Margot's Men

By Arlo Mercia

Margot lives quietly alone in Sydney, making hats and keeping the secret of her past, until Claudia moves into the flat upstairs and threatens to destroy everything that Margot cares about. Will the young, determined Claudia steal Margot’s dream? Or will Margot discover that a shattered life may yet bring unexpected gifts? This is a haunting tale of what may be lost and found when the past is unresolved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arlo Mercia
• Release date: Jun 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310473319

Arlo Mercia

I am Australian and currently live on the island of Tasmania. I have worked in a range of jobs including as an artist, running a small business selling tea, and in education. Currently I am a senior teacher at the local high-school. I love travelling because then I can indulge my passion for infra-red landscape photography – you can see some of my photos in the background of my author’s website. Writing fantasy novels is the perfect complement to my love of painting, and you can find my artwork both in the books and on my website. I began writing novels about twenty years ago with ‘Margot’s Men’, and now I focus on the fantasy series ‘The Lygons of Fraith’ which is about a race of beautiful reptilian cats called lygons, their cheeky companions the geflars, many colourful dragons, and a few humans . . .

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MARGOT’S MEN

By Arlo Mercia

Copyright 2016 Arlo Mercia

Smashwords Edition

Cover design by the wonderful Renee Barratt, www.thecovercounts.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Claudia

Chapter 2: Margot's Past

Chapter 3: Claudia

Chapter 4: Margot's Past

Chapter 5: Claudia

Chapter 6: Margot's Past

Chapter 7: Claudia

Chapter 8: Margot's Past

Chapter 9: Claudia

Chapter 10: Claudia

Chapter 11: Margot's Past

Chapter 12: Claudia

Chapter 13: Claudia

Chapter 14: Margot's Past

Chapter 15: Claudia

Chapter 16: Claudia

Chapter 17: Margot's Past

Chapter 18: Claudia

Chapter 19: Margot's Past

Chapter 20: Margot's Past

Chapter 21: Claudia's Child

Chapter 22: Claudia's Child

Chapter 23: Claudia's Child

Chapter 24: Claudia's Child

Chapter 25: Claudia's Child

Chapter 26: Claudia's Child

Chapter 27: Claudia's Child

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CHAPTER 1 – Claudia

The silence emanating from my ceiling was audible. A distant intimacy is delivered by sound when someone lives in an apartment above you.

All the myriad noises of their existence filter down through the floor: their footsteps as they move from room to room, the tone of their various electrical appliances, the bath running, the toilet flushing, humming in the shower, conversations when voices are slightly raised – all can be heard. Each of these fragments, which are meaningless on their own, gradually form a resonance of that person’s life. It is a position of trust to hold this intimacy.

The elderly lady who lived upstairs from me had died. The apartment was sold as part of her estate. I never saw the investor who bought it, but they soon sent in workmen to renovate the place, and then it was up for lease.

It was vacant for a long time – three or four months I think. Long enough for me to become accustomed to the absence of a resident. Occasionally, and mostly in the weekends, people would wander through it, and I would watch them leave the building and wonder if they were my new neighbours. I would wait expectantly; and the flat would remain empty. Perhaps people sensed, even under the new paint and curtains, that someone had died there.

There were six flats in the heavy, post-depression, red-brick block nestled amongst the lush greenery of Mosman. The windows were minimal, with thickly painted wooden frames, so the small rooms tended to be quite dark. In summer this was fine as it helped keep out the dense weight of Sydney heat; but in winter it was a bit gloomy, and I sometimes had to put the light on if it was a dull day. Although the flats had two bedrooms, they were fairly small, and there were no built in cupboards, so free-standing wardrobes made the rooms even smaller – but this is true of much accommodation in Sydney. The bathroom was classic 1940s with a heavy porcelain toilet that was too high for me to put my feet on the ground, a sage green bath and hand-basin, and a black and white tiled floor. Not much you could do about that without great effort and expense, so I settled for buying the brightest coloured towels I could find to distract from the decor. The kitchen wasn’t much better. The painted wooden cupboards were white now, but they had been some curious shade of mustard when I moved in. The lounge was the most inviting room, as it had glass doors out onto a small balcony. The balcony was walled in with red brick, which was safe and solid, but I would much rather it had been light wrought-iron. Still, I covered it with climbing pot plants, leaving just enough room for a couple of cane chairs. All the flats were the same.

