Jack was the one there to help when they had to lift Mum. When they had to turn her, and wash her and dress her bed sores. When they had to remind her to chew and swallow, and clean up her vomit when she ate too quickly. Jack was a good and generous person. If he got the odd day’s work, he handed over his meagre pay to Emma. How could she say no when he wanted threepence here or sixpence there? He deserved the odd treat: a bet with the boys or a bit of tobacco. He had a right to his youth. As for her mother, she didn’t seem to be improving, but neither was she getting worse
Emma had dispensed with the old doctor, the one who couldn’t help Mum and just told them to pray. This new one was better, an optimist. Dr Dennisdeen explained things properly. ‘A stroke happens when blood flow to a portion of the brain is diminished by a blood clot or broken blood vessel. As with heart attacks, the lack of oxygenated blood can lead to tissue death. When brain cells die, symptoms occur in parts of the body that those brain cells control. Sudden weakness, paralysis, numbness of the face or limbs. That’s why stroke victims may have difficulty thinking, moving, and sometimes even breathing.’
‘Is there any treatment?’ asked Emma.
‘Rehabilitation can greatly improve outcomes for patients. I have a particular interest in this field, and believe other parts of the brain can be encouraged to take over from the damaged cells. It’s just a theory, but it explains why certain stroke victims recover a reasonable quality of life. Eileen’s disability is indeed a severe one, but there is always hope. I’d like to prepare an exercise program for your mother, if you’re willing of course. This will mean a lot of work for you, I’m afraid.’
Anything was worth a try. Emma followed the doctor’s instructions with meticulous care, frequently changing Mum’s position in bed, and passively exercising her arms and legs. To begin with her muscles were stiff, resisting movement, but thanks to persistent stretching, they gradually loosened up. With Mum unable to speak, it was hard for Emma to know if she was hurting her or not. Still, if there was a chance it might help, it had to be done.
Emma took special care to exercise Mum’s hands, stroking them and opening her fingers dozens of times a day. Splints and sandbags kept her legs straight, and cushions under her arms did the same for her shoulders. All designed to prevent the crippling deformities that plagued many stroke victims.
Weeks passed. In quiet moments Emma thought about Tom, and how he’d helped her at the zoo, and the dimple in his chin, and that first, magical kiss. And how she loved him. If she closed her eyes she could taste the salt on his skin, feel his beating heart, and the press of his hard, muscled body against her. Hear his husky whisper, ‘There’s no one like you, Em. You’re one in a million.’ But she didn’t allow herself to go there often. It was too sad, too painful.
Christmas day arrived, as bright and clear a day as Emma had ever seen. A breeze blew away the pall that so often enveloped the town, and she could smell the faraway forest. Jack pushed their mother’s bed closer to the open window.
Emma wasn’t feeling festive, far from it, but Mum always loved this special time of year, so Emma had decided to make an effort. Jack put up a blue gum branch in the lounge room where Mum could see, and they decorated it with berries and gumnuts, holly leaves and wildflowers. Emma fashioned a star for the top out of hat wire, wound around fragrant sprigs of creamy Christmas Bush blossom. She sewed up little bags made from a worn out pillowcase, and filled them with flowering lavender as gifts. She dipped into her fast-dwindling reserves to buy boiled lollies for the table, and mixed fruit for a pudding.
Jack came home with eggs and a fat cockerel that looked suspiciously like the one belonging to Mrs Phipps; the one that always woke her at four in the morning. Jacky grinned as he handed his offerings over. Emma usually frowned at bandicooting – the pilfering of food from home gardens – but for once she turned a blind eye. Here came a proper Christmas dinner, and the bones would make a nourishing stock. Jack had even managed a pint of milk – frothy, fresh and straight, Emma guessed, from the Harper’s house cow.
Tim and Jane came by with half a ham and a bottle of brandy. Jane could make Emma feel inferior without saying a word. By the clever re-use of samples and seconds, she always managed to dress like a lady. Today was no exception. She wore a smart, two-piece number: fine cotton broadcloth, in a navy and white polka-dot print. Kick pleats. White pique collar. Emma wondered how she herself might look in such a stylish outfit, instead of her frayed blouse, more grey than white, shapeless beige skirt and scuffed shoes.
