Stella and Margie

by Glenna Thomson

‘What happened to your wedding ring?’ I ask.

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She shakes her head while staring out the window at a giant cairn of stacked stones, a lichen-covered granite outcrop. Whatever is bottled up inside Margie, I know to shut up now. So I leave her be. Perhaps the outing is enough for her, the change in routine.

  As our footfall claps along the black and white diamond-patterned tiles, I sense the thousands of souls who’ve walked here before us. The memory of them is etched in the oakpanelled walls, brass window frames, door fittings and intricate pink-and-green fretwork. The timber-framed commemorative plaques display the names of former councillors in faded typeset letters; the Town Hall was built in 1883 and was also once the shire office. It’s easy to imagine the hurried movement of important business, the dipping of nibs in black ink, the neat lines of bookkeeping, the clicking of a typewriter.

  We enter the theatre; the crimson-curtained stage is in front. This is my perfect venue. I exhale. Sometimes when I’m shopping in town, I come here just to stare and wonder. Long swirling skirts would’ve swept across the shiny blue gum floor. The leather soles of men’s boots. The tapping rubber stop on a walking cane.

  I should be nervous, but that will come Thursday week on opening night.

  Margie stands to the side and looks around for a seat. There are none. ‘Wait,’ I tell her and hurry down the back, returning with a stacked group of three chairs. I space them ten metres away from the stage. Margie sits.

  Felicity has arrived before us and is standing in the corner, talking silently to herself, going through her lines, her arms and body moving expressively.

  Up the narrow stage stairs, I open the heavy weave crimson curtain. I walk centre stage and wave to Margie. She lifts her hand from her lap and signals back: not a wave, but acknowledgement.

  ‘The acoustics are awesome,’ I call out to her.

  As we were arriving, Margie told me that sixty-four years ago her parents watched her graduate from school in this theatre. That she stood on this stage, uniformed, with big hopes for her life. I was too distracted while reverse-parking, then too busy gathering up scripts, the basket with tea and coffee, to properly listen. She said something about her friend moving to Melbourne and that she would’ve liked to go with her, but her parents weren’t keen. Margie’s timing to chat was off. On the pavement I asked her what she did then, in those years before marrying Norman. But her answer got lost as we stepped into the portico and discovered the glossy black front door was already unlocked.

  Now I call out, ‘Come onto the stage, Margie. Show me where you stood.’

  She’s about to stand when Owen walks in. Holly isn’t far behind, holding an iced cake on a plate in her upheld palm. She puts it on the spare chair beside Margie. They huddle around her and start talking to her – or each other, I can’t tell. Either way, Margie is involved, or perhaps she’s trapped. Felicity joins them, and from where I’m standing on the stage all I can see of Margie is her ankles and her flat tan shoes.

  I check my phone for the time. Noah and Amber are late. That’s not on; they should’ve let me know. I look to the door as if searching for them. So we wait. I join the others and we update on gossip about what people are saying about the play; the story on page five of the Benalla Ensign about Noah, the violin-playing actor whose day job is a tractor mechanic. I’d missed it, but Owen shows me his copy. I quickly read that it’s reporting the correct details on the play dates, then hand it down to Margie so she can read it too. Holly tells us that we’ve only sold seventy-one tickets for the opening night, but Friday and Saturday nights are much better. I’m not worried. More will come.

  Noah and Amber still haven’t arrived. Felicity tries their phones and they don’t answer. We decide to start on the warm-up. Margie stares at us suspiciously as we sing ‘I Think I Love You’ – Owen leads with his lovely tenor voice. Holly takes the chorus. It’s fun. We dance and clap our hands. We keep it up while we slowly get into the zone and are ready to rehearse. But Grace’s children are still missing. It’s my turn to phone. Amber asks for a message. Noah wants a message, too.

  It seems pointless rehearsing without them so we eat slices of Holly’s cake, mandarin with cream-cheese icing. We drink not-quite-hot tea from the kitchen urn, and we’re all frustrated now. Felicity puts on her schoolteacher no-nonsense voice and phones Amber’s mother and Noah’s friend’s friend, who for some reason she thinks might help track him down.

