The Three of Us

by Kim Lock

  Through the lace, Aida could see them carrying folding chairs across the yard. They set them beneath the gum tree. Their figures were distorted and hazy through the curtain, but Aida could see how happy they looked. The woman laughed with a hand over her mouth and the man kept touching her: her arm, her waist, her cheek. After a while, the man set his glass on the ground, stood up and walked out of sight.

  Aida moved closer to the window. With one finger, she inched the curtain aside, opening a strip of bare glass. Where had the man gone?

  She looked back at the woman.

  Who was looking straight at her.

  Aida flinched and dropped the curtain, jerking away. Tea slopped onto the floor. She turned and pressed her face against the wall, and she tried to breathe.

  6

  Thomas followed Mr Bagnoli through the cramped labyrinth at the back of the appliance store. Dust motes whirled in slats of light falling on mountains of cardboard boxes, discarded pallets and patches of concrete floor. Thomas hurried to help his boss heave the rear door open, letting in a fresh blast of morning sunlight in a roar of metal.

  A truck reversed towards them, belching diesel fumes. It came to a standstill and the truck’s body shuddered as the engine died.

  ‘Biggest delivery I’ve taken yet,’ Mr Bagnoli was saying. ‘Now, I don’t want to blow your trumpet or anything, but credit’s due where it’s deserved, and you deserve some credit.’ Several of the store hands wandered out to help unload the cargo – a generous order of a new line of vacuum cleaners, along with dozens of the previous models.

  ‘We have a deal then, Mullet?’ Mr Bagnoli looked at him squarely.

  ‘We do, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘Good. You’ll represent us well at the national conference.’

  In the corner of Thomas’s eye, he saw Watson emerge from the back door and look over at Thomas and Bagnoli. Thomas felt a burst of triumph.

  ‘The conference begins in Melbourne on Friday,’ Bagnoli was saying, ‘I’ll have Sophie book a flight for you.’ The man leaned in closer and winked. ‘You can have an early mark on Thursday so you can tend to the pretty new wife before you go, eh? Bet she’s keen for the patter of little feet.’

  7

  Four days later, on Friday afternoon, Elsie walked up Mr and Mrs Watson’s garden path and spied Mrs Watson watching her through the window. Elsie stopped, a plate of lamingtons balanced in her hands, and pretended to inspect and admire the blooms of her roses.

  After giving her what Elsie supposed was sufficient time to appraise her rose-tending skills, Mrs Watson opened the door.

  ‘Mrs Mullet! Come in. That sun has some sting to it.’

  Gloria Watson, wife of Thomas’s colleague Bert, cut an impressive figure in a lemon-yellow dress and matching low-heeled day shoes. As she gratefully took the plate of lamingtons, Elsie noticed her hands were slender and elegant; a fine gold chain draped her wrist. She shepherded Elsie inside.

  Four other women were seated in the living room. They all glanced up as Elsie entered, causing a hush in the murmured voices and a pause in the clink of dainty china cups on saucers. Elsie was suddenly aware that her shoes were a different shade to her dress.

  ‘Ladies, this is Mrs Thomas Mullet, from over on Church Street,’ Mrs Watson announced. ‘Also, Mr Mullet and Mr Watson work together at Bagnoli’s.’ She turned to Elsie. ‘We’re all so pleased to finally meet you, dear. It’s quite terrible of me not to have made your acquaintance sooner.’ With a promise to fetch more tea, she encouraged Elsie to sit.

  Nervously, Elsie perched on the edge of a chair upholstered in a tiny floral print. She took in the other faces in the room; two women looked familiar, two did not. Each woman was tastefully dressed: wool skirts, smart blouses. Rings sparkled on fingers. Elsie smoothed the collar of her blouse, pulled her cardigan tightly around herself and folded her hands in her lap. She smiled.

