He’s lying, Edith thought. I wonder why.
Forbes was waiting outside the front door, with the landau.
As William went out he hugged Elizabeth, dutifully brushed his lips against Edith’s cheek, and climbed into the carriage. Before they drove off, he said there was some extra committee work and a meeting that would keep him in town until late. He told her not to keep dinner — he would have it in the Dining Room with one of his parliamentary colleagues.
Edith knew he was lying about that, too.
Stefan walked in the park. Leaves were falling, and misted rain was making the ground slippery. He turned up his collar, but tried to otherwise ignore the weather. It would soon be dark, and already lamps were lit in the house on the other side of the road. The policeman must surely be recalled from duty soon. When he left, Stefan had decided to climb the railings, and make his way to the house. The front door? Or the back? He thought on reflection he might have more success at the back. But somehow he would see Elizabeth. He knew that she might ask him to leave, might tell him it was just a shipboard romance, but at least he must make her aware he had remained in Sydney, tell her his feelings, and find out the truth of how she felt about him.
The policeman, however, showed no sign of leaving.
Stefan sighed. It was futile and hopeless to loiter here under the dripping trees, in the summer rain, like a furtive lover. The word ‘lover’ was a hopeful and optimistic overstatement, but he knew he did look furtive; a solitary figure who had been watching the house far too long. If the bored policeman had been more alert, by now he would have been spotted, labelled suspicious, and been asked to provide some reasonable explanation for his presence, or else move on.
He heard the clatter of hooves, and the sound of a carriage approaching. For a moment, because the landau was hooded against the weather, and the coachman wore a sou’wester and a mackintosh, he did not recognise the vehicle. When he did, he gambled with courage born out of desperation, and ran to block its way. The driver pulled the horse to a halt just short of him, then, raising his whip threateningly, he ordered Stefan to stand aside.
‘Crazy idiot. Mighta been killed. G’on, out of the way.’
Stefan ignored him. He moved to the door of the landau and opened it. There was nobody inside. He came back to confront the coachman, regardless of the raised whip or his own personal safety.
‘Please,’ he said, and gave the man — who he suddenly remembered from Elizabeth’s stories was called Forbes — gave Forbes a note with a few words scribbled on it, ‘please give this to Miss Elizabeth.’
‘Not me, mate,’ the coachman said, trying to hand it back.
‘It’s only my address, Mr Forbes. To say I am here in Sydney.’
‘It may be,’ Forbes was surprised this troublesome young foreigner knew his name, ‘but I can’t go passing any of your messages to Miss Lizzie. Ain’t possible, sonny. Be worth my job, that would.’
Stefan felt in his pockets and found a precious florin. He gave it to the coachman, who shrugged. He found another, almost half a week’s living gambled now, and handed that to Forbes as well. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘help me.’ Then without waiting for an answer, he swiftly walked away.
But there had been no help. Nothing that night, or the next day. The man had simply taken his money, and torn up his note. The duty policeman still patrolled, the house remained a fortress which he would never be allowed to enter.
It was too late for regrets, but he had been a fool. He should have remained on board the ship, proceeded to Melbourne and then to Hahndorf. By now he would be there, safe with his own people. Instead, Uncle Johann would receive his letter, and no doubt resent his impulsive behaviour and ingratitude. In the letter he promised to repay the cost of the steamship fare when he was able, but already that seemed an improbable and futile hope.
Again he counted his money, attempting to estimate how much time he had left. In money terms, less than two pounds. No matter how he tried, even reducing himself to one meal a day, a few more weeks was the most time he could last. If there was no work by then, it meant begging for scraps of food at a soup kitchen. It was too late to write a contrite second letter to Uncle Johann, admitting his stupidity and asking for assistance to reach Hahndorf. He doubted if his uncle would be very forgiving.
Obsessed with his difficulties, he paid no attention to the sound of a horse cab stopping outside. Nor did he hear the hurried footsteps on the stairs. He looked up when the door opened, and with a feeling of amazed disbelief, saw Elizabeth standing there.
