Whatever Happened to Margo?

by Margaret Durrell

  We thought it best to leave the disposal of the ladder to the others, as we settled down to await Nelson and justice, for our searching had proved that our fat boy was truly missing.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sunday started with a disaster, and as so often my first moments of the day were heralded with involuntary action, so it was today. Persistent filterings of ominous sound, probing, roused me from a heavy sleep. Somebody was crying. Nelson was dead, poor Nelson. I felt a moment of great personal loss. We would spend pounds on a large wreath worthy of him: the coffin would have to be extra wide, a foot perhaps.

  Something touched my face: I shot up to find Gerry standing by the bed crying. Nelson, like a nightmare of over-indulgence, was by his side.

  ‘Come and see, the mice are dying,’ Gerry sobbed.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ I told Nelson bluntly as I focused, feeling that I had wasted my sympathies now that he wasn’t and remembering last night and poor Mrs Williams’ dilemma. Sheer tiredness had forced me to bed in the end, leaving her dozing fitfully on the drawing-room sofa, her anger turned to anxiety and forgiveness, as she hoped and prayed for her offspring’s safe return.

  ‘Not on your Nellie,’ he remarked casually. ‘It’s these ’ere mice breeding like flies, causing overwork, and women’s nagging that is driving me to near suicide – and now this financial disaster.’ He held two fat hands up in a gesture of despair.

  Nicholas appeared around the door: he looked small and anxious and moaned of death and destruction.

  ‘Wot a burial we are going to have,’ Nelson surmised, plunged into further gloom – hypocritically, I knew, for I could see by his eyes that he was suddenly cheered at the prospect of a funeral session, which might possibly be turned to financial gain. He was quick to seize any advantage to better his own financial position at the expense of a good cause, in what might be loosely called ‘press gang sweeps’, guaranteed to force the last coin from his victim.

  Throwing a dressing-gown on, I staggered out still heavy with sleep, food and wine. ‘Where the hell have you been, anyway?’ I demanded sourly over my shoulder of Nelson, who was following me meekly, a robust convict in striped pyjamas. ‘The last time I saw you, you were counting coffins with all the diligence of the local cops.’

  ‘I was around,’ he murmured, evading my question with the face of an overweight angel, and he endeavoured to change the line of thought by a completely irrelevant remark, one of his favourite manoeuvres.

  The scene of upheaval, at the place that caused Mrs Briggs so much heartbreak, was the obvious hand of a stealthy marauder. ‘Who did this? Mrs Briggs?’ I suggested unfairly, with the irritation that too much rich living and little sleep produces.

  ‘It’s that perishing cat,’ Nelson stated. ‘I ’eard the crashings and raised the alarm, but I’ll get ’im with me catapult, see if I don’t – the stinking ol’ bleeder.’

  I was so used to Nelson’s constant and varied reflections on the word blood that I scarcely ever rebuked him now. It was like his grammatical errors; they were as much a part of him as the chaotic roundness of flesh and bone.

  ‘Where’s Pinky?’ I demanded, still grumbling, examining the debris.

  Pinky was a favourite, a plump little feline who showed a disquieting lack of self-restraint, giving birth in unnecessary profusion, with total segregation as the only answer if keeping of mice and harmony with the Briggs family was ever to be indulged in. Nelson righted a box and raised the corpse with the gentle hand of a sorrowing mother, and placed it in my own. Observing the gentle touch, showing all the facets of maternal tenderness, I softened inwardly towards my youngest tenant – but one outward step to the brink of softness and Nelson would be playing me on his line again, I warned myself, frowning.

  ‘Well, this is the end of this,’ I snarled with mixed feelings, picking up yet another white body and examining it carefully for signs of life.

  ‘And about time too, I must say,’ came the clear chant of Mrs Briggs from the bedroom window next door. ‘It will be the health authorities you’ll have to reckon with next time, my girl.’

  I ignored her, too vulnerable in my weakened state to enter into battle, and a flicker of movement from a solitary body had already sent Nelson moving excitedly.

  ‘Look!’ he yelped. ‘Life!’

