‘I swear, it comes around faster each year,’ John Hunter from number eight was saying, his wife, Dossie, nearby. ‘No sooner had I put the old girl away than I was hauling her back out.’ The ‘old girl’ was his Christmas milk crate – an ordinary wooden box that had been transformed by a coat of green paint and a some glitter and glue from their daughter Constance years ago. Constance was now a married woman with children of her own – nine-year-old Lydia and baby Josie, both the pride of their grandparent’s lives, although Dossie fussed over them something fierce. She fretted about any medical calamity, real or imagined, and shook her head at her husband now.
‘I tell him every year not to climb on that old thing,’ she remarked with a tsk. ‘It’s an accident just waiting to happen.’
‘I certainly wouldn’t trust myself not to fall off,’ Harriet remarked as Pretty Boy flapped about on her shoulder, excited to be outside.
‘Yes, I’m probably getting too old for it …’ John said, but they all knew he wouldn’t relinquish the role of choirmaster lightly when the time came.
The conversation continued but Frankie had lost interest. Patrick Earle’s words were too much in mind.
She knew men sometimes noticed her but she’d long thought she’d mastered the art of ensuring any potential interest was quickly shut down. It wasn’t difficult to squelch their attraction: men usually disliked being shown up by a woman, and smashing them for four or acing a serve usually did the trick. In fact, spoiling any illusions they may have about courting her by besting them at sport was actually rather enjoyable.
Certainly there had been one or two times she’d felt a bit flattered or even attracted to a man herself – including Nick Johnson, if she was honest – but Frankie’s ambitions in life centred on using her wits and skills to bring about suffrage and fight for women’s rights. There was zero room for romance. A husband and children would tie her to the home and she could hardly go to rallies and exercise what freedom she had to support the Cause with someone else in charge of her life. Besides which, the law forbade married women from working in most professions, and she fully intended to have her writing lead her into a political career of some sort. Marriage would curtail any such aspirations and render her a man’s possession, his legal chattel, she thought grimly, grinding her teeth at such inconceivable injustice.
Well, Frances Merriweather would be no man’s property and she would answer to no-one but herself. Just see Nick or anyone else try to change that state of affairs. The thought made her square her shoulders and march forwards resolutely. So what if he had plans to pursue her, or that Patrick Earle had said something complimentary? That didn’t change a thing as far as she was concerned, and it certainly didn’t give them any new power over what she felt or thought or did. She was passionate about politics, not men; that was what being ‘grown up’ really meant. Taking social responsibility. Leaving the world of courtship to the romantics like Ivy – Frankie was forging an independent path.
‘Blast and tarnation,’ Pretty Boy crowed from Harriet’s shoulder, prompting a few chuckles as Frankie drew ahead.
‘Looks like she’s suddenly remembered her marching,’ Frankie heard her father say behind her.
‘Well, the truth does march on, remember,’ Harriet reminded him. ‘It doesn’t dawdle, as far as I know.’
‘Save us a seat,’ Ivy called. The fallen log outside the Jespersens’ home was a sought-after resting spot after one of the longer walks between houses, and a decent enough excuse for her increased pace, Frankie supposed.
It was a scenic road to walk and Frankie took deep, calming breaths as she strode. Rosemead was the newest and wealthiest street in town and the elegant homes and gardens dotted along it were like Christmas decorations on an extensive forest of trees. The tallest and grandest house, Mount Errington, had recently been built by Oscar Roberts, president of the shire and a successful jeweller. He and his wife were making their way to the Jespersens’ too, her adornments glinting in the sun even from a distance. Their home had featured in architectural journals, as had Kuranda, but the Merriweathers’ home was more of an artistic retreat and seemed welcoming and homely to Frankie compared to the stately and rather imposing Mount Errington.
