“Your face doesn’t frighten me, Joy.” I’m staring down at yellowed sponge through a hole in the lounge. “And I know why you couldn’t be at my Confirmation. Patricia wrote me a letter and she told me that you copped a blow for her.” I’m starting to understand what a blow does to a person.
“How is dear little Patricia? And her mother? Did she say where they are now?”
I pull Patricia’s letter from my uniform pocket and Joy reads over it with a chin-up smile.
“Well, that’s good news indeed….Armidale…they should be safe there. And won’t it be fun for you to have a pen pal, Ally?”
I nod, but I’m not thinking so much about being pen pals with Patricia right now.
“Does your face hurt a lot, Joy?” It stings mine to see Joy’s looking so bad.
“No, darling, not anymore. Wendy is quite the Florence Nightingale, and every other minute she’s been applying gel from her aloe vera plant that she keeps cool in the fridge. She’s taking very good care of me.”
“We can take care of you, Joy, at home, at Number 25.” I look over to Rick, who’s standing silently by the door. I want him to back me up. Let Joy know that she should be with her family. And a few moments later, after a couple of nods from me—he does—sort of, calling Joy by a name that I knew she was, but I’ve never heard him use before.
“Yeah, Mum, come on home. Al will look after you.”
* * *
■ ■ ■
Everything is quivering in Joy’s garden this afternoon as we bring her home. As we walk down the side of Number 25, the breeze freshens and the frangipanis fan their leaves in Joy’s direction. The backyard orchestra of string macramé, tambourine branches and woodwind foliage responds, and the wind chimes sway, warming up their soprano, tenor and alto tones. Joy’s eyes lift and her pace quickens. She approaches the water-lily pond, sending forward a low hum. Simone de Beauvoir pops up and, dropping the reeds from her mouth, she swims to the painted rocks at the edge closest to Joy, almost trembling. I leave them in tune under the magnolia tree, Simone nesting in Joy’s lap and Joy resting in her butterfly chair doing a slow head count of all the paper daisies. I lay the tray inside for mint tea, and Rick disappears next door to his flat above the garage. He’s driven us back so his job is done.
Wendy has sent me home with the aloe vera plant and instructions on how it should be applied. After we finish our tea, I sit in front of Joy and do gentle little circles with the pads of my fingers around her crisping face. I tell her all the news of the neighborhood, all the news from St. Brigid’s—and—after a pause, all the news about my body.
“I got my monthlies while you were away, Joy.” I pull back slightly, ready, in case she’s about to slap me across the face like Matilde did. I’m hoping she’ll instead explain everything the way Sister Josepha said Matilde would, but didn’t.
“Oh, Ally, darling, your very first moon time and—what a shame—I wasn’t here to celebrate!” Joy looks disappointed at first, but then, clutching my shoulders, she says in a rush, “Never mind, I’ll make it up to you. Yes, I will. My little Liberata, I can barely believe it! You’re in the tent now.”
I have no idea what Joy is talking about.
* * *
■ ■ ■
The eve of my birthday has always belonged to Joy.
We eat Neapolitan ice cream from her mother’s cut-crystal bowl, then bring out the little glass bottles and dust Joy’s emotions, talking about her life as it was when she was the age that I’m turning. And tomorrow I’m turning twelve. Before I set off to Joy’s at sundown, Matilde serves me an extra-large helping of matzo-ball soup, which she says is “to keep the wolf on the other side of the door because some people have no idea how to nourish a child.” Matilde doesn’t know about the Neapolitan ice cream.
Strangely, when I get to the brown gate to Number 25, for the very first time in my whole entire life, it’s locked closed from Joy’s side of the fence. I pull hard, trying to open it. I knock. I knock louder. I call out to Joy. There’s no answer. But then a heart-shaped note appears from underneath the gate. It says: Come to the front veranda.
And so I do.
