Loving Daughters

by Olga Masters

  After practically ignoring them as small children, he enjoyed making his morning rounds and watching them fling the clean sheets on the beds, one on either side, their sturdy arms and well developed busts moving in time with their talk rippling from room to room.

  Percy had little more to do than spend an hour every afternoon with the hotel books in his smoking room, and Alice brought him tea there. He received her civilly now that all those girls she bore had become a bonus.

  Enid and Una had stayed there two or three times since Nellie’s death and Jack saw no reason why Una couldn’t go now (since Enid thought it a good idea) and he would pay for her room and meals like any guest.

  An hour or so later Una was not taking to the idea at all. ‘Go to Percy’s I will not!’ she just about shouted, snatching a blouse from the bed, for she was studying it, with the idea of cutting a pattern from it. She stuffed the blouse under her arm and sprawled on a chair like a rag doll flung down and furious about it. Enid looked guilty.

  ‘Well you might look guilty!’ Una said. ‘You suggested this to Father!’

  ‘Father suggested it!’ Enid said, not fully conscious of lying. It was for her own good!

  ‘There’s nothing there!’ Una said. (Did she mean there was no one there?) ‘Nothing but jerry pots to empty and that great fat Sybil stealing my talcum powder and trying to squeeze into my clothes! Helping making those millions of beds! Sleeping in that attic room, or trying to with them giggling all night about the boys they were chasing. And never caught, I might add!’ (Was she thinking she had caught one?)

  ‘That’s all nonsense,’ Enid said. ‘Father would pay for you. You would be like a guest.’

  ‘Then come with me and be another guest!’

  ‘Violet can’t look after everyone here and the baby as well. You could see today what a handful he is!’

  An image of Small Henry rushed to Enid. She put her arms out foolishly, then to use them pulled the shams from the pillows and plumped them.

  She decided that next time Small Henry came she would give Violet these pillows to lie him on. She held one briefly to her face to smell the lavender, thinking of it mixed with the smell of Small Henry for her to fall asleep with.

  Una was at the mirror with her head tipped sideways, brushing her hair then coiling it, frowning critically as if it was of great importance that it turn out well.

  ‘I might take a walk to Violet’s tomorrow for company for her for an hour or so,’ Una said.

  ‘Remember the ironing! We’re a day behind this week!’

  ‘Of course! That funeral put everything out!’

  ‘The funeral had to be!’

  ‘One could scarcely leave the body lying around!’

  ‘Una, you most definitely need a holiday!’

  ‘Well, I’ll take a short one – to Violet’s and back tomorrow. Leave my share of the ironing!’

  She went out, no doubt, thought Enid, to tinkle away at the piano, rousing Jack’s wrath whether up or in bed, for he was firm about the girls being in bed by nine o’clock.

  Enid sat to take off her shoes. It seemed she was going to bed. She didn’t want to. Her place in the bed did not look as if it wanted her.

  Always she had been eager for bed, to lie in that gentle gully between waking and sleeping, knowing sleep would come as surely as a cloud races across the sky, only stopping when it reached a place that appeared waiting for it.

  There it broke up, and when you looked a moment later it was all in pieces, frail as the wafers at communion that dissolved swiftly on a warm tongue.

  She remembered his hands taking that cake yesterday. All that long time ago! She knew he was trying not to look clumsy, but to lift it expertly.

  She stood putting her toes back in her shoes and pulling them together on the floor, her back to the alien bed.

  She decided it would be foolish to go to bed with sleep so far off.

  I’ll find something to do in the kitchen, she said to herself. And should Jack find her there, she would explain that the funeral had put her all behind.

  13

  Edwards was not home when Una went to Violet’s.

  The rectory was deserted and the horse and sulky gone. Violet had seen him go towards Candelo after Rachel had taken him a message from the Post Office. She had been on the verandah giving Small Henry some air. He went about nine o’clock and it was late afternoon when he got back. Violet and Una missed him then! Small Henry was crying and Violet making tea in the kitchen, keeping an eye on Una hovering near his door. She didn’t want a spoiled child on her hands, constantly crying to be picked up. That was all he was up to, all of four days old he might be!