At first I missed having someone upstairs. Then I got used to the waiting silence; the potential in the space up there, and I enjoyed it. I didn’t really want the finality of a person moving in. It would mean a new relationship of some description, and I wasn’t all that good at them.

Claudia's arrival in my life was intimated months before, although I did not know at the time what the rumblings were about. I remember I was visiting a wildlife park with my brother Craig, and his two kids; Tom and Olivia. I had wandered on ahead a little way, and in the corner of the park I came across a large open pen with a couple of insignificant gum trees at the back. There, on a thin branch, was a lone, forlorn wedge-tailed eagle. I couldn’t understand what it was doing there. Why didn’t it just fly away? Then I saw a small sign on the fence saying that it had been shot by hunters, and that though it had survived, it could no longer fly.

My heart was wrenched by the tragic survival and endless frustration of that bird. What did it think about as it sat in its pathetic tree? How did it feel now that it could only watch the clouds blow past, when before it had soared through them? Had it been worth the effort of saving its life to reduce it to this?

I turned to rejoin the others and felt the deep rumble of a distant thunder. For a few seconds the air shimmered with an eerie silence. Then the world became ordinary again.

Craig and the kids caught up to me so I asked if anyone had heard the thunder and got a bemused No.

But I felt strongly that it was a portent of some important change, and for the next few days waited in uneasy anticipation for some disruption in my comfortable, but uneventful life. And I could not forget the eagle.

As is the way with rumblings from the Gods, nothing happened while I was prepared and ready, waiting to meet my fate. Gradually I forgot to watch as my life carried on in its own rhythmic and uninspiring routine, and when I did remember I felt a little disillusioned, cheated even. So of course I did not notice when the change finally took place, and it was only much later that I realised the full significance of the warning.

One day I came back from a sales trip to the city to find a removal van outside the flats. They were just packing up to go. I was disappointed that I had missed an opportunity to see the new occupant.

It is always more revealing seeing someone in the process of transition. Once people are settled in a situation all you see is the reflection off the water, the calm image. But in the movement in or out of a situation there is a vulnerability that provides many useful insights. Fears, uncertainties and hopes tremble near the surface like shy fish, and if you are quiet, observant, persistent, you will see them flash their bright colours for an instant before diving again into the unseen depths. Such insights are invaluable later when the influence of restless undercurrents are felt, and storms ruffle the smooth surface of a relationship. It was only much later that I realised it was very like Claudia to hide her vulnerable transitions.

That evening there was much rustling and scuffling of unpacking. The footsteps were quite heavy, so I could not even tell if my new neighbour was male or female. When I finally went to bed they were still organising upstairs. Their agitation made it difficult to block out.

I was just waking up the next morning when I heard the door slam upstairs, and someone clattered down the stairwell. Female. You could hear the heels catching on the concrete. I was too sleepy to go to the window in the lounge and look out.

She came and went at odd hours; often leaving early in the morning and returning in the afternoon, or leaving late afternoon and returning at night. I constantly seemed to just miss seeing her. She was starting to become mysterious and enigmatic; like having a noisy ghost in the attic. It was, in fact, a couple of weeks before I saw her, and by then it was quite unexpected.

I was going out to get The Weekend Australian from the newsagent, and as I turned to lock my door, she blocked the light from the window in the stairwell. I looked up to see her skipping down the last few steps, with bare feet on the cold concrete.

‘Hi! I’m Claudia.’ She distinctly said her name Cloudia in a pretentious way that clashed badly with her strong Australian accent.

‘Oh! You’ve moved in upstairs? I’m Margot. Nice to meet you.’

