There Should Be More Dancing

by Rosalie Ham

  Anita stood up, patted the Nicorette patch on her arm and said, ‘You’re absolutely right, Mrs Blandon. Absolutely right. I’m going to see my mother this very minute.’

  As she was leaving, Anita glanced around the room and said, ‘I’ll see you two girls next time.’

  The clock radio says it’s 2.45 am. I’ll give it another hour or so. The young things are still about at this time. I’ve watched Tyson and his mates leave the house at midnight to go out, so I’ll just wait a bit until everyone gets to where they’re going.

  You know, if Anita hadn’t roused me that Monday, my life could possibly have ended, and it would have passed without me knowing the painful truth of it. Part of me wants to blame Lance entirely for everything. Just think, alive for eighteen years and then, bang! Committed to a bloke for eternity. ‘I s’pose it’s about time we made it formal,’ he said one day, and I just went along with it since it was what you did, move on with things. After a while it was like living with a boarder. He got up at the same time every morning and went to work, then after work he went to the boxing club, then to the pub, home for tea and back to the pub again, unless he fell asleep in his chair. On Saturday he went to the boxing club, the football and afterwards to the pub, and on Sunday it was sitting about reading the papers and yelling at the kids until pub time. It was supposed to be closed of a Sunday, but they’d all slip in through the back door. All I had to do was provide his meals and make his bed.

  I wanted to go home, but that one time my father came here – I was just pregnant at the time – we sat in the park and he said, ‘I have to agree with your mother that a marriage is a marriage, and you’ve got to do what’s fair to everyone. Your mother’s been through a lot.’

  And so now I understand the truth of it; whenever Mother looked at me I suppose her heart broke a little bit more.

  Perhaps if you hadn’t died, or if you hadn’t been born . . .

  My marriage was a mistake, but it was also a solution, and now, as I come to terms with that, my heart is breaking all over again.

  You get used to things, and as the years passed I got used to Lance throbbing away beside me. It was a bit like sleeping with a warm dill pickle. He snored, too, but the kids quite liked him. Eventually he moved to the second bedroom with his possessions – his oxygen bottle, ashtray, cigarettes, the form guide and his transistor radio.

  Pat and Bill had quite a good marriage. Similar interests, you see: the pub, horse racing, Legacy.

  Lance once said, ‘I thought I might find a pearl if I cracked your shell, Margery, but all I found was the oyster.’

  It’s apparent to me now that Lance was actually very happy. He had the best of both worlds.

  This brings me to Florence. The very evening Anita saved me from a drug-induced death at my daughter’s hands, I telephoned Walter, who I still trusted, fool that I am. I told him that he was a good boy and I’d be thinking about him studying for his food hygiene test. He was busy and couldn’t talk at the time, but he said to me, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Mumsy. We’ve got a surprise for you.’

  A surprise.

  I thought it was going to be Morris. I thought to myself, I bet it’s Morris, and I even remember lying in bed that night saying to you, ‘Morris is coming home and I can make amends.’

  Then I decided Walter was marrying Anita, and I got up to check if the silverfish had got to the dress I wore to Judith’s wedding.

  It was one of the most sleepless nights I’ve ever had.

  Some surprise it turned out to be. My poor old heart. Just thinking about it makes it pump hot blood around my body, trying to find a cool spot.

  There was a vacancy at a nursing home on the fringes of Melbourne, but Anita felt it was too far away, too foreign to her mother’s sense of normalcy, and the place was bleak, dwelling in shadows cast by the walls of a damp valley for most of the day. She suspected the managers, Theo and his wife, Amanda, turned the heating on only during visiting hours – and she had seen the food. It was diabolical. But the hospital wanted Florence out, they needed her bed. There was nowhere she could go, and it was actually Margery’s very own words, true words, that confirmed Anita’s suspicions: to put her mother in that particular nursing home was to condemn her to hell, even if it was temporary.

  From the back seat, Florence said, ‘I’ve been here before.’

  ‘You used to live just down the road opposite the park.’

