by Rosalie Ham
‘Bities,’ Pat said, squashing a rolling pea on the table with her palm. She appeared none the worse for wear after her adventures across Brunswick and her night in hospital.
Margery started off playing ‘We’ll Meet Again’, which always put a smile on the creased faces of the residents, though on this day, one lady started weeping, then another, until there was a wall of crumpled old ladies in cushiony cradles weeping as their minds replayed their memory tapes back to the war, their lost sons, brothers and fathers, families singing around the piano in the lounge rooms of their imaginations, so a nurse told Margery to play something cheerful.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ she sighed and moved on to ‘I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts’.
The activities girl got a couple of the old folks up and they danced together into the corner where they stayed wedged, confused. Pat danced alone. Some residents left their bedside TVs to follow their frames down the long, long passage, drawn by the music. The male nurse poured a beer for the old diggers and a sherry for the old ladies, and the horse-faced kitchen attendant rolled in the tea trolley. Pat, being the party girl that she always was, seized Mr McNickle by the arm, dragging him from his wife, and started twirling around and around, singing. Margery moved smoothly into ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’, a polka. Pat started kicking up her heels, but her ancient partner, dizzy from twirling and no longer possessing the cognitive pliability required for a polka, lurched sideways. The tea girl had just finished pouring tea into twenty-two neatly arranged cups when they toppled. Pat grabbed the tea trolley on the way down, bringing it crashing onto the carpet squares. The kettle threw its hot brown fluid across the floor and the milk glugged from the carton, eddying around the peninsula of tea-leaves and dissolving the spilled sugar. Pat hauled herself up from the broken crockery using the toppled tea trolley, her slacks dripping hot liquid. She stepped over Mr McNickle and carried on dancing, though Margery had stopped playing. Mr McNickle remained strewn where he landed, bleeding and pissing into a pile of sodden paper serviettes. Fifi threw herself from someone’s lap and started eating the spilled biscuits. Margery sighed again and gathered her music together.
Kevin said the sherry had relaxed Pat – she obviously hadn’t broken anything. ‘She’ll dance again,’ he said, but the staff insisted she be sent for an X-ray, so she left for another night on a trolley in the hospital emergency department, still singing. But Mr McNickle was unconscious, his elbows raw where the skin had torn, a haematoma building at his temple and his right thigh swelling suspiciously.
When Margery got home she poured herself half a cup of cooking sherry and drank it in one gulp.
It was astonishing to Margery that so many people stumbled through her geraniums to urinate against the side of her house or squat over her geraniums with their panties around their ankles. Every Saturday and Sunday morning she flushed her path and fence with hot, soapy water and checked her yard for empty beer bottles or used syringes. On this Sunday, Margery found only a pair of almost-new red stilettos in her letterbox. She glanced up and down the street, then took them inside and tried them on, but she couldn’t force her knotty old feet into them. She sighed and put them back in the letterbox, thinking that somewhere in Melbourne a lass was on her hands and knees searching under a bed for her new high heels.
She stayed, watching down her street, which was reduced to one lane by the bulk of four-wheel drives and European wagons. The houses were changing too; they were either messy construction sites, modernised workers’ cottages with restored period facades, or something ridiculous and soulless made of recycled refuse and which used minimal utilities. The lemon trees and grapevines shading Mrs Calabria’s concrete front yard filled Margery with nostalgia. Soon she saw a flash of black-and-white stripes at the end of the street, and then Walter waved to her, like Elvis coming towards her in his imaginary white jumpsuit and cape, his dark glasses glinting, stepping gracefully in his rhinestone cuffs around the Vespas parked on the footpath. ‘Nine hundred and ninety-four days,’ she said, and Walter said, ‘Nine hundred and ninety-four days since my last drink, Mumsy.’ He kissed her cheek.
‘How are you, Walter dear?’
‘Never better.’ He handed her the frozen chook and the newspaper, jerked his head at the construction site and said, ‘Frame’ll be finished soon.’
‘Soon,’ she said.
