When Thomas reflected on it later – as he would reflect upon it, many times – he knew they had been lucky.
Lucky in so many ways: lucky that he and Elsie had met; lucky that they had moved to that particular house on that particular street in Gawler; lucky that Aida loved them. But one stroke of luck that never failed to escape Thomas’s attention was that no one had ascertained the truth about Mr and Mrs Mullet and the young woman who lived next door sooner. Or more publicly. Or with more certainty. But for the first six years of their three-way relationship, Thomas consoled himself by asking: who could they have known who was worldly or open-minded enough to suspect a conservative married couple might in actual fact be sixty-six per cent of a committed threesome?
No one.
Except perhaps someone with an extraordinary predilection for gossip.
Thomas wasn’t having the best of days on a Wednesday in the summer of 1968 when Mrs Bert Watson came into the store. It wasn’t Mrs Watson’s arrival that caused Thomas’s unfavourable mood – that had arisen much earlier in the day thanks to three customers in a row taking up a combined almost three hours of his time and walking out of the store without purchasing a single thing. And it wasn’t the only day sales had been slow – it was merely the first day he’d allowed himself to fully acknowledge the slump. Australia’s military involvement in Vietnam had the country divided, people were agitated. The draft was a combination of simultaneous pride and fear. Thomas watched the young, single men conscripted around him and couldn’t work out if he was disappointed or greatly relieved. To top off the agitation, a new department store had opened up on the southern edge of town, on the highway to Adelaide, and Bagnoli’s wasn’t immune to the competition. (Mr Bagnoli, who hadn’t come down in the last shower and wasn’t a sucker, would reclaim the sales within a few months by employing some adroit marketing tactics and endless kerb-side sausage sizzles, but Thomas wasn’t to know that yet on the day Mrs Watson entered his showroom.)
‘Mrs Watson,’ Thomas said, ‘how lovely to see you. Bert’s on his lunch break, I’m afraid. Said he had some errands to run. Would you like to wait for him out back?’
Gloria Watson allowed Thomas to take her hand and give it a polite squeeze. ‘Now see, he mentioned his errands to me this morning,’ she said, with a small, self-effacing laugh. ‘I’d forgotten about it entirely.’
‘Listen, Mr Mullet,’ she went on, ‘I’m in the market for a new washing machine. I’ve been nagging Bert for weeks, but as they say, an appliance salesman’s house is the last house to house appliances.’
Who says that? Thomas wondered. But he nodded and laughed as though he knew it well. ‘I’ll be sure to nag Bert for you, as soon as he gets back from lunch. You have my word.’
‘No, no, Mr Mullet. I’d like you to show me the latest washing machines.’
He hesitated. Watson’s usual opinion of him varied somewhere between grudging collegial tolerance and openly hostile competition. What would the man think if Thomas sold his wife a washing machine?
Although he would tell Elsie and Aida he’d hesitated for much longer, after a brief rumination, Thomas led Watson’s wife to the selection of washers, placed his hand on the lid of the most expensive and proceeded to sell it to her.
Mrs Watson listened to his spiel for about fifteen seconds before she cut in.
‘Mr Mullet, I’m afraid I’m here on a matter more delicate than washing machines,’ she said.
Thomas was slightly confused. ‘This particular machine will accommodate delicate fabrics,’ he clarified. ‘It has a gentle cycle –’
‘I’m not talking about the machine.’ Her eyes darted from left to right. ‘And I’m fully aware that Mr Watson is not in right now. It’s only that I wasn’t sure how else to speak with you without . . . well, to have a word in private.’ That last word she whispered.
Had Bert put her up to this? Despite his puzzlement, he didn’t want to lose a potential sale, so he decided the best course of action would be to include this ‘private word’ as part of his sales patter. Seamless, professional. Anything a customer wanted, he could oblige. No problem.
He straightened. ‘Of course. How can I assist?’
She pushed her glasses – white framed, winged things – up the bridge of her nose. Again she glanced from side to side. ‘It’s been quite some weeks I’ve been mulling this . . . unfortunate thing over in my mind. I want you to know –’ she lowered her voice and leaned in even closer. Ever accommodating, he mirrored her movements. ‘I haven’t told anyone about this. Not even Bert.’
