‘No, I’m good, thanks,’ said Joan, who had completed four more pages of her novel. (‘The club’s bouncer, Paavo, an Estonian Atlas with a boyish grin, was easily able to recall the time that Bernice had left that evening as she always made a point of tipping him on the way out.’) ‘I’ll have to leave soon—I’m having lunch at my parents’ house.’ Should she worry that Bernice might take advantage of her absence to peruse her manuscript and discover that Joan suspected her of murder? Bernice and Joan had always respected each other’s privacy as writers; for Joan to hide the manuscript now would look much more suspicious than leaving it on the desk in plain sight.
‘They’ll be so thrilled to see you!’ said Bernice.
They certainly would, thought Joan. After Bernie had retired to her room the night before, Joan had retrieved a wad of cash from the crevice behind a loose kitchen tile where she had stashed the banknotes she extorted from her Uncle Gordon on Friday. She had one hundred and fifty pounds in her purse to bestow on her parents.
‘Give them my love, won’t you?’
Bernice had met Joan’s family only once, shortly after the pair had moved in together. Joan’s fear that her flatmate’s flamboyant and unpredictable behaviour might alarm Gloria and Horace had been misplaced. Knowing how much the visit meant to Joan, Bernice’s conduct was exemplary. She praised Gloria’s orange layer cake and frosting and enthused over Horace’s plums and runner beans. She was well-read, especially in the English poets Joan’s father loved so much, and they recited verses at each other. Even Richard, mired in misery and self-hatred, warmed to Bernice as she played popular dance tunes on the piano in the front room.
‘Of course.’
‘Is Hugh going with you?’ Bernice asked in a resigned tone that implied she already knew the answer. Joan had told her how Gloria longed to meet him.
‘Believe it or not, he is!’ Joan could barely believe it herself. Something about the atmosphere of their late supper together on Friday night, an intense intimacy born of shared danger and shared secrets, had emboldened Joan to invite him to lunch in Willoughby.
‘I know all the reasons why you shouldn’t,’ Joan had said. ‘Making you pretend you’re someone you’re not. Raising their hopes about our intentions. But … the fact is you helped me to get this money; I think you deserve some of the credit for bringing them happiness.’
Hugh had looked at her with such tenderness. ‘Well, we’d better make up some pretty convincing story about where the money came from, eh? And what kind of fellow I’m supposed to be. A war hero, right? Your uncle’s favourite lieutenant. A nine-to-five white-collar sort of chap. I think I can play-act for one afternoon, Joanie, if that’s what you really want.’
By a stroke of good fortune, Hugh had been asked by Gordon to ‘run some errands’ over the weekend, delivering updated copies of plans and important messages to other New Guard locality commanders on the North Shore—including North Sydney’s mayor, Alderman Primrose—that could not be sent through the regular post for fear of it being intercepted by police spies. The ceremonial bridge opening was less than a week away and the New Guard was outraged that Premier Lang intended to do the honours in place of His Majesty, supposedly to cut costs for a low-key event in hard times.
The confrontation between Premier Lang and the newly elected prime minister, Joe Lyons, was reaching a crescendo. Lang had defied the Commonwealth government by announcing that New South Wales would temporarily cease interest repayments to the British banks and bondholders. Outraged, Prime Minister Lyons paid the interest instead and then passed his Financial Agreement Enforcement Act to confiscate state funds from New South Wales as reimbursement.
But Lang was not afraid of a fight; he had challenged Lyons’ Act in the High Court. In the meantime, he withdrew all New South Wales’ revenue out of government bank accounts and was keeping the cash locked up at Trades Hall so Lyons couldn’t get his hands on it. Lang was now variously regarded as either the hero of the common people or a Bolshevik dictator and the Devil incarnate. The stalemate was fast turning into a constitutional crisis, and the New Guard was now readying itself for Judgement Day.
‘I can even drive you to your parents’ house, what do you say to that? Gordon has given me his car for most of the day. I’m sure I can fit in lunch with your folks around my official business for him.’
‘He’s what?’ Bernice demanded when Joan told her about Hugh’s offer. ‘Driving you to your parents’ house in your Uncle Gordon’s car?’ Bernice was flabbergasted. ‘We are talking about Hugh here, right? Your commie ratbag boyfriend?’
