Fixing Mrs Philpott Read online

  Fixing Mrs Philpott

  Rachel McAlpine

  Dedication

  To the valiant people of Christchurch, New Zealand

  Copyright

  Published by Booklovers Books

  123 Pirie Street

  Wellington 6011

  New Zealand

  [email protected]

  First published in 2016

  Copyright © Rachel McAlpine 2016

  ISBN 978-0-473-36768-8 paperback edition

  ISBN 978-0-992-25493-3 Kindle edition

  The author has asserted her moral rights in the work.

  All rights reserved. Apart from any fair dealing for review, private research, or criticism as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be copied by any means without written permission from the author.

  Most of the stories in Book Two were previously published in Scarlet Heels.

  Cover painting by Lesley Evans

  Cover design by Richard Parkin

  Page design and layout by Quentin Wilson & Associates

  Printed by Printing.com

  Table of contents

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Book One: Yellow Caravan

  1. A question of propriety

  2. Quake in a townhouse

  3. Oh look, it swivels

  4. A daffodil caravan

  5. The kindness of Beryl

  6. That lava stuff

  7. It’s so personal

  8. If only a wolf

  9. Orange Honda

  10. Jenny and the seeds

  11. Secret gardens

  12. Bill begs

  13. Quite nice macaroni cheese

  14. Still so dear

  15. Little River encounter

  16. Akaroa chainsaw

  17. Involuntary makeover

  18. Just a truck

  19. What would Zoe do?

  20. Kapok and alopecia

  21. Bill and the rabbits

  22. Anti-this, anti-that

  23. Gig to pool

  24. Cannon ball

  25. Body parade

  26. Little women

  27. Yum yum yum yum

  28. Zoe hallucinates

  29. You got drunk

  30. Jenny’s proposition

  31. Horse riding

  32. Memorandum of agreement

  33. Training week begins

  34. Rehearsing The Look

  35. Liberty pilgrim

  36. Rabbit and gun

  37. Good riddance to bad rubbish

  38. God is not concerned

  39. Being looked after

  40. Wine and politics

  41. Cracked open like an egg

  42. Free at last

  43. Fresh blood

  44. The 95-year prognosis

  45. Farewell to hair-rats

  46. A walking supermarket

  47. Through the tunnel

  48. Anecdote person

  49. Old people

  50. The Lyttelton Happiness Clinic

  51. Get out! Get out!

  52. The pilgrims gather

  53. Truth and courage

  54. Who do we want? Bill!

  55. Red stickered

  56. When the wolf bites

  57. Finding the key

  Book Two: Scarlet Heels

  Zoe: Preface

  1. Katherine: Sunday

  2. Beryl: The man with the big tongue

  3. Rose: Internet date #22

  4. Felicity: Hiding in a pulpit

  5. Emmeline: Like a virgin

  6. Mrs Philpott: Daisy on my plate

  7. Jenny: A woman’s touch

  8. Tossa: Sober sex

  9. Queenie: Quickstep

  10. Tossa: Ambushed by a bottom

  11. Anna: How to be brave

  12. Tessa: Happy place

  13. Polly: In the vege garden

  14. Harriet: Left hand loving

  15. Donna: Kauri tree

  16. Susan: The splendid suit

  17. Nerine: The turning

  18. Zoe: How it happened

  19. Wendy: Fingers

  20. Olive: Beauty and the bath

  21. Una: The everlasting dress

  22. Geraldine: Daffodil Dell

  23. Caroline: A country girl

  24. Maureen: On the balcony

  25. Lillian: Studying transportation

  26. Bill: An awful thing to say

  27. Ivy: Turtle eggs

  28. Yvette: Mr Available

  29. Xianthe: Six questions about sex

  30. Viola: A dream of scarlet heels

  31. Viola: Yo ho ho

  32. Zoe: Book club

  Acknowledgements

  Books by Rachel McAlpine

  Keep in touch with the author

  Book One: Yellow Caravan

  Mrs Philpott tries to fix herself

  1

  A question of propriety

  When Felicity Philpott preached her famous sermon on marital love, Mrs William Philpott suspected that the message was directed at herself and her husband. And so it proved. As Bill’s sister, Felicity had ample authority to quiz them on the topic. And thus a disturbing truth emerged: Bill admitted that he couldn’t love his wife ‘properly’ any more, now that she had tacitly closed the door on any more physical loving.