  ‘Bring it inside, and the others,’ I ordered, my instincts to preserve life aroused against my better judgment. I sped indoors to light the fire and heat some milk, endeavouring to remember what my zoologically-minded brother would have done in similar circumstances. Amazingly, with the warmth and sips of milk laced with brandy, some of the mice responded feebly, stretched their grotesque little bodies, and felt for new life.

  ‘I have quite decided,’ I told Nelson in my plainest tone of voice, ‘you have got to do something about these mice. Today, not tomorrow or the next day, but today. You promised, remember.’

  ‘Yep,’ the answer was given grudgingly. It went against Nelson’s nature to respond with promises, however false. Seeing the situation was now under control, he quickly dropped his mourning and became his usual nonchalant self. ‘Come lads,’ he caroled gaily. ‘We can leave everything in safety now. You’re a good ol’ bird,’ he praised affably, turning and giving me the kind of affectionate pat usually reserved for Andy, ‘and quite a little nurse too, ain’t yer?’ and he cantered off.

  I was going to take him to task, not only about last night but about the key to his room, but the bit of unexpected genuine praise left me silent. The ‘old’, so often used as an added insult, was now thrown in as an endearment; this was a moment that could not be spoilt by female haggling. I let him go without reproach. There were, of course, hails of subdued criticism from Edward, roused, he said, out of the best dream he had had for years. I felt we all shared the same yoke of suffering, as I remembered the heavy day ahead. Monkeys to be fed, the boiler to stoke, the promise of a picnic and the reunion with my aunts, who were no doubt still peacefully slumbering on deep comfy beds, in the silence of vault-like rooms. No time even to linger over the memory of Andy’s yearning touch, or how Mrs Williams fared. She would undoubtedly be overjoyed at Nelson’s safe return: he would never get another clout, that was a certainty.

  A commotion that sounded like Mr Budden having one of his political arguments – normally brought on by the Daily Mirror headlines – now seemed to be the most dominating sound around the house. Surely my male lodgers weren’t indulging in the argumentative field of politics at this early hour? They were of such a variety that a peaceful conclusion was an impossibility, I decided, listening for the fatal heckling which would deteriorate to a common brawl and involve us all in irrelevant insults.

  But it was not the first festerings of an all party rumpus, as I had suspected. Mr Budden, while wandering about his ablutions, had been headed by a heavy weighted object dropped from the next floor. By the time he had revived, the incriminating object had mysteriously disappeared in the uproar.

  Nelson had been the first suspect as usual but as he stood by innocently watching the scene of revival with marked sympathy, no one could prove anything. ‘Really, you will have to give that boy notice,’ Edward remarked unconvincingly, knowing perfectly well that I would never give that boy notice, even if I had been a landlady of one hundred years’ standing.

  The telephone ringing ended our personal dispute and alerted me to a new chain that was about to start.

  My introduction to Lord Booth was brief: the unsavoury prattling of an irate neighbour with justice on his side. ‘There is an animal in my bedroom that has knocked over the light, and is eating my tobacco!’

  ‘Really?’ I replied, wondering what it had to do with me. This was the first time my neighbour and I had communicated. I hoped it was going to be the last. There was a nasty pause and a threatening sound of heavy breathing: I waited for further disclosures.

  ‘The thing has now escaped by the window. I am going to make my complaint to the right authorities
.’

  A click, then silence, told me I had been deliberately cut off. Thoroughly alarmed, I turned to investigate whether the accusation had anything to do with me, and came face to face with Nelson. ‘The monkeys are out,’ he announced. ‘Every blinking one! Blimey, look!’ he pointed over my shoulder with some excitement. ‘A cop car!’ and he took up an immediate vantage point in the window with a grand show of bravado.

  A police car had in fact stopped at the gate. Throwing on some clothes and passing a quick hand across my hair, conscious that I was in no way looking my best, I went out, halfheartedly, to meet them. My tone was respectful, blandly innocent, following my unfailing rule that one must always be nice to a policeman and exercise charm to soften the blow of any reprimand that might be forthcoming. Driving a car had taught me this valuable asset.

  Two faces of good British stock watched my approach with a pleasant interest and, being male, their expressions were now not entirely professional.

