by Alan Blunt
Feeling a bit woozy, I had taken a seat to enjoy the musical scene for five minutes before calling it a night, when a husky contralto murmured, ‘I hope you do not mind? I bring a glass of beer for a lonely young man – and red wine for myself. I am Marguerite, and you are … Alan?’ I smiled and nodded. Immersed in the betting and battle of the arm wrestle I had forgotten the comely cook. I had been briefly aware of her playfulness in the dining room but, attentive to Marion, had dismissed her as too old. In fact, she soon disclosed, she was thirty-two – nine years my senior.
As she gathered her skirt and sat I was captured by the graceful femininity of a small, shapely woman with a flawless coppery complexion. She had showered and changed into a modest black skirt, creamy top with puffed sleeves and embroidered cuffs beneath a waistcoat of red, white and green. Her long black hair was down, and adorned with two yellow flowers.
When I asked if it was a traditional costume she smiled and tugged at the waistcoat. ‘It is the colours of the flag of Hungary – of my native land. I make these clothes to remind me of joy and sadness, and sometimes pride. My shoes are good for dancing.’ Sensually, she extended her left leg, drawing attention to a trim ankle, and a neat foot enclosed in a low-heeled black shoe. Well-worn and lovingly polished, the shoe was secured by a silver buckled strap.
I felt sexual desire beginning to ignite.
‘I bought them in Sydney,’ she said, ‘but they are much like the shoes for dancing I wore at home.’
The music changed, and Marguerite laughed and tapped the table in time. ‘You keep my place,’ she said. ‘Soon I will be back.’
Marguerite was dynamic on the dance floor, creating her own world of motion and music, whirling solo among couples with swift-stepping exuberance to a short bracket of polkas.
The pianist announced something I lost in the noise. Marguerite summoned me with an alluring smile and a beckoning forefinger. I was still feeling slightly woozy, but she guided me through a jazz waltz. Then, sitting me down, she took the accordion from the jovial, perspiring ‘Mum’, nodded to the violin player, and they swung into a medley of fast Gypsy dances while the piano thumped bass time. Two swarthy, solid men in khaki overalls and workman’s heavy boots leapt up on cue to buck-dance energetically with intricate practised steps. Applause and calls of ‘encore’ and ‘more’ followed what was, apparently, a spontaneous but not infrequent performance.
Rejoining me, Marguerite introduced the khaki-clad men as Bela and Harry, ‘my brothers, contract fencers … from my homeland, Hungary. They were almost neighbours to my father’s farm. We were not acquainted. Is so strange: we first greeted the glory of God but fifteen kilometres apart in our beautiful country. We attended the same convent, but did not meet because my brothers were old enough to complete school before I began. So strange! We survive wars and hunger and hurt and loss, and then we meet and laugh and dance in – how you say? – “back of beyond”.’ She laughed – a wonderful infectious expression of thankful joy – and Bela and Harry clasped her in what I hoped were brotherly hugs, before departing to join a two-up game.
Turning back she took my hand. ‘Come,’ she said softly. ‘Here it is too loud to hear.’ She led me through the rear door to a table on a verandah.
Marguerite listened attentively while I told her about the close bond of my family. I explained how my mother had often said that courage is the first virtue, because only rooted in a bed of courage can the lesser virtues grow; and that while her life had not been easy or financially secure, her courage had been underwritten by the certainty of family love, the surety of self-worth and the guarantee of God’s will.
Marguerite nodded. ‘Good women are strong,’ she said, ‘stronger than most men.’ It was a statement rather than a supposition.
I had been brought up in a masculine world of competitive work and sport, of hunting and fishing, and found that hard to accept. But I didn’t dispute it.
Marguerite continued, ‘My mother was strict with my brother, Samuel, and me. Father was always gentle with us, but outside he was a fierce fighter for his beliefs. It was the 1930s, the Depression, and many suffered hardship. Hitler’s armies were reshaping Europe, and many people spoke of the benefits Fascism would bring. We had little money, but our farm kept us from poverty.’
