The Best of Fiona Kidman's Short Stories

by Fiona Kidman

  ‘Not yet,’ says Della.

  ‘Then he’s been gone all day.’

  ‘Margie love, you shouldn’t worry yourself about Clarrie.’

  ‘But I do, don’t you see.’ And of course Della does see, because Margie wears her heart on her sleeve and is without guile. It is hard to believe that they are much of an age, that long ago they went to school together, even though Della’s a few years older than Margie. Margie could be the same sad waif who took such a hammering in the primers all those years ago, until the big kids started looking after her. That’s when it all started. Della thought of their fathers working in the bush together and how Margie’s father had been a good man and respected for taking care of his kid who was simple. He liked the kid, he wanted her to stay with him when others might have sent her away to an institution. They had a language of their own, not that there was anything simple about him. And give you the shirt off his back, John would. So when the big one fell on him that day in the bush, there were plenty to keep an eye out for her. She kept their cottage up, and she did better than anyone expected. Margie was a worker, she knew about work all right and anything she’d been trained to do she never forgot. That’s why Della had taken her into the caf. So there are a whole lot of them looking out for her and people see to it that no harm comes Margie’s way. There will be a smart one now and then come by and try something on with her, but Margie, drifting through life, dressed just the same way as she was the day of the funeral, has had none of it.

  But then Margie has never been in love before.

  That is the one factor nobody has ever counted on. It has changed everything. And they have been saying, amongst themselves, what’s to say she couldn’t love? She loved her daddy, who are we to say that she won’t ever feel anything again? They all know vaguely that they are being faced with some sort of moral dilemma, though they haven’t defined it so exactly. They watch Clarrie and wait for him to put a foot wrong but there is nothing he does that you can point out and say that he harms her. They have watched out for him at night near the cottage but he hasn’t been near it. He works well in the day and he’s good to her in an odd sort of way. There is only one thing they know about him, and Della voices her thoughts now.

  ‘Some day he’ll go away,’ she says. ‘Don’t you understand that, that people like Clarrie move on?’

  ‘He wants to do things for me, he said he did,’ says Margie stubbornly.

  ‘Yes, I know he does,’ says Della. ‘But Margie, can’t you see, you’ve got people round here who’ll do things for you too. There always have been, there always will be. We won’t go away.’

  ‘But not like Clarrie. Clarrie’s good and kind. I never knowed anybody like Clarrie, not since my daddy died back … when was it Della?’

  ‘1957 or thereabouts. Yes, ’57, remember it well, I was courting that year, got married the year after. Clarrie’s not your daddy Margie.’

  ‘Oh no. I know that Della.’ And she smiles as if it is Della who needs things explained to her and not the other way round. ‘Hey smell me,’ she says, ‘I bought some scent.’ But Della has already smelt her.

  Margie sits quietly, wondering.

  There is a deep quiet river that flows back past the burger bar, a bit there before motorists hit the desert. It’s clear enough to see the stones at the bottom. There are ropes from the trees that kids swing out from in the summer.

  If Margie had kept her eye on the road she might have seen Clarrie’s ute sailing up the road past the caf, heading in the direction of the river. Fortunately she has missed it though Clarrie worries whether she has seen him or not. Aileen has asked that she might find a place to swim and the river seems like the best place to take her. He imagines that in her slender little shoulder bag there will be a bathing suit of some kind but of course there is not. She enters the water neither flaunting nor yet hiding herself, but shooting through the water like a brown dart. Clarrie is pleased to see that she is brown all over. He has not touched her yet. Watching her swimming, he is content to wait. His view of her has changed, she no longer seems scruffy or scrawny. The bones in her face now stand out with clarity as if chiselled, her forehead carefully moulded, and the hair which was lank and matt with dust is floating around her shoulders shiny and slippery with water.

  ‘Come in Clarrie,’ she calls.

  ‘Someone might see me,’ he says, grinning sheepishly.

  ‘It’d take the smoke away. It’s lovely.’

