Trio Page 11

  Again her reflections flitted to Mickey, the mischievous child in him. He played schoolboy pranks on people when they first met. There was an actress he liked to tease about her copious shoulder bags. She carried a large canvas bag to rehearsals which held every conceivable object for daily use. She would never, said Mick, be caught short on top of a mountain or down a deep well, without that necessary ice pick, length of rope, something suitable to read, and a torch. The actress happily agreed that she didn’t travel light but she had, as a matter of fact, done Girl Guides and it was true, she liked to be prepared. One day in the local pub Mickey secretly found a brick out the back, wrapped it in paper towels and concealed it at the bottom of her bag. He mentioned it to no one. The woman lugged her bag around with her for some days, to and from the theatre, panting sometimes, before questioning the undue weight. She telephoned her mates to share the jape – the guilty party wasn’t hard to guess. Marcia smiled, thinking of his grin: the way the dimple on his chin accented his crescent of a mouth, that lower lip she liked to take in her mouth. His small neat teeth. The quintessential imp.

  The reason, she supposed, that they had got along together was that she took him seriously as a potential actor and director. There were insights to his stage competence, his overall reading of a scene or a character, that were startling; he had not only what she supposed was called good spatial perception but an inner knowledge. Celia said this was all very well but you had to have more than potential; you needed a bit of drive.

  When he wasn’t having a lend of someone, as he would say, in the old Cock and Bull, he liked a quiet night at home with Marcia – and of course Celia, making it even more entertaining. They would watch some appalling television drama, sending it up as the story went along, anticipating the lines, doing the voices. Were the three of them just a little band of mean detractors? It didn’t feel like it – just having fun with people who would never know. Marcia’s guess was that television actors knew when they were working with a third-rate script or misspelt cues, and did the same thing off the set, in the actors’ pub.

  Even early on, before they were lovers and she knew the mingle of sympathy and wisdom in him, she was moved by unexpected acts. He’d come across her sitting in the kitchen at night, alone and with slack shoulders after a harrowing rehearsal.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, my dear?’ he’d enquire, with eyebrows working comically, to belie the kindness; he who lacked the energy or will to do domestic chores.

  ‘I almost feel I haven’t got the time to drink tea and think about these lines,’ she said.

  ‘One moment now may give us more than years of toiling reason,’ he said, filling the kettle, before emptying the day’s tea leaves into the fern outside the door, as he’d heard Mrs Edna Everage did.

  ‘Thank God for Wordsworth,’ she smiled up at him, taking the cup and sipping. Domestic rituals, the humdrum everyday, is what governs our loyalties in the end, she thought.

  How good those quiet times were.

  Still, those pranks: wouldn’t she have been better to challenge his constant messing around, rather than laughing at and with him, treating everything as a joke. Some things have to be taken seriously. At this very moment the television presenter, the one with the floppy lips, was reading the news. Something wrong with his tongue, was it? His teeth not visible. Magnetic, that was the effect all this had on her now because it affected his speech of course. She studied his delivery and saw that it was not elocution needed – that old-fashioned word so out of favour – but speech therapy. She switched to a commercial station and came to the beautiful girl who was currently doing the News: ‘Good avening,’ said the girl. ‘Good avening,’ replied Marcia politely, then switched to another channel to catch an ad for electrical goods, with the spruiker, no other name could he be called, crying: Available in Hay Street, Perth! – this charming faraway city that sounded like a belch.

  A police drama followed the News, staged in an English village. A polite little setting with the inspector, super-smug and clever, squinting towards the camera as though he were in the Australian desert though there was a sunless sky above. In his picture-book village, she thought. How she disliked these quaint English shows. A series surely destined for middle America that must be gasping for uncomplicated scenarios, where everyone is yawningly bland and you never see a black face. She can do without it, she’s over it, as her students say. But wait: here’s a dark bit. The music cueing us. O God, don’t tell me … yes … there was going to be a witch in the woods.

  She turned down the volume and took up her train of thought: considered getting rid of her television and other things she can do without: Sex – the traditional variety, the old jiggy-jig with a chap – was by now out the window, and one could manage without it. Then there was now, unavoidably, cutting back on rich food and wine; clothes (ruthlessly getting rid of those years-old skirts and beautiful blouses that still seemed a good idea) – half of her wardrobe to be turfed out. And she could easily get by without traipsing off to concerts, since her CDs had all the joy she needed without putting up with the splutterings and the mobile phones of an audience. Meals could be enjoyed at home with friends where, at anyone’s whim, a finger bowl could swiftly be supplied, or an ash tray, another bottle of wine without any delay. And toilet facilities known to be clean would provide everything a discerning guest’s heart would desire.

  One had to do, gradually, without best friends as they fall away – in one way or another. However she missed Celia badly, thoroughly, painfully. With Celia she could be still, for Cele knew how to be silent and listen to music. More than anything she missed their conversations. How Marcia had liked to feed a line to the younger woman and see what she’d make of it. Any idea at all she knew would get consideration from Celia; her response underscored by a tension and weight not found in the day-by-day exchanges of others. No, she was not heavy with it, old Celia.

