The Water Nixie
This morning I slept in, exhausted after a night of dark wanderings. My feet were swollen, as if I’d been walking long distances over hard ground; my head felt porous and damp. It was Myra knocking at the door that woke me up. “Rise and shine,” she trilled through the letter slot. Out of perversity, I didn’t answer. Maybe she’d think I was dead—croaked in my sleep! No doubt she was already fussing over which of my floral prints she’d lay me out in, and was planning the eats for the post-funeral reception. It wouldn’t be called a wake, nothing so barbaric. A wake was to wake you up, because it’s just as well to make sure the dead are really dead before you shovel the mulch over them.
I smiled at that. Then I remembered Myra had a key. I thought of pulling the sheet up over my face to give her at least a minute of pleasurable horror, but decided better not. I levered myself upright and out of the bed, and pulled on my dressing gown.
“Hold your horses,” I called down the stairwell.
But Myra was already inside, and with her was the woman: the cleaning woman. She was a hefty creature with a Portuguese look to her: no way to stave her off. She set to work at once with Myra’s vacuum cleaner—they’d thought of everything—while I followed her around like a banshee, wailing, Don’t touch that! Leave that there! I can do that myself! Now I’ll never find anything! At least I got to the kitchen ahead of them, and had time to shove my pile of scribbled pages into the oven. They’d be unlikely to tackle that on the first day of cleaning. In any case it’s not too dirty, I never bake anything.
“There,” said Myra, when the woman had finished. “All clean and tidy. Doesn’t that make you feel better?”
She’d brought me a fresh do-dad from The Gingerbread House—an emerald-green crocus planter, only a little bit chipped, in the shape of a coyly smiling girl’s head. The crocuses are supposed to grow out through the holes in the top and burst into a halo of bloom, her words exactly. All I have to do is water it, says Myra, and pretty soon it’ll be cute as a button.
God works in his mysterious ways his wonders to perform, as Reenie used to say. Could it be that Myra is my designated guardian angel? Or is she instead a foretaste of Purgatory? And how do you tell the difference?
On our second day at Avilion, Laura and I went off to see Reenie. It wasn’t hard to find out where she was living: everyone in town knew. Or the people in Betty’s Luncheonette did, because that’s where she was working now, three days a week. We didn’t tell Richard and Winifred where we were going, because why add to the unpleasant atmosphere around the breakfast table? We could not be absolutely prohibited, but we would be certain to attract an annoying measure of subdued scorn.
We took the teddy bear I’d bought for Reenie’s baby, at Simpsons, in Toronto. It wasn’t a very cuddly teddy bear—it was stern and tightly stuffed and stiff. It looked like a minor civil servant, or a civil servant of those days. I don’t know what they look like now. Most likely they wear jeans.
Reenie and her husband were living in one of the small limestone row-house cottages originally built for the factory workmen—two floors, pointed roof, privy at the back of the narrow garden—not so very far from where I live now. They had no telephone, so we could not alert Reenie to the fact that we were coming. When she opened the door and saw the two of us standing there, she smiled broadly, and then began to cry. After a moment, so did Laura. I stood holding the teddy bear, feeling left out because I wasn’t crying too.
“Bless you,” said Reenie to both of us. “Come in and see the baby.”
We went along the linoleum-floored corridor into the kitchen. Reenie had painted it white and added yellow curtains, the same shade of yellow as the curtains at Avilion. I noticed a set of canisters, white as well, with yellow stencilling: Flour, Sugar, Coffee, Tea. I didn’t need to be told that Reenie had done these decorations herself. Those, and the curtains, and anything else she could lay her hands on. She was making the best of it.
The baby—that’s you, Myra, you have now entered the story—was lying in a wicker laundry basket, staring at us with round, unblinking eyes that were even bluer than babies’ eyes usually are. I have to say she looked like a suet pudding, but then most babies do.
Reenie insisted on making us a cup of tea. We were young ladies now, she said; we could have real tea, and not just milk with a little tea in it, the way we used to. She had gained weight; the undersides of her arms, once so firm and strong, wobbled a little, and as she walked across to the stove she almost waddled. Her hands were puffy, the knuckles dimpled.
“You eat for two and then you forget to stop,” she said. “See my wedding ring? I couldn’t get it off unless they cut it off. I’ll have to be buried in it.” She said this with a sigh of complacency. Then the baby began to fuss, and Reenie picked it up and set it on her knee, and looked across the table at us almost defiantly. The table (plain, cramped, with an oilcloth covering printed in yellow tulips) was like a great chasm—on one side of it the two of us, on the other, immensely far away now, Reenie and her baby, with no regrets.
Regrets for what? For her abandonment of us. Or that is what it felt like to me.
There was something odd in Reenie’s manner, not towards the baby but towards us in relation to it—almost as if we’d found her out. I’ve since wondered—and you’ll have to excuse me for mentioning it, Myra, but really you shouldn’t be reading this, and curiosity killed the cat—I’ve since wondered whether this baby’s father was not Ron Hincks at all, but Father himself. There was Reenie, the only servant left at Avilion, after I’d gone off on my honeymoon, and all around Father’s head the towers were crashing down. Wouldn’t she have applied herself to him like a poultice, in the same spirit in which she’d bring him a cup of warm soup or a hot-water bottle? Comfort, against the cold and dark.
In that case, Myra, you are my sister. Or my half-sister. Not that we’ll ever know, or I myself will never know. I suppose you could have me dug up, and take a sample of my hair or bone or whatever they use, and send it off to be analysed. But I doubt that you’d go that far. The only other possible proof would be Sabrina—you could get together, compare snippets of yourselves. But in order for that to happen, Sabrina would have to come back, and God only knows whether she ever will. She could be anywhere. She could be dead. She could be at the bottom of the sea.
I wonder if Laura knew about Reenie and Father, if indeed there was anything to know. I wonder if that is among the many things she knew, but never told. Such a thing is entirely possible.
The days at Avilion did not pass quickly. It was still too hot, it was still too humid. The water levels in the two rivers were low: even the Louveteau’s rapids were sluggish, and an unpleasant smell was coming off the Jogues.
I stayed inside the house most of the time, sitting in the leather-backed chair in Grandfather’s library with my legs over its arm. The husks of last winter’s dead flies were still encrusting the windowsills: the library was not a top priority for Mrs. Murgatroyd. Grandmother Adelia’s portrait was still presiding.
I spent the afternoons with her scrapbooks, with their clippings about teas and the visiting Fabians, and the explorers with their magic lantern shows and their accounts of quaint native customs. I don’t know why anyone found it strange that they decorated the skulls of their ancestors, I thought. We do that too.
Or I would leaf through old society magazines, remembering how I’d once envied the people in them; or I’d ferret through the poetry books with their tissue-thin gilt-edged pages. The poems that used to entrance me in the days of Miss Violence now struck me as overdone and sickly. Alas, burthen, thine, cometh, aweary —the archaic language of unrequited love. I was irritated with such words, which rendered the unhappy lovers—I could now see—faintly ridiculous, like poor moping Miss Violence herself. Soft-edged, blurry, soggy, like a bun fallen into the water. Nothing you’d want to touch.