Orchard Street

by Gee, Maurice

  ‘That boy worries me,’ Mum said.

  ‘He’s all right,’ Dad said, calming down. ‘He just thinks life’s a joke. He’ll learn.’

  I did not believe that that was likely. Even a steady girlfriend had not stopped Les spending his Saturdays in the billiard rooms and heading off for parties with his friends in their beaten-up cars. As for his ambitions—he wanted to transfer to the Queen Street branch of his bank, not to get ahead, but so he could watch the girls in Albert Park in his lunch hour. He would walk down to the wharves, he said, and see the passenger liners sailing out, and be on one himself one day, maybe.

  In the meantime he took Eileen to the pictures, or to dances at the Orange Hall. She must have worked on Frank Collymore because after a while he started lending Les his new car. We couldn’t afford one, new or old, but bookies had money for things like that. Les alarmed Mum by saying that what he’d really like would be to set up as a bookie himself.

  On Saturday nights he oiled his hair and spent half an hour combing it, then walked off in his suit down the road to the Collymores’ and drove away with Eileen in Frank’s Humber. If Frank wanted to go out he had to use the truck.

  ‘He borrowed a fiver off Dad last week,’ Teresa said.

  ‘He’ll never pay it back.’

  ‘Dad likes him. He says he reminds him of the way he used to be.’

  ‘What does he say about Eileen?’

  ‘Just, “You look after her, young Dye. Any hanky-panky and I’ll skin you alive”.’

  Teresa was clever at imitating her dad. She made me laugh. I didn’t laugh so much when she imitated Mum.

  Les’ ‘place’ was an army hut halfway up the section behind a hedge. Dad bought it when Les complained about having to share a room with me. Frank Collymore delivered it on his truck. The Power Board connected a wire. Mum sewed curtains and made a rag doormat. I helped Les dismantle his bed and shift it to the hut. He rubbed his hands.

  ‘Boy oh boy.’

  He raided his bank account for the last money in it and bought a radio and an electric kettle. ‘Now I’m in business.’ Business was enjoying himself. He kept bottles of beer up there, unknown to Mum and Dad. He even had a hip flask of whisky. He smuggled girlfriends—the ones before Eileen—in through the paddocks at the back.

  Walking home from the pictures one Saturday night I passed the war memorial hall, where a dance was going on. I looked in at the door and saw Les doing the foxtrot with Eileen. When the saxophone went ‘blah’ for the end, he escorted her to her seat, then came outside for a drink with his mates. They trooped into the empty section by the tennis courts. Bike Pike tagged along and stood at the back of the group, laughing at the jokes.

  ‘All he drinks is water,’ I said.

  ‘And milkshakes, when his mum’s not looking. He’s in the milkbar all the time,’ Teresa said.

  She had walked along behind me from the pictures. We still didn’t sit together but usually teamed up as we walked home.

  ‘I’m going in to see Eileen,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll wait here.’ But I started to drift towards the boys by the tennis courts. One of them was finishing a joke that must have been too dirty, because everyone groaned and looked ashamed. Bike Pike said, ‘Tut tut, Donny.’

  ‘Didja hear that? Tut bloody tut,’ Donny yelled.

  Les saw me. ‘Beat it, Dinky. Buzz off.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. I thought Les’ mates were a greasy mob. I was only filling in a bit of time. Halfway back to the hall Bike fell in beside me.

  ‘I don’t like that sort of joke,’ he said.

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t tell you. I wouldn’t repeat it.’

  ‘Ah well,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know how they can go back inside and talk to their girls.’

  ‘Most of them can’t talk,’ I said.

  ‘Ha!’ Bike punched me on the shoulder. ‘Good one, Dinky.’

  ‘Ossie,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a great dance. I danced with Eileen. I got her in the excuse-me.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Les is getting jealous.’

  ‘It’s just as well you can run fast.’

  ‘Ha ha. I think Eileen is, you know, very pure.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘Les came and excused me back. She told me she was sorry. That’s pretty good, don’t you think?’

  ‘It’s just what girls say. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Not this time. Les got the supper waltz, though, because he brought her.’