  Mrs Philpott was understandably shocked. In her mind, Bill had accepted the new status quo. After all, she was seventy — seventy! Did people really continue having physical relationships after that point? Apparently so. Apparently she must find within herself sufficient desire or at least kindness to welcome his embrace again. Otherwise the quality of his affection would be permanently downgraded.

  Her first step was to confide in a friend, Katherine — yes, how bold was that! However, this apparently assertive act could scarcely be categorized as brave. You see, it wasn’t precisely a choice.

  Katherine was a close neighbour in Merivale Mews, the complex of townhouses where the Philpotts lived. Perhaps you don’t know Katherine but she has an authoritative air that virtually obliges people to disclose. She also has an extensive professional and social network, and she offered a variety of solutions to Mrs Philpott’s dilemma. Alas, to Mrs Philpott, none of her suggestions seemed entirely proper.

  For example, Katherine suggested consulting Xianthe, a psychiatrist who is something of a specialist in you-know-what.

  ‘No need to go that far,’ murmured Mrs Philpott. ‘This is just a hiccup.’

  ‘How about chatting to Felicity?’ said Katherine.

  ‘Dear me no. I couldn’t talk about this to family.’ It was bad enough that Felicity had spotted her relationship difficulty — but really! How could she ask her sister-in-law to fix her?

  ‘Perhaps a nurse, then? Young Emmeline is very discreet.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone young could possibly understand,’ said Mrs Philpott. ‘But that’s probably just me.’

  ‘Susan’s husband is a social worker; I dare say he encounters interpersonal problems all the time.’ Katherine’s enthusiasm was waning.

  ‘With due respect, this is surely too delicate a topic to discuss with a man.’

  ‘I don’t see that. Quite the opposite.’

  ‘Thank you for your opinion,’ said Mrs Philpott.

  ‘Then how about Una? If anyone understands marriage it’s Una.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  Katherine sighed. ‘Wait! If you’re too shy to talk to a friend — ‘

  ‘I may or may not be shy, but this is a question of propriety.’

  ‘ — how about contacting the Happiness Lady?’

  ‘Good heavens, whatever next?’

  ‘You’ll like her,’
said Katherine firmly. ‘She’s trained in cognitive behaviour therapy.’

  ‘That sounds far too technical. But your advice is appreciated, Katherine, and all your suggestions will certainly be considered.’

  Katherine looked upwards and blinked. When Mrs Philpott used the passive voice, all was lost.

  Her visitor followed her glance. ‘Something wrong with your ceiling?’

  And Mrs Philpott did consider these suggestions for a full twenty seconds, even though she knew that none of them would be fruitful.

  2

  Quake in a townhouse

  Three months later, Mrs William Philpott was lying flat on her back in bed, arms crossed, bypassing her little relationship problem by skipping to the future, when certain people would be sorry. She was monitoring her own eulogy as it played on the screen of her mind.

  Fifty-five people settled on the pews of St Mary’s Merivale as Archdeacon Felicity climbed into the pulpit.

  ‘I knew Zoe, I mean Mrs Philpott, for 66 years. We first played together in Anchorage, Alaska, when we were 4 years old,’ said the Archdeacon.

  (The person in question nodded in her coffin.)

  ‘As a young woman, Mrs Philpott was an accurate typist. We were pleased when she married my brother Bill. She and Bill emigrated to New Zealand and I followed. Let’s see … she was a good wife. They had their daughter Rose… She was a nice grandmother to little Bonny... Um, the family used to have lovely holidays, towing a caravan around the South Island.’

