Angel knew, of course, that it was possible for a person to love someone who doesn’t love them right back, but she was determined to make it happen in the aunts’ house. She believed this because of what might have happened to B and K carved into the tram seat.
Angel would take wildflowers and some maidenhair from the gully behind the boarding house next time. She would pick the best the gully had to offer. Clara and Elsa would love her then. She was only eleven – there was plenty of time.
Colours
Angel loved the swirls of colour inside her. Thick and oily or gently splashed and tinted, depending of course on the particular musical composition, and she often wondered if an orchestra could play from a score of colours undulating across the page, flowing like streams of water and oil or Clara’s ballet dancers, instead of the stiff black-and-white notes she could not understand anyway. Angel’s music was as full of colour as it was of sound (with the exception of the terrible run-in she’d had with Tchaikovsky when every note was a dense shade of black or grey, dark as storms, and the sounds in her head like thunder. The memory of that made her very hot and she longed for cooling green.)
The gully was her green – well, of course there were the odd patches of greys and brown from the bark of trees and tree ferns and bracken fronds when they die – but the overall impression was of green. There were so many shades of green that might take a person’s fancy and Angel loved them all. In the gully were greens dark in shadow and bright in the sunlight. High eucalyptus leaves with their hint of blue and grey. Maidenhair ferns on the banks of the stream paler, stroking the water, and emerald moss lying soft across rocks, quiet, as though it slept. Angel could not possibly say which was her favourite. She decided she must leave it all for others to be enchanted.
If it wasn’t a Bay Sunday with trams, a salted breeze and Mariana at the end of it, it was a green day for Angel and somehow her music and colours adapted. Clever, she thought. The green place behind the house gave her a feeling of safety and protection. Once, Angel fell asleep covered with the fronds of a tree fern on the green velvet by the creek and even in the dark she could feel their colour.
Angel was in the gully all night and she wondered if Missus Potts had missed her or worried but no one turned an eye when she sneaked back at dawn into her bed. She was hungry and cold but didn’t dare go to the kitchen. Hunger was so much part of her life she could put it aside and barely notice, and there were always berries and water in the gully, but she was so cold she wound herself up in her blanket tight as a bandage.
Angel didn’t eat much in the house because the food was very, very bad! Very bad! She had no idea why the paying guests didn’t complain. Perhaps it was because board was so cheap. There was usually stale bread, sometimes growing something on its crust, eggs from chooks on their last legs, and the house specialty – the gristly stews of old cows, tough as their hides, potatoes boiled with their eyes open and beans turned grey before their time, everything suiciding in a broth made of heaven-knows-what bones. Angel thought her mother was the worst cook in the world but after suffering the sacrificial offerings of Missus Potts she decided she might have only been the second worst. She found it hard to believe that the food was eaten with only the odd complaint despite the Reasonable Rates promise on the sign at the boarding house gate.
Before Angel’s mother died she made a pudding from layers of crushed arrowroot biscuits, custard and bananas. She often thought of that. Her mother wasn’t much good at anything else in a kitchen but Angel loved that pudding.
Angel mostly survived on what she found in her green place. Blackberries were her favourite and she thought they would have made a nice pie. She suggested it to Missus Potts with little hope.
‘Too sour this time of the year and there wouldn’t be enough.’
‘There’s plenty down there. I’ll fill up a billy can and you’ll see.’
‘Too much sugar needed. I’m not made of coupons. You want a blackberry pie? Make it yourself.’
‘I will!’ And Angel filled a can even though the brambles scratched her and made her bleed. She was careful not to let her blood drip onto the greens. Angel knew that blood, when it dried, became a dark shade of reddish brown and would not have suited the green at all. She wondered what colour the blood would have been when the tram conductor fell from his running board. She wondered how quickly the blood would have died and changed colour. Another death. A different death – but Angel thought it was interesting that even spilt blood had its own range of colours.
