‘She won’t buy that.’
It happens. A sound, the sense of something, and we’re looking up as Margie pushes and huffs through the swing door. I thrust the letter onto my lap under the table.
She is standing in her dressing-gown: pale, hunched, thin-looking.
We all stare, paralysed.
No one speaks.
Margie’s lips tremble when she says, ‘The shoebox in the bottom of my wardrobe has been taken. There was something inside it that belongs to me.’
I cannot tell her the truth. The exposure will destroy us and I can’t deal with the fallout. The theatrics. Margie’s pious demands to return to Bishop Street tonight. We are not grown up enough for this honesty. Sometimes it is necessary to lie.
‘It’s here,’ Ross says. He tugs the letter from my clasped hands. Four strides and he rests it on the table in front of her.
She glares into his face with startled, sad eyes, demanding the answer to an unspoken question. Her hands are shaking.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘We’ve read it.’
It’s a bullet to her heart. Margie lowers her head.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘It’s in the past.’
‘You can’t brush this off like that, Ross,’ I say.
Margie turns to me and I tell her we already knew Norman was a total bastard, although we’re still shocked by those details. ‘And as for Chester, that really isn’t a big deal. Not to us. Only to you. And I apologise that we read your letter.’
She leans forward and holds on to the edge of the table to support herself. There’s a kind of desperate yearning in her expression, something that she wants to say but can’t.
We are all confused now. I take a gulp of wine and stand. The moment ends when she clasps the letter in both hands, gathers herself straight and leaves us. We watch the flapping swing door.
‘What the fuck?’ I hiss at Ross. ‘Why did you tell her we read it?’
‘Because we did.’
‘What now?’
He shrugs.
‘Go and speak to her,’ I say.
‘What can be said about any of that?’
‘I want you to step up.’
And there, a shift in him, he’s taller and turns to face me. ‘You think I don’t get any of this,’ he says. ‘Wrong. It’s just that I don’t want to go there. It’s a choice. I’m happy with my life and I don’t need or want to get involved. End of story.’ His hands are up, as if pushing me away.
My husband has just echoed how I feel about going over my past, trying to understand my mother as though that will somehow make my life different. In the end, Mum’s life provided me with a creative challenge and obsessive occupation, but I can’t say getting to know her changed one thing. It’s only Ross himself, our life and future that make me happy.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘Didn’t think the old girl had it in her. Screwing Chester.’
‘He’s coming to dinner tomorrow night.’
Ross smiles. ‘Getting better all the time.’ He picks up my wineglass and drinks.
‘Get your own.’
He does. And we sit on the chaise lounge with our wine and look across to the end of a sunset. Beyond the garden, in the mid-distance, there’s a shimmering red line along the hill crest; above it the sky is flat and grey. We’ve still not solved the problem of Margie. I don’t know, but perhaps Ross is right that what happens now is up to her.
Chapter 28
Margie
MY hands tremble as I press the silver blisters and pop out the last of the blue pills. Ross and Stella have read my letter so it’s a good thing only two are left, otherwise I could very well take the lot. What does it matter if I go to sleep and don’t wake up? It would be a mercy, for me and everyone else. Blood is surging in my ears, throat, chest – perhaps I’ll die of a heart attack. But in the meantime I need a safe place to hide and the tablets will take me there. One mouthful of water, a hard swallow, and they are on their way.
In bed I curl on my side and pull the bedding around me like a cocoon, with my ancient head peeping out. Stella has changed the sheets and put on an extra blanket; it feels the right weight for these cooler nights. The room is not dark yet, the red glow of the setting sun throws a soft light through the lace curtains, the floorboards are the colour of molasses. When I close my eyes and enter that private bedtime space, I hear the ringing purr-purr pip-pip of a grey shrike-thrush.
I breathe and concentrate on the yoga relaxing exercise. My right foot. Left foot. Calves. Knees. Legs. My breathing is even, in and out, in and out. I feel myself drifting, letting go.
