All the Nice Girls

by Barbara Anderson

  ‘She didn’t tell me.’

  ‘She didn’t want to worry you.’

  Arnie left them, a slow rasping shuffle of retreat across the haircord.

  Celia brought shortbread. Buttery yet textured, airy yet firm, it was made by Mrs Robinson who cooked. She was the reason why Celia had not yet departed. Celia had had hopes of Mrs Robinson. She was a childless widow, why not join her in Wickham, Hants. Mrs Robinson declined. ‘I like it here,’ she said.

  Mary and Chester arrived with gingerbread. Bluey panicked, flung himself about the cage with desperate cheeps, his wings hysterical.

  ‘Why did you change everything when Ben moved in?’ asked Sophie, shoving the cage through the slide to the kitchen.

  ‘Everything how?’

  ‘Dropped your job, changed your life, lay around.’

  Mary stretched to the sky, clenched her fists, dropped them. ‘Ah, the critical change of pace you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sophie’s voice was gentle. She was just interested. ‘Why so completely?’

  ‘I’ve always done what I wanted to. No messing about. You know that.’

  ‘Exactly. So why change because of Ben?’

  Mary snapped upright in her chair. ‘I didn’t change because of Ben. I’d had enough of scallops’ guts. I knew them, I loved them, I’d done them, I got sick of them, that’s all. Or rather, sick of the Yo-heave-ho of the research world. The scramble to publish, to further the careehah, the foot poised on the ladder of breakthrough.’ Her hands were furious, her hair swinging. ‘You’ve got it all wrong! Ben is different from Dad. Right?’

  Sophie’s smile was forgiving. ‘Nutter.’

  ‘Ben is a very relaxed person. Ben is a good painter and he’s mucky.’ Mary leaned towards her. Rebecca’s eyes flecked with gold insisted. ‘If I’d cleaned up after Ben, I’d have turned into Mum.’

  ‘Oh.’ The back of Sophie’s neck prickled. She saw her mother’s face mouthing at her through glass, felt her hopeless concern. ‘She has to have her teeth out,’ she said.

  ‘Mnn, Bertha told me,’ said Mary. She was still angry. ‘Think about it. What I said.’

  ‘Yes. But …’

  ‘But nothing.’ Mary was as convinced of her satisfactory handling of her role in life as the Harbour Board pilot in his launch below. ‘Use your loaf. There’s nothing cute in stupidity, in destroying yourself. In making a desert and calling it a victory or whatever. And anyway we’re not at war, thicko.’ She changed tack, her voice sharpened. ‘And I’ll tell you something else.’ Sophie recognised the tone. She concentrated on the homeward-bound pilot boat and was silent.

  ‘Your life won’t change if you go and live with this rooster. You realise that.’

  Sophie flung back her head to laugh. ‘Oh, Mary,’ she said, putting out a reassuring hand.

  Her smile was still tolerant as they walked to the gate. The fair weather of last night’s loving was heightened by Mary’s absurdity. Everyone should have it, this life-enhancing passion. This glory should be in every home. ‘Why do you think Mum stays?’ she said, resisting a quick note-from-Edward check in the letterbox. She had not mentioned Esther and Keith’s liaison. It was too pat, too much, too mother-bashing at the moment.

  ‘Because he’s all she’s got. That’s all she has to keep her ticking, poor old bat. Just nagging him rigid, running the orchard, having her teeth out.’

  ‘And us.’

  ‘Us? Oh God, yes. Tons of fun there. Chester! Come back.’ She sprinted down the road after his gleaming shape. ‘Chester!’

  ‘I have to get some sausage meat,’ Sophie told her back.

  Evan was pleased to see her. He had been even more attentive since the incident which was nobody’s fault least of all Lou’s, and the rumours were interesting. He stopped hacking a weeping carcass into governable hunks and moved forward smiling, his hands buried in bloody cheesecloth. His renovations in the Ngataringa Bay house were going well he told her, though Wow the price of timber these days.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophie. ‘I heard that.’

  ‘Sausage meat, was it?’

  Sophie nodded. ‘It’s for Scotch eggs.’

  ‘Come again?’