Confusion mounting, Thomas simply nodded his head.
‘I saw something. Several weeks ago, at the Spring Show.’
Thomas cast his mind back. Bagnoli had insisted Thomas take the Friday afternoon off. It had been a glorious day: hot and dusty, with happy crowds of people, the air redolent of fried doughnuts, oaten hay and diesel. Aida was out, enjoying herself, and they were all delighted. Elsie had won an enormous stuffed panda from a shooting range stall and popped it into Millie’s stroller – it was bigger than Millie; Aida had eaten four hot dogs and suffered a belly ache all afternoon.
‘Did I see you there? I apologise if I missed you.’
Mrs Watson shook her head. ‘No, Mr Mullet. I didn’t see you. Well, not you, specifically. I saw . . .’ She pursed her lips, then went on in a rush. ‘Look, I thought you should know what I saw, because it seemed the decent thing to do – to tell you. I saw Mrs Mullet and your neighbour . . . the miner’s widow – what’s her name? Shepherd? I saw them . . .’
Thomas’s gut sank.
‘I saw them kissing.’
She saw them.
She saw them kissing.
Thomas laughed nervously. ‘Well now, they’re close friends. You ladies do that all the time, kiss each other greetings, and so forth. Much like men shake hands, I suppose.’
‘On the cheek,’ she said, glaring at him as though he had insulted her. ‘This wasn’t a kiss on the cheek between two lady friends. This was on the mouth.’ A rosy flush had crept up from beneath her neckline. ‘I know what I saw. And I don’t like it. Neither should you.’
Thomas’s hand was still laid flat on the lid of his most expensive washing machine. He looked down and considered the machine with a sense of yearning. The situation appeared to him to have two possible avenues of escape. One: he could deny Mrs Watson’s suggestion, feigning great offence and indignation, honouring his wife’s name while shooing Mrs Watson (politely, of course, with promises to immediately alert her husband to her dire need of a new washing machine) from the store. He did not believe that Mrs Watson had not mentioned what she saw to her husband – but fortunately, for Thomas, Bert regularly boasted about spending the majority of his time at home with the football broadcasting loudly on the wireless so he didn’t have to listen to his nagging wife. With this knowledge, and a few strategically placed words in Watson’s ear about that Luxomatic display model Watson had ‘borrowed’ a few months back and neglected to return, he could potentially squish any threat of Mrs Watson’s ‘scandal’ growing larger than the annoyance it presented. Mrs Watson would leave without buying anything.
Or two: he could play along. Play the astonished, concerned husband. Press her for more detail. Appear contemplative, irked and troubled. He could then appear anxious to recover his pride, throwing extra enthusiasm into his pitch for this incredible washing machine – and Mrs Watson, eager to help, might pull out her cheque book.
The washing machine’s lid was smooth, warm where his hand had been resting on it. There were four of this particular model out the back, collecting dust in the warehouse for weeks. Hundreds of pounds worth of stock, unsold.
‘Mrs Watson,’ he began.
‘Please, call me Gloria.’ She smirked.
‘Gloria. Listen.’ He took his hand from the washing machine and set it on her forearm. ‘I’m sorry to hear this has troubled you for so long.’
‘It has.’ She nodded, almost sadly.
‘And I’m honoured that you thought the right thing to do was come to me.’
‘Oh, Mr Mullet. Don’t mention it.’
‘But what you saw – or, more accurately, what you think you saw, on a hot day in the sun, with all that sugar, all the distractions around you – is an offensive idea and, frankly, I’m outraged that you’re turning an innocent moment between my wife and her friend into some kind of scandal.’
Gloria blinked behind her glasses. ‘It’s not –’
‘Your husband and I have a respectful working relationship. I’m sure he’d find it unconscionable that you might jeopardise that by these insinuations.’ Mimicking her, he lowered his voice and leaned in. ‘Especially as Bagnoli values my opinion on the running of this store – and its employees – so very highly.’
Her mouth opened and shut, once, twice.
Thomas ushered Mrs Watson from the row of washing machines, propelling her along with a hand at her elbow.
‘Mr Mullet,’ she tried. ‘I implore you to listen.’
