‘Honest to God, Moira, do you really need to eat everything on your plate? You’re
like a bloody locust!'
Immediately she put her knife and fork down.
‘Are you finished?’ she murmured, making
signs of clearing the table.
‘About half an hour ago.’
She rose hastily and began to pile the dishes
together.
‘I’m going to watch the TV,’ his chair
screeched from the table.
As she hurried to the kitchen, ‘Have some
bloody self-control. Don’t keep eating just because I can’t see you.’
With her head down, she made couple more
trips to the dining room before clearing the table completely.
In the kitchen, out of his sight, she placed
the leftovers into plastic containers, and with one ear in his direction, stuck
her fingers into the chicken apricot concoction and popped two succulent
pieces, flowing with thick creamy sauce, into her mouth. God, it was sheer
heaven.
‘Moira!’
She hurried to stack the few dirty dishes in
the dishwasher, the plastic containers in the refrigerator, and wondered
whether she’d dare to have a piece of the pecan pie which she had barely
touched. Without even realizing what she was doing, she fished the pie out of
the refrigerator, and hands trembling with anticipation and fear, she spooned a
mouthful into her mouth. Heavenly. Heavenly. Heavenly.
Licking her fingers and then drying them on
the tea towel, she raced into the sitting room. He was staring at her with a
look of disapproval.
‘Why do you do that, Moira? Who do you think
you’re fooling?’
She sat down, eyes glued to the TV screen.
She heard him make an impatient click, crossing his knees with a sharp crack.
She sat there in silence, hoping he might
need to go to the toilet in the next commercial break. If she were quick, she
might manage a bite of something else.
But in the end, he outstayed her, and she
decided to go to the kitchen anyway.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I thought I left...’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘I’m not sure that I…’
‘Yes, you have.’
She sat down.
Hours later, yawning her head off, she left
to go to bed, throwing a wistful look at the kitchen door.
It was a Friday morning that he came back
unexpectedly to find her on her hands and knees, looking for a chocolate coated
almond which had rolled under the settee. Its five companions were nestling in
a soup plate on top of the coffee table.
‘Christ, Almighty, Moira!’ he exclaimed.
‘Well, that’s it!’
She sat up on her haunches, alarm in her
eyes.
‘I can’t hack it anymore, Moira.’
‘What? What?’ she struggled to her feet. But
he’d already marched away from her.
‘Vincent?’
She hurried towards the bedroom where he had
an open suitcase on the bed and was tossing his clothing haphazardly into it.
‘Vincent?’
‘I’ve had it, Moira. I’m sick of a wife who’s
double my size.’
‘I’ll change, Vincent, I promise.’
‘It’s no use talking about it, Moira.’
‘I’ll go on a diet.’
‘Diet?’ he exclaimed in disgust. ‘Since when
have your diets ever stopped you from eating?’
‘This time I’ll stick with it, Vincent. I
promise.’ She was beginning to blubber, seeing something unyielding in his
eyes. ‘I mean it this time, Vincent. Please don’t leave me.’
‘Moira, I’m fifty years old. And the only
time I feel old is when I’m with you.’
He stopped and looked at her with a glimmer
of compassion. ‘When was the last time we had any fun together, Moira?’
‘Oh, Vincent, I will try to change,
honest I will.’
‘I remember
when we used to go dancing every weekend. Make love practically every day.
Sometimes two or three times a day.’
‘We had the
kids,’ she threw in weakly.
‘This was ten
years after the kids.’
‘I saw this
great diet in a magazine…’
‘You see diets
everywhere,’ he interrupted her sharply. ‘Seeing them doesn’t make you stop
eating.’
‘I’ll try,
Vincent. I really will try.’
He stopped what
he was doing, looked around the room ‘I think I’ve got everything,’ he said
snapping the case shut. ‘Anything else I need, I’ll buy.’
‘Vincent,
please.’
‘The house is
paid off, and it’s in your name,’ he said off hand, ‘so all you need to worry
about is the day to day bills and I’ll make regular transfer to your bank
account to keep you going.’
She was
standing in the middle of the room, eyes streaming like a fountain. ‘Don’t
leave me, Vincent. I can’t live without you.’
