Two Generations

by Anne Connor

In the middle of the supper table sat a glass bowl of red punch with floating mint leaves. Bessie introduced him to Honor, Tilly and their friend Ralph Flowers. Jock said hello to the sisters and shook Ralph’s hand. ‘I’ve seen you at the mill.’

  ‘That’s right, mate; seen you too,’ replied Ralph. Ralph had red hair thinning on top and a face full of freckles. Jock noticed a gap between his front teeth and when he pronounced words with an ‘s’ he spoke with a slight whistle.

  Jock ladled punch into two cups and handed one to Bessie. ‘Any more dances free on your dance card?’

  ‘The band plays the foxtrot more than once during the evening,’ she said as she sipped punch. ‘And your name is next to that dance.’

  The foxtrot played four times that evening.

  The following Saturday night, when Jock met Bess outside the local picture theatre, the three sisters turned up together again.

  ‘Safety in numbers, eh?’

  ‘My father isn’t partial to me going out with boys. So my sisters and I cover for one another.’

  When the lights dimmed, plush red velvet curtains opened, bit by bit. Dust motes floated in a haze of blue smoke. Their arms touched. She wore a thin cardigan over her blue dress. He wore his white cotton shirt and woollen trousers.

  ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he whispered.

  Before too long he came back with a packet of Columbine caramels.

  ‘In case we get hungry,’ he said as he slipped the packet into her hand. He sat back in his seat. Their arms pressed against one another again.

  ‘Ta, love,’ she whispered into his ear.

  Her breath so close startled and excited him. In time, he realised the Newsreel had been playing and became aware of men on horseback and yappy dogs herding plump woolly sheep followed by teams of men loading Australian produce onto export ships. As Jock and Bess watched women on the screen use the very latest inventions – the electric iron, gas stove, refrigerator and washing machine – a male voice over with an exaggerated faux-British accent told the audience:

  The little ladies of the house are being spoilt with housework becoming easier and less time-consuming. This frees up time for entertainment and listening to the wireless. The fashions have changed, too. The little lady is now wearing light frocks with knee-length skirts and she’s even cut her hair short in the flapper-style. My, my, what will we see next? And it’s not just the fairer sex changing with the times. Men’s pipes have been replaced by cigarettes. And clean-shaven faces have replaced beards. My word, what will become of this?

  The couple sat through Charlie Chaplin’s The Little Tramp, with neither one of them able to focus on the storyline. Bessie’s presence and her perfume overwhelmed Jock. Her scent, fresh with hints of lavender and other aromas was unknown to him. Other than his sisters, he’d never been so near a girl before; it was thrilling. He was glad there was no talking allowed during the film, formulating words was a bridge too far. She’d laugh with the audience during the film, so he followed suit.

  Bessie was grateful the audience found the film funny and followed their cues when to laugh. Cottonwool filled her head and the more she tried to ignore Jock’s arm touching hers, the stronger her awareness. She was glad it was dark as she knew her face had flushed and hoped nervous pink blotches hadn’t appeared on her neck.

  When the film finished, they waited until the cinema emptied then made their way to meet Honor and Tilly. They walked along Latrobe Terrace with the two sisters in front talking and laughing. Tilly was the loudest and the most animated. As she spoke, she threw her arms around and her laugh travelled from one end of the street to the other. Honor put her hand over her sister’s mouth. ‘Tilly be quiet, it’s late.’

  Bessie and Jock dawdled behind, chatting.

  ‘Why did you move off the farm?’ Jock asked.

  ‘It started to get too hard for Dad, and Mum too. He found work at the Ford factory on the floor. A regular income working from seven in the morning to four in the arvo is easier than life on the land.’

  ‘Do you miss the farm?’

  ‘I miss riding my horse. His foot went into a pothole when I was riding him a few months before we left and he broke his leg. Dad had to shoot him. It was the saddest day of my life.’

  Jock looked across when he recognised the quiver in her voice.

  They turned into Clarence Street and Bessie said, ‘My house is just up the road. You’ll have to turn back. My father will be cross if he knows I walked home with a boy.’

  ‘Aye, are you going to the dance next Saturday?’

  ‘I don’t know. Tata now.’

