Thorn on the Rose

by Joy Dettman

  ‘Thank G . . . you!’ Bundling Jimmy into Jim’s arm, Jenny ran down to take the laundry basket, the napkins already folded. ‘Thank you so much for your thoughtfulness, Mrs Norris. I thought . . . thought they’d been stolen. Thank you.’

  ‘In these times we never know who might be about at night, dear.’ Her private door half closed then suddenly opened again. Maybe she wanted her basket back. Jenny scooped the washing into her arms and offered the basket.

  The woman took it, picked up a fallen napkin and placed it on the pile. ‘I have been wondering,’ she said, ‘if perhaps you two young things might like a night out . . . alone? If you would feel secure in entrusting your little boy to my care.’

  Would they like a night out alone? Jenny looked up at Jim. He looked down at her, then like the Macdonald twins, they replied as one.

  ‘We’d really appreciate that, Mrs Norris.’

  THE CLUB

  Friday night was their last night together. Nobby and Rosemary were going to a city club to meet up with a few blokes from their unit. They’d go with them. Mrs Collins in the room next door assured them that if Jimmy woke, she’d hear him. The landlady’s private door would remain open.

  ‘I’ll hear him if he makes so much as a murmur, dear,’ she said when Jenny gave her a bottle of milk, just in case, and three napkins, just in case.

  ‘He shouldn’t move, Mrs Norris. Thank you so much.’

  They got away just before eight, Jenny wearing her green linen, her black high heels and the pearl-in-a-cage earrings. Her eyebrows required no darkening, her lashes no lengthening. She’d been a beautiful child; she’d grown into a beautiful woman. And tonight, walking away from the house holding Jim’s hand, she felt beautiful. She didn’t care where she was going, just that she was all dressed up, and was going out to dance with the best man in the entire world.

  Rosemary and Nobby had walked ahead to the corner, hoping to hail a taxi. By the time Jim and Jenny caught up they’d decided to give up hoping and take the train.

  It was nice walking out with another couple, feeling like part of the world again. Nice waiting with the crowd, catching the train, riding in a taxi when they got to the city.

  It dropped them at the entrance to the club on the outskirts of the city. It didn’t look fancy, but it was popular. There was a crowd inside — and four blokes from the boys’ unit waiting there to insult them — and flirt with their girls.

  Rosemary drank lemon squash. Jenny did likewise. Two country girls, they sat side by side, their backs to the wall, both out of their element. Everyone was smoking. Rosemary lit a cigarette so Jenny lit one.

  There was a small dance floor down the far end, and beside it a little grey-headed chap playing a piano. A few couples were dancing. Paddy wanted to dance and he didn’t have a girl. Jenny danced with him, then she had to have a dance with Davo. His own girl refused to dance with him. Jenny found out why; he thought he could jitterbug.

  Artie and Mavis could. Mavis, who drank gin squash, was wearing a full skirt and showed the tops of her stockings when she twirled.

  Noisy, smoky, loud, and that’s about all Jenny had to say for her night out in Sydney. By eleven she was yawning for fresh air and her bed, and maybe the old chap on the piano wanted his own bed. He started playing the old tunes.

  ‘You sang that at someone’s funeral,’ Jim said.

  ‘She sings too?’ Paddy said. He’d been asking all night what a good-looking sheila like her saw in a lop-eared coot like Hoop. That’s what they called him. They all had nicknames, Bull and Nobby, Paddy, Davo and Hoop. It was so good to see Jim as one of the pack. He’d never been part of any pack.

  ‘She came third in a radio talent quest,’ Jim said.

  ‘Years ago,’ Jenny yawned.

  ‘How old are you, Jen?’ Rosemary asked.

  ‘Old enough to have a ten-month-old baby who will be awake at six.’

  ‘She’s still got the prize money,’ Jim said, ignoring her hint, taking her bag and helping himself to her envelope. Willama Radio Talent Quest. Third prize awarded to Miss Jennifer Morrison.

  ‘On your feet,’ Paddy said. She protested and clung to Jim’s arm but he wouldn’t save her. He wanted her to sing. Paddy and Nobby marched her to the piano player and told the old chap to play ‘Danny Boy’.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Take no notice of them.’

