Whatever Happened to Margo?

by Margaret Durrell

  ‘What a lucky thing our picnic with my aunts wasn’t arranged until this afternoon,’ I murmured under my breath to Paula, having told her of the events she had missed on the previous day. I was convinced that if Mr Budden ever did give in his notice, he would never get another lodging with his crude habits and noisy child – which already showed signs of reaching Nelson’s proportions. It was enough to kill the kind urge of any landlady.

  ‘Do you mind,’ Paula rebuked. ‘Not on a Sunday please.’ She had a flow of language which, when sorely tried, would equal Mr Budden’s any day of the week, but for a moment that point was forgotten.

  The telephone ringing again sent me in to answer it, leaving Paula to soothe the ruffled man and escort him away from the front garden, where his presence, I felt, would only give cause for further gossip, with the suggestion that she should tackle him about his habits: not recommended in a mixed household. Mrs Budden manoeuvred her pram out of the door and on to the lawn, where she could watch it from her window. The jelly baby slept.

  ‘I told ’im to put some clothes on,’ she explained to me apologetically as I passed, ‘but he will try and get his body in the sun. He’ll end up with pneumonia.’

  I agreed, and we both laughed. Mrs Budden was busy now making arrangements for the christening of her child. Alfred was the chosen name. Mrs Williams, dressed as if she was about to attend church, smiling a little wanly, hurried out too.

  ‘Going to church?’ I enquired.

  ‘No dear, I’ve got a job to do.’

  We didn’t mention Nelson’s previous misdemeanour. It was forgotten in the light of a new day.

  The telephone revealed that yet another monkey had been spotted by a neighbour; it was in the woods behind the house. Should I go out and look for it, or wait for Nelson and send him? Wandering out, I noticed Paula and Mr Budden, having buried their rancour, were discussing amicably the advantages and complained that the Corporation were not good payers, and that he preferred to work for a private firm. They moved away to the back garden; their friendly tones killed any hopes I had had that Paula would tackle him about his offences. Especially the one about relieving himself behind the dustbins.

  I saw with half interest, leaving the vicinity of my titled neighbour’s front garden and walking towards me, a cadaverous beanpole of a man in a black trilby, with the gloomy look of someone who was about to attend a funeral. For a moment I thought it must be Lord Booth masquerading in foreign clothes to involve himself in battle. Then I saw it was a stranger. Fixing me with the narrow calculating brown briefcase, he took out a pamphlet and thrust it firmly before me.

  ‘Do you want to be saved, and led through the paths of righteousness?’ It was a direct and dogmatic accusation, and startled me. Jehovah, I realized, intended to add his weight to my other burdens. I had always thought I had rather an innocent face, and was crestfallen at the bold, presumptuous and perhaps true statement that I was going to seed. He noted the effects of his words with open satisfaction and followed up his advantage quickly.

  ‘Jehovah can give you peace, put you on the right road to blessed eternity, to the only true way,’ he told me. Before I had time to say I wasn’t aware that I was in so much need, he went thundering on to other convictions, pressing a wad of electioneering pamphlets into my hand for inspection. Wondering if he was any good at handling monkeys, I peered into a magazine with an embarrassed show of feigned interest, not wishing to hurt.

  ‘I’m a Catholic,’ I piped up at last with utter conviction, grasping for a straw. The man drew back as if I had produced Edward’s collection of doubtful postcards.

  ‘Then you are in trouble,’ he moaned. ‘All the strife in the world today is caused by Catholics.’

  I thought this a most unfair assumption. I had been led to understand that politics were the cause of all the trouble in the land – and according to our staunch Labour supporter, Mr Budden, it was the entire Conservative Party. He and my aunt would also have got on well together, I thought, wondering if it was a suitable idea to send him over to her hotel.

  ‘She’s deaf,’ I said hurriedly, seeing my disciple’s eyes wandering to the floral apparition of Mrs Budden busy rocking her pram, frightened that the booming voice would disturb the slumbers of her child. I looked about for rescue. Then Edward waltzed out of the house with his daily bundle of rubbish bound for the dustbin. A gaudy peacock showing off to catch his mates, his beard freshly combed spread in a fan of burning colour, he danced a couple of steps to an unintelligible tune, and looked remarkably unsaved, if not a little mad. I noticed him with joy.

