‘And how was that?’
‘Oh dear, you know the sort of thing. She would hang over the front fence to talk to the neighbour, for example, without an iota of shame.’ She shudders a little. ‘You can no doubt appreciate why I wished to move on.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I accepted that position as lady’s companion. In your father’s family.’
‘And then you met the young man himself,’ Ruby offers, like the happy ending of a fairytale.
‘Indeed,’ says Mother, dourly. ‘Of course, the neighbours warned me.’
‘A good thing, on balance, that you ignored that warning.’
Mother gazes fatalistically at the approaching lock. ‘I’ve made my bed. And I’ve learned to lie in it.’
As you will see, there are four steel gates into the lock chamber. There are four butterfly valves upstream, which are opened to fill the chamber, and then the water flows in through two tunnels.
‘Your father would appreciate that information,’ says Mother, and they do not speak of him again for the remainder of the holiday.
The following morning, on the recommendation of the lovely young woman at reception, they visit the Art Gallery, housed in a gracious villa with inlaid Italian tiles in the front passageway, and the most exquisite stained-glass windows from England. Even Mother is full of admiration, though Ruby suspects she would have preferred the villa with no art inside. She parks herself before an unthreatening Hans Heysen landscape, venturing no further, but Ruby moves through the rooms in a state of rapture, gazing shamelessly at the human form: the soulful, lovely face of Anna Pavlova; a Degas pastel of a woman’s generous rump; a group of naked, muscular Anzacs, cavorting at sea like gods. They call to her, somehow; they clamour at her with their bodiliness. She would like to be holding someone’s hand.
On such occasions, she wonders if Bill ever thinks of her too.
Only last week, Florence had mentioned that he and Mavis were expecting another child.
‘Surely not!’ Ruby had exclaimed.
‘By all accounts they’re thriving,’ Florence responded, with the faintest note of reprimand, and Ruby had hastened to supply the appropriate noises.
Had she imagined he would not continue with his life, seven years after their last meeting?
But this notion that he could, and so readily.
After lunch, it is a relief to be installed in the hotel’s rose garden, with the known quantity of a tea cup in her hand.
‘And when I think of the way she acted towards Mr Hamester,’ says Mother.
‘Who?’
‘Mother,’ says Mother, as if there had been no gap in the conversation since yesterday morning.
‘But who in heaven’s name was Mr Hamester?’ All week, Ruby feels she has been lagging behind her mother’s revelations.
‘A most desirable swain. The manager of the Eudunda Farmers. Whenever he came to spend the weekend, his horse and trap were always loaded to the hilt. But your grandmother was not remotely accommodating. One morning there was no butter in the pantry for his breakfast, but she wasn’t the least bit concerned. Didn’t turn a hair.’
Ruby draws Mother’s attention to the peace rose: the way its delicate yellow yields to a sunset peach.
‘We must count our blessings,’ Mother agrees. ‘It was a great relief to me that you, at least, found so suitable a husband.’
‘That I did,’ says Ruby.
Every evening before dinner, Ruby changes into one of her smart modern shifts, and Mother replaces her everyday petticoat with her best petticoat, and the two of them descend the staircase together. It is Ruby’s favourite moment of the day: the approach to the Chandelier Dining Room, towards the low murmur of the other guests and the aroma of pea soup and roast lamb. Always lead with your legs, Mrs Shmith had advised, and you will surely glide into a room. And every evening, as she glides into the room, Ruby collects a swag of admiring glances; but soon enough she finds herself sitting at the same table by the wall, watching Mother browse the à la carte menu, and then waiting for the soup to arrive. All of which is entirely pleasant, but does not quite add up to that feeling of promise, of a proximate other world.
On their final night in Mildura, after the remaining guests have retired to the drawing room for cards, the ladies linger over their wine trifles. Ruby notices Mother glancing at the piano in the corner – a white upright, shiny as a thoroughbred – and on a whim, suggests she might like to play something.
‘Dear girl, I couldn’t possibly.’
‘It really would be a great treat for me.’
