The Sparrows of Edward Street

by Elizabeth Stead

  ‘Blame them?! Let me get hold of a couple of them, I’ll give them blame!’

  There was no answer to that, and no help for them, I thought. I’d already heard that the people who lived on the proper side of the fork in the road had frequently reported incidents to the police. I’d been told that the proper side of the fork in the road had constantly complained about the existence of the Camp. Some would have liked it razed to the ground in order to protect the value of their properties.

  ‘I hear you’ve got a lot of books stacked in your hut. Kel Sparkle told me.’

  ‘Yes, we have. My mother collects them. We’d love you to come around and borrow one if you’d like to.’

  ‘Might just do that,’ said the woman, slopping water onto her bare feet. ‘I go for a light romance. You got light romances?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Magazines?’

  ‘No. But there’s sure to be something you’d like to read. The books are pretty old and some of them are not in very good condition. I guess they’re mostly classics, but there’s sure to be something. We’re in 19B Edward . . .’

  ‘We all know where you lot are, darling,’ said another, chuckling. ‘Kelly Sparkle can’t talk about anything bloody else. The Sparrows of 19B Edward! Everybody’s heard of you. You’re a model, aren’t you?’

  ‘In a way, yes. Well, not in a way – yes, I am.’

  ‘You look like one. Does it pay much?’

  ‘No, not a lot. We scrape by, the same as you, I expect.’

  ‘Ooo, pardon me for asking.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘That sister of yours. Is she okay? She never talks to anyone.’

  ‘Rose is just scared. She’ll get used to everything soon.’ And pigs might fly, I thought.

  ‘Well, there’s plenty of that here. Fear. Plenty of fear. It takes all sorts to work themselves out in different ways.’

  So I have to say that in a fairly short time I got to know a lot of people, not in a day, as Leon had suggested, but it didn’t take me long. In the bus it had become ‘Mornin’, Aria’ from the driver, and from a few occupied seats. I greeted the twin set and pearl girls. I thought, You never know, they might get the idea we’re human too. I hadn’t yet spoken to poor Mr Biddle. If he was on the bus his head would be turned away or hidden in the pages of an old newspaper, and I respected that.

  I was sure it could be a happier place, the Camp – it should be a happier place – but when I turned and looked behind me there was only dirt and huts and a greyness about it all. A veil of gloom hung over it, no matter what the weather was like. The dust the bus wheels spat out was like dirty sand kicked into the faces of weaklings in advertisements. In the bus were unmistakable signs of worthlessness and humiliation. I’d not really noticed the extent of them before. Maybe I’d tried not to – they were like the symptoms of a disease easily spread by a mournful eye and by mouths with their corners turned down. Poor Mr Biddle was already very sick with it.

  *

  Hanora had become even more obsessed with her books and records. The books, the records and the pills were her escape route. They worked side by side to take her mind off the gaps in the walls, the dust, the mosquitos and the flies. Orphaned words, she called them. All the characters were homeless, wanting a shelf and a reader. Pages of valour had been ripped out by careless cowards, whole dynasties injured, with their corners stuck down in the place of bookmarks. She could not resist giving them shelter. She cleaned them and stacked them as best she could.

  ‘People do terrible things to books, love.’

  I wondered if I’d done the right thing when I offered to lend them like a library.

  Occasionally Hanora would climb the steps to 19B Edward with a bag of book waifs, and simply say, ‘Bread and dripping tonight, loves,’ and somehow we didn’t mind. Almost every wall space was lined with books and records. They were stacked against the corrugated iron like rich wallpaper. When father Sparrow was alive she’d had to hide the few she’d managed to buy so he wouldn’t know she’d spent money they couldn’t really afford. But she told me that her purchases in those days were rare, without the money for it, and being as busy as she was with babies and bottle-washing for the brewery.

  Elsa Bentwick, whose husband was never very well, came to the door one evening.

  ‘I’m Elsa Bentwick,’ she said. ‘Your girl, Aria, told me you might have a book I could borrow.’

  ‘I’d love to lend you a book, Mrs Bentwick.’

  I was relieved to hear that.

  ‘Have you got any light romances?’

  ‘Well, I wonder. I mostly have old books – second-hand – but I’m sure there’ll be something. There’s bound to be something. Have you read Gone with the Wind?’

