The Sparrows of Edward Street

by Elizabeth Stead

  ‘And we’ll need white thread for the collar and cuffs,’ Hanora said as though she’d just been revived from a coma. ‘I must have some somewhere, or perhaps, Rosy, you can get that too. I presume your shirts are white, Mr Sparkle?’

  ‘Sort of, a bit off-white by now.’

  ‘We’ll give them a good wash and a bleach if you like, Mr Sparkle. I hope you’ve not been offended by my daughter’s intrusion. She means well.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Sparrow, and I’m not offended. I’m happy to have some help.’

  ‘We’ll have Mr Sparkle ready for the world in no time, won’t we?’ I said. Rosy threw me a look of distaste. She was not at all comfortable, but the incident had taken her mind away from her own miseries for the moment. I wondered if she was aware of that. Her mother was aware of the sudden ray of light.

  ‘Hooray!’ cried Hanora. ‘A Camp project already. What a wonderful thing to look forward to.’

  ‘And just what is it you’re going to do, Aria Sparrow?’ said Rosy.

  ‘Help him get a job, of course. What is it you do particularly well, Mr Sparkle?’

  ‘Shoot rabbits.’

  ‘Oh, well, never mind. Rabbit shooting is a start. People still eat rabbits. We still eat rabbits.’

  ‘Aria!’

  ‘What is the point of pretending we’re something we’re not, Rosy? I imagine, like everyone else here, we eat rabbits because they’re cheap!’

  Rosy disappeared into our cell and slammed the door. The chook house vibrated slightly.

  ‘They make a pretty nice stew, the bunnies. The wife likes my stews,’ said Mr Sparkle. ‘But you have to watch out for shot. It can snap a tooth, that shot.’

  ‘I prefer them baked, with potatoes and a bit of rosemary, but mine seem to end up very dry and everything else curled at the edges,’ said Hanora.

  ‘Or a good hot rabbit pie with white sauce and carrots and a few capers.’ Mr Sparkle wiped a watering mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘So, you make rabbit stews and pies?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, indeed I do . . . and I skin the bunnies pretty good, too,’ Mr Sparkle told me. ‘I skin clean as a whistle. Maybe next time I go out west I’ll get a bunch of rabbits for you. I’ll get the train fare together and shoot a few bunnies. You can eat the meat, and the skins could make a nice little neck piece. Nothing’s wasted with a rabbit. Lapin, the Frogs call rabbit fur.’

  I don’t think Mr Sparkle was aware that he had become Hanora’s and my first meaningful contact. Hanora and I glanced at each other and smiled, for we were certain Mr Sparkle was to be a special sow’s ear to be made into a silk purse in this terrible place. I tried very hard not to laugh when I pictured Hanora wearing a collar of rabbit fur while the animal who’d owned it was curling up its edges in the oven. Mr Sparkle was quite happy to lean against the door and listen as we worked on him, but I was sure he’d see the funny side of things when I told him.

  ‘Rabbit shooting as a job description might be a little difficult at first. I do think we might consider other possibilities. What sorts of jobs have you applied for?’

  ‘Now, let’s see . . . bricklayer, bank teller, filing clerk in the Housing Commission, ditto Prices Commission, builder’s labourer, coal miner, road digger, window cleaner for the Tax Department. Oh, dozens and dozens, but nothing’s come of them.’

  ‘And no openings for a rabbit shooter, I imagine,’ I said, almost to myself.

  ‘I’ll make you all a rabbit pie for your troubles, and maybe even a stew.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ said Rosy, who’d emerged for a cup of water. ‘Rabbits! What did you do in the war, Mr Sparkle?’

  ‘I was a filing clerk, Miss. Did a lot of filing. Maybe I wasn’t much good at that either. Things got a bit mixed up.’

  ‘Our father was killed.’

  ‘Rosy!!’

  ‘Rosy, come and help with the books.’ Hanora was trying to balance the smaller paperbacks in stacks on the raw timber struts that helped hold the iron together. The books had yellowed pages and curled tops where people were too lazy to use book marks. She had a splinter in her thumb.

