by Joy Dettman
‘Now you’re dead,’ she said, and she walked away from him, walked out the door and into the clean air of night.
The fancy frame had come apart, the photograph fallen free to settle against the bucket Gertrude used for her kindling, to settle upright.
He was still smiling.
THE RADIO QUEST
Horses had had their day. Like it or not, a man was forced to move with the times. George Macdonald had moved with the times. He’d bought himself a 1935 Chrysler and a nice-looking car it was too, but he could no more control the bastard of a thing than he could his truck.
A man needed to get control of motors when he was young enough to learn new tricks. He needed to breed his sons when he was young enough to learn their tricks too. George was fifty the year those boys were born, and he had less control over them than he had over his Chrysler. He let them drive him around town for a week or two, taking turns behind the wheel, until the little bastards took off in his car one night and he had to put the copper onto them. They were picked up on the Willama bridge. He’d got his car back, little the worse for wear, but thereafter he’d kept it padlocked in his shed—until Maisy decided she wanted to go down to the talent quest.
She was twenty-odd years George’s junior. It took Harry Hall seven days to put her in control of that car. It took Denham half an hour to give her a licence to drive it. She hadn’t been out of the driver’s seat since.
Maisy had never gained control over the boys, but she knew how to thwart them. On the night of the quest, she filled up the rear seat of the Chrysler with daughters, which left no room for their sons. They watched her back out, watched her get the thing pointed in the right direction, then the little bastards jumped on the running boards and clung on. George did his best to knock one of them off. He tried to wind up his window. The girls did the same on their side while Maisy did her best to keep that car on the road.
‘I only booked seven seats,’ she yelled. ‘You won’t get into the hall. It was booked out three days ago.’
‘Watch the road,’ they warned, in unison, from either side of the car.
They rode the running boards all the way to Willama, but were shaken off when she braked hard to miss a dray at the first crossroads. They were last seen still a good mile from the theatre, one carrying a half-full wheat bag over his shoulder. George hoped they were leaving home again.
The Macdonald party arrived late at the hall. The usher guided them up two sets of stairs to the back row of the dress circle while the master of ceremonies introduced the Melbourne judges. One had sung with Melba—before she was Melba. The pianist who would be accompanying the singers this evening had played professionally in London.
The Hooper party, having booked early, had secured seating on the left side of the hall, three rows back from the stage. They’d booked for four, on the off chance that Margaret might get cold feet. There should have been a seat for Amber, but Margaret, shaking from head to foot, required that seat. Lorna, as was her habit, claimed her aisle seat, Margaret sat beside her. Norman offered his seat to Amber, but Jim had no desire to sit beside her. He said he’d sit down the back where seats were being saved for the contestants who wouldn’t be using them for a time. The contestants, on their arrival, had been ushered through a door to the right.
Twice Amber left her seat to find her daughter. She stood on Lorna’s foot the first time, was near tripped by it on the second occasion, but when she returned, Lorna was in her seat, Margaret in Norman’s and the aisle seat vacant. Amber sat, her head turning, eyes searching the exits for Cecelia, who she had to do something about. Norman had sat on those yards of green skirt and crushed the life out of it. The night was hot, the car crowded; they’d driven those thirty-nine miles with the car windows wide open. Cecelia’s hair had suffered. Amber’s attempt to remain with her daughter had been thwarted by a black-suited organiser. They had a possible thirty contestants to get through tonight, he’d said, and if one parent was allowed into the waiting area, the rest would want to be in there.
Amber’s skirt was crushed, as was Margaret’s. And that pretty little bitch standing in the foyer in her narrow skirt, fresh as a daisy, the lights glowing on her hair, glinting on the beads. Amber knew the tale of those beads, knew why she’d been named Amber. Knew her father had bought those beads. They belonged to Cecelia, not to that stray bitch. She’d wanted to snatch them from her throat.
