Whatever Happened to Margo?

by Margaret Durrell

  Jane, conspicuously bound up in household affairs, especially gloried in the weekend, and the added cast with which to play. She had a general air of idleness that allowed her to wander freely without fear of disturbing a masterpiece in progress, a musical problem, or just a tired bread-winner. Her submission to Bohemia, her thirst for appeal, and subsequent wanderings into entirely new fields which had thrown her into that intangible mix-up of theatrical emotions, sorted itself out – at least temporarily – by the exciting presence of Gerald and his flirtatious, attentive remarks, which she felt placed her undoubtedly on the attractive planes of the other women. She no longer felt undesirable or unwanted; she no longer had to pretend – that was the important psychological issue – and having bordered on neurotic extremes in all directions to attract attention, she fell now into a contented middle path of liberalism and accepted graciously the fact that had been hidden for so long – that she was a queen among women!

  Gerald had certainly left his mark, I mused, watching Jane; gloriously happy now in the illusion of herself as the combination of Salome and a nightingale, dropping her seven veils calmly as she danced with blithe heart through the week to the crowning two days, her first in this new role – a kindred spirit of pride to that of Mr Budden. She was naturally drawn to the parts of the house which, in her opinion, needed her most. She would have liked it to be Edward’s den, but his place was impeccable and Olwen and I were already on the alert to solve any little problems that might crop up there. Barry had escaped, a bounding figure of physical good health. Getting over her first horror of Mr Budden, Jane confided to me that she felt there was need there but that the man resented help with a coarse indifference.

  So it was Roger who carried the can of hygienic reform, as he sat back contented and unashamed in his own sort of mess and awaited, with male impatience, the salubrious attentions of his Maltese maiden in her free time. It was very apparent that Magda was losing the gaiety that springs from a contented love, souring at the persistent necessity to keep a watchful eye on his possible infidelity. She sensed a new indifference, the first signs of boredom, and was unable to find a remedy to thwart it. I awoke fully to the realization that the buxom creature was a delicate mechanism of dangerous sensitivity, and what I had shortsightedly accepted for strength in the mould of a strong body, was quite illusionary. Temper lay dormant, for a woman in love is a vulnerable thing, I reminded myself in sudden fright.

  Like Jane, I too was drawn to this vibrant setting, as usual for different reasons, especially liking the weekends, feeling the relaxing quality of normally busy men sitting back to enjoy trivialities. But, unlike the perfect Jane, whose major part of life had been spent as a symbol of princely cleanliness walking austere hospital wards, the unmade beds and singular, identifiable, heavy smell of male bodies was as undisturbing to me as a light breeze. I listened for the first time to pure Negro jazz, longing to assimilate the sounds, which, to my unaccustomed and inexperienced ear, were a hotchpotch of discords; a feat which would draw me inevitably closer to our musicians’ world which occupied most of my mind, one way or another.

  So it was that I now found myself, this weekend, also with the added displeasure of a cage of chattering monkeys in the garage which fought and flourished in disharmony. A dispirited female face had appeared over the wall more than once, at a spot nearest the offence, to whine a complaint, while on the other side Mrs Briggs stalked, handkerchief already to her nose in an exaggerated way, threatening loudly to call in the health authorities and the police. I turned a stubborn back, for I was getting a little hardened: the mice were there to stay, for the moment anyway, until I could persuade Nelson, without an exaggerated fuss, towards a healthier appreciation of life. However, I did decide to remove the monkeys away from the pained eyes of Lady Booth to the sanctuary of the summerhouse, a dome-shaped structure in the seclusion of the back garden, where the wall rose to an insurmountable six feet and divided us firmly.

  Faced with all these problems at sunrise on Saturday morning, I naturally went in early search of Edward. I often leaned on him in times of indecision, for his constant good humour was an invaluable asset in these hectic days. He was my Father confessor; his time never too precious to waste, his advice freely given and seldom taken. In fact, as I grew to know him, I blessed his lack of artistic temperament and loved, without passion, his easy laugh and fertile imagination which turned most situations into absurd comedy.

  Knocking without reserve, I joined my friends, for the smell of breakfast cooking told me that at least Edward was up. He was, as usual, hovering over a large frying pan, while Olwen languished, determined to spin out every moment in the large divan. Garlic, coffee, beans, bacon, clung fragrantly about the room and turned my stomach to a niggling void.