It wasn’t just the chance to build an impressive house on a fashionable street that attracted some of Sydney’s wealthy to Rosemead Road, however, it was the natural surrounds. Real estate salesmen sold it as ‘the mountains by the city’. Mountains was an exaggeration for the thickly vegetated hills that stretched back in hazy blue and green vistas towards the horizon but they were ruggedly beautiful in their own unique way. The untamed wilderness certainly stirred something within Frankie and she resonated with the restlessness that danced in the hot breeze and roused the native birds as she went along.
Rosellas and lorikeets fluttered across the sky in flashes of brilliant colour, calling to each other to follow, oblivious to the festive occasion. Her eyes followed them as they sought roost for the night in the calm, deeper folds of the valleys, mysterious and dark places where the dense forest hid the creek and duck ponds. It was secret home to a plethora of local wildlife, from rock wallabies to her father’s cherished dragonflies, all seeking to follow water, as he liked to say. The lifeblood of the Australian bush.
How simple life was for other creatures, Frankie reflected with a sigh, and how complicated it was for human beings. Animals and insects weren’t beset by the longings and ambitions that plagued humankind, yet nor could they advocate for the betterment of their species. Humans, however, had choices to make for their own kind; values to apply and emotions to sort through. Responsibilities to adopt and roles to assume.
Frankie had always known that her role would centre on the Cause. Feminism consumed her. She’d been influenced first by her mother then the inspirational writings and actions of key suffragettes. Her every day was driven by the desire to realign that age-old imbalance between the sexes and give the female of the species the right to have an education and to vote. To protect one another from the laws that deemed women the property of men, to make an impact on the plight of the poorer classes, especially, and to herald in change – something on a grand scale. Something that embraced the passion and enlightened views of her parents, a calling she truly believed she was born to.
Like Vida Goldstein had said at a recent rally down in Melbourne: ‘Surely those with a brain to think, eyes to see and a mind to reason must realise that a capitalist system must cease and a cooperative system prevail in its place.’ Yes, the age of equality was dawning; history was being made and Frankie was determined to be a part of it all; to wield the power of words and protest for the advancement and protection of her species, just like the indomitable Vida.
Frankie considered her heroine’s enviable achievements. Not only had she famously secured Maggie Heffernan’s release, she’d also excelled at her studies, opened a school of her own, worked firsthand in helping the underclass in some of Melbourne’s worst slums as well as establishing Frankie’s favourite bulletin, The Women’s Sphere. There were no recipes and home hints in this esteemed publication, Frankie reflected with a satisfied smile, it was all politics and reports and real news, without a corset advertisement in sight. Frankie’s greatest contribution to feminism so far was having her articles included in a few publications. It didn’t seem much of an achievement in comparison, but then again she was ten years younger than Vida.
Yes, Vida had been born into a life of privilege too but she’d turned it into a life of purpose. Frankie craved that. A life that mattered. And Vida had reportedly turned down several offers of marriage, demonstrating her great commitment to the Cause. Frankie vowed to do the same, should such proposals come her way. How could any romantic sentiment possibly compare to the lure of revolution and empowerment? To choose the former instead was well beyond Frankie’s comprehension.
She was roused from her musings by the children, who’d been running about catching cicadas and were now climbing the big
gum nearby, crying out when they managed to find one. Frankie found herself smiling in fond memory of doing the same not so long ago.
‘Greengrocer!’ young Lydia called triumphantly, jumping down from a wide branch and holding the cicada aloft to show Frankie, who gave her a nod of approval. A strong-willed, capable child, that Lydia. She’ll never let a man rule her life either, Frankie wagered to herself.
Lydia ran to show her mother as the other adults arrived and Frankie watched Constance’s face light up with obvious pride at her gregarious child. Perhaps I’ll have a daughter like that one day, Frankie supposed before blanching. Wherever had that come from? Her resolution felt rocked but fortunately her own family were now here to save her from further examining it.
Flapping hats at flushed faces from the heat and exertion, Ivy and their parents sat on the log next to her, with Robert and Aggie arriving behind them. Her brother-in-law chose to stand quietly behind Aggie as he often did, and Frankie turned to tease him, determined to squelch any more deep, reflective thoughts and to enjoy herself.
