Stella and Margie

by Glenna Thomson

  The hallway is dark, but I don’t put the light on – I know where to touch the wall and feel for our bedroom door. I slink in. In the bathroom, drinking straight from the tap, I swallow a couple of paracetamol, hoping they might somehow knock me out into a solid sleep. Lifting the cotton blanket, I lie beside Ross. His body is heavy on the mattress, his breathing steady, so I know he’s asleep. I drift away, too.

  The digital clock says 4.31. It’s raining. Or perhaps it’s wind chiming through leaves. I lift onto an elbow, crane forward and listen. Yes, it’s drops of rain, hesitant and soft. I lie back on the pillow. A cool breeze drifts through the lace curtain.

  ‘Ross,’ I whisper, ‘it’s raining.’

  He sighs, rolls onto his back, listens. Then, reaching for his phone, he opens a weather app. His hands and face are illuminated. A slow exhalation, his shoulders relax, and he shows me the green radar, like algae creeping across the northern part of Victoria. Orange and red tell us that the whole distance from Bendigo to Shepparton is getting soaked. With his finger he follows the arc of the rain moving east. ‘Looks promising,’ he says.

  We lie together, hearing the firm splats on the roof. The rain is everywhere: on the lawn, the garden, across the paddocks, washing the dust off the backs of cows, spitting heavily into the dams, spilling into the gullies, feeding into the creeks, tunnelling underground and flowing down to the flats. We’re lying still, breathing in the cooling air, relieved.

  In that lovely dark and private space, I can’t quite gather up the stuff going on between Ross and me and make it important enough to not move across and lean against him. He receives me as if he’s been waiting.

  By the time the first glimmer of sunlight cracks through the blinds, I’ve forgiven him for not being perfect, and myself too, and everything else outside our bed. We whisper that we love each other.

  And when the first gas-gun shot fires across the walnut orchard, we step out of bed and everything seems better somehow.

  Chapter 22

  Margie

  EVEN though it’s raining, Ross and Stella still feed the cattle. They’ve got their all-weather gear on and just soldier out the back door as if the sky is clear. Her hair isn’t covered and she doesn’t seem to care, which strikes me as unusual – and I can’t say why, except I wouldn’t like the frizz the rain would cause me. That’s one thing I didn’t have to worry about: working outside on the property. When I first came here Freddie helped Norman, then Keith Sanders, and Mark. I kept up with the morning teas and lunches – my pineapple fruitcake was always popular; sometimes I made a coconut and raspberry jam tart. But Ross and Stella work the farm on their own and just bring Eddie Bain in for the yard work.

  I stand at the family room’s open bay window. The damp heat is quite pleasant. I can’t see any birds, but I expect the rosellas will be enjoying themselves somewhere, preening and washing in the pools.

  So. I’ve got nothing else to do except wait for Ross and Stella to return, and after that there will be more waiting for I don’t know what. The rain is lovely, though.

  The breakfast dishes are stacked in the dishwater; its door is wide open. The benches are covered in toast crumbs and tiny globs of jam. This is something I can do. I leave my walker, and the soles of my slippers make little sucking sounds as I walk to the sink. When I look down, nothing is obviously to blame, but I suspect spilt jam. The floor needs washing. Yes, this is the exact spot where I endured Norman’s punishment when his tuna mornay wasn’t heated properly. That pitiless shift in his eyes signalled danger.

  ‘You seriously expect me to eat this?’ he said.

  ‘Heat it up yourself.’

  Foolish me. I’d just given him a reason to hurt me. He twisted me around and bent my arm far up behind me. Pain is pain. I clenched my teeth. He wanted me to apologise, but I wouldn’t, which enraged him further.

  ‘Stupid man,’ I said.

  ‘What did you just say?’

  Many times I wished I was as strong as he was so I could fight back.

  Then the boys were at the kitchen door – and Norman, now with one arm around my neck, the other still forcing the fracture of my humerus, hadn’t noticed our witnesses.

