Finding Margo

by Susanne O'Leary

  Milady shrugged. “Rather ghastly, really.” She took a cigarette from the gold case on the table and slowly lit it. She inhaled deeply but then started to cough violently, her thin shoulders shaking and her chest heaving.

  Margo poured a glass of water from the carafe on the table and held it out. “Here, Milady, have some of this.”

  Milady took a sip. “Thank you.” She held the cigarette out to Margo. “Please, put this out. I shouldn’t have lit it. I don’t really feel like smoking right now.”

  Margo stubbed the cigarette out in the crystal ashtray. “So,” she said in a bright voice, “what do you want me to do today? What’s on the agenda?”

  “Please, Marguerite, sit down,” Milady said. “And try not to sound so jolly. It’s very wearing.”

  “All right.” Margo sank down on the chair opposite Milady’s deckchair and tried to arrange her features into a more serious expression, but she couldn’t help smiling to herself as she thought of the morning. It was magic, she thought. Like being in another world. She couldn’t remember when she had ever felt so carefree. Jacques was very relaxing company when he was in a good mood. She had looked for Gráinne as they had ridden by the stream and glanced at the spot where the tent had been, but it was gone – a flat area of grass the only sign she had been there at all. But she would be calling in on her way back to Ireland with the two horses.

  “Awful ensemble,” Milady said, cutting into Margo’s daydream. “Quite the wrong colour for that sallow complexion. And she has put on a lot of weight. Somebody should tell her not to wear things that show up that big derrière.”

  “I suppose,” Margo said dreamily.

  “Now, the newspaper.” Milady held it out to Margo. “My eyes seem very tired today. In fact, they are tired all the time these days. I can’t see very well close up, even with my reading glasses. Everything is blurred when I try to concentrate. I don’t know what’s wrong with them.”

  “Could be cataracts,” Margo said, opening the newspaper. “What do you want me to start with? The main news? The heatwave is the top story still, I see.”

  “I beg your pardon? What did you say?”

  “The heatwave.”

  “No, before that. About my eyes.”

  “Cataracts,” Margo repeated. “I thought that might be what’s wrong with your eyes.”

  “But that only happens to very old people.”

  “Not really. My mother had her cataracts done when she was in her late fifties.”

  “Done?” Milady said.

  “Yes, she had an operation to remove them about ten years ago. It was a huge success. She says she hasn’t seen so well since she was a young girl. She went on to do an art history course afterwards. And now she’s in Australia visiting her sister.”

  “Oh. And the operation? Was it what they call major surgery?”

  “Not at all. These days it’s done with a laser, and you are in and out the same day.” Margo suddenly laughed. “You know the difference between major and minor surgery?”

  “No. But I’m sure you are going to tell me.”

  “Well, minor surgery is on someone else and major surgery is when it’s on you. On oneself, I mean.”

  Milady smiled wanly and lay back in the sunlounger. “I see. A medical joke?”

  “Yes. It was a doctor friend of mine, who—” She paused.

  “A man?” Milady asked with more interest in her voice.

  “Yes. A very dear friend.”

  “A boyfriend?”

  “No. Just a friend.”

  “I see.”

  “So, on to the news of today,” Margo said breezily and turned her attention to Le Figaro. “It says here that the hot weather is due to continue. The hospitals in Paris are full of sick people, most of them elderly.”

  Margo read on, turning the pages, and it seemed as if Milady was drifting off to sleep. She read more gently, her voice a soft murmur, checking the inert form of Milady now and then for signs of life. “Bad forest fires in Provence,” she read, her voice a near whisper. “Thousands of acres of pine forest destroyed near St Maxime.” There was a slight snoring sound from Milady. The home of Jean Jacques Gengoux, former president of France,” Margo droned on, “was threatened by fire and the former president suffered...”

  “What?” Milady gasped, sitting bolt upright. “What did you say?”

