by Libby Angel
One night in this fun house, as the girls sometimes called it, she was certain she saw Gilbert and another man sitting at table 23. She recognised his gold tiepin, worn on an angle, and his pale brown curls. But later, when she had the opportunity to pass by the table again, there was a party of regulars there, ties and collars loosened, knees spread wide to accommodate their beer guts.
Since the murder, police had been milling around the club asking questions, interrupting the girls at will. Leda frequently caught sight of their uniforms in the mirrors, badges flashing. Like the other girls, she resented them taking up the space of paying customers; it wasn’t like they were walking around with blinkers on, and their presence was off-putting to the patrons. She had never felt as naked as when a policeman watched her move across the room.
Also unwelcome was the rash of reporters that waited for the girls as they left via the back exit, ready to chase them down the street. At the Hotel Hotel, too, police and reporters continued to clog up reception, firing ill-conceived questions, clamouring for a new angle on the murder inquiry.
Leda was prompted to move, with some of the other girls, to the Parkview, a brown brick ‘high-rise’ overlooking the town cemetery, which boasted recliner chairs with embroidered antimacassars in the common room and wheelchair ramps at every turn. (The median age of the guests here appeared to be around sixty-five; safe to assume anyone who died would probably do so from natural causes.) The rates were higher than those at the Hotel Hotel, but the Parkview was clean, quiet and beneath the radar.
To minimise her hours at the Crazy Horse, Leda took a second job, at the Ram. It didn’t pay as well, but it was closer to the Parkview, open twenty-four hours, and she could choose her shifts.
Frank stipulated all the girls at the Ram wear black. They could play roles of their own choosing—nurses, schoolgirls, mermaids, air hostesses or policewomen—and wear fabric of any kind—latex, lace or corsetry—as long as it was black. They were to make up their faces with pale powder, black eyeliner and a blueberry shade of lipstick, selected by Frank himself from the counter at the department store in the main street. It left a stain almost impossible to remove.
Most of Frank’s girls were underage, skinny and lethargic looking, dependent on him for everything from managing their money to the dispensing of their various ‘medications’. Leda didn’t fit the image of the place and Frank knew he’d never control her the way he did the others, but he’d seen her working at the Crazy Horse and he recognised her as a drawcard.
His was a standard peep-show set-up: a row of dark booths, music through tinny speakers, coin-operated viewing windows looking onto a cramped space into which one of the girls would sidle, casting off items of costume as she went, until, on the final beat of the music, all but naked, she spread her legs for an instant before the music stopped, the window blacked out and the man in the booth was left alone in the dark, his breath steaming the glass.
The girls could see the men’s eyes, pained with engorgement, but their hands were hidden. (Make no mistake, children, my mother would tell us later, you could hear everything through those flimsy partitions: the rattle of the stool and the sound of a paper towel being ripped from the dispenser. Gilbert would say, That’s enough, they’re only kids! To which Leda would reply, same as always when reprimanded for telling inappropriate stories, Motherhood doesn’t come naturally to all of us, before finishing the story as soon as our father was out of earshot.)
The problem was, the longer Leda worked at the Ram the more like the other girls she became: thinner, paler, more listless. She referred to it as her gothic period, in which she lived on coffee, cigarettes and the occasional chow mein from the one and only Chinese restaurant in town. But she had the grit to retain her independence. Refusing to take any payment in kind by Frank and his friends, she squirrelled away the greasy banknotes, along with those earned at the Crazy Horse, in a locked box under the sink in her en suite bathroom at the Parkview.
She did not remember having stayed as long in any place other than Amsterdam. Despite herself, she noticed a small seed of bitterness growing at the thought that Mandos had neglected to notify the authorities of her absconsion. Now that the circus policy regarding defectors had been applied to Leda herself, it didn’t seem right. But when she heard from one of the other girls that the circus had finally rolled out of town, she felt her future crack open with possibility.
