Whatever Happened to Margo?

by Margaret Durrell

  Mother’s face lit up immediately and she stopped. ‘A poltergeist? Now isn’t that interesting. Has it manifested itself?’

  ‘Mother,’ I called hastily, trying to break up the liaison that was about to start, ‘coffee’s ready.’ Poltergeist be blowed: if Mother was lured away with tales of spooks and other supernatural events I would never get her into the house. It was a subject that could completely engross her, and when once she had started reliving visions seen both by herself and her mother in India, and other strange goings-on, one never knew where it would end – in this case probably with Mr Beetle and the local vicar being invited in to exorcize my boarding house.

  ‘I’m afraid I must go now,’ Mother, hearing me call and sensing the urgency in my voice, told him reluctantly, taking back her basket, now loath to leave this most enthralling subject that had been raised. Mr Beetle watched her go with longing.

  ‘Hello dear, sorry I’m late,’ she kissed me. ‘I’ve just heard a most interesting thing – a real poltergeist and so close too.’

  ‘What rubbish,’ I answered.

  ‘Yes dear, it could be, but you never know in these old houses,’ Mother said, not wanting to disbelieve Mr Beetle’s story. ‘Perhaps you’ll be lucky enough to have one here.’

  ‘God forbid,’ I answered irreverently, condemning the idea.

  We made our way indoors and I showed Mother the final tidying up of the old house. We met a blithe Edward in the hall carrying an empty milk bottle and I introduced them, watching Mother’s face carefully. She could not fail to appreciate the splendour of tight trousers, a deep ochre shirt and Mexican sandals; a becoming picture, especially with the clinging aroma of garlic. He greeted my mother with interest, she replied in her usual quiet way, and I was satisfied that her face showed no signs of internal disturbance. But I was wrong, for a few minutes later when she settled down to a quiet cup of coffee in the seclusion of our own drawing room, I realized that her reactions, to Edward’s trousers especially, were quite different from my own. They were summed up in a few words. ‘Extremely vulgar, dear, he could be arrested going about like that. And I would not be surprised if he isn’t involved in the white slave trade traffic. Where does he get his money from?’

  I thought this was most unreasonable from someone as tolerant as my mother and I rose quickly to defend him. ‘But you’ll love him, Mother, I know – he cooks divinely, curry and all that sort of thing, with masses of garlic: in fact, I wonder if he doesn’t overdo it a bit sometimes,’ I remarked, for I had noticed that since Edward’s arrival the hall often smelt as if an army of Greek peasants had just left.

  ‘Well, that’s different.’ Mother took off her hat, and brought out her knitting. ‘Now I want to hear all about the children,’ she went on. ‘How are they doing at the new school?’

  ‘Not very well,’ I answered gloomily, remembering my children, my mother-love somewhat dimmed. ‘Gerry caused an uproar yesterday and was sent home.’

  ‘Indeed! I should have something to say about that,’ Mother was indignant. ‘Who is the monster who could treat a child like that? A child who’s never done a wrong thing in his life, poor little soul.’

  That was not strictly true but Mother always rushed blindly to the defence of her grandchildren; any children for that matter.

  ‘Well, he didn’t exactly do the right thing this time,’ I added. ‘He took that painting that Lawrence and Nancy left behind – you know, the one Nancy did an embroidery from whilst she was here and expecting?’

  ‘That thing!’ Mother snorted. ‘I should have thought that Lawrence would have had more sense than to leave a thing like that lying about!’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Adam and Eve leering at each other without even a fig leaf between them. He said he had done it especially for his mother’s birthday, and hung it up in the classroom before they caught him.’

  ‘It was a sweet thought, poor innocent child,’ Mother looked pleased.

  ‘I don’t see anything sweet about causing trouble,’ I retorted.

  ‘But it had no business to be lying about, putting temptation in his way,’ Mother was reproachful. ‘And it was an extremely vulgar picture too, I thought, with that hideous serpent crawling about those bulging thighs. Nothing artistic about that, and I said so at the time,’ she went on, thoroughly roused.

  ‘I tried to get them to go to Sunday School,’ I interrupted, my thoughts full of my children now. ‘They went once and refused to go again – they say it’s boring.’ I got gloomier and gloomier.

