Heavenly Date and Other Flirtations

  Then the chair legs broke.

  Maternal Influence

  They still called her the Mayoress, although it had been years since she had held that office. It was just that she fitted the role so perfectly, and nobody, much to the chagrin of subsequent incumbents, had been able to live up to her. It gave her considerable pleasure to know that she was still referred to in this way, and in fact on several occasions she found herself on the point of using her old title and checked herself just in time.

  Her husband had been the Mayor, although everybody knew that she made all the decisions for him. He was an extraordinarily mild man, who made no political enemies, and had therefore been the only candidate acceptable to all factions on a faction-riven town council. After his election, the councillors found that they had really got her, and it was too late by then.

  Over the years of his first term, they became at first accustomed to, and then proud of her. She was magnificent, they felt, a galleon in full sail, carrying all before her on her bow wave; she was a civic treasure, in a sense, just like the Chain of Office and the Bank of South Australia Gold Cup (Best Cow).

  Then the Mayor died. The District Auditor found him at his desk, slumped over a girlie magazine, mouth agape, his pale skin cold to the touch. The Auditor had quickly pushed him back in his seat and taken the magazine off the desk. Then he had put in its place a copy of the local water board estimates and pushed the slack body back over that. Only when he was satisfied as to the dignity of the death, did he rush out of the room and call for help.

  He told only the doctor of what he had found on the Mayor’s desk and he felt scandalised when the doctor laughed.

  “Shock,” he said. “Sexual excitement. It kills people, you know. His middle-aged heart couldn’t take it. Finished him off.”

  “You’re very callous, doctor. The Mayor was a good man, a family man.”

  The doctor snorted. “Don’t be misled. I’ve seen things in my calling that would make your hair curl. Family men too. Just don’t get me started on that.”

  The Mayoress bore her loss with dignity. She was happier, curiously enough, with the Mayor out of the way, although she had been fond of him in a comfortable sort of way. She still had her son, George, who was twenty seven and still living at home, and she had all her civic interests to keep her busy. The Mayor had been the proprietor of a large outfitters, which George was quite capable of running effectively, and the Mayoress had been left well provided for. A comfortable widowhood lay ahead; a time of fulfilment, she thought.

  The Mayoress was fiercely proud of George, on whom she doted. She arose early every morning to prepare his breakfast – three pieces of toast, freshly squeezed orange juice, and poached eggs. Then she laid out his clothes on the table outside his bedroom door – suit, shirt (neatly ironed), socks, pants, braces, tie, shoes – everything.

  By the time George came downstairs, the Mayoress would be at the table, ready to engage him in conversation. They would discuss the events of the forthcoming day, including the important question of what George would like for his lunch and his dinner, and what he proposed to do at the shop. Then, when George had finished his coffee, the Mayoress would run him to the shop in her car and drop him outside. She had always done this, although George had often indicated that he would prefer to drive himself.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “It’s better for you to conserve your strength for the day’s business. If I drive you, you arrive refreshed.”

  “But, mother, I really wouldn’t mind driving. It’s far easier …”

  She silenced him with a glance. She had always found it easy to silence people by looking at them; it was something to do with her eyebrows and the way they arched. George could not argue. He was frightened of his mother, who had terrorised him – politely – since early boyhood. He had never once had an argument with her that had ended any way other than by his being cowed by the eyebrows. It was hopeless to try to change things now.

  George was dissatisfied, but not overtly. If he stopped to analyse his feelings, what rankled was the frustration at not being able to stand up to her and to make his own decisions. She treated him like a boy, he thought, and yet it was so easy to remain a boy. It was his fault, he felt; he should be stronger. He should have the courage to live his own life.

  He felt vaguely embarrassed about still living at home. Most of his contemporaries had set up by themselves in places of their own, had married, and some of them were fathers now. He was the only one left at home, and in a small town everybody would know that. He had once heard that somebody had referred to him as a Mummy’s boy and the insult had cut deep. A Mummy’s boy! Him!

