The Fringe Dwellers

by Nene Gare

  TWELVE

  A termagant wind beat at the glass louvres and scattered fine white sand over every object in the room.

  The object upon the wide double bed moaned fretfully and tucked its untidy grey head beneath a prune-coloured arm. The hips moved mountainously, in slow revolt against the dry, devitalised air. Hot it might have been in the little back room of the humpy—but dark and quiet, squealing wind and stinging sand defeated by the windowless walls.

  And no loneliness! Ten yards to the liveness and laughter of other people. Big cups of tea, hot, sweet and strong. And more tea-leaves in the pot when the first lot was done.

  Tea! She could taste the first hot draught of it in her dry mouth, loosening her swollen tongue, washing deliciously down to her waiting stomach.

  Mrs Comeaway sighed deeply, remembering her carelessly emptied tea packet and the distance to the nearest shop.

  The doorbell rang, and she raised her head in surprise. Too early yet for Bartie and Stella to be home and nobody else played with the bell—not with the front door standing hospitably open to all her friends.

  It rang again.

  Mrs Comeaway smoothed back her hair with one hand and stumbled stiffly over to the door of her bedroom. Caught unawares, because she had been peering into every corner of the big living-room, Mrs Comeaway’s visitor swivelled nervously.

  ‘Them kids,’ Mrs Comeaway thought swiftly. ‘She’s seen them kids swingin on her fence an pullin up her flowers.’

  ‘You’re Mrs Comeaway, aren’t you?’ the woman asked, whilst Mrs Comeaway took mild note of the fact that the eyes and the mouth of this woman showed quite different expressions.

  ‘Yeah! An if I’ve tole them kids once I’ve tole em a dozen times,’ she rushed to defend herself. ‘I knew you could see em out your window. I’ll get to em the minute they get home fum school and I’ll say you been in here an gunna get the pleece to em if they don’t stop.’ She stopped herself mainly from lack of breath.

  ‘Get the—oh! Yes, I did see the children but never mind about that now.’ The visitor stopped to compose a suitable expression. ‘Mrs Comeaway, I’ve come to welcome you to our little community. As a member of my church! I thought perhaps we could have a cup of tea together and get acquainted. We ladies of the Guild hope and believe that if we—if you—I mean…,’ her voice trailed away. She searched for simpler words which might convey her meaning more surely.

  ‘I knew you was in a stink about em,’ Mrs Comeaway apologized. ‘Specially that big pink one. But ya know what kids is. Don’t take no notice however I yell at em. When they know you been over they might do different.’

  ‘Don’t you worry your head about a few flowers.’ A little irritability here because of these flowers which would keep complicating things. ‘I’m sure the children didn’t realize—anyhow, as I was saying, I thought it might be nice if we…’

  ‘You mean you wasn’t in a stink after all?’

  ‘Not the least little bit. Now, what about…?’

  ‘That’s all right then well,’ Mrs Comeaway said happily.

  ‘I made some hot scones on purpose,’ the visitor said with a tiny quiver in her voice. She banished the quiver. ‘The tea’s all ready too. You will come, I hope.’

  Mrs Comeaway’s happiness shattered. She looked down at her feet, and they were bare. From her own feet she shifted her glance to her visitor’s feet, shod neatly in black shining leather. There was something intimidating about the way those feet stood there, planted so firmly on the wood of the veranda.

  ‘I should go in there—?’ Mrs Comeaway’s eyes turned fearfully on her neighbour’s house, noting the open door and the speckless highly-polished boards of the veranda, the daunting neatness of green lawns and bright flower-beds.

  An indulgent smile. Mrs Henwood recovering herself completely. ‘Of course!’

  ‘Comb me hair. Put me shoes on. Been having a lay down. I dunno! Didn’t bother bout gettin dressed proper yet like.’

  ‘That’s all right!’ Mrs Henwood said inexorably. ‘I’ll wait here for you.’

  Mrs Comeaway moved back into a bedroom that seemed even less of a sanctuary than before.

  ‘Now just don’t bother about that,’ Mrs Henwood said, just past the doorway of her house. ‘My fault! I had no business putting a vase on that table. Come right through here to the kitchen and sit down and I’ll get a cloth and mop up that water. Won’t take me a jiffy.’

