Hunger Town

by Wendy Scarfe

  ‘He may be, but I know what he’s like.’

  Now I was really angry. ‘No you don’t. You don’t know what he’s like at all. You’re just plain selfish.’

  She sniffed and her lip trembled.

  ‘And don’t play that weepy gag on me, Winnie. It’s a put on and you know it.’

  She rounded on me, spitting like an angry kitten. ‘It’s awful for us, too, you know. I have to buy factory-made clothes, lingerie. I always used to have it hand-made. Now I have to wear this dreadful shop stuff because we are poor.’

  ‘Too bad,’ I snapped. ‘You worry about your underwear while at our soup kitchen we see children so hungry that their bones stick out and sometimes they wear a sack made from wheat bags with holes for their arms and legs.’

  I looked her over accusingly. ‘You don’t look poor to me.’

  ‘It’s all your fault,’ she wailed.

  ‘My fault? My fault?’ I was breathless with fury. ‘What do you mean, my fault?’

  ‘It’s your fault that Harry belongs to a union—the Unemployed Workers’ Union. It’s not even a proper union but a union of those too hopeless and useless to get jobs. And …’ she took a deep breath, ‘Daddy thinks he’s joined the communists. A Bolshevik in the family. He can’t abandon his sister. You’ve seen how gentle and sensitive she is. He doesn’t know which way to turn. He’s so angry. He blames you, Judith.’

  ‘Me?’ I was outraged. ‘Why blame me?’

  ‘It’s your influence. You’ve taken Harry away from his family, stolen him from us, converted him to all these terrible beliefs.’

  I gasped. ‘You’re the limit, Winnie. That’s not true.’

  I left her and stalked ahead, rapidly and furiously. She ran to catch up with me. Now she was sobbing in earnest. ‘I’m sorry, Judith. Please.’

  She tried to take my arm but I shook her off. Passers-by stared at us. Why, I thought bitterly, do I have to always be a public spectacle because of Winnie?

  ‘Stop crying,’ I snapped. ‘You’re not a child to be so stupid.’

  She ignored me and continued to sob, trotting beside me. ‘We shouldn’t have gone with Harry to put up those posters.’ She gulped. ‘Nothing’s been the same since.’

  I stopped and gaped at her. ‘It was over a year ago.’

  ‘Well, that’s when it all began.’

  ‘No, Winnie,’ I said coldly, ‘it didn’t begin then. It began when the economy of the country started to collapse—a drought, the copper industry’s kaput, we’re in the middle of a depression. Haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘Don’t lecture me. I’m not interested in all that political stuff. Of course I’ve noticed. Everyone’s depressed, including me. I found my mother crying the other day because Daddy had shouted at her. He never shouted. Until now.’

  I could hardly believe that she was so ignorant, so lacking in comprehension. Her stupidity riled me. For the first time I noticed that crying made her look plain, not ugly because Winnie could never look ugly, but plain. Her eyes were red and puffy and there were blotches on her cheeks. Suddenly I felt sorry for her and a lot older.

  Despite the misery around me I had the comfort of understanding what was happening to us all. I could apportion blame and know that it was the truth. Winnie was drowning in her sea of incomprehension. I recalled Joe’s comment about Jack London. When I had asked him why Jack London had killed himself he had said ‘there are other reasons for death besides industry’. So there were other reasons for misery. The tentacles of the depression reached into many homes. Everyone, it seemed, suffered according to what or who they were.

  Poor Winnie. I took her arm. ‘Don’t cry,’ I said.

  She snuffled pathetically. ‘And you’re not angry with me?’

  ‘Not any more. Let’s go and eat your sandwiches.’

  We spent the next half hour sitting on the grass of the Botanic Gardens munching placidly. A blackbird scavenged in a mound of dry leaves, raked there by the gardener. Obsessively the bird kicked the leaves aside, scrabbling for worms or other edibles.

  ‘They’re such untidy birds,’ Winnie said. ‘Every morning our gardener sweeps up the path but by next day they’ve made another mess. Dirt and leaves and twigs everywhere.’

  I smiled. ‘It’s a small inconvenience, Winnie, a very small one.’

  She smiled in return. ‘I suppose you’re right. We’d probably all be happier as blackbirds. They don’t seem to worry about other people at all and I suppose they grow older without even noticing it.’