‘You’ve been
living without me for 15 years, Moira. So long as your bosom pal,’ throwing his
hand in the direction of the kitchen, ‘is full of vanilla ice cream, spareribs
and a chop or two, you’ve got everything you need.’
Her sobs ceased
for a moment. God, she’d forgotten the pork fillets she’d frozen a few days
ago. She’d better eat them soon. Pork wasn’t a good meat to keep.
‘Right,’ he
said with a grimace as if reading her thoughts.
‘Oh, please,
Vincent.’ He really was leaving. She tottered after him, as holding his case
firmly in his hand, he reached the front door.
He stopped for
a moment. Putting his case down, he fished into his pocked taking out a bunch
of keys. With care he detached a few.
‘Here are all
your keys,’ placing them into her nerveless hand, ‘so you won’t need to change
locks. In case you start worrying that I might want to sneak back one day.’
‘Where are you
going, Vincent?’
‘I’m going to
the coast house, Moira. That’s where I’ve always wanted to go. But, of course,
you didn’t want to live at the coast. You wanted to stay in this dump,
instead.’
‘But you know
how I can’t stand the sun. My skin...’
‘Your skin was
all right 15 years ago,’ he interrupted. ‘But, of course, there was a whole lot
less of it then. I’m sorry, Moira. I want to do what normal people do. Go
places like normal people do. Instead, it’s, I can’t go there, because the
seats aren’t comfortable, I can’t wear a swimsuit because people stare at me.’
‘You know they
do, Vincent.’
‘Of course they
do, Moira. You’re three stones heavier than when I married you. You’re two
stones heavier than I am.’
‘I’ll go on a
diet, right this minute, Vincent. I swear I’ll stick to it. Please, Vincent,
please.’
‘I’m sick of
being a policeman, Moira. From now on your weight is no longer my problem.’
‘You have
someone else, haven’t you?’
‘Of course, I
have someone else. Haven’t you noticed? We don’t sleep in the same bed anymore.
That’s because there’s not enough room for me and the three of you.’
‘I’ll change,
Vincent, I really will.’
‘For years,
every time you turned over, I’d pop up in the air like a bloody cork tossed on
the high seas.’
‘Oh, Vincent,
don’t be so cruel.’
‘Well, you
won’t need to worry about me anymore, Moira,’ he said opening the door, and
then shutting it firmly behind him.
………..
Vincent? Her
mouth opened but there was no sound, as her whole body dissolved into sobs.
Disoriented,
she stared at the door. What was she doing there? Was she going out?
Brrrr…………Brrrr…………..Brrrr…………..
She opened the
door. There was no one there. Vincent and his flashy Jag were gone. Only her
blue faded Holden was still standing there.
Why had she
opened the door? Surely. she heard the doorbell ring? But there was no one
there. She could still hear the sound. It was the phone. Perhaps it was
Vincent.
She shut the
door and hurried to the sitting room.
‘Vincent?’
‘Mum? What’s
the matter? You sound funny. Mum?’
‘Oh, Tina,’ she
answered, eyes and nose streaming. ‘It’s your dad. He’s left. He said he can’t
live with me anymore. I’m too fat.’
‘Oh, mum. You
stay there. I’ll be right over.’
Within an hour
she was surrounded by her five girls.
‘I’m sure he’ll
come back,’ she was saying, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands.
‘Of course, he
will,’ Kelly said soothingly.
‘Probably
something’s not going right for him at work,’ she volunteered.
‘Very likely,’
agreed Monica.
‘But once he’s
had time to think about it, he’ll be back, I know he will.’
‘Nothing
surer,’ said Dani, handing her a cup of cocoa with a sprinkling of chocolate
slivers. Just the way she liked it. It was so smooth and so creamy. Half milk,
half cream, unless she was mistaken.
‘He was so
angry,’ she said between sips.
‘It won’t last
long,’ reassured Chelsea.
She sighed.
They were true comfort girls. Like all the Lawrence girls were. She knew that
by the end of the day every Lawrence would have been told of poor Moira’s
plight.
That’s how the
Lawrences were – unlike Vincent’s family who kept all their family business to
themselves. That’s why they were so uptight. They couldn’t bear to have anyone
think of them as less than perfect. Even their toilets were so discreet you
needed a map to find where they hid the toilet paper.