She was tall; with fine, pale red hair in a long, angular pageboy cut. I couldn’t see her face very clearly with the light behind her, but it gave the impression of being squarish and strong-boned. She was wearing black lycra gym gear with a trim of pink and green arrows.

‘You got any nail-polish remover?’

‘Why no, sorry. I don’t wear nail-polish.’

‘You going down past the shops?’

‘Yes, I was just going to the newsagent.’

‘Reckon you could pop into the chemist for me and get some then? Here’s some money for you.’ and she waved a fifty dollar note at me, for something that wouldn't cost five.

‘Sure. Is this commission, or do I keep the change?’ I quipped, wondering why she would trust this of a complete stranger. She looked puzzled and then laughed. It was a forced laugh; she had obviously missed the joke.

‘I’d like the change back, thanks.’ and she turned and ran back upstairs. The light from the window caught a flash of bright hair, and lycra sheen as she turned the corner.

I wondered if she were looking out her window at me, as I left the building. Probably not.

Maybe I shouldn’t have joked like that, I mused on my way to the chemist, but I had felt awkward having her descend on me with a demand. What did she think of me for not having nail-polish? She obviously took a great deal of care with her appearance.

Her hair was perfectly cut, and in one of those styles that needs constant maintenance and attention. I’m sure the hairdressers invent those styles with that in mind. If all their clients were like me they would go bankrupt. I regard hairdressers as salvage operators. I get my hair trimmed maybe twice a year when my self-esteem is as ragged as my home-cut fringe. I couldn’t imagine organising to see one at monthly intervals.

And nail-polish! How time consuming, not to mention distracting. I had tried it once, decades ago, and every time I moved my hands there were these little red dots flashing around. I just watched them all day, and made so many mistakes in my work that I had to stop and take it all off. Still, maybe if I wore some it would encourage people to look at my hands (which are one of my better features) rather than at my face (which isn’t).

I was sure, even in the dim light of the stairs, that she was wearing makeup too, and plenty of it. Oh well, she would think what she liked about me; worrying about it would make no difference.

I had trouble finding the nail-polish remover in the chemist, but then I usually have trouble finding anything in the chemist. Everything they sell in those stores makes me uncomfortable. It’s far too physical. All those opportunities I never take to be glamorous, sexual and healthy. I cringe at the thought of buying makeup. Thank god I never have to ask for condoms.

Things we do to be friendly. I should have just told Claudia I hate chemists and to get it herself.

At least it served as an excuse to visit her apartment. It had occurred to me that at any time I could have gone up and introduced myself, but I felt too shy to do that, so I had left the meeting to chance. She obviously wasn’t shy, just busy.

There was no answer when I returned and knocked on her door. I stood there for a while wondering what was best to do. I finally decided if she wanted her nail-polish remover, and her money, she could come and get them. I went home.

She came around late the next afternoon. When I opened the door she said ‘Hi!’ and walked in as though she visited every day. I had to clear a chair for her in the lounge, as I had been working and there was mess everywhere.

‘So your place is the same as mine then.’

‘Yes, pretty much’

‘At least they painted my place.’

I was deciding how to respond when she went on, ‘Wish they’d changed the bathroom though. That old bath and hand basin are disgusting. I nearly didn’t take it ’cos of that. But there weren’t many other places going in Mosman.’

‘Why Mosman? Any special reason to live here?’

‘No. But I like the sound of it.’

‘Here’s your nail-polish remover before I forget. Herbal flavour – that was all they had – and the change. So what happened to you last night? You disappeared before I got back.’

‘Oh, it was just later than I thought. I had to leave for work.’

‘Ah. So what do you do?’

‘I’m a gym instructor. It’s shift work. We have aerobic classes that start early in the morning, so people can go before work, and evening classes. We’re open until nine or ten at night. You should join.’

‘I hardly think that’s my scene.’

‘Oh we have beginner's classes too, and classes for the oldies.’

I wondered which category I was meant to be in. ‘Where is it?’ ‘Chatswood.’

‘Hmm, well, I’ll think about it.’

‘You should.’

