There Should Be More Dancing (19 page)

Anita said, ‘You lost your friend,' and Margery looked away, biting her bottom lip. Then she started to cry, tried to gather in her shaky sobs, tea spilling into her saucer, but they came like seizures. Anita took Margery's cup and saucer from her and rubbed her shoulders, which made Margery cry harder while trying to haul tranquillity from the air, saliva and tears and snot running off her, chin and body jerking in silent sobs. Anita got a damp face washer and Margery held it to her face, but her grief didn't stop, she spluttered on and on for the first time in decades. Anita sighed, ripped off her Nicorette patch and sat on the back step smoking until Margery's shudders stopped.
When she'd assembled her steely demeanour again, Anita stubbed out her cigarette and made a fresh pot of tea. Margery was able to sip her tea, though she couldn't get her mouth to work enough to eat the yoyo. ‘You're very kind,' she managed to say, and Anita smiled. ‘I suppose they teach you that at home care school?'

‘Yep,' Anita said, ‘otherwise we'd never know.'

‘Normally I don't cry,' Margery said. ‘It's been a tragic week, and I missed my hair appointment.'

‘What you need, apart from new glasses, is a flatmate.'

‘Are you sure you're not Irish?' Margery asked.

She shook her head, ‘Never seen an invisible pixie in my life. Why?'

‘Well, I've got a flatmate. An invisible friend.'

Anita looked around the kitchen, past Margery, down the passage and said, ‘Is he here now?'

‘No,
she
isn't here. I only talk to her when I need to. If she was here now I wouldn't have anything to tell her when you've gone.'

Anita said, ‘I see,' but it was clear she didn't.

‘Mrs Parsons had one as well. She kept a bed made up for hers.'

‘Right.' Anita came in and put her hand on Margery's forehead. ‘I might get you checked out . . . those falls . . .'

‘I'm perfectly alright.'

Anita held Margery's wrist. Her pulse felt regular and strong.

‘Have you had enough to drink today?'

‘Yes,' Margery said, but Anita topped up her cup of tea anyway.

‘Mrs Blandon, did you know you've only got one stocking on?'

‘Of course I do,' Margery said.

‘Would you like me to make you another hair appointment?'

‘I'm not useless,' she said wearily, but Anita phoned on her behalf anyway.

As she repacked her basket to go to Mrs Razic, Anita said, ‘Have a nice afternoon tea with the Ahmeds. You and your invisible friend.'

She felt drained, exhausted by her tears, but she changed her stockings, sprinkled talcum powder in her damp shoe, dabbed more powder across her bruised eyes, put on her hat and coat and made the short trip to the Ahmeds' house. When the door finally opened, four brown faces – one old, one middle-aged and two young – wrapped in brilliant discordant colours looked warily at her. Margery was momentarily startled by the old lady. She wore a thick gold ring in her nose and her face bore scars, long neat gashes from her cheekbone down to her chin.

Mrs Ahmed nudged her eldest daughter, who said, ‘Hello?'

‘Good afternoon,' Margery said, smiling.

The women smiled back at her. She spoke slowly, ‘I've been meaning to ask, would you like to come for afternoon tea?' She mimed pouring tea and drinking it.

‘Come to tea?' said the oldest daughter, and then translated for her mother and grandmother. They chatted among themselves, arms moving under their coloured drapes, as though there were other people under their long dresses. Margery explained that it was an Australian custom to invite newcomers to the neighbourhood in for a cup of tea and a biscuit. ‘It's called “being neighbourly”,' she said.

The littlest girl said, ‘We've been here two whole years,' and Mrs Ahmed said something to her older daughter, who then informed Margery that no, they would not like to come to tea. ‘We don't want to come.'

‘Well,' Margery said, ‘no one can say we don't try.' As she pulled the gate closed she saw them, watching her from the door, still smiling. ‘You know,' she called, ‘you don't need your jihads in this
country, the heat's too extreme,' but they had gone, squabbling among themselves, the door slamming with finality.

Margery waved. ‘Bye bye. That's “goodbye” in Australian.'

Back at home, sitting dejectedly in her chair with her cross-stitch on her lap, the Ahmeds' alarmed voices carrying across the small backyards, Margery said, ‘Mrs Parsons was my best neighbour ever.'

