Whatever Happened to Margo?

by Margaret Durrell

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When my next advertisement sent me a choice of two people I chose Harriet Amelia Greenfield, without hesitation, for here was the ‘ideal tenant’. The paragon that my Aunt Patience had referred to, I decided, as I welcomed her with great respect and tucked her into the vacant room which had already seen three sets of tenants in its short life. Room 5 was certainly seeing a change of faces.

  She was a gentle, delicate widow of great refinement, obviously a Conservative, which would in no way constitute a thorn for Mr Budden – she was too retiring. Here was an open background of indisputable education and breeding, a woman who had undoubtedly fallen on hard times with stiff dignity. There were no signs of hidden inhibitions in that fragile ladylike face, no possible indecent pregnancies here, or skeletons in the cupboard or gigantic sex problems, which seemed to prevail in the rest of the house. I regarded the rather sad silhouette of perpetual grey, smelling discreetly of lavender water, moving with an air which was the essence of sanity and respectability, with a new satisfaction.

  My other lodgers regarded my attitude of obvious jubilation and respect towards the new member as a definite form of disloyalty to them. Refusing to accept my unstinted praise, they harboured the sombre stranger with a slightly antagonistic tolerance mixed with human kindness. Nelson’s mother alone was drawn towards the new tenant, seeing in her a kindred spirit of conformity. Unfortunately, she lacked the confidence to surmount the barriers of class distinction. Her servile greetings wrapped in an air of lonely hopefulness were not enough to gain a friendly footing. Mrs Greenfield made a pointed insistence on her full name, but she paid her rent promptly with few words.

  She came and went in silence, as soothing as a warm bath after physical labour, as ineffectual as Mrs Williams’ reprimands. The fleeting glimpses of her passing never failed to rouse me into self-congratulation on my newfound taste, selecting a lodger who not only did not gossip but who had the good taste not to discern people’s characters at a glance, sifting the possible and impossible. This was another milestone in my landlady’s career. Who could doubt it?

  In quiet moments of introspection I examined the intricacies of the household. I seemed to be no richer, and the patient moanings of my bank manager, like a nagging tooth, reminded me of this fact. Discussing the situation with Mrs Briggs after a harrowing morning spent sorting out bills, she informed me that ‘Bed and Breakfast’ was the answer and that one twisted and screwed life at every angle, sneaking in a fast move to acquire wealth whenever possible if one wanted to watch the luxury of a mounting bank balance.

  ‘I’ve been letting for years,’ she told me. That explained the unobtrusive trickle of people going in and out of her house. ‘I know all the ins and outs, give you a tip or two,’ she boasted, forgetting how many tips, good and bad, she had already given me. ‘Hum, you’ve let yourself in for it, I know. They’re mucking your house up too, I bet; you’ll have to change your ways, my girl, anyone can see you are too lackadaisical. Blonde hair and blue eyes won’t help you much when you’re letting – them’s only pitfalls,’ was her sardonic reminder, with a look which suggested that I was in charge of a reformatory, and not doing my job properly. I left her: I was even more depressed at the knowledge that if I wanted the illusion of my first dreams to come about the whole house would have to be reorganized to bed and breakfast activities. It was as gloomy a proposition as breeding mice.

  The summer was rushing indeniably to a close and once again the town, as though attacked with the severe hand of a barber’s scissors, would simmer through a lonely winter and turn again to pander to her yearly diehards. I was thankful that I had made my niche, launching myself on to some sort of keel, before the market was flooded with rooms to let and the stampede for cheaper winter quarters began.

  Mother, supported by Leslie, remembering her previous promises, arrived to stay, armed with a bundle of gardening tools, packets of seeds, and a small well-packed suitcase; sweets for the boys and Nelson, and some recipes in a cookery book of Bombay sweetmeats by Mimer Sing which she wished to discuss with Edward. Leslie had added a quantity of fresh liquor to the luggage to replenish the drink shelf, feeling, he said, that it would give my uncertified lunatic asylum the air of a stately home.

