by Phyllis King
Mrs Brown cornered Eve at the Milk Bar.
‘Mrs Worthington, is youse alright? Saw ya pegging out the clothes. Looks like ya got a nasty black eye.’
Eve laughed. ‘Oh...yes, slipped on the soap. Getting into a bubble bath.’
‘Half ya luck.’
Eve’s luck continued.
Eve knew Jude was seeing other women as there were all the tell-tale signs. Match folders from nightclubs and fancy restaurants with phone numbers scrawled on them. Anonymous phone calls where the person hung up on hearing her voice. Smudges of make-up on his shirts. Cheap lacy knickers stashed in the glove box of the Citroen. When Eve had flung the knickers at Jude, he’d slapped her around some more. He was getting better at it. Now when he hit her, he did it in such a way that his neighbours couldn’t spot the damage. Not that they were suspicious. Hell, everybody knew that wife beaters were only to be found amongst the lower classes.
The locals didn’t know what to make of Eve and her plummy accent. Even when she wore a simple sundress and straw hat, she looked like she’d stepped from a fashion magazine.
She walked everywhere because Jude refused to teach her to how to drive. The greengrocer kindly undertook to deliver her vegetables every week; and would be waiting on her doorstep when she returned from his shop. But the local wives badmouthed Eve until Edith Jones took a stand.
‘I’m giving her an invite. Telling her to bring a plate. She may not be as stuck up as she looks. You lot can come or not come. I don’t give a stuff
Eve was delighted to receive Edith’s invitation but somewhat perplexed. Who would have thought those chain-smoking women appreciated the finer things in life? Just because Mrs Jones sat on her front porch picking fleas from her dog, didn’t mean she wasn’t interested in fine china. No matter. Eve would take her best Royal Doulton serving dish. It dated back to Queen Victoria’s era. They’d have lots to talk about.
When Eve placed her empty plate down on Edith’s coffee table, there was a deathly silence. All the other visiting plastic plates were in the kitchen, laden with lamingtons, sponge cakes, jam fancies and chocolate crackles. It was a lesson Eve never forgot. But getting a handle on Australian culture was a humiliating process.
When the coalman dumped his load on the back porch and yelled out, ‘See ya later, love,’ Eve waited in all afternoon and was offended when he didn’t return.
Jude was finding work increasingly distasteful. He’d been overlooked for promotion and his male colleagues were distant. Instead of climbing the hierarchy he was in a holding pattern. The only place he was genuinely welcome was the typing pool. And he’d had most of the secretaries already. Depression had him and would not let go. His affair with Monica was going to the dogs. It was increasingly difficult to get an erection and soon she traded him in for a more virile chap. Fresh from the ship.
Meantime Eve was surreptitiously doing chemistry experiments in her kitchen. She began collecting moths and messing with fungus, spores and rotting fish. She analysed household poisons and managed to decimate the ant army and put the termites out of business. As her powers grew, so did her authority in the neighbourhood and she provided chemical solutions for everything including head lice, bedbugs, silverfish and pantry moths.
Mr Jones, the local pharmacist, eagerly anticipated her visits. ‘Ah, Mrs Worthington. Good to see you again.’
‘Please, call me Eve.’
‘Well in that case, call me Jeremy.’
He blushed. Eve smiled. She’d once owned a plump hamster called Jeremy. And the two had much in common.
Eve and Jeremy began having long nourishing chats about chemical matters. Eve Worthington was like something from the movies. And so Jeremy was willing to bend the rules when supplying her with regulated poisons for her kitchen business. Nice she could earn pin money for herself. Maybe she’d treat herself to some of those new cosmetics he’d ordered in. Not that she needed them. She was perfect already. He knew because he’d seen her buck naked in his sexual fantasies.
Before long Eve was making more than pin money. She started selling potions for skin problems. Her biggest success was curing Mrs Stark’s eczema. The remedy had eluded the Collins Street skin specialists and haunted Mrs Stark for years. ‘That Mrs Worthington knows her onions. Fixed me up proper she did.’
Such was Mrs Stark’s gratitude that local wives consulted Eve on their haemorrhoids, scaly skin and assorted unmentionables. Eve squirreled away the money she earned in a jamjar. Soon the jar was full and she took to stashing money in a flour sack in the pantry. Eventually she grew bolder and opened a bank account in her maiden name. None of this was mentioned to the master of the house.
Around this time Eve began an affair with a member of Jude’s hunting club. The men went wild pig shooting in New South Wales and it was lovely having her husband away at weekends.
Eve hadn’t meant to turn into an adulteress - every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, from twelve to two - but Doctor Gerald Ashton had been so kind and attentive. His bedside manner was impeccable. He was handsome, a man of few words and younger than she. But more importantly, he was a man of integrity. He liked doing things around the house for her. And he made her feel like a woman.
Gerry was upfront. ‘Most blokes can’t stand your husband. When they got rat-faced on our last hunting trip, I had to talk them out of murdering him. Accidents often happen on these shoots. Guns go off when blokes are cleaning them. Or someone mistakes their best mate for a wallaby.’
