Queen Kat, Carmel and St Jude Get a Life

by Maureen McCarthy

  ‘Yes,’ Carmel mumbled, scraping up the last of her meal.

  ‘So what course did you make?’

  ‘A teaching one.’

  ‘Do you want to do it?’

  ‘Well . . . no, but . . . I think, I.. . . yes,’ she ended defiantly, glancing first at her father and then at her mother. ‘But I haven’t anywhere to live. And we can’t afford it . . .’ The tears that she thought she’d had under control the day before rushed into her eyes. The family sitting around her began to swim in front of her. She knew all her brothers were staring curiously at her. Feminine displays of emotion in the home were rare indeed. But she was so miserable she didn’t care.

  ‘Well, of course you’ve got to go,’ Vincent said matter-of-factly. His parents stopped eating, their mouths settling into identical grimaces. The convivial atmosphere moved up a notch, nearer to some vague danger-zone. Suddenly no one was looking at anyone else. At opposite ends of the table the parents, sour at being caught off guard, sought each other’s eyes before turning back to their meals.

  ‘Oh, and I suppose Mr Moneybags will pay for her board, will he?’ The sarcasm of her tone surprised everyone, even her husband. Nance was usually just dry and to the point in her complaints or remarks. She rarely descended to real nastiness. Carmel saw her brother take in a sharp breath before he spoke.

  ‘Well, yeah,’ Vincent said. ‘That’s exactly what I was going to say, Mum. Until she gets on her feet, maybe gets a part-time job, I’m prepared to help her out.’

  ‘Well, of all the bloody useless things to spend your money on . . .’ she expostulated.

  ‘Haven’t you heard there are no jobs for teachers . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t want her in the city by herself!’

  The protests flew around the room. One after another like sodden lumps of clothing – from father to son, from mother to father, and back again. Vince sat there as cool and composed as a prince. Carmel could feel bubbles of elation growing like white foamy soapsuds inside her. They were protesting about the plan, pointing out all the reasons why it didn’t make sense, but in spite of all that, she could tell that they’d accepted Vince’s offer. She’d be able to go for a year anyway. Within the two hours he’d been home Vince had assumed power. It was as though they didn’t have the fight in them to defy him.

  Vince promised to find a place for her to live when he went back to town and said he would pay the rent for the first six months. He assured his parents it would be somewhere safe; maybe some boarding-house or college for students. He’d look into it all as soon as he went back to collect his gun and dogs. There was nothing for them to worry about. She’d get a small government allowance, and he’d set her up somewhere till she could find a part-time job.

  ‘How is she going to get a part-time job?’

  ‘Look around. Ask people,’ he replied mildly. ‘Just like everyone else.’

  ‘She’s never worked in her life!’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of her working in the city.’

  ‘Everyone does it,’ he replied, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

  A few hours later the family was sitting quietly in the kitchen. For the first time in probably five years the television had been forgotten.

  ‘You don’t look too well, Mum,’ Vince said casually as he dried the knives and forks and put them away. The whole family stopped, Carmel included, and looked at the prematurely ageing woman sitting by the stove, darning socks. She looked up in surprise. Nance McCaffrey was fifty-three and no one had commented on the way she looked for easily ten years. Carmel and Anthony were surprised too. Mum was Mum. She never changed. She never looked different except when she went to town. Then she’d exchange her tattered work dress for a less tattered clean one, put a couple of strokes of plain red on her mouth and that was it. If it was winter she’d put on the rather well cut, but worn, red coat her sister had given her about six years before. That was all.

  ‘I’m all right, son,’ she sighed. Carmel looked at her brother for a sign. What was he up to? But Vince’s face was full of genuine concern.

  ‘You look crook to me.’

  ‘Ah, go on with ya!’ Mrs McCaffrey went on with her darning, but she was pleased with his attention in her own way. They could all see that. ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘When was the last time you went to a doctor?’

  She actually gave a short laugh and everyone smiled. They all knew that it was a matter of pride for their mother that she never went to the doctor. The last time had been when the twins were born.

