by Joy Dettman
‘Your husband will be delighted, my dear.’
‘He does not bruise the display flower.’
More quietly, Archie had offered to fix her problem, between Sydney and Melbourne. She’d run from his suggestion.
The shipping company paid him well for his dance of attendance on the rich. Impregnating the wife of one of their richer passengers was not in his contract. He’d gone to her that night, calmed her with lies. A woman desperate for love is easy to calm with lies of undying love. They rocked his narrow bed in Sydney Harbour, and after he explained that he was a penniless doctor who owned no house and had no savings. Though nothing would please him more than they should raise their love child together, he was not in a position to do so. He too was wed to another. He told her she must make love with her husband, and soon.
‘He is no good down there for the woman. Ten year he is no good down there.’
Archie’s contract with the shipping company being open-ended, he’d decided to end it in Melbourne and go home to dear old Dad, join the family practice for a month or two. The mean old bugger had his fingers into many rich medical pies. He was first down that gangplank in Melbourne, off and running home to dear old Dad for the reconciliation of the century.
Three weeks later, the ship well on its way towards Africa, Archie spending his days in consultation rooms, private lying-in hospital, sanatorium, generally keeping his nose clean, or clean enough when it needed to be clean. If he’d given one thought to the beautiful Juliana, it was given with a smile. Like the cuckoo chick, his offspring would be raised in a nest feathered by a lesser bird.
The ship may well have been on its way to Africa, but the fat banker and his wife weren’t on it. Archie was at the lying-in hospital when they found him; and where else might a doctor be found than at a hospital, and where else would a rich man take his pregnant wife but to a doctor at a private lying-in hospital? Archie had wished he’d taken a job as a night man. Conti’s English was little better than his wife’s. Archie, ready to deny all accusations, to blame early menopause, the hand of God, if he must, listened to his ramblings intently and was relieved to learn that the grateful Juliana had accused an unknown sailor for her predicament.
Bald, tubby, olefinic, Conti was not a big man, not in stature, although a giant in name and bank account. His beautiful Juliana was an old man’s final trophy to display in fine garments, to hang with jewels. He would not display his trophy with a belly swollen by the leavings of a rutting ‘animal’. And thus, the ‘rutting animal’ became further embroiled. Conti agreed to pay for his wife’s lodgings at a respectable house, to place money enough at her disposal to pay for her confinement, and to leave a donation to be given, with the infant, into the hands of the holy sisters when it was over.
‘Then you buy ticket home for my beautiful Juliana. Yes?’
‘Indeed. Indeed, I will, sir.’
‘I give . . . my treasure; you protect. Yes.’
‘She will be well protected,’ Archie had said.
Conti took the first available berth home, leaving his wife in the protection of the good Doctor Foote, who was not good, who had never been good, who, for most of his life, had lived off women, and who had been finding his father’s house stifling, his sister unforgiving, unrelenting, uncompromising, and mad into the bargain. He moved Juliana from her respectable lodgings into a room at a city hotel, a fine room, large enough for two, where Mr Albert Forester and his wife enjoyed a few interesting months before she started growing out of her clothes.
Some see beauty in the pregnant belly. It repulsed Archie, but, no longer gainfully employed, he had to live somewhere. He remained the thoughtful lover until Juliana’s money ran out. She had jewellery; they sold a few pieces. There’d been a ready market for good jewellery in Melbourne. One chap had made a damn fine offer for her brooch, her mother’s brooch. She’d dug her heels in over the brooch, refused to part with it. Most women, when they dig their heels, in are hard to budge. Juliana was immovable. Archie’s desire to cut loose and run had grown daily.
One morning he’d done it, had taken off with only the shirt on his back, caught the train to Three Pines Siding. His cousin gave him a clean shirt and a bed. To this day, he didn’t know how a woman with limited English had managed to track him down. Had she found something in his luggage? Had she returned to the hospital where the elderly Foote brothers laboured? Had she found the house in Hawthorn? His sister would have told the devil where to find him.