  Bessie caught up to her sisters and linked arms. Jock watched as the three ran together laughing and whispering, before turning into an open gate.

  Jock’s room at the boarding house was small, neat and comfortable. It had a single bed with a wooden bedhead, a bedside table with a porcelain jug and basin for washing, a wardrobe, chest of drawers, small writing table and a window facing the street.

  He sat at the wooden table and opened his diary.

  1 JUNE 1929

  I’ve met the girl I am going to marry. Her name is Bessie Brown and she is beautiful.

  He closed the book, undressed to his singlet and underpants, spread out on the bed with his hands behind his head, smiling from ear-to-ear.

  This is good, he thought. This is good.

  Jock filled his days with riding his bike to the mill, reading at the library, playing cricket or tennis, taking Bess to dances or the pictures. Hand in hand, they’d walk along the foreshore at Eastern Beach. Honor, Tilly and their latest beaus often joined them.

  He took swimming lessons and people told him he was barmy when one day in July he stripped to his bathing trunks and went for a dip. It was a warm day – as mild as many of the summers he had known in England.

  But the heady days of the 1920s were coming to an abrupt end. Australia’s dependence on agricultural and industrial exports meant it was one of the countries hardest hit by America’s Wall Street Crash in October 1929. Falling export demand and commodity prices placed a massive downward pressure on the economy. The woollen mills kept their doors open but were forced to cut staff. Jock kept his job but his shifts were shortened. He had just enough to live on and a few letters posted home were empty of pound notes. The basic wage was reduced by ten per cent, government funding was cut and unemployment increased.

  On his way to work each day, he rode past a kiosk selling newspapers, magazines, cigarettes and sweets. He’d scan the broadsheet’s headlines behind the wire frame leaning against the booth’s wall. One day, a crowd had gathered in front of the kiosk hindering his view. He jumped off his bike, propped it against the lamppost and moved towards the front of the throng. In large print, the day’s headline read GREAT DEPRESSION HITS AUSTRALIA.

  Bess and Jock courted during one of the toughest times in Australia’s history. By 1932, around sixty thousand women, men and children took to the road for survival. Families walked the dusty roads of rural Australia knocking on strangers’ doors, begging for stale bread, a cup of soup, food scraps of any kind. One in five men had lost his job and unemployment peaked at around thirty per cent. Without work and a steady income, families lost their homes and were forced to live in makeshift dwellings of corrugated iron and hessian bags with dirt floors, inadequate heating and no sanitation. Many were forced onto the streets to stand in line at soup kitchens or beg for food.

  They didn’t have much but were better off than many. While living frugal lives, Jock and Bess still found ways to enjoy themselves. The group often played tennis followed by a picnic lunch on the foreshore. On one such day, the sisters had spread out a blanket under a Norfolk Island pine. Tilly was dolled up as she had invited a new boy to join them. She had wrapped a red scarf around her head and wore a checked blouse tied in a knot at her waist, white shorts and sandshoes.

  ‘Lunch won’t be long,’ Tilly said. She had made jam sandwiches from a tin Mary had found at the bac
k of the cupboard and homemade bread. Honor was laying out the plates and serviettes. Bess had picked figs from their tree and placed them in a china bowl on the tablecloth.

  ‘Just waiting for a friend,’ Tilly said, peering along the path.

  Ralph and Jock sat on a bench a few yards away. ‘Tilly’s sweet on a new bloke,’ said Ralph. ‘And I’m sweet on Honor but she doesn’t know I’m alive. I get so tongue-tied when I’m with her,’ he said, peeling dried paint from the back of the seat. ‘She’s the quietest of the three and I’m not sure whether that’s because she’s shy or just not interested.’

  ‘Have you asked her what she thinks of you, lad?’ asked Jock.

  ‘Crikey no, couldn’t do that,’ said Ralph. ‘How are you and Bess getting on?’

  Jock shrugged. ‘Not sure. It seems good when we’re together. But she hasn’t invited me home to meet her parents yet. So I’m not sure whether she’s as keen as me. Don’t know what I should make of it.’

  ‘Old man Brown is a bit of a tyrant – Irish,’ said Ralph. ‘And you know how much the Irish dislike the English.’

