Authors: Marilyn Duckworth
Now Donald is her only real friend. Her “thing” with him has led her to neglect her other friendships, with women for instance, until (she noticed this recently) she can lay claim only to acquaintances: workmates, members of her Thursday Reading Group, and neighbours she has got to know through
her sometime editing of the local Newsletter. Enough of these but nothing like a proper friend. It matters. When Rex had his first attack and she was so frightened, that was when she noticed it first. Donald, of course, was limited in the help he could offer her then, and perhaps he preferred it that way (she thinks now, in her sour mood).
Other than Donald, who is there? Melanie, a faithful former schoolfriend, has moved out of her orbit into a succession of menial housewifely jobs and watches the soaps on television. Sometimes they chat at the supermarket check-out where Melanie has “landed” a job. Esther is clearly still “friend” in Melanie’s head, although they have so little in common. Melanie would have no trouble loving a grandchild.
With her “friends” at the office Esther exchanges views on the latest news scandals and joins in a daily contest to do the crossword. More than this she has judged risky and unnecessary. Donald is only steps away in his boxy office, multi-coloured tie flashing behind the glass.
A careful existence. Dull. And yet not so dull as some. Not as dull as Melanie. Melanie reads Mills and Boon. Esther is writing a Mills and Boon, which is quite a different thing and anyway it’s a secret. She won’t confess it to the Women’s Reading Group, not until she is published and rich. Then she will have no trouble finding friends to understand her.
Esther needs a new friend.
I
TRY TO
keep the car tidy, inside and out. It makes a good impression. Rust at the bottom of the doors can’t be helped, but a good hose down on a Sunday and a bit of our own polish on the windscreen, it makes all the difference. (We’ve branched out in the cleaning line and it’s good stuff.) I keep any junk in the boot now, out of sight, and hang a plastic bag for my chocolate wrappers from the door handle. If you’d seen the car before I got this job, you wouldn’t believe I was the same driver. Chocolate wrappers front to back, stuffed in the gear shaft, under the seats, any old where. Red, purple yellow shiny wrappers. Toffeepops, Moro, Kango, Pinky, the lot. I’m a chocolate freak, but now I hide it in one rubbish bag — well, you have to have vices, don’t you? I check my mouth, my teeth in the mirror before I leave the car. Sometimes I take the basket, sometimes the briefcase, depending on what I’m wearing. Basket goes with purple pullover, briefcase with fawn leather jacket. I don’t wear a suit, I’m no Jehovah’s Witness. Jehovah’s no friend of mine. I do have a St Christopher, Mother gave it to me, I can’t think why I wear it, not for her, not for the saint, it’s just become part of me, a kind of joke I have with myself. I have all kinds of jokes with myself. I don’t share them with people, people don’t understand. I know I’m different, but I don’t want anyone else to know. I behave just like everyone else, don’t I?
My customers don’t find me different, at least I don’t think so. You do get some queer customers answer the door, depending on the time of day. Mostly it’s women though, not that they can’t be queer too, but on the whole they’re easier. More polite. They don’t like to disappoint you, or else they’re after something. I always know. They should teach it in schools, wariness, healthy suspicion. I learned it goodness knows where, but I learned it well.
No one pulls the wool over Wallace, specially not a woman, a lady, whatever she calls herself.
I’ve had a good week. Orders taken, cash exchanged,
product handed over. You don’t have to order in lots of twelve like you used to, and get stuck with certain lines, often as not. I order as I like, it’s up to me. Funny the stuff they want. This old dear, she goes through an unbelievable amount of that smelly ointment, goodness knows what she puts it on, maybe she eats it. The house reeks. She says it reminds her of something, someone, I forget. I listen to them rattle on and nod my head feeling that smile dry on my teeth. Other times when a customer has next to nothing to say I find myself rattling on, chattering like a chimp on ice, lisp and all, can’t seem to stop. Well, you have to, don’t you? The job doesn’t like silence. I’m a salesman after all. Independent distributor. Most of the independents are into networking these days, they move with the times, a lot of sheep. Not me, house to house is all right with me, sometimes I spend more time talking than selling, but that’s no bad thing, people like to talk, the doctor’s too busy — what am I saying, the doctor’s too
expensive
— but the Rawleigh’s man … The old people like door to door and I get on great with old people. They’re safe to talk to, they don’t go jumping to conclusions, they appreciate. And after school’s out, well that’s the best time, everyone says so, it has to be. A lot of working Mums still get home to be with little Jack and Jill by half three. Saturdays are falling off — too much sport and now the supermarkets are open, a lot of shops are open weekends, it’s a shame. But I’m doing all right. Some days children open the door, but Mummy’s usually somewhere there behind them — or Daddy. I try to put on the same face no matter who comes; my Rawleigh’s face, a sort of disguise. I’d have liked a uniform. I’ve never had a uniform unless you count the green jersey we all wore at school, but mine wasn’t even the right green, Mother said it didn’t matter but it did.