  ‘That timber’s a pretty rough job,’ said Mr Sparkle. ‘You want to get some iodine on that thumb. I tell you what, I’ll see if I can’t find some old bricks and a couple of wood planks. That’s what I use for shelves.’

  ‘That’s kind of you – I would be most grateful. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘I would, Mrs Sparrow.’

  And Hanora plugged in the kettle, opened the biscuit tin, slipped a Bach cantata onto the record player, and played it softly. Mr Sparkle sighed and leaned against the door frame and conducted the air with a finger. I noticed there was a button missing on his fly. Hanora smiled at Mr Sparkle with licked lipstick, and knew at once that the Sparrows of 19B Edward had ensnared at least one loyal helpmate for as long as they wanted. A plate was decorated with Iced Vo-Vo biscuits. Ants came from everywhere, mad with ecstasy.

  ‘Haven’t had one of those with a cuppa in a good while, Mrs Sparrow.’

  ‘The biscuit tin was delivered with the furniture. You may have two, if you wish, Mr Sparkle.’

  ‘What’s that music, Mrs Sparrow?’

  ‘It is Bach. Do you like it?’

  ‘I do like it. I do, indeed, Mrs Sparrow. Very peaceful.’

  ‘Then you must come again. I have a number of recordings.’

  ‘That would be very nice, Mrs Sparrow. I would consider it a privilege. And anything you want done . . . you know . . . you just tell old Kelly Sparkle here. In the meantime, you might want to put a bit of borax around for the ants.’

  ‘Thank you. I wonder, Mr Sparkle, if it is possible to line the walls of a hut like this with the same kind of timber you would use for shelves . . . Have you any idea?’

  ‘I’d have to think about that. I know one bloke’s done it here, but he’s a carpenter and the timber probably fell off the back of a truck, if you know what I mean. But it’d cost a bit. I’ll have a good think about that, Mrs Sparrow.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re very kind. In the meantime we would be so grateful for some bookshelves.’

  And the next thing I knew we were all having tea and a biscuit, except for Mr Sparkle, who had two.

  *

  The next morning, dressed with a little help from the cocktail cabinet mirrors, I waited for the eight o’clock bus to take me to the train station then off to town to ‘love’ a selection of household items for Boston’s advertising studio.

  I wore a favourite, and sadly well-worn, dress of pink seersucker with a V neckline that showed just enough of my currencies, white gloves and white, high-heeled slip-on shoes. I had creamed my legs with artificial tan, and the whole effect seemed to very much please the bus driver and one or two gentlemen from the proper side of the fork in the road. I had listened to a segment of Scheherazade that morning and knew the day would be at least interesting, with a possible surprise.

  The bus was almost standing room only, and what an interesting tribe of passengers we picked up along the way. Three young women, from behind the high hedges on the proper side of the fork in the road, huddled together in their cashmere twin sets and pearls from Proud’s and patted their noses from powder compacts. The rest, mainly from the Camp, were dressed in everything from Grace Brothers to ensembles designed by Disposals. Shoes were the clue. Poor shoes falling apart and needing new heels were spat and polished so as not to let their side down, while the shoes from the proper houses were good enough not to need a spit at all.

  Two of the passengers were Aboriginal people, two women, one older than the other. I didn’t know that there were Aborigines living in the Camp. I had not seen any. I sat next to the older one.

  ‘I live in the Camp,’ I said to her. ‘We’re in Edward Street. We’ve just moved in.’

  ‘Well, surprise, surprise! We live there too.’ She pointed to the younger one across the aisle. ‘That’s my daughter. There’s a special section for u
s.’

  ‘That place must be huge,’ I said. ‘What do you mean by “special section”?’ She didn’t answer.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Aria Sparrow.’

  ‘Oh, la! That’s what I call a name! You’re pretty – what do you do?’

  ‘I’m a sort of model . . . Well, not sort of, I’m a photographic model. I work in an advertising studio.’

  ‘Well, I reckoned it must be something like that. Maybe I’ve seen you from somewhere, maybe a magazine. You’ve got the face for it, and that pink suits you.’

  ‘Thanks. The pink’s just about worn out. Are you on your way to work?’

  ‘I am. I clean schools, and so does my daughter, Fay, over there. We were lucky to get the jobs.’