When Vincent
had made a rare, bad investment, and lost money, he’d been appalled when she
told him what Uncle Jimmy’s advice had been on that occasion; and had told her,
quite unequivocally, what Uncle Jimmy could do with his advice.
But to the
Lawrences nothing was sacred or secret. Even when Uncle Benny had jumped the
fence, leaving his pregnant wife for freckly-faced Robert Stinkley, every
telephone in every Lawrence house had the news five minutes later.
‘First thing we
need to do,’ said Monica, ‘is to get you a job. You’re only forty-nine, after
all.’
‘But your dad
said he’ll send me money,’ she explained anxiously.
‘Oh, he will,
we know we can trust dad to do that,’ said Kelly, handing her a wafer-thin
chocolate biscuit. ‘But a job will keep you occupied, so you won’t have so much
time to think about dad.’
All Lawrences
had their share of common sense, and they also knew about erring husbands and
how far you could trust them. One of the real glamour pusses of Lawrence’s
girls had been left not by one, but by three husbands. Each one had sworn to
send her money. And had done so. But once the guilt wore off, a certain
unpleasant reality set in. These good-time girls, unlike the Lawrence girls,
weren’t into cooking and washing and ironing. They were great believers in
eating out three times a day, seven days a week, sending out dirty clothes to
the laundry, and generally spending money as though it was, in fact, growing
abundantly in the back yard. The money transfers rarely lasted long.
‘And remember,’
exclaimed Dani, ‘the Blue Care begged you to be their cook. Last I heard they
were still putting up with part-time cooks.’
‘That’s right,’
agreed Monica. ‘We’ll go right this minute,’ clearing the cups and saucers as
she spoke.
‘But…’
‘Might as well,
mum.’
……….
The kitchen
used by Blue Care was the local church hall and the five cars pulled in one
after the other with the precision of trained soldiers.
Before Moira
was out of the car, a woman, spattered with food bits from head to toe, raced
out holding out her arms.
‘Oh, Moira, you
must have heard my prayers. Just look at me,’ she wailed.
‘What
happened?’
‘You may well
ask’, said the other, dragging her inside. ‘It’s the old people,’ she
exclaimed. ‘None of our young volunteers will go near them. So, I had to do the
delivery myself.’
By now they
were all standing in the kitchen.
‘What’s the
smell?’ asked Moira.
‘Awful, isn’t
it?’ said the other. ‘And I had to deliver the muck. One old fellow told me to
bugger off, or he’d sue the dog on to me. When I said, Mr. Simpson, you
don’t have a dog, he said, said, Well, I’ll bloody well will get one if
I ever see you again.’
Moira shook her
head in sympathy.
‘Then at the
very next place, the fellow lifted the lid off the dish, took one sniff and
threw the whole lot at me.’
She fell into a
chair near the sink and burst into tears.
Moira had
already taken off her jacket and was emptying the contents of the pots down the
sink. She opened a few cupboards and started writing out a list.
‘Girls, go home
and bring me back these. I’ll use a few tins to get us going today,’ she
addressed the woman. ‘Tomorrow we can start from scratch.’
‘Oh, bless you,
Moira. I don’t think I could survive another day like today.’
‘What a kitchen
you have here, Joyce,’ said Moira. ‘I can see my face in every pot and pan.’
She turned to the woman with an approving smile. ‘Now, why don’t you go to my
place with the girls, have a shower, and find yourself a change of clothing?
You’ll feel so much better.’
‘Oh, Moira, it
reminds me of our tuck shop days, it really does,’ said the other. ‘But it’s
been a few years since we’ve done that, and I don’t think we can exchange
clothing like we used to do.’ She patted Moira’s rounded tummy. ‘I can’t put a pound on no matter what I eat,
and you pile it on just looking at food.’
‘You don’t have
to worry about that,’ began Dani. ‘Mum has four wardrobes.’
‘Hasn’t
everyone?’ said Moira with a ghost of a smile.
‘So, you’ve
still got your thin clothes?’ asked Joyce.
‘Thin clothes,
medium sized clothes, large clothes and the fat clothes which I’m wearing at
the moment,’ admitted Moira. ‘But I’m keeping everything because I might need
them one day.’
‘You’re bound
to find a size to fit you,’ finished Chelsea.