  ‘Hard luck.’ The music started. ‘If you go fast you can get her again.’

  ‘Hey!’ He ran. I reached the door and saw him making a beeline for Eileen. He swayed in front of her like a praying mantis. Eileen smiled at him and glanced at the door, looking for Les. She stood up and Bike led her on to the floor. Teresa skated to me, grinning all over her face.

  ‘He said, “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Collymore?”’ She watched them make a circuit of the hall. ‘He’s not bad, though.’

  I saw what she meant. Bike danced the way he ran, with grace and speed. He did lots of fancy stuff, long steps that made Eileen look graceful too, and twirls that seemed to take up half the floor. He danced much better than Les. I found out later that he had gone for lessons at a studio in Auckland.

  Les came in and stood at my shoulder.

  ‘If he’s not careful I’ll punch his snout,’ he said.

  He smelled of beer, which he must have known, for he took out a packet of chewing gum and started chewing.

  ‘Let’s try dancing, Ossie,’ Teresa said.

  ‘We haven’t paid.’

  ‘No one cares.’

  ‘I’m no good.’

  ‘I’ll dance with you, Teresa,’ Les said.

  ‘No. I want Ossie.’

  So we danced and I was clumsy, but she said, ‘You’re not bad.’

  ‘Mum’s trying to teach me.’

  ‘Well, tell her to try harder.’ Teresa couldn’t resist that, she loved a smart remark.

  ‘Who taught you?’

  ‘Eileen. We dance in the sittingroom. She buys lots of records. Poor old Bike. He’s got no chance.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s in lerve.’ Teresa made a face at Les, standing at the door. She disliked him because he was conceited.

  When our dance ended—I think it was a waltz but I’m not sure—we walked home. Her brothers, Mike and Jimmy, who’d also been at the pictures, ran past. They turned around and shouted at us—‘Give her a kiss, Dinky,’ stuff like that. We slowed down to let them get ahead.

  ‘Dad can’t stop them,’ Teresa said. ‘They’re going to be like Les.’

  ‘Could your mother? When she was alive?’

  ‘You bet,’ Teresa said. ‘Even when she couldn’t get out of bed. She’d just say, “You boys come here. I want to talk to you.” I don’t know what she said but they’d be quiet for weeks afterwards.’

  I swallowed. ‘What’s it like, not having your mum?’

  Teresa shrugged. ‘OK.’ We came to the bridge over the creek. Far down, catching glints of light, water was running over stones. She leaned on the rail. She put her arms over and let them hang.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she said. ‘I miss my mum.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I bet you do.’

  ‘I wish she hadn’t died.’

  ‘Did she talk to you?’

  ‘Not much. I’d just sit on the bed and hold her hand.’

  I did not know what to say. ‘I’m sorry, Teresa.’

  She turned and smiled at me—tried to smile. The light from a street lamp lit her face and I saw the shine of tears on her cheeks. She wiped them with her hand.

  ‘I’m dumb, crying.’

  ‘No, you’re not. Do you want my hanky?’

  ‘Thanks, Dink.’ She blew her nose. ‘Dad’s such a moron. He grins all the time when he tells them of
f. He thinks it’s funny, even when they wag it from school.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘They hide their schoolbags in Mr Redknapp’s hedge. Then they cut across to the main road through Flynns’ farm.’

  ‘Father Borich comes but Dad just grins at him and says he’ll try. He doesn’t try. He gives them money. He thinks that’s all he has to do.’

  Footsteps came towards us. It was Bike Pike running home. He sometimes ran at night, even in his suit. He stopped and leaned panting on the rail.

  ‘I got another excuse-me and Les cut back in. You’re not supposed to do that.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say no?’

  Bike shrugged. ‘Les brought her. She said she was sorry again. She says I’m the best dancer in Loomis.’

  ‘Shove off, Bike. We’re talking,’ Teresa said.

  ‘Ah, sorry. Got my breath now. See you both.’ He ran up the hill and turned into Orchard Street.

  ‘He leaves bunches of flowers on our front porch,’ Teresa said. ‘There’s just a card saying “Eileen”.’