  But he sits on the bank drawing on a cigarette. He hasn’t smoked much all day, but now the time seems right for it. He is actually enjoying it rather than gasping for it. There is an atmosphere of sheer luxury sitting in the quietly lengthening day watching this girl. He is a plain man, he knows, but it seems there is room for transformation in almost every human being, and he cannot see that he need be an exception. ‘I’ll save it for the shower tonight,’ he calls.

  ‘You haven’t come as far as me — not yet.’

  ‘Give me time,’ he replies, and he means it. As he sees himself now, he understands that nothing will come quickly, that he will have to work through things one day at a time. But he anticipates each discovery he will make about himself and welcomes a prospect of happiness.

  ‘It’s nice in here,’ calls Aileen.

  ‘It looks it. Yeah, it looks real good.’ But a cool brittle wind makes him shiver suddenly, reminding him again that it’s autumn. ‘I’ve gotta get back though.’

  ‘To the burger place?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He assumes that she will understand his responsibility.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ he calls.

  Her face lights up. ‘I’ll be right out.’

  Della calls Reuben to her side. They are both exhausted. The trucks have been as many as predicted in the morning. There have only been one or two lulls through the whole day. The last time Della went out to the back Margie was sitting bolt upright, her feet together, hands clasped tight. Her face is set in harsh lines, the garish earrings are quite still.

  The nephew wipes his face with the back of his hand. ‘What a day.’

  ‘I’m worried sick,’ says Della.

  ‘So am I. There’s a good movie on the telly. You better get off home and feed the kids, eh. I’ll work with her.’

  ‘It’s more than that.’

  ‘Margie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know.’ He’s young, and it seems a queer deal to Reuben, he’s been away from home, knows what it’s like a bit, out beyond this place. But he’s part of it, nothing changes that, and nothing changes. Margie has always been a part of his life too, she is part of the endurance test of living here. ‘What’s he playing at?’

  ‘You can’t really blame him for Margie. He doesn’t ask for it,’ says Della, trying hard to be fair.

  ‘Maybe not. But perhaps he’d just be better out of it, not come back at all.’

  ‘He’s a good worker — even if he does have a filthy temper in the mornings.’

  ‘Mmm, that. It’ll catch up with him one of these days.’

  A car pulls up outside. Della groans, her arms are aching right up into the shoulders. The next second she’s straightening up, pushing a strand of hair under her cap.

  ‘What is it?’ says Reuben, his eye following hers outside. ‘Oh-uh, Mr Boss Man himself.’

  ‘Norman Riddle,’ she mutters, and even as she says it he is striding in through the swing door, his eyes flicking all around him as he enters.

  ‘Good evening Mr Riddle,’ says Della, careful and polite. ‘How nice to see you.’

  ‘Where’s Schultz?’ says Norman Riddle without returning her greeting.

  ‘He’s — not here.’

  ‘Why not? He’s supposed to be on evening shift isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but he worked late on morning shift today. We were rushed. I tell you it’s been a heavy day, our takings are really up.’ It’s a hopeful ploy but it fails.

  ‘That’s hardly an explanation,’ says her
employer. ‘Well you’ve both done a pretty fair day’s work, must be time you went off. Where’s the other woman?’

  ‘Margie’s out the back,’ says Della. ‘She’s waiting to come on.’

  ‘Well then, that’s ali right, isn’t it? You’d better get along off.’

  ‘Oh I don’t mind helping out,’ says Della.

  ‘Who needs to help out? Everything’s under control, isn’t it Mrs Royal?’

  ‘Of course,’ she says, flustered, and looks at Reuben. ‘It’s just that Margie does work better with Clarrie, Mr Riddle.’

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ he snaps, ‘I won’t carry that woman.’

  ‘She does her share,’ says Della with equal sharpness.

  Riddle looks at her narrowly. He is a well-built man, smooth, past middle age. He is not an easy man to get along with except socially amongst people of his own choosing and equal wealth. But he is not foolish either. He owns this caf because of its return. The problems are marginal.

  ‘You’d have the whole town out against me over that woman wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  The two adversaries stare at each other. His intuition is good, it’s his master card when other things fail. It tells him now that his position is better than appearances would have it. ‘Are you sure there’s no trouble?’ he asks, his voice hardening again.

