Playing Beatie Bow Popular Penguin

by Ruth Park

  ‘I ha’e a great liking for this land,’ he said. ‘Man hasna spoiled it yet, not even with steam factories and all the dirt the rich make around them.’

  He shipped the oars and sat looking about. Abigail peeped from under the brim of her hat at his brown face shining with sweat, his strong calves and calloused feet. As she peeped, thinking herself unobserved in the shadow of the hat, he reached out and playfully caught her foot with his prehensile toes.

  She jumped and blushed.

  ‘What’s the matter, Abby? For you seem sad today.’

  ‘I think – I think –’ She swallowed. Surely she wasn’t going to cry? She looked away. ‘I think this is my last day.’

  ‘Did Granny say so?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  Abigail managed a smile. ‘I have gifts of my own, you know.’

  ‘Ah, Abby love, don’t go! Not to that grievous world you’ve described. Stay here with us.’

  His arms were around her. Her hat fell off into the water and floated away. His cheek rubbed against hers, and she put up her hand and stroked his face.

  ‘Why, Abby, dinna weep, you must not, what’s there to weep about on this bright day?’

  But she couldn’t stop. A huge shameful gulping hiccup came out of her. Judah grinned.

  ‘Don’t laugh at me, damn you!’ cried Abigail.

  ‘Why, Abby –’ he said, as though astonished. ‘My little one, my Abby.’

  Now, although Abigail had no regular boy friend, she had had her share of kisses, everything from the sudden whack on the lips with what appeared to be a hot muffin, to the lingering pressure of a hairy sardine. She had been half-devoured by someone who had been watching too many Italian films, but when her nose got into the act as well, she had stamped on the kisser’s foot and alienated him for ever. She had had ear-biters and eyebrow-lickers, and she cared for none of them.

  But this was quite different. Her body went off on its own, yielded and clung and moulded itself to Judah’s, her head whirled, and so exquisite a melting sensation arose in her middle she thought she was going to die. She could have stayed there under his kiss for ever, but it was he who drew away, breathing quickly. His face was red, his eyes downcast; he seemed not to want to look at her.

  ‘Oh, Abby,’ he said hoarsely, ‘it were wrong for me to kiss you in such a way.’ He stopped and said with difficulty, ‘For a little while I felt – I didna know what I felt. Here you’re but a bairn, yet I thought for a moment you were a woman grown. And you were a woman grown.’

  He gazed at her helplessly. ‘It were wrong of me, and yet I canna feel regret.’

  She whispered, ‘I love you, Judah.’

  He gazed at her, silent and perturbed, and she saw in his candid eyes that he had no answer.

  She remembered then what Mrs Tallisker had said that if one loved truly, one could exist without the loved one. Her whole body cried out for the few frail blisses she had known – to be able to look at him, listen to him, be kissed as if she were a woman and not a child.

  And she thought in anguish, ‘If I were older I’d know what to say. But I don’t.’

  She could only say what was in her heart. ‘Don’t worry, Judah; I know about Dovey. What I feel about you, well … that’s my worry, not yours.’

  He took her hand and held it between his two large ones. ‘But it is my worry, Abby, because now I’m in a swither, I dunno what I feel …’

  From the little peninsula off which the dory was drifting and circling came a sound like an enraged sea-hawk. Abigail jumped, frightened and dislocated.

  ‘’Tis Beatie. She’s seen.’

  Beatie was up on the tumbled rocks. Her small figure seemed to be doing a war-dance. She picked up a stone and threw it with all her might. It fell far short of the boat, but Judah looked disturbed. He took up the oars.

  ‘She wouldna tell poor Dovey, surely,’ he muttered. ‘The Dear knows I don’t want to distress poor little Dovey.’

  They were silent until they pulled in to the beach. The tide was now half full, clear green water sliding in to the foot of the redgum, where Beatie stood waiting with the three pails of cockles. Judah threw out the anchor and jumped ashore.

  ‘You!!’ said Beatie in a voice shrill with rage. ‘I saw!’

  ‘Keep it to yourself then,’ he said shortly. ‘For I dunna want Dovey upset. Take one of the pails to the boat, there’s a good lass.’

  ‘Take it yourself!’ spat Beatie.

  ‘Right, I will,’ he said. He took all three pails, heaved them into the boat, and said to Abigail, ‘Move up while I get this wildcat aboard.’