  ‘Driven to this by an early hunger,’ Edward greeted me cheerfully, pointing to a trail of blue smoke.

  I apologized for my intrusion and explained briefly about the wails of my neighbour, who was this morning not only complaining about the strange noises in the garage, but also about ‘cruelty to animals, pining in a cage for want of fresh air and freedom.’

  Edward, undishevelled even at this early hour, appeared not to have understood the dire significance of my tale, as he waved a fat-laden fork towards the mantelpiece. ‘Look at the drawing your firstborn did of me – it’s good, you know. Look at the hands. My teaching must be excellent,’ he pronounced, without vanity. Pleasure lifted his narrow face to exalted heights.

  I examined the sketch. It was a lively image in rough pencil, and the likeness was remarkable: even the hands were Edward’s, delicate and tapering, and I found myself suffused with pure motherly pride. I had given birth to a genius! What a comforting thought amidst my other worries. But this was not the best moment to dwell on the cleverness of my offspring; with neighbourly war so close I left the subject unwillingly, and turned back to Edward to repeat my suggestion, if necessary with embellishments, for depositing the monkeys in the summerhouse.

  I saw with relief that, after all, Edward was now pondering the question in his own way: in a curious huddled posture, a life-like emulation of a ruffled parrot. He emerged a few moments later into the respectful silence awaiting him, in complete agreement that something must be done to quell the riot brewing, and the summerhouse seemed the only tangible answer.

  Satisfied at my first recruit (Olwen lay in non-committal silence), I departed to enlist Nelson, my children and anyone else who might like to spend an energetic few hours. By mid-morning the house was, as usual, divided into two parties: those that were otherwise occupied or disinclined for exercise, and the rest who welcomed the venture, treating it as an unusual sort of social occasion.

  Roger, a still-healing scar across his jowl, firmly entrenched in freshly-laundered orange pyjamas (delivered by the hand of Jane with a lecture), refused to budge on the grounds, he said, of not being able to ‘leave the strange and comforting feel of fresh laundry’. There must be something in what Jane preached after all! I hoped fervently that Magda would not, on her arrival, sense the active presence of another woman’s hand, and attack the irritation in a female brawl, to weep on my shoulder later and distract me from my work.

  Blanche and Judy, returning home languid and heavy-eyed, yet trim in starched blue and white, after a night of silent watchful attendance on the sick, involved themselves readily, following Nelson closely down the path with merry teasings. This, I could see, immediately threw him into a dither of indecision as to which role he should play – the gay philanderer, strong man, or comic. Deciding on the role of strong man, he proceeded to show off. He organized and reorganized the small throng that gathered, until his mother, crocheting a square white object, left her seat in the bay window directly above ours and, appearing round the side of the house, threatened to ‘give ’im one in the lug ’ole’, a threat which had already been preceded by one from Mr Budden, who had realized in the cold hours of his first sleepless night that the once gloried-in arrival of a
new baby now threatened his whole way of life, and he was in an unhealthy temper, refusing to co-operate in any way. He had spent a night of unaccustomed torture, he moaned, to receive a sympathetic look from Jane, disturbed by kittenish whimperings which not even the dairy quality of his wife’s bosom could silence. His Saturday morning was disorganized, too, for lack of attention, and the swish of never-ending nappies being washed had forced his nerves to the vibrating pitch of stretched elastic.

  Mr Budden’s lack of charm was compensated for by Olwen, having second thoughts and leaping from the elegance of green sheets to join us. The sound of the other women’s hilarious giggles, obviously enjoying the upheaval of one of Mr Budden’s tantrums, had been too much for her and she was now determined to miss nothing.

  Jane had arrived for the same reason – to miss nothing – though refusing to be contaminated by something that might be infectious. She stayed at a safe distance to weather the spectacle, while explaining to us in the voice of a professional guide the first, second and third degree monkey bite. The cure was an injection the size of a garden syringe, which made even Nelson turn green and provoked the teasing scorn of the older male members, with a hail of unusual comment from Andy, who was watching from the upstairs window with the orange-clad figure. Andy seldom passed a dogmatic opinion unless it was jazz, which sometimes provided an uneasy thought on what did stir behind the shy front. Now I wondered critically why he wasn’t helping, but Nelson jeered back good-humouredly, for he loved Andy like a brother.

