The Heaven I Swallowed Read online

  She moved to the table and with her thin, but now strong arms, she began to pull at it. For a moment, it looked as if it would not be dragged, standing firm on the gravelled ground. Then, with a sound like a wave breaking, the legs inched from their eternal spot, throwing up a splash of gravel. The surprise of it threw Mary’s torso forward over the table and everything was still again.

  Lying halfway across the setting, Mary turned her face towards me with a grin I had not seen before.

  ‘See? We can do it, Auntie Grace,’ she said.

  I walked to the other end of the table and started to push. Indeed, the initial movement seemed to have freed it up and we pushed and pulled it across the stones and onto the cement, to stand under the back garden awning. We had to stop every now and then to rest and it took us a good fifteen minutes. Mary was very excited by our achievement and carefully extracted the dead flies clustered in the ‘v’ of each of the table’s legs.

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘It cost a fortune,’ I replied. ‘I should have spent the money on something useful.’

  Mary continued to clean, making no further comment. I could see that underneath the dirt, the patio setting was indeed beautiful. What good did this do me? To show it off to widowed women, women who seemed content to have their lives defined by loss. What was it that God wanted if all He knew how to do was take? Was I going to have Mary taken away from me by her mother or, even worse, the ­sympathetic Mr Roper?

  ‘I think I got ’em all, Auntie Grace.’

  Mary re-appeared from beneath the table, her cloth a tangle of dismembered insects and fragments of web.

  ‘Well done,’ I said.

  She looked up from the filthy rag, surprised. I was not prone to praise.

  ‘Thank you, Auntie Grace,’ she answered in a quiet voice. The table setting shone.

  †

  The day of the lunch arrived with blue skies topped by swiftly moving clouds and only the hint of a chill in the air. Both Mary and I were up early, acutely aware of the many tasks to be performed prior to the women’s arrival at half past twelve. My stomach churned with nervous anticipation and, for once, I could not eat breakfast. Watching Mary gulp down her boiled egg, I thought how angry the Sisters would have been to see me waste my bacon, the toast sliding into the bin with a reproachful thud. I had never had so little appetite; usually I meet crisis with the need to eat, smoothing out the edges with hot food, warm drinks.

  In my head, I went through the possible progression of the day, trying to think of interesting opening gambits to ensure the conversation flowed: un-complicated issues such as the rising cost of bread or where to get the best lamb shanks. I imagined the words turning towards war stories and me having to steer them away, like driving a snake back with a broom. In truth, it had been more than a year since the lunches went in that direction. We had heard all the tales of sacrifice and valour, there were only so many times one could weep for other people’s husbands. I had talked only once of Fred’s letters, how they all arrived in a bundle, compressing his war years into a single afternoon of reading and crying, how he had told me so little in them in order to protect me, how lost he felt to me even before the news of his death. This last, at least, was partly true.

  There had been a suggestion recently that the Widows’ Group take up some activity, such as crochet or knitting, to give us another reason to come together. Thus far, it remained an idea. I suspected most of the women were too tired to take up the needle. Most of them did their charity work and enjoyed the fact that the widows’ lunches, for the most part, asked nothing of them except banal chatter.

  Mary continued to dig away at the insides of her egg. She had a habit of kneeling on the chair to enable her to see right down to the bottom of the shell, to ensure she did not miss one morsel of the congealed white. I had under-cooked the egg, the yolk liquid for the toast soldiers to be dipped into, then extracted with yellow goo over their bodies. Mary always watched with fascination as the eggs bobbed around in my glass saucepan, the bubbles sending them on a carefully timed dance.

