The dangers of accepting a cup of coffee from your neighbour — or why not to

I survived to tell the story

Last month a lady who lives at the end of our street stopped me to introduce herself. I suspect that the lady, Margo Ellis, was either lonely or bored. That or she was one of those people who would like to think that because they’ve been there longer, it gives them the right to know everything about the newcomers.

When I introduced myself she invited me in for a coffee. Now, I don’t make a habit of accepting an invite for coffee from someone I don’t know, but I thought that for once, I’d make an exception. I mean, I’ve seen her around, and I guess you can call someone a neighbour when they’re only six houses away — can’t you?

I should have thought twice about it because of her front garden. There was nothing wrong with it. It was too perfect. You’d be forgiven for thinking that she’d cut the grass with a pair of scissors rather than a mower. How else could it be as flawless as it was? Not a weed in sight, only three garden gnomes in one corner.

When I saw the carpet inside, I didn’t wait to be asked but instinctively removed my trainers. In our place, an off-white carpet wouldn’t last five minutes. It’s not that our dog is naughty, just that he’s a bit messy. He mostly takes any hard bits of food, liver, and offal, and carries them over to the carpet to eat. Luckily, we’re not houseproud.

I was glad I thought to remove the shoes because I saw her look of approval when I did. We were off to a promising start. She began chatting about our neighbourhood in general terms, and finishing that, she voiced her annoyance with the house five along from hers. A group of students was renting it, and I soon got the impression that she disapproved of students in general.

Letting my imagination take over when she failed to clarify their faults, I assumed the worst — orgies every weekend, loud music, drug taking. When I didn’t say any words of support, she whispered, “They’re from over there, you know — foreigners.”

Sometimes I can’t help myself. “You know that almost fifty percent of Australians have at least one parent born overseas?” I asked.

I ought to have waited a moment. If only I’d thought twice about quoting the last census. Margo had removed a pair of matching clear plastic containers from the cupboard. One of them held the temptation of chocolate biscuits, while the other contained plain digestives. Hiding my disappointment, I watched with longing as she returned the chocolate biscuits to the cupboard.

“A biscuit?” she asked, offering a digestive.

She then got stuck into those lesbians at number twenty-five, followed by the unmarried mother at sixteen. None of her neighbours had come out of it unscathed when Margo had finished. She’d assumed that I was a white, Anglo-Saxon Australian, born and bred, and I hated to disillusion her, but I knew that I would. The devil was in me.

“And what about you,” I inquired.

“Me?” she said.

From her reaction, I suspected she’d been insulted by my inference that she might be anything other than what she assumed to be a perfect Australian. So, I smiled and took a bite of my plain digestive biscuit. Swallowing it with difficulty, I answered the question I suspect she’d been eager to ask.

“My heritage is a bit of a mixture.”

I saw her balk at my use of the term mixture.

“Dad came over from Scotland when he was only a teenager. He never knew my grandmother. She’d put dad up for adoption when he popped out of her womb to look around. I don’t think that she was the mothering type.”

I heard a loud intake of breath — or perhaps it was a gasp. I hoped she wouldn’t need CPR because I was lousy at doing it, so I gave her a moment to recover.

“He met my mum when he was eighteen. He’d gone to the outback to get work. Dad says it was love at first sight. At least, that’s how he tells it.”

“I see.” Her look told me that she didn’t.

“Mum was a local girl. She’d spent time at one of those church mission stations that operated back them. They educated the girls so that they’d be good enough to serve as maids and skivvies for the white people.”

I didn’t expect Mrs Ellis to understand. Then I saw what amounted to comprehension dawning in her expression.

“Your mother was a local girl?” she asked.

“Yeah.” I smiled again. “My mum was a bit of a mixture herself. You’d never pick that she was half aborigine, not by looking at her.”

Now there was a definite scowl on Margo Ellis’s face. So, I went for the kill.

“The rest of the family’s another matter. Still, you’ll get to meet them at Christmas.”

I’ve never seen anyone turn as white as Margo did in seconds. The blood had drained from her face.

“Christmas is always a big occasion with the family. Everyone comes to stay for three or four days.” Laughing, I added, “Luckily, a couple of them have big caravans. We’d never fit everyone in otherwise.”

I was on a roll, and the time had come for my piece de resistance.

“Anyway, thanks for the coffee, Margo.” Getting to my feet, I smiled again. “I’d better get home before my boyfriend reports me as kidnapped.”

Eureka, her power of speech had returned.

“Your boyfriend?” she said.

“Yeah, we’ve been together for three years, so we decided to tie the knot. And don’t worry, we’ll be inviting you. It’ll be at our place, so you’ll not have far to walk if you enjoy a few too many. I can promise you it’ll be a big gay wedding like nothing you’ve ever been to.”

God help me. If I believed in him, he’d have probably turned me into a pillar of salt for lying through my teeth.

Margo Ellis never said goodbye to me, and I let myself out. I had to smile, but it served her right. Perhaps I’d been mean by making up the story about my family roots. Never mind. At least now, she’ll have a hundred percent score on her list of neighbours worthy of being avoided. Perhaps she’ll learn a lesson about tolerance — though I’d not hold my breath.

The following afternoon I was taking our dog Barney for a walk and passing Margo Ellis’s house. I was surprised to see an estate agent for sale sign in the front yard. It was strange because she’d not said anything about a planned move when we’d had coffee together. It just shows that you can never tell what people will do.

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