by Joan Lingard
‘Oh yes, here we are!’
Numerous entertainments, parties and dances, were organised for us and places were lit up at night, including the Town Hall, with banners welcoming the squadron.
There was a bit more about the young ladies of Auckland and their bobbed hair but Willa didn’t bother to read that out. As she was putting the letter back in its envelope she realised that there was a postcard inside. A picture postcard of a bare-footed, large black woman with fizzy hair and a headband, with her tongue sticking out. On the back Tommy had written: A Maori welcome.
Bunty and Pauline were much amused.
‘Isn’t that a scream?’ said Bunty.
Ina frowned at the picture, not knowing what to make of it. ‘It’s rather rude, if you ask me.’
‘Wouldn’t it be a laugh if we were all to go round Edinburgh sticking our tongues out at each other?’ said Bunty.
Pauline tried it but Ina was not amused.
‘I expect they’d find some of our customs funny too,’ said Willa.
‘Such as?’ demanded Bunty.
‘Winking.’
She put the postcard and letter in her handbag. Richard would be interested to hear about New Zealand. He was interested in the world outside Edinburgh. As for these three here, they thought anything they weren’t familiar with was a joke. At times they got on her nerves, Pauline especially. Willa would never put her out unless she had somewhere to go to but she resented losing the time and space she had had alone with Malcolm. The only time she had him to herself now was when she took him for a walk in his pram and even then Pauline often tagged along, preferring to do that than sit with Ina in the kitchen.
Willa picked up Malcolm, removed a piece of paper from his mouth, which caused him to yell in protest, and took him to the sink to wipe his mouth and hands.
‘He’s tired. I’m going to put him down for a sleep.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on him if you want to go to the library,’ said Ina.
‘I’m sure Willa won’t pass up that offer,’ said Bunty, turning her head to give Willa a wink.
Willa had told Richard not to go into Bunty’s shop as she would just wangle things out of him. She was a dab hand at it. Not that there was a great deal to wangle. When they did manage to meet they just went down to the secret garden and had a kiss and a cuddle. They only ever had about an hour together and part of that was spent drinking tea and talking about books and Tommy’s travels. Still, even that would be more than enough to light a fuse in Ina’s kitchen. Walking up the hill to meet Richard, Willa would be troubled by stirrings of guilt but when she opened the café door and saw his face the flutters in her stomach subsided and she went forward to meet him on a surge of happiness.
‘I’ve a wee job for you, Pauline, if you’d like it,’ said Bunty. ‘I’ll pay you. Not a fortune, mind, but something. Delivering the Evening News. My paper boy’s sick.’
‘Delivering papers?’ said Pauline and seeing Ina’s disapproving stare, added, ‘Oh, all right, Bunty.’
‘A friend of mine needs some cleaning done,’ Bunty went on. ‘There’s just herself in the house so it wouldn’t be a heavy job.’
‘Cleaning?’ said Pauline.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Ina.
‘You can come along with me now, Pauline,’ said Bunty. ‘The papers’ll be coming in soon and you can sort them.’
They were getting ready to go when the bell went.
‘Who in the name can that be?’ said Ina.
‘Might be Rudolph Valentino,’ said Bunty.
Pauline pretended to swoon.
The caller was Gerry, who had come with a parcel of meat.
‘I was right after all!’ declared Bunty.
‘Right about what?’
‘I said you were Valentino.’
He gave her an uneasy look.
‘But of course you’re not, are you?’ said Bunty with a smile.
‘I’ve brought you a steak and kidney, Ina. And some tripe and sausages.’
‘Thanks, Gerry.’ Ina took it from him. ‘That’s good of you. You never forget us. We haven’t seen you for a bit?’
‘Business is busy.’
‘Seems to be,’ said Bunty.
‘How’s Elma?’ asked Ina. ‘I thought she was looking rather peely-wally last time she was in.’
‘She had a wee stomach upset there for a bit but she seems to have got over it now. She’s going to a church social this afternoon, some sort of women’s do.’
