The Woman Next Door

by Liz Byrski

  But who are you?, Polly wonders now. How can I know? And she sees that she wants an assurance of risk free perfection, an assurance that what he offers is free of the pitfalls of previous relationships. She has not always been so risk averse, but time and experience have changed her. What risks can she eliminate? Drugs probably, alcohol apparently, emotional neediness – no evidence so far; poor hygiene – absolutely not; sexual incontinence – who knows? Humongous ego – quite possibly. And if he passes all those tests there is still the question of learning to be with him, and of trying to know who he really is and who she is with him. As she lines up the points in his favour she is back in that moment in the Edinburgh hotel when he appeared alongside her, the only person in that crowded passage with the compassion to help the terrified soldier. Polly flops back onto her pillows, thinking of it, of the look on his face, the way he spoke to the younger man, the calm but firm way he reached out to him and also to Polly herself. ‘That’s who you are,’ she whispers, as her eyes begin to close at last, ‘you looked at that soldier, saw a boy paralysed by fear, and your heart went out to him. That man is who you are.’

  Chapter Ten

  North Fremantle, June

  From the kitchen window Helen watches as Dennis pulls in to one of their parking bays and disappears into the ground floor of the building. She boils the kettle, gets out two mugs and opens the jar of Anzac cookies.

  Dennis’s keys clatter as he drops them on the hall table. ‘Just going to change my clothes.’

  ‘Come and have a cup of tea first,’ she calls.

  There is a pause, and she thinks she detects a sigh as he changes direction and heads towards the kitchen.

  ‘Mmm!’ He sniffs the air and spots the cookie jar. ‘Stone the crows, Anzacs, you haven’t made those for ages.’ He takes one from the jar and bites into it. ‘I suppose you’re softening me up for something.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Helen says, ‘but something I think you’ll like.’ She pushes a couple of computer printouts onto the worktop alongside the cookies. ‘I bought these.’

  Dennis, still munching, picks up the papers. ‘Perth–Dubai–Perth,’ he reads aloud. ‘Departing . . . this Sunday?’

  Helen wonders if her anxiety shows in her face. She is smiling, but is it that awkward rigor-mortis smile that sometimes betrays her? ‘It’s a surprise, I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘It’s certainly a surprise,’ Dennis says, still staring at the paperwork.

  ‘I spoke to Damian and Ellie before I made the booking,’ she says. ‘It’s fine with them, wonderful, Damian said.’

  Dennis starts on a second cookie, and crumbs drop onto the front of his shirt. ‘Bit sudden, isn’t it? Bloody hell – business class.’

  ‘A special treat – I paid for them from my own account,’ Helen says. ‘I treated us. It’s our anniversary next Wednesday, I thought we’d celebrate it in Dubai.’

  Dennis nods slowly, still staring down at the e-tickets. ‘I see,’ he says without looking up. ‘It’s just . . .’ he hesitates.

  ‘Just what?’ Helen’s heart leaps a beat. She has thought this out so carefully. It will all be easier over there with the family. On their anniversary she’ll raise the subject of selling the apartment, admit that it’s all her fault and suggest they find something back in South Fremantle, even if it has to be something modest. She takes a deep breath. ‘Just what?’ she repeats.

  ‘I was thinking,’ Dennis says, brushing crumbs off his shirt, ‘that we should have a chat.’

  ‘About what?’

  He drops the tickets onto the worktop, walks away from her towards the window and stands there, looking out over the river, his back turned to her.

  ‘A chat about what?’ Helen repeats, irritated now. She had expected enthusiasm and she’s uneasy about what might be coming in its place.

  ‘About the future,’ Dennis says. He pauses, then turns to face her. ‘I want us to sell this place and . . .’

  ‘Sell it?’ Helen cuts in, relief flooding through her. ‘Sell it, but that’s what I want too. I was going to tell you in Dubai on our anniversary . . . that’s why I booked,’ the words tumble out in a torrent. ‘Oh what a relief, I mean we can still go to Dubai of course, and put it on the market when we come back. Thank god we both feel the same about it. I thought we could sell and find . . .’ she trails off as Dennis holds up his hand to stop her.