  Mrs Comeaway moved with slow caution into the kitchen. As a butterfly alighting on a flower, she lowered herself on to a chair, sat with her body forward, her hands interlaced, her black patent courts pressed primly together. There was a tiny red pot of geraniums on the window-sill behind her. Oppressively close. She could feel its impact between her shoulders. She rose and inched her chair away from the danger zone.

  Mrs Henwood came back, a little flustered. ‘And now we can have our tea, can’t we?’

  Mrs Comeaway allowed herself one brief and comprehensive look at her surroundings. Everything was pretty. Bright colours everywhere. Shining things. White cups and plates on a checked tablecloth. Her hostess handed to her a plate with a tiny red check handkerchief on it. And here was bewilderment.

  ‘What’s this ever?’

  Mrs Henwood laughed gently. ‘That’s a serviette. A little napkin. For you to wipe your hands on.’

  Mrs Comeaway shook out the square of material and wiped her fingers carefully, one after the other. When she had finished she crushed the material nervously, got rid of it into her pocket.

  The tea was hot and strong, the way she liked it, but the cup was small and held about two good swallows. She sat with it in her lap while the woman nattered. How she liked living down here in the Wild-Oat Patch. How Mrs Comeaway would like it—after she got used to everything. How much nicer it was than those terrible camps at the back of the town.

  ‘And you’ll find very little colour prejudice,’ Mrs Henwood said gravely. ‘You, Mrs Comeaway, can help stamp it out where it does exist.’ Her eyes held Mrs Comeaway’s. Mrs Comeaway tried to remember what they reminded her of. She knew damn well she’d seen eyes like that somewhere or other.

  ‘We all of us realize,’ Mrs Henwood continued, still grave and solemn, ‘that you have a lot to learn about our white way of life and that you probably need help. We are prepared to give you that help, Mrs Comeaway.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Mrs Comeaway said, her thoughts on the woollen-covered teapot.

  ‘Let me fill your cup. And please, do try one of my scones.’

  After that it was better for a while. They were very good scones. Mrs Comeaway enjoyed them.

  ‘Tell me,’ Mrs Henwood settled back. ‘What was your life like up there in those camps?’

  ‘Awright!’

  ‘No, but –,’ Mrs Henwood coaxed delicately, ‘do tell me. I’ve often wondered what really happens in those places.’ She leaned forward, eyes bright and still.

  ‘Galahs!’ Mrs Comeaway thought. ‘They got eyes like that.’ Aloud she said, ‘Didn’t have so much damn wind, that’s one thing certain.’

  ‘Oh!’ It was snipped off, as though she had used scissors. Mrs Comeaway rattled her tea cup in its saucer, not very much.

  ‘There are some people around here,’ Mrs Henwood said with relish as she poured more tea, ‘who might just give you trouble.’

  ‘Had enough a that,’ Mrs Comeaway said stolidly, as she might have refused another scone, if there had been another scone.

  Mrs Henwood softened. ‘If you’ve had experience of this type of thing, I only hope you have not let it harden you, Mrs Comeaway. You must not let yourself get bitter. Though nobody could blame you. Nobody!’

  The moisture in the round hard eyes disturbed Mrs Comeaway momentarily, then Mrs Henwood blinked rapidly and the moisture was gone.

  ‘Drunk that tea down too quick,’ Mrs Comeaway guessed, relieved.

  She began on the cake, just to be polite, though she felt uncomfortably full already. And when
the cakes were finished she sat, comatose and languid, waiting for them to digest.

  ‘Just to start you off,’ Mrs Henwood said later, ‘I have a little creeper in a pot. And I’m sure my husband would take cuttings for you if you wanted them. Shall I ask him?’

  ‘Yeah!’ Mrs Comeaway said obligingly. It was a word she had said a good many times that afternoon.

  ‘I’ll just run down and get your little pot now,’ Mrs Henwood said excitedly. ‘You sit here and wait. I won’t be long.’

  Mrs Comeaway waited obediently. Mrs Henwood pattered down the back steps. Mrs Comeaway reflected that now would have been a good time to slip a few cakes into her pocket for Stella, if she had only foreseen the opportunity and left some of the cakes.

  ‘There!’ Mrs Henwood said, thrusting a small pot into Mrs Comeaway’s hands.

  Mrs Comeaway examined her plant. She thought it was a funny-looking plant and a bit withered.

  ‘It’s a sweet thing, isn’t it?’ Mrs Henwood encouraged.

  ‘Yeah!’ Mrs Comeaway said, taking another look at the pale-green tendrils dripping over the side of the pot. She wondered uneasily if Mrs Henwood really meant her to keep it. Should she hand it back? She made a motion with the pot.

