Whatever Happened to Margo?

by Margaret Durrell

  A rose tree disappeared from the garden, then another, while slowly the boring rigmarole of house-buying was completed. I signed document after document of unfathomable length, and my money – a legacy from my father – dwindled somewhat. I began to doubt the wisdom of my choice, but there was no turning back now.

  This momentous decision over the house coincided with Aunt Patience’s arrival, an arrival I now regarded as an omen of good fortune, a direct pointer from whence to borrow money if necessary, so I welcomed her with open arms while the rest of the family fled.

  Aunt Patience arrived with all the pomp of a mayoral visit, erect and queenly at the wheel of a smooth-purring Bentley, not chauffeur-driven for no one was going to send her to an early grave! A quick glance told me that she carried the usual precautions against the elements: travel rugs and hot-water bottles, a rain cape covering a bulging picnic basket, and a first-aid box, carefully wedged in a strategic position, was ready in case of emergency. A Japanese sunshade threatened to break its way out of the rear window and a sonorous sound came from the depths of the back seat.

  A moment’s struggle with the door and she was emerging daintily, giggling a little as she untangled herself from behind the wheel, her brown eyes bright, her cheeks like pink velvet. A tan velour cloche snugly covered her neatly waved hair and a waisted travel coat in a mixture of beige and green wool fitted tightly across her stomach, with one large mottled button. A fox fur hung about her neck in an agonized way. From the depths of the back seat, disturbed from their slumbers, followed her usual retinue: yapping Bedlingtons and Pussy, the Siamese cat.

  Full of exuberance at our reunion, my aunt shepherded us, with the aid of the Japanese sunshade, towards the house. A whiff of expensive scent drowned any animal smells and amidst a scurry of animal legs we made for the drawing room.

  Smothering my curses at the inconvenience of so many animals in every direction, I hastily locked away Mother’s dog Simon, who was growling threateningly at the sight of a glossy, potbellied Siamese making for his chair. I shooed Gerald’s marmoset Pavlo up to the top of the curtain rail where it screamed abuse at the intrusion and throwing a tea-towel swiftly over a biscuit tin of mealworm, guaranteed to upset anybody, I settled my aunt comfortably among the opposing smells. Feeling that the scene was now set, I apologized for the temporary absence of the family and unfolded with great detail the story of my own activities, painting a grim picture of Mrs O’Grady and what seemed to me her unreasonable and cunning ways. Giving a glowing account of the house, I took Aunt Patience to the door and pointed out my near purchase and its possibilities from a business point of view.

  Aunt Patience heard my story oscillating between cries of dismay, horror and indignation, and praise when she thought I had shown a modicum of business sense and scored a point. I was pleased with her rapt attention and interest in my affairs, and consequently elaborated with intense enthusiasm.

  ‘And what do you think – she wants to force me to buy a lot of old junk!’ I complained, coming to the end of my other more important items.

  ‘The wicked old woman!’ Auntie beat the arm of her chair, indignantly. ‘Obviously not a churchwoman,’ she added.

  ‘Oh, she is,’ I contradicted. ‘A missionary from China.’

  ‘Never trust one of those, dear.’ There was a scornful sniff. ‘What you need, Margo, is to cultivate the ability to sum up people, to be able to separate the wheat from the chaff, the rough from the smooth.’

  ‘And she’s digging up plants, and carrying them away,’ I interrupted plaintively, as I suddenly remembered the missing rose trees and, rather enjoying the uproar with which my words were being greeted, I was unable to resist the further temptation to add more fuel to the already explosive atmosphere.

  ‘Whatever next! She will have to be dealt with!’ Scandalized comments filled the drawing room once again.

  ‘So I told her I would see the solicitors about the matter,’ I added, in a tone that suggested I had played a trump card.

  ‘Well done, dear. That was the right thing to say.’ Aunt Patience then stood up. ‘We’ll go and settle that woman now,’ she announced dramatically.

  Horrified at the sudden turn of events, I tried hard to dissuade her, but she was determined. Gathering up her coat she flung herself into it, crushed her cloche rapidly back into place, swung the ailing fur across her shoulders, then, taking me firmly by the arm, she marched me forcibly to battle.

