Stella and Margie

by Glenna Thomson

  It’s a strange anticlimax: driving normally, Eddie’s car in front. He takes the corners on our descent without hesitation. I’m sure he’s pleased with himself, the hero, and fair enough. ‘About five this morning Ross told everyone to go home, that he’d keep looking on his own,’ he told me. ‘But I stayed on and drove into Benalla and took a good look around. It was only on a whim coming back down the freeway I thought to veer off to the short cut.’

  Two bars appear on my dash. We’re down on the flats; a white weatherboard house is to the right. Red, blue and white horse-jumps are in a dirt paddock. I think to pull over, but I keep following Eddie’s ute. His tail-lights flash red as he arrives at the freeway; a pause before he accelerates, turns left and heads south.

  I press Ross’s number.

  Only two rings.

  ‘Stell?’

  My face breaks into crying, and he hears my pathetic wailing in the open space of the car. I can’t speak. Margie touches my arm. ‘Pull over,’ she says.

  ‘Where are you?’ Ross asks.

  I press the brakes and stop under a yellow gum, white leathery skin with tongues of falling bark. The freeway is fifty metres ahead; a B-Double booms past, then a small van.

  I sniff.

  ‘Darling?’ he says. I’m still gathering up words when Ross says, ‘Mum?’

  Margie looks around and speaks too loudly, unsure she’s doing the right thing by talking into the air that she breathes. ‘We decided to take a short cut. I said I was tired and hungry, so it seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Margie is smiling. ‘But we got into a bit of bother.’

  ‘What short cut? Stell?’

  And so I tell him the story and, feeling calmer, I start driving. Onto the freeway, I pick up speed and take my place at 110.

  I keep telling Ross I’m sorry. He’s silent, too quiet.

  ‘You all right?’ I ask.

  ‘I couldn’t make sense of it. You know what I was thinking.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  Margie joins in, telling him it wasn’t too bad; that she slept all right. ‘But it got a bit chilly around three. I’m looking forward to a shower and getting into a proper bed.’

  I tell Ross I’ll see him soon.

  ‘You okay to drive?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes. I promise.’

  Eddie is long gone along Black Wattle Road, up into the tableland, the road they’ve been searching all night. The wild fig tree on the left has fruit. Rosellas are feeding. Approaching is a lycra-clad cyclist, head down. He whips past. We travel through the long, winding eucalypt tunnel. The car smoothly moves through the auto-gears as I slow at the approaching corners and accelerate out of them.

  We pass Chester’s place. A silver Audi nudges from his driveway, waiting to turn. Margie stares. Chester has visitors.

  Maryhill Road, our paddocks on the left, one kilometre, two, three. The letterbox is ahead. I indicate and turn into the driveway.

  Ross is leaning against his ute, arms folded, waiting.

  He’s at my door as I open it and holds my arm as if to help me out. I stand up and am embraced. We exhale. He’s warm and smells of a long night.

  Margie is out of the car. Her door shuts. She comes towards us, her sad brown eyes, hands balancing on the bonnet and shuffling steps. She says, ‘It’s all right, we’re all safe now.’

  Ross opens his arm and pulls her in.

  I see our feet in a tiny circle: Ross’s worn workboots, Margie’s tan flats, my black socks. Nothing is said; I just feel the strength of Ross’s hold on me. And his right arm is around Margie, clasping her the same way.

  Chapter 34

  Margie

  THERE’S a hush across the theatre. The lights are off. We wait. I take a deep breath and grip my hands between my knees. I’m nervous for Stella. People are still moving into their seats, yet it’s past the starting time.

  Jemima is sitting on my left; her feet don’t touch the floor. Isobel is on my right. We are in the centre, three rows back from the stage – an expectant trio, staring forward. Isobel pulls her ponytail undone, smooths her curly hair and twists the band back on. I can’t tell what difference that made. A young couple shuffle past us to their seats; I remain seated, which doesn’t make it easy for them. A man sits in front of Jemima and blocks her view. She glares at me, mouth open. I’m standing, swapping places with her, when the stage lights come on.