  ‘Who is that?’ the enquiry was a shocked one.

  ‘He – needs help.’ I was gloriously malicious, determined to entangle Edward in the web and so escape myself. This would be a meeting which I felt sure would stem the flow of his convictions pretty rapidly. Edward, summing up the situation with a quick hostile glance, disappeared: it was obvious he had already experienced the wily ways of a Jehovah disciple.

  ‘He’s a Yogi, would you like to see him?’ I enquired, determinedly revengeful, now wild at the sight of Edward’s grinning face at an upstairs window and the rude gestures that accompanied it.

  The beanpole digested my piece of information suspiciously and did not appear overjoyed at the prospects of tackling Edward. Feeling my tactics had failed, I wondered what other excuse I could find without being offensive to end this pilgrimage to save my soul. I stood a defiant and unpenitent sinner, refusing stubbornly the road to salvation offered me. Then, insidiously, as if the devil intended to play his part reaping a picture of wicked comparisons, we fell from the lofty pinnacles of salvation and commercialism took over.

  ‘You can have this book for a subscription of only seven shillings and sixpence a year,’ the man ended, compromisingly eager and pathetically watching me with anxiety. Was another straying lamb to escape?

  I went quickly to fetch the money; it was a cheap price to pay for freedom and the saving of one’s soul. I paid the money and collected my first instalment of literature. But the devil, still playing persistently beside me, forced me to point over the fence to Mrs Briggs’ house. ‘That fellow’s no good,’ I remarked, reprieving Edward with this more mischievous idea in mind. ‘Half his day is spent on his head, or sitting on nails, and nothing will budge him. And you would be wasting your time,’ I added as an afterthought, ‘he hasn’t any spare money anyway.’

  Thanking me courteously, the fire reviving in his eyes again, he made for Mrs Briggs’ back gate, reorganizing his pamphlets hastily. This was a moment I could not miss. I crept down behind the fence, filled with curiosity. What would he do for Mrs Briggs, and what would she do for him? I heard the knock, the opening of the door, and the news assuring Mrs Briggs that Jehovah embraced all religions including hers. There was a moment of frightening suspense, then up rose the familiar voice: ‘No circulars or hawkers today, thank you. Au reevor.’ The door slammed. There was a painful pause which even I felt, then the dragging tread of Jehovah’s defeat down the path across the road to Miss Brady’s door. I chuckled. Mrs Briggs had got off lightly – I was a year’s subscription out of pocket, I thought, a little ashamed of myself, for after all it took courage to stand alone and breathe aloud words of conviction to possible ridicule.

  I forgot the incident quickly in my other worries, the most important of which I concluded, was the gathering up of animal life and strategic moves to keep my aunts at bay. This conclusion sent me scurrying to the kitchen to cut bread, wash tomatoes and lettuce, ready for a quick getaway on their arrival in the afternoon. I stopped a moment later with an armful of suspended lettuce: there was a noise that I had not heard before, a long drawn-out ‘eeeeee!’ and a frantic squawking of chickens. Thinking that my life was governed by a series of sounds which left me treading gingerly between each one, my stamina considerably weakened, I waited to see what would follow.

  ‘Mister, quick, bring your gun!’ came the formidable command. It was Mrs Briggs, of cour
se; a Mrs Briggs who obviously intended to carry out her day in violent action. Probably the fox was at her chickens again and I prayed that she had not yet discovered the temporary absence of the inmates of my summerhouse. Nevertheless, apprehensively curious as to why she would want a lethal weapon, I dropped the lettuce and flew upstairs to the men’s room, which gave the best aerial view into Mrs Briggs’ back garden. Roger and Magda were having a little light entertainment of reconciliation – light, I felt, after the attitude of eternal faithless indifference to the opposite sex which seemed to be part of Roger’s character, and which no woman would survive in for very long. Excusing myself unfeelingly, I explained the situation and my curiosity as to what went on next door as I made for the window.

  ‘This is the fourth interruption to my sleep I have had this morning,’ Roger sulked to my indifferent back. ‘Is there no privacy in this bloody house? Either it’s that production of Mr Budden’s manhood bawling, or Mrs Briggs’ cockerel, or the dog barking, and now these demented chickens. Earlier this morning it seemed as though we were camped in the middle of a zoological park.’