  Mark rescued me. He jabbed his father in the ribs with his elbow, making Norman grunt as the air left his lungs. After some shoving between them, Norman sidestepped and hurried outside. Mark disappeared up the hallway. It was Ross who stood there watching me, pale-faced, wide-eyed. He was only ten years old, so I pretended everything was all right and just got on with scraping Norman’s mornay into the bin.

  Stella puts saucepans in the dishwasher; surely that’s unnecessary. I lift them out and wash them in the sink, dry them, and open and close cupboards, looking for their place. I wipe the benches. The floor really needs attention, but I can’t manage the mop and have no idea where it is.

  Ross and Stella still haven’t returned. I put the kettle on and, while I wait for it to boil, I open the swing door and walk into the dining room, free, without my walker. I’m careful on my feet. The feeling is light; perhaps I’m leaning forward as if still holding the thing.

  I never really liked this room, yet Stella has made it her own, and it’s now what I’d call bohemian with her stacks of bound plays and files, and a television and printer on the table. This is where the theatre group will come on Monday night. Chester, perhaps. But there will be a funeral, of course there will – although there was no mention of it in the local paper.

  I hear the back door open and, as I turn to leave, I see a blank space. Norman isn’t on the wall. He’s gone. I look around, but can’t see his portrait anywhere.

  Then Stella is there, her hand on the door. I’m embarrassed that she’s caught me in her room.

  But she smiles. ‘I’m going into Benalla to shop. Want to come?’ She follows my gaze to the darkened square on the wallpaper. ‘Norman was a bastard, Margie. Let’s not pretend he wasn’t, and I don’t want to be looking across at him.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Nowhere for you to worry about.’

  I stand, confused, and can only study the dull veins in the oak floorboards, trying to understand what’s going on. This woman has taken Norman off the wall; his stature has been removed and that’s all he ever had. I’m not making excuses for him, but then I suppose I am. It’s just that he wasn’t born to farming and had no say in it and lived a miserable life. But then he made my life wretched, too. And the sums start adding up – how it was for the children.

  ‘You’ll like the drive,’ Stella says. ‘We’ll have a coffee.’

  I think of her unflinching declaration that she’d be speaking to my surgeon about my return to Bishop Street. But that’s not until next week. So this is something else entirely: it might be all right.

  At the same time, we both realise I don’t have the walker with me – evidence that, yes, I can be independent. So I limp, just lightly, though I doubt she’s noticed my antics because she’s already turned to the door and says we are leaving in ten minutes.

  A single magpie carols. The rain has eased. And the idea of a daytrip satisfies me. I feel loosened and relieved. But I don’t think I can get ready in ten minutes.

  We are in the main street; I know it well enough – the distance between the pharmacy and bank, then across the road to the post office. Stella drops off one of Jemima’s drawings to the picture framer, which is a couple of doors down from the second-hand bookshop that I sometimes used to go to. Stella seems to know the man who does the framing, it takes no time because she tells him to decide what to do. Then we head over to the new place on the corner for coffee. I’ve seen it before and thought of it suspiciously, with a vague decision to never go in there.

  But first Stella drives around to show me the new street art: people’s faces on buildings that are quite striking, and surprising because I don’t know why buildings need to be painted with faces, particularly sad, pleading ones. But when we pass by, I’m still thinking about them, wanting
to understand the questions in their expressions – especially that of the girl in the centre with the blue background. From her haunting eyes, I can’t tell if she’s brave or afraid. Up at the greengrocer, a painted red-bellied black snake covers the whole side of the building. It’s very confronting; even a small one would have been unnerving.

  In the café, Stella orders a latte and I copy her. I would normally have tea, so I’m now a little anxious about what I’ve done.

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’ she asks.

  ‘No.’

  She orders a slice of lemon tart and says yes to the cream. I don’t know how she does it, eating sweets and keeping her nice figure. I try to avoid eating between meals and rarely have dessert. Lemon tart was Mark’s favourite, so I used to bake it often. And so, a wedge of tart arrives with two forks and Stella hands one to me. She digs in and I am expected to join her.