  She told him. How you hard-boil the eggs, how you must not flour your hands or the sausage meat won’t stick, how the egg must be covered completely. All this she told the pale eyes before her, while her heart was beating boom/lurch boom/lurch and the winter sun was shining and she could burst with sheer wanton joy. ‘Then you fry them,’ she said.

  ‘Is that right,’ said Evan, slapping the glossy pink stuff onto a small square of greaseproof paper. ‘Not for me though. I’m not an eggy person. Never have been.’

  He bent to peer at the scales, wiping his hands yet again. Was Lou an eggy person? Did it matter? Probably not. Not if other things were equal. And far far more important, was Edward an eggy person? Sophie stood very still, drenched in lilac/green fluorescence. She would find out.

  She saw the four of them around an unknown table. Edward, Rebecca, Kit, herself dispensing eggs if desired, saw the hands reaching, accepting, rejecting. She dismissed the image quickly. William was an eggy person. Had been from way back.

  Evan handed over her change. ‘There you go then. Good as gold.’

  She worked it out at the empty letterbox on her way home with the makings. Twenty-four days left.

  They discussed the future in the double bed. As the days became fewer they discussed it more. They lay awake churning it over, thinking it through. ‘I must be there when you tell him,’ said Edward. He switched on the light, watched her blinking eyes. A thousand years ago he had thought them faintly cow-like; large luminous and brown, they were the colour of peaty mountain tarns, of brown-gold pansies so help him God.

  They were now sparking. ‘No, no. Ask yourself. He’s been …’ No one, however deranged, could say the word ‘cuckolded’. ‘I’ll tell him by myself,’ she said.

  It was a cloudless day. Their ship was coming in. Groups of women waited on the wharf; eager laughing women exchanged anecdotes—what happened last time, how you never get over the thrill of them coming home do you, not really, how it made it all worthwhile and you could say that again. Children ran around in circles, tugged at hands, a small boy had a wee lapse. ‘Poor little mite’s overexcited on top of the wait,’ said his mopping Gran. ‘He’s not,’ snapped his mother and why the hell the old girl had to come every time was beyond her. A small child in pink frills jumped up and down for half an hour, jigging with the wonder of the day and the promise of a hula doll as well. Babies looked blank, small toddlers puzzled, larger more knowing ones caught the infectious gleeful tension from their mothers and circled faster. A tough egg in rompers charged a herring gull. ‘Gail,’ screamed a tiny brunette to a two-year-old about to fling herself off the wharf. ‘It’s just the excitement,’ said her grey-haired restrainer.

  Kit’s wide grin was constant. Rebecca was happy.

  Sophie felt sick, sick as a dog who’d died, sick beyond word or thought. The effort required to smile increased the nausea. Tricia Wellbone was further along the wharf, talking to the pill-boxed wife of the Captain. She appeared beside Sophie. ‘I’ve just been chatting to Brenda,’ she said, patting the breast pocket of her knit which had a tendency to buggle.

  ‘Brenda who?’ said Sophie, her mouth dry.

  ‘Oh Soph, you are a scream. Oh look!’ A ragged cry went up. Relatives and loved ones waved harder. The frigate was visible slipping around North Head. Long, low and purposeful, she slid past the ferry wharf. Tricia glanced at her watch. ‘Only ten minutes,’ she said.

  The Captain was on the wing of the bridge giving orders. William stood at his side relaying them. Stop both engines. Finished with main engines.

  ‘A perfect alongside,’ said a naval officer goofing beside her. He sounded faintly disappointed.

  The band played. The herring gull returned. The romper suit ignored it.

  ‘There he is, look. Look Mum!’ said Ki
t. She stared at his beaming face. He couldn’t keep still. Everyone was laughing, shouting. More waving, more cries, more delight. ‘He’ll like the decorations, won’t he?’

  ‘You bet,’ said his mother. Rebecca was dancing beside her.

  Solemn-faced sailors hiding smiles lined the upper deck. They were home. It was good. Lines were thrown, caught, cast round bollards. The gangway was put in place and mounted by the Captain’s wife. Tricia was eyeing Sophie. Eyeing her with intent. ‘Come on, Sophie, they’ll be waiting,’ she said, and led the way up the brow to her shit of a husband.

