Whatever Happened to Margo?

by Margaret Durrell

  Jane blamed Paula’s hair dye – ‘The colour is outrageous.’ I was silent, thinking of myself. Even I, not to be outdone by my female lodgers, ignoring my Aunt Patience’s warnings, was not blameless: I was aware of Andy’s presence about me with deepening unrest, while dabbling with the affections of a blond giant who, judging by the size of his girth I suspected was going to run to fat, and mighty quickly too. Edward was painting him: a thoroughly respectable picture, in warm pinky browns and yellows, reclining on the divan in the attitude of a debauched Roman Emperor, a loin-cloth attempting to disguise his obvious rolls of fat.

  A howl from Mrs Budden for Jane changed my self-analysis. ‘And what with her,’ I said to Edward, ‘relaxing late into the morning in that pink kimono, meeting the baker at the gate looking like a fallen geisha girl, does not help to raise the tone of our establishment.’ There was quick agreement from all sides.

  ‘What with the watchful eyes of neighbours,’ I went on, ‘the chatter of the milkman, not to mention the baker …’

  ‘And the possible chance word from the children,’ Edward emphasized.

  ‘No wonder rumour has made you a madam,’ Jane finished Edward’s sentence calmly and with evident delight.

  I saw myself for a second in an entirely new career. Sitting in the hall at my brass table, heavy in shiny satin and dangling diamond earrings, enormous rings flashing searchlights on my small hands, eyes hooded in heavy make-up, and the merry tinkle of the till clattering in the money as I sang out, ‘Time, gentlemen, please.’

  But aloud I murmured, ‘Cheek, what an absolute cheek!’ as I stormed out, leaving a crestfallen pair behind me, eager to discuss the threatening rumour. I hoped that I was going to meet Lady Booth or Miss Brady and give them a verbal rocket but I met no one as I stalked the road looking for trouble.

  CHAPTER SIX

  While my house was suffering the post-natal pangs of readjustment, the town had become an impossible blockage of humanity as holiday-makers poured in for the summer season: I found this to my cost as I struggled into the city centre bent on my shopping expedition.

  Hours later, or so it seemed, I returned home, glad to leave the bustling town and the excruciating agonies of people determined to enjoy their holiday. I was glad to be back, gossip or not, in the quiet of our road. In my basket nestled spices and an assortment of things from the extensive list that Edward and Mother had compiled together, and which they considered most necessary to my larder.

  It was a warm day; the heat scorched the road to a glistening blackness and walking was a hardship. On the hill two ladies in straw hats idled on the bench; they stopped their chatter and eyed me openly. Were they carriers of this ridiculous rumour, I asked myself, glaring at them as I passed. Gordon, tearing himself away from his temptation, sped by in the roar of an unsilenced engine, making tracks for work I supposed, cheered that he was at last showing strength of character and facing his responsibilities, if a little late – he was three weeks behind with the rent too, I calculated doubtfully, watching him vanish in a haze of speed.

  My smile disappeared at the distant sight of Nelson hanging out of his window on the first floor, his rear cheerfully in the air, an active portion of dog beside it. His mischievous plump hands, clutching a sheath knife, were busy digging at the bumpy surface of my pebble-dashed wall, probably collecting ammunition for his catapult. I scowled angrily up at the happy, busy shape, quickening my step as a small crocodile of lime-green, pink-faced schoolgirls fled past me. They came from the sedate girls’ school around the corner overlooking the park, and the mark of Nelson was upon them. My first instinct was to beat the fat boy firmly over the head, but I restrained my sadistic desires with a transient thought: I’d try a little psychology first and see what a few words of love could achieve.

  ‘Nelson, dear,’ my voice rose on a cooing note. ‘Don’t do that, you’ll spoil the wall, and the position you are in is most dangerous. And bring Johnny down, dear, he might jump out and hurt himself.’ There was no response to my new methods. ‘If you fall out you will surely break your neck’ – by now I secretly hoped he would: my voice was still sugary, though the sugar had grown less honeyed with the veiled warning.

