I head upstairs for a bath, unbuttoning as I go the old grey cardigan and rumpled skirt. These I drop like a discarded skin on the tiled bathroom floor. In the tub filled deep, I find naked immersion in the hot water less an ordinary bath than a sort of baptism. Closing my eyes, I lie full length and let the water lap round me in ritual purification. Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts, as one of the collects puts it. “And as a matter of fact, Mrs. W.,” I confide, as the delicate steam rises around us, “in spite of my behaviour last night, this morning I feel peaceful and purged. Odd, isn’t it.”
“You know,” she remarks in her inconsequential way, “I once saw an ad in the personal column in which someone classified herself as a Serious Widow. If there really are such, do you want to be one of them?”
“Well, but Ethel – you don’t mind if I call you Ethel? – after all, it’s been years – you must admit that all that cuddling with Cuthbert – pretty shameful, wasn’t it. At our age, too. Also unbelievably silly. Could lead to all sorts of complications. And that would be entirely my fault, because it was all really just to spite Edwin.” After a moment I add, “Well, not quite all, maybe.”
“Everything worthwhile is complicated, and what a good thing, really,” she says, idly blowing a hole in the steam. “There are, for instance, two or three sexes, good and bad angels, and the easiness of lies. Makes life amusing and full of surprises.”
“But it was terrible of me to encourage him. Whatever must he think? Don’t answer that.”
“I rather imagine neither of you did much thinking at the time. Surely there are places and positions where thinking is a waste of time.”
“But what am I going do about it? He actually proposed.”
“Whatever you feel like doing, my dear. Go fishing like Maggie Vardoe, for instance. Fish for the truth. Not hers, necessarily. Fish for your own.”
And with this Mrs. Wilson blows me a kiss and disappears.
Refreshed by this encounter, I wrap myself in a towel and cross to the bedroom to dress. But a survey of the cupboard (half empty, now, with most of Edwin’s things packed away) does nothing to encourage the idea of rebirth. My clothes are all depressing reminders of many things, in particular my dressmaking inadequacies. The brown checked skirt that never did hang quite straight. The grey dress I made three years ago that looks even more boring whenever I try to brighten it up with a new scarf or belt. The beige skirt, baggy at the seat with age. Fretfully I push these dreary articles about on their hangers. Catching my eye in the mirror, it occurs to me that I look better in the bath towel pegged under my arms than in any of my clothes. The ruby colour and the soft pile are both pleasing. Turning first one way and then another, I look at my reflection thoughtfully.
The towel is one of a set given to us by Marion last Christmas. She apologized at the time for the colour, explaining that they were on sale. Of course few people in this cautious country would care to pay full price to dry themselves on anything so vivid. Certainly it would take a bolder spirit than mine to wear such a rich red any place where other people could see it. But just to lounge around in at home … The longer I look at myself the better I like the way that ruby colour makes my hair look darker and my shoulders whiter.
After a minute, I pull the matching towels out of the linen cupboard. There is enough material for a wraparound skirt and a sort of tabard top. Half furtively I uncover the sewing machine and sit down. A few hours with scissors and thread … Why not? It’s not exactly fishing, Ethel, but maybe it’s not far off.
Marion’s key scrapes in the lock downstairs just as I am leaning towards the mirror to remove a last pin from a shoulder seam. Before I can dart out of sight and strip off the whole ensemble, she has slung off her coat and come swiftly up the stairs. I back myself in haste halfway into the cupboard, where I pretend to have legitimate business among the shoes.
“Mother? Oh, there you are. You’ll never guess what’s happened.” Here she pauses impressively. “Gloria McNulty has resigned.”
“No,” I say feebly.
“Yes, actually resigned, after twenty years. Polly phoned me just now with the whole story. It seems at the commissioners’ meeting yesterday, Margaret-Ann Carslake from Manitoba told her she was an obstructionist. There was a sticky kind of silence and when nobody denied it, she just up and resigned, then and there.”
“Well, well. I suppose that’s good. You sound pleased.”
