otluck

Tom Graves drove up to Mrs. Pepper’s house and parked on the street. He got out of his Lincoln Continental and could almost hear the combined swish of muslin curtains being grasped and pulled aside from every front parlour window to afford the occupants a better view of his visit. He picked his way across the slushy road, climbed over the great mound of snow that the plough, like some mythical iron monster, had deposited at the curb, walked along the unshovelled sidewalk and up the treacherous path to the front door.

He had read of Mrs. Pepper’s death in The Chronicle’s Births and Deaths column a few weeks earlier and knew that the house now belonged to Olive Pepper’s daughter, Joyce. Tom Graves was also an assistant with the law firm that Mrs. Pepper had used to draw up her will and knew that the house had been left to her daughter as a legacy. Unfortunately, the means necessary to maintain this depressing structure had not been provided. Miss Pepper’s only source of income, her mother’s old age pension, was no longer available to her and, even if it had been, would not have been enough to make any house repairs.

Tom now observed the brittle curls of green paint clinging to the wooden siding as if in a desperate attempt to cover the mottled purple-blue-grey of earlier paint jobs lying beneath; this house has seen better days, he thought. The metal eaves trough looked like an elongated colander and was no longer able to channel water to the downspout. Icicles had formed at the roof’s edge and dripped in the morning sun.

Tom had shovelled the Peppers’ front path every winter since he was a boy of eleven and anxious to earn his first dollar to buy Christmas presents. At the age of sixty he continued to do his winter duty. It had been a long time since he’d been in need of the dollar which came his way from this chore (Mrs. Pepper had never considered inflation), but took it because it seemed important to her that her family not accept charity.

In his teen years, Tom did the backbreaking work along with some gardening in the summer months, more because he was sweet on Miss Joyce than for the minuscule amount of money he earned. His nights were filled with dreams of her and his days with distracting images of her face before his eyes. He made every effort, back then, to be in her presence or at least get a glimpse of her whenever possible.

Tom never fell out of love with Joyce, but by the time he reached the age of thirty he could see that it was hopeless to wait for her to become free of the responsibilities thrust upon her. As the only daughter in the Pepper family, her siblings considered Joyce the logical choice to care for their mother after Mr. Pepper’s death and Joyce accepted the inevitable.

After his own mother’s death, Tom felt very lonely and he courted Sheila, a co-worker. When he proposed to her after a few months, she accepted and they were married within the year. But Tom couldn’t hide the admiration he felt for Joyce’s devotion to her mother and often said as much to Sheila. He persisted with the Peppers’ yard work even after his wife asked him to stop. He didn’t understand her objection to his continued involvement with the Peppers and made no effort to do so.

Sheila divorced him after twenty years. She stuck it out until their son left for university. Tom maintained, despite his wife’s denial, that she divorced him because she was jealous of Joyce. Sheila had said something like, don’t flatter yourself.

With Mrs. Pepper’s death came Joyce’s freedom and renewed hope for Tom. Joyce was two years younger than he was and Tom didn’t think she would receive other proposals of marriage at this late date. The only question, as far as he could see, was whether or not she would be interested in changing her spinsterhood for a life with him.

In response to his knock on the brass lion-head knocker, the door was pulled open a few inches, then halted by the snap of a short safety chain. Joyce peered out through the small space, eyes narrowed as if in defence against the world. Tom took a step back. An unpleasant musty odour released itself from the old house into the cold, crisp air. The smell was familiar, though forgotten until this moment, and conjured up images of black moulds growing on damp basement walls.

“Good morning, Joyce,” he said, “Would you like me to shovel your path?”

“You’re so thoughtful,” Joyce said. “The snow shovel’s right here.”

The chain gave a harsh rasping sound as if protesting at being disturbed after a long rest and the door opened wide on hinges as vocal as the chain. The shovel’s metal business end, resting in the narrow front hallway on a copy of The Chronicle, was bent out of shape and looked too far-gone to give many more days of work.

Joyce bent over to retrieve it and her straw coloured hair, streaked with grey, escaped from behind her ears and fell across her face. The sleeves of her beige wool sweater, soaked wet from some cleaning chore, sagged from her bony elbows. Her arms, little bigger around than the stick handle of the shovel that she held with both hands, looked as if they might snap under its weight.

Tom was unnerved by her appearance. Joyce didn’t look anything like the woman he remembered, the woman of whom Sheila was jealous. She had seemed all right at the funeral and in the lawyer’s office a couple of weeks ago. Perhaps he’d just been too business-like at that time to notice her demeanour. How long had it been since he’d seen her before that? Couldn’t have been more than six months, could it? She’d looked fine then, neat and trim, and desirable.

“I’ll put the kettle on while you’re working, if you like,” Joyce said. “Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea when you’re finished.”

“That’d be very nice,” Tom said.

He couldn’t remember when he’d last been offered any refreshment in this house. Must’ve been when he was a kid. Yes, that one really hot day in July when Mrs. Pepper gave him a glass of her mouth-puckering lemonade. Joyce was in the kitchen that day too. They’d sat there together looking sideways at each other, not saying a word.

Sweat poured off him today after the snow shovelling. It could have been the middle of July rather than January and Tom would have preferred a cold drink rather than a hot cup of tea, but Joyce would have gone to a lot of trouble and he didn’t want to disappoint her.

He came into the kitchen through the back door, took off his overshoes and looked around for a place to put his coat where it might not be contaminated by the intrinsic house odour. He hung it on a peg by the door hoping it would get some benefit from the draft of fresh air coming through the gap. This place needed a lot of work.

“Come and sit down,” Joyce said, “I’ve got everything ready.”