  We sailed purposefully down the drive. I followed my aunt apprehensively – things had taken a turn I had not expected. I dreaded the scene which I knew would materialize shortly, with Aunt Patience, in her most ladylike way, demolishing the enemy. I began to feel a little sorry for Mrs O’Grady and hoped she was out. Vainly I tried to postpone the evil moment by calling out a friendly greeting to an elderly, rotund, robin-like gentleman, with cheeks like freshly washed china and frightening false teeth, who was watching with interest his dog about to leave an offering on our front lawn. He had been to tea on several occasions and we had urged Mother, repeating the gossip about his fabulous wealth, to look upon him in a favourable light and replenish the family fortunes (now somewhat diminished since our Corfu experiencefn1) – with the added pleasure of matrimonial bliss – and we tried to outwit the pigeon-like housekeeper who guarded him with vigilance as he tried to attract Mother’s attention. Mother said primly ‘that she was much too old for that sort of thing, and in any case she couldn’t cope with the silly old fool.’

  Now I greeted Mr Beetle warmly. Delighted at the welcome, his old eyes sparkled and he answered eagerly, apologizing for his dog, remarking on the weather, and asking tenderly after Mother’s health – at the same time faithlessly eyeing my aunt with relish, with a view to a possible second best, no doubt. But Aunt Patience, as if on a pilgrimage, pressed forward heedlessly to the purpose in hand, leaving him gazing regretfully after her with a speculative glint in his eyes.

  Mrs O’Grady met us in a hideous floral dress, on which puce roses glared at yellow daisies while blue lover’s knots threaded their way between the screaming flowers. I shuddered at the combination and trembled at the consequence of my exaggeration. My aunt was, of course, master of the situation, her quick mind sensing the weakness in her opponent immediately. Her accurate knowledge of legal proceedings, not to be trifled with at the best of times, was this day as keen as a freshly sharpened stiletto, as she banded intricate lawyers’ jargon, defying argument and completely flooring her adversary’s attempt to justify herself. Mrs O’Grady reeled uncertainly, like a bull recovering momentarily before the final thrust of the matador. I was impressed by the female brain that could master such technicalities.

  Aunt Patience, having made her point, was now satisfied and with a cursory last look and a final pitying ‘breeding will out, I always say,’ she turned magnanimously – all sweetness now – to a heartfelt chat with Mr Beetle, followed by shamefaced me.

  ‘How right you are, dear Madame,’ agreed Mr Beetle. ‘A most unChristian, ill-bred woman.’

  I couldn’t help grinning.

  ‘Quite,’ agreed my aunt, warming to the tubby figure.

  I glanced around – Mrs O’Grady had fled and I stood suspended between fatuous laughter and genuine horror at the debunking of our fellow man, for which I was responsible. This, I decided, was the moment to change the subject.

  ‘Mother asked after you today,’ I said cunningly. ‘Quite worried she was about you – said she hadn’t seen you for days. Wanted you to go to tea, I think.’

  ‘Really?’ Mr Beetle was immediately in a visible flurry. He gave his prospective new love an apologetic look. ‘Must dash – best trousers at the cleaners – dear Mrs Durrell – so charming …’

  ‘Silly old fool,’ my aunt said to the retreating back, in just the way Mother had done. I grinned disarmingly at my aunt in complete agreement.

  With Mrs O’Grady and Mr Beetle banished successfully, minutes saw us striding out again to sort out my affairs. T
he fire was well and truly lit.

  Some time later, having achieved our objective, we returned home. My aunt was still prattling. ‘Now dear, having sorted out that little matter of the plants with your house agent,’ she said graciously, ‘I have other things to say to you …’

  Seeing that my aunt, with what seemed to me a magical wave of her hand, had sorted out my legal affairs, I now listened indulgently to anything that she might have to say.

  ‘The house must run on a thoroughly business-like and respectable basis. There is to be no nonsense.’

  ‘Nonsense?’ I asked, surprised. What was nonsense to my aunt was not, as a rule, nonsense to me. ‘What sort of nonsense?’ I enquired in dulcet tones.

  ‘Nonsense, dear. A squandering of money, extravagances and that sort of thing. You know you have an irresponsible streak in you, and at times an irrepressible gaiety, that I am not totally in approval of. As I said before, the house must be run on a thoroughly business-like and respectable basis, and remember, you must refer to your people as paying guests. “Lodgers” is so vulgar. And do try and get nice, respectable guests – people of breeding, who pay their rent. No missionaries, of course!’ she said meaningfully. Her faith in good breeding was unshakeable.