To her surprise, Mother shyly stands and takes a seat on the piano stool. And then there is that old, familiar transformation. When they were girls, Ruby and Daisy would sometimes steal into the parlour to watch Mother play. Seated at the piano, she bore no resemblance to the mother they knew by day – who fiercely stalked flies around the kitchen with the swat, insisting that children remained in or out, so that if you elected to play outside it became a binding day-long contract and you dared not open the screen door until dinner for fear of vexing her by letting in a fly. Then, as now, her rigorous hands revealed a surprising eloquence; her face, with its frown lines released, became the face of a younger, more hopeful stranger. Where did she go, at such moments? Which life was she living?
The waiter stops cleaning to applaud. ‘Mozart?’ he ventures.
Mother looks dismayed, as if she has waylaid part of herself.
‘Schubert. Come along then, Ruby.’
Back in their room, after they have set aside their clothes for the trip homeward, and tucked themselves up in their beds, Ruby asks whatever became of Mr Hamester.
‘He made a request that could not be countenanced,’ Mother replies. Her voice is even more gravelly than usual, perhaps because she is lying down.
‘You don’t mean to say …?’
‘Heavens no, he was entirely honourable in that way.’
She is silent for a very long while, but Ruby can tell from the sound of her breath that she is not yet asleep.
‘It would seem the same could not be said for his sister,’ she says finally. ‘And Mr Hamester had this notion that he and I could, you might say, cover it up.’
‘Goodness. A devoted brother, then.’
‘Of course I couldn’t even consider it. What would people think?’
She understands her mother’s position, but it is a great sadness, really. That so much should have been sacrificed.
‘Do you ever wonder what became of him?’
‘I’m sure that’s none of my business.’
Ruby has the strangest thought: that it would be a tremendous relief to say something about Bill. But what on earth would she say? That there was a moment, once, in which they had exchanged a look?
‘The path not taken,’ she suggests instead.
‘It was not a true path for all that.’
‘All turned out for the better then.’
‘Bygones must be bygones. At the very least.’
From the passageway, Ruby can hear the voices of other guests returning to their rooms. Beginner’s luck, that was. Next time I’m dealing. A man laughs and a woman shrieks – Stop that, you scoundrel! – and then a door is pulled shut.
The two of them lie silently on their twin beds. Finally Mother begins to snore.
4
Mr Yang returns from his annual holiday to Hong Kong with an immaculately tailored suit for himself, and a turquoise silk cheongsam for Ruby.
‘Very nice indeed,’ he says admiringly, when she models it. ‘Fits you like a glove.’
‘But how are you expected to do anything?’ asks Eva. ‘I’d prefer the suit.’
‘Beauty is the wisdom of woman,’ asserts Mr Yang, in his well-spoken way, and for once Eva has no smart-alecky rejoinder.
Ruby just has to marvel at the man. Now that he has started his surgical training, he has become in every way the Australian gentleman, and is such a keen student o
f table manners that Ruby could happily take him to Buckingham Palace – which is more than she could say about Granny Jenkins, forever talking with her mouth full, or using her fork as a scoop, shovelling peas onto the wrong side of the tines.
He produces a photograph of his fiancée, a Taiwanese actress. Really quite famous, he says shyly.
Looking at the photo, Ruby feels a small rush of aesthetic pleasure. She is actually moved by the woman’s beauty: by her symmetrical swooping brows, her petulant rosebud mouth. Even Eva expresses a grudging admiration, and Ruby hopes it might inspire her towards higher standards of personal grooming. Understandably, Mr Yang has cooled on the girl’s hair, which is not washed as frequently as it ought to be, but he is more than happy for her to borrow his copy of Grey’s Anatomy. Eva pores over it with an avidity that strikes Ruby as unladylike.
At the beginning of her intermediate year, Eva makes the extraordinary announcement that she wishes to be a doctor.
‘Very respectable career,’ says Mr Yang.
‘It may be that Pharmacy is more appropriate for a woman,’ suggests Arthur. ‘More suitable to the demands of raising a family. That is, if you really have an interest in ailments and so forth.’
