Stella and Margie

by Glenna Thomson

  She takes off the apron.

  At the table I stand back to allow the seating to take care of itself.

  Margie hesitates; Chester looks around. They are uncertain and sit opposite each other. I push Jemima’s chair in to bring her closer to the table. Ross points to Isobel to put her knife and fork down until we’re all ready. Wine is poured. Bread is buttered. We eat.

  No one speaks because there is too much to say, or not say, and perhaps Ross isn’t aware of the vibe – and maybe it’s just me feeling this is all too awkward. But Ross chats about the banalities of local politics, something about the consolidation of under-utilised amenities. And then he’s on about the lack of rain, as if somehow talking about it will make it pour buckets and fill the aquifers and make the springs flow and turn the dry dams into beautiful flat silver lakes. Margie seems astounded to hear her son speak so many words at once, as if it’s a surprise that he’s so articulate. And I don’t blame her – in the weeks she’s lived with us, Ross has been a brooding pain in the arse at the end of the table.

  But I’m very pleased with him right now, the way he’s carrying us all forward, making it easy. Chester is himself again, talking about the floods in 1993, the evacuations, and the homes and businesses that were damaged. Margie sits primly, cutting into the meat, eating small mouthfuls, listening to their every word. Sometimes she nods as if what’s being said is important or she’s in complete agreement.

  I try to picture them together, young and naked, beautiful bodies, and I suppose it was very intense, the secret, the anticipation. I’m guessing it must’ve been good sex to risk your whole life and security over. But I still can’t imagine Margie pulling at Chester’s clothes, kissing his face.

  Ross laughs at something and I’ve lost the thread of conversation. And now I’m back in the moment and not completely happy because this dinner is supposed to be about the play and the set designs.

  ‘Chester,’ I say, ‘thanks again for agreeing to help with the sets.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ he says, smiling.

  Ross tells me they are spending Wednesday together to finish them off.

  ‘No running water in the sink,’ Chester says. ‘You can’t have the plumbing.’

  ‘We’ll just use a filled kettle and pour from that,’ I reply, gathering the empty plates, taking them to the kitchen.

  I return with the lemon tart, making a grand statement that Margie baked it. She smiles like a shy girl as Chester looks down at his hands. And I realise he’s not spoken to her once during the meal, hardly glanced at her. She cuts and serves and passes – as her hand slightly trembles across the table – the first slice to Chester. The two of them now have reason to look directly at each other. Chester is being polite, a slight nod, and I think, Poor Margie.

  We all tell Margie the tart is delicious. And it is. She offers seconds, and only the girls say yes.

  As Margie serves them, Chester stands. ‘I’ll be off now.’

  ‘Coffee or tea?’ I say.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Something is wrong and I don’t know what. It’s Ross who rises from his chair and walks Chester to the back door. Margie’s mouth is open and round, as if to say ‘oh’, while she watches Chester leave the room without a backward glance. The silver cake server in her hand is midair. And whatever is going on, I am infuriated by Chester’s rudeness.

  The girls disappear down the hallway.

  ‘I can’t quite get used to his moustache,’ Margie says to me.

  I wish for the intimacy of friends so I could ask her about the past – how long they were together and how they got away with their affair. For a strange quirky moment, I think she might go along with it: the relaxed dip in her shoulders, the way she’s just put a dab of lemon filling in her mouth with her finger.

  ‘How did it feel having him here tonight?’ I ask.

  She stares to the side, perhaps remembering.

  ‘I mean, you used to be at this table with Norman and the kids,’ I say, trying to prompt her. ‘And tonight Chester was sitting opposite you. It must’ve been strange.’

  ‘Yes, it was. Very strange.’

  Margie’s back is straight as she turns to leave. Her limp develops when she enters the hall as if she’s somehow wounded.

