The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  ‘Olive, dear, you really must stop mollycoddling our daughter.’ Alfred’s voice was accompanied by the distinctive rattle of a china cup being placed emphatically upon a saucer. ‘It will end up doing more harm than good. In any case, Pearl’s people know the land better than we ever will. I have every confidence in her.’

  ‘Alfred, I —’

  ‘No, Olive,’ he insisted. ‘That is my last word.’

  Grace swung around the door the next morning, her shoes polished and her curls brushed until they gleamed. ‘Mum, you don’t look exactly ready.’ She screwed up her eyes. ‘Have you forgotten we’re going into Parkes?’

  Olive waved a sheaf of paper. ‘The Country Women’s Association has asked me to advise them on a new treasurer. I’ve been sorting through the candidates.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I know you were hoping to meet up with Charlotte Fairweather, but we’re leaving for your birthday trip to the city tomorrow and I’ve simply no time. Dad said something about showing you his new atlas — why don’t you see if he’s in his study?’

  ‘First, I’ll tell you something that will make you laugh.’

  ‘Mmm?’ Olive’s eyes had drifted back to the applications.

  ‘When I told Pearl we’d be seeing Siddy in Sydney, she called him the silliest thing.’ Still chortling, Grace told her mother what Pearl had said.

  The applications Olive had been clutching in her hand crashed to the floor. ‘Honestly, that girl is the limit!’ she fumed.

  As Grace made her way to Alfred’s study, she wondered why her mother was so upset. Anyone could get into a muddle. It didn’t mean anything.

  Sydney, September 1934

  Curled up in a large armchair advantageously tucked away in a corner of the Hotel Australia’s majestic granite foyer, Grace gazed around with delight. Well-dressed women swept by in clouds of perfume, their furs and silk scarves trailing behind them; foreign visitors arrived with label-adorned, stout leather trunks and beribboned hat-boxes, as staff in uniforms every bit as splendid as those worn by toy soldiers attended to each guest’s requirements. Grace tingled with pleasure as she watched. They were like characters in a play, entering and exiting against a backdrop of sparkling chandeliers, ringing bells and the buzz of a dozen different conversations.

  As her family never considered staying anywhere other than the opulent Hotel Australia, over time Grace had become as familiar with its out-of the-way nooks and crannies as she was with its grand public rooms. The only place she liked better than the foyer was the Winter Garden, with its deep-blue velvet curtains and dainty tables and chairs. Here, amid leafy aspidistras, she loved to observe ladies in remarkable hats and gentlemen wearing stiff white collars drinking tea while they engaged in polite discourse or enjoyed the occasional musical soirée. Her mouth watered as she contemplated her birthday treat, especially the delicious frosted cakes that waitresses in frilly white aprons would distribute from their silver trays.

  Best of all, Siddy would be there. Although his real name was Reuben Wood, as she only ever saw him in the city and she hadn’t been able to pronounce ‘Sydney’ properly when she was tiny, somehow Siddy had become her nickname for him.

  He was a huge, strapping man with thick black hair, green eyes and a battered felt hat he liked to wear pushed to the back of his head. Grace knew Siddy was not only a good pal of her father’s, he also supplied Brookfield with its horses. For her, though, Siddy was more like a giant in a fairy tale, although not the frightening sort of giant. He was like an oversized, burly hero with the power to make everything turn out right.

  She had been told that Siddy was a kind of uncle, but Grace regarded him as her very own grown-up friend. He had a name for Grace too — Princess — and whenever he addressed her this way she felt a warm glow inside.

  Last Christmas he had given her a music box. ‘Come here, Princess,’ he’d said, before slowly unfolding his enormous hands. And there it was: small, square and made of smoothly planed wood. When she’d opened the lid a miniature ballerina in a pale pink dress had twirled around and around as tinkling music played.

  Siddy just loved music, which was another reason why Grace liked the Winter Garden so much. The room featured a magnificent grand piano and she knew if she asked him, Siddy would sit down and play.

  Grace watched eagerly as Siddy, dressed in his usual old tweed coat, settled his immense frame upon the diminutive stool. He gave Grace a brief wave, then raised his hands, hands that looked more suited to buckling on a bridle than coaxing music from a row of shining keys.