  “I was reading about the forest fires in Provence. It’s been declared a national emergency and the army—”

  “No, not that!” Milady snapped, tearing off her sunglasses and looking wildly at Margo. “That name—what was it about?”

  Margo scanned the page. “Jean Jacques Gengoux?”

  “That’s it. What has happened to—I mean go on, read it again.”

  “The home of Jean Jacques Gengoux, former president of France, was threatened by fire but was saved by a huge effort by the firefighters. M Gengoux, who suffered a mild heart attack as a result, is now out of danger. He told reporters that he was feeling much better and was looking forward to enjoying the rest of the summer with his wife at the villa.” I am not going to run away,” he said, and he has even offered accommodation to his neighbours who were not as lucky and have lost their homes.” Margo drew breath and turned the page. “Now, here is a story about a robbery in Bordeaux.”

  “Is there a photo?” Milady asked, staring at the newspaper.

  “Of the robbery?”

  “No! Of the president.”

  Margo turned back to the previous page. “Yes, there is. M Gengoux with his arm around his wife on the steps of the villa.”

  “Give it to me,” Milady snapped and snatched the newspaper from Margo. She put on a pair of reading glasses that lay on the table and peered at the photograph.

  “He looks very nice,” Margo said. “I remember him. He was president of France about thirty years ago, is that right?”

  Milady did not reply but kept studying the photo in the newspaper.

  “He was a very good-looking man,” Margo continued. “I’ve seen pictures of him when he was president.”

  “Mmm,” Milady mumbled, her eyes on the photo.

  “But his wife was no beauty, that’s for sure.” Margo said. “A very homely woman, as far as I can remember. Not at all as glamorous as her husband. No wonder he had all those affairs.”

  Milady looked up at Margo. “What do you mean?” she said, her voice cold.

  “I read that somewhere. He is supposed to have had a lot of mistresses.”

  “Nonsense,” Milady said sternly. “He was very faithful.”

  “Must have been some other president I read about,” Margo said, realising that she had committed some kind of faux pas. Milady would probably never admit that a president of France could misbehave in any way. “And in any case, M Gengoux and his wife look very happy in that picture. He is still so attractive, even though he must be at least—”

  “Seventy-nine,” Milady said. “Not old at all, really.”

  “Of course not,” Margo soothed.

  “How old are you?” Milady suddenly asked.

  “Me?” Margo stared at her. “I’m thirty-seven. But why—”

  “Oh. Thirty-seven. Young enough. Tell me, what does your father do for a living?”

  “What?” Margo asked. “My father? He was an antique dealer. He had an antique shop in a small town in Dorset. That’s where I grew up. The shop was on the ground floor of our house, and we lived on the top two floors.”

  “Big house?”

  “Well no, not really. A Victorian semi,” Margo replied, still mystified.

  “Semi?”

  “Semi-detached.”

  “I see. And your parents are still alive?”

  “No, my father died about five years ago. But my mother is—”

  “In Australia?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Brothers and sisters?”

  “Two brothers.”

  “And they are—?”

  “Well, m
y eldest brother took over my father’s business for a while. Then he sold it, and now he is working for Sotheby’s in London as one of their art experts. He lives in Oxford. And my younger brother is an engineer and is at the moment working in Japan on a big contract.”

  “And you? Why did you not follow in your father’s footsteps? Go into the antique business?”

  “Oh.” Margo shrugged. “I was quite interested in it for a while. But I wanted to do something else. My mother is a nurse, you see, and I shared her interest in health and medicine.”

  “You wanted to become a doctor?”

  “No, not really. I was quite squeamish when it came to blood. And nursing seemed too hard. So I took up physiotherapy.”

  “Did you find that interesting?”

  “Very. I especially liked treating injuries from accidents. I found it so wonderful to see patients recovering their mobility and regaining their fitness after serious accidents. It’s amazing how the human body—”

  “I see,” Milady interrupted, obviously not interested in the human body. “But you told me you were a medical secretary, I seem to remember?”

  “Yes. Well, I gave up physiotherapy because—” Margo stopped. “It’s a long story. But why are you asking me all these questions all of a sudden?”