Three weeks after the murder at the Hotel Hotel, a suspect named Vincent Russo was apprehended by police and questioned. Russo claimed he had never met the victim, but the victim’s sister, a young woman called Felicia, clearly remembered Mr Russo coming into the family business (a gelataria not far from the Crazy Horse) and sitting with her brother at one of the tables under a Cinzano umbrella on the footpath outside. He had ordered a short black, she recalled.
Gilbert and Mr Gore agreed it was unlikely that two men, both of whom had lived in the town for more than five years, both from Sicily and both in real estate, could possibly be strangers to one another. Yet, even after he was charged with murder, Mr Russo denied any acquaintance with the victim, and maintained his innocence.
When the case went to trial, every second person in town became involved in the proceedings and every other person, it seemed, went along to watch. Day after day, the court was packed to capacity.
This is where Gilbert and Leda next crossed paths, both in wigs—his horsehair, hers cascading strawberry blonde—he in his gown, having appeared that day in court on some other matter, she in a brown dress suggestive of a monk’s robe. Adjourned for the evening, the legal fraternity, the jurors, the witnesses, the police officers, the judge, the security team, the accused, journalists and spectators poured out of courtroom number four through their designated doors: the accused escorted back to the holding cell, His Honour home to his Mrs, the lawyers back to their chambers. Only Leda and a friend from the club remained on the footpath when Gilbert rounded the sandstone corner looking for a light.
Leda told Gilbert how the police and press were haranguing the girls at every turn; how, despite her various get-ups, people on the street recognised her face from the news footage; how business at the Crazy Horse was as slow as a wet week; how there were rumours it would close until the case was over; how the girls were losing money; how she had been forced to find less lucrative employment and more expensive accommodation. She gave him the look from under the strawberry-blonde wig, tresses covering one side of her face.
Zo, she sighed. I am tired of this place. And I have given up smoking, she lied.
Gilbert would see what he could do.
He arranged for Leda to stay in one of Mr Gore’s properties, a small shack on a large block on a wind-blown hill an hour or so southward along the coast. Like most of Mr Gore’s properties, the land was earmarked for future subdivision and redevelopment. Leda was welcome to stay if she didn’t mind packing up Mrs Priest’s belongings. (Mrs Priest was the widow who had lived and died there leaving no living relatives to speak of.)
As soon as his offer was accepted, Gilbert collected Leda from the Parkview and they set off in his mustard-coloured Renault, driving through the town, over the brown hills past vineyards and dams, along coastline fringed with rocks and succulents. They turned off onto a dirt road leading through a paddock of dry grass, then pulled up behind a fibro shack, its teal-coloured paint scoured by the salt air. The corrugated iron roof flapped and banged in the wind.
Gilbert retrieved the key from under a dilapidated sofa by the back door. Inside they found everything Leda needed—a bedroom with bed, a functioning bathroom and kitchen, linen, saucepans, crockery, cutlery—and some things she didn’t—a walking frame, an extensive collection of Mills & Boon novels, a cupboard full of dresses. From the car they collected Leda’s bag, a map of the area, a week’s supply of food and a pile of cardboard boxes, into which Leda would pack the contents of the house. Then Gilbert drove away.
The front of the house looked out towards th
e sea, the back looked towards the distant brown hills, and the windows looked out across fields of grass that ruffled in waves. First, Leda found a hammer, climbed onto the roof and nailed down the flapping tin. Then she mopped the floors and dusted the surfaces. From a bedroom drawer she pulled out a pile of photo albums. Here was Mrs Priest with her husband; he was a strange looking man. Here was Mrs Priest with her sister; they had the same wide foreheads. This was Mrs Priest’s cat, she guessed, a long-haired variety wearing a collar with a bell, sitting in a square of sunlight by the back door, the same back door that had outlasted both Mrs Priest and the cat. The same back door that Leda, a stranger, had just walked through.