‘Yes, we are!’ Joan laughed. ‘He’s doing his former commanding officer a favour or two, for old times’ sake. My parents will be ridiculously impressed. It’ll be nice to make them happy at least for one day.’
‘He’s a good egg, isn’t he?’ Bernice smiled.
Joan had never been too sure what Bernie made of Hugh; on the handful of occasions they had met, conversation was civil, even pleasant, but Joan was sensitive to an air between them of mutual suspicion.
‘I’m going to pop over and check out the flat at Bayswater Road that Cecily told us about yesterday.’
‘Good idea. We’re running out of time. If it’s half decent, put in an application on the spot.’
Bernice swallowed her Prairie Oyster with an appreciative grimace. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
With its gleaming radiator grille, fender and headlights, its long, silver four-door carriage, its polished walnut hood and whitewall tyres, the Pierce Arrow was a radiant and regal presence at the bottom end of Macleay Street. A small crowd of bystanders stared goggle-eyed at the car as Hugh sounded the klaxon to announce his arrival. Though virtually on its deathbed, Bomora appeared reanimated for a moment by a dim memory of its own grand past.
Joan came racing out the front door in a summer frock and a blue halo hat she had not worn since a garden party years ago at her uncle and aunt’s old house in Vaucluse. With a great deal of satisfaction, she noticed Mrs Moxham’s curtains twitch as she climbed in and kissed the handsome man behind the wheel. Hugh, clean-shaven and dressed in his smart suit, was once again sporting the pigeon-grey homburg and tortoiseshell spectacles he had worn at the Hotel Australia.
‘What a perfect day!’ chirped Joan, who hadn’t felt so happy in ages, as they drove across town to Dawes Point. Hugh had put the soft-top down as the weather was bright and warm.
It was a good thing he had picked her up early, as there was always a long queue waiting to board the car ferries to Blues Point on the harbour’s northern shore, especially on a Sunday. He drove up the Kooroongaba’s ramp and parked alongside the other vehicles between the wheelhouse and the passenger saloon, where they enjoyed the view during the crossing. The ferry’s smokestack smudged the deep blue of an almost cloudless sky without blemishing its loveliness. How strange, thought Joan, that this ferry service would be scrapped in a few weeks’ time, once the bridge was opened.
The ferry passed close to the towering pylon on the south side. ‘Bridge fever’, as the newspapers called it, had already gripped Sydney, with harbourside mansions and blocks of flats advertising tickets for ringside seats for the opening ceremony on 19 March. Gardening columns suggested readers plant a tree (a jacaranda or Illawarra flame, perhaps?) in their yard or street to commemorate the occasion. Joan had to crane her neck to take in the full majesty of the arch and the suspended roadway. ‘It is beautiful!’
‘Just as well,’ muttered Hugh, not unmoved but still sceptical. ‘We’ll be paying it off to the British for years to come! And I wonder if anyone will remember the sixteen workers who died during construction?’
Joan gave him a withering look. ‘Must you spoil this moment?’
Hugh laughed. ‘Sorry. Yes, you’re right: it is beautiful!’
As they neared Blues Point they returned to the car. Hugh descended the ferry ramp and gave the Pierce Arrow full throttle. Joan clutched her hat before stowing it in her lap as the onrus
h of warm air streamed wildly through her hair and into her nose and mouth, filling her lungs with its vitality. She could not actually remember the last time she had been in a car; her father had been forced to sell off his little Austin years ago and no writer of her acquaintance had the means to own one. But the thrill of car travel was undeniable: a heady sense of freedom, and the physical joy of speed and fresh air with nothing between you and the sky.
The Pierce Arrow sped along Blues Point Road, past the colonial elegance of the North Sydney post office, straight up Miller Street and across Long Gully Bridge. As a child, the bridge’s Gothic sandstone towers had seemed to Joan to resemble a medieval gateway welcoming the traveller into a magical green kingdom of gardens and bushland. While Joan had been desperate to escape this suburban idyll four years ago, she still felt the tug of nostalgia whenever she came back here, with sudden flashes of playing in Flat Rock Gully near Henry Lawson’s Cave (supposedly where the great writer retreated to sleep off his drinking binges) and hunting for turtles, frogs and common jolly tails along the creek.
