There was something about this young man and his ready smile to which I responded, and so I led him into the kitchen where Dusty lay on the towel I had put down for her in front of the stove, quite wan and miserable and out of sorts. Squatting down, he held out his hand to her. She sniffed it gingerly and then, to my great surprise, stood up, arched her back and commenced to rub against him. Dusty is a stand-offish cat by nature, with little time for anyone except those that feed her, so this display of excessive friendliness was most unusual. She purred and rubbed against his leg and threw herself onto her back and waved her legs in the air; all the while he told her what a fine-looking cat she was and gently admonished her for getting into scrapes. Finally he picked her up and examined her swollen face.
‘If you would permit me,’ he said to me, ‘I’d like to try some Ready Relief on it. I’ve found it works on Mum’s cats, although they don’t enjoy it much.’
‘All right,’ I said.
Removing his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves, he asked me for a clean rag soaked in hot water from the kettle, to which he applied a small amount of Ready Relief. With Dusty purring in his arms, he then pressed the rag gently against the swollen area of her face. She stiffened but did not immediately struggle, and after a moment or two, he began gently to massage it.
This caused her some discomfort and so she began to struggle and scratch and loudly protest, but nonetheless he continued to massage, talking to her soothingly all the while. A foul-smelling pus commenced to seep from her face and she began to settle a little, as if sensing he was trying to make her better. He asked me for another rag soaked in hot water to which he applied more Ready Relief, and continued to bathe the area until he had it quite clean. Finally he permitted her to escape, whereupon she shot out the back door like a bat out of the gates of hell. When I looked at him, I saw to my horror that his forearms were covered in scratches and some of the pus had found its way onto his shirt. I directed him to the bathroom so that he might sponge his shirt under the tap, and when he emerged he bathed his scratches with the Ready Relief.
‘They will be healed in no time,’ he said with a smile.
Seeing as how he had gone to such trouble for Dusty, I felt the least I could do was purchase a bottle of Ready Relief. He accepted my coins, recommending that I use it to bathe Dusty’s abscess twice daily for the next day or so, to which I nodded my head in agreement even though I knew privately that Dusty would never permit me to do such a thing, and then he pulled out his receipt book.
‘What name should I make it out to?’ he enquired.
‘Mary Davidson,’ I responded.
‘Mrs?’
‘Miss.’
‘Davidson,’ he murmured, as he wrote out the receipt. ‘Not one of the Davidsons of Eden, by any chance?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact,’ I replied.
‘Well, that’s a coincidence,’ he said, looking up at me. And even before he said it, I seemed to know exactly what he was about to say: ‘My mother is a Davidson.’
‘What’s her name?’ I asked.
‘Louisa.’
And that is the funny story of how Louisa came back into our lives again.
Or, I should say, it is the funny story of how Louisa has almost come back into our lives, for she is not quite back yet, although we are working on it. For it seems that her characteristic stubbornness and pride may have only exacerbated over time, and she is proving somewhat resistant to being pulled back into the familial embrace.
In the thirty intervening years, we have had no contact with Louisa, nor had we any idea where she lived; our last communication was the letter from Coonabarabran. When my father died, I had hoped that she might somehow learn of it, for notice of his passing had appeared in many newspapers. As I sat in the front pew, I kept straining around to peer at the front entrance, willing her to materialise. But she did not come. I can only imagine that the thought of being amidst the gossipmongers of Eden, even for my father’s funeral, was simply too much for her to bear. And yet now, suddenly and unexpectedly, here was her eldest son, Albert, standing in the kitchen before me.
‘She is my sister,’ I cried. ‘I am your aunty!’
And at once I embraced him. For suddenly I so clearly saw the resemblance that I wondered how I could have not been struck by it the instant I opened the door! He was tall with dark curls like Darcy (although his skin colour was considerably lighter), and yet something about his droll, half-scornful smile as he endured the kisses that I planted on his cheeks was for me the very essence of Louisa.
