When the Lyrebird Calls

by Kim Kane

  Mrs Williamson smiled. ‘Did you bring your sampler, Gert?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Mummy,’ said Gert. ‘Call us when luncheon’s on. We’re going to find a koala.’

  Gert grabbed Madeleine’s hand and they fled.

  The car contingent of the picnic party arrived home late that afternoon, sandy, smelly and singing. Madeleine’s feet were chalky-grey and itchy with river silt.

  ‘Oh, it is lovely to see you all so happy,’ said Aunt Hen, who was sitting in the drawing room with a sherry glass in her hand that looked like it was made from cut ice. She put her book down on the table as the girls all tumbled in. She was sitting back in her chair like Mr Williamson, rather than perched on its edge in the way Elfriede and Mrs Williamson sat.

  ‘Where’s Mummy?’ asked Imo.

  ‘She’s up in her room,’ said Aunt Hen, taking a sip from her glass. ‘Now, tell me, what was your favourite part of the day? Did you catch a fish?’

  ‘No, but I did catch the sun. I’m a bit burnt.’ Gert rubbed her arm. The freckles on it looked even darker.

  ‘At this time of year! Poor girl. Don’t let Bella see it. She does bristle when you girls get too much sun. I shall arrange a cool milk compress to take the sting out.’

  Madeleine picked up a children’s book that had been left sitting open on the table.

  ‘That’s Cole’s Funny Picture Book, and it is hilarious,’ said Charlie. ‘Hen Pen bought it for us.’

  Madeleine sat down at the table and flicked through it. It was part newspaper, part riddles, part encyclopedia, part ‘Cole’s Patented Whipping Machine for Flogging Naughty Boys in School’. There didn’t appear to be any young adult fiction here, she thought. What she would give for a copy of one of the novels she had taken completely for granted in the library back at school. She sat still, the thin pages unread before her.

  Aunt Hen put down her glass. ‘I have been thinking . . . I’d like to make you girls an offer. I have spoken to your father, Gertrude, and provided Nanny is amenable, I must go into town tomorrow morning – and I thought you and Madeleine might like to join me. We’ll stay at Park Street and return Sunday morning.’

  ‘Is Master Charles invited too?’ Charlie looked over at Aunt Hen and smiled hopefully.

  ‘I think two girls is probably enough for tomorrow, Charlie.’

  ‘What about two girls and one boy?’

  ‘Why don’t we ask Nanny if you can come on your own special trip one day? I’m down there frequently enough, and I could certainly do with an escort.’

  Charlie’s eyes got wet and shiny.

  ‘Of course, there is usually room for a strapping bodyguard, but not tomorrow. I will need a big man like you, Master Williamson, when I go to the bank to remove the family jewels from the safe.’

  Charlie giggled.

  ‘We’re planning to stop in at Jacksons,’ Aunt Hen went on. ‘Have a think about what sort of sweets we can bring you back, Charlie.’

  ‘Edinburgh rock!’ said Charlie. ‘It’s so soft and crumbly.’ ‘You are a man after my own heart.’ Aunt Hen smiled.

  ‘Now go and find Nanny, and let her know we will need to make sure these girls are packed tonight. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.’

  The next morning was cold and damp again. Nanny rugged Madeleine and Gert up in heavy serge dresses and double-breasted coats with shoulder capes and bundled them, plus their small shared case, to the front door.

  ‘Please remember your coats, your gloves, your hats and your manners, and be sensible. Do not stray from Aunt Hen for a minute, and remember that different people have different rules, Miss Gertrude. When in doubt, my rules prevail.’

  Despite the dress and the blue-grey coat, Madeleine felt lighter in her new, looser bodice; she didn’t think she’d ever stop being grateful.

  ‘Any chance we can follow Aunt Hen on the bodice front?’ she whispered to Gert. ‘I’d be happier to lose this thing altogether.’

  ‘Madeleine, shhh! Nanny will never let us go if she hears you.’

  Aunt Hen emerged from the shadows. ‘Are you girls ready?’

  They nodded in unison and she smiled, looking very pleased with herself, and led them to the car.

  As Aunt Hen pulled out of the driveway, Madeleine said, ‘You’re the first woman I’ve seen drive.’

  ‘It’s great fun, and so much less temperamental than a horse!’