FIVE
After they had made love, and reached a blissful climax, Hannah rested her head on his chest until they both regained their breath.
It had been one of their most ardent encounters. He had felt a real need of her today, sitting through the morning in the parliament, while his leader droned on about the few advantages and many disadvantages of a link with the other states in a Federation, declaring that New South Wales would be in the position of a sober man trying to share a house with five drunkards. William had dubbed him ‘Yes-No Reid’, the press had taken up the name, and William and the corpulent Premier now disliked each other intensely.
He had left after the debate, and had Forbes drive him to Glenmore Road in Paddington, where he asked to be put down. He said he had a meeting, and would walk home. He wondered if Forbes knew about Hannah. The coachman and his wife had worked for them ever since the move to Centennial Park, and whatever Forbes might have guessed, he knew he could trust him. Yet today, the man seemed uneasy, and strangely on edge. He appeared glad to be dismissed and to drive away.
‘Penny for them,’ Hannah murmured, and stroked his cheek. He smiled and shook his head. It would hardly do, at a time like this, to say he was wondering why his coachman had seemed nervous. She kissed him, then slipped out of bed, and he watched her slim dancer’s body as she walked naked to the bathroom. He lay there and reflected on how empty his life had been before they met.
He had married Edith when they were ridiculously young, both barely twenty years old. She had been a pretty but nervous slip of a girl, working as a loom operator in the bookbinding section of the government printer, where he had been a storeman. He had seen the pretty face, but not the diffidence, the nervous and shy manner that made her so often afraid of people. William was brash, afraid of no one. Thus ill-suited, their marriage had been an unfolding disaster, a sad and polite masquerade, enriched only by the birth of one daughter who had become the centre of his life, and in fact, the raison d’etre for the risks he had taken, the illegalities, the fraud in Broken Hill and his determination since then to succeed and become respectable.
The physical bond between him and Edith had been increasingly tenuous. Even before they had left on the world trip, she had barely been able to conceal her aversion on the few occasions when they were intimate, managing to convey a feeling it was a marital obligation that had to be endured. Because she suffered from insomnia, they had agreed some years ago on separate bedrooms. After one loveless visit there since her return, he had not troubled her again.
Inevitably he spent more of his time at this secluded house in Paddington. A ‘bijou house’ the property agent had called it, extolling its virtues as a fine example of 1860s architecture, eminently rentable, and a perfect time to buy with prices rising and the area becoming fashionable. William promptly corrected him, pointing out there was deep pessimism about the housing market; apart from which Paddington was a working-class area and likely to remain so, even though this ‘bijou house’ — he invested the agent’s words with a mild scorn, as if disparaging them — did have a reasonable position at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, and therefore had no noisy traffic or nosey neighbours.
In fact he was delighted; it was exactly the kind of place he had been looking for, though he had no intention of admitting that. He secured the freehold at a favourable price. The agent was right and its value had already increased sharply, and would continue to do so. But h
e had not bought it for profit or resale. He had, quite simply, bought it for Hannah.
The day was still vividly clear to him. He had collected her by cab from her lodgings, a third-floor room in Phillip Street, which was all she could afford on her irregular salary as a dancer. They had driven here, and he had produced keys and opened the door of the sandstone cottage, pointing out the best features like an eager salesman: the secluded front courtyard, stained-glass sidelights; the central hall with dining room on one side and elegant sitting room on the other; the main upstairs bedroom and adjacent bathroom. After their tour of inspection, they went out to see the walled back garden.
‘It’s charming,’ Hannah had looked around admiringly.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ William had said. ‘I’ve bought it.’
By this time she was hardly surprised, but said nothing. ‘Useful investment. Freehold. I got it at a good price — I’m a hard bargainer.’ He hesitated, then blurted out the truth, ‘Actually I bought it because — I hoped you’d like it. Enough to live here, I mean.’
