by Paul Almond
There was no doubting her intention. Eric wondered how he should handle this. It was almost too much — two women on one voyage, both apparently seeking his companionship — and for the night. Not Shigawake, certainly.
She seemed so deflated by his hesitation that Eric felt he must accede. What would be lost by going to her cabin for a drink, anyway? But then he stopped himself. Once he got there, might it not be even harder to get away?
“But if you don’t want to...” she murmured, “that’s all right too.”
Such a yearning in her voice. What was it made him pause? Eric asked himself. He certainly liked Betty and even felt affectionate after the lessons, but really, his heart wasn’t in it. He began, “You see Betty, I’m taken already.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he realized he had spoken the truth. But what a ridiculous thought! He immediately chastised himself for it. Again, whatever did he have to base this crazy lie on? Some fool vision that had grown far too big in his brain?
“I completely understand, Eric.” She looked at him with trusting eyes. “If only my husband had been like that. Faithful.” She scrunched her eyes shut, though she continued dancing. “The bastard,” she muttered under her breath. And then she brightened. She looked down at Eric, for he was a good three or four inches shorter. “You’ve been doing very well, Eric. I’m really proud of you as a pupil.”
And so it turned out that when he danced with Sharon on the Saturday, Eric was able to hold his own on the dance floor. And now, Hawaii was drawing close.
Sunday night, Eric spent a particularly boring evening at a talk on aspects of Fiji, which the ship would be visiting after Honolulu — native girls, hot sun and beaches. As they were leaving Sharon came over to him. “Sounds almost as interesting as Hawaii...”
Eric nodded noncommittally.
“I watched you during the talk. I could see you were bored.”
Eric nodded again; he was tired. Then, needing something to cheer him up, he suggested a nightcap. After they found a seat and ordered drinks, Eric noticed that Sharon seemed nervous. In fact, she finished a second nightcap while he was still nursing his first, and ordered herself a third. Then she turned to him and said, “Eric, I’ve been meaning to ask: I want some advice. And it can only come from a man. Will you help?”
“Of course, Sharon, anything you want.” No hesitation there.
“Come with me.” She knocked back her drink. Eric finished his and followed as she led the way down to her companionway, which fortunately was empty. She turned in at her cabin door and Eric followed.
“Now, I want you to sit there and shut your eyes.”
Eric did as he was told. The cabin, compared to his own, was quite roomy. He sat down on the small chest on the left-hand side of the door, and Sharon knelt at the drawers under her berth. She turned to looked at him. “Eric, I told you to shut your eyes. I have a surprise.”
Eric nodded and clenched them shut. He leaned back, crossed his legs and tilted his head to the ceiling. Soon he heard rustling and the movement of clothing. After a moment he heard: “Open your eyes.”
Eric opened them, and then sat bolt upright.
There stood Sharon in a stunning white nightdress. Cut straight across, just above her full breasts, it had straight strips of embroidery looped over her shoulders to hold up the slinky material falling straight to the floor. Above the nightdress, Sharon had let her hair down, and it tumbled over her bare white shoulders. Eric was captivated — that skin just asked to be caressed.
“Eric, I want you to help me decide which one I should wear when I meet Freddie.”
Eric moistened his lips. “Sharon, I don’t think you could do any better than that. Not often I’ve seen a young lady as beautiful as you in a nightdress.”
“Not often?”
Eric smiled. “All right, not ever, if you really want to know.”
That certainly made Sharon happy. She smiled, turned round so he might see all sides and then spread her arms. “There, have you seen enough?”
Eric nodded. “Yes, quite enough.”
“Now, shut your eyes again.”
He did so and heard more sounds of clothing, the nightdress going up over her head, he presumed, for now he could visualize that, and then, another one being pulled down. In spite of himself, he could feel blood rushing to his face.
“Ready?”
“Yes,” Eric muttered hoarsely. What would he see next?
“Open your eyes.”
