‘How do you do? I didn’t see you at the school.’
‘I was not there.’ Hanora had not moved from the deck chair.
‘I am the Minister for Housing . . .’
But you think you’re Jesus Christ! I thought from the shadow.
‘And this is my wife . . .’
The Mrs really looked done in! I would have laid a bet she was longing for a gin and tonic and a bit of a lie down.
‘What a pretty tree,’ said the Mrs, and she read the plaque Mr Sparkle had made: ‘The Book Saver’s Lemon Gum. How very intriguing.’
How bloody patronising.
‘What is the name of the tree you planted at the school?’ Hanora asked.
‘What was the name of the tree you planted, dear, in the playground?’
‘Gum.’
‘Gum,’ she said. ‘And of course I see you are reading. Do you read a lot, Mrs . . .’
‘Sparrow. S-p-a-r-r-o-w. Yes, whenever I can. Do you have a favourite author?’
‘No one in particular,’ said the Mrs, ‘but I do like a good murder mystery.’
‘I’d offer to lend you one from the shelves, but they’re mostly all out. Would you like a cup of tea?’
Yes, of course they would.
‘Yes, thank you. We’d like that very much.’
‘Rosy!’ I hissed at the door to our cell. ‘They’re coming in!’
‘Oh, God. I want to go to the bathroom again.’ Her voice was muffled, as though she’d covered her head with a blanket.
‘You’ll have to hang on!’
‘This is my daughter Aria.’ Hanora checked the kettle and the teapot as though she knew what she was doing.
‘I think your daughter helped with the lunch,’ said the Minister for Housing. ‘And a very good job she did. It was a good spread, didn’t you think so, dear?’
‘Ah, yes, very nice indeed,’ said the Mrs, meaning nothing of the kind. ‘You do indeed have a great many books, Mrs Sparrow.’ Like most females, she’d checked and recorded the interior of 19B Edward in a heartbeat, and had found at least one acceptable thing to remark upon.
‘And almost as many records,’ Hanora said. ‘Do you like music?’
‘Of course, Mrs Sparrow. One would be foolish not to.’
A perfect political answer from a politician’s wife, I thought. I tucked it away in my file: How to answer questions without meaning anything at all.
I poured two cups of tea. I’d had to wash our own cups, but they hadn’t noticed.
‘We’ve just had ours,’ I said.
The rest of Edward Street and the other hangers-on thankfully stayed at the bottom of our steps. I suspect more than one photo of Hanora in her deck chair had been taken. It would have been an unusual picture, but I thought it really gave entirely the wrong image. One unusual inmate reclining in a deck chair and reading a book almost did a disservice to the desperate reality of the Camp. However, I decided not to mention it to Hanora.
While the Minister and the Mrs sipped their tea, Hanora asked the question: ‘With respect, Minister, how long do you think it will be before we’re moved from here? Do you think – approximately?’
I was glad she’d asked, but Hanora’s question was a bit too much of a lifted forelock for me.
The Minister straightened his back and raised his chin. It was not really a question without notice, but the reply was as tedious as a recording for Hansard.
‘Well now, blah blah blah, each one judged, blah blah blah, the merits, blah blah, needs, blah blah . . .’ And so on. Blahed blahs, learned from page something or other in ‘Answers to the Questions of the Disadvantaged and the Interned.’
‘Ooooooh.’ Rosy squealed like a kitten in a drain. I should have left her something to pee in.
‘What was that?’ The Mrs put her cup into its saucer.
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said Hanora. ‘Probably from next door. There is so little privacy here!’
‘I’m sorry. Difficult times, I imagine. Difficult times. I wonder – I wonder if I could visit your bathroom? And then we must go, I think, dear. It has been a most enlightening visit,’ the Mrs said to the Minister.
And the Minister said: ‘And I’ll make a pit stop too, if you don’t mind. We Ministers have to go just like everyone else, you know, ha ha.’ And he chuckled to let us know what a really good-humoured mortal bloke he was. With an ordinary, mortal bladder.