  After just a few bars, it seemed as if he had cast a spell. The gentle hum of conversation died away. Teapots were suspended in midair, glasses of sherry remained untouched, slices of airy sponge and tiny triangular sandwiches stayed on porcelain plates.

  A lady at the next table remarked in an unfamiliar accent, ‘That’s Chopin’s “Prelude No. 6 in B minor”.’

  Turning, Grace saw that this foreign music lover was wearing a fox fur around her neck, its pointed nose and whiskers still in evidence along with a pair of glassy eyes and a tail captured between the creature’s sharp little teeth. The sight of it made Grace grimace, although she warmed to the unknown woman when she heard her declare ‘Extraordinary!’ to her much younger male companion.

  ‘I have heard that piece played all over the world,’ she pronounced, ‘but never before like that. I must find out the pianist’s name.’

  Bursting with pride, Grace wanted to run over to let the lady know Siddy was her own special friend. Yet she knew that would be to act in a manner her mother, who was sitting right opposite, would consider ‘forward’, so she forced herself to remain seated. Only after Siddy had made his way back to the table did Grace leap up and embrace him, crying, ‘That was brilliant! Did you see how much everybody loved it?’

  ‘It’s the composer who deserves the credit; wasn’t much to do with me.’ Despite Siddy’s protests, the joyful expression on his face revealed how much her praise had meant to him.

  ‘I’m sure we all enjoyed it very much,’ Olive said quietly.

  ‘I agree. Well done, old chap,’ her father added, hailing a waiter.

  ‘Yes, Mr Alfred?’ the man inquired, then stiffened. ‘Oh, I am sorry, sir.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘I know I should have addressed you as Mr Woods, but as I often see you and Mr Wood together when you’re visiting, and what with your surnames being so similar, I always think of you by your first names so I don’t confuse the orders.’

  ‘Very sensible of you,’ Alfred said. ‘Now, perhaps you could fetch my friend “Mr Reuben” a cup of tea. No, make it something stronger — a performance like that deserves at least a Scotch and soda!’

  After deciding on their drinks, Alfred and Reuben began to deliberate the merits of a new foal. Wriggling in her seat with renewed impatience, Grace occupied herself with a vanilla slice until, hopeful that a brief silence meant the two men had at last finished their discussion, she blurted, ‘Siddy, remember when you said you’d teach me piano?’

  ‘I do seem to recall something of the sort,’ he said, stroking his chin.

  ‘Well, I was wondering if we could start while I’m here. I could practise on the old upright we have in the hall when I go home and then you could show me a bit more each time I see you, which will be lots once I’m going to The Ravenscroft School in Sydney next year. What do you think?’

  ‘Of course, Princess.’ He smiled. ‘But only if it’s all right with your parents.’

  ‘As long as you’re willing, Reuben, I believe it’s a splendid idea,’ said Alfred. ‘And I’m sure Olive is of the same opinion, aren’t you, dear?’

  There was a pause. ‘Perhaps,’ she eventually conceded.

  Grace was surprised to discover the door of her parents’ hotel room had been left ajar. She’d just spent a happy half-hour enjoying a late afternoon stroll with her father beneath the towering Moreton Bay fig trees of Sydney’s Botanic Gardens, but now he was meeting with a woo
l-broker in the bar and she was hoping her mother might be in the mood for a game of cards. When she heard raised voices coming from within the room, however, Grace hesitated. Something was wrong.

  ‘You know it as well as I do, Olive, she should be with me!’ That was Siddy’s rumbling bass; she’d recognise it anywhere, although Grace had never known him to be angry like this.

  ‘No, Reuben, it’s out of the question!’ It was her mother. Alarmingly, she sounded close to tears.

  Grace was torn. She would be in terrible trouble if she was discovered standing in the carpeted corridor for no apparent reason other than to eavesdrop on what was clearly a serious, grown-up conversation, yet she found it impossible to wrench herself away.

  ‘Have you forgotten what we agreed? You simply cannot provide her with what she needs,’ Olive was saying.