  She frequently remembered Celia’s generosity – whenever Marcia saw, for instance, a couple of women giving the obligatory peck on the cheek. Recently she had seen two people at a front door. One of them lifted her head in a noblesse oblige gesture, so that the other had to reach up to plant her little kiss. Celia wouldn’t have done that to anyone. She’d enclose you in a fond embrace and give you a soft smacker on the cheek. You knew it for what it was: real affection, or else she didn’t bother to kiss you at all.

  Well, heigh-ho: it was a long time since they’d had a fond embrace. And, no doubting it, the severing of friendship may, in an odd way, ease the process of living alone again. But Marcia had heard that Celia was back in town these past few weeks. Would they still have things to say to each other?

  Ultimately of course one can do without life itself. Yes, this can be faced, and could be done. Indeed the very thought of all the things one wouldn’t have to be responsible for, as we are in life, was liberating and made her feel lighter.

  Here was the Late News. What was this frightful report? Someone had been killed and stowed in a wheelie bin. The story combined with the detached reading of it made her feel desolate. How could such a thing get into the very heart of her?

  Marcia did not want to end her days in a wheelie bin. It wouldn’t be unfitting, come to think of it. She was a thrower-outer. Others kept things while Marcia discarded. It was part of growing old. Not so much moving on as moving out. If she’d had offspring she’d now be thinking of their inheritance – and they would too, no doubt. But she was thinking of Celia.

  She put on the radio. A favourite opera piece was being sung by a soprano whose voice she’d never been fond of. Marcia screwed up her eyes, anticipating – and yes, it happened – how the top note in its fullness still eluded the woman. How were they allowed to get away with it? In the theatre if you didn’t perform well you’d be out on the third night. It was the same with pop music she’d liked when she was young. The world kept promoting the sunny, girl-next-door look despite the singer hitting that snag – the reaching and staying
on the note.

  She was a little out of sorts and didn’t know why. Doris Day couldn’t be held to blame. Because she was feeling guilty, perhaps? There was something else in life she had to do. It had seemed that the three of them – she, Mickey and Celia – felt that in joining forces they were somehow going to conquer the English-speaking world, without having any real agenda with which to do it, though Mick did have that short spate of luck with his scriptwriting. He became somewhat vainglorious for a while which didn’t suit him. But theatre managers, impresarios and fickle audiences don’t let you get above yourself for long.

  She awoke early, as usual, and decided to try the new brand of tea she had bought yesterday. Mmm, Richer Lanka Tea! the smell of these scented varieties almost bettered the taste. There was no sign of Moggy at the back door, which was surprising, as she was usually bawling for her breakfast by this time. Marcia walked down the back garden path in her dressing gown, calling to the animal.

  It was quite clear from the view she had of her cat from the small gate of the shade-house that she was dead, yet there wasn’t a trace of blood on her. A still aura enveloped the little feline. Her back legs were locked in a splayed position. Yes, it was quite clear, but she could not resist calling her name over and over. Finally Marcia, by now shaking and with heart throbbing, bent down and touched the animal, still murmuring its name. The kitten was cold as marble in that warm air, and when she lifted her, the body – so jaunty yesterday evening – was stiff and heavy. The creature had been lying in its refuge, the shade-house, for many hours. People would tell her in the future that it was common for a cat to be hit by a car, then run to a sanctuary and collapse, literally dead in its tracks. But at that moment, panic-stricken and confused, all she could do was run to Ivor’s place in her dressing gown to ask for his help.

  When he saw the usually respectable lady on his doorstep with the tears coursing down her ageing cheeks it was his turn to disapprove. He treated the news in a very matter-of-fact way; he’d be over later to bury it for her. Later? Her flagging spirit flared. Didn’t the great brute realise that it was a hot morning. The flies were hovering over her beloved cat lying dead not more than thirty metres away. But she gathered her robe around her and thought: He’s right; there’s nothing to be done now. Get home and have your tea, what’s done is done. Yet she didn’t convince herself.

  Once back home she covered pussy with a towel and drank her tea but she couldn’t rest. Ivor was across the road, helping Mrs Thompson with a broken fence. Obviously Marcia’s troubles didn’t count, today. And she knew that, after all, much as she liked him, she did not want to have those great, calloused hands lift the cat up and dump it, without sympathy, into the hole. So she went down and laboriously dug a deep grave herself, in the vegetable garden, tenderly undid the collar from the kitten’s neck and lowered her, very carefully and with difficulty, into the grave, whispering endearments. She thought it fitting, even necessary, that the task be performed like this; quietly, decently and with patience. She could not have borne anyone making sensible remarks about rapid decomposition with summer approaching and the good it would do for the soil, et cetera. She sighed, walking back up to the house to rest, her arms and legs aching. This was the kind of task that Celia would have helped her with in a flash – would have helped anyone with. Dear Cele, fighting like a vixen in the morning with the lawnmower man over his price, and an hour later shepherding a mother duck and her babies across the road, standing on the busy street, holding up her hand to trucks, buses and motor cyclists who all obediently ground to a halt for Celia and mother duck to fussily waddle across to the other side with her offspring.

