Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 10, Issue 1 by Marion Halligan

Author:Marion Halligan
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781922171573
Publisher: Review of Australian Fiction

It was over. Maureen pushed her heels against the base of the armchair as if she meant to stand up at any moment. She pressed the remote; the television blinked on. Four dead in the Pennines. A whole family gone, their little dog miraculously alive. What came over some people, she thought, setting out like that? Dying, unnoticed, in their snow-white car. The news returned to London. Even there, amidst the concrete and asphalt, bodies were being found. It was a tragic turn of events, as Gerald would have said.

The snow had stopped at last, and the light was strong for late morning. She could see the sunlight pushing through the crack where the curtains stood slightly apart. Soon, there would be no snow, only slush and icy floodwaters, and the spaces in the world where those frozen souls had been.

‘You must come and have dinner at my place,’ Roger had said.

This was late on the second night, the weather still too severe to leave. It had been a wonderful, unexpected time, cocooned in the house together. Leftovers for lunch, chess, some music. All very light-hearted. Innocent, really, she thought.

The snow amazed them.

‘We’re no better than children,’ she said, as they stood together at the kitchen window, pointing out a heavy drift caught in a roofline, icicles hanging from the eaves. Once, she’d spotted her next-door neighbour looking down on them. Maureen waved up to her, feeling oddly proud. Her neighbour lifted her hand in half-salute, stepped back into the shadows.

Maureen cooked another dinner, smiling to herself at the strange twist of it all. The food was nothing grand this time, but still good. They ate in the kitchen—Roger had insisted—chatting across the oak table. They went back to the comfortable chairs for more brandy.

This second night seemed more open to possibilities. The fleeting images of bodies locked together—strangers’ bodies—had gone from Maureen’s thoughts, much to her relief. It was not impossible that they might share a bed tonight. The idea gave her a surge of happiness as well as terror.

She’d not spoken much about herself in the end. The need to confide in Roger had surprised her. She realised how lonely she’d been. She did say a little about herself: how her family came from Scotland, her sister in the Philharmonic, even Gerald.

‘How long were you married?’ Roger asked. Just the one question. And his wordless nod at her answer seemed to shrink the forty-two years to something less substantial.

‘A long time to be with the same person, isn’t it?’ she said, hating the defensive tremble in her voice.

‘Unimaginable,’ he’d replied. And she’d heard the accent then, clearer than ever before.

It was easier to talk about Roger.

‘Did you always like antiques?’ she said.

‘No.’ He’d hesitated, working his mouth as if it held a toffee. ‘That came later.’

The whiskey before dinner, the wine, the brandy; there was a crowded tray of used glasses in the kitchen. Maureen’s balance seemed to be deserting her a little, even while sitting. She could see that Roger, who’d had much more, was feeling it, too.

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