“It all looks very nice,” Tom said.

Indeed it did look fine—delicate china cups and saucers, a pattern of ivy trailing over the surface in a green and gold hue; matching cream and sugar. If it hadn’t been for the teapot spout’s rubber drip-catcher (a germ factory Tom was certain) he would have felt quite comfortable taking refreshment in this house, with this woman.

“I would have liked to entertain you in the parlour,” Joyce said, “but it’s so cold in there that I thought you would prefer to be in the kitchen.”

They chatted on about this and that and before he knew it, Tom was asking Joyce out on a date.

“There’s a potluck supper at the church this evening,” he said. “Would you do me the honour of being my guest?”

“Well, I don’t really know, I’m sure. Would it be proper, so soon after my mother’s death and all? What would I cook? What would I wear?”

Joyce’s cheeks flushed bright and two large tears ran down from the corners of her eyes.

“Please don’t distress yourself.”

Tom reached out to reassure her, but the electric shock that passed between them caused her to withdraw her hand as if he had jabbed her with a pin.

“Actually, you wouldn’t need to cook anything,” he said, “my housekeeper is taking care of that. As for what you would wear, it’s a simple affair and any one of your outfits would be satisfactory, I’m sure.”

“You don’t think it’s too soon to go out after my mother’s death? I’m not sure of the correct period of mourning in this day and age.”

“I’m certain it would be quite proper,” Tom said, “and it would give me great pleasure into the bargain.”

“But I truly cannot come empty handed,” Joyce said, “There must be something I can bring. I could bring the silverware for both of us. You know—knife, fork and spoon identified with a piece of coloured wool or something—like we did at the Sunday school picnics in the old days.”

Tom thought back to one particular outing when he had enticed Joyce to follow him behind the sand dune and surprised her with a quick kiss. Was that the event she recalled? He hoped so.

“They have knives and forks at the church. Don’t worry about it. Just bring yourself,” Tom said. “I’ll pick you up at 7:30.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Tom looked back at the house as he opened the car door and saw that Joyce was waving to him through the front window. He hoped he’d done the right thing in inviting her to this potluck supper. Despite the fact that he’d always wanted to marry her, he began to feel a little unsure of himself. He didn’t want to be embarrassed. What if the house odour is so attached to her and her clothes that it envelops us both in its unpleasantness, he thought.

He put it out of his mind.

 ***

After Tom had gone, Joyce sat down for a few minutes to think about this turn of events. Sheila had come to her before their divorce and warned her about Tom. He was not as he appeared on the surface, she told her. She related tales of abuse, tales that made Joyce cringe.

“Why are you coming to me with this story?” Joyce asked.

“Because I want you to be prepared for the inevitable; sooner or later, he’ll ask you to marry him. You need to know what you’ll be getting yourself into if you accept.”

Joyce wished Sheila hadn’t revealed these things to her. She didn’t believe her preposterous accusations but it made her uneasy. Well, she would put it out of her mind. Life owed her a good time and she would take it with both hands. She had spent too many years locked away with her ailing mother and if Tom Graves wanted her then Joyce Pepper would oblige.

 ***

Tom Graves was prompt to the minute and, as he had expected, so was Joyce. He was about to ring the doorbell, when the front door swung open and before him stood his date.

For a moment he thought he must have come to the wrong house. On the threshold stood a woman transformed. Joyce must have visited the beauty salon. Her hair was shining and short, set in curls. Gone was the lank look he had seen this morning.

“You look lovely this evening,” Tom said.

“Thank you.”

“Let me lock up for you.”

Tom pulled the door closed, turned the key in the lock and handed the key ring back to her.

“You always were such a gentleman, Mr. Graves,” Joyce said.

Tom put his hand under Joyce’s elbow to support her as she walked along the slippery path. He wanted to touch her. The years of pent up desires for this woman were taking over his mind and body.

He assisted her into the passenger seat and leaned over to buckle her seatbelt. Tom detected no mildew odour. In fact, a delightful perfume rose from her, reminding him of his mother’s scent when she emerged from a long soak in lavender-salted bath water.

Tom settled himself in the driver’s seat. He remembered that Sheila had always refused his gifts of lavender-fragranced items. She said they made her sneeze, but Tom knew she was afraid. She never seemed to be comfortable with him after the night he told her that his mother had drowned in her bath. Joyce would not be afraid; he would make sure of that, he loved her too much to hurt her.

“How long have we known one another, do you think?” Tom asked. “It must be a good many years.”

He knew full well that it was close to fifty years.

“It’s been a long time since we first met,” Joyce said. “I’ve often wanted to know you better, but mother demanded my full attention, I couldn’t have given you what you deserved. I’m glad you got married. I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you and Sheila.”

“It’s not too late for us to get to know each other better,” Tom said.

Joyce stared straight ahead and said nothing.

“I have offended you,” Tom said. “I’m sorry. Don’t let it spoil the evening. We can still enjoy the potluck supper at the church.”

“You haven’t offended me,” Joyce said. “I was just wondering whether it would be rude to miss the church social and have potluck at your house instead.”

“Not rude at all, Joyce, I’m sure,” Tom said. “Not rude at all.”

Tom was glad he’d given his housekeeper the night off. An old song came into his mind. He let the words go through his brain and hummed the tune out loud.

“Lavender’s blue, dilly, dilly, / lavender’s green. / When I am king, dilly, dilly, / then you’ll be queen.”

He laughed out loud when Joyce joined in the last line, belting it out like a chorus girl.

“Then I’ll be queen.”

My time has come at last, he thought. Yes, and Joyce’s too.

 © Judith Lawrence