by Ilsa Evans
‘It’s you!’
I try looking the other way and ignoring him. After all, it was such a bad picture, how could anyone possibly recognise me from it?
‘It is you, isn’t it? Here, in the paper!’
Said paper has been shoved in front of my face in an effort to attract my attention. I quickly peer around it, and just as quickly peer back when I realise that everyone further down on the escalator is staring up to see what the commotion is about.
‘I’m right, aren’t I? It is you!’
‘What do you want, a fucking autograph?’ I hiss venomously.
That does the trick. He recoils quickly, no doubt remembering why I was in the paper in the first place, and assessing my criminal capabilities. I bare my teeth and he takes cover behind his paper once again, only peering out furtively to see if the madwoman is still snarling at him. With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I look down expecting the game to be up. Surely they will have spotted me with all this commotion. However, just at that moment, the escalator disappears into the ground and everyone at my level steps off neatly … except for the large, formally attired gentleman – and me. Because we were both otherwise engaged, me in baring my teeth and him in hiding, we simultaneously miss the cue to exit and instead go sprawling over the floor – much to the surprise of a multitude of consumers milling around the adjacent upwards escalator.
With my skirt riding high, I struggle awkwardly to my knees and try to wrest my handbag out from underneath my unfortunate companion’s prone torso. He is partially obscured by a sign advertising full-figured lingerie but I can see that his formal wear does not look quite so formal now. Ignoring the arms of well-wishers reaching out to help me up, I look around wildly but luckily (thank you, thank you, thank you, god) it seems that Mother & Co had already moved off before I made my ungainly exit. I decide to leave the large gentleman to the assistance of several well-meaning bystanders, one of whom seems hellbent on giving him mouth-to-mouth. I know when enough is enough, and when to call it quits. I’m going home.
‘OH MY GOD, HE’S NOT BREATHING!’
Still on my knees, I whirl around in the direction of the panic-stricken voice. The full-figured lingerie sign has been pushed to one side and there is a thin, elderly lady kneeling by the side of the large gentleman with her fingers firmly clamped around his nose. Christ, I’ve killed him. She opens her mouth, no doubt to repeat herself even more hysterically, and the crowd springs into action.
‘Someone ring an ambulance!’
‘Here, use my mobile!’
‘What can I do?’
‘Lady, let go of his damn nose!’
‘Move over, I used to be a boy scout!’
‘Is there a doctor in the … anywhere?’
‘A DOCTOR, WE NEED A DOCTOR!’
As I kneel there frozen in horror, people start relaying the message back through the store. I look up at the faces all around me and obscurely realise that people really do wring their hands in moments of stress. Suddenly the crowd parts as a tallish man elbows his way through and squats down beside the patient. He firmly disengages the nose-clamping female and reaches quickly for the patient’s wrist to take his pulse.
‘For god’s sake, Phillip, you’re not a doctor – you’re a vet!’
‘Elizabeth! Leave the man alone, he’s doing a fine job!’
I must have died and gone to hell. It’s the only explanation. What have I ever done to deserve this sort of unrelenting punishment? It will only be a matter of seconds before one of them gets tired of watching the miracle man (a vet no less!), who has now started alternating between chest-thumps and mouth-to-mouth, and spots me squatting virtually at his feet. Resigned to my fate, I start counting backwards: 10, 9, 8, 7 –
‘What on earth are you doing here?!’
Almost right on cue. I look up and my mother’s disapproving face looms rapidly into focus.
‘Well, I was helping … this poor guy, he fell down so I was –’
‘Are you all right, dear?’ The nose-clamper, having been forcibly disengaged from her first victim, is obviously searching for a second. ‘I saw you take that nasty fall, can I be of any help?’
‘No, thank you.’ Remember your manners, remember your manners. I look across to see if my mother is impressed with my disaster etiquette but no, I don’t think so. Her mouth is set in a grim line and her eyes have that flinty glow that has sent better persons than me scuttling for cover. I can see Harold peering over her shoulder, trying to work out what’s going on, and Bloody Elizabeth, who is hugging herself with unabashed glee.