When the Mrs pulled the chain the whole of Edward probably heard it. Then he went in, and by the sound of the stream into the bowl he owned a larger system than most homo sapiens and a very efficient pair of kidneys. After he’d emptied what might have been two pots of tea, a few bottles of water and cordial and whatever grog he might have had in the car, he pulled the chain.
‘What in the name of Christ was that?’ Rosy, whose own bladder had obviously reached the end of its tether, rushed out of the cell, completely covered with her blanket. ‘It sounded like a horse!’ And unbelievably she ran to the bathroom and slammed the door.
‘That was my poor sister,’ I said. Hanora was about to say something, but I stopped her with: ‘Let me tell them, my dear. She is not at all well – my sister is not at all well. This is a terrible place to be unwell; I think you must agree. The doctor thinks she is allergic to the iron. She looks terrible. Rash?! You’ve never seen anything like it. She doesn’t like anyone to see her.’
Rosy ran back to her cell and firmly closed the door. I imagined every ear, up and down the length of Edward and possibly beyond, was out on sticks, so as not to miss a single sound inside the Sparrows’ nest.
‘Oh, the poor thing . . . We must not keep you another second,’ said the Mrs. ‘Come along.’ She took the Minister’s arm. ‘Is your sister taking something for it?’
‘Constantly.’
‘Oh, the poor thing. Is it infectious?’
‘Terribly.’
‘Come along, dear!’
But I decided to go for the jugular while there was still time. I stood before the Minister with my arms stretched behind my back and pointed my currencies at an area lower than his throat, as a matter of fact, and directly at his soft underbelly. I imagined the sight might have been as intimidating as a couple of torpedos to a destroyer.
‘I would very much like to put our case to you,’ I said to the Minister. ‘Would it be possible to have a private meeting with you in your office?’
‘I don’t see why not. Aria Sparrow, isn’t it? I think we might be able to arrange that. It would have to be when Parliament is not sitting.’ He gave me a one-sided smile then quickly turned and looked into his wife’s eyes. The expression, I could clearly see, was not of approval. For a moment she looked a bit like Naomi Boston.
‘Will you please make a note of my name?’
‘Yes, of course. You won’t be turned away – but I can’t make any promises, you know. Every case is dealt with on its merits,’ he said, just to be on the safe side.
‘Can you give me a card or something?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ And he handed me a very grand business card with a State Government crest on it.
‘I will contact you at a convenient time, Minister.’ I hope I sounded business-like. ‘Thank you very much. I am a model. I work at Boston’s Advertising Agency.’
‘I’ve known Eli Boston for years,’ said the Minister. ‘Good man, that.’
‘I am very friendly with his wife, Naomi,’ I said. Securing the link in the chain, and to reassure the Mrs in some way.
‘Thank you so much for the tea and the use of the – facilities, Mrs Sparrow.’ The Minister’s wife smiled at Hanora and bored a hole through my pupils almost in one movement. Hanora ushered them down the steps.
A group of ‘passers-by’ had gathered, and had stopped to admire the beauty of our tree, the deck chair, the dust, the steps leading to the door, the stain where the party vomit had been, and anything else they could find.
‘They’re leaving,’ I announced loudly. �
��No more photos required.’
Oh, Rosy. I hope I sounded grand and official. The locals all had their hair tucked behind their ears and they all had ears as big as bats’ ears.
Camp hearing was very finely tuned, I believed. It would be babel in the laundry tonight.
As the Royal party approached the car the Minister’s wife noticed Tom Gardiner in the distance, still squatting and rocking in the dead grass. He had not turned his head. I wondered if he had been unaware of all the fuss around our steps – I hoped so, anyway.
‘Who is that?’ the Mrs asked Hanora.
‘Mr Gardiner. He is a victim of the war. He is not well because of it. In fact he is most unwell. He likes to be left alone.’
‘But I must say something. We have great sympathy for such people. We owe them so much. I must say something.’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you. He is in a very fragile state,’ said Hanora.
‘Perhaps Mrs Sparrow is right, dear,’ said the Minister.
‘Nonsense. I couldn’t leave here without acknowledging a hero of the war.’
