Mrs. Smith

I suppose I’d better move on and tidy up a bit before that new lass arrives.

Every Wednesday she comes, all decked out in her headscarf and long skirt. I don’t know why they still feel obliged to wear it all being in this country. Only her little face protrudes under it. Always smiling.

A community support worker they are called these days. It would have been a vicar in my day. All the same, she insists I call her by her first name, which is all well and good except I can’t pronounce it. So she wrote it down for me in nice big letters and made me say it a few times, but I kept on stumbling and she kept on saying that’s right Mrs. Smith, you are doing great, which is what they always say no matter how badly you are doing. I imagine it works for some people. But I was never any good with foreign tongues you see, not even at school, so I know she is just doing her job. She tried to call me by my first name, but I said I don’t recall giving permission. It’s never a good idea to get too familiar with staff. Still, we manage a laugh or two most weeks.

Not that I need much help mind you. I keep things in pretty decent order around here. Myself included. Not as spick and span as I once did, obviously not and I’ll be first to admit it, but still respectable. Back in those days, while my Gary was still alive, you could have run a white-gloved finger over my skirting boards, and the top of my mantelpiece and it would come back as white as when you started. As my mother-in-law did when she came to visit from Edinburgh. All high and mighty in her matching outfits. Gary and I hadn’t long been out here, in New Zealand. She must have thought we were living in a mud hut. Bringing her good china and good towels with her. Gary and I had a right laugh about it after she’d gone to bed. She’d stayed for the whole month, and by the time we were driving her back to the airport, she said I was as good a housekeeper as she was in her day and may God bless us and keep us both in this place we chose to settle. She left me her good china too. All the same I knew what she was saying – time to start a family.

Well, it didn’t work out in the end, did it. We kept on hoping, for years we did. Gary and I. He kept a brave face on too. Sometimes these things take time, he’d say when he found me crying behind our milking shed or in the bathroom. We’re both still young, love - young and healthy, and working hard, just look around you, how far have we come, there is a plenty of time still, farm is doing great, better than ever as a matter of fact. I knew he was trying to cheer me up, but I could see his eyes didn’t back him up. All the same he would scoop me up and carry me to our bed and soon I would be laughing at his jokes, he was a great joker, my Gary was.

They used to wait for him to turn up down at the hall just to hear him spin a yarn. In winter especially. Pints of beer lining up in front of him. Fire crackling in the hearth. While old Dermot was still alive he’d pull out his fiddle every now and then and soon everyone was merry, cheeks flushed, feet pounding the wooden floor, my Gary swinging me around like we were still courting, back home. All the neighbours’ wives laughing at his jokes like they haven’t heard a joke in their lives before, throwing their heads all the way back, or doubling over, hands over the stomach apparently cracking with laughter, bosoms spilling out. I could see it all. Most of their men couldn’t string a proper sentence, let alone spin a yarn or have a dance. They’d huddle together in the corner, leaning on the counter in their Swanndris and oilskins and red-band gumboots, drawing pint after pint in silence. I felt sorry for the wives.

This is why I didn’t want to let on about anything. Even when the rumours started spreading. That my Gary is helping Beth with far more than just odd jobs here and there. Good old Liz couldn’t stop herself telling me I’d keep my eye out for young widows out there if I was you, in the middle of a shop, all of them giggling into their hands. What Peter says about Paul says more about Peter than Paul, I said. That shut Liz up. Like I’d give her the satisfaction. Or any of them for that matter. When I came home, I told my Gary about it. He acted all surprised. Like he’d ever heard such a thing. He even made it look like the tattletale angered him. Oh, for goodness’ sake don’t they have anything better to do than spread nasty gossip those silly sheilas! Beth is just a woman on her own with a little kid is all! Isn’t our Christian duty to help?

You could almost believe him. If you don’t know any better. But I did. I’d figured it out long before anyone else. Almost at the funeral. It was a dreadful thing how her fellow died – crushed by a horse. He was big on horses, poor Barry was. He bought them young and reared them carefully hoping one day he’ll strike big, raise a racer, a winner that’ll make him rich. Well, he didn’t did he. The big chestnut mare he brought home from somewhere up in the Waikato only weeks before, cornered him against the wall her hooves crushing his chest until his body slumped down like a broken rag-doll. At least that’s what their farmhand said. He was terrified, he said, frozen by fear. Never seen a beast that vicious. It was like the mare was doing it deliberately, going for Barry.