“Mother, you know who McNulty is.”
“Actually, no.”
Marion sits down vehemently on the edge of the bed. “Honestly, Mother. She’s our area commissioner.”
“Oh, yes. I see.”
“Do you? It just means for the first time in about a whole generation something will actually get done here in Guiding. And who’s next under area commissioners? Divisions, that’s who. And after Connie Ball and Babs, I’m senior in divisions. And that means there’s a good chance I’ll get the job. Heaven knows I’m the obvious choice. Babs Harrington can’t decide what to have for lunch, never mind anything else; and everybody thinks poor old Connie has Alzheimer’s.”
“Well, dear, I hope it comes your way if you want it. The job, I mean.”
“Of course I want it. Not just because of the rank, either, or the raise. There’s so much that needs doing – the whole organization for years now has been in the hands of these dear old ladies who knew Baden-Powell back in ’37. Infatuated with him, if you ask me, most of them. They’re sure nobody could ever possibly improve on his ideas, though it’s obvious that since then – Mother, what on earth are you doing in there? And what, for pity’s sake, is that you’re wearing?”
Half sheepish, half defiant, I come out of the closet.
“But that’s – but Mother – those are your towels!”
“That’s right. I decided to make them into a nice little leisure outfit. Isn’t the colour great?”
“The skirt is much too skimpy. In fact, the whole thing looks ridiculous,” says Marion.
Law Number Four: A Guide is a friend to all, I think bitterly.
Downstairs the door knocker gives a smart tattoo, and with something of a flounce Marion goes to peer through the small landing window from which large-headed, tapered callers can be seen on the porch below. “It’s Canon Tom,” she says. “I’ll go. Change into something decent.”
“Won’t,” I mutter when she is safely out of earshot. Instead I put on a long-sleeved white blouse and on the shoulder of the tabard over it pin a pretty old gold brooch of Nana’s.
“Rowena, my dear,” booms Tom as I come down the stairs. “What a delightful frock. Your clever needle at work again! Most becoming!” His blue eyes move appreciatively over the skimpy skirt. Marion fails to repress a faint snort. “I hope you’ll forgive me for dropping in like this, but my friend’s grandson – you remember I mentioned the Whittakers the other day – they’ve commissioned me to ask whether you’ll agree to an interview.”
“An interview!” says Marion. “Whatever for?”
“Tell her about it, Tom, while I get the tea.”
From the kitchen I hear the rumble of his voice alternating with her incisive questions. In a leisurely fashion I set a tray with cups and find some ginger biscuits to put on a platter. Wittgenstein is out in our yard sharpening his claws on the maple tree. I rap on the glass by way of greeting, and he instantly runs up our back steps to yowl at the door. “Abandon hope,” I tell him, muffling the teapot in its cosy. Cheerfully he shoots off in pursuit of a squirrel.
“… and when Margaret-Ann Carslake called her an obstructionist at the meeting, there was a sticky kind of silence and then she simply up and resigned,” Marion is saying as I carry in the tray. “So you see this may open the way for me.”
“Bless me,” says Tom comfortably. “Well, I daresay it may be time for a little young blood to find its way onto that board. I wish you all the luck in the world, my dear.”
“But about these Whittakers,” Marion says, turning to me
with a frown. “You can’t be seriously considering it, Mother? Turning out six days a week in all weathers, and taking orders from a stranger – how would you ever adjust to all that? You don’t realize how spoiled and sheltered you’ve been. And four children – all boys – I can’t imagine it.”
As a matter of fact I can’t imagine it, either, but after all only days ago she was hectoring me about practical plans for the future, and it irritates me to find her so dismissive now. So I say, trying to sound confident, “Well, you never know till you try, do you? After all I dealt with you when you were two … Once you kicked quite a big hole in the wall with temper. Besides, all my reading, specially in Victoriana, might come in very handy in a job like this. Gin is what they used to tranquillize babies, you know, and if that didn’t work, you held their little heads over the gas stove. Anyhow, Tom, I’ll be glad to go and talk to them about it,” I add, though I know Marion understands as well as I do that this talk is mostly swagger.
