All the Nice Girls

by Barbara Anderson

  ‘Of course,’ said Erin, attacking his pyjama top with quick stabs of the iron, ‘you realise that we’ll stay with you when she gets back.’

  ‘Why, Mum?’

  ‘It’ll be filthy,’ said Erin with the unconscious wriggle of satisfaction of one who knows her subject. The chaos in which Mary chose to live since her defection had been sighted before, marvelled at and grieved over. ‘She was always so tidy, and now look at it.’ Mary’s present way of life had the anthropological interest of that of a distant tribe—the Dyaks perhaps or the Mud Men of the New Guinea Highlands: fascinating if you could stand the shock, but not to be stayed with. ‘And anyway,’ she continued, ‘we can’t stay with that man there. So we’ll just sleep here and go along by the day. It’ll be company for you at night.’

  Erin waited for her sister, her own sister, not to come and see her. She waited with the same impatience she waited for Bertha not to thank her for the cases of apples she sent her. Apples which Bertha, whose tastes were for the more exotic mangoes, pawpaws and sweet Island bananas, never touched. She left the case opened at the wharf with a card saying ‘Please take some’. They disappeared plus the box. She was bombarded by letters from Greytown. Had she received the case? It was now four, five, six days since Erin had taken it to the railway herself. Where was it? Should Erin start enquiries? Bertha rang. Thank you, she had received the apples. Well, that was nice to know. Just as long as Erin knew. Things did go astray. She had only wanted to know. ‘It’s very kind of you, darling,’ said Bertha cheerfully, ‘but don’t send any more. I can’t cope with a case on my own.’

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ said Erin and sent another next week.

  Bertha came billowing down Calliope Road in a ridiculous flowing cape. She embraced her sister. The iron and board disappeared in black.

  ‘Look out!’ cried Erin.

  ‘And how are you, luvvie?’ asked her sister fondly, thrusting a damp paper parcel of freshly caught kahawai into Erin’s hand and extricating her cloak with the other. The double-handed dexterity of the fan dancer had stayed with her.

  The rugby injury had disappeared. His place had been taken by a gnome with his teeth in a glass who lay mumbling at the ceiling.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Sophie. He leaned on one elbow to glare at her.

  ‘I am shat of this place,’ he whispered. ‘Get me out of here.’

  ‘I …’ she began. But he was mumbling again.

  ‘Is he like this all the time, Arnie?’

  ‘No. Sometimes he’s looking for paradise.’ Small, old and battered, Arnie grinned at her. ‘I can’t help him there.’

  Nor me Arnie, nor me.

  ‘What do they say, Arnie? The doctors?’

  ‘Oh, there’s physio and God knows. They talk of swimming. I’m a real sailor, I can’t swim.’ He leaned back. ‘But I’m getting there. It takes time, they said. Anyway,’ his eyes flickered, ‘there’s your Mum and Dad.’

  ‘They’re going soon.’

  It is just a question of my lover, Arnie, and, of course, my husband. The nail marks on her palm convinced her. It was real, this astonishment, this impossible mess.

  ‘How’s the boy?’

  ‘He’s coming to see you tomorrow. He’s got it all worked out.’

  ‘Aye?’ He saw the bent head, the concentration, the timetables.

  As she was going he grinned, took her hand, pulled her down to him. ‘I dislike this place,’ he whispered.

  *

  Edward rang each day. Her parents returned each afternoon ‘in time to help’, Erin bringing travellers’ tales and action, Keith silence and his book.

  The telephone calls were less satisfactory than formerly. Sophie desired her lover, ached for him, wished him to be naked beside her or under or over but there. Here. There. She leaned against the wall in despair, stuck her tongue out at the bloated puffball on the calendar. ‘Uncle Sam Goddam,’ she moaned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want you.’

  There was a pause. ‘Tonight,’ he said, ‘after the Australians’ cocktail party. Even if we have to hire the Ops Room.’

  She had always loved him.