‘I’ll not have you sullying Mrs Mullet’s dear name with your school-girl gossip, Mrs Watson. I’ll be having a word to your husband. This is a nice town. We don’t need the likes of this silly chatter.’ He pulled open the front door; the bell jangled overhead. Warm air from the street rushed in. ‘Now, I’ll be sure Bert brings one of the floor stock washers home this week.’
‘Mr Mullet –’
But he closed the door, and she was out on the street, gaping through the window. He turned his back on her, and strode to straighten the kettles on their shelves to hide the tremor of his hands.
*
Later that evening, Thomas arrived home and found Aida pulling a meatloaf out of the oven. She offered him her cheek and he kissed her, swiftly, distractedly, thinking of the kiss between her and his wife that Mrs Watson had witnessed.
‘Where’s Elsie?’
‘She took Millie for a walk.’ Aida set the tin on the bench.
He grunted, loosening his tie. He flung off his jacket and tossed it over a chair.
Aida inserted a skewer into the meatloaf. ‘You all right?’
He was about to reply when the front door opened. Millie bolted into the kitchen, pigtails bouncing on the sides of her head, arms flying. ‘Dada!’ she cried.
‘Hey, kiddo!’ He picked her up and hugged her tightly. Almost immediately she squirmed to be put down; he set her on the floor and she ran off.
Elsie was backing awkwardly through the door, dragging the stroller. ‘Heavens above,’ she said, ‘it’s still warm out there. Millie, go wait in the bathroom for me to wash your hands. You’re home early,’ she added upon seeing Thomas. ‘I thought you had a demo tonight?’
‘I cancelled it. I need to talk to you.’ He watched Elsie, flushed and puffing, bent over the cumbersome stroller, trying in vain to fold it and he didn’t offer to help. He looked over at Aida setting plates on the bench. Three large plates, one small bowl for Millie. Aida saw Elsie occupied with the stroller and disappeared into the bathroom to help Millie wash her hands. Thomas, standing in the kitchen and feeling rather extraneous, grew impatient. Finally he grabbed the stroller from Elsie and wrestled it flat. Aida was back in the kitchen; she picked up a knife and cut into the meatloaf.
‘Mrs Watson came into the shop today,’ he announced.
Elsie lifted his jacket off the chair. ‘What a treat,’ she said.
‘She said she saw you two at the Show, a few weeks back.’
‘Did she? I don’t remember.’
‘No, of course you don’t, you were too busy kissing.’
Elsie dropped his jacket. ‘What?’
‘She saw the two of you. Kissing. Apparently not in the manner that lady friends should kiss each other. And then she had a crisis of faith about it for a while and simply had to come clean to me. In the store. At work. In the middle of the day. How could you be so careless?’
Elsie gaped, looking back and forth between him and Aida. ‘How could she have seen us?’
Thomas saw the quaver in Aida’s hands as she sliced the meatloaf. ‘Because she’s a bored gossip,’ she said, ‘with nothing better to do than stick her nose into other people’s business.’
Thomas’s anger stoked itself. ‘That may be true, but that doesn’t excuse that you let somebody see you. What were you thinking?’
‘Thomas, calm down.’
‘How does it make me look that my wife kisses another woman?’
‘No one listens to Gloria Watson. Don’t worry.’
‘How can I not worry? If the wrong person finds out I could be charged with a crime, for all I know!’
The kitchen went quiet, the three of them staring each other down.
‘Of course not,’ Aida said, breaking the silence ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Bigamy is illegal,’ he told her.
‘And I’m not your wife,’ she retorted.
Elsie said warily, ‘Come on now, let’s all calm down.’
‘No, Elsie, this is not on. If you’re in public, you cannot act like a pair of lovesick teenagers.’
‘We’re hardly –’
‘Are you forgetting that you’re both women? It’s against the law.’
‘Between men.’ Aida’s voice was stony. ‘It’s only sodomy the law has a problem with.’
Elsie said, ‘Let’s change the subject.’
‘You need to be more careful,’ Thomas said.
‘You don’t think I’ve spent enough time being “careful”?’ Aida said icily.
