The House Guest

by Barbara Anderson

  Yes, he had been very interested in food, still was as a matter of fact, but not as much. He found that nowadays …

  ‘Any qualifications?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never get anywhere without qualifications. Got your own knives?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not an amateur then?’

  ‘No but I …’

  ‘Got to be one or the other,’ said the man licking his finger and turning to Sauces.

  The old man on the aisle side was having problems with his slab of cheese. Muttering and snarling to himself he attacked the plastic-entrapped treat from various angles. Periodically he put it back on his tray and glanced casually out the window for a few moments before pouncing again with shaking hands.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’ The tweed leaned close, stunned by expertise as Robin ripped. ‘Never get into the damn things. Never. My wife used to do them for me but she passed away last year. Thank you. Thank you.’

  The landing was smooth. The old was met by the not-so-young. Explanations were made. Hands shaken. Mussolini had banished handshakes in Italy but Italian men can hug. My boy Harold dropped Robin off at the theatre which was kind, and there were seats available for Hedda Gabler.

  He sat there waiting for his love. Emmeline ran on, her frock skin-tight to the waist then puffed and gathered and full to the ankles. He sat smiling, smiling fatuously as she demonstrated speed and languor, insolence and energy, frustration, boredom and delight in malignity with the assistance of one or two others. The shot at the end did not surprise him. He had been expecting it and could now go and see her. He rose to his feet still smiling and groped for his parka.

  ‘Honestly,’ said the voice behind him. ‘Why’d they set it then? Did you know any girl in our day who knew how to even shoot a gun? Let alone have them in the house.’

  ‘Hi, Cara,’ he said.

  ‘Robin! Didn’t you think that was awful? What’d you think?’ Cara’s mouth was working; pink lips glistened beneath a flicking tongue. She had to know.

  ‘I liked it. I liked it very much.’

  She was blocking his way, attempting marital support from a tall man beside her as people streamed around them. ‘Alistair went to sleep, didn’t you, Al?’

  ‘No,’ said the man, ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘This is Alistair. This is Robin Dromgoole, yes, Dromgoole. He was my very first tutor. In ’92.’

  Hi. Hullo. Accompanied by handshakes and Robin’s impatience. Emmeline didn’t know he was here. She might have to rush off. Where was Calvin? He hadn’t asked, he should have asked, he could have minded Calvin, would have liked to have minded Calvin except he would not have been here to do so and Emmie had been hacked off with him and his whole body was aching with longing to see her, to be there, to focus his attention on Emmeline and go home with her and Shut up, shut up for God’s sake you mindless mouthing face.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said edging towards the stage.

  ‘There’s something. Just a tiny thing if you’ve got a moment,’ begged Cara. She must have been good-looking once. Still was in an anxious sort of way. He laid a hand on her arm.

  ‘What about tomorrow? I’m just on my way to …’

  ‘Such a tiny thing. Yes, yes, Al, you get the car. It’s American literature. It won’t take a moment but I need your advice. I really want to do American lit next year if I pass this year of course, but I’m worried about Moby Dick.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll find Moby Dick too much of a problem, Cara.’ He put a hand beneath each arm and lifted her bodily out of the way like a milk crate. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘It’s the whales‚’ she cried, her waves of concern chasing him as he ran.

  He knew where to go. He had picked up Calvin once or twice in the past when the backup system had failed. He ran round backstage calling her name, shouldered his way past half-dressed men and women and nicotine and heat and the scent of flowers none of which he had sent. People were sweating, kissing, mopping, removing greasepaint and unwinding all over the place. An older woman in towelling and furry slippers sat in a corner reading Death Comes to the Archbishop. He seized a man with flashing glasses and a beard. ‘Emmie,’ he said. ‘Where’s Emmeline?’

  ‘Around, darl. Mind my glass. Around.’

  ‘Emmie!’ he yelled.

  She was beside him, both hands tugging at a blonde wig. ‘I can’t think why he wanted her blonde,’ she muttered.

  ‘Nor can I and you were marvellous. Amazing, wonderful.’