‘Decided to join us did you? Well, I hope you’re ready to take the lead on this one, Rob,’ she began, relishing the idea of her crowd-shy accountant brother-in-law stumbling along centre stage. ‘I dare say John would give you a turn on the old girl.’
‘What’s that then?’ John said, pausing while lifting the crate. ‘Oh, well, yes of course, son, if you feel the, er … need.’
Frankie looked up at Robert, feeling wickedly hopeful at the thought of him trying to sing up the front, red-faced and awkward, but it seemed he wasn’t rising to the bait today.
‘I don’t think anyone would even hear me over you, Frankie,’ he replied, disappointingly serious. ‘Why don’t take the crate yourself?’
She would have been tempted to do so, having long coveted the idea of standing on the marvellous contraption, but John was looking decidedly put out by now so she resisted.
‘Oh, I don’t think I could do this one the justice it deserves, especially when you do such a wonderful job, John.’
John sent her a pleased toothy grin as he lowered his crate and took out his songbook.
‘Very charming, Frankie,’ her father muttered.
‘I told you it wasn’t an impossibility,’ Harriet returned in an undertone and Ivy giggled.
‘Who remembers what song we sing here?’ John asked jovially in his deep baritone and Frankie exchanged amused glances with her family at the familiar routine.
‘“Jingle Bells”!’ one of the boys called out hopefully, swinging from the branch above with excitement.
‘Watcha doing?’ Pretty Boy enquired, twisting upside down to watch him.
‘“Jingle Bells” is the very last song of the night, as you well know, young man. Now, what’s the carol we always do, here, at number four?’ John Hunter said, his arms extended to invite further response.
‘“O Christmas Tree”,’ Lydia said before scrunching up her nose, ‘although it seems a bit rude to sing that in front of a dead old log, doesn’t it?’
Frankie couldn’t quite swallow a chortle as Lydia looked guiltily at the log the Merriweathers sat on.
‘At least there’s a real Christmas tree there,’ Ivy said, pointing at the big Christmas bush across the road, and the children looked over with smiles, seemingly appeased.
‘Yes, well, let’s sing to that then, all right? Best voices now,’ said John, lifting up his book.
The song rang out, led by the man’s impressive voice, and Frankie soon found herself joining in, buoyed by his enthusiasm. It really was a lovely, sweeping melody and she couldn’t help but feel Chrismassy all of a sudden as the treetops above let through the last of the burnishing sun. Even the Christmas bush seemed to be getting into the spirit of things as it nodded and bowed in pretty shades of green and scarlet, like a benevolent guest of honour.
O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree
Your branches green delight us
Each child’s face was filled with earnest worship and it was touching to see baby Josie blink in wonder at her entertaining grandfather from her mother’s arms, entranced. Aggie was watching her too, tears in her eyes. If she hadn’t been feeling so suddenly emotional herself Frankie might have been more mindful of the fact that her sister’s knuckles were white as she gripped her husband’s hand at her shoulder, but Frankie was really, uncommonly choked up. So much so she paused mid-song, swallowing against such sentimentality in surprise.
‘What’s wrong?’ whispered Ivy looking from Aggie to Frankie in confusion but Frankie could only shrug, because as much as she did consider herself one of the boys, Patrick Earle’s words had reminded her that not everyone saw her that way. And ever since he’d uttered them she couldn’t seem to stop feeling the raw truth of the fact that she was, indeed, very much a woman.
Six
Ten houses, ten carols and cake and refreshments at the conclusion had made for great excitement for the dozen or so youngsters among the neighbourhood crowd but Ivy was wondering if her mother regretted hosting the end party this year. Albert had made a very convincing St Nicholas but promising Lydia a bicycle when her mother had bought her a doll had left Harriet mortified, Dossie in a flap and Constance in a pickle. Adding to that, the wisdom of allowing a dozen children to splash about in the main pond may have been misguided, judging by the state of the carpets.