  Chapter 30

  Margie

  I feel so lonely and something else. Stella watches me leave the room, so I straighten up, my back tall, chin raised – my I’m-a-Ballantine pose. Over the years, this proud mask has been a safe place for me to hide behind, a necessary refuge. But disappointment makes me limp as I enter the hall, giving in to my right hip and letting it do what it wants. Perhaps my limp has become more of a habit than about pain. Everything in my being hurts to varying degrees, so I wouldn’t know how to distinguish one ache from another. One thing I’m certain of: I’m a foolish woman and I think I always have been. At my age, you’d think I could step away from myself and be clever, or wise. Something. The gold buckles on my shoes, left, right, left, out in front as I navigate this dusty hallway to my room.

  When Stella finished styling my hair and sent me to greet Chester, ‘offer him a glass of wine,’ he turned to me as I entered the family room.

  I went to him, smiling. There he was, my Chester, with his expanded forehead, crinkling brown eyes, greatly deepened cheek lines, unsmiling mouth. But it was his grey moustache that put me on guard – the way he wears it so confidently, as if mocking me, reminding me that many years have passed between us.

  ‘I’m so happy to see you,’ I said, reaching out my hand.

  He took it fleetingly, as if reluctant to touch me. As if we were unfamiliar with each other. As if I didn’t know the secrets of his body. His appendix scar. The pink birthmark on his right thigh, the size and shape of a small strawberry.

  He took an awkward step away. ‘How are you?’

  The insincerity of his polite question was a shock.

  ‘Very well,’ I replied.

  He smiled, not at me but to himself, as if embarrassed by the situation, the two of us there. Alone. Isobel’s fingers sent Chopin quietly through the walls.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ I asked.

  He stared at me.

  ‘I’m not here for you,’ he whispered.

  I couldn’t have heard correctly.

  A turn of my head. ‘Pardon?’

  His hands spoke this time. Out flat, a cutting movement. ‘I’m only here to help Stella. Not here for you.’

  His words were a face slap. I flinched. And dashed to the kitchen, wishing I was quicker with words and had something to say, a clever retort that even now I can’t think of. All I could do was put on Stella’s apron and let my face burn as I pulled the spitting roast from the oven, disguising that I was already hot.

  Now I limp past the bathroom and remember Chester’s pity, that knowing expression, a small, cruel smile that I don’t understand. He kissed my forehead at the hospital, didn’t he? Each step I take is a chant to my age: Eighty, eighty, eighty, eighty … I remember a day when I was almost half this – Ross had just started school – and our affair was new, passionate and intense. I was on Maryhill Road and saw Chester driving towards town so I followed him, flashing the headlights so he would pull over. I wanted to look into his face, hear loving words of reassurance. And he did pull over and said, ‘Don’t get unhinged or this won’t work.’ That was the first time I saw that knowing look, the clever half-smile.

  All I have ever wanted is to be loved. And if I can’t have that, then peace.

  I close my bedroom door and for the first time since I returned to this house I have a gentle feeling for Bishop Street – that is my place of belonging, not here. I think of going on without Dot and see an image of myself eating alone at Tamarind Thai.

  To help me sleep, I drift with the memory of a bird – the powerful owl with golden eyes that twice appeared beside the henhouse in the ancient conifer that Alexander Ballantine would’ve planted sometime around 1920. From the bird�
��s imposing height and unflinching stare, I presumed it was waiting to take one of the chooks. For months afterwards, even years, I searched for it in the weathered tree, and sometimes willed it to return, but it never did.

  In the morning I stay in bed, waiting for silence, the signal that the girls have gone to school, Ross has left the house and Stella is most likely in the old dining room. Around nine I get out of bed. It feels lazy to lie in for this long, but I can’t be bothered with the early morning chaos of everyone rushing.

  The firebox has been lit in the family room, the first for the year. The vent is closed and the fan is on. Wood is stacked in a cane basket. I make a cup of tea and stand in front of the heat and feel warmth seep into my bones – there’s nothing nicer than having your back to a fire. I see the image of Chester in this room last night, the cruel, upward curve of his lips that was once a rascally smile. The urge comes again to return to my little life in Bishop Street, to be away from this humiliation.

