The House Guest

by Barbara Anderson

  The dogs turned, their tails curled deep between their legs as they slid back to their mini-Nissens to turn and lie with grounded paws, their eyes on the boss.

  ‘How do you do it? No, no,’ Rob said quickly at the surprise on Wil’s face. ‘I don’t mean just shutting them up. Shara tells me you’re the best dog man in the district. How do you do it? Dog trials. All that. How do you train them? Why are you better than anyone else?’

  Wil gave the question some thought as he stood scratching his buttock through rough tweed. ‘How does a man do anything? If I knew how I did it I would let you know.’ He grinned. ‘Send a postcard to the uni.’

  Rob grinned back. He must watch it. This was not the moment to start liking the man who presumably had crushed his wife, killed her spirit and made her silent.

  Wil turned the key. ‘I keep her locked,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why.’

  The tin shed was icy cold. Robin’s brain was numb and not only with frost; numb with not understanding a damn thing about dog trials or Wilfred or frocks. What frocks? And why? And why were they mucking around in sub-zero temperatures when they should be tucked up in the front room with the tape recorder and preferably six heaters going full bore and he didn’t even feel the cold. He peered into the shed and sniffed. Hellish dark and smells of mothballs.

  Wil pulled a hanging cord. Pale light fell from the naked bulb onto emptiness and women’s dresses suspended from hangers on an iron pipe around three walls.

  ‘Ah,’ said Robin. ‘Frocks.’

  ‘And a few coats.’ Wil was demonstrating the display, lurching about the shed, his arms waving in explanation as he measured each wife’s remembrance.

  ‘From here to here is Doris,’ he said at the south side. ‘We were married before the war. She died while I was away. Sudden. Very sudden. I got a letter in the desert. I didn’t know till then. Her sister wrote.’ Wil paused, his mind with the heat and the flies and the blowing sand and the two pages of thin blue paper on his knees. ‘The next day I watched a Brit scrape some poor sod off a tank. Copped a mortar burst all to himself. Then the tank rolled on.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The letter’d been held up. Held up in Cairo.’

  He swung over to the opposite wall. ‘And here to here is Ivy. Her line is longer because it was twenty years with her so naturally she had more. When I was demobbed and got the Rehab we married and came up Central. We were lucky mind.’ He fingered a grey cotton with lilac spots. ‘Sun dress.’ He paused, his hand still on the frock, his face concerned. ‘Hang on. It had a bolero as well.’ He scrabbled among the wire hangers and came up with a snatch of similar material and draped it over the hanger. ‘She wouldn’t go into town sleeveless. “Ivy,” I said, but no.’ He chuckled, the indulgent half-laugh of a man who understands modesty and the fact that some women have it. ‘Bolero,’ he said again. He patted the ensemble, dragged hangers back and forth to show woolblends and brushed cottons, viscose and garden prints. His knowledge seemed encyclopaedic. What the hell was rayon acetate.

  ‘She died. Sixties it was. Yes, sixties,’ he said moving to the shorter wall of the rectangle.

  ‘I don’t like having Alice back here,’ he said fingering a checked skirt. ‘It’s not chronological. She was the last and by rights Ivy should be here and Alice along that side, but then again Ivy sewed like Doris, she used to run up her tub frocks and that, so naturally she had more than Alice so it seemed sense to have,’ his arm demonstrated, ‘Doris this side, Ivy opposite and Alice back here.’ He stopped, anxious for understanding. ‘See what I mean?’

  Robin nodded. ‘Yes. Yes. I agree.’ The knobbled fingers, the swollen joints were still stroking in remembrance. ‘And I know she wouldn’t have minded. Wouldn’t have given it a thought. Oh, she was different, Alice. Different in every way.’ His eyes were moist but old eyes often are. ‘I’ve been a lucky man three times … But Alice …’ He grabbed the fabric of the skirt. ‘Seersucker,’ he muttered and buried his face in its folds. ‘Alice was different,’ he said and lurched away.

  Robin stood rooted to the floor. He had returned to the flat the day they found Lisa, had rushed straight to the laundry basket, snatched her unwashed clothes and hidden his face in them. Had roamed through the flat howling like a dog. Had refused to wash them ever again till Maureen crept in one day and took them to wash for the Sallies. ‘It has to be, Robin,’ she said. ‘It has to be.’ So why was he startled by the extravagance, the unlicensed abandon of the gesture.