  ‘She won a talent quest,’ Paddy said. ‘We want to hear her.’

  ‘Do you want to sing, dear?’ the elfin man asked.

  ‘I haven’t in years.’

  ‘Years and years,’ Paddy said. ‘Look at her. She’s so damn old.’

  The little pianist struck a note. ‘How’s the key for you?’ he said.

  She didn’t know much about keys, and she didn’t want to make a fool of herself. This wasn’t Woody Creek or Willama. This was a Sydney club and she wasn’t good enough to sing at a Sydney club.

  But Jim thought she was, and his mates thought she was Jim’s missus, and tonight in that dress and high heels she felt almost good enough. And tomorrow she’d have to start the long crawl back into her cage, so why not sing tonight?

  She moved nearer to the pianist and gave him a note. ‘I sing it down there somewhere,’ she said.

  He hit the right note, played the introduction, she cleared her throat. Not a yawn left in her now. Not a note either. She placed her handbag on the piano. He repeated the introduction and she sang, but quietly.

  ‘Shut up,’ Paddy yelled. ‘We can’t hear her.’

  She upped the volume, as she had on the night of the ball. And the laughter quietened as eyes turned to see who was up there singing.

  She sang it through, but the old chap kept playing, so she repeated the second verse.

  Clapping then, whistling too — and, ‘Can you do Vera Lynn’s “We’ll Meet Again”?’ And, ‘Do you know “The White Cliffs of Dover”?’

  The old chap started playing, so she sang ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’, confusing a few of the words but no one complained. She sang ‘We’ll Meet Again’. And after that, she couldn’t get away. For half an hour she couldn’t get away, not until a swarm of Yanks came in, and while one took over the piano two attempted to take over Jenny.

  Bull hadn’t been named Bull for no good reason. He was almost as tall as Jim and twice as broad in the chest and shoulders. A Yank kid landed on his bum and slid across the dance floor.

  Jim got Jenny out to the street, Nobby and Rosemary behind them. Paddy, Bull and Artie remained behind to handle the Yanks; they may have been fighting side by side in the war, but that didn’t mean they had to like them.

  Nobby walked around the corner, looking for a taxi. Jenny, Rosemary and Jim were waiting at the kerb when the pianist came out to the street.

  ‘I hoped I’d catch you, dear.’

  She’d left her snakeskin handbag on top of the piano. ‘Bless you,’ she said. ‘And thanks for letting me sing.’

  ‘You have a beautiful voice,’ he said. ‘Do you sing professionally?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You should. I and two companions play at a few functions around the city. Your voice would be a more than welcome addition to our little band.’

  ‘I’m going home tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘Sydney’s loss,’ he said, and he offered an envelope. She took it, thinking it was her talent quest envelope, thinking he’d looked in her bag to find her name. She returned it to her bag, thanked him again, and as Mavis and Artie joined their group, the little man walked around the corner and disappeared into a side lane.

  ‘What did he want?’ leg-flashing, gin-squash-drinking Mavis asked.

  ‘I forgot my handbag. It’s got my return ticket in it.’

  ‘He’s an old queen if ever I saw one,’ she said.

  ‘Is he?’ Jenny replied. She’d never heard the expression, didn’t have a clue why he was a queen, except his accent sounded English. ‘He’s a brilliant pianist.’

  ‘They’re a
ll arty-farty and they give me the creeps,’ Mavis said.

  Nobby had whistled in a taxi, and how that driver knew where to go, Jenny didn’t know. There was so much city, roads leading off roads, and onto more roads, but the driver found his way to the boarding house, and the boys tipped him well.

  It was late, well after midnight, when they crept in, Nobby and Rosemary heading down the ground floor passage, Jenny and Jim heading for the stairs, when Mrs Norris, dressing gown clad, popped her head out from behind her private door.

  ‘The dear mite didn’t stir,’ she said.

  ‘Bless you,’ Jenny said, wanting to bless the world tonight. She could still sing. She could still do it. And she had been good enough to sing in Sydney, too. She was so happy tonight, so honest-to-God happy. How long since she’d been honest-to-God happy?

  ‘We have to pick up those photos in the morning,’ Jim said.