  Then the coffee is on the table; the froth on top is a picture, like a fern. In two even movements, Stella sips the coffee and cuts into the lemon tart. I feel outside myself and glance around, insecure. It’s not normal for me to copy others, especially not her. So I concentrate on the coffee. It’s too strong and needs more milk. I take a pinch of the tart, but its flavour doesn’t mix well with the coffee.

  ‘You want some water, Margie?’

  That’s exactly right, and I say so.

  Stella seems cheerful, and I feel the separation of years and life between us. I’m ancient. She’s young. It’s very strange we’re sitting here together. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, me with her. I married into local aristocracy; the Ballantines had a reputation, an image to uphold. Yet here is my son’s wife, Stella, whose blonde hair is tangled high on her head, bits hanging down like an egret’s wing plume. Square-shaped copper earrings hang from her earlobes. Her silky blouse gapes; a black bra strap shows. She’s the type of female that men like. Ross certainly does. So does Chester – the memory of him laughing with her when she strolled from the back porch into the family room. The image of it still crushes me. Things I thought were certain are now in a muddle. I’m lost.

  ‘Taylors have a sale on,’ she says. She’s clutching her big heavy bag and lifting out of her seat.

  I take a sip of water. ‘But I don’t need anything,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve been washing your bras. So I’m telling you, you do.’

  I feel quite confused. Yes, I know my undergarments and clothes are old, but for a very long time I’ve had a strict habit of not buying things. Norman wanted receipts for everything I spent and I still think that way. And in 1991 when the wool market crashed, I had to tighten the budget even more; everyone did. Aside from all that, what’s the point of buying new things that will never get worn out?

  ‘Norman’s long gone,’ Stella says, ‘and not here to tell you how to spend money. You deserve some nice things.’

  I wonder how she knows this.

  Stella walks along the shopfronts, pausing to wait for me. If I wasn’t with her, she’d already be at the next place.

  We need to cross the road and stop at the roundabout. Cars advance with such purpose, it’s as if they don’t see us. There’s a gap, and Stella says, ‘Okay, let’s go.’ And I push the walker across the road as fast as I can. Her arm is like an extended swallow’s wing, ready to help, and I do appreciate it.

  Inside Taylors, I know where to go. For fifty-five years I’ve been coming here; occasionally I bought something.

  Stella is staring at my breasts. ‘What size are you?’ Then she’s holding up a bra, saying I need to try it on.

  A prim-looking assistant appears. Stella pounces, asking for something that’ll be comfortable and easy for me to clip. And just as I’m being ushered into a change room, she steps away and skims her fingers along a rack of black underwear. I’ve never owned a black bra or pair of underpants; it always seems wrong, as though only a hussy would wear such garments. Then there’s the memory of me being a loose woman. Somehow it wasn’t me who was with Chester, but this other audacious femme fatale. It is with that thought I admire a pale-pink bra; it’s lightly padded and has tiny flower buds embroidered into the cups. The size isn’t quite right so I’m given another one. Somehow wearing it makes me put my shoulders back. I turn to see my profile in the change-room mirror.

  ‘It also comes in black, skin-colour and white,’ the assistant says.

  I choose pink, but when Stella learns this she finds the skin-colour one too and says we’ll have them both. She’s carrying black stringy underwear that have tangled on small plastic coathangers.

  Stella isn’t finished with me yet. She’s gone to the clothing section and holds up a navy and white dress with a matching navy patent-leather belt. It’s the sort of thing I’d wear to a wedding.

  ‘Try this on,’ she demands.

  I’m unwilling to take off my clothes again, but then I see she’s also got a quite nice slate-grey blouse, the same colour as the back feathers of a fan-tailed cuckoo. I return to the change room and Stella waits outside the curtain, wanting to see.

  When I appear wearing the dress, she clasps her hands under her chin and studies me.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ she says. ‘But you could go a size smaller.’

  ‘I don’t want it tight,’ I reply.

  The blouse is very lovely, with a collar and pleats in the back so it shapes quite well.