  I squeezed her arm. ‘It won’t go on forever, Winnie.’

  ‘No.’ She was dismal. ‘Just a few more years. My father says we won’t come out of it for a long time. But I won’t be young forever, Judith, nor …’ She looked at me as if for the first time realising we were of equal age. ‘Nor will you.’

  Her sadness was catching. I had never thought about that. To me it seemed that from the time I had claimed to be nearly twelve for Joe Pulham I had rushed on in a hurry to get older. Now Winnie halted me. When my youth had slipped away what would I have?

  Sober and more understanding of Winnie, I stood up and brushed the crumbs off my dress. It was certainly an ugly dress. I sighed. Winnie looked up at me critically. ‘You should get your hair shingled, Judith. You have lovely hair and it would suit your face.’

  I put up my hand and felt my plait. It had been there forever, thick and honey brown, sometimes golden blonde when the sun danced off it. Maybe I could change, look a little younger. Maybe Winnie had a different sort of knowledge. I grinned at her, reached down, took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

  ‘The sandwiches were delicious, Winnie. Thank you. Now I’d better get back to class.’

  She came with me to the Gardens gate and we parted. She hugged me and I hugged her back. But that afternoon my thoughts strayed to the idea of a generation of young people lost in time. I had a vision of them all sitting around in a railway waiting room, hoping for a train to take them somewhere, anywhere.

  I worked on the concept for a cartoon but despite numerous drawings none of them satisfied me.

  Two days later in a small act of defiance I walked into the hairdresser’s salon and had my hair cut. Surprisingly, without the weight of my plait, it bounced into waves about my face and a new Judith looked at me from the mirror. As a bonus I was able to sell my hair for wig making and received five shillings for it.

  My mother and father were shocked and then resigned when they saw my new hairstyle. ‘Oh, Judith,’ my mother said reproachfully, but that was all. ‘What did you have to do that for?’ my father grumbled.

  But Harry was angry. ‘You should have asked me,’ he accused.

  Nettled, I snapped, ‘And why is it your business?’

  ‘I liked the way your hair was.’

  ‘I didn’t. I wanted a change.’ I became even more angry, resentful at feeling that I ought to explain myself.

  ‘You might have asked me,’ he repeated. ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘Sold it.’

  ‘Sold it!’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked anguished. ‘You sold your beautiful hair?’

  ‘Yes. For five shillings.’ I was defiant. ‘And you needn’t be so shirty about it.’

  ‘It’s too bad of you, Judith. Too bad. You shouldn’t have done it.’

  He turned his back on me and stalked off.

  I had planned on telling him that I wanted to look young, that time was slipping away from us, and we ought to marry, but now it was all spoiled. Smarting from his anger, distressed and disappointed, I didn’t even know if I wanted to marry him. What if he was as bossy over other things—things that to me were more important, like my cartoons and my drawings? I couldn’t live with a bossy man.

  We were cool to each other for several weeks. Ruby and Lil, who regularly attended Saturday night dances at the Semaphore, invited me to join them at the Palais. Ruby’s father had a car and was happy to collect us and take u
s home.

  Ruby was short and plump and her small buttery feet squeezed out around her shoes. Lil, by contrast, was tall and thin with lean muscular arms and long shapely legs.

  ‘She should have auditioned for the chorus,’ Ruby giggled, ‘instead of wasting her time painting.’

  ‘I like painting,’ Lil protested. ‘There’s no future in chorus lines.’

  ‘Not much in painting either if you’re a woman.’ Ruby was cheerfully accepting of things. ‘Now Judith has the right idea. Political cartoons are the go. There’s just so much politics around these days.’ She imitated Miss Marie: ‘“Politics, mes enfants, ah, the beautiful politics. It’s not love that makes the world go round but the price of potatoes.”’ She and Lil went off into shrieks of laughter and I joined in.

  Ruby looked knowing when she invited me to the dance. ‘Your boyfriend plays the piano at the Palais. He has a three-piece band and sometimes the band plays while he comes on the floor and partners us.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He is soooo gorgeous. And his slow foxtrot is divine. Before the dance Lil and I draw lots as to who gets to dance with him.’ She cocked an eye at me. ‘I don’t know why we’re taking you, Judith. He’ll probably only want to dance with you.’ And she sighed with exaggerated regret.

