Hostel Girl

by Gee, Maurice

  ‘Oh deary me. Deary, deary me.’

  They heard his footsteps in the living room, saw him walk with lowered head past the hall door. A moment later a tap ran in the kitchen.

  ‘He’s having a drink of water,’ Calum whispered. ‘Then I bet he comes to change his clothes.’

  ‘Where can we go?’

  ‘Not out the front door. He’ll hear my callipers.’

  ‘In here.’

  It was a door opposite Errol Parkinson’s bedroom. There was no key in the lock but it opened when Ailsa tried the handle. They crept into the room, which turned pitch black when she closed the door. The tap stopped running in the kitchen. The house was quiet.

  ‘Do you think he heard?’

  ‘Shh,’ she said.

  ‘What if he sees the back door isn’t locked?’

  ‘Sshh.’

  They waited. A toilet flushed at the far end of the house.

  ‘We could have got out.’

  Errol Parkinson’s footsteps came down the hall. They stopped by the door. He was three feet away.

  ‘Woe. Ah, woe,’ he said.

  He opened his bedroom door; and they waited for a long time, hearing faint sounds at his wardrobe and his drawers.

  ‘I bet he’s putting on another suit,’ Calum whispered. Then, even softer, with an edge of fright: ‘Or his wig.’

  Ailsa was wondering why the room they were hiding in had so little light. There must be heavy drapes on the window. A mirror gleamed on a dressing table. And something white, glimmering too, stood low down in a corner. She drew her arms tightly over her chest.

  Errol Parkinson came out of his bedroom and closed the door. ‘Sweets to the sweet,’ he sighed, and went away.

  They heard him at the front door. It opened and closed. His footsteps made their drum-tapping sound on the veranda.

  ‘Wait,’ Calum said. ‘There. He’s gone into his garage.’

  They heard a car start as though in another street.

  ‘He’s going. He’s outside. That’s his garage door. Let’s go.’

  ‘No,’ Ailsa said. She moved towards the thing that glimmered in the corner; bumped into a bed. She sat on it and reached out her hand; touched something made of cloth, as slippery as soap. A shape was raised from it, angled and more rough. Her fingers moved across it, tracing a pattern or a name.

  ‘Has his car gone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want to see this room. Turn on the light.’

  Calum found the switch. The room sprang out, small and flowery-papered and fresh. A polished floor, a new mat, a soft-looking chair. The dressing table was brand new, the varnish shone. No drapes hung on the window: it was boarded up, nailed tight. A soulful, skyward-gazing girl was framed on the wall.

  Ailsa took this in with a glance. The bed she sat on had a quilted coverlet. A pillow with a white silk slip leaned against the headboard. Ailsa drew her hand away, exposing a pink embroidered name: GLORIA.

  She looked at Calum.

  ‘It’s her room,’ she said.

  Chapter 9

  GIN AND HOT BATHS

  A unit pulled in at Woburn station. The usual crowd of hostel girls got off, with Gloria last. Ailsa waited on the overbridge, wondering why Gloria must always be alone — and if she liked it, if it made her feel superior. She would be alone all right when Errol Parkinson locked her in the room with the boarded-up window.

  They walked along together to House 4. Apart from ‘hello’ they did not speak. Ailsa looked sideways at her friend, try-ing to see one of those angelic girls who hung all over Errol Parkinson’s walls. They were from another planet, she thought, and nothing like Gloria, who smelled of cigarettes at the end of her day, and sweat as well, and was late with her period. She saw how crazy Errol Parkinson was, with Gloria’s name embroidered in pink on a silk pillowcase, as though she floated somewhere off the ground. He would have a shock if he ever got her.

  ‘Listen,’ she said when they were in their room.

  ‘Don’t start. I don’t want to hear,’ Gloria said.

  ‘It isn’t that. It’s Errol Parkinson.’

  ‘No, no, no. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Gloria —’

  ‘I can deal with twerps like him. Do you think I don’t have some real problems?’

  ‘Calum and I went into his house —’

  ‘If you say another word I’ll scream.’

  Ailsa saw that she would do it. She watched while Gloria took off her coat and stockings and shoes, grabbed her towel and toilet bag and left for the bathroom. There seemed to be nothing Ailsa could do and she wanted to talk to Calum again. Ask him what came next. Ask him how his leg was. He had hurt it on the compost bin on the way back.