Today, passing under the arches of the two towers felt even more like time travel, as Joan had not been home for the best part of a year. It felt particularly strange to be returning with Hugh, whom she associated solely with her inner-city existence. Today’s visit was an attempt to bring together the two halves of Joan’s life, if only for a transitory sense of wholeness.
As the car turned into Small Street, they could see men digging a trench for a stormwater drain by the roadside while others swung picks and hauled rocks as ballast for sealing the road. It was one of Willoughby Council’s unemployment relief work teams. Behind them, a billboard announced the new premises of the Hallstrom Refrigerator Factory, makers of Silent Knight fridges. Hugh glared meaningfully at Joan. He was outraged at the use of unemployed men to do council work, especially for the benefit of private entrepreneurs. He tut-tutted but shot Joan a smile to reassure her he would not upset her parents with his views.
‘Here we are,’ Joan announced brightly as they stopped outside her home opposite the park.
The car horn summoned Gloria and Horace, who came rushing through the front garden, agog at the sight of the car and the well-dressed man at the wheel.
‘Surprise!’ exclaimed Joan, flinging her arms around her mother and then her father before introducing them to Hugh. She could not help noticing the glint of tears in her mother’s eyes.
Hugh handed over a bottle of Horace’s favourite Scotch (purchased by Joan, of course) and was welcomed like the prodigal son.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, young man,’ Joan’s father boomed affably. ‘Gloria and I have been looking forward to it. Joan tells me you are a journalist, is that right?’
Seeing the family home through Hugh’s eyes, Joan was aware of how comfortably middle class and cultured it must all appear: bookshelves full of literary classics, history, philosophy and art; framed reproductions of Durer and Botticelli on the walls; copies of Art in Australia magazine and an upright piano in the front room. All very different to Hugh’s family, who, if his stories of childhood were to be believed, owned few books besides a Bible and whose recreational interests centred on boxing and horse racing. Joan’s old bedroom had been converted into Gloria’s dressmaking room, where she did alterations and repairs and sometimes cut and sewed a frock on commission. It would have to be converted back into a bedroom if she and Bernie weren’t able to find another flat, Joan thought with a pang. But she had decided not to mention her looming eviction and possible need to return home today; she would cross that bridge if and when she had to.
Horace insisted on taking Hugh on a tour of the back garden, including the chicken coop, the vegetable beds and the fruit trees of which he was inordinately proud, seeing as they brought in a little extra income. As expected, her mother had gone to quite a bit of trouble for Joan’s visit, including the sacrifice of one of Horace’s chooks for a Sunday roast. Despite the obligatory reproach—‘You should have let us know you were bringing Hugh’—Gloria’s joy was increased by the unexpected advent of her daughter’s boyfriend.
‘He’s very handsome, isn’t he?’ Gloria gushed as Joan followed her to the kitchen. ‘Just imagine how beautiful your children will turn out!’
‘Yes, Mum. Very beautiful indeed! A grandmother’s pride and joy.’
Joan could not help herself; while she should have been annoyed, she was touched by her mother’s sentimentality. Let her have this moment, thought Joan. What harm would it do? Wasn’t she entitled to a bit of hope, even false hope?
‘Hi Joanie, how’s the writing going?’ Richard entered the kitchen and gave his sister an awkward hug.
Joan thought he looked frailer than the last time she visited. Despite regular trips to the nearest repat clinic, Richard’s headaches were getting worse, as were his bouts of nerves and moroseness. He also suffered from terrible nightmares and had on three occasions flown into a frightening, uncontrollable rage during which he threw and broke things. Even so, Richard’s condition was still not considered serious enough to receive treatment in a military mental hospice. Instead, the Lindermans endured the hostile gossip of people in their neighbourhood who regarded their son as ‘weak’ and complained whenever he wandered out of doors at night. Joan knew that the entire burden of care fell on Gloria as Horace’s health was not robust; this was another reason to resent Olympia’s aloofness, as other women in Gloria’s circumstances were at least able to turn to their relatives for support. Gloria’s only reprieve was at the meetings she attended now and then of the Friendly Union of Soldiers’ Wives, Mothers and Sisters, where she and other carers shared their stories.