‘Love, I’m sure Thomas didn’t mean –’
‘Christ, Ay, I’m sorry,’ Thomas shook his head, feeling like an arsehole, but then growing even more indignant because of that. He didn’t want to feel like an arsehole – but he hadn’t been the one locking lips at the Show. ‘I might sound like a right bastard but this reflects on me. What if Bagnoli found out? I could lose my job.’
Aida slashed at the meatloaf. ‘Of course. Make it all about the man.’
Thomas tossed up his hands. Millie ran back into the kitchen, clutching a stuffed bear with one eye. Elsie picked her up, chattering about playing with Mummy’s necklaces like she always wanted, and disappeared from the room.
Thomas rubbed his jaw anxiously. ‘Who else knows? What about your friend over the road, what’s her name? Has she seen you two together?’
‘Sara Scott. And no, she doesn’t know.’ Aida slammed the knife down. ‘I know you’re upset, Thomas, but it’s been six years now.’ She slapped slices of meatloaf onto plates. ‘Bloody hell, I’ve only just started getting out again. You know we’re discreet.’
‘I know that, love, but necking at the Spring Show is not discreet.’
‘We weren’t “necking”.’ Elsie appeared without Millie. ‘Mrs Watson is exaggerating.’
Aida lay a hand limply on her breast, feigning astonishment. ‘Gloria Watson, exaggerate? Nooo.’ They both chuckled and, feeling outnumbered, Thomas’s irritation skyrocketed.
He turned to his wife. ‘Elsie, you’ve told me before that Gloria Watson is a voice of the community. Her opinion matters. Remember how worried you were about not being good enough for her knitting group?’
Elsie, the smirk wiped from her face, looked uncomfortable.
‘Nonsense,’ Aida broke in.
‘He’s right,’ Elsie said. ‘We should have been more careful. This is a small town.’
Thomas stifled a sense of triumph.
Aida narrowed her eyes. ‘I love you both, and Thomas, yes, maybe we weren’t cautious enough. But I will not be made to feel guilty again, when I’m finally feeling good about myself.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘I refuse to feel ashamed anymore.’
Silence fell again. Internally, Thomas churned, as he glanced from one woman to the other.
‘I do understand, I do,’ he sounded flustered, and that aggravated him even further. ‘But you do need to be more careful – if I get found out –’ he looked pleadingly at Elsie.
Elsie’s expression was miserable. ‘It’s my fault. I suggested the day out.’
Thomas was struck by how the slice of meatloaf, as it sailed across the kitchen, demonstrated uncannily robust aerodynamics. Perfect lift, without inaccurate yaw, it sailed over the bench, across the table and went splat onto the glass on the back door. Grease smeared in its wake like a blurry contrail as it sank idly down the glass and plopped onto the floor.
‘Don’t you dare start self-flagellating, Else,’ Aida snapped. ‘Don’t you dare. I am a grown woman and I can make my own damn choices. Do you think I haven’t tried to protect you? And Thomas?’ Her voice was straining to stay contained. ‘You think I don’t realise how . . . how . . . weird this is? How dangerous it is for both of you? You think I don’t know anything about hiding, worrying about what people will think and being ashamed?’
‘Love,’ Elsie said, softly now. ‘I’m sorry. Thomas is too –’
Aida’s eyes glistened angrily. ‘When I left here, after Millie was born, I asked my mum if she had heard anything about Jimmy and she told me I should pretend he had died. Pretend he died. Like I should erase from my mind entire people, entire life experiences, as though that somehow makes them go away. And it hurt. My parents believed we could all pretend the baby had never existed and all I could think about was you, Elsie. And you, Thomas. And how I fall in love with the wrong people.’
Elsie shot Thomas an imploring look. He said, ‘Oh, my dear, I didn’t mean –’
‘I tried to stop loving you but I couldn’t!’
Millie bustled into the kitchen. Layers of Elsie’s strings of plastic pearls and coloured beads were draped about her body, wrapped around her wrists. The one-eyed bear was being garrotted by a string of fake pearls.
‘Mummy’s necklaces are fun!’ Millie declared, running a lap of the kitchen table. She stopped by the back door. Bending carefully, she picked up the slice of meatloaf in her chubby hand, shoved in a mouthful and grinned at them all.