  He held out his hand to help Beatie. She flew at him, punched him in the chest, hammered on the arm with which he held her off. Half angry, half laughing, he said, ‘Will ye stop it, ye wee devil? Stop it!’

  ‘I’ll punch ye yeller and green!’ screeched Beatie. ‘To do such a thing to Dovey, who trusts you like she trusts God himself!’

  He picked her up by the back of the dress, held her kicking and flailing like a maddened cat, and said, ‘You’ve got it wrong, Beatie. There’s naught between Abby and me, and Abby will tell you so.’

  He put her into the boat. The child subsided into wild sobs.

  Abby ventured to put a hand on her shoulder, but Beatie flung it off.

  ‘You’re a bad girl! We should have left you in the Suez Canal; it would have suited you grand.’

  Judah shipped the oars, leant forward and shook Beatie violently.

  ‘Dunna you speak that way of Abby, when you know nothing of what passed between us. For you’re wrong. I’m telling you true, hen!’

  Beatie was pale. ‘That you could be such a Judas, my own brother! Dovey, expecting to be wed by January, with her bride chest full and her ring chosen, and the down payment made! Don’t speak to me, either of you. I’m fair sick to the belly with disgust.’

  Chapter 10

  It was a long, wretched trip home against the tide. Beatie sat huddled, her hands over her ears, and would not listen to a word.

  ‘’Tis not new,’ said Judah ruefully. ‘She’s as cross-grained a bairn as ever drew breath. And she’s been worse since the fever, and Mother’s death. Fanciful, and as obstinate as a mule when she gets a maggot in the head about anything.’

  ‘And Dovey,’ he sighed, ‘she’s trusting and innocent as a bairn. I wouldna like that tender heart to be bruised by me, when already I have gi’en her so much suffering, hare-brained young rip as I was.’

  Beatie, who had been listening through her fingers, growled, ‘Dovey wunna want you now; you’re not true to her!’

  ‘All this fuss over a kiss!’ said Abigail, vexed.

  ‘A kiss may not mean over much in your time, for the Dear alone knows what you think good or honourable,’ cried Beatie. ‘But ’tis different for us. And dunna tell me it was a brother’s kiss, for I were watching!’

  She covered her ears again.

  ‘She won’t say anything,’ said Abigail. ‘She adores Dovey. She wouldn’t say anything to hurt her. You’ll see.’

  ‘In this mood,’ said Judah, ‘she’d do anything. She’d jump out the window if she’d a mind to spite someone by it.’

  So they returned to the landing-place below Miller’s Point. As soon as the bow touched sand, Beatie jumped out, still looking sullen and resolute.

  ‘I have to tell my mate the dory’s safe back,’ said Judah, ‘and he and I will bring up the cockles to the house directly. Hearken now, Beatie, you stay with Abigail, and none of your nonsense. Go on now, off with the pair of you.’

  Beatie turned without a word. The two girls climbed up the precipitous Jacob’s Ladder.

  Abigail thought, ‘I’ll speak to her on the way home. Tell her the truth, that he may not know he loves Dovey, but he certainly doesn’t love me.’

  The moment they reached the top of the cliff, Beatie took off like a rocket.

  The little girl was fleet-footed, and she had gained
strength since Abigail had first known her. She slung her boots around her neck on their laces, and fled down a narrow crevice between two towering warehouses, over a fence and down a series of dog-legged steps. Abigail, surmising that she was taking short-cuts, followed her, her longer steps quickly gaining on Beatie’s.

  ‘Beatie!’ she yelled. ‘You’re not to tell Dovey. You don’t understand!’

  ‘Shut your face, Judas!’ drifted back to Abigail.

  Near The Green, she almost caught up with Beatie. Several entertainers were working on The Green: the old beggar with the monkey in the hussar’s uniform, playing a tin whistle to which the monkey hopped; a blind singer; and a man playing the bagpipes. The Argyle Cut, just beyond, was crowded with carriages and pedestrians in their Sunday best.

  All at once there was a commotion amongst them. Horses reared, men bellowed, a cabbie drove up on the footpath beside the church, sending several ladies with parasols into spasms and screeches.