  ‘No, you can keep it,’ Mrs Henwood said gaily. ‘You go home and pick out a good spot for it. I’ll walk to the gate with you, shall I?’

  Mrs Comeaway brightened, like a child hearing the school bell. The two women walked down the front steps and along the little green cement path to the front gate. Leaning on it, Mrs Henwood said, ‘As Kipling says, Mrs Comeaway, we are sisters under the skin.’

  Mrs Comeaway was knocked clean off her pins. She stood there, grappling silently, and everything else Mrs Henwood said floated right past her.

  She walked three or four steps in the direction of her own front gate before the first question resolved itself. She stopped. ‘Eh?’ she called to her neighbour, ‘You come fum up Mullewa?’

  Mrs Henwood, who had not heard the question, nodded pleasantly. After a moment, Mrs Comeaway went on.

  Bartie and Stella had arrived home from school. They had dragged a chair over to the safe and they were searching for something to eat.

  ‘Gee, I’m hungry, Mummy,’ Stella wailed.

  Mrs Comeaway stood in the doorway, smiling with relief, well content to be back in her own home. She went over to the safe and reached into it for the bread and the tin of jam.

  ‘What ya got in ya pocket, Mum?’ Stella asked, pulling out the little red-checked square. ‘Can I have it for my doll?’

  Mrs Comeaway looked at the square without interest. ‘Ave it if ya like. Do for a shawl, eh?’

  She spread two thick pieces of bread with jam and, as she spread, a second question posed itself in her mind. She dismissed it impatiently. ‘Never even met the bloke, far’s I know.’

  ‘Whose pot plant?’ Trilby asked later.

  Mrs Comeaway frowned. ‘Her next door,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Comin over ta plant it too, so she says.’

  ‘You mean she just came over here and gave you this plant?’ Trilby was surprised.

  ‘She didn’t give it to me over here. She gave it to me over there,’ Mrs Comeaway nodded in the direction of her neighbour’s house.

  ‘Did you go over there?’

  ‘I didn’t go over there,’ Mrs Comeaway said coldly. ‘I was took. She come over an took me.’

  ‘What for, Mum?’

  ‘She just come over here an arst me to go over there an have a cuppa tea with er,’ Mrs Comeaway said, irritably for her. ‘Don’t ask me why, because I dunno why.’

  ‘Afternoon tea, that was,’ Trilby pronounced. ‘She asked you over for afternoon tea. Don’t you even know that? Up at the mission we used to have lots of people coming to visit us and have afternoon tea.’

  ‘No need ta carry on,’ Mrs Comeaway said. ‘Course I know bout afternoon tea. Didn’t think they done it in places like this but.’

  ‘Is she nice?’

  ‘Er? All right!’

  ‘That’s her husband, that runs the garage up in town,’ Trilby said. ‘I bet her house is nice inside. What’s it like?’

  ‘Ad a damn fool table just inside er front door,’ Mrs Comeaway remembered indignantly. ‘Right bang inside er front door waiting for people ta trip theirselves up on it an might be get a leg broke.’

  ‘Mum you didn’t knock her table over, did you?’ Trilby asked, shocked.

  ‘I didn’t arst ta go over, did I? An what if I did? Shouldn’ta had that mat there. Serve er right, ask me.’

  ‘Gee, I bet she was mad,’ Trilby said gloomily. ‘Why couldn’t you be more careful? Now she’ll never have you over again, most likely.’

  ‘An a good thing too,’ Mrs Comeaway’s retort had spirit in it. ‘Ya wrong fa once but. She behaved the way she should, puttin mats round fa people ta slip up on.’

  ‘What did you do after you tripped over the mat?’

  Mrs Comeaway did not like that. It made her sound like a clumsy fool. ‘I ad me tea an come ome,’ she said shortly.

  ‘Come on, Mummy, tell me some more. How did her house look?’ Trilby sat on the kitchen table and swung her legs. When her face was alive, as it was now, there were no doubts about her beauty. Mrs Comeaway thawed under the sweet conciliation in the long grey eyes.

  ‘She ad another little pot a flowers on er winder-sill, an she ad a check cloth on er table, an before she gave me me tea she made me wipe me hands on some bit of a hanky. Anyone think I didn’t wash meself proper.’

  ‘That was a serviette,’ Trilby frowned. ‘Are you sure she said you had to wipe your hands on it before you could have your tea? Like her damn cheek if she did.’