  I had promised to take Nelson to the beach, and we should have to take our day out soon before the weather broke and we were dismally engulfed by autumn. It would also fulfil the promise I had made to Barry to spend a day of uninhibited luxury by the sea. For Barry, time had still remained remote; the brown bodies were still unattainable and reality brought him only the efficiency of Jane who increased his urges with helpful massage, guaranteed to relax a tired body. Paula seemed unable to satisfy them, and I refused to be more than sympathetic. The children were blasé over our excursion for they were going to spend the day with their father, a sober and righteous man, with whom I now seemed to have nothing in common except arguments over money, which I felt were usually my fault.

  Waving goodbye to the children, and leaving Mother to a restful day of quiet reverie and pottering, we set off to the beach. Beside me walked a model of appreciative delight, carrying a small bag of necessary gear and spouting a lot of unnecessary chatter. The bus was packed with people, but we managed to lodge ourselves in with skilful determination. Remembering Edward’s shudder, and his flow of deprecating speech at our suggestion that he take a day off from painting and join us, at what he called ‘the revolting spectacle of sweating, seedy humanity, determined in a depraved and ghoulish way to enjoy themselves, making any venture to the town a contamination and nightmare’, I was inclined to agree now, as the first discomfort of bodies jammed together in confined space on a hot day hit me. But Nelson, I could see, disregarding discomfort, was already beginning to enjoy himself – and after all it was his day, I acquiesced tolerantly.

  Our conductor, a flower-like Adonis, with pale gold hair slicked back like a smooth curtain to hang straight, had already given Nelson an ambition in life – something, I regret to say, he had never shown before. He watched in admiration the traditional hat crushed to a volcanic peak, pushed well back on the smooth locks, the fair moustache growing sparsely on the top lip, and listened to the thin arias of song floating up, it seemed, from the very bottom of a flat belly, punctuated with ‘Fares, please,’ and other pleasantries. Being a woman I noticed, without Nelson’s enthusiasm, that his fingernails were dirty.

  We stopped for an unofficial moment at a wayside café to replenish an empty billycan, a move of independence that Mr Budden would have thoroughly applauded: after all it was a democratic country, I told myself, as a protesting murmur echoed from those passengers who were in a hurry. My own thoughts in solitary flight lingered with tender indulgences: the comforting arms of my lover; the boiler which seemed to be a menace of lighting and re-lighting; the grumblings of Roger and Edward and their coming to the undoubtable conclusion that we women were the worst offenders at bath-taking. I thought of the new lodger, Harriet, who would no doubt be taking tea with Mother and, possibly, a reserved Edward, who was still a little watchful. He had not yet weighed up this unknown quantity, he was prone to saying. And then I was back again to the growing completion of a perfect relationship with Andy, which had so far managed to survive the close proximity of an unpredictable household.

  The bell donging smartly brought me back to Nelson, but it was not the troublemaker as I had suspected, but the return of Adonis with a steaming billycan. ‘Next stop the cemetery,’ he called out, renewing his contact with his passengers. ‘Anyone for the cemetery,’ he quipped pleasantly. ‘Come along ladies and gentlemen, who is for long-sleep corner?’ His audience shuddered, and the over-fifties glanced uneasily at the walled cemetery. He expected laughter but there was none, except from Nelson. The British, intensely reserved, deplore this sort of humour; the man gave his admiring audience of one an impudent wink from pink-rimmed eyes, undaunted at the lack of other appreciation, reshuffled his already wounded song, and blas
ted forth again, until we were at last regurgitated in the heart of the town without ceremony.

  It was still pulsating with traffic, people, and sound: the last fling of a dying summer, of which we were now a part, fighting our way forward like the rest. The inevitable money-box rattled. I groaned. It was another flag day.

  Nelson had begged to be allowed to see Paula and Olwen at work, a sight he said he would be much interested in because, in his opinion, he had ‘never seen a more idle pair of birds in the ’ouse’, a scandalous smirk of deprecation filling the broad face. A slim silhouette of pale turquoise elegance presided over a glass counter of exotic scents and entrancingly wrapped packages, and there was Paula persuading an aging novice that the contents of a particular small and expensive jar would bring back the long-lost youthful contours.

