Little Lost Girl

by Graham Wilson

  Next morning, early, Rosie was up and working in the front garden. Michael went out to see what she was doing and found her placing a small plant, just a few inches high, in the soil. He grasped her from behind and pulled her close. “What are you doing?”

  She replied, “When I was a small girl, my father took me on the boat one time, with Mama, to her house in the Philippines. It was a happy time and the thing I remember best, which we all loved, was the scent in the air around their house. It was of frangipani, so I asked my Uncle to bring us a plant from their house to here, so it could grow in the garden of our new house. Each time I smell it I will have a happy memory of my father. So, even if he cannot watch our children grow, this is something for them to remember him by.

  A year after this their first child, Edward, was born, named after Rosie’s father. Then came Robert for Michael’s father, Margaret for his mother and Rosie’s best friend and finally Jimmy for his best man and friend.

  It was a happy house, though, as more children came, it soon seemed too small. They added a back verandah for the boys to sleep on and Margaret had the front room. As they grew up there was often the sound of laughter, as games were played in the living room. Jim and Margie were married the next year and they now had two boys and a house down the hill on the other side of Smith St, so the kids were often in and out of each other’s places.

  Their building business boomed and they were now full partners, each at times building their own houses and sometimes working together on the big jobs like a new Town Hall, at the corner of Darling and Montague St.

  Finally, after eleven years, when Jimmy was six, they all moved into Sophia’s house in Montague St, as it had space for them all. They rented their cottage in Smith St for a year. One day Sophia came to them and said. I know there is room for us all here, and I love all the children, but I love the cottage in Smith St with the frangipani in the front yard and its Spanish name. Every time I see and smell it I am reminded of your father. I would like to live there with all those good memories.

  So it was agreed, it became Sophia’s house. Michael gave it a new coat of paint and built a picket fence and a new fireplace of pink porcelain in the front room for her to sit by, where she could watch the passing life in the street. Jimmy, always her favourite as the youngest, would call to see her almost every day, he loved his beautiful grandmother, Sophia, her hair now silver and those dark flashing eyes, so like his Mum’s. Often he would sip a small glass of sherry with her as together they watched the world pass.

  As the years went by Jimmy was often in trouble, fights at school and poor attention in classes. It was as if the success of his older brothers and sister made him resentful. He left school early and took work in the docks, and then moved out from home to make his own way in the world. Sometimes he would go weeks without seeing his parents, and often he was dirty with ragged clothes. But Sophia never cared. He was still her favourite grandchild and there was always a place for him in her house. With her he was able to feel loved and clever, not the ne’er do well younger brother.

  Finally in her 64th year, 1898 just before it came to a close, Sophia grew suddenly ill and weak. By early the next year she was gone to that place where her own husband awaited her.

  They buried her in the small cemetery at the foot of the hill at East Balmain, where she could watch the ships come and go, as she had all those years before with her little Rosie. As Jimmy stood there, alone, after the others left, saying his private goodbye, he saw other headstones also standing silent, sentinels to the view; Hannah Rodgers aged 32, Archibald Rodgers aged 9, Tom and Mary McVey, both in their late eighties, were some he remembered.

  Chapter 13 - 1899 - Jimmy William’s match

  Balmain was abuzz as it came towards the start of the new century, 1900. The town was crowded. The 1890s had been tough. Once a sleepy little village and place of the well to do, Balmain had now become the dormitory suburb for thousands of poor, working class people. Crammed into small tenements, narrow terraces, and dozens of dockside boarding houses, thousands of workers eked out an existence. The grand building boom of the 1870s and 1880s had faded into the depression of the 1890s. Thousands of people flocked here searching for jobs, lining up in long queues in the hope of a day’s work, stacking lumber or loading wool bales on the docks.

  Jimmy had been mostly happy while Sophia, his grandmother, had been alive in the Smith St cottage. But he was now he was almost 23 and jobs were hard to find. His father and Uncle Jim’s building company had fallen on hard times. Perhaps, if he had begged, they would have found him some work, but he did not beg. More days than not there was no work to be had.

  Jimmy found himself afflicted with a strange melancholy now that Sophia was no longer there to give him encouragement and wise counsel.

  The empty house in Smith St was boarded up to stop squatters, and the garden was weedy and overgrown. Perhaps his Dad would sell it; clearly his business needed the money. But there was little money to buy houses, and anyway he hoped it would not leave the family. This house was special in his heart, early happy memories, and his sanctuary while Sophia had lived.

  Still it looked like a dump now, rubbish in the front garden, boards over the windows and big signs proclaiming ‘Trespassers Prosecuted’. It would break his Gran, Sophia’s, heart if she saw it now. He thought his Mum and Dad should care more about it; after all it was first their house, the place they built together. They had even given it the name, Casa Ardwyn, to recognise both their histories.