‘And leave Phillip Street?’ Hannah could be ingenuous when required. She had already sensed what this was about.
‘lf you like the idea, that is.’ Usually articulate, he felt anxious and unsure of himself. It was so important to him that she agreed. ‘You could — er — furnish the place. And do it up — decorate it to your own taste.’
There was a garden seat under the shade of a jacaranda tree in the garden. They sat there and he held her hands. He cleared his throat nervously. Those who had heard him lash the Opposition with his eloquence would have been astonished.
‘I don’t mean just leave your lodgings,’ he told her. ‘I mean
I’m asking you to change your life. Give up the dance troupe.’
‘But William …’
‘There’d be — a reasonable financial arrangement.’
‘William …’
He felt somehow he’d made a blunder.
‘I don’t mean … er … payment in that sense. I mean money to run the house. An allowance for clothes — and for yourself. I can’t ask you to give up a career and live on nothing.’
‘Willie, please …’ she tried once again, but he was too intent on pressing his case, and aware he was not making much of a job of it.
‘I realise you’ve been with the ballet for a long time. You’ll miss all that. But perhaps you could think it over. I don’t expect an answer straight away. I just want you to live here, and be happy. Be my mistress — I suppose people would call it. Although I wouldn’t call it that.’
‘What would you call it,’ she asked him.
‘My … companion. My other life.’
There was a brief silence, while she considered this.
‘Don’t say anything now,’ he begged. ‘At least, don’t say no. Think about it, please. I need you, Hannah.’
At thirty years of age, Hannah Lockwood knew how to recognise her blessings, and how to count them. She had been a dancer since she was fifteen, and had begun to realise, soon afterwards, that she would never be quite good enough to become a soloist. For ten years she had been with Madame Ranasky’s touring corps de ballet, but when this brave and struggling enterprise ran out of money and had to be disbanded, those who had been merely the swans and not prima ballerinas found it difficult to survive. She tried not to remember the series of dubious engagements, the dancing troupes in bars and tent shows where local dignitaries or officials had to be placated, and where the dancers, to retain their jobs, were expected to grant such favours. She was not a particularly moral person, but the idea of being pinioned by a sweating Shire Clerk on a lumpy mattress in a country hotel or pursued by some lascivious licensing sergeant-of-police made her feel a sense of outrage at what her life had become. She was also acutely aware, even for this sort of existence, that time was not on her side.
She had met William one evening, when a party of political men without their wives had come to the basement music hall where she and the rest of the girls in the chorus (most of them younger than her) were baring their legs and dancing the notorious new French dance, Le Can Can. Sir Henry had been there, of course, the grand old gargantuan with his fierce eyes and whiskered jowls, who could thunder speeches about the forthcoming federation of Australia, but could not pronounce his H’s, and so to the girls in the troupe who loved his ribald ways and fund of risque stories, he was Sir ‘Enery Parkes forever.
Henry had introduced William as a young man with political ambitions who might amount to something. They had shared a bottle of champagne and William asked if he could take her home. Before they left, Emile, the owner of the music hall, whispered that Mr Patterson was chairman of the property company who owned the lease on the premises, and to treat him with care. Hannah knew what that meant; she had been there, in that situation, before.
He suggested a cab, but she had asked if they could walk. It was not far to her lodgings. On the way he talked of his daughter, of her schooling and the trip abroad he planned as a finish to her education the following year. When they reached the narrow doorway of the rooming house in Phillip Street, she invited him in, but to her initial surprise he declined. He did, however, ask if they could meet again. It was not until they had dined several times, and one evening been to the theatre and had supper afterwards, that he accepted her invitation to have coffee in her room, and they had slept together.
