‘Oh, aren’t you lucky, PS.’
‘Goodness, what a lucky boy.’
‘What a treat!’
‘Your Aunt Vanessa is coming.’
Vanessa was coming all the way from England back to Australia and she was coming on a piano boat.
‘Why is she coming on a piano?’ he asked, and they laughed, rocked back and forth on their chairs, forgetting to be worried, and said:
‘No, darling. No, pet—not a piano. P and O. That’s the kind of ship it is—a P and O ship.’
But he couldn’t get out of his mind a picture of Vanessa lashed with ropes to a grand piano that was breasting its way through giant green waves and foam. It was not unlike a picture in a book called The Little Castaways, in which the evil captain who had set the children adrift came to a bad end by drowning. Perhaps Vanessa would drown too. Like that little boy at Balmoral Beach when they had hurried him away saying, ‘Quick, quick, run after the ice-cream man and get a big sixpenny cone.’ He had asked Lila if Vanessa would drown on the way from England, but she had put down his porridge plate and said in a cross voice, ‘Of course not. What a terrible thing to say, PS.’ Then she had explained that it was one of the great big boats they often saw going up the harbour and out the Heads to sea.
Now, turning again in bed, he wished that Mrs Grindel would go home; that the whispering would stop. He thought of calling out that the mattress was lumpy and that he was hot and thirsty, but now they were speaking the other bad word—‘Logan’.
Lila said, ‘Shhh, was that him?’ and they listened for a moment, inclining their heads towards the hallway, hearing only the slight breeze that came from the open front door.
She wished now that she had not left it open. The house was no cooler and the light, streaming from the hall, had only served to attract Mrs Grindel, who nightly wrapped stale scones in a serviette and fluttered up and down their street like a huge moth seeking lamps and company.
Lila sat down again at the kitchen table, took a mouthful of dry scone and said, ‘Mmmmmm, nice.’
Mrs Grindel said, ‘You look terrible, Mrs Baines. You look dead, dear. You ought to be in bed with that asthma of yours.’
Lila said, ‘No,’ and thought, Yes, I am bone tired. I feel every one of my forty-one years and I wish you’d go home. But I asked you to stay and have another piece of fruitcake because I want to talk. Talking helps and in spite of the fact that you eat cake rudely with your mouth open and you are what my mother would have described as ‘not our class’, you are a mother yourself and a hard-working good woman. George is tired too and I’m selfish keeping him up. But then George has been tired for years. Tired and quiet from disappointment.
‘Have another piece of fruitcake,’ she said. ‘It will only go stale.’
Mrs Grindel said, ‘Well, good-oh, dear, if it will save you throwing it out.’
Lila cut another slab of cake. For a moment she could not remember what the new trouble was. Then it clicked back into her mind like a pitiless white electric light.
‘Vanessa,’ she said, picking up the theme, ‘was born without the long Scott chin and so she was the beauty of the family. We used to say, “Vanessa got the looks. Sinden got the talent. Vere got the voice. Agnes got religion and Lila got George.” ’
She smiled at her husband. I love you, she said silently, but he merely looked surprised. She thought, I mustn’t slide back down the years or we’ll be here all night.
‘After Pater died—’
‘Who was Peter, dear?’
‘Not Peter. Pater. My father. After my father died, my mother’s rich cousin, Ettie Bult, came and saw what a state we were in and said to my mother, “I’ll take one of the girls off your hands.” We all knew it would be Vanessa. We said, “It’ll be Ness, you watch,” and it was. It was as though she’d been getting ready for it for years. She used to wear little white cotton gloves even to go to the greengrocer. She said it was the mark of a lady, and she had some calling cards printed “Vanessa Scott”, which made us all laugh very much, seeing that she never went anywhere; we were much too poor to go anywhere except to visit old sick people in my father’s parish. But Ness didn’t care. She kept the cards in a little ivory box with her white gloves. She wanted to be ready, she told us, and she was. So Vanessa went to England as companion to Cousin Ettie Bult and they had a big house in London with maids galore and a chauffeur and travelled all over the place to Paris and Rome and so on—’
‘Catch me,’ said Mrs Grindel.
‘What?’ asked Lila, not wanting an interruption.
‘You wouldn’t catch me! Me, I like my own backyard. I’m a real dinky-dye Aussie. You wouldn’t catch me deserting my own country.’
