'Exactly. She's real. Real people continue — they last forever.'
'They do not. They get old and they die. Or they simply go away.'
'And people remember them. When you're gone at least you'll have your name on a tombstone.'
Beryl found she had been playing with the soft skin on her hand, squeezing and pulping it so that the veins bulged like potato roots. Her hand was old and would get older. Greg was stuck in his late thirties. So? Late thirties was the age she felt inside herself. She returned to the task of ladling aromatic portions into plastic containers, but she was thinking about Clarice now and Greg slid away like a TV programme after the credits have floated up.
At the tram museum we had just missed the Fiducia ride. We walked in the vast, dusty shed among the exhibits: trams in varying states of repair, two-deckers and Palace trams, red with dashers in yellow and gold, three angled windows in the front and back. I heard myself and Una blurting small nostalgic utterances, to please Beryl as much as anything, although I did now vividly remember mornings crossing the city in a tram just like that one, as far as Bowen Street, where we'd had to transfer to a bus, sharing around my homework answers with the gigglers who occupied the back seats. It was for Beryl I'd suggested this outing up the coast. In Riddiford Street last week, contemplating a row of red buses, she had remembered the trams out loud — mournfully, I thought in retrospect — and mentioned that she'd known a conductor in those old days.
'Romantically?'
I'd asked, inviting her to smile.
'Yes, I suppose so. That's about all.'
Sheree now walked ahead of us, not quite as if she had a bus to catch, but faster than we were strolling; obviously she didn't see the point of lingering as Beryl was doing. Staring.
Beryl is on one of these trams while the driver in his big black coat operates the gears and makes the tram rattle along the tracks, seeming about to leave them at the corner but never quite doing so. Clang, and around they go. And the conductor is selling the tickets, clipping Beryl's. The sliding door into the front compartment bangs and bangs and there is a picture on it of the ivy-covered university building with soppy lines printed underneath.
'Some poem or other,' Beryl muttered.
'Where?'
'On the glass door. Not here. It might be one of the others.'
Sheree had come back, removing the plug from her ear and letting it dangle on her spandex collar. 'Come on. We going to be here all day? What about that ice cream place?'
'I met my husband on a tram,' Beryl told me.
'How was that? Oh, you mean . . . ?'
'He was going to change my life.'
'I bet he did that.'
Beryl put her head down on her sleeve and began to shake. Her chest creaked.
A startled glance from Una who then turned away, sauntering deliberately. She looked as if she was willing herself not to run. Sheree shrugged exaggeratedly, gave a clumsy skip, then walked to catch up with Una.
I touched Beryl's shoulder and she shuddered, raising her face, which had a string of saliva attaching her mouth to her sleeve. She shook her head and wiped moisture from the end of her nose, then patted me as if I was the one who needed comforting. It meant the spasm was over and she didn't want any questions about it please.
When we reached the other two Una administered a cheerful smile. 'Better now?' she breathed, like a hospital worker.
I wanted to hit her.
Later we bought Italian ice creams and dawdled on the beach as if nothing had happened. The sun had gone down and this stretch of sand was empty apart from two dog owners who stood chatting while their animals, one gangling and silent, one small and yappy, strained away from them. Dogs had to be kept on a lead, which was fine by me; I was nervous even around Marge's little slithery dachshund.
'I think I got an eyeful of your zoo bloke the other day,' Una said to Beryl over her mound of hokey pokey. 'Garth — wasn't that his name?'
'Did you go there?' I asked her. 'Really? You went to the zoo and you didn't tell me?' This pinged and resounded accusingly, an echo of something I might have said before. 'You laughed at me when I suggested it!'
'I laughed because you didn't expect me to take you seriously. Anyway, I thought I might just check the place out. There's more than one animal in a zoo, you know. I might have come back engaged to the keeper.'
'But you thought you saw this Garth?'
'Well, he was balding, definitely getting on a bit.
He and another chap were doing something with the giraffes — feeding them I suppose. I like the giraffes but I didn't hang about.'
'Well, why not? After all that?'