Why did I tell that woman I was a family man? You don’t know what you’re going to say sometimes till you’ve said it, do you? I’m not usually a liar, well only when it’s necessary. That wasn’t necessary. I don’t even want to be a “family man”, God forbid. It doesn’t seem fair to me that a man should be expected to carry a whole lot on his shoulders, wife, kids, paying the bills, letting banks and lawyers boss him around while the family sit at home whingeing. Just because he’s a
man. I guess I’m a feminist. The idea of a woman hanging on to my arm, expecting things of me, it gives me the creeps. I don’t know if my mother expected things of my father, but as I say, he was a wizard, so he’d have had no problems. I could never understand why she cringed so much, like he hit her regularly, which he didn’t, only once or twice. I went to the front window and yelled for the neighbour, Mrs Whatsit, that really bad time. I was only nine years old so I didn’t understand what was going on, just a row, nothing to get stewed up about. Anyway the neighbour didn’t come, can’t have heard me, thank goodness. Probably busy with her own row in her own kitchen.
I don’t expect to have any of my own but I do like kids. It isn’t just because they can be cute; I understand them, I really do, we’re on the same wave length. I know how to play with children. That little girl, Jania — pretty name — she was one of the special ones. You can tell the special ones, it’s something about the eyes: they watch you as if they know what’s there in your head and it doesn’t matter, they know you can be trusted, you wouldn’t hurt them. Jania had this bit of a scar on the inside of her neck — I wonder where that came from? Some people hit kids, there’s a lot of it goes on. I’d never hurt a child, I never have. I’ve had nightmares about hurting a child and I wake up all in a sweat.
Once it wasn’t a nightmare, a long time ago it was real, or might have been. It wasn’t me, but I was there, I saw it. She was about the same age as this Jania, she was my little cousin, I don’t remember her name. Was it in our house it happened, or did she live nextdoor? It’s really strange the way I can’t remember it exactly, like trying to focus binoculars and it won’t come clear, the picture at the other end. My father had this eye-glass thing he would screw into his eye and twiddle while he worked on his watch parts. Once I disturbed him at it and he lifted his face up with this magic eye in it and stared right into me, I swear I felt it dig like a dentist’s instrument. I expect I need something like my father’s eye to get back into that scene and see it clear. Maybe it was a dream. I think I remember it, but perhaps not. Perhaps it was another nightmare. I don’t know how people can do it, hurt a child.
Children are so powerless. If it was me, even if it was an accident, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, would you? I’m not easy to live with as it is, I hate it sometimes, my own company. This is why I choose not to inflict myself on a wife. I could have. I’m not so bad a catch, specially now with this job paying the rent of my little flat, but I don’t know about a wife. If she didn’t expect to lean on me she’d want to boss me around, they’re only one way or the other, women, nothing in between. Then there’s the other kind who only want one thing, who only want dirtiness. I didn’t know women could be like that until I was quite grown up. Disgusting; the smell is what disgusts me, I hadn’t expected the smell. That first time — I shut my eyes, that helped. Funny how you can get carried away. Family man. What a joke. She believed me, too. I’ll have to remember I told her that, you have to be consistent, I don’t want to look like a fibber. I’d better work it out properly, the details. Or is it safer to be vague? I’ll have to think about it.
E
STHER DOESN’T EXPECT
to run into the Rawleigh’s man in the mall supermarket, but obviously he must do his shopping like other citizens. It is Saturday and they have made an outing of it — Rex and Jania have strolled ahead with the trolley and the bonus coupons, dodging other craning, darting shoppers. Later they will all go to the coffeeshop for pastries. As a rule Esther and Rex take it in turns to shop, but today a family outing seems a better idea; she hopes it will act as a stimulating poultice on Rex’s state of mind, draw him out of himself. Like raw onion on a boil. The aisles sing with bright fluorescent light, resounding against glossy pyramids of tins, jars.