‘He’s in a very bad way. He doesn’t like . . .’
But before Hanora could finish, the Mrs strode across the patch of dead earth and went closer to Tom Gardiner than anyone had been, outside his hut, with the possible exception of his wife. We were all afraid she might touch him on the shoulder.
‘How do you do!’ she shouted in the way people shout to the mentally ill, as though their damaged brains have also made them deaf. ‘I just wanted to tell you how proud we are of you chaps and how sorry we are you . . .’
‘Bugger off!’ screamed Tom. ‘You’re too close! Bugger off!! You’ll fall in! Get away from the pit!’ And he began to sob and shake. ‘Bloody KRAK! Bloody KRAK!’ It was the first time any of us had heard him say so much.
The driver took fright and started the engine of the official car, and a startled Mrs ran through the rough grass to it, laddered stockings and all. If it had been a minefield she’d have run just as fast. The Minister’s staff piled into the car after her, and they all rolled quickly away in the direction of the main street and the safety of a proper life on the proper side of the fork in the road. They left Tom Gardiner in a terrible state.
‘I’ll go and sit near him until he calms down. He knows me.’
And Hanora did just that. I was proud of her. It was very late. The passers-by had dispersed, having had more than their fill of comedy, drama and tragedy for one day, and I went inside 19B Edward to free Rosy.
*
‘I’ve never heard you shout like a banshee before, Rosy. You swore, Rosy – were you aware of that? Do you realise you blasphemed in front of the Minister for Housing and the Mrs? It was all pretty bloody marvellous, if you want to know.’
‘I kept wanting to pee. The sound of everyone else doing it was too much.’
‘Poor Rosy. Anyway, the coast is clear – you can come out now.’
‘How was the Minister? What was he like?’
‘Patronising as hell, and so was she, but they can’t help it. Patronage goes with the job, I expect.’
‘Did you ask him when we might be moved?’
‘I did, and so did Hanora. He blabbered away the way politicians are taught to do. I’m going to have an appointment in his office when Parliament’s not sitting.’
‘You’re very brave, Aria.’
Yes I am, Rosy Posy, but I won’t do anything without a plan of attack. There will be a plan of attack before I go, Rosy. This sparrow’s beak will be as sharp as a sliver of glass!
February 1949
What a strange month is February, almost as though there was a space in the year the seasons did not know what to do with, with the exception of the ancient Roman festival of purification. But that festival doesn’t have anything to do with a Sydney February. A Sydney February is certainly not pure. It takes some of the rain from July, the heat from January, and the winds from August. It is a shortened month, and who can blame it? A fill-in, a thumb-twiddling waste of a month, not knowing whether to sprout moss on the clothes and boots of peasants who live in a Camp without proper cupboards and decent air circulation, or have them searching for sweaters and knitting needles. People with nothing better to do conceive babies in February, or write letters to people they don’t particularly like. February produces strange moods. The Baden-Powells celebrate a birthday in February, and I for one really don’t care if they enjoy it or not; and no doubt some out-of-the-way country celebrates its temporary independence. A few years ago the Japanese, always creative and more spectacular, thought February was just the right month to bomb Darwin. No wonder days were removed from February’s end. Good riddance to them, I say. For anyone who perspires, February is a terrible month. Mould loves February. Germs love February. They couple, copulate, produce and generally thrive. February has been known to attack humans who are not robust, simply for the spiteful fun of it.
‘I don’t know whether I’m hot or cold, love.’
‘You look a bit flushed. Do you think you have a temperature?’
‘It’s hard to tell, with the rain and the wind coming through the gaps in the walls.’ Hanora had a swathe of cloth wrapped around her jaw and under her hat. She reclined on her old divan in her cell. ‘I have an awful headache – my head feels like a watermelon . . . sorry, love, but it does.’
‘I’m sorry. Don’t you apologise for it.’
‘There’s nothing for dinner. Is Rosy home?’
‘I have no idea. I’ll check. Don’t worry about dinner – I’ll whip something up.’
‘Oh, Aria! Every single mother in this world should have a daughter like you.’ Such praise was given at the times when I was most needed. I was used to it.
