'What? What are you doing?' I felt affronted that the girl should enter my bedroom without even knocking. The fingers prodded me again. 'Don't!'
Sheree said, 'I had a dream. I think the baby's dead. I think he's died!'
I shook sleep out of my eyes and ran fingers through my hair. 'You said it was a dream. There's no reason why it should die.'
'I don't want something dead inside me. It's not moving. I can't feel it move!'
I swung my legs reluctantly off the bed and pulled my towelling dressing gown towards me. I sighed. 'I'll make you a hot drink.'
'Oh!' Sheree gave a small pleased cry. 'There it is! He's alive. I felt it!'
I let out a relieved flutter of laughter. 'That's good then. You see? You were worried about nothing. I'll put some milk on and you can go back to sleep.' I didn't ask why Sheree had woken me instead of Una but I felt oddly pleased and all of a sudden I was looking forward to sharing a hot milky drink. It wasn't until I was stirring Milo into the mugs that it occurred to me to ask the question. 'Are you wondering what the baby might be or have you seen a scan? You called it he.'
'Did I?'
'Do you care?'
'Why would I? It's not going to be mine, not to keep.'
'I think you do mind a bit. Don't you? That would be natural.'
'I'm not natural. I squashed a kitten once — I didn't mean to. I put a cushion on it and sat on it. I was only five.' She pulled a face and the face became a crying mask, tears squirting onto her hands. She held up the teary wet fingers and gazed at them as if startled. 'I didn't mean to.'
'Sheree. I'm sure you didn't. I'm sure you didn't mean to get pregnant.'
'Well, you're wrong about that one. I meant to but I didn't know it would be like this. I wanted something of my own, eh? I didn't dare tell his mum at the funeral, she was religious.'
'What do you mean, "like this"? What's it like?'
'You know. Cramps in my belly and everyone getting at me.' She shrugged. 'I didn't know stuff that I know now. Tyler didn't tell me anything. He knew things but he didn't tell me — just went on and on about his own stuff.'
'It's a lot to take in when you're sixteen. But you're sure about giving it up for adoption, aren't you?'
'I should be, I've had enough talking. Blah blah blah. Don't tell Una I woke you up.'
'Why not?'
''Night.' She tilted her head in a farewell gesture. 'Thanks.'
I got back into bed but couldn't sleep immediately. I'd been in the deepest dream state when Sheree woke me and now I was really tired but I couldn't climb back into the dream. I was thinking about Sophie and nights when, as a teenager, she had woken me from sleep, round eyes whirling with nightmare images, needing comfort and cocoa. She had been a bit younger than Sheree but way off her first sexual relationship, or at least so far as I'd been aware. And there was still no hint of a grandchild. Women waited longer these days — there were so many more things for them to do with their lives, activities that bound them to desks and cellphones and car seat belts. When had I last heard from Sophie? I didn't like to count the calendar months: it seemed such a mean thing to do when I was glad that Sophie had a life that absorbed her. I'd brought her up to be independent in those far-off days when I was important to my family. I missed that feeling now. I was a cog in a wheel perhaps, at work, at home, but any other cog would help it turn as easily. Really, I was nothing. Was this how Sheree felt?
On Tuesday, one of the days I finished work early, I shared a triangular formica table at the Deluxe with Beryl and the teenager. It was among Sheree's favourite coffee places apparently and right next door to the Embassy, where we'd attended a Harry Potter movie.
'So what did you think?'
I asked Sheree.
'Yeah. I liked the flying car.'
'You've read the book?' Beryl asked her.
'I saw the first movie, in Sydney.' She was sucking iced coffee through a straw and peering over Beryl's shoulder at a wall exhibiting tiny paintings that looked faintly pornographic. 'Shit. Would you want something like that on your bedroom wall?'
'Somebody might.'
'Kids!' Sheree complained when a child at the adjacent table started to wail. 'That's the trouble with afternoon movies.'
'Well, it's for kids, isn't it. It's a kids' movie.'
'But you liked it,' Sheree said defensively.
'I loved it,' Beryl said. 'I like to see kids enjoying themselves. Don't you?'