But something yanks me back to wakefulness: the look on Stella’s face, the tiny crease between her brows, as she said, ‘I’m shocked to read the extent of Norman’s abuse.’ This is where their concern lies, not in my involvement with Chester – yet I would’ve expected it to be the other way around.
Suddenly I have an image of Norman, a random memory. He’s at the head of the dinner table with me at the other end, our three children at the sides. We all eat quietly except Norman, who chews loudly. He holds his knife and fork out in front like weapons and tells me he can’t find the television guide.
‘Seen it?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say.
‘You?’ he says, looking at the children.
They look blankly at each other, then back at him.
‘I want it now,’ he says to me.
There is nothing more important. I leave the table and look under every cushion, through the mail and in the rubbish for the green newspaper that lists his favourite TV programs. It is nowhere and I can’t avoid his rage. The details were carried out during the course of the evening.
Was that the evening he left the house and didn’t return for a fortnight? ‘Fishing,’ he said when he came home. Although there were no rods in the car, or offerings of trout or cod.
These memories are boring and from such a long time ago. I roll over and sigh. It’s not as though every day or week I was cowering in a corner or bent over with him behind me. Not at all. Sometimes months would go by and all was calm. That’s the point: it was all so unpredictable that I was on edge, never knowing what was going to set him off.
Enough. I return to the peaceful yoga, wishing I could remember the pose’s name. It starts with the letter S. Breathing in, I focus on my left leg. Breathe out. Breathe in, right leg. I exhale, thinking about Chester’s silly moustache and the way his eyes crease when he smiles. My mind is tricky because it switches to the recipe for a baked lemon tart. That’s what I’ll make tomorrow for dessert when he comes to dinner.
It will be unbearable with Stella and Ross there, and I burn with the shame of them knowing my secret. How dare they read my private letter.
Still, I consider the ingredients for the tart. There are plenty of lemons hanging on the tree; I see them every time I go out the back door. But it’s the butter and eggs that worry me, and I wonder if Stella has them in the fridge. I fall to sleep feeling anxious because Stella probably doesn’t even have plain flour.
A magpie wakes me, a sweet morning reveille. The curtains puff with the cool breeze. Then a sick feeling in my belly. My body aches from a night of strange and tense dreams. My letter to Chester is everywhere, in my mind and body, in the bed with me, the whole room. I stare into the avocado-dip wall and breathe in my humiliation. I don’t know what to do. I think of Stella calmly telling me, ‘Norman was a bastard … and Chester, that’s not a big deal. Not to us…’ She thinks she understands.
My bladder forces me out of bed. I shower and wash my hair. It needs cutting and styling, and I hope Stella will take this problem in hand. She does Isobel’s and Jemima’s hair nicely, and the other morning I saw her in the back porch running electric clippers up Ross’s head. He was drinking coffee while she was buzzing around him, then she had a comb and scissors like a real hairdresser.
I’m first in the kitchen, and in that open space I feel exposed kn
owing Ross or Stella could appear any moment. I make a cup of tea, and toast. I’m looking in the pantry, hopeful there’s jam, when Stella rushes in. She stops, hesitates, then steps forward and embraces me. She’s wearing a cotton dressing-gown, and I can feel the shape of her.
I stiffen.
‘How are you this morning?’ she asks, still not letting me go.
‘Fine,’ I say, pulling back.
We step away and she stares at me. No make-up, her skin is clear, no wrinkles. I feel old and ugly.
‘I’ve not slept,’ she says. ‘I’m so worried about you.’
‘There’s no need for that.’
‘I’m so sorry we read the letter. Please forgive us.’
I feel the rise of tears, so bite my lip and look to the back porch as if someone has called me.
She touches my arm.
I take a breath and talk through the window, beyond the porch. The vine needs pruning. ‘It’s all a very long time ago and private. I don’t want it to be raised again. Ever.’
‘There are counsellors who specialise in domestic violence. I was thinking about making you an appointment. You know, so you can talk to someone about it.’
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘If you felt the need to write it down … Perhaps you need to discuss it with a professional.’