He’d been with his cousin for a week when a woman was found dead outside of Woody Creek. He’d left Juliana in a hotel room, had assumed that’s where she’d be still. He hadn’t put two and two together, not then. A week later, with fifty quid of his cousin’s money in his pocket, he’d returned to the Melbourne hotel to fight her for his luggage. She wasn’t there.
The infant near ripe for the picking, he’d visualised her sitting up in a hospital bed, and had asked at the hotel reception desk if Doctor Foote had perhaps been called to his wife’s room. The reception clerk called the hotel manager, who told Archie that his wife hadn’t been sighted in eight days, hadn’t paid the bill, and if it wasn’t paid by today, they’d be out on their ears without their luggage.
His cousin’s fifty quid paid the bill. He’d sold Juliana’s prized fur coat and a garnet necklace to recoup his losses, then waited; and searched for her brooch while he waited. He’d sold a tiara, no doubt worn to some royal gathering. He’d sold a fancy ballgown and three pairs of Italian shoes before he’d seen that newspaper.
DO YOU KNOW THIS WOMAN?
Foreign woman dies in childbirth beside a railway track . . . four miles from Woody Creek . . .
The photograph hadn’t done her justice, but he’d recognised her features. For a time he’d considered claiming the body — or claiming the brooch, which must have been on the body. But that would have meant claiming the female infant, who, according to the newspaper had survived — and there had been no mention of any jewellery found.
Fate being ever kind to Archie Foote, he’d picked up a job on a cargo boat leaving for Egypt. No luxurious cabin that time, but he’d never been to Egypt. He’d seen the Pyramids. He’d ridden on a camel’s back, picked dates fresh from the palms, and more. Some of his better stories came from Egypt. He’d enjoyed every day of his time there — until the bastards locked him up.
He’d got out, with a shattered upper arm. It still ached today. Two of the four he’d got out with had been felled by a hail of bullets. Archie had crawled into a hovel to bind his wound, and there, hanging behind its door, was one of the black face-covering sacks worn by some of the old Muslim women. He’d lived in it for two months; had gone openly about the job of surviving, and not a soul dared lift his veil. Few would have recognised what came out from beneath that rag. He hadn’t recognised himself, and it had been safer at the time not to be himself.
Albert Forester had sold the Contis’ jewels. A bearded form of old Albert made his way to Paris, not a good place to be at that time. He’d hoofed it down to Spain, which had been worse, but he’d got a boat there heading for Melbourne, had worked his passage home in the ship’s kitchen.
Like the rest of the world, Melbourne was in the grip of the depression. His father was dead. His sister was installed in the house with a maid. They were heavy sleepers. He’d been breaking in and out of that house since infancy. He’d helped himself to what he could, and for months lived where he could; had queued with the starving thousands for his tin cup of soup and a slice of bread, promising himself that one day he’d write his life story — when he found the time. He’d look on his ‘blue period’, his poverty-stricken period, as research.
He’d been taking the sun in Bourke Street, reading a discarded newspaper, the day he sighted his fighting bitch of a wife walking with Vern Hooper. He’d followed them to their hotel, assuming they were wed. Watched them for days; safe to watch from behind his beard, his newspaper. Few of the prosperous gave a second glance to
derelicts. He’d followed them to the station when they’d checked out of the hotel, and that night made another visit to his father’s house. Poor, bearded old Albert bought a ticket to Woody Creek, chuckling in anticipation of his fighting bitch of a wife’s face when he told her he’d have her up on charges of bigamy.
She hadn’t wed. She’d been where he’d last sighted her, in her hovel. He’d walked out to his cousin’s house and found it empty. Vern Hooper moved him on, and that big bastard hadn’t recognised him. Archie had chuckled about that.