‘That’s nice for her,’ said Bunty.
‘Anyone wanting a lift?’ asked Gerry.
‘I expect you could give Willa a hurl up to the library,’ said Bunty. ‘Save her a hike.’
Willa accepted since it would save her ten minutes at least, extra time that she could spend with Richard, but when they arrived at the library Gerry parked and switched off the engine. He was in a mood to talk.
‘How’s life treating you these days, Willa?’
She shrugged. ‘All right, on the whole. Malcolm’s doing well. That’s the most important thing.’
‘You must get fed up living with Ina though?’
‘I do at times, of course. But I’ve no choice.’
He sighed. ‘Aye, we don’t seem to have that much choice in life. Well, not after you get yourself set on a certain path. When you look back you can’t help asking yourself how you got into some things.’
She wondered if he was inviting her to ask questions which would then lead to him unburdening himself but she didn’t feel she could cope with his confidences on top of everything else.
‘You know, Willa, I’ve always felt you understood me more than anyone else in the family.’
She liked him and she wished for his sake that he could run off with Mrs Mooney and live happily ever after but then, even if he were free, Mrs Mooney wouldn’t want it. Bunty had said so.
‘Maybe we just have to enjoy what we can while we can,’ said Willa.
‘You’re right, love.’
It was easy to say these things, thought Willa, as she stepped out of the van, but less easy to carry them through.
She went into the library for two or three minutes to give Gerry time to drive away, then she came back out and hurried up to the High Street.
As she pushed open the café door her heart began to thump. A smile spread across his face as soon as he saw her. She felt such a rush of happiness that she wanted to laugh aloud. He came forward to take her hands and lead her to the table in the corner. Their table. Their café.
While they drank their tea she read Tommy’s letter to Richard. She sometimes wondered why she did this and had thought it was due partly to his being so interested in foreign parts, and partly because it kept Tommy’s name alive between them so that their relationship wouldn’t get too out of hand, for it should not, could not, must not.
‘I wouldn’t mind going to Australia and New Zealand,’ said Richard. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
Willa nodded.
‘I’d like to go to Australia and New Zealand with you,’ said Richard. ‘Make a new start. Away from everyone.’
From his mother and Tommy’s mother.
‘That can never be,’ said Willa sadly.
‘My mother says never say never. She says life is unpredictable.’
Perhaps he was hoping that Tommy would fall overboard and get eaten by a shark. Willa’s mouth twitched at the thought. Not that she would want that to happen. Of course not!
‘What are you smiling at?’ he asked.
‘I just like being here with you.’
‘Let’s go for a walk.’
Today, they did not go as far as Dunbar’s Close. He pulled her into Advocate’s Close, opposite St Giles Cathedral, unable to wait, and pressed her up against the wall.
‘Richard, Richard,’ she murmured when he lifted his mouth from hers. Tommy was no longer a presence between them. They were conscious only of each other and did not notice the occasional person pa
ssing up and down between the High Street and Cockburn Street. This was not a cul-de-sac like Dunbar’s Close and therefore less private.
Richard said he couldn’t bear being parted from her. ‘It’s driving me crazy. I want to be with you all the time.’
She wanted that too but did not dare say so. She had a child to think of.
They stayed so long in the close that when they went back to the library Willa did not have time to change her books. She ran downstairs to the ladies’ toilet to sluice her face with cold water while Richard waited upstairs, determined to walk her most of the way home. They walked closer than usual, their hands brushing from time to time, and then they would turn to each other and smile, like conspirators, and lovers.
Coming down Lauriston Place they met Richard’s mother emerging from her door.
Willa’s step faltered. Today, Mrs Fitzwilliam wore a different hat, a black straw with a white rose.
Richard took Willa’s arm and led her forward. ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘I’d like you to meet my friend. This is Willa whom I’ve told you about. Willa, this is my mother.’
His mother hesitated a moment, then she gave Willa a smile and extended her gloved hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. Is this the friend who has been reading Willa Cather, Richard?’
