Mrs May's Secret

Mrs May's Secret

By Stewart Gibbs

“Gordon, you moron!” I cried watching the ball fly high over the garden fence.

“Well that’s the end of that. We’ll never get the ball back. You know what that old hag is like.” Debs said. “We might as well go home.”

We had been playing soccer at the reserve; a patch of land that stretched between the bowling club and tennis courts, bordered on one side the main road and a row of large houses on the other.

“No, come on you guys, let’s climb over and get it.” Gordon suggested, realising that his mistimed shot had cost everybody the game.

“No way. Do you know what she did to last time we tried that? My mother’s ears are still ringing from the abuse she gave her about our ball hitting the window. If we do it again, who knows what will happen.”

Gordon sat disconsolately on the grass in front of the makeshift goal. One post was a pile of jumpers, the other a green painted rubbish bin. The words “Cornwall Park” were stencilled on its side. I slumped to the ground beside him, chin resting in my hands trying to hid the look of disappointment on my face, Deb wandered over to join us.

“I can always run down to my place and get my ball,” she said trying to cheer us up.

“Why bother? Let’s just nip over the fence, grab the ball and get the hell out quickly. Come on, she hardly ever comes out this side of the house anyway. She won’t know.”

“I’m not sure” I replied quietly.

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Six weeks ago, my sister Rachael and I had been playing in the reserve. We had been knocking a tennis ball to each other. She is only nine and her hitting is a pretty crummy. She swung at a ball, racquet arriving too early and, like today, I stood dismayed as her mistimed shot sailed over my head and, still rising as it carried the fence and disappeared. A single loud thwack followed as the ball struck a window.

Rushing to the brown, grass stained fence we dropped down to an old knothole that afforded us a view in to the garden. Alternately pushing each other aside we stared through the hole searching for the ball. The object of our attention lay nestled in the short grass under the far window; a grey splodge marked the glass where the missile had struck. As we watched, the dark curtains that seemed to constantly cover the rear bedroom windows parted and a face appeared.

At first, all we could see was a grey mop of hair covering a soft face that I knew, from experience, sported blue eyes. Her eyes darted left and right, looking for the source of the intrusion, stopping suddenly as they alighted on the tennis ball, a dark look coming over her face. Lifting a hand she sheltered her eyes for a better view against the glare of the window and I saw the last remaining strands of red hair emerge from under the grey.

From our vantage point, I was sure we couldn’t be seen, but we could certainly see into the room where she was. Behind her an old man lay on a raised bed; he appeared to be sleeping.

With a sudden jerk, she turned away, the curtain dropping back into place, shutting off the room to world. Rachael and I retreated as well.

Later that evening, as we sat in the family room watching TV, I could hear my mother talking animatedly at the door to somebody. That somebody turned out to be Mrs May. She had seen us walking from the park and assumed the ball was ours. Never one to let sleeping dog lie, she had come over to complain about the ball, the window and our total lack of regard for her privacy and property. According to mother, she had used some pretty rude words to describe us.

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“Oh come on. All she did was moan. What else can she do?”

“You don’t know her, like I do Gordon.” I countered. “I heard that she marched Billy Brown back to his house, holding him by the ear once. She caught him taking apples off of tree in her front garden.”

“Yeah, and I heard that she has a collection of balls from lots of kids around the area that she refuses to give back,” said Debs, keen to get into the conversation.

“Who do you think the old man was?” Gordon asked, his question jolting me from my revere.

“It’s her old man; well that’s what my mum says. She says he had a stroke and that he can’t move. Happened eight years ago or something like that.”

“Wow, that’s ick. Aw, man, imagine being like that. Yuck, not much of a life.”

“It’s worse. She doesn’t even talk about him.” Debs said. “My dad works in the same Real Estate office as her and he says that she acts as if he doesn’t exist, that all she does is moan about how long he has lasted and how much his care is costing her.”

“Jesus, what a bitch!”

“Come on, let’s get going” I said, picking up my jumper from the pile of clothes and walking off.

“Woah, woah. I ain’t going nowhere till we get that ball, it’s my favourite” and without looking back at us, Gordon picked up his own jumper, slipped it over his blonde hair and headed off towards the fence. Debs immediately started trotting after him.

Not wanting to be a complete wimp, I reluctantly followed, deliberately dragging my heels, hoping that they would rethink and drop this stupid idea.

By the time I joined them, Gordon had his eye to the knothole. “Looks pretty clear to me,” he said “Debs give me a bunk up will you?”