  She bent over, her hair falling as she scratched. ‘They itch like stink,’ she said slowly righting herself to grab a brush. She paused in mid-sweep, her head on one side.

  ‘You’ve seen it? Just now? What’d you think of the production?’

  She was wearing a different kimono from her one at home. Not a kimono at all, a black silk thing with dragons hung loose from her shoulders. He recognised her knickers, dismissed the production. ‘It was you, Emmie.’ He was offering her treats with open hands. ‘You’ve got to come down south with me next time. Promise.’

  ‘I can’t. Of course I can’t.’ She turned to the mirror above the spilt powder and the tubes and the sticks and the mess and the flowers and the cards from others. There was an artificial sunflower, orchids, a Gary Larson good luck moose joke from Murray. Murray. Mrs Elvsted was cleaning off make-up alongside, hands slapping and wiping and slapping again. She was smoking at the same time, removing the smouldering cigarette periodically with quick spiv fingers for ash removal, slipping it back into the grease-laden mouth, squinting through smoke and slapping some more. It all looked quite difficult. ‘Shit‚’ she murmured gently as ash met cold cream. There was no air. Emmeline’s brush strokes were angry tugs, not a sweep in sight. ‘How could I?’ she snapped.

  ‘I’ve found the most marvellous place for us to be buried.’

  She put down the pink cushioned brush and looked at him.

  ‘We’ll take Calvin. That goes without saying. In August, right?’

  ‘Nutter,’ said Emmie and slipped out of dragons.

  Cara was waiting for him after his Sylvia Plath tutorial. She had laid aside her memsahib neutrals for the day. She stood four square in front of him in a scarlet tracksuit demanding advice on a good book about the Sumerians as she couldn’t work out where they came in, nothing too complicated, one of those charts would do even, and also which did Robin think was the best Maori dictionary? She had an old one but there seemed to be better ones about now and she hoped Robin had given some thought to her enquiry about Moby Dick. It was the attitude of the book. She fingered the Save the Whales badge on her chest in explanation. What should she do? She was keen to do American lit, she liked the look of all the rest of it, but he must see her point. Could she perhaps leave that one out? Well, she’d have to wouldn’t she, but would this mean she’d be seriously disadvantaged and she was sorry if she had been a nuisance last night but she had had no idea he was in such a rush and Alistair had left the parking lights on again and frankly the whole evening had been a disaster; and as for those guns, the very thought of them made her cross all over again. Not the guns obviously, but setting it then. She knew she’d scarcely seen him since Stage One but her course adviser was so, well, you know, and Robin had always been so kind.

  Robin’s mind was elsewhere. It was still humming along last night’s lines of communication, sweeping across open country, lingering and swooping and backtracking for miles.

  He dragged it back. Had Cara considered New Zealand literature as an alternative?

  Oh yes, of course she would do that later, but the thing was she’d read most of the ones on the list already and what she wanted was to extend her horizons. To have to study things she might otherwise never have met up with, if he saw what she meant.

  Yes.

  Buck-passing was in order. The best thing would be for Cara to consult the Professor in charge of the American literature cou
rse.

  Fingers touched her mouth. ‘Oooh.’

  Rob heaved on his pack, attempted to conceal smugness. ‘It is the only solution in the circumstances,’ he smiled. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Robin,’ called Anne laden with replacement telephones. ‘There’s a phone message. Your mother-in-law wants you to go round some time.’

  And when did you last see your mother-in-law. ‘Oh. Oh thanks.’

  Maureen answered the back door, her face crumpled. She had lost her piping foot.

  He took her in his arms, pressed her soft warm bulk against his, kissed her hair which was all that was available. Her face was tucked deep between his chest and arm for comfort. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find it.’

  She lifted her face. ‘And that’s not all.’ One hand was moving, massaging invisible oils into the back of the other one, her eyes were wet. ‘It’s all such a worry.’

  ‘Let’s find the piping foot first.’

