Rhythm and Rhyme

by Dixie Carlton

  Sitting at the table and writing a brief note to him advising of her plans for the day, she also wrote a brief note to Solange, in case she was not there tomorrow, and readied herself for bed.

  The next morning, she got the children up early and they made their way to the tram to visit Solange. Walking towards the store, Margaret could see that the store sign was turned to closed, but considering it was quite early, knocked on the door anyway. Definitely no one there, so she slid the note she’d written the night before under the door and headed back to the tram.

  By lunchtime she had completed the shopping, including some additional clothes for Maureen and Lewis, and a few treats to add to the luggage. She still had to give notice to Brian and Tim, but hoped she’d get away with an immediate finish, given that she still had no possible arrangements for her children while she performed. The new girl they’d hired for the off-sets would be able to carry them for a few weeks until they found another performer, of that she was sure.

  Thanking both Brian, Tim, and the handful of staff she was able to locate that afternoon she made her farewells, and collected the two dresses and some make up she’d left in the dressing room and returned to the boarding house. Mrs Harris advised that no, Mr Cook had not been to visit. With a heavy heart she took the children upstairs and worried about what might have happened to Nate. With no way to find out, she passed the rest of the afternoon away packing and preparing for the trip home to Auckland, sure that this was the best course of action to take.

  Another night passed, and she knew there was a chance to take a ship to Auckland leaving that evening, but waited for as long as possible to hear from Nate before taking their bags and the children to the docks. Securing a berth was easy, and the trip was expected to take only five days. A note had been left with Mrs Harris to give to Nate, if or when he did turn up, and he of course would be able to find her at their home in Auckland. The other concern she had was whether or not Mrs Cook might still have a mind to either retrieve the children or make trouble for her with the authorities, but she decided she was simply going to have to take her chances and trust that Nate would take care of everything.

  She consoled herself with the reasoning that there was no point waiting in Sydney any longer now that she had her children, and they were best to simply return to Auckland and wait for him there. Contacting him at the Cook’s house was not an option in her mind.

  By the time the ship reached Auckland, they were all in high spirits about returning to their home and Margaret was delighted to find the house in the same order she’d left it in several months earlier. There were a few signs that Nate had been there at some stage, quite recently, but all in all, they were very happy to return, and spent the next day getting the house back in order, unpacking and replenishing the pantry.

  Two weeks went by and still no word from Nate, with Margaret growing increasingly worried. Finally, she had to make a decision and ventured into the city to visit her old friends Ruth and Jean. Delighted to see her, they caught up over fresh scones and tea, then the two old ladies looked after Maureen and Lewis while Margaret went to the offices of Cookson’s Department Store.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  “Mr Jenkins, please.” Margaret stood at the doorway to the offices and realized that even though it was less than a year since she’d last stood there, the place had grown. More people were there, with more desks, and she asked to see Nathaniel Cook’s assistant, hoping he might remember her as ‘Nate’s cousin’.

  He walked towards her, peering intently over his spectacles. Although not much more than perhaps 50 years of age, he looked and walked like a man who was much older. “Yes? You wished to see me?” He seemed a little confused as though why anyone might want to see him especially was a mystery to the man.

  “Mr Jenkins, I’m Mrs McKenzie, Mr Cook’s cousin… we met early this year. Do you remember me?”

  “Ah yes of course. Mrs McKenzie. I’m sorry Mr Cook is not here.”

  “Yes, I think I knew that. But I’m worried about him as I have not heard from him for some time. I wonder if I can please get word to him?” He hesitated for so long in his reply that Margaret found she was holding her breath as she waited.

  “Ahhh, well, yes. That is to say, actually no. I don’t think that will be possible.” He looked terribly confused, and Margaret’s fears grew like a solid ball in the pit of her stomach.

  “Please, can you tell me, has something happened to Mr Cook?” Her voice dropped to a whisper and she fought down the urge to be violently ill. She put her hand on Mr Jenkins arm, desperately hoping he would somehow understand that perhaps she was not simply Nathaniel Cook’s cousin at all.

  “Perhaps you should come with me. Please, this way.” He looked at her kindly then, and his expression softened even more when she was seated in Nate’s office. Jenkins sat in the chair opposite her and removed his spectacles, leaning forward to clean them with a large white handkerchief as he spoke.

  “Mrs McKenzie, I do remember you, and yes, I realize you are close to Mr Cook. So, I’ll tell you this and I’m so very sorry. But you see, Mr Cook died of a massive heart attack at his home in Sydney three weeks ago.”

  “No, that can’t be possible. I just saw him three weeks ago.” Margaret felt air go through her voice, sure that she’d said the words out loud but completely unable to identify the sound of her voice. Maybe she just thought the words. She tried to remember what the words actually were. She’d just said something and the man across from her was smiling gently at her. What was it she’d said? Something about Nate. Her beloved Nate. “No, that can’t be.” Oh - that was it. The words she’d said. That it couldn’t be true. She’d just seen him. She felt like she was outside her own body watching her face contort with the trouble of trying to make sense of her own words. Jenkins was asking if she was alright? No, she didn’t think so, but had lost the ability to say so. She just tried shaking her head instead.

