'So what happened? Did he get put in some remand home, or what?' And how was he connected to Una? Was it Tyler who was the cousin and Sheree simply the girlfriend?
Sheree coughed a hard laugh into the juicy fingers of her hand. 'I wish! He'd get out of a home, wouldn't he? You don't usually get out of a coffin, specially once it goes up in smoke.'
'No! Oh Sheree, that's awful. Why didn't Una tell me?' Then I narrowed my eyes. Was I doing it again, believing everything I was told, just like poor Beryl whose husband reeked of perfume? I decided to change tack and said in a more neutral tone, 'You didn't want an abortion or you'd have had one, I expect.'
'I'd have got rid of it if I could, yeah, but they wouldn't let me, said I was too late. I got my dates wrong. How was I to know what was going on? I wasn't living here — I was in Sydney.' As if that might have explained any discrepancy in her story. She looked across at me and must have seen the doubts jostling behind my eyes because she became defensive suddenly, her face closed like a door shutting and she muttered. 'Why am I talking to you? You don't want to know.'
I assumed a neutral expression, then tried to upgrade it to sympathy. I did in fact feel some sympathy for the position Sheree was in, pregnant at sixteen, never mind how. The girl could be behaving far worse: she could be drinking Una's vodka or stealing the silver to score heroin and damage her unborn child. Not that she'd get much for my old spoons and forks and the little silver table tennis cup Una had received while at school. 'I do want to hear.'
''Cos you're nosy. But you don't believe it.' Sheree had moved closer to the armchair until she was standing beside my left ear and leaned in almost threateningly. Too close. I refused to turn my head. If this was to be another performance like the screaming exercise in the supermarket . . . 'I can scream too,' I began to say. And then I very nearly did scream. There was a metallic click inside Sheree's fat hand and a knife blade cut the air, a fine, silver point, pricking my neck.
'Sheree! What is that? Put it away!'
'Flick knife. Got it in Sydney. Keep it in my shoe — not while I was on the plane, they'd have nicked it.'
'That's an illegal weapon. Do put it away.'
'What's a legal weapon when it's at home? I'm illegal. It's illegal to have sex before you're sixteen.'
'You were both illegal — it takes two to make a baby. Why do you want a weapon anyway? What are you defending yourself against?'
'You don't know much, do you? People get killed in broad daylight. Innocent people. All sorts are out to get you.'
'Wellington's hardly New York.'
'What about that guy in the lift shaft down Courtenay Place? And that woman . . . Una told me about that.'
'I don't know why she'd talk to you about such stuff.'
'She wants me to be scared, eh? She's pissed off that Tyler got done and not me, but he was asking for it.'
'If she wants you to be scared it's for your own good, I'm sure,' I said, sounding less than sure. 'She wouldn't want you carrying a knife. Don't put it back in your shoe. Put it in your bedroom if you need to keep it. I'm going to heat up our dinner.'
It wasn't until the microwave had pinged and we were sitting with the cheesy lasagne lolling below our forks that I asked the question, and not for the first time. 'So tell me about Tyler. What relation was he to Una? Was he her cousin?'
'No.' Sheree shovelled pasta greedily. 'Grandson, what else? This —' she patted her tummy, 'this'll be a great-grandchild. Wicked, eh? I don't suppose she wants to know that.'
The movie on Prime was just finishing when Una let herself back into the apartment, bringing with her scents of stale cigarette smoke and the liquid soap they dispense in ladies' toilets. Her Estée Lauder Pleasures had gone stuffy on her skin. Flinging herself wearily onto one of the cane chairs, she pronounced, in answer to my raised eyebrows, 'Nah. Not really.'
'Not really what?'
'Not really my kind of bloke.'
'Oh. That's a shame. So you're not going to see him again?'
'I didn't say that. Probably a drink after work on Tuesday. I need to look in my diary.'
'Oh yes.' I gave her my sceptical smile. 'Tuesdays are often busy, eh?'
'Is she in bed?'
'Sheree? I think so. The movie was a bit heavy for her.' I wondered briefly how much to tell her about the flick-knife episode or Sheree's disclosure and decided not to say anything at all. If Una could be secretive so could I. I finished stacking the dishwasher, frowning to keep my secrets locked in, while Una was occupying the bathroom.