  I listen for Stella’s footfall, but the house only creaks. The cat stares at me from a lounge chair. I push the swing door open and peek into the dining room to see if Stella is there. Empty. Up the hall, I glance into the rooms. Her and Ross’s bed is unmade; the doona coils like beaten egg whites. The girls’ beds have been roughly made, their clothes on the floor – you’d think everyone abandoned the house in an emergency.

  I wait for Stella to charge through one of the doors and I can’t relax until I know where she is. It dawns on me then that I have developed an attachment to her. Her presence provides a sort of confidence and security.

  Outside, I expect to find her in the laundry or garden. Then I notice her car is gone and try to remember if I was told she was going out. I feel disappointed that wherever she is, she’s not taken me with her or told me what’s going on. She always does. So I start to worry.

  The morning drifts slowly. I deadhead the roses, always listening for Stella’s car up the driveway. The secateurs need sharpening and I can’t find the diamond stone. The tinge of smoke in the air reminds me of long-ago autumns, the arrival of walnuts, figs and apples. The air is fresh, but Stella’s gardening coat is warm. Sometimes I rest on the bench. And in the course of two hours, I see a dozen different birds, including a white-browed scrubwren and, I think, a white-eared honeyeater.

  By lunchtime I am very anxious. Ross and Stella don’t have a landline, so I can’t phone her to find out where she is. My heart is beating fast with too many terrible imaginings.

  I go inside and push a log into the firebox. And wait with my hands clenched in senseless panic.

  The back door bursts open; boots drop on the floor. Ross appears wearing socks. I breathe in, expecting something. He’s in a rush.

  Three strides before he stops, as if he’s just seen me. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Where’s Stella?’ I blurt.

  ‘Out putting up posters for the play. Shop windows.’

  I am utterly silenced by this. Because she didn’t invite me to go. I want to know when she’ll return, but cannot bring myself to ask because I will not have Ross know how I feel.

  ‘Then she’s got radio and newspaper interviews, and a rehearsal at the Town Hall. She’s gone all day.’

  He vanishes down the hallway and I hear him somewhere, a filing drawer opening, closing. Back again, he hurries past me with the MLA vendor book and an envelope.

  ‘Tuckers are picking up some steers. I’ll be back soon, Mum. To get us lunch.’ He strides to the porch – a pause while he pulls on his boots – and he’s gone.

  It is a very small word, ‘Mum’, nothing really, but he said it so naturally. I take a small breath against the tension that is always holding me in, as though I’m wearing an elastic corset.

  In the kitchen I wash up the breakfast dishes, and make two sandwiches.

  We eat cheese and ham toasties and drink hot milky tea. Ross seems relaxed, although he’s not talkative, not like he was last night when Chester was here. He’s staring into his iPad and I wouldn’t mind having a look at it myself. Jemima has found some excellent information on this thing she calls an ‘ap’. There are hundreds of birder sightings up here in the north-east with recorded bird calls that she says are uploads. But I think it’s only on her iPad and not Ross’s. These things confuse me, but I’d like to see other sightings of white-eared honeyeaters so I can compare them with what I saw this morning.

  I try to think of things to talk to Ross about, but he’s only interested in the weather and cows. And then I’m talking anyway – my voice is soft, as though I’m afraid of being heard.

  ‘That letter, Ross – the revelations about Chester…’

  He looks up and glances around, and I think he’d rather remain quiet, but I’m staring at him. That he and Stella know about my private business is intolerable; it makes the air feel thick and me feel very small.

  I take a sip of tea.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shrugs. ‘It was all a bit of a mess back then.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  He turns back to the iPad, dismissing me, or perhaps he’s just reading something he’s interested in. I think again how he looks very like his father.

  I reach for the local paper and read the front page. Something about the council elections that doesn’t interest me. The room is warm. I hear a strong breeze outside and for a moment think it’s rain and look to the window. The Japanese maple gusts in the wind, a blaze of orange and red; some leaves fly away.