  It was not only the memory, he thought staring at his trainers. Wil was old, too old for such pain. Olds are meant to be past it.

  Prompted by some obscure sense of loyalty he moved to Alice’s wall, shoved the cramped hangers about, fingered material he did know. ‘Velvet,’ he said.

  ‘Take it out. Have a good look.’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ Robin pulled the thing out, stroked the pile the wrong way. He changed direction as Lisa had shown him, guiding his hand over the curve of her hip to her thigh. He turned the frock round. On the back of the skirt the smooth matt of the pile had been disturbed by seating. Robin shoved the hanger back quickly, gave a small dry cough. ‘Well,’ he said.

  Wil was looking at him, his eyes bright. ‘Nothing missing. Not of the ones in good condition that is. All three of them.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There were too many impossible unaskable questions. Too many things he longed to know and never would. How had it all begun, let alone continued? When had it started? When had the prefab been installed? How had Wil explained it to the successive wives? That’s my last Duchess, painted on the wall looking as though she were alive.

  Wil also had found a thing to do in remembrance. Rob gave an involuntary shiver. Someone was walking on his grave, and not only his. He moved from one foot to the other, took out another frock (Doris’s side this time, to be fair): a navy blue ecru lace which scratched.

  ‘After five,’ said Wil. ‘She didn’t get much wear out of it.’ Well, she wouldn’t, would she. If they had been things of beauty in their own right, designer garments from a former age, garments made from fine fabrics with exquisite workmanship and preserved with care and space for later generations to wonder and admire, yes. Good thinking. But these—these relics from the backs of two hardworking farmer’s wives who ran up their tub frocks and one who did not. No.

  Wilfred was waiting.

  ‘You don’t think they might get a bit damp?’ tried Rob.

  ‘No. No. She’s lined, the shed.’

  ‘Ah.’ Robin tried again, knowing he should not, knowing that the old man’s pride in this hall of remembrance was genuine, that his collection of dead wives’ garments was treasured, that it was not macabre, that we all have to find our own way. That it was a shrine, that one man’s shrine is another man’s horror story. These limp hanging deceased-estate relics appalled him, reeked of vaults and charnel houses, neither of which he had ever seen let alone smelled. And surely it was wrong to enshrine these tired garments, these empty hanging sleeves, these ephemeral used things.

  ‘You could offer them to a museum,’ he pleaded.

  Wil’s jaw thrust out, a muscle twitched his cheek. ‘They’re mine,’ he said.

  Robin walked to the open door, sniffed the air, gazed across the plain once more. ‘Great country,’ he said. ‘Great.’

  The old man glanced at a scrap of paper from his top pocket and restowed it.

  ‘Quite something, eh Rob?’ he said.

  The front room was a coolstore for apples. There were no heaters; watery sun filtered through windows again masked by outdoor cobwebs onto a sofa and two chairs with wooden arms and movable backs. Large ill-packed squabs covered with something like hessian lay on bases and backs. There were smaller cushions, one for each chair, three for the sofa. The only gesture towards frivolity or the non-essential was a Smoker’s Companion in the form of a painted plank-thin Egyptian slave: bare feet treading, snake band in position, endlessly proffering nonexistent cigarettes, matches a
nd ashtray from a small tray.

  There was an aerial photograph of the farm above the fireplace and nothing else. Not a book in sight. One of the biggest, most scratched poufs Robin had ever seen sat before the right-hand chair. Wil touched it with his foot. ‘Suez on the way home,’ he said.

  Robin smiled, fiddled with his tape recorder. The long-term memory must be all right.

  ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Off we go?’

  ‘OK.’

  Robin paused. Pressed the Off button. ‘There’s something I’d like to ask before we begin. Will I be able to interview you again? In August say. The long vacation?’

  A previously unseen cat strolled into the room, the largest angriest-looking bunch of electrified fur Robin had ever seen, a malevolent grey and black feathered boa of a cat with strong topaz eyes. A cat of character.