  ‘He’s not dumb, though. The bank manager told his mum he’s the best junior they’ve ever had.’

  ‘And Les is the worst.’

  ‘How’d you know that?’

  ‘You don’t have to be very smart.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘The funny thing is, Les is not dumb either.’

  ‘Only stupid,’ Teresa said.

  I did not mind that. It seemed that we were talking properly. We went up the hill, not starting up our conversation about her parents again. Instead, in the dark between the street lamps, I pointed out stars and planets and told her their names.

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  I explained about Mr Redknapp and his telescope. She said she’d like to have a look one night and I promised to ask him. When we passed Mr Worley’s house I thought I heard Jimpy snoring, but that must have been my imagination. Teresa and I were holding hands. We heard Mr Raffills snoring all right, in his little shed beside his locked-up house. We leaned on his fence and listened and laughed. I think it was the happiest I’ve ever been, walking home with Teresa that night. We stopped outside our house. I wanted to do something to make up for her crying, so I said, ‘I’ll show you something. But you’ve got to promise not to tell.’

  Our house was dark. Mum and Dad were at an evening somewhere. I took her up the path and found the key that opened the door to the under-house. I flicked on the light.

  ‘There’s a secret room in here,’ I said.

  ‘Nuts,’ she said.

  ‘See if you can find it.’

  She let go my hand and started knocking on the back wall.

  ‘There’s only the chimney up there. Give up?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Watch.’ I lifted out the block of wood hiding the door handle, gave a smart-arse grin and opened the room.

  ‘Hey, that’s great,’ Teresa said.

  I turned on the light and took her in.

  ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘Dad does his printing here. Promise you won’t tell?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘For the wharfies’ union. In the strike.’

  ‘That’s against the law.’

  ‘I know. He could get arrested and beaten up.’

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A Gestetner.’ I picked up a leaflet. ‘This one he’s doing is a flat beer list. That means people who don’t help when they should.’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Just me and Mum and Les. Les and me deliver them. Well, I did it once.’

  ‘It’s a great hiding place,’ Teresa said. ‘What happens when it’s winter and you have to burn the wood?’

  I laughed. ‘The wharfies will have won before then.’

  ‘Dad says they’ll lose.’

  ‘Well,’—I shrugged—‘I don’t know.’ I didn’t want to argue, only to please her.

  ‘I hope your dad’s careful. I like him,’ she said.

  ‘He’s good.’

  ‘I don’t go so much on your mother, though.’

  ‘She likes you. It’s just—she hates religion, I suppose.’

  ‘Huh!’ Teresa said. ‘Thanks for showing me, Dink.’

  I closed the room and locked the outer door and walked with Teresa as far as her gate. We held hands again. ‘Maybe we can go to the flicks together next time,’ I said.

  She giggled. ‘That means you have to pay.’

  ‘Sure I will.’

  She giggled again. I saw that she was nervous. I was too.

  ‘I’ll even buy a chocbom,’ I said. Somehow I should kiss her, but I didn’t know how.

  ‘So,’ I said, and let go her hand.

  ‘Dinky, listen. It’s, well—Eileen I guess.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t want to do all that kissing stuff. Like her.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ I was relieved—at least, for the moment I was relieved. It meant I had nothing else to do.

  ‘Goodnight, then. I’ll see you.’

  ‘Sure, Dinky. Goodnight.’ She took a few steps and turned, and whispered like a spy, ‘Thanks for showing me the secret room.’ Then she ran up to the house and vanished inside.

  I went home, humming like a fridge, like a radio. I went to bed and heard Mum and Dad come in half an hour later. I kept very quiet because I didn’t want to say goodnight. I just wanted to lie there and think about Teresa. Holding hands with her was the best thing I had ever done.

  Chapter 6

  Eileen

  I was still awake when Les arrived home. He didn’t need the Humber just for a local dance so, like me and Teresa, he and Eileen walked as far as the Collymores’ gate. But that was not the end of it. Les came into our house and used the toilet, then banged around in the kitchen for a while so Mum and Dad would hear him if they were still awake. And sure enough Mum looked out of the bedroom and said, ‘Is that you, Lesley?’

