and as I dived into the final lines, finishing with a wicked whisper—“and with a snap of her cane, she was never seen again!”—I looked up to a little round of applause from the mothers. Deirdre asked if I had another story, and I didn’t, but of course we were in a library, so we found a Hairy Maclary book and I read that too.

  Afterward some of the women congratulated me, and Deirdre gave me another biscuit and asked if I’d like to go for lunch with her. We went to a café round the corner and over a baked potato she asked if I would like a job. It wasn’t much—she was particularly apologetic because by then she knew my employment history—but they needed a new library assistant. I was overqualified, and over the moon. I said I would think about it and walked home hugging myself, wanting to tell someone who wasn’t Bobby. I thought about texting Angela or Sylvie but didn’t want to sound hubristic. In the end, I emailed Alistair and texted Mel, who replied promptly and with typical pragmatism:

  That’s great news, well done. You’ll need to get to grips with the new IT systems, maybe they can give you training?

  Maybe it was a silly idea, to start working again at my age. All the technology had moved on; I was bound to make a fool of myself, with my Rolodex and Greek lexicon. Bobby sat looking at me with her head to one side, listening to my monologue as I came back down to earth. I scratched her behind the ears, and she gave a low grunt of appreciation. I’d better take her on a walk—now that the nights were drawing in, we had to get it done earlier—but as I picked up her lead, my mobile phone pinged again and a text from Angela popped up.

  Emergency, stuck at work, Otis at school. Could you poss pick him up? Password is Batman. Sorry and tx!

  We made our way to Otis’s school, the dog slightly sulky at the deviation from her usual route. Tying her lead to some railings outside the school gates, I went inside and in reception encountered another woman coming out with her children.

  She smiled at me. “Hello! You were so good today. Bella really enjoyed it, didn’t you, Bel? Loved the Welsh dragon.”

  I blushed and stammered my thanks, catching the door as she held it open. Otis came barreling out, his teacher handing me a sheaf of papers covered in his scribbles. He’d been making cheese straws and proudly handed me one; it was pale and limp like a dead man’s finger. When I nibbled the end it tasted of dry flour.

  “Marvelous,” I said, taking another bite. “Delicious!”

  He skipped alongside me, telling me about his day. He’d built a rocket with his friend Ethan, a girl was sick outside the toilets, and Belinda his teacher had taught them “k” “k” “k”—he made a pincer movement with his fingers. I wasn’t sure I approved of phonics. In my day we just learned to read.

  We took Bobby briefly round the block and then went home, where I made pancakes for Otis while he ran round the house, having tucked a tea towel in the neck of his sweater by way of a cape. When Angela knocked on the door later, we were crouched on the rug in the sitting room playing with the Dinky cars from the attic.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Angela followed me in, waving a wrapped-up bottle of wine. “Absolute nightmare. God, I hate my job.”

  I took the wine from her. “You didn’t need to do that, you know I love having him.”

  “But it’s an imposition, isn’t it? I don’t want to be one of those mothers.” She squatted on the rug with Otis and ruffled his hair. “Were you a good boy?”

  “Yes,” he said. “There was sick outside the toilets, but it wasn’t me.”

  “You must have one of his cheese straws,” I said.

  Over wine and dead man fingers, Angela moaned about her latest commission (“Have Baby Boomers had it too easy?”) and then asked about my reading. I told her about Deirdre and the job offer. “That’s amazing!” she said, clinking her glass against mine. “When do you start?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I’m a bit old, and there’s Bobby to think of.”

  “Bullshit,” Angela snorted. “You’d be great. Stop doing yourself down and go for it.”

  I traced a finger round the rim of my glass. “It’s just . . . it’s a long time since I worked. Everything’s changed. They computerize everything, I’m bound to get it all wrong.”

  Angela reached for her phone and started jabbing away at it. I sat back, slightly offended, but she shook her head and continued. When she put it down again she slapped the table with both hands.

  “I just texted Denzil and told him to be on standby to help you. He’s the bollocks when it comes to tech—he made a fortune selling his Internet start-up and now just swans around with those Boxers of his, spending money on art. He’ll sort you out. See?” As her phone chimed she held it up and I saw his reply.

  Will do. Tell Missy well done.

  “Right. Any more excuses?” Angela had a glint in her eye—she had something of the gimlet about her—and I shook my head. Maybe I’d tell Deirdre I’d think about it for a bit longer.

  “Are you going to Denzil’s party?” continued Angela, brushing cheese-straw crumbs off her jeans.

  “I suppose so.” I frowned. “It sounds terribly fancy.” We’d all had prope
r invitations in the post—it made a welcome change from bills, but I felt a little too old for a dress code.

