The Best of Fiona Kidman's Short Stories (16 page)

‘I'm worried sick,' says Della.

‘So am I. There's a good movie on the telly. You better get off home and feed the kids, eh. I'll work with her.'

‘It's more than that.'

‘Margie?'

‘Yes.'

‘I know.' He's young, and it seems a queer deal to Reuben, he's been away from home, knows what it's like a bit, out beyond this place. But he's part of it, nothing changes that, and nothing changes. Margie has always been a part of his life too, she is part of the endurance test of living here. ‘What's he playing at?'

‘You can't really blame him for Margie. He doesn't ask for it,' says Della, trying hard to be fair.

‘Maybe not. But perhaps he'd just be better out of it, not come back at all.'

‘He's a good worker — even if he does have a filthy temper in the mornings.'

‘Mmm, that. It'll catch up with him one of these days.'

A car pulls up outside. Della groans, her arms are aching right up into the shoulders. The next second she's straightening up, pushing a strand of hair under her cap.

‘What is it?' says Reuben, his eye following hers outside. ‘Oh-uh, Mr Boss Man himself.'

‘Norman Riddle,' she mutters, and even as she says it he is striding in through the swing door, his eyes flicking all around him as he enters.

‘Good evening Mr Riddle,' says Della, careful and polite. ‘How nice to see you.'

‘Where's Schultz?' says Norman Riddle without returning her greeting.

‘He's — not here.'

‘Why not? He's supposed to be on evening shift isn't he?'

‘Yes, but he worked late on morning shift today. We were rushed. I tell you it's been a heavy day, our takings are really up.' It's a hopeful ploy but it fails.

‘That's hardly an explanation,' says her employer. ‘Well you've both done a pretty fair day's work, must be time you went off. Where's the other woman?'

‘Margie's out the back,' says Della. ‘She's waiting to come on.'

‘Well then, that's ali right, isn't it? You'd better get along off.'

‘Oh I don't mind helping out,' says Della.

‘Who needs to help out? Everything's under control, isn't it Mrs Royal?'

‘Of course,' she says, flustered, and looks at Reuben. ‘It's just that Margie does work better with Clarrie, Mr Riddle.'

‘I've told you before,' he snaps, ‘I won't carry that woman.'

‘She does her share,' says Della with equal sharpness.

Riddle looks at her narrowly. He is a well-built man, smooth, past middle age. He is not an easy man to get along with except socially amongst people of his own choosing and equal wealth. But he is not foolish either. He owns this caf because of its return. The problems are marginal.

‘You'd have the whole town out against me over that woman wouldn't you?'

‘Possibly.'

The two adversaries stare at each other. His intuition is good, it's his master card when other things fail. It tells him now that his position is better than appearances would have it. ‘Are you sure there's no trouble?' he asks, his voice hardening again.

They are interrupted by yet another vehicle pulling in; hurried footsteps. Riddle looks towards the newcomer, with a gleam of satisfaction.

‘Evening Schultz,' he says.

‘Evening Mr Riddle. Just passing through are you?'

‘No, as a matter of fact I came looking for you.'

Margie who has stayed still and quiet out of sight emerges at the sound of Clarrie's voice. Reuben watches quietly. This is a play.

‘Why would you do that Mr Riddle?' says Clarrie.

‘I heard there was a bit of trouble here this morning.'

Now everyone in the shop has stiffened. There is something in Norman Riddle's presence that none of them can fathom yet.

‘Trouble. What sort of trouble?' says Clarrie, playing a cautious line and afraid of what he might fish up.

‘My mother was in,' says Riddle.

‘Your mother?' Clarrie is at a loss. The morning happened light years ago. His life has changed, he is a new man who bears no resemblance to the man they are looking at now. But he can see that he must try to remember. It seems to be important to all the waiting watching faces. Then it dawns. ‘Oh. Vinegar on her chips. That one. Vinegar's right.'

‘As I said, the lady's my mother.'

The old Clarrie, the one he thought he'd got rid of, seems to be coming back and taking over. Clarrie listens to himself, this stranger talking, an aggressive surly man, who says, ‘Look, I don't care whether she was
Tutankhamen's
flaming mummy. She was no lady.' Or is it the new man full of confidence? He doesn't seem to be able to sort out who is who.