A sprinkling of red rose petals is carving a path to Joy’s open front door. The house lights are down, but there’s a beckoning glow at the end of the corridor. I step forward—gingerly—wondering: Is there a Liberty Club meeting tonight that’s made Joy forget all about my birthday?
Then from behind the chaise lounge Whisky Wendy and Comrade Camille appear, floating barefooted toward me without speaking. They place a garland of crimson flowers on my head and red beads around my neck. They lead me through the dimmed house toward Joy’s back garden and the sound of a single strumming guitar. The music becomes clearer, and I recognize the tune….It’s Van Morrison’s “Moondance.”
At the end of a red-ribbon aisle, looking larger than usual in a purple kaftan, is my grandmother Joy. The Liberty Club ladies are singing softly about magic, moonlight and blush.
Joy is illuminated, from above and within, standing proud under the magnolia tree, which is hosting tiny lit lanterns and swathes of deep red organza. The Liberty Club ladies close in from all corners of the garden, still singing “Moondance” and holding small candles. They form a circle around me. Instead of being an observer at the edge of their gathering, I’m suddenly central, surrounded and almost alight. Simone, who it seems was in on the secret, is popped up and poised and watching from her painted rocks; she is wearing a ruby-red choker.
And then Joy with her healing pink face steps forward and announces: “Welcome, Liberata, to this sacred circle of women. This circle that surrounds you is continuous, open, collaborative and never broken.”
She reads like a performer from a linen-covered book:
Ally, our sister
My cherished granddaughter
Your first moon time is here
And we are here with you
Consider your body a beautiful garden
Nourish it and it will nourish you
It is a glory of nature, a sacred grove
Take pleasure in it and it will pleasure you
Your body has matured and blossomed
And your womb can now bring forth new life
Embrace your lunar cycle
Delight in its rhythm, wisdom and light
And remember the power is yours
So only open the gates to your garden
And share its beauty, mystery and offerings
With those who deserve and treasure your love
At Joy’s invitation the ladies go around the circle, happily sharing icky stories about their very first moon times. I want to block my ears.
Maidens and cramps; goddesses and lifeblood; cycles and thresholds.
Surely they’re not expecting me to join in with a story of my own?
I want to run at the fence and hurdle right out of here.
“I was the youngest of three girls and always felt left out from the older girls’ secrets. I couldn’t wait to start my period, and when it finally came, I was allowed to enter their club. We celebrated with a trip to the milk bar for a double-choc malted. I still have a sweet card my sister Fay wrote to me. We truly became sisters that day.”
This lady’s voice is upbeat and bouncy, and I’m trying hard to look up from my feet.
“We were on summer holidays when my aunt Flo visited me for the first time,” pipes up another. “I had to lie on a beach towel on the sand and pretend I had a headache when everyone else was having fun in the water. Finally my older cousin twigged to what was going on and told all my other cousins, including the boys. I could have throttled her at first, but they all seemed to have a new respect for me after that. Thank God for tampons—no more pads and belts and sitting on the sand!”
If only
Matilde could call me home with an urgent voice.
And now it’s someone called Dinah’s turn. She doesn’t seem as faked-up happy as the others.
“I was so shocked when my usually loving mother greeted my first moon-time news with a slap straight across the face. It wasn’t terribly hard, but she was normally quite tender, so for her it was really out of character.”
It was out of character for Matilde to slap me too. I wonder if she’s ever met Dinah’s mother?
“Years later, with tears in my eyes, I asked her why on earth she’d done this to me, and she said, completely unapologetically, that it was just an old Jewish custom to slap sense into a newly fertile girl. What a brutal tradition—it only humiliated me. There’s no way I’ll be slapping my daughters.”
Joy has an expression that suggests there’s no way she’ll be doing that to me either, but right now, quite honestly, I’d prefer another slap to being in the center of this awful circle. That part of my heart that draws blood from the tips of my fingers, between my toes, under my liver and around my esophagus is sending it all up the front of my neck to my face. And it’s pulsing: This is weird—this is weird—this is weird.