  ‘You must give and take,’ I retorted, my eyes anxiously on the happenings next door. ‘You might be surprised to know that Mrs Budden has complained about your scales on the trumpet.’ Loyally I didn’t tell him that Andy’s scales had also called for a comment or two. ‘She says she can stand the sound of your music, because she realizes she has to, but those scales drive her up the wall and her migraine attacks are increasing. She is going to call in her MP.’

  ‘I’m surprised she knows what scales are, illiterate as she is,’ Roger scoffed, hauling down the flags of communism.

  ‘My God!’ I said, at the sight of Mr Briggs armed with a gun, marching with an air of national pride as if war had been declared, straight for the chicken run at the bottom of the garden. Their garden was a secluded mixture of shrubs, trees and greenhouses, and it was not easy at first glance to distinguish points of disturbance. Then I caught sight of the figure I was looking for: Mrs Briggs, armed with a long broom, standing in a threatening posture before the open door of the chicken house. Inside, on a hen roost, sucking eggs with blissful unconcern, was a monkey. Below him hens fled in agitation. A defeated cockerel sat stunned to silence.

  ‘Put it down!’ she yelled, mustering up some courage and threatening furiously with the broom. Then came the strange ‘eeeee!’ again. Mister was now running.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ I yelled indignantly. All that fuss as though it was a homicidal maniac, I grumbled, turning from my perch in concern, frightened that I would not be in time to save the monkey’s life.

  Roger was useless at a time like this. ‘Ask her if she’s got a bloody gun licence,’ he remarked.

  ‘Don’t strain yourself to help,’ I retorted icily to the inert body. ‘One needs a man at a time like this. Where’s Andy?’ Rushing out I noticed vaguely my rubbish dump – just – painted in colours that I had never seen in the garden before.

  ‘Try the girls’ room,’ Roger’s voice called after me ambiguously, with a muffled laugh.

  Roger’s insinuation filled me with immediate jealousy. How dare Andy cavort like a tomcat with my female lodgers. I stood in the hall and screamed his name. Doors opened on all sides: the object of my screaming appeared from the front room and was immediately by my side. My rage melted at the sight of him, reassured by his quick answer to my call.

  ‘One of the monkeys is over at Mrs Briggs’ and about to get shot – can you rescue it for me?’

  He followed me without a murmur of protest. We met an excited Edward – the news was spreading quickly about the house – and we ran, all three of us, to the back garden. Andy cleared the fence easily, falling at Mr Briggs’ feet. Edward, not able to do the same, jerked me up to a viewing position with the frailest pair of arms I’d ever experienced. I was just in time to see Mr Briggs levelling the gun uncertainly, the dramatic effect spoilt by a collarless shirt, shoeless feet, braces and longjohns before Edward’s arms collapsed and we landed in a heap. Olwen, with Paula beside her, was derisively urging her spouse to greater efforts. Mrs Budden, fussing over the welfare of all concerned, was asking if her baby should be taken to safety, to the twitterings of Mr Budden quoting from the Bible that Sunday should be a day of rest. We unravelled ourselves and could only picture the scene of dissension now deprived us. The gun went off.

  ‘You missed!’ came the disparaging comment of Mrs Briggs, the renewed noise of chickens in frantic terror, the deafening squeals of a now very frightened monkey and Andy booming out unrepeatable curses.

  ‘Has someone been shot?’ I asked Edward aghast, all ready for mourning the loss of Andy.

  Andy’s head and shoulders appeared above the fence; after a slight struggle he dropped beside us, pain and fury making his face haggard. His hand was bleeding profusely.

  ‘Are you bitten?’ I asked the obvious with deep feeling, my spirits chilling at the sight of his ashen face.

  ‘My dear old soul,’ Edward commiserated readily, ‘thank God it wasn’t me.’ Olwen, sickening at the sight of blood, fled.

  ‘Ay.’ He turned to me bitterly. ‘Where do you want this monkey?’

  ‘Where’s Jane?’ Paula enquired hastily, and she too sickened and fled.