  ‘Well, boys will be boys,’ Mother comforted, helping herself to some more coffee.

  ‘I’m sure we weren’t such awful children,’ I went on broodingly.

  ‘Oh yes you were, dear!’ Mother said, with a reflective laugh. ‘You and Leslie caused a lot of trouble between you, and you were more trouble than the others.’ Mother’s face took on a faraway look, the look reserved for Indian reminiscences of our happy childhood days – the glory days of the Raj when we were cherished and pampered by servants galore, and life was good. ‘I well remember the time all you children went out to tea, and you returned home with your knickers full of their toys, and Leslie came home with a temperature of 104 – he always ran a temperature when trouble was brewing.’

  I giggled. ‘No, Mother! I don’t believe you! I remember Leslie and me trying to do our governess in, having successfully removed Big Granny with insults, and she deserved it.’

  ‘Do not be irreverent about your father’s dead mother, dear. And I am not exaggerating. Once when your father took you into a big store we found you had a box of soap under your coat, and you were only three. The episode caused us many sleepless nights.’

  ‘Good God, a thief at three – what chance have my children?’ I groaned.

  The telephone buzzed beside me. ‘It’s Leslie,’ I said aside to Mother, answering it. ‘He’s coming up to collect you on his way back from somewhere or other, in about five minutes. He says he’s got a present for me,’ I added as I put the receiver back. ‘I hope it’s not something idiotic.’ I spoke from past experience.

  Mr Beetle passed at this moment, on his way home. He scanned the window eagerly, spotted Mother, blushed and waved.

  ‘Silly old fool,’ Mother remarked and did not return the gesture. ‘Oh yes, dear, I forgot to tell you and that reminds me. Simon died of natural causes, the vet said. I didn’t let you know before as I thought you might worry.’

  I was about to be solicitous, privately thinking that the cause was probably overeating, when we were interrupted by a belching noise.

  ‘Leslie’s car,’ Mother said, looking in the direction of the noise.

  There was one last shuddering sigh, like something dying and the black Morris stopped at the gate with Leslie at the wheel. There was a sudden ‘yelp’ of a dog, the car door flew open and a large black and white mongrel, a rope about his neck and looking like a warning advertisement against rickets, sprang out, dragging Leslie with him in a confusion of rope, dog and man.

  ‘What the hell’s Leslie doing?’ I turned to Mother, puzzled.

  ‘Goodness knows, dear,’ Mother answered mildly.

  I made for the door, but I was too late. Man and beast rushed past me into the front room.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I roared. ‘You’ll ruin my house. Stop him! Stop him!’ I cried, agonized, retracing my steps. I was just in time to see the dog lift his leg against my freshly-painted door.

  ‘Too late,’ said Leslie, ‘he’s done it.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ Edward came out of his room. ‘Anything I can do?’ He was wearing his apron and waved a large wooden spoon and a paint brush.

  ‘Oh no, thank you,’ I said sweetly. ‘Just my brother arriving.’ I instinctively refrained from introductions, feeling it was not the right moment, and quickly shut the door.

  ‘Who’s that bloody pansy?’ Leslie asked with intense awe and great interest, neglecting to lower his voice.

  ‘Shut
up,’ I whispered back fiercely. ‘He’ll hear you. He’s my first lodger, and a jolly nice one too,’ I told him loyally. ‘You ask Mother – isn’t he Mother?’ I turned to Mother to defend the character of my lodger.

  ‘Well, he certainly looks it,’ he said, laughing heartily and untangling himself from a yard of rope. Mother winced.

  The animal crouched between Leslie’s legs, gazing at us with mournful brown eyes, which sent a depressed Pavlo, who had refused to leave his basket through the entire coffee session, into paroxysms of twitters.

  ‘What have you brought this dog for?’ I demanded suspiciously. I still felt annoyed that Leslie had not appreciated my lodger.

  ‘It’s your present – it’s all this morgue needs,’ he smiled disarmingly. ‘It’s a long and sad story,’ he went on hinting at tragedy, obviously trying to gain sympathy. ‘He was going to be put to sleep, poor sod. The vet and I both thought it was a great shame.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ I remarked, unaffected by the sad story. ‘Why should I be burdened with it? He’s not even house-trained,’ I moaned on examining my door.