  ‘Yep, it’s me.’

  ‘Did you have a nice night?’

  ‘Sure, great. Night, ma.’

  ‘Goodnight, son.’

  She went back to bed. Les, whistling—whistling, maybe, so Eileen would hear—went up to the army hut. I leaned out of my window and saw her torch approaching across Flynns’ bottom paddock. Mum and Dad’s room was on the other side of the house. What Eileen did was go into her bedroom at home and change her dress for slacks. Then she climbed out the window, walked up the scrub path at the side of Frank’s shed and along the back of the farm, climbing over three fences on the way. Poor Eileen. She was, like Bike Pike, in love. Les let her into the army hut and that was that. I don’t know what time she went home. She was always gone before the sun came up.

  The torch advanced steadily. I wondered how someone as smart as Teresa hadn’t found out. There was no way I could tell her, not now that we were holding hands. And it’s a funny thing, whenever I’d seen Eileen’s torch before I had thought how lucky Les was, but I didn’t that night. I remembered what envying him had made me forget: he was dumb. He and Eileen would get in trouble, nothing was surer than that. Les was my brother, you learn these things. He always succeeded, then he failed.

  I lay in bed feeling sad for them both. I don’t suppose they were sad, up in the army hut.

  About four o’clock I was woken by the noise of the door closing softly behind the hedge. A moment later Eileen’s bare feet whispered on the lawn. Her torch lit my curtain folds like a line of ghosts. Then she hissed and swore, using a word I didn’t think girls used.

  I got out of bed and looked out the window. The torch was lying on the grass, pointing away from the house, and she was sitting by it, half lit up, nursing her foot.

  Speaking very softly, I said, ‘What’s the matter, Eileen?’

  She made a little gasp. ‘Is that you, Ossie?’

  ‘Yes. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I think I stood on some broken glass.’ She shone the torch on the sole of her foot, which was white and soft,
not a bit like the leather soles she’d grown running barefoot past our house as a 10-year-old. ‘It must have been a prickle. There’s no blood.’

  ‘Will you be all right?’ We were whispering.

  ‘I think so.’ She tried to stand up, and didn’t swear again but said, ‘Ouch!’

  ‘It must still be in there. Does it hurt?’

  ‘It might be better if I put my shoes on. I’m sorry I woke you.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘No, it’s worse. What am I going to do, Dinky?’

  She’d gone back to my old name, but I didn’t mind. ‘Wait there,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll get a needle and some sticking plaster.’

  I crept out to the kitchen and the bathroom and came back. I wasn’t going to risk the back door. The sittingroom lay between my bedroom and my parents’, so I figured climbing out my window would be safe. I put on my dressing gown first so Eileen would not see me in my pyjamas. In a moment I was on the lawn with her, holding the torch on her sole. She dug for the prickle, going in so deep with the silver needle that I twitched in sympathy.

  ‘Keep it still, Dinky.’

  ‘Sorry.’ We were so close her breath played on my cheek. I smelled her perfume and her sweat and the cigarettes Les had taught her to smoke. I think there was a smell of whisky too, and it made me say, ‘You shouldn’t go up there, Eileen.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why do you?’

  ‘It’s none of your business, Dinky.’ She dug some more. The hole in her foot suddenly swam with blood. ‘Damn,’ she said.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘It’s in too deep.’

  ‘Let me try.’

  ‘No.’ She dug some more. I watched the needle and glimpsed the black prickle in the blood. She would never get it out until she had some proper light. In the feeble torchlight I stole glances at her face. It was prettier, rounder, less firm than Teresa’s. I liked Teresa’s.

  ‘It’s not wrong when you’re in love,’ Eileen said.

  ‘Is that what you are?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Otherwise it is wrong. I know that.’

  ‘You’re only seventeen.’ I was speaking with Mum’s voice, but I saw that Eileen was a child.

  ‘That’s old enough to be in love.’

  ‘Is Les in love?’

  ‘Of course he is.’