by Fiona Kidman
Or she could try to imagine him in relation to her brothers and sisters and their lives with him. But she had never known any of it; only that it had been better for them, that somehow they had got along then as an ordinary Junction family, bossed by Winnie, looked after by Mumma, fed by Father. It was her life with him, or them, that was different.
She would never get closer to him than the afternoon on the railway bridge. She felt more about that afternoon than about his dying. So that in the end there wasn’t much to think about except what happened to Mumma.
She has decided not to shut the window after all. It is so cool, and even though they are down in the gully she can smell the sea, very strong tonight, a sharp gutsy smell of salt. There is an element of danger and recklessness in letting the air spill across her like this. That is how she had always imagined life would be, a great adventure, and somehow different to Mumma’s and Winnie’s. But there has not been much time to live daringly, or not so that anyone would take it seriously. In small ways, however, she has set her face against the wind. Oh how cool, how clean.
Ambrose has reached his goal and he feels the girl filling with a great pool of his come which seems to have been unspent forever. It is almost unbearably better than he had expected, to the point of pain, and he slaps the girl’s yellow head sharply with the flat of his palm. Her neck jerks and cracks and for a moment he thinks he has broken it.
Down below, another wave breaks, and this time he remembers the dark oiliness of the sea at night beneath the ships he has travelled on, and how he has stared into those chill passing waters, thinking with dread how quickly a man would drown beneath them.
He lifts his head, fighting for air. He still has murder in his heart; thinks, once is enough.
The girl rolls out from under him, moaning to herself. They struggle to their feet and her head seems to sit on straight, is intact. She mops futilely at herself and he hands her his handkerchief without speaking. She takes it and wipes the sticky mess from between her thighs.
‘What you’s crying for?’ he asks, as if he doesn’t know.
‘Nothing.’ She wipes her face with the soiled handkerchief. She returns it to him in exchange for a handful of bills.
‘Thanks,’ she says, and turns and walks back through the gardens, her high heels tapping out a pattern on the path.
‘Any time. Any time you need me, beautiful,’ he calls, but he does not expect her to hear him, and she is not listening to him anyway.
There was another thing. After her father died, Mumma grew more orchids. Clara thought that said something about her too. Tucked away inside, perhaps there was a longing for the rich and the fabulous. It was as near as her mother would ever get. That and a daughter called Clara. Clara thought that she might know more about the ‘It’ girl than Winnie guessed, and she did not believe that she ever really sold out to the memory of great-aunt Clara.
It was as good a reason as any not to see Mumma again. She might as well keep her illusions. Whenever she had noticed Clara in those later years, it was to note with pleasure that she was pretty and that her hair curled. Now she would probably have to ask Winnie who she was.
The sky is streaked with light. The dawn is about to break over Paddy’s Puzzle and the hard prickle of stars is fading. She is tired now. Winnie will be here today. The night has been long, yet not long enough. There have been so many things that have slipped her by. So many things that she still has to get into focus. Robin for instance. Reg, for she hasn’t done with him yet. Her own self. How did she get here? She has never really asked herself that, and even if it does sound like part of an old music hall joke, the answer is important. But now there is no time. She is so tired. There are a few hours left to sleep before Winnie comes. Winnie. Win, how far have we come? She wonders if she can afford the luxury of sleep any more, or if placing some semblance of order on things is not of greater importance. She sleeps.
In another part of town, her lover is grateful to have survived the night.
10
Morning comes hard over Paddy’s Puzzle. It is a harsh revelation, a folding up of the night like a fine cloth taken from an old and scarred table. There is no hope of restoration because the Puzzle has never been good. It is as it is. Yet it serves the purpose for which it was intended. It gives shelter.
There are rituals in the streets of Parnell. They are not for the faint-hearted. Down St George’s Bay Road which cuts across Cleveland Road, men come out with cages full of fox terriers. The noise is deafening as the small hungry dogs scream rather than bark with hunger and excitement. These are the rat catchers. At a given signal they will be let loose and the street will erupt with them as they fly in all directions, darting, sniffing, making their first kills. Soon the rats will begin to emerge, hounded from where they have sheltered for the night, or if they are in safe houses they will stir and push their way deeper into their cover. The Puzzle is not selective about the creatures it shelters. The inhabitants dislike this time of day for they know that their companions, the rats, are on the move. It is some small comfort that the walls are concrete. But that is their only protection, and still the rats find their way in.
Out in the street they begin to squeal as the terriers attack. It is a sport for some, especially the children. They shout encouragement to the dogs as the first rats appear. These animals could be mistaken for cats, they are so large and sleek, and their fur is often as long as that of a cat. They are driven by their attackers up the street, and as they are cornered a frenzy mounts as the first kills are made. The streets are splashed with blood. On they go, past Paddy’s Puzzle and up towards the wool stores. The wool stores are splendid hunting grounds, for the rats much favour those warm and comfortable quarters.