  ‘Of course I did,’ Florence said, unconvinced. At times she struggled to align what she thought might be memories of actual events and what she suspected she’d liked to have done. Most of the time she remembered who Anita was, but there were times it took a while to place her, though she always knew Anita was special. And she loved Anita’s little girl, or was it a boy? A pirate, anyway.

  They helped her out of the car and led her towards Margery’s house. ‘Who lives here?’

  ‘You may not have actually met Margery,’ Anita said. ‘She’s not the drinking type.’

  Ruby looked at her grandmother and said, ‘She wears sensible shoes.’

  ‘Fancy,’ said Florence, wondering why they’d be bringing her to see someone who wore sensible shoes. She paused again at the front gate, or at least where the gate should have been, but its frame was lying on the worn square of grass, bordered by several trampled geraniums. The palings and rails from the fence were also missing, though the posts remained. The number on the letterbox was two fifty-three. The narrow workers’ cottage with the peeling paint and slumped verandah looked familiar, as if she’d passed it before, and she felt she’d seen the busted cane divan on the verandah, though she was certain she’d never been inside. When she got to the lounge room, she stopped in her tracks. The small room, made oppressive by the walls and floor crowded with cross-stitchings – framed proverbs and scenic landscapes, floral placemats, antimacassars and doilies – was stuffy and conventional. An old lady’s house. The trophies shining brilliantly in the crystal cabinet disoriented her, and she was wary of the old lady with the bruised face folded into the deep, vinyl chair. Then she noticed the photos on top of the television and her heart started to thud in her delicate, smoker’s chest. Her legs started to buckle, and she reached to steady herself on the nearest chair – Lance’s chair.

  Margery didn’t know who Florence was, though she recognised her, or rather, recognised her type. Pat’s type.

  Anita introduced the two elderly ladies. ‘This is my mother, Florence Potter. And this is Mrs Margery Blandon.’

  Florence looked at Margery, one side of her face bruised blue, yellow and black, and said, ‘Had a bit of a fall, have ya, love?’

  Margery’s chin rose, her shoulders straightened and she pointed regally to the sunken couch, ‘Do sit down,’ but Florence felt her way into Lance’s chair.

  Anita said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Ruby kissed Margery on the cheek and Margery patted her knee, but Ruby declined the offer and went to her grandmother. She put her arm around Florence’s shoulder. ‘Nan is really called Flossy.’

  ‘I see,’ said Margery.

  ‘They’re pretty, those roses,’ Florence said and nodded at Pat’s flower on top of the television. ‘Yes,’ said Margery. ‘Baronne Prévost. They came from England in 1842.’

  ‘Fancy,’ Florence said and crossed her fine legs, drawing Margery’s gaze to her open-toed slippers. Florence was a fine-boned woman, slender, like a pencil. Her calves were slim and her feet long and narrow below thin ankles. Her throat was impossibly narrow, her eyes huge blue ellipses above high, firm cheekbones that pressed against her ivory skin. Her hair was thick and white, swept back and tumbling, like Ava Gardner’s. She was an old lady who didn’t present as an old lady. Florence was what Lance would have called ‘a real looker’.

  Ruby looked from her grandmother to Margery, then back to her grandmother and back to
Margery. She looked directly at Margery and said, ‘You’ve got the most wrinkles.’

  ‘Shh,’ said Anita, putting a tray with cups, milk, a strainer and biscuits on the small table between Margery and Lance’s chairs. ‘See the cushion covers, Floss?’ Anita said.

  Florence looked around the room at the fussy cloth artwork. ‘Like the cross-stitch, do ya, love?’

  ‘I wouldn’t do it unless I did, would I?’

  Florence lifted the seat of her walking frame, reached into a little basket and drew out an old brussell sprout. She gave it to Ruby and said, ‘Pop that in the bin for me willya, love.’ She said she hated sprouts but the nurses were writing down what she ate. ‘They wouldn’t let me out of hospital unless I ate my vegies. I can’t stand brussell sprouts.’ She looked up at the photograph of the upside down Prime Minister above the kitchen door and said, ‘I feel the same way about him too,’ and laughed a throaty, well-used laugh.

