There Should Be More Dancing (18 page)

Tyson texted back, ‘Check bathroom cabinet for drugs.'

Her mother was standing at the linen press in the bathroom. It was crammed full of face washers, tea towels, bath towels, placemats and toilet paper covers . . . all cross-stitched with flowers, puppies, landscapes, and years and years of quotes from Doctor Woods' desk calendars. There was nothing in the bathroom cabinet.

Margery was in her small kitchen, clutching the doorjamb, when they came back, her sunspots gathered in a worried clump in the middle of her forehead. ‘You shouldn't have gone in. It's not right.'

Judith handed her Mrs Parsons' handbag. ‘Put this somewhere safe, Marge, give it to the nuns.' She started putting Mrs Parsons' groceries into Margery's pantry cupboard. ‘She didn't have much, Marge, unless she's cleaned the place out.'

‘It's like your place, Gran, like, a museum, except all her stuff's sort of . . . unused. It's like you get frozen in the olden days, isn't it?'

‘You should move with the times, Marge, love what you've got now.'

Margery said, ‘You shouldn't have taken her groceries. I hope you didn't go through her personal things.'

‘We're uncouth, Marge, but we're not
that
uncouth.'

Pudding said, ‘I did see a few things in the drawer in the spare room. Doll's clothes. Weird.'

‘Why have you got all these bottles of caramel topping, Marge?' Judith asked, her voice bouncing off the back of Margery's pantry cupboard.

‘It was on special.'

‘And you don't need all this fruit cordial. You should have seen how many half-empty jars of out-of-date stuff Mrs Parsons had. You can't eat it now, and it's a waste. Just buy the smallest sized things from now on, Marge.'

‘I need the cordial for Christmas punch.'

‘Christmas is nine whole months away – you might not even
be
here.' Judith fanned herself with the birthday card Mrs Parsons had bought.

‘Mum!'

‘She might be
in the home
, DeeAndra. Did Mrs Parsons have a will?'

‘I don't know, Judith.'

Judith shoved the card into her handbag. ‘Where did she hide her purse?'

‘She never actually
told
me where she hid her purse.'

‘You need to find it to give it to the nuns, see if she's left her house to anyone.'

Then Anita called, ‘Anyone home?' and came briskly through the doorway, smiling, her teeth white beneath her shocking fringe, her basket on her hip, her uniform short over smooth, shapely legs and her sunny, casual energy filling the tiny room. Judith sucked her stomach in and smoothed her stiff curls. ‘You'd know what happened to the new floor mats, wouldn't you?'

‘Yep,' she said, studying Margery in an observational, nurse-like way. ‘How are ya, Mrs Blandon?' She leaned down to look at her two black eyes.

Margery smiled, ‘Triffic, thanks.'

‘Good to know. The hairdresser phoned the council when you didn't show up for your appointment.'

Judith said, ‘She could have phoned here.'

‘She did. No one answered so I rushed straight around.' She held up her pager.

‘We were distracted with the sad news of Mrs Parsons' passing,' Judith said, jerking her head in the direction of Mrs Parsons' house. ‘I'm Judith, Margery's daughter, and this is my daughter, DeeAndra.'

‘G'day,' Anita said, squatting to look closely at Margery's wound. She screwed up her nose. ‘
Tsk
.'

Pudding said, ‘I'm going to see Tyson,' and left.

‘So, what did happen to the mats?'

‘They were lethal, too dark for Margery to see, and the loops would catch on her shoes. Trying to kill her, are you?'

‘You're very bold.'

‘Guess that makes us alike . . . in one way.'

Judith's hands slipped from her hips. She blushed and turned sideways to minimise her bulky frontal view. ‘Do you have a daughter, Anita?'

‘Two.'

‘Two?' She looked Anita up and down, disbelieving. ‘How old are they?'

‘One's five and one's twenty.'

‘Twenty? You started young.'

Anita smiled at her, ripping open a dressing pack like she was tearing up an incriminating photo. ‘I was very popular.'

‘Does your oldest daughter go to university?'

‘She's got a job so she can pay off her car and her mortgage.'

Judith nodded, somewhat thrown by the fact that someone who looked like Anita would have a daughter who was clearly making what Judith considered a success of her life. ‘I couldn't have any more babies after DeeAndra.'