By then, Hannah had begun to sense this was no transitory affair. She realised the rich, successful and still young William Patterson was lonely; clearly his marriage was lacking, and all his attention was vested in his daughter. He was shy with women, and found it difficult to form other relationships. Hannah saw this; she perceived a need in him, and resolved to fill it. She dropped former liaisons; previous lovers were no longer welcome. She found out his interests, and read copiously about politics. When they first made love, she feigned an ecstasy that so stimulated and aroused him, that she in her turn lost control and they reached a vigorous and erotic climax. For someone whose main diet had been his wife’s passive endurance, it was like a sexual fantasy.
She knew then she was determined to attract and hold him by whatever means she could. The result had been more than a little surprising. William kept returning, as she intended he should. It became a regular arrangement. He bought the Paddington cottage, and she was persuaded to live there. He proposed an allowance and when she refused, accepting only half of what he offered, he insisted on her having an account to buy her clothes at David Jones, the drapery emporium. None of this was a particular surprise. It was, she knew, what she had subconsciously hoped for, and set out to achieve. The surprise was in her own feelings towards William.
Hannah had never considered that she would fall in love with him. She liked him, and had from their first meeting. He was generous and kind; he confided in her and talked to her as a friend and an equal, and he was fastidiously clean. She grew to care for him. She came to look forward to and enjoy their afternoons together, and to miss him when business or politics kept him away. It developed into love so gradually that she was hardly aware it had happened; but it had, and one day she realised with quiet increduliry that she did indeed love him, and could not name the day or the month when it had occurred. Now, all this time later, and respectably installed in the house in Paddington, she could hardly imagine a life without him.
After they had dressed, she served tea in the living room which looked out onto the walled garden. The furnishings in the room appeared expensive, but he knew most had been acquired at bargain prices. Hannah had revealed a talent for scouring the city salerooms, where she bought with care, exhibiting a flair and taste that had transformed the house.
He felt so much at home here. He watched her trim figure as she poured the tea, and reflected on the fortunate day when he met her. She filled a huge void in his life. Without her, he was acutely aware of how empty his whole existence could be. Especially lately.
‘How is Elizabeth settling
down?’ Hannah asked, as if reading his thoughts.
He sighed and frowned. Elizabeth was not settling down. His daughter was behaving like a deprived and petulant child, ever since he had sent that German fortune-hunter packing.
‘She’ll get over it,’ Hannah said, doing her best to console him, after he voiced his concerns.
‘I hope so. I’ve been wishing to God I never sent her on that damned trip. If Edith had been awake to what was going on …’
Hannah never said so, but sometimes she felt sorry for his wife. They finished their tea. Often afterwards, they sat in the garden surrounded by tulips and climbing roses and he talked of his business successes, or his political ambitions. But today he was restless, strangely uneasy, and half an hour earlier than usual she saw him to the front door, kissed him fondly, and watched him walk up the slope of the hill in the direction of Oxford Street.
William generally enjoyed the walk, which was a brisk ten minutes, up Liverpool Street, past the Victoria Barracks and the new Paddington Town Hall. Today he strode more quickly than usual, as he left Oxford Street and headed back towards the park and his house which faced it. He could not have said why he felt uneasy, but as he turned the corner and saw a distraught Edith outside the front gates, he began to run.
SIX
She lay awake in the darkness of the squalid room, listening to the two men breathing. Her arms were around Stefan, the weight of his sleeping body pressing on her left arm which lay beneath him. It was beginning to ache, as she tried to move it without waking him. The lumps and sharp protrusions in the straw mattress made sleep impossible for her. On the other side of the hessian bags which divided the room, the old man who shared the room grumbled in his sleep, a harsh sound deep in his throat like a death rattle.
Due to the proximity of the other man, they had not been able to make love. She had not even been able to remove her clothes. The attic beneath the iron roof was fiercely hot, and she was aware of a constant rivulet of sweat trickling down between her breasts. The night seemed endless, and filled with alien sounds. Below in the street a bottle smashed, and a drunken voice shouted obscenities. A child woke in the room opposite, and began to cry.
A Bitter Harvest Page 5
