All the Nice Girls
Page 22
Edward sat in a wheelchair with his back to the view and the light. One fully plastered leg was supported horizontally in front of him, the other plaster finished at the knee. She recognised his shorts; the old faded Bombay bloomers had travelled north with them. His socks were striped above leather slippers. The gesture was the same, palms upward, expectant, welcoming. The voice was different. ‘You shouldn’t have come here.’
Letitia Featherston was still shaking. Distressed, enfeebled, she could not keep still. Her hands waved, fingers clutched. ‘I told her, I told her. I said.’
He put out his hand, touched his friend briefly. ‘Don’t worry, Lettie. It’s all right. Sit down, Sophie.’
She sat. Letitia stood. Edward smiled at the old woman. Gently, lovingly, the filial piety of a surrogate son embraced her. ‘Perhaps, Lettie?’ he murmured.
Letitia left. She turned at the door, drew herself upright. ‘Haven’t you,’ she said, ‘done enough damage already?’
He was silent, watched her go.
‘What do you want, Sophie?’
‘To talk to you.’
‘God in heaven.’
‘Your legs. Are they painful?’
He moved his head, a quick backwards chuck of dismissal. He wasn’t going to tell her. He loved her and he wanted her to shut up and go away and leave him with his pain and his plaster and his misery and his pair of skittering old jailers nodding and becking at him all over his house. He hadn’t wanted them to come. Had begged them not to. Butterworth was very efficient he said and Tollerton came every day. No necessity. Please. He meant it.
They came. It was hell. They could not cope and neither could he. They were too old and too pathetic and loved him too much. Fussing and nit-picking, they laid waste his days. Beef tea, that was what he needed. Couldn’t Tollerton even make beef tea? Lettie had forgotten how but she would look it up. Surely there must be some more recipe books. Just these? She would have to go to the library. Lionel was completely disoriented. He couldn’t work the radio let alone the record player and didn’t Edward have any Gilbert and Sullivan at all? He hated the morning and evening rush of the dockyard traffic along the road. The hooting road hogs wouldn’t even let the Wolseley out the gate. He hid in his cabin-like room and read King Solomon’s Mines yet again. ‘To whom it may concern,’ said the sign.
Sophie sat on a pink Larnach Linen chair and stared into the light. She was thinner, her hair longer, the eyes the same. Edward moved in his wheelchair again. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘You know that.’
‘Yes.’
‘But my life is who I am.’
‘You said.’
He tried again. ‘The job comes with me.’
She shook her head. Her hair was curlier too. He wanted to snatch it, grab handfuls, make her listen. ‘No,’ she said, ‘you come with the job. I would be the stripe on your arm. Nothing more.’ She smiled. ‘Nothing less.’
‘Stop hiding behind clichés. No job can swamp a woman. Not a real woman.’
Two arms, two legs, a nose. ‘I am.’ She stopped, startled by truth. ‘But I won’t accept the two-year ban, the decontamination period before the shelved product can be picked up again …’ She spat the phrase out, got rid of it, ‘… with impunity.’
That face was saying these things. Those eyes. Her hands hated him. ‘It’s not the time. That’s nothing. But no woman would love on these terms.’ Her mouth mocked him again. ‘Not a real woman.’
His leg was throbbing. Frustration at her idiocy, his inability to move, to knock sense into the woman he longed for, was killing him. He was cast, impotent, beached. A dumped castaway. He couldn’t sit gaping for ever. He had to say something.
He could hardly get it out. ‘So that’s it?’
‘Yes.’
She was still there. Still watching. Still twisting bones, sinews, gut.
His head was framed in light. ‘What are you going to do about young Flynn?’
‘He doesn’t want me. I’ve got a job at Eventide,’ she said above the hooting ferry.
He gave it all his rage, his passion, for the fool who wouldn’t see. ‘Cleaning up after old women!’
‘And men.’
To leap up, to hold her, to make her stay. He could make her stay, he knew he could. He moved the leg too quickly, jarred it; the muscle went into spasm. He almost screamed. ‘You’ve only got one life, woman!’
‘I know,’ said Sophie.
She leaped up, knocked a stool over, ran for the hall. The wheelchair charged after her. The door slammed a yard from his outstretched leg.
She ran down to Stanley Bay. No one would see her like this. No one. She dived into the ladies’ changing shed, hid in a lavatory cubicle and composed herself. Composed. He composes. She composes. They are composed. She sobbed a gulping grabbing gasp of air and sat. Deeply, breathe deeply.
