Elsie joined Mrs Watson’s Wednesday knitting group. Though Gloria warned her that she might find the high standard quite a challenge! in actual fact Elsie found the other ladies in the group to be of similar skill to herself. But what mattered more was that they were pleasant company. Good knitters, yes, but companionable women who didn’t seem to mind quite as much as Mrs Watson did about each others’ prowess with a ball of yarn. On her second meet, during the tea-break, Elsie wandered out of the stuffy town hall into the fresh sunshine and found a lovely, overgrown French lavender pushing silvery limbs through the fence. Snapping a piece off, she had stuffed it into her bag, taken it home, snipped it into cuttings and stuck them into pots.
Now, humming quietly to herself, Elsie was digging a trowel into the sandy earth in her backyard. With gloved hands she hollowed out the hole and slid the lavender cutting from its pot. It had struck well, sending up healthy, leafy shoots.
As she patted the dirt down, she heard a loud crash, followed by a muffled cry. It came from next door.
Dropping her trowel, Elsie shed her gloves and ran across the narrow strip of adjoining yard. She hesitated, then gathered her neighbourly resolve and pushed straight through the side door.
Inside Aida’s house, it was dark and cool, curtains drawn across the windows. In the living room there was a single cane armchair with a flattened cushion, a small coffee table with three novels piled untidily on top. The air smelled faintly of toast.
‘Hello?’ Elsie called out, tentatively moving through the living room, past the kitchen identical to hers and into the hallway. It was uncanny, walking through the mirror image of her own house, but with the unfamiliar scents and bare furnishings of a stranger.
‘Aida?’
‘Who’s there?’ Her neighbour’s voice came from the bedroom, startled and thin.
Suddenly not wanting to frighten or intrude, Elsie paused. ‘It’s Elsie, from next door. Are you okay?’ She cocked her ear towards the bedroom. ‘I heard a noise. I thought you might be hurt.’
‘I’m . . . no . . .’ the voice faded off. ‘Please help me.’
Elsie rushed into the bedroom.
A wardrobe lay on its front on the floor. Alongside, an overturned chair sprawled against a wicker basket from which folds of fabric and a scatter of cotton reels spewed across the floor. Supine on the carpet, with her knees and feet beneath the wardrobe, Aida lay trapped.
Elsie hurried to Aida’s side. ‘Can you move? Are you hurt?’
Aida’s breathing was panicked, but she shook her head and struggled to prop herself up on her elbows. Almost selfconsciously she was grabbing at her dress, as though trying to straighten it or make herself more presentable. ‘My left foot hurts. I don’t think it’s serious, but I’m stuck.’
Elsie crawled to the wardrobe, searching for grip where the timber lay against Aida’s bare shins. She gave it an experimental heave.
‘I’m going to lift it enough to get your feet out,’ she said. ‘On the count of three, can you slide out?’
Aida didn’t answer but she nodded grimly.
‘One, two, three –’ Elsie held her breath and heaved, Aida dragged her legs clear and Elsie let the wardrobe drop with a thud.
Drawing her knees up, Aida curled into herself. Red grazes marked her shins and she clutched at her left ankle.
‘Can you move it?’ Elsie asked.
Aida winced, gingerly flexing her foot. ‘It hurts, but I don’t think anything is broken.’
‘Let me help you up.’
‘No, no. I can manage – ’ She rolled forward onto her hands and knees, but when she made to stand she cursed and stumbled. Elsie hastened to steady her. Aida smiled weakly and let Elsie take her up beneath her arm. With Aida hopping, they shuffled to the bed and Elsie lowered her down. Instantly Aida rolled onto her side, fussing again with her dress and pulling her knees up.
‘Should we get you to the doctor?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
Elsie frowned. ‘That ankle might need strapping.’
Aida tugged a blanket up to cover herself. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
‘Not at all.’ Elsie looked at the wardrobe, flat on the floor, the upturned chair and the scatter of mess. Before she left, she would need to help Aida right it again. ‘You were stuck. You wouldn’t have . . .’ she trailed off. ‘You’re by yourself.’
A tear slid down Aida’s nose and plopped onto the pillow.
‘I’ll get you some painkillers,’ Elsie said softly.
In the bathroom, a single towel hung from the rail, a bottle of shampoo sat on the floor in the shower recess. The tiles were soap-filmed but there were no traces of mould and the air smelled of the clean scent of lemon Jasol. A lone toothbrush in a cup on the sink. Inside the medicine cabinet she found an unopened box of Band-Aids and a bottle of Dettol. But it was another, unfamiliar container that caught her attention.