There was no music coming from Tyson’s, but Walter reached down and tugged the extension cord that ran across the street. Somewhere in Tyson’s front room a sound system crashed to the floor. Walter tugged again, reeling in the cord, winding it into a coil around his elbow. Then he ripped the plug from both ends with his bare hands and threw it out into the middle of the street. Margery put the frozen chook in the freezer for next week, and while Walter set the table she turned the vegetables. She sat down to shell the peas while Walter read the paper. ‘See Pat yesterday?’
‘Yes,’ Margery said and popped a pea into her mouth.
‘Seen Anita since Tuesday?’
‘No. How’s the course, Walter?’
Walter put his newspaper aside and stood up, circled the tiny kitchen rubbing his nose with his palm. He jerked his head to loosen his neck and dug into his tight pocket with his fat fingers, handed her a printed page, worn and soft from folding and unfolding. ‘This is what we did,’ he said, and Margery read aloud, ‘Food Poisoning and Food Contamination.’
‘Never put jelly under defrosting meat in the fridge,’ he said with authority.
‘Week Two: Handling and Storage Conditions.’
He turned another circle. ‘There’s a food hygiene test at the end.’
‘You’re a very clean boy, Walter,’ Margery said. ‘You just listen to what they say, then they ask you what they said, and you tell them.’
He put his hands over his ears. ‘I listen, but it all leaks out.’
‘When the time comes, Walter, I’ll help you,’ Margery said, closing the door of her old gas stove. ‘Ask them if you can bring the test home.’
‘Right,’ he said, and his pacing slowed. ‘That’s a good idea, Mumsy.’
‘The globe on the back porch has gone,’ Margery said, taking his mind further away from his problem. After Walter changed the globe they did the crossword, Walter reading out the questions and Margery answering as many as she could while Walter filled in the squares as best he could. They never checked the answers these days. The results were disappointing. Up until that last fight Walter did the crosswords every morning, in three daily newspapers, while his porridge cooked.
When Margery turned the boiling peas off, Walter made the gravy and went and got Mrs Parsons. Walter poured them a small sherry and carved the chicken, and Margery served the vegetables. They said, ‘Cheers,’ and Mrs Parsons and Margery complimented Walter on his gravy, and as usual, Walter said, ‘Special gravy for special ladies.’
‘Big Shop this week, girls?’ he continued.
‘Big Shop,’ Margery said, and Mrs Parsons sipped her sherry.
‘What do you fink of Mumsy’s new home helper, Mrs Parsons?’
‘She seems like a lovely girl.’
‘Some girl. She must be going on forty-five,’ Margery said. ‘She’s not like Cheryl.’
Walter said he was sure she’d be a great help, and then Judith arrived. She was carefully attired in a smart denim skirt with silver studs lining the hem, her highlighted hair was round and stiff above her carefully spread-on face, all subtle shades of variegated beige and dusty-pink blush with frosty lipstick. Barry also looked smart, his jacket sleeves casually ruched up to his elbows and his sneakers a brilliant white. He wandered out to the back steps and gazed up at the frame next door, and Pudding spread herself along the couch, eyes on her iPod, and swung her high-heeled pink suede boots over Mrs Parsons carefully placed coat and beret.
‘We can’t stay,’ Judith said
, and Walter said, ‘Off you go, then.’
Judith scratched a welt behind her knee. ‘Where’s your shower curtain, Marge?’
Barry sidled back in and pinched a potato from Walter’s plate, so Margery asked him if he’d like some lunch. ‘Not allowed,’ Barry said. ‘Judith’s on a diet.’
‘Barry!’ Judith called. ‘I told you not to say anything.’
Pudding left the couch to come and dig into what was left on the chicken carcass with her long, black-painted fingernails.
‘All she’s allowed to eat are grapefruits. I wouldn’t do it. I’m beautiful the way I am, and if no one else thinks so they can go fuck themselves,’ she said, her mouth full of chicken.
Barry said, ‘It’s a complete waste paying for expensive schooling for you, isn’t it?’
Pud raised her arms above her head in a V. ‘See this,’ she said, rolling her eyes up towards her arms. ‘It’s this . . .’ she showed her father the up-yours V-sign with two fingers. ‘Only big.’
