Page 65 of Mad Mabel

Nugget, who had the audacity to jump onto my bed during the night, rouses and starts yapping with such furor her little legs lift off the ground.

“Will you shut up for once in your life?” I say, putting a hand on her head. It has the desired effect and she stops. “Shh. Good girl.”

I swing my legs out of bed and am looking around for my dressing gown when Daphne, impatient, lets herself in with her key.

“There you are,” she exclaims, appearing in my doorway. “Thought you might have died.”

“No such luck.”

She lifts her glasses—which are cobalt blue today, to match hermohair roll-neck jumper—from around her neck and balances them on her nose. “You look dreadful. Why are you still in bed?” she says. “Are you ill?”

“Pop the kettle on,” I tell her. “Have I got a story for you.”

It’s rather novel and exciting to have a story to tell Daphne—one that doesn’t include her. So much of our lives have been intertwined that it’s rare there is something that she doesn’t know about. She seems just as delighted as me.

“Goodness gracious!” she exclaims. “Just when we think we’re ready to shrivel up and die, life gets exciting again. Whatever next?”

“Who knows?” I say, and then my washing machine plays its little song, making it clear that next, I have to hang out my laundry.

We had just hauled the washing basket out to the clothesline when there is another knock at the door.

Daphne grips her chest. “The Italian Stallion?” she whispers, her eyes bulging. “Better get a baseball bat.”

“For pity’s sake,” I say. “It’s not the Italian Stallion. Besides, I don’t have a baseball bat.”

I grab the broom.

But it’s Roxanne at the door.

“Do you have a minute?” she asks.

“We’re elderly ladies,” Daphne cries. “We have all day.”

We invite her in and offer her a cup of tea. She declines the tea and instead joins us in the courtyard. I am surprised and a little charmed when she starts helping to hang the clothes.

“Did you contact the police?” I ask.

She nods, shaking out a pair of slacks and pegging them by the hems.

“And? What did they say?”

“They said I could go down to the station and give a statement.”

“All right.” I search the basket for my smalls. As nice as she is, I’m sure that Roxanne could do without hanging out my undergarments. “When are you going to do that?”

“I’m not.”

I gasp.

“Why the dickens not?” Daphne asks.

“There’s no point. I already have an AVO against Shane.”

“An AV what?” I peg a bra at the back of the line, out of the way.

“An apprehended violence order. A restraining order, essentially. But it isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. Every time he breaches it, I go to the police and make a report and nothing happens. Every time we move, Shane always finds us.”

Roxanne digs into the basket and stands up holding a pair of giant beige underpants. Must have missed those. She hangs them dutifully, using three pegs. Daphne snickers.