by Rosalie Ham
‘I’ll mention it next time I see the “copter copper”,’ he said.
While I had him where I wanted him I also complained about Tyson stealing my water. You could see the look of weariness wash over his face. He said it was a matter for the water police, and went and got the floozy. He sat her at the table with me and left. Just left us there.
‘Thanks, love,’ said Flossy, and she sipped the tea he’d left on the table.
The rage I felt for that woman at that moment, sitting there, calmly drinking my tea . . . I could taste the hate for everyone boiling up into my mouth, like acid reflux after too much cabbage.
As he closed the front door I said, ‘If I throw myself from a tall building, sonny, you can tell my family they drove me to it.’
I got up the next morning, it was Monday, and my muscles were sore from being tense. I didn’t sleep a wink, just lay awake all night stewing, going over things, remembering. All those Christmas parties they had at the pub. All those years, and I never knew. All that time.
It’s galling, that’s what it is, like my first breakfast at Gold Street when Joye gave me a bowl of cereal and I found mouse droppings peeping at me from the milk and sugar at the bottom. They cackled about that for two years. ‘Can’t take a joke, eh?’ they said.
What I imagined my life to have been was totally shattered, but things just seemed to go on as usual for everyone else.
Anita breezed in the next day as if everything was normal.
At this point I’ll confess something, Cecily. You see, as it turns out, Morris has an illegitimate child. Of course, everyone knew except me. That Sunday afternoon I acquired an illegitimate stepdaughter and two illegitimate grandchildren. Pud said it doesn’t make any difference these days if you’re illegitimate, and Walter showed me a photo from his wallet of the poor child. Ruby was pleased to have another ‘cousin’, and Pud was pleased to have Ruby as a cousin too. On the back of the photo Morris has written ‘May, 2004’, so May could be her name, but then it could also be her date of birth. In the photo she’s about five, though you can’t tell with Asian-looking kiddies. She’s a pretty little thing. In the past I’ve been accused of being racist, so I actually put the photo on the telly next to Pud – how can I be racist?
Anyrate, my new stepdaughter arrived and took over again, stripped the beds, put the washing machine on, swept and mopped the floor and sat on the back step while she had a smoke and a cup of tea. So I gave her a piece of my mind. I told her she was getting paid for sitting on a step doing nothing. ‘It’s my day off,’ she said. ‘I’m just here to stop the bloodshed.’
I reminded her that she was illegitimate because her mother committed adultery with my husband.
‘Fair statement,’ she said. ‘But I’m not to blame, am I?’
Then Florence piped up and said, ‘You never wanted Lance anyway. I’ve made mistakes, but I don’t pretend to be perfect. And anyway, we haven’t got a home because your husband blew it up.’
She swears it was Lance, not Bill, who struck the match.
Anita sighed and went to my linen press. She dug out a set of sheets at the bottom of the pile. ‘Not those ones,’ I said.
Lance’s words rang in my ears; ‘I thought I’d find a pearl when I cracked your shell, Margery, but all I found was the oyster.’
You see, when I found out I was pregnant with Judith, I packed and got ready to leave again, but he came home from the pub earlier than usual. At the time I was doing one last load of washing. I just happened to be poking the clothes down into the copper, so I had the copper stick in my hand when he came in and, well, his nose got broken.
I made it clear I’d done my duty. No more children. So I got the sewing machine out.
Anita was just standing there in the bathroom, by the linen press, holding the sheets up with her head to the side, two little creases between her eyes, like Lance looked when he pored over the form guide, his little transistor squeaking away beside him.
Florence cleared her throat and brushed something from her lap, and I watched Anita’s face change as it dawned on her that she was holding two double-bed sheets sewn together up the middle. I’ve told you my reasons for keeping Lance on the other side of the bed, but I wasn’t going to explain why I sewed the sheets up the middle to those two, looking at me as if my head was melting.
If the truth be known, I never liked sexual intercourse. Once I got over how just plain rude the act was it seemed like a ludicrous thing to do.