  Nelson, as if sensing my uncharitable thoughts, lifted his face and gave me a reproachful look from clear round eyes, followed by a seductive smile entirely manufactured for the occasion. ‘Oh, you there,’ he remarked in a friendly fashion. ‘’Ere’s a sweet, I saved it for yer special like,’ and straightening awkwardly for a moment he fished in his pocket and threw me a bull’s eye, sticky and covered in dog’s hair.

  Johnny, on hearing my voice, had left Nelson at the window and was now endeavouring to scratch the door down. Nelson’s kindness filled me with a moment of quiet remorse: how could I wish the boy dead? Nelson was unique, a clown of circumstance, and allowances must be made, I thought, gazing up at him with grudging affection, in his ill-fitting clothes and cap perched like a pimple on the back of his head – it never dislodged between sunrise and sunset, however hazardous the adventure. He appeared to have no school, and I expected the education authorities to storm down on us at any moment.

  Mrs Briggs’ face rose above the fences: ‘And just what’s going on now? More trouble, I suppose?’ From behind the stone wall the heavy breathing of a disapproving titled lady told me that there was another hostile viewer.

  Feeling that Nelson was about to drag me into another situation, I used the only weapon I had, hitting him below the belt, for he loved his tummy even more than stunning his fellow man with guided missiles; he was ever ready for a taste of a sugary dish, which probably accounted for his large proportions. ‘Very well then, if you don’t listen you just will not be able to have tea with us again.’ I kept my voice cold and meaningful: it was no empty threat, for Nelson frequently attended our tea table.

  ‘That’s right, give it to him,’ came Mrs Briggs’ inevitable sally. I pretended not to see her, and to my relief saw Nelson right his rear at my news and disappear into the gaping window without a sound – victory was mine. As I turned to go I could not help thinking it was a miracle I had not received a stinging blow from one of my own pebbles.

  ‘You’re learning,’ came Mrs Briggs’ parting shot. The dignified silence from the other side told us exactly what Lady Booth thought.

  Nelson and I met in the hall, our differences forgotten. Johnny, who was by his side, lifted his leg, saw my face, and hurriedly dropped it, fleeing past me into the garden.

  ‘Did yer see them dames a few moments ago?’ Nelson was chuckling all over at the pleasant memory.

  ‘What dames?’ I asked – I had seen no dames.

  ‘Them bits of stuff in green. I fancied last bird, one with fat legs.’

  ‘Nelson!’ I said reprovingly, ‘I hope you are not going to upset one of the most respectable schools in Bournemouth.’

  He did not answer, but pulling a chewed lump of gum from behind his ear, returned it for further mastication and followed Johnny into the garden; with the children at school Nelson roamed the place aimlessly, a lone tubby figure.

  Having lodgers, or at least Nelson, was not exactly a peaceful occupation, I decided, as I picked up a long pink envelope from the hall table and noticed the handwriting of my Aunt Patience. I tore open the letter quickly: a single sheet of scented paper floated to the ground. Picking it up I read the clear writing:

  My Dear Child,

  After weeks of careful attention, Pussy is now well on the way to recovery, and we shall no doubt be able to face the journey down to Bournemouth in the near future; so expect us when you see us.

  You are no doubt by now conducting your house in the proper manner, befitting to your education and upbringing, but we shall see.

  Fond love,

  Auntie

  I groaned aloud: ‘Expect us when you see us.’ What a threat to have hanging over us! I tottered to the vicinity of my kitchen.

  As if sensing my return Edward appeared at the back door,
a look of tender concern on his face: ‘I thought you were back. Look, I have finished it.’ Enthusiastically he held up a large canvas and was obviously trying to make up for the disturbing rumours of earlier.

  ‘Have you?’ I replied without interest, frowning at the reclining giant. The rumour no longer worried me; I had dismissed it.

  He placed the picture up on the window ledge.

  ‘The colours are lovely,’ I had to admit grudgingly, as I closed one eye with a professional air deciding to give the picture the benefit of a longer look even if my dwindling regard of this male species had left me without interest.

  There was a crunch of breaking glass and heavy steps in flying retreat: the steps of Nelson escaping retribution, syncopated with an arrangement of ‘Nobody loves you when you’re down and out’.

  Edward groaned: ‘Those musicians will drive me mad. I can feel one of Mrs Budden’s headaches coming on.’

  ‘Then Jane can put her cool hand upon you,’ I revelled in the tender picture, maliciously provoking.

