by Ilsa Evans
‘Huh! Don’t get all offended. You have to admit it’s pretty bloody funny.’
‘I suppose so.’ I start to go red again as I realise what I’ve just said. ‘Not that I mean that you’re, well –’
‘It’s okay. I know what you mean.’ Maggie finally stops clutching her sides and leans back in her chair with a big sigh. ‘And, no, I’m not a worker.’
‘Then what is it you do here?’
‘We, that is Ruby and I, are the owners. We run the place.’
‘So you’re like, well, a madam then?’
‘A madam? Yeah, I suppose you could say that.’ Maggie gives one last, short guffaw. ‘But I see us more as entrepreneurs. Business owner-operators. Except the girls are really close, like family. And it’s a lot of work, you know. Masses of paperwork non-bloody-stop, and the GST is a pain in the arse.’
‘Really?’ I rack my brains wildly to think of a change of subject because I have no great desire to embarrass myself anymore. My gaze falls on Maggie’s ample chest and I point to the front of her windcheater and the motto emblazoned across it. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Huh! It’s Latin for “absolutely fabulous” – got it in Oxford.’
‘Oxford?’
‘Yep, Oxford. Oxford in England, that is. Went there last year.’ She pauses to take a sip of her coffee. ‘Stopped there on my way back from seeing Alex.’
‘Oh. Alex.’
‘Yep. Alex.’
‘Talking about Alex, I hear that he’s coming back.’ I attempt to sound rather nonchalant but am immediately fixed with a gimlet-eyed gaze. That’s right, this is the woman with the rather odd theories about one-woman men, and vice-versa. Rather hypocritical, now that I come to think of it.
‘I just wanted to clarify what the kids said. I don’t want them to get things wrong and then be disappointed,’ I finish rather lamely and try to meet her gaze.
‘Hmm. Yes, well they won’t be, will they? Disappointed, that is. And it’s about time. I hope you won’t mind my mentioning this, but that boy needs his father, and his father needs him too. Needed a kick in his butt, my brother did. Hmm, yes indeed.’ On this rather obscure note she stops suddenly and waits for my next question.
‘Okay, well that’s great. For the kids, I mean. But, Maggie, Sam said that he was moving right next door! That can’t be true, can it?’
‘Huh! Yes, it sure is! And won’t that be a surprise!’
‘Yeah, great surprise,’ I reply dryly, ‘but now I know.’
‘Yes, but he doesn’t.’ There’s that guffaw again, this time another whole series. I wait for her to calm down, and the echoes to cease, and then pounce.
‘Maggie, how can he not know, he bought the damn house!’
‘No, I did! It was me! He asked me to look around and, if something came up in the area, to buy it. So when I saw that one for sale, well, it was fate, wasn’t it? Hmm, it had to be.’ She leans back in her chair with a beatific smile on her face, almost as if waiting for congratulations. If that’s the case, it’ll be a very long wait.
‘So, you mean he doesn’t know that he’ll be right next door to me?’
‘Nup. Not a clue.’
‘Oh. My. God.’
‘Oh, don’t fret. It’ll all come out in the wash. Another coffee?’
‘But, Maggie – yes, okay.’ I hand her my half-empty cup and she bustles over to the stove and puts the kettle back on. I think I’m in shock. Even my fingertips have gone numb and strangely tingly.
‘Hmm, loved your picture in the paper. You haven’t changed.’
I have absolutely no idea what she has based that observation on. I don’t remember bashing policemen over the head with nonsensical placards in the past. I wiggle my fingertips to get some feeling back. They really are numb. Maybe I’ve been secretly drugged and am about to be forced into a life of absolute depravity. It’ll have to be quick, then, because I have to be home by three-thirty at the latest – kids and all that.
‘Thanks, I think.’
‘Actually, I saw you a few months ago. In Porter Street. Coming out of some doctor’s place.’
‘Oh.’ My mouth opens to automatically utter some sort of half-truth (or downright lie), when I remember my original resolution of honesty. In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘Actually, that was probably my therapist. I’ve been going for some time. Nothing horrid. Just things getting a bit on top of me, you know.’