  ‘Oh, dear God, it’s me faither!’ gasped Beatie, just as Abby caught up with her. Out of The Cut charged Mr Bow, yelling unintelligibly, sword cutting shining arcs above his head. He made a swipe at the bagpipes; the drones of the pipe, completely severed, flew into the air like so many sticks, and the bag let go its air with a fiendish squeal. The piper, realising that it might have been his bonneted head that had flown in the air, subsided on the grass, uttering hysterical squawks.

  A constable waving his staff pursued Mr Bow. As he passed Beatie, he panted, ‘He’s set the shop afire, wench! Get the Brigade!’

  Beatie hovered indecisively, her face yellow with fright. But Abigail picked up her skirts and fled for the shop, and after a moment Beatie followed her. The shop was full of smoke, and Granny was beating at the blazing bench and tables with a wet sack.

  A group of urchins, hopping with excitement, clustered about the door.

  ‘Run for the Brigade!’ shouted Beatie, ‘and it’s worth a tanner to you!’

  The boys scattered as if by magic, and Abigail and Beatie joined Granny in an effort to smother the flames.

  The old woman was exhausted. ‘He had drink hid somewhere. He was at it all morning, and then all of a sudden he said, “Here’s an end to it!” and tossed the rum bottle into the fireplace. Heaven help me, I thought a cannon had exploded down at the Battery!’

  Abigail saw at once that there was no chance of their putting out the fire. A long thread of flame, probably where the rum had splashed, already crawled into the parlour. She said to Granny, ‘Where’s Dovey?’

  ‘Ran upstairs to throw down her bride chest.’

  ‘For the love of Mike!’ cried Abigail. ‘At a moment like this? Here, Beatie, help Granny out and safely across the street, and I’ll go after Dovey.’

  ‘Your gown is in the bride chest, child,’ wheezed the old woman. ‘That’s why Dovey went up yonder.’

  Abigail hurdled the first two stairs, which were smouldering, shooting out small bluish tongues of flame. She found Dovey, a handkerchief tied over her nose and mouth against the smoke, trying to drag the chest towards the door.

  ‘Too late,’ said Abigail briefly. ‘Anything breakable in here?’

  Dovey shook her head.

  ‘Out the window with it then. Here, take the other handle!’

  They got the chest to the window. Abigail threw the casements wide, and they hoisted the chest out. It slid down the skillion roof and stuck against the chimney-pot. Dovey cried out in horror.

  ‘If it burns, Abby, you’ll not get home again, ever!’

  ‘Don’t talk,’ said Abby. She dipped a towel in the jug on the wash-stand. ‘Put this over your head. The stairs have caught.’

  Dovey was trembling, but she limped as fast as she could to the door. Now they could hear the crackle of the old dry wood. Abigail snatched the quilt from the bed, tipped the rest of the water over it, and wrapped it about head and shoulders. Dovey stood on the landing.

  ‘I canna do it, Abby, I’m faintish … oh, sweet Saviour, where’s Granny?’

  ‘She’s out and safe. Down you go, Dovey, or I’ll push you, I will!’ threatened Abigail.

  But the girl clung, weeping and coughing, to the bannisters.

  ‘If we go now, we can get clear down the stairs and out of the door,’ begged Abigail. ‘You must, Dovey, you must, for Judah’s sake!’

  The stairs were not yet ablaze, but the bannister was warm. Abigail saw that a patch of fire obstructed the bottom of the stairs where the fire had run across into the parlour. It was a rag mat, well alight.

  ‘Here, wrap this round you, and I’ll go first!’

  She flung the wet quilt over Dovey’s head, and taking her hand, got in front of her. Slowly, the lame girl slipping and stumbling, they got around the awkward corner of the stairs.

  Now, in full view of the blazing shop, Dovey froze with terror. Abigail grabbed her, hauled her across the smouldering bottom stairs, and kicked the flaming mat aside. She shouted ‘Through the kitchen, quick, Dovey!’

  ‘I canna, I canna!’

  ‘You can!’ shrieked Abigail, and she pushed the girl through the smoke, down the passage into the kitchen. The little room under the skillion roof was untouched by flame.

  Dovey seemed on the verge of collapse, but Abigail shoved her through the back door. ‘Get out of the yard, Dovey, in case the roof falls in … for God’s sake, what are you doing?’

  For Dovey, her eyes wild with terror, was struggling to get past her into the hall.

  ‘Gibbie! We forgot Gibbie!’

  Abigail had completely forgotten the boy’s existence. With blanched faces the two girls stared at each other, then Abigail snatched the quilt from Dovey, and wound the wet towel around her head.

