The House Guest

by Barbara Anderson

  ‘You said you did!’

  ‘When?’

  ‘You said people need to know their origins. When Calvin was born. You said.’

  ‘Calvin’s nearly five,’ she tugged her hair back with both hands. ‘You expect me to be consistent all of a sudden?’ She leaned forward and socked it to him; all the frustration, the rage behind the funny-girl mask was in her eyes. ‘You know me. Emmie. Flaky, disorganised nutty Emmie O’Malley is perfectly happy and so is her Inner Child so shut up. It doesn’t want out.’

  Nothing cosy here. No hearth and home stuff. He grabbed the shovel, banged about in the embers, swept up ash from the hearth with quick fussing anger. ‘You don’t believe that crap.’

  ‘No, but I thought it was interesting. I like the idea of everything that’s wrong with you being someone else’s fault. I see the attraction, but I don’t see where it gets you on account of life not going backwards but that’s not what we’re talking about.’

  Her mouth moved with the sly glint of send-up. ‘And which mother would I pick on to blame? Double whammy eh?’ Her voice lifted, changed key. ‘And you might at least let Aunt rot first. Stuff the truth and leave Aunt!’ She leaped to her feet. ‘I’m going to bed. And stop looking like that.’

  He was blocking the door with wide B-movie arms. ‘Let me explain.’

  She scratched her lemon-scented head. ‘I’ll tell you what I really think,’ she said finally, ‘but only if you don’t interrupt.’

  They sat facing each other, her bare toes kneading the trotting horse beneath them. ‘I think,’ said Emmie, ‘that one of the reasons I refuse to believe your story is that it has not missed one cliché in the book.’ She raised a traffic-cop hand. ‘Are you going to listen to me or not? As I was saying. Think about it, think of everything you’ve told me about Alice, think about those silly charts even. There is not one cliché omitted,’ said Emmeline ticking off points.

  ‘One. Plucky widow plus spirited daughter run country store after Daddy succumbs. Why a country store, for Chrissake? Because it’s back-woodsy, gingham, wooden pegs, butter pats, forty-gallon drums of maple syrup I shouldn’t wonder. Why couldn’t she have pumped gas? I reckon the woman invented herself the same as she invented those cute-as-a-newt nutters in her books.

  ‘Two. Plucky semi-orphan marries above herself. Wow. Gee. Shucks. Mama-in-law not pleased, she wanted the high-toned lady from Boston. Above herself, we’re talking downmarket Henry James here.

  ‘Three. Broken gallant GI hero takes to booze on account of horrors experienced defending Uncle Sam.’

  ‘She doesn’t say that.’

  ‘I warned you. Four. Marriage turns out a bit of a disappointment. Gallant wife feels guilty. Why the hell should she feel guilty? Inner Child gone walkabout? Sense gone out the window?

  ‘Five. No babies. Sorrow. Grief. But irony compounded. It’s Daddy’s problem, but will he accept this? No. He’s a man see, and men don’t mess about when it comes to virility even when they haven’t got it. No other people’s bastards for Daddy-o either. So no babies. Oh, it makes me toss. The whole goddamn saga makes me toss. Give me Aunt! Give me honest in-your-face and up-yours Aunt. I cannot stand phonies. Sentimental self-deprecating hysterical phonies.’

  ‘She wasn’t,’ he said. And for God’s sake stop talking. You’re wrong.’

  He had never seen her cry except when Aunt died.

  ‘Emmie.’

  She brushed him away. ‘I haven’t finished. I’ve hardly started. I have scarcely commenced.’ She gave a shuddering heave for air. ‘Why should I care what you say or do? I don’t, I don’t and you’re the most uptight shit around and the sooner you shove off the better …’ She flung away from him, cracked her head against the table, tried to stand, cracked it again and bawled against his chest. A lump of soot splattered on the hearth behind them.

  She sat up later to rub her hipbone. ‘Why didn’t we go to bed?’

  ‘We can now.’

  Three hours. Four hours’ sleep. It must have been longer but not much. ‘I haven’t finished, you know,’ she said watching him tug on his jeans next morning with the proprietorial interest lovers take in each other’s bodies.