With Joan’s assistance, Gloria soon had lunch on the table. As always, Richard was withdrawn at first, self-conscious about his facial tic and his stammer. But somehow Hugh’s gentle, straightforward manner broke through Richard’s reserve, and Joan was astonished to see her brother even smile at a couple of Hugh’s jokes. As he conversed easily with her family, Joan admired how her boyfriend adroitly presented an alternate version of himself as a journalist and poet writing for labour journals. His war record inevitably came up and he waxed lyrical about how Major Fielding-Jones (‘Such a generous, concerned chap’) had taken an ongoing interest in Hugh’s welfare, including this latest stint of paid work. ‘Gordon sometimes asks me to run errands for him. He is so busy.’ (Joan saw Gloria and Horace exchange meaningful glances, as if to say, ‘It’s all very well that Gordon cares for this deserving fellow, but what about Richard?’)
Joan suspected Hugh was quite enjoying the outrageous irony of his fictional creation and the inventiveness of his performance. Neither he nor Joan batted an eyelid when Horace expressed his disgust at the antics of the New Guard. ‘There are rumours of certain people in this neck of the woods getting mixed up in all that nonsense!’ Horace, who had always voted Labor, disapproved of fascist thuggery, though he was troubled by Jack Lang’s ‘rabble-rousing’. He obviously had no idea about Gordon’s role as a commander in Lieutenant Colonel Campbell’s militia.
During this odd family scene, Joan was struck by something that had never occurred to her before. She had been so dismissive—even reproving—of Gloria’s neurotic overprotectiveness, she had given her little credit for her compassion. All through lunch, she noticed how Gloria looked at her husband and son with anxious affection and pride, and attended carefully to their needs. ‘Can I get you another baked spud, darling? I know how much you love the way I do them.’ ‘Did you know Horace grew these beans? He’s so clever in the garden.’ ‘Richard has written some wonderful poems too, very moving.’
Joan glanced sideways at Hugh and realised she was not so very different from her mother. A part of her love for Hugh was protectiveness: if she were to be brutally honest, she was made to feel powerful and virtuous at times because of his vulnerability, his need to be looked after. That was not the whole story, of course, as Hugh had just shown by the way he protected and
looked after her. But it was true that a generation of Australian women—mothers, sisters, daughters and wives—had been thrust into the role of carers, tending to the fragile bodies and fractured egos of so many broken, dependent men, the war-wounded and unemployed alike.
After lunch, they all sat out on the back veranda. Hugh and Richard had drifted down the far end of the garden to have a quiet smoko behind the tomato plants. Joan watched with great tenderness as her wounded poet placed his hand companionably on Richard’s shoulder, their heads bent together in who knew what private discussion as fellow soldiers.
While Gloria was in the kitchen making tea, Joan seized her opportunity to hand Horace her gift. Gloria and Horace were both far too proud to speak openly of the family’s financial hardships, though clues were not hard to find: missing pieces of furniture, the more-than-half-empty pantry, the shiny upholstery on the sofa, the threadbare and repeatedly darned clothes. Horace had let slip that the swaggies who dropped by regularly were only given a pot of tea or slice of bread and butter for the chores they did in the yard.
‘Dad, I have something to give you, but you have to promise you won’t tell Mum,’ said Joan, pulling the envelope out of her handbag. ‘Hugh very kindly introduced me to a publisher, and I have been given a healthy advance on that novel I’ve been working on.’
Joan had mentioned her ambition to write a novel more than once. Fortunately, nobody in her family knew the ins and outs of publishing and the modest amounts usually paid for a manuscript by an unknown author. She just hoped that the novel in question would actually see the light of day! She felt guilty, of course, about robbing Bernice of the credit she was due for introducing Joan to Reg Punch. But Hugh deserved her family’s gratitude for the boldness of his blackmail plan and the size of the catch!
Death in the Ladies' Goddess Club Page 15