  ‘I know I’m not a wealthy man —’

  ‘I’m not just talking about the things money can buy!’ Olive burst out. ‘I mean the kind of love and care only a woman can provide.’

  Grace heard a sob that tore at her heart. Then her mother said, ‘Please, I’m begging you, Reuben. Don’t do this to her — or me.’

  She sounded incredibly distressed. But who were she and Siddy arguing about? What did it mean?

  Grace walked into the silent room, her footsteps echoing on the polished parquet floor. The Winter Garden was not open for custom in the early morning. Without either guests or staff, the sound of orders being taken or the subjects of the day being discussed, it made Grace think of an empty stage waiting for a performance to begin.

  A beam of bright sunshine escaped from a gap in the heavy velvet curtains, dazzling her eyes so that, for a moment, her vision blurred.

  ‘Princess! Come on over,’ Siddy called.

  ‘There you are.’ Grace skipped between the tables. ‘I couldn’t see because of the light.’

  He was already seated behind the grand piano. ‘Why not hop up next to me?’ he asked. ‘It’s very good of the hotel to let us use this fine instrument, but we’ll have to scoot in half an hour.’

  Grace took a seat. ‘Where’s the sheet music?’

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ Siddy said, ‘I’m not really good at reading the notes.’

  ‘Well how do you know what to play?’

  ‘The thing about music is you have to feel it. Oh, there’s scales and octaves and so on; I’m not saying they’re not important, but you need to sense the notes, right inside you.’

  ‘How would I do that?’

  ‘Listen.’

  Reuben showed her how to find middle C, then the way to play a simple arpeggio. ‘Over to you, Princess. Just do the same.’

  Grace picked out the keys slowly and carefully. Siddy was right; each note vibrated deep inside her belly.

  ‘You’ve done well,’ he said. ‘No one would believe you were just a beginner.’

  ‘What’s next?’

  ‘Well, seeing as we only have a few more days before you go back to Brookfield, I think I should teach you how to play a song — and sing it too, if you like.’

  ‘What kind of song?’

  ‘A French one. It’s called “Frère Jacques”.’

  ‘Siddy!’ Grace’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t know you could speak another language.’

  ‘I picked up a bit when I was a much younger man, back in the Great War. Now, do you remember how to find middle C?’

  After a moment spent staring in confusion at the keyboard, Grace pressed the first finger of her right hand down on a wedge of ivory.

  ‘Good. Now, see if you can play the notes again and sing “la” at just the same pitch.’

  Grace coloured, but gave it a try anyway.

  ‘Not bad — with a voice like that I . . . I’d say you were a natural,’ Reuben said unsteadily.

  Grace was as surprised to see his mouth tremble as she was to detect welling tears. ‘Is there something the matter, Siddy?’ she asked, slipping her small hand into his paw.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, Princess.’ He smiled. ‘Must be the sun in my eyes.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Brookfield, September 1934

  Her mother was unpacking when Grace walked into her bedroom the morning after the family’s return. ‘Have you sent Pearl on an errand, Mum?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t seen her anywhere.’

  ‘I was just going to tell you,’ her mother said as she hung up a pile of new summer dresses in her wardrobe. ‘Pearl’s left.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She has an auntie up in the Darling Downs she’s gone to stay with. Your father’s foreman, Bill Gleason, organised a lift for her with some of the young shearers who happened to be heading up that way.’

  ‘She’s coming back, though, isn’t she?’

  Olive shook her head.

  ‘Why not?’ Grace sank onto the bed. ‘Is it because I’m going to Ravenscroft?’

  ‘Darling, you’re twelve now, almost a young lady — you have different needs.’

  Her mother smiled brightly. ‘As it happens, I have a friend in the Downs with two small boys; she has been searching for a girl to help her out. I thought it would be nice if I recommended Pearl. Then she’d have a new job waiting for her.’

  Grace swallowed hard. Pearl had been much more than a nanny; more like a beloved friend who’d shared special knowledge, from where the sweetest honey could be found to the way that magical creatures from an ancient time of dreams had created the mountains, the rivers and the seas.

