A Stranger in my Street

by Deborah Burrows

  Megalong was a short street at the eastern edge of the section of Nedlands known as Hollywood, a name that always amused the American servicemen because it was definitely not a glamorous place. There were no movie studios, just small red-tiled bungalows set close together on neat little blocks, but it was a friendly neighbourhood. We had moved here from Kalgoorlie to be closer to my middle sister, Mary. She was twenty-nine and lived with her husband, Desmond, and their four-year-old daughter, Helen, not far away in the posher part of Nedlands. Des was a teacher, which was a reserved occupation, and so he had avoided conscription.

  The heat pushed against me like a physical barrier as I made my way slowly to the end of the street and I regretted not putting on a hat. But I hated going back once I had closed the door behind me. At the corner I turned into Park Road and then into the sandy, overgrown laneway that ran behind our street. In front of me stretched a wide tunnel of wooden picket fences. They had weathered to a listless grey colour but were enlivened by the red brick of the outhouses that were set into each back fence. The scent of hot sand and eucalyptus was strong and the air shimmered around me as I trudged the short distance to the plum tree. I didn’t see him until I was almost there.

  Tom Lagrange was standing under our plum tree, almost invisible in the deep pool of its shade. A half-eaten plum was in his hand and his mouth and chin were wet with the sticky juice. He looked at me from under the brim of his cap and threw me a rather guilty smile. I recognised something of Peter in that smile.

  ‘I couldn’t resist,’ he said. ‘My aunt had a plum tree in her backyard and when I was a boy I ate plums every summer until I was ill with them. What wondrous life is this I lead, ripe plums drop about my head.’

  His last words were rather indistinct because he had popped the rest of the plum in his mouth. I edged closer, holding the basket against me like a shield.

  ‘What?’ I had no idea what he was talking about.

  He watched me through half-closed eyes and gave me a languid smile. ‘I’m having green thoughts in a green shade.’

  It sounded like he was quoting poetry to me. Was he trying to make me feel stupid?

  ‘Apologies to Andrew Marvell,’ he said. Spitting the stone into his hand, he tossed it down the lane with easy athleticism. He seemed happy. At least his face seemed a lot less tense than it had been in the morning. Then he shook his head as if he was trying to focus.

  ‘Sorry. I’m –’ He paused and looked around as though searching for whatever he had been going to say. ‘I’ve just taken some, ah, pretty powerful painkillers for this.’ He held up his left hand. ‘It makes me feel a bit, ah, dreamy for a while. I’ll be fine in a minute.’

  I felt a stab of guilt and wondered how I should apologise for my behaviour earlier. His glance flicked down to my legs.

  ‘You’ve washed your knees,’ he said. There was another lazy smile.

  I decided not to apologise. Or smile.

  ‘Have you found Mrs Luca yet?’ I asked.

  He closed his eyes for a beat. ‘No, I haven’t found Mrs Luca. No one has seen her since yesterday. She was supposed to meet me this morning, but didn’t show.’

  He spoke very slowly, deliberately, as though pulling the words out of the air, one at a time. It was very strange. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief to wipe his face and hands. ‘Do you have any idea where she might be?’

  I watched as he wiped his ruined hand, making no attempt to hide it from me. After he had finished he folded the handkerchief carefully and returned it to his pocket.

  ‘She usually visits her daughter on Saturday,’ I said. I was interested to see if he knew of Paulette’s existence.

  ‘She’s at St Joseph’s, isn’t she?’

  I nodded. ‘You should ask Betty Barwon where Doreen is. They live together, after all.’

  He gave me a sharp look. He was definitely more alert now. Peter had been right about his stare.

  ‘How do you know me?’ he asked suddenly.

  There was a calculating gleam in his eyes, which didn’t match the dreamy smile that was still on his lips. His eyes were very dark and he was watching me closely.

  ‘All the girls at university knew Tom Lagrange,’ I said, shaking my head to move some stray hair from my face.

  ‘I can’t say I recognise you,’ he said, pleasantly enough. ‘Surely you’re too young to have been at university with me.’

  ‘I was a typist, not a student. You were tutoring there before you went to Oxford. But of course, you wouldn’t have looked at the typists.’

