White Gardenia

by Belinda Alexandra

  The taxi came to a stop in traffic near Hyde Park.

  ‘So where do Caroline and Ann fit in?’ I asked. I was already starting to feel hesitant about working with unpleasant colleagues. I’d had a lifetime’s fill of nastiness from Amelia.

  ‘They are both from social families. Caroline’s family made their money in wool and her mother is on every important committee from here to Bellevue Hill. Caroline doesn’t work because she needs the money, she does it to impose herself on the other society girls. Now everyone has to suck up to her.’

  ‘And Ann?’

  ‘Not as bad, but close to it.’

  We passed the David Jones store on Elizabeth Street, getting closer to our destination. I opened my compact and checked my lipstick. I’d decided to follow Diana’s example and keep my makeup minimal.

  ‘Why is Diana afraid of Caroline?’ I asked, realising there must be a reason Caroline felt bold enough not to include my picture after Diana had asked her to do so.

  ‘Not afraid so much as wary. Diana has worked hard to get the society people on side. But if Caroline starts spreading nasty stories, it could be the end of her.’

  The taxi pulled up outside an Art Deco building with ‘The Sydney Herald’ emblazoned in bronze on the side. Adam paid the driver.

  ‘Is there anything else I should know about this job before I accept it?’ I whispered to Adam.

  ‘It’s the policy of the Sydney Herald to retire women if they decide to get married,’ he said. ‘Diana’s the exception because she’s too hard to replace.’

  ‘I’m not planning on getting married,’ I told him, wondering what would happen if they found out about Dmitri. How did abandoned women stand with the Sydney Herald?

  Adam smiled. ‘Well, if you don’t your chances of promotion are pretty good, because I think every single girl above you is hanging out for a husband.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  We stood in a huddle with some other people waiting to use the elevator.

  ‘There’s one more thing,’ Adam said.

  ‘What?’ I asked, not sure that I wanted to hear any more.

  ‘You will be the first “New Australian” the women’s section has ever employed.’

  I felt a shiver run down my spine and legs into my black and white shoes. The image of those office girls making fun of my accent in Betty’s coffee lounge came back to me. ‘So that’s a bad thing, right?’

  ‘No,’ he laughed, patting my shoulder. ‘What I’m trying to say is “Congratulations!”’

  FIFTEEN

  The Key

  Iaccepted Diana Gray’s offer of the position of office girl for the Sydney Herald’s women’s section and began work the next day. Besides Caroline and Ann, a pale girl who wore her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, there was Joyce, Diana’s secretary, and three reporters, Suzanne, Peggy and Rebecca. Diana had her own office but usually left her door open. Caroline and Ann kept their doors shut, and I had to judge whether I could interrupt them or not by looking through the glass panels. Ann spent most of her time staring at pictures while Caroline spent hers on the telephone, gossiping, which was a large part of her job.

  My job involved writing up the week’s events, and whom Diana had assigned to cover them, on a blackboard. The events included everything from society weddings, dinner dances, balls, ocean liner arrivals and departures, to polo and tennis matches. Mostly the events would be covered by the junior reporters, except for the very important or glamorous events, which would be attended by Diana or Caroline.

  As well as my daily tasks of running copy to the subeditors, sorting the mail and making tea for the staff, I was also responsible for sending out the patterns that were featured in the section and for sorting the recipes that were submitted by readers for the ‘What’s Cooking?’ column.

  Adam had been accurate in his description of the office politics and a month after I started I discovered where I fitted in when we all went out to lunch together to celebrate Diana’s birthday.

  Diana’s favourite restaurant was Romano’s. It was a swanky place run by a redheaded Italian named Azzalin Romano, and featured a sprung dance floor and airconditioning. The interior was all mirrors and vases of orchids. When we arrived the head waiter showered Diana, a regular, with charm. When he seated us, he glanced at the black and white dress Judith had given me and seated me next to Diana, opposite Caroline and with Ann on my right. Joyce and the reporters were seated in approximate order of age. The tables were round, so our seating meant little in terms of conversational ability, but Caroline stared at the waiter incredulously. I was about to offer to move when Diana clamped her hand on my wrist. ‘You’ll love the food here,’ she said. ‘Romano’s is famous for its sauces. Order what you like. Today’s on me.’