She was sitting near the glass doors, and the light was shining through onto the side of her face. She was striking, but not beautiful in any conventional sense. She had green eyes, and they were pale like her hair, although in some lights they might seem grey. They were a little on the small side, or maybe it was just that her face was rather wide. The eye-lashes were thick and black with mascara; they didn’t match her pale hair.

Her mouth was large and voluptuous. It was today, as it had been the previous evening, painted bright red. She had used a lip-pencil as well, so the outline was harsh, and I suspect exaggerated – just a bit.

She was wearing a leather bodice, and tight, faded jeans. She looked like an advertisement for expensive designer leisure-wear. I found her size rather disconcerting, but then I had always been a bit uncomfortable around tall women. They seemed so much more powerful and able to cope, and they had a head start on elegance with their long legs. Fashion houses design for women like them, and not short, plump women like me.

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Yeah, got any Coke?’

‘No, I don’t have soft drinks.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, how do you like it?’

‘Is it instant or plunger?’

‘Instant.’

‘Oh. Milk and two sugars then – that should hide the taste.’

I wasn’t exactly a health fanatic, but even I knew that all that caffeine and sugar wasn’t good for one. I only kept coffee for visitors.

‘Got anything to eat?’ She was standing in the door of the kitchen, watching me.

‘There’s some fruit . . .’ I said helpfully, ‘or I’ve got biscuits in the cupboard.’

‘Oh, biscuits thanks.’

I got out the supply of Tim Tams I kept for guests, and she ate her way through most of the plate, quite unashamedly.

‘Guess it’ll all get worked off at the gym!’ I joked. She gave me the same unamused smile that I had seen yesterday.

I tried to smooth things over by asking her about herself. That usually works with touchy people. She gave adequate, if rather short answers to all my questions.

She had trained as a gym instructor in Brisbane, worked there for years, and then became bored and decided to move down to Sydney. She stayed with friends for a few weeks until she found a job, and then this flat. It was about as much as most people would tell you about themselves, and as with most such accounts, all the most important things were left out. It was like a resume, where a person might look good on paper, but you’ve no idea what they are really like.

She had been sitting there gazing out the window when she suddenly said it was time she left. I got up to see her out, but she didn’t move, she just stayed there for a while, and I wondered what she was thinking. As I looked at her, sunlight hazing through her hair, breasts rising out of her bodice, and long legs stretched out in their tight jeans, there was an air of ownership about her, and it seemed for a moment as though this was her place, and I was the guest leaving. Then she sprang to life, and in one graceful movement, rose to her feet.

It was only then, as she came towards me with the light behind her, that I realised how large her hips were. The top half of her torso was quite slender, but her hips and thighs were disproportionate in relation to the rest of her body. They were not fat; that would be unlikely given the amount of exercise she must do, but voluminous in an erotic way, and her belly swelled out gently on top of them.

It was the part of her body that held my focus. Just as well, I thought, that she had such a striking face and unusual coloured hair, because it gave a sense of balance. I wondered how a man would feel, looking at this figure.

‘Thanks for the coffee and biscuits. See you round.’ She flashed me a smile that seemed friendly, and dashed off up the stairs, two at a time.

When she was gone I stopped and looked around at my little flat. It was a bit of a mess, with all the scraps of material, ribbons and flowers of my work scattered over the floor. I make and decorate hats. I don’t make a huge income from it, but it’s adequate. I sell through a few boutiques, and in summer I have a stall at Paddington Market. I enjoy my work because it’s creative, and I can do it from home, so I don’t have to go out to an office or meet people very often. It’s a long time since I had an office job, and I could never go back to that.

I did quite well as a secretary for a few years after I left school, but then my life changed, and I didn’t cope so well after that. I drifted through a lot of jobs over a few years, and was on and off unemployment benefits, until, as a joke, I made a hat for a friend to wear to a cocktail party. People asked where she got it from, and suddenly I was in business. The dole office was delighted, I think they had resigned to me being a hopeless regular for the rest of my life.

