Читать книгу Divided Houses - Janice Paull - Страница 6

The next morning, the sound of sweeping woke Vivien. Over and over in the same place, her father swept the path beneath her window; he swept until someone moved him on and the unbroken rhythm began again. If the weather was too bad to sweep, he sat beside the wood stove swaying in a rocking chair until her mother seemed close to screaming. He often walked in his sleep, even off the upstairs balcony once and broke both his legs. Vivien remembered when she was a little girl and he was well; he called her his pretty Bluebell, picked her up and danced her around the room. On his rare good days, he still called her Bluebell.

This morning her mother would be po-faced; gentle Helen would try to smooth things over. Her face was kind, although you could never call her pretty. Bob, her husband, was barely up to her shoulder, wore thick glasses and had a squeaky voice, but they seemed contented.

She regretted the stupid things she’d said to Doug. She couldn’t imagine loving anyone else, but she wanted him to propose properly and make plans, not just talk about a vague future. Maybe he’d be waiting for her after Mass this morning. She pictured him standing near his new red Singer sports car, his arms crossed, his thick black hair falling forward over one side of his forehead—his eyes, dark blue with thick black lashes, half-closed and sleepy looking.

With her hands joined before her breast, Vivien watched the priest make the sign of the cross in front of the altar. It was the third Sunday after Epiphany and Father Donovan was wearing green vestments. She glanced sideways at her father who stared straight ahead, didn’t genuflect, kneel or pray.

Vivien went to confession every week just to keep the peace, confessed the same imagined sins.

‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned.’

‘How have you sinned, child?’

‘… I’ve committed the sin of pride ... not honoured my father and my mother … had impure thoughts, been unkind to my sister.’ If he only knew what she and Doug really did.

Mum and Helen were always gossiping about the neighbours who went to Mass. Mrs Lynch looking holy. What’s she so smug about? Beats her children within an inch of their lives. Her daughter, poor Teresa, pregnant at fourteen, some said to her own father, and sent away to the country as housekeeper to a widower with five children. Harry, the eldest, a thug who’d steal a penny from a blind man. And Miss Sullivan, looking white-faced and pinched under that awful black hat and veil, cruel to stray cats, so everyone said. Mean too, wouldn’t give her old mother a drop of brandy when she was dying, even though she begged for it. As for that Mrs Mulligan. Nine squalling brats and another on the way, all half-starved and living in filth, but pleased with herself because she follows the teachings of the church. Each Sunday, they would grovel to Donovan, nod and smile to their neighbours’ faces but gossip behind their backs. Not a drop of real charity among the lot of them. News of her fight with Doug would soon find its way back to Mrs Roberts through the parish council grapevine.

Doug’s mother would be praying hard for Doug’s soul, with her head bowed over her clasped hands in tight black silk gloves. She’d be at the next parish meeting with the rest of them, sitting around a long table in the hall, their needles darting in and out of clothes for the destitute and their tongues darting in and out of other people’s business. Her mother loved being lady superior to the impoverished lot while keeping one foot in with her old cronies who’d lost nothing.

In her last year at school, Vivien openly questioned the teachings of the church. She could’ve taken religion with a pinch of salt like most of the girls, but it made her angry to hear Sister Scholastica spouting nonsense. During one of Sister’s lessons on the Pope, Vivien raised her hand. She was a favourite because she was always top of the class, but when she said, ‘The Pope can’t be infallible, Sister; he’s just a man,’ Scholastica looked as if she’d burst. Her face turned red under her wimple, she clutched at the crucifix around her neck then strode across the classroom and smacked Vivien across the face. At the memory, she lifted her head and looked towards the Stations of the Cross. For as long as she could remember she had attended the Way of the Cross service on Good Friday when the priest wore purple vestments and in a sorrowful voice described the events in Christ’s journey, from when he was condemned to death, through his crucifixion, to being laid to rest in the sepulchre, all the time reminding the congregation that Christ died in agony to atone for their sins. Whenever she imagined Christ’s pain as nails were driven through his feet and hands, her toes curled.

Outside, Vivien looked for Doug. Disappointed and confused, she tried to shrug off the hurt. Walking tall and straight, her mother led the family towards home. Her hat was attached to her long hair with hatpins. When she was a child, Vivien believed the pins went through the hat and into her mother’s head like the crown of thorns. Her father’s shoulders were hunched, and his head stuck out like a turtle’s. Helen and her husband, Bob, made up the family group while Vivien dawdled behind. Pregnant Helen sailed along like a ship in full sail. Bob had managed to get work as an electrician and now he was always on the go. Helen and Bob knew what they wanted and how to get it. The thought of waiting around at home for Doug to turn up made her feel sick. She caught up to Helen. ‘Tell Mum I’ve gone to town. I’ll be home for dinner.’