  ‘I’ve got more to say. Where was I up to?’

  ‘Five,’ he said groping for a sock.

  She patted his rump, a friendly familial gesture. ‘What was it?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Oh yes. We’ve had game fatherless child, King Cophetua and the beggar maid New-England style, drunken wifebasher she cannot leave. Just tell me again why she can’t leave?’

  ‘You’re being anachronistic and hopelessly subjective. “I would leave therefore why didn’t she?” Think of the time. And the place. A student of mine,’ he said tugging on the sock, ‘won’t read The Taming of the Shrew because of Shakespeare’s anti-feminist perspective. Another thinks Moby Dick has a bad attitude to whales and she’s so right. They do it all the time. Merchant of Venice. Romeo and Juliet.’ He was flat on the floor in search of the other sock. ‘It’s bizarre.’

  ‘How did we get on to Shakespeare?’ she said mildly.

  Lisa, the Swiss and the mountains, the Maori and the bush. Robin stood silent, the sock hanging from his hand.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She was still watching him. ‘Why did she let me go?’ she nagged him again. ‘Twice.’

  His mother’s wedding would be small and held at Clayton’s own church which would be nice wouldn’t it, and would Robin please get onto Spiro and organise the catering. Nothing too grand, just something simple but nice for afterwards, just family and a few close friends.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Can I ask Emmie?’

  ‘Emmie?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he smiled into her pink blankness. ‘Emmie.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to ask Clayton,’ she demurred. That is what she was doing. Demurring. My demurring mother. My mother who has been known to demur. She would interest him till the day she died and he would never fathom her. He had waited for outward and visible signs of continued happiness on her face, but after the first glow of the announcement all had proceeded as before. Eileen’s smile remained slow, tentative and rare. She bought a two-piece for the ceremony and a pair of courts to have by her for later and that was it. She made arrangements to rent her house and packed her knick-knacks only as Clayton’s home was fully furnished. She made Clayton welcome and touched him occasionally.

  Clayton, on the other hand, became more and more excited. He tiptoed and pranced and opened doors and helped with seatbelts while Eileen sat quietly. She often sat quietly. Once, she had told Robin long ago, she and Terence had come upon a nasty car accident around the Bays and Terence had gone to help and she had sat quietly till he returned. It was terrible he said. Terrible.

  Robin wondered whether sorrow had seeped into her, filled her like a well and left no room for change. He must make allowances and did so, but wondered secretly and with shame what Clayton saw in her, which attribute it was that induced such gaiety and was glad there was one.

  Clayton was growing on him as his mother had promised. ‘He may seem a little, well, joky to you at first, Robin, but Clayton is a deeply spiritual man and I am sure he will grow on you in time.’

  ‘I like him now.’

  ‘Do you dear?’ she said, her forehead slightly creased. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘I know it’s late notice, Spiro, but they’ve just decided,’ he said at the kitchen table. They discussed dates. The fact that it was midweek was a help, and thirty people was all. No problem, no problem, and for you and your mother Robin, the mate’s rates.

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  The hands parted. No problem.

  Rob’s eyes, as always, followed the hypnotic driftings and dartings of the fish. A Black Neon was still hiding in his drowned castle, the green toy frog still burping bubbles on time.

  Calvin would love them. The local library’s vertical tank and stat
ely Fantails were inspected frequently. Christmas; he would give Calvin some freshwater tropicals for Christmas.

  He would not get them yet. Tact was required until things settled. And what do you mean by settled? Settled is that sure and certain time when all will be well, that good time coming. That time when Emmie welcomes the truth and begs him to write it. Yes. He shifted his legs and stared harder. A pink fish snapped at the frog. The inevitability of its burps must drive them insane but we mustn’t be anthropomorphic least of all about fish which are cold-blooded and lacking in human emotion.

  ‘What’s happening to the fish while you’re away, Spiro?’

  ‘My cousin from Tawa sleeps in my house for the massage and feeds them while I am gone. His wife does his fish.’

