The Mugging of Marigold Brown
Category C: Third Place (2023) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Lenette Griffin
My dear old boy.
Marigold’s thoughts, as always, were anchored back in the dementia ward on her darling husband Alf. She couldn’t feed him his dinner today because of the lockdown and looking at him through a screen was very depressing and tiring. If only they would put a seat outside so she could sit down occasionally- anyway what good was it doing when he couldn’t hear her familiar voice. She’d mouthed the words anyway even though she could see tears in his rheumy blue eyes. He looked so lost … so confused.
She hoped one of the boys would come to see him soon. He always asked about the kids … when are the kids coming, are they coming today? Have you seen the kids? Will I go home today? “No Alfie, love, not today,” she would tell him. “They’re busy working and taking the kids to school. They can’t come just now – because of the lockdown, the virus, love.” She knew that blankness. He didn’t understand the words; didn’t understand that she couldn’t just walk in and take him a cup of tea and a scone. Not that he needed more tea, and she especially didn’t need more tea. The expense was killing; even in the discounted Homecare café, downstairs.
Oh, the staff were very kind and gentle. And caring. They were all lovely. Except the one with red hair. She was bossy and self-important; always rushing the visitors out so she could get on with her work – whatever that was.
The plastic shopping bag handles cut into Marigold’s fingers; the bulkiness of the meagre shopping weighing heavily. She paused, lowering the bright green bag to the ground to swap the faded brown handbag to her right side - the hand managing her walking stick - then hoisted up the shopping with a gentle huff. It was warm, even in the dappled shade of enormous gumtrees which overhung the narrow lane. It provided a handy shortcut between the nursing home and a staff carpark, hemmed in by high, heavy wire fences, but the bluemetal surface was sharp under her thin-soled walking shoes and the potholes and ridges where roots pushed the ground up, were tricky to navigate. One had to watch one’s feet with extra care but it was worth the effort. The sealed path around the long block added more distance and would take longer so she’d have less time with Alf. And none of the houses had any trees which might provide a smidgeon of shade. As it was, she found herself puffing like a train every time she hauled herself onto the bus.
Her head ached and she longed for a cup of tea and a rest, in the quiet, cool space of her own kitchen. Better not mention headache to anyone though, or they’d run screaming ‘virus’ and that would be an end to visiting Alf. Still, it might be a way to save money. Well, pension day on Thursday would help and at least the electric bill could be paid.
She wished she had a spare hand to wipe the sweat from her brow – it was starting to trickle down inside her glasses – but the bus was due in a few minutes and she always liked to be there, waiting.
The lane was usually deserted in the middle of the afternoon, before the children raced out from the school gates just down the street. Then she remembered that only a few were allowed at school anyway; the lockdown kept most of them at home, including her three grandkids. Home schooling with their mother, Anne. Such a pity Anne had taken a dislike to Alf, Marigold thought idly. They’d never quite worked out why, but then the woman didn’t seem to get on well with her own family members either.
She hoped Gerald would make some time to visit his dad, at least. Alf missed the kids something terrible, even though he didn’t know who was who these days. And if she didn’t see them soon, Marigold would probably not recognise them herself.
~
Behind her, she heard an urgent shout, then another excited holler; a shrill whistle. “Whoo-hooo!”
She turned slowly, shuffling further towards the wire fence, in case …
She had a momentary glimpse of movement, a sense of danger as a man barrelled beside her, his hand roughly yanking her arm, her cane, tearing at her handbag! She cried out as she was jerked roughly into the heat and momentum of harsh, ripping metal, felt her cane flipped from her arthritic wrist before she was flung headfirst, brutally, into the chain-wire fence. A sharp, searing pain lanced from her wrist to her elbow, followed by a stunning thwhack as her head collided with a post; an explosion of blinding light and shooting stars, then a grey, deepening darkness.
Marigold dimly became aware of the rough, hot agony of something jagged pressing into her cheek. Distantly, she sensed commotion, realised vaguely that she was lying on a rough, painful surface – the ground? More shouts and loud footsteps intruded as she sank deeper onto the dry earth. She shook her head to ease the buzzing in her ears then winced in agony. Even through the overwhelming pain, her muddled brain took in the strange vision of a person flying through the air in a kind of loose somersault before thudding heavily onto the dirt.
Amid a cloud of dust and wavering grey haze, she glimpsed a pushbike lying sideways on the rough path, its front wheel spinning; heard loud penetrating voices, felt a large, hot hand patting her shoulder.
“Are you alright? ARE YOU HURT?” Black shoes and the blue uniform of a policeman blocked her view.
“My bag! They took my bag,” she wailed, as clarity and fear returned, followed by a tide of worry. “The bus! “I’ll miss the bus.” Hot tears flowed down her cheeks and she struggled to rise.
“We’ll take you home, don’t worry,” a kind voice rumbled, “just stay here quietly for a minute love, while I get your bag for you.”