  But his Mum and Dad now lived in their grand house in Montague Street and mixed with the high life. Mr Barton and his Federation mob were all the talk. Mr Parkes, although he was dead now, had also lived in a big house in Balmain, Hampton Villa it was called. His Mum and Dad used to visit there for drinks and parties. Now it was the Barton crowd they visited. It seemed the hard life did not affect those people, even though the way his father talked their building business was barely surviving. But he still seemed to have money for all the political meetings and hobnobbing. It was said that next year the Queen of England would sign a deed giving Australia its own independent government. That was grand and all, but really just a thing for the snobs and high rollers of government. Few of his friends from the docks cared about such rubbish.

  For them life was occasional days of backbreaking work and many more days of sitting around doing nothing. Inevitably they all ended up in the pub if one had a wages packet. Often, after a few beers, a fight broke out over some silly thing, whose dog was best, whose football team was best, or perhaps they fought because they were all bored and needed to do some real work, to do something that achieved something. Anything, just anything, except stacking timber, wheat bags and wool bales. God, how he hated those things.

  Today he was going to the Exchange Hotel, someone said drinks were half price and there might be a two up game on. That was one thing he was good at; he was fast and knew a few tricks. He could usually make a few bob there; at least enough to buy another drink, that’s if someone did not call him for cheating and he ended up in yet another fist-fight first. Already his nose was a bit out of shape, where it had been hit a few times and he had a scar beside his eye and another on his cheek where a couple of left jabs had connected.

  Jimmy felt his life was passing him by and he was turning into a wastrel, but he did not see what was to be done about it.

  Sure enough, the Exchange was crowded, with a two up game in full swing. He tried to shoulder his way in, close to the action. There was a new girl in the parlour where the genteel folks went for a drink, Maggie or Marie, maybe Maria, was her name, or something like that. She was a looker, gold-brown curly hair with just a tint of red and a fiery temper when crossed, or when the boys tried to make a pass at her. But she was nice to him. Pity he had no money, beyond the price of a beer, or perhaps he could ask her out.

  As he thought of her he found he had made it to the front of the two up circle. He watched the coin toss a couple times. He had a
couple of coins like those in his pocket and one was special with extra weight to make it mostly land heads. Perhaps he could slip that one in for a bet. He waited till the coins were flying high, near him. He put his last five shillings on the next bet for heads. As the coins flew high he made out to stumble and, as the coins landed next to his feet, he managed to grab the flying coin and drop his own in its place.

  He was sweating but he was ten shillings up and no one had noticed the other coin. Now, soon, he had to get it back before it was spotted. He moved around the circle a bit further to get to where it looked like the next throw was aimed.

  But a big Irish bloke blocked his path. “Where the fook do you think you’re going. I don’t trust you. Yoose one of those smart arse kids who tinks you don’t have to play fair and square. I reckon you’re running a scam. I’ve lost a pound since you came. I know you’re up to something, little fooker”.

  Jimmy was quick and tried to duck under the monster’s arm. But this bloke was quicker. Before he knew what had happened he had been grabbed by the collar and backhanded. It knocked him sprawling right into the path of the flying coins, so at least in the confusion he got his own coin back.

  He hit the dust at the edge of the circle. With the momentum his head smacked into the post holding up the verandah, a great whack across the side of his face. It felt like his cheek and jaw was broken. Stars spun in his eyes and he tasted blood in his mouth.

  He heard someone say, “Serve the cheating fooker right.” He felt himself pushed out of the way while the game went on. Then he was dragged along the floor and dropped somewhere cool and dark. He lay in a dazed state, with blood trickling from cuts on his lip and below his eye.

  He must have passed out because, when he awoke, gentle hands were cleaning his face with a wet cloth. He opened his eyes and winced, Bjeez his head hurt. Then he saw her face, like a fiery angel, framed in a haze of golden red hair, lit from behind by light through the window.

  “Well, crazy boy they messed up your pretty face proper. I am trying to fix it up but it won’t be anyway pretty for the next week or two”. Then she did something that seemed totally remarkable. It convinced him he was really dreaming or she was an angel. She gently stroked his forehead then planted a soft kiss right where her hand had been.

  Suddenly their eyes met and she went bright red. “I don’t know why I did that,” she said. “I just felt you needed something kind after what they did to your face. Still, it’s really your fault, you silly boy.”

  She jumped up. “I must go; my Ma will be waiting for me.”

  Slightly dazed, Jimmy stared at the space where she had just been and breathed in her faint scent, which lingered. He could not let her go like that. So he stumbled to the front door, just in time to see a older lady pull up in a fine carriage and his angel give the lady a flashing smile and climb up.

  Before they could drive off he managed to get to the horse’s head. He stood up straight and tried to catch her eye. “I am sorry, I never said thank you for helping me. I don’t even know your name.”

  The oldervlady looked at him with a raised brow and a trace of an amused smile. “My name is Alison and my daughter is Maria. Pleased to meet you. Perhaps you will visit my shop, near the church with the steeple, over there, when you are feeling a bit better.”

  With that she gave a flick of the reins and they were gone. There was something about mother and daughter, not the same but both cast from the same fiery mould, she with her red-brown hair turning to grey, and Maria with the fire in hers. It was those same eyes, dark hazel flecked with green, both knowing and a touch sad, but with such a force of life.

