Playing Friends

by Marilyn Duckworth

  'I don't know why you're laughing,' Greg said, holding his mouth tautly as if he'd trodden on something sharp. 'Are you one of those women who don't know what an orgasm is?'

  Beryl screwed her eyes up, peering to see his face better. It had distorted until it was nearly unrecognisable. She shook the sunlight out of her head and looked a second time, staring. First his face flickered and skidded out of focus, then his duffel coat fell away. He had gone again.

  It was my turn to run the vacuum cleaner over the floor of the apartment while Una applied her superior muscles to cleaning oil off the sides of the bath. She had left her bedroom doors open wide which was a clear invitation. I advanced obediently with my suction nozzle, humming an old TV theme tune. He Used To Bring Me Roses. I was prodding under the low bed, humming, remembering how my parents' bedroom had been furnished with a gleaming chamber pot — the po. There was nothing like that under Una's bed but something was impeding the suction and at once I felt like an intruder, trespassing in private territory, and retreated hastily, pulling back the nozzle which was clutching some sort of magazine. I snatched it off and bent to replace it under the bed, telling myself at first not to look. But Una was no teenage boy, nor even a disgruntled husband who might have appreciated Penthouse or Esquire. I found I was looking at a copy of the Mothercare catalogue. Everything for your gorgeous baby. Bodysuits. Scratch mitts. My jaw jolted with surprise. Una had laughed at me for buying a koala — what had possessed me? — for the baby and I'd had to hide it in the wardrobe. Shaking my head, I bent down again and cast the rolled-up catalogue to the shadowy far side of the bed.

  Sheree had discovered the packets of copper hair colour in the bathroom cupboard and asked me if they were difficult to use. Una came come across the two of us that afternoon positioned at the dining table, Sheree seated with a towel about her shoulders, a smile stretching her wide mouth, while I wielded yellow rubber fingers.

  'What are you doing, for God's sake?'

  'You know what we're doing. You did it to me last month — you do a great job,' I said soothingly. 'I think I know what I'm doing.'

  'Sheree doesn't need highlights.'

  'I want them,' Sheree said.

  'I paid for the stuff,' I reminded Una. 'We're nearly finished anyway.'

  Una flounced — there was no other word for it — into her bedroom and closed the ribbed glass doors so firmly they rattled.

  I had tuned the kitchen radio to Sheree's FM music station so that she wouldn't miss the addictive medicine of her Walkman. She reached out and flicked the volume up, grinning and inviting my conspiracy.

  I shook my head. 'No, keep it down. She's probably had a hard day at work.'

  Una didn't mention the hair at dinner. Celtic copper waves, soothed by my blowdrier, bobbed above a plate of noodles drenched with sauce of a not dissimilar colour. It was after the TV news and Holmes that Una finally said. 'You two are getting very pally.'

  'What's pally?' Sheree asked.

  'Don't you speak the same language as us?' Una asked.

  Sheree shrugged.

  'Isn't it Garth's last day tomorrow?' I changed the subject. 'How will you celebrate?'

  'Celebrate? Hmm. We might do something. He usually goes to the pub on a Friday, but I'm not going there. I might wait for him at his place.'

  'You mean like a surprise party?' Sheree grinned.

  'No I don't!' Una frowned. 'I can't imagine anything more horrible. And he doesn't seem to have a lot of friends.'

  'Shame. We'd have come, wouldn't we, Clarice?'

  'No. Not me.'

  'Oh! Chicken. I'd like to see where Una goes to for weekends.'

  'You want to come?' Una sat up, swinging her legs off the cane sofa. 'My turn to cook tomorrow. I could do it at his place. He's got a dining table now. It's okay.'

  Garth had been moving into a new cheaper flat during the past two days and I knew Una had spent part of yesterday evening helping him unpack and arrange some bits of furniture.

  I shook my head. She probably didn't mean it seriously anyway.

  'Sheree? I'm inviting you. It's only a step away, much closer than his old flat. You could show off your new hairdo.'

  'Do you think it's all right?' The girl tossed her hair. 'It is, isn't it? But no thanks, you must be joking. I don't care where your boyfriend lives. He's your business.'