  Instead she went to her mother’s room.

  ‘You look a bit down in the dumps,’ Mrs McGowan said.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Yes, you are. What’s wrong with my girl?’

  She hugged Ailsa and they stood for a while as though saying goodbye.

  ‘Just friends I don’t like any more,’ Ailsa said. It wasn’t lying — she didn’t like Helen. But what a relief it would be to tell her mother everything and not be responsible any longer. She felt her troubles like a black cloud rolling over her; but heavier than a cloud; pressing her flat like a medicine ball.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she heard herself say.

  ‘Friends come and go, but not real friends,’ her mother said.

  ‘No. It’s only Helen anyhow. And I’ve got Calum. Mum, if I tell you something you’ve got to promise me you won’t get mad.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘It’s not serious. It’s just sort of stupid.’

  ‘All right,’ Mrs McGowan said, sounding doubtful.

  ‘I was round at the Pages’ this afternoon and Calum and I came across from the garage to the house and Mr and Mrs Page had just come in. They’d been to see Helen dance at ballet. We heard them talking.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘About me.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘They must have seen our bikes, and she said, “I don’t like Calum going with that girl. She’s straight out of the Mazengarb Report”.’

  ‘What?’ Mrs McGowan’s face went white, then red.

  ‘It’s all right, because he said, “Well, I quite like her. At least she’s brought him back to life”. And she said, “I’d sooner he stayed in a wheelchair than run around with girls of that sort”.’

  ‘Of all the … I’ll deal with her.’

  ‘No, you won’t. You promised me. Calum said he was sorry. He looked as if he was going to cry.’

  ‘I’ll make her cry.’

  ‘No, Mum. It’s not important. Because I’m not “that sort”. I promise you.’

  ‘Oh, Ailsa.’

  ‘We’re all right. Don’t cry, Mum.’

  It made her feel better being rid of a part of her worries. At the time, standing outside the French doors with Calum, she had hardly taken in what Mr and Mrs Page were saying. Gloria’s name on the pillowcase was too much with her still. Even the insult, the good opinion, passed her by. Mrs Page was pathetic, that was all. It was Calum she felt sorry for.

  She went to her room. Gloria was back from the bathroom but did not want dinner so Ailsa sat at the staff table with her mother, who embarrassed her by telling the others her good marks.

  ‘They were only short-answer tests,’ Ailsa said.

  She went back to the bedroom. Gloria was asleep, looking like a young girl, defenceless. Worrying must have exhausted her. Ailsa took her homework books to her mother’s room, and heard the phone ringing as she opened the door.

  ‘Ailsa. It’s Calum. I’m phoning from the box down the road. Look, I’m sorry. I told her off. I told her I’m going to the dance.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing. She just went quiet. She’s good at that. But Dad said to enjoy myself. Anyway, that’s not why I’m ringing. Errol Parki
nson’s wife died today.’

  ‘Where? How?’

  ‘In the hospital. That must be why he came home early. Maybe he was going to see the undertaker. Or the minister, maybe. He phoned up Mum. The funeral’s going to be on Saturday.’

  So, Ailsa thought, Gloria’s safe until then. She could hardly remember the woman — just a yellow-faced figure in a dress like a bed of flowers. She had been a pretty girl in a wedding photo once.

  ‘I reckon he can’t do anything to Gloria for a while,’ Calum said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anyway, I wonder if he wants to. Just the letters and the pillow might be enough.’

  Ailsa did not answer. Calum had not seen him on his bike. Calum had not had him riding half a length behind, talking softly in an Irish voice.

  ‘Will she be at the dance?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m glad you’re coming. Thanks for sticking up for me with your mum.’

  ‘Sure. I told her I’m the one from the Mazengarb Report.’

  Ailsa laughed. When they had finished talking she went downstairs and looked out the back door of the house. The light was on in the boiler room. Ron Stock’s square hand lifted his pink-flowered teacup. That made her feel almost as good as Calum’s phone call.