'All what? I was only there five minutes, after my dentist — his rooms are nearby. I wasn't too struck by the look of your Garth. He was frowning.'
'Frowning at you?'
'I don't believe he saw me actually. Anyway I'm not desperate.'
Beryl and I glanced at each other, disbelieving, and then quickly away again.
'I'll give him your phone number, shall I?' Beryl asked, then looked surprised at the sound of her own voice, strong and normal. The rum and raisin in a waffle cone must have refreshed her and wiped away her earlier mood.
'Oh, don't be so silly!' Una snorted. Then — 'Will you really? What will you say?'
I couldn't help smiling at the speed of this U-turn.
Beryl was surprised too. 'What do you want me to say?'
'Goes like this: 'I know this very nice lady who's got a window' — isn't that what people say these days . . . ?'
'A window?' Beryl sounded puzzled.
'I think that's a great idea,' I offered. 'You know this nice woman who's a lot of fun. Okay, Una?'
'I'm sure he'd prefer you to me,' Beryl said, sounding less sure of herself. 'I don't really want to talk to the man again, but I will if you want me to.' She drew up her shoulders. 'All right.'
Sheree, who had wandered off kicking at driftwood in time to whatever music her ears were drinking in, was back now. She frowned as if she thought we had bad news to impart but all Beryl said when the girl removed an earplug was: 'So when's the baby due, Sheree?'
'Good question. I can't bloody wait!'
'Yes — it must be exciting. I wouldn't be able to wait either.'
Sheree stared at Beryl's expression, puzzling. 'No — I just want it out, that's all. My bum's big enough without having a bum in the front as well. I want rid.'
'Oh, it's more than that! It's a life!' Beryl was clearly shocked. 'It's just happened sooner than you wanted, I expect . . .'
Una leaned forward. 'Leave it, Beryl. It's not worth wasting your puff.'
I sat across from Beryl in the new Polynesian restaurant that boasted 'competitive' prices, eating kumara chips and noticing that Beryl was wearing lipstick. Una had said, 'I know she doesn't like me much but you could have asked her here if she can't cope with entertaining in her own home. Why is that, do you think?'
I told her I thought Beryl must be ashamed. 'Her place is pretty grim outside and God knows what horrors there might be inside.' I'd remembered the gas leak. The house clearly needed money spent on it and Beryl cared. I explained she must have been barely keeping herself afloat on her income, whatever that was, probably some income-tested benefit — well, you could tell from the clothes she wore — flannel shirts and glittery cotton things that had been hanging in a wardrobe for thirty years or more. 'Or it could be that friend of hers. I know he doesn't like parties.'
'Perhaps he's fat and toothless,' Una had said happily. 'Yeah — it would be just like a man not to notice the price of meat or how much toilet paper he goes through. Men can't even shit straight.'
'You're right. I bet that's it — she's just the type to get exploited by a bloke.'
Una frowned. 'You're not trying to say something about me, are you? I think I pay my whack.'
'No, no, of course you do. I'm not suggesting anything.' I'd temporarily forgotten that Una was in one of her glooms.
<
br /> Now I sat across from Beryl and saw that as well as the lipstick she had had a decent haircut: it appeared to have given her the courage to talk about her Donald's desertion twenty-six years ago. Twenty-six! I couldn't help being surprised that the woman was still hurting. Surely other stuff had happened to her since then.
'I'm like you, I suppose,' Beryl said. 'I tend to believe people, specially when I've asked them particularly to be honest with me.' It was comforting to find she remembered our earlier conversation, not like Una. 'I did wonder about Donald that summer — he'd been so quiet and I'd noticed, even though I'm quiet myself, or I used to be. And sometimes he smelled different when he kissed me goodnight. I remember thinking — that's funny, you get this definite odour when you're grumpy with me, a kind of chemical smell, like talcum powder. I thought it must be some hormonal thing. Then I thought no, it smells a bit like perfume. So I wound myself up and I asked him — Are you having an affair? Tell me the truth, I said. The truth is important to me.'
I leaned forward with my forkful of lamb shank hovering expectantly. 'And he said?'