  ‘Over my dead body: the woman’s utterly sexless. But you’re different.’

  ‘Me?’ I was astonished, feeling rather pleased that I had been placed in such a high and interesting category.

  Then Edward saw with pleasure my loaded shopping basket and, his attention diverted, went into ecstasies of pleasure on a different plane. Then he slipped away murmuring something about ‘competitive sounds’ and that he would be back in a moment for further conversation, suggesting that I made coffee.

  The blue eyes of my diminishing love leered at me. I picked it up and carried it to the bathroom and propped it against the bath for prolonged inspection while I threw off my town clothes and slipped easily into blue jeans. I always changed in the bathroom for the last rearrangement of divans had temporarily left me without a place of rest – I was a nomad in my own house. My feelings were definitely dead I decided with one eye on the canvas: for the watching eyes caused me no tremor. It was a relief. Belting my jeans, I lifted the canvas and carried it to the drawing room and draped it casually in the window.

  Nelson’s face appeared framed in the open window: ‘Cor, wot a monster!’ he blurted out, guffawing. ‘Wot some women see in some men.’

  My dangerous look made him disappear hastily, surprisingly agile for the bulk he carried. I smiled tolerantly. Nelson was Nelson, and we must all suffer I thought, not without a certain tenderness, as I went to make coffee.

  Mrs Budden’s curtains, rattling open to let in the light of day, suggested that her migraine had been conquered by the combined efforts of Jane and Barry. Barry would be well on his way to yet another interview, I remembered, in a sudden rush of sympathy. If only one good job would turn up to rebuild his confidence in life. It was lucky, I reflected, that both Paula and Olwen were capable of holding down good jobs, for both their menfolk were far removed from security. I was glad that I was my own mistress.

  Nelson passed the window again and held his head in an attitude of proud aloofness, intending to provoke me to a mood of regretful generosity. I whistled after him, jeering, ‘Hi, handsome!’ with intended insult, but there was no response. I remembered for the hundredth time that I must ask Mrs Williams why he did not go to school.

  Edward reappeared treading gaily now, his good humour restored. He carried a few records under his arm and a big brown envelope, and was humming genially. ‘This is music, much better stuff than that hideous broken noise from upstairs that sears my eardrums. I shall have to wear ear-plugs if it goes on,’ he told me quite seriously, throwing me the brown envelope and preparing the gramophone for action. I sat down and opened the brown flap, blushing as a most comprehensive collection of pornographic postcards showered into my lap. I gathered them up hurriedly with what I hoped was a good imitation of one of my mother’s reproving looks when one of us had gone too far.

  ‘Edward really! Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Leslie did call whilst you were out and we had one or two tots – rather weak, they were, as we were both a little broke. I felt the need for something substantial after that shocking news this morning.’

  ‘You can be had up for this sort of thing, you know,’ I told him seriously, indicating to the cards.

  ‘I had a little bet on,’ he said suddenly, standing in Nelson’s way.

  ‘And did you win your bet?’ I asked with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘Yes,’ he said calmly. ‘You are the best landlady I have ever met. Nothing seems to shock you, it is most unusual in a landlady …’ He sounded a little puzzled.

  ‘But, of course,’ I answered calmly. ‘Is that so bad, then?’

  ‘No, it’s Barry and Gordon who would be perturbed by those things, not I,’ I said, with every good reason, giggling. ‘They leave me cold.’

  ‘Pity,’ he said ambiguously. ‘Talking of Gordon,’ he went on, ‘he has just rushed off to a funeral. A relative, I think.’

  ‘Oh. For one blissful moment I thought he had decided to drag himself back to work. How disappointing.’

  ‘Work!’ Edward scoffed. ‘He’ll do no work with so many women about. Come to think of it, I find it rather difficult myself,’ he added truthfully, putting on a record. The gramophone was old – antique, in fact.

  His next remark was drowned by the wail of a ‘belly dance’ vibrating through the room, making more noise than anything that came from upstairs. ‘Turn it down!’ I implored. ‘Remember Mrs Budden’s migraine.’

