The Sparrows of Edward Street

by Elizabeth Stead

  ‘You will promise to rest, Hanora.’ I was running late for the bus.

  ‘Of course, love. You were wonderful last night.’

  ‘It was all like something out of a Wagnerian opera!’

  ‘You were wonderful.’

  ‘What did Miss Aria get up to?’

  ‘Well, Mr Sparkle, she had me attended to very quickly, locked horns with a very unfriendly receptionist, and told them to send the bill to the Vatican.’

  ‘Good for you, girl! I’m not a Catholic. Serves them right. Good on you, girlie!’

  ‘The name is Aria, Mr Sparkle. Please call me by that name, and leave out the Miss. I’m running late.’ And I ran down the steps, blew a kiss to the newly planted lemon gum on the way past, and ran to the bus stop.

  The Studio – ‘Loving’ Vegetables

  On the way to Boston’s studio from the city station I had a Scheherazade moment, even though I had not heard the music that morning. It was for me not an uncommon experience, but one edged with excitement, and I looked forward to every one of them. I always thanked R-K and Russia.

  I was approached on the busy pavement by a good-looking man of middle age. He apologised for speaking to me as a stranger, but he said he had noticed me on occasions and asked if I would consider modelling for a portrait he wanted to paint. He was well dressed and very polite. His face was vaguely familiar. He gave me his card, and it seemed that his studio was not far from Boston’s. I knew that he was well known. He said he would pay me. I had never been a live real painter’s model, but I accepted, because I had sworn never to turn down a paying opportunity, no matter how casually it was presented. After all, would a sparrow ignore a pastry crust that had been dropped in front of its beak? I didn’t think so. Especially a crust served on a palette.

  It was also the day I was to model for Mr Booth’s illustration for a short story in the Weekly. It was about a shipwrecked heroine, tattered and half crazed with hunger and thirst, but still beautiful, especially around the currencies area. Things, I thought, were looking up. Not exactly Vogue – not exactly coathanging – but suddenly a change in the life of a day. Rimsky-Korsakov continued to hum musical notes to me. Always a good sign.

  Inside the Boston studio, Leon and Boston associates were in deep discussion about how we were to promote fresh vegetables for a Chinese market garden association.

  ‘Obviously the key word is glowing health,’ said Leon. The woman who said nothing nodded her head. ‘Rosy cheeks, fine strong teeth, and tits. How is the Sparrow family this morning?’

  ‘Bit of drama last night after the party, Leon. We had to take Hanora to the medical centre to treat a possum scratch.’

  ‘Everything okay?’ Leon asked. ‘I thought she looked a bit pale. I should have stayed. How did you get to the centre?’

  ‘The local priest drove us.’

  ‘But naturally, Aria. It was a stupid question.’

  ‘She’s much better this morning.’

  ‘Can we get back to the produce?’ a keen new man asked. He never stopped moving. Even when he sat, his knee vibrated up and down like a piston on drugs.

  ‘I don’t have to “love” a cabbage, do I?’

  ‘Vegetables in general. A mouth-watering image of the preparation of freshly picked vegetables for the man in your life. Loving the thought is the key,’ the jitter man said.

  ‘Not a good thing to say to our Aria,’ said Leon.

  ‘Oh, what the hell, Leon. I know how to do this. You want lots of healthy glow, a revealing pinafore, a basket of fresh vegies and a very sharp knife!’

  ‘You know, I think she’s spot on,’ said the new man.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, you lot! To me a carrot is not much different from a bar of soap. I do know how to “love” things.’

  During the shoot my mind wandered off to the very nice-looking painter’s studio, where I was being painted with absolutely nothing on and paid a great deal of money, before making passionate love with him on a drop sheet to the music of Russia. Oh, yes! Rosy – dream rainbows and your turn will come . . .

  Leon flashed away, and the shot they chose was of me stabbing a marrow while licking my lip, head to one side, teeth shining, pinafore off one shoulder, and a basket of tomatoes, beans and carrots on a board. A recipe was to accompany the advertisement.

