by Lisa Bigelow
As Grace stepped out of the theatre into the evening gloom, she began composing a film review in her mind.
Torchy loses her spark. Miss Jane Wyman was sweet as Torchy but she was no Glenda Farrell. The story hit all the familiar plot points as Torchy exposed a counterfeit ring, but Wyman brought none of the sass and brass Torchy fans expect. A serviceable attempt but not a patch on the originals.
Although the film was disappointing, Grace had just spent ninety minutes as Torchy Blane, and no new actress could spoil that for her. She’d probably go back and watch the film again next weekend and the one after that.
Leaving the cinema, Grace continued to explore her new home: the narrow lanes, the food markets, the hospitals, hotels and restaurants. But no matter where she walked, she was always drawn to the true centre of the city: the Fields emporium and its five storeys of style. It was unlike anything she’d seen in Benalla. Fields sold every type of outer and underwear, shoes, handbags, hats and cosmetics, and anything you could possibly need to furnish a home. She rarely bothered looking at price tags. Apart from a pair of stockings or a hanky, Grace knew she couldn’t afford to buy anything; it was enough just to look at the scarves and perfumes and the elegant salesmen and women dressed in black and white with their perfectly coiffed hair. Being a Saturday night, Fields was closed. But that didn’t lessen its appeal. As she examined the window displays, Grace pulled her coat closed over her homemade skirt and blouse, determined that one day she’d be able to afford smart dresses and suits like the ones on the mannequins.
Grace walked another block up the hill to the Georges department store. While she’d often walked through Fields, Georges was another prospect entirely. Its windows gleamed and giant crystal chandeliers were visible through the doors when the shop was open. Sometimes she stood on the opposite side of the street at lunchtime, watching women with elegant shopping bags dangling from their wrists swishing in and out of the gleaming entrance. She’d never been told she didn’t belong in that world, but instinctively she knew you had to grow up shopping in a place like that to feel comfortable.
She walked back down the hill alongside the Tribune office and stood at the corner to wait for her tram home to Richmond and the rooming house she shared with twelve other single women. Most of them were secretaries or teachers, some seeing boyfriends, others waiting for their fellows to come home from the war so they could marry.
Grace had never had a boyfriend, never wanted one apart from Mick Foster, Benalla’s star footballer who’d lived next door to Grace. All the girls loved Mick, especially on the football field. He didn’t have movie hero looks, like Gary Cooper in Mr Deeds Goes to Town—or Phil Taylor from the newsroom, for that matter; Mick was a pink-skinned redhead who’d shot up to six foot three when he was just fifteen. But his smile was enough to set a blush racing from her toes to the tips of her ears. No one else had ever had that effect on her, so she figured it was probably love.
Sometimes she’d found herself glancing at Mick’s lips, imagining how kissing him might feel, but apart from holding hands, she had no idea what else she was supposed to do with a boyfriend. She knew about the birds and bees, but had no idea how things progressed to that stage. What do you talk about with a boyfriend? she’d once asked her mother. Whatever they’re interested in, dear, had been the reply. No help there! So, unless she met a nice boy soon, someone with enough gumption to make the first move, it was likely that she’d turn nineteen in October without ever having been kissed other than in her imagination. OLD MAID CELEBRATES FIFTY YEARS AS NEWS SECRETARY. What an epitaph! She had no idea how, but somehow she was going to become more like Torchy, starting with making some new friends.
The next morning, Grace woke as the church bells chimed seven. She made herself a cup of tea and two slices of toast then returned to her room to get ready for church. Each week she tried a new church to see which one she liked best. Today she was heading away from the city and out to Hawthorn. The same tram that brought her home from town continued into the suburbs, so it would be an easy ten- or fifteen-minute trip. She combed her hair, powdered her face and applied the lightest hint of mascara, just enough to widen her eyes. She blotted her lipstick, pinned her hat in place and grabbed her handbag.
Hurrying out the front door, Grace saw a tram gliding slowly past her stop. Waiting for the next one might make her late, so she ran as fast as her shoes would allow, hoping to catch up with the tram before it crested the hill and started to gain speed. Several boys leaned out the window and urged her on. When she was close she leaped, two men grabbing her arms and helping her up onto the running board. She hung on to a leather strap and caught her breath.