  ‘We don’t feel the same,’ he says, ‘not anymore. I don’t feel the same.’

  And Helen thinks he has a weird look on his face, stony, that’s what it is, a stony look.

  ‘But you just said . . .’

  ‘I said I wanted to sell,’ Dennis continues. ‘I can’t do this anymore, Helen, I can’t live . . .’

  ‘I know, you said it. You can’t live here, well neither can I.’

  ‘I can’t live here, and I can’t live with you.’

  Helen freezes; silence pounds in her ears, a hard lump seems to form in her throat. ‘Can’t live with me? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I said, I can’t . . . I don’t want to live with you anymore. Not here, not anywhere. These last few years have been a bloody misery, whatever I do is wrong, you’re always complaining, you put me down in front of other people, you treat me like I’m an idiot. You’ve behaved appallingly to our oldest friends. You’ve destroyed all the feelings that I ever had for you. I’ve already called the real estate agent to come and assess this place. We can split the proceeds and I’m off. I won’t be around to annoy you, nor to be your punching bag, you can live where and how you choose. We can get a divorce if you want, or just separate. But all this . . .’ he stretches out his hands indicating the apartment, ‘. . . all this is over. Go to Dubai if you want but I won’t be going with you.’

  *

  Stella drags the ladder out of the shed, across the lawn and into the house. Time was, she thinks, when I could carry this with ease, and when it felt perfectly safe to go right to the top. She juggles it awkwardly up the steps into the kitchen, then walks it down the passage to her bedroom, opens it up and knocks the safety latches into place with the heel of her shoe. ‘Now then, here we go,’ she says aloud and, brushing the dust from her hands, she climbs up the first five steps, which seem steeper than in the past, until she can see into the top cupboard of the wardrobe, and she stands there wondering what she was looking for. Winter clothes perhaps? No. Her suitcase? Not that either. Bugger! She feels around with one hand, steadying herself with the other. What could it have been? Her hand settles on something hard, a box perhaps? She pulls it towards her. It’s a black box made of tough cardboard, patterned with pink and gold roses. She tries to lift the lid but can’t and so contemplates going up one step higher, but amazingly, now, one more step feels risky. She glances guiltily over her shoulder – if Polly or Mac or Joyce see her she’ll be in trouble.

  ‘Don’t you go up this, Stella,’ Mac had said when he’d put the ladder in her garage. ‘It’s simply silly at your age, an unnecessary risk. Suppose you were on your own in the house and fell, you could lie there for hours, possibly days, before any of us found you. Promise me? Please?’

  And she’d promised, reluctantly, because although it made sense it felt like a little chip in her ego. But this morning it seemed imperative that she should get up here to the cupboard, to get . . . whatever it was . . . this box perhaps? Stella reaches in further and grasps the box, dragging it closer until she can use both hands to lift it out. Then, cautiously, she makes her way back down the steps, and reaches ground zero with a sense of triumph. ‘So – one to me, Mac,’ she says aloud. ‘Maybe I’ll take up rock climbing.’ And she turns quickly, catches her foot on the leg of the ladder and as she crashes to the carpet, the box flies up in the air, and then down on top of her, scattering its contents of old photographs around the bedroom.

  ‘Bugger,’ Stella says aloud again, a
nd she lies there for a moment, wondering what damage she might have done. Nothing actually hurts, only her pride. She hoists herself up on one elbow and surveys her reflection in the mirrored door of the wardrobe. I could be a bizarre still life, or portrait, she says to her reflection, Old Woman with Ladder and Photographs. Slowly she sits up straight, moves her upper body around without pain and then grasps the second tread of the ladder and hauls herself up from the floor, scattering photographs everywhere, and sits down on the edge of the bed.

  Was it these photos she was looking for? No, she says out loud, it was the album I wanted; the one with the red leather cover. And she shakes her head in frustration and begins to gather up the scattered photographs, dumping them in an untidy heap on the bed. Finally she drags the ladder back out to the shed, heads back to the bedroom and lies down alongside the pile of photos shifting them around, looking for one of Annie, her oldest friend from her early days in the theatre. But she’s tired now, her eyes want to close and she sinks back against the pillows.

