The Blue Mile

by Kim Kelly

  I step back out into the night. At least the wind has died. But it’s still cold. Freezing, and Ag didn’t take her coat: it’s hanging on the back of the door. Down Fawcett Street, I see the shadow of Shitful Becker heading out, towards the timber docks, on his way round the foreshore to the silos at Glebe Island. She’s alone then, but for the boy; I see the lamp on in there, strip of yellow down the gap of the curtains. A bolt of something evil chills me from the inside, and I shut it away: you’ll get yours, you fucking bitch, but not from me. Keep my eyes and my mind on what is mine: our little tree here, our gardenia, its leaves shiny even in the dark, twice the size of when we got it, from all Ag’s care. Ag will be all right. She has to be.

  But this house is terrible without her in it. Terrible. I don’t even want to get the fire going. But I do. I light the coals and all the lamps because she might be home any minute. She’ll be home tonight. She will be. She has to be. Please, Lord. Tonight. Or I will go mad. I will certainly run out of tobacco, if I keep rolling at this rate. I light the stove now, too, put the kettle on, for another pot of tea I don’t want.

  I look at the picture hanging on the kitchen wall, above our table: Ag’s drawing, a garden full of flowers spreading out under a great fig tree. She did it at school, with paints. She’s pretty good at this sort of thing too. The ideas she comes up with. The colours. We got an old frame from the fete at St Gus’s, and I nailed it up here. She works so hard, Lord: you must see that. Please. Please let her be safe.

  There’s a knock at the door and the kettle screams with my desperation: please, Lord, please let this be her.

  Olivia

  ‘Well, isn’t that funny,’ I say more to the air than to Agnes as we wait for the door to open. Uncanny: even in this dimness I can see the house is almost identical to mine, but that it’s single-fronted, one of a pair, with a little patch of garden here, and mine has only three steps up from the street, all on its own. But the stone . . . it’s just the same. I’m searching above the door for a date, some sign to say Great Grandfather Weathercroft made this house too, but I didn’t bring my magic lantern with us for me to see through the dark, and the door flies open now anyway.

  And there he is.

  The figment boy, exactly as I remember him. Even with the sunburn across his nose. I laugh aloud: such a laughably perfect boy, throwing a tea towel over his shoulder.

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ he shouts as he kneels, and little Agnes throws herself into his arms.

  That was worth the trip around to Balmain, worth stopping time I don’t have for: they are lovely. His joy for her is the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. He might be her brother but he’s what a father should be. Who would ever want to break them apart? I’ll talk to him in a minute about this Welfare business. I’m certain Agnes is not making it up. It must be a mistake, though: this Welfare business and my wilful embroiling of myself in it both. Discussion will come. Thought will come. As will the equally laughable realisation that the glimpse of sitting room I can see behind them appears to be in far better order than mine.

  For this minute, I must simply look at him.

  Look into his deep blue eyes as he looks up at me, mystified: ‘Miss Greene?’

  Three

  Yo

  The conviction comes to me again and with a greater power, as if it’s coming by divine instruction now: This is the girl. The one I will marry. My girl. And the bald, blinking idiocy of this idea comes to me again with just as great a power: she’s a lady. She’s not come here for me. And there’s something different about her this time; something taller, something surer in her smile, her eyes. Her honey laughter, telling Ag: ‘Home again, there you are. Isn’t this good?’

  And now she’s saying something to me: ‘I have promised Agnes I will help sort out this Welfare business with you and I mean to honour that promise. Shall I . . . ?’

  I’m still giving her the spoon-faced goggle, still on my knees on the doorstep, and I’m not altogether sure I’ve taken in what she just said: ‘Shall you . . . ?’

  ‘Come in and discuss it,’ she says, frowning under her hat, her green hat, and all my attention is taken by the little curl come free of it by her left eye, her gold hair against this green hat.

  I say: ‘Discuss what?’

  ‘This business with the Welfare people, and Agnes having run away today . . .’ You idiot, she looks down that fine, long nose. Her face is . . . She’s a . . . With her skin so pale and her golden hair and her eyes seeming so green by the hat . . . She’s no fairy princess. She is Queen Oonagh herself. Jesus. And she’s wanting to discuss the Welfare people. Right.