‘I will not discuss or mention any of this ever again, to anyone.’
‘Would it help if I went with you?’
Her audacity stuns me. ‘No.’
‘You seem resolute.’
‘Do you have plain flour?’ I ask.
‘I can’t imagine what it was like having to live up to all that Ballantine status bullshit.’
I wince at her language. ‘I was thinking of making a lemon tart for dessert tonight.’
‘Are you sure you don’t need any help?’ she asks.
‘I know how to make a lemon tart.’
She stares back at me. ‘Will it be awkward to see Chester?’ she asks. ‘Do you want me to cancel dinner tonight?’
I want her to be quiet and not force me to answer her prying questions. Instead I force a smile. ‘My dear, do you have a flan tin?’
She grins, almost a chuckle, and I hate her for it, as if she understands something. Then she bends low into a deep drawer, pulling out muffin trays and cooling racks; it is a mess. Her dressing-gown gapes open, and on the soft mound of her left breast, an inch above a pink nipple, is the name ‘Harry’ in tiny calligraphy. A man’s name tattooed on her breast, and I am stunned, not least because of the pain it must have caused to have it done. And she isn’t wearing a nightie.
Unembarrassed, she wraps herself up again in the dressing-gown and gives me a choice between a round or rectangle tin. The rectangle will do nicely, and I take it from her. ‘Thank you,’ I say.
She turns from me and shakes muesli into a bowl, drops some blueberries on top, and then adds a dollop of yoghurt. So this is what the rice milk is for – I had wondered. Stella pours the pale brown milk into the bowl, takes a spoon from the drawer and walks out to the dinner table. But the room is too quiet and, when I check, she’s not there. So I am alone, standing in my old kitchen with the task of making a lemon tart, and I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.
Chapter 29
Stella
ROSS slowly gets out of bed and stands. He sighs and straightens up. It’s as if the top and bottom of him somehow don’t quite fit together. His back has flared up; any little thing can trigger it, and it’s worse from a night in bed. The only emotion he attaches to the pain is resentment for the inconvenience. He’ll keep lifting and straining and bending until he’s moaning flat on the floor.
He dresses like an old man, one hand on the bedside table for balance, pulling on dirty jeans. I don’t know how he can stand the feeling against his skin and tell him to put on a clean pair.
‘In the yards this morning,’ he says. ‘No point.’
I sit in bed with my muesli; a splash of rice milk blots the sheets. ‘Your mum seems happy about Chester coming for dinner. She’s making a lemon tart.’
‘Whatever,’ he says.
‘She called me “my dear”, and smiled.’
‘About time.’
He’s shitty. It’s the sore muscles and damaged ligaments around his lower back, and it’s also crunch time to decide about buying more hay or selling cattle, and the always waiting fence repairs, and having to check the pregnant cows to see if there are any problems. And the promised rain missed us and we’ve only had forty millimetres this month, which is less than half the monthly average. But mostly, I’m guessing, it’s Margie and her letter that have transported him back to his life before me.
I know how unsettling it can be when you’re faced with all the old crap in your life. The only thing Ross has talked about from his childhood that brought light into his eyes was the model aeroplanes he made: ‘Had them hanging from my bedroom ceiling like baby mobiles.’ I wonder about grief and repressed memory and all the things I read in magazines and Facebook feeds that talk about dealing with issues.
But then, Ross is all right. I know him, so I leave him be.
He comes to the side of the bed and wants to bend down to kiss me before he leaves to go outside, but can’t stoop that far. So I sit up tall and crane my neck and we meet halfway – an everyday, taken-for-granted, lovely kiss.
As he’s walking to the door, a thought comes and I say it. ‘Maybe they’ll hook up. Your mum and Chester.’
‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous.’
I feel chastised. Even so, I finish my breakfast trying to picture the long-past affair between Margie and Chester – secret plans, the terror of being caught, and meeting near a purple clematis that grew long enough to reach a Granny Smith apple tree. Sounds nice. But I can’t quite put Margie in the picture, a lustful woman having illicit sex. My god. Margie having sex at all.
