Whatever Happened to Margo?

by Margaret Durrell

  Tucked away in a quiet corner another two male lodgers had sent us women into a vulnerable state of acute romanticism. Roger and Andy, musicians and artistic characters, were sharing together in complete masculine harmony their material assets. Unaware of their disturbing influence on the female population about they settled in with casual good-humoured friendliness. Roger, attending art school, spent much of his day absorbed in artistic endeavour with the concentrated agony of a hen about to lay an extra large egg. He ruffled oil paints as thick as treacle across smooth canvas with a passionate concern to feel the touch of the Master. The complete antithesis of Edward who, with the same artistic desires, gave life to a still canvas with complete composure. For Roger there were always the moments of utter disillusion when he would abandon his painting, turning to his trumpet, his other love and drowning himself in jazz, a turbulent peace that had been born out of squalor and loneliness, eagerly fumbling out a new riff on the gleaming metal. Thumping out, a sombre picture in thick dark woollens and a pair of heavy boots (a relic of his army days), his precious trumpet carefully wrapped in an old cloth, he went to blow his heart out in some nocturnal dive. Single, he had flown from yet another landlady who had considered him undesirable. ‘No respectable man,’ she had told him severely, ‘comes in at all hours of the day or night, not only with suspicious looking bundles under his arm but with women. He should go to work at 9 a.m. and come home at 6 p.m.’ – and she had given him a week’s notice. His consequent wanderings for new lodgings had brought him to my door.

  Having left a trail of women behind him, he was at the moment of entry into our house being kept in check by a dark, broad-hipped Maltese girl, with pensive black eyes and big masculine hands. Magda was constantly by his side so a frequent visitor, coming from a small sparse lodging in the heart of town.

  Standing head and shoulders over him, his companion, a shy north countryman with soft eyes and humorous mouth, appreciated the tantalizing qualities of productive art and shared his love of jazz. He carried a mundane job lightly. Playing all hours with equal intensity and with equal reverence, he handled his trombone with firm square hands that sent an uneasy longing through me. I watched him secretly, disturbed, against my will; standing a little aloof whilst Jane and Paula openly discussed his finer points. Olwen, producing her words carefully as if deciphering an obscure prescription, remarked that she had never seen a finer pair of shoulders, while the nursing glamour girls openly threw him their inviting flirtatious glances: who would not be inclined to succumb, I asked myself, reflecting dismally on the competition about me. Even Mrs Budden, absorbed between new wedlock and the migraine attacks which incapacitated her, took note, and with Mr Budden safely out of the way murmured: ‘but isn’t he handsome!’ Mrs Williams succumbed too, in her small way, and darned a frayed patch to oblige, as I curbed with difficulty the desire to rush forward and seize the frayed article saying ‘I’ll do that.’

  The house, I felt, was now well and truly launched and seemed to be weathering the consequent upheavals. In moments when I spared my aunt a fleeting thought, brought on by some trifling incident, I sincerely prayed that Pussy’s confinement would be a long one – there was not a paragon of Auntie’s ideals in sight and the melodies and hectic discussions on all planes of life, not to mention the dogmatic left-wing opinions of Mr Budden, would have outraged her narrow concepts.

  Now that Mother could see that I was not being organized by the white slavers, raped or murdered, she began to regard my venture with a slightly calmer heart, even suggesting that she came up and stayed for a few weeks to reorganize my larder, which she said seemed sadly lacking in taste. Edward had now become a great favourite with her, and subsequently with Leslie who, with the appearance of Edward’s wife, was now convinced he was no pansy. His discovery, he said, now allowed a carefree friendship to flourish. Both he and Mother quickly grew to tolerate and even like Edward’s bizarre appearance. United in strong approval of the delicious odours that invariably filled their visits (for Leslie was also an epicure), they would hail him merrily when he appeared from his bedsit at the sound of their voices, having been busy with all the genius he could muster, supervising his cooking while he painted fluid lines of vision in glowing blending colours and attended to other trivialities: the washing he refused to do. With the distraction of visitors he would immediately organize himself a leisurely hour to gossip, discussing the advantages of an Indian curry against a Malayan one, a subject on which no one could excel, and Mother would repeat to me aside, with the look of sheer satisfaction, ‘what wife wouldn’t go out to work if her husband cooked like that.’ Then, discovering by chance, with great joy, that Edward was as interested in ghosts, spirits and supernatural manifestations as she was, this subject became a common haunting-ground for them. Now there were spells of ghost-spotting; moments of apprehensive hush, when they waited for a sign of manifestation which so far had not materialized. Disappointed, they swore that the nervous giggle from the pent-up member of a curious audience had destroyed the final moment of truth or, alternatively, they condemned the house as neither ancient nor hallowed enough.