The kettle isn't ideal but they have four different flavours of tea bags in this room. And it's comfy – cool, and I imagine in winter it's warm. I remember Mrs Bist said to me once, ‘When Pat goes into the nursing home she'll be warm in winter and cool in summer,' as if she'd be better off than me. She said I'd be better off in a ‘nice, modern little unit', but had I my druthers I'd slip away in my sleep in my own bed. That little house came to be my cocoon, my refuge; it's everything I know and love. She should have realised that. Lance said Mrs Bist had tits like a bus shelter, and I had my prejudices against her. In fact, I told her once she was like a crewel needle – sharp with large eyes – but I certainly didn't want her to die, and the constable said it wasn't my fault that Mrs Parsons died. She depended on me, and I'm sure she knew I'd never let her down. She didn't
have
to die. As I say, she knew. Mrs Bist certainly didn't know she was going to die, but I believe Mrs Parsons had a premonition, because she cleared out her wardrobe. Perhaps I could have put two and two together and offered to help, asked her if she was feeling chipper or something.
You knew you were going to die, Cecily, I'm certain of that.

I wonder if I let Mrs Bist down, whether I should have been more friendly, not held a grudge so much about the clothes hanger, not expressed my opinions about God. Mrs Bist was always telling us about her noble deeds, and we had to put up with all those foster children. I told her once that one of her state wards was stealing Mrs Calabria's apricots. Sitting on a branch, he was, stuffing every apricot he could reach into his mouth, two or three at a time. Mrs Bist just curled her shoulders back, pulling herself up to full height, her bust rising like an awning on a hot day, and said, ‘God put the inferior on earth as a lesson to those who are privileged in order that they might appreciate their good fortune and assist those less privileged.'

As far as I was concerned she wasn't privileged, and I certainly didn't need assistance. You see, it was Mrs Bist who told the council I needed a home carer. She put the ACAT team onto me, and all because one day I met her at the gate and I happened to have the clothes hanger still looped through the zip-catch on the back of my dress. As I explained to Cheryl that first day she came, I used a wire clothes hanger to pull up my zip at the back because I can't reach, and Cheryl said, ‘I use one to zip up my jeans.' Then she took me shopping and we bought the front button-through frocks, and as far as I was concerned she had done her job and could have left me alone forever, but she actually turned out to be a nice girl in the end, though she couldn't make tea. She didn't have tickets on herself.
She
didn't think she was a nurse, like that Anita.

Pat always took Mrs Bist's side. I made a simple observation one day about the latest lot of boat people who landed in Australia from Arabia or India or somewhere. All I said was, ‘They say they're refugees, but I think they dress too flamboyantly to be poor.'

She said, ‘They obviously still need help or else they wouldn't get in a leaky boat and we, us here in the wealthier nation, and that
includes all the
racist bigots
, should give it to them.'

Well, I'm not a racist bigot. I've always done the right thing by Mrs Parsons, and I'm friendly to the Ahmeds, though they practically slammed the door in my face. You'd have thought I'd turned up with a bomb the way they reacted. How could I be a racist bigot when I have Mrs Parsons as a friend?
Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive
. You can't help being born looking the way you do, can you? And I always said good morning to Mr and Mrs Calabria. They were very well-intended but the Incident with the Pig
was
a bit much. It was way back when they first arrived. Pat accepted some of Mr Calabria's bacon, but I declined because at the time I didn't think raising a pig then slaughtering it in a Brunswick backyard was civilised. ‘Not much difference between a pig and a chook really,' Pat said. It's true, I did have chickens in the backyard, and yes, if chopping the head off one and cooking it meant my three children and Lance's mother were fed, then it was a necessary job well done. I don't know if Mrs Parsons got any of the bacon. She never said.

As far as I was concerned, every day I did my best.

I remember hearing on the telly once – David Attenborough, I think it was – ‘We all started off worshipping the same sun.'

On reflection, some people would probably say I could have said something to someone when I didn't see Mrs Bist those days before they found her. And though it was no concern of mine that Mrs Parsons threw out her clothes, I suppose it wouldn't have done any harm to ask why. Over the years I might have even asked about her life, taken an interest in her broken heart, talked to her a bit more . . . been there for her.

~

It would be soul-destroying if I found you had struggled, if you had fought on your own to stay while I slept, Cecily.