‘I’ve no shortage of ailments if you like that sort of thing,’ offers Granny. ‘I’ll show you rashes that will make your hair stand on end. But who in heaven’s name would ever want to go to a lady doctor?’
Ruby is confounded by Eva’s announcement, but Granny’s words force her into a position. ‘A doctor for a daughter, fancy that! Wouldn’t that be something, Arthur?’
He finishes his mouthful and nods thoughtfully. ‘We will of course support you in any profession you choose to pursue, my dear.’
Although the study of Chemistry is unprecedented at the Anglican Ladies’ College, the headmistress generously assigns Miss Pickering, the senior Domestic Science mistress, to tutor Eva. And all seems to be going swimmingly, with Eva receiving an unbroken succession of A’s, until the Intermediate public examination.
‘The first question was about atomic number,’ Eva rages over dinner. ‘What the heck is atomic number?’
‘Language, please,’ chides Arthur. ‘Your grandmother is at the table.’
Granny harrumphs, fanning herself with her napkin.
‘Miss Pickering never mentioned a thing about atomic number. Stupid old fossil.’
Charlie hoots with laughter, almost falling off his chair.
‘I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that,’ Ruby says.
‘I’ll never get into Medicine with that dunce of a teacher.’
Ruby is struck by how very plain her daughter looks, with that frowning face and that great mass of unwashed hair.
‘Try not to be cross, dear. Rage spoils the complexion.’
The girl turns to her with a look of incomprehension verging on wonder.
‘Mum, I don’t give two hoots about my complexion. I just want to be a doctor.’
When the results of the state-wide examination are released, and Eva receives a C for Chemistry, it is clear that some sort of action is required. And so, with a sinking heart, Ruby makes an appointment to see Miss Pickering at the school; regrettably, Eva insists on coming too.
It is always such a pleasure to step into the college grounds, with those velveteen lawns and immaculate tennis courts, and that elegant new chapel – a tribute to good taste as much as faith. Why could Eva not simply go along with all of this? Why did she always have to make things more complicated?
Miss Pickering receives them in the staff room with a silver tea service. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Jenkins,’ she says, with a fetching frown. She has always struck Ruby as a woman of great cultivation, if a trifle on the mature side. ‘I fear I let dear Eva down. I must accept full responsibility for not having read the syllabus correctly.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ says Ruby, who is prepared to leave it at that. She does not serve Earl Grey at home, as bergamot disagrees with Arthur, but it is certainly a pleasure to be sitting on this chintz sofa, enjoying the tea’s delicate taste.
However, Eva is not so readily soothed. ‘Miss Pickering, do you even know what an atomic number is?’
‘One does not look to a ladies’ college for this sort of technical information,’ Ruby reassures the teacher.
‘I can certainly do my best to find out for you.’
‘That would be a great kindness. My husband and I have frequently remarked upon the level of personal care at the college.’
‘But Mum,’ Eva says quietly. ‘This is my future.’
Miss Pickering appears not to have heard Eva’s words, and leans forward to refill Ruby’s cup. Through the window, Ruby can hear the orderly plonk of a tennis ball, like a polite conversation. It would be the easiest thing to pretend she didn’t hear Eva either, and to remark amiably upon the early arrival of summer. But to her dismay, she has realised that her daughter cannot remain at the Ladies’ College. She places the tea cup back on its saucer; its floral aroma disperses into the air. They will have to enrol her at the local public school, where she will miss out on countless refinements, but will at least enjoy the educational opportunities afforded to a young man. It is the last thing she would ever have wished for, and she knows Arthur will take some convincing, but as Miss Pickering continues to simper at them, blinking too rapidly, it is abundantly clear that they have no choice.
On the way home, Ruby urges Eva to tell anyone who asks that she is interested in Dentistry rather than Medicine, lest people think she is getting above her station.
Arthur takes the news better than Ruby might have expected – A credit to the girl that she shows such commitment – and it is certainly a feather in the headmaster’s cap that he has captured a girl from the Ladies’ College. But it does cause Ruby a pang to see Eva in that public school uniform, with its brash primary colours, and no gloves to boot. And she cannot help but worry about the more permissive standards of a co-educational institution, particularly when the girl is handful enough already.