Tim seemed very cheerful to see Mum looking clean and well cared for. Her cheeks had filled out, thanks to Emma’s dedicated feeding, and her neatly-cut red hair shone with health. Emma had even bought a green satin ribbon to tie it back. Tim mistook the result of his sister’s devotion for an improvement in his mother’s condition.
‘I bought you some soap, Mum,’ he said, unwrapping the present on her bed. ‘And a bag of oranges.’ He spoke in a loud, slow, exaggerated way, as if Mum was deaf or demented.
There was a pair of scented candles for Emma and a pocket-knife for Jack. She couldn’t help wishing Tim hadn’t wasted his money on presents. Emma would have much preferred the cash. But as they enjoyed a fine meal of ham, roast chicken and vegetables, followed by a slightly raw plum pudding and custard, her mood lifted. She sipped a small glass of brandy, pretending Dad was down at the dairy, and Mum was picking parsley in the garden. It could almost be the old days, back at the farm.
As her guests were leaving, Tim took her aside and gave her a final present; a pretty tapestry purse containing five florins. ‘You’re doing a wonderful job with Mum.’ He kissed her cheek, and she glowed with pleasure. ‘I have some good news. Jane is expecting. You’re going to be an auntie.’
‘Congratulations.’ He’d once confided to Emma that he thought a pregnancy might never happen.
‘It means money will be tight, though,’ said Tim. ‘We can’t keep carrying you like this.’
It was like she’d been slapped. This was Jane talking, not her brother, but it still hurt. ‘Carrying me? Maybe you should be carrying me, since I’m barely seventeen years old. But the truth is I’ve only seen you three times since I’ve been home. The last time Jane told me to stay away, and I’ve honoured that request. I’ve used up every penny of my own money caring for Mum, and the pittance Jacky’s earned as well. I’ve no idea how we’ll manage in the new year.’
‘Send the lazy little sod out to work,’ said Tim.
‘Leave Jacky alone.’ Emma’s voice rose a notch, and she could feel the sharp sting of tears. ‘He’s been a marvellous help, and is doing his very best to find a job. It’s not his fault there are none to be had.’ She couldn’t help herself. She began to cry.
Tim looked horrified and Emma sniffed back her tears. This was Christmas after all, and she didn’t want to spoil it. ‘If you could find Jacky work at the foundry it would make all the difference.’
Tim shook his head. ‘With this downturn they’re more likely to be laying men off than putting them on. You’re so very mature, Em. Perhaps you’d have a better chance of finding work than Jack would.’
‘But I couldn’t leave Mum.’
‘She seems better,’ said Tim. ‘Surely Jack could take care of her during the day?’ He took two shillings from his pocket and added it to the purse. ‘You’re doing a great job with Mum, by the way. Thank you.’
Emma gave him a heartfelt hug. To be appreciated was the best Christmas present she could have wished for.
* * *
The new year was ushered in with an almighty heatwave that knocked everybody flat. Thank goodness Tim had paid the overdue electricity bill (behind Jane’s back), so that Mum could have her fan. Even so, the lounge room was like an oven. It must be awfully boring and lonely, sitting there day after day in the hot room with nothing to do. If only she could afford a little wireless for Mum to listen to.
One evening Emma brought out the thick mutton broth, chock full
of sieved vegetables, that was her mother’s mainstay. ‘Open up,’ said Emma, the spoon hovering outside Mum’s lips like she was a baby. Emma had learned the trick. Gently pinch Mum’s cheek to open her mouth, then quickly massage her throat to get her to swallow before she choked.
Just as Emma went to touch her cheek, Mum opened her mouth. Emma almost dropped the spoon in surprise. After a few mouthfuls her mother was swallowing without a reminder. ‘That’s wonderful, Mum.’ Emma tried to contain her excitement. ‘You’ll be well in no time.’
Emma called Dr Dennisdeen from a neighbour’s house to tell him the good news. He came straight away, gave Mum a thorough examination and turned to Emma with a satisfied expression. ‘There is an encouraging response in her reflexes, particularly on the right side. Just keep doing what you’re doing and I shall see you next week.’
