‘Lord Jesus, save us,’ she cried. ‘The fallen angels have come.’ They were laughing like geese; their boots were too big for their feet and were clapping, clapping on the roof. Didn’t Tom hear them, too?
It was a sound like thunder. It was a sound in the air like an army marching. The drums were beating, and now they were overhead.
‘Lord save us,’ Eily cried again. She crossed herself, she was shivering. It meant someone was going to die. It was a punishment, there was evil in the house.
It was the fighting at the hour of death. The friends and enemies of the dying among the dead were fighting to claim … but whom? Was it him or her? But Girlie’s papa (who was Eily’s son) — his heart had let him down already; already, for years, he’d been one of the living dead. Poor soul. For, of course it was him they’d come for — and it was a blessing, too. Eily had nothing to fear. She was fit as a fiddle and her bowels kept open, she wore a scapular round her neck. But she wished she had a sprinkle of holy water; she wished Girlie had never been born.
And the four winds of heaven blew upon the house, and a storm came carrying ruin. Birds started falling from the sky — pheasants, partridges, pigeons. And rooks fell, too. And rabbits, hares, even cats … Tom was having a fit, it was thrilling. It hadn’t happened for a long time, and this time he stayed awake and watched it happen.
He was screaming and thrashing about. He ripped at the suit that had him neatly marked off as a Catholic; he threw pot plants. And then he wasn’t just Tom. It was a fit with a difference for, as well as watching himself have it, he felt he shared it with another boy, too. Tom joined forces with that boy who’d been scared by Gran and hated by Girlie all those years. They were together; they were one, as they pulled down Jesus from His hook on the wall and kicked at His swooning face. There was a wonderful shattering of glass as they took their revenge on the events of that terrible day and night, and of all those terrible years. For it was Jesus they kicked at — it was snakes and Vi, orchids and Swells; and Mama’s dying, Papa’s indifference, Girlie’s hate, Pearl’s sinuous embrace.
And Lou heard him. He was walking proof of Ella’s misdeeds; because of him, she could never pretend away her past. All her life she’d been answering those screams; she couldn’t ignore them now. His voice broke through the poetic sea sounds. Tom was having a fit and he needed her. She pushed off Girlie’s arms; she slid from the bed.
And all the time the drums kept sounding, and Granma wailed of famine and pestilence — of feasting on nettle-tops, wild mustard and watercress; of the assuaging of hunger with seaweed, which too often meant the acceleration of death. And, saying it, she fell back on the pillow and Eily got free. Granma O’Brien was dead.
And it was a fairytale, but Girlie had changed roles. Without warning she was the spiteful queen who held out the poisoned apple. And Snow White took a bite and was put in a coffin of glass. The birds of the air bemoaned her.
But, instead of owls and ravens, it was Tom. His voice keened on, calling her to him, and Girlie said: ‘If you go we’re finished. If you choose the brat you’ll regret it forever.’
The new dress was crumpled; the frangipani flowers were crushed. Though they smelled stronger than ever. They were wedding flowers, graveyard flowers.
But Girlie was so small on the bed; she was such a tiny thing. Lou’s will faltered. Girlie’s head was bowed, she was crying.
… and perhaps they might still be friends … and perhaps the hedgehog would like to be petted, but its quills would prevent its being pleasant to stroke.
Girlie was unapproachable. She was hedged with hate.
The little person on the bed raised her head and Lou saw a stranger. She was a little wizened lady with a painted face, but the paint was smudged, all the colours had run and she was crying, but she was smiling, too — it looked like an exercise for sagging muscles.
Lou said her name. ‘Girlie,’ she said. But the face was a mask and its eyes spilled tears and its mouth didn’t answer. This mouth was stretched wide. It was a try at a smile, but there were no laugh lines at its corners …
And, to begin with, it was dark; Tom was feeling his way and he was frightened, for he heard a voice calling. Lou, Lou it called and it was a voice he knew — it was his voice, Tom’s, but each time he heard it he got a surprise.