Time hovers and then stands still.
‘The paramedics are here!’
‘Here we go, mate, we’ll take over now.’ Sure enough, the ambulance guys have arrived, complete with a stretcher and a large bag which one immediately opens to reveal an impressive array of medical paraphernalia. I wonder if I could grab something to put me out of my misery. As the paramedics begin to work, the crowd’s epicentre shifts and I find myself on the outskirts, still kneeling, surrounded only by my family and the elderly nose-clamper.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, dear? You look pale. I should get one of the paramedics to have a look at you, really.’
‘That won’t be at all necessary, thank you all the same,’ my mother says firmly. The glint in the nose-clamper’s eyes dims noticeably as she looks at my mother and recognises a higher authority. She moves reluctantly away to join the larger crowd and I am left with just my mother, Elizabeth, Harold and, oh yes, of course, Phillip, who has now joined them and is looking at me with a puzzled frown of recognition. However, without even moving, my mother manages to take central stage.
‘Just to satisfy my idle curiosity, could you please tell me whether this is some sort of natural progression from merely assaulting members of the police force? Or perhaps I’m missing something?’
‘Oh, for goodness sake! I just fell, it can happen to anyone.’ I attempt to struggle to my feet and both Harold and Phillip immediately step forward and help me, both immediately earning my lifelong gratitude (god, even his touch tingles – why couldn’t I have needed mouth-to-mouth?). I pick up my bag from where it is lying at Bloody Elizabeth’s feet and attempt to sound less dishevelled than I look. And take control.
‘Thank you. And lovely to see you, Mum, and of course you, Elizabeth. Now, if you’ll all excuse me –’
‘Now that you’re here anyway, perhaps I should take this moment to introduce you –’
‘Perhaps not. Another time.’ With that I execute a perfect about-turn and walk off towards what I hope is the nearest shopping-centre exit with my shoulders held high and radiating dignity. Or at least, one shoulder is held high and radiating dignity. The other keeps slumping because, naturally, one of my heels has managed to lose itself during the preceding debacle.
THURSDAY
1.45 pm
I am a past master at mental compartmentalisation – I’m sure it’s the only way I have been able to survive thus far. Therefore, with a certain degree of lopsided poise, I was perfectly capable of stopping at the pet shop and even managed to sound reasonably interested as the salesman showed me first a selection of young budgies, and then the ugliest goldfish they had in stock. I was momentarily tempted by an adorable cocker spaniel/Maltese cross (does that make it a cock-tese?) that stared at me soulfully through the glass of the front window. If I brought home a puppy for Ben, I would not only be forgiven for the death of his fish, but I would earn enough brownie points to cover the remainder of this year, and probably the next as well. Ben has been after a dog for as long as I can remember. Luckily I came to my senses when the puppy, still maintaining eye contact, squatted in a corner of the cage and relieved itself in an extremely messy fashion. I wrinkled my nose and moved away because no brownie points are worth that.
I drove my more sensible selection home and carefully emptied them into the birdcage and the fish-tank respectively, draping each with a cloth for a cele
bratory unveiling later that afternoon. Then, after flinging my traitorous shoes into the recesses of my wardrobe and putting on a pair of black flats, I was even able to use the telephone intelligently to track down the whereabouts, and health status, of the large, formally attired gentleman. According to the rather garrulous and extremely excitable ward clerk I eventually spoke to, it was the most shocking thing. Apparently he had suffered a heart attack as he had fallen off an escalator (some witnesses thought he might even have been pushed – and several had seen a rather odd female praying at his feet). He had actually stopped breathing – really died – for, oh … ages, but had been miraculously saved by a veterinarian who fortunately had just happened to be nearby. He was now out of intensive care and recovering quite nicely … considering. I decided that sending flowers wouldn’t be appropriate.