  ‘You think that, do you?’ he said wryly. ‘What are you doing here? In the lane, I mean?’

  Shouldn’t I be asking him that? I live here after all.

  I held up the basket. ‘Plums,’ I said. ‘You’re standing under our tree.’ I was careful to keep my voice steady, but felt the heat in my cheeks.

  His expression lightened. ‘Don’t let me stop you. I owe you a plum. I could pick the higher up ones for you.’

  ‘Thank you for the offer, Captain Lagrange, but I’m fine by myself.’

  ‘You called me Tom earlier. Please, call me Tom. And, actually, I owe you two plums, maybe three. I was in a fugue of plum delight.’ He appeared to be enjoying himself again.

  ‘Why are you here? In the laneway, I mean. Other than to eat our plums.’

  He didn’t reply. He was very still, looking at me intently. A small crease had formed between his eyebrows. Then, all at once, his smile was back.

  ‘I remember you now,’ he said. ‘You worked in the Registrar’s office in 1939. You had come down from the country, hadn’t you? The Goldfields? You often wore a horrible hat, like a small cone with a blue feather stuck on the side. You ate your lunch on the grass under the large Moreton Bay fig, the one at the back of the Registry, with a dark-haired girl called Joyce.’

  He plucked a plum and put it into the basket.

  ‘You seemed very young then. You’ve changed a fair bit in the last three years. Not your eyes, of course. They are still that same green. My brother Peter thought you were perfectly adorable. Before I sailed for England he told me he was working up the courage to ask you out. Did he?’ Another plum went in the basket.

  ‘Very good. Spot on,’ I said. I made as if to clap. The basket swung as I did so and the plums rolled about. Peter had been right about his memory. I turned away, pretending to look at something down the laneway. ‘Peter was lovely.’

  ‘He was a scruffy lout.’

  Shocked, I turned back. He had a teasing look on his face.

  ‘He never combed his hair,’ he said.

  He was right. Peter had never combed his hair.

  I smiled. ‘It didn’t matter. He was still lovely.’ My smile disappeared. ‘He was too young to die.’

  Tom looked away and I couldn’t see his expression at all. Nor could I hear it in his words when at last he spoke. ‘Yes, he was too young to die.’

  I didn’t want to be there any longer, so I turned, intending to walk away. He gripped my arm lightly to stop me and I swung around to face him, glowering at him, tight-lipped and annoyed. Tom dropped his hand away and reached up to pick another plum, which he handed to me. When I didn’t take it, he put it into the basket. Then he picked another, from high up, well beyond my reach. He put that into the basket as well. I didn’t move. The sun was hot on my bare head and I felt faint and rather ridiculous, so I moved back into the shade of the tree and started to pick plums.

  His baggy khaki shirt had two large pockets in the front. He reached into one and pulled out a packet of Lucky Strikes. Shaking the packet sharply, he raised it to his mouth and drew out a cigarette with his lips. A small silver and gold lighter appeared and flashed into life as he lit the cigarette, then disappeared into his trouser pocket. He inhaled deeply and blew out a stream of smoke.

  ‘You do know her, though? Doreen Luca?’ His voice was easy, conversational.

  ‘I see her around. At the shops, in th
e street. I like her.’

  I gave a short laugh and reached for another plum. ‘Doreen and her friend Betty are notorious in the street.’ My voice became defiant. ‘I loved that hat.’

  ‘It was a horrible hat,’ he said with a teasing smile.

  Although he had a very nice smile, it wasn’t at all like Peter’s. Maybe I had imagined the similarity. For some reason, that made me feel sad.

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ask you out. Did Pete ask you out?’

  I was startled by him using Pete rather than Peter. I had always called him Peter. Did his family call him Pete?

  ‘Yes. He did,’ I said too loudly. ‘And we went out. And then he went away. And then he died.’ And the best part of me died too.

  I silently dared him to say anything more. He reached up, picked two plums and dropped them in the basket. We picked plums in silence and when I glanced down I was surprised at how many there were. The basket was getting heavy. Wordlessly, Tom took it from me and held it in the crook of his left arm. It was still very hot and I could see a sheen of perspiration on Tom’s forehead, under the brim of his cap.

