Replacement Girl

by Ann Beaglehole

  ‘A fridge?’

  ‘A plumber, an electrician?’

  ‘How many forint did you say there are to the pound?’ asked Dénes, another cousin.

  Everyone stopped talking for a moment to do the mental arithmetic.

  ‘How much a car?’

  ‘How much a gram of butter?’

  ‘And how much costs a briefcase?’ asked Dénes stroking Douglas’s, which was on the floor.

  ‘Tell us, Kati, how you endure the English Sunday?’ asked Ilonka when the subject of the cost of different items was entirely exhausted. Ilonka, through her reading, was knowledgeable about social customs in England and the Colonies.

  ‘Yes, it is difficult,’ my mother explained. ‘There is little to do unless you go to church or play sport.’

  Silence followed this startling information.

  ‘But there are a great variety of churches and sports to choose from,’ my father assured them.

  Everyone laughed. Even Douglas smiled.

  The next topic was the New Zealand climate.

  ‘Here you freeze or fry. In New Zealand we have no extremes,’ said my father. He thought that the running down of New Zealand had gone on long enough.

  ‘Speaking of temperatures, do you realise, Eva, the consequences that neglecting to keep your child’s feet warm could have?’ Dénes’s wife Juci looked with concern at Janet’s bare feet.

  ‘You have to remember that they do things differently in New Zealand.’ My father came to my defence. ‘Not better, not worse, just differently.’

  ‘You are wasting your time telling Eva what is right or wrong. She doesn’t listen. She is English through and through,’ interrupted my mother shaking her head sadly.

  Then everyone bellowed to express their sympathy with my mother for having so English a daughter.

  Douglas, slumped on the couch, looked overwhelmed by the intense heat and the babble of harsh voices. I concentrated on keeping the milk flowing for Janet. Except for the occasional bit of bread, she depended on me for all her nourishment these days, just as she had done as a small baby. Ilonka and Juci were not reticent in coming forward with their views about this state of affairs.

  ‘You are ruining her, Eva,’ warned Juci. ‘All this feeding of a child of this age is good neither for you nor for her.’ Juci outlined a detailed timetable for accomplishing Janet’s speedy weaning.

  As we prepared to leave, Miklos, Ilonka, Dezsö and Dénes were not shy about coming forward and asking outright for the gift items we had omitted to bring. I watched, aghast, as a surprised Douglas was speedily relieved of his briefcase.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind too much?’ I asked, as my mother helped him transfer his conference papers to a paper bag supplied by Miklos. His face was inscrutable, half-hidden by pipe smoke. My father was apologetic; my mother resigned.

  ‘I told you that you should have come prepared,’ she said. ‘Don’t scoff at them. We take for granted so many goods that are in such short supply here.’

  The following day, Douglas agreed to stay in the apartment while Janet slept. He would use the time to prepare for his conference in Frankfurt while I went to look at the apartment where we used to live.

  As soon as I got off the tram, I knew that Buda, like the rest of Budapest, was just a strange place. I walked first around the Castle Hill area, where I used to go walking with my father. Then, without any trouble, I found our apartment building. I felt nothing when I saw it; no memories came. I had read somewhere that if you concentrated hard enough, the memories might come back. The lost images might slowly swim into focus as they do when film is submerged in developing fluid. The idea excited me. I sat down on a bench in the park opposite the apartment building, closed my eyes and waited. Nothing. When I opened them, I remembered a photograph in my parents’ album in which I was sitting on the balcony of our apartment in a bucket of water to cool off in the summer heat. I thought how cramped it was for a child on a balcony like that compared to the quarter-acre section in Wellington that Janet had to play on.

  Before leaving the neighbourhood, I knocked on the door of the ground-floor flat, hoping to find the concierge. The door was opened by a small woman in a grubby apron, with a scarf round her head. From the kitchen came the smell of fried onions, garlic, cabbage and potatoes. I asked her if she knew what had become of Petö and his family. She said she didn’t know. I thanked her and walked away. I crossed the road and returned to the park where Zsuzsi and I had played. The pond into which those big boys had thrown Petö, screaming, looked tiny and had no water in it. I didn’t know what else to do to get information about Petö. All I could do was hope that he and his mother managed eventually to get to America or Australia or Canada, but I doubted it somehow.