  ‘Well, I’m taking you into town tomorrow,’ said Vince, ‘we’ll ring up in the morning for an appointment.’

  Mrs McCaffrey’s eyes began to twinkle. The kids couldn’t believe it. Their mother was laughing! She put down her darning and settled both her thin hands over her belly.

  ‘And who says so?’ she said, the laugh twitching around the sides of her mouth and lighting up her eyes.

  ‘Me,’ he replied shortly.

  ‘And why would I go to the doctor when there is nothing wrong with me?’ Vince shrugged and looked her squarely back in the eye.

  ‘You need some kind of . . . I dunno . . . a tonic,’ he replied. ‘You’re too bloody pale and thin.’

  ‘It’s called hard work,’ their mother chortled. Joe and Shane edged in a little nearer to her. It was so rare for them to see her relaxed and lighthearted. They nestled near her knees and she actually stretched out both arms and patted their heads with her red, knobbly hands.

  ‘Even so,’ Vince replied confidently, ‘we’re gunna get ya checked out.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yep. I’ll take her in the truck, Dad. Hey?’

  Their father, who was sitting at the table pretending to consider the racing pages, was in fact listening intently.

  ‘Anyone that can get her to the quack deserves what he gets,’ was all he said.

  Vince not only got his mother to the doctor the next day, but also managed to tie up Carmel’s housing arrangements at the same time. They got home from Manella at about five. As Mrs McCaffrey had expected, the doctor had found nothing wrong with her that ‘a bit of a break’ and ‘a little rest-up’ wouldn’t fix. She’d sniffed dismissively when she’d left the surgery, muttering that it’s all very well for a doctor to talk about resting, but he wasn’t going to be the one that would step in and do her work if she wasn’t there to do it, was he? But the outing had done her good, nevertheless. She had been buoyed up to be in town with her handsome eldest son, and had stopped to talk to a few old acquaintances. Shown off a bit. Already there was a bit of colour in her cheeks and a new spryness to her step.

  They’d come inside and Carmel was putting on the kettle when Vince dropped the bombshell.

  ‘Found you a place to stay next year, Carm.’

  ‘What?’ Carmel spun around.

  ‘Yeah,’ he went on blithely, ‘got talking to Dr Armstrong’s wife while I was waiting for Mum. Bit of good luck. Daughter needs another flatmate for the little house they’ve got in North Carlton. The eldest sister changed plans at the last moment. She’s putting off coming back from overseas for six months, won’t be back till July. I said you’d take a room till then . . .’ Carmel gulped.

  ‘You don’t mean . . .’ she spluttered in horror. ‘Not Katerina Armstrong!’

  ‘Yeah,’ he went on, puzzled by her expression, ‘that real pretty one with the blonde hair.’ Carmel sat down, her mouth dry.

  ‘Do you know her or what?’ he asked, still puzzled. Carmel looked at her mother, who could only shake her head. She knew instinctively that Carmel would have reservations.

  ‘I told Vince he should speak to you first,’ she said wearily. Carmel was still sitting so Mrs McCaffrey got up to make the tea herself. ‘Said that you mightn’t feel comfortable with the girl . . .’

  ‘But I can’t . . .’ Carmel wailed. ‘She’s, oh God, I don’t know. . . she’s . . .’

  ‘What?’ Vince
snapped impatiently. ‘What is she?’

  ‘She’s so beautiful and brilliant and she’s a complete snob and . . . everyone around town absolutely hates her, and . . .’

  ‘Has she ever done anything to you?’ he asked.

  ‘She wouldn’t even speak to me,’ Carmel burst out passionately. ‘She wouldn’t even know I existed!’

  ‘Why not?’ Vince asked, meeting her eyes. Carmel sighed and looked away. The thing she most loved about her brother was that social hierarchies meant nothing to him. Even when he was living in Manella he never judged himself or anyone else by what clothes they wore or what money they had or what airs and graces they gave themselves. His handsome looks and ability to work hard won him admiration from many different quarters. She didn’t know how to tell him what it was like for her without risking him thinking less of her. Vince pulled his chair up.