'Nope. Not really. But it was all right. Thanks.' She might have remembered that Beryl had paid for her ticket and I'd bought her glass of coffee. As soon as she had sucked up the last of the drink she lumbered to her feet and took her leave. Beryl and I were happy to sit on over our empty cups.
'Poor kid,' Beryl said. 'I wish I could help her — if she'd let me.'
'How? Help her how?'
'The baby. There must be something we can do to persuade her to keep it.'
'Really?' I felt briefly guilty that I'd spent the last few months looking forward to the time when the girl would have delivered her baby and moved out of the apartment. Would it really make life more comfortable? In a funny sort of way I was getting used to having Sheree to act as a buffer between me and Una: I was even getting to like the girl. But a baby — no, not a baby. I was too old for that! 'No, she seems convinced she's doing the right thing. She's so young, Beryl, she needs to get her own life sorted.' There was a baby in a pushchair only feet away from us and the mother was busy jiggling it to frustrate fitful cries. 'See? She'd never cope with that.'
But when Beryl frowned and shook her head it was as if she hadn't heard what I said and was listening to something else. She was still frowning when the young mother gave up and wheeled the pushchair outside.
'Thank goodness. We didn't come here to listen to that.'
'What?' Beryl turned back to me. 'No, we didn't.'
I was reminded then of Una's comments and decided to bring them out into the open. I explained how Una had gone looking for me at Beryl's house but had felt suddenly shy because 'you seemed to have someone there and it wasn't me. I think you were in the garden.'
Now Beryl was looking startled. She blushed, a process that afflicted her fairly regularly, and then she coughed a little, touching her lips and brushing hair off her forehead. 'Oh no, it must have been the cat. I sometimes talk to the cat — don't you? Or, no, you don't have a cat, do you? Una needn't have run away.'
'I didn't think you had a cat either.' I was remembering an earlier conversation about pets.
'I don't actually. It's the neighbour's cat. I'm fond of cats. I suppose I should get one of my own.' She looked stricken suddenly, as if she'd been found guilty of sounding sorry for herself, playing the part of a lonely old lady.
'I told you about the upstairs dog, didn't I?' I said quickly. 'Slimy little thing, the worst kind of dog — gives the species a bad name. Some apartments don't allow pets at all so Marge is quite lucky.' I took a breath and then added, 'I'm getting on rather well with Kevin, by the way. The downstairs man we tried to flood.'
'That's nice. That's what you wanted, wasn't it? So how well exactly? Has he asked you out again?'
'Not out. In — as a matter of fact.' I made a sound that came out something like a giggle. 'To his place. I haven't told Una so I'd rather you didn't say.'
'But what about Garth? You said she'd be okay with it now, because of Garth.'
'Nothing to do with Garth. Kevin's got a wife — it's a bit complicated.' I explained the complications and confessed how much disappointment I'd felt when he had thrust the details at me. Having revealed this much I took in Beryl's queerly immobile face. 'I guess I'm not a natural adulterer, but I'm learning.' I tried a light laugh.
'You mean you still do?' Beryl's face was frozen on her shoulders.
'Well — you think I shouldn't? But if it's all right with him . . . They might have some sort of open marriage.' I'd remembered guiltily that Beryl's husband had been unfaithful.
&nbs
p; 'I mean you still do it?' she repeated, altering the emphasis.
'Of course. Why wouldn't I? You do — with Greg. Don't you?' Suddenly I could see from the look on Beryl's face that she didn't. 'Oh!'
'I said he was my friend.'
'And you meant that! I thought it was just what people said — it's hard getting the words right. Oh God, I'm sorry. I've really shocked you.'
'No, you haven't. No, please. I'm just curious about how things work after fifty. My mother told me it all stopped after the menopause. I know that's not quite right but . . .'
'I thought you lived with Greg.'
'I do. Sort of.' She was blushing again.
'He doesn't mind? You haven't seen the Viagra ads on TV?'
'Of course I have. It's not a problem. I'd rather talk about you, Clarice. I can understand how you feel, finding out he's married. But at least he did tell you.'
