“Are you all right?” asked Marion.
“It’s you,” he panted, “you’ve worked me up into this state, you silly woman, don’t you see that? Now get me some water.”
John seated himself at the table while Marion hurried to the tap.
“Why don’t you rest down here and I will carry on looking?” she said, handing him a glass.
He nodded and drank greedily, spilling some water down his chin and onto his shirt.
Without John following her around, she was able to go into his room.
The room was decorated with faded brown and yellow wallpaper. A greasy-looking satin quilt covered the high double bed. Along one wall was a bookcase with hundreds of volumes about science and things she didn’t understand. From the ceiling hung the model planes, all facing in the same direction like a flock of dark birds frozen in time. An album containing a collection of cigarette cards with the faces of cricket players on them that John collected as a boy lay open on the dresser next to his bottles of cologne and brilliantine.
Between the two windows was John’s desk and modern computer. There was something about this great block of a thing, with its enormous dark screen like a giant robot head, that made her feel it might come alive and attack. Pinned on the wall next to the computer was a map of the world and around it several pictures of smiling young women. Who were these women and what was John’s connection with them?
Marion went over to the desk and, being careful not to disturb the computer as it hummed and whirred in its sleep, opened the top drawer. Inside were several pieces of cheap women’s jewelery. She picked up a tangled chain. A few long blond hairs had been trapped in the fastener, and its silver butterfly pendant was spotted with something dark red. Thinking it might be dried blood, she shuddered and let it drop back into the drawer.
John shouted from downstairs:
“Marion, what are you doing up there?”
Quickly she closed the drawer, then picked up a pair of trousers that he had left draped over the bedstead.
Turning one of the pockets, she found two fifty-pence pieces and some mints stuck to a wrinkled cotton hankie.
When she reached into the other pocket, she pulled out an envelope. It wasn’t sealed, and a dark wad of oily notes slid out. She glimpsed a name, Violetta Dada, and part of an address, a long row of numbers and a street name, PROSPECT GEORGY something or other.
When Marion returned to the kitchen, John snatched the envelope from her and began counting the money. She wanted to tell him what a fool he had been, that it had been in exactly the place he said it wouldn’t be, that she had been right all along, but she knew this would send him into an even worse rage.
“You were right, John, it was on the dresser all along. Hidden under a place mat. I can’t believe we missed it.”
“What did I tell you, Marion? You keep this place like a pigsty. A bloody pigsty.”
When he said “pigsty” the second time, a little fleck of spit flew from his mouth and landed on her cheek. Outraged and humiliated, Marion wiped it away with the back of her hand.
? ? ?
FOR DINNER THAT evening they had tinned macaroni and cheese. Marion had left it in the pan without stirring for a few minutes too long while trying to reach a fork that had fallen between the fridge and the cupboard. She failed in retrieving the fork and wondered how long it might stay there. Perhaps until after she and John were dead and the house had been sold?
Scraping the macaroni out of the pan, she saw little brown and black lumps of singed pasta amongst the yellowish mush. I don’t care, she said to herself. I hope he gets a bad stomach. Her nerves were still jangling from all the drama earlier that day. John should have apologized for shouting like that and accusing her of losing the stupid envelope. He hadn’t even thanked her for finding the damn thing. He snapped at her so often these days, and his temper seemed worse than ever. And she was furious with herself for not standing up to him. Marion took a mouthful of macaroni and chewed, the black bits gave it a nasty bitter taste. John poured a glass of cordial for her.
“Nice macaroni, Marion.”
He obviously felt guilty and was trying to get on her good side. She wanted to ask who was this Violetta and why was he sending her money, but part of her was scared of knowing. After dinner, Marion went into the living room and sat down on the sofa as far away from John’s end as possible. Placing her own cushion, the red velvet one, behind her back, she threw his cushion, the large blue one, onto the floor as a small gesture of protest.
To watch television, John and Marion sat in the same places they had watched Magpie and Tiswas from as children; Marion on the right side of the sofa nearest to the bay window at the front of the house, John on the left closest to the door. When Dad had been alive, he had sat in the big brown leather armchair to the left of the fireplace and Mother had sat opposite him in the smaller velvet-covered chair. Those chairs were always empty, and it never occurred to John or Marion to sit in them.
John came into the living room with a tray of tea and biscuits and set them down on the table. He picked up his cushion from the floor, then sat down and turned on the TV. They watched a documentary together about a little girl who lived in a very poor village in India. The girl had a horribly deformed face, and all the people in the village feared her, calling her the demon girl. She couldn’t even leave her hut because other children would throw stones. Then an aid worker found out about the girl and contacted his brother, a surgeon, who lived in England.
The surgeon agreed to perform reconstructive surgery for free, and the documentary makers paid for the girl along with her father to fly to England for the operation. After the operation was completed and the bandages had been removed, the surgeon showed the girl her face in a mirror. Though she wasn’t pretty, she did look at least relatively normal. When her face was healed, the girl said to the surgeon, “You have killed the demon and brought me to life.”
When Marion noticed there were tears in her brother’s eyes, she melted and immediately forgave him for shouting earlier. He was not such a bad man, really; he had a good heart deep down.