The Frangipani Gardens

by Barbara Hanrahan

  But what was wrong with him, what was he thinking of? Charlie was a grown man, and if he had to have a dream girl it should be a young lady with a swan silhouette. But there’d never been anyone vaguely like it, he’d never felt the need. The Gully mamas took him for normal, while all the time he was someone retarded, who only wanted a baby doll: bisque head with go-to-sleep eyes and April smile with two little teeth; finely formed imitation kid body, stuffed very plump …

  And a voice he’d never heard before started speaking in his ear. And perhaps it was the one he’d longed for, the voice that would tell him what to do with his life. But Charlie listened, and the voice was cruel. ‘Easily undressed,’ it mocked. ‘Patent indestructible dolly, cannot be broken by the rough usage to which a doll is usually subjected.’

  And, against his will, Charlie felt his body get loose — it felt different than ever before. His body leapt out of his keeping, and Charlie who read lyric poetry and picked herbs and chastely loved a little girl began to be lost. A savage animal stirred deep inside him.

  Perhaps it was like that — the feeling only lasted for a short time. Then there was blackness, that lasted till morning. When he woke, he lay in the bed surrounded by clumps of lilies of the valley, wet with dew.

  In the orchards, by the creek, leaning against the gate that said FLOWER HILL — she was always there. And each time he saw her he could do his trick; he loved her so much he cast violets in her path. The flowers appeared out of nowhere, they were gifts to her beauty, and he would love her forever. But then a letter came from Papa, and Charlie must take the first ship home, for Mama was dying.

  He said goodbye to the child, he whispered he’d be back, and she was with him in memory all the way to England.

  Mama died before he got there; Papa was just the same. But Charlie was a different person. He owned a gift he couldn’t hide — for he thought of her everywhere; he was seized by his power at all manner of times and in all kinds of places. It was embarrassing (so many roses, violets, lilies, carnations, primroses and anemones appearing out of thin air): it was wondrous. Charles Roche began to be famous, he was written up in the newspapers and they called it having supposed psychic powers and tests were made at the British College of Psychic Science.

  He sat at a table with the investigators watching, and was seen to sway to and fro. Under the glare of countless lights several roses appeared in his hands. Close examination revealed them to be perfectly natural earth-like products. Dew-laden, as though just plucked from the garden, they had long stems complete with thorns.

  Charlie’s reputation was made. As the leading and most remarkable spiritualistic medium in Europe, he sat at tables in Mayfair and Belgravia, and the better parts of Paris and Berlin, St Petersburg and New York.

  When questioned, he could tell little of his faculty; he had no explanation to offer as to why such happenings occurred. He had no knowledge of the coming of the flowers until he had recovered from the trance-like state that overcame him whenever the manifestations took place. Then, unless they were immediately moved from his reach, he would snatch at the blooms and start to eat them as though famished. Once he forced roses into his mouth, until the thorns so lacerated him that blood flowed.

  And the ladies who were his ardent patrons dabbed their eyes, for it was symbolic, of course. For his lost little-girl love had become part of his act — he loved her so much he let her be famous, too. The antipodean angel-child was as much a legend as Charles Roche, and the ladies sighed, for it was so touching: he was hungry for a sight of her.

  Charlie was Charles all the time, now. He’d become a man who was always looking in mirrors, and he took speech lessons so his voice went deeper and fruitier, more top-drawer and foreign than ever. It quivered fetchingly when he reminisced of the little girl.

  He knew she waited for him to come, and sometimes it was nice to feel maudlin, to ask himself what it was that held him back. Mama was dead, there was nothing this side of the world to hold him. But there was. There was the fame that meant the cash that purchased the breakfast kippers, the lunchtime trout … roast chicken and Stilton, a decent claret … Piccadilly collar, puffed Ascot; Inverness cape, Spanish cloak.

