Common People

by Tony Birch

  ‘I don’t care about any of that stuff. It doesn’t matter to me. Honest.’

  Betty jumped from the gate, lunged at Sissy and threw her arms around her.

  ‘I’m going to be lonely without you for the rest of the holidays. Promise me that you’ll come back.’

  ‘Of course I’ll be back. I cross my heart. Two weeks is fourteen days. I’ll be home in no time.’

  Betty wiped her face, said goodbye in a rush and ran off down the street. Sissy was about to take her seat when Betty popped up again at the open gate. She smiled, all goofy-like, Sissy thought. Betty walked over to her, leaned forward and shocked Sissy by kissing her on the lips.

  ‘I love you, bub,’ she said, before turning and running off a second time.

  A few minutes later Sissy’s mother, Miriam, came out of the house.

  ‘Who was that just here talking to you?’

  ‘Betty. She came to say goodbye.’

  ‘She did? It’s not like you’re going on a world cruise or something. That kid’s thick in the head. Like the rest of her mob.’

  Sissy was quick to defend her friend. ‘No, she’s not, Mum. There’s nothing wrong with Betty.’

  ‘If that’s the case, I’m raising a genius.’

  Miriam lit a cigarette and sat on the verandah step, waiting for the stranger’s car to arrive. When Sissy had presented her mother with the letter of invitation from the church Miriam had not been as excited about the news as her daughter had expected she would be. Nor did she try hiding her concerns about Sissy going off with a person neither of them had set eyes on.

  ‘We don’t know who these people are, Sissy. Or anything about them. Who are they?’

  ‘Sister Mary knows them. She told me that the people who offer holidays are all good families.’

  ‘But does she know them personally? What’s written on a piece of paper doesn’t mean a thing. One word is all you need to tell a lie.’

  ‘Well, Sister Mary said she is going to come around and talk to you herself. They’ve had children for holidays before. If they were not good people then Sister Mary would know about it. There’s nothing she doesn’t know, Betty says.’

  ‘Betty doesn’t know a whole lot herself. If I ever come to rely on that kid for the safety of my own daughter I’ll throw the towel in and let the Welfare take you off my hands.’

  Miriam was even more nervous after reading the letter. She twirled a length of Sissy’s fringe around her finger and tucked it behind her daughter’s ear.

  ‘So you want to go off with this family?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want me to. I can stay here as well.’

  Miriam had seen the excitement in Sissy’s eyes and didn’t want to disappoint her.

  ‘You go, little Sis, and have a wonderful time.’

  Tucked into the pocket of Sissy’s floral dress was a telephone number and a sixpence coin that Miriam insisted her daughter take with her. Sissy was not to spend the money, under any circumstances, she had been told several times. Miriam explained that the coin was only to be used for an emergency. The telephone number was for Mrs Pellegrino, the Italian woman who ran the corner shop, who was happy to take messages for locals.

  ‘I won’t need the money,’ Sissy said. ‘I bet the family will have their own telephone. Sister Mary said that they are well off.’

  A car turned into the street, a rare occurrence in the neighbourhood. A couple of boys who’d been playing with a rusting three-wheeler bike chased the car as it slowly moved along the road. Miriam dropped her cigarette and ground it under the heel of her shoe. The car stopped in front of their house, a powder blue sedan that shined like new. It was a small car, Sissy noticed, a two-door without a back seat. She didn’t know anyone who owned a car and Sissy had never ridden in one. She raised herself slightly out of her chair to catch a glimpse of the driver. The passenger side window was so clean and shining all she could see was her mother’s apprehensive olive-skinned face reflected back to her.

  The car door opened and a woman got out. Although it was a hot morning she wore a mauve-coloured woollen suit and a straw hat with matching mauve flowers sewn into the brim, shading her pale skin. She was so white Miriam was certain the lady was ill. The woman walked around to the front of the car but remained on the road. Miriam stepped onto the footpath and half curtsied before realising the stupidity of her action.

