by Kim Lock
‘You must be the neighbour.’ She bustled past Aida, wafting beef gravy, and availed herself of the kitchen like she’d been born there. ‘Thomas tells me what a help you’ve been. God knows that man needs it.’
Aida knew she should keep a distance, maintain the polite neighbour pretence, yet she felt so comforted in Alice Rushall’s presence that she allowed herself some time to sit at the table and relax: Alice made them both coffee, and said a little later she would mash some potatoes for tea while Aida walked to the bus stop to collect Millie. With Elsie’s mother here, Aida didn’t have to mother herself. It was nice.
When Thomas came home, Aida slipped away next door for a couple of hours; left him with his mother-in-law to talk about his wife, her daughter. Before Aida left, in the privacy of her bedroom Millie cracked a bit of a fuss, wanted to come with Aida, but she was set right enough with a cuddle and a promise of hot cocoa once Granny Rushall had left.
For the first time, rather than unconditional acceptance, Millie looked at Aida with something like resigned knowing when Aida said, ‘Just don’t talk about me to your Granny, okay? She doesn’t need to know I’m here all the time, as well as next door.’ Millie’s expression left Aida with a tense, uneasy feeling beneath her ribs. Like a waiting, a knowledge that the innocence was fading, and soon questions would become increasingly difficult to answer.
Granny Rushall heated their tea and left them to it – Elsie’s sister Rose was dealing with a household of teenagers with the flu and a husband in Phuoc Tuy and needed her to stay the night, apparently. The sun was still trailing its peachy smears over the horizon when Millie came sloping into Aida’s kitchen, asking for her promised cup of cocoa.
‘Have you eaten your tea already?’ Aida asked.
‘No. And I’m starving.’
Millie was being brassy. She knew better than to demand treats before tea time and Aida gave her a look of warning, but the scolding wilted on her tongue.
Back in Elsie’s kitchen, Aida found Thomas restive and maudlin. He was trying to serve tea, scooping drippy stew from Elsie’s mother’s pot with a dessert spoon. Single chunks of beef or carrot were being delivered to paver-like flats of mashed potato and Aida let him continue for a short, tedious while before she fetched a ladle and surreptitiously handed it over.
‘When’s Mum coming home?’ Millie asked as they ate.
Aida said, ‘Soon, honey.’
*
After Millie was tucked into bed, and the dishes were washed and put away, Aida went outside to the back porch and flopped onto the swing. It protested weakly at the hinges. She swung and smoked, flexing her toes in her slippers. The night air had a late spring chill, the pitch sky littered with gritty points of light. The hens muttered on their roost and a cricket chirped beneath the steps.
Thomas came out with whisky.
‘Aren’t you going up tonight?’ Aida asked.
‘I just talked to her on the phone. She said not to. Said I should rest.’
‘How is she?’
‘Doing fine.’ He sighed as he sat. ‘A few more days, she reckons. Sounds like she’s starting to champ at the bit to get out of there, but the doctor says she’s still pale as a sheet. Wants her to regain some colour first before he’ll send her home.’
‘And the baby?’
‘Healthy as anything.’ They both heard the pride in Thomas’s voice, and they were both grateful for it. Thomas dropped three fingers of whisky into her glass and she swallowed its pleasant burn, smoky all the way down. She felt it wrap her like a warm towel, softening her joints and dulling her against the cooling night air.
‘I’m not going to leave this time,’ she said.
‘I’m glad. I think Elsie would divorce me if I let you go again.’
Aida gazed into her drink. ‘But I don’t think I should sleep over every night, anymore,’ she said. ‘I think we need to be more careful. Millie is getting older; she’s started asking questions.’ Not wanting to alarm him, she kept her voice light. She lit another smoke and leaned against him, and he loosed an arm about her shoulder, fond and matey. He quipped about ash on his crotch and she laughed.
‘Now that she’s around other kids she’s going to see we’re . . . different.’
Thomas said, ‘What’s so different about living with an aunty type figure?’
‘But I’m not an aunty, am I? I’m not a relative. It’s not platonic.’
‘Figure. I said aunty figure.’