Shops and factories melted away as they crossed the river, the road instead becoming a boulevard lined with golden-leafed trees and large Victorian-era homes. When the tram finally reached the bluestone Anglican church, half the passengers stood and filed off. It seemed this was one of the more popular churches in town. With fifteen minutes to spare, she wandered along the path towards the crowd gathered around the doors.
‘Miss Fowler?’
Grace turned and came face to chest with Phil Taylor, dressed in a dark grey suit and a black coat. His arm was held by a woman almost exactly his height, with platinum blonde hair and Chanel red lips.
‘Miss Fowler, I didn’t know you came to this church. I’ve not seen you here before.’
‘Good morning, Mr Taylor. It’s my first visit. I’m trying a different church each week.’
‘That’s very ecumenical of you.’
The woman beside Phil held out her unoccupied hand. ‘Caroline Strickland. It’s lovely to have you with us, Miss Fowler.’
‘Sorry, Caro. Grace—I mean Miss Fowler—is our secretary at work. Well, Sam’s secretary, I suppose. She’s new to town; she’s come up from the country.’
‘How lovely. Well I do hope you’ll choose our little church as your regular. We have all sorts of activities for young people too. You never know who you might meet.’
‘I’d ask you to sit with us, Miss Fowler, but Caro and I are part of a christening this morning—godparents and all that. We have to sit with the family.’
‘That’s fine. Maybe another time. Enjoy the christening.’
Phil and Caroline walked towards a crowd of particularly shiny, well-dressed people, the women in furs and pearls, the men in tailored suits.
Grace felt a pang of loneliness as she watched the parishioners laughing and greeting each other, reminded of what she’d taken for granted living in the country. She’d never known what it was like to be an outsider, yet here she was, working long hours and spending her time lost in movies. It was a far cry from Phil’s glamorous life. Caroline was stunning, her green eyes sparkling even early on a Sunday morning. The pair of them looked like they’d be just as at home on the silver screen. SCREEN GOD AND GODDESS SPOTTED IN HAWTHORN. GOLDEN COUPLE OUTSHINES PARISHIONERS. SECRETARY SEES WORLD IN HEADLINES, JUST LIKE A REAL NEWSMAN.
Her father had had no idea how much of a reporter she was inside, how much she longed to tell stories—stories that mattered. But as much as she dreaded telling her father she’d ignored his wishes, she knew she’d have to tell him the truth when she got a cadetship. She hated lying. Once, when she was about ten years old, her mother had sent Grace to the shop to buy a canister of tea, and Grace had stolen some of the change to buy lollies. Normally the type to make a bag of freckles last an entire week, she scoffed a penny’s worth behind a bush on her way home. But instead of enjoying them, she was overcome with anxiety, worried that she had chocolate between her teeth or hundreds and thousands melting into her cheek. When her mother questioned the change, Grace had burst into tears and admitted everything. She’d never eaten freckles again. Her mother still teased her about the episode and Grace still felt guilty.
So, no, lying wasn’t an option. And she shouldn’t have to lie. The Tribune was one of the best papers in the country. But if she got a cadetship her father would think s
he’d disobeyed him and that might put him into one of his tempers. She was far enough away now that she didn’t have to fear his temper anymore, but he could still take it out on others—her mother, for instance. Grace imagined Nev’s angry, red face, his hand swishing through the air and walloping the side of her head so that her ears rang for days after. He left bruises but rarely drew blood, that was one good thing, but her mother was getting frailer as she got older. If she fell the wrong way when he struck her, she could easily hit her head.
Filing into the church behind the crowd, Grace sat in a pew at the back. She looked at the sea of contented faces around her. Maybe she should settle for what she had. If she married a nice reporter, she’d still get to live in the world of the newsroom through her husband without risking her father’s wrath. But would it be enough? And why should she have to give up without achieving any of her dreams? GRACE FOWLER QUITS BEFORE SHE BEGINS. No. She looked towards the pulpit. Sorry, God, but: GIRL REPORTER DOESN’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT MARRYING!