  In the living room, I started straightening the cushions on the lounge. The women would have to be kept comfortable in here prior to moving outside and I knew there would be an examination of every nook and cranny of the house, remembering my own curiosity when entering the other women’s homes. At Enid Parker’s house, the wildness of her garden had been commented upon, as well as the lack of roses and the presence of ugly, colourless natives. She had made up for it with a delicious homemade pavlova. Mrs Joyce, Mrs Bishop’s ‘best friend’, like me, had an outdoor privy, although hers was not also a laundry, and there was general admiration of her ability to keep it smelling fresh. Possibly the worst incident of any of the lunches was the time when, at Mrs Bishop’s, in search of the bathroom, I had stumbled into a nursery, its walls painted blue. The dusty cot made me feel sick, I had never thought of Mrs Bishop as maternal. She, like nearly all of us in the Widows’ Group, was childless. Luckily, I proceeded on without disturbing anything that would have betrayed my discovery and I had never spoken to her about it.

  The smallness of my house would ensure no such incidents. In fact, I would put Mary on duty, to follow their movements. For once I was grateful for having my outside loo (even if its concrete floors made it difficult to keep it smelling like Mrs Joyce’s) because once lunch was served at the setting, there would be no reason for them to re-enter the house. No reason to go anywhere near Mary’s room.

  ‘Have you finished your breakfast?’ I called to her, hitting my tapestry cushion, trying to restore plumpness to the chaste shepherdess and the lamb she carried.

  ‘Almost, Auntie Grace,’ she called back and I heard her carrying the plates to the sink.

  ‘Leave those, Mary!’ I shouted, still standing in the living room. ‘Go and get washed!’

  I saw the blur of her as she dashed off to the bathroom. We had to have enough time to plait her hair. There would be nothing wild about her today.

  †

  Enid Parker arrived first. At thirty years of age she was the youngest of the group; when she was twenty-three her husband had been killed in Libya, a place she had never heard of until the telegram came. If I had been a real widow I think we might have been real friends. As it was, I smiled and handed her a cup of newly made tea and hoped the other women would come to fill the silence. Mrs Bishop and Mrs Joyce soon arrived together, probably congregating on the front lawn before making the journey up to my door. I could imagine their gossip of expectation, wondering how the little girl would conduct herself, if her scrubbed and civil appearance at church could be carried through an entire afternoon of close contact. Mrs Chilsom and Mrs Jackson came not long after, also seeming to brim with anticipation of the ­possible disasters ahead.

  Mrs Bishop was her usual loud self, immediately attempting to take over.

  ‘Mrs Jackson, do you think you should sit there?’ she demanded. ‘I’m not sure your leg will cope with the getting out again!’

  A guffaw added by Mrs Joyce completed Mrs Jackson’s humiliation. She had broken her ankle playing an ill-considered game of tennis and resented enormously the subsequent limp she would have for the rest of her life. Mrs Bishop seemed to enjoy reminding her of it.

  ‘The lounge does not sink quite that low,’ I said. ‘I am sure she’ll be able to get up again.’

  I kept my voice light and Mrs Jackson muttered in appreciation as she lowered herself into the armchair. I had ­tactfully removed the footrest into my bedroom, aware of how difficult it would be for any of the older women to use it with grace.

  We were still waiting for Mrs Andrews, always late from having to manage two young boys with only an unsympathetic mother-in-law for help. Aside from Mrs Jackson, the women stood in the cramped room, holding their teacups.

  I would have liked to usher them outside straight away but the natural instinct was to huddle together and I did not want to be as officious as Mrs Bishop.
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  ‘Would you like an appetiser, ma’am?’

  Mary had a tray of crackers and cheese cubes and was offering them to Mrs Chilsom. Mrs Chilsom took one and Mary moved over to the other women with confidence. I saw them watching her curiously. It did not last long, for it was clear she was not going to drop anything or perform some outrageous, exotic act. They went back to their talk, which spread without my prepared opening gambits.

  ‘Father Benjamin really does look very ill,’ Mrs Jackson remarked. Her carefully coiffured hair could not move for its stiffness so her eyebrows appeared especially animated.

  ‘He’ll be returning to God before long,’ the sanctimonious Mrs Chilsom answered and the two of them paused, as if to allow the priest’s soul to fly past them.

  ‘Sorry I’m late!’ Mrs Andrews cried out, coming in the open front door without knocking. She pulled off her hat and revealed her frizzy hair, pins askew. Of course, she would be forgiven, having the watertight excuse of having children.

