Elsie should have known something was amiss when she entered the hall.
Ordinarily, upon arrival at the Wednesday knitting group, the ladies’ voices and laughter floated out into foyer. But on a hot February Wednesday in 1970, Elsie stepped into the community hall to hear only the echo of her own footsteps. It occurred to her briefly that perhaps, in her fatigued state (Arthur, at four months old, was cutting his first teeth and keeping them all up at night), she had mixed up her days. After all, since Arthur’s arrival, she hadn’t attended the group at all. But she had only spoken to Gloria Watson on the telephone a few days ago to confirm her attendance this week. So she could have sworn she had the day right. Perhaps she was early?
Even with her knitting bag over her shoulder, her arms felt empty as she crossed the hall and headed towards the community room. Regardless of the knowledge that Arthur was perfectly content at home with Aida for a couple of hours, a sense of guilt lurked uneasily. It simply wasn’t possible for Elsie to leave the house without the children and not feel guilty. No matter how happy they were without her.
Where was everyone?
The community room was stifling; no windows were open and the air-conditioner, usually clanking away in the window through the summer months, was silent.
‘Hello?’ she called.
‘Mrs Mullet.’ Gloria Watson appeared from the kitchen. Despite the heat, her complexion was cool and perfectly made-up, her hair smoothly coiffed.
‘Am I early?’ Elsie asked with a smile, adjusting her dress in an attempt to let in a breath of air.
‘No, no, you’re right on time.’ Mrs Watson cleared her throat, gave her a prim smile in return. ‘Please take a seat.’
Elsie frowned. The chairs were stacked around the edges of the room. Gloria realised the discrepancy and her lips tightened further.
‘Are you all right, Gloria?’
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’ Mrs Watson laid her palms together at her chest, like she was praying. ‘I’m afraid since your time off with the baby, there’s no more room for you in our Wednesday group.’
Elsie couldn’t help it; she laughed. Mrs Watson’s expression was so serious, so grave, she could have been explaining to Elsie that yet another world war was about to break.
‘Where is everyone?’ Elsie asked, setting her bag down and reaching for a chair.
‘I’ve asked the other ladies not to come in today.’
Elsie paused, her arm still outstretched. Gloria Watson never cancelled a knitting group meet. Not when she dropped a cast-iron casserole pot on her foot and broke two toes – she simply bandaged her foot up and hobbled in on crutches – and not when she had the flu – she dosed herself with Bex, tasked Clare Adelman with maintaining lively discussion and sat, scarlet-nosed, in the corner. She had not even cancelled the meet when her eldest son came back from Vietnam missing his left hand.
And yet today, it appeared Gloria Watson had done as she said. Knitting group was cancelled.
Perhaps Elsie was merely exhausted – long nights of interrupted sleep, plus Millie was acting out, jealous of her baby brother – but rather than feel trepidation or concern, Elsie, irritated, sighed and folded her arms. ‘What’s going on?’
Gloria picked up Elsie’s irritation and appeared to fortify herself with it. ‘As I said, there is no longer a place for you in the group. During your absence, your position was filled.’ She sniffed. ‘Dierdre Tucker. Wonderful with a set of double pointeds. Turns a heel like I’ve never seen.’
‘I can knit socks with my eyes closed.’
‘Even so, there’s nothing I can do.’
Elsie would regret it, but she pressed further. ‘What’s really going on?’
Now, Mrs Watson’s cheeks grew a pink hue. ‘This is a group of the best, the finest ladies in the district. Look, your business is your own, but my business is the running of a respectable class for ladies looking to improve themselves and it would be remiss of me to condone any sort of . . . unbecoming behaviour.’
Elsie said, ‘What are you talking about?’
The pink on her cheeks morphed into red splotches. ‘It came to my attention that, whilst you were in hospital having your baby, your husband kept very close contact with Mrs Shepherd.’
Elsie’s breath hitched. ‘She helped out while I was in hospital,’ she said cautiously.
‘More than helped, I suspect.’ Gloria stared her down. ‘I don’t want to repeat private conversations with my husband, but he saw something in the car park at the store – between your husband and this neighbour – that seemed more suited to husband and wife.’ She leaned in and hissed, ‘Mr Mullet touched her derrière.’
A sick feeling rushed into Elsie’s mouth. ‘Gloria –’
‘Combined with the inappropriate activity I saw with my own two eyes – and which I once tried to speak to your husband about, quite civilly, a few months ago – I decided it’s best we sever our connections.’
Elsie stammered, ‘I – I really don’t think –’
Mrs Watson lifted her hands. ‘It’s none of my business. I’m not interested in other people’s private lives. But there’s nothing else to discuss. My hands really are tied.’ In a stunning feat of acting, she actually managed to look regretful.
‘I’m married,’ Elsie managed to say. ‘To my husband. That is all.’
Mrs Watson’s eyebrow twitched. ‘I don’t know if that is all, Mrs Mullet.’
Elsie’s skin ran cold, then hot. She wanted to defend herself, to deny Gloria’s implied assumptions, but she couldn’t work out what to say.
Sensing Elsie’s agitation, Gloria regained her composure and said without a shred of irony, ‘You needn’t worry. I’m not a gossip. Any suspicions are my own, and my own alone. I’ve told the ladies you’re simply too overcommitted to attend any further. However, I’m doing what is best for my community. I’m sure you understand.’
She lifted her chin, and swept from the room. Elsie stood alone, ringed by stacks of chairs, listening to Gloria Watson’s heels click across the hall, and out the door.
*
Thomas would not abide it.
‘I will not abide it!’ he cried that evening when Elsie relayed the tale of her perfunctory sacking from the Wednesday knitting group. Thomas wanted to do something.
Elsie implored Thomas not to allow himself to become worked up over it. Pleading the need to maintain discretion through silence – ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t give credence to rumour by talking more about it!’ she cried – she reminded him of Mrs Watson’s well-entrenched reputation for spurious, baseless gossip. Nothing would come of it, Elsie tried to tell him. But a not insignificant part of Elsie was terrified, and Aida, jiggling a wide-awake Arthur by the window, remained wary and troubled. As Arthur spat a string of milk curds onto Aida’s shoulder, Aida said, ‘What about the kids? What if the school finds out?’
Thomas, refusing to be intimidated into inaction, defended his family – and himself – by way of a seething fury. He simmered for three days, then came home from work one afternoon and said, ‘I have an idea.’