by Kim Kane
‘You sound like Aunt Hen. Beauty is no thicker than my fingernail, and a lot less important. It’s not Vida’s beauty that makes her wonderful, Gertie; it’s her nimble mind and her vim.’
‘Well, she’s right,’ said Madeleine.
‘But I once overheard a lady at a school concert whisper to Miss Fawkner, What a plain-looking thing that Williamson girl is. Common. Common. Common. At school!’
The girls sat silently for a moment. Madeleine had to admit to herself that Gert, with her round, glistening face, did resemble Cook over a jam pan more than she would ever resemble any one of her sisters, and Madeleine could see that it was a grudge she bore like eczema. You just looked at Gert and you knew that she’d be the type of girl who used too much glue and drew texta marks on top of each other so the colours all went a bit brown.
Madeleine kicked out at the stone bench. What could she say to Gert? That in Madeleine’s time, a girl’s passport on social media was a photogenic smile, and female sports stars couldn’t even hope to earn an income from their sport unless they looked good in bathers on a calendar? That, on balance, things were worse in Gert’s time, but that the people here were also more honest in the way they treated girls – more honest about what they believed mattered.
Gert sighed and said, ‘Never mind. What if you put both Bea’s slippers in one hand and place your other hand on the teeth?’
Madeleine was so grateful to be given some instructions – told what to do to try to make this situation better – that she felt weepy again. She made her way over to the row of teeth and did as Gert said. The girls stood side by side and waited patiently for something to happen.
Madeleine left her arm out even when it started to shake. She watched it trembling.
‘Try singing,’ said Gert. ‘Perhaps we can sing you back?’ Madeleine tried to think of a song from her time, somewhat unsuccessfully.
‘Cally’s Carpet Clean, squeaky clean, green clean,’ she sang.
Gert looked at her suspiciously. ‘Is that really a song?’
‘It’s an advertisement,’ whispered Madeleine. ‘I couldn’t think of anything else.’
‘Green clean? What sort of clean is that? Try for another,’ said Gert. ‘Or think of home.’
Madeleine looked at the candle’s flame until her vision went wobbly, and then she shut her eyes and dreamt of her mum’s house and her dad’s flat, and then of Mum Crum’s house, just in case she needed to go back to the same spot she’d left from.
Gert eventually dropped down into a sitting position, her back against the wall. After a while, Madeleine did the same. ‘My arm’s too sore – I can’t do it anymore.’
Gert gave her a look. The night shivered.
‘Did you hear that? Shh!’ Gert’s eyes had widened. She and Madeleine both stayed stock still. There was the dull crunch of footsteps outside – heavy footsteps.
‘Is it a zombie?’ Madeleine held her breath.
Gert blew out the candle and the flame hissed. Madeleine could smell wax. There was the swish of plants, the creak of breaking branches and a muffled giggle.
The grotto was black. Gert took Madeleine’s hand and squeezed it. A shadow loomed in the entrance.
‘Holy frigging moly,’ said Madeleine under her breath.
There was a pause that felt as long as the gap between thunder and lightning – as bristling and charged. Then Mr Williamson leant into the cave brandishing a candle. In the dim light he was all fairytale height and angles. His shadow was severe.
He held the candle towards the girls and his face flattened. ‘Gertrude?’ he said, surprised.
‘Oh, Daddy, oh thank goodness it’s you. I thought it was some sort of lake monster.’
‘What on earth are you doing out of your bed at this hour? It is completely inappropriate to have you children wandering about the property at night. I shall speak to Nanny in the morning.’
A twig snapped.
‘I’m sorry, Daddy. Please don’t speak to Nanny. Please don’t,’ said Gert.
‘Here, I will escort you back now. Straight to bed. I shan’t tell your mother about this – her nerves are far too fragile at the moment – but if I ever catch you out of your bed at this hour again, Nanny will have something to say, of that I am quite sure.’
Gert grabbed Bea’s shoes back from Madeleine.
‘I trust you’ve not been indulging in your mother’s nonsense, Gertrude,’ said Mr Williamson, ‘because I am cross enough already.’