  Holly is chatting to Margie, and I can’t tell whether Margie is happy about it or not. Owen is staring into his phone. Last rehearsal he faltered over his lines; he should be in a quiet corner practising and going through his moves.

  Just after four, Noah and Amber saunter in – a violin case is under his right arm, Amber under the other; they’re looped like the couple they must be, both unabashed, saying they arrived at the right time. ‘Really, we’re late?’ Amber says, and I’m unconvinced by her bad acting that it’s a mix-up. New lovers, they were probably shagging and forgot the time. Next rehearsal I’ll individually text them about the arrangements.

  So the run-through can finally begin, although we’re unsettled with each other; the community mood is disrupted, like we’re now two groups: us adults, and Grace’s kids.

  Because of the late time we don’t sing and go through our breathing and stretching exercises. It’s a mistake. I should’ve got the spirit back into our hearts and minds before anyone stepped up onto the stage.

  I sit in between Margie and Owen, who isn’t up until Act Two. I look expectantly at the cast members onstage.

  ‘Let’s start at the top,’ I say. ‘Act One, Scene One.’

  The actors are stiff, the lines don’t flow, movements seem forced. Felicity is focused, but because the others don’t have the timing right, she appears too forceful and loud. I can tell she’s furious with Noah and Amber – not a bad emotion when playing Grace. Method acting at its best, but they won’t cope if she vents at them through her lines. I stand, clap my hands and say we’re going to start again. I’m acting myself, being falsely cheerful as I try to settle things down. Owen calls up from his chair, saying he must leave at five.

  This isn’t going well, and I say so.

  ‘Everyone,’ I say, ‘we’ve got off to a bad start. We need to move on. Can we?’

  It’s all so precious, the individual egos – but that’s what makes the magic, when strangers come together and surrender to something bigger than themselves.

  They glance at each other, and away.

  ‘Let’s take a two-minute break,’ I say. ‘We need to breathe and focus.’

  I hate the way I sound, preachy, with my voice resounding around the theatre. But I am in charge. Erik taught me that: to own my role.

  They take me seriously and circle around the stage, heads down, staring at the floor. I let them get impatient, waiting to begin – wanting to begin.

  ‘Now,’ I say, moving towards the stage, arms out, imploring them. ‘We’ve got only one more rehearsal before opening night. Please focus. Are you ready?’

  No one speaks.

  ‘Scene One, Act One,’ I say. ‘Begin.’

  I take my seat between Margie and Owen. My script is on my lap, but I don’t read it. I watch their moves, hear their words. The rhythm comes and there’s joy between them in the banter, the gruff tones; Noah’s violin is shaky but all right. He smiles and winks out to the audience, and I know it’ll get a laugh. I see that they all like doing this, separating from reality for a short while to become something else. It’s fun and hard.

  I interrupt a few times. Lines have been forgotten; moves haven’t been made. But at the end of Act One, I stand up and clap, telling them I’m proud.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  Margie is contained, sitting upright, taking it all in, and I can’t read her. Only that she remains seated. I figure she’s coping, that I needn’t worry about her.

  Owen has forg
otten his need to leave at five. We work through Act Two. It’s difficult keeping the energy up; we’ve done this so many times. ‘Throw yourself in,’ I say. ‘There’s only three nights.’

  We all know we’re babies. If we were in professional theatre, we’d be pushing ourselves for up to seven shows a week for a whole season, up to twelve weeks. But then we wouldn’t have day jobs, either.

  By 7 pm we’re done, exhausted but ready. I embrace each one of them: Felicity, Noah, Amber, Holly and Owen. They’re my team, my beating heart. The old theatre feels like it also needs to rest, have its solitude again, until we return.

  I find Margie in the entry hall, sitting in a studded green leather chair, staring at the front door. She’s been impatient to leave for more than an hour. I apologise, explaining we started more than an hour late, that it was the most important rehearsal in the lead-up to opening night. She fidgets with the hem of the blouse, then settles her hands around her handbag.