Marriage wasn’t like Mrs. Miniver at all, Cecily. Mrs Miniver couldn’t have been the woman she was without a noble man like Walter Pidgeon. He came from New Brunswick in America, and of course Lance brought me home to Brunswick to live, but Lance certainly wasn’t Walter Pidgeon. He wasn’t any sort of Lancelot either.
Anyrate, as soon as Judith got married and moved out Lance took his ashtray and his oxygen apparatus and moved into the second bedroom. I took the sewn-up sheets off, and put them at the bottom of the linen press and moved into the middle of the bed.
~
So now I’m here. For one more hour I stayed in that house that was never actually mine, with my husband’s mistress, but try as I might I couldn’t reconcile harbouring her. As the mother of the rightful blood offspring of Lance’s loins, and since Morris has sent word that Lance said, ‘No child of mine’s mother should be upset in any way,’ she’ll probably inherit the whole place until she dies. I don’t care. I’ve had enough. For the last time I admired my lovely doorknobs and Walter’s trophies reflecting the warped little house I’ve lived in for sixty years. Sixty years living a lie. I said goodbye to my life’s work, my cross-stitching, and told Florence I was going.
‘Hang on,’ she said, ‘I’ll get me cardie and go with you.’
Pat always had to be part of everything as well.
In the six days that Margery and Florence lived together, Anita dropped in every day. While she dressed Margery’s wound she’d attempt to solve any conflicts the two old ladies were having, then make sure they had an evening meal organised. She’d also search her mother’s room, inspect the little basket under the seat of her wheelie frame and check her pockets for cigarettes or, more specifically, matches. On Tuesday, Anita breezed down the passage carrying groceries and cans of Home Brand light beer, Ruby trailing her, spearing her cardboard sword into invisible assailants. Florence was alone in the house, sitting in Lance’s chair, the radio blaring, her red stilettos tapping on the cross-stitched mat – You gain nothing by removing the laughing lunatic from the empty theatre except to deny him his happiness – an opened stubbie in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
‘How are ya, love?’ her mother said.
Little Ruby turned the television down.
Anita said, ‘Where did you get that cigarette and how did you light it?’
Florence looked at the cigarette in her hand as if she’d never seen it before.
‘I suppose it was the same person who gave you that stubbie?’ Anita said.
Mystified, Florence replied, ‘I suppose it was.’
Anita went into the kitchen, dumped the shopping bags on the table then stood in the doorway, glaring down at her mother. ‘Where’s Margery?’
Florence looked around the room and peered down the passage. Then she stared past Anita into the cupboard-sized kitchen and said, ‘Not in there, is she?’
Anita maintained her gaze, looking steadily into her mother’s large blue eyes. ‘Can’t see her.’
‘Tried the toilet?’
Ruby said she’d check and skipped out the back door. Anita packed the beer, eggs and milk into the empty fridge. ‘Have you discussed the evening meal?’
‘Who with?’ Florence said, glancing at the empty chair next to her.
Ruby came back in and declared that Margery was not in the toilet. ‘She’s not in the car
either, Mum,’ she added, and they both stared accusingly at Florence.
Florence said, ‘Get us another beer, wouldya, love?’
Anita took her mother’s empty beer bottle then snatched her cigarette and dropped it down the neck. ‘Ruby, check the park.’
Ruby ran to check the park, her pirate cape flapping behind her.
Anita searched all five rooms of the tiny, single-fronted workers’ cottage. Then she checked the shed and the car boot. She went through Mrs Parsons’ shed to her house, tried the front and back door and peered in all her windows. On her way back she popped her head over Tony’s back fence, but no one was about so she went across the road and banged on Tyson’s door. From somewhere deep in the dark, fungusy interior, someone called, ‘Fuck off,’ so she took a deep breath and went next door to Kevin’s place.
Kevin answered the door eating corn kernels from a tin. He was wearing a knee-length, green reflector jumpsuit and one bicycle shoe because the other ankle was still in plaster. The plaster featured one signature – his own. He smiled broadly at Anita and said, ‘I think I’ve placed you now.’