  I saw the winded expression on Una's face and winced inwardly. How could two people linked by family be so carelessly nasty to each other? It had been Una's role until recently to crush Sheree's confidence in ways that shocked me. And now it was Sheree being rude and thoughtless. I tried to remember how it had been in my own family, to replay some of our past exchanges, and found a filmy curtain obscuring the details. I took off my glasses and scrubbed them vigorously with the silky edge of my petticoat.

  'If you want me to come,' I said to Una, when Sheree had retired to bed, giving her hair a last satisfied pat.

  'What? You thought I meant it? Two's company, remember. I only asked Sheree because — well — I dunno really. I thought she sounded a bit . . . She is only sixteen. I should be around when it happens.'

  'What about me? I can take care of things, I'm not stupid.'

  'You? But she's my responsibility. Anyway it should be weeks yet, no sweat. I mean to have a good time with Garth before he gets the redundancy blues, eh.'

  On Friday evening Una didn't come home from work. I found her note fluttering from the square fridge magnet — 'QUAKE-SAFE YOUR HOME' — reminding us that she would be out for dinner. 'Sheree has Garth's address for an emergency.'

  'Do you?' I asked her, clearing our plates and starting the dishwasher.

  'Dunno. She told me but I wasn't listening. Her cellphone number's in the book if you want her.'

  'Not me. It's you she cares about.'

  'Cares about? Give me a break!' 'If the baby starts coming. No, but she does care. Why else are you living here if she doesn't give a damn?'

  'Beats me! She didn't want to feel it move — I gave her a chance but she couldn't bear to touch me. It was so weird the first time I felt it, like I'd swallowed a whole fish, and next thing he was hip-hopping all over the place. Looks rude.'

  'I was nervous when I was expecting my first. I suppose you're a bit scared, are you?'

  'No.' Sheree clamped her teeth shut and looked irritable. 'I'll just shut my eyes and scream till it's over. It happens on telly often enough, I'll get through it.'

  'Of course you will.'

  Una had been away for weekends several times now and I'd enjoyed the break, visiting Kevin downstairs without needing to explain my absence. I was getting used to his sleek espresso machine and only once was I disconcerted when he chose to answer his telephone in the bedroom with the door closed firmly against me. I'd gone home early that day, leaving my shoes behind me under his bed like Cinderella. I had other footwear. Kevin hadn't come romantically seeking me with a warm shoe in each hand, inviting the three of us to try them for size while a fairy godmother shone hovering in the wings. This weekend he was well aware that I'd be alone with just Sheree but he hadn't phoned. He had warned me that his wife was coming to Wellington very soon but the exact date was still unconfirmed so I didn't like to knock on his door in case I might embarrass him. It was up to him to make contact.

  Saturday crawled by so indolently that at one point I stationed myself in front of the kitchen clock and stared hard at the minute hand to check whether the battery was running down. I thought of the expression 'killing time' and wondered how I might slaughter a Saturday afternoon. But when you got to fifty-nine surely you needed every minute there was left. I looked jealously at Sheree's youth and then contemplated how I'd choose to spend my time if I was sixteen today. The idea made me shudder. No, I couldn't bear to be so young and have to repeat all that stuff, make the inevitable mistakes all over again. Could I listen to another fifty-odd years of headlines and global griping? No way. I just wanted the telephone to ring.

  I saw
Una rolling around on a cheap Belgian rug — the kind Garth would have in his bachelor flat — and sighed, but it was a sigh more self-satisfied than envious. At least Kevin had a double bed, although it was only double because he was double himself, dammit.

  The plumbing problem in the bathroom must have resurfaced. The hand-basin cold tap was groaning again, an ugly noise. Why didn't Sheree jiggle it or turn it off? I was about to call out when it struck me there was something different about the noise this time. It wasn't the pipes graunching after all. 'Sheree?' The sound had stopped now and a minute later the door opened.

  'What?' Sheree looked at me fiercely from under her red hair. She tugged, straightened a knicker leg under her floppy skirt.

  'Are you all right?'

  'I suppose so. I think it's started. What shall I do?'

  'Oh! Are you sure? Well, that's okay. We're not far from the hospital. I'll ring . . .' What would I ring? A taxi? Or an ambulance? I'd told Una I wasn't stupid and could cope with this, but suddenly I felt insecure. Una's cellphone number was in the book, Sheree had reminded me, but where had Una put the book? And then the cellphone was switched off, predictably. I looked again at Sheree, who was sitting at the dining table now, cradling her chin in chubby hands.

