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Rural
position, sea views. Must like animals as plenty in the house. £600 per month’.    Charlie said he’d ask more,
but after all, it’s only a bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, not the whole house.   And then, this afternoon I   got a call.  
    She has been and gone.   Her name is Jo.   I don’t like calling people by short
names, but she said that was it, ‘short and sweet’.   Not Joanna, not Joanne, not Josephine or
Joker or Johanna, just ‘Jo’ but she looked away from me when she said it, I
think there’s a mystery there.  
    The bell rang, in my house, in my
head and I pushed my dress down smooth over my hips, stood from the little soft
nursery chair by the window and glided, as if on two sheets of cardboard on a
polished wooden floor to the front door, that means, I know that means that I’m
not quite with it why does it have to be
like this? I say to myself.   I
open the door, the mauve coloured dim light of the hall and the encroaching
light from outside as the door opens wider and wider, let it in, shut it
out.   Don’t play games Gussie.   “Hello” and my voice bursts from me into
the hills and barns and skyline behind her, I see it leave my mouth and spread
wider and wider and I cannot claw it back, my fingers are so many empty
sacks.   And in my head I am saying why do I have to let this woman into my
house?  
    Jo is altogether taller and
altogether larger than me, but then I am small, I am only 5’4.”   Her posture is bad, mine is good.   I am comparing her to me.   I mustn’t do that, she is not me.   Her back is broad and she has on loose
clothes.   There is one of those e
cigarette things hanging from her mouth which looks unmannerly but urgent.   Her eyes are bright and alert, and her hair
is dyed blonde and wavy, it doesn’t suit the dark of her eyes.   I am looking at her and adjusting her,
seeing how she could dress better, stand better, give a different
impression.   I shouldn’t do that.   “Hello Jo, I’m Gussie” and I give her my
hand.   I am too formal.   I know I am too formal, too stiff.   A china dog against the wall.   “Gussie?   Gussie like gusset?”
“No, Gussie, like Augusta”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude” but that was rude and instead of
feeling insulted, I felt sorry for her, that’s odd.   And as I walk to the sitting room I know
she is summing me up and probably thinking that I’m not so nice.   I sit down with my back to the window and
motion to a chair for her, this is my house,   my dear little house caressing itself
about my body.   I’m in charge and I
don’t actually want anyone here, this is probably just a waste of time I think
and Coningsby steps over the threshold, takes a meaningful look at Jo and then
leaps onto my lap and stares and stares as the clock tick, tick, ticks.   There is a fine drizzle of fuzziness in the
room as we stare in to space and then bounce back to her face.   What
do you think Coningsby?   I am
thinking as Jo flops, plops down and the chair isn’t to her taste and so she
stands up and walks to the sofa, where with sideways swishing air she seats
herself, her bag by her side, her arms more open than they could be in a
chair.   And Coningsby looks at me
and then settles herself down elegantly with her back to Jo and her paws on my
tummy.  
Her manners are not mine.   I think
she is a woman of luxurious habits rather than energetic ones. And I’m slightly
startled that she moved anyway, this is an interview.   I wouldn’t have done that.   There is a bough of the holly tree
bouncing around outside the window and every time it does I see the odd lack of
leaves on one spot and wonder what it is.   It is a monkey astride a see-saw.   It is not.   “Is this your
house?” and my head starts buzzing from side to side trying to find the pivotal
point “yes”
“did you buy it?”
“No, I inherited it”
“who did you inherit it from?”   I
look at her shoes,