But Suze was practiced with her friend’s moods, immune. No, she said. It’s deadly serious. She leaned further across the pink tablecloth, its embroidered freesias and leaves. Mrs. Booth was the wife of the Salvation Army boss, somewhere around the turn of the century.
Pearl narrowed her eyes. She wanted to complain about Askin, the new premier, the direness of Tory governments in both Sydney and Canberra. And? She shook her head. The country’s going down the sewer. We all are, Suze. And you want to talk about ladies in bonnets.
Come on, sweetie, I’m trying to help. I know things are hard.
Can’t even call anyone— She was furious but her voice caught, surprising her. Tears gathered behind her eyes and she blinked them back.
A tray arrived with teapot and cups, milk jug and strainer. Suze waited until the tray was emptied and the girl and her green starched apron had gone. Then she grasped the teapot. And. The word louder than she’d meant it to be. She moved the teapot in a circle, once, twice. Our Mrs. Booth set up an office for locating missing people. All ages. Lots of people got lost in those days, apparently. Domestic servants, factory workers, abandoned children.
Never heard of her.
Suze tipped the teapot back and then forward. Back and forward. Now it’s called “The Salvation Army Family Tracing Service.”
The ritual of tea. It calmed Pearl, usually. But the day had turned her contrary. She poured milk into cups. Silent.
For Christ’s sake Pearl, listen They look for people. A lot of the time, they find them.
Axel sat on warm sand. There was the sound of the sea splintering, and children. On the ferry over, the water had been quiet, marbled. He’d thought of Stockholm and its islands, the boats skimming between them. Gamla Stan and its copper roofs. Gray skies that lowered and shrank the city and the harbor, closed everything in. It’s why I write, Per had told him, years before. To break through it, see around it.
Axel had frowned at him. In Stockholm they spoke differently, vowels clipped and sculpted and fast. So he had to listen hard and follow the shapes of the words. Sometimes the end of someone’s sentence arrived while he was still in the middle of it.
Per’s sentence came back to him now on Manly beach, the wide sweep of the Pacific like a kinked cloth before him. He wished Per was with him, so he could say no, that’s not why you write at all. If it was, why would anyone write in Sydney? Surely this endless equatorial light broke through everything. Poetry couldn’t be possible here; the air was too thin for it, the sun too hot. How could poetry be made and survive in such brutal clarity? This wasn’t a place of poets but of the body. He’d written as much to his mother on the back of a postcard—some forgotten beach, its surfers and bikinis, the shimmer of tanned flesh dulling the sky and the ocean behind them.
But today he wished he could join the surfboard riders. Be more like them. Their ease in the ocean reassuring against the figures that rose and sank in the waves breaking closer to shore, heads and shoulders appearing and disappearing in a way that could still unnerve him, though his early terror had gone.
In the past few weeks he had begun to learn about waves. Their shape and temper, their speed and velocity. Their behavior at high tide and low, in southerlies and northeasterlies. The first few times he’d waited, he watched others and he watched the sea. Hesitated before a lurching rise of water, trying to time it, to lift himself a little in the way he’d seen others do, letting the wave buoy him up and over. But then—like today—he’d take a second too long and the wave would break and suck at him, tumbling his limbs, stinging his eyes. You had to grow up with it, he thought, this wild water. To feel anything like at home inside it.
Still, even in his tentativeness he preferred a decent swell, to feel the muscle of the water holding him, or nudging and shoving, lifting and dropping him. It gave him something to fight. Today, in waist-deep water, he’d stood waiting for fear to leave him, for his body to absorb rhythm, until his blood pushed and pulled with it and his body stopped resisting. Until he knew he could win.
On the ferry back, he sat outside to feel the spray and rush of sea air. Inside, men read newspapers and couples leaned together, faces flushed with warmth. They didn’t even look through the windows. But the ride towards the city felt to Axel like a homecoming. A cautious happiness crept through him as if it had been thieved. How could these others turn their backs to it? The Heads, the houses. The opera house unfurling like a flower, like one of their waratahs. The wild and beautiful native that symbolized their state.