  I say: ‘Ay? Yeah. No. It’s all right now, it was a . . . misunderstanding.’ And my sense returns enough for me to raise my voice a bit for Nettie to hear me add: ‘It was someone making some mischief, that’s all, and the Welfare people are well aware of it now. It’s sorted.’

  Miss Greene looks at me as if I might be a bit touched; because I am, I’m sure I am: This is the girl, Eoghan. It’s Oonagh telling me this, for sure, and there’s nothing divine about it. I’m looking at the collar of her coat now, a type of golden fur that’s almost the same colour as her hair, and I would give anything to be that scrap of fur just to touch her there where it’s touching her cheek. Just once, just for a second.

  Ag’s pulling on my sleeve: ‘Invite Miss Greene in for supper, Yoey.’ You silly spoonhead, she’s frowning at me too: ‘I want to show her my sewing things.’

  ‘Right. Yeah. Yes.’ I get to my feet and look down at Ag again as I do: the relief nearly sends me back down on my knees again. This Miss Greene: she’s brought Ag home to me. By what spell I don’t care; I look at Miss Greene again: ‘Thank you. Thank you for bringing Aggie home. I can’t thank –’ Thank you and half the world that’s still out looking for Ag right now. I’ve got to call off the search. ‘Can you wait?’ I ask Miss Greene, and I can’t believe I’m doing it. ‘Wait here – please. I won’t be a minute. I mean – inside. Wait. Not here on the doorstep.’ Idiot. ‘I – please?’

  ‘Ah –’

  Don’t give her a chance to answer before Ag’s dragging her in and I’m tearing up Gladstone to the Opera House, banging on the windows like a madman: ‘Ag’s home – call the cops. She’s come home!’ And Mrs Malone, the publican’s wife, sticks her head over the verandah rail above to cry out: ‘Oh mercy, yes, lad, thank the Lord!’ Thank you, Lord, all right. I keep tearing on down to Adolphus, to bang on the Adamses’ door: ‘Ag’s home! She just walked in.’ Mrs Adams’s rosary goes flying up in the air with the mercy of it, and Mr Adams is smashing a fist into my shoulder: ‘Good news, lad, and where was she – did someone bring her?’

  ‘Er . . .’ I don’t know what to say, what to think, but what comes out of my mouth is: ‘Lady from a shop.’ And I’m tearing home again. To Ag. To Miss Greene. Miss Greene is in my house? Please. I really was just a minute, maybe two. She has to be still there.

  Yes, she is.

  ‘Oh, look at that,’ she’s saying to Ag as I come down the hall. ‘These are your chicken cushions you were telling me of, Agnes? How sweet they are . . .’

  That tin whistle of hers goes off, this sound sent straight from the angels, and as I’m catching my breath in the doorway she and Ag are chatting about cushions and where she’s up to with the Wonderful Wizard. ‘See, and there’s forty-two full-page illustrations,’ says Ag. ‘Oh yes, I see, Agnes, aren’t they snazz ones.’ Chatting away like old friends, so that if this girl spends a minute more in my house, there will be no getting away from her, not for me, not this time.

  The minute goes past and Ag’s pulling out the placemats she’s been stitching for the table to show her Miss Greene. Whoever it is doing this – be it Oonagh or you, Lord – the job is done: you’ve got me.

  Olivia

  ‘The kettle, I’d just boiled it, before –’ he says from the hall, just returned from wherever he dashed
off to. ‘Yeah? Yes?’

  ‘No.’ I stand up from the sofa. ‘I shan’t stay for supper, thank you. I really must be going.’ And I must: baguette beading to do for Gloria, and our Mr Yoey O’Keenan is clearly uncomfortable at my being here, having trouble stringing two syllables, never mind two words. That strange hurt swishes through me: fantasy over. No one’s fate is about to change here. Figment boy has a real life, and a crucifix glaring down at me from the wall above the fireplace. He sleeps every night on this tired little brown sofa so that his sister can have the bedroom to herself, her window tacked around with a length of red gingham as she’s not quite up to making curtains yet. I add as I turn to depart, ‘I’m so glad you’ve sorted things out with the Welfare people.’

