Mr Kellog had once been to the United States of America to a seminar on ‘Fibre and Inner Health’. He had tons of money, but refused to mend door handles and window sashes and the toilet chain when it broke. He just said people pulled it too hard and needed to learn a lesson.
‘In America,’ he once said to Hanora during the divorce scandal, and shortly before we were evicted, ‘you would be called poor white trash.’
I am not at all religious, but if I were I would know there’d be a special place in hell for Mr Kellog, possibly buried in a silo full of slow-burning grain. He used to tell Hanora that healthy foods made the body fit and the mind clean. I thought, then, that the sprouts that grew in his brain must surely be the colour of dirt. A mean, miserable man was Mr Kellog. He always seemed to have spit in the corners of his mouth. I did not know at the time that one of the reasons for his evil temper was that Hanora had refused his advances. Imagine! Imagine it! He’d have a cock full of chaff!
*
‘I’m sorry it scratched you, Hanora,’ I said, ‘but I’m so glad it is safe. I’ll do the notice for the laundry. Is there anything special to say?’ I asked. ‘I have to wash some undies.’
‘We mustn’t make them feel as though they have to dress up or spend.’
‘That’s if anyone comes at all,’ said Rosy. ‘And with any luck they won’t.’
‘They can make fun hats out of paper. Add that to the notice, Aria.’
‘Okay.’ And I did.
‘It’s years since I’ve been to a party.’ A stout washerwoman of about fifty read my notice as soon as it was on the laundry wall. She wore a cotton house coat with a sash thin as string, and bare feet. ‘What’s it in aid of?’
‘A bit of Christmas fun and whatever else turns up. Please come.’
‘A hat? I suppose I could whip something up.’ She smiled and took the red pencil from my hand. At the end of the notice she wrote AND BRING A PLATE AND A BEER. ‘They can all manage something.’
‘Do you think they will come? Do you think they’d enjoy it?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. Not a lot of nice happens around here.’
‘Thanks. I am Aria Sparrow.’
‘I know who you are, girl. I’ve heard about you lot. I’m Iris Feather. I’ll spread the word. I think it’s a bonzer idea.’
The Studio
Back in the almost normal world, in the comparative reality of a studio working day, the stored heat of the spotlights made my scalp itch. There were sets and drops and lights all over the place, nothing that would possibly be needed for ‘loving’ bath scrubbers.
Real models, as I thought of them, had just finished a fashion shoot. They’d hired the studio for the morning. Unlike me, they were paid very well. Their perfume stuck to the white-paper backdrops like a slap in the face. I hoped – I dreamed – that one day I might claw myself to their part of the food chain, but those models were tall and thin with flat chests and faces with ‘bone structure’. They were the human coathangers so loved by designers, perfect for the clothes they showed. Naomi Boston told me they had their hair done in a salon every morning, and someone else did their make up. All I had was a hole in the wall as a dressing room, my ‘currencies’, not enough height, and a heavy ‘model’s’ bag, full of make-up and brushes and hair clips and anything else I might need, that I lugged everywhere.
Naomi did tell me, however, that Mr Boston did not find these glorious creatures at all attractive, and knowing Eli Boston’s particular taste I imagined it was because the coathangers didn’t have much between neck and belly.
The studio was cleared while I prepared myself to ‘love’ the bubble bath, the soap, and whatever else the white clawfooted bath tub might be needed for. It was just a lightweight prop, of course, and placed in the centre of an unrolled bolt of white paper. I dreamed of Paris poses while the woman who did not speak filled the bath with bubbles. She used a hose connected to a hand basin.
I told Leon about the cocktail party.
‘Good!’ he said. ‘I hope I’m coming. You were going to ask, weren’t you?’
‘I’d love you to come, but it’s a long way for you. I won’t be offended if you can’t. It’s a sort of Christmas “getting-to-know-you” thing. I thought it might be fun.’
‘A Christmas do? Must I bring something holy?’
‘Just bring some grog if you come. Anything will do. And don’t worry about “holy”. I’ll be steering clear of that sort of thing.’