  And he would come into the room for a sitting rather languid, in the dress-clothes that signified a crack West End tailor. For a time the ladies’ tiaras sparkled; then the lights went dim and music played as he waited for his trance to come (he had subdued it to come at his bidding). And now it is a particular evening, and the blackness falls as usual: he is off. But then: Fake, someone called; Fraud, cried another. But he was a clockwork dolly, he couldn’t stop; the act went on till he came to the last bit, the bit they loved. From a long way off, he heard their voices — and he stuffed the petals into his mouth. But they tasted queer, they were silky … it was a silk rose he chewed on, and the poppy was velvet, ditto the buttonhole bunch of double violets. And now the lights hurt his eyes, and people were screaming. They called him Imposter and Charlatan. The ones who had loved him most screamed worst — in London, Paris, Berlin.

  And now he wasn’t Charles, not even Charlie. As Ibhar, Egyptian Magician, many times patronised by Royalty, he greeted his sitters with strange messages and drew pictures of symbolic character on a slate. He was top of the bill with the Celebrated Living Salamander and the Infant Hercules. Seraphs whispered, phantom forms flitted; a new set of locals gasped nightly as Ibhar gripped his hands till carnations sprouted from his fingers.

  And had he always been a phoney, had the flowers always come out of his sleeve? He couldn’t remember, but he knew he hated his life. He was sick of the stink of carbide flares and elephant crap. The circus kept moving on, and Fern Gully seemed like paradise.

  He determined to return; he scrimped, he saved. As well as being Ibhar he was Professor Roche, who read palms and predicted lucky days. At last he had saved enough: at last he was over the sea and in the Hills.

  But Diosma and Lizzie had died, and there’d been no angel-child for years. There was a new set of Gully mamas who didn’t know him, who distrusted his accent and the cut of his cloak. And his money ran out and he camped in the bush. It was romantic, an adventure, with little hardship involved. It was interesting to taste damper and billy tea, and it was summer and thus pleasant to sleep out. In any case, the experience stayed novel, it had no chance to pall, for Charlie didn’t sample it long. For there was a war on and Hills boys were getting killed.

  And you didn’t eat a Berliner bun anymore — now that bun was a Kitchener. And you stopped buying certain sorts of sausage, and that shop where you got those lollies — very sugary, sort of meringuey, sprinkled with hundreds-and-thousands — had its windows patriotically smashed. And there was this old man — Herr Somebody-or-other — and you held him in a neck lock while your dinkum Aussie cobber painted the Union Jack on his bald enemy head. And there was this other one — always sneaking and spying — and the Gully didn’t want him, he was German to his boot straps and, besides spying, he was suspected of sorcery (though who whispered it first, you didn’t recall). He didn’t attend church; and babies went into convulsions at sight of him; and then he was crossing a paddock and the sheep stampeded, and then you knew he must go.

  They hunted him with sticks till they found him, and they cudgelled him, they knocked him down. He fell on his elbow and he stared up at them, he pleaded — for surely they were human as he. But, fallen, he saw their faces change, for his lowly state had turned them into devils. Fallen, Charlie was helpless and they rejoiced in their power — all those virtuous Gully matrons, and the butcher, the grocer, the post office clerk. It was the women who were worst; whose teeth gleamed, whose eyes glistened as they ringed their captured prey. And he remembered Lizzie and the way those women had looked at her. It was his lost little-girl love he’d come back to the Gully to find, but Lizzie’s name was on his lips as they moved in to enjoy their kill.

  But when they left him, he
didn’t die. The quivering pain kept leaping to life, it kept him alive. It was a knife that kept striking, it screamed in his ear; it dragged him on, and everything was red.

  Charlie’s flayed face spurred him on towards the one safe place. He dragged himself through forests of grass, over creeping stems and lion-tooth leaves, veined petals, polished berries, sticks and stones. And he reached the hedge, he lay beneath it; and now Lizzie was with him — the grass was kind, so cool and silky, as it fanned his face. Dusk fell, a moon like a white horn rose in the sky, and small insects nibbled his hair, winged bugs drank his blood, but somehow the pain had stopped mattering.

  And the woman came down the path to lean on the gate. And she saw him, she went away, but he didn’t know.

  As dusk merged with night and the horned moon turned a sharper white, there were rustlings and stirrings, faint whispers. The lane was mazed with shadows — and who were they, what? They stole out from behind trees and bushes; some crawling, dragging, pulling themselves forward, even as Charlie had approached the hedge. Others hobbled, shambled, limped. There were so many of them, so strange in appearance. Some were tall and sullen as thunder; others were small, with owlish faces. They were old and young; they were ageless. Club foot, hunched back, drooling mouth — all were here.