Of course, immediately I begged him to sit down and stay for lunch, and to fill me in on his mother and father and brothers and sisters, and indeed his own wife and children, should he have any. But the young man – up to that point so friendly and open, and I would say even delighted to have discovered the family connection – grew suddenly wary. He seemed anxious not to stay long, insisting that he had a large area to cover that day and his boss would not be happy if he dallied. However, he stayed for one cup of tea, and in that short space of time, this is the information that I managed to glean from him:
That he has two brothers and two sisters, though not all of them are ‘still around’. I do not know what he meant by that; whether he simply meant that they might be living elsewhere, perhaps interstate. His youngest sister Marian (or Maryanne?) is unmarried and lives with Louisa.
That his father Darcy died some years ago. The circumstances of his death Albert did not make clear to me, but I gathered that it might have been from injuries resulting from a fight of some description, for there was an inquest and he mentioned witnesses, or a witness who had failed to show. But he seemed very sad about it all, and I did not like to add to his unhappiness by pressing him for details.
Prior to Darcy’s death, the family had been living in Queensland, ‘near the border’.
That since Darcy’s death, Louisa had moved to Sydney and was living in Surry Hills. She makes her living as a seamstress in a garment factory, and does some additional piecework on the side, if she can get it. She has been unwell recently with some problem relating to her womb, but seems to be on the mend now. ‘She’s a tough old lady, that one,’ said Albert admiringly.
That Albert himself was married, with four children of his own, the youngest a baby.
At around this point, Albert got up and said that he really needed to get going or he would get a walloping, so I took a piece of paper and hurriedly wrote a note for him to give to his mother. Of course, I had no time to make a copy, but I believe it was something along the lines of the following:
‘Dear Louisa,
I am so happy to have met your son, Albert, and to hear news of you! I am now living in Ryde, with Violet and family. Anne still lives in Eden, married to a Strickland! We all miss you very much. Please come and visit us soon.
Your loving sister,
Mary’
I pressed the note upon Albert with instructions to pass it on to Louisa. I walked him to the door and made him promise to visit again soon, and next time to bring his mother with him. Just as he was turning to leave, a sudden thought occurred to me.
‘Just one more minute,’ I implored. ‘I need to show you something quickly.’
And taking him by the arm, I ushered him back through the house to my small alcove. And there, removing some small ornaments I had on top of it, I lifted the wooden cover to reveal the Sphinx.
‘This belongs to your mother,’ I said. ‘We have kept it for her. Tell her it is all paid off now. Tell her it is hers whenever she wants it.’
He stared at the Sphinx uncomprehendingly.
‘She has a machine,’ he said simply.
‘Yes,’ I cried. ‘But this is the Sphinx! Tell her it is the Sphinx. That we still have the Sphinx.’
‘All right,’ he said, but I don’t know if he understood the significance.
>
When Vi returned home that evening, I rushed to the door and told her the news; we hugged each other in our excitement, and shed tears at the prospect of reuniting with our sister. But as I say, this was some months ago now, and we have heard nothing further of either Albert or Louisa. We have stayed in every weekend, even though we usually like to go to the pictures, for fear of missing her if we should venture out. Every Saturday morning, I bake a cake in expectation, and even as I put it into the oven, I have to caution myself not to allow my hopes to rise along with the mixture. Louisa was very partial to cake – any sort, it didn’t matter.
‘Perhaps it is difficult for her to get out here,’ said Vi one afternoon as we sat in the lounge room, looking hopefully out the front window to the street. It was, after all, a long bus trip from town, possibly even warranting a complicated changeover.
‘It is a shame that you didn’t think to get her address,’ Vi continued, and indeed I regret this bitterly, more bitterly every time she mentions it, which is frequently. It is a shame, but was I to be blamed for simply assuming that Louisa would respond as I did – with joy and excitement – at the prospect of a reunion with her kin?