  ‘Yeah. Good. Yes. That is good,’ he says, looking at Agnes, stepping into the room now. ‘A great relief it is. Thank you again for bringing her home. Hm, yeah. Ay, Ag?’

  Good God, but I don’t want to leave. He steps further into the room to stand beside his sister, and as he does he notices the tea towel slung over his left shoulder. He looks a little startled at it, brushing it off, but then he trues-up the edges of it as if he always dashes about with a tea towel over his left shoulder for that very purpose. His hands, his beautiful hands folding the old linen square so precisely, carefully, placing it on the mantel as if it weren’t a rag but a thing of value. Over the other side of the fireplace, an exercise book lies open on the middle shelf of the bookcase with some sort of technical drawing in it that looks like a pattern for a three-quarter raglan sleeve. I want to know this boy. I want to know this real figment boy whose words dance even as he’s stumbling over wishing I would leave; I want to find out what on earth this business with the Welfare people is about, too. Fish around in my handbag: ‘If you do have a problem again, please don’t hesitate to contact me . . .’ I hold out my card.

  He looks at it, a little startled again. Of course he is: what could a couturier possibly have to offer him? He possibly doesn’t know what a couturier is.

  ‘I have some legal connections . . .’ I say.

  And he looks at me with such astonishment, I am appalled at myself. Legal connections. I might as well have said I don’t believe him, told him that the nasty woman who came to the school was in fact on to something untoward here and he’s a Welfare-offending crook. I open my mouth but no sound comes out: I am bereft of explanation.

  He looks at the card again. ‘Miss Greene?’

  I say: ‘Yes?’ Perhaps he’s wondering if Couture is my stage name.

  ‘Er,’ he says and when his eyes meet mine again he appears to be as uncomfortable as his sunburn looks.

  And I remain such a graceless, clumsy lump of a girl. What humiliation am I compelling him to here? I don’t need to know about the Welfare people. None of my business. I don’t need anything from this nice boy at all. Just tell him good evening and leave.

  But I can’t.

  ‘Ahhh,’ he looks back to his little sister now and he says: ‘We should thank Miss Greene properly, shouldn’t we, Ag?’ Agnes nods and looks to me. And then so does he: ‘You wouldn’t care to come out to the pictures or something with us some time? In town? Or a picnic or something. I mean, would you . . . ? I – ah . . .’

  Did he just ask me –? Would I what? Oh yes I would indeed, but I’m too stunned to respond for a moment, and in this moment my own practicalities squish the idea: I don’t have time to go to the pictures or picnicking. I have too much to do, beading, pea-style patterning, order in that new Lelong scent as I forgot to, again, this afternoon . . . And I can’t be seen anywhere with a boy who I’m sure doesn’t even own a suit coat. Can’t happen. But fantasy as quickly overrides all sense of can’t happen and I’m telling him: ‘Yes. Well, I . . .’

  And he’s turned to Agnes again: ‘What’s on at the National tomorrow evening, Ag?’

  ‘The double is The House of Horror and then Divorce Made Easy.’ Agnes giggles up at her brother, showing her two perfectly grown-up front teeth. ‘I don’t want to see them, Yoey.’

  And I have to say: ‘I can’t go tomorrow anyway – I’ve a prior engagement.’ Engagement party: and much baguette beading to finish off before then. I should go and get to it right now . . .

  ‘Of course,’ he says and he thinks I’m turning his invitation down, too far above him. ‘It was just a thought. Well, we’ll not keep you any further.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ I should turn the invitation down but I’m busily thinking past Glor’s party, Lady Game’s cashmere cloche and cutting that pea-style jacket pattern, until I come up with: ‘What about Wednesday night?’

  ‘Oh?’ He looks surprised again, and then disappointed again; he says: ‘I can’t then either – I go to school, to the tech, the Technical College, Wednesday nights.’

  ‘Oh?’ That’ll explain the drawing in the exercise book, I suppose. I have to know: ‘What do you do there?’ I have to know everything about this boy.