The farmhand left not long after. Leaving Beth and her little boy on their own. Liam was the little fellow’s name. At first everyone rallied around Beth, anything you need, love, just yell out, we’re all here for you. Yeah, right I thought to myself. Wait a month or two. People forget, you see. They got busy with their lives. I was right too.

By early spring only my Gary was still helping. Taking the little fellow on a tractor with him while working Beth’s fields, bringing him home for lunch. Even to the shop with us when we were doing our groceries in town. What sweets would you like today, he’d say, lifting the boy off the ground, both their faces against the jars’ glass*. I’d like those ones*, the little fellow would chirp, pointing with his chubby finger. Oh, you do, do you, my Gary would exclaim, his eyes dancing with joy. And which ones would your mum like, do you know, he’d ask. Those ones, the chubby finger pointing to the very end of the line where imported bon-bons sat in their frilly wrappings*. Right you are*, my Gary would say and ask the shop girl to fill a packet of each as Liam planted a loud kiss in the middle of his stubble. Oh, you do love me now, don’t you!

I’ve never seen my Gary so happy.

I think it was the bon-bons that did it for me. I never let anything on of course. Let him drop me by our gate, said not to worry about helping me unload the groceries, it isn’t much anyway, just take Liam home, he’s looking tired poor little mite, and no need to hurry back, have a few things to do anyway and he’d better not be under my feet and all. He asked are you sure, love, but that was just for the appearance’s sake. I could see he was itching to get away. Get to Beth. She was pretty, mind you. None of that rough, weather-beaten look you see around here. On the contrary, she was tall and slender, her long hair bouncing off her back when she walked. And how she walked! Like she was gliding ever so slightly above the ground, her flame-red hair glowing. In a certain light you’d swear there was a halo around her head. She reminded me of girls back home. Must have reminded Gary too. As soon as I saw the end of Gary’s truck disappearing, I pushed the groceries inside and jumped on my old pushbike. The back track was still dry enough to pedal on it, I thought, and in any case I’d leave the bike in the bushes and make the last few yards on foot. I wanted to see it with my own eyes.

Sure enough Gary’s truck was in the driveway as I tiptoed up to the kitchen window. A thin, cold dusk was settling over the rhododendron and magnolia bushes. I needn’t have worry about being discovered. They probably wouldn’t have heard me if I knocked on the front door. Even if I hadn’t seen him kissing her neck, I would’ve known. She was standing by the stove stirring something in the white-enamel pot, a glass of wine in the other hand, hair pulled in a high bun, only a few feathery strands brushing the back of her neck. Gary sitting at the table, matching glass of wine by his side, a knife-sharpening belt in his hand using it on some carving knives. Little Liam was playing with the train set we’d given him for his birthday. I felt tears gathering at the back of my throat. I watched as Gary got up, pushed the knives into the block on the side of the countertop, moved behind her and started kissing her neck, pushing the loose hairs aside with his thick fingers, slowly, gently. I could feel bile rising deep inside my gut.

But I didn’t let it get better of me. I swallowed hard, brushed the tears with the back of my hand and left. I’d seen enough. As I pedalled back the mud flecked up onto my legs and the hem of my skirt. I pushed the bike to the back of the shed and went into the shower. By the time Gary came home, I was pretending to be fast asleep. I could smell her perfume when he rolled into bed. Laying in the darkness, listening to Gary’s slow, satiated breathing, a thought formed in my mind. As clear as a church bell.