‘Don’t be ridiculous! You must be delirious.’
‘You could be right, love. Today I looked across the fork in the road, and there was a proper house window open – there was a white curtain waving out of it. I dream about that – having a white curtain waving from a proper window. White muslin with a sash – and perhaps something like a nightingale singing close by. Isn’t that silly?’
‘No, it’s not silly. It will happen one day.’
I found two tomatoes, an onion, parsley, stale bread and the carcass of an old chook we’d baked the night before. I put it all into a pot, filled it with water and cooked it. It took an hour, but it tasted quite good – unusual, but good. At least it was hot and satisfying.
On the way from the bus stop I had sloshed along through wet dust that had been churned to thick, dirty, toxic chocolate that stuck to everything. I had taken my good shoes off, and walked barefoot, head down, eyes like magnifiers, as though the place was covered with broken glass and God knows what else. I made myself think of drenched soldiers battling through a jungle, and I tried not to think of the Camp’s ground as their latrine. The rain had a slant to it and it was heavy. February was able to drench a person all over the place in minutes in rain like that.
But so far February had not been a complete loss for me. It had tried hard, but this was the February day I had posed for ‘the well-known painter’. I went to his studio at the appointed time expecting everything – anything. I expected naked, draped, posed in the storybook style of Mr Booth of the Weekly. The only thing I was pretty sure he would not want me to do is ‘love’ a bar of soap or an oven cleaner. But I told myself I was not to be surprised by anything at all.
*
The painter’s studio was a supreme experience for me. The rich smell of oils; everywhere, fine, clay-coloured dust, rich as galleries; paintings around the walls, finished, unfinished; a smell of good coffee from somewhere; an opened bottle of wine, a bowl of fruit, a plate that had held his lunch smelling of eggs and garlic; pots of brushes everywhere, and palettes holding splashed sunsets. Linseed oil, old chairs and a skylight for light. In an impossibly tight corner Brahms’ Fourth Symphony was played passionately by a full orchestra. I was enchanted by it all. I’d been swept off my feet b
efore anything had happened.
Oh, how different I felt, Rosy. How much closer to the coathanging goddesses of the fashion shoots I felt. How much closer to Paris – no, not France; it was more like Italy. Leon, you can’t imagine! You can’t imagine! If you could only see!
‘How long do you think you can keep still?’ the painter asked me.
‘As long as you want me to keep still.’ I would have become a corpse for him. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I have sketches I am pleased with. I have in mind a contemporary “Mother and Child”.’
Tits! What else?
‘Have you any objection to – undressing?’
‘How far?’
‘I would like to drape you in cloth with one breast exposed.’
‘Oh?’ The magic faded quickly. I was suddenly back in a building not far from the painter’s studio. Leon, don’t bother to come. Rosy, go back to sleep. It’s just the usual.
‘I have in mind a suckling child at your breast. We will use a doll.’ He showed me a baby-sized doll, naked. It still had the Woolworths tag on it.
Christ! I thought. Soap, dolls, bath cleaner. I’m back to ‘loving’ things, and currencies. I’d had such hopes. I hadn’t wanted my painter to be like a Boston camera. I’d wanted passion and rich conversation and Florence and stories of galleries and poetry. I didn’t want my painter to have a conversation with my currencies.
‘Will you be using my face?’
‘Of course . . . but I will change the colour of the hair. It will all look very modern. I have to ask this: do you think you can look as though you are suckling a doll – loving it?’
‘Are you kidding? It’s my job. It’s what I do.’
‘I will need at least three or four sittings.’
‘Will I be paid for them?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then go for your life,’ I said, and I prepared myself to ‘love’ a doll. It took no time at all. I was so disappointed. It was just another version of Boston’s studio and Mr Booth’s short stories – and the painter had given no indication at all that I would be ravished at the end of this sitting, or indeed any other; in fact, at one stage I overheard his telephone conversation with someone called Hector, the painter occasionally lowering his voice to an intimate whisper. But at least there would be a pound or two at the end of it all.
The Sparrows of Edward Street Page 16