He already loved this sandstone city. At some angles on some days, it looked to him like a painted set, a picture from a child’s schoolbook, every feature reduced to its classic shape. Oddly, only the bridge and the towering shells on the point made it real, their daring outlines pulling the scene into the present. The irony of perception. To him, even now, the opera house rose up like an idea as the ferry approached the quay, something he’d dreamed and was slowly remembering. He didn’t want to lose that sense of the place, wanted never to feel it as so familiar that he would sit on a ferry and look away.
At Circular Quay he walked past the queues and swung down past the passenger ship terminal. The same route he still took some days: a left turn at Cadman’s Cottage and up the stone stairs that served as old in this place, wide treads worn concave by the weight of 180 years. Above the wharves, and among the crumbling terrace houses, there were still one or two places like this. The Mercantile sat between them all, but it was weeks before he realized why he’d chosen the faded hotel: the steps, the old cottages, all stone and wood and shrinking as humans do, reminded him of home. The low, slate-roofed farmhouses of Småland.
Now he pressed his boots into the curve of the steps, pleased by the notion of all the feet that preceded his here. Turned up William Street, past pubs and tenements towards the Mercantile. Home, yes, though it had taken time to accept it. Some days the hotel still felt like a small foreign country within another. The bar especially. Its smell: stale, as if the sweat of a thousand men had soaked into the planks of the floor. An acrid smell that went with the beer, strong and crude. No women. This didn’t surprise him. He imagined his mother standing at the door, the shock of the sounds, the odor, the wild-eyed bravado. Then turning away.
My young Swiss friend. Mrs. Jarratt came limping out of the kitchen with a tray of washed glasses, blocking his way. He stood back. Had no one heard of Sweden? His landlady let the tray down behind the bar, pulled a cloth from her shoulder and plucked up a glass to dry. He might have moved off then, the way cleared, but the air around her was expectant, loaded. He waited for whatever it held.
Troubles down there then. Her hand inside the glass, a bird’s claw. All over the papers. She frowned, peering at the glass for smears. It’s the bloody election if you ask me. They need a sacrifice, eh? That young architect, what’s his name? Made his own bloody altar.
Axel pursed his lips. Utzon, he said.
Yeah. Mr. Unpronounceable. They’ll skewer ’im, that’s what I reckon. She stopped polishing and stared at a point on the wall, above the picture rail with its single framed photograph of the young Queen Elizabeth. Foreign, that’s the trouble. They don’t like foreign.
Axel winced.
Olive’s voice dropped a notch. I go down there, you know. Look through the fence. I’ll admit, it’s grown on me. She glanced towards the window. A whole minute ticked past, or so it seemed. Then: Got a postcard, years ago, some customer. She shrugged. The Eiffel Tower—is it? Pinned it up in the bar. Her voice almost wistful, and in profile her face had the dignity of a dowager, down on her luck. But then a sound like a bird caught in a trap. She was chortling: Probably still there!
A pause, or a subsidence. Axel frowned. Tilted his head, trying to make sense. The worn carpet made it worse, its faded whorls, circling on themselves.
Your building down there, she said, resuming her polishing. Color swarmed in her cheeks. God knows why, it’s a bloody mess—but it brings that postcard t
o mind.
A split second, a glancing light, and Axel was there in Paris, on the Champs-Élysées, his eyes newly open. The miracle of steel arcing skywards, leaping towards heaven. He looked at her. Perhaps— He put his hand to his throat, the tight hum of emotion. Perhaps they both wake us up. These structures. Or wake up our dreams. A weak smile on his lips: had he said that aloud? Did Olive hear him?
She looked at him as if she too had just woken. As if the bar was full of men, listening. Her bony shoulders lifted and dropped. Anyway, she said. We’ll see. No use complaining. And sniffed. But people will. She shoved the cloth into a glass and twisted it savagely. Look back fifty years. Same thing, different complaint. And fifty years before that, and on back to bejesus. A vein in her hand swelled and flexed as she worked.
He had no idea what she meant.