'He said no, he wasn't. I was so relieved!'
'But he was.'
'Yes, he was. And he had to tell me in the end, before he packed up and left me, so it was a waste of all that putting on an act. Stupid man.'
'Oh dear.'
'Your second husband didn't do anything like that?'
'Not exactly. Nor my first husband, David. He just died. Dying's worse.'
'I don't know. Oh, I'm sorry, of course it must be.'
'But you've got Greg. As a matter of fact I did wonder for a moment if he'd let you come out for a girls' dinner. He didn't like the idea of our party, did he?'
Beryl looked flustered. 'It wasn't quite like that. He's not a bully. I feel I should consider him, that's all — take his wishes into account.'
I looked deliberately sceptical.
'What about your downstairs tenant?' Beryl changed the subject. 'Was there any real damage to his bathroom ceiling?'
'Owner,' I corrected. 'We own shares. No. I think we pretty much got away with that. But we're grateful he noticed — drew our attention to it. I might have gone on sleeping.' I worried my rice with my fork, stirring it but not attempting to eat any more of it. 'Kevin, his name is. What did I tell you about him?'
'Nothing much. Just that Una wanted to meet him but he didn't seem keen.'
'That's right. She even went again after we'd checked out his ceiling, and asked him up for a drink, but he was too busy — or said he was. She got in a bit of a state as it happens — went into one of her paranoia phases. "I'm a worthless, ugly slut" sort of thing. She decided after that that Marge hates her too and avoids the lift in case she runs into her. And the dog — India she's called — doesn't like her either. Una says. She thinks it's because she must smell bad to dogs — I mean evil bad, not stinky.'
'Oh my God. Poor woman.'
'Is she? Yes, I suppose she is. And the worst thing is that I ran into Kevin in Courtenay Place and he asked me to have a drink with him in a wine bar — a champagne place around the corner in Blair Street. Rather nice. I've always wanted to try it.'
'Well, what's wrong with that?'
'I could hardly go, could I? With Una feeling all that?'
'You didn't go?'
'No. Not this time anyway.' I gave a little smile because she seemed worried for me. 'That's why I really hope something comes of this Garth idea — at the zoo? I don't suppose you talked to him?'
Beryl looked at once pleased with herself. She sat up straighter and dropped a glob of chutney on her blouse without noticing. 'I wondered when you were going to ask me that. I did! I did. I had to search for him all over but I found him. He looked a bit blank at first but then I could see he was interested. I just shoved it at him — the number on the back of a piece of card so he wouldn't lose it easily. And I took off.' She chuckled.
I couldn't believe she'd really done it. Good on her. I leaned forward with my table napkin and removed the chutney. 'That's great.'
'If he rings up you might answer the phone,' Beryl thought aloud. 'Perhaps you'd like to meet him yourself?'
'Me? Christ, no. I don't want a depressed, desperate man. He and Una sound made for each other.' I hoped I wasn't talking bullshit.
While Beryl studied the dessert menu I listened to the serious CD track that was playing over the speakers and wondered if I sounded frivolous and careless. No — if I were these things I'd be sitting in a champagne bar with Kevin instead of in this quiet, old-lady place, waiting for bread pudding.
Two days later Una and Garth had an assignation at The Jimmy, the bar below the restored St James Theatre. She spent an hour in the bathroom, then disappeared into her bedroom for even longer. The clock was ticking and she was cutting it fine. I thought she might have lost her nerve and sunk into one of her self-destructive moods which were as vicious as razors tearing at arms and wrists; I was about to barge in to offer support when she emerged. She had done something to her plump face so that the dark discoloration on her cheekbones and in the corner of her mouth was painted out and her lips glistened rather stickily.
'Wow.' I had nothing more to say after this.
'Bloody contacts. I was fighting for ages to get them in comfortably — reckon I need new ones. They're harder to wear as you get past forty. So I look okay then?'
'You know you do. Fantastic. I haven't seen that top before.'
'New. I did a bit of retail therapy last week — just as well. Okay — shit! Look at the time!'