  ‘How long have you been in the Camp?’

  ‘Too bloody long. It’s a bloody terrible place, but you get used to it after a while.’

  ‘What part of the Camp do you live in?’

  ‘We’re up in Queen. Makes you laugh, doesn’t it? A place called Queen Street you’d expect to be nice, wouldn’t you, but it’s the arse end of the Camp . . . I know they think us blacks wouldn’t know the difference, but we do.’ She watched the passing road from the window for a moment. ‘There’s no respect. It’s a bugger of a life. It gets lonely being a city black, but I shouldn’t whinge. If I went outback I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.’

  ‘Is Fay’s father with you?’

  ‘I lost my man, her father, in the war, but all I know so far is he’s missing presumed dead – I don’t think I’ll ever know one way or the other. It’s been five years. They tell me they’re still trying to trace him.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘There are lots of us in the same boat back there.’ She pointed behind with her thumb. ‘It’s terrible for all of us . . . black and white.’

  ‘What does everyone do? I mean after work?’ I’d heard so many down and out stories since we’d arrived at the Camp, I had a vision of them all sitting around in a circle at day’s end, howling their eyes out. ‘What do you do to cheer up? Do you go to the pictures?’

  ‘No, we do the washing.’ She laughed. ‘Fay and me are pretty buggered by the time we get home. We all get together in the laundry at the end of our block.’

  ‘A laundry?! I’ve never seen a laundry that’d cheer me up.’

  ‘You’ll learn.’

  ‘When we get a bit down in the dumps we play music or maybe read. Tell stories or even dance around a bit. I used to write plays.’

  ‘Well, it sounds like you might have gone off your rockers sooner than most.’ She laughed just as the bus hit a bump. ‘But that’s not unusual in the Camp either.’

  ‘You should get a choir going or something. The laundry doesn’t sound much fun.’ I could hear Rosy . . . Here we go again! And guess who’ll be running the show!

  ‘I’d go to that,’ called Fay from across the passageway. ‘I like singing.’

  ‘And Hanora, my mother, collects books. There’re lots of books in our hut.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To read, of course, and she’ll lend them to anyone else who wants a read. She saves records, too.’

  ‘What does she do with those?’

  ‘Listens to them, of course. You can come any time you like, if you like music.’

  ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Aria Sparrow.’

  ‘I’ll spread the word up in Queen!’ And she laughed as she pulled the cord for the next stop and was still grinning as she and Fay left the bus.

  A woman holding a baby took her place next to me, after brushing the seat with a newspaper.

  Rosy once told me I was a controlling beast and enough of a nuisance to rearrange the whole world and drive everybody in it raving mad, but I’ve wondered if that’s such a bad thing if it’s for good and my heart is in it. Anyway, I thought what I’ve usually thought – I can do what I bloody well like! And I will! I always have!

  The Studio

  Eli Boston’s advertising agency and its studio were behind a music store in George Street, in the city. I would occasionally drop in to the music store on my way to the station after work and buy a discounted record.

  Mr Eli Boston was fifty-seven years old, and was the grandson of the founder. He was of course Jewish, and married to Naomi Boston, and they had three perfectly gifted children. One played the violin and another the piano. I never knew what the third one did, apart from winning a maths prize, but they’d produced a trio, so he probably played a cello. They lived in a very nice house on the heights of the eastern suburbs of Sydney with an extensive view of a briny ocean that disappeared into the horizon, with the occasional ship. They had two kitchens and two refrigerators and two sets of dishes.

  I had been invited once to baby-sit the youngest Boston, but had committed a terrible Jewish crime of putting milk down the meat drain in one of the kitchen sinks, and the rabbi had to be called to cleanse the sewerage pipes, bless the drains and make everything Kosher again. Mr Eli Boston was very proper and particular in things Jewish, mainly due to his wife Naomi’s insistence. I naturally never mentioned that I had been released from Judaism and was no longer responsible for kitchens, no matter how many, or their drains.

  *

  Leon, the photographer, was setting up equipment and lighting in the studio, something he could do without any thought at all.

  ‘What am I “loving” today?’ I asked when I arrived.

  ‘Deodorant.’ He seemed distracted.

