The House Guest

by Barbara Anderson

  So Alice signed. She signed the adoption papers and collapsed next day. She was mad she said, completely deranged. Cold and shivering and out of her mind. Things you couldn’t imagine giving a thought to tore her apart. A packet of peppercorns she’d taken by mistake from a store counter years ago and what could she do? She’d taken them back at once but the person who had paid for them had left the store and would be missing them and Alice didn’t know her name even, or where she lived, and what could she do. She could still remember years later, when we were tucked up in bed together she could remember every minute of it all. How she couldn’t sleep, she wouldn’t eat, she tried to cut her wrists and made a mess of it.

  And in some weird way that saved her. Well, obviously it did, she felt if she was so useless she couldn’t even kill herself then she bloody well deserved to have to live. And you can see that in her books can’t you? Certainly the last two, All Fall Down and The Load.

  But always she knew she would have her daughter with her eventually, and that’s the bit that doesn’t show up in the books to my mind. You get the loss all right, I reckon, but no hope except in The Hand of Time. I read them and read them but I don’t get that feeling in the last two, not the hope. Survival. Acceptance even. Stoicism? Yeah, that’s there too, sure, I agree. You’ve put your finger on it. But it doesn’t add up though. Not to my mind, because why doesn’t the hope show up in them? It was what kept her going she said, the hope of being with her child. That and her writing. It makes you think, doesn’t it? Gawd, I wouldn’t know the subconscious if I met it in the street, but it makes you think. Did she have some sort of premonition or what?

  The first shock, and even then she didn’t see through the bitch, was when Candida said she and Emmeline were going to New Zealand. The climate was good the woman said, and the soil, and her grandmother’s money had come through and she was going to New Zealand to start her own plant nursery, which she never did nor intended to if you ask me. She told Alice she had always wanted to leave New England, and land was cheap here, and with the climate, well, why not now she had the chance.

  By this time Edwin was back home and completely dependent on Alice. She shut off, she said, detached herself, went through the motions, put him back in bed when he fell out, cleaned up after him and you can imagine that too. He was pathetic she said, though I’m damned if I’d have seen it. He wasn’t violent now, just a complete wreck, a wreck of what had once been some sort of man. He scarcely knew her half the time, stared through her like glass, she said.

  Sure, sure, why didn’t she leave the man when her child was here and waiting? You tell me. You’re the smart one. You tell me. Pity? Yeah, plus guilt I reckon. Even though she thought, even though she tried to convince herself, knew she had done the right thing, millions of women have half starved themselves to support their kids and done so. Maybe that was it. Maybe she thought she hadn’t had the guts, had given in because she was feeble, had taken the easy way out. Hadn’t had the courage. That was one bit we didn’t talk about. Perhaps because she knew I’d have loved a child, but that’s easy for me to say. Perhaps that was it. I don’t know, I just don’t know. It was part of the pact with Bowman too, though that wouldn’t have kept me back for a second. I’d have been up there like a robber’s dog. I don’t know.

  She was told, allowed, mind, to write to Emmeline no more than once a week. Any more, the woman said, and it would be unsettling. When the child could write there’d be two or three letters a year. Little formal things. Thank you for my birthday present. It has been raining here. Photos? What photos? She didn’t say. There weren’t any with the letters. I told you about the letters. I told you just now. The unopened ones. I did. I said. All right, all right, I’ll tell you again.

  When Edwin died she sent off a letter that very day to say she was coming. She told me. ‘He is dead. I’m coming.’ That’s Alice. She never messed about. Straight as a die. Make you laugh, wouldn’t it, if it didn’t make you bucket. I can see her writing it. He is dead. I am coming. Wacko! So she came straight out. And when she left Seatoun, when she was thrown out on the street with no child and dead as mutton because nothing could touch her or matter ever again, you know what that bitch did? She gave Alice a cardboard box and said you might as well have these and the taxi drove off to the airport and Bowman walked back up her drive.