  Nelson measured up the household carefully to see just how far he could go with each one and played his cards accordingly. In certain quarters where his charm fell on stony ground he retaliated with an invisible hand; scoring a bull’s eye he would disappear quickly, shaking with silent laughter. To my mother he presented a face of sheer innocence and she rewarded him with money and sweets. My children were enchanted with this Jesse James and Robin Hood rolled into one: with him they did all the things they longed to do but dared not, and his range of blasphemous words and confident, constant use of them was an added rapture. They paid homage willingly; even his most paltry turns such as spitting and hitting any object at ten feet were applauded without restraint. I was Mother no longer – ‘Ma’ became my official title. When I remarked, after a particularly exasperating day, that I should have to get rid of that fat boy, there were loud cries of dismay: ‘Oh Ma no, he’s such fun – let’s have him here forever.’

  ‘Fun!’ I had shouted, ‘what fun?’ having come in and received a smacking blow from a large and ancient volume of Shakespeare which had been carefully balanced on the front door and intended for the returning bricklayer (Nelson’s greatest enemy), as a reprisal for a small dispute concerning noise.

  Nelson’s enemies never knew from where or when he would strike: unfortunately sometimes the innocent were forced to suffer with the guilty party and Nelson’s popularity would deteriorate to sordid depths. In spite of all this he grew on me; his grin and rolling figure invariably brought a laugh to my lips, even if sometimes the sound was one of hollow mirth, for he was a cheery soul. ‘Surely this is a good sign,’ I argued with Edward, whose reference to him as ‘that odious fat boy’ had brought a protest to my lips – for Nelson had just treated me with one of his special smiles and a soggy chocolate, and I was completely won over for the moment. The matter was left open for further discussion.

  My rooms full, and satisfied that my worries were at least temporarily over and my lodgers settled in comfortably, I decided to forget the house for one day and spend a morning browsing around the shops in town, to acquire some of the ingredients for improving my cooking.

  On my way out, I fell into the clutches of a moaning, uncombed Mrs Budden, in a rose pink kimono with a flourishing green dragon embroidered across the back. She was holding her head and on the hunt for aspirins. Soothing her chronic migraine with a cocoon-shaped pill that Barry had passed over to me as the only remedy worth mentioning for migraine and other womanly ills, I tried to escape, with pointed references to the lateness of the hour and my shopping list a foot long, but Mrs Budden, happy to have found a reasonably sympathetic ear, kept a hand on my arm asking my advice on all sorts of major issues: reorganization of her straight bobbed hair growing untidily long, which she had overheard Paula saying was a mess; an appetizing supper dish for mister; angry warnings of varicose veins
… I felt I was fast involving myself with the least desirable of my lodgers.

  Why did everyone tell me everything, I wondered. I was in a no-man’s-land, hearing all, discreetly quiet, or repetitive according to my mood, completely neutral on most issues. Jane, shamelessly eavesdropping, heard me suggest cold compresses for Mrs Budden’s varicose veins and cold baths for her husband’s odour, and couldn’t resist the temptation to join us, sweeping down the stairs with an important air.

  ‘I think,’ she said, ‘I am the one to deal with this: don’t you agree?’ And she hustled the pink bundle upstairs to her quarters. The sufferer, satisfied to have a new prey who showed such interest, and having no choice anyway, left me without regret and I heard the voices silenced by the firm and business-like closing of Jane’s door.