  ‘I’ll get him.’

  ‘But Abby …’

  ‘Go. Go!’ screamed Abigail, ‘And right out of the yard, do you hear me? Find Granny and Beatie, so that they know you’re safe!’

  She thrust Dovey out the back door and closed it so that there would be no added draught. She shut the kitchen door behind her.

  The stairs were now alight. Flames curled around the bannisters. The two bottom stairs were a black gaping hole rimmed with jagged rubies. Abigail took a flying leap across them. She sensed the third step give way under her foot, fell forward entangled in the quilt, and felt the tread above her as hot as iron. The smoke was suffocating. She draped the towel over her face and ran blindly the rest of the way. The door to the attic was closed.

  ‘Thank heavens,’ she thought. ‘It won’t be filled with smoke.’

  Now she could hear Gibbie screaming. She burst through the door, slammed it behind her, and said tersely, ‘No talk, Gibbie. The place is on fire. We’ll have to go through the window.’

  The little boy had got out of bed and put on his flannel dressing-gown. He was holding his mother’s picture in one hand and the framed text ‘Thou, God, Seest Me’ in the other.

  ‘I wanna go down the stairs like ordinary,’ he wailed.

  ‘You do, and you’ll be a cinder. Come on!’

  She tried to open the window, but it had been nailed shut. She picked up the three-legged stool by the bed and knocked out the glass.

  Gibbie said, horrified, ‘Look what you done!’

  She banged out the remaining splinters of glass, looked to see if the child was wearing slippers, and ordered him:

  ‘Come and see for yourself. It’s only a little way down to the roof and we’re going to get out and scramble down.’

  Gibbie approached and looked down with a ghastly face, as though the drop were twenty metres instead of one. He recoiled.

  ‘I’ll break my arms and legs and I dinna want that. And I want to do Number One, forbye.’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ yelled Abigail. ‘The house is burning down, stupid. Do you want to burn, too?’

  But he wouldn’t move. At last she snatched the picture of his mother from him, dropped it out on the roof, and tearing the text from his grasp, sent it sailing
across the room. Then she clouted him once on each side of the head, and while he was opening his mouth to bawl, she grabbed him round the middle, pushed him feet first through the window and onto the roof. Then she squeezed out after him.

  ‘Dinna you think I won’t tell Granny, you wicked girl. You’ll go to hell, you just see!’

  Now that she was outside, Abigail could see that the entire front of the cottage was blazing. A large crowd had gathered, and two leather-hatted constables wielding long staves drove them back towards the shelter of The Cut.

  ‘Listen, Gibbie, the Fire Brigade is coming! Do you hear the horses? And the bell clanging?’

  Up from George Street came the fire engine, the horses galloping, men clinging to the sides of the vehicle. A tanker followed behind. Gibbie showed some faint interest, but there was no time for dawdling and staring. Abigail pushed and pulled him down to the edge of the roof. Dovey was nowhere in sight. While Gibbie hesitated and complained and palpitated at the height, Abigail took the opportunity to push the bride chest from behind the chimney-pot and into the next yard. It fell with a clang. There was an outcry of startled Cantonese from the laundry and angry squealing from the tethered pig. She threw the photograph of Amelia Bow into a basket of unwashed shirts.

  Abigail tried her best to wheedle the boy to take her hands as she lay on the roof, and swing down to drop into the yard, but he cowered pitiably.

  ‘Gibbie, there isn’t time to argue. You just have to climb down. It’s hardly any distance to fall, if I hold you.’

  ‘I want to do Number One.’

  A Chinese with a pigtail appeared. He chattered helpfully at Abigail, then ran for a large packing crate and put it below the roof.

  ‘I inna going to be caught by any heathen Chinee,’ bawled Gibbie. Abigail, with a nod to the laundryman, seized the boy by the armpits and pushed him off the roof. The little man caught him deftly, cooed comfortingly, and lowered him to the ground.

  Then Abby swung herself over to dangle from the roof and be helped to the ground by the Chinaman.

  Gibbie sobbed, ‘I’ve lost my picture of Mamma, too.’

  Abigail retrieved it from the basket and gave it to him. The Chinese, now joined by another, bowed repeatedly. She could think of nothing else to do, so she bowed back, and on this note of courtesy she left by the lane gate and shepherded Gibbie round to Argyle Street.