CHAPTER 5
* * *
May 1941
HARRY HAD BEEN GONE just over a month when Mae packed for the move to her family’s house in Yarraville. She’d filled her own suitcase with loose clothing and nightgowns, and a smaller case with tiny baby clothes, nappies, bottles and blankets. Only a few more weeks, she thought, as her heart pounded from the exertion of walking along the street to Claire’s house. Here she was, the size of a house with feet like melons, but she was grateful that this pregnancy had been different from the last three. Mae held on to the handrail and hauled herself up the four steps to Claire’s front door. As soon as she knocked she heard footsteps running along the hallway, followed by a thud against the door then the wail of a young child.
‘Who’s a duffer then?’ Claire said, rubbing Nicholas’s head as she opened the door. ‘He was so excited when I said you were coming.’
Nicholas looked up at Mae with huge blue eyes full of tears. ‘Bump!’ he said as he rubbed his forehead.
Mae examined the red mark on his head. ‘Yes, I expect you will get quite a bump.’
Nicholas took Mae’s hand and tried to pull her along the hall.
‘He wants to show you something in his bedroom,’ Claire said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
Mae smiled. ‘Not at all.’
As Nicholas led Mae along the hallway, Mae admired the wide, light-filled space that had no clutter, just a low line of bookshelves along one wall and framed newspaper pages above. The headlines screamed the big news events of the last twenty years: the stock market crash of 1929, Britain declaring war on Germany in ’39.
‘Sam’s best front pages,’ Claire said. ‘We’ve just had them framed. He won awards for both of them.’
‘Quite an achievement,’ Mae said, thinking she’d love a gallery like this for some of Harry’s drawings, when they had a bigger home. Claire and Sam’s house was at least twice the size of their cottage, so it was easier for Claire to keep it neat, but Mae wondered if it might be possible to tidy any more of the clutter at home before she left. Stepping into Nicholas’s room reminded Mae of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Everything was child-sized: the small bed, the small desk and chair, the rocker covered with cushions and two soft bears. A wardrobe and a small chest of drawers completed the furnishings. Nicholas pointed at a rug strewn with wooden blocks.
‘Falled down!’
Mae wondered whether he was about to cry again. Instead he plopped down on the floor and started building, working quickly to finish the tower while he had an audience. Mae realised that she’d soon be doing this every day: sharing her home with a little person, playing games, teaching him or her to read, to eat. She’d be soothing scrapes, sewing tiny outfits, mashing vegetables. Claire said looking after Nicholas took all day, that sometimes there was barely time to dress herself or eat a meal. Mae wondered how that was possible. Surely babies just slept at first, and then when they could walk you’d send them off to play in the yard. She’d have plenty of time to read and take in some tailoring; that was how she planned to earn extra money for the house while her children were young.
The baby somersaulted in her stomach, digging a tiny hand or foot into her bladder.
Claire appeared at her side just as Nicholas placed the last block on the wonky tower. Willing the block to stay in place, Mae clapped enthusiastically. The sound must have startled Nicholas, as he kicked his foot forward, sending the tower tumbling to the mat. Anguish creased his forehead and his lip trembled again. ‘Your fault!’ he sobbed, looking squarely at Mae.
‘Nicholas!’ Claire said. ‘Mrs Parker was being kind to you. Say you’re sorry for being so rude!’
The boy looked at his mother but refused to look at Mae.
‘It’s all right, Claire. I scared him.’
‘No, it’s not all right. Nice little boys are not rude to visitors. And if they don’t apologise when they’re naughty, they don’t get lunch.’
Mae saw Nicholas’s little shoulders slump. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered to his shoes.
‘All right, Nicholas,’ said Claire. ‘Your sandwich is on the table.’
He raced out of the room towards the kitchen.
‘I’m sorry he was so naughty,’ his mother said with a sigh.
Mae smiled. ‘Don’t be silly. He was fine. Anyway, it was my fault. I never know how to behave around children.’