  ‘I never even had a chance to say goodbye,’ she said, blinking back tears.

  ‘It’s a shame, I know. But things don’t always work out the way we’d like,’ her mother replied.

  November

  A catchy new Cole Porter song called ‘Anything Goes’ had just finished playing on the wireless. Grace was concentrating on picking it out on the homestead’s ageing upright piano when she heard two pairs of high-heeled shoes tripping down the hall.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, darling — that tune was sounding awfully good, by the way — but I’m just saying goodbye to Mrs Evans,’ Olive said.

  Marjorie Evans, a plump, ginger-haired woman who lived on the adjoining property, was her mother’s best friend. ‘Hello, dear,’ she greeted Grace. ‘I expect you’re looking forward to starting at your new school.’

  ‘I can’t wait!’

  ‘Your poor mum will miss you, though.’ The women exchanged a look. ‘Ah well, what can be done about it?’

  Grace heard her mother showing Mrs Evans out. A moment later, she received a hug.

  ‘My British and French Vogues finally came in the post.’ Olive smiled. ‘Would you like to see them?’

  ‘I’d love to!’ Grace sprang up from the piano stool. ‘Let’s sit together, Mum, so we can share.’

  It was funny, Grace pondered, as she snuggled up to her mother on the sofa, that up until recently she hadn’t given the subject of clothes any thought at all — they were simply garments you pulled on in the morning. Now, she was fascinated by every detail.

  Grace adored the glamorous pictures in the magazines. It was true, they took months to reach Australia, but her mother had told her this didn’t matter as the northern winter took place while they had their summer. By the time the copies arrived it was just the right season.

  Her mother had wonderful taste; she was always far better turned out than any of the other graziers’ wives. If she didn’t have quite the same hard-edged chic the fashion models displayed, instead favouring feminine dresses, well-made suits and flattering hats, she still had her own appealing style. Even now, here on the farm with no one around but themselves, she was wearing a delicately ruffled white frock and antique sapphire earrings.

  Reaching for a copy of Vogue Paris, Grace began to flip through the pages. ‘This black dress with the bows made from ribbon is gorgeous!’

  ‘You know, Gracie, you have a very good eye,’ Olive remarked, looking over her daughter’s shoulder. ‘That dres
s is by Coco Chanel, one of Paris’s greatest designers. She has always been famous for her simplicity, but lately she’s created some quite intricate evening gowns.’ There was an expression of longing on Olive’s face. ‘The one you have picked out is divine.’

  Grace was thrilled. ‘Are you taking the picture to Miss Louise to copy next time you’re in Sydney?’ she asked excitedly. ‘Then it would be ready for when you go to the Jockey Club Ball with Dad.’

  ‘I agree, it’s a lovely idea,’ her mother said, ‘but the problem is I’d never be able to find the fabric — I’m sure it’s Chantilly lace.’

  Grace turned to a page that depicted two elegant women swathed in pale pink. ‘How about these?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘No material again?’

  ‘Oh, I think silk jersey is available.’ Olive scrutinised the image. ‘The difficulty is that although dear Lou Lou is talented, this style requires perfect technique. That,’ she said, tapping the picture with her finger, ‘has been created by Madame Grès. Unfortunately, there is no one in Australia — or possibly the world — who can drape fabric like her.’

  ‘Gosh, there’s a lot more to clothes than you’d think, isn’t there?’

  ‘You’re right.’ Her mother nodded. ‘Personally, I believe a woman should always strive to look her best, no matter whether she’s off to a garden party or baking a cake, so I suppose that, in a way, being well dressed is hard work.’ She gave her daughter a conspiratorial smile. ‘On the other hand, goodness me it’s fun! It’s a part of what makes it so special to be a girl.’

  ‘But how do you work out what suits you?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Well, once a young man said my eyes were the colour of delphiniums, so that gave me a clue that perhaps I should favour blue.’ Olive laughed. ‘But mostly, it’s just trial and error. I know — why don’t you try on some of my new evening clothes? You have grown so much lately, we’re practically the same size. We could start with my emerald satin cocktail dress — that would match your eyes beautifully — and then move on to the blue silk shantung.’