  On the way back to Pest, I got off the tram at the wrong stop. It was easy to make a mistake as the buildings, with gaping shell holes like eye sockets, all looked the same. Glancing at my watch, I realised that I was much later than I had planned to be. My breasts ached and milk dripped down my tee-shirt when I thought of Janet, hungry and thirsty, waiting for me. I looked around for someone to approach to ask the way. The passers-by had grim, even hostile, faces.

  ‘Bocsánat,’ I said to a haggard looking woman with glinting eyes. ‘Bocsánat,’ to a sullen man with a lined face.

  All of a sudden, I didn’t want to let on that I spoke Hungarian. I asked for directions in English. The first person I approached, a man, either didn’t understand or didn’t want to help. I ran along the street, first in one direction, then in the other, asking people the way. No one would help me. Finally, someone waved me in the right direction. In the familiar surroundings near the apartment, all of a sudden I remembered my first sight of the ocean. We were in Rotterdam with the Kunz family, admiring the huge liner that would take us to New Zealand. Behind the ship and all around it was an enormous expanse of blue.

  ‘Look, Tomi, look,’ Tomi’s mother had said. But Tomi, who couldn’t swim and was afraid of the ocean, hadn’t wanted to look.

  I ran up the stairs and burst in the door, wanting to tell Douglas about my first memory of the sea. Janet was tearing up bits of paper, and throwing them out the window into the yard where they blew round with the dust and other rubbish. Douglas was engrossed in an article.

  ‘Ready to leave Budapest?’ he asked, dragging his eyes away.

  ‘No. Not yet.’ I don’t know what made me say that, as I was ready in many ways to leave, more than ready.

  ‘I am,’ he said.

  ‘But I’m not.’

  ‘That’s too bad. We’re leaving anyway. Tomorrow.’

  ‘But, I’ve only just started to…’

  ‘I’ve had enough.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Consider me for a change.’

  ‘I’m always considering you…’

  Later that evening, after we had something to eat and Janet was in bed, Douglas said for the first time:

  ‘I’m going to detach myself from this relationship.’

  The chilly words filled me with dread.

  The morning after Douglas left Budapest without me, I lay in bed with eyes shut tight, trying to conjure up images of myself as a child in Budapest. Anything would do, I thought, just one clumsy amateur snapshot. Nothing happened at first. Then, just as I heard Janet waking, a blurry scene flashed before my eyes. There was a lot of white in it. I knew that was snow. When nothing more came, I put Janet into the pushchair and went to meet my parents. We caught the tram to the waste ground. My father said he intended to try digging.

  ‘I want my album of old photos. Is it too much to ask?’

  ‘Tell him he’s crazy, meshugah, Eva,’ my mother said.

  ‘All eyes will be on you from the apartment building. And the police will come, wanting to know what you’re up to,’ my mother said.

  ‘I had hoped for peace in my later years, but I can’t have peace until…’

  ‘It’d be a miracle to find what you buried so
long ago.’

  ‘So many miracles have happened, to be alive is a miracle.’

  ‘Tell him he’s meshugah, Eva.’

  ‘Eva, I lost everything in that terrible war, but as long as the brain works, the memories stay,’ my father said.

  ‘Not mine,’ I said. But they didn’t hear.

  ‘Where’s Douglas today?’ my mother said.

  ‘He’s gone,’ I said. They heard that. On the tram back to Pest, I had to shut my eyes and ears to protect myself from their anxiety, fanning my anxiety, my fear, my panic.

  The next day I told them I was returning to New Zealand too.

  ‘Good. Your place, and Janet’s, is with Douglas,’ my mother said. ‘But I am sad it had to be such a short stay. There are still so many things to see.’

  ‘And there is the digging to do too,’ my father said.

  ‘Your father is only joking,’ my mother said.

  Janet and I flew from Budapest on Malev Airlines. Her poo, loose and yellow like a baby’s, oozed out of her nappies over me and the Malev seats. The air hostess scowled and didn’t appear with the wet cloths and paper nappies I asked her to bring.

