* * *
When Oriel went to keep their arrangement, however, she began to doubt her decision. Saturday nights were always lively but this evening the city was swamped by Melbourne Cup visitors. As a rule this traditional race meeting provided an air of jollity and indeed there were many in the throng who were bent on enjoyment, but as Oriel hurried through the fading light towards the Myer Emporium she felt an underlying sense of menace in the absence of a police force and was for once glad to see Clive’s face.
The gladness was not to last. Her husband took one look at the outfit she was wearing and, pleasantly sarcastic, said, ‘Very nice – still I don’t suppose you went to all that trouble just for me.’
She was unable to offer retort as at that juncture the others arrived. She had not met Ethel and Richard before but after introductions, Dorothy said, ‘It’s a double celebration tonight. Ethel and Richard have just got engaged to be married!’
Made cruel by her anger at Clive she proclaimed to Ethel, ‘Huh! Better make the most of it while you still have your freedom then.’
There was an embarrassed silence. Clive turned his grim expression away in order not to explode, muttering, ‘Come on, let’s go if we’re going.’
As they hurried up Bourke Street towards the restaurant, Dorothy attempted to save the evening by quickly telling Ethel about the funny things her children did, her laughter managing to dispel the bad atmosphere. Oriel fell silent as she walked on her own behind them, feeling wretched at upsetting the girl, not knowing why she had done it, only that being with Clive was driving her towards insanity.
No one could quite agree later how the riot started, but as they neared the Swanston Street intersection Oriel saw a man with a brick in his hand, her eyes widened in disbelief as he drew back his arm, took aim and hurled the missile through a jeweller’s plate-glass window. This seemed to be the signal for a free-for-all. In an instant those friendly faces in the crowd had scattered in panic, leaving behind a mob bent on pillage, and Oriel and her companions were in the thick of it. Dorothy screamed as a thug almost knocked her off her feet, grabbed at Cuthbert’s arm as he made to avenge her. ‘Don’t, Cuddy! Just let’s get home!’
Intimidated by the violence, they dithered, until Clive shouted above the din that they should head back down the street to the lane where he had parked his car. They broke into a trot, but the way was barred by fighting. Hoping to circumnavigate the block and gain entry to the lane from the other end, Clive led the foray into Swanston Street, but there was rioting here too – the entire block surrounded by it – and they were driven back from whence they came, the men weaving a passage through the fracas, dodging flying bottles and almost colliding with the handful of loyal long-service policemen who came running from their barracks in Russell Street to uphold the law as best they could.
The bluejackets had no hope, were overwhelmed as the howling mobsters, men and women, attacked them with sticks, bottles and stones ripped from the road. Window after window was smashed, the air was ripe with the sound of destruction as Oriel and the others scurried like rats over drifts of broken glass, attempting to get to Clive’s car.
There was a familiar cry as Dorothy’s husband was suddenly floored by a bottle and stumbled, righted himself, then urged the others on, bleeding from a gash to the forehead.
Gangsters swarmed over the shop windows, looting furs and jewellery, clothing, brawling over their spoils – and then a soldier appeared holding a rifle. Someone shouted, ‘They brought the troops in!’ And a stampede overpowered Oriel and the others carrying them in the opposite direction. As they fought against the tide there came realization that the soldier was alone. The mob turned on him, punched him to the floor and kicked his body without mercy, but there was nothing Oriel could do for at once there was a knot of rioters before her, preventing escape. Trapped, the men hurried their wives into a shop doorway, shielding them with their bodies, lashing out with boots and fists. From her terrified hidey-hole, back pressed into the doorway, clinging to Dorothy’s arm, Oriel watched in horror as the Visigoths swarmed over a tram like ants upon a caterpillar, forcing it off its line, crew and passengers trampled in the maniacal lust for plunder.