  Gradually I became aware of a raised voice in the neighbouring yard. Mrs Phoenix was calling out to someone. I looked at Tom, who had also stopped to listen.

  ‘Please come out of there, Mrs Luca. It’s not proper for you to stay in there.’

  She sounded upset. I moved closer to her yard and called over the fence.

  ‘Mrs Phoenix? It’s Meg Eaton. Can I help?’

  The gate from the Phoenixes’ yard into the laneway opened, and Mrs Phoenix appeared looking very distressed and making faint moaning sounds. A large, soft lady in her early seventies, she had very fluffy white hair that she dyed a pale blue. She was a kindly neighbour and we Eaton women were fond of her. Her husband, Arthur, was another story. A retired bank manager, he was also the local air raid warden. He took his job far too seriously and had become the bane of the neighbourhood. Until Japan entered the war a little more than a year ago, the authorities had enforced more a brownout than a blackout, but Mr Phoenix had always insisted on stringent compliance with the blackout regulations. It was a real nuisance.

  Mrs Phoenix was in a terrible flap.

  ‘Oh, Meg,’ she said, in her surprisingly girlish voice.

  ‘I don’t know what to do. Mrs Luca has gone to sleep in the shelter and she won’t come out. She might listen to you. She’s just ignoring me.’

  ‘Won’t she listen to Mr Phoenix?’ I asked.

  ‘Arthur’s away for the weekend on warden business and won’t be back until tomorrow,’ she replied. Her anxiety was obvious. ‘He’ll be so upset. She’s got to get out.’

  I felt Tom come up behind me.

  ‘How long has she been in there?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t been out the back all day, it’s been so hot. I only came out now to feed the chooks and saw the door was open. I don’t want to go down there on my own, it’s too steep for me.’ Her voice was rising to hysteria.

  ‘I’ll talk to her if you like,’ I said, trying to soothe her.

  ‘I hope she’s not ill. She hasn’t moved an inch.’ Mrs Phoenix grimaced nervously.

  I glanced at Tom, who raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Want me to come too?’ he asked.

  I nodded. I’d rather have company, especially if Doreen had to be helped out of the shelter. She wasn’t a big woman, but she was heavier than me. Smiling reassuringly at Mrs Phoenix, I gestured towards Tom. ‘Mrs Phoenix, this is Captain Lagrange. He’s a friend of Doreen’s.’

  From the look on her face, Mrs Phoenix didn’t consider that a recommendation.

  We followed Mrs Phoenix into her backyard, where Arthur Phoenix’s air raid shelter took pride of place between the chook pen and the outhouse. He’d built the shelter carefully, using half a corrugated water tank that had been cut lengthwise and placed over a deep trench. The walls were shored up with sandbags and the roof was covered with more sandbags. You had to descend five steep steps to get in.

  We approached the shelter and Tom stood beside me as I peered down the steps into the small room. I could just make out Doreen, lying on a camp bed. She was covered by a blanket, despite the heat. One arm was over her eyes, her face was to the wall and she seemed fast asleep.

  ‘Doreen,’ I called.

  She didn’t move. Tom spoke in a louder voice, sharp and authoritative.

  ‘Doreen. Wake up, it’s Tom Lagrange.’

  I realised Doreen was lying awfully still. A peculiar, fluttering sensation filled my chest and I felt the hair rise on my arms.

  ‘Doreen,’ I said more loudly, and was surprised to hear the quaver in my voice.

  Still no response. I worried at my lip and glanced at Tom. His lips were pulled into a thin, hard line and there was a deep crease between his brows. The scar on his face was very red.

  ‘Stay here,’ Tom said, lightly touching my arm. He placed the basket on the ground and made his way slowly down the steps. After some hesitation I followed him.

  ‘Doreen,’ I said, in a voice I hardly recognised.