Anita worked on Margery's wound, sitting on the cross-stitched footrest with Margery's gnarled foot in her lap, Margery's knuckles white as they gripped the armrests.

Judith continued, ‘I spent the first six weeks of my life in a humidicrib. I nearly died, didn't I, Marge?'

Margery said, ‘So did I.'

‘Do your girls dance or sing?' Judith asked, putting her hand on Pudding's dance photo on top of the television.

‘Depends on their mood.' Anita was gently poking the skin around the wound when she became aware that the atmosphere in the room had changed. Judith had stopped talking. A short, middle-aged man with a perfectly coiffed, brown-dyed comb-over was smiling down at her.

‘This is my husband, Barry.' Judith reached for his arm, but he whipped his elbow up and dug inside his grey bomber jacket for a business card. ‘Barry Boyle,' he said, handing Anita the card. ‘Real estate and aged-care professional.'

‘Wow,' she said deadpan, turning to Margery's wound again. Barry dropped the card in her plastic basket.

‘What'd you think, Barry?' Judith asked, jerking her thumb towards Mrs Parsons' house. Barry nodded and winked, rubbed his hands together. ‘The two of them together; we could do them like they're doing Mrs Bist's. Big renovations. Bathroom upstairs, two bedrooms, a balcony at the back and a jacuzzi. All BIRs, OSP, ROW, a
huge
cellar
and
. . . a playground and park three doors down.'

‘Sell them, buy a bigger share of the home. What do you say, Marge? Make enough money to invest in our elder-age recreation facility with some left over for all of us! I could pay off my Visa card. Barry'd love me even more if I paid off my Visa card.'

‘Judith, I could never love you more than I already do.'

Judith smiled and pushed at the back of her hair, blushing.

‘Well, Marge,' Barry said, holding his hand in front of him to block his view of his mother-in-law's gaping shin wound, ‘now that Mrs Parsons is gone you're all alone, but you'll have company in the elder-age recreation village.'

‘Instead of sitting in the front room talking to yourself all day,' Judith said.

Margery said she was not alone. ‘There's still Kevin over the road; Angela and Anita come once a week –'

‘At least.' Anita wound a roll of bandage around Margery's shin, securing a protective wad of dressing in place.

‘And I've got a friend called Julien from the Green Environment Society who rings me from time to time to save the whales, and of course Mrs Ahmed.' She studied something invisible on the palm of her hand.

‘Mrs Ahmed?'

‘Yes, she'll be down for a cuppa sometime soon,' Margery said, adjusting the antimacassar on her armrest;
Count your age with friends but not with years. Anon.

At the kitchen sink, Anita washed the sticky dishes Margery had rinsed and left to drain. ‘There's all sorts of services Margery can have from the council. She doesn't need to go to a home.'

Judith stopped smiling. ‘What she needs is for us, her family, to decide what she needs – not someone from the council.'

Barry went to the sink and stood close to Anita, reached tantalisingly into his jacket again. ‘This is a good opportunity to segue to the list.' He pronounced ‘segue' as if it was two separate words.

‘This, Anita, is a very good list. Walter can do the restumping, give the place a coat of paint while he's at it.'

‘It's me,' Kevin called, clacking down the hall in his riding shoes and an aqua bicycle jumpsuit, Fifi in his arms.

‘Ah-har,' said Barry with exaggerated malice, ‘the rival bidder.'

‘I've had my eye on that little house for a long time,' he said, putting Fifi on Margery's lap. Margery eased the dog to the floor. ‘I've got plans to renovate Mrs Parsons' place, like Mrs Bist's, rent it to some young students. I need a project.'

‘That's one idea,' Barry said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Want to pop in next door and have a bit of a poke about?'

‘No,' Judith said, ‘it's private, and it's exactly the same as this place.'

Kevin's eyes were on Anita. ‘I'm Kevin,' he said, holding out his hand, but she just said, ‘Hi,' and went into the bathroom, which she realised immediately was a mistake. She was cornered.

He followed her, grinning like a boy with a new slug gun. ‘I know you, don't I?'

‘I doubt it,' she said, rubbing a face-washer around the handbasin.