‘Seen Margery?’
‘She’s lived over the road for sixty years,’ he said and winked.
Anita sighed. ‘Have you seen Margery today?’
‘I rode past her on my way home from work. She was at the tram stop on Sydney Road, city-bound, in her hat and coat. I called out, but she was deep in conversation with herself.’ He scooped another spoonful of corn into his mouth.
Anita turned to go back across the road and Kevin said, ‘I know where I’ve seen you. At the pub, years ago. And there’s something else, something you don’t know, but everyone else does.’ Anita was gone, gliding back over to Margery’s house on her two fine, tea-coloured legs.
‘Do you know who your father is?’ Kevin called, but she ignored him.
Florence saw them marching down the passage towards her again.
She raised one finger, ‘About that beer . . .’ but Anita went straight past her to the fridge. Florence was pleased when she took a can of beer out, confused when she held it tantalisingly in front of her. ‘Flossy, try to remember. Think! When Margery left, where did she say she was going?’
Florence’s eyebrows moved together and she bit her bottom lip. ‘Margery,’ she said, knowing she knew her but failing to conjure a memory that would show her exactly who Margery was.
‘Your flatmate,’ Ruby said.
‘The old woman?’
‘Yes,’ said Anita, and Ruby added, ‘You’re no spring chicken yourself, Nan.’
Anita nudged her daughter. Florence creased her eyebrows together again, focussed on the couch opposite, trying to remember. She folded and unfolded her thin, alcoholic legs, then said brightly, ‘To see a friend?’
Ruby said, ‘She hasn’t got any friends, besides us.’
‘It’s not a guessing game, Flossy. She’s lost.’ Anita leaned down, took her mother’s chin in her hand and looked deeply into her eyes. ‘Did Judith come today?’
‘I would have remembered if she’d been here.’
Anita let her mother take the can of beer from her hand. ‘So Margery hasn’t gone with Judith?’
Florence said, ‘Na,’ looped her thin finger under the pull tab and ripped it from the can. Ruby fetched the mobile phone from her mother’s basket and handed it to her.
‘She said she was going to her sister’s.’
‘It’s too late to jump now. Far too many people about.’
Margery sat on the edge of the queen-sized bed, which she had circumnavigated several times in order to make tidy again. ‘Well, it could be said, Cecily, that you, my greatest comfort, have been my undoing. Twice.’ She wiped her eyes with her hanky, and after some time she said, ‘Actually, that’s not fair. It’s me. You couldn’t help dying and Dad was right, I should have let go, then perhaps things wouldn’t be the mess they appear to be.’ She allowed herself to weep again for a short time. When she was composed again, she said, ‘I suppose I’ll have to admit, it does seem as if I may have let people down. Three feet of ice does not come from one day of freezing weather, as they say.’ Then, in an effort to console herself, she added, ‘At least Judith’s finally got the pearls.’
She gathered her handbags and was heading to go down for breakfast when the receptionist arrived with a tray: tea, milk, juice, toast, jam, butter and fruit compote. ‘You’re Mr Boyle’s mother-in-law, aren’t you?’
‘He’s an adulterer as well.’
‘Your family are on their way; they’ve been very worried about you.’
Margery said, ‘That’s nonsense. I’ve been a dam in the river of everyone’s life forever.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t know, would you? Why did you tell them I was here?’
The receptionist put the tray on the table and pulled out the chair for Margery to sit down. ‘A policeman phoned your son-in-law when he arrived for a breakfast meeting. That’s all I know. Sit down and have your breakfast.’
Margery sighed, sat down, turned the teapot three times and lifted the lid on the plate. ‘Eggs. No point letting them go to waste.’
‘No.’ The receptionist stayed while Margery scoffed her breakfast down, and as she was pouring her second cup of tea, the Blandons arrived – Walter and Anita, Barry and Judith. The receptionist left, closing the door behind her.