  They did not hear the clop, clop of Edwards’s horse on the road and when they went to the front gate, Una to go home, there was the sulky under the gum and the horse standing in a state of great boredom and Edwards obviously inside had not yet raised a window. (If he bothered to.)

  Oh come on out, come on out! cried Una’s heart, dawdling along while trying to give the impression of walking at a normal pace, for Violet was watching. A thin wisp of smoke rose from the chimney stating he was occupied with the fire. It seemed also to say, Run along home, I’m busy! She wrenched at the flounces of her silk dress, as if it was their fault. He might have seen her if she had worn something dark. Her fawn tussore was too light for this time of year, but he had never seen it! And wouldn’t now! She would soon have to break into a run to avoid freezing to death. The visit was a failure!

  Edwards coaxing the stove to burn felt his was too. The message had come unexpectedly from the archdeacon in Bega who was visiting the minister in Candelo to talk parish matters with him. Candelo was midway between Bega and Wyndham, the same distance to travel for both archdeacon and Edwards, who in the archdeacon’s view would benefit from the meeting. Edwards went eagerly. It was a chance to talk to the archdeacon on a matter closer to his heart than anything else. He must say something to someone soon or he would burst!

  He walked the archdeacon to his car after a two o’clock church service with the most devout of Candelo turning up. The archdeacon hooked his thumbs in his vestments. He was the kind who would snap his braces if he wore them.

  ‘My dear boy,’ he said, and Edwards was sure he put meaning into the word boy. ‘You know what St Paul said. It’s better to marry than to burn!

  ‘In your case you will have to continue to burn!’ Edwards’s face did indeed burn.

  ‘No, out of the question while you have that term at Wyndham. Your stipend can’t be increased, and I wouldn’t advise two trying to live on it.’

  In his misery Edwards was silent.

  ‘Unless the girl is wealthy of course.’ Wealth in Wyndham! The archdeacon’s short, breathing bark said this in telling scorn.

  ‘Wealthy or not, the council decided on a single man for the Wyndham post. Single he must be!’

  The archdeacon took his thumbs away and settled his vestments tidily on him.

  Edwards allowed the dust to swirl around the back wheel of the archdeacon’s car before he untied his horse, grateful despite his disappointment for that.

  Adding to his misery was the fact that he missed Enid or Una – he didn’t know which.

  He now slammed the stove door shut on the fire, deciding he had done enough for it, and it would have to do the rest on its own or die (for all he cared) and went off to the bedroom to get out of his best clerical clothes. Bobbing down to pull off his trousers he saw through the window a small female figure about to disappear around the bend on the road to Honeysuckle. Una or Enid? She wore a dress of a light colour blurred in the afternoon light. The girls were not alike close up, but at that distance, both slim and neat, he couldn’t tell which it was.

  He stared at the empty road longing for a mirage to return her, then turned at last and sat on his bed which was not made. He got up,
got into other trousers, straightened the sheets near the pillow, plumped it and smoothed at the quilt, only succeeding in showing up the rumpled blankets more. He thought of the Herbert beds he had glimpsed from time to time at Honeysuckle. There were folded eiderdowns across the foot, gleaming white quilts and pillow shams stiff with starch and lace.

  He walked about the room picking up a towel and a dirty sock, for he had left in a hurry. He should have a housekeeper every day! The archdeacon had one, a comely woman, as he remembered her, for the archdeacon had been widowed ten years or more. He would like a wife for himself, perhaps the housekeeper to move into his bed? His cold grey eyes had gone colder and his lean hard jaw went in and out when Edwards had mumbled about marriage. A dog in the manger, most likely!

  Then he dropped on his knees and put his head on the quilt in repentance. The image of the archdeacon’s face stayed before him, so he put another head there. Enid or Una’s. Which one had been to Violet’s? Which one had he missed seeing? He rose and went to the kitchen with two circles of grey dust on his knees.