  ‘Back to the garage,’ I answered the hero with a shamed face. This round would go to the nurses I had to admit, following the furious man.

  Across the wall, from an upstairs window, the Booths watched the pageant stealthily from behind lace curtains, while a torrent of abuse from the Briggses was a direct stab in the back. Jane, drawn by the noise, and being told by Olwen that there was blood shed, rushed out, jubilant at the sight of a bleeding victim, and enveloped Andy in sympathetic arms. She led him away, without a glance in my direction; a willing victim to the healing porticos of her first-aid chest. This was a final blow. I had lost him, I told myself in anguish, to that sexless creature who had proved herself more efficient than I in a crisis. I was destined to be an old maid, a sour-faced landlady, aging quickly and not at all gracefully, without even a fortune to pacify me. I would be a second Mrs Williams, worn before my time and, shedding a few tears on the comforting, garlic-ridden but silky shoulder of Edward, I went back to make my picnic arrangements, throwing the things into the basket. Who cared what we ate?

  More noise: the children had returned. Nelson had caught another monkey. He carried it proudly, unbitten and unafraid. He’d climbed the tallest tree in the park: he would, I thought, watching him put the animal back in the garage.

  Ten to two found the children and me, outwardly calm, sitting at the gate and watching for the party that was to be our endurance test. The boys, finding that Nelson was not invited, were reluctant to come.

  ‘Nelson must spend a day with his mother,’ I insisted firmly. ‘We mustn’t be selfish you know, Nelson must be shared.’

  ‘Nelson says …’

  ‘I don’t want to know what Nelson says,’ I answered tartly, my nerves frayed. ‘The fact remains that we have got to go out with our dear aunts, and what’s more you have to behave yourselves …’

  The sight of the car with my Aunt Patience at the wheel stopped any further argumentative conversation.

  The picnic, I felt, had not been a success. The boys had produced with pride a pair of adders, spliced in a lovers’ knot, and it was a sorry party that returned home. My thoughts sped homeward before me. Was the object of my dreams languishing with rabies in the skinny arms of Jane, in her prize negligee with the come-hither rose? Who else had been bitten, perhaps fatally? Had Paula made any subtle progress with the police? And what was Nelson up to? These were my thoughts, the demented wanderings of a hard-pressed landlady, as I watched the sun set like a giant marshmallow swiftly into lonely blackness.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  My relations returned home, persuaded that my house was being run on conventional lines, but unfortunately convinced that my children were heading straight for a reformatory.
They both recommended Eton or an ecclesiastical school as an antidote for their high spirits.

  Andy passed me now with a still face – a deformity of pink lint and bandages carried with painful care, an uncomfortable reminder of yesterday. Nelson, too, nursed a small scratch, which he insisted was a monkey bite. I prayed that Gordon’s farewell party, destined for the morrow, would soften the blows and mellow us all back to fireside friendship. Even our nursing talents had made a great endeavour to be present, managing to switch their night duty after a tussle with Matron, and were excited at the prospect of a free evening’s gay debauchery – as they put it.

  The escaping monkeys, like the holiday-makers, were exploring the delights of the town; and the local paper started a daily column following their routes and escapades, which brought me no consolation. They could afford to – after all it wasn’t they who would have to pay the damages of possible disaster.

  I sent a brief telegram to Gerald telling him to return and collect his specimens, ending it with the word ‘vital’. He arrived almost immediately, with the harrassed look of a father on holiday with a large and unruly family, all under five. I met him with a face that looked as though I had just received fatal news from the doctor.

  Gerald, cursing my incompetence, stated that my terrible habit of trying to brighten the lives of both animals and humans usually ended unhappily for all concerned and set off at once to remedy the matter, to bring home whichever offenders had been caught and to pacify those irate citizens whose lives had been disrupted.

  The prodigals returned, one by one, in slow procession. They greeted their foster father with recognizable cries of welcome and touching shows of affection. Touching, that was, to those of us who had not suffered either the galling indignities of chasing a monkey, which is always just out of reach, or its bites! Now the monkeys were once more safe, Gerald treated lightly the incidents ensuing from the escape.

  ‘The bonds of true love,’ he told me, in the pose of an analytical doctor, ‘are strengthened, not severed, by a few disasters.’