  Three days later, when the worst of the purple bruises were gone from his face, and the pain in his head was but a dull ache, Jimmy found his best clothes and scrubbed his body until it felt clean. Then he brushed his hair, polished his shoes and put on his jacket. For once he called to his mother.

  Rosie was surprised but happy to see him, particularly clean and tidy.

  “Mum” he said. “I need ten bob for a present. I promise to pay you back next shift, but I really need the money today.”

  “Jimmy, I know something important has happened, even if your face is not its best. Here take this; if it’s important enough to get cleaned up it must deserve your very best, something memorable. I don’t know who she is but I am glad it has happened.” She pressed a gold guinea into his hand.

  Jimmy was used to getting his way with the girls, but today he felt nervous. He took his guinea and went to the shop near the corner of Darling and Montague, where they sold brooches. He chose one with an amber stone, with just a trace of red, set in silver, to match the colour of her hair The price was written on the back, £1.10/-, however the lady agreed to take his golden guinea.

  Next door was a fancy cake shop. He really felt he needed something for the mother. There, in the corner of the window, was a luscious, strawberry and cream topped cake, decorated with little gold and silver balls and chocolate stars. It seemed right. The price was ten shillings. He felt in his pockets hoping against hope that he might find enough money but all that was there was a few pennies, a sixpence and a couple shillings.

  He was about to walk on. Then he remembered something that had almost gone from his mind in the dazed state of three days ago. His ten shilling note, winnings from the two up. He seemed to remember, he had taken it from the pocket of his blood covered shirt, and placed it inside the breast pocket of the jacket in his room, the one he was wearing now. He patted it down, something was there. Sure enough, his ten shilling note had somehow survived, just for this.

  In he went. The cake was his, carefully placed into a cardboard box decorated with a silver ribbon. The lady who served him seemed to know how important this was. She even placed a selection of small cakes and toffees as decoration around the outside of the strawberry cake in the box. As he walked out she called after him, “Good luck!”

  A few minutes later he found himself outside a small shop near Saint Andrews Church. Brightly painted above the door was ‘Alison’s Antiques and Special Gifts’.

  With his heart pounding he stepped inside. It was only him and the lady. She gave him a warm smile. “I was hoping you would come, I thought it might be today.”

  She walked around the counter, stood in front of him looking squarely up at him and placed both her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes searched his face with an intense kindness, as if trying to look deeply within to see what goodness was buried there. “You will have to look after yourself better if you are to be the one for my Maria. She needs a one who is steady.”

  She stepped back and smiled. “Well enough of that. I see you come here bearing gifts.”

  Looking at all the exquisite things arrayed around her shop Jimmy felt inadequate; it was all so much more and better than his gifts. He took a deep breath and felt his poise return. He stepped forward with confidence and placed the cardboard box on the counter. “I thought you might like this.”

  She opened the lid. Her mouth opened, making a small gasp of delight. “Strawberries and cream, my favourite; look at those delicate little cakes and toffees. We must each try one at once.”

  She took a toffee placing it in her mouth with a look of blissful delight. “Please try one too, they are delicious.”

  So he took one and felt the luscious flavour coat his mouth.

  “Oh, but they are sticky,” she said.

  They both stood, grinning and laughing, like two mischievous school children caught eating candy. “I see we will get along famously,” she said.

  Then she became serious again, “But I know you did not really come here to see me. I am sorry to say that Maria is not here today, although she often comes in to help me when not working in the Exchange Parlour. But today she had to go in to the city to look at some things for my shop. She will be back at our house about three o’clock this afternoon. Why don’t you join us for afternoon tea, this cake would be perfect. My carriage will leave here about
that time. I would be pleased if you would accompany me there.”

  Jimmy wanted to skip and cheer as he walked out of the shop. What a lady Alison was, and he just wanted to see Maria’s face as she looked at the brooch, please to God that she would like it. It was now just after eleven in the morning and he had more than three hours to wait. What should he do to pass the time?

  Part of him felt a pull to share his excitement with his friends at the pub, and have a beer to calm his nerves. But he knew, deep down, that today was far too important for that. He walked the streets, restlessly at first, then he settled into a methodical pacing. Without intent his steps led him to the old house in Balmain, his grandmother’s cottage in Smith St, still the old battered name plate ‘Casa Ardwyn’, half fixed to the door.

  It was as if cogs were whirring in the back of his brain, now alive to new possibilities. He did not want Maria to see the old girl in this state, already his mind had a picture of them living there together, their children playing on the front verandah, as he and his brother and sister had when he was little, often with Rosie and Sophia sitting on their stools and chatting while they watched on. There were scents of frangipani, wafting on late summer afternoons, as they played under leafy branches, shaded from the hot afternoon sun. Sometimes there was a big fire in the bush behind, just across the water; and little half burnt leaves and twigs would fall from a grey hazy summer sky, down into their garden, and they would hear the noise of the fire engines racing to save lives. But they had always felt safe in their little house.

  The daydream had transported him. He looked up again at the sad reality. Half broken fence, piles of rubbish, a broken stump with a few leaves shooting in one place was all that remained of their old frangipani tree.