  One of the familiar women spoke up. ‘I believe we’ve met, at the store. Swaffer’s General Store?’ She was small and serene-looking. ‘I’m Bess Townsend – nee Swaffer. The daughter.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Elsie said, gushing a little to hide her awkwardness. ‘Of course.’ When had she met Mr Swaffer’s daughter? She didn’t have time to ponder the question, as the other women introduced themselves. First there was Mrs Adelman, wife of a local cabinet maker, broad-shouldered with a crochet hook and yarn whizzing through her fingers. Then Stella Brown, wife of Kenneth Brown, owner of Brown’s Freightlines, huge with child and swamped in a tent-like maternity dress. Finally was Mrs Doctor Leonard Pollock, who refused to disclose a Christian name and instead laughed gaily and said she was so used to going by ‘Mrs Doctor P’, tall and blonde with fine eyelashes and blushing rose lipstick. Local women, wives of good men, hard-working and always smiling.

  Gloria Watson returned with another pot of tea and Elsie’s lamingtons artfully arranged on a tray with slices of walnut cake.

  ‘That’s a gorgeous cardigan,’ she said to Elsie. ‘Is it a handknit?’

  Elsie flushed. ‘Yes, I only finished sewing it up this morning.’

  ‘Is that so? Tell me –’ Gloria set a teacup on a saucer – ‘are you currently attending any knitters’ groups?’

  ‘Ooh, look out. Gloria’s recruiting,’ Stella Brown said.

  ‘I run workshops, you see,’ Gloria said, shooting Stella a look that Elsie couldn’t decipher. ‘And I have an opening in my Friday group. You would be welcome to come along.’

  Elsie began, ‘That sounds lovely –’

  ‘Friday group?’ Mrs Adelman broke in with a frown. ‘That’s barely more than a beginners’ class. No, she should be in your Wednesday group. For experienced knitters.’

  Gloria gave Mrs Adelman a somewhat strained smile. ‘That class is full, that’s why I’m inviting her to Friday.’

  ‘Full? Surely not.’ Mrs Adelman set down her crochet hook. ‘Wednesday is where the best work comes from. She’ll be wasted on Friday with a bunch of novices. You can squeeze in one more, surely.’

  Mrs Watson seemed disinclined to accede to Mrs Adelman’s proposition. Her face went steely, giving her a doll-like appearance beneath her smooth blonde hair. But almost as soon as Elsie perceived it, Gloria’s ostensible reluctance disappeared.

  ‘Clare is right, perhaps you would be better suited to Wednesday.’

  Elsie looked between them. The ensuing quiet seemed tense, but Mrs Watson gave a delicate shake of her shoulders, brushing it off. ‘Now, Mrs Mullet, the ladies –’

  ‘Elsie, please.’

  ‘Elsie,’ Gloria corrected, pointedly. ‘The ladies and I were discussing tips for getting whites bright enough without the sunshine. It was such a cold and wet winter this year.’

  ‘Very cold,’ Elsie agreed, still uncertain as to whether or not she had actually been invited to one of Gloria’s knitting groups, and if so, which one?

  Mrs Doctor Leonard Pollock balanced a plate of cake in her hand and leaned forward. ‘I don’t like to use so much bleach,’ she confessed. ‘But everything was starting to look rather grey.’

  Bess Townsend nee Swaffer said, ‘I bleach Tim’s shirts. I couldn’t have him going to work with his shirts looking like that.’

  Murmurs of agreement chased each other around the room. Using a pair of sugar tongs, Gloria dropped a cube into her cup. ‘The smell fills the house, though,’ she said, stirring her tea. ‘I have to open all the windows for fresh air, but it lets all the heat out.’

  ‘Dreadful,’ Elsie said.

  ‘How do you manage, Elsie?’

  ‘I . . .’ She glanced between their faces. Admittedly, stain removal wasn’t a topic to which she had ever allocated great amounts of consideration. But the roomful of ladies’ eyes were fixed on her intently, inquisitively, and she felt obliged not to look at all incompetent. ‘I use bicarbonate of soda,’ she offered. Was bicarb a sta
in remover? A prickle stole up the back of her neck.

  Stella nodded sagely. ‘Bicarb. It’s so very useful.’