The big man stood from his crouching position and Marigold yelped at the flash of pain which shot through her right arm as she put pressure on it to lever herself up. With the left, she pushed her dislodged glasses back onto her nose, realising with alarm that the metal frames were hideously twisted. She squinted through one lens, cushioned her throbbing wrist and groaned in misery. Everything hurt.
A few metres away, a policeman, leaner and younger than the one who’d spoken to her, was bending over a lanky youth, his long, straggly hair trailing in the dust, prostate on the sharp jagged bluemetal, both hands snigged behind his back. The policeman was fitting black cable ties around his wrists as the man struggled and swore loudly. “Watch your language or I’ll leave you there to sweat,” the policeman threatened calmly.
The bigger policeman was writing in his small notepad while watching the scuffle on the ground. He took his time, using his phone to photograph the scene and take pictures of the shiny blue bike, then switched his focus to Marigold’s handbag which lay in the dirt, its contents strewn across the scattered stones. Painstakingly, he gathered up the items. Her flat tan wallet, a leather folder which her younger son, Richard, had given her for a birthday years ago, the bus card and her pension cards which had slipped from their little pockets, her crumpled-up hanky – she always seemed to be crying when she left Alf – headache pills, and the house key.
The thief wouldn’t have found much of value in there anyway, she supposed. But then she remembered the hand-turned wooden pen Alf had made for her one time at Men’s Shed, and the photos of the three kids, school photos taken two years ago. Ronnie was eight then, with his constellation of freckles and mop of permanently-tousled dark hair, so like his Daddy. And Josie, in Grade Two, also freckled and smiling her gap-toothed grin, her hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. And dear little Amy, still with some of her baby fat, her stringy dark ringlets in tight little pigtails sticking out at the sides of her head. Marigold sniffled. She would hate to lose those. She imagined the kids looked much taller and older now.
The policeman collected all the pieces, carefully placing them back in the bag and folding the straps which were now broken, back inside. He tried to zip the bag closed but the zipper had been broken for ages. He wouldn’t realise that.
As the burly policeman handed it to her, Marigold saw a flash of colour at the end of the lane. “There’s my bus!” she tried to rise and whimpered again, “it’s the last one until six o’clock.” Three hours away. Hot tears skidded down her aching cheeks, fogging her warped glasses.
“Let me help you up love,” the big man said, gently stooping and lifting her slowly from behind, “I’m Sergeant Mick Mulcahy. What’s your name?” He spoke with an Irish accent.
“Marigold Brown. Everyone calls me Mary.” Her legs felt very wobbly and her right wrist surely had hot coals in it. The pain was something fierce.
“Can you walk to the car with me Mary, and we’ll sit in the car and get some details? Take your time.” As he spoke, he scooped up her shopping bag as if it was weightless, keeping a guiding hand under her elbow.
“I - uh, think so. Ow-w …” she staggered slightly, “I’d be better with my cane.”
“Ah, yeah,” he grinned at her, “your very substantial weapon. Did you see where it ended up?”
“No, I …” It would be tragic if the walking stick had been broken, or damaged, she thought, frowning with alarm.
It had been her father’s. He made it himself from the branch of an ironwood tree which had stood at the end of the homestead verandah since before Marigold and her siblings had been born. Since her father’s father was a boy, actually. The stick was not pretty. The wood was too hard to carve and it had lots of knobbly lumps along its length but it was sturdy and the grain was quite pretty. It was a bit too long for Marigold’s height - she was a good six inches shorter than her Alf and even more so than her dad, who’d been a giant of a man.
The policeman chuckled. “You did a great job catching this bloke for us, Mary - you and your stick. Look at that.” He angled her towards the bike, pointing out the buckled rear wheel, its spokes bent and spiked in disarray. “Couldn’t have brought him to a more effective standstill if you’d tried.” Grinning, he bent over and wriggled her stick which had somehow become lodged in the tangled spokes. “When he jerked your arm, the walking stick wedged like a lever into the wheel and forced a sudden stop which catapaulted him off the bike. Quite the best thing I’ve seen all week.” The smirking sergeant handed Marigold her sturdy stick which appeared remarkably undamaged.
~
Four hours later, Mary sat at the kitchen table, resting her tightly strapped sprained wrist in her lap and nursing a mug of sweet tea which the lovely Constable, Irene, had made. People are marvellous, she mused. The pretty young woman had stayed right with her at the hospital and brought her home and was now talking to Richard about staying the night. Mary yawned softly and closed her eyes for a moment, hoping the painkillers would last awhile longer.
Back at the Station, Sergeant Mulcahy finished typing, gulped his coffee and listened to Irene’s animated version of the events. “Can I tell her about the reward tomorrow?” she asked.
“Nope! “I want to tell her myself, so I can see her face,” he grinned.