  Jock swung around to face him. ‘I am Irish! The Connors moved over from County Cork in the potato famine.’

  ‘Does Bess know?’

  Mary, Bess, Honor and Tilly squashed onto a worn couch; Frank and Jock sat on the other. Tom tuned the wireless to the station and turned up the volume. The radio was Tom’s pride and joy and visitors were often ushered into the lounge room to listen. ‘News will be on shortly,’ he said as he stood by the mantelpiece, rocking back and forth with both hands in his pockets jingling small change.

  The sound of ABC presenter Margaret Doyle’s cultured tones hushed the group:

  The Depression has created solidarity amongst the working class and Australians pull together in times of need. A familiar sight today is the swagman; jobless and on foot, he tries his luck in farming areas. He carries his world on his back. You usually hear him before you see him with battered saucepans and frying pans tied to his swag. If a man goes fishing, he shares his catch with his neighbours. Mothers make the most of what they have. Children have been seen walking to school barefoot in clothes made out of hessian sugar bags and underwear made from calico flour bags. It is not uncommon to see Sydney Flour stamped in red on small bottoms.

  When the news finished, Tom switched off the wireless and left the room. One by one, the others followed, leaving Bess and Jock together. ‘That wasn’t too hard, was it?’ Bess asked as she moved next to him. She smiled and took his hand.

  Before Jock answered Tom called out from the kitchen, ‘And you better be on your way too now, Jock.’

  That night Jock’s diary reflected the times.

  2 JULY 1932

  It’s been three years since I met Bess and today was the first time I met her parents. Mrs Brown is quite grand. I don’t know about Mr Brown. I’d like to ask the old man for permission to marry Bess, but I’m not sure what he thinks of me. I should ask Bess first I suppose. Not sure whether she’d have me. Got nothing to offer. Worried I might lose my job at the mill. Don’t know why I still have a job. Single men are the first to be sacked. I’m doing the work of two men. Operating the double lot of looms keeps me on my toes alright. Don’t stop from when I first step on the floor until I clock off. Not complaining. Told the boss I’d do anything to keep the mill going. If I get marching orders I will be on the street, too. Other than the bit I have saved, I have nothing here to fall back on.

  Bess hadn’t seen it coming.

  Jock had asked her to go for a walk by the foreshore one Sunday afternoon. On that day, he was distracted, lost in thought and not his usual chatty self. It was spring and a fresh cool breeze fanned their faces as they walked arm in arm along Eastern Beach. They veered off the path to the park. Warmer weather had brought people out from their winter hibernation. A family walked in front of the couple and a small child ran ahead of her parents holding the end of a long piece of string attached to a kite. Bess watched as the red, blue and yellow fabric dipped and rose in the sky. As they approached the rotunda, she noticed daffodils beginning to sprout at the bottom of the steps. She was put off by Jock’s silence. It was new. She had only ever known him to be talkative.

  Bess was pleased she had worn her coat. The sea breeze had a bite to it. Inside the shelter, out of the wind, she took off her jacket, folded it inside out and placed it on the bench, making a cushion for the pair of them to sit on in their favourite spot with a view of the trees. ‘You’ve been very quiet today, love,’ she said.

  ‘I am, Bess. I have something on my mind. I don’t know how to tell you.’

  She thought the worst. He’s never stuck for words. Here it comes. He wants to finish with me. I know, he’s made his mind up to return to England and he doesn’t know how to tell me. Why didn’t he just write me a letter and let me keep my pride?

  Jock first saw it by accident.

  He was riding along Malop Street when he lost traction. He knew it was a puncture and moved onto the pavement to patch the inner tube. He tilted his bicycle against the window of Johnsons the Jewellers. And there it was. A thin gold band with a small chip of a diamond perched on top. He put a deposit on the ring the following week and made instalments every pay.

  Jock’s uncustomary silence caused Bess’ chest to tighten. She wanted to run away, as she thought the worst. He began to speak when two small boys raced up the stairs into the rotunda then ran out the other side. She wanted to cry but was too proud. Why did he ask me to go for a walk just to leave me embarrassed? How will I tell everyone? No boy is going to toss me aside. She noticed sweat on his brow. If anyone does the tossing, it will be me. She took a deep breath, swallowed hard and said, ‘Jock I think we should stop seeing one another.’