  ‘No, but I saw the picture.’

  ‘You’d love the book. It’s wonderful. Have you heard of Anne Frank? That’s one of my newer ones.’

  ‘No. Does she write for magazines?’

  ‘She wrote a diary while she hid from the Germans. What about John Steinbeck?’

  ‘No. I’ve heard of him, but I haven’t read anything.’

  ‘Or Thackeray?’

  ‘No. Reading books was never a big thing in our family, especially that sort.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Hanora, flipping past Woolf and Camus. ‘Thackeray wrote Vanity Fair. It’s very romantic. Or maybe the Brontes?’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘They were sisters who wrote lovely romances. You might think everything sounds old fashioned, but some things never go out of date – like love and flirting and sex.’

  ‘I read a serial in a magazine like that once. It was a good story. I liked it.’

  ‘Oh? Who wrote it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I missed out on the end.’

  ‘I think if you read Gone with the Wind or Vanity Fair or some of the others, Mrs Bentwick, you would not want to miss the end. Not a word of it. You would not be able to put them down.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll give it a go. I’ll take Gone with the Wind and bring it back when I’ve finished, one way or another. I liked the film. That Clark Gable could put his boots under my bed any time he wanted to!’

  ‘He’s terrific, isn’t he? I saw the picture twice.’

  ‘Thanks for the book.’

  And, via the laundry, one thing led to another, and it wasn’t too long before a small lending library was in operation at 19B Edward. A trickle of borrowers, self-conscious at first, some quite sure of a book they’d like to read and others barely able to choose at all, but with Hanora only too delighted to be of help. It has to be said, however, that Elsa Bentwick returned her book before she even got to the middle of it.

  ‘Not as good as the picture – no offence,’ she said. She exchanged it for an anthology of British army jokes.

  ‘I think you should just get a stack of old Weeklies. They never seem to finish what you lend them,’ said Rosy. ‘The markets you go to must sell old magazines.’

  ‘Isn’t it a pity, love? I’ll look for more modern works – more popular.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go to too much trouble. They’re just common, that’s all,’ said Rosy.

  I would like to have told Rosy off, but I didn’t.

  ‘I asked Mr Sparkle to leave a book outside Mr Biddle’s hut,’ I said. ‘It was East of Eden, is that okay?’

  ‘Of course, love.’

  ‘I chose that because it is quite long, and it will keep him going for a while. I saw him reading it in the bus yesterday. He was holding it down low on his knees so no one would notice. He’s almost halfway through already. Of course I didn’t say anything,’ I said. ‘I think it might take his mind off things if we gave him another when that one is finished. What do you think? Would that be okay?’

  ‘Of course, love, but I can’t give too many away. I can’t afford it.’

  ‘There she goes again,’ said Rosy. ‘I’m surprised Aria hasn’t written a book of instructions for Mr Biddle on w
hat to do every day – and what to think!’

  ‘Oh, go bag your head!’

  ‘Aria!’

  It was a marvellous expression that I’d picked up from our hillbilly neighbour. I liked it. There was no answer to it.

  ‘I’m not sorry.’

  *

  ‘What do you think about having a bit of a party around Christmas time? A sort of neighbourly drop-in?’

  ‘But what about your birthday, love?’

  ‘I don’t care about my birthday.’

  ‘But eighteen is special, and you deserve to have something nice.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Rosy.

  ‘Because it’s special. You both deserve something special for the last years of your teens.’

  Hanora’s voice had become a sing-song mantra on the gentle waves of her late-afternoon medicinal serenity. Her eyes were soft and glazed. Her mouth was relaxed and her pupils were very, very small black sequins.

  ‘I don’t want anyone to know about my birthday, and you mustn’t mention it. It’d spoil the fun, and they’d think they’d have to bring something.’ I looked more closely at Hanora. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I feel like a feather, love. I’m in love with doctors and chemists and their little bottles and packets, and we don’t have to pay so much now that our dear old government has started its pharmaceutical benefit scheme. Of course they give me the cheaper pills, but they all seem to do the same thing.’

  ‘I wish you’d give them up for good,’ I said. Hanora was not affected by her ‘dear little bottles and packets’ all the time, but her ‘coma’ days, as I called them, had begun to be more frequent. I didn’t think it was wise to make too much of it. If she sensed that I was going to nag she would change the subject.