‘I wouldn't forget someone who looks like you. Ride, do you?'

‘No.'

‘Play sport?'

‘Billiards,' she said and ducked around him back into the kitchen.

‘Live around here?'

‘No.'

‘You married?'

‘Your dog's pissing on the floor.'

Kevin picked up the dog and said, ‘We won't bother going to see Mum today, Mrs B. She's just got back from hospital and isn't herself yet.'

‘Your mother hasn't been herself for months, which isn't such a bad thing.' She nudged the dog away with her slipper, while Anita placed a square of newspaper on its small, yellow puddle.

‘My mother almost died.‘ Kevin ran one hand briskly over his crew cut, turned to Judith. ‘You know Mr McNickle died? Your mother was playing a polka and Mr McNickle was dancing with Mum and they fell. He broke his hip, got pneumonia and
died
.'

Margery reached for her cross-stitch basket.

‘Well,' Barry declared, ‘there'll be no dancing in our aged-care facility, that's for sure.'

‘They're not as agile as they used to be,' Margery said, threading a needle stuck into the armrest with the help of a magnifying glass. ‘I'll have to stick to slow waltzes from now on, which is a shame. Spoiled it for everyone, they did. You need something lively if you've been stuck in a home.'

‘And,' Kevin said, bending down to Margery, ‘you had a bit of a car accident the day Mrs Parsons died?'

Judith threw her arm up. ‘What did I tell you, Barry?'

‘Pud'll be pleased. She wants that car,' Barry said. Across the road, Pud sat on Tyson's couch, both absorbed by a video clip on her iPhone.

Kevin said, ‘But it's a Hillman Minx, a classic. In mint condition!'

‘Good point,' Barry said, ‘Vintage Car Association might be interested.'

‘I said, “It's only a matter of time before she kills someone in that car.” Didn't I say that, Barry?' Judith was scratching her throat now, her colour rising.

‘It was an accident,' Anita said, rubbing the floor with disinfectant.

Barry dropped his hand onto Kevin's shoulder. ‘Let's go have a look at Mrs Parsons' house.'

‘Let's,' Kevin said, but it was Judith who followed Barry through the kitchen and into the backyard towards Mrs Parsons' back door. ‘Don't drag Kevin through, Barry, it's Mrs Parsons' privacy.'

Kevin stepped towards Anita. ‘I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again.' She placed the screwed-up, dog-piss-stained newspaper into his extended hand and turned her back. Kevin left, taking the newspaper with him.

Anita put the kettle on the gas ring and lit it. While it boiled she prepared the teapot, strainer and cups, and when she poured it she used fresh milk that she had brought along especially. She also put a yoyo on the table between Margery's and Lance's chairs, then sank into his chair with a sigh. ‘I wouldn't bother painting the house if I were you.'

‘It'd cost my life savings,' said Margery, reaching for the tea.

‘And let's face it, you need to hang onto your savings.'

They sipped their tea, the irony of Anita's comment unnoticed by Margery. Anita idly picked up Margery's cross-stitch;
Great things are done wh . . .
‘You could go for a nice holiday, Mrs Blandon. A bus trip. They have them especially for older people.'

‘I don't want to be stuck in a bus with a bunch of old people. Why does everyone want to get rid of me?'

‘I'm just trying to support you, show everyone you don't need to get thrown into a home, show them how independent you are.' Anita pressed her a little more. ‘Unless you want to go to a home, but if you want to stay here you could get one or two of the stumps done.'

‘I could.'

They sat in silence, drinking tea, looking at their reflections in the crystal cabinet opposite: two women, similar in size, patches of primary colour on their distorted reflections, sitting against a cotton wall of wisdom and cross-stitched scenery.

‘A lovely cup of tea,' Margery said, which Anita knew was the closest Margery was ever going to get to being friendly. ‘How's my shin looking?'

‘Holding its own. It's the falls you've got to worry about, broken femurs and black eyes.'

‘It was dark.'

‘Don't want your bickie? It's made with butter, not margarine.'

This rare insight into Margery's preferences was the thing that started her crying. She reached for a tissue but found only her wet stocking in her pocket, and the tears rolled out of her eyes, tracked down her face and dropped from her slightly fuzzy chin into her tea.