Joy asks me to walk forward down the red-ribbon aisle and join her under the magnolia tree, which she says is a symbol of fertility and life force. She takes a feather and circles me, reciting:
May mother earth always support you.
May the divine feminine nourish you.
May the sun warm you and the moon guide you.
And may you, our sister Liberata, grow wings that help you soar.
The Liberty Club ladies are beaming, clapping and hooting and are clearly feeling a whole lot of E words: Elated—Ecstatic—Euphoric.
I’m feeling two…Extremely Embarrassed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Every freaky-deaky detail about last night’s Moondance is looping like a Hula-Hoop around the coils of my mind. I used up so much energy trying to look at ease for Joy’s sake that this morning I’m heavy-boned exhausted.
And I’m confused: Is my first moon time a cause for celebration or is it a time to be pea-sized displeased? If I had a pretty-smiley mum, she would no doubt tell me and help sort me out.
“Still in bed, Allegra…lazing-bones-sleeping-head,” says Matilde, appearing at my door. “Are you too big now to bounce up excited that it’s your birthday?”
I can’t tell Matilde why I’m so tired; it would just make her tick her tongue and think that Joy was completely cracked. At least I now know what Matilde’s slap was about, even if I’m still not sure why I had to keep away from her rising dough.
I pad out to the kitchen and find that Matilde has made my favorite cream-cheese-and-walnut crepe. She always makes it on my birthday. It’s warm, sweet and filling. I fork it in while Matilde cleans up the kitchen behind me. Some days her food works like medicine, strengthening my skeleton with the right dose of no-nonsense nourishment.
“Today, Allegra, you are turning twelve years old, and so I have something for you.” Matilde places an envelope on the kitchen table in front of me and walks outside to empty the teapot under the lemon tree.
I open it and find two tickets inside. They are tickets to the ballet. A ballet at the Sydney Opera House, a ballet called Onegin, and the tickets are for the matinee performance today!
Kimberly from the Popular Group takes private ballet classes and brings in trophies and medals that she wins at eisteddfods. Sometimes she comes to school wearing a netted bun and still-there makeup from a concert she’s performed in the night before. At least once a week she uses the handrail outside the tuckshop to practice her grand battements while the St. Brigid’s kids are queuing for their Cobbers and Sunnyboy iceblocks. None of her high kicks impress me—I usually turn away—but I couldn’t help but be just a bit enthralled when for news in fourth grade she described going to see the ballet Romeo and Juliet at the Sydney Opera House just after it opened. She had a Polaroid photo taken on the steps wearing a velvet cape and her own pointe shoes. She walked it around the classroom; we could all look but not touch.
And now, I’m going to the Sydney Opera House, to see a real ballet, today.
Through the open back door I catch a glimpse of Matilde sneaking a peek at me as she scrapes the tea leaves from the pot around the base of the tree. I run out, throw my arms around her waist and hug her hard. She feels softer with all the trapped air squeezed out.
“Are we really going to the Opera House, Matilde? Really? Going today to the ballet? How did you get the tickets?”
“Never mind how I got the tickets, Allegra; there is much to do before we set off.”
I follow Matilde back inside as she rattles off the list, which includes times tables and piano practice and hair washing that need to be done before midday. I fly through it all and at Matilde’s instruction put on my Confirmation dress and meet her at the front door at noon. She’s holding her small brown handbag and looks neat and ready in her fawn skirt with a seed pearl brooch pinned at the top of her cream blouse.
Climbing up to the Opera House is about the most exciting ascent I can imagine. The steps are wide and shallow, and Matilde tells me that just like the Spanish Steps in Rome, they are made to match perfectly the gait of a horse. There are no horses about, only dressed-up ladies of all different shapes, a handful of men and a sprinkling of girls about my age. We follow the crowd to the foyer, where Matilde buys a program and, my second surprise of the day, a box of malt balls.
