by Tracy Ryan
‘Still.’ Mrs Stone stepped over, peering in through the dark stove door. ‘What on earth are you burning? Is it letters?’
Pen ignored the question, sullen. ‘I didn’t hear you knock.’
‘No, I thought you didn’t, so I came in. It’s very dark in here. Gives the place an awful mood, Penelope.’
Pen shrugged. ‘Just your tinted glasses, from being outside. They’ll come good in a few minutes. Did you want a cup of tea or something?’
Mrs Stone’s lips drew tight. ‘You mean, what am I doing here?’
‘No, I meant do you want a cup of tea.’ Pen went gingerly down the steps into the kitchen and filled the kettle, mechanically. Anything to keep occupied.
‘Didn’t Derrick mention I was dropping by? I’ve got a boxload of baby gear from Eleanor’s daughter – they thought you might like to look through it.’
Derrick had mentioned it, but he hadn’t said when.
‘Thanks.’ Pen peeked inside the box: it was full of woollens and growsuits in pastel colours, some of them faintly stained. ‘I don’t know where I’ll put all this stuff, though. It’s a bit soon. Months away.’
‘It’ll pass soon enough. And besides, I wanted to sort out what we’re doing for Christmas. Martins are giving me a free ham and it’s no good all on my own.’
‘Derrick doesn’t eat ham,’ Pen reminded her.
Mrs Stone frowned. ‘No, but you could. Can’t do that vegetarian thing with a baby on the way, you know.’
You can, actually, Pen wanted to say, but there was no point, since she wasn’t vegetarian anyway, and with her mother she had to pick her battles.
She brought the teapot to the table and sat down wearily.
Mrs Stone sniffed. ‘Have you only Earl Grey?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
Mrs Stone nodded and held out her cup.
‘I’m not one for mixing my flavours. Bergamot is one thing – but all these new coffees, for instance. I went to lunch with Eleanor last week and it was all vanilla coffee, hazelnut, you name it. Whatever happened to plain old coffee?’
Pen said nothing: this was a familiar recital. She laid out a plate of digestive biscuits – Mrs Stone wouldn’t eat fancy ones – and they talked over the plan for Christmas Day, which would, of course, be the same as it always was.
‘Oh, by the way,’ her mother said, ‘I had an odd phone call, someone looking for you. Might have been an old schoolfriend or someone who knew you before you were married – said she was trying all the Stones in the phone book. That’d be a mammoth task, I imagine.’
‘Who was that? What did you tell her?’
‘I don’t remember the name but it didn’t ring a bell. In any case, Penelope, I never give out information. Not these days, with all this identity theft going on.’
Pen tried to speak, but her mother waved her aside and went on.
‘You know I read that overseas, insurance companies are going to charge higher premiums for people who use that Facebook. It’ll happen here too. I hope you’ve got more sense. I know you’re always on that internet.’
‘Not always, Mum. And I don’t use Facebook. Who would I use it for?’
‘For whom.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Oh, don’t – you’re sounding so American.’ American, for Pen’s mother, was faintly pejorative. Not for broader political reasons, but because it smacked of commercial television and slang.
‘That aside,’ Pen said. ‘You didn’t give out any details.’
‘No, that’s what I said. I have to protect my own privacy too, you know.’
‘Why odd, then? You said it was odd.’
Mrs Stone drank the last of her tea and topped it up herself. ‘A bit pestering. I don’t know. Just a feeling. Don’t make mountains out of molehills. I almost forgot about it, anyway. It was days ago.’
So, before the letter. Which would suggest she’d had no joy from the phone calls. Assuming it was Kathleen trying to find her. Pen allowed herself a sigh of relief, then smiled. For once, her mother’s uptight view of the world had worked for her instead of against her.
‘What are you smiling at?’ Mrs Stone said, as if smiling too were odd.
‘I wasn’t aware I was smiling. I’m just tired. Been to the doctor’s today.’ Pen hoped her mother would take the hint, but she showed no sign of moving.
