Mimi and the Blue Slave

by Catherine Bateson

  We don’t serve much in the café – it’s too small. There are four tables inside in winter and two extra outside in summer. We only do lunches on the weekend. Otherwise it’s muffins, biscuits and the Tarte du Jour. That’s French for Cake of the Day. Cake of the Day is nearly always lemon tart because that’s what the little old ladies like. Sometimes Mum will make a boiled fruitcake or a flourless orange cake, just to show she can bake more than lemon tarts.

  It was Friday night and I could hear Mum pulling everything out of the window. She’d bought some tiger lilies earlier that afternoon from Mr Ben at Garden of Eden. They were going to be her theme. I knew that because when I’d come home from school she was already planning the window. Lilies, tiger and orange, she’d told me and we’d sorted out some stuff together. It was my idea to put the really old children’s book with the brightly striped tiger on the jacket in the middle of the window, leaning against the vase of lilies.

  Dad was in the back shed, but when I’d asked if I should take him a cup of tea, Mum shook her head.

  ‘I don’t think so, ducky,’ she said, ‘he’s not feeling very well. He’s probably asleep.’

  I went out to get him for dinner and I knew he had been asleep because he was all rumpled.

  ‘Mimi! Let me warm your tiny cold hands!’ Dad always said that.

  I was named after some girl in an opera. She dies. But that always happens in operas so I tried not to take it personally.

  I held out my hands and he kissed them the way noblemen once did.

  ‘It’s dinner,’ I told him, shoving my hands in my jean pockets.

  ‘Couldn’t eat a thing,’ Dad said, ‘but I’ll come in and sit with you.’

  ‘Mum’s cooked roast chicken,’ I said, ‘and potatoes and everything.’

  Dad shrugged. ‘Your body tells you what it needs,’ he said, ‘and right now my body’s telling me, no food. Maybe some medicinal wine, or even a brandy. But no food.’

  ‘Does that mean when my body tells me I should eat Zombie Drops, I should?’

  Dad looked at me. ‘Maybe your body’s too young to give you the right message,’ he suggested.

  ‘But sometimes it almost shouts,’ I said. ‘Zombie Drops! I reckon you could hear it if you stood close enough.’

  ‘I hope it’s shouting roast chicken now,’ Dad laughed, ruffling my hair.

  I didn’t think Mum would be happy that Dad’s body wasn’t interested in her chicken, and I was right. Her eyes narrowed when he poured himself a little glass of wine.

  ‘No thank you,’ she said when he offered her some, ‘it’s window night.’

  ‘A little wine might loosen your creativity,’ Dad said, his smile tightening.

  ‘Or it might unravel it completely,’ she snapped. ‘So what have you been doing, all afternoon? Loosening your creativity?’

  ‘I didn’t feel well,’ Dad said, rubbing his chin. ‘I had a nap.’

  ‘Did you finish Mrs Mac’s framing?’

  ‘I’ll finish it in the morning,’ Dad said. ‘I’ve cut the mount, Lou. It’s practically done.’

  ‘You said it would be ready.’ Mum slapped some chicken down on my plate and handed it to me without even looking at me. I didn’t feel as hungry as I had when I sat down.

  By the time they were really arguing, I’d finished dinner and was upstairs reading. I heard the back door slam shut and then Mum came upstairs to say goodnight. Her cheeks were pink, but her eyes had stopped looking wildly angry and were just sad.

  ‘Goodnight, ducky,’ she said. ‘Your dad will come up later, okay. When he’s calmed down.’

  But he didn’t.

  I didn’t know what book Ableth was reading, because I couldn’t see the cover. I imagined it was something like Robinson Crusoe. That was an Ableth kind of book. He liked reading about the ocean and shipwrecks. He came from an island where shipwrecks are commonplace and mermaids are regularly sighted.

  ‘Well,’ Aunty Ann said, ‘we should leave in half an hour. Are you ready, Lou? Have you got the eulogy?’

  Mum nodded.

  ‘Handkerchief?’

  ‘Tissues,’ Mum said.

  ‘Here, you’d better all take one of these,’ Aunty Ann pulled three large men’s handkerchiefs from her handbag. ‘They’re much more substantial than tissues.’