  ‘You can’t possibly be thinking of having a party here, Aria?’ said Rosy. ‘We don’t know anybody. Well, I don’t, anyway. We don’t know what they’d do. We can’t possibly have a party here, Aria! They might all be like next door.’

  ‘Oh, Rosy, to tell the truth I was thinking more of an orgy! Clothing optional.’

  ‘You never know when to stop, do you, with your stupid ideas? Anyway, we can’t afford it.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s a lovely idea.’ Hanora adjusted her draught scarf under her hat.

  ‘What with? Who with, for goodness sakes?’

  ‘Well, there are lots of people here I’ve made friends with. And I have to say, Rosy, that they all think you’re a bleeding stuck-up snob!’

  ‘I am not!’

  ‘You never talk to any of them.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Rosy said, flushed and embarrassed because she knew it was true. ‘I’m too shy, that’s all. I don’t think they’d like me to talk to them.’

  ‘Rat’s rubbish!’

  ‘We simply don’t know what these people are really like. A party here would be an absolute disaster.’

  ‘Oh, shut up. What do you think, Hanora?’

  ‘Well, we have a cocktail cabinet. Why don’t we have a cocktail party?’

  ‘Oh, God!’

  ‘Shut up, Rosy. Think of it as your “coming out” in the Camp. Think of it as the emergence of the Camp debutante. I’ll stick a notice up on the laundry wall.’

  ‘But what if some of them actually come? What would we give them to eat and drink? We can’t afford a cocktail party. We can’t make cocktails. What could we possibly make cocktails with?’ On and on Rosy went, viewing the horror movie of our Camp party, filmed in black and white in a graveyard, with our guests wandering in and out like the half-dead. I dream that one day she will marry a man who deserves her. I dream that one day she will marry a rich Jew with kitchens and kosher drains all over the place and bathrooms with two toilets each and no windows for privacy, and a rabbi on stand-by. That should shut her up.

  ‘We could manage a cheap bottle of gin, or maybe rum. I think we could make up dozens of drinks from gin and rum, with lime juice and passionfruit cordial. It will be fun, Rosy. I think Mr Sparkle would help make little sausage-mince balls, or maybe even rabbit balls.’ Hanora was already spearing balls of any sort with toothpicks and green and red onions in her mind, and was flushed with ideas. One of her pills had decided to lie low in her gut until it was needed.

  ‘Rabbit balls has just given me an idea,’ I said. ‘What about this? If we help with the ingredients, Mr Sparkle could ferret some rabbits, or shoot them, or whatever he does, and he could make a pot of his stew and everyone could have a taste. Just a spoonful, to try it. I could ask the ice man and the butcher to come, and they could make a judgment.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For Mr Sparkle, Rosy . . . Think!’

  ‘What on earth would we have to buy?’

  ‘I’m sure there’s nothing too expensive. I could manage it, Rosy. I think he said carrots and onions, and capers for the sauce, and parsley. He’d probably get the milk and butter, or whatever else he’d need. I know he has a big pot. Mr Sparkle will tell us what he wants, anyway. He could still help with little eats.’

  ‘That’s clever of you, Aria. Enterprising,’ said Hanora. ‘We’ll put up a notice in the laundry. Everyone reads them. Just this morning I saw one that said: Lost – one blue wool sock, answers to the name of Lefty – and then the address. I thought it was funny. There must be some senses of humour here; they can’t all be miseries. We just have to get to know them, don’t we. Don’t we? Rosy? Maybe the notice could say: Cocktail party six o’clock Friday 22nd. 19B Edward. Wear a hat.’

  ‘I think it would be lots of fun,’ I said. ‘And Rosy can make “mistakes” for our own nogs. What do you think, Rosy?’

  Rosy, Rosy, get off your bloody throne for a while and try! Get off that horse of yours – it’s too bloody high!

  ‘Oh, God! This is going to be so embarrassing.’

  I planned to tell Mr Sparkle early the next morning, to give him time to shoot, skin and take the shot out of the rabbits, and make the stew. Another fantastic opportunity had knocked. Even Rosy might hear this one.