  He made himself a meal of cold meat and some sliced cold potatoes and sat watching the black kettle stubbornly refuse to boil. The spout was the long nose of the archdeacon and the lid, a bid archdeacon eyelid lowered on unrelenting eyes. He saw his dusty knees and went and sat in the front room brushing at them. Across the road he saw the light still on in the Post Office window for it was not yet closing time. He could go across for stamps and chat to Rachel. She might mention Enid or Una visiting Violet. Rachel sometimes baked him a pudding from leftover mixture, for she was not yet disciplined to cooking for one. Remembering her husband’s appetite for her apple cake and rhubarb pie, she thought of him while mixing the ingredients and ended up with too much, so put the surplus in a small dish and when it was cooked carried it to Edwards or whisked into her kitchen for it when he called for his mail.

  It would be nice if she had some pudding for him now, although he would have to look surprised if she produced one.

  If there was pudding at the Post Office for Edwards he never got it, and he did not get his stamps either, for Violet waved to him from her front verandah, frustrated as she was by Small Henry whingeing most of the afternoon, then falling asleep right on feed time. Ned had gone off into the bush in his shirtsleeves, after sitting over a fire all day. The man was mad! Violet went angrily past Small Henry’s door to look for diversion from the front verandah. She was rewarded. There was Edwards. She went to the gate and opened it for him.

  Violet turned over a cushion on a verandah chair squashed flat by Ned over a week’s intermittent sitting. She took the other chair. Let Small Henry sleep on and Ned go to Burragate, ten miles away, if he wanted to.

  ‘You missed Miss Herbert,’ Violet said. ‘I think she would have liked to have seen you.’

  Miss Herbert the elder, or Miss Herbert the younger? These people were ignorant of the etiquette of using the Christian name of sisters other than the eldest. He might have expected that!

  He looked expectantly on Violet’s fingers gently tapping her chair arms but they gave nothing away.

  ‘I was in Candelo,’ Edwards said. ‘Meeting the archdeacon there.’

  ‘Is he in good health?’ said Violet, who had seen him but once in her life.

  ‘Very good health,’ Edwards said, fighting a desire to have him terminally ill.

  ‘Is Miss Herbert well?’ Edwards said, looking at his knees to which some dust was still clinging.

  ‘Very well indeed!’ said Violet. Oh, this was funny! He was bursting to know which Herbert girl was here, and she wasn’t saying. There would be a laugh with George over this!

  ‘Miss Herbert came to see the little child?’ Edwards said. ‘Her concern is natural.’ He saw Enid’s face bending over Small Henry, then changed it to Una’s.

  ‘We did intent taking a walk,’ Violet said.

  Una’s face had turned glum when she saw the sulky gone, and she lost interest in giving Small Henry some air.

  If only he knew this! She sneaked a look at his face, a brownish jaw for he was out in the air a lot, not cooped up in the rectory. A healthy man! Feeling stirred around Violet’s thighs. His were strong under the stretched cloth of his trousers, a grey pair he alternated with his black ones. Violet flicked her eyes away after running them over the fly.

  ‘I need to see Miss Herbert soon,’ Edwards said.

  Oh, do you? Violet thought, watching his face now on the Post Office where Rachel had pulled down the blind and was carrying the lamp to her kitchen.

  ‘I want to start a kitchen garden at the rectory,’ Edwards said, brushing his knees. ‘I’m sure with Miss Herbert’s advice I could get one going.’

  ‘Now is the time to get the ground ready for spring planting,’ Violet said, wondering if it would be possible to get a spade into Ned’s hands for what she was now calling in her mind her hospital garden. The thought was a brief one. Edwards thought it was Enid who came! She would keep this up!

  ‘Enid remarked once that the ground behind the rectory would grow anything,’ Violet said. Enid said nothing of the sort. But it was true of the ground, lying dormant for years, and eager to give life. She saw them spading together, his masculine back and Enid’s slim one. They were suited, she thought. She watched his face slyly for a reaction. His chin did lift a little. Yes, he had an eye on Enid, or maybe one eye on each of them!