  Charlie Roche had been kind to them once. He’d gone away from the Hills and come back so changed that the proper people didn’t know him. But the outcasts remembered. He was altered, but he was the same man who’d walked with Lizzie; a man without the dainty nerves that ensured you must wince and flinch from the awkward reality of that Tom o’ Bedlam eye, that too naked face. So when Charlie suffered they came to his rescue. Night was their time. Day kept them captive; daytime meant they were the Gully’s unfortunates and freaks, its accidents of birth and circumstance. By day they were cowed and enfeebled; half-things to be hidden away or smuggled about. Yet, by night, hooked hand and great black boot; wolfish glance and swollen head — every imbecility of body and mind — turned noble. Night counted the outcasts among its beautiful monsters. Misshapen as trees and rocks, with the rank smell of beasts, they were heroes as — leering, gibbering — they tended the bleeding man.

  Part Four

  The Duke and Duchess

  1

  Here they were, then, in Sydney, after stepping through a floral arch. He wore his captain’s uniform with cocked hat and epaulettes and medals. She was in mauve, with feather neck ruff.

  And limbless soldiers lined the streets, also paralyzed ones on wheel-beds who could only flicker an eye. But some were disguised detectives, scrutinizing for undesirables. For it was Their Royal Highnesses, the Duke and Duchess.

  They’d reached civilisation safely, after all those foreign places. The Renown made her way majestically along the coast, and the destroyers Anzac, Swordsman and Success convoyed her; she entered the Heads; royal salutes of twenty-one guns thundered as she moved to her Neutral Bay moorings. The harbour scene resembled a carnival at Venice. The route from the warship to the landing stage had been lined with boats, their crews dressed in rainbow colours, with ribbons attached to their oars. Whistles tootled, bells clanged; loyal subjects cheered and waved hankies.

  And now box cameras blinked as the procession moved off. There was a peal of bells from St Mary’s Cathedral; Wirth’s Circus brought out two gaily caprisoned elephants at Hay Street, who waved their trunks in the air. Night fell, and the Rose of York was first favourite as an emblem in flame; miles of electric lamps outlined main buildings.

  Sometimes the Duke looked tired, but his face lit up when he smiled (when he smiled he looked just like the Prince). The little Duchess was adorable. In mauve, in Betty blue, in softest pink.

  And they went on a train trip to the Blue Mountains, and saw glimpses of the true Australia through the window: swagmen, shacks, railway camps, men on horseback. And there was fluttering flag drill on ovals, and kiddies forming more white roses and lifting their voices in welcoming song. But soon it would be farewell; soon it would be Brisbane, Hobart, Melbourne — then Adelaide.

  In the Queen City of the South people were getting excited. You could learn the royal curtsy and buy Duke and Duchess teacups. And a periscope to see them with was a must; likewise a Transatlantic (Concert de Luxe) glass panel radio receiver, fully guaranteed, to hear them on the air from Canberra. If you had infant twins, one could wear a dress made of two miniature flags of Australia; the other might be frocked in a Union Jack. And a railway carriage cleaner’s wife gave birth to a vocal quartet, and three were named Betty and Albert and Edward (the fourth made do with Dulcie).

  Lesser things happened, too. A tiger snake bore nine young ones at the Snake Park; at the Botanic Gardens the dahlias came out. Paderewski, Poet of the Pianoforte, was billed to do a Town Hall recital. And Thunder, the marvel dog, was coming to West’s; ditto that other popular canine actor, Rin-Tin-Tin. While at the Wondergraph, Aussie, the Boxing Kangaroo, would soon take the stage.

  And the invitations were out for the Mayoral Ball. Care had been exercised to ensure that the gathering should be decorous. Except for claret cup, there would be no alcoholic drinks allowed. The presence of any person carried with it a warrant that he or she was a desirable companion. Of course Lou wasn’t going.

