Thorn on the Rose

by Joy Dettman

  ‘Granny says he’ll go dark like you.’

  ‘God almighty.’

  They had to take a train to the boarding house, Jim said. They’d better move.

  She lifted Jimmy carefully, hoping he’d continue his nap on her shoulder. He flopped against her, legs dangling.

  ‘He’s too heavy for you. Let me carry him.’ Jim touched a chubby leg, marked by the wooden bench slats.

  ‘He’s sopping wet. You carry the case.’

  ‘Nobby’s sister got us a room with them.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. And it wasn’t, but she was desperate for space of her own, for a door she could close.

  He took charge of her case. She slid the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, heaved Jimmy higher, slung the string bag’s handles over her wrist, and followed in Jim’s wake. He was big enough to clear a passage.

  He looked healthy too, looked suntanned, looked like a soldier. She felt like a crumpled country bumpkin.

  He found the right train, someone gave her a seat and Jimmy woke up to look around.

  ‘G’day, nipper,’ Jim said. Jimmy buried his face against Jenny’s shoulder. ‘He’s shy.’

  ‘He’s not. He’ll wake up properly in a minute and drive you mad.’

  It took longer than a minute. He was still clinging to her like a koala when she followed Jim from the train. They’d have a bit of a walk, Jim said. He had a map, hand drawn on the back of an envelope. He knew where he was going, or thought he did. She swapped Jimmy from her shoulder to her hip and followed, swapped him to the other hip, walking unfamiliar terrain until her arms threatened to disconnect from their sockets and she had to set Jimmy down.

  ‘Are we even going the right way?’

  He showed her his map, pointed to where he thought they were. ‘It looks like there’s this block, then we turn left,’ he said. ‘Let me carry him?’

  ‘He’s wetter now than he was before.’ The weight of Jimmy’s napkin was pulling his romper pants down. She heaved them up, heaved him up, and they walked again, turning left then heading up a hill, whether to the north, south, east or west, Jenny didn’t know. She’d lost her bearings at the main station — and if Jim thought he was going to find a boarding house in this street, he was wrong.

  ‘There’s nothing up here that looks remotely like a boarding house,’ she said, swapping Jimmy to her dry hip. The homes on either side of the road were classy; they had green lawns, fancy fences. And she was going no further. She set Jimmy down again.

  Jim continued past two more posh houses while she stood holding Jimmy’s hands and allowing him to walk. He’d take off alone soon. Georgie had walked early.

  ‘Got it,’ Jim called.

  He’d brought her to the wrong street but he was her only lifeline so she hauled her load up to where he was waiting, at a fence wearing a name. Amberley.

  ‘That’s not a boarding house.’ She sat Jimmy on the fancy brick fence, knowing now that she’d have to carry him all the way back to the station. ‘That’s some la-di-da dame’s house, Jim.’

  ‘Nobby’s sister said it was until the depression. Here,’ he said. ‘Put this on.’ And he offered her a ring, wrapped in tissue paper.

  ‘I’m not marrying you and this isn’t a boarding house.’

  ‘Its name is written on the envelope.’

  She looked at his map, saw Amberley printed there, underlined. She sighed, looked at him, at the ring, which anyone could see was a mile too big.

  ‘Is that the one you bought for Sissy?’

  ‘I bought it in Newcastle. The landlady thinks we’re married.’

  She turned to look at the house, a double-storey red brick place with a tiled roof, a leadlight window that any one of Woody Creek’s churches would have sold their soul to own. She’d lived in boarding houses with Laurie. None had given a damn if she was married to him or not — and none had looked remotely like this place. She took the ring. It might have fitted her thumb.

  ‘It won’t stay on.’

  ‘The chap said that any jeweller will take a bit out of it.’

  ‘It won’t stay on until he takes a bit out of it.’

  ‘Hold it on,’ he said, and he picked up the case and walked to the porch where he rattled a fancy brass knocker while Jenny stood well back, knowing he’d brought her to the wrong Amberley, even more convinced when an overweight middle-aged woman with a plum in her mouth opened the door.

  ‘I’ve booked a room,’ he said. ‘Jim Hooper.’