Angel did not make a blackberry pie but a pot of jam with half the sugar required and it was terrible. No one ate it.
One day that was not a Sunday Angel sneaked away from school to learn about colour. She swapped her tunic for a dress in the usual way knowing Mister Daisyfield, who had become a little afraid of the Angel of sixth class, would ignore her absence and she went to the art gallery.
The gallery was a grand building in the city on the edge of the Botanic Gardens and it was her second visit to such a place. When she ran up the steps to the entrance the excitement made her head swim and she desperately wanted to pee.
‘I need to go!’ she cried to a woman behind a desk. ‘Where is the toilet, please?’ Holding herself hard.
‘Down the stairs and to the right,’ said the kind woman, with a laugh.
‘Do I need a penny?’
‘No,’ she replied, still laughing. But after relief without a penny Angel saw herself in the long mirror of the Ladies – a scrawn in a worn dress, bare feet, wild hair. A creature that might have been born in one of Charles Dickens’s dirt-poor establishments. A woman, washing her hands, said, ‘How on earth did you get into the art gallery?’
‘Easy,’ said the old child, grinning in her way. ‘I didn’t know it was hard. I hope it’s better up the stairs than what’s in the mirror.’
‘I can assure you it is,’ came the reply with nose up, lips pursed and a towel dropped into the bin. ‘A lot better. I’m on the committee and I’m not sure about waifs like you running around here like wild things. Look at your feet for goodness sake. I’ll have to have a word.’
‘Okay.’ Angel ran back up the stairs and after thanking the desk lady she saw the first of the framed, glorious colours and there came a shock so intense she could barely breathe. She sat on the floor, wide-eyed, mouth open, legs splayed and her back against a wall. A group following a guide stepped around her and looked at her with different expressions – like the tram passengers did.
‘Where are your parents?’ asked a woman dressed like a page from a magazine.
‘Dead,’ said Angel.
‘Shall I get someone to help you?’ asked the guide.
‘No. I just want to look at the colours. I won’t touch anything.’ And it seemed to be enough, for after a moment’s hesitation the guide continued to explain the paintings to his group.
O! the colours! O, the richness of it all! Everything was so overwhelmingly beautiful it made Angel cry and the crying disturbed her because she never cried. Angel crept from painting to painting close to the floor and in such a way she hoped she might make herself invisible or possibly part of the display.
There was one painting in the main gallery that was so big, bigger than all the walls in the boarding house stuck together, and there was a seat to sit on to watch it. Angel just sat there with tears running, like the creek in the gully, down her face with the joy of it all … O, the colours! And the music inside her turning summersaults was loud enough for the whole place to be deafened by it and its colours poured all over the place … O, the colours, the colours.
A man in uniform and a cap went to her.
‘Are you all right, love? Where’s your mum?’
‘Ssshhh,’ said Angel placing a finger to her lips and not wanting to be disturbed.
‘Come on, now – you can’t just sit here crying. Where’s your mum?’
‘I haven’t got one.’
‘Dad?’
‘Dead.’
‘Are you lost?’
‘Not anymore,’ she said, not taking her eyes off the art. ‘I could live here – have you seen this? Have you seen it all? I could stay here forever …’
‘Not with bare feet, you can’t.’
‘I’m not hurting anything.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’d better stop crawling around the floor for one and the doors close at five so you’d better be off by then.’
‘Okay. Can I come back, please?’
‘Shoes?’
‘Haven’t got any.’
‘I’m sorry for you, love, but those are the rules. I can see how much you like it here and I reckon that’s unusual for a kid like you, but rules are rules and footwear comes under the dress code heading. But I have to say, on the quiet, mind, that it does me good to see a kid enjoying this place so much.’
This show of kindness – this show of potential intimacy – had her briefly looking at the man’s hands and their fingers but there were no suspicions there.