  When I try it on, Stella is full of praise, and so is the assistant. The two of them convince me that I should buy the dress and the blouse. But there’s this terrible restraint in me, pushing back into an old place where I know this spending is wrong. Through the curtain, Stella tells me to hand everything to her. I do as I’m told.

  ‘I’m taking them to the counter,’ she says.

  I think to protest, but I like the clothes very much. It’s exhausting, all this pulling off and putting on of clothes, so I sit on the walker’s chair for a rest. Yet I have to go and pay. I hurry with my buttons and slip into my shoes – but by the time I’m there, Stella has already handed over her credit card. She’s also put in two pairs of pantyhose.

  ‘But they’re my clothes,’ I say, now frantic about what Ross will say with all the expense.

  ‘Half the cost of a small heifer.’ She winks. ‘Don’t worry.’

  We head to the car. It’s parked out the front of the shoe shop, and without hesitation Stella walks in and I follow. She’s wearing red leather thongs and loose khaki cotton pants that hang below her knees. I assume she wants more suitable footwear, but then it’s me who’s sitting down to have my feet measured. And I leave there with a spongy pair of black runners that do up with two velcro straps, and a comfortable pair of gold-buckled tan flats. I have a debit card and the pin number is the year I was born, so it’s never forgotten. Together the shoes cost more than two hundred dollars, but I’m very happy with them.

  A lightness has spread through me that could very well be nausea from the excitement and doubt about buying new things. I wear the black runners out of the store. I feel as though I could walk a mile.

  I ask Stella if we can go by Bishop Street so I can get a few things. It seems she’s not in a hurry today because she just nods and drives back across the bridge. She passes my hairdresser and the police station, then takes two left turns and a right, and we’re in my driveway.

  There’s a white VW in Dot’s driveway, and a child’s bike is on its side on her front lawn. New people have already moved in, and even though she was my best friend I’m still a distant observer of all this change. I knew that her daughter, Ashley, had put her house up for sale. It depresses me, this noticing of time passing. I imagine Dot and me on that cruise, the forward, gentle movement of the ship with us sitting on deckchairs, a vast blue sea stretching all around. By now we’d probably be home again and back in our old routine.

  It has only been five weeks since I left here in an ambulance and my house looks more than empty: it’s forsaken. The garden beds are ragged from a long summer with litt
le rain; the lawn is patchy. The plane tree leaves are heavily scattered across the driveway, paths and lawn. It’s a job I quite liked doing, raking them up and wheelbarrowing them to the compost bay down by the garden shed.

  A spotted pardalote flits from a salvia. There have always been birds here, but I’ve never seen a sulphur-crested cockatoo or a bird of prey – I don’t think there’s enough feed for them in the town; they prefer bothering the farmers.

  The front door key is stiff in the lock, and Stella ends up working it out. Inside the house is warm, stuffy, with a restrained feeling as if it’s been waiting. She sits on a kitchen chair while I go to my bedroom. I don’t want to be long in case she gets the idea I should return here sooner than necessary.

  In the left-hand drawer of my dresser is a small heart-shaped black lacquered jewellery box, which belonged to Freddie’s mother, Elizabeth. I take out the earrings. She had some very fine things; wool prices were very good back then. It was she who last decorated Maryhill and did all the entertaining in the dining room. Of course I never met her; she died before I was born. Freddie was the first of her eight children. Two other sons fell in the Great War. Louise, her youngest daughter, married an important man who sold antiques for a famous company in London called Sotheby’s.

  Stella is on the phone, using her soothing voice.

  I’ve got my lipstick and the jewellery box, and stand and wait.

  ‘Bye,’ she says into the phone. ‘See how things go.’

  Back in the car she is very quiet, an inward look, as if she’s thinking about something. It’s not until she indicates to go onto the Hume Freeway that she speaks. ‘That was Chester on the phone. The funeral is tomorrow and he doesn’t know if he can still work on the play. I’ll have to think of something else. Bugger that.’ She smacks the steering wheel with the heels of her hands.