The night Mrs Parsons died I cried a lot, and I cried the next day as well. You cry all over again for everyone that's already died. You cry for your grandparents and parents, pets and friends, and even the little children and people you see on the news who die unfairly. That's what crying's for, to remind you of all the people you've lost and how valuable they were. I suppose I may have even cried for Mrs Bist. She was only doing what she thought was right when she told the ACAT team about the clothes hanger.

It was a comfort, I must say, to have Anita there to make me a cup of tea when I was so lonely and sad.

I've always had you, Cecily. You've been the centre of my life, more or less. That said, now I think of it, I suppose that could have affected things.

Judith said, ‘She won't have to spend all day sitting in the front room talking to herself,' and it's just occurred to me that you, my greatest comfort, could be my undoing.

It's just that I worry about the plain truth of it; I was not there for you. I slept while you died.

Perhaps that's why Judith said I had to ‘live for the now', and I suppose it could look like I don't care about other things, the people around me . . .

I came to this room thinking it was
their
fault, and because of them I'm about to throw myself from the balcony, but I'm beginning to see how they could see things their way. I imagine they think things could have been done another way.

Mind you, Judith also thought I killed Mrs Parsons, so I suppose she thinks it's all right to kill me, and I suppose it is, since it seems I've let everyone down. Well, I'll save them the trouble, and then they can say I abandoned them all over again.

The phone rang in the stagnant pre-dawn hours when her mouth was wide, her breathing sparse and rattly, and her heart shoving out just enough blood every now and then to keep things ticking over. The shrill ringing ripped her straight from unconsciousness to panic – ‘Morris!' – and as she shuffled to get to the phone her shoulder bumped the door. Disoriented, she overbalanced and walked head-first into the wall opposite. She recovered, reaching for the telephone, but when she lifted the receiver and put it to her ear, all she could hear was the blur of vacant telephone wires.

‘It was probably Faye or Joye . . .' she told herself. ‘After Lance's last will. Morris wouldn't hang up like that.'

Dimly aware of the ache in her face, Margery retrieved a packet of frozen peas from the freezer and headed back to bed, stopping for a swig of cooking sherry on the way. She wiped the lip of the sherry bottle with the sleeve of her dressing gown and was about to replace it when she thought better of it, held it under her arm and closed the cupboard door. She crept on towards her comfortable bed, staying there sipping sherry until the sun was well up, willing her heart
to cease clapping in her breast, breathing deeply, steadily. When she finally rose from bed again, her head felt light and her heart fluttered, nausea churned her stomach, and she felt breathless. The packet of frozen peas had melted, washing blue hair tint onto her pillow. Her reflection in the wardrobe mirror told her the damage: the flesh on the side of her face was black and blue, throbbing, the skin taut like a drum head, and a neat line of dried blood ran across her cheekbone. Underneath the clear Tegaderm on her shin, blood had oozed from the wound and spread, drying like a huge ink spot. As she drank her tea and ate her toast and swallowed her tablets, Margery's body trembled.

She emptied the melted packet of peas in a pot of water and set it aside for lunch. Then she wrenched open the frosty door of her tiny, ice-choked freezer and worried a packet of frozen corn kernels from the icy womb, holding it over her ruined face as she washed and dressed, relying on the solid friendliness of fixed objects to support her. She dragged on her knee-highs, reached down into the dark wardrobe for her Sunday shoes, her head reeling and her breakfast churning in her stomach. Again, when she set the table, for two people instead of three, she stopped to cling to the chair while she wept, her face screwing so that it hurt, her foundation make-up and powder leaving dried watercourses down her creased face.

Mercifully, when she plodded carefully around her tiny front yard she found only a half-full bottle of whisky sitting in the centre of her footpath where someone had rested it to piss up against her side fence.

After Margery prepared the vegetables, she sat down at her kitchen table and, holding her broken glasses over the writing pad, wrote to Morris:

Dear Son, I am always pleased to get your postcards, and I am pleased that you are well. All well here.