Eve imagined herself as a grieving widow. It was a remarkably pleasant sensation.
When Jude came home at five am on Christmas day, Eve went through his pockets and found a woman’s telephone number and his dental plate. It had been carefully wrapped in his monogrammed handkerchief.
Eve whisked the dental plate out to the garage and hit it hard, once, with a hammer. She then stuffed the pieces back into the handkerchief and put it back where she’d found it. A remarkable thing happened. Because he’d blacked out, Jude had no recollection of how his false tooth had disintegrated. He said nothing to Eve and quietly paid an emergency visit to the local dentist.
Eve cried when she found pornographic photos of a pubescent girl hidden in Jude’s filing cabinet. It scared her to think that her daughter was growing into a pretty nymphet. Who knew what Jude was capable of. Eve said nothing and put the photos back.
She then wedged six king prawns behind the painting in his study and repapered the back of the frame. Jude went crazy for weeks. ‘What do you mean you can’t smell it? The bloody place reeks of it.’
Eve shrugged. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling.’
She removed all traces of the rotten prawns after he’d made an appointment to get the fumigators in. Naturally when the servicemen arrived they found nothing and Jude was left questioning his sanity. He’d been on shaky ground since Monica had dumped him.
Despite all Jude’s womanizing, he still had time for his wife in bed. And if she resisted him things got nasty. Soon she was pregnant again and the idea of leaving him had to be shelved.
When Mrs Stark’s dog ate rat poison and died, Eve became thoughtful. She visited the Public Library and read up on the attributes of Antimony Potassium Nitrate. It was not quite a true metal but was as toxic as arsenic. It had a mild taste that could easily be masked by food and beverages. Large doses would trigger stomach muscle reflexes and make the victim vomit and purge. But in small doses taken over a period of time it accumulated in the human body. It had been the poison of choice for several famous British killers. Namely because antimony poisoning mimicked food poisoning, peritonitis, delirium tremens, TB, consumption, stomach cancer and gastritis.
Eve closed the book and put it back on the shelf with trembling hands.
Another year rolled by and Jude no longer woke up feeling peachy. He felt below par and his erection problems increased. Eve was very concerned about his health. She made trips into the city and bought him special nerve tonics that
came all the way from Germany. At the end of a gruelling day, she’d cook his favourite meals and listen to him whinge about his colleagues.
Jude informed his hunting mates, ‘Women need a firm hand. Take my wife for instance, she likes to know who’s boss.’
Jude’s moods were increasingly sour. His daughters would stop playing when they heard his car in the driveway. Eve would try to predict his mood from the way he slammed the car door. Jude didn’t have to be drunk to get violent. The next door neighbours took to turning up the radio when they heard Jude yelling.
Mr Stark ticked off Mrs Stark, ‘Stay out of it. It’s none of our damn business what goes on next door.’
If the kids made noise when Jude was on the phone, he’d hang up, seize them by their hair and crack their heads together. The Starks sometimes heard Eve yelling, ‘Stop it! Leave them alone, you bastard.’
Then there would be sudden silence. And Eve wouldn’t be seen for a couple of days.
If he’d had a particularly bad day at work, Jude would wait until they were all seated at the dinner table and then flip the table over. Leaving them crying, covered in food and broken crockery.
Eve waited and daydreamed. As autumn turned into winter, Jude was stunned to discover his magnificent Italian overcoat was moth-eaten. As were his piles of cashmere jumpers and silk shirts. Everything had been destroyed. He crouched naked on the floor and examined his winter brogues.
‘Eve! Come quickly, something horrendous has happened.’
There was no response as Eve had gone over to Mrs Stark’s for a cup of tea.
Jude’s brogues were covered in green mould and strange spores had colonized and ruined his winter boots. Jude lay face down on the bed and wept.
Later Mr Stark spied Jude, stark naked, dragging his ruined clothing out to the incinerator and burning the lot of it. At the pub that night the story did the rounds.
‘He’s a bit of a wanker that Worthington bloke.’
‘Yeah, mate. But all the sheilas reckon he’s a movie star.’
Laughter all round.
Jude decided he needed to get away with the chaps for a weekend. Make peace with Mother Nature. Try to get over the death of his wardrobe.
Gerry went to pick up Jude in his ute. He stowed Jude’s gear into the ute as Jude combed his hair and checked himself out in the rear vision mirror.
‘For god’s sake, Jude, leave your bloody hair alone.’
As Eve waved them off, Gerry glimpsed a black eye behind her sunglasses and bruise marks on her throat. He found it hard to speak a civil word to Jude for the entire trip. Gerry decided not to tell Jude about the finalisation of his divorce.
Jude had a terrible time. His gut was playing up and his nerves were frayed. He gulped down the German nerve tonic but instead of making him feel better, it made him worse, in the end he chucked it in the river. Then Jude shot himself in the kneecap. Or at least that’s what he thought had happened. Sheer agony. No wonder they were so keen on kneecapping in Belfast.