  *

  That night a possum climbed into the hut. It slipped in through the space between the wall and the roof. There was plenty of room for it to come in, and plenty of room for it to climb back out again, but it obviously wanted to have a bit of possum fun first.

  Hanora tried to shoo it out the door with a tea towel waved like a bullfighter’s cape, but it took fright and, in a panic, scratched her arm. We decided to leave the door open and hope for the best. It had managed to knock books down, up-turn the kettle and leave nervous turds – little khaki capsules of possum shit – on the floor. It was quite a large possum, but I had sympathy for it. It was probably looking for an apple. In my opinion possums had too few opportunities to communicate with humans.

  ‘Just stand away from the door, love. It might run out if we don’t panic. ’ Hanora’s blood trickled down to her hand. It wasn’t a bad scratch, and the blood soon stopped dripping. There was a great deal of noise and banging from next door.

  ‘What the hell’s going on in there?’

  ‘Shut up! It’s a possum!’ I shouted back.

  ‘Well, get rid of the bloody thing!’

  ‘What the hell do you think we’re trying to do? You bloody old bat!’

  ‘Aria! Your language gets worse every day. Try not to swear, love.’

  ‘I’m not sorry!’

  Rosy stood on a chair with her hands over her ears.

  ‘I’ll be glad when they move to Greywhateveritis. She might as well be in the same cell as us,’ I said. ‘There’s no privacy . . . none at all! I’m sick of the whole bloody place!’ I’d had an ordinary mortal brainstorm, and suddenly I’d had enough of everything. I searched through a box for iodine for Hanora. Rosy wouldn’t have thought of that.

  The possum, tired of the game, left by the front door and stepped down to the ground on tiptoes without looking back, as though the whole thing had been a terrible waste of time. I was sorry for Hanora and the damage
, but grateful that the possum was safe. The way it crept out was so dainty, almost funny, as though it had thought that not a soul had noticed it. There was no real harm done. The cocktail cabinet remained unmarked. The possum might have instinctively avoided something so obviously valuable. Hanora would have been devastated if it had been damaged, and I like to think the possum recognised a sacred site. It was made of Queensland silky oak – at least on the outside.

  I expect I should have apologised for what I’d said to the hillbilly next door, but I didn’t.

  But I should explain about possums.

  *

  When we lived in the flat – which, incidentally, now I think about it, was quite an ordinary flat, consisting of three rooms, a kitchen with a gas stove and a ’fridge, a small verandah we called the ‘sleepout’, and the shared bathroom opposite our front door, but a palace compared to the cells – I’d slept by choice in the ‘sleepout’. It was open to the sky at one end, and if it rained I put a mackintosh over the end of my bed.

  There was a possum. It had begun to climb a shrub at night and sit on the verandah railing when it was only a tiny thing. I think it might have been an orphan. It was very small. I hadn’t told anyone about the possum. I was younger then, and I used to whisper secrets to it, and was quite sure it listened to me. I saved pieces of apple for it. It was a ringtail with big, gorgeous eyes. I never did give it a name, but I loved it. It was my friend – the sort of friend who listened and never interfered. It fed from my hand and allowed me to stroke it. It seemed to know that I always preferred animals to humans, and that I never thought of animals as dumb. Never! It had seemed to know that.

  ‘Mr Kellog killed a possum last night,’ Hanora said one morning. ‘He said it was running across the ground towards your verandah. It was only small, so he killed it with a shovel.’

  I hated Mr Kellog more than I’d hated anyone in my life, after that. I wish I had told someone about my possum. I might have saved it. After its death I spent a great deal of time thinking of ways to kill Mr Kellog.

  In my daydreams I’d cut the health freak’s throat, and watch the grain spill out, stained with his gory blood; I’d choke him with barley; I’d bury him alive in bean sprouts; I’d drown him in seaweed; I’d grow rice in his ears; and while I planned my own murderous methods, I had my first orgasm when I dreamed I’d stuffed his terrible mouth with bran until he couldn’t breathe and his face turned purple. It was an extraordinary experience, that orgasm. I will never forget it. At the time I had no idea what was happening to me, but it was not a bad feeling at all. I had goose pimples all over. When I grew older and had other orgasms I always considered that first one was the best. It would never have occurred to me that a good orgasm might be achieved by murdering a health-food fanatic with grit and fibre.