‘We used to get’ Lila went on, laughing a little, but raising her voice a fraction to silence any further irrelevancy, ‘gifts from her wherever she went. Once we got a box of dates and figs from Egypt! And when Mater—when my mother was having her last long illness, Vanessa sent two silk nightgowns from Paris. What we needed was sheets! Sheets, pillowcases, towels—the rent. Mater was living with us by then and George was out of work at the time.’
George said, ‘All right, all right, you don’t like her,’ and Lila waited respectfully, holding open the door of the conversation for him to enter, but, as usual, he let her go on alone. (And to think that once you never could shut him up.)
‘Oh, I do like Ness. But we were never close, even as girls; I never understood her. It’s not the same thing. And believe me, believe me, I’ve never resented her having the opportunities—although I would have liked to see Paris just once.’
‘Not me!’ Mrs Grindel shovelled a fat piece of cake into her hippopotamus mouth. Wouldn’t catch me, dear.’
‘It’s only that it all came so easily to Vanessa. She’s never had to struggle for anything. Fancy never having to worry about money your whole life and getting paid every week for not having to worry about it. What I’m saying is Ness has had a great deal so why does she want PS?’
‘Part time,’ said George, unlacing his boots. ‘Part time is—’
‘Is what?’ asked Lila, having waited long enough.
‘All she wants.’
Lila said, ‘His home is with us. A child doesn’t need two homes. Do you mean you approve?’
George looked beyond her, one boot in hand, beyond the situation, out of the window and was gone again.
‘I’m his legal guardian. He doesn’t need two guardians and if Sinden knew it was going to be Vanessa she’d die.’ Lila gave a little laugh, thinking of Sinden already dead.
‘She would,’ agreed Mrs Grindel, ‘poor little dear. I remember when she was stopping with you here. Nothing stuck-up about Sinden. She’d come over the fence and into my kitchen and sit there in those little-boy’s togs of hers like it was Government House. “Oh, Mrs Grindel,” she’d say, “you and your lovely scones. Can I have another?” “Eat all you want, love,” I’d say. “You’re eating for two now, remember.” “Three or four, judging by my size,” she’d say, and laugh. Oh, she’d cheer you up no matter how lousy she felt herself and I often caught her lookin’ sad and I’d say, “Haven’t you heard from him, love? No letter yet?” Next minute she’d be on a chair doin’ an imitation of Queen Mary with my tea cosy on her head. She’d talk about her writin’ and all that stuff, just as if I understood all about it, nothing put-on or posh about her. “I’ll put you in a book one day, Mrs Grindel,” she said, and I said, “Ta, love.” She’d come over while I was feeding Winnie and ask me, “Is it wonderful to feed a baby? How do you do it?” “You’ve got this far, love,” I’d say, “nature will provide the rest, don’t you worry.” I can’t see her doin’ cartwheels over some foreigner gettin’ her paws on PS.’
‘Oh, Vanessa’s not a foreigner.’
‘She’s not here, is she?’ Mrs Grindel swept crumbs from the tablecloth with her chipped-beef hands. ‘What’s the lawyer got to say, dear?’
‘He’s looking over the deed of d
isposal.’
‘What’s that?’
Lila’s tired mind went reeling back to the interview with Sam Hamilton a week ago in that hot, stuffy office; the endless confusion of legal jargon—deeds of guardianship of ‘said infant’, deeds of disposal, of rights and privileges so difficult to understand (and not keep Sam too long; after all, we’re not paying him)—when the head and heart are beating with unidentifiable fear and the feet are throbbing in tight cheap shoes.
Lila passed her hand over her face, brushing away invisible microscopic spiders that were creeping into her hair. She looked at George, almost asleep.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Vanessa is the one with the legal mind. Logan made the deed of appointment when Sinden died.’
‘Logan!’
‘Shhhh. Was that him? Did he call out?’
‘Logan!’
‘Shhh, yes.’
‘Why didn’t he take PS himself?’
‘He couldn’t. No job, no proper home—’
‘Drunk as a tick.’
‘Well, but—’
‘Bastard, if you ask me.’
‘Well, she loved him,’ said Lila, hearing Sinden say that day at the Carlton Hotel, ‘How could you not marry a man like that?’