  ‘The lodgers’ entrance is down the drive,’ the woman said. And she closed the door.

  ‘Get me out of here.’

  ‘We won’t get another room.’

  ‘I stink and so does Jimmy. We can’t go in there, Jim.’

  ‘She’ll know you’ve been travelling.’

  She followed him, hauling her load by that pretty window, then down a gravel drive by more common windows. Midway down, they found another entrance and a painted sign — Lodgers’ Entrance. The same dame stood waiting at the open door.

  ‘Jim and Jenny Hooper,’ Jim said. ‘And Jimmy.’

  ‘Mrs Norris,’ the la-di-da dame said. ‘I hope you had a comfortable trip.’ Her words were as rehearsed as her stretched smile of greeting.

  Jenny followed Jim inside, saw a Gone with the Wind staircase and smelled her bag of wet napkins. Jim signed the la-di-da dame’s book in what looked like a kitchen cum dining room; tables, chairs, refrigerator, gas stove and electric hotplate, polished linoleum on the floor.

  The woman was pointing to more signs when an army man came to the open door and Jim swung around, clicked his heels and slapped his head like a puppet who’d had his string jerked.

  ‘My wife had given up on you,’ the army man said.

  ‘We got held up in Newcastle,’ Jim said.

  ‘Enjoy your stay,’ the army man said and he went on his way, Jenny staring after him, wondering if he was Nobby.

  ‘The situation with accommodation being what it is at the moment, we keep two of the smaller rooms available for short-term use by the services. We were not made aware there was to be a child until last evening,’ the dame said. ‘It is not our policy to let rooms to family groups.’

  Jenny clung to her wedding ring and to Jimmy, who wanted to get down and find Granny and the girls. He didn’t want to look at Granny’s replacement, and Jenny didn’t blame him. That landlady had about as much warmth in her as a wet blanket hung out to dry on a frosty night.

  He crowed when the dame opened a refrigerator and he saw the milk bottles. The landlady flinched, but continued.

  ‘I take no responsibility for items left in the refrigerator,’ she said. There was a bottle of milk on the top shelf named Glenys, one labelled Mrs Collins, Robertson printed in a heavy hand. There were names and signs everywhere; an instruction sheet stuck to the refrigerator door, another one over the gas stove, one over a sliding hatch in the wall.

  ‘The kitchen is to be left as you found it.’ The la-di-da dame opened cupboard doors, displaying saucepans, frying pans, an assortment of crockery — the rattle of a cutlery drawer suggesting to Jimmy that he might get down and play with Granny’s spoons. Jenny held him prisoner.

  ‘All food is to be consumed in the kitchen,’ the woman said, then she led them from the kitchen and up those incredible stairs to more signs. Bathroom, indoor lav — labelled WC.

  Left turn away from the WC, past a closed door to one that was open, number five, where the landlady completed her tour, where Jenny sighted a double bed. She remained in the passage with the landlady. Jim carried her case in, stood it beside his army bag, beside that double bed. Jimmy was fighting to get down now.

  ‘My brother’s room,’ the la-di-da dame said. ‘He resides in New Zealand with his wife and son. The cot is small but quite stable.’

  Cot on the far side of the double bed. Nice wardrobe, dressing table with a big mirror, large rug over polished boards, side curtains, brown roller blind and the prettiest light shad
e, hanging so low Jim’s head was going to hit it.

  ‘As I said, Mrs Hooper, the house is not equipped for children, and I will ask you, in deference to the other guests, to keep his noise to a minimum . . . also that you leave no . . . no laundry soaking in the troughs.’

  She’d smelt Jimmy, or that string bag of wet napkins. Jenny nodded, cringed.

  ‘You’ll find an ironing board in the laundry. An iron is available. You will see a sign in the kitchen. I hope you enjoy your week with us.’ And with another brief stretch of her lips, she was gone, her soft-soled shoes whispering down the passage. For a heavy woman, she moved fast.

  Jenny watched her disappear down the stairs. Released a breath held too long. Released Jimmy, closed the door, placed the string bag on her case then stood staring at the double bed, at the rug, at the curtains. She’d seen herself in a hotel room with twin beds and Nobby’s wife in one of them. She hadn’t foreseen this room, hadn’t foreseen that double bed. Granny had been right again.