  He had once raised the question of moving out, but he had been silenced.

  “What? Why do you want to do that? Is there anything wrong with your own home?”

  He took a deep breath. “No, mother. It’s very comfortable here. I know that.”

  “Well then, why move, may I ask?”

  “It’s just that … well, I feel it might be rather fun to have my own place. You know?”

  She had smiled at him, as if trying to humour a recalcitrant schoolchild.

  “Your own place? Your own place, George? Isn’t this your own place, as you call it? Does this belong to anybody else? Aren’t the deeds in your name as well as mine, as Daddy said in his will? What more do you want?”

  “Daddy was thinking of tax problems. That’s why it’s in my name too. Mr Quinlan spelled all that out. It’s for when you die.”

  She had narrowed her eyes, just a little, but he noticed.

  “Die, George? Am I about to die then?”

  “Of course not, mother, but look at Daddy. He died.”

  “I am only too well aware of that,” she said, her voice chilling. “Your Daddy died of overwork. He spent all his time working hard to make money for you and me to live in this house afterwards. The best house in town, by far. And now you’re talking about abandoning it.”

  “I wasn’t talking about abandoning it, mother. I was just wondering whether it might not be a good idea to have my own place. I’d come back here at weekends.”

  “But, George, why leave a perfectly good home, where you’ve got everything you could possibly need, just to move out into some wretched, poky little place down by Griffiths Street or wherever. What’s the point? You could be Mayor one day, you know.”

  He did not conceal his astonishment. “Mayor?” And whispered under his breath: Bum.

  “Yes, George. Mayor. Somebody said to me the other day that you would be ideal, just like Daddy. And this house will help you. You need to have something behind you to be Mayor in a town like this.”

  “I don’t want to be Mayor, mother. Being Mayor was fine for Daddy. I’m different …”

  But by then he saw the eyebrows beginning to rise, and the subject had been dropped. For a few moments there was silence, and then she announced: “There’s a new consignment of velvet at Baxters. They’re letting me have first look over it and I thought I’d make new curtains for your bedroom. What colour would you like? Same as usual?”

  He had mumbled something noncommittal and had left the room disconsolately. She’s horrid, he thought. She’s a big fat bitch. She’s a bag. She’s a bloody battle-axe. Bum. She’s a spider.

  This made him feel much better, and he called his dog, to take him for a walk round the block. Cecil, who was a heavily-built Alsatian, jumped up in excitement and licked enthusiastically as the metal choke chain was fitted around his neck. Then together they set off, bachelor and dog, and while Cecil panted and strained at the leash George thought of what he would do. I’m going to get a girlfriend, he thought. I’m going to go out with somebody. I’m going to find a girl with big breasts and blonde hair. That’ll show her. Then I’m going to buy my own place – she can’t stop me – and I’m going to move out. I’ll make my own breakfast and iron my own shirts. I don’t care. I don’t care!

  He looked down at Cecil, his friend.

>   “Do you remember Daddy, Cecil? Do you remember that other man who used to take you for walks? Do you?”

  The dog looked back at his owner and tugged harder at the leash.

  “Daddy was kind to you, Cecil. He gave you bones. Poor Daddy. He was a nice chap, our Daddy. You try to remember him. I know it’s hard if you’re a dog, but you just try.”

  He worked out a strategy over the next few days. First of all there was a telephone call to his friend Ed. He had been at school with Ed, and although they had little in common, Ed had proved a loyal friend. He had helped Ed out on one or two occasions when he had got into financial difficulties, and Ed had always been grateful. Ed spent far too much on cars, and he had lost one or two jobs. He survived, though, and seemed to relish his precarious existence.

  Ed agreed to meet him in the bar at the Central Hotel after work that Wednesday.

  “I want your help, Ed,” he began. “It’s a tricky thing.”

  “You tell me, mate. I owe you a few.”

  “It’s about a girl, Ed.”

  Ed had smiled. “Trouble, George? Well, you old dog! You got some dame up the spout? Well, well! What would the Mayoress – beg pardon, George – what would the old lady say about that? Not too pleased, hey?”