But they have their escape routes too. This, after all, is a regular occurrence. They run across the road in a horde to the open wasteland on the far side of the road, where toi toi and fennel grow in thick clumps; and there they disperse, leaving trails in all directions. The waste ground is piled with litter and stagnating rubbish and it is easy to throw off a scent amongst it and reach the plants with their thick tracks and well-worn burrows. Before long the dogs are called off and they make the most of what they have caught.
It is a sport like cock fighting or bulls. The difference is that the prey of this sport is also an enemy. It adds a separate dimension to the onlookers’ glee. There is the element of hate and of fear. There are stories of babies who have been mutilated, of people attacked in their sleep, there are dark mutters of impending plague. Up at Craig’s the rats are thrown in drums and left there, two at a time, until they are ready to fight to the death and the victor to devour the loser. It is a deadly game.
This morning the Military Police call again. The dogs have been put in their cages and taken away and the children are looking for new excitement. The M.P.’s want to take measurements by daylight. Now they are accompanied by the local police. It is a wise precaution, for though the people of the Puzzle like the Yanks to visit here, they do not appreciate them prying beyond a certain point into their lives. The Auckland police rarely bother them. The residents keep themselves to themselves and the police think they drain off trouble rather than cause it. The M.P.’s know that it needs only one person to complain of harassment and their troubles will be unlimited. Indeed, with the night behind them, and a new lot on duty, the Americans look as if they would rather be well out of it. It will be all so much easier if they are allowed to send a suitable telegram home to the dead captain’s family, bury him with military pomp, and forget that the events of the night had really happened. Whatever it was. Who really wanted to know?
So that when the Auckland bobby knocks on Clara’s door she is up and waiting for him.
‘Did you see anything last night round ten o’clock?’ he asks.
‘What should I have seen? What’s it all about?’
‘Trouble. Was there any trouble here last night?’
‘I heard there was trouble with the
pipes.’
‘There’s always trouble with the pipes.’
‘Oh. Then nothing special.’
‘Nothing special?’
‘No.’
‘Hear anything?’
‘You always hear things around here.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Listen. Anyone can hear things around here if they listen. The noise comes free, along with the plumbing.’
And as they listen, the children shout to the M.P.’s, ‘Got any souvenirs Yank?’ ‘Got any gum Yank?’ ‘Yank. What d’you got Yank?’
Then there is the sound of scuffling as they fight over the spoils. Someone whistles in the passageway. Biddy calls out to Kathie who is quarrelling with Billy over a packet of gum and what happened last night is just that, last night. It is over.
‘Plenty to hear round here,’ Clara remarks and looks the policeman in the eye.
‘Thanks for your help,’ he says, and the funny thing is, she really has helped him. He has as much as he wants to know, which is exactly nothing.
When he has gone, Clara applies herself to more important things, like making herself look as nice as she can for Winnie’s arrival and distributing the goods Janice had brought her, nipping in fast just after eight, throwing the stuff down on the table and taking off as if it were her the M.P.’s were after.
Distributing? Selling. She tells herself she is being squeamish because Winnie is coming. It is a trade, and useful for both of them.
But first there is her appearance to consider. It seems important to begin with that for later she might not have the strength. It is weeks since she has been properly dressed and it is hard to decide what to wear. There is a green dress that she has always been fond of and she holds it to herself and wanders into the bathroom to gaze at her reflection. She never looks as she expects when she sees herself in mirrors. For as long as she can remember she has avoided them if she can. She has a secret dread of being accosted in shop mirrors by her own reflection because the figure and the face is so familiar as to be instantly arresting, yet it is like looking at a stranger, of being outside the body but knowing it all too well. And the trouble is, she is never satisfied with what she sees.
The eyes stare back at her relentlessly and the mouth thins, and there is nothing she can do to stop it happening, yet all the time she believes there must be something. She has tried smiling at herself in those sudden confrontations and it is like observing a grinning mask. She supposes there are clever people who would say that that was the way she saw herself as a human being. The odd thing is when she walks away that apart from a momentary unease she forgets the person almost immediately. It has nothing to do with what is inside of her. And the reflection in other people’s eyes has always suggested that she is hard on herself. That is, until she became ill.
This morning she is not going to be let off lightly. The picture she sees is of a girl/woman with a shock of lustreless hair that was curly once but is now matted and untidy with no shape or style to it, and a thin white face. If the face had any vestiges of colour left they have all drained into the green dress. So that dress is no good.
She tries a pinky coral one, a soft wool with padded shoulders. Ambrose has always liked this dress. When she used to wear it, it seemed to inject a special life of its own into her. She was always gay and laughed a lot when she wore the pink dress. Now it is garish.
Not only does it look hectic and strange on her, but it hangs like a limp rag. She has lost much more weight than she had realised.
In the end she settles for a plain brown skirt and a blue sweater. They are neat and neither garment draws the eye too much. As well as that, she can roll the skirt over and hide the top of it with the sweater, so that it doesn’t look too loose. The colours are neutral, which helps, because she can concentrate on making up her face to be quite colourful and not too bright. She wonders if Winnie has accepted lipstick yet. She was always going on about Clara wearing it in the old days, resigned and disapproving. Too bad if she hasn’t, Clara thinks, for she certainly needs it today. She is careful though, and makes the rouge soft and puts eyeshadow on just lightly so that with a bit of luck Winnie won’t quite notice it, but she’ll still look the better for it.