  But Edward was away, throwing himself into a frenzy of movement as he started to dance. His arms flayed the air, his shirt was off, the slight body, bending, twisting. His stomach drawn tight as if in agony, caved in under his chest grotesquely. The skeleton-like body had captured new life, sweat clung to the pale skin in dewy softness. I wondered if his brain had snapped and if I should call Jane: but would she react in the proper manner? Her reactions to things were debatable now in the new mood, but surely at a time like this she would forget her feminine role and remember the glorious call of nursing? I was indecisive and absorbed as I watched the moving figure: suddenly I was engulfed into the spirit of the thing. Here was an outlet for inhibitions in which anyone could join. I stood up enthusiastically and was about to fling off my restricting garments and join him when a collision stopped the gramophone, as Johnny, attracted by the weird noises, leapt through the open window and followed the dancing figure in a mad whirl of barking hysteria. Caught up between the spindly legs, dog and man collapsed in a heap. Fortunately, for Mrs Briggs had just called by to give me a bunch of rhubarb, and her incredulous face, with Nelson’s beside it, was glued to the open window.

  ‘Just having a few dancing lessons,’ I explained innocently, not looking at Nelson.

  ‘Sure, sure,’ she remarked, with disbelief, giving me and the draped canvas of rolling rosy fat, still in the window, a strange look. Dropping the rhubarb over the sill she backed away quickly, as if I were contagious. ‘Dancing lessons!’ she said. ‘Hum, some dancing lessons!’

  I looked at Nelson. A devilish grin had spread across his face: ‘Na good will come of them dancing, I know,’ he said, candidly. ‘More like a sex horgy,’ and he vanished. The bundle of rhubarb missed him by inches.

  There was a thunderous knocking at the door. Mrs Budden, hair still uncombed, swayed in the door, but she had exchanged the pink kimono for a check skirt and the usual shapeless floral smock. Her feet were thrust into comfy pink slippers: she was a picture of sloppy domesticity. Edward, raising himself from the middle of the floor, fell into a chair, a trembling slim form, with an admiring animal crouched at his feet.

  ‘I must ask you to make less noise.’ The voice at the door was plaintive. ‘My head is throbbing again dreadfully.’ The pink-rimmed brown eyes brimmed with tears. ‘And the other music’s been blaring all morning too. I feel quite exhausted. Haven’t they got any work to do? These musicians and artists are an idle lot – says my hubby. He says they need a bit of the old whip!’

  ‘That is their
work, they live between painting and music.’ And I tried to explain away the intricacies of the artistic soul to a completely uncomprehending Mrs Budden, who did not intend to be appeased by explanations.

  ‘What an apparition,’ remarked a voice from the depths of the armchair – I could tell he resented the reference to idling painters and intended to get his own back in an ungentlemanly way.

  Apologizing fervently for the row, drowning the reiterated criticism, I closed the door hurriedly in the astonished face of my caller: she had never been treated like that before.

  ‘Must you?’ I asked accusingly.

  ‘No business to come here, interfering, with her ignorant insinuations,’ Edward was peeved. ‘And what’s more the woman looks pregnant.’

  ‘Shut up!’ I hissed. ‘She’ll hear you.’

  ‘Well, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose she does,’ I said slowly, mentally examining Mrs Budden’s unbecoming figure for the first time.

  ‘And do you allow pregnant women here? Most landladies don’t.’

  ‘I don’t know – I’ve never thought about it,’ I reflected slowly. ‘She certainly hasn’t told me, though she tells me practically everything else,’ I ended, with a sudden laugh.

  ‘Well, Roger, Barry and Nelson all think she is, and I haven’t discussed it with the others yet. I suppose we’ll have sleepless nights soon with a bald-headed brat braying like a horse. And …’

  ‘A horse doesn’t bray – and what does Nelson know about pregnancy?’ I enquired scathingly, my illusions that men did not gossip shattered.

  ‘More than you think,’ he replied knowingly. ‘He is a bundle of accurate and inaccurate knowledge.’

  ‘Well, I’ll ask Mrs Briggs,’ I said laughingly after the fleeing form of Edward. ‘She is naturally clairvoyant.’

  But I didn’t have to ask, for on my next trip to the back garden I heard a ‘hiss’, and there was Mrs Briggs, the incident of the dance forgotten in the more important light of a new discovery.