by Nene Gare
Trilby said nothing. There was plenty of time to take action. But her bed cover and frilly curtains seemed a certainty, now.
‘How old would Bartie be?’ Mr Comeaway mused. ‘Nine? Ten?’
‘Ten. And wait until you see his drawings.’
‘Bartie’s nuts,’ Trilby said tersely.
‘He is not,’ Noonah flashed. ‘He’s going to be an artist.’
‘If he’s let,’ Mrs Comeaway had been sitting very still. A minute or two passed before she said, with a sort of compassion, ‘You think it can all be settled just movin into a house, buyin a coupla beds, don’t ya, Noonah? You think I sent you all away when there wasn’t no real need, eh? You come here an look.’ She took Noonah’s hand and pressed the fingers against an inch-long scar running through one eyebrow.
‘I didn’t want my kids hurt,’ she said quietly. ‘An called names. They might get that, Bartie an Stella, at this new school.’
Mr Comeaway growled deep in his throat. ‘Gawd! Ya don’t wanta talk like that roun these kids. That little bit of a thing. That ain’t nothin.’
Trilby laughed suddenly. ‘You think it doesn’t happen now?’ she asked her father. She turned empty eyes on her mother. ‘You think your precious children are safe up at the mission? We’re not safe anywhere, you fools. There’s always someone around to make us feel we’re dirty—not fit to touch. They wouldn’t even serve me an Noonah with a drink—until I made them.’
‘That man wanted to be nice to us,’ Noonah reminded her sister. ‘They’re not all horrible.’
‘Yes they are,’ Trilby repudiated roughly. ‘All of them. Some let you get closer than others, that’s all. They still keep a line between us and them. And when you look at the way we live,’ her eyes swept over the room scornfully, like grey lightning, ‘you can’t blame them, can you? Pigs live better than we do. I tell you I hate white people because they lump us all together and never give one of us a chance to leave all this behind. And I hate coloured people more, because most of them don’t want a chance. They like living like pigs, damn them.’ She jumped up, wild-eyed and defiant, and ran from the room.
Mr Comeaway glowered after her. ‘Gettin a bit cheeky, ain’t she?’
‘If she feels like that,’ Mrs Comeaway said distressfully, ‘what’s she wanta live right in among white people for?’
‘Wasn’t like what she said, up at that mission?’ Mr Comeaway asked Noonah, underlip out. Noonah hesitated.
‘I thought you was all happy up there,’ Mrs Comeaway said reproachfully.
‘Mummy,’ Noonah said impetuously, ‘happiness isn’t just food and a bed and clothes. Not for children. At the mission, they teach you to go into your class-room at the right time, and they feed you and teach you to brush your teeth and they give you a bed in a proper room, but they could never teach us to stop wanting our own mothers and fathers and our own homes. And it doesn’t matter if the home isn’t a very good one—it’s where we want to be. It’s like being sick all the time. Not in your stomach, but up here.’ She placed her thin hand against her heart. ‘The little kids pretend Mrs Gordon is their mother. Whenever she walks round they crowd up against her and hold on to her hands or her frock and make her bend down so they can hug her. I know they’re pretending she’s their mother, because I used to pretend myself. And I used to want to smack the other kids and pull their hair—anything to make them go away from her so I could have her all to myself. And sometimes when I saw kids walking along with their mothers and holding on to their hands I used to wish and wish it could be me, back with you.’
Mr Comeaway’s eyes had kindled. ‘Ain’t that what I said?’ he accused his wife. ‘Didn’t I tell ya the kids should stay with us?’
In her mind Noonah was back at the mission, remembering the babies who had come to them from time to time. Infants of two and three or even younger. And one little chap who had drooped his softly-curled ungainly head that had seemed too large for the stem-like neck. He had sat on the floor silent, indifferent to cajolery, something stony and dead about him which had frightened her. She had picked him up and looked into his dark eyes and seen there something she could not forget. Not endurance, nor hopelessness, nor pain. It was as if this baby she held in her arms had travelled far beyond these things and only the shadow of them remained to quiet his mouth and dull his eyes. She had wanted passionately to undo the wrong that had been done to him, to wipe the remembrance of it from his heavy eyes. And something in her had known that she was helpless, that the hurt had gone too deep and that the shadow of it would remain, perhaps for ever.