She finishes off the effect with a scarf round her hair, so that only the back of it shows; she has brushed it well so that she thinks she looks quite passable.
When she knocks on Ma Hollis’s door and presents herself she can see that it’s worked because for a moment Ma doesn’t know her; then she calls for Billy to come and look. Clara is not sure that she likes that. It makes her nervous to have Billy look at her, but at least she is pleased with their reaction. Old Charlie Ambler wanders down from the fourth floor and Ma calls out to him as he is going down the stairs and they both look at her again and there is something close to tears in Ma’s eyes, as if she had just personally resurrected Clara.
‘Doesn’t she look beautiful? Eh? Eh? Isn’t she just lovely?’ she demands of whoever will listen.
‘You want some chocolate Charlie?’ Clara asks.
He nods and she slips back into her room and gets him a packet. He likes the hard dark blocks to suck while he is drinking tea, and Janice always makes sure of bringing those especially for him. He presses a florin into Clara’s hand and she pockets it. A price is never discussed in these transactions, the seller receives what the buyer thinks the goods are worth and usually both are satisfied. The point of course is that if there is a haggle or no fair return for either, both will go elsewhere the next time.
‘I’se courting,’ he says.
‘Yes?’
She waits. Stranger things have happened. She can’t imagine who would have Charlie with his weaselly little face and grey stubble of whiskers. She thinks that the lady can’t be fussy, but then there is no accounting for taste. And thinks of Ambrose.
‘Soft centres. You got any soft centres?’
She tells him she has.
‘Lots. Many as you got.’
The foil-wrapped chocolates are hidden under her bed, and she counts out three dozen, leaving a dozen, for she has other customers to consider.
She shows him what she has. He seems satisfied, and gives her a pound, then another ten shilling note, and he grins with such delight that she feels unkind to have taken so much money and not given him the rest of the chocolates. But when she tries to shove the ten bob back he won’t have it.
‘Her teeth ain’t too good, see,’ he says, and retreats back up the stairs, chuckling, to hide his booty.
It is a good start. Clara gives Ma Hollis a couple of cakes in return for the loan of the bed. At least that’s what she tells her, because Ma wants to pay, and there is no way Clara will take money from her. She always has to think of an excuse to make her accept the goods without paying.
‘You gu’n up to May Abbott’s?’ asks Ma.
‘Don’t know yet,’ says Clara cautiously. She realises that they all carried on some more at each other last night, after they had left her. If there are sides to be taken, obviously she must be on Ma’s, but she hopes they leave her out.
But Ma only says, ‘Lucky it’s not me what’s givin’ thim to her. Put ars-nick in thim, that’s what I’d do.’
So Clara makes her way from one to another of them, the people of the Puzzle. She supposes they must all look pretty much alike to outsiders, a uniform pack of down-and-outs.
But they are the people who have helped her and care whether she feels ill or well. They come to her when she needs them. It has taken no great effort to like them. She thinks it may well be that she is living less of a lie than she has ever done. Since she came to stay here she has done less to impress and been more herself than ever before.
Only this morning she keeps looking at them through Winnie’s eyes and that reminds her that she is dressed up and playing a part already, even before Winnie arrives.
By lunchtime she has sold everything and is back in the flat. She has done as much and mo
re in a morning than she has done in weeks, and she is still feeling fine. A kind of excitement is overtaking her. The idea of confronting Winnie on her own territory has a certain appeal. So much has been on Winnie’s terms; now it is she, Clara, who is in charge. Or so it seems.
She goes to the window to watch out for her. Winnie would have caught the morning train. Clara thinks that if she had planned things really carefully she would somehow have got to the station to meet her.
But that is beyond her.
She looks around the room again. What will Winnie make of it? The roses. The wall hangings. The mats, and her old patchwork quilt. The cupboard door under the sink hanging on its hinges. What a mixture. Will she see her at last as really being her sister rather than another difficult child in the family? What dark thoughts does she still harbour about her? If any? Perhaps it has all been in her own imagination. For all those years in the exchange of their lives she realises that she still does not know what Winnie thinks, and she has no idea whether this time will be any different from all the rest. No wonder she has been afraid of her, believing that she despised her.
Suddenly she is there. A small black taxi draws up outside and Clara sees Winnie sitting in the back. She and the driver crane their necks looking up at the building and they appear to be engaged in a long conversation. Clara cannot see either of their faces from where she stands and at first she wonders what can be the absorbing topic. It is not like Winnie to sit around being chatted up by strangers, especially when you think what taxi drivers are like, and even Winnie must know that.
Then it occurs to her exactly what they will be talking about and she can almost hear the conversation. She can bet her last quid that the driver is looking over the nice solid dependable looking lady who is her sister and asking her what she is doing going to a place like this, and Winnie busy and chattery, will be telling him that she is going to see her sister, and the driver will be going, ‘Uh huh, sister, your sister ma’am, are you quite sure this is where she lives?’