  Preparing to make a second exit, I was forestalled by yet another obstacle: Edward, with a most disquieting look of urgency on his face. It was not unusual for Edward to appear for with the sudden need of a change of occupation he would join me casually at any time and anywhere I might be – and I would do the same when fraught by similar feelings. However, today I could see that things were different; it was neither glad tidings nor a whim that had brought him to my door. Normally I welcomed the intrusive whim that brightened my day but now, anxious for my larder, I felt he would have to wait for my return.

  Edward, sensing my eagerness to be gone, looked disappointed. ‘This is a matter of grave seriousness,’ he said, looking somewhat like an undertaker on holiday in an all black outfit with a red scarf at his neck.

  Seeing Edward blocking my way I wondered what the new crisis could be. A mixture of hilarious female titters and a wailing blues number on a trumpet floated down from upstairs, and I pondered, worrying a little if this noise wasn’t prolonging Mrs Budden’s migraine: but I should no doubt soon know in the form of a complaint.

  ‘Trouble!’ Edward’s voice was hollow, through a smell of stale garlic, dropping to ominous tones to match the sombre black of his garb.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked quickly, feeling a hasty little jerk somewhere deep inside that the expectation of bad news brings: had one of my children been run over? Was Andy ill? Perhaps Nelson had fallen out of the upstairs window? Poor Nelson – tears sprang to my eyes.

  ‘I overheard something,’ he hesitated.

  ‘What?’ I said quickly. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense. For heaven’s sake, what?’ If it was bereavement then let me face it bravely, I prayed.

  ‘You know that sour-faced neighbour, Lady something or other,’ he pointed behind him toward Lady Booth’s residence. ‘She says that you are running a brothel and that the police should be informed.’ He put a hand out to catch me comfortingly, no doubt expecting a total collapse of my resources.

  I digested this bit of news in silence for a moment, stunned: then, relieved that it was not a matter of life and death, I was overcome with mirth, disputing the authority of Edward’s statement with honest disbelief.

  ‘But it’s true, dear soul,’ Edward impressed on me gently. ‘She was talking to that woman in the velvet coat – and a nice bit of velvet it was too,’ he remarked, side-tracking. ‘It would make an admirable waistcoat …’

  ‘Go on,’ I said, ‘explain … the sordid details, and never mind about the waistcoat.’

  ‘You know the one I mean, across the road, that seems to spend all her time intent on the destruction of the most vulnerable parts of our four-legged friends’ anatomies.’

  ‘The bitch!’ said I, hurt that Miss Brady was also intent on my destruction. ‘I wish I was, though,’ I added emphatically, reflecting thoughtfully, astonished how such a rumour could start. ‘I’d make a quick fortune and no mistake – we’d have all the material we need, I should think.’

  ‘Don’t joke,’ Edward implored, interrupting. ‘I think it’s quite scandalous.’

  ‘But for goodness sake, don’t tell Mother,’ I went on, remembering that she wouldn’t take the gossip as a joke. ‘She would only start to worry again, just as she’s taking things more calmly too.’ I thought of Aunt Patience: such a thing must be kept from her as well.

  ‘I think it’s quite preposterous,’ Edward said hotly. ‘We might be subjected to a police raid.’

  ‘So do I,’ came in agreement above. It was Jane, hanging over the bannisters in amazement; her eyes like saucers peered down at us from behind their thick lenses. ‘Absolutely awful. I heard every word,’ she added with satisfaction, a light yellow sweater accentuating her breasts to a mere apology. Jane, who never could resist the call of Edward’s voice, had obviously left the delicate subject of her patient’s health and returned stealthily to discover what the object of her admiration had to say.

  ‘I feel like giving her the toe end of my boot,’ Edward added, not over pleased at Jane’s appearance.

  ‘What boot?’ I asked innocently, looking at his slim foot in open sandals.

  ‘How can you laugh? I think it is most serious.’

  I shrugged, still laughing. ‘Well what else do you expect from suburbia? They thrive on gossip.’

