by Kim Kelly
I say: ‘It’s Olivia, please.’ Your mother and aunt just spent twelve guineas here – you can call me Dolly Dumpkins if it suits – and I must presume that’s why he’s here: to pick up their parcels.
But he says: ‘Ah, oh, yes, of course. Um. Olivia. I was wondering if I might. If you might. Like. Ah. Oh confound it. What are you doing for dinner Saturday evening – this one coming?’
‘Oh?’ There’s a surprise, and not an altogether pleasant one. Oh confound it. He’s not awkward here, I see; he’s dissembling, isn’t he, looking up at the light fixture, now down into the Florentine lilies, everywhere but me, and I know what’s afoot here: Mother. She’s put him up to this just as she put him up to that dance. Sent her minion to illustrate that a girl can’t live alone any more than she might dine alone. I’ll show her. I tell Warwick with a shrug: ‘Perhaps I’ll go to the Merrick; perhaps I won’t. You can join me if you like.’
He nearly chokes on his own surprise: ‘Ah . . .’
And while he’s thinking about that, I try catching him out in this charade: ‘I say, while I’ve got you here, Warwick, I’ve been collecting opinions lately on a particular subject, and I wonder if you, as a more worldly sort of chap, might add a thought. Tell me, what do you think of working girls who live independently?’
He chuckles, nervously: ‘Ah . . . well . . . what? Bachelor Betty types?’ His voice cracking on the inflexion: well caught out.
‘Yes,’ I say, spider to fly: ‘Bachelor Betty types. Go on, what do you think of them?’
‘Well, it’s a very popular thing in London, for the girls.’ Hand in trouser pocket, going for authoritative nonchalance. ‘Not all working girls, either. Some, um. Just. Ah . . . like it. I suppose.’ He drops his tone a full octave, with what I suppose is dislike, and shifts his weight from foot to foot with what? Impatience? ‘But. So, ah, dinner at . . . ?’
‘Perhaps.’ Imperious dismissal.
‘Shall I telephone?’
‘If you like.’ Take your mama’s parcels now and out you go. I’m so furious myself I can barely say good day to him. How dare Mother meddle like this. As if Warwick Bloxom could be seriously interested in sweethearting me: his mother attends private vice-regal garden parties; his father is Sir Whitney Bloxom, Federal senator and Chairman of Colonial Oil Refineries, among a string of other like and lofty positions; Warwick could well be prime minister one day. What could he possibly want me for? A dance-floor fling? Flop. I could laugh at that too, not very gaily.
By dinnertime I’ve turned devious; dropping some fabric over to Mother at Rose Bay I drop her minion in it with my own authoritative nonchalance: ‘Warwick popped in today, to pick up the parcels. Had a chat about things, we two did. He said lots of girls in London bach. Didn’t seem to trouble him a bit.’
Mother sighs; pushes her vegetables round her slice of poached chicken wearily. She knows I know what’s going on.
So I go on: ‘This is 1930, after all. Girls are allowed to do all sorts of things. Even walk down the street on their own. Spend endless nights alone. As I already have – haven’t I?’
Mother ignores that remonstration too, even if it’s damn well true; all those nights I’ve spent alone, lying awake listening to the ferries tooting the loneliest sound in the world across the water, to me, into my heart, as she wined and dined and danced, and she waves it all away with her napkin: ‘You’re turning into a flapper. From wallflower to flapper in five minutes.’
‘Flapper?’ I give her a piece of my condescension: ‘Flappers are terribly last decade, Mother. Get with the times. Or . . .’ She won’t be getting so much as to the Merrick for the next little while at least, and this spider grows claws: ‘Or don’t. At least I’m not the one living in sin with –’
‘Do not say another word. After all I have done for you . . .’ I have hurt her: she stabs a piece of carrot on her plate but doesn’t eat it; she tells it: ‘You really can’t see past the nose on your face, can you?’
Bart conciliates, touching her hand: ‘Oh, let her have her way, Em.’ He glances at me: Speak to your mother again like that and I might stab you with this fork. ‘We’ll always be here when things don’t work out to Olivia’s liking.’
Things will work out, though. I’ll make them work out.
I’ll have to now, won’t I.