  I announced that it was time to move out to the back garden.

  ‘What a novel idea!’ Mrs Bishop exclaimed, exchanging a subtle look with Mrs Joyce that spoke of her ambivalence towards me; her tolerance only extended to the degree to which I kowtowed to her, how much she remained the ultimate measure by which I judged myself. Another person in my life whose function it was to keep me in check, as if the ‘dead’ weren’t enough.

  The overlapping comments that came at the sight of the table—‘oh, how lovely’, ‘what a treat’, ‘so tasteful’—convinced me Mary’s floral centrepiece of yellow roses in a cut-crystal vase was not too ostentatious. Everyone took a seat, guided by Mrs Bishop. Unfortunately, being stationary unsettled us, and a quiet descended.

  ‘Mary arranged these,’ I said loudly of the flowers in my desperation to break the silence, and all six of the women simultaneously turned towards Mary. She stood on the back steps, still with the tray in her hand, although most of the crackers and cheese were gone, revealing the bright red tartan pattern beneath.

  ‘She really isn’t too bad,’ Mrs Bishop declared first. ‘Certainly not as dark as they can be.’

  ‘You have been keeping her out of the sun?’ Mrs Joyce asked.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I replied.

  ‘But can she … well, does she really have the brains to be useful to you?’ Mrs Andrews’ question went up an octave at the end.

  ‘I believe they can be saved,’ Mrs Chilsom answered before I could respond. ‘As long as you get them young. Mrs Smith is to be applauded.’

  ‘I just do not see how you can trust them,’ Mrs Andrews shuddered. ‘In your own home …’

  ‘She’s just a little girl,’ Enid Parker said quietly, not brave enough to really stand against the flow of the conversation.

  ‘As a parent,’ Mrs Andrews continued as if she hadn’t heard, ‘I would never be able to have one in my house, to put my children at such risk.’

  Mary continued to stand on the step, her face covered with the look I had grown accustomed to. I recognised the wall she put between herself and the words being spoken, between the hard slap of a hand and the real hurt inside. I had done it so often myself it amazed me I had not seen it immediately. There were thoughts and angers and hopes and hurts I knew nothing of, little balls of pain she hid as well as I did. Mary’s eyes, which had seemed to be focused on nothing, flickered towards me, perhaps asking, perhaps pleading, perhaps doing nothing more than wandering.

  ‘I trust her,’ I said, surprising even myself.

  Mary moved from the step to the ground and walked directly to Mrs Andrews. She put the tray in front of the woman, not with a thrust or any kind of challenge, just as she had offered the tray earlier, polite and meek. There was a moment when it seemed she would be refused; I could almost hear Mrs Chilsom’s breath being held. After what was, in reality, only a short pause, Mrs Andrews dutifully took a cracker and a piece of cheese. The whole table moved their attention away from Mary and chatter began again.

  ‘Did you see the state of the pews last week? It really is time to replace Mr Burrows.’

  ‘The wood looks as if he has used his spit for polish.’

  The conversation now centred around Mr Burrows’ ineptitude as the church cleaner, although the complaints were muted. After all, he was yet another soldier who had come back from the war changed and no one wanted to mention the strange monologues he sometimes addressed to himself in a loud, erratic manner. Instead, they talked of masculine inability to ‘do things properly’, to really wipe the pews clean. Mr Burrows could not be specifically to blame, it was simply not in his poor, male body.

  How absurd these women were, clinging to their superior knowledge of cleaning; as if they were not stuck in their fortresses pretending they could not do anything more than bake. These women who had run the country while the men were away, now claiming to be content with lunches and charity work. I was not fooled.

  ‘I just cannot get my gardenias to bloom,’ Enid Parker selflessly declared, in yet another attempt to turn the conversation away from character assassination.

  I indicated to Mary the tray was well and truly done with, waving her off into the kitchen where she would begin to assemble individual plates with cold ham, steamed runner beans and my renowned potato salad. I had instructed her to use the best china plates—pale blue with a gold trim—and her hands would be nervous laying out the precious pieces. I had bought the set not long after declaring myself a widow, perhaps anticipating these social occasions where the more established you looked as a couple, the more sympathy you evoked.