Not until I was sitting down having a calming cup of coffee did I allow myself to think back to my disastrous attempt at sleuthing. Strangely enough, it was not the fact that I had made an absolute fool of myself that bothered me most, but the idea that Elizabeth, Bloody Elizabeth of all people, could have found, and was evidently keeping, a guy like Phillip. He was just too nice for her. And a vet! An impromptu life-saver! A damn hero, no less! Up till now all Elizabeth’s men have been absolute dodos. I distinctly recall one who turned up to a family dinner wearing, to my absolute delight, a floral kaftan, matching hair-tie and those ghastly toe-sandals which made a brief appearance in the seventies. Another of her prize catches had insisted that he possessed a direct link with John Lennon through his dreams, and had spent a lot of his spare time, and money, trying to acquaint Yoko Ono with his thrilling news. As I remember, her latest fling was a Star Wars buff who had prefaced every greeting, and every farewell, with ‘May the force be with you … and also with you.’ So where did Phillip fit in to this menagerie? Maybe she hired him. Maybe I could too. And that was the problem: basically, I don’t think I’d mind having him for me.
It’s not that I’m being totally selfish either. Bringing a vet home would absolutely thrill Benjamin and do wonders for our rocky relationship. And a vet would be so useful to have around the home, especially this home – a hell of a lot more useful than either an engineer like Alex or a computer analyst like Keith.
I finished my coffee in a fairly foul mood and then decided I needed something to take my mind off sibling spousal-snatching and my life in general. And get my hands on the steering wheel – take control. Which is why I am now parked across from the corner of Pleasant Avenue and Mountview Road, looking thoughtfully at a rather modest establishment which doesn’t look at all like my idea of a brothel. It also doesn’t look much like Maggie’s house used to, but it’s in the right spot so it has to be it.
After a while I get out of the car and walk carefully across the road (apart from anything else, I can’t afford to damage any more shoes), and up a demure little brick path. The house itself, of rendered brick, has been painted in heritage colours and decorated with a copious quantity of gables and other architectural curlicues. It also looks a lot larger than I remember.
As I get closer I notice an unpretentious little sign tacked next to the buzzer. It reads ‘Welcome to Pleasant Mount, please press buzzer and wait’. Underneath another sign outlines the hours of opening, but I already know those off by heart. There is a small stone seat next to the front door, presumably for those longer than usual delays in service. I press the buzzer but forgo the comforts of the seating arrangements – after all, it isn’t even opening hours. After a few minutes, a small window slides noisily open in the top-centre of the door and a rather fractious and decidedly adenoidal voice issues out.
‘Is that Optus again? Don’t you people ever give up?’
‘No, it’s not Optus.’ I try to inject a friendly, non-salesperson-like tone into my voice. ‘I’m here for Maggie. I mean, I’d like to talk to Maggie.’
‘Just a minute.’ The little door slams closed, only to open again within seconds.
‘Who are you? Does she know you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Well, I used to be her sister-in-law.’
Now I can see one eye peering curiously through the aperture, trying to see what I look like. I give an encouraging smile and the little door immediately slams closed again. I can hear footsteps receding into the house. Five minutes later I have resorted to the use of the stone seat when the front door is flung open. It’s Maggie, rounder than ever and dressed in a pair of army drill pants and a black windcheater with ‘Maxime Fabulosum’ emblazoned across the front of her ample chest.
‘Oh my god! It is you! What a surprise. Come in, come in. Let me take your coat.’ She stands back for me to pass through before peering outside again, almost as if she is checking to make sure I haven’t been followed. Then she slams the door closed and ushers me down a long passageway, down a couple of steps and into a sunny, yellow kitchen. There are two other very ordinary-looking women drinking coffee at a table but, in response to a gesture from Maggie, they both immediately rise, nod at me politely, and depart for regions unknown. Maggie pulls out a chair for me and then plucks a boiling kettle from the stove and waves it vigorously in the air near me. I duck quickly.
‘Coffee? Tea?’
‘Coffee would be lovely, thanks. White, no sugar.’
‘Shocked?’