  ‘I’m Miriam Hall, Sissy’s mother.’ She turned to the verandah. ‘Sissy,’ she called. Sissy refused to move from the chair. ‘Come and say hello to Mrs …’

  The woman stepped forward and held out her hand. Miriam looked down at a set of manicured and polished fingernails.

  ‘I am Mrs Coleman.’ The woman spoke in a tone simultaneously husky and delicate, in a voice that appeared it might shatter at any moment. ‘And this must be your daughter.’

  Sissy stared at the sickly looking woman standing in front of the car.

  ‘Come here and say hello,’ Miriam ordered her daughter.

  Sissy stood up. ‘Hello,’ she coughed.

  The kids on the trike circled the car several times before Miriam ordered them to get back to their own place. She did her best to be polite to the visitor, all the while resenting the self-conscious deference she displayed towards a person she did not know or care for. Sissy felt the shame of being both embarrassed of, and for, her mother.

  After assuring Miriam that Sissy will be taken wonderful care of, Mrs Coleman opened the small boot at the rear of her car and stood back as Miriam loaded Sissy’s case into it. Sissy could not take her eyes off the woman’s face. Her skin was so opaque that lines of thin veins could be seen running down her cheekbones.

  When it was time to say goodbye Miriam did so with as little display of emotion as was necessary. She nudged Sissy towards the open passenger door.

  ‘Go on, bub. You be off.’

  Sissy only relented and got into the car when Miriam stepped away from her daughter and retreated to the verandah.

  ‘Go,’ she said, with the wave of a hand. ‘Off you go.’

  It was only after she had buckled herself into the passenger seat and was driving away, seated next to the cold-looking woman in the funny hat, that Sissy grasped the reality of what she’d wished for so desperately weeks earlier. She turned her head and looked back at her mother, standing on the verandah with a hand to her mouth.

  The car turned the corner, out of the street, and stopped at a red light at the next intersection. The street corner was crowded with people, all of whom would never take a holiday to the coast, the mountains, or anywhere else. Some would never leave the suburb. Mrs Coleman leaned forward and peered out through the spotlessly clean front windscreen. Sissy watched her face. The woman appeared to be in shock. She pushed the button down on the driver’s side door, then turned to Sissy and ordered her to do the same.

  ‘Lock your door, dear,’ she said, her voice rising slightly.

  Sissy turned to lock her own door and spotted Betty standing on the street corner, staring at her.

  ‘Lock the door,’ Mrs Coleman repeated, her voice crackling like a poorly tuned radio station.

  As the light turned green Betty smiled at Sissy and nodded her head up and down. The car lurched forward, broke suddenly and stalled. An elderly man had walked in front of the car. Sissy grabbed the door handle and jumped from the car before Mrs Coleman realised what was happening. She bolted past Betty, screaming, ‘Come on, you slow coach. Run!’

  Betty had always been the faster runner of the two girls. She drew alongside her friend within a block. ‘Where we racing to, bub?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sissy gasped, ‘I’m just running.’

  ‘Come with me then, and hide.’

  Betty took off and Sissy followed. They didn’t stop until they reached the local football ground several streets away. Sissy followed Betty b
ehind the old grandstand at the far end of the oval. They crawled on their hands and knees into the darkness beneath the stand and gathered their breath.

  ‘You’re going to be in such big trouble,’ Betty said. ‘Sister Mary will kill you.’

  ‘She sure will. I don’t care.’

  ‘And your mum, she’ll probably kill you, too. After Sister Mary’s finished with you.’

  ‘No, she won’t. My mum didn’t want me to go on the holiday in the first place.’

  ‘You sure of that? I thought you said she was happy for you to go?’

  ‘She was only trying to be happy. It wasn’t working. You know them worry lines she has above her eyes? Well, they were bulging out of her head today. I’ve never seen them worse. It was a sign.’

  Betty grinned, as wide as a girl could.

  ‘Well, even if Sister does kill you, I’ll still be happy that you never went away in that car.’

  ‘The car! Oh bugger,’ Sissy said. ‘My case is in the boot. I’ll never get it back now.’