Another rap at the door brings Marion to her feet. Casting a repressive glance at me over her shoulder she goes to the door. There is then a bustle of coat and boot removal in the hall, and Cuthbert comes in carrying a sheaf of yellow roses half as tall as himself. He walks up to me with a fixed, self-conscious smile and presents them with an awkward flourish that suggests guilt rather than gallantry.
“Oh, thank you, Cuthbert. How lovely.”
“You’re looking very nice,” he says, blushing as he glances at the new outfit. “Is that a new dress? Very attractive.”
A noticeable bleakness of expression has settled over the faces of Tom and Marion during this exchange. When I go out to put the roses in water, Cuthbert would have followed me, but Marion seats him with authority, and soon her voice floats out to me: “… and when Margaret-Ann Carslake called Gloria an obstructionist at the meeting, there was a sticky kind of silence and she up and resigned on the spot.”
I replenish the teapot and take it back in with the vase of flowers. Set on the coffee table they seem to drink all the light in the room, and in return they shed such a voluptuous perfume into the air that conversation about sensible things like jobs falters to a stop. Tom moodily crunches the last biscuit. Outside the sky dims, then the street lamps bloom green, officially proclaiming nightfall. Wittgenstein strolls into the room and sniffs at my shoes.
“I’m afraid he squeezed in when I arrived,” Cuthbert says apologetically. “Would you like me to put him out?”
“I will deal with it,” says Tom. Masterfully he scoops the cat up and carries him away. A moment later he is back, sucking a long scratch on his wrist.
“Here, I’ll look after that,” Marion says briskly. She brings in the kitchen first-aid kit and from it produces antiseptic and a Band-Aid, with her usual air of faintly scornful competence. Over her shoulder Tom casts me a glance in which reproach and wistfulness are the chief ingredients. “You’ll hardly believe this,” she remarks to no one in particular, “but I found three hundred dollars in cash just now on the kitchen counter. Under the biscuit tin. Really, Mother, I don’t know what’s going to become of you.”
I clear my throat. Cuthbert is looking attentively out of the window at nothing. Luckily the others show no interest in either of these reactions.
By now it is nearly dark, and Marion gets out her coat, asking rather pointedly, “Can I offer anybody a lift? – Canon Tom?”
“No – no, thank you, my dear. As you know, I live not too far away to walk. Make a point of my four miles a day. I’m still good for more than that, thank the Lord.”
“And I have my car, thanks, Marion.”
After perfunctory farewells she leaves, closing the door behind her with rather unnecessary firmness. Conversation then idles from Meech Lake to Eastern Europe, and thence to Toronto’s garbage-disposal problem. I begin to feel hungry, but there is nothing in the house to offer two guests for dinner. I cross my legs; then think better of it and uncross them. Blinking and stiffening my jaw, I try not to yawn. Why on earth don’t they go home? The clock strikes six; still neither takes the hint. Tom’s eyes keep straying to my legs. Cuthbert’s face has taken on a wooden look of obstinacy. I pull down the red skirt. Marion is right about it, of course. She has an exasperating habit of being right about such things.
At last Tom mutters something about a vestry meeting and stands up. “I’ll be glad to drive you over to the Whittakers’ tomorrow, Rowena,” he says. “Would four o’clock suit you? I’ll be here in good time. Good night, Cuthbert.” He accepts my help with his coat, holding up his wrist with a brave air of concealed suffering, and leaves with a last rather languishing look at me.
The door has barely closed when Cuthbert joins me in the hall, rubbing his short hands together in satisfaction. “I thought dear old Tom would never push off,” he says, “but I just had to have a quick word …”
I have retreated swiftly to my chair in the corner, where I sit with both feet primly together on the carpet. I avoid even looking at the sofa with its now neatly folded afghan. But to my surprise, Cuthbert reappears winding on his muffler. “I must be off myself, Rowena,” he says rather breathlessly. “It’s my night to visit Mother. And no doubt you’ll be glad of a quiet evening to yourself. You’ve had a … Well, what I mean is that yesterday – last night – was – well, best all round if we both just forget all about that … whole incident. I’m sure you agree that’s best all round. There are times when one says things … You understand, I’m sure.”