He watched it happen from a great distance. The child stumbling in the dark, the voice calling on. And how there started to be lights; how servants appeared in shawls and curl papers, and there was the snake lady in a dismal nightgown and the old man clutching his heart and Boy, immaculately braided and frogged. And they were crying Who?, What? and the child was clever. His mouth kept shut, he made himself invisible as the mouse in the wainscot. He crouched, he hid, and their footsteps went by him, the lights passed above his head. Lamps and candles and matches wove patterns up and down the stairs, then the gas brackets came to life with a hiss and he wasn’t so safe. But they had found her, then; they didn’t give Tom a thought …
Tom’s voice was close, now. Lou opened the door and a gust of wind blew in at the window. A storm raged about the house.
And he ran into her arms — he had found her. They were brother and sister and they stood together, and no one would tear them apart.
But Granma O’Brien was dead and fierce squalls passed over Fern Gully; there was thunder and lightning in the sky.
Lou felt clear headed, but tired. How could she have forgotten Garnet and their innocent love? She held Tom’s hand tighter. If they could reach Sorrento they’d be safe. But Girlie came towards them, showing her teeth. It was a smile of hate, and Lou couldn’t move. Though she clung to Garnet with her mind, and she thought of Auntie, too. For surely Doll was the best possible antidote to evil. She was so smally respectable, so dull. Robur tea — grown, dried and picked under the supervision of white men — was her favourite drink. She wore spun silk vests and mercerized lisle hose.
And Tom shielded his eyes, for suddenly a dense cloud of birds flew at his face. Their wings caused a considerable rush of air; they sang and sang, making a continuous clatter and noise. And then the birds were gone; then a snake coiled round his arm, and though he shook it off it fastened to him again …
But it was a dream, everything was but a dream, as Girlie screamed that Lou was a slut. Girlie had seen her lying with her pretty boy under the lemon trees, and Lou was a cheat who would live to regret it, And, as for Cockroach — he would suffer, too, and how had he got that scar, why did his hands like to linger on Tom? And Doll Strawbridge — well, Lou could stop pinning her hopes on to her, for she was a worse whore than even Lou’s mum. Ah yes, why not ask Doll to open that locked door in her studio? Lou would find out the truth about Auntie then.
And hailstones as big as teacups fell on the Gully, a giant’s fist kept punching the sky. Fiery whips lashed the moon and the stars shook with fright and lumps of ice were embedded in melons. Roofs were dented as by hammers; pigs were killed outright and horses and cattle severely bruised. It was a night to remember, and Lou and Tom were out in it, battling their way to Sorrento.
Apples skidded under their feet, and the orchard dipped till the moon was tangled in a thorn bush and a net of branches snared the stars. But then they were climbing up again — the moon floated free, the stars lobbed back into place. Every step you took made the world different. After a while the last hailstone fell.
In the Hills you trusted your neighbour and didn’t bolt your back door. They crept up the passage like thieves. At last they were safe in their room.
Tom was asleep in a trice, but Lou lay awake. She couldn’t stop remembering Girlie’s words about Doll. They were lies, of course. Auntie was perfectly respectable, the very opposite of Ella, and: ‘Only odds and ends from Flower Hill,’ she’d said (meaning chipped potichomanie vases, The Veiled Bride in Parian ware), when Lou had asked what the locked door in the studio led to.
But why should you lock up trifles? — it wasn’t idle curiosity that kept the question teasing Lou’s mind. She longed to forget Girlie and her maligning voice; longed to trust in the virtue of Auntie’s maidenly stockings and vests. But she couldn’t. Until she saw for herself what was behind that door, Doll’s reputation stayed challenged.
So she went out into the garden and down the crazy-paved path. She passed grapevine, nasturtiums, lavatory, and it felt like one of those nights when she’d explored the Bon Marché. She was Lou, escaped from them all — alone in the night, on a quest of her own. She felt strangely elated, wonderfully brave; she might have been a knight-errant, set out to defend Auntie’s honour.
And she came to the quince tree and wondered at what she saw. For the studio was a place of mystery that exactly suited her mood. Its panes of glass defied the darkness and flamed with colour — ruby and amber and inky blue; even the glass that was no colour, shimmered with icy brilliance. For Auntie was a vestal virgin who’d gone off to bed and left her incandescent mantle lamp behind. It was like day in the studio, and first Lou inspected the half-done picture on the easel. It was as tame as ever. Quite lifeless, but ladylike, therefore reassuring. Though Doll’s brushes had been flung down at random, they were caked with water-colour, and she hadn’t bothered to screw on the tops of her paint tubes — this wasn’t so propitious. Something seemed to have made her stop painting and leave the studio in haste.