  ‘Did it have anything good in it?’

  ‘Yeah. My dresses and some books. And, hey! New undies and socks. I mean brand new underpants from The Junior Shop.’

  ‘New undies!’ Betty squealed. ‘I wish I had a pair of new undies, instead of wearing my mum’s bloomers.’

  ‘Me too,’ Sissy laughed. ‘But it’s too late now. And it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Betty asked.

  ‘Because I’m home, Betty. I’m home with you.’

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t go off with a strange lady.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘I did so.’

  Sissy climbed down, sat in the dirt and looked up at her friend.

  ‘Tell me the truth. Did your cousin, Valda, really disappear when she went on a holiday?’

  ‘Of course, she did.’ Betty jumped and landed next to Sissy. ‘She disappeared for a week. She ran away and showed up back on my auntie’s doorstep.’

  ‘You never told me that part of the story.’

  ‘No I didn’t. It was better to concentrate on the best part. That’s how stories work.’

  FRANK SLIM

  Viola fell for the boy at first sight, leaving her no choice but to care for him. Her brothel was orderly and maintained rules, and near the top of the list was that her girls couldn’t bring their kids into work. It was a decision governed by common sense. Viola had a solid relationship with the local police, one that didn’t come cheap. Every copper at the station, from senior detectives to young recruits on the beat, put a hand out to look the other way. Social Welfare was a different story entirely. They couldn’t be accommodated with either sex or money. Any evidence that a minor had frequented a brothel and the business would be threatened with closure. So, when Else Booth turned up at work one afternoon with a ten-year-old boy, Viola was ready to read the riot act to her. Else raised a hand in her defence.

  ‘I know the rules, Vee, no kids. I only need to leave him for a couple of hours. There’s an emergency I have to deal with tonight.’

  ‘Like what emergency?’ Viola asked, suspiciously. ‘You’re paid well here, Else. You have no excuse for working off the books.’

  ‘It’s nothing like that. This morning I got a call from one of my mum’s neighbours. She’s had a fall and has been taken to hospital. They’re keeping her in and I need to visit. Take in some soaps and a nightie for her.’

  The boy stood in the doorway, looking down at the wooden floor, listening to every word. He was slightly built, delicate even, and wore his dark hair long. The child could easily be mistaken for a girl.

  ‘How bad is she, your mother?’ Viola asked.

  ‘I won’t know until I see her.’

  The house cat, Easy, wandered into the kitchen, looked up at the boy and nestled at his feet. He kneeled and petted the cat.

  ‘Okay, you go then,’ Viola said, ‘but be back here by five o’clock to pick him up. I can’t have him around when the show kicks off.’

  Else said, ‘Thanks, Vee,’ and kissed Viola on the cheek. She walked over to the boy and asked him to stand up. She lifted his chin and whispered, ‘I’ll see you soon,’ before hugging him and leaving the house by the back gate. Soon after, Viola heard a car exit the laneway in a hurry. A woman driven by experience and intuition, Viola knew in that moment that Else would not be back at five o’clock, or anytime soon.

  Viola turned to the boy. ‘What do they call you, love?’

  He raised his head and said, ‘Gabriel’, in a whisper.

  Viola had not seen a more beautiful child. His cheeks were flushed rouge, he had long eyelashes and his deep brown eyes, seeped with sadness, reinforced a sense of innocence. Viola, a hard woman at the best of times, could not avoid touching him. She ran the back of her hand across his cheek and through his hair. ‘You must be hungry. Sit down and I’ll make you a sandwich and a cup of tea.’

  As the girls shuffled in for the evening shift, they were equally taken with the boy. More than one of them referred to him as a little angel, without knowing his name. That night he slept in Viola’s room, on the chaise longue in the bay window, beneath an expensive Persian blanket that one of her regular customers had given her as a gift. Although she hadn’t worked the floor for years, many of Viola’s favourites continued to visit. She would pour them a drink, sit and reminisce about the old days before sending the men upstairs with one of her girls, thirty years younger than the client, at a minimum.