  Wil leaned forward. ‘Putz, Putz, Putz. Here Bugle, come on Bugle boy. Where you been, boy?’

  Bugle sneered briefly, tore savagely at the leather pouf and leaped vertically onto the proffered knee. He gave a few desultory kneads of the coarse wool trouser-legs and curled up. Wil stroked him, murmured endearments, tickled beneath an ear which twitched with rage.

  Eventually Wilfred lifted his eyes to Robin. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  Robin explained, his eyes on the old man’s. He was frank, open, he had nothing to hide. He was a trustworthy man. ‘I’d like more time. I mean I wouldn’t expect to stay here.’ Robin laughed, a light honest sound forced from his throat by a plumed puff of air. ‘I’d find a bed and breakfast or whatever.’

  There was silence. A long silence during which Bugle and Wil, their expressions similar, stared back at him. ‘Staying’s nothing,’ said Wil. ‘It’s why. You tell me what you’re going to say and I’ll tell you if you can come.’

  ‘But I don’t know. I won’t know until we’ve talked. I can’t tell you yet.’

  Wil was stroking Bugle’s ruff. ‘Boogie woogie bugle boy,’ he murmured.

  He raised his eyes again and stared through cobweb. ‘All right. I’ll say OK for now.’ He leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and stretched, his hand still stroking. ‘This is my fifth Bugle,’ he said still stroking. ‘And this afternoon I’ll show you her grave.’

  Nine

  Ready?

  Yes yes. Get on with it.

  So when did you first meet Alice O’Leary?

  After Ivy died I bached for a while but I got sick of it so I advertised. The New Zealand Farmer? The Listener? Can’t remember. Wanted. Housekeeper. Single man. Small southern holding. Usual sort of thing. I wasn’t too struck on Alice being American at first. Or that when I rang back and asked for a photo she said she couldn’t see why anyone would need a photo of a housekeeper and it was no go, so that was that. And then a day or so later she rang again and said was the position still available and she sounded so keen, well more desperate, if you know what I mean. And I liked her voice too; I’d never met an American, not even in the war, and there was a kind of swing you know, a sort of snap to it. Not ratty. I don’t mean that, but … You know pipe bands? Lots of them round here. You know the way the kilts sort of snap from side to side with the beat? Plaits do too when the girl runs or even walks fast. Ever noticed that?

  (PAUSE)

  Yes. Yes, I have.

  Well, her voice had that. It wasn’t just the accent. Even though she was halfway bawling down the phone I could still hear the lilt and I thought that’s nice. I like that. So I said, Come on down and we’ll see and I’ll pay, and she did straight away and I met her in Dunedin with the dog truck same as you, though a different one of course. We’re talking sixty-nine now. Anyhow I took one look at her and I thought you’ll do me, and that was that.

  She loved Central Otago. Right from the start she loved Central. Loved the bright air she called it. It was winter then same as now. Everything about it she loved except the wind, and who does? She said our wind is lazy. Can’t be bothered going round, goes straight through. She was a poet see.

  Yes.

  You know the first thing I noticed, well I suppose you usually do notice faces but this time it was the look, the lack of expression. Blank. Completely blank. Not prim or prissy or whatever. Just there; eyes, nose, mouth, nothing else. Like some sort of, I don’t know, zombie. Or traveller maybe. Not an ordinary traveller waiting for a train or just padding along, I don’t mean that, but I’d never seen a face, well more of an expression, like that. You know Mecca?

  Yeah, I mean …

  Suppose you got it all wrong? Suppose you were one of them and you’d got all the way to Mecca and it had taken you forever and every bean you had but that didn’t matter because it was worth it. But when you got there Mohammed wasn’t there. His tomb even. Well, not for you, that’s my point. Everyone else, all the other pilgrims, of course they’d found it, they had it forever but you’d lost it and now you knew you’d never get it. I’d say she was one of the most lost-looking ladies I’ve ever seen in my life. There was a hole punched in her when she arrived here, know what I mean?

  Yes. Yes, I do.

  What’s your name again?

  Rob.

  What was I saying?

  Alice being lost.

  Before that.

  Mecca. Her arriving.

  Yes. Her face told me right off. She was different.