‘O, it’s as beautiful – no, it’s more beautiful – than my green place. As beautiful as my music, if you can believe that – well, maybe you can’t. But I can explain it all to you if you want to know.’
‘Not just now, love. I’m working. What’s your name?’
‘Angel, but I’m thinking of changing it. What colour do you think my name could be?’
‘That’s up to you, love. Have a look around – and don’t forget – next time, shoes!’
‘The colour of oceans might be okay, I think. Like that over there, with the waves of white horses racing right off the wall. What do you think?’
‘I think you are a very unusual girl. Behave yourself. Keep out of trouble and come to me if you need help. I’ll keep an eye out. There are some pretty strict people in this place.’
‘I won’t touch anything. I’ll be quiet and I’ll hide if someone comes – I’m okay.’ But she wasn’t. Angel was so maddened by beauty she thought she felt her brain move a little. Click.
O, the colours!
The next Bay Sunday she would add a few nice things to the wildflowers from the gully, maybe a few berries, small bunches with the thorns stripped, and take them to Clara and Elsa and they would love her so much for the gesture and maybe buy her shoes.
The well-read visitor
The day was warm. On this Bay Sunday it became in fact warm enough to peel another flake or two of old, grey paint off the side of the aunts’ house. Angel had taken the route across the big park and by the time she reached the house she was perspiring. Angel was, for a turn or two of the earth, as far as she knew, climbing from the age of eleven and towards the hedge of twelve. Like sheep counted, she was still there, in the eleventh year, wondering how far away the next hurdle was.
Angel was not sure if it was because she was older, or the aunts had run out of ideas to keep her out, but it was the third Sunday in a row that the gate to their house had been unlocked. The laundry door had been opened just far enough for Angel to creep inside where it was dark and cool. There was no sight or sound of Elsa or Clara but the roast tomatoes downstairs and the scratched ballet record playing upstairs indicated they were in the house somewhere. Or maybe they were down by the rocks. Angel thought of calling out to them but decided a surprise would be nicer. She tip-toed into Elsa’s sitting room over to where Elsa kept her mending chair near the corner window where the sun shone. But on that day, the sun had moved and the room was in shadow. Angel saw the chair and Elsa’s work basket on the floor beside it and in the chair she saw a woman. Different.
‘And who might you be?’ The woman had a book on her lap and eyes in the back of her head as far as Angel was concerned for she had not turned.
‘Well, come! Come and make yourself known,’ said a voice as crisp as a ginger snap.
Angel did as she was told and stood by the window to face the woman who sat straight, barely balanced on the edge of the chair. She seemed older than the aunts and was pale as parchment, even in the shadows. She wore a black cape and a plait of grey hair hung down her back. Angel thought she looked as though she’d been locked in a schoolroom for years and had only recently escaped. ‘Well? Who are you?’
‘Where’s Aunt Elsa and Clara?’
‘Down on the rocks scraping for shellfish. Answer me!’
‘I’m Angel Martin – Elsa and Clara are my aunts.’
‘O, it’s you. Come away from the window where I can see you.’
Finding a stranger in the aunts’ house was a shock but Angel did as she was told.
‘You look like a bag of bones. Bones! That’s what I’ll call you – Bones!’
‘No, you won’t! My name is Angel and I would never change it to Bones! Who are you?’ asked Angel, standing as straight as the woman sat and coming to her senses.
‘The cheek of you! No respect for your elders – universities are full of ignorant, stupid young girls like you. Should have been drowned at birth. Your aunts told me all about you. Why are you holding a bunch of dead weeds?’
‘They’re not dead. They got a bit spoiled in the heat. They just need some water. I picked them for Elsa and Clara.’
‘Where from? They’re not local.’
‘In the gully behind the boarding house where I live of course.’
‘O, yes. You were boarded out, weren’t you.’
‘No! Missus Potts and my mother were friends. Missus Potts took me in because she loves me.’ A lie of course, but a lie white as a snow flake.