  ‘Blooming liar,’ Nelson whispered, outrageously truthful. Then came the comment that ‘she was past ’elp anyway’, and he and Paula exchanged slow subtle winks. Dragging him quickly away from where, obviously, a tense situation would arise within minutes if he was allowed to linger, and forfeiting a new lipstick I was intending to buy, I marched him determinedly to the nearest exit. We passed the shop where Olwen, sitting in a bed of shoes, a dark head bent over a slim foot, persuaded the owner it was a perfect fit. Suitably impressed by the array of footwear Nelson looked down at his rather stringy grey plimsolls with distaste, suggesting hopefully that he could do with a new pair himself. He examined my expression carefully for the sign of a generous whim. I firmly ignored the pleading look – I had forfeited my lipstick, so why not Nelson his shoes? We were once more fighting our way to the sea.

  The promenade was a jungle of people, the sand a jam session of arms and legs through which here and there a yellow mirage beckoned. Storming the promenade, we surged forward again like gold prospectors, pausing for a second to view the attractions of the seaside through a jaundiced-looking telescope and lingered beside a brightly-coloured tent to applaud Punch belabouring a much misjudged dragon, while Judy, hiding her thoughts behind a mask of boredom, blinked an eye and suffered the audience. Nelson stayed longest and laughed the heartiest, then, remarking it was ‘kid’s stuff’, he followed me reluctantly away, but revived instantly at the spectacle of a pink woman with blue hair and a body like a bolster, suspended on a giant pair of scales, whose weight was being carefully matched by a pyramid of iron discs expertly handled.

  ‘Sixteen stone, lady, and every one a winner,’ said the stout jovial fellow in a panama hat and cream linen jacket, stepping smartly forward to bring her down to earth. Nelson quickly took the chair, self-conscious and blushing, but determined to miss nothing, while the sixteen stone, screaming girlishly at the result, hid her face and fled to the comforting arms of her husband, a shamefaced man in a gaudy blazer. Trying to appear unconcerned, Nelson watched intently as the iron weights piled up against him. It was a tense moment: would he make it?

  ‘Made it,’ he yelled delightedly, as up he went.

  ‘That will be sixpence, son, and a fine figure if I may say so,’ said the man, his hand out, while the shrewd eyes were already looking for his next customer. Nelson, ignoring the result of his weight and reluctant to part with sixpence, was already standing posed like his namesake in Trafalgar Square for a quick photograph.

  Then we saw Barry, a figure of rippling brownness against the shiny surface of the sea, and his working partner, proving that there was more than one attraction on the beach this summer. Feeling our way carefully through rows of prostrate bodies towards them, we selected a small basin of sand, which scarcely provided for Nelson’s bulk. Removing first a broken bottle and an ice-cream wrapper, and myself deftly burying a condom, we pegged out a few square feet of solitude and settled unglamorously like a couple of squatters in an Indian bazaar.

  Barry, hearing Nelson’s shout which had a flavour of long-lost friends meeting unexpectedly in a remote part of the world, bubbled up with a gleaming smile of welcome and turned for a hasty consultation with his working partner, the male study of what an English summer can do for you if it’s a good one – especially if you have the magnificent confidence of a Valentino enhanced by a silver medallion swinging on a string against a bronzed chest. Barry joined us, delighted.

  ‘I’m so glad you made it,’ he whispered, as if I was the only girl in the world, white teeth bewitchingly close to my ear as his eyes followed the passage of a couple of well-filled bikinis. ‘Can only stay for a moment, so make the most of it!’ he said suggestively, with a gaiety of spirit that never revealed itself in the house.

  Grumbling again at the crowds, we changed into our swimming costumes; I manoeuvred myself into my bit of red coverage, as I watched with some amusement Nelson decorating himself swiftly in royal blue and red splendour. Shining like a young and well-fed porpoise, he leapt a couple of inert bodies, spreading sand in short, sharp spurts, while moans of indignant protest followed the unheeding, dancing figure headed for the sea, roaring to me to follow.

  ‘Pity you had to bring that menace,’ Barry said with good-humoured unkindness, as we settled down on our ration of sand unpenetrated by the twangy quality of sea breeze, for it was a still, solid day drugged with heavy odours.

  ‘I promised him a day by the sea,’ I murmured, my eyes half closed and soaking in the trembling rays of warmth, like Mr Budden in his string vest. The unavoidably trained mind of a mother, always on the alert, hoped that Nelson was not going to provide the local paper with a column of seaside drama, but I decided that, in his home-knitted woollen, he was a landmark for all to see, and would not be providing the house with a funeral this summer – not if I could help it, anyway.

