interfering old biddy and told her to mind her own business, and Maisy told her that she’d never darken her door again, and that unless she changed her attitude, no one else would either.
‘All I tried to explain to her was how none of the businesses tried to cut the throats of the other businesses,’ Maisy explained – to everyone.
The altercation didn’t alter her habits, or only one of them. She took great pleasure now in walking by that beeping door, her nose in the air.
There’d never been a skerrick of harm in Maisy Macdonald. She talked too much, but rarely had a bad word to say about anyone. For sixty of her eighty years she’d congregated with the women beneath Charlie’s veranda, catching up with the news, or passing it on.
They congregated now beneath the smaller veranda of the post office where a self-sown tree, growing for years between that veranda and the house Norman and Amber Morrison had once called home, offered an extra pool of shade where the women compared notes and tut-tutted about B. Wallis’s poor attitude. The police station cum residence was on the corner directly opposite that tree, and on the other corner, the town hall, the park, then Maisy’s house.
She loved her house. She’d watched it grow from the ground up – sixty-eight years ago. At the time she’d been sharing a bed with a miserable old bugger of an aunty, and if anyone had ever wondered why a sixteen year old kid had married near forty year old, bald-headed George Macdonald, they need look no further than Maisy’s miserable old bugger of an aunty who had taught her how to dodge a broomstick and not much more. Maisy hadn’t been searching for love when she’d married, only kindness. George had been kind.
He’d been sex starved too. He’d given her ten kids in little more than ten years. He’d also given her the second best house in town in which to raise those kids and, in it, everything that opened and shut. Given space to grow, she’d grown up with her kids, and grown to love their father.
There were better houses being built in town, modern houses, but not in the centre of town. Two lovely homes had gone up recently in Slaughter Yard Lane, a new street built to give access to the Bowling Club. Melbourne retirees liked a game of bowls. Maisy had given their bowling balls a try the day the club opened. They weren’t her cup of tea. There was a cluster of new brick homes where Stock Route Road ran into Blunt’s Street, and fifty per cent of their owners were Melbourne retirees. Maisy and a few of her cronies welcomed each new arrival to town. A few returned the visit. A lot more didn’t. A few shopped locally. A lot more didn’t.
Maisy wasn’t the only woman who kept an eye on the time while she chatted, nor was she the only one who never missed Days of Our Lives . She was home with time to spare, time to make a cup of tea and take her pre-prepared salad from the refrigerator. She’d learnt that trick at Weight Watchers, to pre-prepare. If you knew it was waiting for you in the fridge, it stopped you from grabbing something easy.
She’d been watching that show since episode one, and it was like visiting with friends now. The credits were still playing when the phone rang. She’d trained her girls never to phone for the half-hour her show was on, and whichever one it was now had timed her call to the second. Without rising, Maisy reached for the telephone.
The long-distance STD beeps suggested it was Maureen, her only city daughter, though Maureen usually called after seven when phone calls were cheaper.
‘What is it, love?’
‘Is that you, Maisy?’ a stranger’s voice enquired.
A not so strange stranger’s voice. For an instant, Maisy remained silent, her mind sifting stored information for the name that went with that voice. Some eighty year old minds grow dim, even wander off to the fairies. Not Maisy’s. She’d had her finger on the pulse of this town since she’d stopped sucking
‘All I tried to explain to her was how none of the businesses tried to cut the throats of the other businesses,’ Maisy explained – to everyone.
The altercation didn’t alter her habits, or only one of them. She took great pleasure now in walking by that beeping door, her nose in the air.
There’d never been a skerrick of harm in Maisy Macdonald. She talked too much, but rarely had a bad word to say about anyone. For sixty of her eighty years she’d congregated with the women beneath Charlie’s veranda, catching up with the news, or passing it on.
They congregated now beneath the smaller veranda of the post office where a self-sown tree, growing for years between that veranda and the house Norman and Amber Morrison had once called home, offered an extra pool of shade where the women compared notes and tut-tutted about B. Wallis’s poor attitude. The police station cum residence was on the corner directly opposite that tree, and on the other corner, the town hall, the park, then Maisy’s house.
She loved her house. She’d watched it grow from the ground up – sixty-eight years ago. At the time she’d been sharing a bed with a miserable old bugger of an aunty, and if anyone had ever wondered why a sixteen year old kid had married near forty year old, bald-headed George Macdonald, they need look no further than Maisy’s miserable old bugger of an aunty who had taught her how to dodge a broomstick and not much more. Maisy hadn’t been searching for love when she’d married, only kindness. George had been kind.
He’d been sex starved too. He’d given her ten kids in little more than ten years. He’d also given her the second best house in town in which to raise those kids and, in it, everything that opened and shut. Given space to grow, she’d grown up with her kids, and grown to love their father.
There were better houses being built in town, modern houses, but not in the centre of town. Two lovely homes had gone up recently in Slaughter Yard Lane, a new street built to give access to the Bowling Club. Melbourne retirees liked a game of bowls. Maisy had given their bowling balls a try the day the club opened. They weren’t her cup of tea. There was a cluster of new brick homes where Stock Route Road ran into Blunt’s Street, and fifty per cent of their owners were Melbourne retirees. Maisy and a few of her cronies welcomed each new arrival to town. A few returned the visit. A lot more didn’t. A few shopped locally. A lot more didn’t.
Maisy wasn’t the only woman who kept an eye on the time while she chatted, nor was she the only one who never missed Days of Our Lives . She was home with time to spare, time to make a cup of tea and take her pre-prepared salad from the refrigerator. She’d learnt that trick at Weight Watchers, to pre-prepare. If you knew it was waiting for you in the fridge, it stopped you from grabbing something easy.
She’d been watching that show since episode one, and it was like visiting with friends now. The credits were still playing when the phone rang. She’d trained her girls never to phone for the half-hour her show was on, and whichever one it was now had timed her call to the second. Without rising, Maisy reached for the telephone.
The long-distance STD beeps suggested it was Maureen, her only city daughter, though Maureen usually called after seven when phone calls were cheaper.
‘What is it, love?’
‘Is that you, Maisy?’ a stranger’s voice enquired.
A not so strange stranger’s voice. For an instant, Maisy remained silent, her mind sifting stored information for the name that went with that voice. Some eighty year old minds grow dim, even wander off to the fairies. Not Maisy’s. She’d had her finger on the pulse of this town since she’d stopped sucking
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