  There was no answer. The air was filled with a rancid, sweetish smell that made the acid rise in my stomach. There seemed to be a shimmering shadow over Doreen’s exposed skin. When I realised it was flies, settling on her arms and face, I swallowed convulsively as saliva poured into my mouth and nausea threatened to overwhelm me. Tom moved to the bed and pulled away the blanket. Though I knew he’d seen combat, the steadiness of his hand surprised me. I heard his sharp intake of breath and saw the bloody mess of Doreen’s chest. There was no doubt she was dead. I backed slowly away and made my way up the steps on shaky legs, gulping in the hot air and trying not to retch.

  The sunlight was blinding. But, despite the heat, I was cold and trembling. Mrs Phoenix was hovering near the top of the steps, making a peculiar wringing movement with her hands.

  ‘Is she all right? Meg, you look –’ She faltered as she took in the expression on my face, then her voice rose almost to a shriek. ‘For heaven’s sake, what happened?’

  Shut up, I wanted to scream, but Mrs Phoenix was an old woman. I had to stay calm.

  ‘I need to telephone the police,’ I said as firmly and calmly as I could. ‘We need to telephone the police,’ I repeated, looking at Tom, who was now beside me.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Let’s take Mrs Phoenix inside for a cup of tea. You have one too, and use plenty of sugar.’

  He had an air of quiet authority, but there was a bleak expression in his eyes. I felt an enormous sense of relief that he was there. I had always thought Mrs Phoenix looked like a fluffy blue rabbit and now as her pale eyes widened the resemblance was striking.

  ‘What’s happened? Is Doreen all right?’

  ‘No, she’s –’ I couldn’t say it.

  Tom could. ‘I’m afraid she’s dead. I need to telephone the police. Do you have a telephone?’

  I knew they did, because Mr Phoenix was the air raid warden. But it took a while to calm Mrs Phoenix, whose hands were now fluttering like little beating wings. Tom managed to grab one in flight and lead her inside. He deposited her at the kitchen table then went in search of the telephone.

  I filled the kettle and put it on the stove to heat. Tom’s voice floated through. I knew the operator would be listening to the entire conversation and wondered how long it would take for the news to be all over Nedlands, all over Perth. Reaching into the cupboard I found cups and saucers, and put them on the counter, happy to be doing something.

  ‘I’d like to report a death,’ said Tom.

  He sounded very calm and, hearing his voice, I found myself becoming calmer also as I poured boiling water over the tea-leaves in the pot.

  ‘Meg, dear, how did she die?’ said Mrs Phoenix.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  I tried to make my voice comforting, but I could hear the tremor in it. When I turned around with the teapot, Mrs
Phoenix seemed to have aged suddenly. Under the powder and lipstick her face was grey and I felt a sharp stab of concern for her.

  ‘Mrs Phoenix, would you like to come over to my house? Mother and Joan are home. Captain Lagrange can wait here for the police.’

  Tom had come back into the kitchen and we exchanged glances. He nodded. We led Mrs Phoenix next door and told Ma and Joan what had happened. Leaving Mrs Phoenix in their care, Tom returned to the Phoenix house and I went to my room, where I sat heavily on my bed.

  It was now eight o’clock and although it was still light, in an hour or so it would be completely dark, despite the daylight saving. Twilight didn’t linger in Perth. I remembered it was a full moon, and the thought of Doreen illuminated by moonlight made me shudder. All I wanted was to curl up into a ball on my bed.

  My eyes were drawn inevitably to the photographs on my bedside table. Peter. It was cowardly to leave his brother to deal with this alone. Rising, I went to the wardrobe and took out a dark blue cotton frock to wear instead of my skimpy playsuit. I changed quickly and, despite Ma’s protests, returned to the Phoenix house.

  All was quiet as I made my way to the kitchen. Tom obviously hadn’t heard me and I stood in the doorway for a few seconds, watching him. He was sitting slumped at the kitchen table, cradling what must have been a very cold cup of tea in his hands and staring down at the table. The scar dominated his thin face. He looked exhausted, defeated even, but when I entered the room his expression lightened.

  ‘You’ve changed your clothes,’ he said. ‘Pity. I very much liked that green outfit.’

  I laughed involuntarily, and was immediately upset at myself for doing so. Doreen was lying out there dead, after all.

  ‘Another?’ I gestured at the cup he was holding.

  ‘How are you holding up?’ he asked, when I handed him the tea.