  ‘Of course Aunt, those are just the sort of people I thought of too,’ I agreed hypocritically. I was lying, of course. The idea of boring individuals, religious characters and spinsters, possibly smelling of mothballs, or worse eucalyptus, was not my idea of a jolly household.

  ‘One can hardly have any faith in the family’s business acumen,’ she complained. ‘And after your brother Leslie’s foolhardiness and your desire to break free – well!’ The subject of Leslie’s sunken fishing boat and my matrimonial affairs would, I feared, always be a bitter one.

  A large fire now glowed in the grate and Mother presided over her traditional tea, a steaming pile of hot scones and a trolley laden with her best china. The dogs, at the return of their mistress, flew at her, barking joyously and Pussy was waiting to leave.

  Aunt Patience soundly kissed everyone, asked a hundred questions, scolded, applauded, gave a lot of good advice, ate a huge tea, then decided suddenly that a liver attack was imminent and driving in the dark would endanger her health. She then herded her flock together and left.

  ‘Well – that’s that,’ I said, heaving a sigh of relief as the great car, gathering speed, nosed its way out of sight. I was well satisfied at the final turn of events.

  With the mass exodus of the O’Grady establishment, No. 51, now silent and shrouded in emptiness, became my constant companion in the following days and my eagerness to prepare the house and install my lodgers was compelling.

  In secret moments of disquiet I viewed England with misgivings. After constant travel abroad I was afraid that I might find a continual dose of suburbia irksome. In these moments I could not help wondering if I and my neighbours were not only going to be friends but at times enemies by the sheer incompatibility of our natures. We were a motley crew: the bustling Miss Brady, withered as a tortoise but still hawk-eyed; Mrs Briggs, lusty voiced, good-hearted, incorrigibly inquisitive with her ‘I don’t want to be nosy, mind, but’; perky Mr Beetle, ready to swoop gallantly in the light of new love. The liverish huddle of fur, Lady Booth, who passed daily, dragging a permanently yapping terrier, so that I had heard Miss Brady, nerves frayed, threaten to do it in more than once. Methods were discussed openly: a kipper stuffed with arsenic, said the proud owner of a poodle, who encouraged her own dog to scrub about other people’s gardens at least twice a day. Miss Brady said this method was reserved for cats – when all else failed. The matter was dropped. Then there was Lord and Lady Booth, an aloof pair who seldom smiled and whose approach was guaranteed to break up any gossiping party.

  The first day of true ownership I crossed the road to my new house trying to look inconspicuous but inconspicuous I was not to be.

  ‘See you’re busy then,’ Mrs Briggs was at her gate. ‘And ’ands full, I see,’ she added cheerfully. She reminded me of a chrysanthemum that was just about to fall apart; it was the burnished hair, I decided, wisping out in curved strands. ‘Paid a good price for that house, I have no doubt?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed unwillingly, trying once again to escape.

  ‘Sure, the price of things today, it knocks yer flat.’ She beamed sympathetically and then confided, ‘You know the woman who owned the house, one of them missionaries, barmy she was – I’m not surprised after living in them foreign parts.’

  ‘Yes,’ said I.

  ‘It rots yer, I always say …’ I agreed, politely. ‘Of course you needs plenty of maids in houses like these,’ she reflected, gazing up at the house with respect. ‘You won’t be ’aving any maids, will you?’

  ‘No,’ I said, wondering if she was going to offer me her services and if so, how I was going to get out of it.

  ‘You’re a good-hearted girl, for all your “blah”, I tells my hubby.’

  ‘Really,’ I said, feeling more pleased.

  And so we chatted. A passing Mr Beetle was summed up in a few words: ‘Well, you know what men are! It’s all sex with some – never too old – disgusting I call it!’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed.

  ‘Of course, there’s snobs around ’ere you know!’ The voice was full of scorn and class distinction reared its ugly head: I eyed the way of escape longingly.

  ‘Of course, you’ve come down in the world, ’aven’t you? Miss Brady and I both agree to that!’