‘I know. I mean, I know it was a therapist, not I know you’ve had … things or whatever.’ Maggie pauses as she removes the kettle and pours hot water into a small coffee-plunger. ‘After you’d left, I went over and checked out the sign.’
I don’t know what to say to that. From what I remember of Maggie, I think that surge of curiosity was probably bred out of concern, not spite, and I’m secretly rather touched. The ensuing silence continues for longer than necessary and I begin to realise that she is not sure what to say now either. I decide to breach the gap and put her out of her misery.
‘I’ve stopped going, you know. Actually, I fired her.’ Okay, I’m allowed some half-truths, but only if they are good for my ego. Ah, my fingertips are back. I’m a bit disappointed, a tad of depravity would have been sort of nice.
‘Oh! That’s great! I was really worried.’ Maggie has abandoned her plunging (which she does with a certain amount of flair, I must say) and turns to face me with an enormous smile on her face. ‘Hmm, I thought that you might be having trouble, and the kids, so I told – oh, doesn’t matter. Look, that’s great. Anyway, you of all people! A therapist! I couldn’t believe it. God, you don’t need a therapist!’
‘Why do you say that? Why not me, of all people?’
‘Well, you, you’ve always been gutsy … with backbone. That’s what had me boggled, and worried. I mean, sometimes some thing happens, or you go off on a tangent and wind yourself up, but I’ve always, well, admired the way you untangle yourself – you’ve always sorted yourself out. It’s like you used to prescribe yourself something, and then just go and do it and that was that. I mean, look at you in the paper – still standing up for your beliefs and all. So positive. And you’re bringing up three kids – and really well too. You don’t need a therapist. They’ll just mess you up. Cost a fortune. Huh! Bloody ridiculous.’ She gives a harrumph (which equals her guffaws in intensity), and turns back to the coffee-plunging in hand.
I am left with my mouth hanging open. Not only is this the longest speech I have ever heard Maggie make, it is also just chock-a-block full of nice things about me. Okay, so perhaps I wasn’t quite standing up for my beliefs on Tuesday – no, scratch that. I was standing up for my beliefs: I believe firmly that if you toucha my bag, I breaka your face.
‘Thanks, Maggie. I mean that.’
‘It’s good to see you, you know.’
‘You too.’
‘You know, I was sort of sad that we were, well, almost a casualty of your break-up. I don’t think I’ve seen you more than twice since you and Alex divorced.’ This is said gruffly, with her back to me as she fiddles with the cups by the stove. I feel a sudden surge of guilt. She’s right, and it was basically all my doing. I just dismissed her as an uptight old-fashioned schoolteacher (boy, were my wires crossed!), and didn’t even bother to send a Christmas card after the first year. If it wasn’t for her efforts, she would hardly ever have seen Samantha or Benjamin.
‘But I thought that, well, you blamed me for what happened!’
‘Blamed you! No – I mean, I thought you both gave up too easily, that’s for sure. But I was just as cross with Alex. Crosser actually – when he went overseas.’
‘Oh. I always thought –’
‘And I always thought –’
We both start talking at once, interrupt each other, and stop again at the exact same moment. So we burst out laughing instead and this takes some of the tension away.
‘You’re right,’ I say to her after we stop laughing at ourselves. ‘It shouldn’t have happened – not
seeing you, I mean, not the divorce. But listen, Maggie, I’m not that far away. Come around anytime. I mean that, really.’
‘Do you?’ She thumps the mug in front of me brusquely and sits down again. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Of course I mean it. In fact, what are you doing on Sunday? Come around, spend some time with the kids. Have a drink. We’re having a barbecue.’ No we’re not. What the hell am I babbling about?
‘A barbecue? It’s winter!’
‘Oh yes. Of course it is, but that’s better than summer, you know, with all those flies, and wasps, and heat and stuff. Bring Ruby with you, I haven’t seen her for years.’
‘In that case, I’d love to come. But Ruby won’t come. No offence, but she doesn’t do that sort of family stuff. Hang on, what time – lunch or evening?’
‘Oh, lunchtime. Let’s say one-ish?’