  A slight friendly pressure on my hand told me that Barry demanded attention. ‘Yes?’ I answered.

  ‘Maggie, dear Maggie’ – Barry always called me Maggie – ‘I can never really regard you in the light of an ordinary landlady. As Edward says, you’re, well, different.’

  ‘Can’t you?’ I said, happily, my mind now back at the house.

  ‘I have something to tell you,’ he hesitated.

  ‘Go on – I’m not laughing, I’m listening even if I have got my eyes closed.’ I joked gently, aware that at times my uproarious mirth would intimidate him.

  ‘I’ve found the only girl in the world for me!’ The whisper vibrated with emotion. ‘And I intend to marry her!’

  ‘What?’ I said opening my eyes and sitting up. ‘You must be mad. That’s bigamy. Anyway, who is she? And what’s the matter with Paula?’ I asked stormily. I could see Barry was going to get himself into another muddle and then come to me for help. ‘She can’t be very much anyway, as you’ve never mentioned her before, and you can’t have known her for long either,’ I surmised, ‘or you would have told me about her the last time we chatted.’

  ‘It’s you,’ the words trembled from him.

  ‘Well, that’s different,’ I said calmly, bursting forth in hearty laughter. ‘I approve of the choice, if not the action. Anyway, how can you marry? You are already married,’ I reasoned, suddenly indignant, hoping that Barry was not now, in a mad moment, going to try and involve me in bigamy, or worse.

  ‘Wait and see,’ he muttered darkly. A compelling shout from Barry’s working companion made him hastily leave my side with a smothered curse.

  ‘Come on, Mush. ’Ere a mo, I can’t cope all day alone while you’re coming the old seduction lark.’ The cockney voice ruined the aura of a blond god, and I collapsed back to my sunbathing pose, relieved that yet another unburdening of Barry’s soul was temporarily averted as I subsided again for a moment of thought in peace. Above the unfamiliar noises of the crowd came the familiar robust yell of Nelson – as somebody got a ducking, no doubt. I snuggled into my small patch of sand. The children would probably be driving their father mad by now, I chuckled, and Mother, though enjoying her day of peaceful solitude, would surely by now be missing the presence of her grandchildren.

  I raised my head to give a penetrating look
of disapproval to the seedy-looking man on my right, who was thrashing his child merely because his nerves were frayed, feeling in sympathy with a neighbour who, reclining in a deckchair, had just said in a voice about to sleep ‘ee but it’s luvly ’ere’, and was beginning to swallow his words.

  The sound of deep breathing told me Barry was back. ‘Now, where were we?’ he asked, running a soft finger up my arm.

  ‘You were trying to soft-soap me, and I had said, “No”,’ I replied lightly.

  Barry sighed. ‘Are we never to come to a better understanding?’

  He already knew the answer – ‘Not if it involves me in bigamy, and anyway I am otherwise engaged.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ he said. ‘And he’s lucky, too.’

  I accepted the compliment with grace, but I had already forgotten him as his own words reminded me of the biting memory of Andy; an intense warmth tucked away deep within me, a comfort yet a threat. Curious, I thought with a sigh, how with a touch, a look and an intonation one was rocketed up to the dizzy heights of a starry sky, or plunged into a chasm of cold despair. At the moment privacy was our problem, for where can one find privacy in a house full of people effervescently alive, and hopelessly curious? ‘That’s life,’ I said aloud, referring to my thoughts.

  ‘I refuse to accept it,’ Barry announced with absurd bravado. ‘I shall fight every inch of the way to win you!’

  ‘Is this another infamous proposal?’ I asked teasingly.

  Barry’s face, whitening under the tan, told me that he was serious. Any minute I thought, suppressing my laughter, a tranquillizer will appear.

  ‘I must do something with my life,’ he said gloomily, rather offended at my levity. ‘This job will only last another few weeks, and what then?’

  In spite of my mirth I appreciated his predicament. How many of us longed to do other things and were faced with a hundred different reasons for not doing them – lack of money, lack of education, lack of opportunity, lack of initiative.