‘Do you know what those weeds are? Do you know their names?’
‘This one’s maidenhair and this is bracken and there’s lily turf and honeysuckle and—’
‘What’s the purple one?’
‘I’ve forgotten.’
‘Hardenbergia – look it up.’
‘I do look things up. I bet I’ve looked more things up than you have—’
The woman rose from the chair with a flourish of agitated black cape so that she looked like a bat hanging the wrong way. She pulled Angel to her and slapped her over the ear.
‘You old bat!’ said the Angel. ‘Don’t you think for a minute that’s the worst thing that’s happened to me. I’m experienced.’ But she put her hand to her ear and it felt very hot.
Elsa came into the room smelling of seaweed and shells. She was wearing her moon hat and had her skirt tucked into her panty legs to keep it dry. One of her toes had blood on it.
‘O, there you are again, Angel. My goodness. I see you’ve met Jessie. We found a few oysters but mostly pipis. There was a small octopus but I don’t like catching them. But you like catching occos, Jessie, don’t you – I’ve seen you – I used to watch.’ Elsa turned to Angel. ‘What’s the matter with your ear?’
‘This person – Jessie? – well, she hit me.’
‘Never did me any harm,’ said Elsa but she glanced hard at Jessie. ‘Jessie was living with your grandfather when your mother killed him with the grief of losing his son. Jessie lectures at university and writes books about plants.’
Angel didn’t know what to say, but only for a moment.
‘I brought you and Clara some wildflowers from the gully, Aunt Elsa, but they need water.’ Elsa ignored the gift but turned to Angel and spoke about something quite different. She spoke nervously and was short of breath.
‘I used to watch Jessie and my husband’s father catch octopuses and she’d drag them off his arm and put them in a bucket and send them up to me to cook. Jessie didn’t cook them. I cooked them. I hated cooking them but that’s what I did! I was the one who did that sort of thing, you see – cooking and the cleaning and the flower beds because Jessie said I was a qualified domestic and she—’
‘For God’s sake don’t go on a
bout it now, Elsa. Not now! Where’s Clara? I called but she didn’t answer.’
‘Upstairs. It’s Giselle today.’
‘The miseries?’
‘Might not be, Jessie. Might be Clara just loves that music.’
And Angel said, finding herself in more familiar territory, ‘And where did Aunt Clara say the swell was coming from today?’ She asked Elsa, not taking her eyes off Jessie’s. ‘Was it Orlando or something else?’
‘The boats have all turned their backs. She thinks it might be Titania coming from the west – the gulls have all turned into it.’
‘Did you know that, Jessie?’ Angel asked with a slight smile. ‘I bet you don’t know the names of the rocks down by the water.’
‘Don’t you give me any more cheek or I’ll clip the other ear.’
‘She’s only a child, Jessie.’
‘That one’s never been a child, you only have to look. They’re all over the lecture halls like vermin.’
‘Angel likes my cooking, Jessie.’
‘That old mutton and potatoes and tomatoes? It’s always the same and as tough as hide. You bought the teeth to deal with it, Elsa. I still have my own!’
‘Elsa’s the best cook in the world! And where do you think she gets the extra coupons for Sunday dinners?’ screamed Angel at Jessie. ‘There’s an old man in Brooklyn Street who catches octopuses. He’d love to share the suckers with you. I can show you where he lives.’
Jessie advanced, flapping black towards Angel with her hand ready to slap.
‘She’s only a child, Jessie. It’s not her fault.’ But in a strange turn it was Elsa she slapped and then flapped out of the room shouting, ‘Where’s Clara?’
‘Upstairs. Jessie, don’t disturb her.’ And Elsa said not a word of complaint about the assault. ‘She won’t want you up there.’
‘I’ll go where I like on my own property,’ she said, flapping up the stairs. Shortly after, there came the sounds of a foot stamping and an argument.
The Aunts’ House Page 6