The Frangipani Gardens

by Barbara Hanrahan

  But Doll leaned forward, she held out her hands; she was the carved lady on the front of the sailing ship. And the man was up to them, now, and his face swam pale in the darkness and Tom saw that he was Cockroach.

  Doll was smiling, soft; it was the sort of smile you showed to a lover. Tom wanted to warn her that the man was a devil, but the words were stuck in his throat.

  Ages passed. He was by the gum tree, he was lost in shadow, but he was looking at them, Tom knew it. And it had to be Cockroach, but it seemed like someone else — perhaps the man was even Charlie.

  And now Tom wanted to go to him. It was Charlie, and he loved him, he would forgive him anything; he wanted him inside Sorrento in a world that was safe.

  But Doll held him back. He felt her hands on his shoulders; she was holding him. All the wild life had gone out of her, and she was a weight on his back. She bent over him and her hair drifted down in a soft orange cloud. Her hair was in Tom’s eyes till she lifted her head, and by then Charlie had moved on.

  He was an old stranger, blurred by darkness, trudging up the lane. He stalked on, a huddled shadow man; his shambling footfalls died away. For a moment more Tom saw him, then he was gone. Night took him — or that clump of trees, that bend in the lane.

  And where was he going, what would become of him? Would he trudge on forever, an old man from myth, bound for those lost cities that were part of his past, where wolves howled and snow whirled and the Fat Boy tucked into faggots and mustard pickle, and the Bearded Lady minced forward draped in a tattooed shawl? And would he find peace at last, had he found it already — slumped in tangled grass, sunk away beneath a drift of rusty leaves?

  Tom held Doll’s hand and they walked back through the garden. The jasmine smelled good and that rambler rose was called Maiden’s Blush. The stars made a filmy lace in the sky; the feathery-plumed moths still circled. And Sorrento was so ugly, it was so dear. It was home, such a little house, and Tom was glad to be inside it.

  They sat in the kitchen and Doll said she’d make some cocoa. She was hungry, she said, for she’d been painting so long. And she needed her specs to see with: she fumbled in her pocket and found them. And she coiled her hair, she rubbed off the paint and she was Auntie again, but she was a new person, too.

  There was a warmth about her. She looked worn and sad, but feeling had got into her and she looked at Tom as if she cared who he was. She put her arm round him, she pulled him against her, and she cried for a bit but the milk nearly boiled over and there was bread to cut — great slabs of it, and they ate cheese and ham and the last piece of Christmas cake — anything they could find, for they were famished.

  6

  In the outside world unrest prevailed, and communism and anarchy were spreading. In America the death sentence was passed on Sacco and Vanzetti. In Liberia secret societies of cannibals met, their teeth filed to needle-sharp points. Nearer to home, in Sydney, the Electrical Workers’ Union considered a motion for the suspension from duty of the Lord Mayor because he hobnobbed with the royal party too freely. Even closer, at Port Adelaide, eighty unemployed men lived with rats in a shed on the waterfront; while, closer still (it was unbelievable) other men slept on the banks of the Torrens, and you knew them because they ran round the city carrying a wheat bag — and if the buggers didn’t choose the river to bed down by, they slept in lavatories, ditches, cemeteries and drain pipes.

  It was horrid, you didn’t want to think of it … and in the Queen City, too. For it was a wonderful time to be alive in. People left their ordinary avocations for one more glimpse of the Duchess and her beautiful nature was expressed by simple words and the smile of a sunny soul. And Dame Nellie was going to sing the National Anthem in Canberra; and in Adelaide returned servicemen sang in the Town Hall, though the third verse of ‘Mademoiselle from Armentieres’ had to be censored. And schoolchildren did mass formations on the Oval while the band played ‘Barcelona’. And the Duke’s voice was soft and pleasing, with just a faint trace of a Cambridge accent; and the Duchess had a rose-leaf complexion, she looked particularly charming and: ‘Oh, you wonderful one; you beauty,’ roared men in their enthusiasm, but some people pushed and it was disgraceful, though it had been glorious weather for the Garden Party and tonight was the Ball. And you’d be a striking figure, faultlessly dressed; you’d be in lemon-toned satin de soie; you’d wear a modish toilette, a handsome toilette, an effective toilette; you’d choose a becoming shade of electric blue …

  Girlie had chosen flame crêpe de Chine with velvet poppies round the hem.