Fortunately there was an old bicycle of Ivy’s in the shed and John and Albert were out hastily fixing it up with a coat of paint and a few repairs. Meanwhile the children were redirected to play on the tennis court and dry out as the party rolled on.
Ivy had enjoyed it all, despite the minor dramas. So far Christmas was passing by swimmingly, what with Patrick’s obvious excitement over her personal invitation to her party and an early Christmas present from her parents. (Red boots – was there ever a more wondrous thing?) If it wasn’t for Aggie’s sad expression earlier and Frankie’s strange mood she would have described herself as perfectly happy this evening but something was definitely amiss and neither sister looked keen to discuss things. But Harriet did, despite being harried. There was always time for prying.
‘What on earth’s the matter tonight, Frankie?’ their mother asked again as she sorted out napkins and plates in the kitchen.
‘Cat’s got her tongue – don’t think I’ve ever seen that before,’ Dossie observed over her spectacles as she helped. ‘Are you ill, girl?’
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ Frankie assured her quickly. ‘Just a bit tired.’ It wasn’t just that Dossie was a well-known hypochondriac, she was also a notorious gossip and the last person Frankie would be confiding in, Ivy knew.
‘Bit disappointed too, I’d say,’ Dossie said, nodding. ‘That horrible Mr Forsyth never publishes the truth of things, dearie, pay no mind. He wouldn’t even report that bout of tuberculosis I caught two years back and that was a matter of serious public concern!’ She pushed her spectacles up and sniffed her outrage.
‘Saying you had tuberculosis is as ridiculous as assuming that man was born with an ounce of good sense,’ Harriet said in her usual blunt way, ignoring Dossie’s offended look.
‘I most certainly did have it but I hardly expect you to believe me. You’re always saying I’m in fine health when I’m obviously not. My poor back has been troubling me something terrible actually … I think I may have to see Dr Pratt again,’ she confided to Aggie, who looked immediately flustered and dropped the teaspoon she was polishing. ‘Whoops-a-daisy,’ Dossie said, continuing on unperturbed. ‘He’ll know what to do, bless him.’
‘Pratt by name …’ Harriet muttered. It was a great joke between her parents that the local doctor was, indeed, an egotistical prat, yet Dossie was his favourite patient. She fed that ego to perfection by raving on ad nauseam about his miraculous cures for her many claimed ailments.
‘What was that?’ Dossie said. ‘I haven’t got my ear horn, I’m afraid, and the doctor is due to clear them out. Bit of a wax problem,’ she
whispered loudly, this time seemingly to no-one in particular.
‘Go and fetch it for her, Aggie,’ Harriet instructed. Her sister looked glad to get away for a minute. ‘Anyway, why don’t you just try the Herald with this one, Frankie? Show that Forsyth a thing or too.’
‘Once you dry all those papers off, of course,’ Dossie added. ‘I heard quite a few ended up in the water trough this afternoon.’
‘Why did your papers end up in the trough?’ Ivy said, surprised it was the first she’d heard of it. Normally Frankie would have been screaming blue murder about anything happening to one of her precious stories.
‘The water trough!’ Harriet exclaimed, but with amusement. ‘What were you up to this time? Marching along and not looking where you were going again, I suppose?’
‘A little bird told me she walked straight into young Patrick Earle,’ Dossie told her. ‘In front of the entire Railway Hotel, unfortunately.’
‘It was an accident …’ Frankie began.
‘Patrick?’ Ivy interrupted, suddenly on alert at the mention of his name. ‘What happened with him?’
‘Nothing, nothing,’ Frankie said. ‘I just ran into him this afternoon – quite literally, I’m afraid.’
‘You ran into Patrick? Why didn’t you tell me?’ Ivy knew she sounded put out, and flushed at the knowledge but Frankie looked cagey, which was disconcerting, to say the least.
‘Why should I tell you?’
‘Be … because …’ Ivy spluttered, searching for words. ‘Because I just thought you would have done.’
‘Is he your beau nowadays?’ Dossie asked with keen interest and Ivy blushed.
Sisters of Freedom Page 5