‘No, Daddy,’ whispered Gert.
Madeleine felt dreadful. There was something so much worse about being told off by someone else’s parent, and their failure in the grotto was monumental. The girls put their heads down and ran back along the path and through the watching garden to bed, cold and glum.
The next morning the lawn was lined with grey mist. The cold kept the adults in their beds for breakfast, so the girls were back in the gloomy room off the kitchen with Nanny.
Gert, Charlie, Imo and Madeleine sat swinging their boots under the table, eating with backs straight and napkins resting on their laps. Breakfast this morning was yet another bowl of congealed porridge, so thick it could almost be sculpted into balls.
Even if she could have sculpted her meal into balls without Nanny noticing and caning her or boxing her about the ears or whatever nannies did, though, Madeleine couldn’t slip anything into her pocket like she did with her dinner at home when she didn’t like it, because her clothes here didn’t have pockets.
The bodice was also impossible. It had branded Madeleine, leaving red marks in the shape of Nike ticks under both arms. The tights still prickled, too, but at least when she was seated they didn’t fall down.
To try to take her mind off all the discomfort, Madeleine focused on Imo, who was sitting on a cushion on the chair opposite her. While she was no longer a baby, Imo was clearly the Williamsons’ baby. She was like a calf, thought Madeleine, constantly at the cud. Every time Madeleine spotted Imo, she was eating or hovering about food. As long as nothing gets between Imo and her food supply, she’s happy, Gert had said, and Madeleine imagined nothing ever would, because Imo was exactly the sort of child people wanted to pet.
Gert was not. Seeing the girls together at the table reminded Madeleine of her dad’s buttons in the button jar. When Madeleine and Nandi divided the buttons up, they always fought over the gold button, the shiny red button with the embossed anchor, and the diamanté button, but nobody wanted to claim the plain white shirt buttons, which were always left blinking at the bottom of the jar. It may have been unkind, but if Gert were a button, she would definitely have come off a shirt. She was from a different button family entirely.
While they were eating, a ruckus started up in the hallway.
‘Henrietta, what on earth are you doing? Here I am doing my darnedest to create a commonwealth while you’re setting about bringing it down.’ It was Mr Williamson’s deep voice, macadamia-hard.
‘Daddy,’ Gert whispered.
Nanny got up and clicked the door shut. ‘All siblings disagree sometimes, Miss Gertrude – you of all people ought to know that. And both your father and your aunt are entitled to a little privacy.’
Nanny shouldn’t have bothered. Aunt Hen was no whisper-fighter. ‘How dare you, Tom. I am not trying to bring down your commonwealth – I am trying to improve it. Just because you disagree with my views makes them neither irrelevant nor irrational.’ Aunt Hen sounded strong.
‘Well, perhaps you would find me more welcoming of your opinion and the opinions of your sex in general if you stopped embarrassing me. Strolling around any which way without a corset in front of my guests. Do you have any idea how powerful those gentlemen are? They are determining the very form this country will take, the powers and function of our own High Court in a manner that is palatable to London, and while they are doing so, nobody wants to see your wobbles. It’s not impossible to hold those ghastly political views of yours and still look like a lady, Henrietta. Why c
an’t you simply enjoy freedom at five p.m. with a loose gown and a cup of tea like every other self-respecting genteel woman in this colony, heaven forbid? Is this what those blue-stockings taught you at Oxford?’
Imo started to cry. Nanny looked at the older children, seeming unsettled. ‘I’ll take Miss Imogen upstairs to play in the nursery. You girls may stay here and finish your breakfast, but please be quiet.’
‘What’s Aunt Hen talking about?’ whispered Madeleine as soon as Nanny had left the room. ‘What happens at five p.m.?’
Charlie looked left, right, then left again. ‘I’m going with Nanny too.’
More likely, thought Madeleine, she was going to sneak off – but Gert pretended not to notice as she slipped out.
‘Women wear tea gowns without corsets – or in Aunt Hen’s case, without a liberty bodice – to receive their friends,’ Gert said. ‘They’re pretty – creamy and light. Aunt Hen gets around in a version of them most of the time.’