The Rawleigh’s man — “Call me Wallace” — has come up behind her at the biscuit stack. His trolley contains nothing but biscuits so far, chocolate biscuits. Esther can’t help looking, a habit of curiosity. Toffeepops, Chocolate Wheaten, Mallowpuffs. No wonder he’s tubby.
“I can see your family have a sweet tooth.”
“Sweet teeth,” he corrects, struggling with his tongue. He is reaching out for a small jar of Vegemite but changes his mind and takes a family size.
“Are they with you? Rex and Jania are here somewhere — Rex goes too fast for me.”
Esther has an armful of grocery items balanced against her squashy chest. A roll of clingfilm stabs her under the chin. She wishes Rex would slow down, allow her time to consider and study prices; why can’t he adjust to her pace?
“I’m — no, I’m on my own today, I’d better get it right, hadn’t I?” The man glances ahead expectantly while he plucks a packet of rubbish liners from the shelf. He seems less sure of himself without his sample case.
Y
ES
, I’
LL NEED
to work at it to get this right. I seem to have got myself into a bit of a bind, not quite a lie, or not an important one. Think of it as a performance, a selling tactic. It can’t matter, not really. When I go door to door I’m not expected to tell the truth about myself, why should I? I’m private. I tell the truth about my product, of course I do, but never about myself, well it’s boring. I haven’t lied as badly as this though, not since I’ve been employed, it’s a bit of a worry.
And then there’s Claude. I’ve been having a bit of trouble again with Claude. No, Claude isn’t a person (with a name like that?). No, let me introduce you to Claude. Claude is the giggly wickedness you come across while you’re still too young to understand it’s wicked. This boy and I at Bible Class, we came across Claude while we were tickling these little girls in the lavatories one Christmas. Well! We’d never met anything like Claude, or I certainly hadn’t. What a revelation, what a buzz! We got to know each other pretty well, this mate and I. That must have been back about seventy-three. I haven’t seen him now for years, not Claude of course but this boy who was my friend. I don’t have a lot of friends. Claude I come across regularly, well he’s everywhere, you’ll know what I’m talking about. I don’t want to lose another job, but I have to say Claude has caused trouble on more than one occasion where this job is concerned. Don’t mistake me, I didn’t slip out of those other jobs because of my trouble with Claude. Not at all, I’m too clever for that. It was always something else, my lisp, the way I can talk too much, perhaps the way I have of losing things, I don’t know what it was, but never Claude that got me the push. They weren’t that kind of job anyway. But this job — the Rawleigh’s man — now that could be trouble, it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility, I do see that. I saw it when I applied, let’s be honest; Claude was there at the back of my mind, waving his hands, grinning like the devil, but I wouldn’t let him spoil it. I went right ahead, being as “suitable” as I could be, sitting up straight, but not too straight, repeating
the words I’d rehearsed, not too many. Oh, I was a marvel, I wanted this so much, I knew I was the man for the job, and it was easier than I thought. I got it! They handed me the job with scarcely a glance at my funny hair, my sticking tongue. Didn’t he do well? Yes, I’m doing quite nicely for myself and no one has anything to complain about.
I sent off a letter home, letting them know, not boasting but just telling — I suppose they think I’ll make a mess of things, but I haven’t. She hasn’t written back. It would be her, not him, he’s always been too busy to do things like write letters to me, but not even a card from her, the bitch. She thinks I’m lying again. I’m not. I mightn’t be a wizard but I’m not so clumsy as she’ll remember me. I’ve grown up. Have I? Do people really grow up? I don’t believe they do, it’s all a lie, they just get older and start acting. I’ve waited to feel grown up for years, watching my face change that little bit every year, two lines on each side of my mouth, but I don’t feel any different and I don’t believe anyone does. It’s all a con. You never get to feel safe, arrived, in charge, you’re always getting there, forever until one day you’re dead.
I’m not dead yet. I might as well enjoy what there is. If she doesn’t write to me it doesn’t matter now. I’ve got my job. And chocolate. And Claude, of course, I’ve always got Claude.