Instead her mother said, ‘I wonder if Derrick would mind running me home when he gets in. Marjorie dropped me off going to the city but I don’t like to ask her both ways.’
Pen looked at the clock. ‘Of course, Mum.’
That’s how it had been with Mrs Stone, ever since Pen’s father had left. A network of friends, Marjorie, Eleanor, scores of others, all providing favours. Pen thought of Blanche Dubois – I have always depended on the kindness of strangers … But that was unfair to her mother, she knew.
‘In some ways I admire her for it,’ Derrick said that night, after taking her mother home. ‘It can’t be easy on your own, and there’d be quite an art to … weaving your way into a community, making sure people are aware of you, that you don’t get stranded. Everything’s so set up for couples, for families.’
Pen remembered only too well the shock her mother had got all those years ago, the way certain married friends had ceased inviting her over once the separation was known.
‘As if I had some sort of contagious disease,’ Mrs Stone had said. ‘As if they might catch something called Deserted Wife.’
That was the label in Mrs Stone’s day. Pen marvelled at how her mother always said ‘in my day’, as if the present were not also her day. Deserted wife, divorcee. Pronounced in a hush. Broken homes.
‘It’s not called that now,’ Pen had said to her mother. ‘Not even when you and Dad … Now we say single-parent family. It’s not so looked down on, it’s much more common.’
But that was euphemism, she knew, and didn’t change some people’s attitudes. Even now, decades after the Family Court Act, it wouldn’t be as simple as the legislation made it look.
If Pen herself left Derrick, for instance – pregnant – not that she’d seriously consider it – she would still be bound to him. Still subject to restrictions on where she could live, how she could raise the child.
Not for a moment could she contemplate, say, a future with Kathleen. Whatever her feelings might be. It just wasn’t feasible. It crossed her mind this might be cowardice, but she pushed that word away. She was going to be practical.
On the last day of term, Derrick brought home a postcard and slid it casually across the dining table to Pen. Printed in Paris, it showed a mass of cherries and blossom, and carried four lines of gilt script in French from Verlaine:
Here are fruit, flowers, leaves and branches too
Along with my heart which beats only for you
Do not tear it to pieces with your two white hands
Let this humble gift appear sweet to your lovely glance …
Pen turned it over. ‘Please ring me – K.’ And a number.
She flushed deeply, not knowing what to say.
‘That’s from ‘Green’,’ Derrick said. ‘It has an English title. I’ve taught that poem to my Year Twelves.’
He waited for Pen to speak, but she could not compose herself.
‘I don’t know why it came to the school,’ Derrick said. ‘Or why it’s addressed in your maiden name. Is there something I should know about?’
Pen flicked the card away. ‘I have no idea.’
‘The school!’ she thought. Kathleen must have tracked down her connection that far, even without her married name. She must have asked around. A cold shudder went through Pen, and she stiffened.
‘You must have some idea. Who’s this K?’
‘Not sure. Maybe – maybe someone who did that French poetry course with me. That would make sense, wouldn’t it, with a quote like that?’
Derrick gazed at her. ‘I rang the number,’ he said, and again waited for her to res
pond.
She must be cool now, or all was lost.
‘And?’
‘I got voicemail. Not even a name.’
Pen stood up, tore the card in two, and dropped it into the pedal bin. Then she went to the sink and washed her hands.
‘Must be some kind of joke,’ she said. ‘Please don’t bring home anything like that again, it creeps me out.’
‘You really don’t know who sent it?’
Pen shook her head. No turning back. The wherewithal to carry it through.
‘Then it’s a kind of stalking, Pen. We should report it.’
‘Probably a one-off, Derrick. I wouldn’t worry about it. At least they don’t know where I live, or it wouldn’t have gone to school.’ Pen sat down and put her feet up on the nearest chair. ‘We just don’t need any stress, you know?’
Derrick didn’t look convinced, but she could see he was making an effort. He leaned over her, put his arms around her shoulders and said, ‘Well, I’m glad term’s over, anyway. At least now we can focus on each other. Darling, I can feel your heart thumping through your rib cage! You really must take it easy.’
