Disreputable People

by Penelope Rowe

  He had been giving her dud tips for twenty years or more as far as I could see, but she had profound faith in him. His brother-in-law knew a trainer. After she’d lost a few dollars we walked through Charing Cross, stopping at the hardware store (Aunty Min loves hardware) then had a ‘spot’, as she called it, at the Robin Hood Hotel.

  ‘Your mother thought hotels were vulgar,’ she said. We sipped our sherries like perfect ladies.

  On the way home Aunty Min said she’d like to buy a hand mirror. We stopped at the chemist and she made her purchase.

  When I arrived the following week, Matron intercepted me on the pathway down to the self-contained units.

  ‘Could I see you for a moment, Alix?’ she whispered. I panicked.

  ‘Aunty Min? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing. Ssh.’ She looked positively furtive. ‘Look, I don’t want to alarm you, but you are her only relative. I’m worried about her behaviour.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ I laughed. ‘People have been worried about her behaviour for years. She’s okay.’

  ‘No, Alix, let me explain. Well, for one thing, she’s given up wearing a brassiere.’ I laughed. Matron looked very embarrassed. ‘That’s not the main trouble. It’s hard to know how to tell you this.’

  ‘What?’ I was a bit sharp with her. I am not a very patient person by nature, and Matron had always struck me as a bit prissy.

  ‘I went to her unit this morning and found, well, she was, how can I put this delicately? She was examining herself.’

  ‘Examining herself? Whatever do you mean, Matron?’

  ‘With a hand mirror.’

  ‘Yes. So?’

  ‘But, down there, Alix, down here.’

  ‘Down where?’ I asked her, truly puzzled.

  ‘You know. Down there.’ Matron gestured roughly, her face pink.

  ‘Oh.’ Enlightenment struck. Cleo. November.

  ‘Yes.’ A deeply meaningful pause. ‘I mean, I’ve seen it in the men. Silly old fools. “Oh, is that little willy wagtail” I say when I catch them at it, but I’ve never struck this before in one of my ladies. I think we should get someone to look at her.’

  Suddenly I felt angry. Why had I ever told this stupid palsy-walsy woman to call me Alix? I was angry for Aunty Min. Sure, what Matron said had taken me by surprise. Shocked me a bit, I suppose … after all, eighty-one … but surely it was Min’s business?

  ‘Why did you go in?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you mean, why did I go in? I’m in charge. It’s my duty.’

  ‘Forgive me if you consider this rude, but I would say that barging in on Aunty Min in the privacy of her unit, when she had not invited you in, is not your duty. She’s entitled to privacy, you know. Everyone is.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, if you don’t mind,’ said Matron, puffing out her cheeks and looking indignant. ‘I take good care of my ladies. Thank goodness I did walk in. Now we can do something about it.’

  ‘Indeed, we cannot,’ I said. ‘That is no-one’s business but my aunt’s. What she chooses to do with her hand mirror is her business.’

  ‘I suppose you bought it for her,’ said Matron in disgust. ‘You’re a bad influence on your aunt and I won’t have it.’ She stalked off.

  When Min opened the door she looked awfully pleased with herself. A big grin all over her face. She could tell Matron had already spoken to me.

  ‘Fancy,’ she said. ‘I’m in Matron’s bad books.’ And she giggled like a girl. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I know it’s nothing to you feminists, you all sit around in a circle examining your labia and things and making comments to each other, but for me, it’s different. Alix, dear, do you realise I’m eighty … how old am I?’

  ‘Eighty-one, Aunty Min.’

  ‘Is that right? And, I’ve never seen what it looks like. Can you imagine? Eighty-one and I’ve never looked at it before. I’ve inspected the deepest recesses of my mouth and cleaned my navel and checked the toilet bowl for blood and pared my corns but I’ve never looked at, at those parts. Isn’t it extraordinary? And I’m eighty-one. Oh, you young ones are lucky.’

  I listened to Min. I was a fraud. I mean, I’d had a peep or two, but if she thought I’d sit in a circle with my girlfriends swapping labia views, she had me all wrong. I wasn’t that liberated.

  The next thing that happened was I got a call at the office one Thursday afternoon. It was Matron and she demanded that I come at once.