  Alice didn’t open the box till they were well up—over the Kaikouras, she said it was, all that snow. And inside the box was every letter or card she’d ever sent Emmeline since she was a little tot and every one unopened. All those years and the kid had never had a glimpse of one except for presents. Think about it. Kids love things with their names on, love them long before they can read. I’ve seen it. Bowman must’ve been pretty quick off the mark, pretty cunning to beat a kid to the mail year after year. That’s what gets me. Not only what she did, but the viciousness, the spite. Never a thought to tell Alice before. I know why she did it, she did it because she was the victor and she’d won and she wanted every twist of the bayonet. I’ve done it and I know. The twist is part of it. She wanted death, not walking wounded.

  It was Central that saved Alice. And me she said, but I don’t know. And the dogs. She had her own dog you know. Yes. Real little goer he was too. A huntaway, couldn’t see him for smoke.

  Why didn’t she go to court? Work it out man. Use your loaf. What chance did she have? This was sixty-nine remember. She had signed the papers, Emmeline was adopted. It was all legal. Oh, she begged, of course she begged, she damn near destroyed herself. Saw a Wellington lawyer who wasn’t hopeful, and begged Bowman some more. Just to be able to stay. That was the arrangement. And there was another thing. A thing she didn’t tell me till much later. A thing she told me only to stop me storming up and clobbering the bitch and bringing the kid back to her mother, legal or not legal.

  Christ, it’s hot in here.

  She said the kid didn’t like her. That was what finished it. If there had been any spark, anything other than obvious dislike … It wasn’t only that Emmeline wasn’t interested, why should she be? What’s an unknown woman to an eight-year-old. And she was unknown. There was no photo of her in the house that Alice could see. Obviously no one had talked about nice Alice in Vermont and how Emmeline would like her and what fun she was. And here was another card for her, look, with her own name on it—love from Alice. And that’s another thing doesn’t add up. Alice was fun. Not at first my word, not at all, but even then she had a quickness. She noticed. Later we’d roll about. It must’ve been there. It’s in the letters. You see it a bit in the poems but the laughs got knocked out of her and the breakdown didn’t help. That’s no fun believe me. I’ve seen it in the desert. Men half out of their minds and not a scratch on them. You’re lucky if you can sign off, and that’s what Alice did when she saw the unopened letters.

  And Emmeline was happy in Seatoun, Alice could see that. It’s a nice place she said, beach and that, and the woman, whenever she did write which wasn’t often, told Alice about the good school and how Emmeline had lots of friends and was happy as a Cape Cod clam. And she certainly seemed happy according to Alice, one of those skinny kids always jumping about the place and her father’s red hair. Quick on her feet, you know the sort, and by this time there was ballet as well, though what the hell that had to do with the price of fish is beyond me. But all this, all this added up, and what with the kid not liking her as well …

  No, I don’t know why the kid took against her, not really. But then again maybe I do. Alice had no fear, not physical fear. I’ve seen her eyeball a bull, a great thundering Hereford, and get herself back to the fence cool as you please. It wasn’t that. But when she got nervous she tried too hard, know what I mean? She sort of pushed things. She talked too much and her hands were all over the place and she went on and on. Well, a lot of people won’t shut up, I could show you a couple of real snorters round here, but it was different to that. She only did it when she was nervous, not like old Don down the road who can�
�t even pour a drink when he’s talking. Stand there with the bottle in his hand and your tongue hanging out and on and on till you could throttle the man.

  No. Hers was different. It was nerves, it only happened when she wasn’t easy. At ease. At the races say, or Dalgety’s tent at the Show—somewhere else where she didn’t feel at home, didn’t feel easy in herself. And I can see her, that’s the tragedy. I can see her putting the kid off and longing to be liked and trying harder and harder, and laughing too much maybe, or not enough, and making it worse. There was too much at stake. And she couldn’t take her eyes off Emmeline she told me, the way the child moved, and everything got worse and worse and things got tougher with the bitch saying she’d fight every inch of the way and that Alice hadn’t an iceball’s chance in Hades, and what did she want to do to the child? Did she want to destroy her own child? Take her away from her security and happiness? And there was Alice getting more desperate every day and more shy until she would’ve put anyone off, let alone a bright sparky kid like Emmeline. What could Alice do? Cut her in half like Solomon? I always thought that was one of the dumbest stories I’ve ever read, even for the Bible. What would anyone want with half a child, mother or no mother.