‘Schultz, are you mad?'

‘Of course he's not,' says Margie, speaking for the first time.

‘Margie — please —' says Clarrie painfully.

But she is crying for all the long hot hurtful day: ‘Don't make him send you away Clarrie.'

Lost, he mumbles, ‘I — I dunno what came over me. I'm sorry Mr Riddle, I'm not too good in the mornings. It's ah — hormones they tell me. Night people and morning people.'

Della looks at Margie's streaky exhausted face and finds herself defending Clarrie. ‘He was rushed Mr Riddle. He's real good with the customers at night. Honest.' She realises that she does not even know on what count she is defending him, that no one has told her of any quarrels in the morning, that maybe Clarrie deserves what he's getting. It doesn't seem important.

‘And he's real kind Mr Riddle,' says Margie. ‘See Clarrie I'll look after you, like you look after me.'

‘Hush,' says Della. There are some things which Mr Riddle might own, but he does not own them, the people that work here, what they think, what they feel. He does not have that right. They will collect money for him, but they will not sell themselves to him.

‘The man asked if you were mad,' says a voice softly.

There is, after all, another member of the cast, one who has crept in so silently that none of the participants are aware she is there, and because they have not rehearsed their lines it is possible that she might alter the ending of the play.

‘I told you to stay in the ute,' Clarrie snarls at Aileen.

She looks at him with sorrow, a real age-old sorrow. She and Margie exchange a look, as in the morning.

‘Where did this lot come from?' asks Riddle, though it's plain that he knows already without being told. There is the suggestion of a sneer at the corner of his mouth as he looks at Schultz.

‘You asked him if he was mad,' says Aileen.

‘So I did. Well Schultz?'

‘I told you, just woozy in the mornings.'

‘You heard your friend,' says Riddle to Aileen. ‘You'd better go along out of it.'

Clarrie says to Aileen, ‘Wait in the ute.'

When she has gone, Riddle says, ‘You're lucky you've got a good record here Schultz. I don't know what's been happening round here today, but you'd sure as hell better not let it happen again. A last chance. No more warnings.'

‘Yes Mr Riddle. Thank you Mr Riddle.'

‘Now shake it along all of you. You'll have more trucks through soon. The drivers'll be heading back in half an hour.' Oh, he might be a city slicker this
one, but he knows the movements of traffic. It's like a science to him.

‘Would you like some food before you go?' says Della.

‘I think I can make it to the hotel in Taupo. Good evening.' And he leaves them. They look at each other without speaking.

‘Well,' says Reuben breaking the silence, ‘just goes to show what he thinks of the grub he peddles. Bloody marvellous, isn't it.'

They listen as his car drives off. It is followed by the roar of a truck pulling over, then it picks up again and moves on. There is a general sigh of relief, except from Clarrie, who stares dully towards the road.

Margie walks over to him and plucks at his sleeve. ‘We can start work now Clarrie, you an' me, we can start together.'

He looks at her hand and moves away from her so that it falls. ‘Leave me,' he says. ‘For God's sake leave me alone.'

He might as well have struck her.

‘I gotta get going,' he says.

‘Aren't you going to work tonight Clarrie?' Della asks him.

‘I just gotta see someone.' He moves to go out.

‘Will you come back Clarrie?' says Margie, her voice numb.

They stand around, or rather Margie does, while Reuben and Della make ineffectual tidying up movements though the place is not untidy. But there is something in Della's face that is quietly hardening.

Clarrie comes bursting through the door and he is bubbling and weeping, his pale face lumpy and ugly. His arms are full of a mass of coloured foliage, purple and orange and tawny brown.

‘That truck, she must've gone on that truck,' he burbles to them through gasping breaths.

‘What are you doing with all that stuff in your arms?' Reuben asks.

Clarrie looks at it in wonder. ‘Heather and bulrushes, rosehips, Indian beads … oh lady come back.' His agony is an awful private thing that they have to witness. Margie's face is full of grief and pity, all for him, none for herself. She would take him and cradle him and comfort him if he would let her but he wants none of them, and least of all, her.