  ‘He’s upside down because your daughter is disrespectful,’ Margery said, which shut off Florence’s laugh like a tap. In the quiet moment that followed, Ruby ran her hand along Margery’s forearm and said, ‘Do wrinkles hurt?’

  Anita, who was making tea, told Ruby it was impolite to ask too many questions, then Florence looked directly at Margery and said, ‘Been in this house a while, haven’t ya, love?’

  Margery said, ‘It appears I won’t be here for much longer, but yes, I’ve lived here since 1948. My children have all left home.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  The next ten minutes or so in the lounge room were largely silent, and then Walter appeared in the doorway while Anita was pouring the tea. Ruby jumped up and drew her sword, and Walter said, ‘You’ll never make me walk the plank!’ They had a pretend sword fight and he caught her up in his arms and gave her a tickle, then he reached to give Anita a tickle but she stuck her hand out and said, ‘Steady on, big boy,’ and they laughed, loudly and nervously. Then Anita introduced Walter to Florence, and he said, ‘It’s a very, very great pleasure to meet you. Anita’s told me a lot about you, and I can see where she gets her good looks.’

  Florence said, ‘Aw, get away with you,’ and blushed.

  He followed Anita to the kitchen, and Florence said, ‘Seems like a lovely boy, your Walter.’

  ‘He is,’ Margery said, though he had failed to kiss her hello, which hurt, like a brick thrown at her chest. Then Florence uncrossed and crossed her legs and said, quite casually, ‘Shame that last fight left him a screw short of the full meccano set.’

  Margery smarted, opened her mouth to rebuke the rude interloper’s accusation, but Walter arrived with his cup for tea, Anita behind him. Florence asked, ‘I don’t smoke anymore, do I?’

  ‘You gave it up,’ Anita said.

  Little Ruby shook her head. ‘You don’t smoke because you set the flats alight.’ Anita nudged her, but she flipped up her eye patch and explained to Margery, ‘You used to risk your life at Nanna’s place.’ Florence laughed, and Margery nodded understandingly. It was then that she noticed she still had her slippers on, noted her corn-topped toes poking from the holes Anita had cut in the top of them, and also noted Florence’s open-toed, slingback stilettos, her toes, polished the same colour red as Anita’s hair. Margery excused herself, got out of her chair with as much grace as her old body would allow and went to change into her shopping shoes. From her bedroom mirror, a plain and bruised old lady with a tattered blue perm and a sallow complexion, wearing a practical cotton button-through, gazed back. She took off her shopping shoes and put on her Sunday shoes. From the lounge room, she heard Anita ask Florence if she thought the house was nice.

  ‘It’s small,’ Florence said, but Anita pointed out that it was bigger than the flat Florence had lived in.

  ‘This chair’s got a bit of a dent in it,’ she said.

  ‘It was my husband’s chair. He’s been dead for twenty years,’ Margery said, sitting down gracefully and crossing her knees.

  ‘Twenty years, eh?’ Florence said, reading the antimacassar under her arm: Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow. Walter pointed out that his father had the top spot for watching the telly, and Florence nodded at the photo of Lance and said, ‘Was that taken just after the war?’

  ‘Nineteen forty-five,’ Margery said, and Florence pointed out that he looked like ‘a real charmer’, so Margery changed the subject. ‘It’s been warm, Florence.’

  ‘It’s summer. Call me Flossy, love.’

  ‘And you can call me Margery. Not love.’

  Walter leaned on the mantlepiece and crossed his feet, rubbed his nose, changed feet, crossed his arms, straightened his left leg and pulled the hem of his shorts, rubbed his nose again and blurted, ‘Since we’re all here, we’ve been finking that you and Flossy could be flatmates, Mumsy.’

  ‘Temporarily,’ Anita said, and Ruby nodded. ‘Just until we find somewhere else for her.’

  ‘You don’t have to go to a home, Mumsy, and it’d be a good, kind thing to do to let Flossy stay, just until we find somewhere else.’

