by Gary Crew
Augustus stepped forward. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘before I introduce myself to your guests, I have something to say. While you obviously relish the naming of names – labelling your employees as one might brand a cow – for me to be referred to as a boy is hardly an insult. I am, after all, just eleven years old. And while your remark, “show us what he’s got”, was intended to demean, since I am a dwarf you could not diminish me further. For all of that, you will not make me into a freak whose body people pay to gape at, or, in your own particular case, to probe and grope. I am an artist, Madam, I sing. And in so doing, I both construct myself and those who hear me. Absalom, please, see that this person is seated. I fear that she is faint.’
Having watched Absalom lower her, trembling (creaking?), to the piano stool, Augustus took his place beneath the plaster-white cherubs and, lifting his head, announced, ‘My name is Augustus Trump. And I sing.’ So he did:
Goodbye, little yellow bird,
I’d rather brave the cold
On a leafless tree, than a prisoner be
In a cage of gold.
Whore though she may be, he sang for her, finally. Properly, too, at a piano; and so Augustus constructed himself: not to become taller, nor broader, nor uniformed in white, nor braided in gold, but wiser, and he was glad.
As a result of Augustus’s singular display of virility (The man in that dwarf, was it? the Madam later wondered, panting, there in that amethyst light, Or his song? Surely …), Miss la Vie experienced something of a romantic lapse, a yearning to indulge, even wallow, in all things relating to melancholia, lost love and what might have been. As a result she grew enamoured of the desire to learn more of the cruel fate of others, and where better to begin than in those cheap, weepy novels so eagerly devoured by her silly girls who really should have known better – as should she. Nevertheless, indulging the spirit of the broken-hearted, Miss la Vie appealed to Rosebud, whose cautious sensibility she much admired (the term ‘frigidity’ being, as yet, avant la lettre).
‘Rosebud,’ she said, ‘on your next visit to Cribb and Foote, those self-proclaimed universal providers who own that emporium in Brisbane Street, I was wondering if you could purchase me a novel.’
‘By what title?’ Rosebud wisely asked.
‘A romance. A love story, if you don’t mind.’
‘It’s not for yourself then?’ the droll Rosebud inquired.
‘It’s to have by me,’ Miss la Vie sighed, ‘should I find the need,’ and in an attempt at the enigmatic she cast a lingering look towards her casements and the drooping mangos beyond. Had she seen him there, that Lilliputian lover? Nay, heard him? Ah …
But Cribb and Foote sold no love stories, Ipswich not being famous for romance, and, eager to please, the innovative Rosebud paused to borrow one from the West Moreton School of Arts Travelling Library, whose horsedrawn wagon she had fortuitously spotted tethered to a lamppost outside a tearoom in Brisbane Street.
Which is where Barkus Hardacre first laid eyes on her.
English, mousy, twenty-nine, a lean five foot ten, given to wearing circular spectacles with tortoiseshell frames – an affectation, his eyesight being perfect – Barkus was unmarried. As a librarian, he saw many women who were eligible, and dreamed of their being his, but none was good enough. Having attained perfection in what mattered – sobriety of dress, cleanliness, hygiene, an ordered mind, an impeccable catalogue – Barkus expected a similar perfection in the woman he selected as his wife. So when nineteen-year-old Rosa Colleano tapped him on the shoulder, he was immediately aroused.
Wearing that pink-and-white spotted frock with a belt of the same material and white stockings (the straightness of her seams an orthopaedic triumph), matched with a pair of white leather brogues, Rosa presented as the epitome of style. And having intended to buy a book, she had, for the first time, plaited her auburn hair, pinning the thick braids on top of her head to frame her face in a halo of bronze – as she had seen librarians do when she borrowed books on King Tut, and poetry, which he liked, for Augustus. Librarians always look smart, she thought, though rarely attractive.
‘May I be of assistance?’ Barkus asked, a trifle too eagerly.
‘I am companion to a widow of some means,’ Rosa informed him. ‘I am looking for a novel to read to her. A romance, perhaps.’
Barkus’s heart beat faster. ‘I was just closing up,’ he explained, indicating the half-raised running board on his horsedrawn wagon. ‘It’s almost five and I must have the Travelling Library back at Central by five-thirty. But how can I refuse a widow’s need?’ And lowering the step, he offered his hand.