I'm sad to have to inform you that Mrs Parsons died and her funeral is today. You know you always have a home here and that you will always be my son, no matter what. They've knocked down Mrs Bist's house and are building a new one. Pat is in a home now and Kevin's hobby these days is bicycle riding. I had been doing Mrs Parsons' laces for fifteen years. As you know, she had arthritis. Our weather did not suit her bones. Life can be unfair, and ‘every path has its puddle'. Always your loving mother, x

It was an emotional, honest letter compared to Margery's usual cards:
All well here, the weather has been hot. Judith's new business is booming and she and Pud dropped in just last Sunday. Walter is the manager now at the hostel. That's all for now, love, Mum
. She folded the page neatly, slid it into an envelope and propped it against the salt cellar. Walter would copy out the address and post it. She sat looking at the envelope and eventually felt strong enough to go to the front gate where she stood, her old hand cupped tightly over the gatepost. Eventually, Walter came striding along the street, his best suit folded over his arm again. He carried a frozen chook, newspaper and a brand-new shirt, still in its square plastic wrap. ‘One thousand and one days, Mumsy,' he said brightly, but he stepped from one foot to the other, clicking his thongs on his feet.

‘One thousand and two days,' she said. ‘An achievement if ever there was one. How are you, Walter dear?'

‘Every day is a new day. Got another shiner?'

‘Door blew in the breeze and caught the side of my face. It's nothing.'

‘I've seen worse,' Walter said.

‘Tell me how you are, son.'

‘I've been better.' He jerked his head towards Mrs Parsons' house, and Margery patted his arm and said, ‘Another sad day, son.' Inside,
Margery put the frozen chook in the freezer for next week, turned the potatoes and pumpkin, and while Walter set the table she lit the flame under the peas.

‘How's Pat after her fall?'

‘Pat's alright, but Mr McNickle didn't recover as well. How's the course?'

He dug the syllabus out from his shorts and gave it to her. It was in limp pieces, worn through along the folds. ‘We just did Cleaning and Sanitation. You must always use disinfectant strictly according to the instructions on the bottle, Mumsy. You see, it's created to have maximum effect according to the proportions scientifically calculated, and if you put too much in it diminishes that scientific effect. Builds up over time to a sort of film. Understand?'

‘I do.'

‘Next we do Pest Control and Waste Disposal.'

‘Any notices about Mrs Parsons?'

Walter opened his newspaper to the death notices. ‘The nuns have put one in.' He read out loud to Margery, ‘“Parsons,” um . . .'

Margery took the paper from him, ‘“Euphemia Poinciana”, lovely name, “Nineteen twelve to two thousand and nine. Blessed is everyone that feared the Lord, That walketh in his ways. RIP.” Mrs Parsons had no need to fear any so-called Lord. She would never have sinned. Never.'

‘She came to all our concerts when we were kids.' Behind the newspaper Margery saw tears dropping down onto Walter's guernsey.

‘Sent you flowers when you were in the hospital.'

‘A bunch of lavender.'

‘From her own hedge.'

‘From her own hedge.

Then Margery strained the peas while Walter made the gravy, and when he turned to go and get Mrs Parsons, he realised again that she wasn't there and sat at the table and put his face in his arms on the table. As he cried, his big, hairy shoulders jumped, shaking the table and making Margery's heirloom salt cellar rock alarmingly. When he'd recovered, he blew his nose and they ate lunch in silence. Once, during lunch, Margery dozed off, and Walter tapped her plate with his spoon to wake her.

Kevin watched Anita park her silver 1970 XY GT Falcon outside Mrs Ahmed's house in one reverse action. He moved across to the other side of the window to get a better view. Anita paused at Margery's gate to stub out her cigarette against the gatepost, then she took something from her pocket and rubbed it onto her arm, stepped over the remains of Margery's front fence and paused again to tuck the cigarette butt under a loose paving stone and went straight inside without knocking. He heard her call, ‘Anyone home?' and then he rushed to shower, dress, and get over to Margery's.

When he heard Anita's voice, Walter froze, his spoonful of chicken and peas half way to his mouth. He wanted to be standing up, tall, dark and handsome against the white fridge, in command of the house, like a man, his strong, lovely arms folded across the black and white stripes of the best football team in Australia, but she was suddenly there, small and neat, wearing a nurse's uniform, and he was eating peas from a spoon.

She didn't even look at him, just put her plastic basket on the table next to him, focussed on Margery's face, which looked like a watercolour left out in the rain. ‘Jesus! What happened to you?'

‘The door swung in the breeze. Walter will put a hook on the wall for me, won't you, Walter?'

‘There's not a single door in this house that swings, Mrs Blandon.'