Lou held the Aladdin lamp and faced the door in the corner. And it wasn’t locked, but stood open. And Auntie had lied.
The room was full of people. Lou was surrounded, the figures pressed forward. The child stooped by the creek and violets swam into her hand; the young gentleman extended his fingers and assorted nosegays sprouted from their tips. And the foaming sea dashed in and a boy and girl were pecked at by birds; and here they were again, stepping from the belly of the big sleeping woman — the girl with a suitcase, the boy with a book. And there was a man from the Bible with a beard full of bees, and a lady with breasts like roses. She was shameless, splendid, with every part of her come alive. Tears trembled in her eyes, her rippling red hair tumbled loose in a shower of sparks, and she held out her naked arms and offered her milky body. The young man accepted, but his floral fingers were spurred with thorns. It was a punishment, she was ripped and bleeding, and the bearded prophet whirled his stick and the roses and violets, the anemones and lilies were slashed to shreds by his rage. He made a storm that tore at green jungles and the boy escaped, but the goose-girl was caught in a wedding-veil shroud and the glittering golden princess loved her as the serpent inched closer. But the girl managed to dodge; she held the boy’s hand and the wind lashed them, poisoned apples rained down, as they ran through the orchard towards the house behind the hedge. It had only just happened, the paint was still wet.
The paint wriggled in anguish, sometimes it had been put on like worms; other times it lay thick as mud, and you saw the marks of her fingers — for a brush wouldn’t do; she must mould it, caress it, bully the picture right. In the studio her brush twanged coolly as she swilled it in water and the paint was diluted, muted; it went on the paper tasteful and pale. But in here she used canvas, and there were the worms and mud — the paint was different, it smelled excited. And the colours were vulgar; they didn’t beg pardon as they assaulted your eyes. There were trees like green flames and blood-red seaweed and stars as yellow as butter. And all those people, acting out their secrets without shame, pushing into the open the unmentionable dreams.
The room was crowded with pictures. Auntie had been painting for years and dust fell on people Lou didn’t know; and on a supplementary cast representing the trappings of high romance: passion flowers and love birds; tropical gardens and parrots and blue-faced baboons.
But she was old, she never got married; she was cast for a rôle as written off as any walled-in nun’s. But Auntie hadn’t played fair. For her prissy lips and Queen Mary dresses were part of a monstrous disguise. The paintings proved it. She wore her hanky up her sleeve and was always washing her hands and never once had she farted by mistake — but it was all a front for a passion worse than Ella’s.
Part Three
Doll and Charlie
It was now — it was then: Flower Hill was home, not Sorrento. And, to begin with, Doll was content. She was Childie — the only one. She had a scalloped flannel petticoat and feather stitching on her collar and a red silk sash. She went for picnics in the trap, and the teapot kept warm as toast in a little padded basket, and you were allowed to hold the chicken legs in your fingers. Father took off his jacket, he rolled his sleeves, but Mother sat under her holland sunshade lined with green, so no ray of sunshine should touch her skin.
And the days made a pattern that turned into years. Now it was summer when you slept under only one sheet and prayed there wouldn’t be a bushfire. Insects flew round the lamp and the passion vine was in fruit; then it started to be autumn and the leaves went the colour of boiled sweets — sulphur and pink and winey-purple. And there were poisonous berries, and fires that smelled of eucalyptus. Then winter: the wet hills looked varnished and there was frost on the lawn. Spring meant wattle with its sneezy smell — it was everywhere.
They were a family of three, and Doll sat at the table with the velvet cloth and drew quietly and with perseverance, as if nothing existed except Mother and Father and herself, pencil and paper.
