Whatever Happened to Margo?

by Margaret Durrell

  ‘Not monkey bites,’ I insisted, proving my facts with a dismal tale of a lost love.

  ‘And,’ he went on, ‘the remedy for lodgers of Mr Budden’s calibre’ – a man who had the audacity to claim compensation for a bottle of aspirin to soothe his wife’s frayed nerves – ‘is simple – a week’s notice would soon cut his capers down to size.’

  The suggestion that I should give anyone notice brought fresh indignant protests from me and a summing up of Mr Budden’s virtues into a picture which even I did not recognize. This provoked Gerry to suggest the Salvation Army as a suitable channel into which to direct my activities, although he thought the bonnet would hardly suit my type of beauty. Anyway, he told me, he had decided to leave after Gordon’s party to take the monkeys to safer quarters. ‘But don’t worry,’ he added, seeing the delight with which I received this news, ‘I’ve decided to come back again promptly because I feel most strongly some sort of sensible support is needed round here. The house is a blatant pool of idiosyncrasies which obviously need attention – even the dog looks as though he needs a term at the psychiatrist’s,’ he ended, with a patronizing smile.

  Nelson, sucking noisily at his finger, concentrated on our conversation with a puckered brow. He was hoping desperately that someone would notice his suffering, and would not only commiserate with him but compensate him, for he had witnessed with interest a money transaction for a lampshade damaged by a mischievous monkey finger and could not get over it. The prospects of a quick financial gain were illuminating and innumerable, and he renewed his energies to draw attention to his suffering.

  We were standing in the hall, a normal place for discussion as it allowed the free passage of everybody’s comments, when the revealing study of Mrs Budden opening her door, out of gas and hunting for a shilling, her son sucking noisily on a large, pink nipple, drew the attention decidedly away from Nelson’s finger. He glared at her threateningly, unperturbed by a sight which he had witnessed before and which had already exhausted all his comments. Her head, wrapped in a scarf over crumpled bumps, showed that she was preparing to be a beautiful lady – a state of affairs invariably brought on after a chat with Paula. Once she had fallen into temptation it usually took the whole day to accomplish, with some success.

  ‘What a charming baby!’ Gerald smiled up at the woman, recognizing her from the apt description I had already given him of the female species in the house. ‘I feel as though I am back in Africa!’ he remarked in an undertone, but not quietly enough.

  ‘I’m sure you must do, with all this lovely weather,’ Mrs Budden was enthusiastic, fortunately completely missing the point of his remark. Her broad face beamed in gratitude at the praise of her baby. ‘Isn’t he?’ she bloomed with motherly pride, taking the conversation back to the most important thing in her life. ‘Exact image of his dad, too. Good as gold – like a lamb, he is!’

  Her sincerity, I felt, excused the outrageous falsehood, while the lamb squinted at us from pale eyes, not leaving his ample source of supply.

  ‘Look, look. Blood!’ Nelson said, squeezing frantically to no advantage.

  ‘Excuse me looks, dear.’ She patted her head remembering her curlers, now acutely conscious of her state of dishabille in the presence of strange, and very attractive male company. ‘Perming me hair up.’ She explained her headgear, suddenly a little embarrassed, colouring under the keen, confident gaze before her. ‘Must get ready for the party tomorrow, if Hubby says we can come. He’s tottering on the brink, like. First it’s “yes”, and then it’s “no”. Proper difficult he’s getting.’

  ‘You’ll look beautiful, I’m sure.’ Gerald had a way with women. ‘See you at the party, then. First dance is mine! That’s a promise.’

  ‘Delighted, I’m sure,’ she glowed confusedly and, looking suddenly quite young and quite gay, she hoisted the bundle of pink flesh and soggy, sagging nappy over her shoulder and, forgetting the reason for her appearance in the first place, she traipsed gaily back into her room, murmuring about preparing her dress and a clean shirt, and other trivialities.

  ‘Well you’ve got her on your side!’ I remarked, a little sarcastically, when the door was closed, thinking it was surprising what a compliment from another man could do, lifting the drabbest of married women almost to prettiness. ‘And that’s more than I can say for her husband,’ I couldn’t help adding. Gerald and Mr Budden were enemies of circumstance.