Judith bent over the bath, running her hands along the bottom, the back of her podgy knees red, like they’d just been slapped. ‘Where’s your shower curtain, Marge?’
Barry banged the window frame, trying to open the window over the sink, and Walter told him it hadn’t opened since the stumps at the back sank. ‘Bathroom door doesn’t shut properly either.’
Barry jigged up and down, testing the stumps, ‘Wouldn’t be hard to fix up, this joint. The new house next door’ll block your light and depreciate the value, Marge. Sooner we get the For Sale sign up the better.’ He took another spud from Walter’s plate.
Margery said she wasn’t going to sell her house, and Walter put down his spoonful of peas and gravy, very gently. Mrs Parsons stabbed one of her potatoes with her knife and dropped it onto Walter’s plate. Walter picked up his knife and spoon again.
‘Did the council send you anything, Marge?’ Judith asked, scratching another patch of red, raised skin, this one in the crook of her arm.
‘Well, Judith,’ Margery said, ‘I get my rates, and of course the newsletter from the library –’
She looked at Barry, ‘See? She’s deaf as a doorknob. Marge! Did you get anything about the building next door from the planning department?’
‘Not in my letterbox.’
‘If you do this place up a bit, Marge,’ Judith said, rubbing her back on the doorjamb, ‘it’ll add thousands to the value. You could get a nice, warm, comfortable room in a stylish place where your every need will be catered for.’
Barry was peering in behind the light switch, which was hanging out of the wall by the electric cords. ‘These light switches are collectors’ items,’ he said. ‘Bakelite.’
‘DeeAndra can put them on eBay.’
‘I’ve got a Plan for Independence List from the home helper,’ Margery said. ‘She’s marvellous. I can stay at home as long as I like because the government said so.’
‘No, you can’t,’ Judith said, snatching the list from her mother. ‘You can’t stay here because you’re deaf and you keep falling over – you fell again, didn’t you? In the bath, didn’t you, Marge? I can’t understand how you’re not dead. Is that why your shin’s infected?’
‘It’s not infected,’ Margery said, and Mrs Parsons eyed her hat and coat on the lounge.
Judith pondered the list, her long, hard fingernails sinking into her large curls, the scratching sound filling the tiny kitchen. Barry and Pudding joined her, reading over her shoulder.
‘This is a good list,’ Barry said, taking it from his wife.
‘She cannot stay at home, Barry.’
‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘but think about it. The stumps need doing, don’t they, Wally?’
‘Mumsy can stay at home,’ Walter said.
‘Let’s not have a Walter-cation, Wally,’ Judith said. ‘She can’t stay here, look at her shin.’ She grabbed Margery’s shin, yanked it out from under the table and started picking at the corner of the Tegaderm with her acrylic filigreed fingernails.
‘Leave it,’ Walter said, pointing at her with his knife.
Judith managed to lift the corner of the plastic dressing. ‘This’s dis-gusting.’
‘Leave it, Judif!’
‘Leave it on, Mum!’ Pudding said.
‘Look, there’s infection.’
Mrs Parsons said, ‘I think I’ll get going now,’ and put her hands on the table, trying to push her chair out.
Margery tried to brush Judith’s hand away. ‘There’s a little germ war going on under the plastic and the wound will heal itself.’ But it was too late. Judith ripped the plastic off and Margery jumped, wincing in pain.
‘See? Pus.’ The translucent square of film in Judith’s fingers was smeared with a clear yellow liquid and a small spot of blood, but Margery’s skin was now bleeding where she ripped the Tegaderm off, and the wound gaped at them, like an ancient crater, concave and rubbled with fetid vegetation.
Walter dropped his knife and spoon, ‘You made it bleed, Judif.’
‘Blood’s good, takes nutrients to the site of the wound.’
Mrs Parsons started to rock in her chair, pushing against the table.
Margery screwed her face as if she’d sucked lemon, and Pudding grabbed a tea towel and wrapped it around Margery’s ankle, catching the blood.
‘That’s one of my good tea towels,’ Margery said, and Pudding went to the bathroom to search for the first-aid box.