Eric did so, and took in the lovely Sharon, this time in a cream-coloured nightdress with a v-neck, heavily embroidered across her full bosoms. The material in this one seemed thinner. As she stepped forward towards Eric (on purpose?), the bright cabin light behind her illuminated the complete outline of her body, her long legs, her hips, and her slim waist.
“Which one do you like, Eric?” she asked, almost innocently, but with a little smile that told everything.
Eric tried to think about the dress, not what was in it.
“This embroidery, it’s from Paris, you know. Hand done. Daddy helped me choose it. I think he’s pleased I’m marrying Freddie next autumn. But in the meantime ... I am single. And I’m free.”
“It’s... it’s a hard choice,” said Eric, his pulse racing.
“So you like them both Eric?”
“Very much.”
Sharon then came forward and bent over Eric, cupped his face in her hands, and placed her lips against his. Soon, he felt her tongue caressing and entering his mouth. He gripped her two hands and held them tightly as they rose, their lips still locked. He felt her body thrust against him as her arms went round his shoulders. He slid his hands behind her back and moved them over her spine, caressing it with a firm touch. The two of them lingered, pressing against each other, and then she lifted her head and began to move her lips over his face, kissing him on his eyes and, especially, the scar that now flamed redder than ever on his cheek. Their breathing became heavy, as though they had been running.
Then she gently moved away.
She went to her berth, leaned down to switch off the bright light that illuminated and plainly outlined a full breast as she bent. The cabin was thrown into darkness. She turned on a nightlight above the opposite birth. It cast a gentle glow all around. She opened the sheets on the narrow berth.
Eric stood like a statue.
She slid onto the berth, moved back against the wall and then with painted fingernails patted the sheet.
Need she say more?
Thoughts whirled in Eric’s mind. Fond of Sharon? Of course. Desiring her, in fact? Oh yes.
But then, unaccountably, wretchedly, he saw Rene at the railway station where his troop train was leaving for a the steamer to Canada, when she had kissed him, oh so chastely, and then stood back to stare into his eyes, as she mouthed the word: Goodbye.
“Last chance,” Sharon whispered. She reached out both her arms to him.
***
The day following her rejection, Sharon gave Eric only one glance — filled with anger, pointed and sharp as an ice pick.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned! Oh yes, how true was that platitude, Eric thought. All night, having been so aroused, he’d tossed and turned in his bunk. How could he ever make it right with her? Why had he been such a damn fool as to turn away, and leave? Of course, he had no answers, which only made it worse. In the short interval before reaching Honolulu, they avoided each other assiduously.
But when they docked, he did come to the rail to watch Sharon step down the gangplank to meet her faithful Freddie, so well dressed, youthful, full of enthusiasm. He wrapped his arms around his bride to be. Eric turned away and hurried back to his cramped stateroom where he lay on his bed and closed his eyes.
The remaining three weeks of the voyage went by without any great excitement. Eric made a point of going ashore in Fiji to poke about the city of Suva, and did the same again when the ship docked at Auckland, New Zealand. But one day bl
urred into another. Until, finally, the SS Aorangi, with a mighty wail from its whistle, pulled in to the docks at Sydney, Australia.
C H A P T E R T W E L V E
When the RMS Aorangi sailed into Sydney Harbour, Eric, on deck, marvelled at the approach spans being constructed for the huge Harbour Bridge. His excitement quickened, and when the ship docked, he was one of the first down the gangplank. He had arrived in Sydney, New South Wales, where Rene lived and worked.
Carrying his bags and trying to calm himself, he got through customs and immigration and made his way with the trickle of passengers towards the gates at one end of the dock. His mind was whirling. This last couple of weeks, he had been pondering his best course of action. He wanted to surprise Rene, but how? And was this all, in the end, just a fruitless pursuit?
He saw a small information office and went in. Being first, right away he asked the lean, whiskery, and somewhat weaselly shipping clerk if he knew the way to the Canadian Legion.
