by Carmel Bird
Aurora did pictures of houses in the street and sold them to the owners. Many a study wall is graced by a picture titled ‘Our House by Aurora Blackwood’. She also made pots, and embroidered cloths. You should have seen the speed and skill with which she could braid her hair.
The woman on the veranda at The Lilacs more or less thinks all this as she looks up from her book and hears the young people playing tennis. She hears a mixture of sounds—through the noise of the birds in the gum tree she can sometimes get the ploc! of the ball on the racquet, the tink of laughter, the chink of ice in her glass, the rustle of a lizard in the dry leaves, the hop of a bird, a breath of wind. Peace and goodwill and it will soon be Christmas. The telephone is ringing in the hall. The book of romance falls to the floor as the woman—her dress is green and violet, and her sandals are white—gets up from the cane lounge, brushes her hair from her forehead and goes to the hall where she answers the telephone. The caller is a neighbour from a house called Waratah across the street. This neighbour has just returned from travels overseas.
‘I must come over soon and tell you all about it. The hotel you suggested in London was quite wonderful, and I met a Chelsea Pensioner in the street.’
‘Come over now. I’m making tea and there’s half a banana cake from yesterday.’
‘Don’t go to any trouble.’
‘No trouble at all. Do come over. I’m keen to hear all about it. And welcome home.’
The Waratah woman sits on the veranda with the Lilac woman and they exchange views and reminiscences of the British Isles and France.
‘I went to the Louvre and saw the Mona Lisa. Shopping in the rue St Honore. Couldn’t get a decent cup of tea for love nor money. Brought you a small gift from Scotland.’
She hands the Lilac woman a blood-red cairngorm brooch.
‘How very kind. My favourite.’
‘Rhododendrons in Scotland, but nothing like the size of yours.’
‘Nearly finished for the season. The Blackwood girls have people in for tennis.’
In the garden of Santa Fe they have taken many photographs of this happy afternoon. Aurora is home and there are visitors, boys and girls in white with sunburnt faces and shiny eyes and hair. The black dog catches the tennis ball in its mouth. Another ball is tossed, and Ploc! the game goes on.
Milk and sugar and banana cake.
‘Well, Lilac, my dear, I have a tale to tell you. Think of this. Something happened. I bring a strange piece of news, a sort of revelation all the way from Paris. You won’t believe this. I could scarcely believe my own eyes and ears. It was cold. Rugged up I was, and wouldn’t normally go just wandering into churches. But I was looking for a post office—it’s almost impossible to find them—and as I said, it was cold, bitterly cold. I was in the rue du Bac and there was a big old church. Now I know this sounds peculiar, but it—I mean the church—it seemed to beckon me somehow, seemed to suggest to me that I should push open the door and go inside. As you know we’re C of E, and a person doesn’t just feel beckoned to a foreign RC church and go in out of the cold. Not normally. I can’t explain it, but I went in.
‘It was rather pretty really, walls painted blue and stars on the ceiling and a charming mural in what I think of as a very English style. It was just the Virgin Mary and some angels, but quite attractive in its way. There were candles burning, hundreds of candles in little holders.’
‘Have some more cake.’
‘And it was much, much warmer than outside. People were kneeling and praying, and one woman was stretched out on the floor. Very exaggerated. But there were some other tourists there just looking. It’s a church of miracles, you see. That’s it. The mural was about a magic medal that was given to a saint. So I sat down with my parcels—of course I never found the post office—and I got out my guidebook to look up information about the church.’
‘More tea.’