  He shook his head. This was not proving easy.

  “Ed, the truth of the matter is I don’t really know many girls and I was wondering whether you could help me out. You know lots. Maybe you could introduce me to some suitable ones, then I could … well maybe I could choose, sort of.”

  Ed lowered his beer glass and stared at his friend.

  “I’m not so sure it works like that, mate. You know, women get ideas, sometimes. They got their own notions. They like some guy enough to tear his trousers off, you know. That’s fine. That’s just as it should be. Then sometimes, no deal. Nothing doing.”

  George looked at Ed. “Oh, I see.”

  “But not to worry,” Ed went on, brightening. “I know plenty of girls who are real desperate and who would really like a nice, homely – beg pardon – bloke like you. Some of them would be pretty pleased to have somebody respectable – solid – around the place. No, the more I think of it, George, the more I think you’d be a wow with the girls, or with a certain type of girl. What do you want me to do?”

  George cleared his throat. The conversation was making him feel hot around his neck. It was awkward to have to talk to Ed like this, even if he knew that the other man was not the sort to find this sort of thing embarrassing.

  “Could you have some sort of party, Ed? Down at your place. Then I could come and meet some of the girls you know. And who knows? There might be one who’s suitable. Who knows?”

  Ed raised his glass in a mock toast.

  “No problems, mate! No problems! Next Friday suit you? Fine! I’ve got some real goers on the books, I’m telling you. They’ll raise your temperature bloody quick, George! You’ll see, mate! You’ll see!”

  He prepared carefully for Ed’s party. He informed the Mayoress that he was going out, that he had to go and see Ed about something and that he would probably stay and talk to Ed for a while.

  “Don’t expect me back till quite late,” he said casually. “In fact, it’ll probably be best for you to turn in. I’ll just let myself in.”

  She looked at him. “That late? My goodness, you must have a lot to talk to Ed about. He’s that rather … rather dirty one isn’t he?”

  “Ed’s not dirty,” he said quietly, and under his breath: Bum! Bum!

  “Of course not,” she said. “I didn’t really mean that he’s still dirty. It’s just that when he was a boy he used to come and play here and he always seemed a bit dirty to me then. Boys so often are. I’m sure he’s not dirty any more. He used to be, though. Very dirty.”

  He came home early on Friday evening to prepare. He was pleased to find that she was out, which meant that he did not have to sneak out the back way, as he had planned. Had she seen him in his best clothes, she would have suspected something.

  He showered, slapped cologne on his cheeks, and then put on the new trousers and shirt which he had taken out of stock that day. Then he went into the kitchen to feed Cecil.

  “I’m off to a party, Cecil. You’re staying here. Be a good dog and I’ll bring you something back from the party. If your Uncle Ed gives us bones, that is. Hah hah! No chance, Cecil. Bad luck.”

  The Alsatian looked at him, wagged his tail, and then dozed off again. George turned off the kitchen light, locked the front door behind him, and drove off slowly to Ed’s house on the other side of town. He felt overwhelmingly excited. This was the beginning of a whole new chapter, a whole new life. It was the end of boyhood, definitely, definitely. Ten years too bloody late! Bum!

  Ed was at the door, having just admitted a guest.

  “George! There you are. Party’s just beginning. Going well too, know what I mean!”

  George followed his host into the living room. There were ten people already there, sitting on sofas and standing by the tables. There was music on the record player.

  “I’ll introduce you,” said Ed. “Guys, this is George. George – Mike, Terry-Anne, Marge, Tom, Darlene, Beth, What’s-his-name, Mac, Linda and that’s Meryl in the kitchen, just coming out.”

  George looked at Meryl, who smiled at him. She was carrying a large tray of pizza, which had been cut into small squares. She pointed with her free hand to the tray and brought it across to offer him a piece.

  “Straight from the oven, George. Like a piece?”

  He selected a slice and took a small bite. The cheese was still molten, and he burnt his tongue slightly, but he did not show his discomfort.

