by JH Fletcher
She said, ‘I have heard a lot about you. My sister speaks highly of you.’
‘Your sister is very kind.’ A guarded response; the world, as Eugénie knew well, was full of spies.
‘I have been so looking forward to meeting you.’
Eugénie could not imagine why.
‘I think we probably have a lot in common.’
She could not imagine that, either, but Martha Shawcross explained.
‘We have both lost our husbands. We are both starting out in a new country.’
Eugénie did not understand; she feared this woman might be accusing her of something. ‘You have always lived in Australia,’ she said.
‘But now, because of what happened, I have to get used to a different way of life. As you do. Although you, of course, still have your children. They must be a great comfort.’
‘Naturally …’
Eugénie was French and pragmatic. Behind the polite mask, she scorned the sentimental woman who thought that two babies would have made life easier during those first terrible days in Sydney. Although to lose a child to fire was appalling, no doubt.
‘I was distressed to hear about your son,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’ Eyes haunted, Martha smiled ruefully with her half-face. ‘Something I have to live with.’
‘Eugénie …’ Vesta Franklin’s voice, melodious but authoritative, called from the fitting room. ‘If you can spare a moment for Mrs Lanning, dear. If you please.’ With Vesta Franklin, the shop would always come first. For Eugénie, that was something that she had to live with.
Martha’s friendliness was apparently genuine. At the end of her visit, she sought Eugénie out.
‘I should like you to come and see me at my home in the Blue Mountains. Come for the day. Next Sunday, if you’re free.’ Eugénie considered the invitation cautiously, but could see no dangers in accepting it. ‘What about the children?’
‘Bring them, too, of course. They will like it there.’
They did. There was a garden to run in, many flowers to smell and admire. Wonder of wonders, there was a small dog, like an excited wire brush, that bounced and barked and ran, playing as well as any child.
The two ladies sat on the porch and drank tea. The tragedy would have driven many people out, but Martha had stayed on in a cottage not a mile from the site of her old house.
‘It is part of my therapy,’ she explained. ‘It doesn’t do to run away.’
Eugénie’s own scars were still raw; she reacted at once. ‘As I did, you mean?’
Martha reached out and touched her hand. ‘Of course not. Your circumstances were entirely different.’
Mollified, Eugénie watched the forest-clad ranges that rose in a blue-green mist around the cottage. The surroundings were beautiful, but their unfamiliarity put her more on her guard than ever. Martha Shawcross had to have a reason for inviting them here; Eugénie made polite conversation while she waited to find out what it was.
‘How old are you?’ Martha enquired. ‘If I may ask?’
It was an extraordinary question. Eugénie might have permitted herself to take offence, but could no more afford to fall out with Mrs Franklin’s sister than with Mrs Franklin herself.
‘Twenty-five,’ she acknowledged.
‘You are a very attractive woman.’
‘I do not think so.’ But was pleased and, like everyone, became the more attractive for being told so.
‘You know you are,’ Martha told her. ‘Whereas someone like myself has to be so careful.’ In that she was certainly right; the nightmare side of her face was turned away, but Eugénie could see it clearly in her mind. ‘It is easy to frighten people,’ Martha mourned. ‘Children, in particular.’
Eugénie still had trouble with the nuances of English and was uncertain where this conversation was going. She said, ‘My children are not frightened of you.’
‘No, they’re not.’ Martha smiled. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ She sipped tea for a while in silence. While Eugénie waited.
‘Children are a great blessing,’ Martha offered.
‘Of course.’
‘But children can also be a tie, I believe. Every woman needs a life of her own.’
Which was certainly true, although Eugénie was not about to acknowledge it. She smiled in a guarded way, making sure that neither face nor tongue said anything.
‘I was wondering what you felt about that,’ Martha said.
‘About what?’ Answering one question with another, to give herself time to think.
‘About being tied by your children.’
Eugénie was unsure what she was expected to say. Children were a tie, but there was nothing to be done; it was in their nature.
‘You work six days a week,’ Martha said. ‘You pay a woman to look after the children. You stay at home every evening to make sure no harm comes to them, yet you see them properly only on Sundays.’
‘You have found out a great deal about me, Madame.’ Eugénie resented this woman poking her nose into her affairs. How Eugénie spent her time was none of her business. Martha recognised Eugénie’s anger but persevered. ‘You have no life of your own. And the woman costs money.’
It was insufferable. Eugénie opened her mouth to say so, but Martha had not finished.
‘In one respect we are opposites.’ Martha smiled; the scar tissue flashed, red and shiny in the sunlight. ‘You have your children but I am alone. Apart from the dog.’ Until now it had seemed that Martha, too, had been unsure where the conversation was going. Now she had found confidence. ‘I am lonely,’ she said. A deep breath. ‘I would like to make you an offer.’
All the way back to Sydney, Eugénie looked out of the train window and wondered if she had done the right thing. It made sense, of course it did, but still she was uneasy. Martha had offered to look after the children during the week, with Eugénie coming up to see them every Sunday.