'What's up?' Una approached at last, her face scrubbed red around her nostrils, eyes pink and piggy, denuded of kohl and eyeshadow. 'Something wrong with the dishwasher?'
'How do you mean? It's fine — why?'
'You looked like you'd gone into a trance. I suppose you had a boring night in but you can't blame me for that. Good blokes don't just come to the door and ask you for a glass of water — you have to go looking. Pull out some stops.'
'I'm perfectly okay. I had a nice night in, thank you.
And Sheree was quite good company.'
'You're kidding! She shared her Walkman with you, did she?'
'We talked. About the baby and stuff.'
'Oh.' Una tugged her dressing gown about her. 'Oh. Well, you'll need a good night's sleep then. I know I do. See you in the morning — ta ta.'
Beryl
Beryl liked to think her tired old house was at least spotless. There had been a mouse in the kitchen, years before, quickly banished with a few green pellets that had turned him into a foul smell behind the fridge. After that she had blocked up his means of access. The kitchen smelled sweet enough now, with window pots of rosemary, and basil in season. In the entrance hallway there was a shallow pottery bowl of pot pourri which had lost most of its smell. It sat on a low wooden chest with round feet, next to a spindly table, hand painted with twining plants and multicoloured berries. This last was something brought with her as part of a trousseau from her parents' house in a nearby street. After they passed away — both of them relatively young by today's standards — she had acquired other items to decorate her and Donald's home — a set of silver-plated candlesticks with fluted purple glass to hold the stems of wax, a wooden-handled parasol with a painted island scene that billowed above her bedroom doorway accumulating dust. In the living room beside the tiled fireplace, converted to hold bookshelves, a prim set of brass-handled poker, shovel and hearth brush stood uselessly at the ready, as did the set of bellows on the grate.
Beryl's vacuum cleaner was old but it worked, or at least it made an impressive noise. The dark grey living-room carpet was becoming difficult, clinging onto pieces of hair and other dropped fibres so that she ended up doing the final clean on her bony knees, using her fingers to pluck up recalcitrant fluff and stuff it into the nozzle. She felt a kind of relationship with the machine, which had aged like her and was also losing some of its power, although not enough to make a fuss about. Her friendship with Clarice was causing her to look at her home through new eyes and she was surprised to feel the remnants of domestic pride stirring. She had gone to some trouble when she was first married, promising herself visitors and family gatherings that never quite came about. She had even picked up a paintbrush and wielded it herself while Donald was working. All that had come to a swift end in 1976, after his departure. Looking about her she could see not one item of decoration that she had acquired since that time, unless you called kitchen pots and paraphernalia decorative. The purple colander that protected her sink waste was trying hard but she considered it an ugly thing. And there were certainly plenty of new — or second-hand — books furnishing her shelves with colour. It was a shame. The place was really asking for visitors.
'That's right,' Greg murmured through his nose. 'You'll have to get rid of me somehow. It's not really a problem. You could tell her I'm away or I've walked out on you. Easy. That's what a normal person would say.'
'But you haven't.'
'That'
s beside the point. She wouldn't see me even if I was sitting right beside her. So?'
'I'm a lousy liar. I'd muck it up. Liars have to believe what they say when they say it.'
'Don't worry — you'll lie when you have to, and you'll make a fair job of it. Everyone does it. Look at your Donald. He didn't want to hurt you.'
'Donald? Hurt himself, more like. It was himself he was looking after.'
'And who are you looking after? You just want to feel good about yourself, that's all.'
Was that all? Maybe Beryl feared asking Clarice into her home because Greg might distract her deliberately, might trick her into appearing weird and, yes, nuts. She was no more nuts than she had been as a four-yearold who played with an imaginary dog, whistling for and patting him and feeding him her crusts under the table, but Clarice would see it differently perhaps. She wouldn't understand that Greg had been a part of her daily life for so long now that denying him would be something like going out in public without her knickers and bra. Plenty of women had done that in the seventies and survived, but Beryl had not been one of them; and even Germaine Greer had changed her tune since then. 'I bet she's wearing knickers to keep her warm today.'