Mrs Comeaway shook her head. ‘Don’t like what you said, Noonah. Bout them kids hangin on some woman’s skirts. Not fa my kids I don’t.’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘Looks like we better get them beds quick an lively.’
‘An about time,’ Mr Comeaway said needlessly.
‘You!’ His wife withered him with a look. ‘Only reason you didn’t want em ta be in that place was all the fuss an bother it was ta get em there. Men!’ She sniffed.
‘Ere!’
‘An I’m talkin the truth,’ Mrs Comeaway said belligerently. ‘If ya hadda sat still in one place I mighta done different. Fine time they’d a had, shiftin bout from pillar ta post, never knowin when they was gunna sleep under a decent roof, an no sooner gettin set somewhere than you up an talkin bout goin somewhere else. Ya known damn well ya didn’t think bout them kids no more than if they was a lotta billy-goats.’
‘I’m gettin outa this,’ Mr Comeaway said, heaving himself off his bed. ‘Man only gotta open is mouth an ya jumpin down is throat. No good ta me.’
‘That’s right! Get out when the goin gets rough,’ Mrs Comeaway taunted, malevolent-eyed. ‘Jus like a man.’
‘It’s not that they didn’t try to be nice to us, up there,’ Noonah said nervously.
Mrs Comeaway patted her shoulder. ‘That’s all right. I’m glad ya told us what ya did. But ya don’t think I’m gunna let that one get the laugh on me, do ya?’
EIGHT
Mrs Comeaway hoped that Mrs Green would be alone, though she knew it was as well to be philosophical about this. People went to Horace for advice on problems. They called in Mrs Green when they needed to have all their fears and anxieties resolved into one easy-to-deal-with problem. Mrs Comeaway was vaguely troubled about Trilby. Sometimes she was all brightness and cheek. She had her father twisted round her little finger—could wheedle him into letting her do or have anything she set her mind on. But the things she said—right in front of people. Things that made people feel uncomfortable. Walking towards Mrs Green’s open doorway, Mrs Comeaway stopped to shake her head and frown, and ponder.
People coming in for a little visit. Trilby acted as if that was something bad, though where the badness lay—again Mrs Comeaway shook her head. You didn’t push your pals off just because it was time to eat. And all this walking round town. Mrs Comeaway had a corn on her little toe that was giving her gyp. Trilby said if they stayed home someone was sure to come, so they’d go out. And out they went, dragging up and down that damn street, never stopped to talk to anyone because Trilby wouldn’t let her—or else they went down to the Wild-Oat Patch and picked out the house with the prettiest paint because, Trilby kept saying, just as if her father hadn’t already agreed, their house was going to be painted the minute they got into it.
There wasn’t really much to worry about. Trilby was good company and the food bills were certainly a lot lighter. Mrs Comeaway paused to hope piously that she wouldn’t need to cadge a meal for a while yet. The truth was, she missed her friends and her way of life. After all, she’d lived it a good few years.
Mrs Green met her at the back door, coming out with an armful of steaming clothes.
‘Not out today?’ Mrs Green twinkled, as Mrs Comeaway trudged back to the clothes-line with her.
‘She’s off out with Blanchie and Audrena,’ Mrs Comeaway said, without her usual grin.
‘Finding her feet,’ Mrs Gree
n said sympathetically, pegging out a faded pink frock.
‘She’s worn mine off up to the ankles,’ Mrs Comeaway said gloomily.
‘We’ll have a cup of tea,’ Mrs Green said comfortably, ‘just as soon as I get this lot out.’
‘Anyone around?’
‘Polly’s out there under the trees,’ Mrs Green gestured with her head. ‘Having a sleep.’
They went back into the kitchen. The big black kettle dozed at the side of the stove. Mrs Green moved it to where it would get more heat. ‘Those girls, Audrena and Blanchie, they know their way about, don’t they?’
‘Bet that Audrena does. I like Blanchie better.’
Mrs Green frowned slightly.
‘Ya think they might lead er inta mischief?’ Mrs Comeaway said bluntly. ‘Ya don’t need ta worry bout that. Trilby’s the one’ll do the leadin. An not inta mischief. Just down ta the Wild-Oat Patch ta have a look at the houses.’ She rubbed her foot with tender fingers.
‘I just thought,’ Mrs Green said delicately. ‘Trilby isn’t used to going round with a gang of girls and boys. And you know what these boys are like. Specially the ones down for a bit of a holiday.’