  “No reason,” Milady said airily. “I just felt I should know a little more about you. About your background, I mean.”

  “I see.”

  They were quiet for a moment while Margo squirmed under Milady’s gaze. Then Milady seemed to lose interest, put her sunglasses on, and lay back in the sun lounger. “What about your husband?” she asked after a while, as an afterthought. “The surgeon. What happened to him? Are you still married?”

  “We’re separated.”

  “The marriage was a bit of a mistake?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Ah, yes,” Milady murmured. “Le marriage... pas toujours facile...” She suddenly looked very sad. “It’s hard to lose someone you love, you know. Very hard. When it’s over, all you have are the memories. But they are not enough.”

  “No, I can imagine. I’m sure you miss him a great deal.”

  “Oh yes, I do.”

  “He must have been such a nice man.”

  “Who?” Milady asked, looking puzzled.

  “Your husband, I mean. I’m sure you miss him.”

  Milady sat up and took off her sunglasses. “My husband? Oh, no, I don’t miss him at all.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Margo picked up the glass of beer and brought it to her lips. Delicious, she thought, as she felt the cold liquid slip down her throat. She and Gráinne were sitting on the terrace of the small café that overlooked the river in the village. Two ducks swam by, dipping their heads into the water from time to time. “I like the look of the locals.” Margo put down her glass.

  Gráinne looked around the deserted terrace. “It’s a bit quiet, I know. But it might be early yet. This is dinner time in France, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose. But I don’t care. It’s nice and quiet, the beer is good, and look what a beautiful sunset.”

  “Yeah, it’s great,” Gráinne agreed. “And what do we need more people for? Don’t we have each other?”

  “We do,” Margo agreed. “I’m so glad you called in your way back.”

  “I needed the break.” Gráinne looked across the water. “Isn’t it great the way the French make their riversides look so beautiful? We have lovely rivers in Ireland, but nobody seems to notice. They used to chuck their rubbish into them instead.”

  “Seems a pity.”

  “Sure is. But what were we talking about? Oh, I forgot. Let’s have another beer.”

  “Aren’t you driving back to the farm?”

  “Yeah, but this stuff isn’t that strong, and we won’t be going home for ages. Anyway, there’s never anyone on that road. Don’t be such a fucking nun. Chill out, have some fun for a change.”

  They ordered more beer and continued sitting on the terrace, enjoying the sunset, and the soft breeze on their faces, watching the ducks. And they talked – at first about trivial things, but then, as the evening wore on, about themselves.

  “Bad luck,” Gráinne said when Margo started telling her about Alan. “Bad luck to meet such a creep. Can’t see why you married him.”

  Margo looked at her thoughtfully. Why did I marry him? she wondered. He was good looking, yes, and I was flattered by his attention. Every nurse in the hospital fancied Dr Alan Hunter. But he wanted me. And then I fell in love. So had he, she knew he had. And he needed her, she had realised very shortly after their marriage. He was surprisingly insecure for someone so talented, always looking for praise and reassurance. She had found his vulnerability so touching.

  “I don’t know why any woman wants to be married, to be honest.”

  “What?” Margo asked as Gráinne’s voice jolted her back to the present.

  “Hello? Are you asleep? I asked why women want to get married.”

  “I don’t know. Because they’re in love?”

  “Yes, but you have to like the guy too,” Gráinne said. “Because if you don’t, there’s nothing left when that first romance is gone.”

  Margo looked at Gráinne thoughtfully. “You might be onto something there,” she said. “But then there are the children. Most women want to have a family. I know I did, in any case. I really wanted children.”

  “Kids?” Gráinne said. “What for?”

  “I suppose I wanted someone to love,” Margo said.

  “Maybe you wanted someone to love you,” Gráinne suggested. “I think that’s why a lot of women have them.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Margo said. “I never thought about it that way. Have you never wanted to have a baby?”