At first I think she is offering me some type of repast, and then I realise that she is actually alluding to the situation at hand. I admire her forthrightness.
‘Well, actually yes. That is, not now, because I guessed, but the other day when I finally worked it out. Yes, I was absolutely shocked.’ I decide to treat honesty with honesty. Besides, we could spend all day beating around the bush and not getting anywhere.
‘Huh! I’d never expose the kids to anything, you know. If that’s why you’re here. When I had them over, they were at my unit, not here.’
‘You live in a unit? I thought you lived here?’
‘No, not for years. We renovated this place for the business and got a unit just around the corner. Doesn’t pay to mix business with home and all that, you know.’
‘No, I don’t suppose it does. It looks great though.’ I gaze around the kitchen in silence for a few minutes while she prepares the coffee. It’s not at all what I expected – just a cosy, comfortable, ordinary kitchen, even down to the matching set of sunflower canisters on the bench. No evidence of debauchery anywhere. In fact, even the dishes are done.
‘Well, I think Sam’s guessed, and I’m telling you I wouldn’t lie, but by the same token, I’d never shove their noses in anything.’
‘Um – good, that’s good.’
‘Coffee’s up.’ Maggie bangs two mugs down on the table and then lowers herself onto the chair opposite me. I wrap my hands around my coffee mug and take a sip. When I look up, Maggie is smiling at me so I smile awkwardly back and then we sit in silence for a few minutes.
‘You’re looking well.’
‘So are you.’ And I actually mean it. She looks much younger than she really is, younger even than I can remember, and it must be years since I last saw her. The funny thing about Maggie is that she’s never looked particularly overweight – just terribly round. And it suits her. The long dark hair that I remembered has now been trimmed to a neat bob and dyed an attractive brownish-bronze colour. Even without make-up she looks like a glowing advertisement for drastic life-changes. Although she still doesn’t look like a, like a …
‘Maggie, can I ask you how long you’ve been … well, doing this?’
‘God! Forever, it seems! No really, let me see, about ten years or so. Hmm, quite lucrative, you know.’
‘Really?’ What on earth am I supposed to say to that?
‘Yeah, you should try it. Huh, only joking!’ Maggie gives a guffaw (there’s no other way of describing her unique version of a laugh) before continuing quickly, ‘No, you can’t. The kids, you know.’
As if I need reminding! Did
I look tempted there for a minute or something? I fiddle with the handle of my coffee cup and try to think of what to say next.
‘What made you get into it?’
‘Oh, boredom mostly. Got sick of teaching so Ruby and I started looking around for business opportunities.’ Maggie takes a sip of her coffee. ‘She wanted to open a florist.’
‘A florist! What happened?’
‘Hate flowers. Damn things shed. No, I met this girl in my chess club who was on the game and we talked about opening a joint like this. So I put it to Ruby.’
‘And she agreed? Just like that?’ I’m still having trouble with this whole concept and seeing Maggie in the flesh, so to speak, hasn’t helped make the whole thing any more believable.
‘Well, it took some doing,’ Maggie chuckles heartily, ‘but now she’s right into it. Can’t even tear her away.’
‘But doesn’t she, I mean, don’t you, well … ?’ I falter as I try desperately to think of a polite way to phrase myself. ‘I mean, the guys and all that. You know.’
‘What?’ Maggie looks rather perplexed and then suddenly her eyes widen and she lets out a huge guffaw. ‘You think I’m a worker!’
‘Well, I just thought that –’
‘A worker! Me!’ Maggie doubles over with laughter as she clutches her stomach. ‘Me! Can you just imagine that! Oh, god! Wait till I tell Ruby! Me, a worker!’ Maggie continues bellowing and guffawing between words. ‘Me!’
‘Well, I wasn’t to know. But I’m glad I’ve amused you,’ I say rather huffily as I take a sip of coffee. I’m quite sure that I’ve gone the colour of an overly ripe tomato by now. I just wish she’d stop laughing. Enough is enough.