In mid-December, the heatwaves began. For days on end the sun hammered down. With its tin roof and lack of insulation, the shack offered little relief, even after nightfall. Leda spent the worst part of the afternoons sitting in a cold bath reading—A Man Apart and Demi-Semi Nurse. At dusk she would venture out, run down the hill and dive into the sea. She liked to swim to the rocky outcrop and sit and watch the tide rise around her, then somersault off into the swirl below. Most evenings a handful of local teenagers joined her, impressed by her acrobatic entries into the water, eager to learn new stunts.
Gilbert left her in solitude for a few weeks, then sent her a Christmas card asking if he could visit. Perhaps they could cook some local prawns together and share a bottle of champagne? He included a stamped, self-addressed envelope.
The local prawns were overrated, Leda replied on the back of an overdue electricity bill, and champagne was not her thing, but she could do with some adult company, if that was what he was offering.
Soon after, my brother Kingston was conceived, in a cave on the beach. On the night in question, my mother claimed, the sea was as beautiful as greenstone but cold and full of sharks.
When Gilbert suggested they marry, Leda laughed. It was called a nuclear family for a reason, she said, after the bomb. What was romantic love other than a capitalist unit, a conspiracy designed to ensnare us, a hormonal drive at best?
Marriage has its uses, Gilbert countered. If they married, she would be able to stay in the country legally. He would provide for her and the child. She wouldn’t have to work at the Crazy Horse or the Ram ever again.
When the marriage was announced, it came as a shock not only to Gilbert’s parents but also to a number of women who had purchased tickets to the Law Ball in the belief that Gilbert was eligible. It came as an even worse shock to these last when they met Leda at the event. The bride-to-be wore a silk paisley dress (which she had run up out of one of Mrs Priest’s skirts), short enough to show most of her thighs and tight enough to invite speculation as to her condition. From which region of nether had this vixen emerged, the jilted women wondered. The madwoman was out of the closet and pregnant! I thought he was more discreet than that, they said to one another, fishing the strawberries out of their champagne. He’s going to marry a carnie! Look at her hair, it can’t be real. He’ll spawn sideshow freaks.
For her part, Leda failed to distinguish one of these women from the next. Most of the men, too, looked alike to her, causing her to muse to her betrothed, I guess this is what happens when a townspeople look for spouses no further afield than their own back fences.
My mother, who claimed her performance days were over, would have preferred to be married at the registry office, but Gilbert’s parents would not be denied a church wedding. Mr Gore gave the bride away and Mrs Gore, who wore blue, was the matron of honour.
Well at least she’s not Catholic, my father’s mother consoled her husband. It was as close to a compliment as she ever came in relation to her daughter-in-law. Soon afterwards, my grandparents reversed out of my parents’ lives.
THE ELECTRA
SHIP RULES
–Every Passenger to rise at 7 a.m. unless otherwise permitted by the surgeon
–Passengers, when dressed, to roll up their beds, to sweep decks, including the space under the berths, and to throw the dirt overboard
–Breakfast not to commence until this is done
–Breakfast at 8–9 a.m., dinner at 1 p.m., supper at 6 p.m.
–No naked light allowed at any time or on any account
–No smoking allowed between decks
–The sweepers for each day to be taken in rotation from the males above 14, in the proportion of 5 for every 100 passengers
–Duties of the sweepers: to clean the ladders, hospitals and roundhouses, to sweep the decks after every meal and to dry, holystone and scrape them after breakfast
–The occupant of each berth to see that it is well brushed out
–The beds to be shaken and aired on the decks and the bottom boards, if not fixtures, to be removed and dry scrubbed and taken on decks at least twice a week
–On Sunday, the passengers to be mustered at 10 a.m., when they will be expected to appear in clean and decent apparel. The Day to be observed as religiously as circumstances permit
–All fighting, gambling, riotous behaviour, swearing or violent language to be at once put a stop to
–Swords and other offensive weapons to be placed in the custody of the Master on embarkation
–Passengers are provided with the following utensils: knife, fork, tablespoon, teaspoon, metal plate, hookpot and mug
–Upon arrival in the Colony, these articles will be given to assisted immigrants who have behaved well on the voyage
–You are advised to provide yourself with an iron kettle, a couple of saucepans, a frying pan, teapot and pail
HENRIETTA’S JOURNAL
December 20th 1858
Today marks the end of our first week aboard the Electra. Thanks to our status as Servants of the Government of New Australia, we have been granted a comfortable compartment (shared with four others) & extra room in the Hold. We were even permitted to bring the Piano, & a generous number of trunks. We also have in our custody a carton of Hymn books, courtesy of Rev Stone, to be transported to Rev Hansen’s mission in the desert and distributed among the Natives. We are invited, fortnightly, to dine as guests at the Capt’s table, but I should think we will mostly absent ourselves from this Honour; by all accounts, the Capt is not a gregarious man & would prefer to dine alone. Remarkably, the Authorities granted E’s request to bring the Kingfisher, which he proposes to reinstate in its land of provenance. The children on board are much amused by the Bird & excited by the prospect of catching rodents for it to eat.