‘That’s good. They’ve chucked me out of the synagogue.’
‘That’s ridiculous! You’re not serious.’
‘It was the message loud and clear. I can’t be bothered with it any more.’
‘Well, I’m very sorry, Leon, but we won’t be mentioning churches, and of course I won’t mention Christmas in case there are Jews.’ It was meant to be a lighthearted remark.
‘Be hard to find one there, I’d imagine. A Sydney-born Jew would rather die than live in a corrugated-iron Housing Commission hut.’
‘I’ve kind of had that feeling. But then, thousands of them lived in much worse during the war, didn’t they? And died.’
‘You’re right, of course. Sorry. Yes, sorry. But you mustn’t think for a minute that Jews hate Christmas – Jews adore Christmas, my darling girl. We have a choir right here at Boston’s that sings “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” as soon as the shops open.’
‘You do not!’
‘It’s true!’ He laughed. ‘Christmas and Easter – our favourite times of the year. It’s all jingle bells in the tills. We love Jesus every time a Christian buys something, or anyone else for that matter – we’re not picky.’
‘Sorry I mentioned it. If you come to the party do you think you could manage a bottle of something?’
‘Would champagne do?’ He was still grinning. ‘How much grog do you need?’
‘As much as you can manage, I suppose. Do you really have champagne, Leon? Tell me, do real models drink it during a shoot?’
‘No. Well, they might, but it wouldn’t be mine.’
‘Maybe we could go halves in a flagon? I don’t expect you to bring much, but you are a darling to offer, Leon.’ I often wondered what I’d do without Leon, someone to talk to about everything, to open up and say how I really felt about things. ‘You know, I haven’t told Naomi Boston about the Camp. Isn’t that stupid? Pride, I guess. I’m as bad as Rosy!’
‘I understand. I’m not sure if the Bostons would.’
‘God, I wish you weren’t, well, queer. We could marry and have a picket fence and babies.’
‘What an absolutely ghastly thought! But I love you too, Aria. Pity.’ And we laughed again. We’d both been in a good mood that morning, and I thought the day might polish the surface over the boredom of its chores. ‘You’re on for a flagon. Might even do better than that. I’ll go through our list of clients.’
Mr Eli Boston waited until I was in the bath tub with one knee up and bubbles revealing just enough of my currencies, suggesting I was naked, though of course I wore a swimsuit. I arched my neck back and I absolutely ‘loved’ a bar of soap to within an inch of its life. I simply adored the bar of soap.
‘Damn, but you’re good!’ said Leon while he snapped and laughed.
‘I know.’
The woman who never spoke had stuck a hook through the paper drop behind the tub and hung a pink towel from it. I thought it was a nice touch. I told her, but I did not expect a reply.
‘How delicious you look, Aria,’ Mr Eli Boston said, sounding like a little boy wanting to play with a doll. ‘I’d love to know what is really under all those bubbles.’ He knew he should not have been there, and kept looking over his shoulder.
‘Under the bubbles, Mr Boston? Nothing but death in my heart and murder in my soul.’ Leon grinned behind the camera.
‘Naughty girl,’ said Mr Boston.
‘Naughty Mr Boston. Please give Naomi my best wishes if I miss her. She said she’d be popping in this
morning.’ And he scampered out of the studio like a frightened deer.
It occurred to me that I could quite easily have ended the studio relationship with Eli Boston in a discreet way, or told his wife so that she could do it. Despite his suggestive, slippery behaviour, I did not feel in the least aroused in the bath of bubbles, or indeed with anything else I was asked to ‘love’ while Eli was around. My orgasm during Mr Kellog’s death by bran had obviously been a one-off experience.
Preparations for a Cocktail Party
I should describe preparations for the cocktail party at 19B Edward.
I had saved a bit for things like pickled onions and cheese biscuits. I hoped I would have enough for paper napkins, but I decided to speak to Mr Sparkle first.
‘I’ve come about our cocktail party.’
‘I heard about it, Miss Aria. I hope I’m invited.’