Vivien looked along the street where Eddie lived. Saturday night’s carousing had left its trail of empty beer bottles, crumpled grease-stained newspapers and fag ends, a patent leather dancing pump and a red feather boa. Slumped against a wall was a man in a dinner suit wreathed in red, green and yellow streamers fluttering in the breeze.

When he opened the door to her knock, Eddie’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth fell open; his arms were bare and she could see he had a heart-shaped tattoo on his right arm.

‘I could show you around today,’ she said.

She could see him swallow. ‘Yeah. That’d be real good.’

He ushered her into a large room at the end of a gloomy corridor.

‘You wait here. I’ll be back in a tick.’

Over the mantelpiece was an oil painting. In its foreground was a woman wearing a dark green, low cut evening dress. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head and her long white arms hung down on either side of her body, her hands supplicant. In the middle ground were soldiers, dead, wounded or bandaged; the background, a hill dotted with white crosses and twisted, bomb damaged trees. Vivien imagined all the young men who’d been injured or died in the war and were buried in other countries; the woman could be a mother, a sister, a wife or a sweetheart, condemned to live without the man or men she’d cared for and would never forget.

Eddie appeared with his hair slicked back and an eager smile on his face, ‘The jalopy’s parked out the back. How about a spot of lunch at Wongs? If you don’t like chink food, their bangers and mash are a bit of all right.’

Eddie tucked a serviette into his shirt collar, talked before, during and after the meal. Vivien’s head ached, her eyes, hot and scratchy; her stomach turned at the smell of food. She should be with Doug. Sunday was their best day. In summer, they usually drove down the south coast to swim, make love and plan their future.

Eddie only stopped talking long enough to wink at her and make some sort of clicking sound with his mouth. Badly spoken, dressed like a second-rate gangster from a Cagney film; he probably thought she liked him.

When Eddie knelt down at the edge of the Gap, Vivien felt sweat on her palms and ran back to the car thinking of all the people who’d committed suicide there. By the time Eddie joined her, she was tired and bored with his endless chatter. ‘What else do you want to see?’ she snapped.

Startled by her terse tone, he mumbled, ‘Do you want to go home?’

The poor chap just wanted to enjoy himself and please her. He didn’t seem very impressed with the sights; he’d been in Sydney long enough to see it all. She smiled to herself. He’s pretending. She decided to play along. ‘Let’s go and look at the Bridge.’

Eddie stood beneath it and looked at all the girders. ‘I thought I’d seen a lot of rivetin’, but it’d take a thousand riggers ten flamin’ years to fix that lot.’

As they strolled, he told her about the buildings he’d worked on in Melbourne and how he could see clear across the Yarra River to the houses on the other side—houses where people never worried about where their next feed was coming from or whether there was enough money to buy their kids shoes or heat the house. Where the air was fresh and there was no smell of gas or smoke, and the streets were clean.

Vivien told Eddie about the shanty town that had sprung up in the domain where they were walking. There’d been so many complaints; the homeless people had been made to move somewhere else, but she’d always felt sorry for them. One of them could’ve been her father. They walked through the Botanic Gardens to where they could sit and watch the sun set on the harbour. Eddie cleared his throat and began to recite.

This ev’nin’ I was sittin’ wiv Doreen,

Peaceful an’‘appy wiv the day’s work done,

Watchin’, be’ind the orchard’s bonzer green,

The flamin’ wonder of the settin’ sun.

Vivien laughed. ‘So you’re a “sentimental bloke”, Eddie.’

‘Know the thing off by heart. I recited it at the pub and won a chook. Got so fired up thought I’d try me luck on the wireless. Good prize money. Anyway, I got on the air, tried to say the lot, but they gonged me. When I wouldn’t stop, they paid me to shut up.’

Vivien laughed. ‘You’re always trying something, aren’t you, Ed?’

‘It’s the only way I’ll ever get a place of me own.’

‘What’s your gran’s house like?’

‘It’s clean and that, but the wrong side of the river. I want to live in one of the new suburbs with wide streets and a back yard where you can make a bit of a garden.’

‘Is there a girl waiting for you?’

Eddie hung his head and kicked at the pavement. ‘Nah. I had a girl once, but she … It doesn’t matter now. What about Doug? Does he mind you comin’ out with me?’

Vivien shrugged. ‘He doesn’t know.’

‘Is he sore because he ended up in clink and you didn’t?’

‘Something like that. He arrived just after you dropped me off. We had a row. I ... I threw a shoe at him.’

Eddie laughed and soon Vivien was laughing too. When he managed to stop, he shook his head in wonder. ‘Struth. I wish I’d seen that. I could set him straight about last night if you want.’

‘Thanks. It’s not just that.’

‘Do you really think he did the dirty on you?’