And that great dumb beast of a man standing staring at her knees—couldn’t force his eyes higher. Hated him for what he’d done to Cecelia. Hated him. Couldn’t stand to sit at his side. Couldn’t breathe for the smell of him. And the crowd. She shouldn’t have come. Hadn’t wanted to come.
She’d taken a tablet before leaving home, and had brought one for Cecelia, wrapped in her handkerchief. Her own need was greater. Handbag opened silently, hand inside it, feeling out the lump of pill, easing it free of its folds. Sat a while then, her bag closed, her eyes fixed on the stage while the first contestant was introduced. She’d have to dry-swallow it. Couldn’t walk out now. Got it in her mouth, comfortingly bitter. Held it there while raising saliva enough to swallow. It stuck, and the taste was vile. Swallowed, swallowed again, while on stage a woman screeched.
Hours of this. Hours of sitting at his side. Hours and hours.
Amber swallowed and closed her eyes.
Number two was missing. The contestants had been given numbers when they’d arrived; they’d been offered glasses of cordial and told to sit along the sides of the room. A few sat. Most walked, smoked, talked. The room was thick with smoke and tension.
‘Number two, Wilma Saunders. Is Wilma Saunders here?’
Many eyes searched for Wilma Saunders, wanting her to be there, but Wilma must have suffered a bout of second thoughts and remained at home, so Barry Andrews, number three, would now go on at number two.
‘Grace Jones. Is Grace Jones here?’
Grace Jones was supposed to be number seven. Her number, with its yellow ribbon and small brass pin, waited unclaimed, along with number two, number nineteen, number twenty-six and number thirty—Margaret Hooper’s number.
Sissy’s frock had a belt. She’d slid the loop of her number over her belt. Jenny had no belt and no intention of poking pins into her borrowed frock. She wore the ribbon around her wrist. Sissy was sitting, Jenny standing beside her. She had to stand somewhere.
‘You should have seen the way Dad was looking at the length of that dress,’ Sissy said.
‘You should have seen the way Amber was looking at yours. Go and do something about it—and your hair. There are mirrors in the ladies’ room.’
‘Have you got a comb?’
Jenny displayed empty hands. ‘Someone in there will lend you one. You shouldn’t be sitting down either. Your skirt looks like you slept in it.’
‘At least I didn’t borrow it from a blackfella,’ Sissy said.
‘At least it’s not brown.’
‘It’s years out of fashion.’
They bickered. They always bickered now. The red-headed sisters Jenny had met in the bathroom weren’t bickering. They were standing in the corner practising, or at least mouthing the words in practice.
‘Is that her necklace?’ Sissy said.
Unaccustomed to adornment, Jenny’s hand kept fiddling with the beads at her throat. ‘It’s Granny’s,’ she said, dropping her hand to her side, then turning again to watch the red-headed sisters who had more in common than their red hair. They were the same size, they had similar faces, one older than the other, but dressed tonight in the same green, darker than Sissy’s green but uncrushed. They had a comb. They’d combed each other’s hair in the bathroom.
‘Do you want me to borrow their comb?’
‘It will probably have fleas in it.’
‘Fleas will look better than it looks now.’
‘Mum put one in her purse. She should have given it to me.’
Audience clapping, number four, now number three, waiting at the
door to go on, number five being rounded up.
‘They’ll be calling you soon,’ Jenny said.
‘I can’t do anything, can I!’ Fact. She was useless without Amber, paralysed by her parasite.
‘You can at least comb it!’
Jenny walked over to the red-headed girls. They lent her their comb and walked back with her, wanting to keep an eye on it.
‘Turn around—if you can stand me touching you,’ Jenny said.
Sissy turned around and Jenny did what she could, not out of sisterly love but face-saving and a form of pity—a bare smidgen—about as much as she might feel for a snarling dog, spoilt rotten by its owner then dumped out at the Duffys’ to fend for itself.
Amber’s fault. Up until yesterday, Norman had tried to talk Sissy out of reciting. He’d said that many concert performances were tolerated in Woody Creek because the performers were known to the community, but the Willama audience, having paid to be there, may not be as tolerant. He’d wasted his breath.