‘Of course you are, Mr Sparkle; that goes without saying. We couldn’t possibly do without you. In fact, if all goes according to plan, you could very well be the star of the whole show.’
‘I don’t know about that, but I’ll be able to help, you know. Tell Mrs Sparrow I’ll do anything she wants.’
‘There’s something I want to ask you, Mr Sparkle.’
‘Ask away.’
‘If I help out with the ingredients, do you think you could make a big pot of rabbit stew?’
‘For a cocktail party?!’
‘Wait until I have finished please, Mr Sparkle.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I was thinking of asking the butcher and the ice man to come to the party. They could dip a spoon into the stew, and others could do the same – just a taste it would be, and I think you’ll find everyone will want more. Especially the ice man and the butcher. Do you understand what that might mean, Mr Sparkle?’
‘There’s no doubt about you, Miss Aria! You should be running a bloomin’ business yourself. A big business, like the grocer’s.’
‘We have a little over two weeks to go. Will that be enough time to supply the rabbits?’
‘I’ll bloody well make the time! Excuse the language.’
‘And what might you need for a stew of a rabbit or two?’
‘Well, there’s your carrots and your onions, a big bunch of parsley, and flour and milk, a bit of butter, and a few capers.’ He ran off a list as though he’d been planning the same thing. ‘I can use my own big pot. But you’d still have to have small eats.’
‘The guests have been asked to bring a plate. Hanora thought you might help her make some little balls of sausage mince.’
‘I’m already looking forward to it.’
‘It was Iris Feather who suggested they bring a plate when I put up the notice in the laundry.’
‘And so they should . . . and a bottle or two as well.’
‘We don’t want them to go to too much trouble, Mr Sparkle. Now, if I can manage the carrots . . .’
‘Three, large.’
‘The onions . . .’
‘Three – large, white . . .’
‘Butter, milk, parsley and capers, can you supply the rest?’
‘If it kills me!’
I then went to visit the ice man and the butcher and invited them to the party. I hoped I made the invitation more attractive by telling them they would probably pick up new customers. I also mentioned that I would be buying party food and ice from them fairly soon.
‘Not a lot of that goes on around here,’ said the butcher. ‘It’s usually complaints and no money for the bills.’
I then called in to the general store and bought carrots, onions, a bottle of capers that cost far more than I’d expected, red and green pickled onions, some butter, toothpicks and a bag of plain biscuits. I didn’t have enough for the paper napkins. I thought it would be fun to make some anyway – Rosy could do that. Newspaper would do. Anything. I planned to supply the stew ingredients to Mr Sparkle nearer to the time of cooking.
Everything seemed to be falling into place. I had not made too much of the rabbit stew plan in case it didn’t come off, but nevertheless I clearly heard Rosy’s voice: ‘There she goes again!’
Dress Rehearsal – December 22nd
Heavy weather was nailed to the sky above the Camp.
The sky was a furnace – still, hot, smoke-hazed, red-dusted and thick as rust. To the north, I understood, there had been back-burning in the bush, and the smell of it was strong. From the east a breeze struggled against impossible odds then gave up – ditto, a southerly, weak as a dying breath. In the west the afternoon sun burnt like an anvil’s fire through a barrier of the dried ash of earth. It was unspeakably hot inside the iron cells. A passing fantasy had me throwing balls of sausage mince against the corrugated iron and letting them stick there to cook with their little toothpicked onions.
‘Of course, you know they won’t come in this.’ Rosy sat with her feet in a basin of water while putting the finishing touches to a stack of crepe-paper napkins. The hats she had made for us were of cardboard and the same material. There’d been crepe paper and cardboard strewn everywhere, and there was Hanora nervously smoking a cigarette while she set kindling alight in the stove to heat it for Mr Sparkle’s stew pot. ‘Mother, I don’t think anyone should smoke. We’ll probably all go up in flames as it is.’
The ice chest held what it could of perishables, but the ice blocks were melting like glaciers in a desert.
‘Maybe I’ll ask Mr Sparkle to help with more ice after he brings the stew.’