He said that it was. Willa put her naked hand into the white kid-gloved one. The leather felt smooth in her palm but there was no warmth in the grasp. Her hand was soon dropped.
‘How very nice. You like her books then, do you, dear?’
‘Yes,’ said Willa, wishing she could think of an intelligent remark to make to Richard’s mother about A Lost Lady, but could not. Her tongue felt as if it were stuck to the roof of her mouth. The smile the woman had given her had been polite, but, like the handshake, not friendly.
‘I’m on my way to Thin’s to buy one or two books,’ said Mrs Fitzwilliam. ‘Would you care to accompany me, Richard?’
Richard looked from his mother to Willa and back again.
‘I must be going,’ said Willa hurriedly. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she added to Richard’s mother, and walked off down the hill, trying to keep her head up and shoulders back, trying to look dignified.
~ 15 ~
Suva, Fiji,
South Pacific
25th May, 1924
Dear Willa,
Fiji consists of 844 islands and islets though only about 100 are inhabited. It became a British possession in 1874.
‘Is there any country that doesn’t belong to us?’ asked Ina.
‘Italy doesn’t,’ said Elma, sounding a bit snarky. Willa wondered if it was meant to be a dig at Ina’s late husband. She’d never liked him apparently. ‘It might be better for it if it did. Mrs Jolly who lives in the next stair to us was telling me it’s quite a backward country.’
‘Read on, Willa,’ said Ina.
‘You might be interested in our address of welcome which reads as follows (in translation): It is a precious thing to the chiefs and people of Fiji that Vice Admiral Sir Frederick Field and those under his command have arrived at Fiji in the great fleet which has anchored in the harbour of Suva. Today the natives give thanks to God for being permitted to see with their own eyes the great chief who has come from England on a world cruise to visit these islands that shelter under the protection of the British Flag. They are the shield and buckler that ensure freedom and the right to live in peace for those who inhabit the British possessions.’
‘Isn’t that nice?’ said Ina.
‘Nice to know they’re grateful,’ said Elma. ‘And that they’re giving thanks to God. We’ve been collecting clothes for African babies at church.’
‘I don’t think Fiji’s anywhere near Africa, is it, Willa?’ said Ina, with an element of snideness creeping into her voice now. ‘Show Elma on the globe.’
Elma gave the world a scant look and spoke to Willa. ‘So if you’ve anything of Malcolm’s going begging?’
‘By the time he’s done with his clothes they’re only fit for the rag-and-bone man, isn’t that right, Malkie?’ said his grandmother, beaming down upon him.
Hearing his name, he looked up. He was busy building and knocking down bricks with the alphabet printed in bright colours on their sides. Bricks were quieter than the pots and pans that he liked to haul out of the cupboard.
‘It’s no wonder, the way he gets to crawl all over the place,’ said Elma. ‘Would he not be better in a playpen?’
‘He likes being in amongst us,’ said Ina. ‘Don’t you, Malkie?’
‘He likes being the centre of attention, if you ask me.’
Like his father. Tommy had always had the family’s attention focused on him, being his mother’s only son and his aunts’ only nephew. Willa suspected he’d liked being the only child. But he could be kind, she would say that for him. She’d seen him helping an old lady up the step of the tram and he often carried up Mrs Begg’s messages. And, yes, he was good to his mother.
‘Nobody was asking you, Elma,’ said Ina.
Elma gave one of her sniffs for which she was famous, within the family, that was. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘It’ll be the nappy pail likely,’ said Ina cheerfully. ‘Malkie did a big one this morning, didn’t you, Malkie?’
The population is a mixture of Chinese, Indian, European and Fijian. The Fijian is a different type of native from any other in the world. His hair is thick and stands upright, about 7 inches deep, and is roundly and evenly trimmed in the way a garden hedge might be.
‘Wouldn’t fancy that,’ said Elma, patting the back of her hair, neatly ridged as usual. ‘By the way, a Chink came into the shop yesterday. He told Gerald he was doing something at the university.’ She didn’t sound convinced.