  I told you she’d changed Emmeline’s surname to O’Malley. Yes. By deed poll. Alice didn’t even know that till she arrived in New Zealand. She went butcher’s. Well, wouldn’t you? Gave the woman both barrels, told her what she thought of her and how she couldn’t believe it, let alone understand it. And you know what the woman said. She just smiled and said she didn’t have to understand it. It was done and that was that. O’Leary to O’Malley. So near. Why not O’Connell or O’Riley or any damn thing, not Irish at all? I’ll tell you why. The nearer it was the worse, don’t you reckon? More rub-your-nose-in-it if you see what I mean. And my God Alice saw pretty damn quick.

  Suspicions before she came out? Well there you go. Did she? If it’d been me I damn well would’ve. As I said I’d have been here in a flash years before, but I think there were two things. I think that she just went on day after day cleaning up after Edwin and knowing that her child was happy and she would be with her one day. And the other thing was that she trusted Candida bloody Bowman. She had ever since they were kids, she said. She was straight like Alice, and you know what some kids are like, especially girls, well they were in my day. Sneaky often. But Candida never was. One day somebody wrote Fuck on the blackboard and the whole class was kept in and finally Candida got sick of it and said she’d done it when she hadn’t. She’d just got sick of it, know what I mean? Kids don’t usually do that. Not when it’s the strap, or not in my day.

  Maybe she’d made up her mind, made up her mind even as a kid that she didn’t give a stuff what anyone thought of her, that she’d play it her way. Maybe it was that and good luck to her, except for what she did to Alice. But surely Alice should have realised? That’s what gets me. But then again if you trust you trust, if you don’t you don’t, and I’ll tell you something else. You don’t have to like people to trust them, and the other way round as well. And Alice admired her; not giving a damn about what she looked like, not giving a damn what anyone thought, being so independent, making her own life. Alice fluffing about with poetry and books and Candida getting on with what she wanted to do, which was grow things and to hell with the rest. She knew the woman was honest. Except you know something? Probably you haven’t noticed but I’ve read them so often now, thought about them for years, especially the last two. Why does she go on about betrayal? Sure you can say it was Stephen, but you know what I think? I think she was preparing herself—no not that—more stiffening herself in case. Does that make sense? Well, I’m glad you think so.

  And added to that there were the other things. So few letters came back to Alice and what there were from Candida so wooden, and the same from the kid. That would have been Candida, see. No little kid’s going to love someone they never see unless someone tells them about that person are they? Let alone her hiding the letters. Someone who shows photos, talks. This is Nana, this is Pop, this is Alice who loves you. It’s a two-way plug to my mind. I see that with nieces and nephews.

  Yeah, I agree. You wouldn’t think that after all she’d been through she’d have left it like that again but I saw her, and yes I can imagine, and it’d break your bloody heart. She thought it was best for her child.

  It all came to a head when Emmeline had gone on to ballet from school one afternoon and the two of them were at it hammer and tongs all day and finally Alice dashed out the door and that was it. The bitch had won and Alice came south the next day.

  ‘I saw her.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘I saw her that day. I was about six but I’ve never forgotten. I lived next door to Emmie and Miss Bowman.’

  ‘You never did.’

  ‘I still do. Well, my mother does.’

  Wil’s grin was wide and slow.

  ‘Then you know Emmeline! What’s she like?’

  Rob’s head moved. ‘Fantastic.’

  Wil was moving too quickly, grimacing with pain and excitement. ‘Bring her down man. Bring her down soon.’

  ‘I’d like to a lot but …’

  ‘But what?’