  The quarter deck of the Australian frigate was lined with side curtains lashed to the stanchions in an attempt to keep the wind out. You had to be careful where you put your feet. There were bollards and ring bolts. It was cold. Men in snug doeskins or city suits gravitated to the edges. Women huddled inside this inadequate protection like Western pioneers encircled by wagons. The wind was freshening. The RAN band played ‘Moon River’. Tricia, the engineer’s wife, was shivering in Thai silk. She had left her mohair shawl in the Captain’s cabin. How could she have been such a fool. She will have to send someone for it. But who? Hedley is sweating far away in the South Pacific. She misses him. ‘Fool,’ she moans.

  The young ladies from the Middle Watch of the Navy League also shiver. Some are half-naked with shoestring straps against their smooth creamy or brown shoulders and short skirts beneath. One is in flaming red chiffon with hair heaped and piled and tangled above her head like one of Lou’s posters. Another has a cropped flapper haircut. She is small with round red cheeks and bright eyes. She is a sparky lady and looks as though she might come skipping or sauntering on stage dressed as an Edwardian masher with a top hat and cane to tell the party that she is Burlington Bertie, she rises at ten-thirty as if they cared. There is a lot of laughter from the Middle Watch ladies and courteous attention from the Royal Australian Naval officers especially the Jimmy who seems to be particularly good at it.

  A small uniformed man standing beside Sophie sighed. He had two-and-a-half gold stripes on his arm. Soft fair hair fell across his face.

  ‘Have you enjoyed your time in New Zealand?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ve only been here half a day.’

  ‘Oh.’ They stood side by side in rigid social unease.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured and departed. Sophie never saw him again. She pictured him curled up on his bunk with a book. He seemed the type. The canapés were good.

  The band was now confiding their lack of wooden hearts. Time passed. But slowly. Sophie was warm in her patchwork and jersey. You do learn some things. She stood and smiled. Where was Edward? One or two of the Middle Watch were getting a glow on. The stewards were assiduous. There were no empty glasses. The frigate was not a long ship (William) and the drinks were strong by civilian standards.

  The officers, as always, paid for them. The keen men drink very little and never at sea (William).

  The Commodore appeared smiling. ‘Soon,’ he murmured. Their fingers touched.

  The band burst into ‘Ramblin’ Rose’. Captain and Mrs Featherston were visible across the crowded deck. The Captain smiled and waved. Mrs Featherston nodded.

  Everyone leaped to attention for ‘God Save the Queen’ with that awkward hopping movement which is always more noticeable in women than men.

  The stewards had ceased serving drinks. ‘God Save’ had finished. The party was over.

  ‘You’ve got your car?’ murmured Edward.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Park near the Devonport fish and chip shop. I’ll send the car back. Walk down.’

  ‘What!’

  It would be less risky than the Operations Room but not much.

  He arrived without his cap, his Burberry buttoned to the neck, a steaming parcel of fish and chips in one hand. She had a vivid glimpse of a tall tree bending, of arms reaching upwards to Clarissa.

  ‘Best in Auckland so Tollerton tells me.’ He laughed at her startled face. ‘No, no, weeks ago. Let’s go down to the boat ramp. Good place at this time of night.’

  It was dark as they drove past Elizabeth House, not a Wren in sight. ‘Some day,’ he said, ‘we’ll live down this end. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Sophie, melting, self-destructing with longing.

  She parked facing the black hole of the harbour. The wind tugged the car. It was colder than ever. The lights of Auckl
and were far away.

  He unwrapped the newspaper, sniffed the hot greasy smell as it filled the car. Permeated. ‘Fish first, or chips?’

  ‘Fish.’

  They lay in the back seat after he had ditched the discards, mopping their shining fingers, their oily mouths.

  He belched, hammed it up. ‘Oops, pardon.’

  ‘Give over,’ said Sophie, her eyes bright with tears.

  ‘I once tried to teach a parrot to belch,’ he said. She reached in the space below the dashboard, handed him connubial tissues.

  ‘When?’

  ‘I worked hard on him for weeks. Day after day. Didn’t work though. He was a good talker, too.’ He thought about it. ‘Something to do with his tongue, maybe.’

  ‘What did Clarissa say?’