  'I'll go and ask Kevin if he can give us a lift. Do you have a bag?'

  'No. What for?'

  'For the hospital.'

  'Oh — yeah. My toothbrush and stuff. But it's stopped now.'

  'You were making quite a noise before. Was that the first contraction you've had?'

  'I had pains earlier but they went away. It wasn't supposed to happen yet, was it?'

  'How long ago did you have the last pain?'

  'I dunno. Fifteen minutes?'

  We glanced together at the kitchen clock. 'I'll run downstairs and see if Kevin's there.'

  'Kevin? Oh — him. Okay. Promise you'll come back.'

  'Of course I'll bloody come back. I won't leave you to do this on your own!'

  Waiting for Kevin's door to open I remembered his wife and hoped the capable-looking woman in that photograph propped on his piano wouldn't materialise with her high mauve collar and her pretty earrings. He appeared in the doorway wearing his reading glasses halfway down his nose and a knobbly sweater I hadn't seen before. Perhaps it was home knitted, a wifely gift, and she was already there in his kitchen preparing a elaborate dinner. How could I find the time to speculate like this when Sheree was upstairs preparing to 'scream until it's over'?

  'You're busy,' I told him. 'Doesn't matter — I'll call a taxi. It might even be a false alarm. Sheree's not terribly reliable.'

  'I'm not busy,' he denied. 'Or not that busy. Hang on while I save something on my computer.'

  So no wife, or not yet. He placed his hand in the small of my back while we climbed the stairs and I was grateful for the contact, especially when we reached the first floor and found the front door of the apartment standing wide open. I thought I must have forgotten to shut it behind me, but then we heard Sheree making noises again. The girl had powerful lungs.

  'You're supposed to breathe when you're having a contraction,' I told her.

  'I am breathing — when I get a chance,' Sheree panted. 'Ooph!'

  'Are you all set to leave?' Kevin asked her. 'I'll bring the car round. Hadn't you better put some shoes on?'

  I went into the little back bedroom to retrieve grubby sneakers from under the bed and shunted them onto the plump feet. I plucked the girl's denim jacket from the coat stand by the door and placed it about her shoulders. 'Put your arms in. The wind's blowing out there.' Sheree complied, something like the child she was, perhaps gratefully, and I was surprised at the good feeling it gave me to be obeyed in this.

  Three hours later we were back at the apartment block, all three of us. Kevin had arrived home before us and been surprised when he received my call to return and pick us up from the Grace Neill Block. It appeared Sheree wasn't in labour after all. She had sneaked some of Una's laxative from the bathroom cupboard, which had succeeded in giving her diarrhoea and the beginning of a false labour. She was frightened enough to tell the truth and when the pains had subsided and stayed at bay for more than two hours the ward nurse had decided she needed to free up the bed for another patient.

  'Damn. I really thought I'd got it going,' Sheree had said. We were sitting in the back seat of the car while Kevin drove us like a taxi driver. Sheree shivered, hunched into the far corner as if she half expected me to hit her.

  I reached out a hand and touched her knee. 'Why are you shivering? You shouldn't be shivering.'

  'I dunno! I'm cold, aren't I?'

  'You don't have to be frightened.'

  'What?'

  'That wasn't a very clever thing to do, was it?' Kevin said from the driver's seat.

  'It's my body.'

  'Not your medicine, though. You might have damaged yourself.'

  'Who are you anyway? Mind your own business.'

  'You could thank him for driving us,' I said. 'Kevin's a good friend.'

  'Oh. Is that what he is? I wondered what he was.'

  My 'good friend' came back after Sheree had been persuaded into bed. He rapped only lightly on the door and I opened it without hesitation as if I had been expecting him. He bestowed one of his crinkly smiles on me.

  I said, 'I'm sorry.'

  'What for?'

  'Using you. But I suddenly felt helpless. I'm used to having my own car in emergencies and it was like part of me was missing. And Sheree's not easy.'

  'Clearly. So do you want to come down for a quick visit?'

  'Don't make it sound like that. Better not anyway — I told her I'd be here. And what about — Dell, is it?'

  'Dale? Next weekend. That's why I'm trying to get some work stuff out of the way.' He signalled with his head toward my bedroom door. 'That where you sleep? Can I see?'

  'I'll make you a coffee, or would you rather have hot chocolate?'