Fifty years is no time, Axel. Believe me. People say, “It’ll take a lifetime,” as if that’s forever. But I can tell you, a lifetime goes bloody fast. It’s no time at all. She coughed, sudden, phlegmy. Crossed one leg over the other. Then held out her hands, touched finger to finger, counting. Two thousand and fifteen, she said. That’s fifty years. Hope your foreign mate gets it finished by then.
Axel nodded. Recognizing the cantankerous old barmaid as an ally. He’ll finish it, he said. If they let him.
Olive tipped her head towards the front bar. You hear a lot of bullshit in here.
He smiled at her. Something like fondness in his eyes.
Yes, she said. You know. She picked up another glass and moved away down the bar.
Pearl woke with the biliousness of failure, of impotence. She rose and made tea in a blue enamel pot and left it to draw. Stepped outside. The air needled with new light, sharp points on which fear swiveled. The world had dawned resentful, pale. She pressed her feet into calf-length grass, still damp. Raised her face to the sky to feel what the air held: the breath of small creatures, salt. The residue of night. The earth particulate at this hour, its edges blurred, its lines inexact. She opened her arms to it, the whole trembling world.
That’s when she saw the bird. Or heard something bird-shaped. In those crystal seconds, that’s how it seemed, that she’d seen the sound, her eyes forming the bird around it.
Tawny Frogmouth? Some species of owl? She saw it as a blur of edges, foliage, bark. Its plumage, even the part-closed eyes, was of the tree, grown from it or grafted, a small branch flaking bark. She stood still, hugging herself. An owl in the garden, her mother once said, was like a blessing. Beneath the clothes hoist, handing up pegs, Pearl had thought of raffles and chocolate wheels, a florin found on the footpath. Like good luck? she’d asked, eyes skimming thin limbs on a loquat tree. A reason to hope, her mother replied, pulling work shirts from the line.
Now as the light thickened she let a fledgling hope rise in her, feathering up and over her limbs. A rare optimism, and it warmed her as the world reassembled itself in colors tinted like old photos. Or in faces imagined in the night. She looked back to the tree, to the bird. Old questions leapt in her throat: was the child she’d been still in her? Guileless, soft, open to the world, in a way she had not felt for years. Which version of her was real? What was true to the self? She looked up. Well? The bird was inscrutable, as still as stone, but Pearl knew it saw everything, more than everything; it saw more than she did or ever would.
Sunlight lapped at the grass as she turned, took the back steps two at a time. Plucked up pencil and drawing paper and began to sketch the bird, the branch. Her brothers would love to see that owl. Minutes later she lowered the pencil and surveyed the ordinary walls, the ill-matched chairs, plain curtains that concealed nothing. The phone book was under a pile of newspapers on the table, and she idled through it to S. The Salvation Army.
She was already halfway down the hall before it hit her. She stopped, mid-stride. The habit so ingrained she’d already envisaged her finger in the dial, the numbers spinning. Her hand already cupped, anticipating the pleasing curve of the receiver. Its shape, its innocent pale green: ordinary and unassuming as a ticking bomb.
She dropped to her knees before the telephone, gripped the cord and pulled it from the wall. Fucking morons! The curse helped. She fell backwards with the effort and lay there, staring at the yellowing plaster of the ceiling, the cord still in her hands. It had made a satisfying crack as the connection severed. She hoped someone, somewhere, heard the sound, the snap of the line breaking, hoped it was loud enough to hurt his ears. His filthy eavesdropping ears.
She went back to various meetings, back to Lorenzo’s, to the Newcastle. Everywhere there was talk of action. Her body leaned into it. She wanted, despite Henry—perhaps to spite him—to be physically involved, to add her body to the thrust of anger and distress. But it was worse than ever. The men had taken control; they dominated discussion of ideology and action, their voices loud and brutish or worse, calm and dismissive, arrogant. On her first night at the Newcastle she’d been surprised at the low numbers of women; now she knew why. In her short absence the group had changed its face. The women made tea and were handed the typing. The men turned a paternal eye to them if they spoke; nodded or smiled, and went back to their plans. Even Ray exuded a proprietorial air.