One hot afternoon soon after, when Derrick had driven in to the city about some book orders for next year, Pen worked up an irritating sweat walking to the local shop for milk and potatoes. Anything more than that would have meant a bus down to Gatelands, and she couldn’t face the Christmas crowds.
She trod carefully, fearful of rolling honky nuts, of dry looping twigs that sprang up underfoot. The gravel drive itself was an issue now. Pregnancy a matter of constant navigation, a spatial thing – manoeuvring safely, keeping to the right gradients. Imagine how much worse once she got heavy … She bent slightly at the knees as she turned up the slope towards the house, calf muscles twitching with fatigue.
A silver Corolla in the drive. arg 362.
Pen almost stopped breathing. Panic in her legs, her arms. The bag of potatoes suddenly too much: she let it drop, and the contents tumbled downhill. She could turn, now, and go – but where?
Kathleen was not in the car. She was sitting on the front doorstep. She looked tired, shabbier than normal, and yet collected.
‘Do you want a hand with those potatoes?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘You didn’t answer any of my messages. I wanted to see you.’
Pen flung around in desperation. Derrick could be home any time.
‘I don’t want you here. I want you to go.’
‘Pen, that’s not fair. We need to talk.’
‘I don’t want to talk.’
‘Please.’
‘It’s over, Kathleen.’ Pen was whispering now. Imagine if the neighbours heard. Trees shrouded the view, but voices carried in these hills.
‘Just let me come in.’
What could she say? If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police? And it would all go on the record. Better perhaps to deal with this inside, where no one would hear. Pen fumbled for the key and ushered Kathleen into the house.
15
Inside the house was still less than orderly, with offcuts of the new floor coverings lying around, paint cans and small piles of tools. But Pen had no space for embarrassment at the mess.
Kathleen glanced about her. ‘Well, at long last. Renovations all done, eh?’
‘Who gave you my address?’ Pen said.
‘Pen, don’t be like that. You’re sounding like a stranger.’
‘I am a stranger.’
Kathleen sat down on the edge of a lounge chair.
‘You’re not – that’s silly. And you have no right to be angry with me. If anything, it’s the other way around.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning you lied to me. About not being in a relationship. And not just a relationship – you’re married, for God’s sake. Why didn’t you tell me?’
Pen covered her face with her hands. It was logical. Since Kathleen knew where she lived now, she must know a lot more, too.
‘Who told you all this?’
‘Doesn’t matter, does it?’
‘It does to me.’
Kathleen reached out to touch her, but Pen pulled away.
‘I was stumped, Pen, when you broke it off, even if I’ve got a clearer picture now. I should have pushed, asked what was going on. I just didn’t want to risk spoiling things. And then I’d run into my ex that morning, and you wanted to end it, and it was just all too much. But we could have worked things out. We still could.’
Pen stared at her. ‘Don’t you hate me now that you know? Why would you want anything to do with me?’
Kathleen sighed. Weariness did not diminish her glow; Pen felt a pang.
‘I think you’re confused. I was pissed off at first, but I didn’t think you were faking.’
‘Faking!’
‘It’s pretty common, Pen, for married people to find out they have other feelings. Men too, you know. I think you need to be brave and face it, not to run away from it. Not to run away from me.’
Kathleen stood up and moved towards her, softening. Pen shook her head and stepped back. Touch was fatal – she would crumple, lose her nerve. There was no option now.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said. ‘You really should go. It’s more complicated than you think.’
‘It’s always complicated, Pen.’
‘Please, please just go,’ Pen said. ‘You’re making it so hard.’
‘It’s been hard for me too.’
Pen was sweating still, and dizzy now, from heat and panic. She could not think straight. Must think of what to do.
‘You have to go. My husband will be home soon.’
‘Your husband. At least you’ve said it now. What’s his name, then?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
Imagine if Kathleen found out the whole truth. Imagine her face upon seeing Derrick. The whole thing unravelling.