  I turn the page, and there’s a story about the North East Hospital, a fundraising venture for a disease I’ve never heard of. It’s about wasting muscles, I discover, and there’s no cure for it. I had my babies in that hospital; Mark was born in the old wing. And I was there after Norman hit and kicked me and made my kidneys bleed.

  Further into the paper is a story about a young woman who’s just returned from the war in Afghanistan. Private Natalie Scales. She must be Ray and Dulcie Scales’ granddaughter. Imagine that. Ray was the head of the CFA up here for forty years, was awarded an AOM for his services to the community. Dot and I went to the dinner in his honour. Last I heard, Dulcie was in high care with dementia. I think to mention all of this to Ross, but I don’t speak up because he probably won’t be interested.

  Here we are, Ross and I, sitting quietly together, both absorbed in our thoughts.

  He pushes his mug forward and glances at me. ‘Another cup, Mum?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘This one will do me.’

  And he returns to whatever he’s reading.

  Chapter 31

  Stella

  ON Sunday afternoon I give Margie the option of staying at home with Ross and the kids or coming to the rehearsal at the Town Hall with me. It’s like she’s been waiting for the chance to gather herself up and walk to the car. She’s in the passenger seat before I’ve even found the car keys.

  Down Maryhill Road, a left turn into Marion Road, and after several kilometres we’re on Black Wattle Road and approaching Chester’s stone house. The thick hedge of lilly pillies coming up on the left is flushed with pink berries. I suppose Margie and I are both thinking about Chester.

  To make it safe, I don’t look at her but stare straight ahead. ‘I don’t blame you,’ I say. ‘You had a horrible time with Norman. Chester showed you kindness. You were vulnerable. It’s understandable.’

  Her eyes tear up – or is it just an old lady’s watery eyes? She clasps her hands on her lap and looks at the entry to a grassed laneway: old pine posts, a rusted gate.

  ‘You want to talk about it?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head. But speaks anyway, a whisper. ‘It was wrong. But I loved him.’

  ‘How do you feel about him now?’

  ‘I can’t really say.’

  I want to tell her that Chester is a nice-looking old man who I’ve been slow to call a sleaze. The way he puts his arms around me; the hand low on my back; the unnecessary hello and goodbye kisses, sometimes on the lips. But I’ve been a b
it naive too, thinking he was harmless – wanting my sets built, needing his cooperation – and not paying too much attention to the foolish overtures of a poet in his late seventies.

  Margie’s shoulders have a proud line, the way she’s sitting back, chin up. I can see she’s used the velcro rollers I bought her – her white hair has more body, a slight curl. Clipped to her lobes are those lovely sapphire earrings. Her pink lips are tightly closed. Clothes seem very special to her; today she’s wearing the grey blouse and black pants with her knees primly pressed together.

  I’m with Ross: it’s hard to imagine Margie inflamed with lust, pulling at a man’s belt buckle. But she would’ve been very attractive once. Perhaps it was a challenge for Chester, the seduction of Mrs Ballantine – her aloofness, beauty, poise. A conquest. But, then, that wounded aura of hers calls for a saviour. Maybe he really cared. I feel a deep need to reach out to Margie, and I wonder if she’s come with me today because she expects he’ll be at the rehearsal. Except Chester now sees Margie as an old woman, sexless and no longer important to him. Surely she understands this.

  ‘Did Chester help Ross with the sets?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, on Wednesday. Chester only needs to paint them. I have to use a full kettle instead of having a sink with running water, which still works. They’ve done bookshelves and they look better than I thought.’ I explain they’ve designed the shelves to allow a three-metre-wide space in the centre so photos can be projected between the books and framed family pictures, a tall vase of flowers and a 1980s-style television.

  We drift to silence, yet I feel there’s something else she wants to ask me.

  ‘Chester isn’t coming today,’ I say.

  She rubs her finger where her wedding ring once was.