He’d had been drunkenly reloading his muzzle loader at the time and there’d been pandemonium all round. Yelling, shouted orders and drunken men stumbling across hot coals.
‘There’s a pack of black pigs behind the tents! Load up, load up!’
Guns were going off everywhere. War at its most diabolical. Some of the blokes were so drunk they were shooting their own shadows. The only sober presence was Gerry.
‘You know, mate, I think I’m going to have to drive you to hospital.’
Gerry rang Eve from a country hospital near the border. ‘I’ve recommended they keep him in for a bit. It’ll give you more time. He won’t be lonely. Half the lads are having their stomachs pumped, after eating diseased wild pig; undercooked with a red wine marinade. Trust me, honey, you don’t want to know the details. Just make sure you’ve got everything sorted for when Bruce arrives.’
On Jude’s return he found his house empty. All the kid’s toys were gone. Eve’s wardrobe had been cleaned out. The guinea pigs weren’t in their cage and the cat was missing. Good riddance to the cat, he hated it. Recently it had taken to pissing in Jude’s slippers and spraying his gun collection. Shame about the dog though, he had real potential as a hunting hound.
Jude dragged his gammy leg up onto the sofa and closed his eyes. His gut was giving him hell. Never in all his life had he been so ill. If only he still had Eve to take care of him. If only his chum Gerry would answer his damn phone. Jude wasn’t going to waste his money taxiing to hospital or booking a doctor’s home visit. Instead he drank more whiskey, swallowed a bottle of prescription painkillers and passed out.
His corpse was found three days later by Mrs Stark. The autopsy report stated he’d died of accidental overdose, possibly complicated by acute food poisoning, gastritis and a skin full of alcohol.
Gerry gave up pig hunting. It was a filthy business. Besides, he preferred spending weekends with his new family: Eve, her two girls, five guinea pigs, three goldfish, a Beagle puppy and an affectionate tomcat called Ant - short for Antimony. Unusual name for a cat. But Gerry could live with it.
<
Death World
Eleanor Marney
This is where it starts.
It’s Friday when Anna comes to see me, and no, I’m not particularly happy about it but there you go. I offer her a peppermint tea, which she declines, then because it’s on the stove and I don’t want to appear rude I offer her some of Brian’s coffee.
‘It’s Brian’s coffee, is it?’
‘Yes. I can’t drink the stuff anymore.’
‘Things have changed.’
‘Believe it.’ But my tone is light, because she’s a friend. Even a friend who doesn’t come to visit very often is still a friend.
I’m hoping she’ll leave before Brian and Jack get home.
We tuck up on opposite ends of the couch -Anna slipping off her shoes, massaging her stockinged instep.
‘I don’t know how you can wear them all day at the office.’
‘Court shoes. I’ve got to have some height advantage. But yeah, you’re right, they’re a real bastard.’
We grin at each other, which melts the rime of frost. Can’t say ‘breaks the ice’ - things have never been that bad between us. And it’s partly my fault; I hardly ever call.
‘Just, didn’t want to get involved?’
‘You know what it’s like, Anna. Jim hears you talking on the phone, knows I’ve been in touch; then I get the ‘occasional’ invitation to officer functions, and then the ‘why don’t you drop back in and say hi to everyone’ calls. And I just...can’t’
‘You’ve never thought about it?’
‘No.’
I think about it all the time. Jack’s fried breakfast eggs look like eyeballs, gouged and stringy; garden dirt under my nails becomes dried blood scrapings; cutting the fat off the dinner chops is like...
‘Never,’ I say, then smile amusedly. ‘I mean, look at me. I’m getting too round now to be bouncing around the station.’
Anna’s eyes soften for a brief moment and she looks shy.
‘May I?’
‘Sure,’ I grin.
I’m sitting cross-legged on a cushion, so I have to lean back to lift the hem of my shirt. Underneath, the bulge of my tummy is smooth and taut with promise. Anna’s tentative hand is cool, and my stomach is radiating warmth. She and I both smile at each other like idiots.
‘Wait - here.’ I move her hand lower down. There’s an answering roll and tumble, like a school of fish in my belly.
‘Did you feel that?’
‘Yes. Oh wow.’
We smile at each other again, and then subside into our corners.
‘How long have you got to go?’
‘Eight weeks.’ I take a sip of tea. Peppermint is good for nausea and heartburn. ‘So you can see why I’ve gotten a bit self-absorbed. And the boys keep me busy.’
She nods and then clears her throat, and I think, Oh no.
> ‘Something has happened; it’s still happening. And Jim has asked me to ask you if you’d consider...’
Don’t be subtle, Jim would have said. Anna’s been briefed before time. She won’t take subtlety; she’ll just give you the brush-off. The only thing Arty listens to is directness. So don’t titter around it, just come out and tell her what’s going on, and if she’ll see the scene photos then let her have a look.
‘No. I won’t consider, Anna.’
But don’t think you’ll be able to appeal to her sense of justice or wasting her talent or any of that crap. You‘ll have to work you arse off just to get her to listen to you at all.