  Douglas, just back from Frankfurt, was waiting for us at the airport.

  ‘Enjoy yourself? he asked.

  ‘No.’ I planted a kiss on his forehead. How safe he looked – solid, normal, entirely himself. How right it felt to be together again. It was almost Janet’s second birthday. We’d have a party, a big party in our Karori garden in the weekend. This was where I belonged, here was where I wanted to be, in Wellington, with my husband and child.

  WELLINGTON 1979

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said my father, kissing Janet.

  When we were first married my parents used to try to kiss Douglas too, in spite of his efforts to dodge away, but they didn’t try any longer. I placed kisses on my father’s forehead and my mother’s cheeks.

  ‘At last you are here,’ she said, hugging Janet. ‘The meal is dry, but never mind.’

  We were late because just as we were about to leave, I had said to Douglas, ‘Can you take Janet to cricket tomorrow?’

  ‘No. I’m too busy.’

  ‘I’ll take her then, but I will have to miss my class.’

  ‘’Don’t do that – again. Don’t make me feel guilty. I’ll go.’

  ‘I don’t want you to take her if you’re doing it because you feel guilty.’

  There was quite a long pause before Douglas said, ‘Don’t act like your mother – or worse, treat me like her. I’m not your parents.’

  This sounded like a warning. If only I knew what I was doing wrong. Not knowing how to deal with it, I said, ‘Why won’t you talk properly to me, why aren’t we closer?’

  ‘Not this again, Eva. I’m too tired.’ He put both hands on his forehead, covering his eyes. ‘I’m going to try to detach myself from this relationship.’ Now this again. His voice was full of cold, hard certainty.

  ‘What, what do you mean?’

  Silence.

  ‘Is there someone else?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ He seemed affronted by the question.

  ‘Why then? Why?’

  ‘Because I’m tired, tired of trying.’ His hands were stretched out as though to fend off a barrage of words, though I was silent.

  The occasion of my parents’ dinner was the celebration of my thirtieth birthday. Douglas had prepared himself for it by putting plenty of Balkan Sobranie in his pipe to help him cope with what he called my parents’ sloppy emotions and equally sloppy table manners. As for Kati and Gyuri, I knew they would be turning themselves inside out to please Douglas – and me.

  ‘Douglas, what will you drink?’ Only Douglas was offered alcohol, although I could badly have done with a drink too.

  We watched Douglas gulp his brandy. I could see he was hoping to be offered another, but Janet was jumping up and down on the sofa.

  ‘Stop that at once,’ Douglas said. ‘Act your age. The sofa’s not a trampoline.’

  ‘Leave her, Douglas; it does not worry me. She is only a child once.’

  My mother returned to the kitchen, forgetting to offer Douglas another brandy.

  Douglas lit his pipe.

  It was an age before my mother called, ‘Dinner is ready.’

  The meal consisted of chicken soup with matzo balls (it wasn’t Passover but Janet liked matzo balls), vadas hus, tarhonya, salad for Douglas (my mother had learned by now that New Zealanders like their vegetables raw instead of well cooked as they should be) and chocolate torte from the Continental Cake Shop.

  As soon as Janet had her soup, my father said:

  ‘Start, start; don’t wait; it will get cold.’

  Douglas, sucking on his empty pipe, said firmly, ‘Janet must wait until everyone is served.’

  Janet, big brown eyes opened wide, looked first at her grandfather, then at her father. She started to slurp her soup.

  ‘Wait,’ said Douglas.

  My parents cast sorrowful looks at Janet. Poor girl, so young, so hungry and having to wait. They served out the remainder of the soup at top speed so that at last the poor hungry child could eat.

  ‘Before the war, in Óbuda, before my…’ said my father.

  ‘Elbows,’ said Douglas, looking at Janet.

  My parents removed theirs from the table.

  ‘Before the war, in Óbuda, were my happiest years,’ my father tried again. ‘But we were not spoilt, like this child. I had a poor mother… It was a different world then, when I was a child.’ He sighed.