  Aunt Hen turned the stick on top of the wheel and shifted the car up a gear. It clunked. She wore little cream-coloured mesh gloves with buttons.

  ‘Besides, I think it’s important to know how to do things oneself. Our class is so horribly dependent and incompetent. What if things change, if our skills become redundant? Needlepoint and piano-playing will not fight wars. What would we do if we had to fight the Boers?’

  The gears clunked again.

  ‘We’ll drive to the station and then we can catch the train into the city. Someone will collect the car later.’

  The train into town was a big black steam engine with carriages the colour of cream-of-beetroot soup. It hissed as it slowed at the tiny weatherboard station, and whistled with a blast of steam that shot across the platform.

  ‘Just when I thought we were getting a break from Imo’s whistling,’ said Gert.

  Aunt Hen followed the girls down the wooden aisle of the first-class carriage. It was divided into compartments, each with its own door.

  ‘Not that one,’ said Aunt Hen, shaking her head. ‘It’s smoking. The next one is for ladies.’

  The girls opened the door to the next carriage and sat on blood-red seats that smelt as rich as a new football. An inspector came and punched their thick card tickets.

  ‘I’ve never been in first-class anything!’ said Madeleine. ‘We certainly don’t have a dedicated ladies’ carriage.’

  ‘Really?’ said Aunt Hen. ‘Does your grandmother travel second class? That’s a superb idea – I’d never thought of doing that. There are even separate trains for working men on some lines, although catching one of those might be going too far. This is what I mean about questioning all our beliefs and the foundations that underpin them. It’s so difficult to question things when they’re part of the wallpaper. But I do love the idea, Madeleine – we can travel in second on the way back. If you girls are old enough to go to boarding school, you are quite old enough to travel with the working classes.’

  The train whistled again and took off. Aunt Hen stood up and opened the window, and cool mountain air rushed in.

  ‘Fresh ideas – just what we need.’ Aunt Hen looked at Gert. ‘Just don’t tell your mother!’

  Gert smiled. ‘She would be very cross with you, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Your mother has very firm ideas about girls and their role. My wish for you, dear Gertie, is that you be independent. That you live in a world where you are free to make choices.’ She smiled sadly, and fell silent.

  The train stopped at some stations longer than others, for toilet breaks built into the timetable. It shrieked as it pulled away from each station.

  Madeleine relaxed and enjoyed looking out the window. As the train chugged on, the trees thinned out, and houses and roads sprouted. A yellow haze appeared above everything, like a bruise.

  After a time Aunt Hen stood, smoothing loose curls behind her ears. ‘We’ll be pulling into the station shortly. Are you girls ready to go?’

  When the train finally drew to a stop, they stepped down onto the platform. Aunt Hen left their cases with a porter, to be collected later on, and they made their way out of the station.

  They were at the bottom of the city. The street consisted of an expansive band of earth. A tramline ran along its middle, the tram carriages all open-air, with no sides, no windows or doors. The street was crowded: on the stone footpath there were boys in caps selling hot nuts, and kids with newspapers and hoops, and women wearing big skirts. On the road were open horse-drawn carriages carrying barrels, and zippy one-person traps, and a man with a flag
directing traffic. There were horses and carriage-wheels and puddles and shouts, and the hollow clop clop of horseshoes on pressed dirt.

  Aunt Hen walked crisply down the street. She looked just as determined but even more energetic than ever out here in town, bolstered by the chaos.

  ‘Now listen up, girls. There are two things I always do when I’m in the city. First stop, journals!’

  Aunt Hen took them to a soaring arcade cosy with armchairs and lined with books all the way up to its second storey. Read for as Long as You like – Nobody Asked to Buy, said a sign. The air was tinny with the circus sound of clockwork-music.

  Aunt Hen barely seemed to notice the astonishing shop; all her focus was on picking up copies of journals: Boomerang, The Dawn and The Woman’s Voice. ‘These will give me ideas and your father some kindling.’ She winked.

  Madeleine looked down at one of the journals on display and stopped short. On the front cover was a grotesque caricature of a Chinese man with a plait. He wore a robe and smoked a long pipe. He has the vote, but we women don’t! screamed the headline.