  They are interrupted by yet another vehicle pulling in; hurried footsteps. Riddle looks towards the newcomer, with a gleam of satisfaction.

  ‘Evening Schultz,’ he says.

  ‘Evening Mr Riddle. Just passing through are you?’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact I came looking for you.’

  Margie who has stayed still and quiet out of sight emerges at the sound of Clarrie’s voice. Reuben watches quietly. This is a play.

  ‘Why would you do that Mr Riddle?’ says Clarrie.

  ‘I heard there was a bit of trouble here this morning.’

  Now everyone in the shop has stiffened. There is something in Norman Riddle’s presence that none of them can fathom yet.

  ‘Trouble. What sort of trouble?’ says Clarrie, playing a cautious line and afraid of what he might fish up.

  ‘My mother was in,’ says Riddle.

  ‘Your mother?’ Clarrie is at a loss. The morning happened light years ago. His life has changed, he is a new man who bears no resemblance to the man they are looking at now. But he can see that he must try to remember. It seems to be important to all the waiting watching faces. Then it dawns. ‘Oh. Vinegar on her chips. That one. Vinegar’s right.’

  ‘As I said, the lady’s my mother.’

  The old Clarrie, the one he thought he’d got rid of, seems to be coming back and taking over. Clarrie listens to himself, this stranger talking, an aggressive surly man, who says, ‘Look, I don’t care whether she was Tutankhamen’s flaming mummy. She was no lady.’ Or is it the new man full of confidence? He doesn’t seem to be able to sort out who is who.

  ‘Schultz, are you mad?’

  ‘Of course he’s not,’ says Margie, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Margie — please —’ says Clarrie painfully.

  But she is crying for all the long hot hurtful day: ‘Don’t make him send you away Clarrie.’

  Lost, he mumbles, ‘I — I dunno what came over me. I’m sorry Mr Riddle, I’m not too good in the mornings. It’s ah — hormones they tell me. Night people and morning people.’

  Della looks at Margie’s streaky exhausted face and finds herself defending Clarrie. ‘He was rushed Mr Riddle. He’s real good with the customers at night. Honest.’ She realises that she does not even know on what count she is defending him, that no one has told her of any quarrels in the morning, that maybe Clarrie deserves what he’s getting. It doesn’t seem important.

  ‘And he’s real kind Mr Riddle,’ says Margie. ‘See Clarrie I’ll look after you, like you look after me.’

  ‘Hush,’ says Della. There are some things which Mr Riddle might own, but he does not own them, the people that work here, what they think, what they feel. He does not have that right. They will collect money for him, but they will not sell themselves to him.

  ‘The man asked if you were mad,’ says a voice softly.

  There is, after all, another member of the cast, one who has crept in so silently that none of the participants are aware she is there, and because they have not rehearsed their lines it is possible that she might alter the ending of the play.

  ‘I told you to stay in the ute,’ Clarrie snarls at Aileen.

  She looks at him with sorrow, a real age-old sorrow. She and Margie exchange a look, as in the morning.

  ‘Where did this lot come from?’ asks Riddle, though it’s plain that he knows already without being told. There is the suggestion of a sneer at the corner of his mouth as he looks at Schultz.

  ‘You asked him if he was mad,’ says Aileen.

  ‘So I did. Well Schultz?’

  ‘I told you, just woozy in the mornings.’

  ‘You heard your friend,’ says Riddle to Aileen. ‘You’d better go along out of it.’

  Clarrie says to Aileen, ‘Wait in the ute.’

  When she has gone, Riddle says, ‘You’re lucky you’ve got a good record here Schultz. I don’t know what’s been happening round here today, but you’d sure as hell better not let it happen again. A last chance. No more warnings.’

  ‘Yes Mr Riddle. Thank you Mr Riddle.’

  ‘Now shake it along all of you. You’ll have more trucks through soon. The drivers’ll be heading back in half an hour.’ Oh, he might be a city slicker this one, but he knows the movements of traffic. It’s like a science to him.