  Felicity is alone on the stage, sitting at the kitchen table. She’s staring to the side, flat-faced, pretending to be Grace. She’s behaving as if no one is watching her and I think that must be a strange thing to do. She’s wearing a bright-orange suit jacket with thick padding across the shoulders – business clothes. The impression is it’s a work day. It’s pin-drop silent; the audience is paused, expectant. Felicity brushes something invisible off the sleeve of her jacket. We stare and wait.

  Ignoring the staring faces out in front, Felicity stands and slowly walks to the fridge: an Electrolux very like the one Norman and I bought soon after Ross was born. She opens it and pulls out a Tupperware container and puts it on the bench. Then picks up a wine bottle and glass. She seems in no hurry as she saunters back to the table, twists off the cap and pours. It’s as if she’s lost in thought as she stares out into the audience, above our heads. She sits and casually sips from the glass. I want something to happen – and just as I think that, Noah rushes onto the stage.

  ‘It’s your turn,’ he yells to someone behind him. Amber follows. They stop dead in their tracks when they see their mother, Grace.

  Stella is backstage. Ross is upstairs in the lighting booth. He’s sitting with Kyle, someone Stella asked to come up from Melbourne to help with the lighting, music, and the photos that are to be projected onto the stage. I imagine the timing is very important; that he’ll have to concentrate all the way through. He’s staying at Maryhill with us for the duration of the season, sleeping in the storeroom cum bedroom off the family room. I’m not that keen on him, although he has good table manners. He’s movie-star handsome – oval face, square jaw, blue eyes, athletic body – yet he has the demeanour of someone who’s had lots of bad luck, is worn down by life and has had no benefit whatsoever from his appearance. He smokes cigarettes in the pergola and I’ve wondered what he does with the butts.

  Chester isn’t here. Stella said she’d phoned and he answered from Julie and Ian’s place in Cottesloe. He’d flown there Tuesday. When Stella told me, she must’ve seen my disappointment because she clicked her fingers in front of my face and told me to snap out of it. ‘He’s not a very nice person,’ she said. ‘He’s not worthy of you.’ I’m flattered she thinks so well of me. And, to be truthful, in my deepest private thoughts, I knew Chester was self-interested: it’s just that my need was so much greater. Perhaps I should’ve come to terms with that notion a long time ago. Never mind now, it’s done with.

  Noah plays the violin. Then stops. Seconds pass as he stretches his arm as though he’s got a cramp. He begins again and I don’t know if that was deliberate. Felicity is drinking red wine with Holly and I know it’s coloured water. They’re saying their lines. The audience laughs. Then the mood changes and it doesn’t sit well with me – all the anger, the accusations. There’s too much going on around me to trace the origins of my discomfort. Felicity puts her hands across her face and I think she is supposed to be crying. At the rehearsal she was pretending to have a good old howl, but right now I can’t tell what is going on.

  Amber and Noah sit at the table and demand takeaway pizza for dinner. Felicity makes the call from an old-fashioned phone like we had on the dresser outside the kitchen. It was in a good position because we could reach it from several locations.

  Felicity is angry and leaves the stage, saying she’s fed up. I look around to see what the audience is doing. It’s a good turnout: some empty seats to the side, a few at the far back. Everyone is still, alert, staring ahead.

  It’s between Act One and Act Two when the family photos are projected
onto the back wall of the stage. Photos of Stella’s mother, father, brother and her as a girl. It could be Jemima up there. I don’t feel like moving and mixing with all the people milling out in the foyer. I reach down to my bag, find my purse and give Isobel ten dollars, saying they can go and buy ice-creams, but they must return straight away.

  ‘Can we have a drink, too?’ Jemima asks.

  I give them every gold coin in my purse and say they can keep the change.

  The theatre empties and only a few of us are left seated. And here I am. An old woman. I’ve been in this hall many times. Not just for my graduation, but also for Mark’s and Caroline’s school concerts. I can’t say I attended Ross’s, as I have no recollection of it. And this is where I connect with Grace, her struggle to manage her own life while her children nipped like pests, demanding attention.

