‘Leave him alone. Don’t you worry,’ he was repeating again and again. ‘He’s not sick, he’s just drunk, you know, drunk.’
He was bringing his right hand to his mouth pretending to be drinking and as the girls didn’t seem to understand, he started pointing to his watch indicating with his fingers it was six o’clock. That confused them even more because they couldn’t see what relevance there was between time and what they were witnessing. They had to wait for Nick to explain it to them.
‘Six o’clock is closing time,’ he said not fussed at all.
‘What is this six o’clock closing time?’ both girls wanted to know.
‘Look, after six in the evening, nobody can buy or drink any alcohol in public,’ he said. ‘It’s forbidden by law. Also you can’t buy any alcohol on Saturdays after midday and none at all on Sundays.’
‘And what has that to do with all those sick-looking people?’ Tasia asked.
‘Well, straight after work many Australians rush to the nearest pub and drink till closing time. They drink a lot on an empty stomach and they end up the way you’ve seen them.’
‘Why do they have such stupid laws?’ both girls asked.
‘Because the government of this country decided to protect us simple folk from the perils of drunkenness that lead to debauchery and immorality, God bless them.’
‘But, that’s preposterous!’ Olga was amazed. ‘Can’t people decide for themselves when and how much to drink?’
‘That’s part of the peculiarities of this country. A large number of Australians still live in the dark ages. They’re anachronistic, xenophobic, and backward. And the funny thing is they want us to be like them. They forget where they came from. They forget their grandparents were convicts or adventurers.’
‘Come on! What do you mean?’ Tasia exclaimed in disbelief.
‘Yes. It’s true. When the English didn’t know what to do with their convicts they sent them here. Now, they feel superior and demand that everybody speaks only English. They expect us to eat the food they eat and not to take pride in our work. If you try to do your best they stop you with a ‘that’ll do mate, that’s good enough mate’ as if it’s a crime to do your work well. > they say.’
He said all this with a big grin on his face, but that didn’t conceal his bitterness and disappointment. Maybe he had come here with high expectations, Tasia thought.
She found the idea that most Australians were brought from England as convicts an exaggeration. She promised herself to read the history of Australia as soon as she could, to be correctly informed about this country. However, Nick’s words made Tasia think deeply. Could it be that life in Australia wasn’t what it was claimed to be, no better than life in Greece? Could she have jumped from the frypan into the fire? Distance made life in Greece appear not that bad. Even if Greece had reached rock bottom, the only way it could go was up.
Her mind was preoccupied with vivid images of life back in her village. She could see herself digging with a hoe the soft rich soil in the vegetable garden, or the melon patch, while the sun browned her arms and neck. She would dream of the hot summer afternoons when barefoot in the vegetable garden she’d wait to change the flow of water from one ditch into the next with a spade. That was a picture of a paradise lost. And that picture made the present reality seem even more depressing.
Her work involved an eight-hour-a-day work in a clothes factory on an electric sewing machine sewing different pieces of material and working in a big room full of benches, machines, unpleasant smells, dust and deafening noise. Her body bent over the sewing machine, she eyed the thin seam closely as the material passed under the needle with mesmerising speed. She couldn’t talk to the other women on the floor so the social isolation combined with the repetitiveness of the work jostled her mind to the chaos of nothingness. At the end of her shift she would get up feeling dizzy and stiff all over, her eyes burning from the extreme effort of not making any mistakes for fear of losing her job. On her way home she continued to be engulfed by the smells and the sounds of the factory. Relaxation would not come to her even in her sleep.
Outside work hours she had to cope with additional challenges and surprises. She’d dress warmly early in the morning to avoid freezing to the bone, only to step out of the factory in the afternoon into stifling heat almost melting the asphalt under her feet. These rapid weather changes were new to her and she had problems adjusting.
She had difficulty with the temperature which was measured in Fahrenheit instead of Celsius, the length in inches and feet instead of centimetres and metres, the weight in pounds and stones rather than kilos. The Australian money was pounds, shillings and pence, and to complicate matters even more, some were dealing in guineas.
It wasn’t easy for her to understand what people were saying in English, as she couldn’t distinguish between individual words. The tendency of some people to speak without looking her straight in the eye made her feel most uncomfortable, as if these people didn’t want to see her as another human being. Everything seemed fake and make-believe and any sense of self-worth she might have had evaporated. She felt she was living among people who treated her as worthless and loathsome trash.
It was in this inhospitable new environment just when Tasia was losing her sense of who she was, that Olga’s personality seemed to change. She was no longer the practical, articulate and optimistic girl, but had become moody and silent. Straight after the evening meal she would go to bed and sleep till morning. At times she’d go to Nick’s room and spend all evening there, leaving poor Tasia alone and miserable. Tasia was sympathetic to Olga’s predicament and so was equally disappointed when Olga found the letterbox empty every afternoon. John was taking his time to write — if he ever intended to write! He was the only one of the two with an address. Olga would not consider leaving this place before a letter arrived.