T
HE GREEN-CARPETED
coffee shop serves milkshakes as well as coffee. Jania picks a silver ball off the top of her iced cake and rolls it on her pink, kitten tongue. The shopping trolley, laden with bulging plastic bags, is parked at the glass doorway so that Rex can keep it in his sights. He is watching the trolley and so doesn’t notice right away that the Rawleigh’s man has sat himself down at an adjoining table.
“I’m not following you around, really,” Wallace says to Esther and to Jania who slurps the last of her milkshake at him. “Hello.”
Rex turns at the voice and widens his eyes.
“Remember Wallace,” Esther says. “You know —”
“Yes, I know.” Rex nods curtly to the younger man. Wallace turns his chair fractionally sideways so that he faces their table. He is wearing his purple sweater with yellow squiggles and a woven Mexican shoulder bag lumpy with purchases.
“So you live around here? Well, I suppose you would.”
“Over the other side actually. I like this place though, you get the best coupons. I — we come here as a matter of choice, specially now I’ve got this — yes, now I’ve got this — this selling district.”
He chatters on, dancing backwards and forwards across his sentences, picking up words he has dropped like stitches. Esther seems to encourage him and Jania has joined in. His manner of speech seems to fascinate the child; she hangs patiently on his hesitations like a zoo spectator at a monkey cage. The yellow cake on her plate is half eaten, nearly forgotten. She prods it and eats a crumb.
Rex nudges Esther. “Look, I’d better take the trolley up to the car — those yobs are going to skateboard right into it. Jania? Have you finished?”
Jania pulls a face and shakes her head. Esther looks at Rex over the rim of her cup. Her expression says take it easy, what’s the rush?
He says, “Don’t be long, we’ve got frozen food in the bags.”
“Yes, okay.”
“Your husband doesn’t like me,” Wallace announces to Esther. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s not like that.”
“Do you like staying with your grandma?” he asks the child. It is good business strategy to show how much you remember about your clients.
Jania looks at Esther for instruction.
“Jania might be going home to Canada in a few months,” Esther offers. “In the new year anyhow.” Her voice goes up. “You don’t have to kill that cake, Jania — it’s dead already. Just eat it!”
“To Daddy,” Jania tells Wallace, putting her fork down. “Daddy went back to school — to College, I mean. I have to go to school here.”
“So that’s what it is. The accent. I — I did — I wondered.”
“I don’t have an accent any more. Esther says I sound like a Kiwi kid now. Don’t I, Esther?”
“Just a tiny accent,” he corrects hurriedly and blows on his coffee, which can’t still be hot, surely? “Canada — that’s a long way off. All by yourself?”
“Yes.” She looks at her grandmother. “I think so. I came over by myself, just the flight — the flight lady, and I was only four and a half, wasn’t I?”
Wallace glances across the room and chuckles quietly. “Look at that!” He blinks his eyes to indicate where they must look. A sparrow is hopping on the opposite table, seeking crumbs of apple strudel. An old man who has dropped the crumbs — the strudel is difficult to keep on a fork — is attempting to catch the bird inside his battered sun-hat.
Jania laughs with delight. “Will he catch it?”
“How do they get in here, I wonder? It’s not hygienic.”
“He won’t hurt it?”
“Come on. Never mind the sparrow, Rex’ll be waiting for us.” Esther collects up her handbag strap and Jania’s little hand. “We have to go. Say goodbye.”
“Tell him not to hurt it,” Jania commands Wallace. She
instructs him confidently as if the Rawleigh’s man is to be trusted with the sparrow.
He smiles and nods at her, promising without words, clearly pleased with himself as if he has personally arranged this entertainment for the child.
There is music trickling from a speaker somewhere, and all about them a stirring of human ants, seething, moving constantly on the conveyor belt of Saturday morning. A buzz like a huge machine, punctuated with chirping tills. Esther and the child could be figures inside some sort of computer game, scurrying to escape a devouring cursor. As they pass the open mouth of the supermarket, Melanie sidesteps into Esther’s path. She wheezes gently inside her tight rosy uniform.
“Esther — I wanted to ask you — do you know about babysitters?”
“What about them?”
“I mean who do you use? Have you got any phone numbers? We need someone for Saturday night for my Pauline’s kids and we’re stuck. All her regulars — well, you know young people on a Saturday night —”
“I’m afraid we hardly ever use a sitter.”
“But with Janie …?”
“Jania. No, we don’t go out very much. Not together.”