  It was so big it filled my entire purse, but I stuffed it in without protest. I could see Aunty Ann’s point. Flimsy tissues were nothing against a monster handkerchief. How many tears could you cry before a tissue disintegrated? I wondered if that was the kind of thing mad scientists investigated.

  How could you count tears? I’d cried a bathful since Dad died. A big bath.

  That made me woozy and I sat down again.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Mum asked. She put her hand against my forehead and shook her head. ‘I really don’t think you should be going.’ She made the funeral sound like some kind of optional outing.

  ‘She has to go,’ Aunty Marita said, ‘otherwise she’ll never be able to move on.’

  ‘She’s going,’ Mum said sharply, ‘I just don’t think she should be.’

  ‘Do we all need a cup of herb tea?’ Aunty Marita asked. ‘I think we’ve just got time.’

  ‘I need coffee,’ Mum muttered, but she emptied the tea-leaves out of the pot for Aunty Marita anyway.

  I had a cup, too, because it had licorice in it. Licorice was one of my favourite things. As pirate queen, my hair was as black as licorice. In real life, it was mousey brown. Mum said it had golden lights, but she was just being a mum. It’s plain mousey.

  As pirate queen my name was Griselda. Mimi was too wussy. When I’d asked Dad who was the most famous pirate queen, he’d said Grace O’Malley. Grace just didn’t sound piratical to me. I knew a Grace at school and she was quiet with glasses and two thick plaits. But Dad said I could pick any name I wanted because it was my story, after all. I picked Griselda because it sounded fierce – there’s the grrr sound at the beginning and it reminded me of grizzly bears.

  Back on ship, I walked up to Ableth. He should have jumped to attention. I was captain of the ship. He just gave me a lazy smile, marked the place where he’d been reading by turning over the corner of the page, which you’re not supposed to do, and saluted me without even standing. Discipline was getting slack.

  Good book? I said sarcastically.

  You can read it after me, he offered, ignoring my tone.

  If I have time,’ I said self-importantly. I have a ship to run, you know.

  Go on, I’ve caught you reading in the crow’s nest. Ableth nudged my foot with his own.

  He was too familiar. I should have him flogged, but instead I sat down beside him, feeling the warm sun at my back. If I weren’t Griselda of the Black Doom I could lean against him and go to sleep.

  ‘Here!’ Aunty Ann said, ‘drink your tea, Mimi. Don’t doze off yet. You can do that in the car, if you need to.’

  I gulped down the warm tea and then we filed through the shop and out the door. There was a notice on it that said: ‘Closed due to Family Bereavement.’ I knew Mum had put the notice up, but I hadn’t seen it before and I felt a little shock stab me. Some of the time that I’d been sick, I’d woken up in the night and heard Dad coming up the stairs, whistling under his breath, as if he wasn’t dead. Once, I swear I saw him come into my room – but it must have been Ableth, because there was the notice on the shop door and here we all were, going to the funeral.

  I can’t do this, I whispered to Ableth, but he turned back to his book and ignored me.

  I sat with Aunty Marita in the back of Aunty Ann’s car. The sisters decided that Mum shouldn’t drive. They also decided that Mum should sit in the front, rather than in the back with me. They didn’t actually discuss any of this, they just looked at each other and knew. It’s a t
rick they have.

  We drove past The Very Veg and I shrank down in my seat. The Very Veg boy, Fergus, was the only other shop kid in our block. I didn’t want him to see me, all red-eyed and puffy.

  ‘I think you should have made it family only,’ Aunty Ann said. ‘Honestly, Lou, anyone could turn up.’

  ‘Doug loved a party,’ Mum said. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted family only.’

  ‘It’s you I’m thinking of, Lou. Dealing with people you don’t even know at a time like this.’

  ‘I doubt that many people will turn up,’ Mum said in a tired-sounding voice, ‘and I don’t care anyway.’

  ‘What if the sandwiches run out?’

  ‘Mrs Peters is doing the sandwiches. They won’t run out. She’s very efficient.’

  After the funeral we were all going to the community hall for tea and sandwiches. Even I was going, for a little while at least.

  ‘Why?’ I’d asked.

  ‘It’s what people do,’ Mum said. ‘It’s like a modified wake.’

  ‘What’s that?’ It sounded as though you stayed awake for the dead person, but that didn’t seem right.

  We weren’t really having a wake, which did kind of mean staying awake. We were having tea and sandwiches so we could all talk, laugh and cry about Dad. I was going because it was part of grieving. But Mum said the minute I felt faint or tired, I was to tell her and she’d arrange for someone to take me home and put me to bed.

  Dad was in the Chapel of Rest, which made it sound as though he was just having a nap.

  ‘Oh my heavens,’ Aunty Ann said, ‘look at the car park, Lou!’

  ‘There are spaces, Ann,’ Mum said. ‘Just park, will you?’

  Aunty Ann had hardly parked the car when people began to come up to us and offer their sympathy. Some of them I recognised, others said, ‘So this is little Mimi?’ We moved very slowly towards the Chapel of Rest and then, once inside it, moved very slowly to the front row, reserved for family.

  There was a coffin in one corner of the room. It had flowers and a red cloth draped over it, but that didn’t make it any less of a coffin.

  I don’t like it, I said to Ableth.

  He pulled a little flask from his pocket and took a long swallow. Then don’t look at it, he said, and went back to his book.

  You’re my slave, I hissed. Do something!

  I’m the ocean’s slave, he said and there’s nothing I, or anyone else can do. You’re a pirate queen, Griselda. You just sit out the pain. He took another swig.

  The old-lady brigade lined up to kiss me and Mum. They smelt sweet-powdery on top and musty underneath.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mrs Peters told Mum, ‘there are eight trays of ribbon sandwiches. The party pies and little sausage rolls are ready to heat in a jiffy, Mrs C. brought her mini quiches with asparagus and dear Emma made lamingtons. How are you holding up, Louisa?’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Peters. You’ve all been wonderful.’

  ‘The least we could do. A darling man, Louisa. Such a loss for you and little Mimi. We’re all deeply saddened. If there’s ever anything we can do...’

  I looked around for Fergus, the Very Veg boy. I half-wanted him to be there, but mostly didn’t. I couldn’t see him or his parents – but they were probably back selling organic fruit and vegies.

  ‘Lou! Lou!’ A woman dressed in black with long amber beads hanging around her neck, and hair that matched the beads, surged forward from the crowd at the back. She buried her head in my mother’s neck and sobbed. ‘Doug, of all people,’ I heard her say. ‘Poor you, darling. Poor Mimi.’

  Miriam was one of the antique dealers from the auction rooms where Mum and Dad went once a week for stock for the shop. She knew estate jewellery, which was a difficult area. Dad said she was an old flamboyant crow – sharp and beady-eyed underneath all the black tat. I loved watching her rings flash as she talked.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘When Harry went I just wept and wept for days. I did nothing else. And Harry was such an arse whereas Doug was a beautiful man, Lou. One of God’s rare souls.’

  Mum’s sobs joined Miriam’s while beside me Aunty Ann tutted quietly. I wasn’t sure if it was because Miriam had said ‘arse’ or called Dad a beautiful man, or both.

  Miriam’s greeting seemed to clear the way for the other dealers to come up. They stood out because although they were all dressed in black, the women had brighter hair and higher heels than the other women in the crowd and the men wore silk scarves tucked into their shirts as though they were royalty. One of them drew a silver flask from his pocket and offered it to Mum. She shook her head. He insisted and then, despite Aunty Ann’s glare, Mum took a small sip.

  ‘Lovely, thanks Guy. Just what I needed,’ she said.

  ‘Got to keep your spine straight,’ Guy said. ‘Have another one, Lou love. In fact, take the flask, darl.’ He tucked the flask into my mother’s hand despite her protests and curled her fingers around it. ‘I’ll get it back later. Genuine Edwardian.’ And he winked.

  ‘Your father would love this,’ Mum whispered to me and then her eyes swam in tears again and she took another sip from Guy’s flask.

  ‘Put it away, Lou,’ Aunty Ann hissed, ‘here’s the undertaker!’

  A solemn man dressed in a tidy suit came and shook hands with us all. ‘We’ll start in about five minutes,’ he said.