  Her loving the place was a help though. I taught her to ride and she caught on quick for someone her age and we’d head off up the back and all over. Day after day we’d be up and off. Anything, she said, anything to get outside. She wasn’t much of a housekeeper I’d have to say, but she could cook a roast. Chops was the other thing but no puddings. I missed them but there you are. She liked the dog work too. She had her own dog in the end. Tip. She trained him from scratch. I showed her of course but she caught on. She was over forty mind. That’s late for starting.

  Forty-one.

  Forty-one. How do you know?

  I’ve looked it up.

  Looked it up in what?

  I’ve researched it.

  Why?

  Because I had to. I’m writing about your wife’s work. I’m trying to find out everything about her and her life to help me understand her work. There are so many … well, things don’t add up.

  Such as?

  Why did she stop writing?

  She didn’t want to.

  Why?

  She didn’t say. Except it was gone. I remember that. I remember that because it was such an odd thing to say. She was always desperate to get outside like I said. When we were snowed in once she nearly went mad. When she was dying, well she wrote a bit then.

  Where is it!

  I burned them like she said.

  (SILENCE)

  Do you remember nothing about them? What they were. Poems? Prose?

  Didn’t look. Burned them.

  (PAUSE)

  You’ve no idea at all?

  I said. She told me to burn them.

  Nnnnh. That’s very …

  As long as she could get outside she was all right.

  (LONG PAUSE)

  Tell me about your marriage.

  We never married. We had marital relations mind, after the first year, moved in together as man and wife. I was quite willing to marry her, wanted to in fact. I like to have things straight and I’d like to have had a child. Doris and Ivy never had any luck. I said you’re not too old and I’m certainly not, but she’d had an operation so that was that. Bad luck wasn’t it, but there you are.

  An old Landfall article says she married in 1970.

  Oh we told people that. But no, she wouldn’t have it.

  Did she say why?

  She said she’d been married once and it had been a living hell. Seen a picture of him?

  Yes.

  Right bastard wouldn’t you say. Eyes too close together. Pursed-up little duck’s arse of a mouth. Never have trusted those mouths.

  I’ll tell you something. Once she said she had misbehaved, that was the w
ord she used, misbehaved, and the next day when he went to the office he locked her inside and he did that for a week. And another time she ran away to her cousin and he sent the police for her and they delivered her back and he thanked them politely and took her inside and locked the door and thrashed her right there in the hall till she fell over, and then he stepped over her and went upstairs to bed.

  Christ.

  Yes. She described the pattern on the carpet. One of those old red and blue ones with squirls. She remembered the smell, she said. Hot dust. I believe her. I believe every word she said. She was completely straight. She hated the lie about being married, she didn’t want that either, but I drew the line at letting on about that. It’s a small place round here and things were different then.

  She did get away from him once more, she told me. He went to England for some business trip and he took ill. Yes. I can’t remember what it was, I’d tell you if I did, but he was quite ill seemingly. But he was too mean to send for her and the last thing she wanted anyhow was to go over and sit by his bedside and be growled at day after day, and in the end he was away for months and it was wonderful, she said. (PAUSE) That’s what she said. Yes. Wonderful.

  You remember every word.

  Nothing wrong with my memory.

  And you talked a lot, I gather. You must have.

  Talk! You know she was the only one that talked, both of us talking sense and not just banging on. Doris and Ivy were two good women and I’ve never had dinner like it since, some of those blowouts, my word. But Alice, well Alice confided in me. Know what I mean?

  Yes.

  She trusted me see.

  Yes.

  And I trusted her.

  Yes.

  A lot of women just talk to women, but not Alice. We’d talk for hours, yarning away.

  Did you read her books, Wil?

  I have to say in all honesty, the first time round I flagged the last two away. I’ve never read a poem except Drake’s Drum and stuff at school, so that didn’t worry me, not liking hers, I mean. And I slogged on with her short stories but I’ve never seen much point in them where nothing much happens. And something did happen in her first two novels. In the Scroll one the girl gets away at the end, and The Hand of Time, well sure it’s sad them having to leave, but at least they’re doing something. You know how I’d describe them those first two? Sad. Very sad. But yes, I read them. I can’t say I enjoyed them but the people stayed in the mind.