It is better is it not to have loved and lost than never have loved at all. Who says? Who knows? And anyway she hadn’t lost. She had ditched her lover, the light of her life. Services no longer required. She burst into tears.
Mopped up.
And what about William? Is it better to have loved and not known till it’s too late and you’ve lost? Hell’s fangs what a mess. There were puddles of water. The sour smell of wet concrete filled the air. The top of the wooden seat (pine) had a rough patch. Sophie stood and automatically pulled the chain. Instinctive, ridiculous, understandable. Calm down woman. You’ve done it. It’s said and done. Calm down. In, out. In, out. She examined the graffiti to give herself time, wiped her nose again. They were uninspired. Rude urchin words, raucous obscenities, a crude diagram or two. The one on the back of the door was different. ‘Schoolgirl to whip man,’ she read. ‘Ph. whatever. Genuine.’ Well, he would say that wouldn’t he? But what about the schoolgirl? She must get some paint from the shed. Composed and seething, Sophie strode up the hill inventing graffiti. ‘Heart to remotor. Send photo.’ ‘Heart to restick. Send pics.’ Answered them. ‘Strong-willed ex no-hoper seeks no one.’ She sniffed. ‘Yet.’ Incandescent with rage, she walked on.
LSBA Butterworth had finished for the day. He walked out of the Commodore’s gate, his Pusser’s grip in his hand. He had a loping walk; he sprang from his toes.
‘Hullo, Mrs Flynn.’
She had been staring straight ahead. She turned, looked at him blankly for a second. ‘Oh, hullo, Mr Butterworth.’ She paused. ‘It was so good you could play at Arnie’s funeral. It made all the difference.’
‘He was an old friend.’
‘A fine man.’
LSBA Butterworth considered, his head on one side, his bright eyes thinking. A stroppy jack, yes, get the boot in, yes, but yes, a fine man. Butterworth watched her. He liked her, quite apart from Arnie. She was looking peaky.
‘Excuse me, ma’am?’
She looked at him warily. Junior wives weren’t ma’am. ‘Yes?’
The words came in a rush. It was just that he liked her. The loyal, fully paid-up member of the party thought the poor little thing had had a rough deal.
‘You mustn’t worry, Mrs Flynn. Accidents do happen. He’s a fit man, the Commodore. Healing well. I’ve seen the X-rays. New bone beginning to form. New bone,’ said LSBA Butterworth, ‘is good bone.’
‘Like no noose is good noose?’
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s a joke. My husband’s.’
‘Oh.’ He lifted a hand to a large petty officer overflowing a passing motor scooter. ‘Oh,’ he said again.
‘Do you live this side, Mr Butterworth?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Takapuna. We’ve moved in from the Bays to be near Mum. She’s at Eventide. Her mind’s gone but she’s happy there.’
You would think he’d given her a present. ‘Eventide? I work there. What’s her name?’
‘Well, ah, Butterworth.’
She gave a strangled snort of mirth, wiped the corner of an eye with one finger. ‘Of course. I’ll look out for her.’
‘That’d b
e nice, ma’am.’ There was something else he had to tell her. He swung his bag, walked faster. ‘He’s a good officer, the Commodore. Very pleasant. Always a bright “Good Morning, Butterworth”. Likes a chat. You appreciate that sort of thing.’
Sophie lifted her face. Cloudy sky. No wind. Anti-cyclonic gloom (William).
‘Yes,’ said Sophie. ‘He can talk.’
They walked on. One foot after the other they walked up the road in silence, past the oleanders, the letterbox and the concrete strips to the flats with the tower and North Head beyond.
‘I’ll be off then,’ said LSBA Butterworth changing his grip to the other hand. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Flynn.’
‘Goodbye. And thank you for the lively tune.’ The corners of her mouth twitched. ‘And for the chat,’ said Sophie.
ALSO BY BARBARA ANDERSON
I think we should go into the jungle
Girls High
Portrait of the Artist’s Wife
Copyright
VICTORIA UNIVERSITY PRESS
Victoria University of Wellington
PO Box 600 Wellington
© Barbara Anderson 1993
ISBN 978-0-86-473380-1 (print)
ISBN 978-0-86-473713-7 (epub)
ISBN 978-0-86-473863-9 (mobi)
First published 1993
Reprinted 1993
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without the permission of the publishers
This is a work of fiction. All events described are fictional and any resemblances to real people living or dead are purely coincidental
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
‘A Sailor’s Prayer’ by Denis Glover, reprinted courtesy of Richards Literary Agency
The author gratefully acknowledges the assistance of a project grant from the QEII Arts Council of New Zealand