‘You ought to get it cut,’ she said, crossing two pins behind Sissy’s ear, holding the wind-straightened hair up, back. The other side wasn’t bad. She smoothed it with the comb, combed stray curls around her finger as she’d seen Amber do a hundred times. ‘Now stand up and slap your skirt down.’ They were clapping again, and calling for number six. ‘And wash that grease off your stocking.’
‘It’s from his stupid gearstick,’ Sissy said. ‘I was supposed to sit in the back with Margaret but you were there.’
They called for Sissy while she was washing the grease from her stocking. She came, looking more bored than nervous. Jenny watched her walk to the black-suited man, watched her take her place in line. The organisers were wasting no time. Someone now playing the piano on stage. It sounded good. The audience liked it.
Then Sissy disappeared from the doorway and Jenny stepped back, got her back to the wall, stood head down, playing with Granny’s beads and studying the toes of her borrowed shoes, knowing Norman would be sitting in the audience studying his own. Wished her name was Jenny Smith, Jenny Jones, Jenny anything. Didn’t want it to be Jenny Morrison. Cringed internally and closed her eyes when she heard Sissy begin, but that was worse. Her internal eye saw too clearly, saw her sister wandering the stage lonely as a cloud, saw her floating on high o’er vales and hills. Saw her shading of her eyes so she might not be blinded by a host of golden daffodils.
‘Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze . . .’
Saw them breeze in through the waiting area, the contestants making way for the two chunky little men, one wearing an ancient army uniform and cap, one wearing an enamel basin on his head and a khaki overcoat. They scattered the contestants grouped around the door as they ran on stage, one of the black-suited men disappearing with them. Then no more of ‘Daffodils’. The twins were singing of their aversion to daffodils to the tune of ‘The Bold Gendarmes’.
Jenny pushed her way to the stage door, caught a bare glimpse of Sissy’s crushed green, a twin holding an arm each, marching her backwards and forwards—or they were marching. She was struggling to get away.
‘We’ll run her in. We’ll run her in.
We’ll run her in. We’ll run her in.
We’ve had enough of daffodils.
We don’t like flowers, we’ll take no more, we’ll show her out the bloody door, we’ll show her what we do to dills.’
Sissy kicked one, got an arm free and swung at the head of the one wearing the basin. It flew, rolled off stage. The other twin dodged her swinging arm, improvising now, playing to the audience.
‘She’s dangerous and that’s no lie, but folk, we’re here to do
or die, and rid the earth of daffodils.’
They were performers. They’d always been performers. They could hold a tune too. The audience was a roar of laughter.
Sissy should have gone while the going was good, but the contestants had been told to exit from the other side, where they’d be met and shown to seats at the rear of the hall. She made her escape towards the waiting room door, where the organiser in black stood with the master of ceremonies and the pianist, all three laughing. She wailed, turned and ran back across the stage. The twins were taking their bows. The roar of applause became thunder, a few wits cheering her escape from custody, a few more yelling encouragement to the twins.
It took time to silence the laughter. A few were still tittering when the next contestant was introduced.
The twins came back to the waiting room, lit cigarettes and helped themselves to cordial. Jenny kept her distance, remaining with the group near the stage door, her back to them. They didn’t recognise her until a fifteen-year-old boy went on stage, until the listeners were cringing at his awful rendition of ‘Ramona’.
They grabbed her. ‘You’re under arrest for flaunting your kiddy tits,’ one said.
‘Do something worthwhile—arrest him,’ one of the redheaded sisters said, nodding towards the stage door.
‘You were so funny,’ the other one said. ‘We didn’t realise it was a comedy act when she walked on.’
‘Which was what made it so hilarious,’ they said in unison.
Jenny left them to their four-way chat. She found a seat between a woman who looked fifty and a man who looked eighty, safe from the twins there.
