Cousins

by Patricia Grace

  Two days after she’d asked about the coat Mrs Baird had said, ‘Mrs Parkinson told me she knows somewhere she can get a coat for you.’ That was a long time ago and she’d stopped thinking about what sort of coat it might be, stopped thinking about coats altogether until Ada mentioned it. ‘And you’re lucky,’ Mrs Baird had said. ‘You’ve got a tram stop right outside the door and shop verandahs to wait under.’

  ‘Mrs Parkinson’s getting a coat for me,’ she said to Ada.

  ‘It’ll be too late soon, the winter’ll be gone. I reckon what you should do …’

  But Ada’s words were lost as the lunch whistle sounded. She knocked the last few books into a pile while the machine slowed down and stopped. She straightened her back then followed the rush of people to the lunch room.

  The seats were filling up as she went to one of the tables and sat down. People were bunched round the box of orders, looking for their names on the bags. Ada came with her pie, holding the greasy, steaming bag by the twist. In her other hand she had two cups of tea which she held high in front of her, making her way in and out of workers still coming in through the door. ‘Here you are, mate, milk no sugar.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  In her room on Saturdays when there was no more mending to be done, she’d pull the damp paper from inside her shoes, stand them on more paper and scratch a pattern with her little nail scissors. Then she’d cut out the shape in six thicknesses and fit them inside the shoes. After that there was a nothing time, no more to be done, too early to go out and walk. She would think of the smelly lunch room, the swearing women, and of what Ada might say, like, ‘Here you are, mate, milk no sugar.’

  ‘Well what I was saying? You’ll be getting a rise next week, so you want to take that extra few bob out and sock it somewhere,’ Ada said.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘What’s this all about?’ The others were sliding into the seats with their eyes widening, wanting to know. She didn’t want to look at anyone. ‘It’s these bastards who are supposed to look after her. They pinch her money and use her for a lackey.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘What do they …?’

  So Ada told them and they all talked about it. She was wedged into a corner and couldn’t get away so she nibbled at her sandwiches wishing the lunchtime over, waiting for the whistle and the whirring and roaring of the machines as the switches were turned on.

  Window, wardrobe and wallpaper. There was a tiny hole in the top part of the window, and when she had first gone into the room there’d been just one crack, going from the little hole to the top of the pane. When she’d tried to clean the window other cracks had sneaked across the glass in all directions, so now she didn’t want to clean it any more in case the pane fell out. The little hole was six-legged and spread itself across the window like a giant spider. Her window spider. She kept the window spider as a secret for herself.

  The bottom part of the window slid upwards when she wanted it open. It wouldn’t stay up on its own but she’d found a way of keeping it up by using a coat hanger as a prop. She used paper and water and a bit of her soap to wash the window with.

  When she’d first been given the room she’d brushed all the little hills of wood dust out of the wardrobe that had fallen from the insect holes. She’d washed the inside, waxed the outside and made a little wad of paper to jam in the door to keep it shut. It was a narrow wardrobe but there was plenty of room in it for her dress, her skirt, her blouse and her cardigan. There was a space for her shoes, and beside the place for her shoes she’d put a box that she’d taken home from work where she kept her cleaning cloths and shoe polish.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s what you do, pinch it out.’

  ‘Hey, Dotty, she getting a rise next week?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘You’ll know when you do up the wages.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘So don’t stick her packet down, she’s going to pinch some out.’

  ‘Why? What for? What’s all this about?’ Dotty said as she came with her cup of tea, drawing her lips in, her eyes moving from side to side behind her old glasses. Now they were telling Dotty.

  If she did take some money out and save it, she’d be able to get a photo frame. She’d seen one that looked about the right size in a second-hand shop just two streets away. It was a wooden frame with a gold-patterned edge around it. There was a dirty piece of glass in it and some layers of old cardboard. On the back there was a piece of dusty string tied to two flaky eyelets.

  ‘Buggers, they should be bloody had up.’

  ‘Should too, you should have them up.’

  ‘What are you going to buy?’

  ‘When you get your rise?’ They were all looking at her. She had crumbs in her throat.

  ‘A photo frame.’

  ‘A photo frame?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘My photo.’

  ‘What photo?’

  ‘You got a photo?’

  ‘Who of?’

  ‘My mother.’

  She’d told them something that she hadn’t wanted to tell. She was hot, had crumbs in her throat, and now they’d all be asking, wanting to know everything. They’d find out things to look at each other secretively about, and she wouldn’t know what secret things she’d told them.

  ‘She’s dead isn’t she? She died?’

  ‘She gave it to me before she died.’ She didn’t know why she said it.

  ‘What else?’

  The whistle went and they all began shifting. The voices rose above the sound of it. ‘Did your mother …?’

  ‘Did she leave you anything else?’

  She walked away with crumbs in her throat, pretending not to hear over the push and bustle. The women were hurrying for the cloakroom to flick back the wisps of hair, fix up their lipsticks, pee, straighten their stockings and pat down the backs of their skirts.