  The racism was cruel and overt; Madeleine was shocked by it. ‘Are they allowed to print that?’ she asked, thinking she’d use that page – that whole magazine – for kindling.

  ‘Of course,’ said Aunt Hen brusquely.

  ‘What about a copy of Table Talk?’ Gert pointed to a great pile of magazines on a crate next to the counter.

  ‘No, thank you!’ Aunt Hen pulled out a purse. ‘I do not need to fill my mind with details about who escorted whom to the races and in what fabric.’

  Honourable, thought Madeleine. And yet you don’t kick up a fuss about a journal with a monstrous cartoon.

  Gert smiled and elbowed her aunt. ‘Come on, Hen – Table Talk is for Bea, not you! She does like them.’

  Aunt Hen sighed. ‘All right. Even I am moved to pity about Bea, stuck up in the hills at her age with no invitations. I’d have eloped years ago. Just promise me neither of you will go anywhere near it.’

  Aunt Hen tucked the copy of Table Talk under her arm, together with the other magazines. ‘Righty-oh, girls. Next stop, Jacksons!’

  Madeleine and Gert walked along the broad stone footpath behind Hen Pen, past a series of shopfronts. The footpath was lumpy, and the air was heavy with the peaty smell of horses. The dirt road was caked with horse dung. A teenager with a blank face and a filthy bag walked along scooping it up. People were shouting and yelling. It was wild and crazy, and a bit scary, really. Madeleine inched closer to Gert.

  Aunt Hen paused in front of a shop with children’s clothing in the window. There were two sailor suits displayed, both navy-blue and both for boys, with white piping around the square collars.

  ‘That would become Master Charles,’ said Hen.

  ‘No,’ said Gert and walked on. ‘Nanny would never let her wear it.’

  ‘But Gert, she’d love it,’ said Madeleine. ‘Don’t be such a party pooper.’

  ‘What a first-rate expression!’ said Hen Pen. ‘I might start to use that one.’

  Gert looked around. ‘I can never stop looking up!’ she said. ‘The buildings are so high, and they feel so much grander!’ They were at the bottom of the city, only it wasn’t any city Madeleine recognised. Madeleine didn’t have the heart to tell Gert that it was nothing like the Melbourne she knew, with its sparkling highrises and thick trees. This was wide and flat and dusty – like Cook had had a good go at the place with her rolling pin.

  They walked on. ‘Look, there it is!’ cried Gert, her voice fizzy. ‘There’s Jacksons.’

  The shop at which Gert had pointed had a lovely window that bowed into the street, edged with brass. In it, a man stood at a marble counter kneading a large slab of something white and doughy. On the front was a sign: ‘J.P. Jackson. Manufacturing Confectioner.’

  ‘Is he a baker?’ asked Madeleine.

  ‘No! Nor a butcher nor a candlestick-maker. Watch!’ cried Gert.

  The man flicked the mound over and over with one leather-gloved hand. He moved quickly, tossing the great milky lump into the air. His meaty forearms, spattered with bright pink marks, were as thick as a pro wrestler’s, busting from his rolled-up sleeves.

  The man moved on to another mound on the counter, which was as shiny as glue and as green as mouthwash. He carried the mound to the back of the shop and began pulling and folding it over a nail on the wall – pulling down and flicking it over. He was strong but also graceful. The mass looked alive.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Madeleine, perplexed.

  ‘Toffee! He’s a sweet-maker.’

  ‘That’s so clever.’ Madeleine had never seen anything like it. When she felt like sweets at home, she would walk to the nearest fluoro-lit 7-Eleven and buy a bar of chocolate, and sometimes a few straps of raspberry licorice from the plastic box on the counter, which would last for four years (and counting) without rotting if you left them in a drawer.

  The man hacked pieces off the wrung toffee and moulded it into strips with his gloved hand. He ran his hands over the back of the strips, massaging them, smoothing the toffee down like Mum Crum sanding wood. When the toffee was in four neat logs, the man pulled out a long machete and diced each log like a TV chef slicing celery.

  The girls walked into the shop, Aunt Hen behind them. It was sunny and lined on three of the four sides with tall shelves. The shelves were crammed with glass jars – long glass cylinders, filled to the brim with hard lollies in all sorts of shapes and sizes and colours. The room was fragrant with peppermint and pineapple and cherry.