  ‘Listen, Carm,’ he said quietly, ‘her mother told me that her daughter needed someone in the house. She’s your age. They don’t want her living alone. I said we were looking for somewhere for you. She rang through to her daughter back at the house and she okayed it. Apparently she was let down by one of her own friends. It’s too late now for her to organise anything else. They both remembered you . . . they’d both heard you sing.’

  ‘But she’s on a different planet from me . . .’ Carmel blundered.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Socially . . . I mean, she went to that . . . that boarding school and she’s . . .’

  ‘Bah!’ Vince banged his hand down on the table. ‘Stuff all that shit! What’s all that to you? There’s a nice little room in a house near the uni you’ll be going to. Won’t cost too much . . . very reasonable. Listen, give me a real reason and I’ll call them and cancel it now.’

  Carmel could think of a million reasons, but not a single one that would make sense to Vince.

  JUDE’S MOTHER CYNTHIA WAS AT A MEDITAtion workshop when her daughter’s results came. She’d been buoyed up all week about meeting some new spiritual healer from America and had simply got up, had breakfast, kissed Jude’s frowning forehead and disappeared out the door, forgetting altogether that this day was going to be a big one in her daughter’s life. Not that Jude expected anything else. All the New Age stuff that Cynthia had begun talking about lately only made Jude clam up with irritation. ‘Getting in touch with inner feelings, listening to the child inside, learning to love your faults . . .’ Oh spare me! Jude didn’t want to be anywhere near her mother when she went on with that crap. It had been Cynthia who had brought Jude up believing that this kind of pseudo-religious psychobabble was, like patriotism and consumerism, for the weak-minded; for people who couldn’t think or work out things for themselves. ‘Open your eyes, Jude,’ the slim, fair-skinned, red-haired Cynthia used to say to her sturdy, small, dark-haired daughter, ‘and see and understand for yourself how terrible and how beautiful things really are in this world.’ Jude had obediently opened her eyes and seen that there was much that was beautiful, and much to be afraid of, too. Now this same woman was talking about finding ‘my centre’ and ‘being on the side of The Light’.

  What light? More to the point, what was Jude meant to do about it all?

  So Jude was alone behind the counter of Manella’s Artistic and Creative Supplies store in the centre of town when Ernie Ridge pulled his bike up on the footpath outside, rummaged through his ordered pile of mail, and pushed the door open. The bell on the door gave an irritating little ring that set Jude’s nerves jangling even further.

  ‘Hello love. Mum not here?’ Ernie was always easy and friendly. And for him today was just any old day.

  ‘No . . . she’s gone . . . for most of the day.’

  Her mother had left, telling Jude in her new airy way simply to ‘close up shop’ whenever she felt like it. Over the last few months Cynthia had been gradually letting the business slide. Bills were not being paid on time and new stock was not arriving. Long-term customers would come to pick up items that weren’t there. The place needed a thorough dusting and a coat of paint. Over the last few months, as she’d concentrated on her study, Jude had become very good at not thinking about the consequences of closing the business down. Surely her mother would get back on track soon, get it all into order again. Jude really didn’t want to think of what might happen if she didn’t.

  Amazingly, and much to the astonishment of the hard-nosed locals, who’d warned Cynthia that she’d never make a go of it, the unlikely business – basic art supplies coupled with health and herbal remedies – had boomed for a number of years. Passing trade, mainly tourists on their way to somewhere else, had stopped and bought the packs of tarot cards, the sketching pads and thick colourful pastels and paints, the small knick-knacks, the ‘down to earth’ packaged soap, the painted china eggcups, the magic crystals hanging from leather thonging, and all kinds of healing oils and perfumes. When Jude saw similar stores in the city she always felt proud. Their shop was superior in every way; her mother had a sure eye for the choicest lines of this kind of merchandise. Initially Cynthia had packaged a lot of the stuff herself in attractive old bottles and hand-printed paper. She also wrote the simple, homely instructions pasted to the side. Often Jude helped her. If used correctly this merchandise should ease some of the stress of everyday life. Jude was constantly amazed by the range of people who bought such things. Men in business suits and rich women fitted out in snow gear would sometimes buy up a whole line of a particular herbal remedy. The bottles of ‘Gran’s General Tonic for Happy and Healthy Children’ always went quickly during the winter months. Cynthia would often sigh when the last customer had gone for the day, flop down on the shop’s polished wood floor, and stick her feet up on the counter. ‘Some people think they can buy peace and happiness, Jude,’ she’d say softly. ‘Sometimes it takes a whole lifetime to realise that they can’t.’

  Grudgingly, and only after a number of years, the locals began to accept the quiet woman with the red hair, and her sweet-looking, brown-eyed little daughter. Cynthia earned their respect, if not their total acceptance, with her sense of purpose. She’d unwittingly confided to one local busybody back in the early days that she was going to make the business work if it killed her. Unbeknown to Cynthia that comment spread around the town like wildfire, and she immediately went up about twenty notches in everyone’s estimation. So within about six years she was an accepted, if not popular, person around town. Part of the townspeople’s reluctance to accept her was that they found it very hard to believe that Jude was in fact her daughter. Almost all the locals were from Celtic or Anglo stock. Cynthia was tall and fair-skinned, with bright blue eyes – rather like themselves in fact – while her daughter was short, with almond-shaped brown eyes and hair so black and wiry that in certain lights it was almost blue. But in the end there was nothing for it but to believe the woman’s story about the dead South American husband.

  Jude stood by the cash register counting change for the bank and looked blankly at the pile of letters in Ernie’s hand. Her thick hair was tied back into a rough ponytail. She was eighteen, but she could have passed for someone two or three years younger or oddly enough two or three years older. Her face often changed from innocent and childlike to mature and knowing within a few moments. She felt her mouth go dry as she tried to move her eyes away from the letters. Please make him go quickly. I just won’t be able to stand it if he starts talking about it all.

  ‘So, big day, hey?’ He was grinning like a good-natured labrador, looking at her and holding the letters playfully, making out he wasn’t going to let her have them.

  ‘Yes.’ She held out her hand without meeting his eyes.

  Everybody in the town loved Ernie Ridge. His heavy-featured, good-natured face was sunburnt and he had a stripe of white cream on his nose. There was no way she could be rude to him. He handed her the letters then leant against the counter, watching her.

  ‘How come you didn’t get the post office to hold your mail so you could have
picked it up earlier like everyone else?’

  Jude shrugged, and felt her fingers go cold as she flipped through the letters until she came to the right one, a slim envelope with her computerised details on the front. A stab of panic hit her. How would a computer be able to get it right? A computer would never know how hard she’d worked or how much she wanted . . . needed . . . the right marks. In this innocuous envelope was her future. Whatever was in here would decide whether or not she’d be able to leave this town, go to the city to study and achieve things she’d always dreamed of achieving. Until recently her mother had wanted a good education for her as much as she’d wanted it for herself. Jude had grown up hearing how important it was that she have her own career, that she learn to think and to reason; that her father, a well-educated man, had come from a poor Chilean family who’d had to struggle desperately to allow him to enter university. But as Cynthia had become more involved with her New Age interests she’d become less enthusiastic about Jude going away to the city. She’d made veiled hints a couple of months before that perhaps Jude should wait a while before going on to university. That she should think of possibilities other than Medicine. Maybe she could hang around Manella for a couple of years and just relax. Only the week before Cynthia had said she wouldn’t mind in the least if Jude didn’t do well; that an education wasn’t everything. Jude had run from the room, hands over her ears, refusing to listen. The idea of hanging out in Manella for ‘a couple of years’ horrified her. Yet she knew that it would take money to set her up in the city. Maybe that’s what her mother was trying to tell her: that they didn’t have it. Then a wild dry fury would overtake her. She’d bang her fists into the wall and kick her toes against the iron bedstead until they hurt.

  Jude turned her back on Ernie Ridge and opened the envelope. Her hands were trembling as she pulled out the slip of paper. Once more she had a deep feeling of panic. How could a computer possibly . . . ? There they were in front of her. Sitting neatly alongside her five subjects.