Rosa Colleano was no fool. Not only had she learned a great deal about men from her brothers, her employment at Miss la Vie’s had added to her experience of that weaker sex.
‘Ah,’ she sighed when Barkus offered, ‘you have such strong fingers,’ a comment that caused the librarian to blush to the roots of his brilliantined hair and possibly, as was Rosa’s intention, encouraged him to latch the wagon door behind her. ‘You would be surprised,’ he said, reaching up to B for Bronte, ‘at the energy expended in filing catalogue cards. No doubt that is the reason for the strength of my digits,’ and handing her Jane Eyre, he considered how nimbly he might untie her brogues.
‘It’s close in here,’ the canny Rosa observed, deftly re-opening the door. ‘Now tell me a little about this Jane Eyre. Is she an interesting person?’
‘She’s an orphan,’ Barkus mumbled, the wind knocked out of his sails, ‘then becomes a school mistress, then …’
‘I’ve heard enough,’ Rosa declared. ‘My mistress is a woman of the world. Don’t you have anything more romantic?’
Barkus dithered. ‘Had I known,’ he said, ‘I would have recommended East Lynne, a novel which has proved very popular with those in search of love. And,’ he added, glancing back, ‘those who seek to escape.’
‘Really?’ Rosa beamed.
Encouraged, the wretched Barkus provided a synopsis, neglecting none of Lady Carlyle’s anguish following her doomed elopement with Sir Francis Levison (the cad), and consequent loss of husband, children, wealth, home, retainers, all … At which Barkus almost wept, and might have, had not Rosa reached up to touch his cheek with the tip of her handkerchief.
‘East Lynne,’ he moaned, ‘touches my very core …’
‘Quite,’ Rosa remarked, not wanting to excite him too much. ‘But having heard your glowing review, I’m certain that my employer will agree. Could you stamp the card for me please?’
‘With pleasure,’ Barkus declared, his prospects renewed. ‘You have one week to return it. To myself, I trust.’
The ill-advised elopement of East Lynne’s remorseful heroine did nothing to dampen Rosa’s desire to quit her demeaning employment in Miss la Vie’s house. Lady Carlyle’s romantic fling, doomed as it was, may in fact have been further encouragement for the girl to seduce the excitable Barkus Hardacre in order to gain a similar outcome – without remorse, naturally, Rosa having no time for such indulgence. It could be said therefore that from the moment Rosa returned the novel to Barkus outside that very same tearoom in Brisbane Street, neither luck, chance, nor fortune’s wheel had any more to do with her future; every step being planned, every flirtation schemed, every dropped handkerchief perfectly placed in her determination to be free.
‘I simply can’t tell you what this book meant to my employer,’ she gushed as she handed the novel over. ‘Madam cried and cried. Quite wore herself out with tears, she did.’
‘I am so glad,’ Barkus responded, then realising his gaffe, he corrected, ‘that she enjoyed it, I mean. Not that she was reduced to tears. I do beg your pardon.’
‘Tush,’ Rosa giggled, a girly antic she found very difficult to accomplish. ‘Please don’t apologise. I found myself likewise affected. The novel is very moving, demonstrating the awful risk a young woman takes when she surrenders her heart. Tell me, is it likely that young men are so stricken?’
‘I k
now so few young men,’ Barkus hastened to inform her (being eager to let her know that not all male librarians, himself particularly, were of the Wildean persuasion). Glancing down at his virile fingers, he added, ‘But I would say that a few of us are so affected, yes. Those who are sensitive, you understand.’
‘Oh,’ Rosa simpered, ‘don’t tell me that some wicked woman has broken your heart already?’
‘Several have passed my way,’ he smiled, knowingly.
‘Really?’ Not wanting to appear too eager, Rosa surveyed the shelves. ‘So,’ she cast carelessly over her shoulder, ‘there have been many women in your life?’
Inept though he was, Barkus now realised that he had laid it on too thick. To agree positioned him as a Don Juan; to deny would undercut his amorous boasts, making him nothing more than a boor. So he chose the romantic option. ‘I am bound to confess,’ he said with a shake of the head, ‘my lovers exist only in the pages of novels and the little wisdom that I have, in matters of the heart, you understand, is book-learnt entirely.’ And plucking up the courage to meet her eyes, he said, ‘I am, you see, in need of an experienced teacher. A real lover. In the flesh.’