  They discussed the menu—simple but nice. ‘Everyone in Wellington wants simple but nice. They mean rare like peacock tongues and cheap like dirt and easy on the Greek stuff, Spiro. And I will need to see the venue. Always see the venue if you can, in houses. Halls, places for hire we know: big ovens, benches, the flow. In houses it is more difficult. I arrive to take over and the kitchen is a nest for birds and an oven. No room, no room at all. The menu must match the venue. Always. Otherwise!’ The hands poured the party down the drain.

  ‘I’ll have a look and let you know.’

  Spiro stifled a yawn. ‘OK. Sit down or finger?’

  ‘Fork.’

  ‘Fork. Fork is nowhere, it is between, it is a nonsense; clamp and pull and only those with strong teeth are happy. Those with bite.’ He shot his bottom plate forward. ‘There will be dentures. At second weddings there is always dentures. What are they to do these dentures? Ham. How do you bite ham with a fork? Clamp and pull, clamp and pull is all.’ He was staring, making eye contact, begging from professional knees. ‘Robin, I mean it. Ask for finger food or sit down.’

  ‘Mum wants fork.’

  Spiro leaned back in his chair, his lower lip petulant as an orchid’s. ‘Then fork she gets. But no ham.’

  ‘She wants ham.’

  The hands lifted from the elbows in resignation, the palms flattened in gloomy acceptance of arcane rituals.

  They worked on the menu.

  ‘The finger food for meeting and greeting and popping of corks. Asparagus rolls and club sandwiches and filo pastries for exploding. Is that simple? Is that nice?’

  ‘Very nice,’ said Robin miserably.

  ‘And the vol au vent encasing the dead oyster? Very nice, very tasty—death in hot flaky.’

  Oh bugger this.

  ‘You needn’t do it if you don’t want to.’

  ‘I have said I will. It is just sometimes, just occasionally, the simple and nice gives me the pricker. And for the lunch. Well now?’ He gave an infuriating imitation of enthusiasm, rubbed his hands and held them still. ‘Coronation chicken, why not? Ham, new potatoes, salad?’ The merriment did not last. Spiro, half a lifetime of mundane food trailing behind him, sat silent.

  ‘And then the wedding cake,’ he sighed.

  It was a long session. The coffee changed to ouzo, the ouzo to more ouzo as the evening turned into a training session in the intricacies of Dionysus Caterers; the books were opened, the accounting system described in detail, work plans produced, recipe and staff files, insurance, profits and problems. Spiro was not happy with Wanda. If Wanda became a problem Robin was to feel free to sack her.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Robin who liked Wanda. She was a member of some exclusive sect which made Saturdays difficult and Sundays impossible but she was a good worker.

  And none of this hassle was his wish. Not one ounce of all this did he want, would have paid money to avoid. He had no wish for the distraction, the work, the sheer bind of what Spiro obviously thought was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him, the most stimulating challenge of his life.

  ‘Scott. Scott also may have to be watched. He does not care enough, not enough fire in the gut. Keep him on sandwiches.’

  Robin dragged his mind back. ‘OK.’

  There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, Spiro. No. Not catering. Forget catering. That’s a drag but I’ll do it. It’s not that Spiro, but I have a problem. Calvin had had a problem last week. He missed a fight in the Wendy house. We all have our problems Spiro, and mine is a moral one. How about that Spiro? How do you go on a moral dilemma? How about intellectual honesty? On duty versus the woman I love. Cf Windsor. Wales. Mark Antony.

  ‘Spiro?’ he said.

  Spiro rose, bent to the fish tank in benediction. ‘It is late,’ he said. ‘Go home now, Robin.’

  He turned, one hand idly scratching his groin. ‘She insists on ham?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was a warm day on the Gold Coast with a hint of spring in the air. Groups of friends and strangers gathered outside the small wooden church, told each other so. Had the visitors noticed the early prunus blossoms on the Beach Road? And the first daffodils? The daffodils were late this year which was a worry for the Cancer Society ladies, the sidesman with the eyebrows told them as Robin and his mother waited for the moment when he would escort her up the aisle and give her away.

  He smiled at her, admired her jersey knit, her ruffled pink blouse, her serenity. ‘Happy?’ he asked.

  Her smile was vague beneath grey curls and a pink meringue hat. ‘Of course, dear,’ she touched his arm shyly. ‘It’s lovely of you to fix the fence. I’m sure it was a help with letting the house.’