‘Who on earth is going to want hot stew in this weather?’
‘I just want them to taste it, your bloody highness! You know dashed well why he’s cooking rabbit stew!’
‘Aria! Not now.’
Hanora thought the stew idea very enterprising. She could see the opportunities it offered Mr Sparkle. She congratulated me. And after a pause, she added: ‘You know, you are such a very resourceful person, Aria. I believe you could do absolutely anything. I’ve often said to myself if anyone could get us out of this place it would be you.’
‘And don’t think she hasn’t thought of that already!’ Rosy dried her feet but only long enough to get a basin of fresh water.
‘Well, you’d better hope I had thought of it!’
Outside 19B, where coloured balloons had been tied to the top step, a grubby plot of half-naked children had gathered, kids like weeds in various stages of development, and dressed for the heat. They thrived in the toe-scuffing dust while they yelled insults and la-de-das, and one of them threw a stone at the only balloon the heat had not burst. I had bought a packet of them from Woolworths, and I took two spares from a drawer. I was sweaty and hot and irritable and I showed no mercy. I flew down the steps and dragged one of the older boys over to our cells and handed him a balloon. Then I dragged another over and handed him one too.
‘Blow!’
And they did. The others stood nervously to watch or sidled away.
Someone clapped hands and cheered from an opposite window. ‘You only got there a second before me, darl, and one of them’s mine! Good on you, girl!’
But Hanora and Rosy were horrified.
‘Aria, please!’ Hanora said. ‘It will only make them worse.’
‘What on earth’s got into you?’ Rosy stood in her basin of water. She looked like a giant toddler in a paddle pool.
‘I’m not putting up with that cheek from anyone – especially that gang of brats!’ And I felt better for it, and even a little cooler.
Mr Sparkle brought the stew pot at five forty-five, and I knew my instincts had been right – the smell of it was delicious. He had made a few extra sausage-mince balls, and said he would look after the ice in the ice chest and we weren’t to worry. He wore an apron of sorts, stiff with a treasury of the blood of rabbits and gut and ancient food; his apron was a museum of stains. Mr Sparkle was embarrassed when he saw me staring at it and turned it back to front, but it made no difference.
‘You’ve got yourselves a nice evening for
it,’ he said. That was news to me, but he seemed very happy.
‘I think you might be right, Mr Sparkle. And the stew smells so good I wouldn’t be surprised if it changes your life forever.’ I tasted it and nodded. ‘And it is good. It’s as good as I thought it would be.’ It was the kind of food that could be eaten any time of the day, from breakfast to dinner – another point in its favour, I thought. I would suggest it to the tasters. ‘I congratulate you, Mr Sparkle.’
‘Thank you for that, Miss Aria. Appreciate that. Sorry about the apron.’
‘I will try to find you another one so it can be cleaned. The butcher might have a spare.’
‘And thank you so much for helping, Mr Sparkle. We could not have managed without you,’ said Hanora. Heat or no heat, she had begun, with the help of a pill and the cigarette holder, to look very swish in her oyster-grey skirt and a Saturday market Spanish shawl she had made into a blouse with the fringe left on. Perspiration, which would have ruined the appearance of lesser mortals, gave her skin a youthful glow.
‘Maybe you could – maybe you couldn’t,’ Mr Sparkle said with a grin all over his face. He seemed to me to have even grown a little taller.
Opening Night
Iris Feather had spread the word, as she’d said she would.
Our first guests arrived in an uncertain trickle. One or two men came at first, but there were mostly drifting women. They came at discreet intervals, carrying paper plates of poor man’s nibbles and a bottle or two of beer; sweat had created patterns on shirts and dresses in a variety of designs. We were about seven or eight in 19B Edward at first, including Sparrows but not Leon, who was unable to come until around six-thirty. People wandered in and out, most in a self-conscious way, as people might do in the company of strangers, but some were openly curious. There was never a great number at a time. I was pretty sure the heat had something to do with that. Women dabbed at their foreheads while the men took their drinks, sat on the steps and smoked.
The Sparrows of Edward Street Page 10