  Margery placed her teacup gently in its saucer, picked a thread from her sleeve and picked up one of her many incomplete cross-stitches, Deceit always returns to its ma . . .

  Anita said, ‘It’s just we’ve got nowhere else to go.’

  ‘They threw her out of the hospital,’ Ruby said, ‘and there wasn’t even a fire,’ and Anita’s elbow shot out and knocked her pirate hat.

  Margery looked at Walter. ‘Why can’t she live with her daughter?’

  In the silence that followed, Anita’s mouth opened, closed and opened again, then Ruby said, ‘Because if she moves in we’ll all get thrown out.’

  Walter stepped from one foot to the other, rubbing his nose, saying, ‘It’s an in-between fing,’ and Anita said, ‘We’re still looking for somewhere but it’s hard; we’d appreciate your help.’

  Margery said, ‘I was under the impression you were helping me. It was all a scheme.’

  Walter said, ‘Don’t be like that, Mumsy,’ and tugged the hem of his shorts.

  While Margery searched for ideas why she couldn’t tolerate a flatmate, Florence kicked her red toenail in the direction of the piano and said, ‘How about a tune, love?’

  ‘I only play for certain people,’ Margery said, so Anita said, ‘Flossy sings.’

  ‘And dances,’ Ruby added.

  Florence nodded, ‘We should go to the Town Hall one Sat-dee night, they have a dance.’

  ‘Be triffic,’ Walter said, but his mother looked down the short hall to the bright street beyond the torn screen door.

  ‘People die there,’ she said.

  ‘Good way to go,’ Flossy said.

  As if on cue, the green and pink of Judith’s little van slid past, then reversed and braked, and Margery watched her daughter carefully reverse to park neatly against the kerb. The specials that week were Design and Application of Photographic and Remedial Camouflage Make-up.

  Florence said, ‘That’s why I don’t want to go to a home – you die there.’

  In her car, Judith peeled wedges from a grapefruit, shoved them into her mouth and chewed, wincing. Walter and Anita talked on, told Margery again it was only temporary, that it would save her from going to a home, the house would be fixed up . . .

  Judith wiped her mouth and checked her lipstick in the rear-vision mirror, then she got out of her van, pulling her loose top down over her tummy bulge, now flatter, drooping in soft rolls. Her chin, Margery noticed, was again a definite thing on her face.

  Anita said, ‘You said yourself, Mrs Blandon, that the cruellest thing that ever happened was that your brothers and sister put your mother in a home, that she would have died rather than send someone to that fate.’

  Margery flushed with shame, her skin smarting up her neck and across her che
eks. She looked down at her shin, felt it throb under its clear dressing, took a deep breath and said, ‘That’s blackmail.’

  Anita looked crushed, her eyes started to spill tears and she said, ‘I’m so, so sorry, Mrs Blandon.’

  ‘You’re treacherous, both of you.’

  ‘We’re desperate,’ Walter said, placing his arm around Anita.

  As she stepped over the fallen gate, Judith stopped to shove her grapefruit peel through the slit in Margery’s letterbox.

  Margery said, ‘Here’s Judith,’ and they went straight into what can only have been a planned strategy, or so Margery thought. Anita went to scrub out the bathroom, Walter sat reading an old newspaper, and Ruby ran to the front door.

  ‘Un-snib the door, please,’ Judith said. ‘And just whose little girl might you be?’

  Walter said, ‘Judif!’ as if he hadn’t seen her for fifteen years, and went to let her in. She walked past him, straight out to the lav. When she eventually came back in, she ignored Anita and Walter and stood in front of her mother. She pointed to the welts of eczema crossing the bridge of her nose, eking down from her hairline. ‘This rash is from stress, Marge, and you are giving me the stress. I’ve had enough. You have to go to the elder-age facility, there’s a bed waiting. We’ve got a piano there, you know.’

  ‘Margie’s got a piana, ’avencha, Margie?’

  Judith ignored Florence. ‘You won’t be alone anymore; you’ll have company twenty-four hours a day.’

  ‘I’m not alone.’

  Judith said, ‘You’ve always been alone.’