Margery contemplated something on the back of her hand, then confessed, ‘Actually, it was the phone. It rang in the night.'

‘Shit, look at your shin.' She put her hands on her hips and sighed. ‘You alright?'

‘Perfectly,' said Margery.

Walter was still staring, and he stared at Anita for a further two full seconds until Margery said, ‘Walter!'

‘Job's right.'

‘I know I'm not meant to be here today,' she explained. ‘I'm actually on my way to see Mrs Razic, but your mum's got a bit of a shin issue going on and we don't want it to ulcerate.'

‘Certainly not, Anita.' He was on his feet now, his serviette hanging from the neck of his guernsey, his adoring eyes drinking her in, moving around her face from her eyes to her lips, her hair . . .

‘Now, Mrs Blandon, you all set to face the funeral?' but she didn't wait for an answer. She started tidying the roasting pan and stacking lunch dishes, saying, ‘Let's see if we can do something with your hair,' and, ‘Perhaps we'll rustle up a hat or scarf.' When Margery stood, she winced in pain, and Anita suggested they cut a hole in her new slipper to release the constricted toe and its corn, but Margery refused. Walter had given her the slippers.

‘I get her a new pair every Christmas,' Walter said. ‘They're sturdy, got the zip up the front, but if you feel you have to cut a hole in them, Anita, if it'll help . . .' So Margery's toes were set free. Then she sat Margery on the edge of the bath and Walter watched her tenderly remove his mother's dressing, gently swabbing it away, dabbing at the coagulated blood, wiping away the slough. She basted the raw hole with saline solution, smoothed some cream over the pink, weeping flesh, expertly applied a new dressing and wrapped the
limb, around and around, securing a wad of soft protective bandage. Walter said. ‘I'm deeply grateful that you're caring for Mumsy in such a considerate and capable way. It's very . . . inspiring.' He straightened his left leg and tugged the hem of his shorts.

‘If this gets infected she could end up needing a skin graft.'

‘Fair statement,' Walter said, and crossed his arms, pushing his biceps out.

‘I'm not going to hospital,' Margery said.

‘You won't have to go with Anita looking after you,' Walter declared, taking the opportunity to place his hand on Anita's shoulder. She was firm and warm, and her small, female bones moved under her skin.

‘Heard from Barry about the house repairs?' she said, moving from his touch.

‘I think Barry should dig the holes for the stumps with his fat tongue, dip his nuts in paint and crawl all over the house.'

Anita laughed, which made Walter laugh, too loudly and too long at his own joke.

While she sat on the stoop drinking tea, longing for a cigarette, Walter leaned against the clothesline and explained he was going to sing a song at Mrs Parsons' funeral.

‘Walter's a very good singer,' Margery said.

‘What are you singing, “Return to Sender”?'

‘“You Were Always On My Mind”,' Walter said, failing to recognise Anita's joke. ‘You may not know, Anita, but I'm a champion boxer.'

‘An athlete,' Margery said.

‘I noticed the trophies.'

‘As you can see, I'm not just a pretty face.'

‘I can see that.' Anita looked at her watch.

‘Right,' Walter said, ‘we'd better get organised,' and went to get changed.

As Anita put the finishing touches to Margery's bruises with foundation make-up, she asked if Margery was going to say a few words at her friend's service. ‘Not much point since she's dead now.'

Walter came back, struggling to button up his suit jacket, the top three buttons of his shirt undone and his St Sebastian medal hanging against his singlet.

Margery told him he couldn't go to Mrs Parsons' funeral with his underwear showing, so Walter got the kitchen scissors, sliced the front of his singlet down to his navel and folded it back under his shirt. His small silver medal rested snugly in the nap of his manly chest.

‘Purple suits him, don't you think?' Margery said, and Anita replied, ‘It goes with his haircut.' Walter wasn't sure if it was an insult, but he said thank you anyway.

Kevin arrived dressed respectfully in black: smart black shorts and a black Polo shirt, socks and sandals, his moustache neatly combed and his crew cut glistening with some sort of perfumed product. He stood next to Anita, who was on her knees polishing Margery's shoes at the time. She turned and looked straight at the fly of his nicely ironed shorts. He stared down at her. ‘That car of yours is a vintage car, did you know? If you like I can take you along to a car club and we could –'

‘It's a machine that gets me from one client to the next, that's all.'