  ‘What will I be wearing?’

  ‘A bath towel.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Why do you say that? You’ve done it before. What’s the matter with bath towels?’

  ‘I seem to be “loving” things with less and less on.’

  ‘What’s the point in covering up tits like yours?’

  ‘No? Well, I suppose you’re right. What’s the matter, Leon? You’re unhappy.’

  ‘Late night.’

  ‘Did you have a row with Max?’

  ‘Why on earth would you think that?!’ He dragged a light across the floor and kicked a cord out of its power socket.

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘None of your damned business, Aria.’

  ‘Leon! It is. I care about you. I love you.’

  There was a scratch at the studio door.

  ‘Is our little star here?’ The unmistakable voice of Eli Boston came from the shadows. I slipped into the tiny dressing room.

  ‘Of course she is,’ said Leon.

  ‘All wrapped up in the nice warm towel, is she?’

  ‘No,’ said Leon. ‘At the moment she’s completely naked!’

  ‘Oh? Then I suppose I shouldn’t hang about, should I?’

  ‘I-think-it-would-not-be-wise, Mr Boston,’ I called to him from my hole in the wall, stage left, in a low and ominous voice. At least I was able to make Leon laugh.

  In fact, I knew I was perfectly safe with Mr Eli Boston because I’d told him I had discussed some personal matters with his wife, Naomi. Naomi and I had become great friends, and Mr Eli Boston was very much afraid of her. Lately he had been absent from the studio when I was being photographed, and I assumed he had been ordered to be elsewhere. Leon was a poof, so I was perfectly at ease when I worked with him. I was very fond of Leon. I thought of him as my best friend. He was kind and understanding and someone I could talk to about anything at all. I had confessed things to Leon that I hadn’t thought of telling another living soul. I had not, however, discussed my atheism in depth. I was completely comfortable with it, but I knew Leon had been struggling with his own feelings for religion and had begun to visit his temple less and less. Like Hanora, I kept my thoughts on the subject to myself. A sensitive friend was Leon, and, in my opinion, too easily hurt by others.

  After making my face up for the camera with more layers of everything than I would normally have used, and slipping into a strapless two-piece sw
imsuit, top pulled as low as possible, I had a large blue bath towel wrapped around me as though I’d just left the shower. I had been sprayed with oil here and there to make me look wet. I’d dipped the ends of my hair into water so that they dripped down the oil.

  ‘Now,’ said Leon, much more brightly. ‘Let us take deep breaths and get into deep and meaningful deodorant.’

  ‘Oh, Leon, for goodness sakes, why deodorant? Why me? When do I get to “love” something like Chanel No. 5? Or something gorgeous designed in Paris or Rome?’

  ‘Because we don’t have their accounts, you’re not tall enough, and you make all these ghastly house things look sexy.’

  ‘Do you really think so, darling Leon?’

  ‘Yes, and you know damned well I do. Now start “loving”.’

  I smiled widely – I was ecstatic to be using such a luxurious cosmetic item after my shower.

  ‘What are you really thinking?’

  ‘Don’t ask!’ I said through my teeth.

  I put one hand behind my head and in the other I poised the deodorant. Leon took a few shots of me turning slightly to left and right and ‘loving’ the product, when suddenly the towel slipped on one side.

  ‘Perfect!’ said Leon. ‘Stay still . . . Your arm is just hiding the nipple . . . perfect! Luscious!’

  And when he had finished I grinned and said: ‘Leon! I had no idea you were interested in my tits.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘Well, in a way I am. I just wish they were mine.’

  ‘I’d lend them to you, but they keep me in work. What’s next?’

  ‘Bubble bath and lavender soap tomorrow. This afternoon one of the clients wants you to “love” their greetings cards.’

  Greeting cards with breasts? I expected anything was possible. The female mute slid into the studio and handed Leon a note, then she slid out again.

  ‘They’re a new range of “get well” cards,’ Leon said after reading. ‘You’re to dress as a nurse.’

  ‘And with the uniform buttons missing, of course. How bloody boring. I have to tell you that an illustrator for one of the big magazines, the Weekly, wants me to model for a short story illustration. Is it okay if I branch out? I’d really like to do it.’