We keep climbing until we get to the last door, which displays the number that is printed on our tickets, and after I bump past a lineup of knees, tread on a couple of shoes and knock over a few handbags, we take our seats. The lights go down, and the audience greets the arrival of the conductor with a round of enthusiastic applause. I follow Matilde’s lead and clap along, even though from what I can tell he hasn’t done anything yet.
The curtain goes up and for the next couple of hours music, movement and feelings take me to a different continent, another time and, without warning, a sudden set of plans for my future: I’m imagining my life as a ballerina.
“Can you see the muscles in Tatiana’s legs working, Allegra?” whispers Matilde. “Look at her sculptured power. She is every bit as strong as Eugene and Prince Gremin. And when you think of the flexibility and endurance required of her, she is in fact even stronger than the male dancers.”
On the bus on the way home Matilde tells me that Onegin is definitely the most important ballet “because it does not fill a young girl’s head with the happy-ever-afters. Tatiana falls in love with Onegin, an arrogant aristocrat who has no love for her, but then after she has married another man, he appears again, trying to win her affection. She is a strong and sensible woman and sends Onegin packing. You must learn from Tatiana, Allegra. Never be swept away by a man, aristocrat or otherwise. Make your decisions with your head; never put your trust in your young heart. It will only misguide you.”
“I think I want to be Tatiana, Matilde,” I say, feeling inspired. “Is it too late for me to start learning ballet?”
“Don’t be delusional, Allegra,” Matilde snips. “Ballet is for you to watch and appreciate; it is not for you to do. You will be too busy being a doctor to dance. You will earn good money of your own, which, if you manage it well, you can use to buy the good seats at the ballet, close to the front and center stage, without having to climb all those impossible stairs.”
“And I’m going to bring you with me,” I say. I don’t know about this doctor business, but I do want to make Matilde proud. Her expression softens, and I wonder if it might even be possible to one day make Matilde happy.
I’m relieved that this grandmother celebrated my birthday by taking me to watch something magical from the safety of the dark rather than making me the embarrassed center of attention surrounded by all that confronting light.
* * *
■ ■ ■
My mind has been twirling and whirling ever since last week’s ballet, and I’ve been privately practicing pirouettes on my way down the lane.
Arriving home from school this afternoon, I find Matilde sitting at our kitchen table drinking black tea with another lady, who she introduces to me as Mrs. Kowalski. Matilde mostly keeps to herself, and I’ve never known her to have a friend over for tea before. It would be nice for my grandmother to have a friend; then she could perhaps even learn to have fun. Only they don’t seem to be talking to each other in a way that sounds at all friendly.
Matilde quickly serves me a small plate of last night’s stuffed cabbage leaves and tells me to take it into my room and get a start on my homework. Usually I have my afternoon tea in the kitchen with her, so this is something pretty unusual. I’m curious. I really want to know what Matilde and Mrs. Kowalski are talking about. I half close the door to my room, count to one-hundred-apple-pie, then sneak out the front door and around the side of the house and sit down low underneath the kitchen window, where I can hear every word.
“We are not just on strike at the factory for the equal pay, Matilde. We are also on strike for the right to have more rights,” says Mrs. Kowalski. “We want the right to more than just one lousy tea break. We want the right to go to the toilet when we need to go to the toilet. The way things are, all the women at the factory are only allowed two toilet breaks during the whole of the day, and if we take more than just the three minutes, then the pig-of-a-man supervisor bangs on the door and drags us back to the floor. Once he even dragged one of our women out by the hair who was in the beginnings of losing a child. I tell you, that Bolton’s Fashion House is more like a prison than a place of work.
“We need your support, Matilde. We need all the outworkers to support us. If you do the extra piecework for Bolton’s at home, then the workers at the factory will lose the power that the strike will give us, and then we will all lose this important battle. We need to stand together, Matilde, united. I am Polish, you are Hungarian, but we have both endured unspeakable suffering to get to this country. We are the survivors. We need to stand up and be strong.” Mrs. Kowalski is sounding every bit as strong as Matilde.
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