  ‘Rotten woman, butting in.’ Nelson watched the shapeless body of Mrs Budden depart, bitterly. ‘Lost me compensation, that’s wot. Me finger’s stopped bleedin’ now. Shan’t come to the party, if she’s going to be there,’ he said disagreeably. For the moment, Mrs Budden had replaced Mr Budden, and moved into the front rank of opposition.

  ‘You are not invited,’ I said unkindly. ‘Grown-ups only.’

  Nelson’s spirits deflated immediately, but only for a moment for he was very resourceful.

  ‘Well, I won’t be missing much, I don’t suppose. It won’t be as good as the parties me Pa gave with them waiters, an’ gold plate, an’ red lights. Reel posh dos!’ He ended with a patronizing ‘you’ll never beat that’ attitude and a final ‘I know when I’m not wanted – and anyway I like ’em wild beasts better than ’uman beings.’ He moved off with proud suffering to the garage.

  Gerald laughed. ‘Well, I suppose a little compensation won’t do “any bleedin’ ’arm”,’ and putting his hand in his pocket, he rattled his change and followed the offended party.

  It was to celebrate Gordon’s departure that we finally gathered, the entire household united in a glow of tolerant good humour. Our little differences were forgotten in the general stimulating bustle of arrangements. The stacking of drinks and food, searching melody, the yellow candescent glimmer of lighted candles and finally, guests arriving all produced a softening mood of sentimentality. The gangling blasphemous bricklayer melted to the homely proportions of a second Mr Beetle, while Nelson was a child of infinite goodness. Only Andy and I were still remote, proving the sheer unreliability of Gerald’s statements.

  Nelson, in spite of his feigned disregard, had followed the day’s arrangements with his usual concentration. He would not accept, like my children, that this was a grown-up world of celebration that not even he could transgress. He had come to terms with the situation at length, settling ungraciously for an early sip of beer and a generous supply of edibles and bottles of pop and he now sat stubbornly, with watchful eyes, on the candlelit stairs; a silent, wistful figure determined, if possible, not to miss a single thing.

  From a darkened corner of oblivion, with half-closed eyes, I felt, with a curious tightness of my spirits, the dancers carving silhouettes of changing shadow. The silent, dejected figure of dominating stature, Andy, sitting also a little apart, shifted my thoughts to uneasy wanderings, broken by the passing figures of familiar patterns; a cheerful Gordon in his best suit and really looking like the progeny of a lineage, swamped a glamorous Blanche with his attentions, twining himself about her and blocking the view of crystal blondness from every other man in the room.

  But I was not to be left alone for long. Demanding hands hauled me up and I was whisked away by an intoxicated Edward on a journey of delightful twistings and garlic murmurings, which told me that I was undoubtedly the most experienced and luscious woman in the room. His dancing was like his paintings, a soft blending of one to the other, over which presided his special smells. A transient thought made me wonder if this gentle, almost womanly trait made him inadequate as a lover. The perception turned my mind to Roger, and I glanced to see what he was doing. He had started drinking early in the day and I imagined his movements would now be a hectic and unintentional drunken performance where his whole soul would be laid bare before us in an embarrassing way. But I was wrong, for Roger was enjoying himself quietly and comfortably sprawled on the low divan, the candlelight accentuating his darkness to blackness, and with all the confidence of a highly-prized Mongolian prince, he openly flaunted his
desires to the visitors, wilting bits of femininity at his feet. Magda, rejected, watched from across the room with hatred. She had said she wouldn’t come, teetering with indecision like Mr Budden, but unable to keep away, she had turned up at the last minute. My sympathy as usual went to her and I looked to see if Andy was still alone. Were all these men playing the same game? I asked myself, losing my confidence for a second, for up to now I had thought I looked pretty good in a new dress of black lace, and Jane’s borrowed pink rose added a cunning splash of colour at my waist. Mrs Briggs’ passing comment earlier, about somebody unnamed (Mr Beetle, I suspected), that ‘love would find a way’, comforted me at this moment not at all.

  I saw with relief that Andy was alone, drinking in slow deliberation – perhaps his hand was throbbing, and unexpectedly I found myself hoping it was. My unfeeling thought recalled a remark I had overheard on a bus, by a woman whose husband was intent on adultery that ‘she wished him dead, or something!’ It was the ‘something’ that had left me puzzled, but I now understood quite clearly: a remedy that would render him dependently immobile – to me death would be too final.