  And that morning Boy O’Brien was a hero. He had made up his mind and it was a coloured world again. The sun blazed and he knew what to do. He opened her door and the room was dark; Boy couldn’t see Jim, but he stayed brave. It had taken all night to make up his mind: now it was morning, and he’d entered her room. He went to the window and pulled up the blind. The end was beginning, and now the walls of Pearl’s room were white. She stirred in the bed, she sat up. She pushed the hair-net out of her eyes and her black nightie gaped. She showed him her skinny chest and for a moment he was back in the storeroom with her snail mouth pursed to get him. But he blinked, it was easy — Boy blinked that Pearl away. This Pearl was years older and there were two Jims on the mantelpiece. Her rat mouth, her snake body meant nothing.

  She was a small woman, pale, with shadows round her eyes. Her skin was greyish, unhealthy, her china-blue eyes were faded and this was Pearl now: a pale woman with wrinkles and a twitchy mouth. But she was clever, she knew tricks, she turned herself into a slum child lisping for Jesus. There was a land of pure delight where saints immortal reigned, but the child sat shivering, beseeching — surely he wouldn’t turn her out? But Boy was a stony statue, Pearl couldn’t get him that way, so she snarled and bared her teeth. The room went hot and muffled. Smoke writhed from black candles, there was a sweet smell of incense. A spirit form rose, like the white escaped from the cracked egg, bumping, in its pan of boiling water. There was an animal panting close and Boy was a wax doll, his tongue was a lizard in his mouth. She stuck in thorns and he’d be melted in the fire of her hate. For a while it started to happen, but then Boy hated, too — his hate was worse than Pearl’s.

  He hated; he grew stronger, he escaped her. He watched her face crumple and slowly she moved from the bed. Her skin was pale, clammy, like the soft underside of the soap slab; she had moles, he saw them as she dressed. She was a sleepwalker putting on clothes; she showed him her body without caring, all her power was gone. He told her she must leave. ‘Get out,’ his voice said and she was defeated, she looked wizened as she flung things in a suitcase. He told her Brother Wells was dead and a Boy Scout, too (and it could have been Tom Mundy; it might have happened to a child like the one Boy O’Brien had been).

  Girlie came into the room. Pearl ran to her; she was the servant girl who pleaded in a sacking apron. She was hideous as she begged and entreated. She was ugly, quite powerless, and she’d been a woman Girlie had feared.

  How could she have felt it — the fear that was mixed with love? It was all gone now. The frightened rabbit scuttled and Girlie wanted to laugh. It was pathetic, disgusting — this quivering naked thing before her. But there was Boy to look at: his suit was well cut, his profile was thrilling, and she wanted to press against him, he was the hero she’d sought all her life. He was just like Papa. She’d heard his voice shouting and it was a time before the war, it was years ago and Papa was someone steely and cruel. Girlie sighed with love as she climbed on his villain’s knee. She felt his arms close about her and she sighed with the pain. It was perfect, so pleasant, and she felt little and cringing. A dizzy feeling came and she’d felt it with Pearl. Together they’d been perfectly evil, invincible, and of course it was only pretending; of course magic didn’t exist. But she’d loved Pearl — she’d hated her, feared her — and together they’d seemed like one. Girlie had felt blissful, so big. She had to have someone — she m
ust have an iron arm about her; she must belong to a person wicked and real. Boy was the only one, now. He’d been transformed, unaccountably, in a trice — and he was a soldier, he’d tramped in the mud on dead men’s faces. Girlie felt dizzy. He was strong, a hero. Pearl was buttoning her coat — it was awful, last season’s, with a monkey-fur collar. Boy counted out money. He thrust notes into Pearl’s hand and she was gone. She left Jim behind on the mantel on either side of the remember-me pansies.