Distaval the label read. The name sounded familiar, but Elsie couldn’t quite place it. For hypnotic effect. A sedative? Furtively, she glanced back over her shoulder. Aida was silent in the bedroom. Carefully Elsie picked up the bottle and rolled it in her fingers. The tablets clinked inside. Hypnotic effect. Elsie’s stomach dropped. Distaval. Of course.
They gave it to women suffering morning sickness.
‘Oh my,’ she breathed to herself. A strange, cold fizzing sensation swept through her, a curdling of guilt and embarrassment and anxiety. Silently she shut the cabinet.
Back in the bedroom, Aida was curled up on the bed but her eyes were open and she stared blankly at the wall. The blanket covered her body; a thread of smoke rose from the cigarette dangling in one hand.
All of a sudden Elsie felt awkward, as though she had walked into something intimate. In the bedroom doorway she hesitated, tapped on the doorframe.
Aida’s eyes flicked to her. They were the most uncanny green – an intense, almost luminous shade like cut limes, beneath thick, arched brows.
‘Is there anyone I can call?’ Elsie asked.
Aida stared at her, and Elsie thought she had not heard her question. Then she answered, ‘No.’
Before Elsie realised she had spoken the thought aloud, it came out: ‘Where are your family?’
But Aida smiled. ‘It’s only me here,’ she said. ‘I’m having a short holiday before college.’
‘Oh,’ Elsie said. ‘That sounds . . . nice.’ It didn’t sound nice. Who holidays alone in the unremarkable suburbs? Plus, Elsie knew it was a lie. Clearly Aida was alone, yes – but this was no holiday.
This was a hideout.
Elsie was unsure what else to say. She knew she should leave, but she found herself stepping slowly into the room. Aida sat up, gathering the blanket, pulling it high to cover herself as if she were naked. Her feet and shins poked out the end.
‘Are you sure you’re not hurt?’ Elsie said, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. Blood had begun to crust in streaks on Aida’s shins.
‘I’ll be okay.’ Aida tucked a thread of black hair behind her ear. ‘Thank you for the biscuits the other day.’ Her cheeks reddened.
‘I wanted to thank you for your help with the chook.’
Aida lifted a shoulder. ‘It was no problem.’
‘Where did you learn to . . . ?’ Elsie made two fists and thrust them away from each other, a humourless pantomime of the chicken’s demise.
This time Aida shrugged both shoulders. ‘We always had chickens, growing up. My grandmother had dozens of them. Death was a part of life, I suppose.’ She gave a hint of an ironic smile.
‘Where did you grow up?’
The two women regarded each other.
‘Your husband,’ Aida said, dodging her question as she crushed the cigarette into an ashtray on the bed. ‘He works a lot.’
It would be wisest for them both if she left now, Elsie thought. Make sure the young woman was safe, perhaps fix her a cup of tea and go home. Keep out of other people’s messy business.
But Elsie heard herself answer. She felt her shoulders relax as the words came out. ‘It’s work. He’s just gotten all these new responsibilities, right after we got married.’
‘Did you work? Before you were married?’
‘Yes,’ Elsie said. ‘It’s funny how I miss it.’
‘So he got promoted, and you got sacked.’
‘I resigned,’ Elsie broke in quickly. ‘It was my choice.’
‘Was it?’
‘Well, no,’ Elsie concurred. ‘I guess it wasn’t.’
Aida chuckled. It was a warm, throaty sound, and Elsie, startled, was gripped by an urge to make her laugh again.
‘How’s your ankle?’
Aida flexed her foot. ‘It feels better already.’
Elsie took in the mess on the floor. ‘How did you do it?’
‘Stupid really,’ Aida said with another laugh. ‘I was trying to get something off the top of the wardrobe. I stood on the chair and overbalanced, grabbed the top of the cupboard and it all came tumbling down.’
‘I heard the crash,’ Elsie said. ‘Ordinarily I don’t come uninvited into people’s houses.’ She thought of the bottle of Distaval and cleared her throat. ‘Shall I get you some antiseptic for those cuts?’
Aida hesitated. Finally she said, ‘Thank you. And then please, let me make you a cup of tea.’
An oddly pleasant feeling flushed up Elsie’s spine. ‘I’ll make the tea – you stay off that ankle.’