  Angela sniffed. “Don’t take any notice—last year Sylvie saw someone in white tie, and someone else in paint-splattered overalls. He likes artists—they’re all weird. I heard he’s got a Damien Hirst in the basement.”

  She and Otis left soon after, and I pottered about my kitchen putting the leftover wine back in the fridge and heating up some soup for my supper. Bobby wolfed her dinner, collar jangling against her bowl, a sound I’d come to appreciate. I ate in the kitchen, feeding her scraps of buttery bread and browsing on my laptop. Checking my email, I saw a reply from Alistair. Arthur was doing very well at school, already writing his name beautifully and talking about becoming a policeman. Emily had found an Aboriginal shell midden—I had no idea what that meant—and he’d been asked to attend a conference in New York later in the year. I wished it were in London. Finally, he said he thought the job sounded wonderful and just like the kind of thing that would suit me. “You have so much to offer,” he said. “Dad would be so proud.”

  Did I have much to offer? Six months ago I’d have said I had very little, but lately I’d felt a sense of optimism creeping up on me—the idea that there were things to look forward to, that I had options, was a heady feeling. Yet I worried my newfound zest was a flimsy thing, as brittle and crumbly as Otis’s cheese straws. Would Leo have been proud? He would probably have grumbled about me being out all the time—he liked having me around, even when he was closeted in his study. He used to say he could feel my presence in the house even if he couldn’t see or hear me, and that it was comforting. I felt the same. But he wasn’t around anymore, and I had to live with that.

  “What do you think, Bobby?” I asked as she began the process of turning and settling onto her bed by the fireplace. “Is it a foolish thing to do at my age?”

  Bobby’s eyebrows twitched as she thought it over.

  “The professional equivalent of jumping in a paddling pool,” I added, rubbing her head.

  Her tail thumped.

  I decided I’d take the job. There would always be spider-cracks on the tiles to put you off, but sometimes you had to take the plunge anyway. I had a feeling—a hope—that, like Bobby, it could turn out to be just what I needed.

  Chapter 28

  Autumn began to ripen into winter, the days contracting as the leaves turned a luscious array of bronze and vermilion. On Bobby’s walk one bright morning in early November, the wardens were dismantling metal fences and clearing up the rubbish from the Guy Fawkes Night fireworks, and while Bobby sniffed the lingering scents, I trampled over spent sparklers and looked forward to Christmas.

  My obsession began as a child during the war, when the whole family would gather for the festivities at my aunt Sibyl’s in Kirkheaton. Fa-Fa would go out on Christmas Eve and come back with a towering spruce, Aunt Sibby would berate him and then we’d all decorate it together, exclaiming over the exquisite little ornaments, mostly handmade by my grandmother Jette, who was good at that sort of thing.

  On Christmas morning, we’d troop to the church next door to hear Uncle Randolph give his sermon, Fa-Fa grumbling under his breath throughout, then back to the house to eat one of Sibby’s chickens, its neck wrung especially for the occasion. We would listen to the King’s Christmas Message on the radio and after that we could open our presents. In those days, of course, they were paltry things, hand-knitted mittens or a paper pinwheel, all very Little Women, but I don’t remember feeling disappointed. Then my mother would play the piano and we’d all gather round to sing carols. I loved the sad ones best; they tweaked my soul in a pleasingly painful way, like rubbing an aching muscle.

  At the end of the war, Father was killed, and Christmases were never the same, but as I grew older I tried to recapture the spirit of that golden, glimmering time. When my own children were little I was very strict about it and even Leo knew he must emerge from his study and join in the rigorous celebrations. Perhaps a little too strict, never letting the children help me decorate the tree in case they made a mess of it. I was more lenient nowadays and intended to let Arthur run riot with the tinsel this year.

  They came over from Australia for two weeks every December, the high point in my calendar, particularly since Leo had gone. I thought we might have a change from the usual turkey and maybe try a joint of beef or even a goose, though I had never cooked one before. I felt unusually cheery, making plans for Ali and Arthur’s visit, which was why, when I bumped into Denzil and he asked me about his pre-Christmas party, I said yes rather than demur and worry that he’d only invited me to be polite.

  “You’ve got to dress up, mind. Glad rags and all that. This is a swish do, innit.”

  Denzil had been wonderfully kind to me since I started working at the library, helping me with Talis, a kind of cataloging system we used to track items, orders, bills and the like. With his help I was slowly getting to grips with it, and now found that going into work each morning wasn’t quite the nerve-wracking experience it had been in the beginning. In fact, I was rather enjoying it, and could now greet some of the regulars by name, know which authors they favored, and point them to the right shelves. So much had changed since I’d first embarked on my career, but some things stayed the same. People still read books, and liked to talk, and saw the library as a meeting place and in some cases, a refuge.