  For she was no one, she’d never make the social page, and she didn’t care. She was Lou Mundy — escaped from Girlie, and from dreaming, too. She was herself, set free, and the model nursery was out of bounds forever. For The Frangipani Gardens was O’Brien territory, and a state of war existed, and Sorrento was the hideyhole she’d crept into. No one could get her there. Lou was a good girl who polished and swept. The neater she made the house — each lace doily frilling out just so, the shepherdess ornament smirking dead centre on the mantel, the drawing room clock tick-tocking on time — the safer she was.

  And she started to walk with her arms folded, so it wasn’t apparent she stuck out in front. Which proved she was modest, not a slut at all (no, never — Girlie had lied). And she only looked at males above waist, and stopped sitting under the lemon trees with Garnet; for, apart from damp grass causing piles, the two of them together — so close, so alone — might give him ideas.

  It was odd how concentrating on being good made you aware of countless possibilities for evil. The harder Lou tried to be pure-minded, the worse were the thoughts that came into her head. You folded your arms and it was like giving yourself a secret cuddle; you walked with him and could only think of sitting down. She was all the time conscious of her body nudging a message through her clothes. And Garnet had a body, too: she thought of it as much as her own. Girlie had shown Lou evil — she was constantly aware, now, of the necessity to dodge it; she could never claim innocence again.

  But there were some things it was wisest to shut your eyes to. Those paintings, for instance, in Auntie’s studio. Acknowledging their presence was too hard. And the fact that the door had been open and the lamp left for easy viewing … too difficult, so Lou chose to forget she’d seen them. Pretending was easy … and even if Auntie had done them, she was nothing like the shameless splendid woman with autumn-leaf hair and glittering eyes. Doll’s eyes behind the spectacles were mild; she was an old maid, dead and dry, who’d never dared to play heroine in her life. Entering that room had been part of an elaborate nightmare … though, even if the paintings really were there, what did it matter? No one except Lou and Auntie would ever know they existed. They’d always stay hidden away; she’d never have the guts to bring them out. All unknowing, Lou scorned Doll Strawbridge as much as Ella had before her.

  Lou had changed, and Garnet wasn’t sure he knew her. She was always wanting to be walking — that was one thing. But she walked so stiff; she hugged herself, sort of, and stuck her nose up and never looked him in the eye. And another thing was that the words she said — they weren’t Lou’s. For she talked like the bits of skirt in the books that got passed round after dark in the d
orm. You read them by torch light, and he never had before, but suddenly he couldn’t help it. Though it was nonsense — why did he think that? It was another girl who said, ‘Carry me away,’ and ‘Kiss me until you’ve had your fill.’ Lou wasn’t tempting him, urging him on. She was perfectly proper, with her hands hidden away in her armpits (which was an odd way to walk — why did she fold her arms like that?). She was nothing like the chorus girl who bathed in champagne before invited guests, or that other one lying with a diamond in her navel on a zebra-skin rug. Trouble with Lou was, that she was so wickedly ladylike that she lured him on bad. Her mouth was so good-girl that it had a worse effect than if it had been painted in sealing-wax red. And the way she was always guarding her bodice as if it held something precious, meant he couldn’t keep his eyes off and he knew she wasn’t proper at all; that behind her serene glance lurked the smouldering fire of a passionate nature. But what was he thinking of? That was the book talking for him. It was Lou he walked with … not the odalisque who pressed her breasts together so they made a little cup, and the eunuch poured in wine and then Garnet was the Sultan who bent over her, and started lapping with his tongue.

  And, walking, he wanted to stop feeling guilty. About reading the books; about misleading her about his life. For she’d got the wrong idea; he’d given it to her, she accepted it gladly, and she saw Dad as a jolly gentleman — Santa Claus in a sola topi, written up in the history books as good and brave, a hero who’d crossed impassable mountains and given peaks and plateaus his name. But he had sick on his singlet, his breath stank; most days he lolled in the store, dreaming of gold among the dusty saddles and stock whips, the tins of bully beef. And Minnie wasn’t a dear departed with a MOTHER brooch at her collar. Lou pictured her as an angel, but she’d cursed and cried to escape. For home didn’t have china dogs on the chimney piece and scones coming fluffy from the oven. Home for Garnet was a pug and pine hut, with the ranges all round, inhospitable, untamed. There were wildflowers, yes, but spring was a little season, squeezed between winter that meant floods and mud, and a cruel summer that seemed endless.