  ‘It was after Clarissa.’ He wiped his hands again, scrubbed his mouth. ‘Dear old Cocky.’

  ‘Sophie?’ he said later.

  Her voice was muffled. ‘Yes?’ He lifted her head from his chest to ask her.

  ‘Can we go to your house?’

  ‘My mother’s in the double bed and my father’s in Arnie’s room.’

  ‘I want to lie beside you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t want to scramble about in the back seat. Not tonight.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We did all right on the floor. In the front room. When …’ The name had disappeared. ‘When you found the cat.’

  ‘Chester.’

  ‘Chester.’

  ‘Yes, we did, didn’t we?’ She sat up, lifted her arms and clasped them around his neck. ‘Why not?’ she said.

  The luxury, the God-given luxury of a whole floor, of carpet, of room to manoeuvre. The hardness was nothing. They fell upon each other like thieves, robbed each other like felons and were generous in return.

  ‘Sweet Christ,’ he whispered.

  ‘Nnnn.’

  He sat up. She could see him only dimly. They had not left a light on.

  ‘I have to go down to Wellington soon,’ he said. Fingers and thumb came up, rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  She sat up, knelt before him shivering with cold.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Routine. Programme meeting.’ The hands reached to welcome her again.

  ‘Love you,’ he said.

  The overhead light was blinding. Keith Driscoll stood aghast, an abject slippered Pantaloon with one hand on the switch. He gaped at the naked figures on the floor before him. His daughter, kneeling on her haunches. Some man. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he gasped. ‘My book.’

  Horror leaked from his eyes. ‘I came for my book.’ He turned off the light. ‘Oh my God, my God,’ whispered the darkness as he shuffled away.

  Sophie was inconsolable. Edward could not help. He had never seen her cry before. Tears splashed, literally splashed down her face. Her mouth was anguished as an expelled Eve’s.

  ‘What is it?’ he begged. ‘All right. All right, it’s terrible. Your father—but what is it?’

  He could get no sense from her.

  ‘No, no, no. You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Well, tell me, darling heart, tell me.’

  ‘It’s the apple grader all over again,’ wept Sophie.

  Her parents left the next morning, Erin driving as usual because of the motorway.

  The surge of loss, of something missing, which usually dogged Sophie’s farewells with her parents, was absent. She was numb. She no longer clung to the blind hope that one day they would learn to play the game like other families; like naturals.

  Erin unwound the driver’s window to tell Sophie they had had a nice time. A very nice time. Yes. And Ben. Well, she could only hope. Time they were off. She rewound the window, still trying to say something. Yes, she called behind glass. Lovely. Love to the children. Goodbye. She gave a final wave. Her lips moved. Goodbye, dear. Look after yourself. And thank you.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said her father.

  NINE

  ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here,’ said the sign above the poodle-cut head, ‘but it helps.’ It was surrounded by postcards: the Hawera water tower, lambs among daffodils, the Parthenon. And Peter Pan at the bottom. Peter Pan in bronze, piping away for ever in Kensington Gardens. Sophie sat waiting.

  ‘It’s like this,’ said the woman, riffling with quick laden fingers through case notes labelled ‘McNally, A’. A black Oroton bag clanking with wide gold chains lay on the desk. The shoes had been bought somewhere else. Sophie watched the spectacle frames and counted the rings. Five. Almoners, social workers, whatever they are called now, used to be serene comforting ladies noted for homemade bread at ward parties; soothers and smoothers with an aura of homespun.

  ‘It’s like this,’ she said again, fixing Sophie with eyes as wild as Cracker’s. ‘There is no reason why Mr McNally should not go home at this stage.’

  ‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘Except that he can’t look after himself.’

  ‘No, no, of course not.’ More riffling, ‘But I understand, Mrs— Flynn, was it? Yes, Flynn. And I’m Maureen Ridge. I understand Mr McNally was living with you.’

  ‘Yes. But my husband is coming home from sea and …’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  Sophie took a deep breath. ‘Mr McNally came to live with us because he needed help …’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He was incontinent and starving.’

  The shoulders moved beneath the lambswool.