I close my eyes and watch the sun bloom on the inside of my eyelids, pink and purple – and I think the idea of ‘mother’ is so embedded in my brain, it’s impossible to see Grace or Margie as ordinary women, like me.
When Chester arrives, Ross is checking water levels down at the pump. Margie is nowhere to be seen, although a perfect lemon tart sits on a white plate, waiting to be presented to the table. A Chopin ballade floats in from the front room.
Jemima is sitting on the couch staring at her iPad. If I ask her what she’s playing, she’ll say Ace Maths, but I doubt that’s true. She’s shrewd, or inventive, and all I can hear is bird calls, so god knows what game she is playing this time. If her school marks weren’t so good, I’d worry.
Chester steps inside, and there’s always this thing with him, the way he puts his splayed hand low on my back as I walk ahead, as if this is his home and I’m the guest being ushered to the family room. And as we go, I explain I’m running late because I’ve just emailed the play’s flyer to everyone on the database.
‘You make yourself right at home,’ I say.
When I turn to the kitchen, his arm tightens around my waist, as if this is our real greeting and not the one we had at the back door. A light kiss on my cheek, and I pull away, feeling that’s too much touching. Yet Chester’s always been a charming, flirtatious poet; the only difference is now I know he’s not the harmless old bloke I thought he was. And about when I open the oven door and the heat hits my face, I realise I’m not too keen on him anymore.
The potatoes are looking good, broccolini is lightly steamed, fig-infused balsamic vinegar is waiting to be drizzled.
I’ve not showered.
‘Give me five minutes,’ I say to Chester.
Down the passageway I phone Ross. I’m annoyed he doesn’t answer so leave a blunt message. Before I enter our bedroom, I hear the hairdryer so keep going and find Margie in the main bathroom. She’s leaning into the mirror with Isobel’s roll brush, her arms configured strangely as she tries to style her hair.
There is no time to waste. ‘Give it to me,’ I
say.
The way she sighs and drops her shoulders it’s like she’s been expecting me. She looks relieved.
‘I’m getting you some velcro rollers,’ I say. ‘You put them in when your hair is semi-dry; an hour later you take them out and just comb. Easy.’
I work the brush, drying, shaping. It takes a minute, such a small effort, and there’s a difference in Margie, in her stature, the slight lift of her chin.
‘I’ve not showered yet,’ I say. ‘Can you go to Chester? He’s in the family room by himself.’
She turns away as if she’s got other things on her mind.
‘Offer him a glass of wine,’ I say. ‘I won’t be long.’
I sound ridiculous, telling her how to attend to her old lover, but I’m as nervous for her as she appears to be. Margie is wearing the fitted black pants with that first blouse I bought her, the cream one with covered buttons and a line of gathering around the neck. And the new light pink lipstick I bought her, and the square-shaped pink sapphire earrings. She looks very nice. But the weight of their past feels too tragic and reminds me of a scene in AR Gurney’s play Love Letters. I don’t think I can stand to see them at the table together.
A quick once-over in the shower and I’m out in a minute. Jeans, a white linen shirt, dry-shampoo, hair up. My tan and black boots aren’t right for home entertaining, but when I scramble through my shoes looking for inspiration nothing seems right so I zip them up.
When I stride from the hallway into the family room I’m expecting to be needed, but Ross is with Chester, the two of them standing by the window necking beers. Margie is in the kitchen, my kitchen, looking the part with a striped apron on. She’s got the roast beef out of the oven, lifting it onto a tray.
I reach for the packet gravy.
She touches my arm. ‘Let me.’ The tiny weight of her hand, such a normal gesture.
It’s as if she’s moving to an inner music as she sprinkles plain flour over the pan juices, then whisks, adds salt, a splash of red wine from the thirty-dollar shiraz I bought at the local bottle shop. I pour myself a glass. And it all comes together, the two of us moving about, putting plates out, carving the meat, serving the vegetables and pouring the gravy without one word spoken between us.
Stella and Margie Page 21