‘Take it easy mate, take it easy,' says Reuben. ‘Come on, let go of that stuff, your hands are bleeding.'

Clarrie shakes his head, not comprehending anything but his own thoughts. ‘I'm going after her. I've gotta find her, don't you see?'

Della speaks, having come to a decision. ‘Clarrie Schultz,' she says, ‘you walk out of that door and you're never walking back inside of it. You hear me?'

He hears, she has got through to him. ‘You mean that?'

‘I mean that.'

‘Why?' He looks around in bewilderment. ‘You were all for me a few minutes ago.'

‘Because we look after our own here Clarrie,' says Della. ‘You're a passerby, like that girl; but this one here, we've got to look after, don't you see?'

He does see, and the decision lies heavy on him and all the strange day passes before his eyes and he looks at the faces of the people before him and the strange old child-woman who would love him and keep him there and have the others tolerate him for her sake. There is the girl on the road too, and there seems little to choose between them. There is a strangeness on all of them.

‘I bought some scent Clarrie,' says Margie.

He looks at her. It would be so easy to stay. ‘I'm off then,' he says.

‘You remember what I said,' says Della.

‘I won't forget — Princess.'

‘Your money, I'll make it up for you.'

‘You can send it on. I'll pick it up at the Post Office in Auckland next week. Okay?'

‘Okay.'

‘I'm going to get my gear and I'll be on the road in ten minutes.'

‘Good travelling, mate,' says Reuben.

When he's at the door Della says, ‘Say goodbye to her, Clarrie.' He hesitates and walks back to Margie, stoops awkwardly and kisses the side of her dumb little face. ‘Margie … I …' but he has no words of comfort for her.

‘See yer … later Clarrie …' she says jerkily.

As Clarrie gets in his ute and drives away Della is trying to persuade Margie to go home and get some rest, assuring her they will work, that she is tired and they want her to be good for tomorrow because it will be another hard day with the sale on, and they need her in real good shape for tomorrow, but she is demurring. Perhaps she thinks he will come back, they don't know what she is thinking. Helplessly, she and Reuben signal to each other, what will we do with her, and then Aileen walks in.

‘What are you doing here?' says Della, sharp as razorblades. She's just about had enough for one night.

‘I thought I might pick up a hamburger,' says Aileen carelessly.

‘And I thought you went on a truck passing by not long back.'

‘Did you? But I didn't, did I?'

‘He thought so. Clarrie did,' says Della.

‘He did?' But it is feigned surprise.

‘You meant him to didn't you?'

The girl is quiet, measuring Della. ‘As a matter of fact … I did.'

‘But why?'

‘He wasn't ready to come with me. I thought he was, but then I heard him in here letting that guy ride him, and I knew he wasn't ready to come.'

‘Mr Riddle has a business to run,' says Della defensively.

‘I know that,' says Aileen. ‘But it was more than that. It was like he'd learnt nothing.'

Della doesn't know what it is the girl has tried to teach Clarrie, yet something tells her Aileen could be right.

‘Perhaps some people never learn,' she says.

Aileen sighs. ‘I've thought of that. That's what scared me.'

‘On the other hand he's gone to look for you, surely that's something.'

‘It's a start.'

‘He left her,' says Della, indicating Margie. ‘We won't let him come back.'

‘Oh Margie,' says Aileen softly. ‘Ah … but you wanted him to go away and leave her.'

‘You knew that?' says Della in real surprise.

‘Of course I did.'

‘You talked to him about me?' says Margie.

‘No. We didn't mention your name once.'

As they talk Della is quietly assembling food. She is looking at Aileen with wonder but something approaching approval as well. ‘And you, what will you do?' she asks, draining some chips and putting them into a paper bag. She flips a steak on the grill and throws coleslaw on to a bun.

‘Oh — who knows,' says Aileen. ‘Someday, travelling north or south, who can tell, maybe I'll put up my hand, and a ute'll draw into the side of the road and it'll be him. Maybe, maybe not.'