  Gabriel sat and quietly ate breakfast at the table the following morning. The boy didn’t ask about his mother, not that day, the day after, or in the weeks that followed. Else’s name was rarely mentioned and no explanation for her disappearance was asked for or offered. Viola suspected that one of Else’s regulars had fallen for her and promised her something more than working nights in a brothel. Other girls had been swept off their feet in the same manner but such arrangements rarely included taking on responsibility for a child and were generally doomed to failure. Sometimes the proposed elopement was a ruse; the new boyfriend secretly intent on putting his lover to work. A pimp took a bigger slice of earnings than a brothel madame, was about as reliable as a cheap watch and easily roused to use his fists.

  Sitting across from the boy that morning, Viola realised she was about to break her own cardinal rule. Later that day she sent the house manager, Johnny Circio, out to buy a single bed and set it up in her room. Viola also handed Johnny a roll of notes. He was to take Gabriel into a department store in the city and get him a new wardrobe and a haircut.

  ‘Why this kid?’ Johnny asked, after returning to the house with shopping bags full of new clothes, shoes and underwear for the boy. ‘I thought you don’t like kids?’

  ‘Maybe I feel sorry for him?’ she answered casually, attempting to hide an immediate and deep affection for the boy she could hardly explain to herself.

  Johnny laughed. ‘Come on, Viola. You’ve never felt sorry for anyone in your life.’

  She didn’t like being challenged and put him in his place. ‘Mind your business, Johnny. I pay you to keep this house in order, not interrogate me. If you feel a need to behave like a copper, go get yourself a sheriff’s badge and a bad haircut.’

  ‘Take it easy, Vee. I’m only asking. He seems like a sweet kid.’

  Viola stood at the bay window, parted the velvet curtain and looked out to the street.

  ‘He is sweet. I don’t know how, growing up around Else. I’ve had more than fifty girls come through here and none of them have been as wild as her. He looks as innocent as a doe, and I want it to stay that way. Be sure he doesn’t go upstairs and keep him away from the side door, so he’s not running into customers. Or police coming by for the collect.’

  ‘So, I’m supposed to be a babysitter now?’

  ‘You’re what I pay you to be. I don’t want t
he dirt of this place rubbing off on him. By the way, I need you to get him into school. You can put him down the road with the nuns. Use your home address.’

  ‘The nuns? What if they find out he’s living here with you? They’ll kick him out.’

  ‘No they won’t. They’d only work harder on saving him. If we send him to one of the state schools and they find out he’s here, the head teacher will be on the phone to Welfare in a blink and he’ll be put straight in a Home. One quality I’ve always admired in the Micks; they never give up on a wayward soul. They’d have persevered with Hitler.’

  Viola enjoyed having the house to herself after breakfast time. The girls were gone by seven in the morning and the house was cleaned and empty by nine. She’d make herself a pot of tea and send Johnny off with the laundry and a shopping list, leaving her to sip her tea and read the newspaper. Johnny had enrolled Gabriel at the local Catholic school and while the boy was not overly familiar with learning, he seemed to enjoy the new experience of having a regular routine.

  One morning, soon after Viola had kissed Gabriel on the cheek and sent him off to school, she noticed his lunchbox on the kitchen table. A few minutes later she heard a noise at the side door and assumed he was returning home to fetch it. She got up from the table, walked into the hallway and looked across at the brass knob on the door. She watched as it was turned one way and then the other, followed by a loud knock.

  Viola opened the door. ‘Gabriel, what are you …’

  She looked into the dark eyes of Des Mahoney. He was a small-time criminal with a reputation for thieving from street prostitutes and backyard bookies, people with no place to turn when they’d been robbed. Mahoney hadn’t done any prison time, a clear indication that the man was also a police informant; any decent criminal avoided him. There were also rumours he had an attraction to younger girls. The stories alone were enough for Viola to despise him.

  ‘What do you want at my door?’ Viola asked, displaying as much hostility as she could muster. ‘We’re shut.’