  I speculated, as we collided with Gerald, who was making the best of the situation with Paula: a tube of twisting molten gold, shimmying towards her partner. They were a pair in gay abandon. We twisted and lost them, and Olwen was before me. She was looking up into the eyes of a suave and balding stranger, originally brought on to the scene by Judy, now otherwise occupied with another stranger of equally dubious character. Judy seemed inexplicably to go for middle-aged roués, I thought curiously, and they were always married. I heard the voice of Olwen saying ‘but darling’ to an equally affected endearment.

  The music stopped. I dropped out of Edward’s arms into the privacy of a dark corner, and saw him march determinedly towards his wife in the mêlée: a figure draped in muted brown with a large and battered posy of lace flowers pinned insecurely across her bosom. The usually straggly hair was ordered back to a crisp bun by a tortoiseshell clip. The untinted powder, shading the tired face, made her look like an invalid, who, with unconquered spirit, had gallantly risen up from her deathbed to join us. She was immediately swallowed by a greedy Roger who added her to the collection about him, pressing his own glass of liquid into her hand with sudden touching concern while he rose to play a few faulty notes on his trumpet and collapsed again, back to the comforting closeness of feminine debris.

  ‘Thank you ever so,’ I heard her say modestly, with a delighted giggle.

  I was glad Roger had thought to draw her into his circle, for the compliment had obviously pleased her and she deserved a lifting break. It was the first time I had heard her giggle. This was going to be some party, I decided, unashamedly eavesdropping. Roger was now spinning a tale of fabulous colour which I knew to be true: a memory of his service abroad. A Malayan girl with the gentle proportions of a small bird, incomparable attentions, hot nights, the air dizzy with the scent of blossom. I felt he must be quite tipsy, for this was hardly the news his present company wanted to hear. The two clinging blondes were already exchanging comradely glances mixed with revenge, while the faithful and unsophisticated, shining-eyed Mrs Williams cooed loyally: ‘Now isn’t that nice, Mr Roger, it must have been quite an experience.’

  But I was not allowed to enjoy the reminiscences of a roving Romeo indefinitely, for Barry, sneaking up unobserved, was muttering to me with his face marked by unreasonable, frustrated jealousy at the sight of his capering wife. ‘Look at that,’ he fumed. ‘Can you beat it? Rolling in that sexy way – a trollope, that’s what she is.’

  ‘Nonsense, Barry. Let her have fun,’ I argued, amused at this typically unfair attitude that men reserve for women. ‘Don’t you ever take an interest in other women?’ I went on, knowing all too well that he did and feeling that drink was making him unreasonable.

  ‘Of course, but that’s different.’ He stubbed his cigarette out viciously, as if obliterating Paula. ‘It’s the principle of the thing,’ he muttered miserably. ‘I’ve half a mind to go and punch the fellow on the nose.’

  ‘Which one?’ I said, wondering if Gerald was going to involve himself in a rumpus.

  ‘That bald-headed coot, did you see he touched her bottom as he passed. Flaunting herself, that’s what she was doing, the tart!’

  He rose and sat down again heavily, finishing his drink in a long desperate gulp. It was the wrong moment to appeal to me for sympathy, for I enjoyed the shadowy play of people, the little drama within drama which somehow the gaiety seemed to accentuate. Anyway, I had my own problems. Should I steal over, the olive branch firmly out, and place myself beside Andy provocatively before someone else did?

  Upstairs there was an accompaniment of syncopated rhythm, and anxious Nelson awaiting his mother’s return. He had just enjoyed, with hilarious chortles, the vision of an intoxicated Jane, without spectacles, posturing on a thimbleful of gin, not quite sure which male she intended to swim for – Andy was now regarded as a ‘medical case’ and not a male, I was glad to say. Deciding on her old flame Edward, enticed out by the false creakings of what she thought was his door and feeling that this was the moment to surpass all others (even my brother’s innocent attention), she cried out in an unsteady voice: ‘Take me! I am yours!’ and flung herself at the dim figure before her.