  ‘A nice room,’ Jim said.

  Jimmy didn’t like it, or he’d picked up on Jenny’s apprehension. He’d wanted to get down, and now that he was down he wanted to get up, and she didn’t have energy left in her to lift him.

  ‘Where’s the bickies?’ she sighed.

  Jimmy knew where they were and took off for her case but stopped to stare up at Jim, who perhaps looked like a tree.

  ‘G’day, nipper.’ Jim kneeled, got his face down to child level, and finally got his hands on his son.

  ‘He’s soaked to the skin, Jen.’

  ‘You’re telling the person who has been carrying him for the past half-hour. And I’m out of napkins.’

  Green and white striped towels folded on the dressing table, a matching face cloth, a hand towel. She measured the hand towel and judged it near enough, folded it into a napkin shape. Nowhere to change him other than on the rug. She got him down, got his pants and napkin off. He took off with a bare bum and Jim grabbed him, held him down while she pinned the striped towel in place, got a clean pair of rompers on him to cover the green and white stripes.

  Nowhere to put anything. A week of this. She shouldn’t have come. The dripping napkin on her case, and she had to get into that case again. She stuffed the napkin in with its smelly companions, hung the bag from the door knob, lifted the case to the bed, opened it and retrieved the biscuit tin. Only eight left. She’d baked a tin full before she’d left. Handed one of the eight to Jimmy then removed a brown paper bag. She’d emptied two tins of condensed milk into screw-topped jars before leaving home. One was empty. She’d brought a bottle of coffee essence, an enamel mug, a dozen clothes pegs, Weet-Bix, a large bar of Velvet soap. Jim watching her.

  ‘She said no food in the rooms, Jen.’

  ‘It’s in my case,’ Jenny said, and she handed him the wedding ring.

  ‘You’ll have to leave it on.’

  ‘I have to find somewhere to wash his napkins.’ She placed the ring on the dressing table, picked up the bar of soap, her pegs, her string bag. ‘Feed him biscuits if he yells, or bring him down to me if you don’t want to break the rules.’

  Tired, near drunk with tiredness and people. She wanted space, an empty place.

  The washhouse in the back yard was empty, and it looked more welcoming than that house. She emptied her string bag into a concrete trough, smelled the bag and tossed it in with the napkins. She found a washboard and a plug, found two taps and turned on both, not stopping to wonder why there were two — until hot water came gushing out of the one on the left.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered, watching the steam rise. ‘God almighty.’ If the floor hadn’t been formed of bricks, she may have fallen to her knees to offer up a prayer of gratitude to the gods of hot water.

  It was as nothing washing two dozen napkins in steaming hot water — two dozen minus three. Jimmy had soiled three on the way up, and after her first attempt to wash one in the train basin she’d dropped it down the train’s lavatory hole. It went straight through to the lines. Thereafter she’d dumped the ones he’d soiled.

  There was no sun in the sky, or too many clouds to see it. No doubt it would rain, probably rain all week, but she pegged out her washing with the landlady’s pegs, praying the rain would hold off for an hour or two. She thought of the Collingwood boarding house and the clothes line no one had dared turn their backs on. Laurie had lost two shirts. It would be safe to turn your back on washing here. The la-di-da landlady would have a sign up somewhere saying No snow dropping allowed.

  She found an outdoor lavatory behind the washhouse, complete with a chubby roll of white toilet paper hanging on a rope. She’d landed in paradise. At home they cut up newspaper for the lav. She helped herself to a good handful of toilet paper before she went back to the room.

  ‘They’ve got hot water in the taps,’ she said, opening the door to number five.

  They weren’t there. Her case was on the bed, still open, Jim’s bag was on the floor beneath the window. He’d taken him! And her weary heart fell down to her stomach and dropped dead.

  She’d been fooled. Vern and his solicitor had set this up, set up Jim’s story about Amberley, about Jim getting leave, the wedding ring. Everything. And even that la-di-da dame was in on it. All along it had been their plan to get her up here then kidnap Jimmy. She should have known it as soon as she’d seen this house — as if it was a boarding house.