  Back upstairs, she worked until half past nine. Mrs Parkinson came into her mind now and then, but Ailsa supposed it was all right not to feel really sad about the death of someone she had never met. ‘Sweets to the sweet’: Errol Parkinson must have said that about his wife. ‘Ah, woe’ was for her as well. Perhaps there really was a chance that he would forget about Gloria.

  The rain started again and kept on for two days. The Hutt River flooded half a dozen low-lying houses. Stormwater drains blocked in the streets, forming a lake outside House 4. The nurses had to tuck up their skirts and wade barefooted to the station.

  By Saturday it was gone. The sun shone again. Ailsa helped make the recreation room ready for the dance. She was worried that Calum might be embarrassed in his callipers — and that she might be embarrassed too. She hoped that he had really forgiven her for calling him Limpy.

  Early in the afternoon she met him at his front gate and they rode into Lower Hutt: watched a rugby match at the Rec. for half an hour, then tried Elbe’s milkbar for a milkshake. It was full of bodgies and widgies in leather jackets and short skirts. Several had been at Hutt Valley High when Ailsa was there and one of the girls was a sixth former at Willowbank. Ailsa and Calum decided not to stay.

  ‘Too crowded,’ Calum said, but she guessed he did not know how to behave with his bad leg in that sort of company.

  They bought bottles of soft drink and rode to the riverbank. The grass was still too damp for sitting on.

  ‘We should have gone to the pictures,’ Calum said. ‘It’s too late now.’

  ‘How are you coming round tonight?’

  ‘On my bike. Is that all right?’

  ‘Sure.’ She had hoped his father might drop him off to save his leg. It was going to be a difficult night. ‘Did your parents go to the funeral?’

  ‘Yes. It’s over. They’ll be home. He’s there too.’

  ‘Errol?’

  ‘Yeah. With some of his friends. It’s a kind of wake. I guess he couldn’t hold it at his place or they’d see his harem on the walls. I don’t want to go home till they’re gone.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘I don’t know. Four o’clock. It’s not a boozing party. They’re supposed to be sad.’

  They rode back after four o’clock.

  ‘No cars. They’re gone,’ Calum said.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Lie down for a bit.’

  ‘Is it sore?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be all right. Do you want to come in for a while?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t have to be scared of her.’

  ‘The only thing I’m scared of is I might tell her off.’

  ‘I reckon you’d beat her in a fight,’ Calum said.

  ‘Oh, Ailsa,’ a voice cried from the house. Mrs Page came on to the patio. ‘I’m glad you’ve stopped. Calum, do bring her in.’

  ‘No,’ Ailsa whispered to Calum, who shrugged.

  ‘Just for a moment. I’ve got someone here who’d like to meet her,’ Mrs Page said.

  ‘I’m not going,’ Ailsa said; but somehow she was, with Calum’s hand pressing on her back. She leaned her bike on the patio wall and peered into Mrs Page’s smile, her social smile, wanting to see what she was after. Errol Parkinson was in the house, she was sure of it; and she felt a small elation, a kind of bubbling in her chest, that she was not afraid of him. She was only angry.

  ‘Come,’ Mrs Page said, bending her long neck and smiling with her mouth but not her eyes. ‘In here.’

  He was sitting in a fat brown chair — a chair like a cowpat, Ailsa thought. His flashy teeth belied any grief that he might feel. And he was perfect: pink scalp and neat pale hair, black suit, black tie. The only imperfection was mud from the cemetery around the edges of his shoes.

  ‘Young lady,’ he smiled. ‘We meet again.’

  ‘Ailsa from the hostels,’ Mrs Page said.

  ‘Yes, I know. I know the hostels. I often pass.’

  ‘Sit down, Ailsa,’ Mrs Page said. ‘I think you know my husband?’

  ‘Hello,’ Mr Page said.

  Ailsa was glad that he was there. He was thoroughly imperfect, with his fat ears and blotchy cheeks.

  ‘Have a cup of tea, Ailsa. I’ve made a new pot. Do you realise what a sad day this is?’ Mrs Page said.

  ‘Calum told me. I don’t want any tea thanks.’

  ‘A sandwich? A savoury? No? Dying need not be a tragedy when there’s love.’

  Mr Page gave an embarrassed cough. ‘Thank you for inviting Calum to your dance.’