I shook my head. Beryl didn't understand at all. She was talking as if she believed I'd had ideas about walking down a church aisle with him. Marriage wasn't the point. 'You thought I might be going to fall in love with you? Well, I won't.' That was Kevin's brutal point, protecting himself from the word go, but I couldn't be bothered explaining this to Beryl. I shouldn't have started this conversation. I sat forward in my chair. 'You mustn't say anything to Una, remember? I made a promise. I mustn't talk to her about this because she's in the same building. And she isn't exactly trustworthy, not that Kevin knows that. I only told you because I know I can trust you and you're not a congenital liar. Okay?'
The smaller children had left the Deluxe along with frazzled mothers wiping hair out of their eyes and those who remained were simply young, in jeans or chopped-off skirts that looked like they'd been assembled from the contents of a rubbish skip. A young woman sitting behind us had glitter decorating her cheekbones. 'He's so fun, so out there, so over the top,' she chirped, like an exotic bird. The youth at the counter had turned the music up.
I said to Beryl, 'I can't imagine the kind of life you live without it — as you call it. It's such a big part of what I am, I can't . . . can't look at my life, without getting it in place first. I thought I could but apparently I can't. The sex relationship thing.' I had to raise my voice above the background music.
Beryl glanced about us, smiling through the nearly visible, pulsing rock music. 'They don't know what we're talking about. I hope.' She laughed, inviting me to join her, clearly pleased with herself for being a part of this conversation.
I found myself arriving home at the same time as Una, who worked commercial hours and only occasionally finished later, when she was booked for a skincare treatment. I called out and sprinted to catch up with her while she leaned on the outer doors to the building.
'Hi, Claz. What did you do with the others?'
'Don't know where Sheree went. Beryl caught a bus.'
For no good reason Una sniggered. 'I thought I had some funny friends. Present company excepted, of course. But Beryl's a classic. You always had a soft spot for lame ducks at school — I should have remembered.'
'You didn't know any of my friends at school.' We went slowly on the stairs because Una didn't like to hurry and lose her breath.
'You got talked about. Didn't you know? You were so nice to everyone on the bus, doing other people's homework. You were supposed to get somewhere in life.' She didn't add: What happened? But the question seemed to hang in the air above her heavy gusts of breathing.
'I got married instead — is that what you were going to say?'
'Of course not. I got married too. We all got married, it was the next thing. But you had a brain.'
'Thank you. But I don't think I like the tense.' We were inside the apartment now, hanging up our coats together in a synchronised movement that reminded me suddenly of the school cloakroom.
'You see? That's what I mean — you know all about tenses and stuff, Anyway Beryl's truly weird. She watches you all the time as if she has to lip-read what we're saying. Is she deaf? And you go to children's movies with her.'
'Everyone goes to Harry Potter.'
'I don't. Sheree! Are you here?'
Sheree was not in the apartment. The TV screen was blank and the kitchen radio silent. This was how it would be in a few months' time when we had the place to ourselves. It was something to look forward to. So why did Una frown while she unpacked her big handbag, placing items in the pantry and the fruit bowl?
Feijoas. 'You like feijoas?'
she asked.
'Lovely.'
'Sheree won't eat vegetables, have you noticed? You give her a lot of advice lately.'
'Do I?'
'She won't listen to you so you needn't bother.' She looked up at the clock. 'She'll have to stop staying out so late after dark. It's getting close to her time — she could be early.'
'Surely it's a way off yet. When is it exactly?'
'Like I said, she could be early. I'm responsible, since she's not. She doesn't seem to care.'
I opened my mouth to tell her about Sheree's nightmare, then closed it again. Discretion, something I'd been praised for often enough, was a lonely thing and got lonelier the older you became. I should accept that loneliness was a feature of old age but I was only fifty-nine and I didn't want to accept even that. The other option could have been to transform myself into a garrulous old lady who entertained fellow passengers on a Stagecoach bus, during the cheap travel hours of course. 'When are you seeing Garth again?'
Una's face took on a curiously embattled cast so that she looked more like the childhood self of our school days. 'Do I have to tell you that?'