  But strangely enough it was Paula, loathing monkeys and postponing her journey to the beach, who won the real laurels for self-sacrifice. Now, bravely determined to do her share, attractive in black silk jeans and corded turquoise blouse, baubles dangling from her slim wrists, her bright hair held back with a gold band, she stood shoulder to shoulder with Edward, their red heads matching in the strong sunlight for a brief moment. Brief, because Nelson’s foot landed heavily on a dainty gold sandal while a fat hand crushed a delicate one, and she went limping, with a ladylike curse, to a safer place between the nurses.

  I found myself quickly shuffled between Nelson and Edward. The odour of monkeys, garlic and peppermint bull’s eyes swept me into a feat of breath-holding. The possibility of Nelson’s twelve stone landing on my foot was not a pleasant one as I told him to ‘bloody well watch himself’, while Edward wandered irrelevantly into a plan no one understood and explained how monkeys were related to man in a series of curious bone structures, and man to God, until he was silenced by a deliberately insulting insinuation on the trumpet by Roger. We stumbled on our long march across the lawn to the summerhouse. No one thought of blaming Gerald!

  An independent figure, Andy joined us at this late moment, and sent the females jostling like jockeys for position. Again I was stuck, firm between Nelson’s girth and Edward’s wiry appeal: there was nothing I could do to compete with the rest for the honour of placing my hands against those of the most fascinating member of the household. Meanwhile the inmates of our burden rivalled the noise of the trumpet and disturbed Johnny, turning his attention away from the back lavatory where, since the arrival of the first mouse, he had sat drooling. He now followed us in a hysterical state of friendly suspicion. Mrs Briggs, hearing the commotion, was again with her nose to the ground. Having established the worst, we heard her terrified but triumphant shout: ‘Lord have mercy on us! Mister, come quick, wild beasts in our midst! It’s them bo’emes again, something’s got to be done about it.’

  ‘Just a few tame little animals, aren’t they, Edward?’ I remarked in a loud voice, feeling some sort of retaliation was necessary from our side. Edward, winded with a blow from my elbow, grimfaced made no answer, but there was a chorus of different opinions that had not been called for …

  Though I agreed with Mrs Briggs in some ways – the smells from the back lavatory, for instance – I could not agree with her attitude towards ‘bo’emes’, or monkeys, and all my devotion to my brother and my instincts as an animal lover and my love of the unconventional, came rushing to the surface to defend the liberty of free-thinking people and of (as they appeared to me now) innocent, sweet-smelling creatures, against the barrage of bigoted, narrow-minded neighbour’s criticism.

  Unheeding, I carried out my plan to the bitter end and the last gasping, sweaty lodger went in for refreshment, leaving Nelson, Johnny and me together.

  Nelson, I suspected by his expression, had reached a moment of decision and was about to turn over a new leaf. I had heard this morning the first breath of discontent, a whisper to a female ear, that breeding mice was not, unfortunately, just a question of filling his and the children’s pockets with spare cash, and he was now getting a little bored with the work involved; the feeding and cleaning were taking up more and more of his precious time. In this weak moment, while still heady with perfume and the close presence of its wearers, he had given a vague promise, open to a change of heart. I prayed silently beside him that he might bring the smelly saga to a close and call a truce with Mrs Briggs – if it was not too late.

  Sitting now on his large behind, long after the others had gone, in a forlorn gesture of energies spent, Nelson examined the monkeys with puckered interest that could border on the criminal side, I knew, if left to ferment. Announcing at last, a little pathetically, conscious of my Gestapo vigilance, that a change would do him good, he subsided into a broody silence.

  ‘What change?’ I was quick to ask, ever suspicious, tying wire netting firmly across the summerhouse with a final knot. But Nelson was not in the mood to discuss his innermost thoughts today. Getting up and leaving a large portion of flattened grass behind him, he whistled for his mates, climbing the pear tree, and whooped off noisily to meet Gordon, who was roaring to a standstill with a series of loud revs – sounding remarkably cheerful for one who had just attended a funeral. I followed Nelson past the new baby, snoring, red as a poisonous toadstool and the image of its father, the pram shining with newness on its great wheels, collecting dust. Mrs Williams, polishing her windows with a gentle rotary movement, was now more interested in the noisy arrival. Ready to commiserate at the loss of a dear one, her face was composed in the abject lines of mourning.

