Hunger Town

by Wendy Scarfe

  Shipboard life struck me as an ephemeral artificial world where people I neither knew nor was likely to meet again became my temporary companions. Propinquity demanded conversation; boredom thrust us together in social activity. But despite the superficial friendliness there was no real engagement. We met and parted easily. Passengers who disembarked left without regret or sorrow on our part. We were simply going on and would eventually leave in the same manner.

  The days passed slowly and I needed something to do. Marie was always happily occupied. I played the occasional deck quoits and each morning as the weather in the Indian Ocean warmed I swam in the pool. But most of the day I sat in a deck chair, either in the sun or, if it were cool, protected from the wind. The lounges always smelled of cigarette smoke and I preferred to be outside.

  To amuse myself I sketched the faces of the people who marched past, zealously taking their exercise in turns about the deck. It was not long before curiosity drove one of them to stop and look over my shoulder. I hesitated in what I was doing, always embarrassed to be watched and now anxious about the possible annoyance of the person I was sketching. But I needn’t have worried. My skill spread like wildfire. My peaceful isolation disintegrated and I was besieged by requests for caricatures. I demurred. There was bound to be someone who felt insulted by my take on their face.

  However, as usual, Miss Marie smoothed the path. She told them in her charming manner how talented and well-known I was, what a celebrated cartoonist, recognised in Australia and England as well. And, of course, they must tolerate my taste if they wanted a sample of my work.

  I reproached her for such exaggeration but she scoffed at me. ‘Judith, you are naïve. I think you do not know the world at all. They are quite prepared to risk being insulted by an important artist but they would not stomach an insult from an inferior one. Now you should put a price on these portraits.’

  I was horrified and mortified. Was Marie suggesting that I should use my abilities to help pay for our trip? It would be quite fair of her to do so, but I cringed at the thought.

  She saw my confusion and guilt and responded quickly. ‘No, Judith, of course not. You are taking me the wrong way. But the ship has its own charity. If you ask for a small payment for the Mission to Seamen it may help some poor lone seafarer and it will certainly weed out those who only want a free ride on your skill.’

  It turned out to be a happy solution to what was becoming a deluge of requests. It lessened the demands on me and at the same time comforted me with thoughts of my father and his boyhood at sea. I also recalled Ganesh with his mouthful of brilliantly white teeth, the Indian boys skylarking on the bosun’s chair and the starving swimmer who stuffed a crust of soggy bread into his mouth. They were all men lonely and adrift in foreign lands and perhaps I could help them a little.

  That night I dreamed of the shadows skulking along the wharf. As always they were faceless and nameless figures, drifting out of nothingness and disappearing into nothingness. They weren’t threatening figures and they did not frighten me but I always awoke from this dream deeply sad.

  Miss Marie had, as usual, been cunning, for while I was occupied in drawing the caricatures I briefly forgot Harry and my worry about him. Her cynicism about the other passengers had shocked me a little but she only gave me her whimsical smile.

  ‘Such innocence, ma pauvre Judith. You have survived street battles and you draw such incisive cartoons—and yet,’ she shook her head at me in mock regret, ‘some people never lose their innocence. I suppose it is because of their expectations.’

  Falling into her jocular mood, I replied, ‘My cartoons are the dark side of me.’

  ‘The dark side? You have no dark side, Judith.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I asserted, ‘I do. A very dark side. You can see it in my cartoons. Isn’t there always a tragic gap between expectation and reality? Maybe I’m not as innocent as you believe.’

  She laughed. ‘How philosophical you are becoming, ma chere.’

  ‘Sometimes. Joe Pulham introduced me to Aristotle and Aristophanes when I was nearly twelve.’

  She gave a shout of merriment. ‘Aristophanes at twelve? How absurd.’

  ‘Not absurd at all. A very good lesson about the idealist and the comic satirist. The dark and light locked together, perhaps a bit like life.’

  She eyed me, gently derisive. ‘You’re too smart for me today, Judith.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I grinned at her. ‘You just don’t like to lose an argument.’