She paused for a moment before adding, ‘My parents were social democrats. They detested and feared Communist and Fascist ideologies. My brother and I learnt their values. And then our mother died; it was the winter sickness, pneumonia …’
A few minutes earlier on the dance floor with bright attire and yellow flowers she had emanated gaiety. Now, she paused and tears misted her eyes. Catching her sorrow, I covered her hand with mine.
‘It is alright,’ she said, gently squeezing my hand, ‘death is a door to the continuation of life.’
The accordion was swinging a waltz. ‘Would you like to dance, Marguerite?’ I suggested, thinking to cheer her.
‘It is kindly, thank you, but I wish to talk, if you will tolerate me.’
‘I’m a good listener,’ I replied as brightly as I could.
‘My country was afraid of Germany’s military power,’ she said earnestly. ‘Hitler would not invade Hungary if we joined the Axis forces. My brother was conscripted, and he died somewhere on the Eastern Front. Millions of fine young men died fighting Hitler’s evil war: my countrymen, Russians, Germans … They are gone now. Such a waste. Poor boys …’
Again she hesitated, swamped by memories, before continuing: ‘My maternal grandmother was Roma. Grandfather died and she rejoined her people. I loved my grandmother – Mother and I spent holidays with her people. They taught me to dance and play the accordion. Our government had protected Jews and Roma from the Fascists, and in 1944 we tried to negotiate a separate peace with the Allies. Germany invaded, though, and the Jews and Roma were deported to death camps. My grandmother and her people disappeared. We were fearful my Roma heritage would be found out and so went to Budapest, where we had friends to hide us. Father fought with the resistance; there was much street fighting, and the Germans bombing.’
Marguerite spoke passionately of the hell the people had endured during the bombing and Russian siege, and destruction of her ‘beautiful city’. ‘The fighting was in the streets and buildings. I hid with women and in the cellars. Always we were cold and hungry. I remember the kids crying. Their mothers hushed them, for we were terrified of being raped and murdered. A priest brought us a box of candles and food. We dressed the wounds of fighters … For days at a time I didn’t know if my father was alive. No one was safe … I am sorry.’
She paused to wipe her eyes, while I tried to comprehend that she was speaking calmly of terrifying events beyond my imagining. Telling of the stricken city’s silent welcome to the Red Army, she managed a wry smile. ‘It was as if we knew, as you Aussies say, “We were out of the frying pan and into the fire.” Many Red Army soldiers raped and thieved. The Communist rulers executed thousands of our people, and many thousands of Hungarians were deported to labour camps.’
I had been enthralled as she spoke of tragedy, of beauty, of good and evil. Now, smiling gently, she took my hand. ‘It is good to be with a young man who is intelligent; someone who listens. Even Bela and Harry do not listen. They have become like Aussies – they would rather drink and laugh and talk of work and gambling.’
After relating that her father had decided they must escape to England, Marguerite spoke dramatically: ‘Albion, my father called England; a place where men can speak freely of truth and justice … The journey was difficult, but my father had contacts in free Europe, and he found a way, and money. Many fled their homeland, for escape would soon become more difficult and dangerous.’
Marguerite told me she had settled to work and study and gain command of the English tongue, qualifying in psychology because she wanted to help people who were ‘hurt and shamed by the war’. Leaning forward, she took my hands in her small firm grip, and spoke fervently. ‘People a
re haunted by their memories and dreams of lost loved ones. And they are afraid the madness of gunshots and explosions and turmoil will again turn their world upside down. War reveals goodness and greatness – and evil and depravity. War changes people – we do not recover. Our bodies may look the same, but inside … our minds – even our souls – are wounded. You do not understand, Alan? I am sorry. How can I expect you to understand? The experience you must have yourself. For years I never felt safe. People we trusted turned collaborator – or we thought they might. We had to keep moving. I have had to learn to trust again, for to be a worthwhile person, a human being, one must trust. Sometimes I cannot judge – I can only feel.’
Her smile became wistful. ‘Eventually I married a handsome carpenter and we emigrated to Australia. My father was already in Sydney, working as a language tutor, and we settled near him.