‘You saw that Gladys crawling all over him. What do you think?’

Tempted as he was to shaft Doug, he didn’t want to upset her. ‘Nah. Just a bit of fluff trying her luck. He’s only got eyes for you.’

Vivien glanced sideways at Eddie. He’d taken off his suit jacket and she could see the firm outline of his chest straining against the white shirt. His face was tanned and its lines had softened so he looked younger. Perhaps she’d only imagined the brutal side she’d glimpsed last night. She liked the way he threw his head back when he laughed. They walked arm in arm back to the Quay.

Vivien led Eddie into the front room where he stopped and stared at the picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus hanging over the mantelpiece.

‘You seem to know Mum’s favourite holy picture.’

‘Bloody thing’s hauntin’ me.’ He perched on the edge of a chair and dangled his hat between his legs. ‘Don’t get me wrong. Me grandad might have been a dago, but Gran said he didn’t believe in anythin’. She’s a Methodist.’

‘We’re Irish Catholics from way back. They’re the worst. All gloom and damnation. Are you a Methodist too?’

‘I don’t go much on religion. The fat lady in the circus wouldn’t go anywhere without that picture. It was the first thing she hung up and the last thing she took down. Gave me the ‘orrors.’

Mrs McCarthy entered the room and looked bewildered when Eddie grabbed her hand and pumped it.

‘Bertoli’s the name. Pleased to meet yer.’

She drew away and glowered at Vivien before asking Eddie about himself. His speech improved. Not that he could maintain it. He lost an occasional consonant and bounced a few slang terms off the parlour walls. He told her he’d been travelling to earn enough to start his own business. He didn’t mention the boxing circus or the nightclub. He talked about gold mines, country hotels and the way the depression seemed to be easing. When the doorbell rang, she looked relieved. ‘Excuse me, Mr Bertoli.’

Vivien heard her mother laugh and then Doug strode into the room. He stopped looking puzzled until Vivien spoke. ‘You know Eddie, Doug. From the club.’

Doug held out his hand. ‘You helped Vivien. Thank you.’

As they shook hands, Eddie responded, ‘No problem, mate.’

‘I’ve been showing Eddie the sights, Doug. He’s new here and going back to Melbourne soon.’

Doug smiled at Eddie. ‘What do you think of Sydney town?’

‘It’s showy all right, but I reckon Melbourne’s the place for me.’

Vivien smiled. ‘I don’t want to be rude, but maybe you should go now, Eddie. Doug and I need to talk.’ She touched Eddie’s sleeve as he was leaving. ‘I’m sorry you missed out on dinner.’

He waved her apology away. ‘Thanks for today. I had a real good time.’

‘I enjoyed it too. Look me up before you go back.’

‘I will,’ he paused, looked down at his feet and then back at her. ‘Don’t sell yourself short, Viv.’

In the parlour, her mother was sipping sherry with Doug, and fawning on him. ‘I saw your mother’s picture in the paper, Doug, opening an appeal for orphans.’

‘Other people’s misfortune gives her a purpose.’ His tone was terse.

‘What do you plan to do when you’re qualified?’

Doug shrugged when he answered. ‘I’m not sure yet, Mrs McCarthy.’

‘I’ve been hoping for some time that you and Vivien will name the day.’ Doug was silent and grim.

Vivien prayed to a God she didn’t believe in for the roof to collapse. Helen entered and played saviour. ‘Mum, I need help in the kitchen. Bob will be home soon.’ They scurried out.

Doug shot a quizzical look at Vivien, then said. ‘I came round to patch things up and find you’ve spent the day with Eddie.’

Vivien bristled. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

Doug sighed, shook his head then leaned across the gap between the chairs where each sat. ‘I know, darling. I trust you and … I love you.’

‘Vivien tried to be calm. ‘If that’s true Doug, why don’t I have a ring on my finger?’

Doug looked down at the floor. ‘I’m not sure we should get married yet.’

‘Yet? Or ever? Remember New Year’s Eve, when you suggested we become engaged? That’s only a few weeks ago. I was so happy, so ridiculously, crazily happy.’

Doug shuffled his feet. ‘I know. I was too, but when I spoke to mother…’

Vivien swallowed, breathed deeply and asked, ‘What did she say?’

Doug looked down at the carpet, then into Vivien’s eyes and cleared his throat. ‘She said a man should establish himself before making plans to marry. I should concentrate on my career …. She reminded me you are very young.’

Vivien scoffed. ‘That’s her way of saying I’m not a suitable wife for her son.’

‘That’s not what she said.’

‘Be honest, Doug. It’s what she meant, isn’t it?’

‘There’s been a lot of gossip about us.’

‘What, exactly?’