  ‘Good morning,’ the driver touched his cap. ‘Are you missing anything – some monkeys, perhaps?’ Bad news travels fast. There was just the slightest tinge of mocking friendly humour in the voice.

  I replied tentatively as a criminal might, reluctant to identify myself with my brother’s monkeys and feeling slightly uncomfortable under the keen scrutiny of the law. Paula floated out of the house, sexy in beach wear, showing off her colt-like legs to advantage, making mine feel inadequately short. She stopped, surprised, obviously impressed by the uniformed mates at the gate but puzzled at their presence, having not heard the news of the monkeys’ escape.

  ‘Good morning, officer,’ she called out, smiling a big welcome smile from scarlet lips (she knew the tactics, too). The crisp atmosphere surrounding the law crumbled and we exchanged friendly smiles. She managed one of her mercurial remarks at my expense.

  ‘How many are missing?’ the driver asked without formality but with a remnant of professional regret as he accepted an evil-smelling French cigarette from Paula.

  ‘About a dozen,’ I calculated uncertainly, not having the slightest idea. I wished that I had something to offer them as impressive as a French cigarette, thinking that the whole wretched, degrading situation could no doubt be softened to still more cosy and intimate advantage by the presence of more foreign tobacco.

  ‘What’s going on, then?’ the policeman asked interested. ‘Are you starting a menagerie, or something?’

  ‘No, it’s just my boarding house,’ I explained a trifle foolishly. I omitted to say that I had inherited a mad brother. They both laughed again at my expense, joined by Paula – of course.

  ‘Three have been sighted anyway,’ he told us, rattling off a series of addresses. ‘We have called in the RSPCA and no doubt you will be hearing from us again,’ he ended kindly, as if he enjoyed the thought.

  ‘No doubt!’ Paula encouraged – she too enjoyed the moment. I could hear the telephone again, but I let it ring revengefully. I breathed a relieved mixture of thanks and admiration: I could have kissed the solid handsome face for purely professional reasons. With a backward glance of farewell, they left, pulling away noiselessly from the kerb, leaving us with a new and dizzy respect.

  ‘Of course, the RSPCA. Why didn’t I think of them sooner?’ I said to Paula regretfully. ‘They could have taken over the whole lot in the first place.’

  ‘That was a hunk of attractive male,’ Paula remarked with relish, her eyes following the black car. ‘Pity it was business and not pleasure.’

  ‘If that brother of mine puts one foot over the gate again, there’ll be trouble. I’ll call in the police force to turn him out,’ I decided threateningly, realizing for the first time that the police force were going to have other advantages.

  ‘He’s marvellous, and devastatingly attractive,’ Paula was brimming with open praise.

  ‘Who is – that bobby with the tender blue eyes?’ I was more than willing to agree.

  ‘No, Gerald of course.’

  ‘He’s a bloody menace, that’s what he is.’ Words failed me.

  Paula smirked at my disloyalty. ‘When is he coming back?’ she asked with carefully applied nonchalance, which I saw through immediately. Those green eyes softened for the second time that morning.

  ‘We can expect that two-legged troublemaker to return any minute,’ I told her frigidly.

  Paula stood thoughtfully. ‘I was going to go down to the beach,’ she remarked, ‘but there is so much going on here that might prove interesting, I think I will hang around; although I must say I can’t really stand monkeys, or their smells.’ She wrinkled her slender aristocratic nose disdainfully. ‘And if it wasn’t for the charm of their owner …’

  But I wasn’t listening any more, as I counted my misfortunes, full of regrets. If only I’d never moved them in. Heaven knew where they all were by this time. ‘Why am I the one to be plagued by an animal-minded maniac, and a boarding house full of lunatics?’ I asked Paula, bemoaning my fate.

  ‘He’s very charming, I don’t think you appreciate him fully,’ and Paula began to go dreamy, which was a pose that didn’t really suit her. They had in fact got on well in a purely platonic way. Gerald’s natural sarcasm was an excellent foil for Paula’s sharp wit, and both having the gift of mimicry, there were moments when no one was left untouched.

