Patrick White: The Solid Mandala

He would sit with his back to her most evenings, or that was how life seemed to have arranged it, and when he had finished his glass of beer — he was very moderate; she was fortunate in that — she would slip the plate of food in front of him, somehow from round the side.

“A couple of no-hopers with ideas about ’emselves,” he would grumble, and then regurgitate: “The Brothers Bloody Brown!”

When the sight of his hands hardened by the shovel would rend her, and she would say:

“You’ve gone and tore yourself again. The sleeve.”

“What?” he used to say, throwing off her concern with his shoulder. “What’s this old thing for but tearing?”

Attempts on herself seldom hurt Mrs Poulter; it was the attacks on other people. The Mister Browns, for instance. Unable to decide how they might be protected she would take them a baked custard. And return the better for it.

Seated in the flumping bus her own charity made her smile with faint pleasure. When suddenly she seized her companion quite roughly by the arm.

“Look!” Mrs Poulter almost shouted.

Mrs Dun was so shaken her upper plate was prised from her jaw and lay for a moment with its mate.

“What?” she protested.

Looking stricken for the accident. Twice at least she had dreamt of being rammed by a removal van.

“What we was talking about!” cried Mrs Poulter. “The two men! The retired brothers!”

Then Mrs Dun did resentfully notice the two old men, stumping, trudging, you couldn’t have said tottering — or if so, it was only caused by their age and infirmities — along what passed for pavement between Barranugli and Sarsaparilla. The strange part was the old gentlemen rose up, if only momentarily, blotting out the suburban landscape, filling the box of Mrs Dun’s shuddering mind. She was still shocked, of course, by Mrs Poulter’s thoughtless alarm. It could have been that. But she almost smelled those old men. The one in the stiff oilskin, the other in yellowed herring-bone, in each case almost to the ankle. And, as they trudged, or tottered, they were holding each other by the hand. It was difficult to decide which was leading and which was led. But one was the leader, she could sense. She sensed the scabs, the cracks which wet towels had opened in their old men’s skin.

Several of the young typists in the ladies’ vicinity had been roused by Mrs Poulter’s outcry. But barely giggled. It was as though they had seen it all before.

“There!” exclaimed Mrs Poulter, turning in triumph to her friend. “It might have been laid on!”

She was so pleased she laughed. But she did not succeed in making it a joke. Mrs Dun had screwed up her mouth.

“Looks funny to me,” she said, and with added disapproval: “I thought you was warning of an accident.”

“Mr Waldo Brown was hit with a car,” Mrs Poulter conceded. “Once.”

It was the best she could offer.

“I never saw two grown men walkin’ hand in hand,” Mrs Dun murmured.

“They are old.” Mrs Poulter sighed. “I expect it helps them. Twins too.”

“But two men!”

“For that matter I never saw two grown women going hand in hand.”

The breath was snoring between Mrs Dun’s corrected teeth.

“Which was the big one? The one that was leading? The one in the oilskin?”

“That was Mr Waldo. But I never thought of ’im as big. He’s thin.”

“Seemed big to me.”

“Arthur Brown is big-built. The thick-set one.”

Although the gentlemen had been left far behind by now, Mrs Poulter glanced over her shoulder. As if hoping to confirm something.

The old men rose up again in Mrs Dun’s mind, and she hated what she saw.

“You come on down some time to my place,” Mrs Poulter coaxed, “and they’re bound to be around. Somewhere. Potterin’ about behind the hedge.”

“Don’t catch me !” Mrs Dun decided.

“And those blue dogs?” she asked. “Do they belong to the gentlemen?”

“That’s their dogs. They’re attached to their dogs,” Mrs Poulter said firmly.

“Scruffy old things,” said Mrs Dun. “I hate dogs. They might bite yer.”

“One of them does,” Mrs Poulter had to admit. “Runt does. But they’ve had them so many years. Nearly as old as themselves. As dogs go.”

The bus faltered.

“Between you and me,” Mrs Poulter hesitated, “I don’t like dogs eether. But what can you do?”

Mrs Dun did not answer, and it seemed to give her the upper hand.

“Do you have any family, Mrs Dun?” Mrs Poulter asked with a formality which made it unobjectionable.

“Got a niece,” Mrs Dun said.

“Ah,” said Mrs Poulter, “a niece is nice.”

She was attempting to repair some of the bent petals of the white chrysanths. Excitement had not been good for them.

“Bill and I are alone now. There was no kiddies,” Mrs Poulter said. “One or two relatives up north. But I think they’re gone by this. It’s Bill that writes the letters. If ever any of the relatives come — and some of them did, once or twice — Bill stayed up the end of the paddock.”

The petals of the white chrysanths were, it seemed, beyond repair.

“You drift apart, don’t you?” Mrs Poulter said.

“Yairs,” said Mrs Dun, and: “Yairs.”

In High Street the overstuffed bus began to spew out its coloured gobbets.

“Wonder what those two old fellers were doin’ so far from Terminus Road?” Mrs Poulter nursed her curiosity as they waited to be carried by the common stream.

“You wonder what goes on in some people’s minds,” said Mrs Dun.

“I beg yours?”

“What goes on in people’s minds. Because it does go on. You’ve only got to read the papers.”

“But two respectable old gentlemen like the Mister Browns? They was probably only taking a walk to get their circulation going.” Mrs Poulter had turned mauve. “Anyway,” she said, “what goes on in other people’s minds is private. I wouldn’t want to know what goes on inside of my own husband’s mind.”

Although Mrs Dun might have wanted, she suggested she didn’t by drawing in her chin.

“I was never one,” she said, “not to keep to meself, and mind me own business.”

“Aren’t I right then?” Mrs Poulter continued, still too loud, and still too mauve.

Creating in the bus. Mrs Dun wondered whether she had been wise in the first place to accept Mrs Poulter’s friendship.

“As for those old men,” said Mrs Dun, “they’re nothing to me.”

“They’re nothing to me,” Mrs Poulter agreed.

But the situation made her want to cry. And Mrs Dun could feel it. She could feel her own gooseflesh rise. As they waited to escape from the suffocating bus the features of their familiar town began fluctuating strangely through the glass. Like that blood-pressure thing was on your arm. Nor did it help either lady to know the other could be involved.

“Only those old men of yours had a look, had a look of,” Mrs Dun stumbled over what was too much for her.

“Yes?” Mrs Poulter’s voice reached out.

The lips were parted in her mauve cheeks. The eyes were so liquid. It was as though she were waiting to swallow down some longed-for communication while half expecting it to choke her if she did.

But Mrs Dun could not oblige. Her neck jerked, the wrinkles closed, and Mrs Poulter, ruffling up her chrysanthemums, remarked in a neutral tone of voice:

“After I’ve left the flowers, I usually make for the cafeteria, and have a coffee. It warms you up on cold mornings.”

“Yairs,” said Mrs Dun. “Or a malted. The malted’s what I go for.”

“PUT ON YOUR COAT, AND WE’LL GO FOR A WALK,” HE DECIDED at last. “Otherwise you’ll sit here brooding.”