  Janet’s elbows crept back onto the table.

  ‘I had a poor mother. I never even owned a bicycle. But I was a good son. Look at Janet. She has everything.’

  We gazed round the room littered with the toys my mother had bought to keep Janet amused when she came to visit her grandparents. Her newest purchase, a bicycle with gleaming bell, was leaning against the hall window.

  ‘Oh look,’ said Janet. ‘There’s my old sleeping lion. I used to play with him when I was little.’

  She jumped up from the table and retrieved the toy from the shelf behind the bicycle. Back at the table, she placed the lion on her lap and carefully pulled the cord on its belly. The lion’s mouth opened and out came, ‘I am a friendly lion. I like people.’

  Janet giggled. My mother laughed.

  ‘Don’t, Janet,’ said Douglas.

  ‘Listen to me, Eva, you will get back what you give to your child,’ said my father.

  I wanted to get up and clear away the dishes, but everyone’s plate was still full of soup.

  ‘I am a friendly lion,’ said the lion.

  My father clutched at my arm. ‘The lucky people are those who have good children.’

  My mother was listening intently, peering at me, watching for my reaction to the conversation. I freed my arm.

  ‘Look at your mother. All her life she was a good daughter to Judit.’

  ‘I glow in the dark,’ said the lion.

  ‘Stop it, Janet,’ said Douglas. He would not meet my eyes but just carried on spooning the soup.

  ‘Janet, would you like some more?’ My mother had only swallowed a mouthful or two herself, but was back on her feet.

  ‘I am a friendly lion. I like people.’

  ‘Please don’t give her a second helping, Kati, until you have had your own soup.’ Douglas’s serving was finished, and he sucked steadily on his pipe. ‘She can wait.’

  ‘I want some more now,’ called out Janet.

  ‘Put that lion away,’ said Douglas.

  ‘The darling, she has a good appetite.’

  ‘I am a friendly lion.’

  My father leapt to his feet to serve Janet. He hadn’t caught Douglas’s quiet, mumbled words. Douglas was on his feet too, yanking the lion away from Janet.

  The next course was served.

  ‘Can I have some salad too?’ I asked.

  ‘Eat, eat,’ my parents urged.

  No need; everyone ate e
nthusiastically. The food was delicious. My mother, who had swallowed a bite or two to placate Douglas, was back on her feet. She had noticed that poor Janet’s plate was again empty.

  ‘It is a mystery to me this game…’ said my father. ‘Cricket.’ Janet was still wearing her cricket whites.

  ‘I’ll tell you how to play,’ said Janet. ‘First you find eleven children to put in the team and then you need some wickets and then you…’

  ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Janet,’ said Douglas. Had he noticed that my father was waving his fork around as he talked to his granddaughter?

  Most of the food was gone. My mother was pleased. She could at last relax. Her elbows returned to the table, as she relished the company enjoying the chocolate torte after singing ‘Happy Birthday, dear Eva.’

  Then there were second helpings of torte for everyone. Douglas lit his pipe. He seemed in a better mood, probably because it was getting nearer the time to leave.

  I decided to go for a break to the bathroom. No such luck. My mother came after me for a quiet chat.

  ‘You are looking tired, darling, what’s the matter? A young woman like you!’

  ‘I’m fine really. Just busy – study, Janet, work. Lots to do, you know.’ I was trying, little by little, to edge shut the bathroom door.

  ‘Why do you shut us out? You’ve hardly told us anything about the new job. What’s it like working with the Indo-Chinese refugees? Couldn’t we sometimes have the miracle of a telephone call from you? I do not care for myself; it is for your father’s sake that I ask. If only he had a daughter.’

  ‘Mm,’ I said.

  ‘And are you sure you are fine?’ I have a feeling something is wrong and you are not telling me. I’m your mother you know. You can tell me.’

  I tried again to shut the bathroom door.

  ‘Tell me, Eva, I know this is not a good time to ask, but how is it really between you and Douglas. Are you happy?’

  ‘Yes, this is not a good time to ask. Please let me go to the bathroom. I’m fine; my marriage is fine. I don’t want to discuss it now.’