  William was waiting, a fine-looking officer, smiling and harassed. ‘Dad! Dad!’ squealed his children. He reached over their heads to peck her cheek, seized each child to him for one fierce clench and dumped them immediately, his eyes on the gangway. ‘Quick, quick, get behind here.’ He shoved them behind a gun or something. Sophie was reeling, the children open-mouthed. ‘The Minister,’ said her husband and leaped to the gangway.

  ‘The Padre?’

  ‘God, no.’ She caught the exasperated glance in mid-flight. ‘The Minister.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What minister?’ said Rebecca.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  They peered around the gun. Escorted by the Commodore and the Captain of Philomel, a large man in a tight suit and a brown hat marched up the gangway. The bosun’s call sounded; the Captain, William, the Officer of the Watch and gangway staff all sprang to attention. The brown hat was lifted, revealing tight red curls. The Commodore saluted. He saw Sophie behind her gun. He smiled, a smile of such delight, complicity, recognition of stuff-this-for-a-lark absurdity that she turned away blinking.

  The official party moved forward. William came back to his loved ones smiling. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Great to see you,’ he said and kissed them. ‘Come on down to the Wardroom.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to,’ said Sophie.

  Blankness, total blankness. ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I don’t see much point in being dumped behind a gun one minute because of a so-and-so Minister and then going down to the ditto Wardroom to suck up to him, that’s why.’

  His mouth dropped, literally dropped, hung loose. ‘But I was on duty. And anyway, it’s not a gun. It’s a turret.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Sophie!’

  She saw the children’s eyes; wary, flicking from one face to the other and back again. Saw the Doyenne du Comice outside the window. She shivered, touched his arm. ‘Do you want to go to the Wardroom, fellas?’

  ‘Yes!’ The Wardroom was Coke and potato chips and kindly men. ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Let’s go.’ She took his arm.

  ‘Watch the coaming,’ said William. She fell over it and clung harder. He smiled down at her, delighted once more with his warm loving wife who was as clumsy and desirable as ever. ‘My God, I’ve missed you,’ he whispered.

  ‘Go down backwards,’ he called but they had disappeared. Sophie ducked her head and went down slowly. William skidded down, his black polished feet scarcely touching. He was used to companionways.

  ‘Any problems with the car?’ he said as they drove up the hill.

  ‘No.’

  He sniffed. ‘It pongs a bit.’

  ‘Pongs?’

  ‘Yes. Open a window, Kit.’

  The cold air sliced the back of her neck.

  ‘Quick, come and see, Dad. Quick!’ they squealed as the car stopped. They dragged him into the sitting room. ‘Shut your eyes,’ they yelled. ‘Now!’

  He didn’t see it for a minute. The surprise hung high above the long sofa, the few chairs, the Valor for background warmth and permeation. The kids were staring upwards. Sophie’s hands were clasped. He looked up. A ragged line of red painted letters spelt it out. ‘Welcome Home Dad.’

  ‘Wow,’ said William. ‘Gee. How did you get it up there?’

  ‘Ben did it for us.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’

  They were staring at him now. They had not had enough. Not enough words had been said. ‘Do you like it, Dad?’ said Kit.

  ‘Yes, yes. I said.’

  ‘It took a long time,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘Yes, yes, it would,’ He clapped his hands together, smiled at his loving offspring. ‘Well, thanks a lot, kids.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Well, it’s great to be home. Great.’ The pause was brief. ‘Don’t you get the Star delivered now, Soph?’

  She mouthed at him. ‘Presents.’

  He snapped his fingers. ‘Of course. Come on, kids. Come and see what I’ve got.’ He picked up his Pusser’s grip from the hall and headed for the dining room.

  The pineapples were first. Identical in size, chosen with care to ripen sequentially, they were eyed with suspicion. Was this all?

  No. He had done well. Cars and a gun for the boy, a doll which wet itself and said Momma, shell necklaces and candy bars with weird names and exotic shiny wrappers.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sophie. ‘Thank you so much.’ Thank you for my hibiscus-laden muu-muu and my flask of scent called Extacy. She kissed him. He rolled against her, seized her, slammed his mouth against hers and dug deep. She felt him move against her.

  ‘Here’s Arnie,’ said Kit.