In June, Ruby takes Mother on their now-annual holiday to Mildura. As usual, they are treated like royalty, returning home thoroughly replenished and ready to take on whatever is lying in wait. But no sooner have they pulled into the carport than Granny ejects herself from the fly-screen door – popping out like toast, as Eva describes this manoeuvre, usually performed upon Arthur’s return from work – and is hobbling over the cobblestones with a look of such urgent purpose that Ruby alights from the car even before Mother has had time to undo her seatbelt.
‘Good heavens, Granny, whatever is the matter?’
The old woman’s face is beetroot red, scrunched up in furious triumph.
‘He’s gone and got you a new refrigerator. He wanted it to be a surprise – see!’
Behind her, framed in the doorway, are the disappointed faces of Arthur, Daisy and the children. Sure enough, Arthur – advised by a coalition of Eva and Daisy – has purchased a brand-new refrigerator for Ruby’s birthday, with two doors and its very own freezer compartment, in a modern shade of avocado. It is wrapped in a giant maroon bow, which complements the avocado beautifully – she recognises Daisy’s eye immediately – really, there has never been a gesture like it.
‘What a gorgeous surprise!’
‘At least until Granny opened her big fat mouth,’ says Eva. ‘I wish she’d just bugger off.’
The sentiment is not unknown to Ruby, but Eva’s language causes her an almost physical pain. Naturally, Arthur orders the girl to wash her mouth out with soap, but this does not get to the root of the problem. It is simply bewildering: Eva’s repudiation of the feminine graces. And this new public school hardly seems to be helping, with Eva bringing home all manner of modern reading matter. If she is not studying Grey’s Anatomy, she is enraptured by something called The Feminine Mystique.
‘Who knows what women can be when they are finally free to become themselves?’ she asks over dinner, with a rhetorical flouri
sh.
‘No one here has the faintest idea what you’re carrying on about,’ says Granny. ‘Wiffle-waffle, wiffle-waffle, wiffle-waffle.’
‘That’s right, Granny,’ Eva says resonantly. ‘It’s the problem that has no name.’
‘My advice is get your nose out of books. Stack ’em on top of your head and stop your growing.’
It is true that Eva has become alarmingly tall. Arthur insists that she is on course to become a ‘statuesque beauty’, though even he expresses some misgivings about her ‘lack of womanly contour’. Certainly she has not yet developed along the horizontal axis as much as the vertical, and Charlie too is a little on the scrawny side, but what is Ruby expected to do? She forces each of them to drink a large glass of milk after school every day; when this has no effect, she supplants it with Tiger’s Milk – a wonder drink recommended by Daisy, who claims it cured her of gout and would work for anything – comprising molasses, brewer’s yeast and wheatgerm. But Charlie remains diminutive and Eva gangly, soon erupting in the most spectacular acne: proof, somehow, of her extreme nature. In a word, she has become ungainly, and Ruby is troubled by her lack of poise. She would benefit enormously from someone like Mrs Bambi Shmith, if only such a person could be found in Adelaide, but Ruby dares not make the suggestion.
When it is time for Eva to find part-time employment, she cannot be persuaded into anything as sensible as babysitting, but instead takes a job stacking boxes at the local wine shop. Then, as soon as she discovers the boys are being paid more than her, she resigns in protest.
‘It’s not fair,’ she says, with genuine aggrievement. ‘Why do they get more?’
It is as if she has asked her mother why the sun rises in the east.
‘Why, darling, it’s because they’re boys!’
Arthur reassures Ruby that this is just a phase, but over the following months the girl only becomes more self-righteous. When Charlie helps himself to the largest slice of sponge – he is, after all, a growing boy, or so Ruby hopes – he is accused of male chauvinism. Poor Mr Yang is called upon to denounce foot-binding. And then dear old Joe – who has been their faithful fruiterer for the good part of a decade, responsible for the family’s introduction to broccoli – receives a dressing-down for telling Ruby to have a good weekend, sweetheart.
Melting Moments Page 8