The man frowned and shook his head. “No Canadian legion here. Wrong country.”
“Oh I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” Eric’s mind could scarcely calm down. “I meant the club where veterans get together — if you have one?”
“Oh, you must mean the RSL.”
Eric frowned. “What’s that stand for?”
Grudgingly, it seemed, the man replied, “Returned Sailors and Soldiers Imperial League of Australia.”
Eric brightened. “Yes, that would be it. Where is it, do you know?”
“Not the faintest, Mate.”
And I heard Aussies were all so nice, thought Eric. But he persevered. “Well, perhaps you know where Macleay Street is?” The address on Rene’s letter.
The man gave him a look. “You won’t find any RSL in that section.”
“Oh? Why ever not?”
The man hesitated, then decided not to reply. Several passengers came in to stand behind Eric, taking an interest in the proceedings. So the man then claimed to know Sydney well. “Macleay? That’s the main street in Potts Point. You take the tram to King’s Cross, not too far, less than a couple of miles.” Giving more directions, he took pains to show off his knowledge. “Started back in the forties by a banker, some fella called Joseph Hyde Potts. Some renovations going on there now, new apartments and such.” As Eric turned to go, he added, “You can leave your luggage here behind the counter, but come back before we shut at five. Next please.”
Eric set off, mind in a turmoil, alternating between excitement and curiosity. On the boat he had decided that, before trying to meet Rene, he should look for a job. Becoming a surveyor remained at the bottom of his list but, in this great open country, there’d be lots of openings so he was not worried. But what about managing some crew or other, as he’d done in Vancouver? He could always teach, too.
Something else was gnawing at him: he had loved his time at Bishop’s and wondered if he should not advance his education, even enrolling in Sydney University, if a job would permit. On the boat he had heard it was a fine institution.
What if Rene were not attached? The likelihood of her being available was too remote even to consider.
But approach her he must. But how exactly? Knock at her door? No, too obvious, and it might confront her in a way that was inadvisable. What about turning up at the school she was establishing? Perhaps pass by there to see what it was like?
But she had mentioned giving talks. That might be best, and even fun — go and hear her talk, learn her theories, absorb all he could, before actually making his presence known. So before catching the tram for Darlinghurst and King’s Cross, he bought all three Sydney newspapers, the Sun, the Morning Herald, and the Daily Telegraph. As the streetcar slid forward with a clanging of its bell, he sat on the wooden seat and scanned for signs of Rene or her school. He even checked tiny ads, and then closed the first paper regretfully. Not a thing.
Then half way through the Sun, he saw a notice:
Free lecture demonstrations by Irene Mulvaney Gray at David Jones [Department Store] on the art of the dance: Castlereay — Market and Elizabeth streets. Friday, August 27th at 7 PM.
This Friday! In two days! The perfect opportunity.
He got off the tram and walked down Darlinghurst Road until it became Macleay Street. The area charmed him. He could see why the clerk of the shipping company had turned up his nose, for it was certainly Bohemian. A lot of respectable homes had been turned into rooming houses; no shortage of rooms for rent here. Attractive little cafes. Artists’ studios, beer taverns, and probably even houses of ill-repute. He kept walking because Number 43 where Rene lived was at the far end, before the road turned slightly left and continued as Wylde Street to the end of Potts Point which jutted into the harbour. As he passed her address, he looked up at the great Victorian house, with its dormer windows and two small balconies. It had clearly been turned into flats: by the door he could pick out a panel with several names. He wondered on which floor she lived. It set his heart aflutter as he hurried on.
Exploring the neighbourhood for the better part of an hour, Eric strode down Victoria Street with its fine terraced houses, then crossed Macleay again towards Elizabeth Bay, checking accommodations until he finally selected one.