  ‘And who says I have? You look much happier already.’

  Always she managed to divert my attention from Harry and her sunny optimism brightened the long days and kept me hopeful.

  At night I often stood at the stern of the ship and looked at the sea. The screws throbbed louder and more persistently in the darkness. The wake from the ship radiated outwards in great wings of plumed water, touched with green phosphorescence, and above me, undimmed by city lights, the icy stars shed their own cold blue light. As we crossed the equator and entered the northern hemisphere the stars of the Southern Cross slid further down the sky. Each night I strained to see them but eventually they disappeared over the horizon leaving me feeling strangely alienated and bereft.

  We passed through Colombo and Bombay and eventually the Suez Canal. I, too, saw the oddity of camels plodding along sand dunes while the desert rose above the level of the water. They had the illusion of a dream where we see but cannot hear and perspective goes askew.

  As we passed through the Straits of Gibraltar and entered the Atlantic Ocean the weather grew colder and the winds were biting. We docked at Southampton and it was bitterly cold. I clutched my warm coat about me and felt my feet freeze in my stockings and thin-soled shoes. Our passports and health cards were checked and we were on the train for London.

  I looked out of the window at a sunless landscape of skeletal leafless trees with frost whitened branches, hedges and rooftops. Narrow winding roads hedged on either side traversed a gently rolling countryside with an occasional village. Southampton had been a big crowded port but now the countryside emptied. I had expected more houses but found it rural. After the congestion of Colombo, Bombay and Port Said the spaciousness pleased my eye. Because England looked so small on the map, not even the size of South Australia, I had expected congestion and I was surprised.

  The joy of being able to look into the distance rested me. I relaxed in my seat, more at peace than I had been for a month. The ship journey had been a time of waiting. Now action was within our reach and with that knowledge I felt resilient and confident.

  We booked into a small hotel in Kensington, a short walk from the gardens. London passed in a whirl of names familiar from my reading but unfamiliar in reality: Trafalgar Square with its statue of Lord Nelson, Piccadilly overhung by the flying figure of Eros, Regent Street, Fleet Street, Westminster and its soaring Gothic cathedral, and the ornate Houses of Parliament fronting the broad dark reaches of the Thames.

  As soon as we had landed at Southampton I had grabbed a collection of newspapers and pored over them for news of Spain. There was very little. Only a tiny article in the Manchester Guardian reported that the repression in the Asturias had continued with unionists in the strike being searched out and arrested. The Asturias now was an armed state and the populace very frightened. Some of Franco’s troops had been withdrawn but enough remained ‘to keep order’.

  ‘How long must we stay here, Marie?’ I was anxious and urgent, sick with worry.

  She did her best to calm me. ‘It is necessary to find out as much as we can from here. Perhaps make some necessary contacts. We must not rush off half-cocked. I need to send cables to friends in France to request help with a car and arrange meetings in Paris. Please try to be patient, ma pauvre.’

  ‘It’s agony, Marie,’ I burst out.

  ‘Yes, Judith, I know.’

  She took charge bustling me in and out of taxis and the red double-decker buses passed by on the road in a blur. At
Marks & Spencer, a huge store, we shopped for fur-lined boots, scarves, gloves and woollen hats.

  ‘Now think, Judith,’ she queried, ‘what clothes did Harry have with him? What warm clothes?’

  I thought of his suitcase lying open on our bed. In Adelaide his clothes had seemed adequate for his trip but now, as the cold stabbed through my heavy coat and a raw wind burnt my nose, I imagined him shuddering in a wintry blast, freezing as well as injured.

  ‘Is Spain as cold as here?’

  ‘No. The cold doesn’t cleave you so intensely but there will be snow on the mountains and the wind off the Atlantic, mon dieu, it’s like a knife. We must think ahead, Judith, of spiriting him out of Spain into France and the long journey back to England. That will be cold.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘of course. I hadn’t thought as far as that. Only of finding him,’ and my voice caught and trembled.