  ‘Isn’t it dreadful,’ Jane darted a look at Edward with her big eyes, and her tone of voice, though shocked, suggested that she really was enjoying this delicious piece of news.

  ‘Yes it is,’ Edward said. ‘Gossip is the most dangerous thing on earth.’

  ‘And something we indulge in frequently,’ I retorted with a sly grin, remembering our hectic suppositions on every member in the house.

  ‘Yes, but our gossiping is not malicious.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I said. ‘But it’s not surprising really, is it?’ I summarized the situation slowly, ‘if you have an imagination like those of our neighbours.’ I was reflecting over recent events, and the clientele that could possibly have led to such false suppositions. Blanche’s Nordic good looks, and her room-mate Judy, whose short black curly hair and doe-like eyes were as seductive as Blanche’s fairness, were a fair target: for they were on night duty at the local hospital and consequently spent most of the day wrapped modestly in dressing gowns, taking refreshment from room to room when supposed to be making up for lost sleep, or holding court in their own. Then of course, apart from our resident males, there were the ‘extras’, the throng of male admirers clattering in and out. You could hear the girls now, filling the hall with their female chatter, even from behind closed doors. As far as I could guess Gordon was the lucky man, for there was only his car parked outside today. It was unusual.

  ‘Of course they are suspects,’ Jane remarked spitefully of the nurses, aware of the critical thoughts and glad for a chance to torpedo her rivals.

  ‘And Gordon is obviously contaminating himself at this very moment,’ Edward sounded jealous.

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Jane.

  I thought of Gordon. He was now neglecting both his work and his car as he struggled with his rising passion and the everlasting threat of thieving competition. Morally upset, he could not acclimatize himself to the sight of female bodies in fragile bed-wear floating so close past his door. He was frantic for the love of Blanche. There were no pills to mask his frustration suspended on the verge of his own private breakdown as she tantalized with a soft mouth, pointed breasts and cold mocking eyes. He longed for the young body wrapped casually in a revealing white robe, turning more and more to the medicine chest and Jane’s cool hands, comforted by Barry’s faithful ‘steady on, old boy’ as he passed him another tranquillizer, with shaking hands.

  ‘Gordon is obviously open to grave criticism,’ Edward insisted, noting with some dismay that I did not agree.

  ‘What about the other two, I say,’ said Jane waspishly.

  I looked at Jane, our sterile flag of hygiene, whom we had all looked up to as the strength of our womanhood in those first days. Jane was in no position to point a finger of criticism I decided severely. Envying the sex appeal of the others, which she had never possessed, she succumbed quickly to influence, slipped from the tracks of
convention on a swift treacherous move: launched on a shopping spree and abandoned herself overnight, not only to glamorous intentions but to what she called ‘Bohemia’, preferring now to lounge in off-beat poses, open to suspicion assuming décolleté negligees that left us women breathless and the men still without desire. She hung about the hall in shadowy corners, waiting intently for an audience.

  ‘Personally, if I were the landlady …’ began Jane.

  ‘We’re all equally to blame,’ I said, firmly ignoring the injured looks of Jane now thrown in my direction, ‘even Olwen,’ I went on determined. Olwen’s seductive figure and flowing hair, which sent the imagination soaring, would undoubtedly cause comments in suburbia, especially if caught in a modelling pose by a keyhole viewer.

  ‘What about Paula, then?’ Edward was a little crestfallen that contaminating evidence was spreading into his camp.

  ‘I shall move,’ Jane announced grandly.

  I thought of Paula. Paula had not helped matters either; she had changed the red of her hair twice since her arrival and it now matched the red of Edward’s beard.

  ‘There is only Nelson’s mother,’ I announced with startling truth, ‘who doesn’t really give cause for comment.’ Mrs Williams, that downtrodden figure of respectability with the air of widowhood, her past even now shrouded in mystery which the wagging tongue of Nelson had yet to reveal. But Nelson was not blameless, embroidering, with an innocent air, the trivialities of life to delightful and impossible proportions, and no doubt was himself the instigator of many a rumour.

  ‘Have we to conform to a colourless pattern in order to plead innocence?’ Edward’s question was full of disdain.