  Use your head man, rub a few memories together. Here is a woman who longs to know who her mother was, who disliked her the only time she saw her as much as Alice thought she did if not more, and who loved and admired Miss Bowman. The woman who had devoted her life to her, had brought her up, encouraged her, given her freedom. He saw the bundled figures biking towards the Seatoun tunnel through the years, the corn popping, the food, Emmie’s grin. This is the woman you’re going to rip apart in front of her. Turn her into a monster.

  No. And Emmie won’t believe you or me.

  ‘Emmeline loved Miss Bowman very much,’ he said.

  ‘That’s because she doesn’t know what she was like.’

  ‘She would never believe you. Never in a million years.’

  And God knows what I believe. Things had become chaotic. His mind was spinning, heading for white water on a leaking raft. The session, the revelations, the call for attendance at the sick bed had all promised good things. Things of meaty goodness on which to chew. Things which had in fact been provided and had turned into red toadstools with spots.

  ‘She had wanted to come in August,’ he said. ‘Very much.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  He looked the patient straight in the eye. ‘She loved Miss Bowman and you’re right, her mother worried her. OK Alice was wonderful. OK she could write. OK you loved her. That doesn’t alter Emmie’s reaction and why should it?’

  ‘I’m going to tell her.’

  ‘You won’t. I’ll break it to her. I’ll tell her about …’

  ‘What the hell’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘She’s my …’ His tongue was wide; there was too much of it, thick as a cow’s. ‘I love her,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, so that’s it then. You love her so that’s all hunky dory and the truth can go out the window. The big straw boss can shield his girl. What about my girl! What about Alice? She’s dead. She doesn’t matter! Well, she matters to me, get it. You’re happy to flag away the rest. Happy to have her daughter think she didn’t care, didn’t give a stuff and dumped her?’

  Rob was overheated, stupid, infuriated by sense. ‘She did‚’ he muttered.

  Wilfred ignored the pain. ‘Get out.’ He grabbed the grey cardboard urinal and threatened barrel first. ‘Get out.’

  Robin stood, took the thing from the shaking hand and put it on the floor. ‘Sorry, that was stupid.’

  ‘Just bugger off will you.’

  You could have killed him. You realise that. You realise he’s right. You realise Emmie will have to know everything and Emmie will hate you and Emmie will never believe you because Emmie is steel from Toledo or wherever the fuck it comes from.

  The old man was chewing, gnashing, glaring into his face. ‘Oh, sit down you stupid b
astard,’ he said.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this the first time I came down?’

  ‘I told you. I kept hoping the bitch would die and I wouldn’t have to deal with her.’

  ‘You knew she was dead.’

  The eyebrows wouldn’t have it. ‘No.’

  This is where it gets tricky. His mind goes sailing along, rational, convincing, authoritative, then slips a memory cog, a cog which was operational five minutes ago and leaves you floundering. Rob/Tom, that’s nothing, but the occasional unpredictable lapse …

  ‘I know you did,’ he said.

  Wilfred switched tracks.

  ‘Well, OK, OK. Maybe I didn’t trust you then and I’m not as honest as Alice was. The odd lies never worried me. And how did I know I could trust you coming out of nowhere like that? There’ve been others sniffing about. Weird-looking types, all jeans and dirty hair.’

  Rob grinned. ‘When did the light dawn?’

  Wil chewed on it for a minute and let it pass. ‘It was more Bess and the kick. Ever been kicked by a horse?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Nasty. Very nasty. It’d never happened to me before. Can kill a man any day. I was lucky, but like I said it shook me rigid and I thought Christ I’d better get on and find Emmeline before I snuff it.’ The voice became petulant. ‘I told you all that.’

  ‘Tell me again about why Alice stopped writing,’ said Robin, his voice gentle to disguise cunning.

  ‘I told you all that. God, don’t you remember anything? She didn’t need it. She said.’

  Researchers can be honest too. ‘I can’t believe that.’

  ‘Nor can I sometimes, now I read them all the time but I didn’t read them much before. It’s only in the last ten years …’ Wil stretched his legs gingerly to the end of the bed. ‘Nearer fifteen since she died.’