  ‘If ya don’t believe me ya can have a look an see where I wiped em,’ Mrs Comeaway said stoutly. ‘Stella, just gimme that little bit of a hanky I give ya. Let Trilby look at it an ya can ave it straight back.’

  ‘Mum, you didn’t bring it home,’ Trilby said on a great wail. She rushed at Stella and grabbed the napkin from her. She held the piece of material up before her. ‘You’ll just have to pretend you forgot about it,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll take it back and tell her you put it in your pocket by accident. She’ll think you don’t know anything, Mum.’

  ‘What’s all the carryin on about?’ Mrs Comeaway asked, mightily surprised. ‘She gave it to me didn’t she? Same as she gave me that pot over there. An ya wrong bout it bein a serve yet. I ironed enough a them damn things in me time. Ya got things all mixed up.’

  ‘She lent you this serviette,’ Trilby said passionately. ‘There’s little ones as well as big ones. And you don’t wipe your hands on it before you have your tea. You wipe your hands on it after, and even then you only pretend to. If you want to know how people do it, they just pretend to mop up their mouths and then they crush it up a bit—not hard like you did—and then they put it back on their plate. That’s so it can be folded up again and put back in the drawer. Except you don’t do that till everyone’s gone. What you’re supposed to do, you’re supposed to wash it after every time it’s used but if people only crush it up a little bit you don’t have to. What’s the use of talking to you though?’ she finished scornfully. ‘You just don’t understand.’

  ‘Seems a lot a fuss ta make bout a bit of a hanky,’ Mrs Comeaway said, resignedly. ‘All right! Take it back. I’m sure I don’t want nothin I’m not supposed ta have. Take it back now if ya like.’

  Stella’s round brown eyes filled with tears. ‘You said I could have it for my doll.’

  ‘You can’t then,’ Trilby snapped. ‘I’m going to take it back straightaway.’

  ‘Let er have it, let er have it,’ Mrs Comeaway soothed. ‘I’ll find somethin else for ya. You just come in the bedroom an I’ll hunt somethin up.’

  ‘Ole horrible thing,’ Stella whimpered. ‘I hate Trilby, Mummy.’

  Trilby made a sound of disgust.

  At the back of the house Bartie sat with his back against the v
eranda post. One hand smoothed the stiff red coat of a sprawling cat. The other held a beginner’s book on water-colour painting. But the angry voices that came from inside the house kept tearing at the edges of his concentration, forcing him to spell out a sentence two or three times before he got the sense of it.

  He felt no urge to investigate. Rows like this one could catch a boy up if he so much as put his head inside the door to see what it was all about. Better by far to push the cat aside and get out of range. Behind the patch of low-growing wattles at the end of the yard he would be out of sight, and the back fence was as good a place to lean against as the veranda post.

  He gathered up his things and retreated quietly. At the bottom of the yard he sat down again and opened his book. Red Cat, who had followed him, stepped daintily round the wattles, her nose twitching nervously, her pale-green eyes perturbed. Already reading, Bartie raised his hand, palm flattened. Patiently, he waited for her to push her head beneath it. But first she must satisfy herself that no danger lurked. Stiff, straight, watchful, she stood at his side, her tail twitching gently. In a little while she relaxed her tautness, poured herself out upon the ground like a pool of honey. Her wide-open eyes slept as his hand began its rhythmic soothing.

  At this distance from the house the voices blended into a background of other noises—car engines, the hard sound of iron-shod wheels and hooves, a mowing machine and overlaying all that the lazy buzz of flies round Mrs Comeaway’s uncovered refuse bin.

  Bartie read steadily on. Here and there he came across some fragment of knowledge which was already his and the excitement of recognition was almost too great to be borne. Then, both hands were needed to hold the book and the cat must wake and wait with regal displeasure for the caressing to begin again.

  Until now Bartie’s preoccupation had been colour—the velvety softness of petals, the luminous grey pearl of the little sandy-cows with their delicate black tracery of legs, the rainbow sparkles in a handful of sand, even the ruby sheen on the back of a cockroach. And there was the mystery of what made Trilby’s eyes so brilliant and Noonah’s so soft. The world was full of colour, and you could not rest until you had tried to capture some of them. For the deep glow of Trilby’s skin he had mixed purple and sienna and yellow and the result had been dull and lifeless, not the tender lustre he had aimed at.