'Germaine?'
'That's right. You understand me so well,' Beryl said.
Three days a week I finished work at two o'clock and relished arriving home before Una. That Wednesday I was walking across the foyer from the lift wondering if Sheree would be ensconced in my armchair watching the Australian soaps, when I heard a man's footsteps bounding up the stairs. I don't know who I thought it might be — unlikely that it was Kevin who lived on the ground floor — but I lost the rhythm of my progress, tripped on the edge of the raised tiling and ended up sitting down, reaching for my shoulder bag that had fallen open, pushing my heel back into my sandal. Then I looked up. Not Kevin but a stranger with greying hair straggled from the northerly and exposing a dented bald patch.
'Hello. All right? You must be . . . ?' Whatever he was beginning to say fizzled to a stop as he took in the look on my face, which was probably less than friendly. 'I expect Una's not home yet. It's just — I've got a park outside which is a bit of luck, so I thought I'd toddle up and see if there was anyone to let me in. I'm Garth, by the way. I've got a load of meat for you in the car. For the two of you,' he added, smiling energetically so that his moustache moved. He held out his hand as if he expected me to shake it.
'Meat,' I repeated stupidly, keeping my own hand firmly on the handle of my shoulder bag.
'Didn't she say? I told her I'd got a full freezer. Had a bit of luck in the pub on Saturday. You know they come round with these raffles? I can't stop winning — I'll have to give up my beer. It's too much meat for me, I'm not much of a cook. I'll bring it up, shall I? She said there'd be freezer space.'
'Ah. Sorry. I've just had a bit of a day.' I stepped ahead of Garth and had the usual difficulty struggling with the key before it decided to turn in the lock. He stood watching this operation with an eager, almost greedy look on his face that made me feel uncomfortable. It was over a week since Una's date with him at The Jimmy and it sounded as if they were seeing more of each other than I'd been aware of. Whatever had happened to female confidences? When we were inside Sheree wagged a hand at me, which was encouraging behaviour. I wagged back, then turned to Garth, who was peering with obvious curiosity, flickering his pale eyes over the walls, the kitchen appliances, for all the world like a prospective buyer in the hands of an estate agent.
'But you haven't fetched your meat yet,' I reminded him and a sudden chill clamped a cold hand on my stomach. Why wasn't Una here? Come on Una, where are you? I'd remembered Sheree's warnings. 'You don't know much, do you? People get killed. Innocent people.' For the moment I was glad of Sheree and her flick knife.
'Of course. I'll be right back.'
'Who's he?' Sheree wanted to know. 'Is he your bloke?'
'Una's, not mine.'
'Oh yeah. Boring. What do you do with a man when you're that old? Ballroom dancing?'
'He's got some meat for us. He won it in a raffle.
What time is it?'
Sheree waved at the clock on the stove. 'What's up?'
'I'm wondering when Una will be back.'
'Scared he's going to make a move on you? She'd kill you. Or him.'
'I wish you wouldn't go on about killing all the time. We're not all homicidal maniacs.'
We could hear Garth wheezing in the doorway: he might have been carrying a body and not simply two parcels in supermarket bags. They were large packages, however, and wrapped in clear plastic so that in one bag the blood showed red on slabs of steak with white flashes of bone and in the other something — perhaps chicken — bulged white lardy flesh, a bit like Garth's advancing forehead.
'Eugh!' I looked at all this sprawled on the kitchen bench and was reluctant to handle it.
'I know. I'd unwrapped the stuff trying to fit it in my own freezer so it's done up a bit amateurishly, but it's in smaller packs so it's more convenient for you.'
Sheree had roused herself to come closer, her eyes on stalks, and when he had finished speaking she reached down and pulled open the freezer door with a flourish.
'Thanks.' I introduced the girl, then said, 'You could start stacking this stuff for me while I make Garth a cup of tea. Would you mind?'
'Tea! I bet he doesn't drink tea.'
'I do actually. Just an ordinary gumboot does me fine. But I'm on a thirty-minute park, so I'll toddle off. I'll phone Una some time this evening.'
Una scanned the freezer contents with amazement. She appeared startled that Garth had been in her home while she wasn't there.