‘Logan shouldn’t have a say. I don’t care what the court says or any bloody lawyer in the land.’
‘A father—’
‘Only in one way, if you ask me.’ Mrs Grindel licked her finger and picked up cake crumbs.
(Why did I bring this up? She’s never going home; she’s eyeing the cake again.)
So Lila said, to wind it up, get George to bed, ‘Well, anyway, it looks as if we’ll have to give in. Logan’s given Vanessa permission to have PS part time.’
‘He’s in with her then.’
‘They knew each other slightly years ago, before he married Sinden.’
‘Where’s he now?’
‘The last word we had was a postcard about two years ago from some wild mining place up north. All it said was, “Good luck”.’ Lila picked up her atomiser and squeezed.
Mrs Grindel said, ‘I’d good-luck him in the well-known you-know-what. How can he do this, eh?’
(No, I’m not going into it all now. I’d have to explain all about Ernest Huxley and she’ll never go all night.)
Lila said, rising with dishes, ‘Logan is PS’s father—’
The kitchen clock whirred, announced some muffled hour. She looked at George, asleep now; at Mrs Grindel, a huge rag doll in that awful print dress with a design of watermelons. (No earthly use going over and over it. But my mind is reeling and I won’t sleep for hours yet. Why not? Why not explain all about Ernest Huxley and what happened? What’s a couple of hours?)
She heard herself say:
‘Why not just finish up the cake?’
‘Well, all right, dear, if it will save you throwing it out.’
Hearing George’s slow, regular breathing in the dark, hardly any different in sleep from when he was awake and walking around, she eased herself gently out of the bed and felt under it for the cardboard hatbox. (‘Saw this in the Rue de la Paix, Lila, and thought it might amuse you. Love, Vanessa.’) She carried the hatbox into the kitchen, snapped on the cold white light, and reaching for her glasses, untied the worn green ribbon.
The box was filled with letters, all in the same uneven handwriting, mostly in pencil. She searched for the one she wanted and read, inhaling the letter like oxygen, hearing Sinden’s quick, bright voice underlining the date three times. ‘October 28th, but do I have the right year? Wasn’t my child due in 1927?’ And beneath that, the address, ‘Bedrock, otherwise known as The Laurels Private Hospital, Neutral Bay. Lila, you dear. Glad you didn’t try to come today as I’ll sleep early tonight. Nothing doing, old kid, but sunshine and blue butterflies outside and the big white screen inside. Doctor just looked in and said, “Hey, you, when are the pains going to start?” I suggested TNT. The amount of oil they’re giving me, you’d think I was a piece of machinery! The artillery is still rumbling, but the infantry is very silent. Vere came yesterday (out of visiting hours and Matron was rather hostile), brought me a box of razberry tarts and borrowed a pound! I dare not let myself think of the depleted bank account—though what depresses me more is that I shall have to drop the new book for a while and hack or take a job (if my reluctant babe will ever let me get back to work). Oh, Lila, if only Marmon had sold instead of getting good reviews. The critics won’t pay my bills. Logan writes from someplace called Jacob’s Ladder, full of dreams and love and assurances that they will strike gold any day now and that there will be a mansion for me and the babe that will make Vanessa jade green with envy. What a husband he would be if only he could make it pay! I could go to Pony Wardrop for a while when I get out of here, but her chaos of living would flatten me. I think yearningly of your little haven and Mrs Grindel’s scones.’
Lila turned a page and here the voice seemed to grow suddenly confidential:
‘Lila, don’t tell Vere or Agnes, please, but this damn kidney thing worries me. I’m scared and admit it to you. If anything should go wrong, will you and George take the babe? Logan will be lost in the blue and except for Ernest, you are the only ones I could trust to look after my “PS”, for that’s what he’ll be— a postscript to my ridiculous life. Sinden.’
Lila folded the letter and the night silence returned thick around her. She replaced it carefully in the hatbox and retied the ribbon.
She snapped off the kitchen light and crossed the hallway to the small bedroom, wincing at the squeak made by the door. Greyish light was beginning to lap at the windows. She looked down at the small bed; saw him stretched diagonally across it, one foot thrust angrily from under the sheet in a corresponding line with his left arm struck out urgently towards the window, already reaching out for tomorrow.