Walter rushed to his mother and threw his arms around her. Her tea spilled into the saucer. ‘You alright, Mumsy?’
Judith slapped her forehead with her palm. ‘Jesus Christ, Marge. We’ve been frantic!’ Anita checked Margery’s shin and studied her swollen nose and black eyes. Then she sat back and looked at Margery, who poured her spilled tea back into her cup, refusing to look at anyone. ‘Why did you come here?’
‘I needed to get away.’ Margery sipped her tea.
‘Why not just go to the library, or the park?’ Barry asked.
Margery slammed her cup into its saucer, spilling the tea again. ‘All my life I’ve done the right thing – and look what’s happened. My choice is my husband’s mistress or a home for mad, incontinent old people.’
‘You talk to yourself.’
‘Shut up, Barry,’ Judith said.
‘It’s not fair to blame Cecily. She’s the best company I’ve got! It would have been better had I died along with her.’ Margery looked defiantly at her children. ‘If she’d stayed alive everything would have been much better.’
‘You wouldn’t have us, Mumsy, we’ve been very concerned –’
‘Nor would I have had a husband who had a mistress for fifty years. Their illegitimate child is standing over there, and she’s forty years old!’
‘Thirty-nine,’ Anita said.
Walter stood and, using a wise and reasonable tone, said, ‘It is understandable that you don’t want your husband’s friend to live with you, but –’
‘It’s outrageous!’
Walter hung his head. ‘Mumsy, I’m sorry.’
Margery glared at him then looked away.
Barry suggested that times had changed and went on to make the point that Florence wasn’t a bad person, that Lance might have felt good knowing that she could find refuge at the house. ‘After all,’ he said, looking at Judith, ‘everyone’s entitled to a home.’
‘She can have my room at your retirement village.’
Judith said, ‘There is no village, Marge,’ and Barry shook his head, ‘There’s nothing . . .’
‘Don’t try to make yourself look good, Barry, just because you’re giving me and DeeAndra the house.’ The BlackBerry in Barry’s hand buzzed and he silenced it immediately.
‘Look, Marge,’ Judith said, ‘as it stands now, the thing is, you don’t have to live with Flossy forever, b
ut she’s got nowhere to go so, just for the time being, can she stay with you? In the circumstances, it’s the right thing to do.’
‘Please,’ Anita added.
Margery sipped her tea.
‘Lance stuck by all of us, in his way,’ Walter said. ‘He didn’t abandon you or Floss, he did the right fing.’
‘He lied, betrayed me.’
‘But you can’t blame Flossy, Mrs Blandon. It’s not right.’
Margery looked Anita in the eye. ‘“Right” is whatever anyone prefers “right” to be, it seems.’
Anita threw up her hands. ‘Well, Mum lost her job and her home at the pub when Lance blew it up, and now she’s homeless again.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, what she did wasn’t right.’
‘In some people’s eyes, yes, but two wrongs don’t make a right, and all they did was be happy together, and Lance still did the right thing by you. He didn’t throw you out, he didn’t hurt you on purpose. You know what it’s like to be lost and lonely, you found that out when you were fifteen.’
‘How dare you! That’s not fair.’ Anita flinched and turned to look at the view. ‘What I did was right. I stayed faithful to my husband because a marriage is a marriage.’
‘That’s only according to God,’ Walter said, and looked at the view with Anita, but he could still feel her eyes on his back.
In the silence, Barry spoke, directing his words at Judith. ‘And was it the right thing to do? For the kids, for your husband, for you?’
Judith said, ‘Shut up, Barry,’ so he held his hands up in surrender again and stood at the window with Anita and Walter.
‘If Dad was feeling lost and lonely, then okay, he found compensation in the arms –’
‘Compensation?’ Anita cried.
‘But imagine how Marge feels? Lost? Lonely? Lied to? Take it from me because I know what it’s like to learn your husband prefers someone else, that whenever he looks at you he’s lying to you, repulsed –’