  ‘I’ll have to buy more condensed milk for the trip home.’ Home? Number five was home. Jim was home. Woody Creek wasn’t.

  ‘You’ll have to hang around at the station all day.’

  ‘It will be easier hanging around with the stroller than it was hanging around without it.’

  It was a saying of goodbye that night. Sad. The kissing was sad, the remembering of things they had to do was sad. Their lovemaking was sad and afterwards the holding of hands, holding on tight to their last night.

  His grip eased before her own. She released his hand and rolled over. It wasn’t over until tomorrow.

  Nowhere to wear her classy green linen and high heels in Woody Creek. No more hot water pouring from the taps — no more taps. No more bathroom and electric iron. No light at the flick of a switch. No more Mrs Hooper.

  But she had Jim’s ring. Jen and Jim, 1942. Like Dora Palmer, she was engaged to be married. And she would marry him, too — when she was twenty-one.

  She couldn’t sleep — or didn’t want to sleep and wake up in tomorrow. Wanted to squeeze the last grains from this night, even if it was already tomorrow.

  Crazy Yanks, she thought. Just kids, just drunk kids too far away from home. They had money to burn and tossed it around like it was paper. They’d tossed a bit into the pianist’s tip jar.

  Brilliant little man, his fingers could draw every song ever written from that piano, and without need of sheet music. Miss Rose had needed her sheet music. Brilliant. And he’d sort of offered her a job, singing with his band. Jenny Morrison — Jennifer Hooper, a singer with a Sydney band.

  Wow!

  That had been one of her dreams before her dreams had been stolen. Up here in this sprawling world of roads and houses, anything, everything was possible. Back there — back there . . .

  She sighed, saw herself dodging Vern again, dodging people when she went into town, always keeping her head low. Nothing was possible in Woody Creek.

  And she’d have to see Norman again. And he’d look at the hem of her skirt again. Couldn’t look her in the eye.

  Guilt? Shame? Something.

  Maisy had spoken to him when she’d driven Jenny and Jimmy in to catch the train. He hadn’t even looked at his own grandson. At least Vern wanted his grandson; at least he recognised Jimmy’s value.

  She had no value. Her ring, to Vern, would be as a red rag waved at a bull. And she couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand his snarling daughter. Couldn’t stand Margaret wanting to hold Jimmy. Couldn’t stand being Jenny Morrison, town slut — not after being Jenny Hooper, club singer, mother of one beautiful boy.

  She didn’t want anything to do with tomorrow. It was coming though. She could hear the sounds of morning coming to get her.

  Weariness swallowed her, carried her away to ride a confusion of crazy dreams. Running down a Geelong street in her lime green dress. Driving a taxi down winding roads, lost. Trying to find someone. Didn’t know who. Mary Jolly maybe — or Cara Jeanette, that girl with the magical life.

  She woke late to Jimmy, singlet clad, bare bummed and crowing; to Jim, sitting on the floor three feet away, urging him to walk. And he did, or he took one step then flopped to his fat little backside. She watched Jim set him back on his feet.

  ‘Be quiet or you’ll wake Mummy.’

  Mummy? She’d never been Mummy. Elsie was Mummy to the girls. Through slitted eyes she watched Jim’s game, wishing the war had ended while she’d been asleep, wishing they could stay in this room forever, playing Mummies and Daddies forever.

  There is no forever in wartime. Jim had to be at Central Station at noon.

  Jimmy took another step and this time remained on his feet to crow at his own brilliance. She had to get up to praise him.

  ‘Clever boy.’

  ‘At least I saw him walk,’ Jim said.

  ‘I’ll write to you about every step he takes, every word he says, every tooth he gets.’

  Sad, the packing up of their room, sad laughter when Jimmy tried to take off and landed in her half packed case, a weeping sort of laughter, and when there was nothing left to pack, when they’d checked under the bed, checked the drawers, the wardrobe for the umpteenth time, when they’d kissed while Jimmy tried to climb their legs. Then there was nothing left to do but to pick up that case, that string bag, that stroller, pick up Jimmy, and close the door on their one-roomed home, say goodbye to the landlady and tell her how Jimmy had taken two steps.