  We are the last to step outside into the night. Squally rain makes us hesitate before leaving the portico’s shelter. I lock the heavy black door and twist the knob to be certain it’s properly secure. There’s nothing for it; I grip the handle of the basket in one hand and Margie’s arm in the other, and we step down to the footpath and hurry to the car as fast as she can go. We get a little wet. I think of Ross, see him staring out a window, arms crossed, satisfied.

  Slowly as if burdened, and silently sighing, Margie straps the seatbelt around herself. I hear the clip. I buckle myself in. ‘I’m tired,’ I say, ‘but really happy. How’d you find it?’

  ‘I’m quite hungry and need a rest.’

  I start the car, put the wipers on, check the mirrors and make a U-turn. Driving across the bridge, I call Ross. He answers and I say we’re headed home. ‘What’s been happening?’ I ask.

  ‘Isobel had another driving lesson. Got to fourth gear.’

  ‘Not bad for a fourteen-year-old,’ I say.

  He tells me that another set of twin calves was born, one abandoned; he’s got it in the yards but doesn’t know how it’ll go. He’s fed the girls and himself – lentil and veggie soup waits on the stove for Margie and me when we get home.

  ‘Love you, darling,’ he says.

  ‘See you in forty minutes.’

  ‘Road’s wet. Be careful.’

  ‘Okay.’ I press end call.

  So it’s late and I’m a drone, flying dumb down the Hume on 110 k’s. It’s a dual carriageway and I’m in the left lane. A B-double passes on the right and buffers the car; water splashes on the windscreen and I put the wipers on high.

  Then a Kenworth appears on my bum. Through the rear-view mirror all I can see is the shining slats of the truck’s grille – forty tonnes coming towards me at full force. I gently slow to 100 in order to force the driver to pass on the right, but the truck stays behind. Kilometres pass and I can’t ignore the threat behind me. I speed up. So does the Kenworth. One hundred and fifteen. One hundred and twenty. In front are the red tail-lights of a car-carrying transport truck, its tyres spraying water onto the windscreen. The wipers are in a frenzy.

  I’m anxious. Margie is staring at my hands gripping the wheel. I tell her the problem.

  ‘Just ignore him,’ she says.

  So I do. I return to the speed limit. But in the mirror is the truck’s silver snub nose. I’m scared. We pass Baddaginnie Road and there’s no reason why the truck doesn’t move to the right lane.

  ‘You bastard,’ I yell.

  On impulse, I decide to take the short cut up into the pine plantation. It’ll rid us of the Kenworth, take time off the trip; we’re both tired, Margie is hungry and wants to go to bed. I indicate, slow to ninety and veer into the exit lane. The driver in the mighty Kenworth continues on, thundering south towards Melbourne.

  ‘I don’t like this way,’ Margie says in a quiet voice. She sounds afraid.

  ‘It’s okay. We’ll be home sooner.’

  A half-moon tattoos the dark sky. A wallaby prances alongside the car, then disappears into the black verge. The skeletons of eucalypts race past, shadows, imaginings; I’m watching for kangaroos, a deer.

  Margie appears more concerned now than when we were being chased down the freeway. She’s clutching the armrest; her jaw is tight. I wonder why she always protests when I take this short cut.

  Chapter 32

  Margie

  SOMETIMES Norman drove through the pine plantations from Benalla to home. And when Stella comes this way, one particular time returns from its hidden place in my memory.

  It was Sunday, the fourth of March, 1968. I know the exact date because we were returning home from my parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary celebration – we’d had a two-course set lunch in the McKelvie Room at the Rose Hotel.

  Norman didn’t like associating with my parents, or my sisters and their husbands. He used to say, ‘They ask too many questions.’ I always tried to explain that they were just being friendly, taking an interest. I flattered him by saying they liked him, although I’m not sure that was true. He reluctantly came to the lunch and kept to himself most of the time. I was about five months pregnant with Caroline and dressed in a maternity outfit my mother had made me: a watermelon-pink rayon skirt and matching smock with a white round collar. I felt very attractive wearing it and was proud showing off my expanding waistline because it proved something; I suppose it gave everyone the impression we were a happy family.