  ‘Leslie, please don’t call Margo’s house a morgue – it might bring bad luck.’

  ‘Thank you, Mother,’ I turned to Leslie indignantly. ‘If you were so sorry for the animal why didn’t you keep the wretched thing yourself? And that idiot vet, he wants his brains testing. The thing looks like something out of a Thurber dog book,’ I said bitterly, examining the culprit. ‘And wormy too, no doubt,’ I ended lamely, weakening a little as the dog started to lick my hand.

  ‘Stop arguing!’ Mother pleaded, as she put on her hat, folded up her knitting and picked up the precious marmoset. ‘I’m sure it’s a sweet dog, Margo. You could have him on trial, couldn’t you dear?’ she suggested helpfully, wanting to appease all parties. ‘But you had better lock him up for today, before all those people come this afternoon. He might not be used to noise. He needs a collar, too.’

  ‘And, no doubt, a dog licence,’ I said sarcastically, giving Leslie a baleful look.

  Leslie, producing a dog licence, presented it as if he were giving me the crown jewels, and I knew I was lost: the dog was irrevocably mine. The children, of course, would be delighted.

  Then I realized gloomily that there was one thing I had forgotten to ask Mother, watching the ramshackle car disappear: about the dentist’s appointment, the date scrawled in red on the bathroom mirror in the now-closed house. That meant Gerald would be due back soon, and when he came where was he going to stay?

  I turned and examined Leslie’s present, which was sitting up and watching me with friendly interest. I christened him ‘Johnny’. It soon became apparent why Leslie’s gift had been a near victim of extinction: he possessed a nervous twitch when excited, which sent him cocking his leg in all directions. What a dog, I brooded, discovering the truth within a few minutes, and who knew what other inhibitions would come to light. This was typical of Leslie, to produce some stray and expect us all to mother it.

  The subsequent ringing of the telephone killed all my other concerns as I remembered my prospective lodgers and rushed to answer the first call, speaking in a voice that was not my own.

  ‘I believe you have a room to let,’ was the enquiry. It was a woman’s voice, soft and uncultured, and I found myself swinging into the role of a landlady a little breathlessly: the long-awaited moment was upon me, for Edward’s entry into our lives did not, I felt, constitute that of a lodger – he was a ‘gift’.

  There was a resounding knock at the front door as I sat poised with a book in a purely artificial way, one ear cocked for the welcome sound of the first arrival answering the call of my advertisement. A small bedraggled woman apathetically awaited my attention. She was not very old, I guessed, but life had played havoc with her looks: thinness gave her the appearance of smallness, and dismal hair straggled lifelessly down from beneath a hat, its shape devised by wear and not by design. Radiating confidence by her side stood a well-fed monster of a boy of about twelve years old. His singing moon face was wreathed in smiles, his body bulged happily, and an unidentified school-cap topped the lot. A wide cheeky grin left me in no doubt as to which of them had knocked. A forlorn and battered suitcase stood between them.

  This was not exactly what I had expected but I rose to a smile of welcome. The fat grin from what was obviously an incarnation of Satan was irresistible.

  The plain face of the woman warmed immediately to my welcome. ‘We’re ’ere about a room, please Ma’am, for me an’ lad ’ere. I’m Mrs Williams, and ’tis me son Nelson, called arter me ’usband’s favourite character in ’istory, you know.’ Pride stole into the timid voice.

  I glanced from her to the historical monument, which returned my scrutiny with an unflinching challenge from small roguish eyes and consolidated my first opinion that the devil lurked about him albeit in a friendly way. Amused at the ill-assorted pair, I ushered them in, reflecting pleasantly well-worn phrases concerning the weather to the diligent wiping of shabby shoes on the doormat.

  ‘It’s tiring walking up ’ill, I’m fair melted,’ she confided in me, readjusting her coat and letting out a powerful whiff of body odour. Being allergic to this I winced a little, but all would have to be endured for the cause, I told myself.

  ‘It’s always yer bleeding sweat, Ma,’ the boy complained bitterly.

  ‘Quiet, Nelson, else you’ll get a clip over ear’ole,’ she threatened in an ineffectual voice, which told me quite plainly that she never lifted her hand to her bun-like child. She gave me a small apologetic smile.