  ‘Thank you for everything,’ Jenny said.

  ‘You’re very welcome, dear,’ Mrs Norris said.

  A swarm of khaki at the station. The couples stood together, comparing photographs, sharing photographs. Almost time. Jim wore a watch. He knew the time.

  ‘What will you do until your train leaves?’

  ‘Wait for it,’ Jenny said.

  ‘Book your case through. It will be easier.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Promise you won’t take that ring off.’

  ‘I promise.’

  He had to go. It was no use telling him to be careful. She told him anyway. No use in saying any of the final foolish words people say at train stations when the train is itching to get on about its business.

  ‘Write as soon as you get home.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Show Jimmy my photo every day so he doesn’t forget me.’

  ‘I will.’

  Nothing left then but that brief train station kiss, holding hands until they had to let go. He backed away, putting distance between their hands, then he smiled his china toothed smile, saluted her, and turned back into a soldier amid the blur of soldiers.

  She lifted Jimmy high, wanting him to see his dada when she could no longer see him. Caught a glimpse of him at the window, flicked a tear from her eye, and waved Jimmy’s arm until he got the idea to wave his own. They waved until the train moved away.

  It was over then. She was empty then.

  Her string bag wasn’t. It bulged with clean napkins, condensed milk, baby bottle and travelling food. Case propped in the stroller. It wasn’t easy manhandling the load alone. She settled Jimmy on her hip and, dragging the stroller behind her, made her way to the counter to get rid of that case she could live without until they got to Melbourne.

  ‘All civilian travel south has been cancelled,’ a pasty-faced youth said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘All civilian travel south has been cancelled,’ he repeated, bored.

  ‘I’ve got a return ticket for today. It was booked weeks ago,’ she said.

  ‘The services get priority,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve got a baby. I’ve got nowhere to stay.’

  He didn’t care if she had triplets. ‘The services get priority. All civilian travel south has been cancelled,’ he said, but louder, perhaps hoping to save repetition. There were two or three behind her.

  She gave up. Stepped back. She’d have to camp in the waiting room until . . . until when? She had to find out when. She had to rebook her seat.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ a woman was saying to the man behind the counter. ‘My husban
d is in the services. I’ve left my children with a neighbour —’

  Jimmy wanted to get down. Jenny’s arms wanted to put him down. She heaved him higher on her hip and towed the stroller back the way she’d come to join a queue of people trying to rebook their seats.

  ‘Tuesday? What am I supposed to do until Tuesday?’ an elderly woman wailed. ‘You can’t get a hotel in this hellhole for love nor money.’

  Jim had said the same when she’d complained about the la-di-da boarding house. It looked like paradise now. Number five could still be vacant, or Rosemary and Nobby’s room. She wondered if Rosemary would be able to get home. She was only going halfway to Melbourne then catching a country train. Maybe she’d be going back to the boarding house. Jenny looked for her in the queue, searching strange faces for one which was now familiar.

  Today was Saturday. If she couldn’t get a seat before Tuesday she’d have to stay somewhere. She knew how to get back to the boarding house and she had plenty of money to pay for that room. That’s what she’d have to do. She stood Jimmy at her side, and opened her handbag to see how much money she had left. A strange envelope caught her eye, the envelope addressed to Mr W.J.Whiteford.

  She had the wrong handbag! But she didn’t have the wrong handbag. Her talent quest envelope was in it. She stared at the alien envelope, then turned it over. During business hours was written there, and what was maybe a Sydney telephone number. And beneath it: Your beautiful voice was appreciated. Wilfred Whiteford. And inside the envelope she found three ten-shilling notes! That little man had paid her to sing.

  And Jimmy was going to be trodden on. She heaved him up and he wanted the envelope. Jenny, surrounded by Sydney, stared at those three notes. Norman paid Granny ten shillings a week to keep her out of the town — which just went to prove how worthless she was in Woody Creek. Jenny Hooper had value. She’d made thirty shillings just singing half a dozen songs!

  Maybe that money wasn’t for her singing. Maybe Wilfred Whiteford was an agent for some white slavery mob and he gave out his phone number in the hope that some desperate idiot would ring up.