  A man with boggly eyes that looked constantly surprised smiled at Gert from his perch on a ladder halfway up one of the shelves. His shirt was as stripy as his peppermints. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Please may I have sixpence worth of raspberry rock, and sixpence of brandy balls, and four chocolate cigars, and sixpence – actually, no, that’s Charlie’s favourite so perhaps one shilling’s worth – of Edinburgh rock?’ Gert rubbed her eyebrows as she studied the sweets.

  The ladder the man stood on ran along the shelves on tracks. He was able to go up and down it, side to side, as Gert demanded more sweets, ladling the lollies into two large paper cones.

  ‘Ummm,’ said Gert, ‘perhaps some—’

  ‘That will do, won’t it?’ said Madeleine as the man reached for another paper cone. The first two packages were heavy and hard with sugar. Mum Crum’s views on sugar as the enemy were difficult to shake.

  ‘Here, allow me,’ said Aunt Hen.

  ‘That will be two shillings and sixpence,’ the man said. He smiled at Aunt Hen and she handed him some coins.

  ‘Please don’t tell Nanny,’ said Hen. ‘I’m tiring of the displeasure.’

  Back in the street, Aunt Hen hailed what she called a hansom cab (which was really a shiny black one-horse carriage with a driver in a bowler hat) and bundled the girls into it, jumping in after them.

  ‘Once we have collected the cases, I wish to take you somewhere before Park Street.’

  She looked at the girls closely.

  ‘If you do accompany me, you must both promise that you will not breathe a word of it to anybody. If your father were to know, Gert, there would be serious consequences.’

  ‘More serious than Nanny finding out about the sweets?’

  Aunt Hen managed a sad sort of smile.

  ‘I think that you are both bright, independent-thinking girls, and that if change is ever to be effected, it will start amongst the petticoats of mothers. Look at Vida – so active by age nineteen. Could that have happened in any other family? It certainly didn’t happen in mine. I only got to read law because my parents had died and there was nobody to stop me.’

  Aunt Hen was holding the edge of the seat to steady herself, and Madeleine could see her gripping it firmly through her gloves.

  ‘If it hadn’t have been for Cornelia Sorabji, I probably wouldn’t have been there at all.’

  ‘Cornelia who?’ asked Madeleine.

&
nbsp; ‘Every household will know that exceptional woman’s name soon enough,’ said Aunt Hen. ‘Mark my words.’ Then she called over her shoulder, ‘Back to the station, and then on to Drummond Street, please.’

  ‘Carlton?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Yes, please!’ Aunt Hen called. She turned to Gert. ‘So, you shan’t tell your mother?’

  ‘Pinky promise,’ said Madeleine, holding out her little finger. Gert raised hers too.

  ‘I like that,’ said Aunt Hen.

  The man cracked his whip and the sharp clap of horse hooves rang out as they pulled away from the kerb. Madeleine was in a hansom cab, a long way from Lyrebird Muse and even further from Mum Crum, heading somewhere she was not meant to be . . . She shivered deliciously. It was naughty, it was bold, and, she had to admit, it was very, very exciting.

  The hansom cab pulled up outside a row of tall, elegant grey homes.

  ‘These seven houses were built by a wealthy merchant for his seven daughters,’ said Aunt Hen. She swung a light leather case out of the cab. ‘Could you wait here with our other cases, please?’ she called up to the driver. He nodded, and Aunt Hen helped the girls to step down onto the kerb. She led the way off the main road, down a narrower, darker side street wet with mud.

  The houses in the side street were collapsed against each other, joined cheek by jowl. There was a strip of water in a ditch down the centre of the road; it was brown and greasy and it stank. Kids with muddy feet, wearing pants hitched high and tied with string, stopped their skipping to watch the new arrivals. There was a woman peeling potatoes on a front verandah, the skins curling about her feet. There were lines of washing everywhere you looked. And there was the feeling that, whichever way you turned, people were staring. The girls stepped closer together.

  ‘Is this a slum?’ whispered Gert.

  ‘Not quite,’ murmured Aunt Hen between closed lips. ‘But I do worry about disease, so try not to get too close to anyone.’ She smiled out at the children around her and prodded away a chicken pecking near her feet. ‘Good morning!’