  “Can I get you something? Perhaps a cup of tea? No, maybe try this.” A glass of something strong and dark colored appeared in her hands and she looked at it - unsure what to do with it, and it slipped through her hands and crashed to the floor. She watched as the liquid spilled over the shards of glass and ran along the floor, slipping into the few cracks in the wooden floor boards. Soon she was somehow outside and walking very fast along the street, with no idea where she was headed, but comforted by the sound of her own heals on the pavement. Her purse was still clutched very tightly in her hands sometime later when she found herself standing on the porch at Mary’s house where Ruth found her.

  “He’s dead. He’d dead… he’s dead… he’s dead…” she said the words over and over, as Ruth led her inside, sat her down in the kitchen and made her drink a large glass of brandy. Fortunately, both the children were upstairs having a story ahead of nap time with Jean, so she just waited with Margaret until she’d finished her drink and Jean joined them.

  Together they gleaned from her that Nate had died, from a heart attack. Beyond that they were unable to make sense of anything else but decided it was best to put her into her old room and shut the door, keeping the children out of the way for a while. As Jean folded her coat at the foot of the bed, Ruth gave Margaret another large glass of Brandy and they tucked a blanket around her. A large envelope was felt in the pocket of her coat, and Jean extracted it to put beside Margaret when she awoke.

  Margaret had not really been aware of Mr Jenkins giving it to her or it ending up in her pocket earlier, but when she awoke, it was there.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  She woke up, thirsty, and it was growing dark outside. Something was wrong, it was odd to be sleeping at this time of day, and why was she in her old bed? Margaret looked about at the curtains, the familiar old wallpaper and felt about in her mind for information. The events of the day crashed into her consciousness like the Titanic hitting an iceberg. The icy depths of the despair that washed over her threatened to sink her. And every emotion she could eve
r remember feeling was banished overboard as her mental state started to slip under.

  Tears sprang uncontrollably as the words played over and over in her mind. How could this be? What might possibly have happened. Every possible scenario played itself over and over in her mind like a stuck song, a rhythm pounding out over and over again with no release, except through the tears than ran unchecked from her eyes.

  My Dearest Margaret

  This has been a trying time for us both, and I’ve taken to writing to you, unsure where you are, or if I’ll ever see you again. It’s a dark August night, the wind is blowing outside, and I’m here at my desk, not wanting to return to my home or to anywhere you are not. I miss you desperately and the only way I can reach you is to write and hope that one day you’ll walk back into my life.

  I’m also writing this in case it takes so much longer and in case something should ever happen to prevent us from being together, I want you to know how much you mean to me right now.

  I’ve lost you twice now, and can’t bear it. You’ve also given me a wonderful son, a daughter I can call my own who is so much like you. And a part time life I’d never have known without you - filled with happy times and much love and laughter. I cherish those time we have spent in the little house in Auckland - which by the way, is completely yours now. I should have done that a long time ago but the deed to it is enclosed with this letter.

  If you are reading this, we’re either married and old and gray and celebrating our love together after many years. Or, something may have prevented that from happening, in which case I shall be with you somehow in spirit, watching as you read this and probably stroking your beautiful hair. I’ll be weeping too I’m sure.

  Please, dearest Margaret, forgive me for not believing you about Thomas Morris. I know you could never have lied to me about him. I do hope we have the chance to put all that to rest one day but if the fates decree that we must be apart, please know that I love you, have always loved you, and will always love you. You are where I start and where I end, every single day. I only pray that our story has not yet ended, as you are my completion.

  Nate.

  Margaret read it through twice and folded it back into the envelope. Sure enough, the title deed to her house in Takapuna was there. Nothing else, but somehow the smell of Nate settled upon her and she held the envelope to her chest for a very long time.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Margaret was surprised to see a long white envelope with scrawled writing that looked vaguely familiar. It was delivered by special mail and was quite thick. Postmarked Sydney, she hesitated to open it. Perhaps it was more trouble. She’d had more than enough of that over the years. Best to let sleeping dogs lie. It was 10 years since she’d been in Sydney, and her memories of it, and many instances since, were not good ones. She let it sit on the counter top for a while, busying herself in the kitchen making a pot of tea and cutting a slice of chocolate cake. The envelope beckoned, almost like an old song playing at the back of her mind - insistent and challenging.

  Finally, she picked it up again and smelled it. There was something familiar about its smell too she thought.

  Ah well, I suppose it will bug me until I open it - so I might as well get it over with. With that, she brought the letter opener up to the corner and inserted it, before sweeping the length of the envelope and allowing its contents to be withdrawn.

  Margaret, my dear girl...

  If you are reading this, then I imagine at some point my life has gone awry and my niece has inherited my store and found this among my possessions. I do hope you are well and not too much time has passed since we last enjoyed a cup of tea or a glass of fine scotch at my beautiful white table.

  As I write this, I must first apologize to you for not telling you what I knew yesterday. You were so shocked at seeing your husband’s body in my cupboard that I simply thought it too much for you. However, I was sure I’d see you again soon to share. But if that has not happened, then again, I apologize.