  Marcia remained at the kitchen table, thinking. Celia it was who once blocked a semi-trailer with her car because he was carrying sheep for slaughter that were loaded so densely onto the truck that several of them had their legs hanging over the side. She told him that they were obviously in pain, their legs broken, and she wanted him to at least lift their legs back inside. The man, in a frenzy of anger, called her every name he could lay his tongue to but she held firm, telling him calmly that he could call her whatever he liked but here she and her car would stay until the sheep were attended to. He had to comply.

  And there were other incidents. For all her fastidious ways, Celia would pick up the old drunk that others passed by and lead him to the Salvos for a night’s sleep. And in the morning she would follow through by calling in with a fresh pair of trousers for him she had bought at the local Op Shop. Trying to take care of everyone, Marcia remembered with a little smile, but at the same time getting half the population offside.

  Her thoughts, as she blinked hard, went back to the kitten. She walked out to the front porch to collect the weekend newspapers, gathered the two bundles and dumped them on the living room table to sort through. Systematically she sifted, throwing away real estate, motoring, finance, careers and opportunities. She tossed away travel and property; gave the political pages a sweep of her eyes, frowned and shook her head, then settled down with the front section and tried to find the usual interest in the back part that held the films, theatre and crossword. Through the window she saw a neighbour she liked, walking in a discouraged sort of way across the road, mirroring her own state of mind, dragging a shopping bag on wheels behind her that could have been an unwilling dog. Perhaps she too had suffered some kind of blow this morning.

  That night there was a thunderstorm, the heavens in a fury. She cowered under the bedclothes, waiting for the roof to lift and fly away, Disney-like. She went into the back garden the following morning, thinking of Macbeth’s utterance: It was a rough night. Three potted trees had been felled by the wind’s ferocity and lay prostrate, awaiting human succour. She found that she could no more leave them there while she went indoors to have breakfast, than she could have left an animal. So she pulled on gloves and set them to rights, cutting off the high, heavy boughs that had led to their downfall. The restoring did not take long and she was aware as she did it that today was her father’s birthday. Her mother had laughed at the way he was about his birthday. Unkindly laughed. Mother had been a hard worker, cleaning offices, and found her consolation not in birthdays but in her rosary.

  The task finished, Marcia put her hands on her haunches and stretched her neck, then looked at the righted trees in their pots with a certain satisfaction and dreamily gave the crown of her head a brief scratch with splayed fingers, a familiar gesture that Mickey used to imitate until she or Celia would throw a tea towel at him. She went in to take a shower.

  Some weeks later she was planting more seedlings in the petunia plot, on all fours, breathing in the smell of the dark, damp undersoil and handling it appreciatively, when she heard the doorbell ring. That would be Ivor. She hadn’t seen him for quite a few days. The usual ritual was: she would answer the door and he’d stand there with his arms folded and say: How’re you goin’, having nothing in particular to say himself. But as it happened, this morning he had a less confident air about him, and was dressed in his pyjama top and a pair of old trousers, looking none too chipper.

  ‘Somzink ronk with me lonks,’ he said. ‘Had lotsa tests done.’

  ‘Lungs? Not TB I hope, Ivor?’ Simply no point in skirting around it.

  ‘They dunno. But the specialist’s visits cost $250 a time, and I hadda go three times, so far.’ Was he boasting about this? But just a minute, she looked closer, he was indeed frightened.

  ‘I daresay you’ve been working too hard, Ivor. Do you smoke?’ No, he hadn’t smoked for thirty years.

  She stayed talking with him for a while. It seemed he wanted her to say something, but she didn’t know what it was. Tactless to tell him not to be scared. So instead she said:

  ‘They’re very tough, these specialists, with their bills.’ Had she just used the word tough? But as long as he understood that she was on his side. Money was very important to him.

  ‘Yeah. They know howta charge,’ he replied.

  He lingered f
or a while on the doorstep, talking about what sounded like pedals and kites, and Marcia’s eyes grew dreamy with the Chagall-type picture of bicycles airborne, attached to papier-mâché contraptions. Oh, pull yourself together, she told herself, and concentrated. Surely he was talking about padlocks on gates he had to instal somewhere? And he looked quite ill.

  Finally he made a move to go, and she was sorry to see the set of his shoulders. ‘Let me know any news you get from the doctor,’ she said rather swiftly, to disguise any compassion he didn’t want to see. He agreed, in a nonchalant tone, but she saw that his eyes were dispirited.

  As she watched him go she fervently hoped he wouldn’t die soon. If he did, she realised, as she went back to her flowers, it would not only be another loss, it would bear out her conviction of the untimeliness of things, generally.

  9

  Perth, 2000

  She wanted to be done with private teaching. Her energy was draining with it. One difficult student was all it took to convince her. The trouble was, the boy whose manner she didn’t care for had the loveliest mother; a woman who seemed to appreciate Marcia’s help and encouragement.

  The beautiful David Li was off her hands and launched into university, doing well. Better than well; he was exceeding expectations. She thought she’d wind it up, just keep on faithful Luke who had been taking three lessons a week in an effort to improve, for the priesthood. Dear God, they would never accept him; he could barely find his way across the city.