* * *
December 27th
For Christmas we were treated to a meal of boiled mutton, roast fowl, and mince pies. There was even a ham. Officers dined with passengers, and afterwards, dancing on Deck lasted until sundown. There have been several cases of seasickness since; all recovered except for Mrs P, who has taken ill with fever.
* * *
January 3rd 1859
E & I are part of a mess who rotate cooking & cleaning responsibilities. Women are exempt from the heavier chores but there is still much to do, including daily sweeping of Cabins & beating of donkey beds. The Galley provides soup & pudding most days, as well as other basic foodstuffs. E adds spices. This evening, for instance, he added a vanilla pod to the usual sago. Most are grateful for the variation. The vanilla, E explained to anyone who would lend him an ear, was imported from Madagascar. He also has nutmeg, cloves & saffron. We were obliged to bring a large quantity of raspberry vinegar with which to purify the drinking water, and we have countless varieties of tea, each of exotic origin, hauled across the plains of Europe by Russian gypsies, E insists, or carted across China on the back of a mule.
* * *
January 7th
We have endured rain, wind, thunder and lightning, all day & night. Many have been taken ill from the motion. A child fell down the Companionway and was badly hurt. Mrs P continues dangerously ill.
* * *
January 10th
Mrs P is not expected to recover. Thank fully, Mr P and the two children continue in good health.
* * *
January 13th
Last night, as I prepared food in the Galley, a Guard confiscated my ivory-handled folding knife, on the grounds it could be used as a weapon. (The knives issued at the start of the voyage are hardly fit to cut a boiled potato.) Equally unfathomable was the Authorities’ reprehension of a boy for throwing a lemon into the sea—he was too young by half to understand his folly. We sleep, eat & breathe in stifling proximity to one another. Some people I would keep at a distance of a mile or two at the best of times. Still, I have made some friends & it is a comfort to think I will not want for company in the Colony. I am also grateful that E’s & my constitutions have proven so adaptable. Even the Bird remains sturdy—I should not be surprised if it lives to see its Homeland once more.
10
LEDA HAD opened her parachute and landed in a culture of Hoovers, Crockpots, and Tupperware parties. But she had no interest in handicrafts, pickling or preserving, still less in dusting and vacuuming, and, beyond Dutch dumplings and boiled eggs, cooking was pretty much a foreign language to her.
The 1950s were over, she declared to Gilbert, and he had better get used to it. He would have to hire a housekeeper if he wanted a clean floor and dinner on the table every night, at least until she could adjust to the demands of the child he had put in her.
But if pregnancy startled her, giving birth was a horror, motherhood an atrocity. To begin with, she had no faith the muck-covered thing that crawled out of her was human. How could this fleshy ball of helplessness be moulded from the same stuff as she?
Once home, she refused to answer the door to Gilbert’s parents and left neighbours standing on the porch holding dishes of stew. She refused to be a member of any mothers’ group, would not look at the Dr Spock’s guide to common-sense parenting that Gilbert had bought for her, and barely even tolerated the occasional visits from the community maternity nurses. Any moron could bring up a child, she told them. Just look around.