The
pink rollers had been there for a while.
A very long while. Remnants
of the days when her curls, still brown, would frizz around her
forehead. She’d comb her hair and roll them upwards, curl and roller,
till she could no longer feel the bristles.
Her mum would drop in to express her distaste. ‘Fake!
Fake!’ she’d exclaim. ‘God
didn’t plan that for you. Modesty
shows in the face, the eyes, the way you do your hair.
Mark my words!”
And
Maggie marked them.
Every
Saturday she’d put on her pink satin blouse, let her hair down and
look in the mirror, picturing the tight curls as they’d frill
gently round the neckline, framing her face.
And every Saturday her mother would burst in and put in a
word of advice.
The
years before it had been a red dress, laced stockings, a skirt that
showed off her ankles. But
that year it was those pink rollers and the time Maggie spent
dreaming about them in front of her dressing table.
She had never had the twelve of them on.
Her mum would know when to come in.
At the sound of her footsteps, a sudden heat would take hold
of Maggie. It worked
its way up her neck, reaching her cheeks and temples. Her ears would burn, her hands tingle.
‘Vanity!
That’s what it does
to you, silly girl!’ So
she removed them. Four
pink rollers undone. There
was a strange fluttering in her throat.
The curls, once released, burst around her neck in splattered
cylinders. She wanted
them to tumble down with a thud - a mild expression of rebellion -
but there was no such sound.
Mrs
Decesare would cough approvingly and leave the room.
That
Saturday, fifty years later, Maggie shuffled into the bedroom,
opened the drawer of her dressing table, took out a rusty chocolate
box and inspected the old rollers.
She ran a rheumatic finger across the top layer ones, feeling
the bristles. As usual,
she took out one roller, placed it at the end of her hair and rolled
it upwards. The mirror
reflected her faithfully, white hair frizzing like a halo.
She attempted a smile, trying not to count the wrinkles
across her forehead. It
would be nice to have her hair curled neatly for the book group
event the following evening. Joe had remarked that her hair was exceptionally white –
silver white, he’d said, like his mother’s used to be. She’d taken that as a compliment. Pity her unruly curls made it seem so unkempt.
She
put on a fourth roller, and a fifth one, thinking of the silver grey
dress she’d wear. Of
course the neckline was slightly
osé,
but she would wear a black jumper to make it look decent.
‘Maggie
Maggie!’ Her hands
froze on a pink roller. She
made an effort to curl the last imp of frizz.
‘Maggie!’ No.
She’d count her wrinkles after all.
‘Maggie! Maggie!’
There were seven of them on her neck.
‘Maggie!’
She let go of the roller.
‘Maggie!’ Maggie
shot up, undid all her rollers, slammed the tin box shut and rushed
out of the room.
In
the main bedroom, three flames flickered gently on a homemade altar.
There were saints in all shapes and sizes, pictures, statuettes,
holy water from Lourdes and rosary beads made out of wood, crystal
and all shades of coloured plastic.
She kneeled devoutly at the foot of the altar, crossed
herself slowly, put her hands together and kept her eyes fixed on
her diseased mother’s picture.
At her age, really, she should have known better than to be
so vain. How her mother
had warned her... but
had she ever listened? No.
Not even now, an old lady like her!
She blushed at the thought of her own failings.
Three Hail Maries, six Requiem æternae, and a promise to
refrain from vain thoughts.
Maggie
could still feel that strange fluttering in her throat, however. She had learnt to think of it as an injured sparrow.
Something that would only lift once she became a better
person.
The
doorbell rang. It was
probably Rosie from across the street – she’d promised to teach
her how to knit gloves and tiny bonnets.
They had agreed to send them to a charity.
Those badly nourished babies in Peru and Brazil were badly in
need of food and warmth. Or
so she’d been told.
The
doorbell rang once more.
She reached the end of the corridor and rushed past the large
china bulldog. It was as sulky and sour as ever, its jaw fixed in an
expression of hopeless anger. She’d
thought of getting rid of the wretched thing, but it had been there
since she was seven years old and though she’d always hated it,
she didn’t have the courage to remove anything that her parents
had bought. It was the
same with the rest of the house – the creaky bedsteads, the
miniature shoe collection, even the framed lock of her hair in the
main bedroom.
‘Good
morning, Aunt Maggie!’ It
wasn’t just Nina after all. Little
Jessica was standing at the door. She was wearing a white duffle
coat and four lovely ringlets of blonde hair peeped out of her fur
bonnet. Sometimes Nina would bring Jessica along.
She was her niece’s only daughter and the old woman and
child got along beautifully. Maggie,
having no nieces of her own, had formed a special bond with her
too. It had started a
couple of years back when Jessica took a liking to the music box
located on the dressing table in her bedroom.
She’d always ask Maggie to wind it so that she’d listen
to the Für Elise.
‘Aunt
Maggie! We thought
you’d forgotten about the gloves.
Mum sent four pairs. I
used to wear them when I was a baby.
Have a look! I like the red ones best.’
‘Oh,
they’re lovely. I’m
sure they’ll keep one of those poor babies warm and cozy.