“What?” The woman’s facial muscles contort. “But that’s terrible. Goodness, I must give you some of Pauline’s phone numbers to ring.” She is shocked.
Esther doesn’t think it is terrible. She hasn’t thought about it a lot. If they went out where would they go? Rex hates any sort of large gathering, particularly of the kind Esther likes. He is happiest with a video and a glass of whisky. He says so. Just one glass. Whisky is better for him than red wine, he claims. Sometimes an old colleague — literally old, a widower — joins him in front of the screen. Rex’s attitude suits her, it allows her to arrange the occasional evening with Donald.
“No, honestly. We see plenty of each other at home these days, we don’t mind separate nights out. Was it something special?”
“What?” The woman is distracted still by Esther’s attitude.
“Oh, yes — my niece’s twenty-first. Well — a bit old fashioned she is, Donna. It’s what she wanted, key of the door. Oops. Gotta go.” She slides sideways back inside the sheep pen that is the supermarket.
“Is it because of me?” Jania asks as they step on to the escalator.
“Is what because of you?”
“You and Grandad can’t go out.”
“We can go out. Of course, it’s not you. We do what we want to do, don’t you worry about that.”
Rex is waiting for them in the car, poking his top plate forward with his tongue. She wishes he wouldn’t do this, he has some irritating habits — another reason for not sharing her evenings out with her husband. No, that isn’t fair — besides, Rex wouldn’t play with his teeth if they were out in public together, would he? People are at their worst in their own homes. Donald tells her he has taken to grinding his teeth in his sleep, which has driven his wife to another bedroom. His dentist has prescribed some sort of tooth guard for him to wear at night. She visualises him in striped pyjamas, clamping this thing inside his mouth like a boxer, before he turns out the light. Donald has thrown in the sponge as husband, if not lover. Funny to think of this and then to think of Rex removing
his
top plate to the saucer on his bedside locker. She swallows a small grunt of secret laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
At least she is laughing at both of them equally, husband and lover, that’s fair. “Nothing.”
“You were smiling at something. I suppose you think he fancies you, that Rawleigh’s chap. Is that it?”
“What? I’m old enough to be his —” She glances at Jania. “Really, Rex. You do push it sometimes. No, I was thinking about Melanie Briggs actually.” She lies. “She came and grabbed us on our way out. Her niece is having a twenty-first.”
“She never invited us!”
“No, of course not.”
“You don’t have a babysitter,” Jania says from the back seat. “Do you?”
“What for?” Rex is puzzled.
“We don’t need a babysitter,” Esther tells Jania. “I told you.”
“Because I’m not a baby?”
“Because we’re not going out anywhere.”
But perhaps they should. Perhaps Esther should stop being selfish. She has the Reading Group, she has her secret Mills and Boon manuscript, she has Donald. It is Rex who needs to get out of the house, even if he claims not to like crowds. Dinner at a restaurant, something like that? Couples are always dining out on the TV programmes Rex watches, seated opposite each other taking small actorly bites, nothing large enough to interfere with the dialogue. She does remember the last time she and Rex ate out; for their anniversary. Rex was unwise enough to order fillet steak and it was tougher than he expected. He’d had to drop his fork deliberately and get down under the table cloth to disentangle meat fibres from his fangs. He isn’t an elegant eater at the best of times. Donald has some problems in that area too, not that she has enough occasions to share a meal with her lover. Donald’s problem, increasing with age, is hay fever. The last time she shared some hot chips with him in the car — his car — he was breathing so heavily between mouthfuls she accused him of sounding like a bulldog. But at least he had had the grace to laugh, it is hard to insult Donald. Later, on the office outing at Queen Elizabeth Park, a bulldog had panted past their group of picnickers and she couldn’t resists saying sideways to Donald, “Friend of yours?” The others didn’t understand why the two of them laughed so much; it was a stupid thing to do, to have secret jokes in the middle of an office gathering, but you can’t be sensible all of the time.
It gets harder in fact to be sensible, easier to be selfish and irresponsible, or to notice one is being selfish and irresponsible. And time passes so much faster, as if a once stationary floor has become an escalator and you scarcely need to take a step on your own without being stranded days, weeks ahead of yourself. It’s so easy to trip on an escalator. Bones crack, teeth fall out of your mouth, heels rock you off your balance and the machine is waiting to trap and grind you, drag you under the floor. Hold on to the rail, Esther, and don’t let go of Jania’s hand.