  ‘Personally, I prefer the police force: at least they get you out of a jam, and not push you into one,’ I answered with obvious truth. ‘Mr Budden shares the same views, too,’ I added, hearing his voice in the distance, now finding myself quite fond of him. The new situation had made us temporary buddies and I was satisfied that I was allied with at least one member of the household on this question of Gerald and his pets.

  Paula grimaced. ‘The man is insufferable. I can’t stand him at any price. Do you know he wanders about attending to his necessities looking like a sort of elongated Gandhi in just a small towel – it’s a harrowing sight for sensitive people.’

  This was the third time I had been given this piece of information, but I had yet to see the offending vision. ‘Well, it’s his wife’s job to reprimand him, not the landlady’s. I wonder Jane hasn’t taken it upon herself to drop a few hints, you know, about “germs” or “bad for the mind” or something; but you can’t really blame his opinions this time. Of Gerald, I mean. Not everyone can appreciate the charm of a python as a sort of domestic pet, and by the time the monkeys are fetched home, there won’t be a neighbour for miles around that we will be able to speak to either – and God knows who will get bitten.’ It was an inglorious picture to say the least.

  Paula gave a trifling laugh. ‘Judging by the people around here, that would be no loss.’ She had never quite got over the fact that anyone should think she was an inmate of a brothel and still felt vindictive about it.

  We stopped our discussion to watch with interest the heavily proportioned figure walking up the road towards us and gasped together at the almost unrecognizable sight of Magda. Her once long, thickly curling hair shorn in a crude boyish crop, she walked with the cowed attitude of a sick animal and had a drawn look to her sallow face. The short hair, with thick black brows meeting over deep-set eyes, gave her face an unhealthy masculine look.

  ‘Roger wondered where you were,’ I called out, hoping this would please her, feeling a surge of pity and momentarily puzzled by this strange girl, not sure if I should remark, even kindly, on the new hairdo.

  ‘Did he?’ she answered apathetically, and without another word passed us and went indoors.

  ‘What a ghastly hairstyle,’ Paula was offended. ‘Makes her look as though she is changing her sex.’

  I agreed with Paula. ‘I think she must be suffering over something, perhaps she is getting ready to go into a convent.’

  ‘Aren’t we all suffering,’ Paula stated callously, ‘and whether she is suffering or not, I do wish she would shave under her armpits. It’s quite nauseating. It reminds me of the French, and with so many things on the market it’s quite
unnecessary,’ our expert on cosmetics ended. Paula and unshaved armpits were natural enemies.

  ‘I like it,’ a voice said behind us. ‘It’s like me Ma’s.’

  Nelson ducked to miss the flat of my hand. ‘Caught you!’ he vibrated with mirth, pleased at this little contretemps.

  ‘For a boy of your age you spend far too much time not minding your own business.’ Paula scowled at him in exasperation.

  ‘I answered your telephone,’ he said with importance, unaffected by reproaches. ‘There’s one of them little ’orrors on the golf links. I was just going down to look for ’im.’ He had a piece of paper in his hand, which he pushed carefully on to a nail that was already sticking out of the gate: it had caused a major tear in Mr Budden’s best jacket the night before and had not exactly endeared Nelson in the eyes of that gentleman. Nelson and Mr Budden were also natural enemies.

  ‘Nelson, don’t desecrate the gate again,’ I ordered sternly.

  ‘What’s desecrate?’ he asked. ‘Sounds like something to eat.’

  ‘Destroy – a word you evidently don’t know the meaning of,’ Paula explained, while I examined the crude notice, stating that we were now having a closing-down sale of ‘Spechully bread mice’.

  ‘At least it’s a step in the right direction,’ I said, reading it out to Paula.

  Two small flying figures and a dog raced from the back garden to the gate, with Mr Budden in pursuit. Scattering us, and gathering up Nelson with hectic shouts as they passed, they disappeared towards the park. Mr Budden, breathing in long heavy gulps, stopped at the corner of the house, realizing he wasn’t exactly dressed for a long chase – washed-out knee-length shorts and an ancient string vest. I noticed how hairy his legs were, and how bandy.

  ‘I’ll wring their so-and-so necks!’ he swore furiously.