She blew out smoke with a rueful laugh. ‘That’s the rub though. Soon she’s going to clue up to that hidden nuance. She’s not going to accept “aunty figure” as enough of an explanation. She’s knows that I’m not technically an aunt. Not like Lila and Rose are her aunts. It might not have occurred to her yet, to question that we sleep together, but it will. Very soon. We’ll have to be a little less . . . open, around her.’
‘Millie isn’t allowed in our bedroom,’ he tried, but it wasn’t an argument. It was time, they both knew, for yet another layer of discretion. They both brooded a while after that, remembering the kiss Mrs Watson had seen, the kiss that had sent her storming into Bagnoli’s in tight-lipped moral outrage. What if Millie caught a kiss like that? How would they explain to her that it wasn’t normal?
Gradually the neighbourhood fell asleep. Windows went dark and televisions and wirelesses fell silent as they drank and Aida smoked. They consoled themselves with Elsie’s recovery and took mutual solace in the idea of her homecoming. As the booze took them in its languid embrace they got to reminiscing.
‘Remember that year we went to the Christmas pageant in town? Millie was a little tacker.’
‘The one where we got a picture with Father Christmas . . . ?’
‘He thought you were Millie’s mum.’
‘Elsie corrected him.’
‘He seemed mighty pleased to be wrong.’
Aida slapped a hand over her face and she felt Thomas jiggle with laughter.
‘Dirty old Santa Claus,’ she said. ‘Fancy putting the moves on a lady while a kid tells you what they want for Christmas.’
When they finished laughing, Thomas said, ‘Didn’t Millie ask him for a pony?’
‘A horse,’ Aida corrected. ‘She said a pony was for sissies.’
‘That’s right. Christ.’
Back and forth they went until suddenly the bottle was empty, and Aida was out of smokes, and Thomas groaned that his legs had gone good and dead. They staggered and stumbled to their feet, waving like weeds in the breeze as they made their way to the bedroom. Together they fell onto the bed, Aida’s slippers flung with a double-barrelled thud-thud into the wardrobe door.
Their bodies mashed together into the centre of that huge bed, as though they had both rolled onto the concave floor of a canoe and it was inevitable, this kind of smashing together. Thomas kissed Aida and she felt devotion towards him for it; it felt like a kindness. The kiss went on. Aida waited for something – what was she waiting for? She realised, suddenly, like a door slamming open, that Elsie wasn’t there.
Aida bolted upright.
Thomas launched up onto his elbows like he’d seen a snake. ‘What, what is it?’
‘She’s not here.’
He blinked at her. His hair was dishevelled, sticking out on one side. She watched the realisation play across his face like a comic strip: from startled, to bewildered, to the smacked-home understanding. When did he grow such a mature man’s face? He had always been so playful, so congenial. Perpetually youthful-looking. Now he was approaching his mid-thirties and with the self-effacing, laughing sigh and the swing of his head he wasn’t so young anymore. He wasn’t Elsie’s fresh-faced, eager husband anymore, either. He was Thomas. The second beat in the ba-boom of her heart.
He said, ‘I don’t want you to sleep next door.’
She put her palm on his cheek. �
��It’s only a place to sleep. I’ll still be here.’
Aida crossed her legs and grinned. She shook her head, put her hands over her face and giggled. They laughed, partly because they felt foolish, but mostly because they knew how much Elsie would laugh at them, if she could see them now.
Thomas pulled her into his arms. They lay on the blankets and held each other, and eventually they fell asleep.
*
Closing the book, Aida placed it on the bedside table and reached towards the lamp.
‘Not yet,’ Millie pleaded, her eager face poking out from beneath the covers.
Aida smiled at her. ‘Okay, one more minute.’ She shuffled down the narrow bed, to lay her head on the pillow alongside Millie’s. She tucked the blankets firmly about Millie’s shoulders, stroked her hair back from her face. Millie closed her eyes. Still babyish in the tiny point of her chin, but growing older in the thickness of her hair – dark brown and wavy, like her mother’s. Elsie often said, ‘Thank goodness she doesn’t have my ears.’
Yawning, Aida tucked an arm over Millie’s shoulder. ‘Is the minute up yet?’