  We were in the green Holden Premier sedan and Mark would’ve been two years old, sitting between us in the front seat. Norman was unusually cranky that day and easily provoked. So I should’ve known better than to tell him to go slower, even though he was pressing the accelerator far down as if he had a death wish for us all.

  The engine revs were high. A storm of dust trailed the car. The road was badly rutted. I gripped the armrest, terrified. ‘Slow down, you fool of a man,’ I shouted.

  He had some cruel things to say back to me. So I joined in, hissing some home truths. Little Mark taking it all in. I should’ve held my tongue.

  About five or six miles from home, he did slow down. And stopped the car just past the wooden bridge and got out. He came around to my door and opened it, grabbed my arm and pulled me out. He didn’t say a word, but left me there on the side of the dirt track. Mark was a witness to his mother being abandoned in the middle of the bush. I watched the car grow smaller as it trailed along the road beside the creek and disappeared out of sight.

  I started walking – my white slingback sandals were unsuitable for such an excursion, but I was quite strong in those days and knew the way. Even so, I expected my husband to return and pick me up.

  When I was resting, sitting on a granite outcrop, holding my belly and quietly comforting my baby, ‘it’s all right, don’t worry,’ a sambar doe silently stepped out from the undergrowth. I believe she deliberately showed herself as a way of uplifting my spirits, letting me know I wasn’t alone. We gazed at each other until she turned and walked deeper into the unknown wild bush. I thought of my parents’ happy marriage, my-Lily, and how they would feel if they knew where I was. I felt ashamed.

  I set off again along the isolated track. The sun was lowering; shadows lengthened. The air cooled. My sandals caused blisters and for a short while I walked barefoot, but I worried about stepping on something unknown and dangerous. I strode through the pain on my blistered toes, reaching deep into myself as I considered this moment in my life, how trapped I was, that my marriage wasn’t what I wanted. The world seemed so big, and me so small. By the time I reached the corner of Maryhill Road and Marion Road, I was once again resigned. This is how it was for me, that in some way I deserved it. I needed to be strong.

  A car approached and stopped. Keith Sanders unwound his window. ‘You all right?’

  My face twisted in shame before I put on a bright smile. ‘Taking a walk. It’s a lovely time of day.’

  ‘Want a lift?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

&n
bsp; He seemed unsure about leaving me. But I waved him on and set back on my way, forcing even steps to hide that for the past hour I’d been limping through the agony of bleeding blisters. Who knows what Keith thought I was doing out on the road at dusk.

  And here I am once more. Stella has again taken this terrifying drive back to the house. I grit my teeth and hardly dare to breathe. The speed she’s driving seems fast, especially in this rain; I see she’s doing about fifty. I want to call out that she must slow down, that ‘you are a fool of a woman’.

  The wipers push the rain off the windscreen. The headlights on high beam show us the gradual winding climb into the tableland, past a couple of timber houses, long kilometres of pastoral fences. We travel along the narrow stretch that follows the creek. The bridge is ahead. Stella slowly crosses; we feel the heavy planks absorb the car’s weight. The track veers right and leads into the isolation of the pine planation where the sambar deer are. Stella turns and this is about where Norman abruptly stopped the car. Two-year-old Mark staring with wide eyes, wondering. I patted his knee and smiled so he wouldn’t worry.

  Stella suddenly stops the car.

  I gasp.

  ‘Shit,’ she says. She opens the door, gets out and walks ahead into the rain.

  The headlights show a mass out in front. I lean forward and stare. Through the thrashing wipers, I make out a fallen eucalypt with a girth as thick as a bull’s neck. Its branches are splayed wide. Our path home is blocked.

  Stella hurries back to the car, gets in behind the wheel. Rain glistens silver on her face. Her hair and clothes are wet, and she needs to dry herself, but I can’t work out how she’ll be able to do that.

  Something on the dash worries her. ‘Black spot. No signal.’ She exhales, saying the four-letter word. Then she pulls her big handbag from behind the back seat and searches for her phone.

  ‘Does that mean you can’t call Ross?’ I ask.

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘We’ll have to turn back to the freeway,’ I say.