  ‘I don’t know how you do it, Aria,’ Leon said later. ‘You’ll have them running out panting to the nearest fruit and veg barrow for melons – no offence.’

  ‘I’ve had an offer to pose for a real painter. He asked me this morning.’ I showed him the card.

  ‘Wow. I know of him. I like his work. You might be hung in a gallery. And you’re doing the short story thing this afternoon, aren’t you?’

  ‘Busy day, Leon.’

  ‘You could be famous sooner than you think.’

  ‘Today vegies, shipwrecks and oils – next stop Paris and coathangers. Damned if I won’t get there! I mean we. You’ll come too, won’t you, Leon? You can bring Max.’

  The afternoon job at the Weekly paid reasonably well. I had to stand still for a very long time, and I considered the exercise good experience for the painter’s studio. Good practice for that, I thought, but why the magazine couldn’t just take a photo of me shipwrecked and get on with it puzzled me – however, I was told Mr Booth liked to work the way he did. He was greatly respected. I had a think about him on the way back to 19B Edward, and I wondered if he liked to paint from life because he really hated illustrating stupid stories and serials. He probably dreamed in the studios of his nights of being a real painter, of fame and fortune with commissions and exhibitions in smart galleries, and opening nights flooded with champagne. His work was certainly good enough. He paid a great deal of attention to detail. But even in the rattling bus I could hear Rosy’s voice: For goodness sakes, leave the man alone!

  The Camp

  ‘What on earth are you doing, Hanora? You’re supposed to be resting.’ Hanora was at the bottom of our steps, arranging rocks to form an area of garden around our new tree. So far the lemon-scented gum had not been tampered with. It had become quite a pleasant area, really, and I wondered if we could grow some sort of grass around it.

  ‘They’re going to be white. Mr Sparkle taught me how to make whitewash.’

  Further away, down near the boundary fence and among the dead grass, Tom Gardiner sat, rocking near his daymare pit of bodies and lime, with his hands over his ears against the shells, the rifle shots, the screams and horrors and atrocities of his war. Every now and then he howled like a lost dog.

  ‘He’s been there for an hour,’ Hanora said with tears in her eyes. ‘I don’t dare interfere – I don’t know how to help someone like that.’ It was a surreal scene.

  ‘Is Rosy here yet?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’m glad it’s still light. She hates coming back in the dark.’

  A woman walked shakily past us. She stopped and spoke to us. ‘That’s my husband over there.’

  ‘We’re so very sorry,’ Hanora said. ‘If there’s anything we can do to help please tell us. We usually keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Gardiner. ‘That’s why I’m here. Thank you.’

  Mrs Gardiner was an unexpected sight. She was tall and gracefully slim, as though she had danced for the Paris opera. Long, wispy, prematurely grey hair was held off her face by a blue Alice band. A thin blue dress clung to her body like a shroud, and she wore flat shoes of the type worn by many tall women. She swayed a little when she walked, and looked as though a fallen leaf would have knocked her for six, but as she paused for a moment I saw in her eyes a weary strength I knew she would need to endure and survive.

  ‘Tom never used to cry like this. He used to just moan to himself, with it all eating inside him.’ Her own eyes were dry. I wondered if she had not been able to find tears of her own. ‘But I think crying is good, don’t you? Lets it out.’

  ‘You could well be right. I don’t remember ever seeing you,
Mrs Gardiner,’ I said. Her wisps of hair waved around her head as though they were drowning in air. ‘Would you like a cool drink?’

  ‘No, no. I never go out! Never go out! Never go . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I might faint. I might fall.’

  ‘I think you’re beautifully light on your feet. You move like a dancer.’

  ‘No, no. I’m all he’s got. I just wanted to thank you.’

  ‘What for, Mrs Gardiner?’ said Hanora.

  ‘For watching out. For caring about him. I think he knows you watch him.’

  ‘We wish we could do more.’

  ‘I don’t know what. I’m sick too, you know . . .’