‘And a little old nun came in and sat down beside me. She was incredibly French and all in black and I thought she looked like a witch in a fairytale. There was a sweet perfume about her. It was embarrassing, her kneeling there in prayer so close to me. Me just staring around and trying to get warm. I shifted along and then she lifted her head, turned to me, and looked me in the eye. I hope you don’t think I’m making this up. She had such clear blue eyes, shining. She looked very wrinkled and wise and knowing. Exactly like a witch, as I said, with her arms folded religiously in her sleeves. And then she spoke. I nearly died. I was so embarrassed. I’m not used to talking in church. And she spoke in English. With hardly any accent at all. You are a visitor, she said. And I said yes, and she welcomed me to Paris and said was I enjoying it and where did I come from, and I told her. And then—you won’t believe this—then she said would I by any chance know of her niece, Celeste Blackwood, and I couldn’t believe my ears. Yes, I said. I live across the street. And the old witch said what a coincidence, but she didn’t even seem to be surprised. Would I be so good, she said, as to pass on her love and blessings to her niece. Knock me down with a feather. I said I would. But now we come to the terrible part.’
‘More tea.’
‘I don’t know if I can pass anything on to Celeste at all.’
The shadows of the afternoon are lengthening and the breeze that lifts the leaves of the vine around the veranda is cool. The white cat has gone into the house for food and comfort. The florets of the rhododendron have lost their glow. Silence has settled on the garden at Santa Fe. Then a young woman’s voice is heard calling:
‘Everybody stand over here for just one last shot. It’s perfect, the golden moment.’
Briefly the scene is bathed with incandescence as one final burst of daylight marks the arrival of the dusk. The sharp loud click of the shutter and the final picture is taken.
The Waratah woman continues:
‘And the terrible part is this. I swear it’s true. I gathered up my parcels and said goodbye to the nun. She stood up to go. And she took her hands out of the sleeves of her habit. And Lilac, my dear, she had no trace of any fingers at all. Hands exactly like poor Aurora’s. Exactly. Clearly, Lilac, the thing runs in the family. Their fingers drop off for some reason and they put them, I mean the girls, into convents in foreign countries in an attempt to put a stop to the thing. But of course you can’t. There’ll always be a throwback. It’s so tragic.’
Lilac’s eyes fly open in surprise and she catches her breath.
‘I can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it. Pardon me, but are you sure you didn’t dream this thing. So far-fetched. Travel broadens the mind and surely plays strange tricks in the light and air of foreign lands.’
‘I saw it all with my own eyes, as sure as I’m sitting here.’
‘Then you’ll have to tell her, give her the message. Sort of pretend you saw nothing, that the nun never took her hands out of her sleeves. You must just pass on the message, the blessing, the love. Forget what you saw. Imagine you imagined it.’
‘How can I? And how can I pass on the message with a straight face, knowing what I know? It’s on Celeste’s side of the family. I can’t look her in the eye. She’ll know I know, no matter what I say. It was a million to one chance I went into that church. Why did I have to do it?’
Lilac is silent. She has no answer to this question. An anguish has twisted its way into the conversation on the veranda.
The light has gone, the golden moment passed. One last shot of the players in the garden has been registered on the film in the camera, lit by the last magic splash of light. Final exposure. The women on the veranda pack up the cups and saucers and go into the house as a darkness, like the soft web of a spider, weaves its way through the gardens, linking The Lilacs and Santa Fe in the drifting pall of night.
Goczka
During World War Two refugee children from Macedonia were separated from their families and lodged in empty Greek churches by the Red Cross.
He was red, dressed in red, and his horse was red.
My ey
e is looking out through the blanket. If I keep very still and stay under the blanket, I will be warm and safe, safe and warm. Still and safe and warm. I am the little boy under the grey blanket, scratchy blanket, warm and safe and scratchy. I am four now and I am under the blanket with just my eye peeping. I peep. My eye is peeping and I peep. Still, still, I am still, I am Goczka and I am very, very still. I wear the blanket like a hood, safe hood. The hood will save me from the night and the dark and the wolf. Rocked in the soft, soft swaying pink waters, womb waters, pink waters, I am the baby, safe baby, warm baby, soft baby. Wrapped in the waters, I rock and I sing. I am Goczka. The blanket, grey blanket, is scratchy and safe. It is the pink waters, silk, waters, my darling, my mother’s, my cradle, my pod. I am curled in my pod in the garden. I peep from my pod. My eye is peeping, pod peeping. There is a smell of mould. There is a war. I peep from my blanket and I see that there is a war.