‘Umm . . .’ With her eyes still closed, Millie pretended to think, furrowing her brows. ‘No.’
‘How much longer?’
‘Till Mum and Dad get home with my new baby brother.’
‘That’s not until tomorrow,’ Aida protested.
‘I can’t wait. Mum’s been in the hospital for a hundred years.’
‘I know it feels like it,’ Aida said. ‘But it’s only been ten days.’
‘Is that a year?’
Aida chuckled. ‘Close your eyes, darling. You need lots of sleep before you see your new brother.’
Millie huffed impatiently, but complied. Aida switched off the lamp and the room fell into a soft darkness; light from the living room came through the door, left ajar.
‘Ay,’ Millie piped up. ‘How are babies born?’
Oh, shit. Aida considered evading the question, giving her one of the standard trite, fallacious responses reserved for children at such embarrassing junctures. But an image flashed into her mind: the cold tiles of the bathroom at St Agnes’ home, where she had cowered, hiding from the nuns, gripped with a pain that petrified her. She remembered, much earlier still, denying with a sense of dread that her monthly was late – the nausea, the odd metallic taste in her mouth. Feeling so ignorant, uninitiated.
Would it be okay for her to have this conversation with Millie? Wasn’t this something Elsie should do? Then again, Aida’s mother had never had this dialogue with Aida. The facts of life Aida had learned from the girls at school. Whispered behind cupped hands, giggles, faces flushed with burning curiosity and disbelief.
So Aida told her.
Millie listened quietly, and when Aida was done with her explanation – dispassionate, simple phrases, anatomically correct terms – Millie said, quite unruffled, ‘That sounds yuck. No thanks. I’ll just ask Mummy or you to have my babies for me.’
Aida laughed. ‘I understand. Time for sleep now, right?’ Smiling, she tucked the blankets snugly around Millie’s shoulders. She leaned in and kissed her forehead. ‘Goodnight, sweetheart. Get some sleep so you can meet your new brother tomorrow.’
Millie yawned. ‘Love you, Aunty Ay.’
56
Elsie should have known something was amiss when she entered the hall.
Ordinarily, upon arrival at the Wednesday knitting group, the ladies’ voices and laughter floated out into foyer. But on a hot February Wednesday in 1970, Elsie stepped into the community hall to hear only the echo of her own footsteps. It occurred to her briefly that perhaps, in her fatigued state (Arthur, at four months old, was cutting his first teeth and keeping them all up at night), she had mixed up her days. After all, since Arthur’s arrival, she hadn’t attended the group at all. But she had only spoken to Gloria Watson on the telephone a few days ago to confirm her attendance this week. So she could have sworn she had the day right. Perhaps she was early?
Even with her knitting bag over her shoulder, her arms felt empty as she crossed the hall and headed towards the community room. Regardless of the knowledge that Arthur was perfectly content at home with Aida for a couple of hours, a sense of guilt lurked uneasily. It simply wasn’t possible for Elsie to leave the house without the children and not feel guilty. No matter how happy they were without her.
Where was everyone?
The community room was stifling; no windows were open and the air-conditioner, usually clanking away in the window through the summer months, was silent.
‘Hello?’ she called.
‘Mrs Mullet.’ Gloria Watson appeared from the kitchen. Despite the heat, her complexion was cool and perfectly made-up, her hair smoothly coiffed.
‘Am I early?’ Elsie asked with a smile, adjusting her dress in an attempt to let in a breath of air.
‘No, no, you’re right on time.’ Mrs Watson cleared her throat, gave her a prim smile in return. ‘Please take a seat.’
Elsie frowned. The chairs were stacked around the edges of the room. Gloria realised the discrepancy and her lips tightened further.
‘Are you all right, Gloria?’
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’ Mrs Watson laid her palms together at her chest, like she was praying. ‘I’m afraid since your time off with the baby, there’s no more room for you in our Wednesday group.’
Elsie couldn’t help it; she laughed. Mrs Watson’s expression was so serious, so grave, she could have been explaining to Elsie that yet another world war was about to break.
‘Where is everyone?’ Elsie asked, setting her bag down and reaching for a chair.
‘I’ve asked the other ladies not to come in today.’