Before the last of these words is out, I have cut in (trying to keep the relief out of my voice), “Oh, absolutely. You’re quite right, Cuthbert.”
“That’s all right, then. Bless you. So I’ll be off. See you again before long. Now take care.”
Our mutual embarrassment hangs in the air like some powerful, not very pleasant smell – the odour of sanctity, perhaps.
“Well, my dear, that went off very well,” says Tom, heaving himself into place behind the wheel of his little sports car. Before putting it in gear, he gives my knee a congratulatory squeeze. Did it? I want to say, but instead murmur, “Yes, it seemed to.”
“I could see they were impressed by your maturity and – if I may say so – your excellent calm. Now their last home-help was calm, to be sure, but she took it to extremes, rather. They found her snoring in the family room last week while the children tore all over the house squirting each other with Sprite. How she could sleep through that –”
Maybe through despair, I think, but dutifully say, “Amazing.”
“Spirited children,” he remarks, stealing a sidelong look at me. Certainly the two who skateboarded in and out of the room throughout our visit did not seem to lack spirit. The youngest, it’s true, hid behind the sofa, but from that vantage point he growled and yapped at the family dog until it had hysterics and puddled on the rug. These details have not escaped Tom’s attention any more than they have mine, but for some reason he seems very anxious to put the whole tribe in the best possible light. I can’t help wondering why.
“Miriam’s great-grandchildren are very dear to her, naturally. And she herself is one of my most valued parishioners.”
You mean richest, I think, my question answered.
“At any rate, the Whittakers were delighted that you accepted the job,” he goes on.
“Provisionally,” I put in. It surprises me that he could have seen any delight in Toby Whittaker, an exhausted-looking young man who, after shaking hands, said not a word from first to last, but whose silence emitted a faint air of disaster and gin.
“I could see that they were delighted,” he repeats firmly. “Of course it’s a stroke of luck for them, as they must be well aware, to have a trustworthy person like you to take over.”
“On a trial basis.”
“Yes, of course, my dear. Tell me, just between the two of us, what was your impression of Wilma? I get the feeling, from various things Miriam has let drop, that there’s not much love lost between those ladies. Perhaps that’
s because they’re so much alike.”
It’s a sobering thought that there might be someone else like Wilma Whittaker. She frightened me even more than her children did, which was quite a lot. She was a large, square girl with the swaggering walk of an SS officer. Her hair was dragged back off her face with an elastic band, thus giving full exposure to a prominent jaw and a steel-blue, aggressive stare. The couple were barely out of their twenties, but she seemed to have behind her a lifetime of authority and self-esteem.
“Finding the right person to interface with the children,” she said to me, in the resonant voice God might use if He ever felt like conversation, “that’s the bottom line for us here. But you don’t strike me as the kind of person interested in establishing a dependency relationship, and that’s a plus. You’ll help them deal with the learning experience on a day-to-day basis is what I guess I’m trying to say.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” I said, trying not to sound ironic. But I was at the same time mesmerized by that metallic gaze and by her clothes – a black leather mini-skirt and a magenta satin blouse with food stains down the front. This outfit actually gave me a certain new respect for my old grey dress. With one bare foot (the toenails also magenta) she fended off one of the skateboarders who would otherwise have overturned the standard lamp.
“Then we’ll expect you at noon Monday,” she said briskly.
“Yes. On a trial basis.”
Now the thought of Monday, on any basis whatsoever, makes my stomach contract. What a ridiculous position I’ve put myself in, simply because I can’t bring myself to utter the word no, even to an old acquaintance like Tom. However, as it is he can enjoy the belief he’s done a good day’s work for all concerned. We are by now nearly home and he swings cheerfully off the Don Valley Parkway.
A Serious Widow Page 7