  Anyway. I’m here now and quite happy. Ross and Stella have bought me an iPad. It arrived in the post, so I’m not sure how or when that was organised. And somehow the bird app Jemima has been showing me is on it. It’s not very difficult to use: I just press the button with the tiny white bird and the screen changes all by itself – sort of like changing the station on a television. I’m cautiously experimenting with it. The other morning, around eleven, the moon was west but still high in the pale-blue sky. The sun was to the east. For years this has been a mystery to me, how it’s possible for both the sun and moon to be in the sky at the same time. In my room I pressed the blue square called Safari and typed in the letters for astronomy. Many options appeared and none helped me with what I wanted. Jemima told me I need to narrow my search and I don’t know what she meant. But we’ll get to it in good time.

  And on Monday night, before Kyle arrived, when we were all seated around the dinner table eating a rice dish called paella, Stella tapped her wineglass with her knife. She looked quite lovely with her hair sitting on her shoulders, wearing a blue jumper with a cowl neck. Ross put his fork down. We all turned to her. I wondered what the sense of occasion was – it was no one’s birthday.

  Stella looked across the table to Ross and said, ‘You say.’

  So we looked to my son.

  ‘What?’ said Isobel.

  He took a breath. ‘You got them?’ he said, back to Stella.

  She put folded white papers on the table. ‘Yep.’

  He wiped the side of his mouth, a thinking gesture, finding the words. ‘Well, there’s a gap between Isobel’s exam and calving in July, and Eddie said he can look after the place for us.’ Ross looked at me; Norman’s eyes, the brown curly hair. ‘We’ve booked five flights to London, Mum. We thought you’d like to go.’

  Stella reached out and touched my hand.

  Well, then. I had no say in it and, of course, I’m very upset about it. The idea that I’m going to London on one of those big aeroplanes. My stomach doesn’t agree with the idea. I think I’m very excited.

  We’ll be in London together for ten days, then Stella and I are going on a cruise. It’ll take us around all the British Isles and other places – Spain, I think. The ship docks back in London and we’ll fly home from there.

  Stella showed me the tickets they’ve booked on the internet and printed off. The London accommodation hasn’t been organised yet, but they say they’re going to find an apartment so we’re not all squashed in together, which I think is a very good idea.

  And by the time we’re due to fly all the way to England, I will most likely have relocated to the retirement village behind the hospital. Last Thursday, before rehearsal, Stella took me for a drive, saying there was no pressure, but she didn’t think Bishop Street suited me anymore. ‘It’s too big and you’re so alone there. The mess those bloody trees make. You’re not up to all that raking.’ There’s no argument from me on that score. She’s right.

  The unit we looked at is quite nice: two bedrooms with a reason able-sized kitchen. The idea of cooking proper meals appeals to me – porridge and fruit for breakfast, a simple sandwich for lunch, and meat, chicken or fish and veg for dinner – none of this quick and easy stuff I’ve endured in the past few weeks. And doing my own laundry will make me feel more myself. I’m accustomed to my own company and I’m quite looking forward to it. I’ve got a quiet routine that is more enjoyable with no one watching on, making their judgements. There are things to be worked out, like shopping and appointments, but Stella seems confident she can manage to take me. There’s a community hall at this village, and a group that plays bridge interests me; I used to partner with my mother before I married Norman, so I know the game.

  Jemima says I can send her regular messages on my iPad, using something she calls Messenger – a different blue button. She’s told me about Instagram and Facebook, but I feel confused. The sweet child, she patted my arm and told me not to worry, ‘You’ll catch on.’ Isobel’s music teacher is only ten minutes’ walk away, so me being close could be helpful.

  I’m not forgotten. Stella, Ross and the girls want to include me, and I don’t have the words to properly express how I feel.

  The photos keep changing on the stage wall. Grace in a hospital bed, oxygen tubes in her nose, Grace looking young and strong wearing a swimsuit, Grace holding a baby; perhaps it’s Stella. Loud music plays from the speakers, something I remember from when I was in my twenties. The girls trail back between the seats to me. They’ve got choc-tops and cans of fizzy drink. I look around and see other people carrying in food and drinks, so I suppose they’re allowed to have them in here. I would’ve quite liked an ice-cream myself, but it’s too late now.