  And in Adelaide on Anzac Day soldiers marched through the streets. Medals jingled sweetly as rain fell, and they came closer to the Cross of Sacrifice. Girlie stood on tip-toe, but she was always disappointed — they were always ordinary men out in the rain; she never saw anyone savage enough for a hero … But suddenly there was one in the house. Pearl had departed and they’d get a keeper for the old gibbering man and it would be a new life for Girlie and Boy.

  He let her talk. Her voice didn’t change a thing. The morning passed away; the afternoon went quicker. For a while he looked at Jim’s photo, he wrote a letter telling about Swells, then it was time to dress for the Lord Mayor’s Ball.

  It was autumn, early evening, but the soft golden sunlight of a summer’s morning seemed to have been enmeshed in the Exhibition Building. The lights were on, though it was too early for the Ball to begin. No one had come and the ballroom was empty. Its decorative scheme was charming and suggested a trim English garden with terraces and parterres, hollyhocks, gilly flowers and snapdragons.

  There was no stage, for in its place stood old stone walls and tufted lawns and a fountain throwing up a cloud of crystal water. The poplars on the drop-scene at the back further added to the illusion, and one could almost hear the murmur of bees.

  Overhead, ropes of asparagus fern and ivy were garlanded from the huge central light. The iron pillars supporting the balconies had been painted to resemble tree trunks (some boughs and greenery being added to aid in the delightful effect).

  Pink malmaison roses and carnations decorated the tables in the supper room. Autumn tints were a feature in the smoking and card rooms.

  Boy’s world blazed. It was sunset and colour was everywhere, his mind was suffused. In the florist’s shop there’d been great pails. Shaggy marigolds stuck their heads out of dippers and they were so orange Boy wanted a bite. Once he bit, it was like eating a bird. Orange petals flew everywhere and he swallowed, it was like eating the sun. But in the pails were the tall ones: Canterbury bells, that made mauve cups and saucers; forests of carnations and larkspurs. But it was always violets the ladies bought; the criterion of feminine beauty was to have a large posy of violets tucked amidst the sables. And another good smeller was clematis, like stars, and the lilies went in moist boxes of moss. Some were shell-pink, others exquisite green, and it was green and red in the glass basket when Pearl did geraniums for the window, and once there was a midget orange tree gleaming with fruit (Papa had a great love for small trees indoors). And Boy didn’t hate him anymore and it was sad, but not sad at all. Papa was a florist, there was a shop with marigolds and lilies. And there was the Bristol glass basket and the bird vase, the one like a lady’s slipper, and Pearl tried to get Boy in the storeroom, but now he didn’t care. All his hate was burned away. It was sunset and Boy and Girlie sped through the Hills and would he do it? — he thought so, for the sunset colours were soaking everywhere; they were keeping him brave. They fell on Girlie’s face, they came through the trees. And Boy had loved Jim, such a good love it was, and seed packets rattled — it was mazed in his mind: everything, everyone. Jim and Pearl and Papa and Gran telling the Irish stories and the terrible saints. And Socrates had his head encircled with roses, Caesar concealed his baldness with laurels. They were things you remembered and Christmas was hot, but the shop window went white and silvery. There were little girls with ermine tippets, skating in a snowy landscape. Pearl was clever, she did it with a mirror and sprinkles of glitter. And there was holly and ropes of evergreens, robin red breasts, yule logs. Funny, really. The frost sprinkled on over artist’s gum; and cottonwool snowflakes, tinsel stars.