  The piping foot often disappeared. He knew it well, had retrieved it from beneath the sofa, from under the scraps, from deep in the wastepaper basket and, one triumphant day, from inside the refrigerator.

  ‘I’ve looked everywhere,’ she moaned. ‘Everywhere.’

  He followed her into the lounge. He had noticed before how stooped she had become but today was worse; her back was bent in despair. He had thought, had hoped, had been almost sure that she was ‘getting better’. She was back in her old routine she had told him recently, and yes please, she’d love to see the Van Gogh film. She had loved the book with his pictures in the library. As long as Robin didn’t think it would be too sad. And she was having people in occasionally again, though not often of course because of the time.

  When she woke up in the morning was still the worst but now what she did was get straight up and get out the bike and go for a ride along the foreshore which helped, and it gave her a good early start as well. Yes. Did Robin find getting out early helped?

  He agreed. He went for a run he said. He was about to say every morning but remembered this was not so.

  The Bernina was pulsing once more, lengths were being transformed. She was out checking back views once more which she hadn’t had the heart for till recently. And covering a bridal coathanger in the same fabric for her favourites, though not many. ‘Some of them‚’ she said darkly, ‘wouldn’t have a clue.’

  So what had happened to cause this relapse, this sodden imploding.

  He found the piping foot beneath a tangle of bobbins in one of the chocolate boxes. She couldn’t understand it; she had looked there just a minute ago. Thank you. Thank you. She reached out a frantic hand for Betty and held her tight.

  ‘She’s got a new frock,’ he said hopelessly.

  It didn’t help. He sat beside her and hugged her, hugged both of them. ‘It’s all such a worry,’ she said again.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Oh Rob, oh Rob.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s Murray,’ she said.

  Oh God. ‘Murray?’

  ‘The thing is, the thing is.’ Her head was swinging from side to side. ‘Emmie’s lent him all this money see.’

  ‘But why are you worried? That’s her business. Emmie told me about the money. She wants to lend some to him. It’s her money. No problem.’

  The head stopped swinging. She was crying now, silently and tidily. No mess, no fuss.

  ‘You don’t understand. It’s not that.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  They sat in silence for a minute, Betty’s rigid toes boring into his groin.

  Maureen was now mopping up. She straightened, bonged her face with tissues, blew her nose hard and turned to him. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, I think I can tell you. I couldn’t tell anyone else. Not to another living soul I couldn’t. Not even to Lisa. Especially Lisa. No.’

  Her arms tightened around Betty at the enormity of her confession. ‘I’m scared he won’t give it back,’ she whispered. ‘Oh Rob, oh Robbie, I’m that terrified.’

  Tears flowed again. ‘And it’s that awful, it’s that awful of me. How could I think such a thing, let alone say it? His own mother who loves him. Who’d die for him though I know people just say that. But you know, Rob. You know it’s true, same as Lisa.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So how can I? How can I think such an awful thing? I try and try. All night I try. But … He wouldn’t mean to. I don’t mean that, not for a minute but he might forget or …’ The damp despairing pain above the rictus of Betty’s smile was too much. Rob sat holding her in silence while she begged him for an answer.

  ‘Oh Rob, he will, won’t he? I can’t say anything to him, how can I? What could I say? He’s that happy down there in Dunedin, well of course he is and if I said … Oh Rob, promise me he’ll pay it back later. He will, won’t he?’

  My friend. My gallant old boot.

  ‘Of course he will,’ he cried flinging back his head to laugh. ‘Hell’s fangs, matey, if that’s all that’s worrying you.’ He clapped his hands together for the fun of it. ‘Time we went to see your Van Gogh. What about next week? We’ll go early, have tea afterwards. There’s a Satay Something next door. What d’you say?’

  ‘That’d be nice. But if he doesn’t, what will I do.’

  ‘But only if you promise to forget such a daft idea.’

  Her smile was watery. Damp but present. ‘Oh Rob,’ she said.

  Van Gogh was an unfortunate choice. Maureen sat bundled beside him in stoic silence as the bleak images flowed before them. There were no sunflowers. The rain poured down on dark huddled figures and sad streets. The camera work was excellent.