Mae often found Nicholas’s behaviour unfathomable. One moment he was all smiles and chattering happily, and the next—for absolutely no reason—he was lying on the footpath crying and refusing to move. It had made some of their recent Wednesday walks to the beach nearly twice as long. Claire assured Mae that it was all quite normal and that every three-year-old had tantrums, but Mae couldn’t believe any child of hers would be so poorly behaved, especially in public. There must be something wrong with the little poppet, she’d told Et after an incident involving a dropped apple slice. It was so bad that Mae and Claire had to pretend to walk away and leave him outside the butcher’s shop. Quite a crowd had gathered across the street to watch, tittering behind their hands. Eventually he noticed his mother had moved away, and he leaped up and ran to catch them, wiping his eyes and nose on his jumper sleeve. It’s terrible, you just never know when he’s going to erupt, Mae had said. Et had just laughed and nodded. Yes, quite shocking, indeed.
As the women walked to the kitchen Claire explained that dealing with toddlers was all about bribery and coercion. ‘It’s not hard, but sometimes I feel like he only behaves so that I’ll feed him. I’m told that only gets worse as they get older.’
Pausing in the kitchen doorway, Mae laughed at the sight of Nicholas standing beside his chair eating a sausage sandwich with his nose, mouth and chin coated in tomato sauce.
‘Nicholas gets his table manners from Sam’s side of the family,’ Claire quipped.
‘Does Sam have a large family? You never say much about them.’
‘I never got to meet them. They all died when he was a boy, just twelve. His brother Geoffrey was killed at Pozières, in France, in 1916. His mother died a few months later from a heart attack. Sam says it was from a broken heart. The next year his father succumbed to the Spanish flu. After that, Sam was alone. An aunt raised him for a few years, then he got a cadetship at the paper and moved to Fitzroy. The aunt moved to Tasmania and he never saw her again. She died a few years later.’
‘How awful for him. It’s lucky that he met you and got to start his own family.’
‘He took a bit of convincing though. He was so sure that everyone he loved would die, he refused to court anyone. Then, when we married, he was reluctant to have children in case he lost them too.’
‘How did you change his mind?’
‘I was his secretary, as you know. He’d been a police rounds reporter for many years and I met him when he was just starting his time on the news desk. He started getting invitations to the theatre, to restaurant openings, to awards dinners. He refused to go at first
, saying he wouldn’t know what to do, what to say; that he didn’t have a spouse. The paper’s editor-in-chief, Mr Gordon, ordered him to go along to represent The Tribune. So Sam said that if he had to go then I’d have to go with him.’
‘That sounds very glamorous! A lovely way to start a romance.’
‘It was a terribly slow process. He kept things completely professional for two years, only accepting invitations to the things Mr Gordon couldn’t attend. He still preferred to drink with the police after work rather than dressing up and hobnobbing. We always had a lovely time on our outings, so when I wanted to move things along, I figured my best plan was to make him miss me. I went away on holidays with my parents for a few weeks and that knocked some sense into him. He said ‘yes’ to every invitation after that, as long as I was free to accompany him.’
‘Ingenious.’
‘I thought so. Then, of course, I launched an assault on his stomach. I started baking scones and pies and cakes and bringing them into work.’
‘Well, he wouldn’t have stood a chance after that,’ Mae said, eyeing the cinnamon teacake in the centre of the table.
‘His favourite,’ Claire said, slicing portions and placing them on plates. ‘He’ll be happy to see this for his supper.’
‘If we leave him any.’
Mae felt another twinge stab her belly. Growing pains, she thought, shifting her legs to the side in search of a more comfortable position. Through the open window Mae caught a waft of salty air. That was one of the reasons she and Harry had moved here instead of closer to her family. Williamstown was the perfect location for them: only two train stops from Mae’s aunt Et and uncles Albert and William, and close to the sea for Harry, who hated living anywhere he couldn’t smell salt spray. She loved breathing the sea air, knowing that he’d be breathing in the same scent thousands of miles away.
Mae leaned forward to scoop a teaspoon of sugar for her tea. Her hand was halfway to the caddy when another pain gripped her stomach. She gasped and dropped her hand to her belly.