‘You will be doing me a great favour.’ She had heard all the longing in Martha Shawcross’s voice as they sat and watched the joyous hysteria of dog and children tumbling upon the grass. ‘They will be company for me.’
‘Marie is very young,’ Eugénie said doubtfully. But the advantages, not only for herself, were obvious.
‘She will soon get used to me,’ Martha said. ‘If you are willing to trust me with them, that is.’
Martha had said she was lonely. Having lost her own child, the girls would be a consolation to her. The children themselves would be better off, with a big garden to play in, fresh mountain air, all the advantages of a life far more affluent than Eugénie could provide. It was not as though she would be depriving them of her company; she would see them almost as much under the new arrangement as she did now. She would save the money she was presently paying to the babysitter. And, as Martha had said, she would have more chance of a life of her own.
And yet …
She had said yes, she would bring the girls back to stay next week, but arrangements could be changed. She decided that, when she got back to Sydney, she would speak to Mrs Franklin about it.
Mrs Franklin was horrified by the suggestion, not because Martha was unsuitable, but because it might give Eugénie ideas.
‘I would have thought there were obvious disadvantages …’
And smiled acidly. Whatever her sister might feel about things, Mrs Franklin had no plans to treat Eugénie Desmoulins as anything but the employee she in fact was. And would remind Martha of her social responsibilities when next they met.
Eugénie had worked with Vesta Franklin for three years now and knew how her mind worked. ‘I have thought about it,’ she said. ‘I can see many advantages.’
‘For you, naturally. It permits you far more freedom.’
‘For your sister, too, I think. She also believes so. It was her idea, after all.’
Mrs Franklin set her lips. She hoped they were not about to have an argument.
‘Madame Shawcross has had much tragedy in her life,�
� said Eugénie. ‘Sometimes that can affect a person. One reads of such things … I wanted to ask how you felt.’
Vesta Franklin could hardly believe her ears. She had assumed that Eugénie had approached her in a proper sense of humility, seeking advice as to whether or not such an arrangement would be suitable. As delicately as she could, she had tried to explain that it would be a mistake. Now this. Incredibly, it seemed that she was asking, not whether it would be appropriate, but whether Martha was capable of looking after her brats.
This, after both of them had offered her such kindness.
‘I think it would be entirely inappropriate,’ she said. ‘And shall tell my sister so, when next I see her.’ She smiled, teeth like blades. ‘Please understand, I do not blame you. Being French, you find it difficult to understand how things are done. But will learn, I am sure. When you do, you will no doubt agree that I am right. Now, if you have no further questions,’ she said, ‘perhaps we can get back to work?’
And swept away, full-breasted, like a galleon under sail. Let the Frenchwoman chew on that.
While, behind her, Mrs Franklin’s response had helped Eugénie to make her decision.
‘You liked Victor, didn’t you?’
Victor was the dog. Aline nodded, but cautiously. In her six years she had learned that things were not always what they seemed.
While Marie agreed without reservation. ‘Victor is nice,’ she said.
‘Would you like to stay with him for a while?’
Ah. To see him, play with him, was one thing. To stay was a new concept. Marie watched Aline, to see what she thought.
‘No,’ Aline said.
‘No,’ Marie said.
‘Just for a few days,’ Eugénie coaxed. She had made up her mind and was determined to go ahead, if only to poke a finger in Vesta Franklin’s eye, but would prefer the children to be happy about it, if they could be persuaded. ‘I’ll come and see you next weekend.’
Aline looked rebellious, but said no more. Security lay in her mother’s presence, not her promises, but she had learned that adults sought a child’s approval only after they had decided what was to be done.
‘That’s agreed, then,’ Eugénie told the two sulky faces. She clapped her hands as though she were truly excited for them. ‘You will have such fun,’ she cried.
But Aline was determined to hate every minute.
The train puffed its way into the high hills. It was a fine day. The sunlight shone green through the trees that leaned over the track.
Martha met them. They watched her sidling lurch as she came towards them. Marie was shy, stripped of words, while Aline also clung close, hand clasped in her mother’s skirt. If Martha saw she gave no sign, but chattered gaily as they left the station and climbed into the trap that would take them to the cottage.
‘Wonderful, is it not?’ Eugénie exulted to the silent girls.
As she had hoped, Victor unlocked the door. Not even Aline could attribute motives to the dog. Soon all three were once again chasing and falling in a tangled confusion of screams and barks and flashing limbs.
‘They are shy,’ Eugénie told Martha apologetically.
‘They’ll soon get used to me,’ Martha said. ‘It is only for a few days, after all.’ And looked with pleasure at the little girls running round and round the lawn.
Marie lost her balance and fell sprawling into a flower bed. Decided, after deliberation, to scream.
‘Marie, be careful of the flowers!’ Eugénie cried. She was about to go to the child but Martha placed a restraining hand upon her arm.
‘Let me …’
Mouth clamped resolutely down, eyes swimming in a flushed and rebellious face, Marie would have none of her, but Martha, Eugénie saw, knew how to persevere.
Not only with the children.