  He stood and walked away from her, then turned. ‘You think we should what?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand, why? What have I done? Are you daft? Is this what you want, really – to stop seeing one another?’

  ‘I thought that’s what you wanted,’ Bess said as she dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘That’s why you’ve been so quiet, you wanted to finish with me, or you were going back to England and you didn’t know how to tell me.’

  Jock knelt on one knee, took a small blue box out of his suit-coat pocket and flipped open the top lid.

  Mum told me she was attracted to Dad because he was a good man. He didn’t drink or gamble. I trust there was more to it than that, but she never spoke of it. I didn’t ask Dad why he was attracted to Mum. It wasn’t something you did in our family. My guess it was because she was beautiful, funny and warm. His diary entries show he was well and truly smitten.

  There is a black-and-white photograph of Bess and Jock around the time they announced their engagement. Bess must have been twenty-six and Jock twenty-nine. They are standing side-on. Bess is in front of Jock and he has his arms around her waist. Her hands are on top of his. Her thick dark curly hair is cut in the fashionable flapper-style. She is pencil-thin and wore a calf-length linen tennis skirt, a sleeveless knitted cardigan over a plain linen shirt, socks and tennis shoes. She is leaning back on Jock. Her attention is taken by something outside of the photograph.

  Jock’s hair is thick, curly and black. It is cut short at the back and sides and left longer on top, causing the curls to flop either side of the middle part. He’s smiling at the camera and wearing a pale shirt tucked into baggy shorts, tennis socks and shoes.

  They were married on a hot, windy Saturday in February 1934. Bess borrowed a wedding dress and veil and Jock borrowed a suit. Honor and Tilly were bridesmaids. Ralph was Jock’s best man and Frank his groomsman. Guests attended the church and after the ceremony, afternoon tea was served at the Brown’s house. The newlyweds then caught a bus to the seaside where they booked into the Queenscliff Hotel for two nights. On their return, they rented a small one-bedroom cottage in Anne Street, not far from the Brown’s family home. Without much furniture, Bess did her best by decorating i
t with crockery, vases, pictures, and doilies they received as wedding presents.

  Jock wrote to his mother with his good news on flimsy airmail writing paper, folded it in thirds then placed the letter in a pale blue envelope with PAR AVION written in the left-hand corner. Three months later, he received a wedding card from his family. It had been sent by ship.

  As the economy recovered, the country relied on exports to crawl out of the Depression, Jock’s hours at the mill improved and Bess found part-time work as a housekeeper, cleaning and cooking in Mrs Roger’s boarding house in south Geelong.

  Bess was beginning to show when it happened. Cramps caused her to double over as she hung out washing at the boarding house. She struggled into the kitchen, sat on the nearest chair then noticed blood trickling down her legs. Mrs Rogers called for a taxi to take her to the hospital.

  It was the first of three miscarriages. Bess learned to read the signs of her body and knew when the small creature inside her was slipping away from the safe harbour of her womb. With the fourth pregnancy, dread mingled with joy. Not again. She didn’t visit the doctor, told no-one and tried to put it out of her mind. Within weeks her frocks strained around her middle and loose aprons no longer covered her bulge. She wanted to be happy and to tell her husband but wasn’t brave enough to put a name to her pregnancy. If she spoke it out loud, something dreadful might happen. Motherhood would be out of reach again.

  Jock was at cricket practice and she knew he’d be home late. In front of the mirror, she undid her dress, letting it balloon onto the ground around her. She stood in her stockinged feet and petticoat, turned side-on and rubbed her hand around her belly. She wasn’t aware of Jock standing in the doorway watching her talk to their unborn child.

  Mum told me this story in her later years. At one stage, she paused then smiled at me. ‘Your father had said, “My God, you are gorgeous.”’

  Bess blossomed during pregnancy. She still carried out light duties at the boarding house: dusting, setting the table and cooking light meals. Tilly and Honor knitted matching bootees, bonnets and matinee jackets in white and cream. Mary made a patchwork quilt for the cot out of discarded clothes and Tom spruced up an old pram handed on from one of their neighbours.