‘Good, because Sunday’s a busy night.’
‘Oh.’
‘Listen, I nearly rang a few years ago. When I heard about that bastard you married and what he did. I thought you’d need, well, a friend – but then I thought you had your family, so in the end I didn’t. But I should have, shouldn’t I?’
‘Do you know, I would’ve liked that.’ And as I speak I realise that I mean it. I look at this woman sitting across the table, a woman I should have known a hell of a lot better by now, but didn’t at all. Impulsively, I reach out and clasp her hand and, as she squeezes back hard, I suddenly experience the exquisite thrill of knowing that I have just made a true friend. One who has been there all along but, in my ignorance, one whom I never realised I had.
THURSDAY
3.30 pm
What an afternoon! I unlock the front door, still on a high from my visit to Maggie, and fling my bag onto the hat-stand that obligingly refrains from falling over. Even that persistent image of me sprawled at the foot of the escalator (while assorted faces loom around me: mother, sister – tall, dark, taken vet) has managed to confine itself to its very own cerebral compartment for a considerable period of time. Back, back, I say. I just can’t believe that I had forgotten how nice Maggie is, how utterly loyal to those whom she considers part of her family – and it appears that I still fit the bill. It’s like discovering a brand-new sister, another one whom I actually like. Therapy be damned! This is therapy – I feel GREAT. I am also really looking forward to Sunday, and I’m really looking forward to telling the kids about Sunday. Won’t Sam and Ben get a shock!
I bounce into the kitchen to put the kettle on, and get a shock of my own as something hits me straight in the face, claws desperately at my upper lip and then dives off behind the laundry door. I slam this door shut with my foot as my heart does a free-fall bungee jump into my nether regions, and I immediately age ten years. It takes a few moments for me to regain any sort of equilibrium, during which time I realise that my assailant must have been the new budgie (if it’s the old one, I’m really in trouble).
I mop up the blood which is now beading my upper lip (great, now I’m going to have a scab on my top lip to go with the rapidly mutating pimple on my chin), and go to confirm my theory by inspecting the cage. Sure enough, although I had shut the door when I carefully inserted the bird this afternoon, I hadn’t registered that someone (actually, I think it was me) had earlier removed the feeding and drinking troughs for cleaning (okay, it had to be me) – and this meant that there were two gaping holes in the cage’s defence system.
Before opening the laundry door, I decide to play it safe and make a large sign to Blu-Tack on the front door. It simply reads:
BEWARE!
PSYCHOTIC BIRD ON THE LOOSE!
After all, it will probably take quite some time to recapture the escapee, and the kids should be home soon. I can just imagine CJ’s face if she flings open the front door only to see her latest pet exit stage left. Not that she can read anyway, but it’s the thought that counts. Also, now that I think of it, I don’t want them letting the cat in because the chances are excellent that she’d catch the bird before we did.
Having completed my little piece of artwork, I retire to the kitchen to finish making my coffee and check the answer machine. There are three messages – one from Diane to tell me the appointment on Friday morning is at ten-thirty, she’ll pick me up and did I take the fall this morning or not? For a moment I am stunned by her psychic powers, and then I realise that she’s talking about the library. That seems so long ago.
The second message is from the library – Barbara Sullivan to be exact. She has just rung to let me know (‘I thought you’d really love to know this …’) that Joanne has also been suspended. Well! So there is some justice out there after all! God, I hope she doesn’t hold me responsible for all this. I’ll probably inherit her as a stalker or something if she has a lot of spare time.
The last message is from Terry – at last! Just a quick call to let me know she’ll be back late tonight, has to sort out a few things tomorrow but will drop in at my place in the evening – leave a message if that’s not convenient but be there if I can – there’s so much to tell me! Damn, maybe Bronte is right. That does sound like she’s making some changes. But it’ll be good to see her and actually find out what’s up.