  'Chocolate's an aphrodisiac. Better make it tea. A nice quiet cuppa.'

  'Really? I don't drink cuppas. You surprise me.'

  'Oh come on, let's just go to bed. My place.'

  'No.' I filled the electric jug and flicked the switch.

  'Where are you going? Not the sofa — she'll hear us talking. She leaves her door open. We'll stay up this end and keep our voices down.'

  Kevin poured an extra jet of milk into his tea and drank it very fast as if he couldn't wait to get away. 'You shouldn't have to stay here minding the baby. Does she cut herself?'

  'Cut herself? What with. Why?' I was remembering Sheree's flick knife.

  'Kids do mutilate themselves. It's a modern disease. As if they could make life any worse — copying what we're doing to the environment, do you think? I thought I saw some marks on her arms when you were putting her jacket on. Didn't you notice?' He put his cup into the sink. Purposefully, as if he were saying goodbye. Then he took my hand instead and pulled me lightly after him away from the main room and into the far laundry alcove beyond the bathroom. The fat washing machine sat with a smaller drier above it at the far end of a narrow cupboard-lined space.

  'What are you doing?'

  'Guess. She won't look for us in here.' He put his hands on my waist and hoisted me firmly up onto the ledge of washing machine. Then he slid the door shut. 'Make washing machine noises.' He was standing now on the upside-down laundry box, which was made of rigid plastic.

  'You'll go through it,' I giggled.

  'It's quite strong. And I'm quite strong,' he added, pleased with himself. Afterwards he propped his collapsed chin on my shoulder and breathed, pricking me with bristles. 'I said make washing machine noises but you didn't have to take me literally. I'm spun dry!'

  We clutched each other, wracked with laughter, trying to swallow it down so that the noise wouldn't flare out of control.

  'So much for having a double bed,' I whispered when we were putting ourselves together again, adjusting underwear elastic and replacing th
e laundry box on its shelf.

  'I didn't think I was allowed.'

  I edged the door open and we listened together. There was no sound betraying Sheree's presence at the other end of the apartment.

  'Don't worry, the coast's clear,' Kevin said, keeping his voice down. I could hear caution returning in his tone. 'The things old people have to do!'

  'We're not old.'

  'Sssh! Apparently not.'

  Sunday evening. I was looking forward to telling Una about the hospital fiasco. Sheree unusually put the tablemats and forks out in readiness on the table, as if she were looking forward to Una's return. We waited until well past the expected hour, then gave in and ate her share of the pizza and salad.

  'She's switched herself off again,' Sheree said, pulling a face. 'Why does she do that?'

  'Her battery could have run down. She left the charger here — I had a look. Never mind.' But I did mind, curiously enough. And it looked as if Sheree minded too. I waited. We both waited. There was nothing on telly and I found myself regretting not claiming the old desktop computer they were getting rid of at work. Sheree had already given me a bad time about that. The place felt suspended in time, unnaturally quiet without Una's louder tones and the way she flung her muscles into everything she did. She was grumble and shove while I was more placate and apologise, ducking out of the way of trouble when I saw it coming. But now it was Una who was keeping out of the way. Why? I remembered the Mothercare magazine hidden under her bed, which had to mean something. Una had said herself she wanted to be present 'when it happens'. And as the months piled on inches around her middle Sheree seemed to be listening harder for clues as to how an expectant mother might behave. Some force larger than personal selfishness was swelling in the apartment, rather as a foetus swells, ignorant of mental rejection.

  At work on Monday, in the glass shell of my office beside the lift doors, I shelved a new supply of dehumidifying capsules for hearing aid users — pastillas secadoras. Keep out of reach of children. I thought of Sheree swallowing Una's syrup. Una shouldn't have left it in the bathroom, but what difference would that have made to Sheree, who was free to prowl in all the bedrooms when she was at home alone, as she would be now. Earlier in the day I'd had a disagreement with the young Asian trainee audiologist who criticised my filing methods. It was a minor irritation — I knew my system was unassailable — but the prickly trace of it was attached to the back of my mind like a shingles virus waiting to activate. A departing client wearing a puckered black hairpiece nudged the eftpos machine along the counter and headed for the glass swing doors. It was a quiet afternoon and there was no one left in the waiting room. I lifted the phone and called the number of Una's department.