‘Ya mean last Monday night,’ Mrs Comeaway said. ‘She would go. So I tole Blanchie. “Now you get that girl home early cause er father ain’t gunna like it she comes home late.” And I said for em to keep away from that wharf down there, with all them men off boats like. An they was all promises an big eyes. Dunno what time they got in.’
‘You ask her next morning?’ Mrs Green asked innocently.
‘No, I didn’t. An what woulda been the use? She’d a told me a lotta lies,’ Mrs Comeaway smiled a little. ‘Same as I’d a done at er age.’
‘She’s so young an pretty,’ Mrs Green murmured, searching for words to fit what her heart knew without the need for them. ‘Pity not ta keep your hands on the reins a bit longer. You let kids gallop off where they like and pretty soon they’re going to think it doesn’t matter where they go.’
‘Gawd! You tellin me a wild one like Trilby’s gunna take notice a me?’
Mrs Green poured some tea-leaves in the pot and lifted the boiling kettle. ‘I had ‘em like her before,’ she said softly. ‘Like a young brumby, you know? That you have to handle gently.’ Her mind went back into the tender memories of the past, and she nodded her head. ‘Yes. Those little wild ones with their eyes rolling and their long thin legs a bit shaky with fright. And you don’t go near, but just stand there and talk to them and you keep on talking. They gallop off to start with, but you hold on to your patience, and every day you’re there at the same place and after a while they stay and listen to you. And their eyes don’t roll any more and their ears don’t lay back on their heads, but perk up real straight. Trying to hear if you mean all that soft talk you’re giving em. Patience? You hurry those little wild ones and you’ve lost em for good. They have to trust you. And there’s nothing like a little wild brumby for finding out the ones it can trust.’
Mrs Comeaway nodded impatiently. This was way out of her depth. ‘What I thought—I came over ta arst ya—couldn’t you tell Trilby some a them things you tell ya own kids, like about education an stuff, an getting a good job. She likes you. She’d listen to you.’
Mrs Green set out the cups. And, as though summoned, two figures blanked out the light in the doorway.
‘Look who’s ere,’ Mrs Comeaway said, brightening a little. ‘What you two doin back ere? Thought you was lookin fa better company.’
‘Mary!’ The woman’s voice was peremptory. ‘We got no tucker.’
‘Sit down,’ Mrs Green said, reaching for more cups.
‘Thought you was well on the way ta Carnarvon,’ Mrs Comeaway rallied.
‘You better let me an Enry sleep in that ole bed a mine,’ Honay snapped. ‘Till we think somethin out.’ Each word left her mouth neatly clipped from its predecessor. She sucked in her bottom lip and waited.
‘What about—you know?’ Mrs Green looked meaningly at the silent Enry.
‘We gunna start when we leave ere,’ Honay said.
‘You gunna let em stay here?’ Mrs Comeaway asked, amused. ‘Don’t tell me.’
Honay shot her a vindictive look. She and outspoken Mrs Comeaway had had many an argument during the time Honay had stayed with Mrs Green waiting for the release of her Enry from jail.
‘Go on!’ Mrs Comeaway was baiting her now. ‘Didn’t you tell Mrs Green you wasn’t gunna sociate with niggers? Didn’t you say Enry said you was ta keep away from us after e come out? What you doing back ere again then? After Mrs Green kept you in tucker all the time ya ole man was in jail. Gawd!’ Her uproarious laughter filled the kitchen.
Honay stood shaking with rage. ‘This one,’ she told Mrs Green furiously, ‘she’s a no-good nigger. No good ta Enry or me. I tole you before.’
‘Eh!’ Mrs Comeaway’s mirth dried up as suddenly as it had begun. ‘Oo ya think you callin nigger.’
‘Honay!’ The silent Enry spoke. His voice was reproving. ‘Honay!’
‘I’ll give er Honay!’ Mrs Comeaway snorted with indignation, though amusement was not yet dimmed in her eyes.
‘Honay,’ Mrs Green said. ‘You and Enry better sit down and have a cuppa now I got it made. And I suppose you can sleep in that bed a night or two. If it holds together. But you did tell me yesterday Enry didn’t want you to associate with coloured people any more.’
Honay tossed her head. ‘We don’t even got no blanket,’ she accused. ‘You want me an Enry ta sleep thout no blanket?’