  Elsie breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  Discussion continued in this vein for some time. Elsie picked up a lamington and took a bite, and was dismayed to discover that the sponge was too dry. She took a mouthful of tea to wash it down. Gloria had taken a bite and set the untouched remainder at the edge of her plate. To distract herself from a mounting anxiety over her dehydrated lamingtons, Elsie glanced around the room. The floors were spotlessly polished timber, a vase of hydrangea blooms sat atop an upright piano against the far wall. Did Mr Watson go to work at Bagnoli’s and talk about how perfectly his home was kept? Did Thomas come home and make comparisons? Elsie made a mental note to pick more flowers for arrangements. And to learn to embroider doilies.

  The topic moved on to children, with Stella’s newest arrival due in a matter of weeks. Gloria proclaimed her relief that her own children were almost in high school and she herself (in her thirties, she whispered) was too old for any more. Mrs Adelman’s two young girls were actually here today, but had been banished to play in the backyard. Effusive approval was given of how well-behaved (read, quiet) the children were. It was a credit to Clare Adelman’s mothering skills.

  ‘A credit,’ Elsie agreed.

  ‘What about you, Mrs Mullet? Will we hear the patter of little feet from Church Street soon?’

  ‘Oh, I –’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Gloria vigorously picked up her cup, ‘did you hear about the Talbots’ eldest daughter? Seems she’s disappeared from school for the past three months.’ Her statement was met with four sets of pursed lips. Knowing glances were exchanged. ‘I heard Cynthia Talbot telling Mrs Potts that she’d gone to stay with a cousin in Queensland somewhere, to do some nanny work,’ Gloria said.

  ‘I heard it was a cousin in Newcastle,’ Mrs Adelman put in.

  ‘There is no cousin.’

  ‘Of course there’s no cousin – the girl’s in a delicate condition.’

  ‘Fancy that.’

  ‘What shame. Her poor parents.’

  ‘Poor? Ha! Clearly money doesn’t buy morals. Girls these days. I’ve seen her driving around in cars with boys more than once.’

  ‘No good can come of that.’

  ‘None indeed.’

  ‘What’s becoming of the world?’ Stella tutted, smoothing her dress over her bulging middle. ‘The rejection of honest Christian values.’

  ‘Oh, I know.’ Mrs Watson set down her cup with a ching of consternation. ‘These young women, so loose with their morals. They think they’re so modern but they have no idea about life. No idea what it takes to keep a husband, to raise a good family. The hard work and the respectability of it.’

  ‘And this contraceptive pill they’re talking about, mark my words –’

  ‘Threatening the institution of marriage! The very fabric that holds our good society together –’

  ‘Precisely. If this so-called medicine becomes available, it will only encourage fornication.’

  Fornication. Elsie repeated the word in her head, enunciating each syllable. She liked the way it sounded, curved and forbidden. For-nee-kay-shun.

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know what these women continue to complain about. We can vote, we can own property – what else do we need? Let the men be men and the ladies be ladies. Why confuse things?’

  There were murmurs of agreement, but Clare Adelman was shaking her head, slowly. ‘That marriage bar has to go. It’s completely outdated that a woman shouldn’t work just because she gets married.’

  To her own surprise, Elsie felt her head inclining in a nod of agreement.

  Gloria rolled her eyes. ‘It’s only a silly public service rule. Nobody’s really stopping a lady from finding other kinds of work if she has to.’

  Bess laughed. ‘Like old Mrs Johns who still makes and sells all her cheeses, because her husband drinks his pension within two days.’

  ‘See what I mean? Women have everything they need. But these girls going around with boys . . .’

  Elsie felt a strange, conflicting pull deep inside. While the women gossiped back and forth, part of her relished the banter – recognised it as the harmless, hushed, everyday conversation she’d grown up with amongst her sisters and mother, and later her girlfriends and colleagues. And these women were right – girls today were so much freer than her parents’ generation. And it was causing a tear in the moral fabric of society.

  But.

  For the first time since her wedding, Elsie allowed herself to feel wistful. She missed the office; she missed the satisfaction of a day’s work well done – of solving problems, of her speed and accuracy at the typewriter, her infallible positive countenance in the face of the most irate or odious instruction. But equally as swiftly, she snapped a lid over those feelings. She was a married woman; she would be a proper housewife. Like these women, Elsie would prepare nourishing and perfect meals, the washing would always be hung out smartly to catch a full day’s sun – even her flawless typing could translate into a flawless, stain-free bathroom. Surely.