  All at once the theatre darkens, the music stops.

  The audience is suspended, waiting.

  Seconds pass.

  I know from the script and rehearsals that the bad language is coming up. I glance at my granddaughters and wonder if I should do something. Then the stage lights up brightly, and Felicity is standing in its centre. She’s wearing different clothes: a pair of bright-pink pants and a yellow blousy shirt. There’s a knock on an invisible door. She shouts angrily, ‘Who is it now?’

  Jemima taps me on the arm. I lean down to her. ‘I can’t eat this,’ she says, holding out her ice-cream.

  I don’t know what she expects me to do with it, but I take it from her. She’s eaten all the chocolate from the top, which I suspect was the attraction. So there’s nothing for it. I take a lick and decide it’s mint. It tastes quite nice so I keep going.

  The play continues on as it should. Everyone laughs at something and I’ve missed the joke. Jemima leans on me; poor pet, it’s past her bedtime, yet there will be an afterparty. Stella says it’s a standard thing, but it won’t go on for long because the production will be on tomorrow night, too. ‘But we’ll all need to come down, so we’re going to have a couple of drinks,’ she said. I offered to mind the girls for the next two nights, and Stella happily accepted; it means she and Ross can stay out later if they want.

  Felicity is swearing now and I shrink into myself. It’s so unnecessary and a poor example. I look at my granddaughters and I hardly think they’ve noticed. I can’t tell for certain, but they don’t seem very shocked.

  I’m tired now and close my eyes. The violin is playing again; it’s a Beatles song that Mark used to play in his room, ‘Let It Be’. I think of my lost boy and, as I’ve always done when something distresses me, I think of those two kissing black cockatoos perched in the silver wattle, the branches hardly carrying their weight. They fly off together, and more than once I wished that I could do that, just fly away and land somewhere else.

  I think I’ve arrived.

  Isobel leans across and hands me her finished can of fizzy drink, and I’m about to tell her to put it on the floor at her feet, when I take it from her.

  Jemima slips her hand into mine and whispers up to me, ‘When are we going home?’

  ‘Not long, pet,’ I say.

  Stella and Margie book club questions

  If you were in Margie’s marriage, would you have done anything
differently? If so, what and how?

  Do you consider Margie a weak person because she didn’t leave her marriage?

  From the perspective of deceiving another woman, how do you judge Margie for having an affair?

  What is the significance of the birds? What do they represent?

  How do you feel about the phrase, ‘I did my best’, in the context of motherhood, and the judgements we make of our mothers, and ourselves as mothers?

  Do you relate to Stella’s determination for self-expression and independence beyond being a wife and mother?

  What is good about Stella and Ross’s marriage?

  Was Stella right to bring Margie back to Maryhill against Ross’s wishes?

  Do you think Margie might have succumbed to Chester’s charms had she been in a different relationship?

  Is the relationship between daughters-in-law and mothers-in-law with differing personalities always bound to be fraught?

  Acknowledgements

  THANKS to my wonderful first readers, Meg Webster, Chris Power and Jill Bartlett for their thoughtful feedback and encouragement. Also, Carol Crowe for her dedicated final read of the manuscript.

  My appreciation to Manfred Ruff from Box-Ironbark Birding, who sat with me one morning in our garden and identified thirty-five different birds and their song. I gave all of them to Margie. I also gave her some other birds I’ve seen in the years we’ve lived here in north-east Victoria. The powerful owl appeared twice, high up in an ancient conifer, but hasn’t been seen again. The black swan appeared last year, and now as I write it’s returned and sitting in the dam. Its mate is probably nesting nearby. We often see wedge-tail eagles gliding in thermals. I’ve seen magpies chase a wedge-tail eagle from their territory.

  Special thanks to Lance Williams for checking I’ve got the trees and birds accurately recorded. However, any errors are entirely my own.