In the morning I got up early and made Gary his favourite breakfast; black pudding fry-up. Oh, goodness me, what’ve I done to deserve all this, he laughed. Gave me a peck on a cheek too. But I could see a tiny speck of guilt in his eyes. He wasn’t a bad man, my Gary. He came back for tea carrying the little fellow in his arms, both of them muddy to their eyeballs. I had scones cooling on the rack. Cream and strawberry jam ready. Packed some for Liam to take home to his mum, I hope she’ likes them, I said. With all the work I bet she has little time left for baking. You could say that again, Gary responded. I could see he was well pleased. Soon I was a regular at her place, helping with this and that, leaving baking, casseroles, offering to have Liam for a sleep-over. She was a little awkward to start with, could never thank me enough. But she soon got used to it. Even smoking in front of me. I didn’t know she smoked. She offered one to me too, but I nearly choked on it which made her laugh. I could see why my Gary liked her. Her laugh spilled out like marbles. It rolled over two glasses of sweet sherry she placed on the table and filled every corner of the place. One time I was sure she was going to confess, even ask for absolution. She’d gone all mellow with drink and remembering her Barry, and then she started talking about how love, true love, cleanses all sins, and there could never be a sin in love, even if people like to gossip—especially then, their minds are simply too small to contain such a notion, a notion of unselfish love and the more you give away the more there is to give and more people we love and love us the closer to God we are, and on and on she went. I just poured her more sherry and kept quiet. But she stopped herself just in time. That dreamy look went out of her eyes, as if someone suddenly snapped their fingers and woken her up. I was right sorry about it. Imagine me hearing it from her mouth!

Then Liam got whooping cough and had to stay in a hospital, so I offered to drive her back and forth on account of Gary being too busy and our vehicle being in much better nick then her old Ford, all of which was true so nothing to be suspicious about. The hospital was about an hour-and-a-half drive each way, so we’d set out in the morning and come back just before tea. She did love that little boy, bringing him his favourite food and soft toys, even the train set. If he felt poorly she’d play stories for him with her fingers, like a puppet muster. Never cried in front of him. Saved it all for the car, I know he’ll get better, I am sure he will, she sobbed. I know God would never let anything bad happened to him no matter how sinful I might be. Well, love, I thought, God works in mysterious ways. Perhaps you should talk to our priest, go to confession, I suggested. I knew she rarely went to church on account of faith being a private matter. Feeling guilty more like. But she just brushed tears off and changed the subject.

Autumn was turning into winter; frost glistened on the road as I drove. The doctor said Liam was getting better each day and would soon be home. She was as happy as a boy in a sandpit. I suggested we stop at the lookout and celebrate with a glass of sherry in that new place, perched right over the gorge. She liked the idea. We were the only two ladies in the lounge. We sat by the fire and sipped our sherries. She couldn’t stop talking about bringing Liam home and all the things she would do to make his room bright and cheerful. I just listened. After the second glass, she clasped my hands in hers. Oh, Martha, you’re so good to me, you’re such a kind, good woman, her eyes shiny with tears.

I suggested we finish our drinks and take the scenic trail back to the car. The air was as crisp as if newly minted. An early dusk spun swathes of fog over the gorge. Isn’t it just magnificent? I said, moving closer to the edge where the path had no guardrail. God truly is a magician. It is breathtaking, she said, following. From the corner of my eye, I could see her wobbling on her heels, the seams of her nylons askew.

The next thing I knew was a hand slapping my face, someone calling my name, my head hurting as if hollowed out, both my knees grazed. That’s all I remember. It turned out Beth slipped and tumbled all the way down. Her body bouncing on rocks until the bottom. Apparently I tried to grab her but slipped myself. It was my screaming that alerted the bartender. He found me unconscious. Police and ambulance came, of course. Carted me to the hospital. Gary came. He was ashen. They kept me in the hospital for a couple of days but there were no serious injuries. Mostly shock, the doctor said. Nothing a good rest and a bit of counselling couldn’t help. Gary drove me home. We didn’t utter a word all the way.

Barry’s folk came and took little Liam with them. They put up the farm for sale too. I suggested we buy it, but Gary just gave me a look. He’d moved to a room at the back by then. He tried to go on as usual for a while, but I could tell it wouldn’t last. A year later he had an accident. Lost control at the wheel and swirled into a tree. His blood alcohol was three times over the limit. It didn’t surprise me. There were bottles stashed all over the place.

I sold the farm and moved to town. Closer to everything; the shops, the doctor, what have you. Besides I’d had enough of them all, gossiping. Liz especially. She even put her vicar onto it. He kept on coming, talking in that butter-wouldn’t-melt voice of his about sin and salvation and whatnot. I could tell you a thing or two about sin, vicar, I thought. But of course I said nothing. Just kept on smiling, making tea, buttering scones. He liked the savoury ones best.

The lights have come out on the street. That lass still hasn’t shown up. Them across the road are having tea. No tablecloth of course. Just a big parcel of fish and chips in the middle of a table. Little ones grabbing a handful at the time. They usually have fish and chips on Fridays. Maybe it isn’t Wednesday after all.