  She took my arm and asked a shop assistant for directions to the men’s clothing department. I bought Harry a heavy jumper, a flannel shirt and warm socks. For travelling in the car we bought knee rugs.

  Marie determined to visit the headquarters of the Communist Party on her own. ‘I will be very discreet and not tip them off about Harry. But there may be communists in the Asturias who are safe to contact. These terrible events may have driven them into the arms of the anarchists. Perhaps even united them all. It’s worth a shot.’

  We parted and I took a taxi to the office of the Daily Herald.

  ‘Do not reveal too much, Judith,’ Marie warned me. ‘When you don’t know people well it is better not to trust them. Just say you are going to join Harry in Spain.’

  But I had never been a convincing liar. The editor, a tall, spindly, middle-aged man with thinning hair and a long face, peered at me through his spectacles.

  ‘Mrs Grenville?’ He was questioning, confused, surprised by my sudden appearance. ‘Mrs Judith Grenville?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From Australia?’

  ‘Yes. I think you will know me as Judith Larsen.’

  He leapt up, rushed around the table, and grasped my hand. ‘Judith Larsen? All the way from Australia? My brilliant cartoonist?’

  I flushed, overwhelmed by the warmth of his welcome.

  ‘Sit down Mrs Grenville, Miss Larsen …’ He floundered. ‘Sit down. Well, I never.’

  He shouted for someone called Em and a plump middle-aged woman hurried in.

  ‘Em,’ he said, ‘Em, this is Judith Larsen from Australia and she never told us she was coming.

  ‘Em is my secretary. Emily Cruikshank.’

  Em smiled at me quietly and shook my hand with composure.

  ‘Tea, Em,’ he said, ‘and cakes. That shop over the road. They have those nice little things.’

  ‘Strawberry tarts,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he beamed. ‘Now, Mrs Grenville, tell me all. When did you arrive? How long are you staying? Have you any new work to show me?’

  I hesitated, painfully uncertain. Marie’s warning hung in the air between us. I felt that of necessity I was becoming suspicious of everyone, afraid of making some terrible mistake and endangering Harry, but this was England, not Spain. This man with his open generous manner would surely be no threat. I needed his friendship. I took a chance and plunged into my story.

  He listened and his delight turned to concern. ‘The Asturias,’ he said in an angry repressed tone. ‘So that is where those cartoons of yours came from.’

  ‘I didn’t know then about my husband. Only later.’

  ‘No, of course not. And what do you want from me?’

  The tea and strawberry tarts arrived. He poured me a cup, allowing me time to think, then he handed me the tarts. ‘These are very good. Try one.’

  ‘Have you any up-to-date news?’ I asked.

  He looked up and pursed his lips. ‘Not much. We don’t have a reporter there and our sources are pretty much the same as the Manchester Guardian’s. Spain is still a sideshow to an English audience.’

  I drank my tea while he regarded me thoughtfully. ‘You know, Mrs Grenville, your cartoons are excellent.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. Biding my time I knew what I wanted to ask and only needed to be bold. ‘Would it help me or us …’ I started again. ‘I have a friend with me,’ and at his enquiring look, ‘a woman friend. Would it help if I had a press pass?’

  He didn’t answer for a minute or so and I thought he was assessing me, probably amazed at my presumption. After all, I was not a journalist, and the Daily Herald had only published a few of my cartoons. Possibly his praise had been excessive, offered because I was an Australian visiting England, a flattering piece of courtesy.

  At last he answered me. ‘Mrs Genville …’

  ‘Judith,’ I suggested absently, all my attention concentrated on what he was about to say.