The couple who ran it, the Cliffords, were welcoming. “I’m Graeme, spelt G-r-a-e-m-e, and don’t you forget it, mate!” mumbled the thick-set and pugnacious gentleman. “And this here is Muriel.” Equally heavy set but with a motherly air, she also beamed at Eric: there’d be no nonsense in this rooming house, Eric could see, and he welcomed that. They showed him his room and off he went to collect his luggage and install himself here.
So far so good, thought Eric. In these first few hours, he had taken to this new country and hoped to make a go of it. No turning back now. And he said to himself, if I can find a job, then when Rene rejects me, I shan’t be too devastated.
***
What an age before Friday evening came! At last Eric found himself heading with others into the great David Jones, Sydney’s largest department store, to hear the lecture by Miss Irene Mulvany Gray. He wanted to remain inconspicuous and so sat at the back of the audience — mostly women, unfortunately, so he might stand out. But other men, likely husbands, were scattered about, so Eric scrunched down, hoping she’d not notice. And then, he said to himself, we shall see what we shall see.
The audience of about sixty settled into silence as Harris Johnson, a thin, sharply-dressed executive of the store, stepped forward to introduce Rene. “Miss Mulvany Gray is an authority on the revived Greek dance. She studied at the Ginner-Mawer School of Dance, Drama and Mime in London, and is, by the way, its only graduate here. At present she is busy instructing our public school teachers, as her system is now to be included in our curriculum. Her summer school is flourishing and I’m sure you will all enjoy her talk tonight on the history of dance. And now I present Miss Gray.”
In walked Rene. Eric’s heart gave a wild leap. Was she beautiful! In person, she was worth any ten visions. She wore a stylish, pale pink and white ensemble, long pleated skirt, and blouse that couldn’t hide her ample figure. A light scarf set off her luminescent skin. She looked to Eric more radiant than ever, poised, self-confident and fully prepared.
After thanking everyone for the warm welcome, Rene began her talk. “We all know that dancing is as old as man; it’s our natural primitive expression. As an art, it began in Egypt around 4,000 BC, reaching its height two millennia later. Egyptian dance was religious: it reached out to the spirit of the Gods, and the Hebrews, too, used dance as their form of religious worship.
“On it passed to Greece, the great home of dance where it reached its height. You know, in Greece, it was even considered a crime to have a weak and unbeautiful body. Boys started training at seven years and continued to the end of their lives. In Sparta, women did almost the same physical training — except wrestling, of course!” Here Rene paused for chuckles, and went on: “They all believed ‘a beautiful soul must b
e contained in a beautiful body, and a beautiful body must contain a beautiful soul.’”
Those words struck home for Eric — to him, she seemed their embodiment as she moved across the platform, speaking.
“Then around AD 300...” She gave a dismissive shrug, “we get the Christian Church coming, which stopped dancing — in fact, in 744 AD dancing of any kind was abolished by decree.”
Eric noticed that she used no notes. Amazing.
“I apologize if I’m going too quickly through this, but I know we want to get to the present so I’ll just mention that in 1000 AD we see the revival of mystery plays in churches, and the beginning of dance in England and France. In 1300 Morris Dancing began – only by men, of course. Strolling players began, going from village to village. As the spirit of Renaissance grew, fashionable people in England sponsored their own companies, and we find magnificent performances around 1400.”
Her words washed over him, even unheard, as he watched her crisscross the stage. She seemed too young for her learned discourse — her round face, childlike, defenceless, almost that of a sixteen-year-old, though the sparkling eyes spoke of great experience.
“Then in the early eighteenth century, ballet arrived with a definite plot told through dancing and gesture. And you might not want to know this, but during the Revolutionary Period, public halls were opened in Paris, where – dressed in early Grecian costume — people danced sandalled, bare-armed and bare-breasted.”
Laughter greeted this, and as Rene went on quickly, “Of course, that’s not what we teach here!” She stepped forward and down some steps to be closer. “Let me explain that the mission of this revival of Greek dance is to induce physical fitness, to encourage a love of the beautiful, and an understanding of the significance of rhythm, regarded by the Greeks as essential qualities of life.