Emma opened her new purse. The doctor held up his hand. ‘No charge for today. I’m impressed with your mother’s progress, and it’s mainly thanks to you. Such dedication in one so young. You’d make an excellent nurse.’
‘I’d make an excellent doctor.’ Emma hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It had just slipped out.
Dr Dennisdeen smiled at her. ‘Indeed you would, my dear.’ He snapped his bag shut. ‘Indeed you would.’
* * *
As the year wore on, Emma came closer and closer to running out of money. She turned Tim’s suggestion over in her mind daily, the suggestion that she should try to find a job herself. In the end she didn’t have any choice. Financial ruin lay just around the corner. So each day she dressed in her most presentable clothes and did the rounds. She tried everywhere: bakers, hairdressers, grocers. Jewellers and watchmakers. Furniture makers, potters, the church school. She had no more luck than Jacky, other than one indecent proposal and a priest who suggested she become a nun.
In March, it finally happened. There was no money left to pay for electricity or gas. No money to pay the greengrocer. No money to pay the milkman.
‘Can’t hand this over til you settle the account, love,’ said the butcher as he wrapped her weekly order of mutton and soup bones in newspaper. Emma trailed her toe in the sawdust strewn floor, then left the shop empty-handed.
‘You must find a job tomorrow,’ she told Jack. ‘Mum had the last of the stew for lunch. We can’t let her starve.’
‘I don’t want us to starve either, sis,’ he said. ‘But I won’t find a job just because you tell me to. Don’t we have anything left?’
‘Four pounds, but that’s for the rent. We can’t touch it.’
‘Go and see Tim and Jane, then.’
Emma had vowed never to ask those two for help again, but Jack was right. She couldn’t afford to be proud any more. ‘I’ll go tonight,’ she said. ‘I won’t ring first. You’ll need to look after Mum.’
* * *
She found Tim in the front garden, mowing the lawn with a push mower. A sign on the front gate read Bide-A-While. Jane had inherited the little cottage when her parents died, so they didn’t even pay rent. A scene of domestic bliss; sun setting behind the roses, the sweet smell of cut grass, a jug of iced tea on the vine-draped porch. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t Mum live like this, instead of in the squalor of Sparrow Lane?
‘I told you, Em,’ Tim said when she asked him. ‘I can’t hand over any more money. My wife would be livid.’
‘You’ll have to,’ she said. ‘Jacky and I can’t get work. We’ve looked all over. If you don’t bail us out, Mum will be evicted.’ Tim nervously licked his lips. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to bring her here,’ said Emma. ‘Have you got room for me and Jacky too?’
Jane caught sight of them through the window, and hurried out. ‘Hello Emma.’ She frowned at Tim. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Ah, my sister … is looking for work. She was wondering if you could recommend her for a job at the boutique?’
‘Out of the question—’ began Jane.
‘Otherwise Tim’s mum will get evicted and we’ll all have to move in here … with you,’ said Emma. She smiled grimly as Jane’s mouth dropped open. That had shut her up.
‘My dear Emma, I believe you worked at a dress shop in Hobart. Would they give you a reference?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘Very well, I shall talk to Monsieur Dupont tomorrow and see if there’s an opening.’
* * *
Jane was true to her word. She dropped by the next day to give Emma the good news. ‘You have an appointment at Tres Chic tomorrow afternoon at three. Don’t be late.’ Jane looked her up and down with a frown. Emma hadn’t been expecting company. She was wearing her zoo garb – an oversized man’s shirt and baggy trousers. ‘Come home with me, dear. I’ll lend you a dress for the interview. Monsieur Dupont is most particular.’
Emma checked on Mum, then she and Jane took the short bus ride back to the cottage. Jane disappeared into her bedroom and returned with a smart belted dress of burgundy cotton with a scatter-dot print. ‘Try it on.’
Emma did as she was told.
Jane frowned. ‘Hmm. I’ll need to take it in here, and here … Don’t lose any more weight,’ she warned, as if Emma was deliberately getting skinny just to be annoying. Jane went into the front room to make the alterations, leaving Emma standing in the kitchen in her underwear.
