The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [153]
‘Maroulla.’ I lifted her limp hand off the bedclothes: a clutch of twigs wrapped in translucent brown paper. Her eyelids flickered, her mouth juddered, and she slowly turned her head on her pillow. All of which took some time. Then her once dark, but now yellowing eyes focused on my face. As recognition dawned, a weak smile materialized.
‘Evie?’
‘I'm sorry I haven't been before.’ I really was. She gazed at me, her eyes not wavering from my face. ‘I should have done. I don't know why I haven't.’
‘You busy,’ she said, giving my hand the faintest squeeze. I was so relieved to hear her voice. Faint, but not too diminished. ‘As it should be. Family… Anna… how is my Anna?’
‘She's well, thank you. And lovely. Riding her pony. Maybe I'll bring her to see you?’ As I said it, I knew it was a bad idea.
She smiled faintly. ‘No. Let her not see me so, hm?’
She was right. Anna would be frightened. Fourteen-year-olds were not great at old people dying. We regarded one another fondly.
‘And Ant?’ she asked.
‘Ant's fine.’
‘Good.’
Her eyelids were closing. I watched as the lids slowly came down like parchment shutters. I sat there, holding her hand, wondering whether to prattle on as people said you should, so they could hear your voice, or just to sit quietly as she slept. Her hair was so thin I could see her scalp. I licked my lips.
‘Yes, Ant's very busy. He's writing, of course, and—’
‘He no blame himself, no?’ Her eyes had flickered opened again as she interrupted me.
For a moment I couldn't think what she was talking about, then realized she'd gone back in time. Way back to Neville Carter, the boy Maroulla had found in the river and never forgotten. In some small, non-specific way, I still thought about it every day. I knew Ant did, and no doubt Maroulla, too. It had taken all of this tiny, but once wiry woman's strength to drag that body from the river, weighed down as he was by sodden clothes, choked with reeds, water pouring off him, and on her own death bed, I imagined it would be a rather potent image.
‘You theenk is why he marry you.’ She looked directly at me. I was aware of a brightness behind through those deceptively cloudy eyes.
‘You knew that?’
She waited, not inclined to waste words.
I sighed. ‘I did, Maroulla. But I was young, then. Insecure. I don't think so now.’
‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘He no panic buy.’
Panic buy. Maroulla's English, dodgy at the best of times, was sometimes unnervingly spot on. When we were young we took full advantage of her limited vocabulary, knowing she couldn't always find the words to reprimand us, but occasionally it worked in her favour. Once she'd yelled up to the top of the hay barn where we were hiding, ‘You tread me like dog dirt!’ We'd slunk down the ladder shame-faced, pretty sure she meant treat, not tread, but either way it wasn't good.
‘How are you, Maroulla?’
‘I die.’
‘Well. Not yet.’
‘Soon. And good job too. Time to see Mario.’
I smiled. ‘You reckon he's waiting for you?’
‘Of course.’ She gave a ghost of a smile. ‘He be cross I so late.’
I grinned. Yes, he probably would. If Maroulla was fiery, Mario was more so. I had the feeling she was rather looking forward to it.
‘And your father too.’
‘Dad?’ I was surprised. ‘Yes, I suppose.’
‘No suppose, he good man. He be there.’
Quite a party she was anticipating, at the virtuous venue. And she had no doubt she was going there – why should she? All Maroulla had ever done was serve others: her husband, her children, Spencer and Tracy (I kid you not), our family – how could she not get to heaven?
‘He good master.’
‘Maroulla…’ I hated it when she was the forelock-tugging tenant and we the autocratic landlords.
‘And he make good sex love too.’
‘Dad?’ My eyes popped. Good Lord. Feudal rights?
‘No. Mario.’
‘Oh!’ That master.
‘And I know what he say when I see him.’ She tapped my arm with a bony finger, wide awake now. ‘He say