  ‘Metal arts, for boilermaking,’ he says, and he still looks half-surprised, half-disappointed. What’s going on here? I don’t know. Keep conversing, Olivia.

  I ask him: ‘Is that what you do on the Bridge? Metal . . . things?’

  ‘I’m just a labourer,’ he says apologetically.

  No you’re not, I decide. You’re not just anything. That feeling of sympathy floods me again, just as it did in the Gardens that day half a year ago: why should such a good and decent boy apologise for himself? I ask him: ‘What does a labourer on the Bridge do?’

  He looks down at the floorboards, hands in his pockets. ‘Mostly, I catch rivets. In a bucket. For the riveter. It’s called . . . catching.’

  ‘Catching, is it? On the Bridge itself?’ I look at the floorboard he’s addressing and I notice he’s wearing canvas tennis shoes. Filthy, near black, but most definitely tennis shoes. How bizarre. Denim trousers and tennis shoes . . .

  ‘Yeah. Mostly.’ And when he looks up at me again, he smiles. Those dimples . . . those deep blue eyes . . . I’m mesmerised.

  He’s just asked me something and I have no idea what it is: ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘I said, do you have far to go home, miss? It’s late; you shouldn’t be out alone. Would you like us to walk you to the . . . ?’

  ‘The . . . ?’ I seem to leave for a good spin around the ether before practicalities drag me back again. I have to go home, now, I really do. ‘Yes. The ferry, and no, I don’t live far. Only across to Lavender Bay.’

  ‘Really?’ He laughs and it’s a laugh that dances too. ‘Isn’t that something. I must see you every day, going across on the ferry. Look up tomorrow and wave.’

  ‘Yes.’ Insane. Our smiles meet, here in his bright, warm hall. I want to cut a pattern for that white dinner jacket. Now. Oh dear God, look away from him. Mother was right at a glance: I should never see this boy again. The way he places his sister’s coat across her shoulders: such unthinking tenderness. Oh dear God. I’ll bet he plaits her hair himself too, and as tenderly, never pulling a strand too tight.

  We step out into the night. We start walking back to the wharf, Agnes skipping along between us, her hand in his but she’s looking up at me. Can she see this terrific sensation sweeping through me? A tingling, twinkling like the lights on the water before us. The shadow of the Bridge appears against the indigo sky: so huge, so nearly complete. Such a wonder. Dear God, he works up there. He truly does. My stomach trips and falls.

  He says: ‘You live only a mile away.’

  ‘Yes?’ What? Only a mile away? ‘Oh yes. I do. Only across the harbour.’

  ‘White Bay to Lavender Bay,’ he says and I can sense his smile through the dark. ‘It’s only a mile, isn’t it? Only a blue mile.’

  A blue mile. And so you’re a poet as well as an heroic rivet catcher. I have to see you again as soon as possible. Contrive a reason; ask him: ‘So, what does Agnes do on Wednesday nights?�
�� Fix her own supper, I suppose, as I used to do for myself.

  ‘She stops with friends,’ he says. ‘Saturdays too. I work on the night shift Saturday nights. In the workshops.’

  ‘You work a lot.’ And I see it’s not sympathy I feel for him: it’s recognition. Something about us already entwined: I can feel it. That’s what this tingling is. Isn’t it? A meeting of souls.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I don’t have too much time for picnics or going to the pictures.’

  I make him an offer with every wish known and unknown in my heart: ‘Agnes can always keep me company on Wednesday or Saturday nights. Or mostly any ev–’

  ‘Oh Yoey, can I please?’

  The city-bound ferry is just pulling in to the wharf at the end of the street. One stop between us, that’s all there is. How funny. We must get on and off the same ferries every working day.

  I doubt my poker face is doing a lot to conceal my eagerness as I tell Agnes: ‘You can come after school this Wednesday, if you like. You’re quite sure where the salon is now, aren’t you?’

  She giggles behind her hand, outrageously sweet. ‘I won’t make that mistake again, Miss Greene.’ And then she yanks her brother by the arm, demanding: ‘Yoey, can I go, please?’

  ‘Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?’ he asks me.