Thinking on it further (although I haven’t shared these thoughts with Vi), I wonder if perhaps I have inadvertently offended her with my note. Writing it in haste as I did, with Albert hovering there anxious to go, there were things I omitted to say. I am particularly sorry that I did not pass on my sincere condolences regarding Darcy’s passing, or indeed even mention him. Perhaps this seemed callous and hurtful to her. Perhaps Albert did not mention to her the hurried circumstances in which I wrote the note, and so she assumes that the fact that I scrawled it so carelessly is an expression of how little she matters to me. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth.
My other thought is that perhaps Louisa’s circumstances are so reduced that she is simply too embarrassed to visit us, for fear we see what has become of her. After all, she was a proud beauty of sixteen when last we saw her; Albert described her now as a ‘tough old lady’. Certainly young people are not sensitive to the small but important gradations of age in those older than themselves, but instead regard us all as ancient crones. And yet, at the age of forty-nine, with my hair almost completely grey, I find I hesitate to describe myself as ‘old’. I think I would be more aptly described as ‘late middle-aged’, if there is such a definition. I queried Vi on the subject and she agreed, adding that she herself was in the ‘early middle-aged’ category, to which Margaret snorted derisively. My purpose here is not to talk admiringly of my own appearance, for I have never been an oil painting, still less so now; I simply wonder if Louisa’s difficult life has aged her harshly and whether her knowledge of that is contributing to her apparent reluctance to see us. (She was always very slender, too, and I do wonder sometimes if carrying a few extra pounds isn’t kinder on the face in the long run, somewhat softening the effect of wrinkles.)
In any case, I have a plan. I may have mentioned that Margaret is engaged to be married, and Vi and I are planning a kitchen tea in her honour. I had noticed that as well as his ointments, Albert carried an interesting selection of cake flavourings and extracts, along with disinfectants and White Rose perfume. If we don’t hear anything within the next month, then I shall call up the Rawleigh’s head office and ask that they send their man around again, as I would like to place a sizeable order. I have already looked up the number in the telephone book. And this time I will not let Albert get away without securing Louisa’s address.
For I am determined that they be with us this Christmas. I have this picture in my head which only grows more detailed every time I summon it up; it is of the family gathered around the dining-room table for Christmas lunch. It is going to be a challenge to fit everyone, but I have more or less worked out a configuration for the tables. I will put George on the children’s table (the card table) with Albert’s older three (George enjoys the company of small children and likes to play big brother when he can). The unmarried sister (Marian?) I will seat next to Margaret (in my head, I see them both gossiping about film stars; Margaret is mad on them) with Margaret’s fiancé Peter on the other side of her, rolling his eyes in his good-humoured way. On the other side of the table, I plan to place Albert and his wife (whose name I did not catch), with Lionel on the end; he is no great conversationalist, but hopefully Albert will be able to draw him out. We may have to squeeze a highchair in for the baby, in which case I will put Albert’s wife on the corner end (I am fairly sure the young family next door may be able to lend us a highchair for the occasion). At the kitchen end of the table, for convenience’s sake, I will place Vi and Jim, for Vi will be up and down and back and forth; and down the opposite end, myself and Louisa. I can almost see her sitting there now. She has a paper hat on her head, and she is leaning her chin in one hand and making her sly jokes the way she used to do; except in my mind’s eye, I realise, she still looks sixteen.
In any case, I can’t be moping around waiting for her this Saturday. We are having our ‘Welcome’ afternoon tea in honour of our new minister, the Reverend R.H. Trinder, for which I have been called upon to bring my Chocolate Honey Roll, as well as a plate of cheese and celery sandwiches, the preparation of which will take me a good part of the morning. This will be our first opportunity to meet him, as he does not commence officially until October; however, we have already gleaned some interesting morsels of information. Apparently he has a superb singing voice, and according to Reverend Davis, who has met him, he was very keen to know if any of the congregation possessed a pianola, for he loves a singalong. (Reverend Davis seemed to be offering this up as an indication that Reverend Trinder might be a bit of a Flash Harry, but in fact we could not have been more delighted to hear it. So much so that I found myself suggesting to Vi later that evening that if Louisa does not wish to claim the Sphinx, I might very well sell it and buy ourselves a pianola with the proceeds.)