  ‘Would you like some food before you go?’ says Della.

  ‘I think I can make it to the hotel in Taupo. Good evening.’ And he leaves them. They look at each other without speaking.

  ‘Well,’ says Reuben breaking the silence, ‘just goes to show what he thinks of the grub he peddles. Bloody marvellous, isn’t it.’

  They listen as his car drives off. It is followed by the roar of a truck pulling over, then it picks up again and moves on. There is a general sigh of relief, except from Clarrie, who stares dully towards the road.

  Margie walks over to him and plucks at his sleeve. ‘We can start work now Clarrie, you an’ me, we can start together.’

  He looks at her hand and moves away from her so that it falls. ‘Leave me,’ he says. ‘For God’s sake leave me alone.’

  He might as well have struck her.

  ‘I gotta get going,’ he says.

  ‘Aren’t you going to work tonight Clarrie?’ Della asks him.

  ‘I just gotta see someone.’ He moves to go out.

  ‘Will you come back Clarrie?’ says Margie, her voice numb.

  They stand around, or rather Margie does, while Reuben and Della make ineffectual tidying up movements though the place is not untidy. But there is something in Della’s face that is quietly hardening.

  Clarrie comes bursting through the door and he is bubbling and weeping, his pale face lumpy and ugly. His arms are full of a mass of coloured foliage, purple and orange and tawny brown.

  ‘That truck, she must’ve gone on that truck,’ he burbles to them through gasping breaths.

  ‘What are you doing with all that stuff in your arms?’ Reuben asks.

  Clarrie looks at it in wonder. ‘Heather and bulrushes, rosehips, Indian beads … oh lady come back.’ His agony is an awful private thing that they have to witness. Margie’s face is full of grief and pity, all for him, none for herself. She would take him and cradle him and comfort him if he would let her but he wants none of them, and least of all, her.

  ‘Take it easy mate, take it easy,’ says Reuben. ‘Come on, let go of that stuff, your hands are bleeding.’

  Clarrie shakes his head, not comprehending anything but his own thoughts. ‘I’m going after her. I’ve gotta find her, don’t you see?’

  Della speaks, having come to a dec
ision. ‘Clarrie Schultz,’ she says, ‘you walk out of that door and you’re never walking back inside of it. You hear me?’

  He hears, she has got through to him. ‘You mean that?’

  ‘I mean that.’

  ‘Why?’ He looks around in bewilderment. ‘You were all for me a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Because we look after our own here Clarrie,’ says Della. ‘You’re a passerby, like that girl; but this one here, we’ve got to look after, don’t you see?’

  He does see, and the decision lies heavy on him and all the strange day passes before his eyes and he looks at the faces of the people before him and the strange old child-woman who would love him and keep him there and have the others tolerate him for her sake. There is the girl on the road too, and there seems little to choose between them. There is a strangeness on all of them.

  ‘I bought some scent Clarrie,’ says Margie.

  He looks at her. It would be so easy to stay. ‘I’m off then,’ he says.

  ‘You remember what I said,’ says Della.

  ‘I won’t forget — Princess.’

  ‘Your money, I’ll make it up for you.’

  ‘You can send it on. I’ll pick it up at the Post Office in Auckland next week. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m going to get my gear and I’ll be on the road in ten minutes.’

  ‘Good travelling, mate,’ says Reuben.

  When he’s at the door Della says, ‘Say goodbye to her, Clarrie.’ He hesitates and walks back to Margie, stoops awkwardly and kisses the side of her dumb little face. ‘Margie … I …’ but he has no words of comfort for her.

  ‘See yer … later Clarrie …’ she says jerkily.

  As Clarrie gets in his ute and drives away Della is trying to persuade Margie to go home and get some rest, assuring her they will work, that she is tired and they want her to be good for tomorrow because it will be another hard day with the sale on, and they need her in real good shape for tomorrow, but she is demurring. Perhaps she thinks he will come back, they don’t know what she is thinking. Helplessly, she and Reuben signal to each other, what will we do with her, and then Aileen walks in.