She listened to the ideas and schemes: demonstrations, fundraisers, midday marches to catch the lunchtime crowd. Someone had a contact in the Postmaster General’s. They might intercept draft papers, disrupt the recruitment cycle, alert brothers, sons, boyfriends before their letter arrived. But that wasn’t enough to save Will from the next ballot. She would have to know where they were.
At work she read the first accounts from the field. Wrote about miniskirts, Mary Quant, anything that Judith threw at her. On the day she finished her piece on Kylie Tennant she sat back to re-read it, wishing she could summon Tennant’s fortitude, her clear intention. Her own words mocked her. She rolled the last page from the typewriter and shuffled the pages into place on her desk. As she clipped them together, her phone. The Federal. Brian’s reptile drawl. Come for a drink. The revolution is nigh. And was gone.
A small crowd had gathered in the beer garden. Ray was propped on a stool at a round silver table with two beers in front of him. He pushed one towards her and blew smoke into the air. She frowned at him. Thought you didn’t drink on weeknights? She dropped her satchel at her feet.
It’s Wednesday, he said, I make allowances for Wednesday.
A few women from Sydney Uni were arguing with a boy about pacifism. He was spectacularly drunk. You’re an idiot, Pearl heard. A long-haired girl in overalls was trying not to shout. All you white males, you sexist pigs, you won’t last. You’ll die out like the dinosaurs. But Brian was calm, moving amongst them all, speaking quietly.
Did you tell him to call me? Pearl cocked her head towards Brian. Ran a finger through the condensation on her glass. I’m not high on his list.
Nope. Not me.
Then Brian was next to them, smiling, sober despite the drink in his hand. Lois Lane. He lifted his glass. How’s Superman? He didn’t wait for an answer, but lowered his voice: Reckon he’d know about the next ballot or troop ships? With his X-ray vision and all.
For a moment—her hands on the table—she felt out of time and place. The bar noise receded; there were just the words, reverberating. Because of course she’d got the first ballot date but nothing about the second, or about the first ship. And she hadn’t heard from her contact in weeks, not since the state election. No idea what you mean. She looked away, unnerved by this new Brian. Calm, sober. More or less. You’re talking to the wrong girl.
Well. Brian looked from Pearl to Ray and back again. If you happen to hear anything.
She grimaced a smile as he moved away.
Ray stubbed out his cigarette. Nothin’ to do with me. He took his time grinding it into the plastic ashtray.
Maybe your man will know. Whoever gave you that leak about chockos. She tried to keep the sourness out of her voice, unsuccessfully.
But Ra
y’s face was emotionless, as always. Before you snap, mate, it came through Trev, in the office. Tell you the truth I nearly didn’t tell ya, Trev’s a bit of a loose cannon. Into conspiracies, sees ’em everywhere.
She was poised to ask the obvious questions but he went on: It was a one-off. He’d been at a wedding, cousin or somethin’. One of the groomsmen works in Canberra, right, and he’s pissed, big-noting about Menzies and the Nashos and how the little poofs’ll wet their pants when they realize where they’re goin’ . . .
Pearl gulped beer. Her heart had slowed; it was so like Ray, the convoluted story, its provenance. But there was, she supposed, an outside chance it was true. Trev’s cousin, she said.
Trev’s cousin’s groomsman.
Christ. She laughed and swore at the same time. Well, my bloke’s disappeared so Trev might be our only hope. You better keep him sweet.
Nah, Trev’s resigned. Ray stood, pocketed his cigarettes. Movin’ to Brisbane. Reckons they need him more than we do.
They both looked around when they heard Brian raise his voice nearby. He’d done the rounds of the room; now he was giving Della his full attention. You understand, eh, you know about this, he was saying. It’s called direct action. If we can stop a ship they’ll know we’re serious.
Winter 1965
The days had run quickly into weeks, and still he could not find the courage to contact her. As they’d left the flat that first morning, Pearl in one direction, he in another, she had called out: You can ring me at work. Use a nom de plume. But he had been barely able to think past the words, her face as she spoke them: my phone’s been tapped. An old darkness rushed in, one he was unable and unwilling to fight. He noticed the sun but not its warmth; acknowledged the world but not its color. The days passed, muted, empty. He was a sleepwalker with no past, no memory.
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