'But you knew about the meat.'
'Oh, he muttered something the other day but I thought it was an excuse to get himself asked to dinner. I didn't even give him this address. Oh yes, I did — more or less. He must have been hanging about, checking us out. Creepy.'
'He certainly gave me the creeps. I don't fancy cooking any of that meat — I kept thinking of Sweeney Todd.'
'Oh, come on! He's not a bad bloke really, just a bit sad. I suppose I should ask him to dinner. I'm sure the meat's fine.'
'No! Please. You can do what you like with him in private. This is my home too.'
For a moment the air between us crackled. Una's head was lowered, like an animal ready to butt its way out of trouble. Then she said, 'So I can bring him home and fuck him in my bedroom with the door shut — is that how the rules go?'
I laughed, but uneasily. 'Well yes, if that's what you want. I'm not being unreasonable here. I don't like having things sprung on me. Everything we do together needs negotiating, that's all I'm saying.'
'Christ. Might as well be married.'
'I thought you enjoyed being married — or was that just another story?'
Una puffed air impatiently from nostrils that still wore a layer of Estée Lauder and strode off to her bedroom.
I had spent thirty years in charge of my own steering wheel before I sold my car and became demoted to passenger; my own decision of course. I sat in the front seat of Una's Mazda, watching her negotiate the hillside bends to Makara, steadying a potted chrysanthemum for David between my knees. I was wearing jeans that day instead of my usual cross-cut skirt, drawing a comment from Sheree: 'Shit. My gran gave up jeans when she was forty.' And the answering comment from Una: 'I expect your gran was fat.' The hills were green and buttery with untidy gorse, the road littered in places with cheesy crumbles of clay following the rain-drenched weekend. I'd felt touched when Una suggested this outing, particularly as she had been clearly wounded by my rejection of her dinner party idea. I saw this journey to visit the graves of our respective husbands as a peace offering and a thoughtful one. 'I've brought a couple of cloths to clean the bird shit off the headstones — one for you. There's a tap.'
'Of course. How often do you visit?'
'Not often. I know he's not really there.' I said this firmly enough, but the closer the Mazda
hummed toward the cemetery gates the less I believed it and caught myself preparing speeches under my breath to deliver to his headstone. The car swooped up between patterns of well-shaved lawn, past the Jewish section and the Chinese, to the interdenominational area. The trees had grown tall since the interment ceremony, a surprising number of years ago now, and I enjoyed the fact that David would approve: he had impressed on Stuart and Sophie the importance of trees.
'Where is he? I mean, the grave?' Una asked and waited for me to wave the hand that wasn't burdened with the chrysanthemum. She retrieved her own spray of red silk roses from the back seat.
'Your Roy must be closer to the road,' I guessed, remembering the death was more recent. 'Can I see?'
'Actually he's over in the Catholic section. I'll leave you to it. See you back here at the car in — twenty minutes?'
There was a regulation height for headstones in this wide new cemetery, which made for a crude conformity. I stepped politely along the rows of narrow tombs, taking care not to stumble on the private thoughts of sleeping identities — a bit like airline travel. It dislodged a distant holiday memory I'd shared with David. It wasn't that I believed exactly, but rather that I couldn't quite disbelieve the cemetery stories told to me by my grandmother. Never speak ill of the dead. Never tread on the top end of buried coffins. At six I'd thought skeletal arms might reach out for my feet; at fifty-nine I told myself it was about respect. Grandma rested in the old Karori cemetery, the real one, with my mother and father, not in this new settlement.
David's grave was one of the end ones in his row, cosily guarded by a swathe of shrubbery. The birds had had a fair old time trying to obliterate the white letters carved in shiny grey granite. I arranged my pot of yellow blooms and began to scrub busily with the cloth, telling David just what I thought of my new housemate but keeping it light. I didn't like to think of him worrying on my behalf when he should be resting in peace. But he couldn't worry, could he? Not if he was in heaven, that worry-free paradise where he should be, supposing there was such a thing as an afterlife. I had a taste for Hollywood afterlife movies. Truly Madly Deeply I'd seen four times.
Playing Friends Page 7