  All these things were in Boy’s mind as the Dodge sped on. It was wonderful — the sunset and his mind full of flowers and people and Christmas, and the engine accelerating and the car moving at such speed. And it was astonishing; you went over deserts, you reached the South Pole, you were carried higher than ever a bird flew into the sky: they went so rapid, and they were only bodies. Girlie had shaved legs inside her stockings and the poppies round her hem had velvet centres and she rustled so nice, her red lips were slippery, she smiled and smiled and forgot she was a body, that under her skin were blood drops; and there were bones like living pillars and the blood poured round them, it flowed, it whirled, and there’d be boars’ heads for supper at the Ball and they’d had a snack before they’d started — it was to steady their tummies and the toast fingers were soldiers and all about them, now, were explosions. Boy wanted to laugh. Seed boxes were bursting and seeds tumbled out and it was autumn, quite warm, and seeds were jerking; they sprang in Jack-in-the-Box fashion, burst like pistol shots, and you’d be thrown everywhere, anywhere, and Boy wanted to laugh worse. They’d be liberated — Jim had done it before him and you’d be a seed that flew through the air, just a gust of wind would do it, and the bend was coming where confetti dots danced. Over the windscreen they shimmered, these bits of sun. Boy came so fast. And he aimed the car at the sun. They tore up, it was as if a gust of wind got them, Girlie was screaming. Up up they went at the sun and the wind blew and they sank with a beautiful twisting; they were carried so far — down, down — beyond even the trees’ shadow. It was a peculiar twisting flight into a deep gorge, a deep lovely valley. Boy had driven them at the sun, off the road. Down, down they sank. There was an explosion, they were scattered far and wide.

  And it was night, now, and raining which made it perfect. For the slippery pavements swam with lights and they were in strings above your head and you were roofed with flags, too, and now here they were at your feet. And by the river the unemployed shivered and hugged their wheat bags. Lights were everywhere and Victoria Square was a wilderness of Christmas trees and Holden’s Band played at the Town Hall and the pie carts were hidden away. And cars crawled and ladies got out. You saw crystal embroidery, ostrich feathers, satin de soie, taffeta, sequins and there was red carpet going up and people cheered and there was a garden inside and you’d faint, for you saw her, a Duchess, she was charming in a diamond tiara and pearls. It didn’t matter about the men by the river or how natives Far North had cyanide put in their meat when considered a nuisance. None of it was true, only tonight was. They were royal, but they looked like boy and girl. The music started and they didn’t want dreamy waltzes. The Duke requested ‘Hi Diddle Diddle’.

  Other Titles in the UQP Modern Classics Series

  THINGS COULD BE WORSE

  Lily Brett

  After surviving the Holocaust, Josl and Renia move to Melbourne with their daughter Lola Bensky to start a new life. This poignant yet bitingly funny collection of short stories follows Lola’s struggles to come to terms with herself, her place in the local Jewish community and the horrific family history whose legacy is still felt by them all.

  Things Could Be Worse, Brett’s debut work of fiction, was first published in 1990 to critical acclaim. It was shortlisted for the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards and the 3M Talking Book of the Year Award. With haunting illustrations by the renowned painter David Rankin, it introduced the world to Lola Bensky, the eponymous heroine of Lily Brett’s 2012 award-winning international bestseller.

  ‘Lily Brett is a redoubtable storyteller whose humour packs the kind of punch that leaves her readers gasping … Stunning!’ Sneja Gunew

  ‘Brett tracks down a tragic history, yet her writing contains humour, hope and a development towards self-recognition and acceptance.’ Canberra Times

  ‘She also writes with a wonderful comic energy
… and is both savagely and affectionately funny about her Jewish community.’ Melbourne Herald

  ISBN 978 0 7022 5950 0

  Other Titles in the UQP Modern Classics Series

  A DESCANT FOR GOSSIPS

  Thea Astley

  In this classic story of small-town life, two schoolteachers are drawn to each other by their concern for a lonely young girl. For as long as Vinny Lalor can remember, she has been on the fringe of things – in her family and at school. But as the final term of the year progresses, rumour and malice mount against Vinny and her two teachers, sweeping them towards scandal and, for one of them, disaster.

  A Descant for Gossips was Thea Astley’s second novel, released in 1960 in England and Australia. In 1983 it was successfully adapted for television by the ABC.

  ‘A mesmerising novel … a fascinating estimate of the costs of being different.’ New York Newsday

  ‘Beautifully poised and structured.’ Canberra Times

  ISBN 978 0 7022 5355 3

  First published 1980 by University of Queensland Press

  PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia

  Reprinted 1984

  This edition published 2017

  www.uqp.com.au

  uqp@uqp.uq.edu.au

  © Barbara Hanrahan 1980, 2017

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

  Typeset by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane

  The epigraph is from the poem ‘An Invite to Eternity’, in Selected Poems of John Clare, Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd