The Monkey Puzzle Tree

by Sonia Tilson

  Weighed down by her heavy bag, she walked home through the slush rather than share the bus with students. She had no stomach for their lethal backpacks, their shrieks and shouts and foul language. She kicked a grey, disintegrating lump of ice out of her way. Why hadn’t she said, “Would you like the Harlequin romance, the knitting pattern, the comic, and the Coles notes as well, so that all the other students involved can be equally considered?” Why was she challenged by students, called “sweetheart” by the likes of Phil Scott, and mutely, if mulishly, obedient to the orders of such a man as Harold Brown, the Human Budgie? Why, for that matter, she asked herself as she sloshed along, had she let herself be dismissed by Llewellyn without putting up any sort of a fight? And why had she been so blind about Doug? Why couldn’t she be like Jane Austen’s Emma, always confident of receiving the best treatment, because she ‘would never put up with any other’? She was distracted from going further along that line of thought by a shower of slush thrown up on her by a car speeding around the corner at the crossroads.

  That evening, after wearily finishing her preparation for the next day, she looked to see how the students in Thirteen C. accounted for their presence there. “Because i have no choice,” she read; “There’s nothing else to do”; “To hang out with my friends”; “So as I can get a really good job and make alot of money.” Out of the few who claimed to enjoy learning for its own sake, one stood out: Joel Waterman had written, “I am here to read as much as I can before I have to go into my father’s meat business. All I want to do is study literature; English is an oasis in my day!” Admiring the semicolon, along with the sentiment, she experienced a leap of the hope that springs eternal in the English teacher’s breast.

  Putting the papers away, she noticed the knitting pattern in her bag and took it out. As she smiled at the picture of the tiny booties, a worm of worry stirred in the back of her mind. So much had happened that last week that she had not thought about it until then, but wasn’t she late? She looked in her diary. She was, in fact, five days late. Not that that was so very unusual; she was not always completely regular. When she had broken up with Llewellyn, the same thing had happened; she had been a week late then. These were similar circumstances. Probably the same cause: just stress. That made sense.

  She turned her mind to the problem of getting her belongings back from the farmhouse, but at the thought of facing Doug her new-found sense of being somewhat in control of her life further evaporated. Doubts and worries sneaked, and circled, and sank their teeth into her. What if she could not get anything back, not even her passport? What if she lost her job, as perhaps she might after that cheeky stare in the principal’s office? What if she could not get another? And then that most frightening of all possibilities reared up again. What if …? She ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head. It was too soon yet to worry about that. Probably was not going to happen anyway. She should forget it for now, and start writing those letters.

  As she put pen to paper, the doorbell rang.

  “I’m not going to stay. I’m just passing,” Danielle brought a wave of cold fresh air in with her. “I missed you after school, and I want to know how things turned out. I remembered you said you lived here.” She swept off her silver-fox hat and shook out her long, dark hair.

  “I’ve only had my job for a day, and I think I could’ve lost it already.” Gillian described her encounter with the principal.

  “Don’t worry about it. They need you. That was just a staff-room spat. We have them all the time at Sir Charles and they always blow over. You did fine, actually. The bully boys will leave you alone now, and you’ll get some respect from the kids.” After regaling Gillian with a snippet of gossip concerning Phil Scott and the female phys. ed. teacher, she put on her coat. “You okay for tomorrow? You look un peu …”

  “I’m fine,” Gillian said quickly as she saw her out. “Thanks for coming round.” But she was exhausted. She had struggled all day to keep alert, and had slept for two hours as soon as she got home. Naturally she was worn out, though. A day like that would do anyone in.

  The following day brought no reprieve from her fears, nor did the next, nor the day after. A week passed, and then another. By the end of the week after that, she had run out of hope. Brooding, she considered her options. Looking to Doug for help was out of the question. Imagining him with a child sent her, to her surprise, into mother-tiger mode. The same reaction arose to another equally improbable option; no one, especially not her, was going to harm her baby. She remembered what Tom had said, and now completely understood how he had felt about his putative child.

  She began to worry about money. The baby would be born in October, so there could be no chance, obviously, of going back to work in September. On the positive side, thanks to her father’s annuity plus some savings, she would probably be able to stay on in her apartment for a while anyway. Then what? Go home to Mother with a baby? Absolutely not! She would just have to wait and see.

  She was putting up a cork notice board in the kitchen the following Saturday when she heard a tap at the door. In a turtleneck sweater and cords, Russ Armstrong looked younger, and less of a stuffed shirt than she had thought.

  “I heard you hammering, and wondered if perhaps you could do with a hand?”

  There would be no harm in asking him in, she decided. Actually she could do with some help in putting up an awkwardly large mirror.

  “I want to thank you for helping my mother bring in her shopping the other day, and for walking Jack the night of the freezing rain.” He straightened the corkboard. “She gets very tired these days, and I worry about her.” He stood back to check on his work. “I wish she’d come and live with me in Manor Park. There’s plenty of room in my house, but I suppose she likes her independence.”

  Gillian put on the kettle. “Do you have a family?” She assumed that at his age, in his mid-thirties at least, and with a house of his own, that was likely.

  “No, unfortunately, I don’t.” He took off his glasses and polished them with a spotlessly laundered handkerchief. “I’ve always been too busy studying, and then working, to have had any time for a personal life.”

  This was the first time she had met anyone like that, even at university. She asked what his work was, and learned that he worked in the field of helicopter icing.

  “It’s a serious problem,” he said, “especially, of course, in northern countries. We’ve made great strides recently.” He went on to describe in detail the huge rig they had constructed, with one hundred and sixty-one nozzles, to help provide icing protection. It seemed they were leading the field in that work. Over a mug of Maxwell House instant coffee, he told her more about the icing problem. She could not understand much of his explanations, but could see that his mother was right: he lived for his work.

  After putting up the mirror, he looked around the apartment. “It’s nice in here. You’ve made it very home-like. My place just looks like a hotel.”

  Having seen him to the door, she poured her coffee down the sink as usual those days. He just might be interesting, she thought as she washed and dried the mugs, as long as he stayed off the subject of ice-rigs. He was not bad-looking at all, and definitely not the demon-lover sort; neither user nor loser perhaps. If things were different, she might even encourage his possible overtures in the hope of finding that viable compromise she had been thinking about, although that was obviously out of the question now.

  As it turned out, Russ would not have needed any encouraging. When his mother invited Gillian down for an afternoon cup of tea the next Saturday, it was he who opened the door, looking casually smart in a sports jacket and cavalry twill trousers such as her father liked to wear. A bit behind the times, but a tidy man, she thought; not like Doug.

  They sat at the round, rosewood table, laid with gold-rimmed Royal Albert china of a dark blue, white, and orange pattern, dabbing their lips with hand-embroidered napkin
s, and passing around homemade scones and carrot cake.

  When they returned to the fireside, Jack laid his red rubber ball at Gillian’s feet, giving a bark of excitement when she rolled it over to Russ, who, after a moment’s thought, bent down and rolled it back. Isobel, as she had asked to be called, watched the stout little dog scamper between them. “Poor Jack! He’s not getting nearly enough exercise these days. My arthritis is really acting up.”

  “I could walk him.” Gillian looked up. “I’d love to. I’m not getting enough exercise either.”

  Russ observed that there was a park nearby where dogs were safe to run free. It was a lovely day, he said. Perhaps the two of them could both take Jack there for half an hour or so before the sun went down? Isobel looked, smiling, from one to the other. Gillian thought of saying she had too much marking to do that day, but did not want to seem ungracious. Isobel had been very kind, it was indeed a lovely day, and a short walk would, in fact, do her good.

  That was how it had started. Without any encouragement from her, one small thing had led to another on an almost daily basis until it became disconcertingly clear that, if not head over heels in love with her, Russ had intentions that she could not imagine were anything but honourable. She had tried to say that she was busy or had other engagements, but he was persistent, and in the circumstances it was difficult to snub or avoid him. She understood that short of moving across town, she could not run away from this. She had better tell him.

  “You’re looking very lovely tonight.” Russ regarded her solemnly over the brilliant white tablecloth at the fashionable Italian restaurant he had chosen. He was not looking so bad himself, she thought, in his well-tailored grey suit, white shirt, and discreetly patterned, red silk tie. Clean-cut was the word that came to mind. Her mother would be impressed. If, on the other hand, he grew his hair, got rid of those round gold-rimmed glasses, and changed his suit for casual pants and shirt, she might even fancy him herself; if circumstances were different, of course.

  She had been glad to find that she had no trouble fitting into her dress, retrieved from the farmhouse along with her other possessions the previous weekend when Danielle and her boyfriend, Pierre, had driven her out there. To her relief, Doug had not been around, having left everything on the steps, stuffed into two large garbage bags.

  The dress, black georgette with a flared skirt and soft neckline, was one which her mother had taken upon herself to find for her, unasked, at Mrs. Rosenberg’s little shop. “You should have at least one stylish thing to wear,” she had said. “I don’t suppose you’ll find anything smart where you’re going.”

  Gillian had never worn it, convinced it was strictly for funerals and would make her look at least forty; but when she tried it on that evening, adding the string of pearls her parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday, she was surprised to see that her mother had been right: the effect was far from frumpy, and the pearls were perfect. “Knowing that you’re wearing good pearls always gives one confidence,” her mother had said, an idea Gillian had scoffed at, but now found herself wishing could be true.

  She began to worry that Russ would get the wrong impression: that he might think she had made a special effort to look good for him; that she fancied him even. He was looking rather nervous, tapping his fingers and loosening his tie. Was he planning to make some sort of move that evening? What would she say? Pulling herself together, she got down to the less daunting business of the menu, choosing a clear soup and a salad.

  After he had finished off his veal marsala and spooned down his sabayon, Russ patted his mouth with the extra-large napkin and sat back, clearing his throat. “You know, I’ve never met anyone like you, Gillian. I mean before I met you.” He looked at her over the little posy of red and white carnations as the candle flickered in its glass bowl. “You’re the most, um, elegant girl I’ve ever met. And, and you’re reserved. I really like that in a girl.”

  “Well, thank you.” Gillian looked around for a washroom sign.

  “You remind me of my mother.” He smiled shyly, lifting his wineglass.

  She checked the exit route. “That’s nice.”

  “I’d be honoured … er, that is, I was wondering, Gillian, if you’d consider—what is it they call it?” he put his head on one side—“going steady with me? He placed his large, pale hands on the table, the nails irreproachable as always, unlike Doug’s hands, with their scars from metalwork, and their hard-bitten, dirty nails, and Llewellyn’s; light brown, slim, and nimble-fingered.

  She sat up straight and clasped her hands on the table in front of her. “Russ,” she said, “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  After she had said what she had to say, he sat back, his face slack with astonishment. “I can’t believe it! You seemed so refined.”

  “Well, even refined women get pregnant, you know.” She put her napkin on the table. “I’m sure your mother, for example, has always been very refined.”

  “My mother …” he grimaced. “My mother’s going to be so shocked!”

  “Mine too. She’s obviously not as refined as yours, since she’s had two children, but she’s not going to like this. But she’s in another country. Maybe I won’t tell her, and just present her one day with a fait accompli.”

  “With a what?”

  “A fait accompli. It’s what comes after a fate worse than death.”

  “That isn’t funny, Gillian.”

  People were always telling her that things were not funny.

  “But what are you going to do?” He frowned. “How, er, pregnant are you actually?”

  “Don’t even think of it.”

  They sat in silence for a minute.

  “So, there will be a baby.” He looked into the distance. “If I may ask, does the father know about this?”

  “No he doesn’t, and he’s not going to. Look, Russ, I think I’d better go home. I can get a taxi.”

  “Certainly not!” He beckoned to the waiter for the bill. “I’ll drive you home, of course. It’s the least I can do.”

  He was a nice man, she thought, sitting beside him in his Chevrolet. Maybe it really was a pity that she could not take this any further. To her surprise, as they said goodnight at the foot of the stairs, he put his arms around her and kissed her cheek, his lips soft, and his embrace, unlike those of Llewellyn or Doug, holding no hint of underlying danger. In his arms she felt safe. Suppressing a strong impulse to respond, she said goodnight, and went up to her apartment. Before she had closed her own, she heard him tap on his mother’s door.

  In bed, disarmed by that glimpse of security, she gave herself up, first to panic, and then to an overwhelming sense of loss. She grieved for Doug, alone again with his demons, and for poor faithful Nigel, waiting in vain on the doorstep for her to return. Sinking deeper than those heartaches, even deeper than the anguish of Llewellyn’s desertion, she found herself sobbing like a little child for her mother: “Don’t go! Don’t go! Don’t leave me!”

  W

  “I told you I’d turned the corner! I’m a tough old bird!” Their mother was sitting up, smiling, as Gillian and Tom came to St. Anne’s the next morning. She did indeed look better: her colour had improved, and her breathing was still easy. There was even a whiff of Je Reviens in the air as she beckoned them closer. “What have you two been up to?”

  Gillian shot an amused look at Tom who had not come back to the bungalow until morning. “Oh, nothing, just an early night,” she said. “By the way, Mum, did you know that Tweetie-Pie snores?”

  “Actually, Mum, I went out to dinner last night. With Vanna!” Tom sat down, beaming at her. “We had a wonderful time!”

  She stared at him, eyebrows raised. “Vanna? That Irish girl? Really, Tom!” She looked out of the window with a sniff. “Typical!”

  “What the devil d’you mean by that?” Tom jumped to his feet, his face red. �
�Vanna is a brilliant and successful woman. She’s made far more of her life than you ever did, with your—your coffee mornings and your cocktail parties and your fancy hats. Where would you have been if it hadn’t been for Dad, eh? Eh?”

  She glared furiously at him. “I would have been in Australia. Happy! Now please go away. And don’t come back.”

  “Jesus Christ! No wonder Dad said you were a hell of a woman!” He slammed out of the room.

  Telling herself it was not funny, Gillian caught up with him on the landing. “Don’t listen to her, Tom! She’s old, and sick, and not making any sense.”

  “She’s never made any sense! I’m sick and tired of kowtowing to her. And I’m not having Vanna insulted like that.” He was huffing and puffing, a thick vein standing out on his temple.

  “Calm down. It’s only Mum. Isn’t it time we stopped stressing about her? She’s probably not going to be with us much longer anyway.”

  “I know, but I’m not tiptoeing around her, walking on

  eggshells anymore.”

  “Well that’s a good thing. Why should you, after all?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, but he was less flushed. He grinned. “‘I would have been in Australia’ indeed! What the hell was that about?”

  “Who knows?” She watched him go heavily down the stairs, his hand on the rail, something slipping again across the back of her mind.

  Her mother was drying her eyes with a handkerchief. “That’s right. Stick together. Never mind me. You were always thick as thieves, you two.”

  The memory slithered by once more, and this time Gillian caught it by the tail: her grandmother, looking sadly at a faded sepia photograph of two radiant young people who had also been thick as thieves. The laughing young man had gone to Australia, her grandmother had said, and had died there five years later.