  ‘And Calvin. He helped.’

  She nodded, more wistful than ever. ‘And Calvin,’ she said. She touched her talisman star brooch. ‘Who’s minding him today?’

  He stared at her. ‘But he’s here with Emmie. I told you—asked, I mean.’

  Her mouth moved, rearranged itself, moved again in odd involuntary twitches.

  ‘Not the boy, you didn’t. He’s so … You should’ve said, dear.’

  The still house and the birdless concrete birdbath and the Crown of Thorns and his mother’s sad-eyed face at his bedside after cleaning up a wee nocturnal accident, the damp sheets held well away from her winceyette nightie, her heavy-duty hairnet blue.

  ‘You haven’t said you’re sorry, dear.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  The brush of lips, the soft cheek. ‘Big boys don’t wet beds, do they?’

  ‘No.’

  And they hadn’t. Not ever again.

  ‘Mum, Emmeline is my friend. Of course Calvin must come.’

  She lifted a hand in quick protest.

  ‘Well he has, hasn’t he?’ she said. ‘It’s too late now.’

  The sidesman touched her arm and the organist burst into the Wedding March and the friends turned smiling in their pews to welcome them.

  In fact it was not too late. Eileen could have barred the door, put up a road block. Emmie and Calvin were late. They were not inside the church. They were not coming. Emmie had sensed the bride’s lack of enthusiasm, had thought better of it—to hell with them, their lack of generosity of mind and spirit, their orderly lists and diagrams and time charts and small meannesses. Their restraint.

  He stood beside his mother aching with desire and rage. Emmeline would come. She had said she would. They could fornicate somewhere. Immediately. At once. Now. He turned as the door crashed open and Emmie and Calvin scrambled in. He had a glimpse of day-glo green and scarlet and turned back smiling to his mother and Clayton on his toes beside her.

  The officiating vicar was one step up from the bridal party. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together …’ He was an old man with a long thin face and fingers designed to bless. He was pleased for Clayton and his lady seemed a good woman. His smile creaked and flowed across his face in welcome. The congregation stirred, smiled back, were filled with goodwill and glad to have been asked. Everyone loved Clayton and he had had a rough time and the church looked lovely didn’t it though it was a pity one of the altar camellias had dropped. ‘Brian does,’ murmured a woman with two sticks. ‘Donation’s a much bett
er bet but she’s later.’

  The vicar lifted his praying hands.

  *

  There were photographs, taut smiles, laughter and snapping cameras. Robin smiled and smiled, his eyes following Emmie as women fussed over Calvin who was looking bored and Emmie who was radiant. She looked different from the last wedding he had seen her at which was his. She was more relaxed, no, that was not the word. He watched her virtually standing on her head to enchant an old man who had seen her on TV in Shark in the Park and when was she going to do another one? But she was undoubtedly calmer about Aunt’s death and would become more so, as long as he didn’t bully her with an unwanted mother who had dumped her twice.

  ‘You came,’ he said fatuously. The lime-green clung tight, made from something which looked like rubberised silk. He had never seen her in high heels before except on stage. They were an exact colour match and so high her eyes topped his. A scarlet plate hat was clamped over one ear, her fingernails were emerald. She was distinctive, a day-glo stick insect angling its way across a field of pastels. Calvin’s gear was more casual, his T-shirt Bart Simpson, his pants grey. She grinned at Rob and continued her chat with the bridegroom’s sister who was over from Reefton and weren’t the camellias lovely and how old was Calvin. Again the world of women tilted away from him, slid sideways to births and nuptials and small talk and survival.

  Old Blue, the last breeding female Chatham Island robin, had saved her race from extinction. They are tough, females. They know more and are sillier. Can talk about anything and are scared of silence.

  Spiro had done well and there were unexpected extras. The guests forked their way through whitebait provided by a devoted member of the parish and cooked by Robin at the last moment because Spiro refused. He refused loudly, vociferously and at some length. He had prepared a menu to balance, he would not fuck it up. He lost his temper which happened seldom and was alarming when it did. He slammed about shouting; his pans, his elements, all were busy. Where, where was it left he should fritter this fish?