‘No reason why he shouldn’t,’ said Willa.
‘Well, I don’t know. They wouldn’t be able to read our writing, would they? Theirs is all funny squiggles.’
The Fijians are of fine physique, the women particularly. They dress in semi-European style but with no footgear or headgear. Their thin dresses are brilliant in colour.
Elma sniffed again, possibly at the mention of thin dresses. Thin, revealing dresses. Elma wore heavy corsets even in the month of June; you could see the whalebones lying underneath her blouse and skirt. She creaked when she leant to the side. Willa supposed that the Fijian women might not wear anything underneath their dresses, not when they lived in such a hot climate. It must be pleasant to wear light clothes and go bare-legged all year round. It would give you a feeling of lightness and freedom. Willa had given up wearing stockings for the summer months, though Ina did not approve. She thought married women should keep themselves covered from head to foot. She herself would never consider crossing the doorstep without her hat on, even in summer. One day they’d gone to Portobello on the tram and she’d sat on the beach crowned with her old brown felt hat, a feather sticking out the side.
The highlight of our stay was the native dancing. There was no music but a party sat on the grass chanting low monotonous songs. The attitudes in some of the dances seemed very comical to us but they might have been meant to be tragic for all we knew. Their brown bodies were blackened with some substance and dabbed spotted fashion with red which made them look like black- and redcurrant pudding.
‘Must look as if they’ve got the measles,’ said Ina. ‘I hope they didn’t.’ She cocked her head. ‘Is that the door?’
‘It’ll be Pauline,’ said Willa. She’d been given her own key.
‘Is she still living with you?’ asked Elma.
‘She’s got nowhere else to go,’ said Ina. ‘Her mother put her out because she lost her job.’
‘I heard different,’ said Elma in a low voice, but was interrupted by the arrival of Pauline into the kitchen.
‘Oh, hello there, Mrs McGill,’ she said to Elma. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ said Elma in her best pan-drop voice, primping her mouth. ‘Have you managed to find yourself other
employment yet, Pauline?’
‘I’m helping Bunty out in the shop.’
‘And she’s doing some cleaning for a friend of Bunty’s,’ put in Ina.
‘A Mrs Mooney,’ said Pauline.
‘A Mrs Who?’ Elma’s eyes bulged.
‘Mooney,’ repeated Pauline. ‘She’s great to work for. She’s a good laugh.’
‘I’m sure she is!’ Elma rose up from the chair, her back as stiff as a poker. ‘I’ve always known I couldn’t trust Bunty.’
She picked up her message bag and left without another word.
‘What did I say wrong?’ asked Pauline.
‘Well, you see,’ said Willa, ‘Gerry was kind of friendly with Mrs Mooney.’
‘You don’t mean she was his fancy woman?’
‘Maybe she still is,’ said Ina, looking at Willa, who shrugged.
‘Mrs Mooney’s in and out the shop a lot, mind,’ said Pauline. ‘She comes in for her Evening News and usually twenty Craven A. Sometimes Sobranie. But she says Craven A are good for her throat. Come to think of it, Mr McGill often seems to pop in at the same time.’
‘Pauline,’ said Ina, ‘not a word of this to anyone else!’
‘Of course not,’ said Pauline. ‘You can rely on me.’
‘I hope so. This is a family matter, you understand.’
‘Mrs Costello, I was wondering if you’d look after Malcolm while I take Willa out for a wee while this evening? I thought I’d like to treat her. Mrs Mooney’s just paid me.’
‘The two of you were out at the pictures a couple of nights ago.’
They’d had a great night out, of the kind they used to have before Willa married and Pauline had forgotten about Ernest for a few hours. They’d gone to a double bill at the St Andrew’s Square cinema to see Rudolph Valentino and Mae Murray in The Cabaret Girl and Pola Negri and Jack Holt in The Cheat. Coming out Pauline had said she could sit right through it all again. They’d walked home talking non-stop about Valentino.