Yo
‘But I don’t want to go to St Gus’s school,’ Ag says as we’re coming back from the park, the last Sunday of the holidays, and there’s that whine in her voice. Ag wants to go to Nicholson Street School, because that’s where Gladdy Hanrahan goes. I want her to go where she’s happy to go, but how can I let her go to a public school? It’s heavy on me – how can I not send her to St Gus’s? She can’t not go to a Catholic school.
There are good reasons not to go to St Gus’s, though. They play sports against St Ben’s – football and athletics, if I remember my non-attendance rightly – and although it’s unlikely that Ag will be any more talented than me in that regard, I don’t want her going near the old neighbourhood for any reason. There’s also the cost. I won’t have her being the charity case the O’Keenans have always been, but by the time the rent has come out and the union fees and groceries and the gas and the coal, and the caps I’m losing at the rate of one a fortnight and Nettie’s shilling for the wash, I’ve not got much change out of my wages. I could do with that Child Endowment, it would go a long way towards the school fees, but I can’t ask for that – I can’t take the risk of Welfare deciding I can’t have Ag with me. I don’t know if they’d yet know that I’ve even got her; it’s doubtful our mother’s let them know – she needs that Endowment for her Royal Reserve. And that’s a fact that makes me think Welfare won’t take Ag off me; it’s been more than six weeks now, and we’re settled. I’ve fixed the kitchen floor, a black and blue thumbnail attesting to it. We’ve even bought linen for her bed, Egyptian cotton, from Hordern’s, marked down fifty percent; Ag saw the sale in the paper.
‘Yoey?’ Ag’s wanting her answer about school.
I could toss a coin in the morning, or ask Nettie what she reckons – she said she’d take her the first day and pick up the form and what-have-you for me – but I haven’t had a spare ten hours lately for listening to Nettie go on. Haven’t had a spare ten minutes, I’ve been too concerned with schooling issues of my own: when I’m not losing my guts catching hot cocks three hundred and two feet in the sky, I’m losing my mind over taking the examination on Monday week, on the tenth, to see if I can get into Sydney Tech to start them classes for the Black Arts, as the metal trades are called, which I have to do if I’m going to get a look-in at a boilermaking apprenticeship. If I do get in it’ll be Wednesday nights starting from the twenty-sixth of February, and Saturday nights extra hours on dog shift in the workshops, and a weekly pay decrease of £1/6/- for the privilege. I have to talk to Nettie about that too, or maybe Mr Adams, see if Ag might have tea with them Wednesday and Saturday nights. If I get in. Jesus, but I’m getting sick about that exam. I’ve got a letter from Mr Harrison, the foreman, recommending me to the classes, but I have to pass the test to say I’m up to third form standard of learning. I didn’t finish sixth class. I know I can do it, Mr Adams has given me all the books and that, it’s dead simple, and I will pass it just for all the trouble he’s gone to on my account and how miraculous it is that he reckons I’m good enough, but it’s all looking too hard at this minute. The tech is at Ultimo, on Mary Ann Street near the tin pressers on Hackett our brother Michael was working for, before . . . Is it even worth it? Losing that £1/6/- wages, just for the first year, but it’s five years of studying for the journeyman’s ticket. I don’t know if –
‘Yoey!’ Ag raises her voice at me, pulling on my hand.
So I raise mine back: ‘Oi. You –’
‘Oi Yo!’ Someone calls out ahead of us. ‘Yo O’Keenan, that you?’ A lanky stride and hair sticking up like straw. It’s a
Finnerty, but I don’t know which one of them till he’s just about in front of us. It’s Jim, one of the middle brothers, and he’s got a big smile on his head, happy to see me.
‘Ay Jim,’ I say, not all that happy to see him. ‘What are you doing round here?’
‘Working,’ he says, explaining the smile. ‘Me and Luke both – we got work at the power station, on the coal.’
Too close to where we live; I don’t want him to know that, but he might know anyway. Ag’s recognised him as well, and slipped round the back of me. I tell him: ‘Yeah? Good on you.’
He says: ‘What you doing round here, then?’
I shrug: ‘Not a lot.’ I’m not telling him anything.