  (Yes, that part’s important, thought Mrs Philpott, evoking adventure, nature, family and so on.)

  ‘Anyway, as you know, we could always trust Zoe, I mean Mrs Philpott, to do the right thing. She will be missed by many.’ (Was that a sob from the pews? No, just Queenie’s gastric reflux playing up.) ‘Our sympathy goes out to Bill, Rose, and Bonny for their loss. Fortunately Zoe did live out her allotted span of three score years and ten. I’m sure every single person in this church today would agree that whatever her shortcomings, such as being a little bit selfish at times, Mrs Zoe Philpott was an extremely nice person. Yes. And always polite, unlike many people.’

  Zoe rolled over in bed. She preferred to be called ‘Mrs William Philpott’ or even, at a pinch, ‘Mrs Bill Philpott’, but Felicity insisted that such an appellation was patriarchal, anachronistic and demeaning. Very well. She would settle for ‘Mrs Zoe Philpott’ on this occasion although the etiquette was wrong, just plain wrong.

  But never mind honorifics —tonight the entire eulogy was a flop. No unusual adjectives, no mention of the Flower Committee — and Felicity sounded so bored!

  ‘In fact, Mrs Philpott was far too — never mind. She’s gone now and she did no evil.’

  Oh dear dear, this would never do. Clearly she would have to send her obituary in advance to the parish secretary. Then there would be no more straying from the script.

  Mrs William Philpott didn’t like the idea of lying in a coffin. Never taller than a flimsy four foot eleven, she had spent a lifetime lifting her chin to look up at other people. She would like to look down on their scalps for once, but she would end her worldly life flat on her back with unseen hands patting her coffin like a pet dog.

  Enough. Another day must begin. The effort of sitting up in bed exhausted her. Her fine cotton nightdress dragged on her skin like lead. She felt almost angry at her fate, although angry was outside her repertoire. Why should she have to put up with this terrible shaking day after day — she was old, old, and as such she felt quite trembly already without this continual punishment.

  She peered at a vertical crack in the wall, aligning it with two cartons of books on the floor. The crack had grown overnight by a hand-span. The adjoining bathroom was in darkness, its window boarded over.

  Most residents had abandoned Merivale Mews. She hadn’t seen Geraldine or Maureen for days, and even Katherine was spending half her time elsewhere. Since last month’s massive earthquake, thousands had fled the city. Why couldn’t she and Bill do that, take a health and sanity break? And the sooner the better! He was so — not stubborn, she would never say that, but he wouldn’t see reason.

  Careful footsteps coming up the stairs announced the arrival of breakfast.

  Just as dear Bill appeared at the door, a roar and a rattle erupted. He tilted sideways and dropped the tray. Invisible forces torqued around the room, twisting the air over and under — a trickster wrung the house like a dishcloth.

  Zoe rolled off the bed into a mess of muesli and milk, clamping a pillow over her head. There she lay for 15 everlasting seconds. When the aftershock stopped, she pulled her nightie down over her panties and heaved herself back on to her feet.

  ‘Holy guacamole!’ Good manners were a religion for Zoe, but this morning she was close to her limit.

  ‘I reckon that was only a 4.2?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Bill.’ Only a 4.2? What sort of life was this, when a 4.2 was hardly worth a mention? That first standard-setting earthquake, the one that broke buildings and roads and wires and pipes and hearts all over Christchurch, had been 7.1 on the Richter scale.

  ‘You get back into bed, little lady, and I’ll bring up another tray.’

  ‘That’s mighty kind of you, dear, but I’ll feel safer downstairs.’

  Zoe began her morning routine. Water and power had been reconnected so that she was able to shower and clean her teeth and apply a layer of vivid makeup. Peering into a cracked mirror, she saw a tiny woman as flimsy as a gobbet of foam. She breathed out through pursed lips and ran a comb cautiously through her long golden hair, trying not to be alarmed at a thin patch beside the parting. These days her elaborate Dusty Springfield hairdo took a lot more back-combing and a handful of hairpins, but eventually the job was done.