  ‘Judith, then. I would willingly offer you a press pass if I thought it would help you, but I think it may bring danger. Spain is volatile. Like all civil conflicts, brother is against brother, friend against friend. There are bitter divisions between left and right and within the left the factions fight each other like Kilkenny cats. A press pass would tell officials—and anyone else interested—that you plan to report on doings there. And many people have too much to conceal. It would not protect you and I doubt if it would open any doors to you. And dare I say, without insulting you, that you are inexperienced in these matters. Some journalists have spent years in Spain and learned the ropes. In these complex situations you must know how to play your cards. It would be much better if you and your friend went in as lady tourists. A couple of quiet innocent artists enjoying the beauties of Spain.’

  He broke off and looked a little whimsical. ‘Of course, it would have been more convincing if you were enjoying summer or spring beauties, but the English are known to be eccentric, so you can be two eccentric ladies.’

  He warmed to his theme, enlarging on the possibilities of deceiving the Spaniards. Then he stopped abruptly. ‘You must think me insensitive, Judith. It sounds almost as if I’m expecting you to have fun.’

  I laughed in spite of myself. ‘No, of course not. It’s very sound advice.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How long are you here?’

  ‘Only a day or two. We must get on.’

  He nodded. ‘I don’t know what the phone service is like in Spain but I’ll give you my home, not my office, telephone number. If you are ever in real trouble, please call me and I’ll do my very best to get you some help.’

  I thanked him and stood up.

  ‘Good luck. Safe travelling—and success, Judith. I hope you find your husband well.’

  ‘And alive,’ I said abruptly.

  ‘I won’t even think about that, and nor should you. It would be an unbearable burden to carry on your journey.’

  I returned to the hotel cheered. It had been a relief to talk to a sympathetic listener and although I supposed that his phone number would not be much use to me it was comforting to tuck the piece of paper into my purse.

  Marie arrived back at the hotel in a state of deep gloom. ‘I have failed, Judith,’ she mourned. ‘Failed. And I could kick myself. I made a big mistake. I pretended to the comrades that I was French. Usually it works and opens doors but whether they saw through my deception or simply do not trust the French, they refused to talk with me. They appear to be very cautious, and extra apprehensive about people they don’t know. Of course, I understand they are helping communists who are trying to escape Germany and this makes them more paranoid than usual. I suppose I could have been some sort of German spy. It would have been better if I had confessed honestly to being an Aussie from Down Under.’

  She sighed dispiritedly. ‘But at all costs I wanted to avoid any connection with Nathan and any reference to Harry which they might use against him in Spain for turning to the anarchists. This labyrinth of suspicion is very disheartening, Judith.’

  It was my turn to console her. On the following day we cau
ght the ferry from Dover to Calais.

  We left Dover in a misty rain. The famous white limestone cliffs rose pallidly out of the sea and slowly disappeared into a grey blur. The wind left a film of dampness on our coats and hats. The ferry lounges were a blue fuzz of cigarette smoke and smelled of stale beer.

  It was still raining when we docked in the crowded harbour of Calais. Suddenly all the notices were in French: loud hailer announcements, port directions, customs queries. I produced my sketchbook and pens as evidence of my work and intentions. Marie did the same. At my English and few halting French phrases the customs officer frowned superciliously but at Marie’s effortless French and melting eyes he beamed and waved us through.

  We needed no porters because most of our heavy clothes were on our backs and our cases were light. The train station was a hubbub of noise, frantic with travellers all rushing about in a frenzied search for their seats on the Paris train.

  Dragging our cases behind us we climbed two steep steps into our carriage and negotiated our way along the corridor to our compartment Two elderly men rose, doffed their hats, and helped us push our cases onto the overhead racks. Our seats faced the engine, one by the window. But there was not much to see. The rain was heavier. Lights gleamed in the wet surface of the platform, now roofed by dozens of umbrellas.

  We pulled out slowly, the wheels grinding and grumbling, smoke from the engine mingling and clouding with the rain. I gazed at a flat grey wet countryside. So this was France. Despite my continued anxiety about Harry, a small part of me had anticipated feeling some excitement at actually stepping foot in Europe. England had seemed only a comfortable extension of Australia, a corroboration of things I already knew, but I had expected something different from France. What, I wasn’t sure.