Читать книгу That Stranger Next Door - Goldie Alexander - Страница 10

Ruth

It wasn't until the following week that I finally ran into Patrick. I'd almost given up hope and was sure I'd never see him again. I was walking out the school gates with Lizzie Forell, commiserating about losing the basketball match against the Under 17s, when she glimpsed her tram coming down the line.

'See you tomorrow,' she yelled and took off.

And then someone tapped my shoulder.

I turned and - there he was.

'Oh, hi.' I was too relieved to see him to be shy. 'I've got your hankie.' I dug into a pocket. Not there. Maybe another? He watched, a smile revealing his chipped tooth, as I searched through my blazer. Finally, in an inner pocket, I touched something soft and produced the hankie with a flourish.

He took it from me. 'All washed and clean. Ruth, you shouldn't have.'

I was too embarrassed to look directly at him. 'Least I could do.'

'How are you?' He pointed to my leg. 'How's your knee?'

'Much better, thanks,' I said quickly.

We stared at each other. He was better looking than I remembered, and I liked him even more. But so many thoughts were racing through my mind, I was suddenly tongue-tied.

He cleared his throat and looked at his shoes. One lace was undone. He bent over to retie it, and straightened up before saying, 'Ruth, have you got time for a milkshake? My shout.'

I glanced at my watch. Still early. I didn't have to be home for another hour. Mamma knew that most Tuesday afternoons I stayed back for basketball practice.

'Ah, maybe,' I said, before adding enthusiastically, 'Yes, of course. Can't stay long, though.'

As kids flocked past us like navy and grey seagulls, he wheeled his bike around the corner to my favourite milk bar, favourite because it had separate cubicles and a jukebox with the latest hits, and wasn't the one my family ran.

I followed him thinking, Patrick is buying me a milkshake. Is this a proper date?

He propped his bike against the window and we went inside to Rock Around the Clock playing at top volume. A couple of St Margaret girls jived in one corner. In another, Julie Davis pashed on with a St James boy, his mates urging them on. Patrick yelled above the music, 'What kind?'

I blinked. What did he mean? Then I realised he was asking which flavour?

'Chocolate, please,' I mouthed.

At the counter he ordered two milkshakes, waited for the ice cream, malt, milk and chocolate syrup to whiz together and paid. Meanwhile I settled at a booth furthest from the jukebox where we might be less conspicuous.

More St Margaret girls and St James boys surged in. When Anne Smith and Denise Humphreys turned up, I felt myself redden. Please don't let them notice me. If they do, they're sure to say something embarrassing.

Thankfully, all they did was look, whisper, giggle and turn away. But I knew next day I was in for a serious ragging.

'…school.'

I woke up. 'Uh, sorry, missed that.'

'Just wondered how you get to school,' Patrick said.

'Two trams. I live in Elwood.' I figured he also lived close enough to cycle. 'What about you?'

'Ah, we're in Elsternwick.' He waved in the opposite direction. His fingers were long and slim, the nails bitten almost to the quick, the skin around them red and chapped. His gesture sent the milkshake flying. The glass was almost empty, so the drink didn't spread far. Mopping up acted as an icebreaker.

'See,' he said with a laugh. 'You're not the only one who has accidents.'

'Mostly I don't,' I protested.

This made him laugh even more.

By now we were relaxed enough to swap lives. 'You first,' I insisted. So he told me he was seventeen, in Form Five studying English, Literature, Modern History, Latin, German and French. He was a keen Aussie Rules and cricket player, and the eldest of four, the other three all sisters.

'What are their names?'

'There's Deidre, she's just turned fourteen. Mary, she's twelve, and Teresa is four.' Then he wryly added, 'For a good Catholic family, we're pretty small.'

'Oh.' As I didn't know how respond to this, I asked, 'What does your dad do?'

'He's a solicitor. Right now he's working for a politician.' He looked away, his face unexpectedly dark, as if this was something he didn't want to discuss.

I changed the subject. 'What are you hoping to do after school?'

He swirled the spilt milk into a circle. 'Father expects me to study law and go into his practice.'

'Don't you want to?'

'You have no idea how boring law can be,' he said dully.

Perhaps that explained his doleful expression. 'Oh! What would you rather do?'

His face brightened. 'I want to be an artist. Or if I'm not good enough, maybe I can get into photography, or movie making,' his voice trailed away. 'Anyway,' he quickly added, his blue eyes focussing on me. 'What about you?'

'Medicine. I want to cure sick people.'

He laughed. 'You sound very sure of yourself.'

'That's because I am.'

I might have sounded firm, but inside I quaked. What if I wasn't good enough to get a scholarship? What if Mamma was right and I was setting my goals too high?

'What about your parents? What does your dad do?'

'Oh, this and that,' I replied. I was sure he wouldn't want to keep seeing me if he knew I was Jewish and scholarship, plus my parents ran a milk bar.

His gaze was so intent I felt my face grow hot. 'Come on, fess up. Anyway,' he carelessly added. 'The Howells live up the next street from me. Deidre is friendly with Kate so I got her to find out all about you.'

I stared at him. 'What did Kate say?'

He leaned back and grinned. 'Oh, that you're scholarship and frightfully clever at maths and science.'

I laughed aloud. 'Bet she didn't tell you my parents run a milk bar.'

He coughed. 'Actually, she did. Also,' he raised one eyebrow, 'that you're Jewish.'

'So?' I turned defensive. 'That bother you?'

His frown was puzzled. 'No. Should it?'

I shrugged and shook my head. Why go into all that.

'Bet she didn't tell you something else.'

'Like what?'