Elsie paused, her arm still outstretched. Gloria Watson never cancelled a knitting group meet. Not when she dropped a cast-iron casserole pot on her foot and broke two toes – she simply bandaged her foot up and hobbled in on crutches – and not when she had the flu – she dosed herself with Bex, tasked Clare Adelman with maintaining lively discussion and sat, scarlet-nosed, in the corner. She had not even cancelled the meet when her eldest son came back from Vietnam missing his left hand.
And yet today, it appeared Gloria Watson had done as she said. Knitting group was cancelled.
Perhaps Elsie was merely exhausted – long nights of interrupted sleep, plus Millie was acting out, jealous of her baby brother – but rather than feel trepidation or concern, Elsie, irritated, sighed and folded her arms. ‘What’s going on?’
Gloria picked up Elsie’s irritation and appeared to fortify herself with it. ‘As I said, there is no longer a place for you in the group. During your absence, your position was filled.’ She sniffed. ‘Dierdre Tucker. Wonderful with a set of double pointeds. Turns a heel like I’ve never seen.’
‘I can knit socks with my eyes closed.’
‘Even so, there’s nothing I can do.’
Elsie would regret it, but she pressed further. ‘What’s really going on?’
Now, Mrs Watson’s cheeks grew a pink hue. ‘This is a group of the best, the finest ladies in the district. Look, your business is your own, but my business is the running of a respectable class for ladies looking to improve themselves and it would be remiss of me to condone any sort of . . . unbecoming behaviour.’
Elsie said, ‘What are you talking about?’
The pink on her cheeks morphed into red splotches. ‘It came to my attention that, whilst you were in hospital having your baby, your husband kept very close contact with Mrs Shepherd.’
Elsie’s breath hitched. ‘She helped out while I was in hospital,’ she said cautiously.
‘More than helped, I suspect.’ Gloria stared her down. ‘I don’t want to repeat private conversations with my husband, but he saw something in the car park at the store – between your husband and this neigh
bour – that seemed more suited to husband and wife.’ She leaned in and hissed, ‘Mr Mullet touched her derrière.’
A sick feeling rushed into Elsie’s mouth. ‘Gloria –’
‘Combined with the inappropriate activity I saw with my own two eyes – and which I once tried to speak to your husband about, quite civilly, a few months ago – I decided it’s best we sever our connections.’
Elsie stammered, ‘I – I really don’t think –’
Mrs Watson lifted her hands. ‘It’s none of my business. I’m not interested in other people’s private lives. But there’s nothing else to discuss. My hands really are tied.’ In a stunning feat of acting, she actually managed to look regretful.
‘I’m married,’ Elsie managed to say. ‘To my husband. That is all.’
Mrs Watson’s eyebrow twitched. ‘I don’t know if that is all, Mrs Mullet.’
Elsie’s skin ran cold, then hot. She wanted to defend herself, to deny Gloria’s implied assumptions, but she couldn’t work out what to say.
Sensing Elsie’s agitation, Gloria regained her composure and said without a shred of irony, ‘You needn’t worry. I’m not a gossip. Any suspicions are my own, and my own alone. I’ve told the ladies you’re simply too overcommitted to attend any further. However, I’m doing what is best for my community. I’m sure you understand.’
She lifted her chin, and swept from the room. Elsie stood alone, ringed by stacks of chairs, listening to Gloria Watson’s heels click across the hall, and out the door.
*
Thomas would not abide it.
‘I will not abide it!’ he cried that evening when Elsie relayed the tale of her perfunctory sacking from the Wednesday knitting group. Thomas wanted to do something.
Elsie implored Thomas not to allow himself to become worked up over it. Pleading the need to maintain discretion through silence – ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t give credence to rumour by talking more about it!’ she cried – she reminded him of Mrs Watson’s well-entrenched reputation for spurious, baseless gossip. Nothing would come of it, Elsie tried to tell him. But a not insignificant part of Elsie was terrified, and Aida, jiggling a wide-awake Arthur by the window, remained wary and troubled. As Arthur spat a string of milk curds onto Aida’s shoulder, Aida said, ‘What about the kids? What if the school finds out?’