  The night Thomas Morris died, he had gained access to my store and was intent on goodness only knows what, but I dispatched him by a long drop kick from the top of my stairs to the landing at the bottom of them, before using his rather weakened and vulnerable state to find out who he was and why he was following me the previous week or two.

  What I learned shocked me, and I am quite surprised as always, at the lengths people will go to in order to upset other people’s lives for no apparent reason. Thomas was, as it turns out, quite mad. Of this I’m sure. I asked him why he was so interested in you, your life, and what he intended to do having ‘popped up’ again. Here’s the gist of what he had to say.

  ‘Margaret and I share a father. Fred McKenzie was the bastard who knocked up my mother, then beat her while she was pregnant with another of his bastards. She lost the baby, and ended up dribbling for the rest of her short life, being spoon fed and unable to care for me. I was shipped off to some old lady to be looked after, and she was a miserly old bitch who would not share heat or food more than was necessary. I grew up cold, hungry and mostly uneducated. So, when I grew up enough to go looking for him, I found that old bastard and promised him I’d make him pay for what he did. Then I found her on a ship to New Zealand, and decided that making her life miserable was a far better way to go about it than deal directly with him. I suppose I became obsessed with her. Her life was so much better than mine and yet at times I felt sorry for her too - I knew that if she worked out who I was, it would be weird, especially as I married her too. But I just wanted to see her pay for what our father did to me. If my life was fucked up - then so would hers be.’

  So, my dear Margaret, that is the reality of the man who did such a great job of adding confusion and mayhem into your life. He was clearly quite mad. Now - in case it’s bothered you to know - I did not kill him, although happily I would have if I’d had to. But, as he expired of his own accord during our ‘conversation’, I was not therefore able to find out a lot more. But I think you need to have the truth of this man. Also - I hope you realize that you were probably not even really legally married to him - so although you may have thought you were a widow by the time you saw him that day, in fact, he would not have been able to marry you if anyone had known he was indeed your brother.

  I myself have wandered off somewhere no doubt, but don’t worry about me. I may or may not be in some Moroccan tent or with a far eastern concubine somewhere, creating costumes, or fighting my way through life. Or maybe I’m simply nowhere at all. Either way, please remember me as someone who had a good life, and few friends, but good ones. Of which I like to think of you in those terms despite our brief times together.

  Be good to yourself, dear girl, and always wear Diana with pride - you sure do have the body for it!

  Solange”

  Author’s Notes

  Having worked in the area of non-fiction for a few years, back in 2014 I finally sat down and wrote the first in this series about Margaret McKenzie – my late mother in law. Based on only the scant details we knew of her rather bizarre life, much of it was quick simply filling in the parts we thought might have been the reasons behind some of what she did later in life. I had been yearning to tell her story for several years, and also wanted to learn more about the art of storytelling and fiction. For years after, I had people pestering me to share ‘what happened next’. This time, I am confident that the story is 100% fiction – I simply made it all up. I only know that after leaving her children behind one day, she never talked of them again, and we knew nothing of them until decades later. We did know however that she was the long-term mistress of a wealthy man and that at least one of her children was his. We also knew she had wild red hair a sang in jazz clubs.

  Because this story is completely not based on any knowledge of what happened next in Margaret’s real life, I’ve taken a lot of artistic license with regards certain characters. I did learn that there were European and Maltese petty crime syndicates operating very successfu
lly in Sydney and Melbourne after WWII. The likes of Gregory/Solange’s character existing in reality in the 1950s are ‘probable’ but I could find no actual references to the preliminary cross-dressing scene at that time – Kings Cross in Sydney was later famous for such interesting people.

  Finally I’d like to propose that as I found Gregory / Solange to be such a wonderful person to write about – he/she practically introduced himself to me and proceeded to help write the story – that I’d like to explore further so if you’re also keen to find out what maybe happened to him/her, please follow my Author Page on Amazon, or on Facebook and I’ll let you know when that book is due out – he’s already starring in my imagination regularly.

  Thank you to a couple of people who allowed me to use their names and personalities for this story, and to all my test readers for the early feedback.

  Finally – to Alexander Carlton for the great editing and character development skills you shared, and to Deirdre Swanny for brilliant proofing. A word of gratitude also to Lynnette Flowers, Debby Adams, and Kim Lambert.

  And to my Delicious Bratwurst, thanks for the endless hours encouraging me to talk about this book, and explore all the fun things about writing it. I can’t wait to explore the world with you.

  About Dixie

  Dixie is a dedicated ‘Word Witch’ with a passion for bringing stories to life, inspired by people she meets or situations she experiences.

  A successful author, publisher, international speaker and coach, Dixie has taken dozens of authors and business specialists from Idea to Author-ity®.

  Based in Brisbane Australia, but well-travelled, Dixie has worked with clients all over the world, from a variety of industries. Dixie’s special skills combining all her experience in marketing, brand development, publishing, speaking and coaching make up her essential toolbox when working with highly motivated entrepreneurs who want to change their corner of the world.