  On one of the walls the wallpaper had damp cloud shapes on it, and raindrops that sat, sometimes trickled, down under the shapes of clouds. The pattern of the paper had faded, but behind the wardrobe the green feathery leaves on a mottled-brown background could still be seen. When she’d first moved into the room there were places where the wallpaper had come away, so she’d stuck them back up with the sticky paper that she’d taken home from work. Cloud shapes, rain wallpaper and a glass window spider. These were her own things, her own secrets of her room.

  Ada was stacking covers and waiting for the machine to come to the top of its warming-up noise. The bar lever came down and she started pushing the books through.

  ‘So there you are, mate. Get a rise soon, in a week or two, and you can nip a half a crown out without them knowing. How’s that?’

  ‘I might …’

  ‘Might? No might about it. Those buggers been robbing you left, right and centre.’

  The frame only cost one and six. She’d give the wood and the glass a good clean, fit the photo in, back it with cardboard and stick it down with sticky paper. She thought her mother would like it.

  ‘Anyway, how’s that bloke?’

  She bent low over the books so that Ada couldn’t see her face and because she didn’t want to talk about that over the noise of the machine. Also, she didn’t know if she should tell Ada anything any more. It was only when she was alone in her room that she thought of the things she might say to Ada and of what Ada might say to her, or of what she’d write to Jean. Waiting for letters from Jean.

  Ada didn’t wait for her to answer the question but started singing the silver dollar song, keeping in time with the thrusting bar.

  She knew his name now but it wasn’t a proper name. Sonny. He’d talked again about the pictures — about them having a feed at Joe’s on Fridays. Them? She didn’t know who. Then she called to Ada over the noise of the machine and her singing. ‘He wants me to go out with him on Friday to a place where you eat, but I haven’t got the money and I
wouldn’t be allowed.’

  Ada didn’t stop what she was doing or look up, but she stopped singing and jutted her bottom lip out over the top one. After a while she said, ‘Huh. I’ll come and be your aunty. I’ll come and get you and shout you a night out. We’ll go to that place … wherever it is that bloke goes for a feed. I want to look him over in case he’s a bastard. Tell that Mrs Thingamebob your aunty’s coming to take you out. Tell that bloke you and your mate’s coming to that place for a feed on Friday.’

  Then she was scared. Better to just stay in her room looking at things, writing to Jean, waiting for Jean to write. Just the photo frame would do. She’d open the packet and get a half-crown out, buy the frame, get cardboard and sticky paper from Jerry.

  ‘I can’t …’

  ‘Yes you bloody well can. Tell that thieving Whatsername at your boarding house I’m calling for you Friday and we’re going out for a feed.’

  ‘She’ll tell Mrs Parkinson.’

  ‘Tell her to tell Mrs Parkinson your aunty’s coming and you’re going out.’

  ‘Mrs Parkinson doesn’t like my aunties.’

  ‘What? What aunties?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to go there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where my aunties live.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t have aunties. I thought you … Bloody bitch. You just tell her I’m coming, I’m taking you out and that’s all about it. If you want to say aunty, say it. If you don’t, don’t.’

  ‘I have to do the tea and the clearing up.’

  ‘What time you finish all that?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘That’s all right, I got shopping to do. Do my shopping then I’m coming round, could be two of us. Could be Daisy and me — my half-sister. Sometimes Daisy and me go out for a feed on Fridays, sometimes stay home and get into the whisky.’

  But it was scary. Mrs Baird was too crabby to ask. She’d grumble and mumble then ring Mrs Parkinson. Mrs Parkinson would ask question after question then … maybe let her go. She didn’t want to go because she wouldn’t know what to do or say. Didn’t have a coat.

  Ada had two fingers in her mouth, whistling for Jerry. The bar on the folding machine idled up and down and Jerry was coming from the packing room bringing the trolley. She straightened up. The paper had pushed forward in her shoes.

  Twelve

  ‘Done your shopping?’ Ada asked.

  ‘I got some stockings and my photo frame.’ She took the frame out of her bag to show Ada.

  ‘Needs a good clean up,’ Ada shouted above the whirr of the machine starting.

  When Jerry came in she asked him for some scraps of card, some sticky paper and string and showed him what she wanted it for. He took the old cardboard out of the frame, trimmed some new board to the right size on the guillotine and brought her some gummed paper and string from the reels in the packing room.

  ‘What does she do with it anyway?’ Ada asked as she paused, waiting for Mata to catch up with the stacking.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That one takes your money.’

  ‘It’s to pay back what I owe.’

  ‘Like for what?’

  ‘My stockings and underwear, pyjamas and things I needed when I left the Home. And …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘My father owed her money for all the years.’

  Ada resumed feeding the paper through the machine, frowning. Then above the clatter she called, ‘What years? She didn’t look after you. You didn’t stay with her,’ then left the machine and stood by the stack with her man’s hands on her hips and her lined face fierce and said, ‘What years? You were in the Home. She didn’t look after you at all.’

  ‘She said he promised but he didn’t send it.’

  ‘So now she’s making you pay?’

  ‘It’s written down in a notebook … what I owe.’