  ‘And Dr Pleasance was assessing him and arranging Meals on Wheels and for the district nurse to call and …’

  ‘That won’t be enough now, I’m afraid.’

  Listen, Oroton, I am very fond of Arnie. He is my friend. He will come home with me. But I have a lover and my marriage is over and how am I going to tell him and he didn’t ask Arnie to stay. You sit there in your Cubans dispensing and allotting and making suitable arrangements day after day. As you should. As you are paid to do. You work hard, you will go far, but think, woman, think. Some situations are impossible however hard we organise and this is one of them and all right it’s my fault but I love him see, not that I would tell you. Not a chance lady. Not an iceball’s chance in Hades. Not till the busy world is hushed, the fever of life over, and our work done. Then Lord in thy mercy …

  She leaned forward. ‘Mrs Ridge …’

  ‘Maureen.’

  ‘Maureen. There must be residential homes …’

  ‘Oh there are, there are. The North Shore is well served in that way, you’re lucky over here.’ Her hands reached for another file. ‘Rewarewa’s the nearest. But the problem is that Mr McNally falls between two stools if you see what I mean. He doesn’t need hospitalisation but he’s shaky on his pins. A very slight residual weakness in the left leg and they have to be pretty spry for Rewarewa.’ The voice dropped. ‘Just between ourselves, they’re not too struck on walking frames even. And they won’t have a bar of wheelchairs …’ The poodle-cut head shook in defeat.

  There was nothing to say.

  ‘How mobile is Mr McNally?’ she said after the pause. ‘Can he get to the bathroom by himself for example?’

  More riffling.

  ‘The toilet? Yes, with a stick.’ The Milford Track staff would come in handy.

  Maureen Ridge stared at the face in front of her and gave her verdict.

  ‘If you are unable to accommodate Mr McNally, then of course I must make alternative arrangement as regards placing him.’

  Sophie was on her feet. ‘He comes to me. To me! But not for ever,’ she said pink with shame. ‘Not for ever.’

  Maureen, calmed by an over-emotional response, adjusted her spectacles once more. Her eyes were stilled, her hands quiet beneath their cargo of rings. ‘I quite understand, Mrs Flynn. One’s family must come first. I’ll make arrangements and we’ll discuss it later.’

  ‘And Mr McNally? Will he be consulted?’

  The laugh was phoney as Tinker Bell’s. ‘Of course. But in the meantime …�
��

  ‘He comes to me. Us. Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘And of course they’ll probably recommend physio.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The corridor shone. Sophie strode out into the real world, the world where she could tell Arnie how lucky he was and get on with it.

  He was coming home tomorrow.

  Sophie helped him into bed. ‘Better now,’ he gasped. ‘Better, thanks. Better.’

  Rebecca had put Bluey and his cage beside the bed to welcome him. ‘Bloody bird,’ he muttered, turned his face to the wall and slept.

  His hands shook with excitement at The Book of Knots. ‘Mum got it out for me on her card,’ explained Kit, demonstrating bowlines on the dining room table. ‘It’s in Adults.’

  ‘He’s back then, is he?’ said Edward.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great. And when’s William get back?’

  ‘The twenty-fifth.’

  ‘Of course. Of course. Tonight then.’

  ‘He’s just come home. He might need me. You know, in the night.’

  Silence.

  ‘I know, I know. Tomorrow. Please come tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘It’s the Harbour Board annual dinner.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Wednesday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Arnie,’ she told him. ‘My man is coming tonight.’

  He looked away. Picked up his nutty old binoculars, stared at the harbour. ‘It’s your house,’ he said.

  His friends came bearing gifts.

  Bertha arrived with kahawai. She shook his hand warmly, sat opposite with her denim legs wide and grinned. ‘You’d better buck up, Arnie,’ she said. ‘I’ll be needing some help with the whitebaiting net soon.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ he said. He was unimpressed, stern, a man to be reckoned with. ‘I doubt you mean that, Mrs Boniface.’

  Bertha was unfazed. ‘Too hearty? You may be right. We’ll see.’ She turned to Sophie, ‘I’m going down to Greytown next week. Your mother has to have her bottom teeth out and poor old Keith, well, you know.’