  The room was hot from the press of people. All I wanted to do was sleep. I leant against Mum and watched as the undertaker went up to the lectern, shuffling notes.

  These are the last moments of my father, I told Ableth.

  Pardon me, my queen of the blue, but they aren’t, he said. You’ve got him in your head and heart and always will.

  But not the him that’s here, I said, not the him everyone here knows. This is it. Why do I want to go to sleep?

  Because you’re tired, he said and put a cool hand on my head. Feel better?

  Stay here, I ordered – or begged . Don’t leave.

  I’ll never leave, queen of my blue heart, he promised and squatted down beside me, carving something small from wood with his sharp whittling knife.

  Mum had written the eulogy herself. It had taken all of one day and she’d read it out each time she thought she’d finished. I almost knew it off by heart. Or thought I did. When it was read again in a man’s voice it sounded different.

  Some of it was like poetry. Mum had written how she’d met Dad. He’d come striding towards her in a black velvet coat. All her friends wore preppy clothes and wanted to be lawyers and here was a man in a silk cravat and a black velvet coat who could remember poems she’d never even heard of. The fact that he was ten years her senior and had been engaged once made him more attractive.

  The undertaker talked – of her and Dad’s wild years, as Mum called them, when she was in her twenties and they lived in London. How Dad had asked her to marry him and she’d said yes. Then they’d come back to Australia and had me.

  He’d sung me crazy songs before I was even born so I’d know I was loved. He’d been a wonderful father, inventing imaginative games and telling magical stories. He’d worshipped me, she’d written. When the undertaker got to that part, Mum reached for my hand and held it so tightly her wedding ring hurt my finger.

  ‘It’s true,’ she whispered through tears, ‘he loved you more than anything, Mimi.’

  When that bit was finished people could get up and add their own comments. I was surprised when Aunty Marita got up. She unfolded a piece of paper and put it on the lectern.

  ‘When Doug and Louisa were married,’ she said in a shaking voice, ‘we were all fearful for her. She seemed so young, dressed in a long cheesecloth dress with jasmine in her hair. Our mother wept quietly through the wedding. Louisa was her youngest daughter and she’d wanted something grander for her. But
I could see from the way Lou and Doug danced together that night that the marriage would last, no matter what. And it did. It produced little Mimi. What more can you ask for a life, I wonder?’

  Her voice, which had steadied in the middle, cracked again at the end and she sobbed back to her seat, her handkerchief pressed against her mouth. Mum reached over me and took her hand.

  One by one people stood up and remembered Dad. People I had never seen before told us he was a good companion, always ready to tell a story or lend a bit of cash. Miriam got up and did her bit about a rare soul and added that he was a wonderful French polisher and always had an eye for a good piece of furniture.

  ‘Or a good piece,’ Guy called out, ‘look at the lovely one he married!’ and there was a ripple of laughter.

  Nick the busker got up with his fiddle and played and sang a song that was both happy and sad at the same time and that made me cry because Dad used to sing the same song.

  Then the undertaker told us we’d have to move on because unfortunately there was another service scheduled, so if we could all move out, please, and the song my mother had chosen came over the speakers. That made Mum cry again. When we walked out the day seemed a little greyer, as though some of its colour had been used up by everyone saying what they said.

  The community hall was crowded with the same people. The old-lady brigade passed out sandwiches, pies and sausage rolls. Guy seemed to have found another flask because he was adding nips to people’s tea.

  ‘No thank you,’ Aunty Ann said sternly, moving her cup quickly out of reach. ‘I like my tea with milk only, thank you.’

  ‘It’s a wake,’ Guy said mildly, ‘you have to have a wee drop at a wake.’

  ‘Not this early in the day for me.’

  I couldn’t eat because when I swallowed it was as if my throat was filled with broken glass. I didn’t want to go home with one of the old ladies, so I sat down in a corner where I was out of the way and watched everyone moving around. I was so hot I thought I’d faint, but then if I moved at all a draft came from nowhere and chilled me to my bones. I sat very still and Ableth came and when I was too hot, he fanned me gently with an old Japanese fan, like the one we had in the shop. When I got cold he held me so close to his big warmth I could hear his heart beat.