Holding out her hands, Gordon stepped into them and launched himself at the fence, grasping the top and pulling his leg up and over. Without a sound he dropped down the far side, his eye appeared on the other side of the hole. “Well, you coming?”

I cast a questioning gaze at Debs, you going, or am I? She flicked her head, as if to signal I was to go, her golden ponytail swishing from side to side, and held her cupped hands out. Understanding, but reluctantly I took her boost. I let out a soft grunt as my chest hit the top of the fence. Not known for my finesse I landed with a thump next to Gordon, the smell of the freshly cut lawn was overwhelming compared to the parched grass of the park and the small off cuts had already begun to cling to my trainers.

Looking across the immaculate garden we could see that our ball was nestled in the flower bed, under the same window as the tennis ball from weeks before.

“Come on, quickly.” Gordon ran, crouched with arms hanging forward, almost on all fours, towards the redbrick wall of the house. We waited, patiently, sucking in a lungful of air, backs pressed against the wall. Commando like we inched our way along to the first window. The curtains here were fully open, and I sneaked a peek inside. The room was huge and stretched from one side of the building to the other. The floor was a dark stone of some kind. The ceiling was high and covered in an orange-brown wood – macrocarpa I guessed - and the huge beams that held it up were thick and solid. They gave me the impression of ribs on the carcass of a rotting whale.

Gordon had moved ahead of me, waiting quietly under the far window. I quickly caught up, my heart racing, my ears wide; listening out for movement from within the house.

As I reached him, I saw that he had risen slightly, hands pressed to the sill and was gazing through the glass. “What are you ....”

“Shush” he said, holding a finger to his lips, “you can see inside. I can see the old man.”

Lifting my own head and pressing it to the glass, I saw that the curtain had been drawn open a couple of inches and that Gordon was right, you could see inside. The room had a sterile look to it, painted white, no pictures or ornaments adorning the room. A metal bed, with white sheets was positioned in the rooms’ centre, a metal stand with a bag of clear liquid stood like a sentinel by the pillows at the far end. A small wooden chair, empty, sat alongside a plain white table, a book rested open face down next to a baby bottle filled with water.

I almost missed him. The small lump lay unmoving within the sheets, a frail head on the pillows, one thin arm protruding from the sheets, a clear plastic tube linking the person to the metal stand.

“That’s him,” Gordon said, the ball forgotten for the time being, “that’s her old man.”

“Yeah, pretty sad, let’s get the ball and go.”

Ignoring me Gordon whispered, “look how skinny he is. How long did you say he’s been there?”

“About eight years, now come on let’s get out of here before she sees us.”

With that the door to the room swung inwards and a woman walked in, a tray in her hands. I could see her lips moving, a silent conversation muted by the glass. She moved slowly around the bed, absently tucking sheets under the mattress as if the old man had been capable of dishevelling them.

I had no idea how old she was, but the years hadn’t been kind to her. Although not overweight, her white blouse and grey slacks could not hide the gentle rolls of fat that covered her stomach and hips. As with the last time I had seen her, her grey hair hung to her shoulders, the strands of auburn appeared sparser. She sat herself in the wooden chair and picked up the book, her lips continued to move silently as her head weaved left and right. Reading to him, I thought.

After a couple of minutes, she looked up, silver tears had streaked her face and the small amount of makeup she used had smeared across her cheeks. Wiping her eyes on her shirt sleeves she put the book down and leaned over the bed. Stretching out, her lips pressed lightly against the old man’s and she caressed his forehead, speaking all the while, gentle words seemed to be flowing from her. A tear drop slid off of her nose and splashed on the old man’s cheek. I thought I saw him stir briefly.

Mrs May walked past the window and disappeared briefly. Gordon craned his neck to see where she had gone.
“Come on” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Wait! She is coming back.”

The old woman reappeared, an object in her hands. The wetness in her eyes was still present, but the tears had dried up, a look of resolution was set across her face.

Without stopping, she walked up to the bed and once again lent across her husband. This time there was no kiss. Gently, almost lovingly, she raised the pillow she had been carrying and pressed it over the old man’s face. There was no struggle, save for the briefest flick of a finger on his left hand. Sixty seconds ticked by, then another thirty. Lifting the pillow she stood, walked to the chair and sat down.

Grabbing the corner of the pillow in both hands, she held it to her mouth and wept.

Gordon and I ran.