‘But Pen, it’s every bit of my business. I daresay you two’ve had a good few laughs under the doona at my expense. Maybe you’re what we call a lesbian tourist.’
So there was anger, after all. Pen said nothing.
‘Unless he doesn’t know about me,’ Kathleen tried. ‘In which case, I think I should wait a while and get to meet him.’
She sat herself comfortably in Derrick’s armchair and crossed her knees, almost parodic, one foot tapping on the hearthrug. You’ll keep. What Pen’s mother used to say, when she was a kid, if Pen was naughty at someone else’s house and couldn’t be told off till later.
‘You can’t do this,’ Pen said quietly.
‘Why not? Why can you do what you did? I’m just trying to bring things out in the open. I’m not doing anything wrong.’
Pen had to think carefully, and fast. There was only one way to deflect Kathleen, and she would have to use it. Otherwise Kathleen would never back off. She was not one to be sidelined.
‘You want things out in the open,’ Pen said at last. ‘I can understand that. I never meant to do you harm.’
Kathleen winced, but Pen went on.
‘So I have to tell you this. Kathleen, I’m pregnant.’
She begrudged the confession, but nothing less would work.
Kathleen blanched. ‘What!’
‘Yes. I’m having a baby.’
‘You’re lying. You’re trying to shake me off.’
‘I can show you the ultrasound.’
Kathleen reclined slightly in the chair, stretching out her legs. ‘My God, Pen,’ she said. ‘So you were not only still sleeping with him, which you might have told me – but planning a family!’
‘No,’ Pen said softly. ‘It’s not like that. It was – unexpected.’
‘As if you don’t know about the birds and the bees.’
The sarcasm was unbearable, but Pen knew it came from deep hurt. No use explaining the years unable to conceive. She must keep a forward momentum.
She moved towards Kathleen and placed one hand
over hers. Timing would be everything.
‘It’s not that my feelings have changed,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t really have a choice. I need you to try to understand that. Please don’t rock the boat with my husband. Darling Kathleen,’ and she swallowed the lump of her own suavity, ‘I need a chance to do the right thing. I’ve done so much that’s wrong, and you’ve copped a lot of it. Please let’s move on and accept that it’s over.’
Kathleen was fretting at her quicks with a pointed fingernail, and biting her lip. She seemed to be working things through. That rational glimmer that never left her eye – Pen was counting on it.
Suddenly Kathleen let out a deep breath and stood up.
‘Fair enough,’ she said dully. ‘It’s not exactly something I can argue with. I guess this is where I butt out and go get a life. Where else can it go?’
Pen kept the relief from her impassive face.
‘I’m not an unreasonable woman, Pen. Unlike you, I don’t play with people.’
‘I wasn’t playing, Kathleen. None of it was fake.’
‘Yeah. Sure. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? I guess no one’s really got the moral high ground, in the end.’
Kathleen swept up her handbag and strode to the door, sidestepping some rolled-up vinyl sheeting the workmen had left lying on the floor. At the threshold, she turned and said, ‘Goodbye, Pen. I wish you luck. You’ll need it. And you know what, I hope he’s worth it.’
When she had gone, Pen’s first impulse was to pack a suitcase and go. Anywhere. Far away.
Everything had come too close for Pen’s liking. Knapp, as the Germans said. Her brain was buzzing.
She strode to the storeroom cupboard, but the cases were under too many heavy items for her to pull out. She sank to the floor and tried to decide what to do. It was stupid to think of going off alone, with a baby coming. No job, and the certainty of being found.
She could try Derrick again with the idea of selling up, going elsewhere. But he’d resisted it last time; there wasn’t much chance of persuading him now.
Don’t look back. A song her father used to sing when she was tiny: ‘One day at a time, sweet Jesus …’
And why not be brave and brazen. Take your own part against the world. She had managed to get Kathleen to retreat; why not have faith in her own powers? She was no fragile creature; she was canny as an orb weaver, certain of which strands were safe under her tread.