Mrs Green sighed. ‘I got one I can lend you. But remember, I have to have it back. I need all my blankets.’
‘We givim back,’ Enry spoke softly. ‘Soon!’
‘I hope,’ Mrs Green said feelingly.
‘We have cuppa tea now,’ Honay bossed. ‘Sit down, Enry.’
‘And if Skippy comes back while you’re here,’ Mrs Green begged, pouring tea, ‘don’t you two start fighting, Honay.’ She looked over at Mrs Comeaway. ‘I thought I was all through with their fighting. The way they act they’re not much better than the kids.’
Honay wiggled her nose from side to side, slid a finger over one nostril, and blew the contents of the other over the floor. She looked quickly and defiantly at Mrs Green.
‘Honay!’ Mrs Green’s tone was exasperated. ‘Don’t do that. You go outside now and get a rag and wipe that up. You dirty old woman. Go on!’ She withheld Honay’s cup of tea.
Honay rose from the table without a word, walked outside to where a wet rag hung on a nail and returned with it. Sulkily, she got to work.
‘And Enry!’ Enry looked up obediently from his tea. ‘You and Honay can stay a night or two, but you’ve got to see that old woman of yours behaves.’
Enry nodded. ‘You git me bottle, missus. I give er smack on the side of the ead she don’t behave.’
Mrs Comeaway leaned over and clapped the old man on the back with such force that the tea held to his mouth slopped over the side of the cup. ‘Good on ya, Enry, ole man,’ she said. ‘Damned if I don’t go out and get that bottle for ya meself.’
Honay looked down her long nose, pursed her lips, and sniffed.
Trilby’s new bathing-suit was a deep vivid green. In the sunlight her skin had a dusky shimmer to it and her long, free-swinging stride only emphasized the delicious youthfulness of her body. She stopped to dig her foot deep into the hot sand, letting it trickle smoothly back through her toes. When Blanchie and Audrena caught up with her she moved off again, completely happy. It was good to have the late morning sun burning into her flesh, good to know that any moment she chose she could dash into the sea, fling herself into it and feel its coolness against her.
There was peace to be found along the lonely little stretch of beach too. The ageless and immutable peace that belongs to everything in which man has taken no part. A little way out from the shore, moulded green waves shattered to white froth over submerged reefs. Overhead, seagulls swooped and scr
eamed and described their flights against a background of soft blue.
The girls were walking along the less frequented part of the beach. The tide had climbed high in a curving line, leaving the sand wet and firm. Where the girls walked, their footsteps followed after them, delicately perfect. Between the beach and the road grew thickets of grey-green salt-bush, scored through with a hundred paths leading down to the sea. The noise of traffic was muted with distance, no more disturbing than the wash of the waves or the soft chatter of the girls. Unheard in their ears, the deep strong pull of the ocean went on for ever.
‘School for you soon,’ Audrena said, looking pityingly at Trilby.
Trilby gave her cousin a long look. ‘I can always get a headache.’
Audrena laughed.
‘Wasn’t you gunna get a job?’ Blanchie asked. ‘Serving or something?’
Trilby looked sullenly ahead. At one time or another she had been into every shop in the town. Foreigners she had found, some golden-skinned, some dark, a few of them hardly able to make themselves understood, but there had been none like herself. Trilby bit her bottom lip savagely. On one point her mind was firmly made up. There would be no housework for her, nor minding of kids. For another year she would go back to school. By that time she would know more about this town and then she would see.
She forced a casual air. ‘I’m going to get my Junior first,’ she told her cousins. ‘So I can get a better job. In an office or somewhere.’
Blanchie stared admiringly at her not doubting for a moment Trilby would get what she wanted. Blanchie did not mind taking second place to her glamorous cousin. She found it exciting to be with her, swimming when Trilby decided to swim, looking in shop windows, sitting at the far end of the Esplanade at night with a crowd of young ones, laughing, gossiping, wandering home late at night with a few fellers to keep them company.
Audrena fell in with most of Trilby’s plans, too, but sour envy made up a good proportion of her feelings towards her cousin. Even Trilby’s untouched body was a source of annoyance to Audrena. It was as though she set a price on herself. Audrena had to admit that Trilby had had her opportunities. The fellers hung round her like ants after jam. It beat Audrena to know why, when there was herself with all her experience and none of this stupid hanging back from something that was bound to happen to a girl some time or other.