  *

  ‘Stella?’ The voice seems close. ‘Stella, are you okay?’

  Stella opens her eyes to see Joyce leaning over her.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says, pushing herself up. ‘Just having a little sleep.’ She sits up straight, leaning back against the bedhead, and sees that she must have been asleep for a couple of hours. She yawns, rubs her eyes and looks down at the photographs scattered across the bed. ‘I was just going through the old photographs,’ she says.

  ‘So I see. You don’t usually sleep in the morning, do you?’

  Stella thinks that concern is a wonderful thing but there are times when it can seem quite intrusive. But this is Joyce, whose intentions are always without question.

  ‘No, but I don’t think there’s a law against it.’

  Joyce laughs. ‘Sorry, I was just worried when I got to the back door, found it wide open but you weren’t answering. Were you looking for something in particular?’

  Stella frowns. What had she been looking for? She hasn’t a clue but there is a photograph in her hand. ‘Oh, an album,’ she remembers. ‘I was looking for an old photo album with a red cover, but I found a box instead. My godmother, Nancy,’ she says, holding the photograph out to Joyce. ‘She lived here. I was twenty-five when she died and she left me this house.’

  Joyce takes the photograph and studies it. ‘I’ve seen this picture before, she’s lovely, isn’t she? I know you were very fond of her.’

  Stella nods, feeling a lump in her throat.

  ‘Wasn’t she a relative as well as your godmother?’

  Stella nods. ‘She was my great-aunt. Mum’s only relative here, and the reason Mum came to Australia herself. She came here to visit Nancy and never went back to England, that’s how she met Dad.’ She clears her throat. The photograph seems suddenly incredibly precious.

  Joyce hands it back. ‘Well I just popped in because I’m going into town and wondered if you needed anything.’

  ‘Please,’ Stella says, sliding her legs off the bed. ‘I need my blood pressure tablets, I’ve only got one day’s dose left.’ She stands up, her legs feel fine, secure as ever. ‘I’ll get the prescription.’

  Joyce gets to her feet too and glances around the room. ‘What’s this doing on the floor?’ she asks, indicating the upturned box and its lid.

  Stella glances back. ‘Oh the photographs were in it.’

  ‘The last time I saw this box was just after Christmas when you asked me to put it up in the top cupboard.’

  ‘Really?’ Stella is unconcerned, heading to the kitchen for her prescription.

  ‘Really. So how did you get it out of the cupboard, Stella?’

  ‘Oh I just got the ladder and . . .’ she stops, but it’s too late.

  ‘Did you get that ladder out of the shed, climb up there, and then take it back again?’

  ‘I did,’ Stella says, pleased with herself; Joyce seems impressed.

  ‘For goodness sake, Stella, that’s so risky, you could have fallen.’

  ‘Well I didn’t,’ Stella says. It’s only half a lie as she didn’t actually fall off the ladder. ‘And if I had, you would have walked in and found me.’

  ‘But suppose I hadn’t walked in? And you did promise you wouldn’t . . .’

  Stella stops and turns around, she takes Joyce’s hand in hers. ‘Dearest Joyce, you and Mac and Polly are so good to me and I really am grateful. But none of you is old enough yet to understand the sheer frustration of not being able to do some apparently minor everyday things when you want to do them. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your concern, I really do, but I can’t totally eliminate all risk from my life. I can’t bear to feel dependent. Sometimes I do need to take the odd domestic risk or two.’

  Joyce blushes. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interfered, but we love you, Stella, we’re trying to preserve you as much for our own sakes as for yours.’

  ‘Like a snail in aspic?’ Stella laughs.

  ‘Okay, just yell at me next time and I promise to back off. Give me the prescription and I’ll get going.’