‘And by the
time you get back,’ said Moira, ‘you’ll be smelling something a lot better than
this.’
In the weeks
that followed, Moira, whose only outside work as a married woman had consisted
of being a tuck shop volunteer, found herself exhausted at the end of the day,
usually asleep before her head touched the pillow. When she wasn’t working,
every Lawrence within the reach of a bus or a train dropped in to see how poor
old Moira did.
They were
immediately led to Moira’s welcoming kitchen, a room which Vincent never used
for the entertaining of visitors. But to Moira, tongues loosened, bodies
relaxed and mind expanded, when nourished with a freshly brewed cup of tea, and
a cake or pie just out of the oven. In the kitchen you had friends, in the
sitting room you had self-conscious visitors on their best behaviour.
Comfortable in
their surroundings, the Lawrences talked freely about Moira’s current
situation. Depending on their disposition or personal experiences, there were
those Lawrences who were sure it was just a matter of time before Vincent
realized what he had lost, and the others whose attitude was good riddance to
bad rubbish. Even her Grand Aunt Emma, who hadn’t spoken to Moira since they
last met at Uncle Tom’s funeral, fifteen years ago, dropped in. Having lost Tom,
she felt that she knew how Moira felt and gave her many tips on how to survive
the loss. Moira, the Lawrence girl that she was, never let on that her own
husband, unlike Aunty Emma’s, was still very much alive.
By and large,
Moira had too much to do, more visitors than she knew what to do with, to spend
time thinking about anything much. It
was almost six months later that a bit of a problem arose.
‘They’re moving
us out of this area, Moira,’ Joyce began to tell her rather tentatively.
‘You’ll be
cooking for four times as many people as you do now.’
Moira couldn’t
see the problem.
‘They’re moving
us to one of the outer suburbs.’
When she
brought herself at last to tell Moira just how far that outer suburb was, Moira
pulled up short. A five minute drive to work was one thing. A two hour drive
was another thing entirely. Did she really want to do that?
‘Oh, Mum,’ said
Kelly when she heard the news. ‘It’s really a God send. This house is falling
apart. The roof needs replacing, electric wiring is not up to scratch, and it’s
six times too large for you. Sell it and get something smaller, more modern,
and closer to your work.’
‘Oh, I can’t do
that.’
‘Of course you
can,’ said Monica. ‘These inner city houses are fetching prices like you
wouldn’t believe. You’ll end up with a brand new house, and enough money to see
you through when you retire.’
‘But what about
your dad?’
‘Dad always
hated this house,’ said Tina. ‘You know that. It’s so dark and gloomy. Cold in
winter, hot in summer.’
‘I don’t know...’
‘I’ll have a
look on the Internet and see what’s out there,’ said Dani.
‘And I’ll get
someone to look at your house,’ added Chelsea. ‘I know every developer will
jump at the opportunity to get this massive place – and all that land.’
When three
months later Moira found herself in a brand, spanking new house, she couldn’t
believe the sense of freedom she felt. It was so full of light – windows and
glass doors everywhere. The kitchen was an absolute dream. And as for the
neighbours... They couldn’t be nicer. Vincent never encouraged neighbours popping
in, fearing what it would do to Moira’s efforts at slimming down.
She was just
enjoying her free day from the Blue Care kitchen when Tina popped in.
Pretending a sort of nonchalant seriousness, she failed to hide the smiles that
would pop out in spite of her efforts to keep them in check.
‘What is it?’
‘Oh Mum,’ face
lighting up like a Christmas tree, and only too ready to unburden herself,
‘Jimmy’s asked me to marry him!’
‘Oh, Tina,’
they were hugging and laughing, Moira wiping her eyes.
‘You won’t mind
if I ask dad to give me away, will you? He did it for all the other girls. And
he is my dad.’
‘Of course
he’ll give you away,’ Moira answered quickly. ‘Mind you, Tina, I don’t know how
much I can help you with the wedding. I suppose I could do the catering.’
‘No, you won’t
mum,’ said Tina comfortably. ‘Jimmy knows all about dad leaving you, and you
having to work. His family got pots of money. They’ll pay for the lot.’
On the wedding
day Moira sat in one of the front seats and wept as she did at all weddings.