‘I shall speak to them in English,’ she said. ‘I have no choice, my French is non-existent, but in any case it will be better. If they are to make a life in this country, they must learn the language.’ Her expression dared Eugénie to disagree.
Eugénie understood that entrusting the children to this woman had been a more momentous decision than she had anticipated. After all the terror, she had been fortunate enough to find a place in this country to which she had never planned to come. She had a job and a measure of security, and for her that had been enough. In Europe she had always been one to think ahead but, since coming to Australia, life had been too uncertain for that. When she thought about the future at all, she told herself only that it would sort itself out, in time. Now, it seemed, that time had come. By bringing the children to Martha Shawcross, she had turned her back on the past. Without intending to do so, she had begun the process of turning them into Australians.
Such a commitment might have filled her with alarm, but did not; it came as an enormous relief. It meant that she had finally emerged from past uncertainties into a world where, for the first time, the future was clear. Here they all were, far from the land that had given them birth. She had assumed that one day they would go back to France, that all this was no more than an interlude between the two realities of past and future. Now she understood that it was not so. Here they were, and here they would remain. There would be no going back.
‘Of course you must speak to them in English,’ she told Martha. And smiled, hypocritically. ‘I never thought of anything else.’
In the train back to Sydney, her mind went over and over what she had done. She had left her children in the care of a woman almost totally unknown to her. Had done it, moreover, not for their benefit but her own. Yet now it seemed there might be advantages for the children, too. Doing what she had would free her, indeed, but free the children more. For the first time, it would bring them into the reality that was Australia.
3
Once Eugénie had got used to the children’s non-presence, life continued as before. There were no dramas at work; with Martha and the children hidden away in the Blue Mountains, Vesta Franklin could pretend that nothing had happened at all.
Each Sunday Eugénie caught the early morning train to Woonga, where Martha and the children would be waiting at the station to greet her. They spent the day together, while Eugénie listened to the tales of what had happened and not happened, what the dog had done, how for two days it had rained without stopping so they had been unable to go out.
‘What did you do to pass the time?’ asked Eugénie, for something to say. She would permit no-one to think she lacked interest, despite being little more than an observer of this life that was not her own.
‘We drew.’
Both children had paintings over which their mother exclaimed, most dutifully.
‘They really are very good,’ Martha said.
‘Their father was an artist,’ Eugénie explained.
‘How interesting!’
‘Isn’t it?’ But thanked God that all that nonsense was behind them, with the rest.
All the same, Eugénie was pleased to see how quickly the children adapted to their new life. Despite her tendency to talk in exclamation marks, Martha Shawcross was a sensible woman who stood no nonsense from the children or anyone. Her sister had written to protest the unsuitability of the arrangement.
For heaven’s sake come to the city, if you’re lonely. I can introduce you to plenty of suitable people here.
Martha had no interest in coming to the city or in Vesta’s suitable acquaintances.
To Eugénie she said, ‘I hope you understand what a kindness you have done me, letting your two girls stay here.’
Eugénie was uneasy at so overt an expression of sentiment. It was a weakness to which Martha Shawcross seemed excessively inclined. ‘I am sure it is an excellent arrangement for all of us.’
However, the social life to which the increased freedom had been intended to give rise continued, stubbornly, to evade her. She worked; she ate; she slept. Each Sunday she travelled up to Woonga. That was it. Her life was as circumscribed as ever.
; * * *
‘We have a compatriot of yours coming for a fitting …’
So Vesta Franklin told her, one day.
With few French people in Sydney, Eugénie was casually curious. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Mrs Eugene Olivier.’
Apart from wincing at Vesta’s accent, Eugénie thought no more about it. She had never heard of the woman, who was unlikely to make an impact on her life.
Nor did she, at least directly, but a fortnight later she returned with an English friend whom Eugénie knew.
‘Madame Desmoulins, is it really you?’ Expressions of delight from the woman with whom she had shared the long sea miles of banishment.
‘Madame Chevalier …’ Acknowledging her excitement with a touch of formality; this, after all, was the woman who had promised to remain in touch and had not. Could not have known where to find her, perhaps, but Eugénie suspected that she had not tried very hard.
Yet it seemed she was willing to make up for past neglect; the next day she sent Eugénie an invitation to a reception that she and her husband were giving for friends in their house overlooking the harbour.
Mrs Franklin apologised for what she called her error in opening the envelope. Which did not stop her being cross, in a sweet-toned way, that Eugénie should have received the invitation at all. She disapproved of staff mixing socially with customers; in its way it was much worse than the fraternisation encouraged, so unwisely, by her sister. There were, after all, no financial implications in Eugénie’s acquaintance with Martha. Whereas Madame Chevalier …
‘You will take care, won’t you, dear? She could become a very important customer.’
In truth, smart happenings were not in Eugénie’s line. She might even have turned the invitation down, but suspected that that was what Vesta Franklin wanted, so went, to spite her.
The large reception area was thronged. Madame Chevalier greeted her warmly, but soon turned her attention to other guests. Eugénie was conscious of being completely alone amid a press of people, none of whom she knew, with none of whom she suspected she had anything in common.