He was red, dressed in red, and his horse was red.
In Poland, there is a war. I am four years old, and here is the war. The children will be safe. Safe warm children in scratchy blankets, grey blankets, war blankets. The children are peeping from their blankets. Fifty children peeping from their blankets. There is a smell of war, a smell of blankets, a smell of mould. I do not know these children, I do not know this place. I am four, I am sad. I am crying. They have put us in a church. We will be safe in the church. The walls are stone, old stone, cold stone. We are safe in the church from the war.
I do not know these children. They are babies, they are crying. The children are crying. I want my sister. My sister in her skirt, red skirt, thick skirt, thick red skirt. There is a silver ribbon in her hair. The ribbons on her skirt are dancing in the sunlight. My sister is dancing in the sunlight. She is Lola, sister Lola, and she holds me and she loves me and she is my sister. Sister Lola. I am peeping from my blanket. I am looking for my sister. I am Goczka, she is Lola, and I cry.
With my peeping eye, I see a window. Picture window. It is glass, it is sunset, it is sunshine in the sunset. Sweet sweetie shapes of lolly glass. I see the lolly glass and I am peeping at the glass. Glass. I see the glass, glassy glass. Red glass, blood glass. Sweet glass, sweetie glass, jar of lollies, lolly glass. Lola gives me lollies is my sister is my lollies glassy lollies sugar lollies in the glass.
We are having cabbage soup. Sit up now and drink this cabbage soup, there is a war. Spilling soup slop soup yellow wee wee soup the smell of old old socks mould old socks. And incense. In the church there lurks the old incense. It is hanging in the corners, in the dust of all the corners. There is incense in the corners of the church.
When I was a little boy, little Goczka, little boy, I was sitting with my sister by the fire. Goczka, little Goczka, listen, Goczka, to the stories I will tell.
This is the story, she said, of Baba Yaga. Near the house was a dense forest; in the forest was a clearing; in the clearing there was a hut; and in this hut lived Baba Yaga. She let no one near her and devoured children as if they were chickens. The trees creaked. The dry leaves crackled. And she devoured children. The door opened and Baba Yaga went in whistling and whirling. The fence around the hut was made of human bones.
Fear not. Eat and pray, and go to sleep. Night will bring help.
Goczka is lying in the church in Poland in the war and it is getting dark. He can see the stained-glass window if he peers from his blanket. In the sunset, the window glows with crimson fire. It is Saint George. They tell me I am George, I am Goczka, I am George. He is killing his dragon, red dragon. Killing his dragon. There are stones. In the picture in the window, there are stones. A long thin spear, a wide red cloak, and the stones. It is bright, it is light and Goczka is killing his dragon. I am Goczka. I kill.
He was red, dressed in red, and his horse was red.
In the church with all the children, there is a woman. She looks after us. She brings us the blankets, the soup, the bread, the day and the night. Eat, pray and go to sleep. Night will bring help. In the morning, the war will be over. It will all be over, won’t it?
You have to go to sleep now. Sleep now. No more crying, no more running round the church. If you are good and go to sleep the war will get over and we can all go home. Be good, and go to sleep. The woman says go to sleep. I will tell you a story she says. She says there will be a story. Once upon a time, there was a witch and this witch was called Baba Yaga.
She is telling us the story Lola told. Lola, sister Lola, lovely Lola.
And she devoured little children as if they were chickens. And if you do not go to sleep, if you do not go to sleep, the door will fly open, and Baba Yaga will come whistling and whirling through the church in her great big black cloak, and she will eat you and crunch you and spit out the bones. If you don’t go to sleep. Keep quiet and go to sleep. It is the war. She said she is the teacher. She said she is the grandmother. Grandmother soup, grandmother bread, soup and bread and Baba. My Baba makes lace. She is a lady making lace. She sits in the sunshine making lace. Flicking flying bobbins pins and bobbins making lace. My Baba smells of sugar making sunshine lace. She sometimes smells of custard and vanilla. My vanilla Baba. She sings a lullaby, lace lullaby—sleep, little baby, the red bee hums. Sloneczko hums, the red bee hums. Sleep, sleep, sloneczko, my baby, my bee.