A tenor went on next. He was a big man with a big voice and as soon as he opened his mouth, everyone knew who would win the prize money. He was better than Caruso. He was followed by a soprano, then another piano player, who was followed by a tap dancer, then a boy soprano who wasn’t bad. The red-headed sisters went on after him, and the twins, having lost their first fans, left the waiting room.
The crowd of contestants had thinned and continued to thin. The fifty-year-old woman went on and a clarinet player gravitated to Jenny’s side. He offered her a cigarette. She considered accepting it. People said they were good for nerves. She was nervous.
‘My throat is too dry already,’ she said, and he went over to the table and poured her a glass of cordial. Maybe he thought she was older. He looked about thirty.
A mixed bunch, the tail-enders: a woman in her thirties; a boy who might have been eighteen, who played the trombone; a woman of Amber’s age; the old bloke, who looked eighty and was going deaf; the clarinet player; and a few who kept to themselves. The trombone player stopped and started twice. The audience gave him a clap for trying. The old bloke recited from ‘The Sentimental Bloke’. Jenny had never heard of it, it wasn’t Norman’s style of poetry, but she loved it and wanted more. Strange how three minutes can alter in length, she thought, and wondered if Sissy was sitting at the back of the hall, wondered if Amber was listening to how a recitation should sound.
Amber had never heard Jenny sing, or not on stage. The thought of her sitting out there was scary, like she could will her to freeze, will her voice to seize. But Miss Rose was somewhere out there. She’d come down with John McPherson and Miss Blunt. And Maisy and George and five of their girls were out there, and Mr and Mrs Cox and their son and daughter-in-law. Anyway, Amber was probably outside comforting Sissy.
Wouldn’t it be funny if Sissy and the twins got into the finals, she thought. The audience had loved them. What would Sissy do if she heard her name called?
But the judges wouldn’t pick a comedy act, not for the wireless. Singers or musicians would make up the finalists; that’s what most of the contestants said.
She drew a deep breath, held it long and wished those shoes would stop hurting. The right one felt as if it was cutting the ball of her foot in half, due to the cardboard innersole having split. She’d be pleased to get them off.
Her turn next. She stood, straightened her skirt. It felt as if it was sliding. Probably only its slippery lining that was sliding. Loved that dress, loved the colour and the beading. Another deep breath, straightened her shoulders, touched the amber necklace one more time for luck, then the black-suited man beckoned her forwa
rd as the applause died. And she walked on, in her borrowed dress, in her borrowed shoes, walked on, her head high. Easy to do. It felt so much lighter tonight.
‘Miss Jennifer Morrison, the golden girl with the golden voice,’ the master of ceremonies said, and the pianist, who had worked in London, played the introduction, which sounded much as Miss Rose played the introduction, if a bit more fancy.
Judges with their notepads in the front row. Amber sitting in the aisle seat, a couple of rows behind the judges. Jenny opened her mouth and sang.
THE AFTERMATH
The tenor won, the red-headed harmonising sisters came second and Jenny came third. She won five pounds, in an envelope with her name on it, which she held to her breast while the cameras flashed. When asked to hold it lower, she folded it, tucked it beneath her bra strap. It was her own money to spend on what she liked. And she liked that blue print dress, and she was going to buy it and leave it at Maisy’s, and she’d buy a pair of sandals that fitted, with heels, but smaller heels.
The clarinet player, who had also made the finals, shook her hand outside the hall. Jim shook her hand and told her she should have won. Margaret Hooper kissed her cheek, Miss Rose hugged her, Miss Blunt gave her a peck, and Maisy and Jessie Macdonald danced her up and down the footpath. Norman kept his distance, kept his silence. He agreed with Lorna that they should start for home.
They’d found Sissy leaning against the car bawling her eyes out. Amber knew she’d been crying since she’d run off stage. Jim and Jenny knew she’d been sitting at the rear of the hall with the other contestants, that she’d been sitting there when the finalists’ names were called. Jenny didn’t know what had happened after that, but Jim knew. She’d taken off from the hall.