  ‘This is no light matter,’ she said, ‘nor a laughing matter.’ Believe you me, I wasn’t laughing. I was feeling that I knew how Mum had felt all those years. Aunty Min was one step ahead of us all.

  Matron was waiting in Aunty Min’s unit when I arrived.

  ‘There’s been a complaint about your aunt,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’ I said.

  ‘She has been causing damage.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I had no choice, Alix. You’d have to agree with me,’ interrupted Aunty Min who was busy knitting a woolly grey uterus for a Lamaze natural childbirth class that she had seen advertised on the supermarket community noticeboard.

  ‘Be quiet, Mrs Doherty,’ said Matron rudely. ‘Charges may be laid.’

  ‘What has she done?’ I asked, dreading the answer.

  ‘She’s defaced a car windscreen,’ said matron. ‘You just can’t go round doing that sort of thing.’

  ‘Indeed you can,’ said Aunty Min grandly. ‘I’ve no regrets.’

  ‘So it seems,’ said Matron. ‘Alix, if you would come with me I’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘No. Anything you have to say can be said in front of my aunt.’ It sounded pompous but I felt I had to be loyal to her.

  ‘Very well. Your aunt defaced the car of one of our local Rotary Club members. And may I remind you, Rotary is very good to us here at the Village.’

  ‘Indeed, I did,’ said Aunty Min proudly. ‘Alix, you wouldn’t have stood for it. You’ve taught me so much.’ I wilted under Matron’s gaze. ‘What else was I to do?’

  ‘Can you tell me exactly what my aunt has done?’ I asked Matron.

  ‘Indeed I can. She has taken a can of spray paint and defaced the back windscreen of this Village’s Rotary support car.’

  ‘But why? Why?’

  ‘Because your aunt did not like what was written on a sticker attached to it.’

  ‘Well, what was written?’ I asked.

  ‘“No sea too ruff …”’ said Matron.

  ‘“… no muff too tuff”,’ finished Aunty Min triumphantly.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Matron. ‘It’s outrageous behaviour from one of my ladies. I simply will not have it.’

  ‘I’ll pay to have the paint removed,’ I said to end the matter once and for all. Aunty Min leaned over and poked my arm with her stick.

  ‘Don’t give in to the old bitch,’ she said.

  ‘And another thing,’ said Matron. ‘While we’re at it.’

  ‘What?’ I asked impatiently.

  ‘I will not have her annoying the Partigers.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Min stoutly. ‘Moby and Hap are my best friends here. I never annoy them.’

  ‘Mr Partiger was none too pleased with the tone of your conversation in the games room yesterday.’

  ‘Hap is never pleased with anything,’ I said.

  ‘I can’t imagine why he tolerates that ridiculous nickname,’ snapped Matron. ‘She …’ with a nod at my aunt, ‘was discussing genitalia with Mrs Partiger.’

  ‘And why not?’ said Aunty Min. ‘Typical. Just because the woman is fat you think she’s not interested in that sort of thing. Moby was very interested.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with her size,’ said Matron. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not the kind of conversation for my ladies—any ladies for that matter—to be having. It’s to stop.’

  ‘I’ll talk about whatever I like,’ said Aunty Min and she prodded Matron’s hip with her stick. ‘Come along, Alix. Let’s go for our drive.’

&nb
sp; ‘Look, you really should watch it, Aunty Min. It never does to get Matron offside,’ I said a little later as we sipped a macchiato (another of Min’s latest enthusiasms) at the Gelato Bar at Bondi Beach. ‘She can make things difficult.’

  ‘I am not institutionalised and I am not a good little girl. Never was and not starting now. You young ones …’ (I forgot to say I’ll be fifty next birthday) ‘simply don’t see us old ones as human anymore. Why should I have to change now?’

  ‘You don’t. You don’t. But couldn’t you try to be a bit more tactful? That’s all. Moby and Hap might have been shocked, you know. Not everyone is as … as liberated as you.’

  ‘Well, they should be.’ She sipped in silence for a minute. ‘You know, I’d do anything to get a smile on Hap’s face before he passes on.’

  ‘I don’t think talking about genitals is going to do it,’ I said.