  Norman was probably in on it, too. That’s why he hadn’t argued about booking the ticket.

  She ran down the passage, ignoring the landlady’s sign. Noise to be kept to a minimum. Nightshift residents in occupancy. Ran down to the far end, where a resident in a floral dressing gown was vacating the WC. Backed away. Knocked on the bathroom door, opened it. They weren’t in there.

  Downstairs to a locked door and another sign. Private Residence. A back step, a turn, and down another passage towards the rear of the house. Lodgers’ Sitting Room. And more rooms with numbers, another bathroom. And no Jim or Jimmy in it.

  They’d taken him, and of all the people in the world, Jim was the one she’d trusted, trusted enough to come up here to spend a week with him.

  Fool.

  Out the side entrance and up the drive, looking left up the street, right down it, listening for Jimmy’s wail. Running like a hare to the corner, knowing it was no use howling but howling anyway. Standing on the corner, howling, not knowing which way to run, and knowing that running was no use. She’d been fooled. Vern Hooper and his solicitor, Jim and his beautiful letters, had got her up here where she didn’t know anyone, didn’t even know where she was, and they’d got Jimmy, and that la-di-da Mrs Norris and her captain husband were sitting behind their fancy window patting themselves on the back for a job well done.

  She was running back to murder them with one of their own kitchen knives when she saw a tall man pushing a baby stroller downhill towards the boarding house from the opposite direction. She wiped her eyes so she might see. He was wearing khaki and an army hat. She wiped her eyes again, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and saw blue — the blue of Jimmy’s rompers. Her heart jumping back to where it belonged, she ran.

  ‘You had no right,’ she howled, snatching her baby. ‘You had no right to take him without asking me.’

  ‘You were washing,’ he said. ‘There’s a street of shops just down around the corner.’

  ‘You had no right!’

  ‘I want the right, Jen. That’s why I’m here. Put him in the buggy. He’s too heavy for you to be hauling around.’

  He’d bought a brand-new stroller and a dozen napkins. He’d bought bread, milk, bananas. She clung to Jimmy, who was pointing to the bananas. ‘You should have asked me before you took him. I thought you’d kidnapped him.’

  ‘I was bringing him down to you and we saw a taxi dropping off an old chap so I grabbed it. I thought we’d be back before you were done.’

  Jimmy babbled and pointed to the stroller.

  ‘He kno
ws who I am,’ Jim said.

  ‘He’s saying banana, and he’s mine. And your father is never getting near him.’

  ‘Put him back in the buggy, Jen. You can push it.’

  BEING MRS HOOPER

  It was probably the longest day of her life. She’d travelled across two states with a nine and half month old baby, and all the way up she’d been imagining something she hadn’t found — like when she’d run off to Melbourne and nothing had turned out as it was supposed to. Too tired to stand up, too wound up to sit, even if there’d been somewhere to sit, and Jimmy as fresh as a daisy and wanting to play. He’d slept well on the way up, he’d napped at the station, and he had a new playmate. Twice she left them playing together in the room while she walked down to the clothes line.

  If she could get her bearings, she might feel better. She couldn’t; she didn’t know if she was facing north or south and as the day wore on she was allowing it to take on too much importance.

  And Jim’s eyes followed her every move — or he was standing beside her, behind her, leaning over her, even when she changed Jimmy’s dirty bum.

  They drank coffee in the kitchen, made with her coffee essence and Jimmy’s condensed milk. She’d eaten a banana, wrapped in a slice of Sydney bread. He asked about Sissy. She told him she had better things to do than talk about Sissy.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Will you stop saying you’re sorry!’

  All they had in common was Jimmy, and by four thirty when again she walked alone to the clothes line, she didn’t know why they had him in common. But the napkins were dry.

  An old chap was looking for space on the clothes line to hang his shirt. She watched him use four pegs on it. Maybe that’s how it was done in Sydney. Her napkins were pegged corner to corner, Woody Creek style, where every peg was precious.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said as she began removing pegs, bundling napkins.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said, watching him use two pegs to hang one handkerchief. His hanging method reminded her of Norman’s hanging style of long, long ago, and before she could stop herself, she asked him what direction the house was facing — as she may have once asked Norman.