The woman is a teacher, cabbage teacher. She is the Baba of the war. Black Baba. Big black wolfy wolfy Baba. Pull up the blanket, Goczka. It is not safe to stay awake. It is not safe to go to sleep. It is not safe. It is the war.
You will be safe in the church, with the Baba, with the children, with the blankets, with the windows. There is incense in the corner. And if you do not go to sleep, Baba Yaga will get you.
So I lie in my blanket and it is getting dark. I watch the window. The night will bring help, the window will bring help. I love the window. The window is going to save me. Lovely window loves me. All around me, I smell crying. The children are crying in the church, safe church, in the war. It is dark. If you do not go to sleep, the doors will open and she will come, Baba Yaga will get you.
Saint George is killing the dragon. There is incense in the corners. The floor is stone. There is a wind outside. Outside there is a wind, a war and a wind. Stones and the dark and a war and a great big wind. And a whirling and whistling and a war.
I am getting cold.
He was red, dressed in red, and his horse was red.
There is still and quiet here now. We are all listening to the wind, the wind outside. The window is all dark now. Dark like snow. Some of the children have fallen asleep. Once upon a time there were some children and they got into a boat and fell asleep. They fell asleep in the boat. It was a dark boat, the children’s boat. The trees beside the water met across the water. And the children fell asleep in the boat. They floated down the river, dark, sweet river. They floated down the river in the boat.
The window is black.
I am four years old and I am Goczka and there is always a war. My sister is Lola, and she has gone, gone with the war. Her skirt is red, her red skirt, and it is gone with her silver ribbons in the war. I am rocking in the red skirt, in the grey blanket, in the dark. There is a rustle. I hear a rustle. The leaves are cracking. The door is creaking. It is creaking cracking open. The night is coming in. Into the church, the night is coming. Night will bring help.
If you do not go to sleep, Baba Yaga, the Baba Yaga will come and get you. I will go to sleep, I will go to sleep. I am going to sleep by the window. I am peeping and I am going to sleep.
Very high, very wide, very black, very full, into the cavern of the church where the fifty children are lying, the Baba Yaga comes. If you are asleep, you will not see her. If you are awake, she will get you. She is here. She is flapping slowly into the church. Moaning and howling, she is coming to get the children. Wild wisps of witch’s hair, wild wisps of hair. She is black, she is scratched, she will get you. If you do not go to sleep she will get you.
Goczka, little Goczka, close your eyes, no more peepi
ng. The Baba Yaga is here. She smells of cabbage soup. She is here with her claws. She is here.
The blanket is not safe.
There is a war. Goczka, sloneczko, there is a war.
She said she is the grandmother. She is wearing a big black cloak, wolfy cloak.
I melt into the blanket. I melt into the window. I am killing the dragon. Goczka is big, he is big inside. He is strong to kill the dragon, the dragon in the window. Quiet now, still, still. Safe in Goczka’s heart, he is safe in his heart. In his heart, in my heart, there is a giant giant window. It is red and red and red. There is a war, there is the Baba, there is whirling creaking crackling. All is whistling. She is flapping and whirling.
I will not go to sleep. I will not sleep. I am big and bright and strong.
I am red, dressed in red, and my horse is red.
Oklahoma
So I’m talking to Ken and I say: Listen to this; look at this stuff—Time and The Australian and the encyclopaedia. Come on, look at this then.
In its land and its people, Oklahoma is a state of contrast and of the unexpected.
Encyclopaedia Britannica, 1981, 15th edition
At 9.02 a.m. on 19 April 1995, a bomb destroyed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City.
Time, 1 May, 1995
If it can happen in Oklahoma, it can happen anywhere.
The Australian, 20 April 1995
And then I start remembering things, and I remember Rosella and Maria and Louisa. It’s like:
Rosella Hightower and Maria Tallchief