‘Lucky Aunt Hen.’ Madeleine shuffled in her seat.
Gert stood up quietly and re-opened the door.
Although they couldn’t see Mr Williamson, they could see Aunt Hen, her face red and spitty. ‘Freedom? You’d like to talk about freedom? A corset is a material indicator of the indignity women suffer. Have you tried to sit through a dinner strapped into one? Besides, there are swathes of medical evidence to suggest they are not hygienic. Freedom isn’t only the right to breathe, however, Thomas. Freedom starts when a woman can not only obtain a degree, but may be admitted to the profession she’s qualified to represent. You read law and you get to use your degree, every single day, but what happened to mine? Unlike you, I obtained firsts, and yet because I am a woman I was never actually awarded it. I then applied to sixty-seven jobs as a mere governess and didn’t get one single situation.’
‘If you wore a corset you might have had more chance. Who would want a lady like you around their children? And I use the term lady extremely loosely, but it does denote your sex, at least, factually. It would help if you kept civilised company. There are lots of lovely ladies around, ladies who don’t have their noses in The Dawn or that frightful Hens’ Convention.’
‘Shut up, shut up, shut up. You pig. And how dare you criticise journals you haven’t opened. I don’t want to spend my days sitting around drinking brewed tea with a group of bored and, as a consequence, boring women. I am not going to allow my time to be pointless, and I have nothing but respect for Louisa Lawson’s work with The Dawn – her commitment, her business nous, her intelligence and energy. She is doing her best to ensure that those girls in there – that bright little girl – will have every opportunity for which I have wanted.’
‘Those girls have every opportunity – which I have provided for them: Gertrude’s schooling; their toys; their clothing; this home and all the help we require to support it.’
Aunt Hen’s voice was low and rigid. ‘When I talk about suffrage, I am talking about extending the vote to the help – to the Annas and Cooks, and to the Percys too, Thomas – because if we are all governed by the same law, we should all have a say in determining it. One people, one destiny. You said it, dear brother.
‘Well, your suggestions are preposterous. Any old juggins determining the laws? Those who do have the vote don’t even turn out to the poll! You of all people know how conceptually difficult the law can be. And natives with the vote? You make me laugh. We have an obligation to protect them – and there are plenty of suffragists who support my view on this. Name one native in any of your suffrage societies. You can’t! Besides, Percy would be on the streets if the church hadn’t found him a position here. And he’s so headstrong and erratic, nicking off for months at a time and refusing to go to certain places.’
Madeleine put down her fork. She had known her country’s past was racist, but it was still a thump to her heart to hear it from the very mouth of someone tasked with forming the new country; someone with smart manners and a smart suit, a big house and big, busy words. She felt sick.
She heard the screech of chair legs on the polished floor. ‘Percy goes back to his family – what little he has of it. Is it erratic for Elfriede to take a year-long sojourn to see her own family and the world? Aboriginal men and women can vote in South Australia, and do. They want change and, like me, they are trying to work within your system to effect it.’
‘They can’t really vote, Henrietta. They just can’t not vote. It was sloppy drafting, giving every adult the vote. The quicker the laws are made consistent between the colonies, the easier things will be.’
‘It was fine drafting, and quite intentional, Thomas. How I would love to follow in Mary Lee’s footsteps.’
‘Don’t you even think of running for parliament. I will not countenance any further humiliation of this household. Of my household. Surely it is not too late for you to move on to bonnets and bairns?’
‘Women have been campaigning and expressing an interest for too long for this to be considered a novelty. And anyway, why shouldn’t we have women in parliament when we have a woman as our sovereign?’
‘Queen Victoria does not believe in suffrage, Henrietta. And dammit, while you are under my roof, you will behave. I will not have those impressionable young ladies turned into shrill hoydens like their aunt.’
‘You know exactly why I am under your roof, Thomas. My options are limited, but unlike my show-pony brother, I have discovered other ways to assist with the new commonwealth and make a difference – smaller, quieter ways. Just watch me.’ And Aunt Hen picked up her case and walked out – taller, straighter, brighter and bolder, even without her corset.