Still, I do make rather a mess when I work, and occasionally I think I should be a bit tidier, or confine it all to the spare room. That was one of those moments, and my resolve lasted all of the usual thirty seconds.

What was that strange comment Claudia had made? At least they painted my place. Had that been a dig at the state of my flat? It was true it did need a coat of paint, but then I owned the place, and living here on my own, I can’t say I really felt up to all the work of redecorating. I didn’t have a rich landlord like Claudia to order workmen in for me. Well, too bad if she thought my place was shabby and messy, that was how it was, and I liked it that way.

I realised when I was thinking about all this that Claudia hadn’t asked me anything about my life. She had been quite happy to answer my rather innocuous questions, but had seemed completely lacking in curiosity or interest about me. Just as well probably. There wasn’t a great deal to tell, and what there was I would be reluctant to divulge. I wasn’t at all sure that I trusted, or even liked, my new neighbour.

That Friday night a silver car with Queensland number plates pulled up outside. I don’t know much about cars, but I do know BMW’s are expensive. It brought to mind that old joke, Why do blonds like BMW’s? It’s the only car name they can spell. I could just see the look on Claudia’s face if I told her that one – it was tempting, but I wouldn't.

I caught a brief glimpse of the man who got out. He was young, tall, dark and very good-looking. None of the rest of us would know someone like that, so he had to be here to visit Claudia.

Sure enough I heard his footsteps on the stairs above. There was a knock, and her door opened, and then after a while it slammed shut, as though it had been kicked rather than closed by hand.

The footsteps made straight for the bedroom, and there was a heavy thump as they collapsed on the bed.

I turned the TV on. I could well imagine what was happening up there, and I wanted to blank it out. There were no rich young men in my life to sweep me off my feet and into the bedroom.

There wasn’t anything worth watching on the TV. I thought of listening to some music, but it wouldn’t alter the fact that I knew what was going on upstairs, so I gave up and went to bed.

I lay there for a while feeling uncomfortable, and I must have started to drift into a dream when I was roused by the increasing intensity of the thumps above. Then silence, then a long slow cry that ended in a moan and muffled laughter. At least that was over.

It was only now that I appreciated how quiet and routine my previous neighbour’s life had been. It had fitted gently and neatly into my own. Claudia’s presence had so far been highly disturbing.

I did not sleep well that night.

I was woken in the morning by angry voices. It took me a while to register what was happening and where they were coming from. Then I clearly heard ‘But you promised me you’d stay!’ It was Claudia’s normally rather deep voice become shrill; petulant almost. There were mumbles in a male voice that I couldn’t make out, then ‘What do you mean you’ve got a business meeting this evening? Nobody has business meetings on Saturdays! You’re lying to me! It’s her isn’t it? You’re still seeing her!’ Her voice had gone from petulant to bitingly vicious. More mumbles. ‘You bastard! Get out! . . . Get out!!’

There were a few angry shuffles, then the door slammed and there were heavy footsteps running down the stairs, a sleek car door slammed and a finely tuned engine roared off up the deserted, early morning street.

I was sorry I hadn’t seen his face as he left. Angry? Sad? Remorseful? What was ‘Her’ role in all of this? I snuggled down into my bed and pondered. Claudia was crying. A part of me thought I ought to go upstairs and console her, and a part of me thought she it was probably what she deserved.

I must have dozed off again, because it was nearly lunch-time when I woke. It occurred to me, as I was having my shower, that a lot of other people in Sydney would be getting up about now with a headache, and feeling tired because they had been out the night before; to a film, a dinner, a party. I was just as tired as they were, but I hadn’t been anywhere. My entertainment had been thrust upon me, unasked for, unwanted – and I resented it.

It was early in the afternoon when I was surprised by a knock on the door. There was Claudia. She looked stunning in cream tights, her black leather bodice, and a black leather jacket to match. She was very carefully made up, and if I hadn’t known that she had spent the morning crying, it would have been hard to tell. There was just a faint puffiness around the eyes. Her manner was bright in a very determined way.

‘Oh! Hello, what can I do for you?’ I said.