  ‘You must be terribly tired. Exhausted. What sickness do you have?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the itch! It’s the worst itch . . . You can’t imagine. It’s all over me – everywhere!’

  ‘Is it a rash?’ I asked, but I could see no rash. Her skin was pale and papery, except for her scalp, which appeared very pink and a bit raw. I wondered if she scratched away her hair in her sleep. ‘There must be something to stop your itch, Mrs Gardiner. Would you like me to make inquiries? What does your doctor advise?’

  ‘He told me the itch was just in my brain!’

  ‘Oh, good heavens!’ said Hanora. ‘What a terrible thing to say.’

  ‘He might have been right. I’m sure my brain itches too. It’s terrible!’

  I had a fleeting picture of the Gorgon behind the desk in the medical clinic, dismissing the poor woman in such a way.

  ‘That wasn’t very helpful, was it? What that doctor said. You should go to another one.’

  ‘But it is real. It’s real enough! It’s black and it’s spreading. You can see it, can’t you? Can’t you see it? Can you see it?’ And Mrs Gardiner began to violently claw and scratch the air around her face and body. She scratched and scratched but never once touched her skin. Not once did she make contact with her body. She was like a woman in an opium den living in a nightmare of hallucinations.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘I can clearly see it, Mrs Gardiner.’

  ‘I told him it was real. The scratching only relieves it for a while. I’ve got pills, but they put me to sleep. I mustn’t sleep. What if something happened? I never sleep.’

  ‘We’ll keep an eye on your husband while he’s down here,’ I said. ‘You go and get some rest. I’ll see if I can find something for your rash, so please try not to worry, Mrs Gardiner.’

  ‘Thank you . . . Thank you.’ And she turned and floated away like an unbalanced spirit, a poltergeist with hair wisps flying around her head in the perfectly still air. I looked at her feet. I wasn’t sure if they touched the ground.

  We were silent for a moment.

  ‘You know,’ Hanora said quietly, with tears in her eyes, ‘when we leave here I think I’m going to miss a lot of these people.’

  ‘Me too. How is your arm?’

  ‘It’s all feeling much better. Tomorrow I’m going to paint the stones and then I’ll move the deck chair out here.’

  ‘The tree’s not big enough for shade.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’ll sunbake.’

  *

  Rosy was much later than usual. It was dark by the time she came back to the cells. But she looked different somehow. She had a looser, more relaxed look about her. The tightness and tension of her constant anxiety seemed to have left her for the moment.

  ‘What’s going on, Rose? And don’t say “nothing”.’

  ‘Nothing. Whether you like it or not.’

  ‘You look different. Are you sick?’

  ‘I’m not sick.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘If you must know, I’ve met a boy and we go to Repins for coffee sometimes – so now you know!’

  ‘You?! A boy! Who is he?’

  ‘None of your business, Aria. Why is it so strange I should have a boyfriend?’

  ‘You’re too young, for a start.’

  ‘I’m over fifteen.’

  Hanora climbed the steps slowly and came inside. ‘What’s happened? I could hear you from outside.’

  ‘Rosy has a boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh, isn’t that lovely, Rosy? Lovely.’

  ‘Good grief, Hanora, she’s too young, and she won’t tell me anything about him.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s very nice, Aria.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ I asked.

  ‘Neville Trask.’

  ‘Oh, God!’

  ‘He works at Grace Brothers.’

  ‘I’m thrilled,’ I said.

  ‘Aria, don’t spoil it. Rosy might be in love.’

  ‘Are you in love, Rosy?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  It happened that I had left the bus a stop or two past my usual and I had walked back to 19B Edward via the shops. I’d bought one of Mr Sparkle’s rabbit pies for dinner and some green beans to go with it. The pie was warming in our mini oven as we spoke. It was meant to be a surprise. But Rosy’s news had definitely put the pie on the back-burner, as it were.

  ‘Why won’t you leave me alone to work things out for myself?’

  ‘Rosy – you’re just too young!’ She didn’t know the traps!

  ‘Perhaps you are being a little over-protective, love.’