  The Palais at the Semaphore was a glamorous two-storey building with a dance hall on the second level. Its inlaid wooden floor gleamed after its sawdust polishing and there were still films of dust along the skirting boards after the sawdust strewn on the floor had been swept away. At one end of the hall there was a dais for the piano and band.

  Harry looked very handsome in his formal dress suit. It was a little shiny and I suspected that it had been his father’s. I recalled my mother once sighing romantically over the actor Ronald Coleman—‘There is nothing so beautiful as a man in evening dress.’

  Of course the Palais wasn’t as grand as the Ozone Cinema Palace. The Ozone had steel-pressed ceilings and garish green and gilt paint. Harry frequently played the piano there to accompany the silent films and had on several occasions sneaked me in. I relished sitting in the dark listening to Harry mimic on the piano all the tearful, happy, soft, dramatic, fast or slow moods of the films. The music created a breath-taking atmosphere and I hugged to myself my pride in Harry’s skill. I imagined that he, through his piano playing, must experience and understand all this range and subtlety of feeling, so it was a little deflating when he laughed at my wide-eyed enthusiasm and dismissed my reverence—‘It’s just a script. I play there every night, a bit boring and not really challenging, Judith.’

  Despite Ruby and Lil’s expectations Harry didn’t dance with me. He danced with Ruby and Lil and then Adie and Jess, who joined our party. From their gentle jibes that Harry would monopolise me, Ruby and Lil now became embarrassed. I caught their fleeting glances from me to Harry and back again. They grimaced at each other and shook their heads when they thought I wasn’t looking.

  I ignored them and when Harry asked one of them to dance I deliberately put up my hand and either gently ruffled my hair or patted it into place. Out of the corner of his eye he watched me and pursed his mouth. I pretended not to care as he introduced me to Karl, a solemn German boy who had no sense of rhythm whatever. As Karl blushed and asked me to do the quickstep, Harry whispered in my ear, ‘Serve you right. Now you can go for a walk with Karl.’

  I survived the night fending off the puzzled and curious glances of my friends. They sympathised, but in an irritating and coy way. ‘Lovers always have quarrels,’ Ruby assured me, as if she had years of wisdom behind her. Lil nodded her agreement. They waited, eager for some girlish confidences, but I disappointed them. What happened between Harry and me was essentially private.

  The next day was Sunday and Harry arrived at the hulk early in the afternoon. He brought a bunch of flowers, a bit the worse for wear, as he had clutched them while riding his bike. My mother greeted him with her usual friendly warmth.

  ‘I’ve work to do,’ I said stiffly.

  ‘No, Judith,’ my mother said, ‘you don’t have work to do. Harry has come to see you.’

  I flounced into a chair refusing to look at him.

  ‘But I have work to do,’ she said hurriedly and left.

  Harry hovered irresolutely in front of me. ‘I’m sorry, Judith,’ he mumbled.

  I still refused to look at him.

  ‘Really, Judith,’ he pleaded, ‘I am sorry. It was just …’ He ­stumbled. ‘I loved your hair and I had bought some ribbons to give you.’

  He placed several strands of blue, green and red ribbons on the table in front of me. ‘And now,’ he sounded desolate, ‘they’re no use.’

  I looked at the shimmering ribbons, imagined how much money they had cost him, heard the unhappiness in his voice and burst into tears. ‘Oh, Harry,’ I sobbed, ‘thank you. I can grow it again, you know. I’ll keep them. My hair grows quickly, really quickly and cutting it will make it even thicker.’ I gulped and looked up at him.

  He smiled down at me. ‘Friends again, Judith?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said and smiled tearfully in return.

  He leaned across the table and kissed me.

  Nathan spoke with his sisters and they arrived for our first meeting to organise a women’s march. They wore the smug self-congratulatory air of people who believe they have been proved right. My mother had enlisted the help of Mrs Danley and Mrs Thornhill from the soup kitchen.

  ‘I may not be right, Judith, but I think Mrs Danley will be a match for Miss Abigail and Miss Adelaide,’ she said.