With time, Tasia’s initial doubts about John’s good intentions multiplied but she was careful about how she spoke to Olga so as not to upset her. Lately, she had started to have doubts about the honesty of Olga’s feelings towards John, too. It was obvious Nick and Olga had found a lot to talk about, as they were spending a great deal of time together. Who would know what Olga might have in mind? Perhaps she was playing it safe, wanting to have it both ways. If John didn’t come, then she’d have Nick as a reserve. Could it be possible Olga was so shrewd, so low?
Things were so much clearer back home. People knew black was black and white was white and they could discern right from wrong, proper from improper. How could she now single out the decent human being from the corrupt and wicked? What sort of people were Nick and Olga?
The first time she saw him was a few days after they had settled into their new abode. She smelt first his perfume that infused the air. She lifted her head from the gas stove and saw him standing at the kitchen door with a surprised look on his face. He took a few steps towards her holding out his hand.
‘I don’t think I’m dreaming, am I? What a charming young lady! Allow me to kiss your hand, madam,’ he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.
Embarrassed, she pulled her hand back, not sure if she understood all the words or their meaning.
‘I’m Martin,’ he continued. ‘What’s your name?’
‘My name is Tasia’
‘Tasia … Tasia … what a strange name! Where are you from?’
‘From Greece.’
‘Of course. I should have guessed. You are the Greek goddess I’ve been waiting for all my life.’
He was well-groomed, freshly shaven and wearing a dark suit with a bright tie, a matching handkerchief in his coat pocket. His well-polished shoes shone. He spoke English with a different accent, evidence he too was a newcomer to the country. But the words came out of his mouth clearly and distinctly, making it easier for her to understand.
With some genuine effort she’d be able to speak English as well as this gentleman. She didn’t have to listen to what Nick had to say about
Australia and Australians. They were all human beings. They were okay — the true Australians and the newcomers. Not everybody, of course. But who said all Greeks were good? There were some Greek women in the factory with such vulgar ways she was ashamed to admit she was Greek.
At work her supervisor was an obese and very crude Australian lady with a cigarette constantly hanging from her mouth, a bunch of keys jingling from her belt. She watched all the workers like a hawk and every time she opened her mouth they all froze because she screamed rather than talked. In contrast to her, the ‘big boss’ Joseph was a gentle and compassionate man, never refusing anybody’s reasonable request. Unfortunately, his office was in another building outside the factory and he wasn’t around very often. But his door was always open to whoever wanted to see him and everybody talked about him with respect and affection.
Well, that’s how people are, Tasia thought. Some are good and some are bad irrespective of where they come from or what colour they are. One had to learn to adjust. Not like Nick, who came to this country of his own free will, and the only thing he could do was to be negative. He would have been better off if he had learnt the language and adjusted to their ways, Anglosaxon, or whatever he calls them.
She had the feeling Martin spied on her because every time she’d go into the kitchen to light the gas to make the morning coffee, he would come to the kitchen door well-groomed, lively and cheerful. She got used to it. In fact, she expected him to appear, feeling disappointed if he didn’t. Always polite, he would shower her with compliments and make her laugh. He’d also shown her how to pronounce English words correctly, teach her new words and help her form simple sentences without embarrassing or belittling her. His appearance at the kitchen door every morning was enough to brighten her day and bring a pleasant note into an otherwise confusing and preposterous world that was driving her crazy.
Something else that brightened her day was the fact that for the first time in her life she was paid and had money in her pocket. Every Friday afternoon her pay envelope gave her a feeling of pride and independence, enough to restore her sense of personal dignity and mend her shattered self-esteem. She knew how to budget for their weekly needs; she shopped carefully and always managed to save something to put aside, hiding it in a box inside the wardrobe. She wanted to save and return what she owed to Olga for the cost of her ticket, but Olga wouldn’t hear about it.
‘Look, after you get your first million, then come and we’ll talk,’ she teased her.
Olga had become an enigma to Tasia. Often she imagined the worst about her, only to regret it later when she realised her suspicions were unfounded. Some of Olga’s behaviour made Tasia think Olga rushed into forming circumstantial and shallow relationships with men she happened to meet, like John and now Nick. If she were committed and loyal to the man whose child she was expecting, she wouldn’t have rushed to replace him with Nick.
‘You’re my best and most precious friend,’ she had told Tasia, and yet she left her alone in the evenings to go and have fun with Nick in his room.
She tried to concentrate on her English studies but couldn’t. Her mind would go back to Olga who once again had gone to Nick’s room. Eventually, no longer able to control herself she went over to Nick’s door and opened it without knocking. To her surprise she saw Olga reclining slightly on a sofa reading a book while Nick, at the other end of the room stood in front of an easel with a brush in his hand, painting her portrait. She had had no idea Nick was an artist, and a very good one judging from the numerous paintings hanging or leaning against the walls of his room. She stood there embarrassed and ashamed because she had imagined Nick and Olga as lovers kissing and hugging each other passionately. It was her, and her idle mind that had created all these ridiculous scenarios!