  ‘That’s all right. Helen can come too if she likes.’

  ‘Ah, she’s going to a party with some friends from school.’

  To which I wasn’t invited, Ailsa thought. She was disappointed, although she told herself she should be pleased.

  ‘I hope you won’t keep Calum up too late,’ Mrs Page said.

  ‘She’s my girlfriend, not my nurse,’ Calum said.

  Ailsa smiled. But she wasn’t really concerned with Mrs Page and Calum, or with being left out of parties — not for the moment. With Errol Parkinson in the room it was as if no one else was there. He ate a sausage roll. He sighed. He’s acting a man whose wife has died, Ailsa thought, but he’s greedy too. He can’t leave the sausage rolls alone. She watched his big white teeth bite into one and flakes of pastry fall into his lap.

  ‘Ailsa’s mother is a widow,’ Mrs Page told him, speaking in a soft voice to make it seem private. ‘Her father died in the war.’

  ‘How sad,’ Errol Parkinson said. ‘Death is all around us. But Ailsa, if I may say so —’ he turned to her and smiled — ‘is someone who might conquer death.’

  Mr Page coughed again. ‘What did your father do, Ailsa?’

  ‘He was a boilermaker,’ she said.

  ‘How quaint,’ Errol Parkinson said.

  ‘And a boilermaker makes, what, boilers I suppose?’ Mrs Page said, with a helpless lift of her hands.

  Ailsa was disgusted by their ignorance and snobbery. ‘They cut steel plates and fit them when you’re building ships. So it’s not quaint.’

  ‘World trade depends on them,’ Mr Page said. He sounded pompous, angry too. It was plain how much he disliked Errol Parkinson.

  ‘And your mother is a matron. I do admire her,’ Mrs Page said.

  No you don’t, Ailsa thought. You just think she’s not good enough.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.

  ‘And who will be at this dance?’ Errol Parkinson said.

  ‘All the girls in the hostel. And their boyfriends.’ He was asking after Gloria, she knew. ‘Everyone goes.’

  ‘Ah, boyfriends,’ he said.

  ‘And will
the peeping tom come too?’ Mrs Page asked.

  ‘If he does he’ll get beaten up,’ Ailsa said.

  It startled Mrs Page. She gave a tinny-sounding laugh. ‘It’s an extraordinary place,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, lots happens,’ Ailsa said. She was watching Errol Parkinson. She felt as if she was fighting him. And she saw from the twitchiness underneath his acting, from the way his lips worked, rolling on each other, wetting each other, that all he cared about was Gloria, she was with him all the time. She thought of the girls in white hanging on his walls, their parted lips, uplifted eyes, their purity, and knew that in his mind Gloria was one of them, the living one, and that he would try to put her in his closed room, and keep her there. She would be his shining star.

  No, she thought.

  ‘Like girls late with their periods,’ she said.

  ‘Oh!’ said Mrs Page.

  Well, Ailsa thought, if she thinks I’m from the Mazengarb Report …

  ‘They have to take stilboestrol,’ she said.

  ‘Good heavens, what is that?’ Errol Parkinson said, but he looked strained.

  ‘My room-mate, Gloria, says it doesn’t work. She’s a bit late. She thinks she’s pregnant. She’s going to try gin and hot baths next.’

  Errol Parkinson’s cup rattled so hard it seemed that his saucer would break. Tea spilled in his lap. It burned him and he made a sharp sound, half yelp, half hiss. He put his cup down and pulled the cloth away from his skin.

  ‘Oh,’ he moaned, ‘silly me.’

  ‘Errol, I’ll get you a cloth,’ Mrs Page said.

  Some instinct kept him acting, but he could not control his eyes — they seemed to jump and rattle, as brittle as his cup. ‘Forgive me, I must go. Oh dear,’ he said; and made for the door; but turned and raised his fist at Ailsa. ‘You …’ he said; and was gone.

  Mrs Page followed him out, crying, ‘Errol, wait.’

  Mr Page was grinning. ‘You really fixed him.’

  Calum looked pale. She smiled at him tightly. ‘It’s time I went,’ she said. He followed her out.

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Not all of it. But maybe he’ll leave her alone now.’

  ‘I hope.’