She drew and drew, she always had. It was a gift, they said, and Father patted her head and called her the foreign name. Wunderkind, he said, and it wouldn’t matter ever again that she couldn’t think of words to say when visitors came; that her body went stiff and she felt strung together with wires. They stared at her, because Father was rich and proper and he shouldn’t have a daughter like that. Her eyes felt weak, they kept blinking, and they lowered their voices — they said it was a pity about the spectacles. Her lips went so dry that her mouth disappeared, and they asked had pussy got her tongue (it was a joke, but Mother didn’t laugh).
But Father had said his Wunderkind. He bought her a paint box and a sable brush you must lick to a point. And they walked hand in hand through the Hills and the road corkscrewed down to valleys of fruit trees and hard-hearted cabbages, ivory white parsnips, onions as big as cricket balls. Then Father put her on his shoulder and they went up-up-up to the summit, and Adelaide was a great city, it was Athens of the South, but Doll saw it shrunk small. Father’s finger pointed out the Gulf, the Harbour, the Bay. Doll saw them all; she saw midget steamers gliding into port, trailing silver shivers behind them.
Well, if you didn’t count Mother’s snapping eyes, it was a perfect life. The visitors didn’t often come. They were mostly three (you didn’t count the servants, either), with Father a gentleman jingling money in his pocket, and afternoon tea on the lawn: quilted tea cosy, milk jug painted with violets; hedgehog cake, chocolate iced, bristling with crushed walnuts and finely chopped dates.
But the older Doll got, the plainer she grew. Mother mourned the red hair and freckles; she had her banished from the nursery and chose another tot to take her place. Ella came and took everything. The rockinghorse and Bubbles, even Father. And now the drawings were ugly; they were wolf people Doll drew, with shiny snapping teeth and she felt dizzy when she did them, they were a surprise when her head came clear. Father wasn’t much interested, but: ‘Why so ugly?’ Mother cried. ‘Why can’t you draw something pretty?’ So Doll’s pictures started to be careful — the teeth kept inside the mouths. But people could always be dangerous; pimples and wrinkles crept in, and Mother cried ‘How dare you — that isn’t my profile.’ So the people were buried in landscape, and Doll had instant success. She did the frangipani trees and the nymphea pond so well.
Mother was easy to hate. She gave whippings and scoldings and put you in the corner. It was she who made you lower your drawers and squat behind the armchair while she pushed up the dreadful hurting thing like a jelly bean
because you couldn’t do your business. You were unhappy. You would run away to the real Australia; eat damper and have black boys for friends.
But Doll was a young lady, now — she must put away childish thoughts. Life wasn’t too bad. There was a laxative you ate for constipation, now, and she went to the School of Design. She drew Greek gods and felt pity for Ella. For little sister had a worse affliction than art. She wasn’t plain, she wasn’t pretty and Mother didn’t know what to do. For Ella was beautiful, she was the fairytale princess exactly, and Father loved her to distraction. Mother couldn’t bear it. She called it unnatural behind the locked door. Doll eavesdropped, it was a mystery she had to solve. She heard Mother’s voice lashing his love to bits. Ella was punished, too. Mother cut off her hair.
And all these things were pictures that hid in Doll’s head. She knew she’d never forget them, that when it was safe she’d let them out. She thought of the paintings she’d make; they’d be so exciting, and her life was so dead. Father ignored her, he was a frozen man with hungry eyes; Mother said ‘What will become of you?’ But she drew, she had authors to read (an author whose works you were fond of seemed like a friend). She was happy enough — she was utterly miserable and no one knew. Mother said it was a blessing the girl accepted her lack of looks.
But Doll saw herself as someone lovely. She loved her red hair — how it was frizzy and the scurf fell like pepper and salt; and she loved every freckle, and her eyes were blue marbles, their lashes were sandy spikes … But they called it being ugly, though she couldn’t see it, herself, as she crocheted another doiley for her hope chest; as she went on blindly believing she’d marry, be artless and ordinary, against the odds.
Mother shook her head. Seventeen, and the girl abhorred parties and balls. She was without an atom of romance.
Yet Doll used to walk through the orchards. No one was about, it was solitary as Eden, with jungles of sweetbriar, meadows of snowdrops and jonquils. It was spring, and she lay in the grass and stared at the sky, and it stopped being Australia — it was England, anywhere, a country out of legend. And then she blushed, she didn’t know what to do, for someone was watching her.
The Frangipani Gardens Page 12