  Excusing myself, I joined Mary in the kitchen. The table was covered with half prepared plates. All already had their ham; she had done well.

  She had the bowl of potato salad in the crook of her arm and was moving from one plate to the next, smacking a pile of white cubes onto each. She did not look up.

  ‘I’ll do the beans,’ I said.

  I took the saucepan full of drained beans and began to ladle them out. I moved in the opposite direction from Mary, to ensure we would not collide. Through the open door came the merry voices of the women, now in the full flight of gossip and recrimination. I listened for any further mention of Mary or myself but, as far as I could tell, we did not come up. Of course, there were crossed conversations so it was not always clear what was being said, exactly who was being ­criticised.

  ‘That’s all of ’em, Auntie Grace,’ Mary said, putting the empty bowl on the bench.

  ‘Them,’ I corrected.

  ‘Them,’ she repeated.

  ‘You can take them out in twos,’ I instructed, picking up two plates myself. I moved to the back door.

  ‘Two by two they went,’ I joked.

  Mary looked at me blankly.

  ‘As in, the ark … the animals went in two by two …’

  She frowned. She still did not understand.

  ‘Hurry up then,’ I said, realising she did not want to understand.

  The widows ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ over the meal, complimenting me on the ham’s honey glaze, the homemade mayonnaise of the potato salad, the non-stringiness of the beans. I took the praise graciously, making sure to mention Mary’s help with the preparation. She would hear from her place in the kitchen, eating her own portion. She could also have the leftovers. I would not be finishing my meal, my appetite had not yet returned.

  Mrs Bishop’s ANZAC biscuits were produced at the end. False smiles appeared at the sight of them, everyone eager to remain on her good side. The crunching threatened to overtake us. I could barely hear Mrs Andrews’ question.

  ‘And when will she be going back?’

  She had taken a biscuit from the same tray Mary had used for the cheese and crackers and her question went straight into Mary’s face.

  Again, I felt the abrupt quietness, the way in which all the mouths stopped chewing.

  ‘She does not have to go back,’ I said, ‘as long as I choose to keep her.’

 
; ‘Does she have family?’ Mrs Joyce asked, although the words seemed to be directed at Mrs Bishop. It briefly occurred to me that Father Benjamin might have mentioned something to them and this was a trap to catch me in a lie. Still, there was nothing else for it.

  ‘No. No, she doesn’t.’

  I waited for the explosion, the dramatic production of a copy of Mary’s mother’s letter out of a handbag, the waving of it in my face with accompanying accusations.

  What about her mother? I could hear them demanding, Isn’t she family? It was time for it to come to me, this accusation.

  Nothing happened. Mrs Bishop took another large bite of her ANZAC while Mrs Joyce took a sip of her tea and surreptitiously lay down the uneaten half of her biscuit on the saucer. Mrs Andrews pursed her lips, continuing to follow Mary’s movements as if confirmation of her lack of relatives merely proved whatever point she had been trying to make. Mrs Chilsom started on about the state of one of her cats, Enid Parker leant in to smell the roses on the table and Mrs Jackson reached for the sugar bowl.

  †

  Mary cleared away after lunch. The widows sat sipping sweet sherry and I could hear her quietly washing the china at the kitchen sink, placing the plates in neat stacks on the table before transferring them to the cabinet in the living room, as I had ordered.

  Once the house was empty again, I found her in the sunroom, sitting on the edge of the cane chair, ensuring the last of the afternoon light was catching her legs. She had her head down and Jane Eyre open on her palms. She was sucking on the end of her plait and appeared to be reading. Of course, this was impossible. Her lessons with me had been sporadic over the last weeks, conflicted as I was whether it was a good idea to teach her or not. There was no chance she had progressed far enough to comprehend Brontë. Still, there she seemed to be, her eyes trailing across the page like she knew what each word meant.

  She must have been aware of my presence. Though I had moved quietly, there was surely enough of my scent, my essence, for her to notice?