‘Try it on again,’ said Jane when she emerged. ‘Much better, and you’ll need these.’ She produced a pair of modern, grey suede platform pumps. ‘And these.’ She handed Emma a pill box hat and a pair of salmon pink gloves. ‘No, not like that. Tilt it.’ Jane expertly secured the hat on the side of Emma’s head with pins, then extracted two pounds from her purse. ‘Take this. Tim told me you’ve been caught short. Call it an advance on your first pay. I expect it to be repaid promptly.’
‘Thank you,’ said Emma. ‘Can I wear this home?’
‘Of course not.’
* * *
Emma loved her new frock. She paraded in front of the small cracked mirror in Mum’s old bedroom, seeing only bits of herself at a time, trying to get a sense of how she looked as a whole. The dress had a frilled neckline, and flattering cape-effect collar with organdie trim. The cotton voile fabric was soft and sheer, and felt wonderful against her skin. She’d never felt more grown-up and sophisticated.
‘Look Mum,’ she said, as she twirled by the window in the lounge room. ‘Look at my new dress. I’m a grand lady on my way to a garden party, or maybe the Melbourne Cup.’
Was it her imagination, or did her mother’s eyes flutter in response?
* * *
The proprietor of Très Chic, Monsieur Dupont, was a short, balding widower in his fifties, and lived in a flat above his shop. He had stumpy legs, porcine eyes and a mouth too wide for his face. Nevertheless, he managed to look dapper in a dark, silk suit. He peered at Emma short-sightedly before finding his horn-rimmed spectacles.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ she began nervously. ‘My sister-in-law, Mrs Jane Starr, says you’re looking for a retail assistant.’
Monsieur Dupont looked her up and down. ‘Do you have experience?’ He spoke with a French accent, but Jane said it was fake. She said he’d been born Melvyn Spriggs in Fingal, the son of emancipated convicts. He’d been a sanitary plumber until he was forty, when a bachelor uncle he’d never met died in Wales, leaving him a large estate and making him a wealthy man. Melvyn had bought the boutique, practiced the accent, called himself Monsieur Dupont and the transformation from fixing toilets to fashion aficionado was complete.
Emma told him about her work at À la Mode Fashions in Hobart, and gave him the phone number of her employer.
‘How old are you, mademoiselle?’
‘Seventeen.’
His lips began to twitch. ‘I think you’ll do perfectly.’
‘You mean I have the job?’
Monsieur Dupont took a pipe down from the shelf, filled it with tobacco and lit it. He puffed three times before answering Emma’s question, as if he enjoyed making her wai
t. ‘Three pounds per week, and extra for overtime,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp.’
Three pounds a week. She hadn’t expected so much. Rejection after rejection, and now this. It seemed too easy. ‘I might not be available for overtime, Monsieur Dupont. I’m caring for my sick mother.’
His tongue darted out from between his teeth. ‘A certain amount of overtime is non-negotiable, Mademoiselle Starr. Of course, if that doesn’t suit—’
‘No, no. That suits perfectly. Thank you for the opportunity.’
Emma left the shop at a measured, ladylike walk, maintaining self-control just long enough to get past the front window. Then she pulled off her hat and gloves and went running down the street, laughing with relief. She couldn’t wait to get home to tell Jacky and Mum.
Chapter 14
Emma arrived at Trés Chic the next morning close to tears. To save money on the bus fare, and because it didn’t look like rain, she’d decided to walk the two miles to work. What a misjudgement. High gusts of wind seemed to come from nowhere, playing havoc with her carefully coiffed hair. Worse was to come. The heavens opened ten minutes into her trip, and when Emma arrived half an hour later she looked and felt like a drowned rat.
Her damp dress clung to her figure in a most embarrassing way, and when she attempted to fix her bedraggled hair, Emma realised she’d lost Jane’s smart pill box hat in the gale. She looked down at her suede shoes which, being a size too small, had blistered both her heels. They were caked in mud. Her sister-in-law would be furious.
Emma extracted a handkerchief from her bag and cleaned them off as best she could, with the help of a puddle of water. It would have to do. Utterly humiliating, yet when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window glass, Emma was pleasantly surprised. She didn’t look nearly as bad as she’d imagined. In fact, she looked rather smart. Determined to make the best of things, Emma took a deep breath, held her head high and marched inside.
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