  The following Friday afternoon I was called to the police station up at Charing Cross. Aunty Min was under arrest. Matron was already there, red with anger and humiliation.

  ‘Who’s in charge of this woman?’ asked the duty officer.

  ‘No-one,’ I said.

  ‘I am,’ said Matron at exactly the same time.

  ‘You are not,’ said Aunty Min. ‘I am in full possession of all my facilities.’

  ‘What has happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Vandalism again,’ said Matron in a pained voice.

  ‘This has happened before, then?’ asked the policeman.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said, alarmed. Things were going a bit fast. ‘Does my aunt need a lawyer? What has she done?’

  ‘She has practically demolished a truck,’ said Matron. ‘Deliberately.’

  ‘I admit it,’ said Aunty Min, grinning savagely, munching her gums. For some reason she had taken her teeth out, and it made her look halfwitted. ‘I admit it and I’m proud of it. Any feminist would agree.’ And she frowned significantly at me and nodded her head.

  The upshot of this was that Aunty Min had to go before the magistrate a few weeks later, charged with malicious damage. There was quite a crowd of sightseers in the court including Moby and Hap, the Charing Cross butcher, the manager of the TAB and the barman from the Robin Hood Hotel afternoon shift. A surprising number of unoccupied police had popped in from the station next door. There was an air of suppressed hilarity and quite a bit of waving.

  The charges were read. Malicious damage in that ‘you did deliberately ram your car into the front of a parked Mack truck on Bronte Road, Charing Cross, opposite Bill Moyes Auto Electrician Service, then proceeded to smash the windows of the said Mack truck with a wooden walking stick and bricks picked up from an adjacent building site and did attempt to tear a nameplate from the said Mack truck. At this time you were apprehended. How do you plead?’

  ‘Guilty,’ said Aunty Min cheerfully. ‘May I make a statement from the dock?’

  ‘Indeed you may not. You are not going into any dock in my court. This is not “LA Law” or “Rumpole”,’ said the magistrate. ‘Just sit quietly, please, and I would appreciate it if you would stop waving to members of the public gallery. I wish to acquaint myself with some background to this rather unusual case before passing sentence. Matron Carr, please.’ Matron rustled up. I could hear her thighs rubbing together in her Supphose. ‘I believe there has been a problem for some time. Can you tell me how it began?’

  ‘With oral sex,’ said Matron angrily. There was an intake of breath from the spectators and some of the policemen laughed aloud. The magistrate looked speculatively at the crowd then suggested that we adjourn to Chambers. Once there, Matron gave a colourful, impassioned and, I have to admit, fairly accurate account of Aunty Min’s conversion to feminism and the ensuing mayhem. The magistrate then ran through the psychiatric report that had been made on Aunty Min.

  ‘This report details no abnormalities. In fact the doctor states that this lady is extremely mentally healthy for her age. He finds a pleasing level of mental stimulation present.’

  ‘See?’ said Aunty Min, her eyes glinting at Matron.

  ‘Please do not interrupt me,’ said the magistrate. ‘All this makes it very hard for me to find extenuating circumstances. You gave no reason for your antisocial actions and, in fact, seem quite pleased with your activity.’

  ‘I am,’ said Aunty Min. I looked at her solicitor, a young Legal Aid woman she had met at the pub and thought might like some practice in courtroom cut and thrust. I thought she should tell Aunty Min to shut up or something. She seemed hopelessly outclassed by my elderly aunt.

  ‘This evidence of lack of remorse troubles me,’ said the magistrate. ‘I don’t want to put an old lady like yourself, how old are you—let me see—ah yes, eighty-one, in gaol. You wouldn’t like that, would you?’

  ‘No,’ said Aunty Min, ‘but I’d expect anything from your patriarchal legal system.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the magistrate, a middle-aged, compassionate-looking female. She turned and gazed out the window, took off her glasses and spent a long time polishing them.

  ‘Let us return to the court,’ she said at last. We trooped back in. Up in the public gallery Moby stood up to wave.

  ‘Sit down, I can’t see round your fat bum,’ someone shouted at her. The magistrate threatened to clear the court then pronounced upon Aunty Min.