  “Fabulous,” he said. “Did you make it?”

  Meryl laid the tray down on a table and helped herself to a small segment.

  “Yes. I love making pizzas. I love making Italian food. I just love it.”

  “I can’t really cook,” said George. “I wish I could.”

  “So who cooks for you?” asked Meryl. “Your girlfriend?”

  George looked down at his shoes, his new suede shoes with the fancy toe-caps. They had been the best line in the shop by far.

  “My mother, actually.”

  Meryl smiled. “That’s lucky. I bet she’s a good cook.”

  George thought of the shepherd’s pies and the casseroles.

  “She isn’t,” he said. “She can’t cook to save her life.”

  “Oh,” said Meryl, licking the tips of her fingers. “Well I’m sure she’s good at other things.”

  “No,” said George. “She isn’t. She can order people about, that’s all.”

  Meryl laughed uneasily. “Mothers are like that. Mine tries to order me about, but I don’t take any notice.”

  He said nothing. He was looking at her carefully now, at her blonde hair, which was piled up, bouffant-style, and at her blouse (discreetly). Yes, she was just right. The Mayoress would hate her.

  They sat down on a sofa and talked. Meryl seemed relaxed, and was happy to talk to him about anything that came into her mind. He told her about the shop, and about his plans for the new showroom. He told her about his trip to Adelaide. He told her about Cecil, and how the vet had pinned his leg when he had been run over by the dustcart.

  “You wouldn’t think it was broken in six places,” he said. “Just looking at him today, you wouldn’t think that.”

  She nodded. “Vets can work wonders,” she said. “They’re better than doctors – some of the time. A vet fixed my uncle up when he broke his leg in the outback. He hardly limps at all these days.”

  “The vet couldn’t do anything about his halitosis, though,” he said. “He said that he could try pulling all his teeth out, but if he did that he wouldn’t be able to gnaw on his bones. That would be cruel.”

  “You could give him garlic pills,” she said. “That might help. Put them in his dog-food.”

  Ed came round with another beer for George and a glass of rum and cok
e for Meryl.

  “You two getting on fine?” he said, winking at George. “Lots to talk about?”

  George laughed. “You’ve got some nice friends, Ed.”

  He thought that Meryl blushed when he said this, but she looked pleased.

  “Damn right,” said Ed. “Meryl here’s a real sport, aren’t you Mez?”

  He reached down and pinched her on the cheek, and she brushed his hand away playfully.

  “I’ll leave you two, then,” said Ed. “No need to take petrol to a fire, know what I mean!”

  George thought the party was a great success, apart from the end, when Ed, who was by then fairly drunk, hit one of the other guests. He apologised immediately, and Mike, who had been hit, tried to smooth over the argument.

  “Sorry, Ed, I didn’t mean it. Just let’s forget it, see.”

  “I’m sorry too,” mumbled Ed. “I get carried away, you know. I don’t know what came over me – beg pardon.”

  “No hard feelings,” said Mike. “Let’s forget it.”

  But the tone of the party had changed, and the other guests began to disperse. George offered to drive MeryI home, and she accepted his offer.

  “I can’t stand it when Ed gets drunk and hits people,” she said. “I know he means no offence, but one of these days somebody’s really going to hit him back, hard.”

  “Why does he do it?” George asked. “You’d think he’d learn.”

  “He can’t help himself,” said Meryl. “It’s just his nature. Like some people are musical.”

  They were driving past the shop now, and George slowed down.

  “There it is,” he said. “It looks good, doesn’t it.”

  “Yes,” said Meryl. “You’ve got some high-class clothes in there. I’ve always said that.”

  “I’m going to open a new section for teenagers,” said George. “I’ll call it The Young Idea. We’ll play disco music and have flashing lights. What do you think of that?”

  Meryl was impressed. “That’s a really good name,” she said. “Original. They’ll love it.”

  They drove on in silence. George was waiting for his moment, and now he judged that it had arrived.