God will be so pleased with you for giving them away. And how are you doing, my dear?
Jessica
took Maggie’s hand in her own and pressed it gently.
‘I’m fine Aunty. I
have been thinking, do you think we can knit in your bedroom today?
The
old women burst out laughing. ‘Jessica,’
Nina exclaimed, ‘don’t you go pestering Maggie about that music
box again!’
But
Maggie was already leading the child to her bedroom.
One of the rollers was at the foot of the purple music box
and another one lay on the floor.
Jessica picked the first one up.
‘I
didn’t know you used rollers Aunt Maggie!
Mum has taught me how to do them properly.
I practice on my make-up doll, the one without arms and legs.
It’s for putting make-up on and brushing her hair’.
‘Do
you?’ Maggie remarked
disconcertedly. She
quickly picked up the other roller.
‘Why don’t you wind the music box yourself today?
Your fingers must be strong enough now.
Here, hold it this way.’
Jessica’s
face lit up. The box
was indeed a big affair, with a ballerina in the middle, her tiny
legs and pink shoes made to swirl softly to Beethoven’s music.
There were two drawers on each side of her, but Jessica had
never dared pull their minute brass knobs.
Now, she held the music box in both arms, tilted it slowly
and started winding it up with as much care as she could master.
The
music swept out like a released butterfly.
Jessica’s eyes were fixed on the ballerina and her pink
tutu. Purple curtains
were drawn on the small mirror at her back.
It was a mini-theatre and the little doll was a Prima Donna.
‘I’d love to be able to dance, Aunt Maggie!’
‘I’m
sure you could learn...’
‘No
way! Mum says she won’t have me showing my legs like that! She says it’s indecent.
I don’t know what that word means.
But I’m sure this time she’s wrong.
Our teacher says even grown-ups can be wrong sometimes. Just a few times. Did
you know that, Aunty?
‘Erm,
yes’ she said, glancing at Nina who had just made her way in.
She was carrying a plastic bag with big balls of white wool.
‘Look
Maggie, just what you need to go with that silver grey dress of
yours. It would make a
lovely scarf and it would go beautifully with your hair.’
‘Oh,
not me!’ Maggie
giggled. She glanced at the mirror and caught sight of a missing
molar. ‘At my age.
And my hair has always been frizzy.
Such unruly curls! But
I’m too old to bother really.’
‘No
you’re not! Why
don’t you just pick those rollers of yours and curl it up neatly?
They’re always lying around somewhere.
Don’t tell me it’s that old story again.
For God’s sake Maggie!’
Nina stopped talking as soon as she saw the
expression on Jessica’s face.
The music had ceased and the child had been listening
intently. Suddenly, she got up.
‘I
know, Aunt Maggie! Let
me curl your hair. Could
I use those pink rollers? I’m
a good hairdresser. Promise.’
‘Oh
no, my dear! Not the
rollers. See, I’m too old for that.
It wouldn’t suit me.’
‘Please,
you’ll look perfect.’ Jessica
was determined to have her way.
‘Really
dear, at my age I shouldn’t care about my appearance.’
‘Oh,
I know you want to,’ Nina burst in.
‘Remember when we bought those rollers?
I had chosen the lilac ones and I’d use them every
Saturday. Your mum
never let you put yours on. You
used to cry your eyes out.’
Maggie
was silent. The child
couldn’t help noticing the slight quiver of her lower lip.
She’d seen adults cry before, but Aunt Maggie was much too
old for that. Surely,
her Mama couldn’t make her cry.
‘Come
on, Aunty, sit down. I’ll show you how.
Give me the roller you’ve been holding.
Yes. Where do
you keep the other ones?’
Maggie
opened the drawer and showed her the tin box.
There were ten rollers left, their pink hue fading into
yellow.
‘I’m
too old for this’.
‘Oh
come, aunt.’ With one
hand Jessica took hold of a roller and with the other she combed a
strand of Maggie’s hair. Then,
very gently, she held the lock tight and wrapped up the roller.
‘Always backwards, Aunt Maggie,’ she said.
‘Did you know that?’ Then she wound another and another.
Nina
laughed, ‘Look at you now, you’ll be lovely tomorrow.
What do you think?’
Maggie
wasn’t listening.
She could hear somebody calling her.
There was a slight fluttering in her throat.
‘Maggie! Maggie!’
Maggie shot up, the eighth roller tumbling down on the floor.
‘Aunty,
please! Jessica
pleaded. The old woman looked at the child, her eyes begging her to
sit.
‘Let
me practice on you, please’.
Maggie sat down again, took hold of the music box and wound
it up. The Für Elise
wove its rhythms into her name – ‘Maggie! Maggie!’
That way she wouldn’t hear.
She would not move, would not answer.
She waited for the child to do her last curl.
In
the mirror, a woman looked out at her.
Her halo tempered by pink curlers, her face flushed, her eyes
shining. ‘Maggie! Maggie!
Maggie placed her right hand on her throat, admiring her
face. The fluttering
had ceased.