‘I was happy to be with him, and my husband was happy with his mates doing construction work. But we were not happy together. I think it was my fault. My husband was … we could not comprehend each other’s needs. He did not read, did not think – always with his mates, and laughing and drinking, and work, and work … Together we would go to the movies – always his favourites. At first in England I was in love. I was young, but I should have known it could not succeed. I too like to work – to make a commitment – and to read and study and take photos, and eat at restaurants. All of those are necessary for me to be happy.’ She laughed. ‘Of course, you know I love to dance and party, too!’ Becoming serious, she said, ‘He believed I loved my father better than I loved my husband. He made me feel guilty, for I knew I did.
‘I have been studying and in six months’ time I will be authorised to practise psychology in Australia. In time, God willing, I will return to Europe to help. So I decided to see your wild and lovely country while the chance is offering.’
My traditional upbringing had ingrained in me the belief that women were the hub of the home, and their chief duty was to reproduce and nurture. ‘Will you have children?’ I queried.
She smiled softly. ‘I love children. Babies are so wonderful; always they are curious, always clasping with their tiny hands and tasting and touching.’ She cradled her arms and swayed, humming and crooning a lullaby. Tears softened her smile, and she said, ‘I am sorry. I do not often drink; drink makes me sad … I think of all the orphans and the dead children.’
She sobbed into my shoulder and I put my arm around her. I had felt inferior to her knowledge and experience, but she was suddenly vulnerable, and I felt empowered and protective.
Soon she withdrew and dried her eyes. ‘My grandmother was a witch,’ she said, laughing to lighten the moment. ‘She had the second sight. I too have it, but only now and then.’
I laughed. ‘I hope she was a white witch.’
‘Sometimes she comes to me – like a dream – but it is not a dream. Long ago she told me that white witches are good but they are not all wise, for some will not listen to their dark angels. To be wise a witch must converse with her dark angels, but her angels of light must be stronger or dark angels will dominate her understanding with evil advice. One must take care, for like the Sirens the dark angels are sweet talkers – like some men.’
She laughed while caressing my face. ‘Perhaps to be wise you must tie yourself to the mast, but you must not plug your ears.’
I laughed with her and she said, ‘It is good to joke, but now I do not joke. It is easy if you believe and have faith; but if you have lived in my shoes, and a million other shoes, it is hard to believe in the ruling goodness of the human spirit, for Evil has a human face and Good has a human face. Evil is the eternal liar, a cunning liar, for it often twists the truth into lies. It has great desire to seduce and dominate, and it delights to inflict hurt on the body and despair in the soul. Evil delights in war and chaos. Good believes in truth and in joy, and has moral intent – so it must have faith that can draw on stronger resources than the human spirit …’
I went to replenish our glasses, and when I returned Marguerite met me with a merry smile and took my hands. ‘You are puzzled; now I puzzle you more. God must have wanted my father and me to live, for he sent strong Guardian Angels. We worked our angels very hard!’
Her throaty chuckle delighted me, and she said, ‘When I was little my Roma grandmother took me and other little girls on three occasions to the secret place of her Forest Goddess. We watched the wood spirits dance and play. We joined in the dances, but we could not touch the spirits, they were so fast and elusive. They looked like little girls. They had flowers in their hair, and they were dressed like us.’
‘Was it a dream?’ I queried doubtfully.
‘Oh, it was no dream!’ she replied. ‘But my grandmother had warned us: “You cherubs must believe, or you will not see them.” I don’t think she could see the wood spirits, because she kept asking, “Can you see them?” I wasn’t bold enough to ask if she could see them.’
At first I had been amazed that Marguerite was interested in me. I had felt shadowed by her life experience and education, but now her words caressed me like warm waves on a moonlit beach, as she stroked my hand and said, ‘Like its beautiful Goddess the moon, love has many phases – more than the moon.’
Rising neatly, she pushed her breasts against me and whispered playfully, ‘You are getting tired. Come, it is time for bed.’ She said it as though it were the natural order of things and, taking my hand, led me upstairs.