When Una had gone, heels clacking in the thinly carpeted foyer, I had the place to myself, unusually. I poured a large glass of grapefruit juice and sat in the last strip of sunlight that draped no wider than a scarf on the high back of the burgundy armchair. What if Una came home weeping, having been physically assaulted by a homicidal psychopath, her new black satin top ripped, all the little yellow buttons stripped off like popcorn, her sticky lipstick smeared ear to ear? Not very likely. Una could look after herself. I recalled the surprising muscles in those arms when she was cleaning up the flooded bathroom. No, Una would be fine. She might get drunk.
She might . . . And from there I climbed onto a different train of thought. Una and Garth became an item, serious stuff. They made plans for their future, the schmaltzy wedding at Old St Paul's, the combining of assets. If he had any assets. And where would that leave me? Would I mind, feel abandoned? That was daft. If those two got it together perhaps they'd offer me her share of the apartment, which wouldn't be a very bad thing — but no, I couldn't afford to buy her out, no way. Damn. Every decision, every life variation as you got older involved money and financial survival was so precarious. Was it always like this? When I was young my parents or their friends hadn't seemed to agonise about their financial options in quite this way. Old age used to mean you had more, not less, a mortgage-free home at last, perhaps a holiday bach at the beach and things, rooms full of things, not just pot pourri and bric-a-brac like my Lavabo sign, my burgundy armchair and bookcases, the framed prints. What had I done with all my income over the years?
The hospital and then the lodge had gobbled most of my mother's remaining money after the funeral expense, so there had been very little to inherit; and of course divorce was expensive, but these days nearly everyone went through one. They must just hide it better. Well, I could rent out the other rooms to a boarder — someone easy-going who worked longer hours than me — and pay that rent to Una, providing of course she agreed to this arrangement. I heard myself sigh, took too large a gulp of grapefruit juice and choked on it. 'Silly bitch!' I coughed. There I went again, getting way ahead of myself and now trying to choke myself. Just as well I could laugh. But hadn't Mama Cass been alone and laughing when she died choking on a ham sandwich? Bloody hell, Saturday used to be a day for fun and relaxation. 'So what do you call this if not relaxation?' I said aloud.
Sheree's key jiggled in the lock in time to catch the end of this. She had h
er Walkman on so might not have heard me talking to myself but she did cast me a curious grimace, bumping deliberately into the armchair on her way to the back bedroom, almost as if she considered that particular chair was hers and had been wrongfully claimed.
Two minutes in her bedroom and the girl was back, rocking on rubber heels.
'Aren't you going anywhere?' she asked me, shoving her chin out.
'Not tonight, sorry. Why? What have you got planned?'
'Me? I don't make plans. I just go with the flow.'
'Come on, Sheree. I'm not silly. Is there some friend you want to invite back here? I wouldn't blame you. You're allowed, you know, within reason. I don't — we don't want you dealing drugs or putting yourself at risk, but you must need some company of your own age. Eh? What about that girl — Jilly?'
'Jilly vanilla?'
'Who?'
'She's a weak-arse bitch.' Sheree twirled a dining-room chair on one leg without explaining but I imagined I felt a slight easing of tension in the girl. The cane bottom tipped out of the chair and she reached clumsily to restore it.
I helped her with this. 'There's lasagne in the fridge to be heated up. I'm not hungry yet but you know how to use the microwave. All right?'
'I don't do drugs,' Sheree asserted suddenly with some force.
'No, I didn't think you did. It would be thoughtless while you're carrying someone's baby, you know that.'
'Someone,' she repeated with a low giggle. 'So you believe I'm going to give it away, do you?'
'Of course. Aren't you? But I didn't mean that. It must have a father out there somewhere, that's all I meant.'
'Tyler. I told you. But he's not out there any more.
They made sure of that. He said it would happen — he was waiting for it to happen but I didn't believe him. He was only fourteen, younger than me.'
'Fourteen? Is that for real, Sheree? The father was only fourteen years old?'
'Don't keep saying that! The father! It sounds so mad when I think of Tyler — it sounds like you're making fun of him.'
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