And he doesn’t ask. But he wants to tell me something. He starts rolling a smoke and he says: ‘Good on you, for getting out, you know. The cops got called and that – there was a bit of a barney on at your place. Your mum went right off in the street, yelling and carrying on. But they never come after you that night. They won’t, the cops. You know, everyone’s sorry about what happened to Michael.’
I just nod. Are they? Tell Michael that. It’s good to know the cops didn’t look for me and Ag, though. We have police approval; maybe Welfare won’t object to our having left the Neighbourhood either. Bit of a barney on at our place, yelling and carrying on: business as usual. Jesus. One day I will hear our mother is mercifully dead, too; half of me wants that, for her to be at peace, in your protection at last, Lord.
Jim shakes his head as he tells me more: ‘Jack’s gone in with Hammo, if you haven’t heard. They’re up at the Cross now. Some new swy joint Tex has got going.’
That’s not good; I say: ‘The spoon.’
‘Yeah,’ says Jim, and we’re both shaking our heads, lamenting like we just found out Jack’s got TB. He might as well have.
I’m inside a prayer for him too, as Jim says: ‘See us for a drink at the Merton, on Victoria Road, if you’re around here? Saturday arvies we knock off at three.’
‘Maybe.’ But I’m shaking my head: not a blind or bleeding chance. Drinking with the Finnertys, losing half my pay down my neck. What a pity I won’t have Saturdays free. I’ve already opened my Mathematics textbook to Practical Applications of Geometry, and I’m applying it to Jim’s face: he’s not two years older than me and he’s got the hollowed-out cheeks of forgoing food for grog already. He’s been drinking since yesterday arvie, I reckon, and he’s only just heading back to Chippo now, eyes on the road looking for lost tuppence to get there. Walking advertisement for Saturday arvie closing. I tell him: ‘Say hello to Luke for me. See you.’ And we’re walking; I don’t ever want to see any of them again.
‘Yoey?’ Ag’s pulling on my hand again ten seconds later. ‘Can I go to Nicholson Street School with Gladdy?’ Desperate; she’ll die if I don’t let her: ‘Please?’
I say: ‘Yes, Ag, all right. You can.’ Catholic school didn’t do anything for any of us, did it.
‘Oh Yoey, you’re the best big brother in the world.’
‘I’m the only one.’ All my worries bite round my guts again with the reality of it.
‘But even if I had ten thousand and fifteen of them you’d still be the best.’ She swings on my arm and I lift her up and onto my shoulder like she’s made of nothing.
I say to her: ‘What have you been eating to make you so light, then? Dandelion seeds?’
I’ve got strong and my sister’s laughter is all that matters. I’m never looking back again.
We get back to Fawcett Street and Nettie’s out the front with her ciggie: ‘Hello there. Lovely evening, isn’t it?’ Waiting for us; waiting for anyone to say hello there to, her John’s such a shitfully grim bastard. He’s not a drinker, but he’s one that could probably do with a loosening ale; he’s that caught up with himself, you’re lucky to get a nod from him to acknowledge your existence. Nettie’s lonely as they come, and always got a frown on over her pretty smile; head full of worries, I reckon. Maybe I won’t ask her about looking after Ag evenings; she’s got enough on her plate trying to keep the baby quiet and everything just right for Mr Shitful.
But I do interrupt whatever she’s jawing on about now to ask her about the school: ‘What do you reckon about that Nicholson Street Primary, is it all right?’
‘Oh yes.’ She takes a long drag; she knows all about it. ‘It’s the best school in the district, from here to Leichhardt, better than the Superior near St Augustine’s, don’t send a child there – you know they throw stones at each other across Eaton Street? I’ve seen the little beggars – Catholics, Catholics ring the bell, Protestants, Protestants go to hell. Butter wouldn’t melt on a Sunday. Anyway, that Nicholson Street school, yes, it’s a very good school – more kiddies going on to high school from there than anywhere, and not only because Jack Lang got rid of the fees for secondary. Oh, we can only hope and pray he gets back in, can’t we? That Jack Lang . . .’
Here we go; now she’s mentioned him, we’re in for the long haul: her Jack Lang. You’d think they were on together before she married Grim Shitful, the way she goes on about him. He’s brilliant, and so handsome, and he has such a bearing about him that women faint in the street just seeing him walk by. According to Nettie Becker: ‘With that strong jaw of his, like Moruya granite itself . . .’