  They scrambled up from the sofa, caught red-faced in their own living-cum-dining. ‘William,’ she said, ‘this is Arnold McNally. Arnie. William. William. Arnie.’

  There seemed no reason to stop the insane bleat, the plea for harmony. The two men put out an arm, moved closer. There was no enthusiasm. They were stuck with each other. Fate, Sophie, something untoward had landed them in this unsatisfactory coupling of hands, this mug’s game.

  ‘Hullo,’ said William.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Arnie. He murmured something else.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘It’s Geordie.’

  A muscle tugged William’s cheek. There was silence. Kit and Rebecca stopped in mid-chew. Sophie touched the table. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Welcome home.’

  William shoved his hair back with a brown hand, uttered a quick yap of mirth. ‘Well, thanks. Thanks very much.’ He looked at his children, his silent wife, the old man with his stick. What did they want? What did they all want from him, standing, staring, bloody well looking at him. ‘I’m going to change …’ he gave a manic grin to show he was joking, ‘… into dog robbers.’

  ‘Bring your washing,’ said Sophie.

  There was still no wind. Strips of multi-coloured light hung straight, sinking deep into calm water. Neon advertisements, endless, repetitive, winking ads for meat, for flying, for getting away, blinked across the harbour. Arnie had departed. The children were asleep. Their parents sat in silence on the verandah.

  ‘More coffee?’

  ‘Thanks.’ She shivered.

  ‘Are you cold?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We could go inside if you like.’

  ‘No, no, thanks.’

  He had thought of something. The coffee mug remained in mid-air, his shadowed face was anxious. ‘You don’t think Rebecca’s too old for that doll, do you? The pisser?’

  ‘She seemed very happy.’

  He sighed. ‘Good. That’s good.’ They were a worry, presents. Always had been. He stretched his legs, took her hand. ‘Bed,’ said William.

  ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’

  ‘Tell me in bed.’

  ‘No.’

  He glanced at his watch, sighed again. Put out his hand. ‘Tell me.’ There was a pause. ‘Incidentally,’ he said, ‘did you get the vegetable garden dug over?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll get onto it this weekend.’

  ‘William.’

  ‘Yes?’ He moved closer, shoving his deckchair nearer with quick jerking arms and feet. ‘Spit it out.’

  She had one hand screwed against her mouth, had run a mile. ‘I want a divorce,’ she said.

  He didn’t believe it. Not for one second of one m
inute did he believe it. He almost laughed, searched for her face in the shadows, saw it and didn’t. ‘Balls!’ cried William.

  ‘I …’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ He was on his feet, lean, tough, whipping about, stirring himself into a rage he didn’t feel. All he felt was disbelief. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  She stood up, moved closer. ‘William.’

  He grabbed her, shook the fool, the wife, the woman he had ached for night after sweating night in the fucking tropics. ‘No!’ he shouted.

  ‘I’m in love with someone else,’ she yelled.

  This was too much. Far too much for his lust and his love and his rage which came at last. He shook her again, harder. Her head jerked back, her hair was everywhere. ‘I’ll kill him!’

  Her eyes seemed to be rolling. They couldn’t be. Appalled, he grabbed her in his arms, held her to his chest, murmured her name. He lifted his head and hid it again. They stood in each other’s arms, shaking with fright.

  ‘Who is it?’ he whispered.

  It was too dark. But light would be worse. She pulled away. ‘Edward.’

  ‘Edward who, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘The Commodore.’

  This time he did laugh. Loud brutal and crass, the sound shattered about them, made the night hideous and left them breathless. ‘That shit,’ yelled William. ‘Old Groper Sand. The biggest stick man in the business!’

  Sophie hit him. Her hand came up and slammed against his gaping mouth. Fair square and hard, Sophie hit him. He was caught in mid-gasp, but managed to sob it out. ‘What a fool! Jesus Christ, Soph. What a fool!’

  She was proud as a bolt. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘So you won’t mind when I leave you.’

  ‘You’re not leaving me.’

  On and on, round and round, hour after hour, they tore at each other, insisting, hating, despairing. They had never talked so much in their whole lives. What about the children. She hadn’t given them a thought had she. Not a fucken thought. You’ll have access. Access! Access! These are my kids. Catch old Groper taking on a couple of …