‘I knew this’d get you into trouble,’ her husband scolded her when an official-looking letter arrived some days after her own had been published.
Oriel’s mouth fell slack as he handed her the missive. Maybe she had been too forthright in her views. Taking a deep breath she opened it and in a relieved tone uttered, ‘Oh, it’s from the editor of the Sun News-Pictorial!’ After glancing at the embossed heading she read on, a smile slowly forming on her lips. Upon finishing the document, she handed it over to Clive with a smug expression. ‘They want me to submit another article with a view to a regular weekly column.’
He read it with disbelief, then gave a hesitant smile. ‘Very good. Will you have time?’
‘I’ll make time,’ replied Oriel, and barely waiting for him to close the front door on his way to work began to clear the table, swapping breakfast pots for writing paper.
Having had success with the theme of returned soldiers, she decided to improvise upon this for her current submission, and taking up her pen poured forth upon the evils of the trade unions whose continual strike action had caused untold discomfort to Australia’s heroes.
Clive despaired when, on his return from work that evening, his wife showed him what she had prepared. ‘You’re going to have stones thrown through our window!’
She was offended that he remarked only upon the detrimental effects of the letter and not upon her erudite composition. ‘Well, I’m sending it anyway.’
‘Oh, it’s a good letter.’ Too late he praised her achievement. ‘I just don’t want you to get into trouble. Don’t be too disappointed if they don’t publish it, will you?’ Tired, he went to wash his hands in preparation for his evening meal, muttering to himself, ‘I hope they don’t in a way – no good’ll come of it.’
Again, Clive was wrong on both counts. Oriel’s opinionated submission paved the way for a regular weekly column, whilst the result of her first letter was of great benefit to Daniel, who had lately been informed that his debt had been written off.
‘You little bottler!’ He heaped praise upon her when next she and Clive visited their friends in Yarra Junction. ‘I don’t know what you said but you ought to run for Premier the way you’ve got things done.’
Oriel looked abashed. ‘I only wrote to the newspaper.’
‘I know you did!’ Melinda, arms akimbo, chipped in. ‘Had ’em on me doorstep asking what I thought to it all when I hadn’t a clue as to what was going on ’cause he never thought it necessary to tell me.’
Oriel apologized for causing discord.
But her friend was laughing. ‘Nah, you’re right! Fancy, you being the big newspaper journalist. I’ll make a cup o’ tea and you tell me all about it.’
Oriel tried to catch Daniel on his own, which was difficult as he seemed to be trying to avoid her. ‘I know you asked me not to tell Melinda but it was so unjust I had to try and do something. I hope it didn’t cause too much trouble.’
Daniel seemed unperturbed, laughing. ‘Oh, she was spitting chips till she found out we weren’t gonna lose any more money. Don’t worry, she’s right now – and thanks again for what yer done.’ He included Clive in the conversation. ‘Mate, yer must be proud of her.’
Clive affected a cheery grin. ‘I am.’ Only his wife seemed to notice that his enthusiasm did not appear wholly genuine.
Melinda served tea. ‘And you say you’re gonna be writing every week? How much do they give you?’
From Oriel’s expression it was evident that the thought had not crossed her mind. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well, make sure you find out!’ urged her friend. ‘Don’t be letting them use your talents for nothing. What’re you gonna write about this week? I’ll have to buy a paper if you’re in it.’
Oriel smiled and accepted a cup of tea. ‘Oh, there are all sorts of things I could cover – but I’d better write to Mother first before news of my fame spreads.’ She laughed to show it was a joke. ‘I haven’t written for ages.’
In fact, she corresponded often with her mother, the letters full of news: news of what she was doing to the house, the cookery classes she had been to, the piano lessons she was taking, news about Dorothy and Melinda and now news of her literary success. Had Bright been able to read between the lines, to read her daughter as well as she read her husband, she would have detected that all was not well with Oriel’s marriage.
Apart from an irregular visit to the pictures, the occasions when she and Clive went out together had now been reduced to Sundays when they visited his parents. Even here, though, they were not really together, for after lunch he would fall asleep, leaving his wife to make conversation. When they had first been married the vision of them as old people celebrating their Golden Wedding had brought an affectionate smile to her lips – but now he was acting as if he were an old man already, as if they had been married for years.
It was time for one such visit today. Even feeling as wretched as she did Oriel was never one to neglect her appearance and, wearing a smart new outfit, waited impatiently outside the front porch for Clive to find his car keys.
An old man leading his overweight dog back from a walk paused at the gate and raised his hat. ‘What a sight for sore eyes.’
The recipient of the compliment grinned and came down the path to chat over the wire fence. After living in this house for over two years she had come to know her neighbours and they assumed that they knew her too.
Whilst thus engaged she heard the door slam and turned to see Clive’s mistrustful face hurrying to intrude on the imagined liaison. She gave an inward sigh. For God’s sake, the man must be sixty years old! What possible reason could there be for jealousy here?
‘What a lucky fellow you are,’ opined Mr Anderssen on the younger man’s arrival. ‘Not only is your wife good-looking but placid with it. My Doris is always saying to me, we never hear that young couple arguing, they’re so well matched.’
Oriel enjoyed an ironic smile that anyone could mistake the lack of argument for compatibility. She bent down to pat the corpulent black and white terrier, then edged towards the car.
‘Oh, I daren’t argue with her,’ joked Clive, only his wife knowing what tension lay beneath his skin. ‘She keeps me well under control.’ Mr Anderssen chuckled and made to move on, tugging at the dog’s lead. ‘Well, we like living next door to you anyhow. I’ve told you before, if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call in.’
The car journey was undertaken in silence. On arrival at the senior Widdoweses’ residence there was a meal of roast beef to be enjoyed. Alas, it was a mixed pleasure as, besides Mabel and her husband, Thora and Bill were also present. Despite the invitations to her sister-in-law’s ‘at homes’ and the chats they might have, Oriel knew that Thora did not really like her. Mabel might say her sister did not like anyone, but Oriel took the offhand remarks personally and no excuse could convince her otherwise.
By some miracle Clive managed to keep awake this afternoon, though she did not flatter herself that it was her company that provided the stimulus. Thora had just had a baby girl, the first grandchild and the centre of attention. Oriel felt compelled to admire it too, just to keep the peace.
‘What’ve you called her – Angela, isn’t it?’
‘Angela Rose,’ corrected Mabel, tongue in cheek.
Determined not to employ this pretentious appellation, Oriel merely nodded over the pram, then abandoned the inspection, obviously too soon for the baby’s mother, who looked hurt at this dismissal. Seeing this, Oriel felt guilty and said, ‘That’s a nice dress you’ve got on.’
Her sister-in-law rallied. ‘Yes, it’s from Bon Marche.’ Thora assumed the French name gave its garments class. ‘I buy lots of things there.’
‘Well, I suppose you’ve got such a big mortgage,’ responded Mabel, causing her sister’s nostrils to flare. ‘You wouldn’t have enough left for clothes – oh, didn’t you know?’ She added innocently, ‘Bon Marche means cheap.’
Oriel listene
d to them bickering. At least there was some form of entertainment here. At home, little exchange of any kind took place.
* * *
She decided there must be some inherent flaw in her character that she could not find contentment. Sinking even lower, she began to harbour the feeling that everything in life had always been her fault. Had she not been born her mother might have been allowed to continue her own childhood, her father would not have felt the need to run away and they might have married at leisure and had children because they wanted them, not because of one foolish mistake.
‘There must be something wrong with me,’ she sighed to Dorothy on her next regular afternoon visit. ‘Everyone else likes him, thinks he’s kind, amusing, supportive – and he is. Why don’t I love him? I do care about him as a friend. I just feel as if something’s missing.’ She shrugged, unable to articulate her needs.
Dorothy sympathized but privately felt that Oriel had no right to grumble as she did. ‘At least he’s not selfish like Cuddy.’
‘No, he isn’t.’ She puffed away on her cigarette. ‘Sometimes I wish he was. I don’t mean in your context – wanting things all his own way – but I just wish he’d have stronger opinions instead of always fitting in with whatever I want. If I said I was going to jump off a cliff this morning I swear he’d tag along just to be a bloody martyr. Then that makes me feel selfish and I have a sneaking feeling that that was his intention. And he’s got so suspicious, as if he thinks I’m having an affair while he’s at work. If a delivery man comes to the door he watches him like a hawk, even if he’s old and ugly. It’s so insulting. He’s even got me feeling guilty when he asks what I’ve been doing through the day.’
‘Next time he asks you’ll have to make something up to give him food for thought,’ advised her friend.
‘My God, I don’t want him any more jealous than he already is! I just wish he didn’t have such a low opinion of me.’ Stubbing out her cigarette, she sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better go.’
Dread in every footstep, she made the journey home, neglecting any transport in order to delay her arrival. Attacked by all manner of thought, she was in no mood for the sight that greeted her – Mr Anderssen’s elderly dog defecating all over the path in front of her house. Fury surged within her breast and she let fly.
‘Couldn’t you even have the courtesy to drag it into the gutter?’
The alarmed old gentleman offered explanation, tugging on the lead. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t have time. He’s eaten something that disagreed with him.’
‘And that’s an excuse, is it? How would you like it if I let my dog shit outside your house?’ It was of no consequence that she did not own a dog, her unbound rage making her insensible to the expletive and the frozen smile of horror on the old man’s face. ‘Well, you can just go get a shovel and clear that up for when I come out!’ And picking her way through the mess she stormed off into the house.
When she next emerged the excrement was gone but by that time she had taken stock of her impulsive action and was feeling ashamed and guilty at such behaviour towards a harmless old man. What sort of person was she becoming?
Too embarrassed and immature to go round to her neighbour and apologize, Oriel took to peeping from behind the curtains before an expedition to the shops, waiting for Mr Anderssen to come home with his dog before scurrying down the path like a fugitive. For all that, it was inevitable that she should cross paths with the old man who, ever the gentleman, raised his hat and smiled at her as usual, making her feel a thousand times worse.
* * *
Spring rains came, the resulting deluge causing the Yarra to burst its banks, bringing chaos to the city and its suburbs. Oriel compared the scene to her own restrained emotions swollen to the brim of endurance. How she longed to burst free of this prison with its half-hearted conjugal couplings, ached for fulfilment, both physical and spiritual, but felt destined to suffer the attentions of this man whom everyone thought was wonderful, for they could not all be wrong.
In this state of low self-esteem, dreams became her only escape. Under constant suspicion from her husband she determined to give his jealous theory some foundation and began to flirt with men in shops, men on buses, men in the street, men in wheelchairs at the Anzac Hostel. It was only a matter of looks and smiles and hands drawing attention to her hair, but it helped to lift her from her dreary existence, restored a modicum of confidence in the face of marital neglect.
Clive’s repertoire of derogatory comments increased. He knew she did not love him but was incapable of confrontation; the stinging utterances were his way of fighting, whilst hers was to retreat into her shell and pretend to the outside world that everything was rosy, taking out her temper on some poor unsuspecting numbskull who allowed his dog to defecate outside her house.
Periodically there were twinges of conscience from both. Motivated by one such pang Oriel said this Friday morning over breakfast, ‘It’s your birthday tomorrow.’ It was his twenty-eighth. ‘Do you want to go out somewhere nice? Maybe for a meal and then to the theatre. We could invite Dot and Cuddy.’ It might help to have friends present.
Clive looked preoccupied, then smiled up from his newspaper. ‘Mm, that’d be good. I’ve arranged to go to the races in the afternoon but you could come if you want, then we could go for a meal in town – sorry, I was just reading this. Looks like the Victoria Police might be going on strike.’
There had been murmurings earlier in the year of this happening but nothing had transpired. She showed disgust. ‘My God, if the police go on strike who’s it going to be next?’
‘Well, I suppose they have got a point.’ His eyes were on the print again. ‘Says here they get the lowest pay of any force in Australia.’
‘I suppose everyone would like more money.’ Oriel took a drink of tea.
Clive read on. ‘It’s more complicated than that. It’s about pensions and all sorts. Apparently this new Commissioner’s appointed spies to watch how they perform.’
I know how they feel, thought Oriel.
‘The blokes at Russell Street refused to go on duty on Wednesday night – I wondered what was going on when I left work! Noticed a lot of ’em congregated round the barracks, some with different badges on their uniforms. They’ve brought them in from the country but it seems they won’t go on duty either! Says here, they were told if they didn’t turn up for duty again last night they’d be sacked.’ He showed amusement. ‘I like the way the newspaper’s telling all the crims in Melbourne that there’ll be no police force tomorrow.’ He put the paper down and made signs of getting ready for work. ‘Well, it’s not going to spoil my birthday. Do you want to come to the races with us?’
‘Who’s going?’
‘Oh, just Cuddy and a few blokes from work.’
Oriel shook her head. ‘I’ll meet you in town afterwards – outside Myers. I’ve still got to buy your present. What would you like?’
‘It’s a good enough present that you’re going out with me.’ Deeming this insufficient, Oriel went out that morning and bought him a gift, then spent the rest of the day thinking about her next newspaper article. The editor had recently told her that her writings were getting a little too political and suggested that she might rather submit a short story or her view on the latest fashions, or other women’s issues. Though annoyed over this criticism, she saw no point in wasting time in creating something that would not be published and so chose to temper her pen. Alas, Oriel was to discover that she could only write when spurred by injustice. Destitute of inspiration, she had still not written a word when Clive came home.
Over dinner, he told her that the Victoria Police had indeed gone on strike.
‘The young blokes were having a field day when I left work, taunting the few coppers I did see. One got all these eggs thrown at him.’ He shook in mirth. ‘Covered in ’em, he was. Should be back to normal by tomorrow though – they’ve sworn in all these special constables. So we can still go for our night out.’
‘Yes, it’s only me, I’m afraid,’ came his pettish retort. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
She felt the anger surge up in her but managed to restrain it and merely waited.
‘Listen, I’ve just heard from Cuddy that there was more trouble than egg-throwing last night. Apparently some hoodlums beat a group of people up that he knew. I wondered if you want to cancel going out tonight?’
Oriel thought about this. Even though her marriage was in tatters she had been looking forward to going to the theatre. ‘Has there been any trouble at the races?’
‘Well, no more than there usually is.’
‘Is Dorothy still going?’
‘Yes, and I’ve asked another bloke from work and his girl to come too.’
She pondered further. ‘It seems a shame to let a few thugs rule our lives.’
‘Well, it’s up to you. I just thought I’d give you the option.’ Clive became businesslike. ‘All right then, I’ll see you as planned outside Myers. Bye.’
A Complicated Woman Page 35