I laughed. This time the joke was on me. 'That I can't ride a bike. That's why I didn't let you dink me home. I wouldn't have been able to balance on it.'

This was obviously news. 'How come?'

'My mother is convinced that if I own a bike, that I'll have an accident and be killed.'

'Really?' Those thick eyebrows rose. 'I can't believe anyone can be so old-fashioned.'

He made this sound like we lived in the nineteenth century. Instinctively, I sprang to Mamma's defence. 'Only on some issues.' I searched for a way to explain my mother's convictions. 'Like she hates anyone calling me Ruthy; although lots outside our family do.'

'Why?' he asked.

I shrugged. 'She called me after her dead mother and therefore believes I should respect that name. Although sometimes my family calls me Ruthele.

'As for not riding a bike,' I gave a giant sigh. 'You see, so many of our relatives died in the war, I guess she feels that she needs to be extra protective. All the same,' I murmured as a bevy of kids swirled past, 'I'd really like to know what riding one feels like.'

'Well, I can understand that,' he said slowly. His face lit up. 'What if I teach you? You can learn on mine.'

'Oh, that's very kind. But what if I damage it or something?'

'I'm not being kind.' His face was serious. 'I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it.'

'Would you teach me? I mean, really?'

He nodded again.

'That'd be great, only,' I hesitated, 'there's a problem. You see, I'm only supposed to be meeting Jewish boys.'

Patrick looked puzzled, so I rushed to explain. 'My parents, would be angry if they thought I was having anything to do with a boy who was not Jewish.

His face tightened as if a curtain had been pulled down. 'I'm only offering to teach you to ride a bike,' he coldly pointed out. 'It's not exactly a marriage proposal. Anyway,' his tone softened, 'you don't have to tell them, do you?'

I giggled. If I sounded like a little kid, I couldn't help it. 'Guess not.'

'After school,' he decided. 'Best learn on grass. You got a park near your place?'

'We're close to Blessington Gardens in St Kilda.'

'Okay. Meet you there straight after school. What's a good day for you?'

I bit my lip. Most days I looked after Leon until Mamma found time to come from the shop. The only exception was Tuesday as I usually stayed back for extra sport. 'How about next Tuesday?'

He frowned. 'Why only Tuesday?'

I wished for some way to explain my constricted life without sounding like the Prisoner of Zenda. 'It's the only time I can get away,' I mumbled as an apology.

'Right.' He stood up. After a moment, so did I.

'Those gardens are big,' I remembered. 'Where will you be?'

'Name a place.'

I tried to recall somewhere easy to find. 'How about the Rose Garden?'

'See you there then. Make sure you turn up, or else…' he said in a mock-threatening voice, while his expression said quite the opposite.

'I will, promise.'

What I didn't say was that wild horses wouldn't keep me away.

That night, daydreaming more than usual, I managed to almost ignore Zeida who spent the meal scowling at both his grandchildren. When I asked Papa how busy the shop had been today, Zeida turned on me. 'Ruth, who asked you to speak?' Back to Papa, 'At the dinner table, children should be seen and not heard.'

I waited for Papa to defend me, as he usually does from Zeida's harsh comments, or Mamma's high expectations. In a way Zeida was lucky in that he had a weak heart, too weak to look for any paid work. But it also gave him an excuse to hang around the flat where he could boss me around and make it obvious Leon was his favourite grandchild.

But tonight Papa was deep into his own thoughts. He hardly said a word except to scold Leon for messing around with his vegetables. While Mamma and I tackled the dishes, Mamma washing, me wiping and stowing crockery and cutlery away, Papa settled into his armchair and hid behind the afternoon Herald. But later, I was in bed, when I heard voices from the living room: '…someone prowling around the shop that looked like a detective. What if they're from ASIO?'

Mamma's murmur was too low to hear, so I jumped up to listen behind their door.

Papa said, 'Petrov has documents that tell of Soviet spying in this country. He is also naming anyone connected with the Communist Party, though the newspapers say they're only in code.'

Again Mamma's voice was too soft to hear.

Papa's on the other hand, rose in volume. '…back in thirty-four, Egon Kisch came to warn us of the rise of fascism. He was refused entry as a communist. They've always been frightened of communists.'

'I know, I know,' Mamma said, clearly this time. 'When they wouldn't let him off the ship, he jumped onto the wharf and broke a leg. All he was trying to do was warn them about Hitler.'

'They wouldn't listen.'

'But he still managed to tip people off about the rise of the Nazis and how they persecute minority groups.'

'Uh, uh,' said Papa. 'So we have the same situation again. Not even a world war where so many millions died will persuade governments how important free speech is.'

'I'm sure Menzies will use this incident to recreate a communist devil. Very useful as a way of attracting votes.'

'And for that they need victims,' Mamma said. 'Anyone ever connected even in the most tenuous way to the Australian Communist Party.'

'He must be convinced Evatt will win the next election. It's his way of making sure the Liberal-Country Party gets back in.'

'This Petrov case has really fallen into his lap.'

There was a long silence before Papa said, 'Esther, you must stop worrying about Ruth. Growing up in a country where everything is open and free, of course our Ruthele's a little rebellious. It's perfectly natural for our clever girl to sometimes want her own way.'

'Yes, but maybe she's too clever for her own good. This idea of her studying medicine is ridiculous. How can we afford to pay those gigantic university fees? Besides, even if she wins a scholarship, who will then marry her? We'll end up with an old maid on our hands.'

Papa muttered something I couldn't hear, but his tone was intended to sooth Mamma's fears. Though I listened and listened, their voices trailed away.