  To my surprise, Ann didn’t seem perturbed by the seating. Her position gave her the best vantage point to see who else was lunching that day. ‘Look at that,’ she said. ‘Miss Catherine Moore and Miss Sarah Denison are dining together. Perhaps Miss Moore is consoling her friend about breaking off her engagement to Sir Morley’s eldest son?’

  After the main course, Ann even began to talk to me. ‘What did you think of the fashion spread for spring?’ she asked.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ I said. ‘You can’t go wrong with Dior.’

  I could tell from the way she lowered her eyes that she was pleased. ‘I’m meeting the Himilaya when it arrives in port tomorrow for an interview with Miss Joan Potter and Miss Edwina Page. They are returning after six months in Paris and London and are sure to have bought some beautiful clothes.’

  She was only talking to me because I was someone new to impress with the story, but I listened anyway. At least she was talking to me. Caroline never did. She usually stared over the top of my head when she gave me her copy or I brought her a cup of tea.

  ‘Have you seen the work of a designer called Judith James?’ I asked Ann. ‘Her clothes are as beautiful as Dior’s but unique.’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ said Ann, glaring at the tiramisu the waiter placed before her and taking no more than a bite before pushing it away. ‘But she’s Australian, isn’t she? That’s no use to the readers of our pages.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked, trying to sound as detached as I could.

  ‘Our readers see Australian stuff as…you know…inferior. It’s not that the quality isn’t good, it’s just that it doesn’t conjure up images of the “classic” or the “exotic”, if you know what I mean.’

  I was surprised to hear someone who was secondgeneration Australian dismiss her own country, but then I remembered that she and Caroline always referred to England as ‘home’.

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ Caroline asked, wolfing down her date pudding.

  ‘Judith James,’ said Ann. ‘The designer.’

  ‘Oh, Anya’s friend,’ Caroline said. ‘The one who does that sort of gaudy neo-Hollywood stuff.’

  I could feel myself blush. Caroline noticed my reaction and her face broke out into a smirk. Diana was talking to Joyce about the David Jones catalogue, but she stopped for a beat mid-sentence and I wondered if she was listening to our conversation. Ann ignored me for the rest of the meal, assuming that by being friendly to me she was lowering herself in Caroline’s eyes. Every now and then I would look at Caroline’s profile. She was twenty-five but her heavy chin made her seem older. Her hair was drab and cut in a boring bob. She wasn’t particularly beautiful or clever, and even though her clothes were expensive, she didn’t wear them with any style. She wasn’t even nice to be with. And yet she was convinced that she was superior to everyone else. Her confidence both amazed and repulsed me.

  Before I left work that evening, Diana called me into her office. It was one of the rare occasions that she shut the door.

  ‘Darling, I wanted to tell you how happy I am that you are here,’ she said. ‘You’re an asset to this office. I’m sorry Caroline was so rude to you. She’s a bully. Ignore her.’

  The lunch outing h
ad put me out of sorts for the afternoon, but Diana’s praise, and her confidence, lifted my spirits.

  ‘Thank you,’ I told her.

  ‘I think the proper word to describe Judith’s gowns would be “exquisite”,’ she said. ‘I’ll call her and ask her what she sees happening with the hemline this season. Then I’ll quote her in my column. A mention there will give her a boost. It’s still the most read part of the section. Not everyone’s interested in gossip.’

  ‘Diana, thank you!’ I was careful to keep my voice low so that the others wouldn’t hear.

  ‘My pleasure,’ she said. ‘Now you get on with your job and put on a happy face for me.’

  On my way home I dropped into the coffee lounge. All the customers had been served so I looked into the kitchen. Irina was standing near the servery watching the customers. Vitaly was cleaning a saucepan.

