Free Mahalia by Joanne Horniman Page A

astonished at her existence.
    Life in the house was often a series of random meetings that took place in the bathroom or kitchen. ‘Just a minute, Matt, I’ll be out of the shower in a minute!’ Eliza and Virginia were very different. Eliza was all curly hair and womanly curves and lacy frocks she’d found at op shops and Virginia was narrow-hipped and boyish and sauntering. Eliza tore through the house on her way to or from various obligations and assignations, and Virginia at first peered warily at her from under the visor of her cap, trying to figure her out, but soon came to like her.
    â€˜There’s half a cheesecake from my coffee shop in the fridge. It’s still perfectly all right, just a bit old to sell, but I told them my gorgeous flatmates would scoff it!’ Eliza would call out as she let herself out the front door, on her way to somewhere in a hurry. Or: ‘I found this at the op shop, thought it looked like you,’ handing Virginia a fleecy top. ‘No, don’t bother,’ waving away Virginia’s offer of money. ‘It was only a buck.’ Virginia, because she was more often at home, thought to do things like bring Eliza’s washing in when it rained, and Eliza appreciated it. One night, when Eliza sat, exhausted, with her head on the kitchen table, Virginia quietly brought her a cup of tea. ‘You know, mate,’ she told Eliza gently, ‘you should seriously think about not burning the candle at both ends.’
    They were good at annoying each other, too. ‘D’you think that Virginia could find any more stray people than she does?’ Eliza asked Matt grumpily one morning, after a shy girl with long dark hair had made her way out of the bathroom. When Eliza was annoyed it was always that Virginia .
    â€˜I reckon I’ll just chuck the lot out!’ said Virginia with disgust one day, looking at the festering, half-empty cartons of Eliza’s yogurt that cluttered the fridge.
    Matt simply watched the two of them, bemused. He caught snatches of conversations that he could never be part of: ‘. . . because I’ve got an itchy fanny !’ Eliza called to Virginia, disappearing into the back yard to tend her herb garden.
    They all put in money for ‘basics’, but apart from that they mostly looked after themselves. Because he had Mahalia, Matt was the only one who cooked properly all the time. Virginia appeared to live on baked beans, sometimes straight from the tin (‘Ya don’t notice what ya eating when ya hungry’), or went to the pub on the corner for a cheap meal when she had the money. Eliza often ate on the run whatever she found in the fridge, cramming food into her mouth with her fingers, standing at the kitchen sink.
    When Eliza was at home she was never still. She strode quickly with heavy footsteps down hallways and stairs, making the treads shudder. She whooshed the taps on in the bathroom as she washed out her underwear in the hand-basin, singing all the while, and accidentally squirting water everywhere. She ran out with handfuls of dripping cloth to the back yard where she hung her knickers on the line that stretched across the small space. She chopped vegetables with great vigour on the kitchen table, often neglecting to use the chopping board, so that the laminex surface was feathered with tiny cuts. She whizzed up fruit smoothies in the blender and slurped them down, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Matt became used to the sight of her long back whisking round corners, her lace dress flapping round her ankles and feet.
    On one of the rare occasions that he found her still, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of herbal tea, she said, ‘Hey, get your guitar, let’s have a jam, you play, I’ll sing.’
    Matt said, ‘I can’t. I’ve pawned it.’
    Eliza looked at him for a moment, then finished her tea in a long gulp and scooped the herbal teabag out of