Praying for deliverance, she heard the urgent clamour of a fire engine’s bell as it roared down the street, thanked God as it achieved its objective of scattering the rioters, luring their attention away from Oriel and her companions, allowing them to attempt a getaway. The effect was but temporary. As they crunched over the carpet of glass the mob regrouped and returned to attack the vehicle with missiles. More windows were smashed, dummy figures were flung into grotesque postures on to the street, a sporting depot was looted, its rifles, revolvers and hunting knives distributed amongst the rabble. Oriel screamed as right in front of her a man was pushed through a plate-glass window, ripping his throat wide open, but she like others dashed on, intent on her own salvation – and then it came!
A voice yelled, ‘More wallopers!’ and fifty volunteer policemen came smashing their way along the street, swinging their pickaxe handles to right and left, hacking a passage through the mob. But in the attempt to break up the riot decent citizens were caught before the vicious batons, herded shoulder to shoulder with gangsters, bashed around the head and body like the rest of the scum. Oriel opened her mouth to protest but was driven and beaten back along the street further than ever now away from the car.
Finding herself becoming parted from her companions she tried to reach for Clive’s hand but the crowd carried her along. Up ahead, a reporter had his notebook ripped from his hand and was forcibly hurled over a verandah rail. Terrified, Oriel was propelled onwards, unable even to turn her head to look for the others. She felt herself grabbed – thought perhaps that Clive might have managed to reach her – but a wild glance saw him yards away, still trying to fight his way through the mob. The man who had grabbed her arm pushed her into the first available doorway and shielded her with his body – ‘Stay here, you’ll be safe!’ – and both were left as residue as the flailing machine proceeded down Bourke Street. Clive gestured wildly to her as he was carried away by the panicking crowd. Further and further away.
Heart thudding, Oriel felt the masculine body against hers, smelled his fresh breath, made no effort to escape from his arms even when the danger was past.
Eventually managing to free himself, Clive ran back along the street – and witnessed his wife in the man’s embrace. At that same instant Oriel spotted him, saw the anger and disgust in his eyes. He hovered there for only two seconds. Even as she was disentangling herself from the stranger who had rescued her Clive was making a spurt to catch up with the others who were once again heading for the car. She saw Dorothy’s anxious enquiring face turn to look for her but Clive pushed her onwards with some exhortation, leaving Oriel behind to rely on the stranger’s charity.
Unaware of the private drama, the dark-haired businessman took her arm and with anxious looks to right and left said, ‘Come on, I’ll get you home.’
She could have said, ‘My husband’s up there!’ But she didn’t. Instead she allowed the stranger to take her arm and followed his dash along the footpath, dodging verandah posts, swerving around the dozens of bodies that were strewn amongst the broken glass and other debris. One more last obstacle blocked their way. Below the illuminated rainbow of a shopping arcade a man had been knocked to the ground almost at their feet. Oriel pulled up to watch in horror as blows from sticks and fists and boots began to rain down on him. She wanted to cry out and stop this but was too terrified, became transfixed by the awful sight and sound and the bubbling blood until the stranger jerked her from her trance, pushed and pulled her down the street and around a corner, so that they finally reached his car.
The day had been warm and the hood had been left down but now the man wound it up and attached clouded Cellophane windows to guard against missiles. With rapid movements he pushed Oriel in, then cranked the engine and leaped in beside her, asking where she lived. At
her instruction he steered a cautious passage out of the alley and into the main street. There was no way out but through the riot. A policeman’s helmet fell victim to the car’s wheels. Bottles and bricks smashed against the vehicle’s chassis. Behind the Cellophane windows Oriel slid right down in the seat, cowering as the maelstrom surged around her, still hearing the terrible sound of the man’s head reverberating to his attackers’ boots as the car accelerated out of town. Tonight she had witnessed a glimpse of the battlefield and she never wanted to see it again.
* * *
By the time she arrived home to suburban calm she had learned her rescuer’s name but little else about him for she was too shaken and bruised by the violence to indulge in conversation, and too angry with Clive for leaving her. When she thanked the man and made to get out of the car, he asked, ‘Could I see you again?’