Mr Williamson stomped into his study and slammed the door. He then swore and slapped what sounded like something heavy onto a desk or a table.
‘Politics, politics, politics. It’s all those two ever argue about,’ said Gert. ‘How on earth can they be related when their views are so different?’
‘Maybe it’s like religion,’ said Madeleine. ‘Mum Crum always says the gap between different religions, or even between being a believer or a non-believer, isn’t nearly as big as people think. If people saw that, they wouldn’t have to fight each other all the time. Maybe politics is just the same – at least your father and Aunt Hen have views and they are thinking about ideas.’ Even if your dad’s would and should land him in jail in my time, she thought.
‘Your Mum Crum sounds very clever.’
‘She is,’ said Madeleine. ‘And I miss her. Non-stop. Gert, do you think I’ll ever get home? What on earth am I doing here? I’ve been wracking my brains.’
‘I don’t know why you’re here or how you’re here,’ said Gert, ‘but I’m very much enjoying your company. Holidays around here can be extremely dull.’
Madeleine sighed and smiled both at once. ‘Well, if you can’t get me back home, could we at least try for a looser bodice? All that talk of them has me squirming. When it comes to corsetry – and most other things, actually – I am Team Hen.’ Madeleine pulled at her top. ‘If I don’t get this thing off soon, all my insides are going to squirt out like toothpaste.’
Gert giggled. ‘We should do it now that Aunt Hen’s stormed off. Nanny is with Imo, and all the grown-ups are sulking. Let’s go!’
Aunt Hen’s room was tucked into the back of the second floor, in the wing beneath the servants’ quarters.
It was a bare room – much barer than Madeleine had imagined, and wishbone dry. There was no carpet, only a small blue rug on the floor. A single bed, pulled tight and white, sat under a small window, and there was a wooden dresser in the corner with a mug, basin, little white porcelain pot and pair of spectacles on top of it.
The room seemed sparse and sad. The wind rattled the window in its sash.
‘There’s not much of Aunt Hen here,’ Madeleine said. ‘I’d imagined it messier, somehow. Louder. More bookish, I guess – more eccentric. What’s that?’ She pointed to a white pot with a hole in the top sitting on the dresser.
> ‘A hair collector. To collect hair from brushes and re-use for pillows and such. Don’t you have them?’
‘No,’ said Madeleine ‘We just throw hair in the bin.’
‘How wasteful,’ said Gert.
Madeleine peeked under the bed. It was swept bald. ‘It’s not very . . . girly, is it?’
‘Like Mummy’s room, you mean? All pink cabbage roses? Not Aunt Hen. She gives whatever she has away.’
‘But there’s not even a cushion on the bed, or a place to write.’
‘That’s the way she seems to like it.’
Madeleine leant against the edge of the bed, uncomfortable as ever.
‘Let’s find you a bodice.’ Gert pulled at one of the dresser drawers. It stuck, so she pulled again, and the drawer squealed. Inside, lying on top of a pile of neatly folded cotton, was a double picture frame hinged together in the middle. In the first frame was a photo of four children. Opposite was a photo of a little girl with a bob, who looked about six.
‘Who’s that?’ Madeleine asked, just as it occurred to her who it was. Although the lips were pulled around gappy teeth, the face had an unmistakable hint of Christmas ham about it.
‘It’s me!’ Gert puffed up a little, inflated to be singled out in anything other than a negative way. ‘That’s my old dolly, Molly McGolly. We had those pictures taken for Christmas. That’s the perambulator Imo uses for Bob-Bear now.’
It was funny seeing Gert the old-fashioned girl as an even more old-fashioned little girl.
In the other photo, Bea looked exactly as one would expect – neat and pretty. Charlie was tiny but stern under an enormous bow, and Gert looked all lopsided, friendly but messy. In a pram was a baby in a white frilly dress, as bloated as a tick.
‘Little Reggie,’ sighed Gert. ‘Look at those golden curls. I’ve never seen hair quite that yellow.’