  Elsie missed Thomas. He wouldn’t be back until Sunday afternoon – at least forty-eight hours away. It seemed so long.

  It was the descent of drawn-out silence that finally broke Elsie from her inward reverie. When she looked up, four faces regarded her expectantly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Elsie said, ‘could you repeat . . . ?’

  ‘I was enquiring after the house next door to you and Mr Mullet,’ Gloria said. ‘Is it still empty?’

  The flash of a face in the window, looking out at her. Had she imagined it? Or was Elsie a terrible neighbour, as Mrs Watson had called herself, for not making acquaintances sooner?

  The women were waiting for an answer.

  The house next door was always quiet, its window dark and revealing nothing. But it wasn’t empty – Elsie was sure of it. An empty house is lifeless, an unoccupied shell. This house was quiet, yes, but it was the quietness of an indrawn breath, the laden pause between uttered words.

  Without knowing why, Elsie lied.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I believe the house is empty.’

  *

  Elsie slept late the next morning. Without a husband to cook breakfast for and begin the day with, she let herself doze for a while before she rose, dressed, and made herself a piece of toast with honey.

  When she had finished eating, she went into the backyard to feed the chooks. They had bought the chooks earlier in the week. Four hens on the point of lay, who would lay four fresh eggs every day for their breakfast.

  ‘Here, chook chook!’ she called, shaking a tin of grain. Inside the small yard, three hens surrounded her feet.

  ‘Where’s the other one?’

  Elsie checked the nesting box, but the fourth hen wasn’t there. Then, she spotted a brown lump on the far side of the pen, on the outside of the fence. Elsie dropped the grain and rushed out of the pen.

  The hen lay in a pile of russet feathers. Her comb was a bloodless grey and her beady eyes were unblinking, her breast barely rising and falling against the sand.

  Elsie squatted down. ‘Oh dear, how did you get out?’ Unsure what to do, she slipped her fingers beneath the hen and tried to lift her to her feet. The chicken gave a weak gurgle and slumped back to the ground.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Stricken, she cast around at the other three hens, who all seemed healthy, scratching at the grain in the dirt, safely inside the fence. She hadn’t even given them names; they were going to do that together when Thomas came home from Melbourne tomorrow.

  Elsie’s heart pattered helplessly. She considered calling for the vet, but knew it was pointless. The hen was beyond help and the vet would cost too much.

  She would have to put the chicken out of her misery.
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br />   Elsie crossed the yard to the garden shed and searched the dim interior until she found a shovel. She carried the shovel back to the chook yard and then dropped it, horrified. What was she going to do – bludgeon the chicken to death? Bury it alive?

  Elsie trembled. Internally she scolded herself: this is not how a housewife behaves. For heaven’s sake, she told herself, we eat chicken for dinner.

  Elsie pictured her mother, out on their small farm at the edge of town. Valiant and aproned and formidable, ducking out to perfunctorily kill and pluck a chicken for their meals and returning to the kitchen with barely a blood spatter on her apron, gripping a pale, pimple-skinned bird by the legs. Alice Rushall had always seemed so busy. Elsie and her sisters had been constantly scolded for getting under their mother’s feet, getting in her way, and shooed outside to collect the eggs or feed the pigs or muck out the horse’s stall and whatever they did, they were not to bother their father. But Elsie and her sisters had wanted to do none of it. Her older sisters read ladies’ magazines and housewives’ manuals and dreamed of husbands and houses of their own in town. Elsie had grown up listening to Rose and Lila fantasise about evenings at the drive-in, swishy full skirts and scarlet lipstick. Their futures would contain nothing that smelled of animal shit or anything that, before it became dinner, first required them to kill it.

  Spoiled, she had been, and sheltered. A girl who had a future of newfangled conveniences like refrigerators and grocery stores springing up around her parents’ small farm like beacons of modernity.

  And besides, Elsie thought now, she couldn’t eat this bird. Clearly the hen was sick, suffering from some unknown hazard that would make eating the animal unsafe.

  Elsie wrung her hands. The bird gave a slow blink into the dirt as she tentatively touched its body. Again she considered the discarded shovel. She longed for Thomas to be home.