She replaced the foot under the sheet, tucking in and around, then lifted him, turning the pillow to the cool other side, and laid him down, protesting her intrusion and turning immediately from her and back to the nestling secret of whatever dreaming held him between night and morning.
Lila smoothed the sheet, lightly as air touching it.
‘Don’t worry, PS,’ she said, reassuring herself.
Vere said, ‘Now watch, PS, while we do a funny thing.’ And he giggled because everything Vere did was funny; she always did a funny thing the first moment she saw him, even if they were on the street; no matter where they were or how many people were looking, she would do a pretend game of not seeing him or screaming and rushing away from him, swearing that he was a wild, dangerous tiger let loose from the zoo. He knew that Vere would, if he wanted it, throw herself in front of a tram to make him laugh.
Now she took a pot from the popping gas ring on her little marble-top washstand and filled the wash-basin with hot water. Then she danced across the room and picked up a dusty, scratched gramophone record from where a whole stack of them stood, falling sideways.
She said, ‘Now watch what we do with Paul Whiteman.’
She dropped Paul Whiteman into the hot water. It was very funny, one of her best funnies in a long while, so he laughed very much, but was curious also and said, still gurgling, ‘Vere, why are you washing the gramophone records?’
‘Wait and see,’ she said. ‘In a minute it will go all soft.’
‘Why do you want it to go all soft?’
‘Because then we can bend it into any shape we want. This one is going to be a vase.’
‘A vase!’
‘Yes, a lovely vase to put flowers in; once it’s hardened we’ll paint it gorgeous bright colours.’
Vases out of gramophone records. Oh, Vere was marvellous, really marvellous. Lila never thought of doing funnies like this; Lila was so very, very usual, but Vere was full of surprises (she called them ‘s’prizes’, but he didn’t correct her). Now he edged forward and stood on tiptoe looking down at the submerged record.
‘Vere?’
‘Wha
t, treasure?’
‘What’ll you do about the little hole in the middle?’
‘Oh, you bright-as-a-button thing,’ she screamed, hugging him. ‘We’ll cover it with a little dab of red sealing wax. Where’s my cigarette? Oh, there on the clock. Reach for it, sweetness, thank you. Now look, we can make anything we want, little hairpin trays, ashtrays, bottles and soap dishes.’
‘All out of gramophone records?’
‘Yes, now watch.’
She plucked the record out of the water and sure enough it was as limp as a wet straw hat.
Working quickly with her hands, dropping cigarette ash down her front, Vere twisted the limp record into twirls and curves and stood it up. Lo and behold, it was a vase for little flowers like pansies.
‘There, pet. Now we let it harden.’
‘When they’re all finished, can we give them away as surprises?’
‘No, these are not for s’prizes, dearest thing.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Vere sells them to Mr Jacoby at the little shop on the corner and he gives me five bob for each.’
A fortune. ‘Each?’
‘Yes, the rat.’
‘But why do you want to sell them, Vere?’
‘Because that’s what Vere is doing at the moment, pet. Making vases out of gramophone records!’
She whirled on him, picking him up and swinging him around and saying, ‘I’ve got gorgeous milk and a piece of chocolate cake for you, but first I think I’ll eat you up, eatyouup, eatyouup!’
She made ravenous noises, kissing him all over his face and neck until he wriggled, trying delightedly to escape.
They had had a wonderful day. Lila had brought him into the city on the ferry. He loved the ferryboats with their tall black funnels, their squat red railings, the clatter of their little gangplanks on the suburban jetties and their wonderful names all beginning with K—the Kuttabul, the Kiandra, the Kookaburra. Lila and he had got off at Circular Quay and there beyond the turnstiles in a bright blue hat and her red hair curling out around her face was Vere, waving her patched gloves and swinging her long strings of beads and right away she had done a funny thing; she had screwed up her eyes as though she could not make out who or what in the world he was and then she had let out a wild shriek so that lots of people turned around to see whether someone’s bag had been snatched, and she had reared up very tall and afraid and cried out, ‘Lila, who’s that you’ve got? That’s not PS, that’s a dangerous leopard,’ then appearing to recognise him by his cap, rushed to gobble him with kisses and said, ‘Oh, no, it’s my child, my child!’ and Lila said, ‘Vere, everyone’s looking,’ ashamed of such carryings-on because what would people think?
Careful, He Might Hear You Page 2