  A door opened, and a red beard appeared. ‘Ah, I see you are busy,’ Edward murmured. ‘I thought I heard someone knocking,’ and the door closed behind him again.

  The woman, taken back, watched the closed door as if hypnotized.

  ‘Cor!’ There was a gasp of admiration from Nelson. ‘Was it real?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said truthfully. It was undoubtedly Edward’s beard that had brought such praise, and I wondered if it had been a good idea to have his room so near the front door, and if Mrs Williams appreciated the colour effects of artists. ‘He paints you know, lovely stuff.’ I turned to Mrs Williams in some sort of hasty explanation.

  She was still watching the door as if expecting the reappearance of the vision. ‘Very interesting too, I must say, and ’e looks like a kindly sort of gentleman,’ she remarked appreciatively, recovering her composure and tearing her eyes away from the door.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to come upstairs now?’ I suggested, glad that Edward’s introduction had passed off well. ‘If you feel quite rested?’

  Nelson, evidently deciding it was high time he gave voice again, answered. ‘Yes, come on Ma, get a bloody move on,’ he bawled, giving her a playful push.

  That ‘get a bloody move on’ sounded so like Leslie that I had to smile. It was obvious that Nelson’s repertoire would be a good one, better than Leslie’s no doubt.

  I took Mrs Williams by the arm, and propelled her up the stairs kindly. Shrugging unconcernedly, Satan’s incarnation followed, criticizing soundly, thumping deliberately with his flat feet on every step – to test for rot, he said.

  He stopped, awed before the stained glass windows on the first landing. ‘Coo, Ma, look at that – it looks like a blooming church up ’ere, all them coloured bits of glass.’

  ‘This is my musicians’ gallery,’ I told him sweetly.

  ‘Now listen, Nelson, be’ave yerself, or the kind lady won’t ’ave us ’ere, will yer?’ She gave me an imploring look and her insipid blue eyes filled with alarm.

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said quickly, reassuring her. ‘Don’t worry about Nelson, he’s all right. I can always give you a clout, can’t I Nelson?’ I asked deliberately.

  ‘Not bleeding likely,’ he answered me, with a dark look.

  ‘It’s very nice, I’m sure,’ Ma said, looking around the room we had reached, obviously having decided not to provoke Nelson to further
cheek by reprimands. ‘We’ll ’ave it, won’t we son?’

  By this time ‘son’ was turning on all the gas taps and testing them then, satisfied that gas was pouring out freely from all corners, he ambled over to the bay window and, hanging out, examined the road.

  ‘Wish I could ride in a wheelchair,’ he reflected with envy, as he saw an invalid glide past.

  ‘Come in Nelson, boy, yer’ll break yer neck.’ Mrs Williams’ protective instincts were aroused by the dangerous posturings of her son. ‘And go and get the case in,’ she added. ‘We’ll stay if the kind lady will ’ave us,’ and she timidly asked the rent.

  Feeling that I had no business to ask this poor-looking woman for rent, I told her the amount apologetically, as Nelson, hefty as a baby elephant, stormed the stairs, whooping, delighted to do his mother’s bidding. I felt sure it was the first time!

  She told me nothing about her previous life, or where she had come from, and I asked no questions, taking it for granted that the first reference to her husband made him a corpse. The luggage, non-existent except for one cheap and breaking suitcase, did not spell a long stay – even to my inexperienced eye, the fact seemed plain. Could she be a widow? Suddenly I was not sure. In my experience widows were careful to explain this fact, as though pronouncing a status, demanding respect. I had often wished I was a widow in order to enjoy this privilege. Perhaps she had left her husband in a hurry: it must have been a hasty retreat judging by the sparse belongings. A major quarrel perhaps – probably that odious little rascal had been at the bottom of it all. My imagination, as usual roused, twisted intricately over Mrs Williams’ problems. Nelson, having dutifully returned with the case, had gone back to the window where he was whistling shrilly after two girlish lumps in olive green school uniforms who were hurrying past. I watched him in consternation, hoping that he was not going to spend his days causing commotions out of the front window – that would give the house a bad name. Already a busybody, posing as an ‘officer’s wife’, had tried to get up a petition because, as she put it, our garden was a disgrace to the road as it had not been touched since the day I moved in. Her child had brought the petition to my door by mistake and I had indignantly refused to sign it.