He’d moved on, into town, and holed up in a hut near the bridge. Raked up the pub’s backyard for a meal. Stacked crates in the grocer’s yard for a pound of flour, a packet of tea. Raided Gertrude’s henhouse, pinched her figs, and anything else that was handy. It was all a grand game until the day he sighted Jennifer out front of the grocer’s. Does blood recognise blood? If he’d given Juliana’s offspring ten seconds of thought in the years since its birth, he’d seen it raised by the nuns in an orphanage, as Conti had wanted it raised — without the donation.
A golden child that one, gold of hair and complexion, long in the shank, fine-boned — something of his sister in her build, but more of the boy he’d been in her face.
He knew himself as a man of obsessions. He’d become obsessed with her before he’d heard her voice at that Christmas concert. The applause had roused in him the pride of the creator. Hung around too long. His firstborn had approached him in the park.
‘I know who you are,’ she’d said.
He’d denied it. He’d denied it again when she’d bailed him up down at the bridge. Walked away from her and the town that night, vowing he wouldn’t go back.
He’d gone back.
‘I know you.’
Past and present mingling. Archie lifted his head; eyes, concentrated too long on a page of notes, didn’t immediately refocus.
The circling hag had stopped her circling, had stopped pinching her hand. She stood staring at him. He took a reflex step back and closed his book with a snap.
‘As well you may,’ he said. ‘We have spoken before, Amber.’
‘Lying bastard,’ she snarled.
Turned on his heel and, ten minutes later, left the facility, consciously slowing his retreat when his every nerve ending told him to run. Perhaps it was time to discontinue his voluntary work.
GIFTS FROM HOME
20 November ’46
Dear Jenny,
Just a quick note. Maureen Macdonald and her husband came up for the weekend. They offered to take a few things back for you. I don’t know how far Box Hill is from where you are, but Ray should be able to strap the carton onto his bike. Maisy is here with me now. She’s writing him directions on how to get out to Maureen’s.
Archie has been up here for a week. He told me he ran into you at a hospital a while back and that you gave him an address in Sydney. I think he’s left.
Vern has been down. He said he wanted to send Jimmy a present for his birthday. It’s in the carton. He knows you’re not living at Myrtle’s boarding house. From what I can gather, he’s got some investigator chap trying to find you and Jimmy.
He said Jim’s been fitted with glasses, and an artificial leg, but according to Vern, it’s not his leg or eyes that are troubling him. He says it’s his mind. They’ve moved him to some private place out of the city.
I have to finish this off. Maisy is going to post it for me on her way home.
Kisses to all, Granny
27 November
Dear Granny,
Jimmy and the girls love Vern’s train set. You can thank him from my kids and spit in his eye for me. I’ve seen similar sets in Myer’s and they cost a fortune.
Thanks for your food parcel. The kids sat on the veranda cracking walnuts with Norman’s hammer and eating as many as they put into the basin. They brought in enough to make a batch of your oatmeal biscuits.
I haven’t told them yet about Christmas just in case we can’t make it. Have you got any more details on how Joey is getting down . . .
27 November
Dear Mum, Dad, Dawn, etc, etc . . .
Jenny turned up to get Mrs Foote’s carton and you could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw her at the door. She was pushing a pram. I thought she must have had another one we didn’t know about, but she said she’d borrowed it from a neighbour to push the carton home in. I was expecting Ray to come for it, or to come with her. I’ve been dying to see what he grew into. She looked well but wouldn’t come in for a cup of tea. She had to get home to Jimmy, who she’d left with her neighbour, she said. I asked where she was living. She said it wasn’t that far away, and that’s all.
Got to go. I’ll phone you on Sunday night.
Love, Maureen. X
Dear Jenny,
How did you get out to Box Hill? Harry says that Armadale is miles across country. I spent a weekend out there years ago and it seemed miles from Hawthorn . . .
Dear Granny,
Trains and trams go everywhere down here. Do you know yet what day Joey will arrive in Melbourne? Tell him if he’s looking for a bed, I’ve got a camp stretcher he’s welcome to use, and that we’ll travel up there with him on the train. It will only be me and the kids. Ray said he’d ride up when his factory closes . . .
Said he might. Nothing was positive, but everything was possible by mid-December, so she told the kids they might be going home for Christmas.