She had watched Vincent, looking every inch as handsome as he’d ever been,
place Tina next to Jimmy, shake Jimmy’s hand, give Tina peck on the cheek,
before seating himself beside her. He hadn’t brought his girlfriend with him, as
she’d half-feared he would, and instead. the whole family sat together.
If anything,
she wept more than usual. Wept for the wonderful years when Vincent and she had
been two laughing teenagers, parking for hours in front of her house, unable to
tear themselves away from each other.
Wept at her
years of motherhood when he’d bring her babies to the bed early in the morning,
kiss her tenderly when placing them in her arms, and watch proudly as their
hungry mouths would reach for her ample breast.
Wept at the
memory of being woken at dawn by five squealing kids, screaming and laughing as
they threw themselves on the bed, their hands filled with packages in honour of
her birthday or mother’s day, while Vincent would wink, as she’d unwrap the
useless junk and kiss the giver as if it was the most precious thing she’d ever
seen.
He had been
such a good husband and such a good father.
She knew that
as the years went on, he’d felt let down at her limitations to keep up with
him. Knew also that he’d hated the Lawrence family Christmases, and weddings,
and anniversaries that she so looked forward to, and that they always were
first to leave. Knew also that he’d been disappointed that all the girls had
taken after her side of the family. While his brothers and sisters bragged
about the doctors and lawyers and professors that they had produced, the
closest to a profession one of her girls got to, was to become a
hairdresser.
The next day,
like every other day after the wedding day, she felt a little let down, and it
was with a sense of relief she heard the doorbell. She opened it to find
Vincent standing there.
She led him
into her new kitchen, automatically making him a cup of coffee brewed just the
way he liked it, and pulled out a few pastries which was one of his own
indulgences and which she always had on hand.
Without
preamble ‘Moira,’ he said, ‘I’ve been a fool. If you’ll have me, I’d like to
come back.’
..........
All the months
he’d been away, she’d imagined this moment. Had savoured the joy of it. But now
that she was faced with its reality, she felt strangely empty.
‘I know you’ll
find it hard to forgive me...’
No. To forgive
was not difficult for her at all. The Lawrence girls were not into resentment
and grudges. She had never felt the need to forgive. She loved him. Love was
unconditional.
And that was
the problem. She could love him whether he was right or wrong. Whether he was
rich or poor. Whether he was fitting in with her family or friends or not. It
was not for her to set standards on how he should look, how he should act, how
he should talk, what he should like or dislike.
In some way,
she now realized with a sort of surprise, he was a child, needing to fit in,
needing to belong, needing to impress, needing everything to be just right. He
was not seeing her for what she was, but for how people perceived her. He
needed the right house, he needed the right car, he needed the right wife.
Unconsciously,
she had realized it a long time ago, but only now it came to her clearly and
forcibly. She had refused to move to the coast not because she couldn’t stand
being seen in swimming togs, but because Vincent couldn’t bear to see her in
them. She had not minded going to his work functions, indeed had enjoyed them,
but it was the look in his eyes, anxious about what she might say or do, that
took away her joy. She could live with his lack of approval, but she couldn’t
live with his constant disapproval.
Even if she
could change, she now knew she had never wanted to, or felt the need to, except
for Vincent. She loved food. She loved handling it. She loved cooking it. She
loved eating it. She loved sharing it.
Living with
Vincent was like watching a television show which you absolutely loved, and
which he absolutely hated. And instead of shrugging his shoulders and letting
her watch it and enjoy it, he made sure that she knew how much he hated it, and
how little he thought of her for not having his good taste in hating it also.
The difference
between her and him was that she could allow him to be what he wanted to be,
because the opinions of others were not what she lived for. But the opinion of
others was all that Vincent lived for.
He had said to
her, I only feel old when I’m with you. And she could now honestly say, I
only feel unhappy when I’m with you. Your disapproval is like a black cloud
hanging over me.
She felt sorry
for him. He was such a good man. Had always been a good man. No one knew better
than she how hard he’d worked to give her and the girls everything to make
their life easy.
As she looked
at him now, she felt a terrible sense of pity for him. In his need for
approval, in his need to be perceived as perfect, he was alone, the way she
would never be alone.
‘I threw away
all my clothes,’ she said simply. ‘I’ve only kept the ones that fit me. The fat
ones.’
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