Open Writing

Old Maudie pulled aside the grimy curtain, and peered out at the young man walking stiffly up her front path between the overgrown grass and weeds. She squashed her cigarette into the cracked cereal bowl that served as an ashtray and hobbled unevenly to the front door. She waited, a hand on the doorknob, until he shook the greasy rope that caused the bell to jangle. She threw the door open so quickly his demeanour briefly abandoned him.

'M-miss Quig—Quigley?' He asked. He half turned from the door, on his toes, ready to flee. 'You wanted to see a financial adviser?'

She looked at him intently, her watery eyes moving up then down. His suit looked to have come straight from the dry cleaners, and his white shirt gleamed with a neatly-pressed collar framing a pale blue tie.

'Yes,' her voice rasped and her breath poured out a stale cigarette odour. 'You must be Mr. Storkwell. You're late. Come in.'

He followed her into the dim hallway, clutching his shiny briefcase close to his body. Old Maudie led the way into a room opening from the hall. It was a living room, with a scratched coffee table sitting crookedly in the approximate centre of the room. Two armchairs faced the coffee table. They were covered with what might once have been dark blue velvet. Great patches of bare cotton fabric showed the age and use of the chairs. Old Maudie poked at the enormous grey cat curled comfortably in one of the armchairs.

'Get off Nigel, we've got a visitor.'

The cat squawked a rusty meow, leapt from the chair and stalked from the room.

'Sit, sit,' she pointed.

He glanced after the cat and approached the chair. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and began flicking it ineffectually at the grey lawn of cat hair coating the chair. Old Maudie glared.

'He's a clean cat Mr. Storkwell, you can sit there.'

He sighed, sat and slowly began to undo the clasps of the shiny briefcase.

'You want some financial advice Miss Quigley?' His top lip curled slightly as he spoke.

'I do, Mr. Storkwell. I rang your company after I saw the advertisement on the television—you know the one that said don't keep your money under the bed, we'll help you. My money isn't actually under the bed but I do need some help.' The utterance of such a long sentence without drawing breath created a maelstrom in old Maudie's chest, which led to such a spasm of coughing that Mr. Storkwell started to rise from his chair. After a few seconds the chainsaw coughing slowed then ceased. Mr. Storkwell surreptitiously picked at strands of cat hair adhered to his trouser legs, while old Maudie wiped her red face with the bottom of her apron.

'How much money do you have to invest Miss Quigley?'

'A lot of money, Mr. Storkwell.'

She reached into a pocket in her apron, pulled out a handful of greasy, crumpled fifty-dollar notes and placed them on the coffee table. Mr. Storkwell stood up.

'There's not even a thousand dollars there Miss Quigley. Our firm only looks after investments over five thousand dollars.' He walked too eagerly to the door, speaking over his shoulder. 'I advise that you put it in the bank.'

'But Mr. Storkwell, there's a lot more. Wait, I need to show you … '

He didn't turn around. He was already out the door and halfway down the path.

Old Maudie hobbled into the kitchen shaking her head. She pulled open the 'treasure chest' where she stored her money. It was so crammed with crisp looking bundles of notes tied with fraying brown string that half a dozen bundles tumbled onto the floor. 'The money's much safer here than under the bed,' she wheezed at the cat, 'but it's too full.'

She bent to pick up the bundles of notes from the floor, groaning and grasping the kitchen table for support as she did. She shoved the money back with the rest and forced the freezer door closed on the bundles of frozen notes. She levered herself stiffly onto a hard-backed chair as the activity triggered another harsh bout of coughing. Once it subsided she lit a cigarette. 'I'll have to find someone who's not mad,' she told the cat, and peered with rheumy eyes at the columns of financial advisers in the dog-eared yellow pages.

© Carolyn Hirsh

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Carolyn writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au