‘Your, our behaviour. Late nights, drinking, night clubs. It’s not doing us any good. You shouldn’t be drinking at your age. Sometimes I don’t recognise you.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘You change when you drink. Even your lovely face. One minute you’re my dear Vivien, but one drink later you’re someone else…someone I … don’t know.’

His words hung between them. Vivien blinked back tears. Her head spun and she pressed her palms against her temples. She kept her voice low. ‘What are you saying?’

‘You should never drink.’

‘You drink.’

‘It doesn’t affect me in the same way.’

Trembling and flushed, Vivien stood and shouted, ‘You’re just looking for an excuse not to marry me. I’m not good enough for your darling mother. I know all about her. Thinks she’s a socialite. That’s what this is all about.’

Doug stood, his face set in hard lines again. ‘Don’t insult my mother. This is about you.’

‘You know damn well I’d never had a drink before we started going to Harry’s. I thought you wanted me to be sophisticated. What a fool I’ve been, believing all your talk about your great love and marriage.’

‘I’ve never lied to you. I’m not lying now. I want to marry you, but when you drink you look like a …a cranky koala.’

Vivien stood and looked down on him, her head whirling. ‘You take me to Harry’s, so you can drink and watch a dancing bear?’

‘You’re twisting my words.’

‘You just want to wriggle out of your promises by saying there’s something wrong with me. I don’t want any more crumbs from your table.’

Doug ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head.

‘Oh, Vivien, darling. We can work this out.’

No longer able to hold back her tears, Vivien ran from room saying. ‘Go, just go! Leave me alone.’

Vivien packed a suitcase and stuffed the tips she’d saved for her trousseau into her handbag. She looked out of the window at Pa who was sitting on the seat under the Moreton Bay fig tree, mumbling to himself. Maybe he was remembering the stables, the horses whinny and stamp. He’d soothe them with his gentle voice and firm strokes; they’d nuzzle his shoulder and sometimes nudge his face. She’d followed him around. He showed her how to put their feed bags on, how to hold her hand flat under an apple, keeping it steady so they could eat without hurting her. Their mouths, whisper-soft, brushed her palm like the flutter of an eyelash.

The back fence bowed under the weight of the morning glory vine, its flowers folding in the coming dusk, closing down for the night only to open again in the first rays of tomorrow’s sun, glorious and ready to meet the day, whatever it brought. Oh, Pa. How can I leave you?

‘Vivien, Vivien. Come down here at once, this minute, I tell you.’ At the sound of the angry, accusing voice, the knowledge of the screeching harangue to come and each day’s crippling disapproval, all doubt about leaving fled. Doug had made it clear he didn’t want to marry her; she’d look after herself, catch the first train out of Sydney wherever it was headed.

By the time she boarded the night train to Melbourne, Vivien was no longer buoyed by her bravado. Slumped in the corner of the carriage, she watched the lights thinning until all she could see in the window was her own reflection. Left behind were the hilly streets of Sydney, the perfume of frangipani, wisteria spilling over old bull-nosed verandas, banksia, jacaranda trees, oleanders, morning glory vines on old fences, people bustling and gossiping and the way her stomach contracted each time she saw the ocean. She wanted to be tossed again in its vastness, feel its indifference.

She dozed off and woke to the sound of shouting and lights flashing at Albury where the Melbourne-bound passengers had to change trains because of the stupid difference in the railway gauges between states. Stretched out in an empty compartment, she slept again.

When she awoke in gritty dawn, she saw a flat expanse of dry grasslands stretching to the horizon, the unknown inland. As the train approached Melbourne, she was struck by the flatness of the countryside. Farm buildings appeared, followed by another flat expanse, a cluster of buildings, then what looked like a town, the diminishing distance to Melbourne measured by a series of cobalt blue signs printed with the words Griffiths Tea. Suburbs passed in a blur of grey wooden buildings, brickworks, warehouses and the smell of gas.

At Spencer Street station, a taxi driver suggested a good boarding house close to the city. On that journey, she was heartened by the bright sunlight, plane trees in full foliage along St Kilda Road bordered by grass with an expanse of public garden beyond.

At the Bide a While boarding house, a woman wearing a long white apron over a blue twill dress introduced herself as Mrs Buchanan then led Vivien to a single room on the second floor. As they climbed the stairs, she recited the rules of the house:

‘No pets. Lights out at ten. If you want clean sheets, leave your dirty ones outside your door on Mondays. No electric radiators. No cooking in the room. Board and lodging two and six paid in advance. Breakfast at seven sharp. Dinner at six-thirty. You’ll get a cut lunch, the bathroom you’ll share with four other young ladies must be left clean and tidy at all times. No riff raff and no male visitors under any circumstances. This is a respectable house.’

Vivien walked to the Hawksburn post office and sent a telegram to Helen.

IN MELBOURNE STOP WILL WRITE SOON STOP VIVIEN