  “Not me. I can’t stand kids. Noisy little buggers. Always bawling and wetting their pants. Why not have a dog instead? Dogs never let you down. They love you no matter what, and you only have to take them for a walk and feed them once a day. I have a lovely dog at home. A red setter called Rory. Now, there’s a real gent. Loves me to bits, and I love him right back.” Gráinne smiled fondly. “Dogs are better than men or kids, that’s for sure.”

  “You don’t seem to be too fond of men,” Margo said.

  “Dead right. No man ever did me any favours. I never had anything but trouble from them. I make sure they don’t come too close.” She paused and looked away.

  Margo looked at Gráinne, concerned by her obvious distress. “Did something bad happen to you?” she asked softly.

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Gráinne looked back at Margo. “This bugger raped me when I was fifteen.”

  “Oh God. How awful.”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t very nice, I’ll tell you that.”

  “But how, what—” Margo stopped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “No, it’s OK.” Gráinne leaned across the table and took Margo’s hand. “I want to tell you. You’re such a good person to talk to. And you are one of them... therapists. Isn’t that what you said?”

  “What? No, I was—”

  “Whatever.” Gráinne took a deep breath. “Anyway, like I said, it happened when I was fifteen. At the farm. It was during the summer holidays, and I was in the kitchen getting my breakfast. Everyone was out taking in the silage. I could hear the tractors working away in the field across the road. As I thought I was alone and it was very hot, I didn’t bother to put on my dressing gown. Just as I had finished making myself a cup of tea, the door opened, and Mick came in.”

  “Mick?”

  “Yeah, Mick O’Sullivan, one of the lads helping out with the silage. Big spotty guy. Went to school with my brother, Liam. Fancied himself big time. Anyway, he just stood there leering at me. I asked what the fuck he was looking at, and he said ‘your tits’. Gráinne paused. “I felt suddenly so—dirty, you know?” Her eyes glistened with tears as she looked at Margo
. “I didn’t know what to say back. Then, he—he said he always thought I looked like a guy and hadn’t realised I had tits or how big they were, but now, as I was standing against the light, he could see them clearly.” Gráinne wiped away a tear. “He looked at me in such a filthy way, and I didn’t, I couldn’t—I was kind of frozen to the spot. And then—” Gráinne paused again.

  “And then?” Margo whispered, still holding Gráinne’s hand.

  Gráinne swallowed. “Then he said he would like to feel them, and before I could do anything, he came up to me and put his hand down the front of my pyjamas. I told him to fuck off, but he took no notice and started to feel me up all over. I tried to fight him, but he was a lot stronger than me. He slammed me up against the wall and put one of his hairy hands between my legs and said he knew I was dying for it.” Gráinne stopped, her face white. “The rest isn’t very pretty. Want me to go on?”

  “Only if you want to tell me.”

  “Yeah. OK. Well, then he started fumbling with his trousers, and I was scared shitless. I’ve never been so scared in all my life. I thought, here it comes. But then—”

  “Then?” Margo whispered.

  “Then I got mad. Oh Jesus, I don’t remember ever being so mad. I brought my knee up as hard as I could and he—he screamed his head off and grabbed his balls. ‘You fucking bitch!’ he yelled. Then I took a shotgun that just happened to be hanging on the wall and pointed it at his groin and told him if he didn’t get out of there fast, I would make sure he walked funny for the rest of his life.”

  “What happened?”

  “He got out of there faster than a bat out of hell. Of course, the shotgun wasn’t loaded, but he didn’t know that.” Gráinne drew breath and looked at Margo. “So that’s it. That’s my story. I’m sure you haven’t heard anything as bad as that, ever.”

  Margo tried desperately to keep her face straight. “No, I haven’t.”

  “But as one of them psychotherapists, you must have.”

  “I was a physiotherapist,” Margo corrected.

  “Oh.” Gráinne suddenly laughed and let go of Margo’s hand. “Jesus, you must think I’m really thick. And here I was, pouring my heart out about the rape and everything.”