  ‘Have we heard from Betty and Ruselina yet?’ I asked them.

  Vitaly and Irina turned around. ‘Not yet,’ Vitaly laughed. ‘But hopefully we’ll get a postcard soon.’

  Betty had sniffed out Vitaly and Irina’s secret long before they were ready to admit it. But instead of being angry, she had been delighted to discover that the two had fallen in love.

  ‘This is my chance for semi-retirement,’ she said. ‘Tom and I always promised ourselves a holiday but we never got the chance to take one. Now I’m going to train you two to run the lounge and I’m going to give myself more breaks. You can buy me out in your own good time. It’s a well-established business, it will be a nice start for you.’

  For her first holiday, Betty and Ruselina caught the train to the south coast.

  ‘What do you think they’re doing down there?’ I asked Vitaly.

  ‘Fishing is what I heard,’ said Irina.

  ‘Yeah, fishing for retired old men,’ Vitaly said with a smirk. We all laughed.

  ‘How’s it been going today?’ I asked.

  ‘Non-stop,’ Irina replied, picking up a cloth to wipe down the bench. ‘But it’s calmed down now. When Betty gets back we’ll probably hire another waitress.’

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’ Vitaly asked me.

  I shook my head. ‘I had a big lunch.’

  ‘Ah, social girl now,’ laughed Irina.

  ‘I hope I’m not,’ I said.

  ‘Like that?’ Irina raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Like that.’

  A couple walked into the lounge and Irina rushed off to attend to them. I sat down at the kitchen table and watched Vitaly slice some chicken.

  ‘You mustn’t let those girls stop you enjoying your job,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder. ‘You’re stronger than they are. Irina and I were just talking about that this afternoon.’

  Irina leaned over the counter and passed the new order to Vitaly. ‘I’ve been telling Anya not to worry about those girls at the office,’ he told her. He read the order and grabbed a bottle of milk from the refrigerator. ‘She’s tough. She’s more Australian than they are.’

  I laughed. Irina turned to me and nodded her head. ‘It’s true, Anya. When I met you on Tubabao you were so quiet and withdrawn. You’ve changed.’

  Vitaly made two chocolate milkshakes and passed them to Irina. ‘She loves Australian plants, she reads Australian books, she wears Australian clothes, she goes to Australian nightclubs. She’s one of them,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not one of them,’ I said. ‘But I love their country more than they do. They’re all in love with Britain.’

  There was another society woman who worked on the paper but she wasn’t anything like Caroline or Ann. Her name was Bertha Osborne and she edited the cooking column. Bertha was a round woman with red hair that clung in tight curls to her head. She wrote the column simply because she loved cooking and she came into the office once or twice a week to look at the recipes and put the column together. Bertha always had a smile and a kind word for everybody, from the lift operator to the tearoom attendant to the owner of the Sydney Herald himself, Sir Henry Thomas. ‘Anya, I’m going to tell Diana that she ought to promote you. You’re the smartest one on the block,’ Bertha would whisper to me every time I handed her the recipes I’d been filing throughout the week. The only people she didn’t bother with were Caroline and Ann. ‘Like communicating with a brick wall,’ I once heard her say to Diana.

  Diana told me that Bertha not only worked for many charities but also put together food hampers every week to take to poor families in the inner city. Whenever she came into the office it was as though someone had opened the window and let in fresh air.

  One evening, after I had been working at the paper for about a year, Bertha asked me if I could stay back to help her select recipes to make up a special for the Sunday edition. I gladly accepted. I was keen to learn all I could about layout and editing, and besides, Bertha was good company.

  Caroline had left early to pick up a dress for a big event that was taking place at Prince’s that night. Joyce was on holidays with her husband and children. Ann and the other reporters had gone home. Rebecca, Suzanne and Peggy all lived an hour away from the city, so they were always keen to leave on time when they could. Diana was waiting for Harry to pick her up. She was wearing a cocktail dress because it was their wedding anniversary and Harry had promised to take her somewhere special.