Those three messages have cheered me up no end. Tomorrow will sort out Diane and Terry, and justice (and a prolonged stay in a psychiatric ward) should sort out Joanne. I raise my coffee cup up in an imaginary toast – to me, solving the ills of humanity once again – and go over to the stereo to put on some music to suit my upbeat mood. Five minutes later, with Helen Reddy’s ‘I Am Woman’ blaring out from the loudspeakers, I flop down on the couch nursing my coffee and put my feet up on the coffee table to do some serious non-negative thinking.
The first thing I mull over is the realisation that I am not at all worried about the library. After all, I’m receiving full pay until they sort their end of things out and that takes a lot of the pressure off. Besides, I actually think that being suspended is adding to my current almost euphoric mood. For the first time in a long, long while, I feel like I have been given a chance to get on top of things. Sometimes I used to come home from work, take one look at the biscuit crumbs and puddles of milk on the kitchen counter and feel like bursting into tears. It seemed like an endless, unbreakable cycle. And even if it’s only a week or two before I’m reinstated, well, it’s a bit of breathing space, an opportunity to think about what I would really like to do with my life. Because Diane’s right – if I do get the sack, then I shall just grasp the opportunity to look at doing something different. And perhaps I’ll do something different even if I don’t get the sack. However, I do have to admit that Joanne does make me a little nervous – so I resolve to utilise Terry or Barbara to keep tabs on what she’s up to.
I accompany Helen Reddy melodiously for a while as I mull over the possibilities. Now, to my mother. And the idea that perhaps her getting engaged isn’t the disaster I first thought. After all, if it makes her as happy as she seemed this afternoon, then it surely can’t be a bad thing. As for her not telling me that she was even seeing someone, well, to be totally fair, would I tell her if I was seeing someone? No I would not. Not until it was dead-set serious, at any rate, which is exactly what she has done. She has waited until it was serious and, to a woman of my mother’s generation, serious has nothing to do with time and everything to do with a commitment like marriage.
I take another sip of coffee and move my thoughts from the man in my mother’s life to the men in my life – or the absence thereof. I take a gulp of coffee and lean back. Now, will it really be so bad to have Alex living next door? Unless he has changed dramatically, he is a very nice guy, intelligent, good-looking, fun company, great sense of humour, good in bed. I choke on my coffee and jerk into a sitting position – where the hell did that thought come from? And what on earth has it got to do with having him next door? My mind skitters fitfully around the various possibilities until I firmly close that cerebral door. Compartmentalise, compartmentalise.<
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So, what about Phillip? Well, what about him? I conjure up his image as he stood towering manfully over the ferns, laden tray held firmly in both well-manicured hands (very important, as it goes to personal hygiene), with his chocolate brown eyes locked in a lingering visual embrace with my own. This appealing, if not entirely truthful, mental picture is rudely interrupted by a small yet spiteful little voice which insists: ‘You stupid fool – he belongs to Bloody Elizabeth, whether you like it or not. Besides, do you really want a guy who has already slept with your sister? Comparisons would be inevitable, you know.’ I sigh heavily and nod in agreement. Okay, forget about Phillip – there’s plenty more fish in the sea. Well, that’s what they keep insisting, anyway. Although there definitely seemed to be more fish around when I was younger. Perhaps it’s the global warming.
Belatedly I realise that Helen Reddy ran out of steam some time ago so I get up and rewind the tape. While waiting for the high-pitched whirring to cease, I reflect on the nice things that Maggie said to me today. About being strong, gutsy and going after what I wanted. And when you take out Diane’s bit about me whining, my sister did say something similar yesterday. Is that really how people used to see me? And if so, what’s changed, and why don’t I feel either strong or gutsy anymore? Or – don’t I?
Suddenly I realise that I do feel sort of strongish at the moment, more in control. And the internal heaviness that had been like a steadily growing malignant tumour over recent months, well, I really don’t feel quite as weighed down. In fact, I feel almost buoyant compared to this time last week. I hug myself with pure pleasure. Does this mean that it’s dissipating? Breaking up? Despite the fact that the damn roller coaster is still careening along, I feel like I have got at least a couple of fingers on the steering wheel. And, what’s more, it’s a pretty damn interesting ride too. Almost exciting in fact. This realisation makes me grin happily. I file it away for future reference and let the actual feeling envelop me. And it feels really good.