I awoke to the blinking sunlight of wind-whipped curtains and the faint aroma of rose perfume. I hadn’t heard Marguerite rise and dress. She must have drawn the curtains closed and departed.
I recalled the heat of my desire the night before as I had watched her open the window and tie back the curtains; then, laughing, push me back and insist we hold hands and watch the stars in silence before embracing. ‘There is a garden below this window,’ she had said, ‘a flower garden. I like to sit there and read. The scent of the flowers takes me to being a small girl, gathering wild flowers for my mother.’
Sitting up, I saw a towel, soap and razor and my neatly folded clothes on a duchess. I smiled to myself and got up and found the bathroom, where I showered and shaved.
I saw no one until I entered the kitchen, and found the voluptuous accordion-swinging ‘Mum’ sweating over the sink. She looked up and smiled. ‘Breakfast’s off, dearie,’ she said, ‘but if you grab a tea towel you can join me in a cuppa in a jiff or three.’
While I worked a tea towel Mum chatted above the clatter of dishes. She was a joyful, hearty romantic, as loyal and defensive of family and friends as a blue heeler.
I gathered the courage to query shyly, ‘I thought Marguerite was the cook?’
‘Marguerite? Oh, Margie cooks Tuesday through Saturday, and I do Sunday and Monday.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Oh, you poor boy! You were with her last night. Don’t break your heart; Margie dances every Saturday night and then goes to bed on her own.’
Mum prattled on while she made tea and toast. Marguerite, she said, had puzzled her for six months: she enjoyed Saturday nights, dancing and talking, but remained self-contained and sober and never gave any sign that she might be ‘on’ with anyone – or even let herself go for a one-night ‘play’. She added, ‘And with five kids and a horny husband, I reckon I ought to know.’
I tried to hide my embarrassment while Mum opined that she couldn’t imagine how a woman could be happy for months on end without a man in her life to love and plan and fight with.
‘I’d like to say goodbye to her,’ I said.
‘She went off with her brothers at seven o’clock. She said she was going to mass in Blackall, and then on to Gem Fields to see friends. Fact is you never know what any of these New Aussies are up to – specially our Margie – she’s a quiet one. Still waters run deep.’
The mention of the ‘brothers’ prompted a fit of jealousy to whack me like a Bob Fitzsimmons solar plexus punch. Mum banged on, punct
uating her chatter with belly laughs that jiggled her copious bosoms. ‘Great thing about being a Catholic: you can fornicate and gamble and grog on, and Jesus forgives – as long as you drop ten bob in the plate and say you’re sorry.’ Noticing I wasn’t joining her chatter, she queried, ‘Are you a Catholic, lad? Me and my big mouth! Anyhow, us proddyhoppers – we just let our sins pile up and trust the Lord is as merciful come judgement day as some say he is …’
Drawing breath while topping up our tea, Mum suddenly exclaimed, ‘Wait on, lovey! I nearly forgot! She asked me to give a rose to a nice boy if he came asking for her. Margie’s such a romancer – I guessed it was one of her jokes. I was buzzing around getting breakfast, so I says, “Stick it in a vase – and Robert’s yer mother’s brother!”
‘Margie says to me, “What is it you mean?”
‘I just had to laugh, because she doesn’t always get our lingo, but she’s as keen to learn as a parrot. “Bob’s yer uncle! Job’s right,” I tell her. “On yer way, an’ ava good day, love.”
‘“I get you,” she says. “Easy as the log is to fall off.” And goes off laughing.’
Sitting back with a cuppa in her hands, Mum suddenly chuckled and met my gaze with twinkling eyes. ‘My God! I’m as slow as a wet week! In the morning she’s usually as solemn as a church owl, but she dances in laughing and joking this morning, and says, “Give this rose to a nice boy” – and I never woke!’
Mum’s romantic heart was doubly delighted. Rising, she beckoned me close and pinned the rose through a button hole in my shirt, and then stepped back. ‘Not bad at all!’ she said. ‘If I was free and twenty-one I’d take a ticket in you myself!’ She threw her head back and laughed uproariously. ‘My God, you should see yourself! You’re as red as a rose!’