'Of course you don't. I thought you might want to.'
'I don't know when I'm seeing him. He's going through some stuff at work. It'll be his last day on Friday.'
'I don't suppose they'll bake him a cake. Perhaps you should. What will he do next?'
'The dole, what else? There's nothing else. I'm not looking forward to it — I'll be picking up the tab if we go out and it's not as if we're in love or anything daft.'
I laughed at this as I believed I was meant to.
'Why are you laughing? People do fall in love at our age, as if you didn't know.'
Indeed. I pulled myself up and went toward the cupboard that held the liquor. This wasn't a conversation I wanted to get into with Una. 'But not you — or not with Garth?'
'Certainly not. I'm worth more. Oprah Winfrey told me so. God, I hate all of that love and money stuff. Love and money — it's like alcohol — makes you think you need it. Yes please. Make it a whisky. I'll do the noodles later.' She reached for the drink with a trembling clumsiness that made me wonder if she had stopped at a bar on the way home instead of doing a skin treatment. Or was she going to get Parkinson's? Oh dear. God knows what fate had in store for either of us. 'Oh, he's all right. I shouldn't complain. All his naughty bits work, which is more than you can say for a lot of them.'
'And you've tried quite a few,' I opted for the lighthearted approach, splashing tonic into a rather large gin.
'I have indeed.' She assumed a satisfied expression.
'Even my Roy, if you were thinking of trying him. Don't bother. Roy's French for king, isn't it? He used to tell me that. Well, the king is dead, take my word.'
Beryl
Beryl sat in the kitchen with the cereal packet between her and the window. She had been too embarrassed to talk to Greg about Una's aborted visit but he seemed to be avoiding her anyway. Instead she munched shredded wheat — rather a lot of it, with sugar. She only bought sugar for Greg but sometimes she slipped and consumed some of it herself. Una must have been lurking behind the fence with her eye to one of the crooked gaps. This arrogant scrutiny of Beryl's private garden might have been accidental but it was no less rude. A civilised person would have called out to let her know she was about to make an appearance. What Beryl hated most was how the incident reflected on Greg, showing him in an insubstantial light and reminding her that this was all he was. He had no more su
bstance than the soft-furred, biddable dog she had liked to think she owned as a four-year-old. Why hadn't her father allowed her a real dog? 'I'm sorry,' she said now to the man sitting opposite her in a shaft of sunlight. 'I don't think any less of you because that rude woman chose not to see you. Sometimes I can't see you very well myself, but it doesn't matter.'
'So when are you seeing the optician? How do you get on at the movies? You'd never manage subtitles.'
'I hardly ever go to movies.'
'Oh, come on. I know you want to talk about it. You should have more women in your life. It's healthy. You could exchange recipes and knitting patterns.'
'I'm not my mother. Women talk about much more exciting stuff these days. They talk about politics. And careers. Jobs with initials. And . . .'
'Acronyms.'
'Thank you. I don't often forget words.'
'You do it all the time.'
'Acronyms and mission statements and strategic —' 'Plans. You forgot again.'
'Oh, shut up.'
'And sex. You can't have forgotten sex? You talked about sex.'
She had been flattered that Clarice trusted her enough to report such intimacies, but sex itself she must have forgotten — in fact she had never quite got what sex was for, apart from making babies, and that didn't always work. And although it was all over the place, in magazines, on the TV, even on the radio, Beryl had only a blurred memory now of what it was about — all that fuss. She had known it was important if you wanted to keep your husband — her mother had impressed that upon her — but although she did it with Donald whenever it came up, as it were, she hadn't kept him, had she, so she need not have bothered. Her Mills & Boons, stored in the wardrobe away from Donald, had been her guiltiest illicit pleasure, literally a closet secret because she had read Latin at school and had been ashamed of straying so far downmarket. Part of the pleasure in those stories had been the absence of sex but she hadn't been ashamed of that — why would she be? And these days apparently even Mills & Boon titles had sex. And ladies approaching their sixties. Clarice had thought Beryl had been doing it at sixty-four!
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