She had to smile. ‘I don’t think my husband would like that – thank you anyway.’ Wishing him a safe journey home, she turned towards the house. On her way down the path she saw the curtain move and a fleeting chink of light, but when she entered the living room Clive was sitting in a red moquette armchair, eyes fixed to the wall, no hint of this morning’s birthday mood.
‘I wasn’t expecting to see you home as soon as this. You looked to be having such a good time.’
Oriel gave terse retaliation. ‘Well, thank you very much for hanging around to see if I was safe!’ She threw her bag on the table so violently that it bounced to the floor.
‘That bloke seemed to be doing a good enough job,’ he retorted, glaring up at her.
‘For God’s sake, he was rescuing me!’ She fell into a chair, lay back her head and closed her eyes in exasperation.
‘I hope he got the reward he was after!’
At her look of contempt his scowl eventually collapsed and he asked in a pathetic, begging manner, ‘What’s wrong, Oriel?’
‘I’ve just been almost trampled in a riot.’ The horrors reformed in her brain, her own bruises making themselves felt now.
Clive had the grace to look guilty. ‘I’m sorry. You know I’d never have left you like that normally – but you’re pushing me beyond endurance, Oriel.’ He sounded weary. ‘We have to face this. You’re not happy are you? You don’t hug me, you don’t kiss me… is it my fault?’
She shook her head, looking at the floor. Yes, he had abandoned her tonight, but his defence was justified, she had goaded him. Still, she could not bring herself to broach the source of her misery. ‘I don’t know what it is.’
‘You do and you’re going to sit there until you tell me – sit there!’ She had begun to rise.
Oriel fell back against the cushions, face dismal. Even the drama of a riot paled in comparison to the mental turmoil she was suffering now. Eventually she took a deep breath. ‘I just don’t love you any more.’ She did not look at him but could not miss the hurt in his response.
There was a period of deep thought, but Clive though bitterly wounded was not one to give in so easily. ‘Maybe… maybe I’ve been neglecting you. I could try and get some time off work and we could take a holiday, give us a chance to make things how they were before.’
I don’t want to be alone with you all day and all night, Oriel’s mind screamed. I don’t want to spend any time with you at all.
He seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Or maybe you’d like to go on your own, have a week at your mother’s. Think things over.’
She nodded. Because of the great distance between them, it had been more than two years since she had seen her dear mother, she missed her desperately. How wonderful it would be to see both her parents, especially at such a time of emotional famine. The cloak of despair that had been weighing down her shoulders for months slowly began to lift. Her lips formed tentative comment. ‘I’ll have to send a telegram and let her know.’
He nodded, sadly thoughtful. ‘Will you be coming back?’
Oriel shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
* * *
In her isolated environment Bright had not yet heard of the Melbourne riots and so, upon receiving the telegram that gave news of her daughter’s imminent visit, her only reaction was excitement. ‘It’s so unexpected! I wonder what’s made her come at such short notice? I think she might have something to tell us.’ Nat asked what she meant and his wife hoisted her shoulders. ‘She’s having a baby! I just know she is. She wants to tell us in person. Oh God, I can’t wait for her to get here!’
With gangs of hoodlums still roaming the streets and trouble continuing to flare over the weekend, putting hundreds of people in hospital, Oriel deemed it safer to wait until Monday, by which time order had been fully restored with the help of a volunteer force. What a scene of devastation awaited her in the city. Melbourne looked as if it had been ravaged by war, its heart completely ripped out. Paradoxically it looked even worse now that the tons of glass and rubble had been swept up, a sense of utter despair and loneliness about its blinded shop windows. Hurrying from the post office, she caught a passing tram to Spencer Street Station.
Ordinarily, to stand in early summer sunshine with few other people about was a pleasant experience but there was no cheer today, only a nervous wait, none of the travellers quite sure whether those others on the platform were friend or foe.