  * * *

  —

  I had a pleasant and productive couple of weeks, busy at work and with Bobby, but on the day of Denzil’s “swish do,” I realized I had nothing appropriate to wear. There was no money for a new outfit, even with my modest library salary, particularly now the bills were piling up and the ignored letters and phone calls from our bank growing increasingly frequent. I had answered one a few days before without thinking, but as soon as I heard Horace’s plummy voice say, “Is that Millicent Carmichael?” I assumed an Irish accent like Angela and said he had the wrong number.

  That afternoon Bobby found me scattering clothes around my bedroom, holding dresses against myself and rejecting them. She gazed at my frowning reflection in the mirror.

  “I’m trying to find a party dress.”

  She wagged her tail encouragingly.

  “I want to look glamorous for once.”

  Bobby darted under my bed, claws scrabbling. For a second all I could see was her back end, tail waving, then she emerged, shuffling backward, with Arbuthnot, my old Steiff teddy bear, in her mouth. I thought of Angela parading in my grandmother’s gowns. Of course. Tweaking the bear from her jaws, I went up to the attic, much clearer now Sylvie had sorted it all, and dug about in the old trunks until I found a black flapper dress with a dropped hem, capped sleeves and a delicate lace neckline. Putting it on then and there, I surveyed myself in an old mirror propped in the corner. In the dim light and dust I looked like Jette. Perhaps I should cut my hair; it would look neater but Otis might not like it, as he was fond of my witch’s plait. Rummaging around again, I found a cream fringed shawl to cover my wrinkled arms, and stepped back to survey myself once more. Bobby appeared in the frame, tail wagging.

  “More sad rags than glad rags,” I said, remembering my grandmother’s melancholia. “Will you be all right on your own?”

  She looked at me with her head to one side and I could tell she was thinking of lazing on my sofa.

  “Uh-uh. Out of bounds. But I’ll give you a liver sausage before I go out.”

  * * *

  —

  Denzil’s house was as impressive as Angela had promised; a grand, imposing building with wrought iron gates, huge white-fringed bay windows and two stone dogs standing guard outside. I pressed the doorbell, feeling self-conscious in my hand-me-down garb. Denzil opened the door, wearing a dull crimson satin smoking jacket and waving me in with a cigarette holder clutched between his massive fingers. His bald head gleamed in the light of the hallway c
handelier and I felt quite dazzled.

  “Entrez,” he said, saluting me as I handed him my homemade plum-and-walnut cake, which seemed absurdly rustic in this setting. Turning toward the chatter and thumping music, I found myself in a vast living room with floor-to-ceiling windows at each end. The walls were decorated in grays and dark blues, with dramatic lighting and several enormous and unusual artworks. Denzil must be very rich indeed.

  As a waiter popped a glass of champagne in my hand and Angela bore down on me, already drunk, I relaxed and let my eyes roam the room. Sylvie was in the corner with a short man who appeared to be dressed in a toga. He was talking animatedly and jabbing a finger in her face. Seeing me, she winked and bent to whisper in his ear. Seconds later, she arrived by my side holding two glasses.

  “Party trick,” she said. “Carry two glasses and whenever you’re trapped in conversation with some plebeian, you simply say, ‘Must go and deliver this!’ and escape forthwith.”

  Angela cackled. “I’d never manage it, I’d just keep drinking them both.”

  “Where’s Otis?” I asked.

  She took a slurp of wine. “Managed to fob him off onto a school friend for a sleepover. So for once I’m footloose and fancy free.” She held out her empty glass to the passing waiter.

  “Nice dress,” said Sylvie. “Jette’s?” I nodded and she clinked her glasses with mine and sailed off. Angela said she was too drunk to stand up, so we sat on a chaise longue upholstered in navy silk, and I sipped my champagne while she pointed out partygoers and gossiped about them. Because the music was so loud, she had to shout to make herself heard, with the dubious result that she might also have been audible to her targets.

  “That over there is Desiderata Haber, who is a historian but really controversial. She’s writing a book about how Elizabeth I was a secret lesbian. I quite fancy her, she looks like Nigella Lawson. Desiderata, not Elizabeth. Though I’d quite fancy Elizabeth I too if she wasn’t dead. Feck, this champagne is good.” She nudged me, spilling some of it. “Look, there’s Denzil’s boyfriend, Miguel. He is so hot.”