The Melbourne summer was nothing like the summer the two girls were used to. The weather was unsettled and unpredictable. One moment they were cooked and the next they froze. They had no idea what to put on in the morning and how to adjust. They would go to bed covered with a sheet and would wake a few hours later shivering. Like the weather, their moods also fluctuated. Work-weariness combined with the temperature changes sapped all their vitality, thwarting any desire to go out and explore their new environment. With a fatalistic idleness both of them sat waiting for John to arrive like a saviour. But there was no sign of him, not even a brief note.
‘He’ll be here at Christmas. I know it, I can feel it,’ Olga would say.
Tasia nodded in agreement, while thinking to herself — that’s what you think; the vagabond has found a way to escape his responsibilities. Poor Olga! Poor, miserable Olga! You are going to bring up that child alone. Alone with only my support.’
They celebrated Christmas at Chris’s house, out in a beautiful Melbourne suburb which had broad avenues and wide footpaths, tall leafy trees forming arches over the road and impressive houses with manicured gardens full of flowers. Paradise must be something like this, she thought. This was indeed the Promised Land.
Chris’s house was large, furnished with taste and care. The warmth with which Chris’s wife welcomed them was exceptional. There was an abundance of delicious dishes, drinks, nuts, cakes and fruits. Chris’s wife was not only a beautiful woman but she was also a good cook, a charming hostess, and apparently she was financially well-to-do. There was no comparison between her and Tasia. Chris had done well to marry her. Very well indeed. What more had Tasia to offer him? She couldn’t even cook a proper meal.
They all sat outside around a big table under the covered veranda, with the exception of Martin. He couldn’t sit still. As if he were the host, he kept on running around to take care of all present. He was going in and out bringing glasses, ice, bottles of wine, tsipouro, beer. He would ask people what they wanted to drink, filling up their glasses, and then he would lift up his glass calling sten ugeia sas (to your good health) much to everybody’s amusement.
By custom, the exchange of gifts in Greece was done on New Year’s Eve. That’s why both girls were unprepared to give and receive gifts, much to their embarrassment, particularly when they received one from Martin. He had written on the small gift card attached to Tasia’s present ‘To my love, from my heart’, something that surprised and flattered her. Martin was an unusual person indeed and she regretted her English wasn’t good enough to enable her to know him better.
He wasn’t handsome but he had an endearing manner. Of medium height, he had bright brown eyes that wouldn’t let a thing escape him, and an engaging smile. He was ready to enter into any conversation, unreservedly stating his opinion. Chris and Nick, who had known Martin over a considerable time, were provoking him constantly, enjoying his responses. They were having a lot of fun.
Listening to them Tasia was pleased to realise she could follow a considerable amount of their English exchanges as they pronounced the individual English words differently from Australians but more clearly. She found it interesting to observe Martin’s behaviour: the way he brought his glass to his mouth, the ease with which he used his fork and knife, the attention he paid to the ladies. He would always be on his feet each time a woman was getting ready to leave the table, helping her by pulling her chair out, and then helping her to sit again, pushing her chair in. When they got up to leave, he rushed to open the car door for her and Olga to get into the back seat, closed it and then got in himself beside the driver.
Three months had gone by since they had arrived in Melbourne. Olga’s pregnancy wasn’t obvious but unfortunately her health started to deteriorate. She looked pale and at the end of the working day she felt exhausted. Tasia felt just as tired but didn’t take as long to recover and so attended to their daily chores. She did the shopping, the cooking and everything else required, before sitting down to review some English words before going to sleep.
Olga on the other hand was too tired to do anything. After work, she would go straight to bed to have some rest before the evening meal. Her appetite was poor and shortly after the meal she
’d go back to bed. Tasia insisted she ought to give up work and stay at home but Olga wouldn’t listen.
‘There’s no time for that yet,’ she’d answer. ‘Now we should try to put some money aside because we don’t know what lies ahead.’
Such comments made Tasia think perhaps Olga had started to accept the possibility of life without John and to consider alternatives. In any case, and unwittingly, they found themselves in a grim situation, worse than it could ever have been in Tasia’s own village. Whatever happened Tasia felt a moral obligation to stay by Olga’s side and take care of her.
As they entered the gate into their front yard one evening after work, Olga collapsed. Her legs buckled as she staggered. Tasia rushed to support her. She managed to break Olga’s fall onto the grass. Nick — who had just arrived and had parked his car on the street — noticed Olga fall and rushed over. He lifted her into his arms and for a moment stood there, looking once towards the house and then towards his car.
‘To the hospital! To the hospital!’ Tasia shouted, pointing towards the car and ran to open the door.
That night Olga miscarried but she wasn’t discharged from hospital. The doctors wanted to do more investigations. They suspected some other sinister ailment. When Tasia visited her the following day after work, Olga burst out crying.
‘I shouldn’t have lost that baby!’
‘What baby?’ Nick wanted to know. ‘Is Olga married? Was she expecting a child? She never told me anything!’
Tired, worried and vulnerable Tasia opened her mouth and told Nick everything: about the love affair that started aboard the ship, about the cruel separation of the two lovers at Fremantle, and about the soul-destroying wait for John. As she spoke she could see Nick’s face change from surprise to anger, and his hands tightening to fists. He got up and marched up and down, shaking his head in disbelief.
The Lace Tablecloth Page 28