  She came downstairs, forced open the warped front door, and walked carefully along the lane to the nearest Portaloo.

  She and Bill made a second attempt at breakfast at a dining table jammed between an empty bookcase and a wall. They ate with The Press split between them and Morning Report on the radio. Like everyone else in Christchurch they now followed the local news obsessively.

  ‘They say 250 houses in Bexley are still without sewerage and they’ll need Portaloos for another month,’ said Bill. ‘Seems we got off lightly.’

  ‘Ssh,’ said Zoe, recognising a familiar voice on the radio.

  ‘Yvette and Sam had spent thousands of dollars landscaping their section and redecorating their home. But that’s all ruined now. To make matters worse, their pet rabbit went missing and has yet to be found.’

  ‘Isn’t that your Jakarta friend?’ asked Bill.

  ‘Here in Bexley, many residents are now at the point where frustration is overtaking fear and sadness. They are stuck in limbo. Until they know whether they can rebuild, or whether they will get insurance cover and how much, it’s a waiting game. In Christchurch for Morning Report, Viola Green.’

  As usual they shared their plans for the day. ‘I’d better check that tarpaulin first: looks like a southerly’s on the way. Then I’ll start on the front door.’ Bill bustled with anticipation.

  ‘And I had better go and see Katherine,’ said Zoe.

  3

  Oh look, it swivels

  Katherine lived at No. 19 Merivale Mews. When Zoe arrived, she was pulling tiny weeds from a border of dwarf hebe.

  ‘I’m so glad your house is not empty,’ said Zoe as they stepped into Katherine’s living room.

  ‘I have no intention of moving out. I’ve been green-stickered, so I am officially mandated to remain in my home, at least for now.’ As Chair of the Body Corporate, Katherine was a prime source of information on all things structural, legal and political. ‘In fact I shall be away from home quite frequently because I’m helping the Canterbury libraries with their strategic planning.’

  ‘When will the verdict be delivered on our place?’

  ‘In three or four weeks, I understand.’

  ‘But what will happen, do y
ou think? This uncertainty is, well, I find it a little bit difficult. That’s just me, I know.’

  ‘Remember that you’re not alone. Eventually we’ll make a joint decision about demolishing or rebuilding all 21 units. We must act as a single body. So please don’t stress too much.’

  ‘It’s difficult not to,’ said Zoe dubiously. She marvelled to see Katherine looking as neat as ever. This broken city was populated mainly by the crumpled, but Katherine looked as if an angel had ironed her from top to toe, white bobbed hair, tubular brown linen skirt, nifty ankles and all.

  ‘Zoe, have you contacted the Earthquake Commission about our joint insurance claim? I gave you the spreadsheet, didn’t I?’

  ‘I was thinking, if you don’t mind, that is more a job for the Chair. I’m not used to that sort of job.’

  Katherine leaned back against a hand-woven cushion, breathing out slowly. ‘Nobody is used to “that sort of job.” Nobody is used to reporting earthquake damage, but it has to be done and the quicker the better.’

  Zoe coughed. ‘Bill seems to think he can fix everything himself. So it’s awkward. Perhaps there is another task, something more suited to my abilities?’

  Katherine considered this half-hearted offer. Fifty tasks sprang to mind, but which could Zoe manage? ‘Well now, yes, I do have a proposition. I would like you to record some stories for the libraries’ archive of Canterbury Tales.’ Katherine’s vision for public libraries went well beyond lending books.

  ‘Surely someone younger—’

  Katherine, aged 84, raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow. ‘You can start with friends and neighbours.’

  ‘Oh but people don’t blurt out stories just like that, Katherine.’

  ‘You will be surprised. How often does someone give you their undivided attention? It’s a luxury at any time, let alone now. So they will talk; indeed, they will blurt.’

  Zoe shook her head.

  ‘This is our gift to the people of Canterbury,’ said Katherine firmly. ‘We give them a chance to tell their stories for posterity.’