  And Stella watches as Joyce puts the script in her pocket, and goes out down the back steps, across the garden and back through the gate in the fence. Then she turns away from the window relieved that she has got this gripe off her chest and trying to remember what she was doing before Joyce arrived.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hong Kong

  It’s cool and dull as the ferry ploughs across the harbour at the mercy of the wind and choppy waves. Polly turns up the collar of her coat, tightens her grip on the rail, and watches their progress towards the city. I don’t have to make a decision now, she thinks, I could go home and then tell him what I feel when I’m back there. But in her heart she knows she’s made her decision, and there is little point in keeping it to herself.

  ‘I could do with some caffeine,’ Leo says. ‘How about we try that little place we saw last night?’

  ‘Fine,’ she nods, unsure how to say what she has to say. Should she do it here, or in the café, or back at the hotel over dinner? Their last dinner because tomorrow morning they will be saying goodbye at the airport and she really doesn’t want to do it then.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says, still watching the city. ‘Just thinking about tomorrow, about the airport and saying goodbye.’ She looks up at him now. ‘It’s been so lovely.’

  ‘It has,’ he says. ‘I’m not looking forward to the goodbyes.’

  ‘Leo,’ she hesitates. ‘I . . . well . . . I wasn’t sure and now I am.’ She sees his expression change, his eyes narrow. ‘I do love you, I do feel we belong together – even if we are going to be apart for a lot of the time.’

  His expression lightens, and he pulls her towards him.

  ‘I think I was sure when we got here, maybe I was even sure when I almost called you and turned back at St Pancras. I’ve just been fighting it because . . . because of not wanting to be hurt again.’

  ‘I know,’ Leo says. ‘I understand completely. I won’t let you down. I’ll be there to catch you if you fall.’

  She looks into his face and sees a future. She loves his confidence and his competence, the way he strides through the world. She loves the excitement of being with someone so smart, with whom each conversation seems to open up new knowledge and ideas. Brilliance is so seductive, she thinks, like a drug, and she is always wanting more of it. And she knows that he really means it when he says he will always be there for her; that if she needs him he will come from wherever he is, that he is watching her back. It’s a cliché, she knows that, but the power of the cliché is that it is true, ordinary, reliable and assured. This really is what I want, she tells herself. I’m sixty-three, and I have this last chance at love, a last chance to get it right.

  ‘I do love you,’ he says.

&nbs
p; ‘I know,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t be standing here now if I didn’t believe that.’

  *

  Mac is in the shed, working on Joyce’s rocking chair, with Charlie stretched out on a roll of hessian beside him. The dog’s legs are twitching, and he makes soft yelping noises in his sleep. Mac looks down at him, smiling, and stoops to pat him. ‘You go get ’em, mate,’ he murmurs.

  He’s loving his time here; the solitude, the freedom to do what he wants when he wants, his only domestic responsibilities those of his own making. He’s learned that he can happily go for days chatting only to Charlie, eating when he feels like it. But he’s also enjoyed catching up with Carol. They often bump into each other on the beach, although it’s mostly too cold to swim, but they walk there sometimes, early in the morning, with Charlie bounding alongside them, plunging in and out of the waves in pursuit of his ball. I must mention it to Joyce, he says aloud to the dog, who promptly leaps to his feet and bounds off towards the gate, barking. Mac looks through the shed window and can just see a man leaning over the gate talking to Charlie. He puts down the sander and goes to the shed door and sees, to his amazement, that it is Dennis.

  ‘Bloody hell, mate,’ Dennis calls, ‘he frightened the life out of me.’

  ‘He’s all noise,’ Mac says, striding towards him. ‘He’s an absolute wuss. This is a surprise, what brings you here?’

  ‘Just thought it was time we caught up,’ Dennis says.

  ‘It is indeed,’ Mac says, ‘come on in.’ He opens the big gate and Dennis gets back into his car, drives in, gets out again, and stands looking around.

  ‘Must be ten years since we were last here,’ he says.

  ‘More, probably,’ Mac says. ‘At least fifteen since you and Helen and Joyce and I had a break together down here. Is this a flying visit or are you staying?’

  ‘Thought I might stay a couple of nights if that’s okay,’ Dennis says. ‘If it’s a problem I can always get a berth somewhere in town.’