‘Flower of the House’ she might have been, but Rosa Colleano had always longed to escape Miss la Vie’s employ. How she hated the men. How she hated the lies they told their wives. How she hated her own tacit complicity in such lies. How she hated their need for sex, being incapable of negotiating even that most basic animal act without resorting to payment. How she hated herself for accepting that payment. How she hated the sex itself: the crude beginnings, the sordid exposure of flesh, the repugnance of the kiss, the mechanical duration (the grunting), the unseemliness of the conclusion – ‘You seen me braces? Me socks?’
Yes, the sex paid for food. Yes, the sex paid for clothes. Yes, the sex put a roof over her head and yes, while she had otherwise let Augustus down, the sex spared the boy the hardships of the road; yet the house was still a brothel and she longed to escape.
But how to accomplish this? Rosa was a circus waif; literate, although otherwise vocationally ignorant, unemployable, except for the most menial, the most demeaning: cleaning bins, flushing urinals, emptying bed pans – until Barkus Hardacre, the librarian. So opportunely attempted to seduce her. And what a long seduction Rosa allowed him …
Got him! Rosa rejoiced, And all the better that he has a horse and wagon … and, inclining her pretty head, she said, ‘Sir, you are forward. We are not yet introduced.’
‘I do beg your pardon,’ Barkus gushed. ‘I have your name from the library card you completed last week. I am Barkus Hardacre, a single gentleman, and manager of the Moreton Shire Travelling Library that we stand in. I do apologise,’ and he made an attempt at a bow.
Interesting, thought Rosa, her prospects so suddenly expanded. ‘The Moreton Shire, you say? That is impressive. And extensive too, I suppose?’ – the later question carried the greater weight for one on the cusp of escape.
‘Oh, very extensive,’ the smitten fool agreed. ‘Covering hundreds of square miles. The inexperienced could easily get lost.’
Even better, she thought. ‘And you live in this wagon?’ she wondered aloud, glancing beyond the shelves and catalogues to assess the interior.
‘It is most commodious,’ he boasted. ‘The sides open out, you see, to allow me to display the books if there is a need. And there are sleeping quarters, should I travel. Which I do, of course. I am only in the city temporarily. Assisting the librarians with staffing problems.’
‘I am impressed,’ Rosa admitted. ‘And you manage all this alone?’
‘Not by choice …’
Rosa hesitated, then committed. ‘Barkus …’ she said, and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand.
‘Miss Rosa,’ he said, catching her fingers in his. ‘I have already apologised to you for my apparent rudeness. I apologise again. I tend to run on when it comes to matters of the heart. I confess to being an incurable romantic.’ He pressed her fingers to his lips, ever so gently so as not to bruise. She did not resist, all the while thinking, I can manage this clown. I have put up with worse, and with much less hope of reward.
‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘if I were to close for half an hour, if would you have tea with me? There are some very pleasant tearooms at hand. Would you?’
‘Please …’ she sighed, allowing him to lead.
Some weeks later, on a dozy Saturday afternoon, Rosa came down to the shed, calling Augustus’s name. Since Rosa supplied him with books on all things Egyptian that she borrowed from a travelling library – mystery of mysteries – the boy was lying on his bunk reading, a skill he had taught himself, his language skills being precocious.
‘Yes, Rosa?’ he answered.
The girl stood in the doorway, her hair dishevelled, her eyes teary. Augustus had never seen her like this.
‘You have to come up to the house,’ she said. ‘Something has happened,’ and though he hurried after her, up the side, by the battens, she would say no more.
When they reached the front yard he saw a black, plumed horse pawing the road and a black coach drawn up beneath the jacarandas. A hearse, he knew.
‘Who is dead?’ he demanded. ‘Is it Stan? Is it? Down pit? Down pit without a bird? I told him. I told him,’ but tears or no tears Rosa was Rosa, and grabbing his wrist she yanked him up the front stairs.
‘No, it’s not Stan,’ she spat. ‘Now stop your mewling or I’ll clip you. This is a funeral so act your age.’
‘But who is dead?’ he wanted to know, squirming. ‘Who?’