  ‘She’s a thieving bastard.’ Ada returned to the machine and thumped the paper through. ‘You should get the police on to her … except you don’t know about the police either. Sometimes I think the bloody world’s full of bloody bastards.’

  Mata bent to stack the notebooks, hoping that Ada wouldn’t ask any more questions. She didn’t want to tell any more because she could see that Ada was angry — thought Ada might be angry with her. Also, Ada would tell the others who would tutter and frown, yet at the same time seem glad about it.

  ‘So why did she have you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That guardian, that bastard. Why be your guardian if she don’t care, if she only want money and your father’s not sending any?’

  She knew the answer to that because Mrs Parkinson had told her many times. She knew she shouldn’t tell Ada but then she couldn’t help telling. ‘So my grandparents couldn’t have me, and to keep me away from evil and sin.’

  Ada returned to her work without saying anything and didn’t look angry any more. She just frowned hard at the gap under the lunging bar, judged the timing and began sending the notebooks through.

  That night she took a saucer of water to her room and, with piece of rag and a little of her soap, cleaned the frame and the glass, working slowly so that it would take a long time. After that she placed the photo onto one of the new pieces of cardboard. The photograph was smaller than the card, which made a nice white edging for it. She put it into the frame, packed the rest of the board in behind it and gummed the back with the sticky paper, trimming it with her little nail scissors. She tied new string through the eyelets and it was done.

  There was a nail that she’d been saving, which she poked into one of the insect holes on the side of her wardrobe. She hung the photo of her mother there and felt something aching and pleased inside her.

  Thirteen

  She stopped in the doorway letting Ada and Daisy go ahead of her, but the two older women paused too. Then they went in and Daisy turned to her and said, ‘Come on.’ But she didn’t want to go in, didn’t want Sonny to be there or for Ada and Daisy to see. She was ugly with bad hair and had a mended cardigan and ugly clothes.

  ‘I don’t want …’

  Ada came and took her by the arm and she knew if she tried to pull away, people would stare. So she went in but couldn’t look anywhere. Ada and Daisy were whispering.

  ‘Over here?’ Daisy asked.

  ‘That’ll do.’

  They sat down at the table and she stared hard at the things on it — salt and pepper, sugar, tomato sauce, Worcestershire sauce and something else, which could be vinegar. Ada had a card and she and Daisy were talking about what they would order.

  ‘What’ll you have, Mata?’ Ada leaned towards her, reading from the card. ‘Steak and onions, sausages and eggs, fish and chips, pea pie and pud, spaghetti on toast …’

  Fish and chips was what she wanted. The School kids used to have fish and chips for lunch, wrapped in newspaper. They’d make a hole in the top of the packet and take the chips out one by one. In the middle of the packet they’d come to a piece of fish in bubbly batter, greasy and steaming, and she used to like sitting where she could smell the hot, appetising smell, and where she could listen to the kids talking about what they had — sixpence worth of fish and chips, fritters and chips, chips only, with or without salt, with or without vinegar.

  Some would have a shilling’s worth to share with brothers and sisters, and the families would argue about it. She didn’t know if she should say she wanted fish and chips or if there was something about fish and chips that would make Ada and Daisy smile at each other in a secret way.

  ‘I’ll have the steak and onions,’ Daisy said.

  ‘Fish and chips for me,’ Ada said.

  ‘Yes, me too.’

  ‘Fish and chips and a couple of eggs. Have a couple of eggs thrown on, Mata,’ Ada said.

  ‘Yes thank you.’

  Ada gave the orders to a waitress, who shouted them through a hatch and returned with knives and forks and a plate of buttered bread. There was a hot-fat smell, a hum of
talking, someone laughing over the other side of the room, but she didn’t want to look, didn’t want anyone to see her.

  ‘Is he here? Whatsisname, the one on the tram?’ Ada asked.

  ‘Sonny.’

  ‘Is he here? Or is he just giving you the runaround?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Have a look. There’s four or five over the other side there a bit drunk. A couple my age, two blokes and a girl having a yarn and a laugh. Has he got a bullet head and big shoulders?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Course you do, have a look.’

  But she wouldn’t look. The waitress came with the food and she didn’t know if she could eat it. ‘Want sauce, want vinegar?’ Ada said.

  In front of her were two large pieces of fish and a heap of chips topped by soft-fried eggs. ‘Yes, vinegar please.’ She took the bottle from Ada and sprinkled the vinegar, and as she returned it she looked up and saw, through drifts of smoke and steam, the man Sonny sitting over the other side of the room leaning on one elbow talking. She put her head down and began to eat.

  When they were partway through the meal he came and stood by the table and she had to look up, could feel the heat of the room and smell the heavy odours of it as he reached and shook hands with each of them.

  ‘Sit down,’ Ada said, nodding to an empty chair. So he did, sitting with his shoulders hunched and his fingers laced together at the edge of the table. ‘You’re the one she’s been talking about, on the tram?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Well, we thought we better come along and run our eyes over. Thought you might be a bastard.’

  ‘Not all the time.’ That made them all laugh but she didn’t know why. ‘Fridays I bring my aunty and uncle down, sometimes their kids. A few mates come in sometimes.’