  As I was moving such a short distance I supposed it was inevitable that some of my business should be known. I did not have time to find an answer to her last remark, however, for like a bloodhound she was on the trail again.

  ‘You used to ’ave maids and silver and that sort of thing. There doesn’t look like much silver among your things now.’ The candid observation of my belongings just brought out of store brought a withering look to her countenance.

  I agreed, amused at this paragon of backyard gossip, the backbone of every suburban road, a mixture of pure good heartedness and uncrushable tittle-tattle.

  ‘But I really must go, there’s a lot of work to do,’ I explained, looking for excuses to get away.

  ‘Sure, sure poor you. I pity you.’ She shook her head, still reluctant to leave me. ‘’Aven’t you got two children?’ she enquired, hovering, curiosity getting the better of her again.

  ‘Yes. They’re holidaying with their father – such a good man. Hasn’t Mother told you?’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a long pause as she digested this bit of news. ‘Ah well,’ she said, throwing it off lightly, ‘ta-ta for now,’ and satisfied she bustled away quickly, eager to discuss this interesting titbit with everybody and anybody, no doubt.

  My first act on entering the new house had been to reach up from a chair and dismantle the greasy, tatty paper shade hanging in cobwebs and fly dirt. Then, wandering casually about the empty house, fetid with the aromas of Mrs O’Grady, I began to plan – flinging wide the windows, letting the clean sweet air blow lustily through the big rooms, while in darker corners and cupboards, where the shadows of Mrs O’Grady still lurked, I lit sulphur candles until the odour seeped mercilessly out and I was forced to capitulate in my zealous drive against the nauseous staleness of fish stew and embrocation and admit that every vestige of O’Gradyism must now be well and truly dead.

  An imminent second visit by my Aunt Patience had been prevented by an epidemic of flu. However Auntie, not to be daunted, was still with me in spirit. Making full use of the postal service (‘so much more economical than the telephone, dear’) I kept her diligently posted with news, and was in turn bombarded with stern warnings, and the announcement that she would hurry down as soon as illness allowed and Pussy was sufficiently recovered to cope with car travel.

  The family opposite at No. 52 were curious as to what was now going on at No. 51 and called daily, unable to resist the temptation to give me the benefit of their advice. Mother, remaining
a little dubious and unconvinced that I was safe in my new sanctuary, hovered, genteelly brewing constant cups of tea for the various workmen in residence, questioning them closely on the safety of the electricity and gas, probing about in dark corners for the mains, finding them, and then calling me and carefully explaining the dangers of not knowing the position of all these vital points in case of emergency. She stood in the kitchen by the hour to make sure that her much-loved grandchildren, Gerry and Nicholas, who had arrived back from their prolonged stay with their devoted father, were not now starving to death in my hands and concocted special dishes with all the enthusiasm of a witch doctor. The children, overjoyed to see their grandmother and strong in the knowledge that every whim was an immediate victory, made full use of the situation.

  In the wake of Mother came my brothers, bustling with energy, aglow with feelings of responsibility for my welfare: Lawrence with uneconomical suggestions for burglar alarms, revolving baths and lavatory walls lined with bookshelves and a concealed radiogram, saying that it was the only place in any family residence where one could be completely private; Leslie, delighted that my scheme appeared to be taking shape, with plans for uneconomical swimming pools, a rifle range and a specially designed bar.

  A card arrived from brother Gerald, saying he had heard by devious methods that I was about to replenish the family fortunes and was delighted with the news. I read the brief communication with great mistrust and no enthusiasm: Gerald would just have to realize that I had moved into an area of civilization and that there would be no animals, or their dung, littering the place, however sweet or however small. (How wrong I was.)

  My house now lay in an atmosphere of feverish activity. I had worked hard: disorganized, reorganized, and turned my hand to decorating, slapping on paint and distemper with gusto, mastering the art of working at dizzy heights, taking on furniture moving or housework with equal ease. The children, excited and noisy at their return, embraced the upheaval with glee. They followed the path of an emaciated gas man with rapt interest. They cadged bits of wood from the carpenter, normally a mild man but now irritated to the point of blasphemy, waited for a death fall from the stepladder, encouraging a fatal slip and revelling in the possibility of an ambulance calling or the excitement of the fire brigade. Uninhibited, snub-nosed, tousle-haired, they cheerfully awaited calamity.