The other nugget of information came from an acquaintance of our treasurer, Mrs Purcell, whose sister resides in his previous parish of Wangaratta. Apparently, his marriage is not a wholly happy one; Mrs Trinder struggles with various ailments, some of them apparently imagined; in fact, the terms used to describe her by the sister of the acquaintance were ‘dreary’ and ‘a bit of a spoiler’. So that is interesting. Not that I wish them any ill; as I say, I have yet to meet them. Vi likes to tease me on the subject, however, for the other day I happened to comment in passing that after sweeping out the kitchen, I had accidentally left the broom in the corner of the room. I reminded her of our old superstition, to wit: the sweeper would shortly meet her true love. I made no mention of Reverend Trinder, and yet she immediately assumed he was the likely prospect, even in spite of the fact that he is obviously married; all of which is rather tiresome of her. Also, she insists I left the broom in the corner deliberately, but I know for a fact that it was entirely accidental. It has to be accidental, or the effect is otherwise null and void.
The Boat Trip Home
In fact, the making of the Chocolate Honey Roll did not take as long as I thought it would, and it has turned out very nicely (some slight cracking is inevitable, but I have covered it up pretty well with a mixture of cocoa and sugar). I find I still have two hours before I need to even start assembling the sandwiches, for if I commence them too early, they will simply dry out and wilt or, alternatively, become soggy. I have pressed my brown wool suit and laid it out on the bed, and cleaned my good brown dress pumps. The family is out and about engaged in various errands and activities, and so, finding myself with time on my hands, I have been glancing through some of the previous chapters of this memoir.
I see that in my anxiety to explain the circumstances of Darcy and Louisa’s elopement, I had left the chapter concerning the Plain and Fancy Dress Ball unfinished, at the point where John Beck suggested we step outside to ‘take some air’. It is tempting to perhaps document in more detail the various small sighs
and tender caresses and whispered endearments that followed – yet I must stop myself. After all, there hardly seems much point when I shall simply have to go back and excise these more intimate moments for fear of inadvertently startling my nephews. Nor does it seem entirely appropriate to be lingering amidst such memories when I am shortly to be making the acquaintance of our new minister over cheese and celery sandwiches.
To be honest, I am beginning to feel somewhat impatient with myself about it all. There are moments when I find myself thinking, ‘Well, he was simply a cad.’ There are even moments when I say to myself, ‘He may have been a cad but you, Mary Davidson, were a fool.’ Certainly, a wiser, more experienced reader might conclude that John Beck led me up the garden path and back again. I, of course, have drawn my own conclusions and, on most days at least, am inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. So I will provide this one small detail before moving on with the story: that upon kissing me beneath the mulberry trees that night, he murmured softly that my lips tasted deliciously of blackberry cordial (excise all this later).
The Plain and Fancy Dress Ball drew to a close around three in the morning with ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and ‘God Save the King’, and then the Davidson clan and the various whale men who were not immediately departing us made our way down Imlay Street to the wharf, where the Excelsior awaited us. It is a funny thing, but whale men were always hard to dislodge at the end of the season (like splinters, is how Louisa referred to them). They had grown used to the food and the lodging, and they had come to rather like it, as much as they complained about it. It suddenly seemed a big effort to have to go and worry about sleeper-cutting or whatever it was that they were going to busy themselves with in the meantime. My father, ever mindful of the difficulty of procuring whale men next season, was never one to peremptorily boot them out, and often the situation dragged on like this for several weeks. So in fact the only whale man we had succeeded in shaking off that evening was Robert Heffernan, who went home to his mother, but not before accompanying us to the wharf. He had drunk so much liquor that he now felt exceedingly affectionate towards everyone, including Darcy, whom he embraced and called ‘brother’ and told him he was ‘a fine gentleman, I don’t care what anyone says’. He then stood on the wharf and waved forlornly as the men tossed off the ropes and the motor launch putt-putted out.
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