Mrs Parsons turned sideways on her chair, tried to wedge her legs between the chair leg and the table. Barry had his head against the wall, squinting along the boards to gauge the degree of warp. ‘You’re going to stuff this whole thing up, Judith, the rate you’re going.’
Walter stood up, nudging the table. ‘You’ve already stuffed it up.’
‘Wally, it was infected,’ said Judith, looking as if she’d been caught slitting a baby’s throat, but Walter said it wasn’t infected, ripped his serviette out of his guernsey and slapped it on the table. He started rocking, shifting his weight on the balls of his feet.
Mrs Parsons curled back into her chair like a scared slater. Pudding said, ‘He won’t hurt you, Mrs Parsons,’ and pressed a wad of cotton onto Margery’s bleeding shin.
Barry put his hand up like a referee. ‘Now, Walter, the wound’s clearly infected.’
‘Anita would have cleaned it up, put a new dressing on it.’
‘Your mother’s old and unwell. She needs caring for.’
‘She is cared for.’ Walter moved side-on but managed to keep his fists at his side, clenching and twitching.
‘It’s obvious she’s not cared for very well,’ Judith said. ‘And, she slipped in the bath.’
Pudding secured the wad of tissues to Margery’s wet wound with bandaids, Margery said, ‘Ouch,’ and Walter said, ‘You’re hurting her.’ He shifted on his feet, rattling the plates in the bureau.
‘Yuk,’ Pudding said, ‘This is so awful, I could never be a nurse.’
Mrs Parsons said, ‘I really should get going.’
Barry pointed to the rattling plates. ‘See what I mean about the stumps, Wally?’
Walter’s head went down and the wind whistled as his fist swung through the kitchen like a flicked rope.
Margery said, ‘It’s all right, Walter, dear,’ but Walter’s elbows hugged his torso, his fists remained firmly upright and he danced, the house rocking on its uneven stumps. Bending and ducking around Walter, Pudding managed to get some tinfoil and cover Mrs Parsons’ plate, then she helped her out of the chair and they crept out and down the hall while Judith, Walter and Barry shouted.
‘No one’s going to no home, Judif.’
‘Judith’s only trying to help.’
‘Help herself, you mean.’
‘That�
�s a lie!’
Walter yelled, ‘I’ve got stakes in this house too!’
Judith screamed again, ‘You owe us, Wally. When you lost that fight we lost too, big-time.’
‘A small fortune,’ Barry said. ‘And I lost my career.’
‘And we’re not the only ones – just ask Bonita Jarvis.’ Margery knew Bonita lost her house – the house her father built – to gambling, that the Calabrias had bought it and Bonita had been forced to move to the commission flats with Tyson, a toddler at the time, but she had no idea Bonita had wagered her house on Walter’s fight. Tyson rented the house now, and misguided revenge prompted him to destroy his old family home on behalf of his mother. It hadn’t occurred to Margery yet, but eventually it would dawn on her that that was the reason he stole her water and used her fence for firewood.
Walter was walking around and around the clothesline, trying to calm himself, while Judith begged, ‘Please, Wally, we want to invest in a nursing home.’
‘He doesn’t understand, Mum,’ Pud said, so Judith explained.
‘She has to sell her house to get a bond to go into a home, right? So what we’d do is, we’d sell it and buy into a nursing home, then we’d give Marge one of the allocated beds for the low-income or disadvantaged from the government. They subsidise a few beds, so it’d be free, and Marge can have one of them, only we’d give her the best room and the best treatment – and the money from this house would be invested in the home itself. Marge would have an investment.’ But more importantly, if Judith could make the plan work for Barry, he’d be happy, and then so would she.
Barry said, ‘A burgeoning, capital-making new venture that’ll benefit your own family rather than someone else’s. Your future’s assured, Wally.’
‘So,’ Judith said, ‘that’s a good deal, isn’t it? If we use our inheritance to buy into a nursing home? It’s a better use of the money for everyone, wouldn’t you say?’
Pudding put her finger to her cheek and looked at the ceiling and said, ‘But, gee-whiz, I wonder if you get your value-added money back when Gran dies, Uncle Wally?’