  Gordon emerged from the floor of his car, disguised as a racy type in checked cap and twirly striped scarf of abnormal length. I expressed our regret at the death of his father and the depression he must be suffering, in which I was joined by Mrs Williams in the monotonous tones of condolence. He shook off his sorrows manfully, unwinding his long scarf and letting it droop like a giant moustache as he confided, not without a certain show of good spirits I noticed, that he was now a man of means, having been left a considerable amount of money, and that loathingly he would have to drag himself away from his dream girl and my happy house to organize his newfound estate – it was extraordinary what a taste of money could do!

  I felt a momentary pang: so I was to lose my first lodger, just when things were getting settled – it was an ill wind. But I covered my feelings and flew into a flutter of excitement at Gordon’s lucky break. In our house good news spread as quickly as bad, and Nelson, master of repetition, added a bit here and there to give himself more scope, ending finally with a death by a rival band and had Gordon being left the Taj Mahal (he had lately been introduced to the Far East by the pages of his latest comic). Gordon had returned with a bag of diamonds and in his opinion he would have better luck with women in future, as he was now second to none. This yarn was seconded only by Nicholas, for by the time he heard and delivered the story Nelson’s father was also dead and Nelson was also the proud owner of a fabulous jewel, so it was best to keep in with him.

  Mr Budden, nerves somewhat restored by a couple of pints of beer, deigned to listen to Nelson’s fabrications, with a condescending sneer marking his face, but when the true significance of the yarn came to light – a legacy for Gordon – he could bear it no longer. His political instincts rose to a fury. Illuminating his feeling with good old English st
ock phrases, and jealously disapproving of what he considered to be a typical conservative move by the moneyed classes, he sullenly retired, refusing to be drawn any further into the general happy excitement at Gordon’s good fortune. He silenced his wife’s congratulations with a look, especially reserved to destroy pleasure, as, in temporary relief from migraine and nappy washing, she sipped a cup of tea with smacking relish and showed pleasure at such a bit of luck. For she had a kind heart.

  Persistent thoughts of the small back room reminded me that Roger and Andy were again engrossed in their own business and had probably not heard Gordon’s return or the glad news. The relaxed voices, discussing devotedly the attributes of a lately deceased jazz musician, deadened my quiet knock and I wondered if I should hint disparagingly about the musical sounds that rocked the place on many occasions. Once again I sadly felt that it was too late: Aunt Patience’s notices, the coward’s way out, lay untouched. It was increasingly obvious that I was never going to be the indifferent, dominating landlady, a hidden threat, but one of them – even to my cost!

  The family were right: a landlady is born, not made. My dream of wealth accumulating in the bank was forgotten as I came face to face with reality, opening the door and stepping inside, between unwashed coffee mugs and forgotten crockery. I smiled across a small room where two pairs of eyes met mine enquiringly and voices drifted to a standstill, to echo the dejected air of the abandoned easel, its canvas incomplete at its feet. Roger was in his cold period; reflective blues sighed at me depressingly from all his latest paintings, while their master, in orange pyjamas, sat cross-legged, cleaning his nails with a toothpick. I turned from the coldness, remembering Edward’s warm hues: my yellow and pink giant; the gin bottle twinkling in the living shadow of red roses. No wonder Roger behaved as though he was permanently in labour. I turned to examine the face, smouldering even in repose: a black growth struggled to thrive on his smooth skin. He lived a full life on a small grant, and it was remarkable that he managed to scrape his share of the rent together and pay me regularly, I thought with some compassion, at the same time blurting out that Gordon had returned with some marvellous news. Conscious of Andy’s eyes upon me, I was oddly stirred to a nervous movement of stacking up the crockery that littered the floor. Magda’s absence was always felt, for much to Roger’s surprise she had failed to make her customary visit to attend to his wants, backing up Edward’s conviction that the affair was well and truly rockbound.