  But Jane had the wrong Romeo – an ungraciously aging roué who had persistently chased Blanche and was the cause of many dissensions in Gordon’s world of romance. Jane’s squeals sent Edward gallantly to the rescue, thinking it was me, while a profusely apologetic debauchee slunk away to hide.

  Mr Budden, an advertisement for carbolic soap and starch, was swilling beer contentedly at our improvised bar and keeping a firm hold on his missus, unrecognizably silent and refusing to dance, examining with bulging eyes what I am sure he felt were a Conservative rabble. A curly-haired Mrs Budden in a ruched dress of blue flowers, her head a little to one side, listened for the whimpering call of her baby, as her eyes followed the passing dancers with envy, resenting the hand that forced her to sit and had not allowed her the first dance with Gerald.

  Now Blanche, spinning a silver web in a solo, made every man think of bed, and Roger, rising heavily, disappeared unobtrusively with both his blondes in the direction of the garden, leaving Mrs Williams to lend Barry a sympathetic ear, for I was too absorbed in my own moods to render aid.

  Gerald and Paula followed the solo with a skit on bull-fighting, to the candles falling apart and dawn like a torch dimmed the occasion to a closing note. The sound dwindling to a breathless softness awoke me to the movement of Andy creeping off upstairs: the brush of a yielding hand rushed me into a panic of indecision, and I sat, my head bowed, inattentive to the murmurings about me. I was being drawn; drawn upstairs, powerless to resist the urge, for the same reasons a lot of others had attended the party. I rose: a landlady has a perfect right to see how an ailing lodger is, even at this hour. I excused myself untruthfully, as I felt my way across an array of inert bodies and fumbled for the stairs.

  ‘Ah me, love will find a way,’ came a flippant comment from the top step of the unlighted staircase. Was I never to have a moment’s freedom from inquisitive humanity, I asked myself exasperated.

  ‘Mind your own business, Nelson, and go to bed,’ I retorted icily. ‘It’s a landlady’s job to see how all her tenants are, especially if they are not well, so your cheeky insinuations are quite unnecessary.’

  There was a loud disagreement as I brushed past to the small door standing alone. I knocked gently, and entered.

  A solitary candle burning had brought peace to the little room.

  ‘I was hoping you would come.’

  The words were simple, spoken with infinite tenderness, and we were together at last, comfortingly together, bridging all the frustrating gaps in the soft tender swellings of mutual passion. I kissed the ill-fated hand with murmurs of regret, touched the sleeve neatly folded back to a straight line by the trim fingers of Jane, witho
ut jealousy, suspended for a fleeting moment on a precipice of impelling emotion, and then we were painfully drowning – painfully and tenderly.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It had been a good party, I felt, a suitable farewell to our departing comrade. True, the curtains had caught fire as a candle toppled and fell, but it was soon extinguished by a resourceful guest. Of course Mrs Briggs had called the police – a fact that Roger had omitted to tell me at the time. He told me he had met them whilst walking his blondes out for fresh air, and trying to decide which one he would eventually palm off on to someone else (Barry looked the most suitable candidate). With a few well-chosen words Roger had sent the law about their business. Lady Booth stuck abusive notices on those cars that had dared to use her frontage as a car park, while Miss Brady, sitting up in a darkened window, watched the flickering candlelight with suspicion and applauded the action of Mrs Briggs in calling the police. Nelson, a crashing bright light at 6 a.m., stating he was financially embarrassed, was collecting empty bottles. More than one person threatened to murder him, as the bonds of tolerant friendship which had flourished so gaily the night before, were severed one by one. It would always be like this for me, I supposed. Hail and farewell, and the void would be filled by yet another stranger; now all that was left of Gordon’s reign was a dark circle of dried oil in the drive and a row of empty medicine bottles awaiting disposal. Gerald had left too, submerged by jungle noises and in exceptionally good spirits. He would be back – there was no doubt about that!

  The same morning the Jehovah’s disciple conscientiously called again to enquire how I was getting on with his book and to see if there were any questions I wanted to ask. As I had not given the book another thought I was overcome with panic, passed a few comments which I hoped would fit and managed to offload him on to Barry in one of his intellectual moods – the man left carrying two tranquillizers for a raging headache.