  And perhaps I was. From the time the headmaster of our school started putting his hand up my tunic to feel my bottom I waited for Rosy to come out of her lower classroom for me to protect her. The scandal was not the only reason I’d carried her all over the playground. For some reason, Hanora had never been aware of any of this. Over-protective? Yes. I think I was. But there were reasons.

  ‘Rosy,’ I said. ‘I really don’t mean to spoil things. I just want you to be safe.’

  ‘I’m all right, Aria. Stop worrying about me.’

  Hanora went to the stove. ‘What’s this in the oven?’

  ‘It’s a rabbit pie for tonight – to save your arm. And there are fresh beans.’ But I was no longer in a gift-giving mood. ‘I thought it would save trouble.’

  ‘Thank you, love. I was just going to make toasted sandwiches. You’re a good and thoughtful girl, Aria.’

  Like hell, I am, I thought. I just knew a lot more about life than Hanora or Rosy realised. As she grew older, Rosy was sure to be a knock-down for a wink and a whistle. She had developed into a fairly attractive female.

  ‘I’m going to the laundry. Can I rinse a few things out for anyone?’ Rosy handed me a bra and two pairs of pants. I held one of them up.

  ‘These are new.’

  ‘Pretty,’ said Hanora.

  ‘They’re not pants,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, they are.’

  ‘They’re scanties!’

  ‘So, they’re scanties,’ said Rosy. ‘What do scanties have to do with anything? What’s got into you, Aria?’

  ‘It’s just that I never thought of you liking this sort of thing.’

  ‘Well, I do.’

  ‘As long as Neville didn’t give them to you!’

  ‘Of course he didn’t. What are you talking about?’

  And I wondered, as I sometimes did, what really was the matter with me. Things cropped up to make me suddenly angry and anxious and suspicious. It happened out of the blue. Right at that moment Neville Trask of Grace Brothers made me angry.

  I’d never imagined Rosy anywhere near a male. Never saw her as a woman. The idea of Rosy having sex with a man was something I had never imagined. How would she cope? How would she know to sort the good from the bad? How would she know how to protect herself? I wished I did not take things so seriously. Why should I worry about Rosy? But I did. ‘We’ll have to have a talk,’ I said, but I don’t think she heard me. I wished I could have been like Hanora and let it all float past me like a paper boat down a stream.

  The Camp – Breaking News

  The laundry had a newsflash. I sensed an atmosphere of chatterboxing and bubbles as soon as I opened the door.

  The air
in the laundry was sensitive to different news items. For example, when poor Maddie Pope died of the lump in her belly, the air was quiet and cold and the suds were left to thin. When Father Beale looked through his scritch in the window and waved, the air became warm and quick and sly as foxes, with thick suds hiding the worst of the undies, especially those worn by the church’s flock. The atmosphere surrounding a not-so-secret affair in the Camp was sweet and sour and noisy, like birds. After the death of a child the air was as empty and as dark as the room itself, with its drained tubs and no socks washed for Tuesday; but for a happy birth it was all milk-mothering, nesting sighs, with suds soft as clouds. I have always been very sensitive to the atmospheres surrounding human events. Odd? Yes, but not to someone who understands the language of iron.

  The air on that night buzzed as though someone had opened a hive.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re having a Royal Visit.’

  ‘When?’ They called a visit from the Housing Minister, or his representatives, a ‘Royal Visit’.

  ‘On Saturday week.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Laying a bloody stone, I suppose,’ said one. ‘Or a plaque. His ego must need a pump and a couple of photos for the press. Haven’t heard anything about an election.’

  ‘I hear he’s planting a tree in the school,’ said another.

  ‘Not in the school. In the playground. You can’t plant a tree in the school!’

  ‘Mrs “Bloody Up Herself” Glass has been asked to represent us locals.’

  ‘She’s got a pair of white gloves that go to the elbow,’ said Iris Feather.

  ‘Well, no wonder they asked her. They wouldn’t ask anyone without bloody gloves that go to the elbows, would they? We’re all invited – oh, excuse me – we’re all expected to be there.’