Immediately he reached the front door, he knew. At the end of the hall, in the Crimson Parlour, was the Butterfly, laid out upon a cloth of blue.
‘They found her down the old Sunset Mine,’ Rosa whispered, shoving him. ‘Threw herself down, she did. Same shaft where that Bossy Watts died. Miss la Vie’s man.’
Appreciating this fatal logic, Augustus entered the parlour, saying not a word.
The girls had assembled, weeping; Absalom in blue taffeta to suit; but there was no sign of the Madam, and no Mary Smokes.
Augustus moved to the corpse. Whoever presented the corpse had done so with sensitivity. The dark glasses were nowhere to be seen (lost down the mine perhaps?), the blind eyes closed she appeared to sleep, her head on a blue cushion, a blue cloth draped over and about to hang down beside. (Her wings?) Something caught his eye: she lay on the work bench he had seen under the house. There had to be another table to put her on, he thought. And who would have the strength to carry that workbench upstairs? And why? He saw Stan hiding behind the girls, head down, looking sheepish beside Red Hannah. They know something, he decided. And have acted.
Absalom led him away, behind the piano. ‘My father being a pastor,’ he explained, ‘I have already said a few words. Although I was wondering, before she is taken, would you sing?’
‘Of course,’ Augustus agreed, ‘but where is Miss la Vie?’
‘Gone,’ came the reply. ‘Shot through. The Blue Butterfly left a note for me to read to the house. She done herself in, hey, down a mineshaft. Reckoned her and that Bossy Watts were lovers. Reckoned they kept it secret. All in the note, it was – her confession, like – but when the Madam heard, she up and left. Down the hallway and out. No tears, no abuse. Not a word. Gone, just like that. And still done up in that pink dress. With nothing …’
‘Say no more,’ Augustus whispered, and having invited Red Hannah to whoosh him onto the piano stool, he planted his feet to sing:
Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment,
Chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie.
So pure was his voice, so true, clouds of purple blooms stirred among the jacarandas, drifting up the front stairs, across the verandah, that liminal space, to float the length of the hallway and enter the Crimson Parlour, arcing upwards to circle the plaster cherubs upon the ceiling, and having circled, what had begun as blooms were changed; a thousand blue-green butterflies, all taffeta-winged,
swooped down, then spiralled up, shunning those fleshy curtains to discover the French Doors and vanish into the blue. All invisible but to Absalom alone, who saw – who knew – and none other, not even Augustus himself.
I am changed, Absalom groaned. I am changed by song. By poetry … though he said nothing, choosing to wait.
The next day two hawkers – men, were they, or trousered women? – appeared at the door, their suits drab-black as a pastor’s.
‘We have had the funeral,’ Absalom informed them. ‘The Butterfly was buried yesterday.’
‘Oh, no,’ one chuckled–an especially hairy brute reeking of booze. ‘We are sales persons. Would you be interested in some tea towels?’
Absalom was surprised. Hawkers in morning suits, and fresh from the pub? Selling tea towels? Irish linen at that. Sensing a con, he took a better look.
The second was hairy too, though more aromatic. Smelling, oddly enough, of eau de cologne.
‘I think not,’ Absalom decided. ‘The ladies here prefer gin to tea. But thank you all the same,’ yet as he stepped back to shut the door, he caught sight of a shamrock embroidered in a corner of the linen and a distant memory flooded over him.
‘Never!’ he roared. ‘Not the Pot Luck Café!’ and in a moment was wrapped, weeping, in the bear-like embrace of Hairy Moira, French Betty having dropped the merchandise down the stairs.
What stories were told, through the day and the night (tricksters, as they were), and next morning, amid love and laughter, all three set out in that yellow-and-blue caravan with a red roof and green shutters and golden scrolls and finials and a pair of white wooden doves, their beaks touching in a kiss, above the indigo door.
Augustus read of the early death of Tutankhamen and marvelled that a dynasty could crumble so fast, but the fall of Miss la Vie’s whorehouse proved faster.
When the Madam vanished (who knew where?), Red Hannah took over, but smart as she was, she was not tough enough to manage the place and quit, giving up the life to take work in the railway workshops, a place where she was often seen lifting sleepers and lengths of track and, from time to time, according to rumour, certain of the smaller locomotives.