‘Got any more chocolate biscuits?’

‘Sure. Would you like a cup of coffee?’

‘Yep, just thought I’d pop in and say hello.’

‘That’s nice of you. Here, I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘God men are such bastards, Margot.’ She muttered after me as I walked across the kitchen.

‘Oh, really? What makes you say that?’

‘They’ve no sense of commitment, you know. They’ll just run off and screw any tart that boosts their ego.’

‘Do they?’

‘What? Haven’t you noticed?’

‘Can’t say I’ve been that interested.’

‘What? Don’t you have a boyfriend?’

‘No.’

‘But you’ve had boyfriends, surely. Weren’t they like that?’

‘No, and no.’

‘No what? No you haven’t had boyfriends, or no they weren’t like that?’

‘Both.’

‘Huh?’

‘I had one boyfriend, and he wasn’t like that.’ This was not quite true, but it was as much as I was going to tell her.

‘Geez, I don’t know whether that’s lucky or not. If he wasn’t like that why did you let him go?’

‘Here’s your coffee. Let’s go and sit in the lounge . . . So what brought on all this stuff about men?’

‘Oh, my boyfriend, or rather my ex-boyfriend, came around last night. We had an argument.’

‘Did you? That’s a shame.’

‘I guess I’d seen it coming. He’s been cheating on me for ages. You know, you just can’t trust them. We’d been together for two years, and just when I thought we were going to settle down together, he starts having this affair. Business trips, late meetings, you know.’

I did and I didn’t. Mostly I didn’t, but I nodded sympathetically and that seemed to be what was needed.

‘Then he got this job down here in Sydney, you see, so I moved down so I could be with him, and then he tells me that she’d organised a transfer down here too, and they’re moving in together. And what I don’t understand is that he said he didn’t want to get married ’cos he didn’t want to have kids, but she’s already got one!’ I could see her lip was quivering, the tears weren’t far away, and her knuckles were white with tension on the handle of my mug. ‘He knows how desperate I am to have a baby.’ A single tear trickled down her cheek. She flicked it off angrily.

I struggled to think of something to say, some insight to offer her.

‘Maybe he felt safer knowing what he was getting. Having a baby could be a real challenge, I imagine.’

‘But he is an ideal father.’

‘Oh, why’s that?’

‘He is young, good-looking, rich. I could have just stayed home and looked after the kid and never had to worry about money . . . He owns this great apartment a couple of streets back from the beach . . . it would be a great life for a child.’

‘But not much of a life at all if it’s father didn’t want it.’

‘But why wouldn’t he? I don’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want to have a child . . . or at least why anyone would say they didn’t and then go and shack up with someone who already has one!’

There were a lot of things I probably could have said, none of which she would have appreciated hearing, so I just shrugged my shoulders, ‘Who knows?’

‘What a bastard. Oh well, he’s dumped now. Guess I’ll just have to find someone else.’

‘I guess so. I’m sure someone better will turn up.’

That night the phone rang in Claudia’s flat. The conversation was intense, but not exactly an argument. She burst into tears after she put the receiver down, so I presume it was that same man.

About lunch time in the middle of the week I came back from delivering some of my hats to a boutique, and I was surprised to see his car parked outside the flats.

When I got in, it was obvious they were at it again, so I made myself some toast and honey, and went out onto the balcony to eat it. When I couldn’t put off going inside any longer, I turned the radio on and sat in the lounge making flowers out of scraps of black ribbon, for a range of straw sun-hats that I was getting ready for the summer.

He left about mid-afternoon, and I confess that this time I did go to the window to get a better look at him. He was, as Claudia had said, extremely good-looking, but he had a slightly callous look to him that I didn’t care for. He was wearing a silvery-grey business suit, and I could imagine that when Claudia dressed herself up they would be a couple that would attract attention.

In one way I could understand her wanting to belong to this man. She would, as she said, have financial security, a great place to live, no need to work if she didn’t want to, a glamorous life-style. Many women have had that dream. But I somehow felt,