  She leaned towards him, touched his arm. ‘Terrible weather,’ she whispered.

  He nodded, blinking, and took her hand.

  They walked up the concrete beside the fence which was still holding its own, still hanging on by a thread though it had seen better days and was on its last legs and he still hadn’t fixed it.

  ‘I’ll have a look at it in the weekend. We’ll have a look, I promise.’ She looked at him, her face a paler smudge of grey beneath her woolly hat.

  ‘That’d be nice, dear.’

  He kissed her goodbye at the back door. Held her at arms’ length to tell her. ‘There’s something …’ he said.

  ‘Yes dear?’

  ‘I’ve been seeing a bit of Emmie lately,’ he blurted. ‘I mean …’

  She stood silent for a moment, her eyes on her hands, her fingers twisting her ring.

  ‘Emmie’s a nice girl,’ she said. ‘I’ve always liked Emmie.’

  He hugged her, held her tight.

  ‘There’s just one thing,’ she said. ‘Later if … you know, if you don’t …’ She paused. ‘No, not now. I’ll say it later. It’s too soon.’

  ‘Tell me now.’

  She touched his hand. ‘No. No. Later.’

  Ten

  He recognised the voice immediately.

  ‘Shara. What’s up?’

  ‘Wil’s been kicked by a horse and he wants to see you.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Yeah. He’s in hospital with internal bruising. Something about the liver capsule or God knows.’ She gave a long sniff. ‘He’s a mess, Rob, a real mess.’ He could see her, a small bedraggled creature, all toughness gone. ‘When can you get down?’

  ‘This weekend,’ he said hoping he could and how much was the fare and what did the old man want and God, let me get there.

  ‘I’ll meet you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  *

  The local hospital was threatened with closure. The words were seen and heard often in the media, discussed and repeated throughout the country; small hospitals, freezing works which had ceased to be viable, sheltered workshops, psychiatric units and small country schools were all at risk and some were threatened with closure. The phrase was loaded. It had a ring, a plangent echo like ‘shallow grave�
�, or ‘ageing Skyhawks’, or ‘God’s Own Country’.

  There had been a stay of execution on this one. Locals had marched, politicians had arrived, drunk tea on television and departed. Wilfred greeted him with news from the front. The head doctor, the man he was under, a man who had his letters from Bombay, had told him. The proposed closures were mad. Stark staring raving mad. ‘He says at the end of the day we’ll all be on the road with our gall-bladders or hips or whatever looking for a bed. Ranfurly to Balclutha, Balclutha to God knows where.’ Wilfred paused briefly. ‘God, it’s hot in here. And how are you, Tom? How are you?’ The old man lay alone in a four-bed ward, his legs moving irritably beneath a cotton blanket. ‘Take it off man, take it off. The heat’s killing me. And sit down. I’ve something to tell you.’ He stretched, blew out slowly. ‘Now don’t you worry about what Shara says. I’m OK. Just give me a week or two. Bloody sore at the time, I don’t mind telling you. Got me right in the slats but I’m better now.

  ‘Lucky Shara was there though. We were up the back cleaning out the race again. Needn’t have taken the horses, just as easy have gone in the truck. Easier. Flat as a pancake out there but they get too frisky if they’re not ridden. Frisky’s right. I didn’t know old Bess had it in her. Thought I was a goner at first.’

  He puffed again, a long careful release of air. He was very pale, the skin round the mouth yellow and waxy. Even his eyes seemed paler.

  What did the doctors say? Was he in pain?

  An impatient movement of the legs. ‘Yeah, yeah. Now shut up eh. I’ve got something to tell you.’ The head turned. ‘Where you staying?’

  ‘Round the corner.’

  ‘I’ll get Shara to bring it down tonight then.’ An ambulance wailed, was silent, then sped away ululating. If Emmie had been here he would have said it. She liked the weird ones. Wil looked at him, a quick nervous slide of his eyes.

  ‘Haven’t got that tape thing have you, Tom?’