  Bertha flipped through the recipe file and selected a salmon aspic salad and devilled cheese crackers for the feature, but she couldn’t decide what to choose for the other courses. I was about to suggest lemon meringue pie for dessert when Diana answered her telephone and a moment later let out an ear-piercing shriek.

  ‘Hit by a tram! Oh my God!’

  I looked up to see Diana collapse into her chair. My heart thumped. I had a vision of Harry lying on the side of the road somewhere between Rose Bay and Castlereagh Street, when I heard Diana say, ‘Caroline.’

  Bertha and I gaped at each other. Diana put the telephone down and walked towards us. She was as pale as a sheet.

  ‘Caroline was hit by a tram in Elizabeth Street!’

  I gasped. I had no idea what to say. I didn’t like Caroline, but getting crushed by a tram was not something I’d wish on anybody.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Diana, clutching her head. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. She wasn’t killed. She was knocked sideways. But she’s been rushed to hospital with a broken arm and broken ribs.’

  Bertha jumped up from her chair and grabbed hold of Diana’s arm. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘You’ve had a terrible shock. Let me get you a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’ll make it,’ I said. ‘I know where everything is.’

  While I scooped the tea leaves into the pot, Diana tried to force herself back into professional mode. ‘Oh God!’ she cried. ‘Tonight is the Denisons’ party. I’d better call Ann and see if she can cover it.’

  ‘I’ll call Ann,’ said Bertha, patting her arm. ‘Where’s the number?’

  Diana pointed to a card file on her desk. ‘In there.’

  I brought Diana her tea while Bertha tried Ann’s number.

  ‘There’s no answer,’ Bertha called from the office. ‘Shall I try the other girls?’

  Diana looked at her watch. ‘They won’t make it in time. They live too far away.’ She bit her lip and chewed her nail, which was very unlike Diana. ‘If I cancel our anniversary plans for a socialite’s twenty-first birthday party, Harry will divorce me. I’ve been the one bugging him about it for weeks,’ she cried.

  Bertha put down the telephone receiver and stepped out of the office. ‘Send Anya. She’s a lovely girl and very well presented. She could do it.’

  Diana smiled at me and shrugged. ‘I can’t. If it were anything else, then of course I would send Anya. But this is a big event. Even Sir Henry will be there. We can’t afford for anything to go wrong.’

  ‘Call Stan in the photo office,’ Bertha told her. ‘Tell him that you need someone very good who knows the scene. The photographer will help Anya. All she has to do is note dow
n people’s names. She can handle that.’

  Diana looked at her watch again, then at me. ‘Anya, will you do it? You’d better go and grab something from the cupboard. They won’t let you in if you’re late.’

  The cupboard Diana was referring to was the shared wardrobe for the women’s section. Diana, Caroline and Ann could afford their own dresses but the other reporters were normal girls from middle-class families who couldn’t afford formal evening gowns for more than one occasion. To help them out, Diana collected dresses from fashion shoots, samples and parades. I rummaged through the rack. I was taller than the other girls but thinner. I pulled out a strapless dress and tried it on but the zipper was broken. I scribbled a note that said ‘For Repair’ and pinned it to the dress. I wished that the person who had worn the dress last had shown the same courtesy. There was no time to go home and change into the dress Judith had given me, so I had to make do with a pink taffeta gown with ties on the shoulders. There was a slight rust stain near the belt but I hoped that no one would notice in the dark. The other dresses were either too big or too small. I’d been wearing my hair up that day and although little wisps were starting to spring out of my French roll, there was no time to do anything about it. I didn’t fancy facing a roomful of Carolines and Anns not looking my best, but I didn’t want to let Diana down either.

  The photographer was waiting for me downstairs in the lobby. I almost cried when I saw him. He was dressed in a luminous jacket with piped pants. I could see his white socks in the gap between his pant cuffs and his shoes. He had long sideburns and slicked black hair. He looked like a rock’n’roller from the Cross.

  ‘Hello, I’m Jack,’ he said, shaking my hand. His skin reeked of cigarette smoke.