I don’t know much about this Jack Lang, except that he’s a hard man and someone once said he looks a bit like my father, like he’d drive your teeth through the back of your skull if you crossed him. He was the premier before this one – Bavin, is it? I should pay more attention to politics. Mr Adams is hoping Mr Lang gets back in too; in fact the entire nine unions on the Bridge are hoping that. They want the Big Fella, as they call him, to do something with all the coal disputes going on – there’s a stoppage at Birchgrove over wages right now, miners scabbing on engine-drivers like chooks fighting over a button – and the Bank of England has said it won’t give any more credit to New South Wales if it keeps up, and that could mean a stoppage of the bridgeworks. I don’t know what this Jack Lang will do about wage disputes or banks robbing people. I remember when he brought in the forty-four hours week, when I’d just started at Foulds, and everyone had a laugh: no such thing as a forty-four hour week in a non-unionised shop – you’re praying for nearer fifty just for a decent wage. But if there’s not money to pay wages, there’s not money to pay wages, and you lose your job, don’t you, and I wouldn’t give my money to a bank if you paid me. Balmain is different, though: everyone’s political in Balmain, specifically Labor Party political, as it’s here, up at the Unity Hall pisser, that the party started, says Mr Ad –
‘Eoghan?’ Nettie’s got her sour face on, tapping the ash off her ciggie at the gardenia. ‘I said, so why don’t you come in here for your tea?’
‘What? I’m sorry, I –’
‘Sometimes I swear you’re not listening to a word I say.’
‘I’m sorry, I –’
‘John’s taken the dog shifts now,’ she explains, with her smile back on. ‘Only be home Mondays and Tuesday nights, and the rest of the time he’ll be sleeping, the poor thing. I don’t like being on my own at nights, as you know. I’m so thankful I’ve got such a good neighbour in you.’
She puts her hand on mine, on the low fence between us.
‘And being such, would it be too much to ask for us to be at your house during the day, so that Johnny doesn’t wake him, while he’s playing?’ she says, letting her voice go up, like a girl’s.
‘That’ll be fine . . .’ I look at our hands. Hers on mine.
I know I’m being asked for more than the use of the house in the day. For the life of me I don’t know why her John wouldn’t find her appealing enough to keep her happy in that regard. If you look past the unceasing chatter and the know-everything horseshit, she is definitely a good-looking woman, takes care of herself, lipstick on and her hair always nice. I’m not th
at sort of fella, though. I’ve never been with a woman; not that I haven’t devoted an unreasonable amount of my time to thinking about it. But maybe, if it keeps everyone happy . . . maybe I should think about it now.
And I catch that thought just in time: maybe Sister Joe and Madigan never did anything for me at St Ben’s, maybe Catholic school is a steaming pile along with the Church in its entirety, but my God, my religion, has done everything to get me here. It’s the roof over my head, every week I’ve paid the rent, every job I’ve ever had, every meal my sister’s eaten, every bashing I’ve got through, since I can remember and never more so than now. My faith is the only thing that’s mine that can’t ever be taken away; the only thing that can set me apart from the rest, from my family, as decent. As good for something. I won’t be going with Nettie Becker. Even if there’s a part of me with a different opinion, insisting on it right now. Ignore it. It’s not going to happen. Not for me. I’m aware of the earthly consequences of it, too, should faith ever fail me: Jack Callaghan went with this girl a couple of years ago, Mary Lightfoot was her name; she had an abortion at that doctor’s on Bourke Street, he gave her the money for it and that, looked after her, and she fucking well died.
No. I move my hand away.
‘Lamb roast almost done, love – and it’s just me on my own. Little Johnny’s asleep now too. What do you say?’
I say no.
I’m smelling that roast, though. Lamb and pumpkin. It smells good.
But Ag shifts round behind me; she doesn’t want whatever Nettie’s got in mind for us. We’ve got a tin of beans and mash for our tea, and all the butter we can eat. Just that butter itself is daily feasting to us. We’ve always got butter in the cupboard now. We’ve got everything, everything we need.