  ‘Have you had tea?’ Violet asked. My goodness, things would change for him if Enid got into that rectory kitchen!

  Edwards rose and said he had. He was nervous in Ned’s company and he heard his footsteps in the back of the house. Violet heard them too. The steps were measured and dull, Ned was talking with them as usual. It’s late, what are you doing out there? Oh, he can go to hell! Violet got up and stood with her back to the verandah rail as if she were a door closed against Edwards’s threatening departure. She saw his face full on now, a softened anxious face like that of a retriever she had as a girl. She had teased it too, laughing at its begging eyes and throwing a bone she had for it unexpectedly to Foxie their old cattle dog. ‘You don’t deserve it, bad dog!’ she had said, aware that there was no cause for punishing the retriever, only a desire to make her cringe with her chin on her paws and a great sorrow in her eyes.

  ‘Have they provided you with any gardening tools?’ Violet asked. I’ll see how practical this man is and how serious he is about his garden.

  ‘I believe there is something there,’ murmured Edwards.

  Something there! A pick and crowbar probably, in an advanced state of rust. Another useless man! (Ned had taken a few more steps in the kitchen.)

  ‘Well, there are plenty at Honeysuckle,’ Violet said, and Edwards’s face grew even softer.

  ‘A pretty name that,’ he said and went down the steps, putting his hat on and taking it off to say goodbye.

  More than the name is pretty down that way, Violet thought.

  Edwards stood with his hand on the gate as if he might say more.

  What?

  Then Small Henry cried, a wail loud enough to drown out Ned’s footfalls.

  Edwards lifted the latch of the gate and got himself away. Violet stamped her way to the kitchen.

  You don’t stay happy long in this place, she said to herself, slapping the feeding bottle on the table.

  14

  On his way to the rectory Edwards looked in the shed for gardening tools.

  He was supposed to keep the sulky there but, using it fairly regularly, he left it under the big tree, something not approved by St Jude’s wardens who were complaining among themselves about the deterioration of paint and leatherwork and were clearing their throats to say something before too long.

  Edwards looked hard in the gloomy interior. In a corner there was something shovel shaped with a very short handle and a rake with a very long one and big bent and rusty teet
h. Not much could be done with those!

  He did not bother examining them but went outside to survey the ground between the back door of the rectory and the lavatory where he decided the vegetable garden should be.

  He could not picture any production there. The ground seemed hard, as if it would resist disturbing, and the short grass waving about looked as if it was in charge. There were some tufts of foreign growth. One was a wild rose, thorny and half lost in the grass, and against the fence there was some foliage that he thought would be lilies and there were a few geraniums, not low and thick and studded with blooms as in Enid’s garden, but grey-stalked like miniature ragged trees and a smell of rankness hanging about them.

  He went inside to find the fire had burned and the kettle singing. This cheered him and he made what he called some decent tea and sat in the warmth and drank it with some bread and parishioner’s jam, thinking of a discreet time to go and visit Honeysuckle. The day after tomorrow? That left tomorrow stretching interminably.

  His day started early for he rang the bell at seven o’clock for a church service. Only once in the six months he had been in Wyndham did he have a congregation, a traveller staying overnight at the hotel and up and waiting for the mail car long before it was due. He heard the bell and scuttled to the church, slipping into a back pew without a sound so that Edwards going through his swooping motions and bowing at the altar as he did when alone, almost slipped on the altar step when he turned and found him. The fellow turned out to be a nuisance. He followed Edwards into the rectory where the fire was out and made it plain that he expected to eat with him.

  Remembering the occasion Edwards fell to thinking what a difference if Una (or Enid) had been there, marvelling that he did not give them a thought at the time. He imagined one of them now (which?) bringing tea and toast to the living room fire. He saw eyes shyly lowered and a mane of thick hair brushing a smooth cheek.

  He got up sharply and went into his front room as if drawn there by the image. It was tidy, but cold and lifeless. Mrs Watts kept the brass fender polished and the table dusted but this chilled the room rather than giving it a homely look. He never lit a fire there, the kitchen stove being enough for him to wrestle with.