In a cloud of steam, the train squeaked and ground to a halt alongside the brown and buff platform. Doors opened and slammed. A whistle blew. Leaving behind the boarded up shopfronts Oriel was trundled from city to suburbs and all points north, through parched golden paddocks, sedate country towns and meandering creeks, earth that ranged from rich chocolate to ochre dust. In the foreground of distant mountains, a multitude of woolly backs competed for sparse blades of grass; vast treeless plains divest of any feature save a lonesome windmill, and far away on the horizon a tiny isolated dot betrayed a pocket of civilization.
The train would not take her all the way to Queensland for the line gauges differed between states. Six hours after boarding came the call, ‘Albury – all change!’ whence she alighted from the train and transferred to another, thankfully with sleeping cars, that would negotiate the track of New South Wales.
Hour after hour she watched the landscape vary between barren scrubland, dramatic, craggy mountains, rolling hills and deep wooded valleys that were vaguely reminiscent of the Lake District at home. Night came, leaving only the view of her own miserable reflection in the darkened window. She tried to sleep but there was too much on her mind. Morning brought another gruelling stretch; there were still hundreds of miles to endure before the livery of this train could be exchanged for that of Queensland, the line from Sydney adopting a tedious indirect route around remote inland townships before arriving at Brisbane.
Another day, another train, another long excursion. Eventually, though, the vegetation underwent a subtle change. Oriel began to see pineapple crops and lush sweeping canefields, hills like folds of green velvet, palm trees and Norfolk Island pine dotted amongst the eucalypts, occasional glimpses of deep rich red soil, bovine herds with attendant flock of egrets, houses on stilts with iron roofs that matched the bloody hue of the earth, and knew from her mother’s descriptive letters that she must be close to her destination.
She alighted from the train too late to make the rest of the journey before nightfall. Lodging overnight at an hotel, she enlisted the help of a Good Samaritan with a horse and cart – for again she had remembered from her mother’s letters that this was the only mode of transport that would negotiate the often marshy passage.
When she finally arrived she was thoroughly worn out, though happiness lent a spring to her gait and she came bounding through the spindly gums and wattles, up the steps to meet her mother on a verandah bedecked in elkhorn ferns. Though constructed of weatherboard, this house differed slightly from their last by reason of its elevated position. A dozen or more steps had to be climbed to its verandah and some of the windows had panes of coloured glass. Inside, though, it was much the same layout and Oriel found her
way around quite easily, which was just as well in her confused state.
Bright was surprised that her daughter had come alone, but Oriel explained it was because Clive could not get any time off work. After hugs were exchanged and a meal devoured she informed them briefly of the police strike and resulting riots but made no mention of her own involvement. At her daughter’s yawn, Bright noticing that she was rather subdued, said, ‘Well, it’s wonderful to see you after two long years but you must be worn out. Did you get much sleep on the way?’
Oriel managed a laugh. ‘Not really. I did stay at this quaint hotel last night. Good horsehair mattresses, they advertised outside. I think they must’ve left the bloody horse in.’
Her parents both showed amusement and Bright opined, ‘You’ll be comfier in the bed I’ve prepared for you. And I think you’ll like your room. Off you go – unless there’s any news you want to tell us that won’t wait till morning?’
Reminded of her reason for being here, Oriel lost some of her zest. ‘No, it’ll wait.’ She kissed them both. ‘Good night.’
* * *
At the breakfast table next morning she gave a half-hearted greeting to her sister, who had been in bed when she had arrived the previous night, and sat at the table gazing blankly as her mother handed the child bread and butter soldiers to dip in her egg. Bright looked up and smiled. ‘That’s good timing, I’ve just taken the eggs out. Sorry, there’s no bacon. You can’t get any decent stuff up here, it’s all smoked, but they’re our own eggs. Help yourself to toast. Did you sleep well?’
‘You’re joking.’ Oriel appeared to be in a bad mood as she attacked the eggshell with a spoon. The skin of her cheeks was puffy and creased. ‘What the hell does your neighbour find to keep sawing in the middle of the night? I’d just get off to sleep and he’d start again.’
A Complicated Woman Page 36