  ‘Ms Watson, you are, I believe …’ She consulted her notes ‘… the niece and only surviving relative of the accused. Is that correct?’ I nodded. ‘I am going to make an order that your aunt pay for the damage incurred and I’m afraid that a conviction must be recorded against her. However, I am loath to pronounce a custodial sentence on a person of her age. She will be bound over into your care. Is that clear?’

  ‘Does that mean that I’m responsible for my aunt?’ I asked, heart sinking.

  ‘Indeed it does. I do not expect to find her before me again or I will be forced to take a far more serious stand. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand, but my aunt is a law unto herself. She has always been very insistent upon taking responsibility for herself, all the more since she became a feminist.’ A policeman laughed. The magistrate polished her glasses again.

  Aunty Min rose to her feet and thumped her stick on the floor. ‘I wish to make a statement,’ she demanded.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said the magistrate. ‘We may as well finish this circus once and for all.’

  ‘I am surprised and not impressed to find that in all these deliberations no-one has wished to hear me speak, allow me my day in court, as they say,’ said Aunty Min grandly. ‘I am a feminist and increasingly I have found it necessary to be a militant one.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ interrupted the magistrate. ‘I do not wish to hear a political speech. If you have anything to say that is relevant to your actions, please say it and be done with it. The time of this court is precious.’

  Aunty Min remained silent for a moment, clearly indicating her disdain for this interruption.

  ‘I’m an old woman,’ she whined insincerely. ‘Don’t rush me.’ She paused for effect and it was quite dramatic. ‘Very well. I shall tell you.’ It was as if she were making us a gift. ‘I was outraged at the nameplate on the front of that disgusting truck. I considered it offensive, an insult to all women. I still do, and if I see it again, I’ll …’

  ‘Aunt Min!’ I shouted. ‘Don’t do this to me.’

  ‘What was the name that you found so offensive?’ inquired the magistrate. The court held its collective breath.

  ‘The Slack Pussy,’ said Aunty Min and sat down with a righteous bump.

  the crafty women’s association

  A truly splendid hoax, the Bergin-Poropat hoax, has up until today been known to few.

  It all began fairly innocently. Belle Bergin’s aim in adult life (perhaps because she had been the eldest of five children and responsible for running the household, thanks to feckless parents) was to have as little attention or nuisance foisted on her as possible. All she de
sired after those hectic years was peace, quiet, an absence of children, a tidy house and the time to pursue her own interests. Surprising then, you may think, that she had bothered to marry, but Belle was a product of times that only bestowed the title ‘success’ upon a woman if she had beaten the frightful shame of spinsterhood and Belle wished for this success. Marriage was proposed by a timbercutter foreman and Belle accepted and moved to his home town in faraway Mumbil, putting the feckless parents and the siblings forever behind her.

  Perhaps it was fortuitous that Pat ‘Tubby’ Bergin passed away in their first year of marriage, being, as Belle discovered within a week of the wedding, an untidy man, given to leaving his work boots on the hearth, his cup, saucer and the afternoon paper in the lounge, his knife and fork carelessly askew and the bathmat sodden on the floor. He also used the sugar spoon to stir his tea and left shreds of tobacco and Drum papers in his trouser pockets which created unnecessary difficulties on wash day (Monday). And he whittled. Belle dreaded the day she would have to scream at him, but he suddenly dropped dead on his way back from Holy Communion on the third Sunday in Advent, and she found, to her surprise, that he had really been a nice chap and she rather missed him, but it had been a wonderful death after all.

  However, the overwhelming compensation was that she now had a whole house to call her own and keep in any manner she pleased. Her best friend and neighbour was Marj Poropat, who, whilst by no means a sloven in the domestic department, had ‘no interest’, as she said, and would have much preferred to live in the Big Smoke and have a bash at ‘The Lucky Wheel’, a game show very popular to Mumbil radio listeners in the sixties, before television arrived there. As it was she couldn’t even get down to Sydney for the Show what with the drought, the milkrun her husband owned and one thing and another.

  It was her idea about entering Belle in the Housewife of the Year award.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ said Belle. ‘Anyway, I’m not that perfect.’

  ‘You are,’ said Marj.

  ‘And I’m not a housewife,’ added Belle craftily. ‘I’m a widow.’