Kids are renowned for taking a might and turning it into a when.
‘If we go, how many more days, Jenny?’
‘Sh-she’s your m-mother,’ Ray said.
He didn’t like Georgie. She’d corrected Margot’s back to front ‘J’ for ‘Jimmy’. She’d picked up the rules of Canasta in one sitting. Ray had trouble holding eleven cards in his hand. Margot could hold eleven. She’d learnt the rules almost as fast as Georgie. There was not a thing wrong with that kid’s mind. Pure, unadulterated wilfulness was her problem and determination to get her own way.
There was something wrong with Ray’s mind. A week before school ended, a week before Joey was to fly down, Jenny paid for a haircut — paid twice for it. He accused her of having it cut for her old boyfriend, and when she told him not to be so crazy jealous, that Joey was her little brother, the furniture suffered and the walls. A chair leg went through the plaster.
Her haircut was only the beginning. She made up the camp stretcher, tacked a sheet over the disintegrating flywire in the sleep-out, making that room as nice, as cat-proof, as she could. Ray didn’t like nice. He pitched the camp stretcher at the disintegrating flywire and made a larger hole for the cats.
Then, two days before school broke up, a letter came from Granny. Joey wouldn’t be flying into Melbourne. He’d found out that he could get a small plane in Sydney that would take him to Albury. Billy Roberts drove a truck to and from Albury. He and Joey had been in the same army unit. Billy would pick him up in Albury and deliver him back there on Boxing Day.
And without the leverage of Joey, Ray changed his mind about riding up.
‘You used to ride your bike up every weekend before we got married,’ Jenny said.
‘I’ll g-go with you on the train when I f-f-finish work.’
She didn’t want to wait. The kids didn’t want to wait. They’d been counting down the days. But it would look better going back as a family. She’d have less time up there, more competition for Joey’s time, but she agreed to wait.
That final night: her red case packed and waiting beside the glass door, two string bags bulging beside it, weighty with newspaper-wrapped, sugar-filled jars, hoarded for months for jam-making. The kids had gone early to bed, too early, wanting tomorrow to come fast.
And he said it. ‘I haven’t g-got money to go w-w-wasting on h-holidays.’
Stunned silent for a second, for ten seconds. ‘I told you I’d pay for the kids and my fares. It won’t cost us anything while we’re up there, Ray.’
‘H-happy to p-pay
your w-w-way when you’re g-going home to s-see your old b-boyfriend — with your n-n-new haircut.’
‘I spent half of my life yabbying with him, fishing with him, setting rabbit traps with him! He’s not my boyfriend.’
‘H-h-hooper,’ he said.
‘Jesus Christ, Ray! He’s in a sanatorium down here! He’s crippled! I’m married to you. I sleep with you. And you had no intention of ever going, did you? It’s got nothing to do with money.’
‘D-d-didn’t g-get your h-h-hair cut for m-m-me, did you?’
‘I got it cut for me, for God’s sake. It was driving me mad! For me! And I’m not disappointing those kids, or Granny. We’re going in the morning.’
Excited kids don’t sleep well. They have big ears that hear more than they’re supposed to hear. Kids creep from beds to stand in doorways like three silent little mice. Their eyes ask questions.
‘G-get b-b-back to bed,’ he roared.
Jenny ushered them back to bed, then continued on, through the sleep-out door and down to the washhouse, where she snatched up her cigarettes, lit one and stood blowing smoke at the encroaching night. And one wasn’t enough. She lit a second from the first, sucking in smoke until she was calm enough to speak to him.
‘I want to take you up there, Ray. I want people to see my good-looking husband. I want to go to the New Year’s dance with you.’
‘Y-you couldn’t w-w-wait to g-g-get out of the place.’
‘And I’ll be eternally grateful to you for getting me out of that town. But I miss Granny, and the kids miss her.’ She hated the wheedling tone of her voice, her attempt to reason with one who was not reasonable. ‘It’s just for a few days.’