  Mrs Danley, I knew, managed several church committees and her skills at organisation were talked about with bated breath. Mrs Danley was a good woman, a community-minded woman, even if a little overwhelming. She was also physically dominating with her powerful voice, stentorian tones, and large bodily presence. Beside her Miss Abigail and Miss Adelaide were small, sparrow-like women pinched into their dark clothes. I felt it was like having a galleon and two mosquito ketches in our saloon: one majestically commanded the waves, the other two buzzed in and out of small ports.

  I saw Miss Abigail and Miss Adelaide glance askance at Mrs Danley and then look anxiously at each other. Clearly they hadn’t expected competition. My mother had flared at them when they first suggested forming a Women’s Defence Army. Now they assumed that the terrible circumstances of the wharf had subdued her.

  Mrs Danley was another matter and they sensed the forthcoming battle over the pecking order. My mother, rather nervously, explained why the preliminary meeting was being held. Mrs Danley and Mrs Thornhill nodded.

  ‘Good, Eve,’ Mrs Danley said, ‘well done.’

  My mother looked pleased. Everyone looked pleased when praised by Mrs Danley. I was never quite certain why Mrs Danley’s praise ranked higher than anyone else’s, but there it was. When Mrs Danley praised my cartoons I glowed, then afterwards laughed at myself. Why some people could establish a sort of command over other people’s feelings puzzled me. But then, everyone agreed that Mrs Danley was a very good soul so there was no harm in it.

  My mother had introduced her to Nathan’s sisters and Mrs Danley had taken it upon herself to say some words of welcome. Miss Abigail and Miss Adelaide bridled at this condescension. Good, I thought spitefully. When Harry had had the temerity to welcome them to the communist meeting they had repulsed him with equal condescension. Serve them right.

  ‘What we need,’ Mrs Danley boomed, ‘is a plan of action and proposals to take to a larger meeting in the Federation Hall, and we need to enlist the support of the women in the Port. That will take some time. They’ll need persuading. In the present climate we can’t advertise but we can spread the word. The soup kitchen’s a good place to begin. The women who come there are desperate, angry and mostly destitute. We need to tell them exactly what we plan and that the meeting is not open to men.’

  Up until now Miss Adelaide and Miss Abigail had remained silent in the face of this determined onslaught. Now Miss Adelaide prod
uced a piece of paper with careful handwritten notes. She began as if giving a prepared speech. ‘This is a great opportunity,’ she said, ‘to rouse the revolutionary spirit of the masses.’

  Mrs Danley stared at her. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, ‘what opportunity do you have in mind?’ The direct approach confused Miss Adelaide. She had her script and was set on proceeding.

  Oh dear, I thought, sharing a look with my mother, Nathan has prepared this for them. He wasn’t expecting a Mrs Danley. Then I was annoyed. Probably he had expected my mother or even me to be pushovers.

  Miss Adelaide continued doggedly, ‘It’s not piecemeal reforms we need but the overthrow of capitalism which must be inscribed upon the banners of the working class in the struggle against the exploiters. We women must be in the vanguard of this realisation and fight against the continuing and increasing degradation of the workers.’

  Mrs Danley listened courteously to this speech but I could tell by the restless way she shifted her large buttocks on the chair that her patience was limited. Her expression said clearly that they were wasting her time and again I found myself expecting that, like the Queen in Alice in Wonderland, she might shout at any moment in a voice of thunder: “She’s wasting the time. Off with her head.”

  However she did not do anything as drastic as that. ‘Quite,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’ll be time for that later but just now …’ and she returned to the details of organising the meeting in the Federation Hall. Miss Adelaide looked offended at being dismissed and Miss Abigail bristled on her behalf.

  ‘I’ll chair the meeting,’ Mrs Danley continued. ‘You’re too soft, Eve.’

  My mother looked grateful. Earlier she had confessed to me that the thought of managing a large meeting terrified her.

  But Miss Adelaide was not beaten yet. ‘Our brother,’ she squeaked, ‘Mr Nathan Ramsay, he’s well experienced and has offered to chair it for you.’

  ‘No.’ Mrs Danley did not excuse her sharp refusal.

  ‘It’s a women’s meeting,’ my mother said, ‘a women’s march. I think you, yourself, said that the police will not bash women.’