A Stranger in my Street

by Deborah Burrows

  As arranged with Ma, Chad came for dinner at our house a few days after we first went out. A week later he came again with his friend Donald Dudley. Ma and I could hardly believe the gifts they brought. There were the usual flowers and nylons, but also an amazing amount of food: meat, eggs, butter, chocolate, salted nuts and canned ham. Ma was astonished and embarrassed at the abundance, but very grateful.

  ‘Now don’t you worry about that, Mrs Eaton,’ Chad had said with a grin. ‘We know how hard it is for you folks with the rationing and all. We Americans always bring food to Australians who are kind enough to offer us hospitality.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure. We really appreciate you coming over here to help us out,’ Ma stammered.

  Lieutenant Dudley was a thin man, tall, with an erect posture and immaculately smooth hair. His straight moustache was a sharply defined black line above lips that were a little too red and too wet, rather like a baby’s mouth on a man’s face. When I asked what part of the US he came from he said Boston, but it sounded like ‘Bawston’. It was an accent I hadn’t heard before.

  Listening to Don’s views on society (in sad decline morally), liquor (repealing prohibition was a serious mistake that would come back to haunt America) and dancing (a waste of energy that any savage could do, particularly the jitterbug, which was almost licentious), it was soon clear that he was a wowser. He didn’t seem to approve of much at all. But Ma had been raised a Methodist, and she thoroughly approved of him.

  I caught Chad’s eye during one of Don’s tirades. He winked, which made me nearly choke on my water. I didn’t say anything. Don was a guest in our house. But, if he’d asked my opinion I would have said we were no worse than previous generations, Singapore slings were delicious and dancing was one of the delights of life.

  They became fairly frequent visitors after that. Don, especially, told us that he appreciated the homely atmosphere, and he got into the habit of accompanying Ma and Joan to church on Sundays.

  A few days after Tom had given me the dresses, Chad and Don came to dinner. When I saw them to the front door at the end of the evening, Chad turned to me with a smile.

  ‘We’re sorry that Joan was out,’ he said. ‘We were wondering if you’d both care to join us at a party organised by the Red Cross next Saturday.’

  ‘The one at the tennis club? I’m already going with my friend Annie.’

  Chad’s easy grin appeared. ‘Then come with us,’ he said. ‘Please?’

  I couldn’t see that Annie would object to being taken to the dance by two American officers. ‘Love to,’ I said.

  Twelve

  I finally met Wally Yeats the following afternoon, when he arrived to take Joan to a bridge party. He was in his mid-forties, average height, balding and a little pompous, but he seemed kind. He watched Joan constantly with a rather hangdog expression that indicated he was smitten.

  ‘I just have to get my handbag,’ she said to him. ‘Meg, can you help me with, er –’

  ‘Of course.’ I followed her into her room and said, before she could ask, ‘He’s lovely. I like him a lot.’

  ‘Do you really think so? He’s forty-five. Do you think that’s too old?’

  ‘No. Anyway, he doesn’t look it.’ Actually, he looked older, but I’d never tell her that. ‘And he adores you. I can tell.’

  A strange look came over her face, happiness tinged with terror. ‘Meg, I really like him.’

  ‘Good. Because I think he really likes you, too.’

  Ma smiled at me when they left. ‘I think this might work out,’ she said. ‘I’m so happy for Joan. It’s early days, of course, but –’ Now she seemed apprehensive. ‘Oh, Meg, I do hope this works out for her. It might be her last chance.’

  As I peeled the vegetables for tea, I considered how it was almost shameful for a girl not to marry. Of course, you had to be married to have children and Joan wanted children. But money was part of it, too. Women earned so much less than men that it was difficult to make ends meet if you relied on only your salary. I knew that Miss Filmer’s solitary life was one of constant petty economies. Ma, Joan and I lived on Joan’s income and mine and the small inheritance from my English grandmother that had come in 1938. The inheritance made all the difference. Although we lived frugally, we could still afford little luxuries; without the inheritance we would have found it hard to make do.

  I finished peeling the potatoes and started on the carrots. I knew what Joan’s real fear was. It was one I shared. Although we both loved Ma very much, the idea of growing old alone with her, like Miss Beryl Comer and old Mrs Comer in number 7, was simply unbearable.

  I hoped Wally Yeats was right for Joan, and that she’d get what she wanted out of life. But what about me? Peter’s death had put me into a strange sort of limbo. I did not want to end up like Miss Filmer or Miss Comer. I wanted a husband and children. The problem was that I had only ever been able to imagine a future with Peter. I wasn’t like Annie, who fell in and out of love every other week. She reminded me sometimes of the little yacht Peter had sailed on the river, tacking and coming about and changing course with the wind. I couldn’t do that. I was more like a big battleship, I needed time to change course. I would come around eventually and my life would head off in a new direction, but it had to be in my own time.

  The Tuesday morning before the Red Cross dance, Annie turned to me with a mischievous look.

  ‘So, are you having lunch with Captain Cute, or can you spare me an hour at lunch for shopping?’

  ‘I’d love to go shopping. What are you after?’

  ‘I want a new lipstick for the dance on Saturday. I thought we could go to Boans. You’re much better than I am at picking the right colour.’

  ‘Will there be much choice?’

  She had the West Australian open on her desk and pointed to a large advertisement for Boans Department Store.

  Max Factor Lipstick Re-Fills. All shades. Limit 1 to a customer. 3/7 each.

  It was almost impossible to buy lipstick in a metal case any more, because apparently the cases were being turned into cartridge holders. So, when lipstick was available, we refilled the same cases over and over again. But 3/7 for a refill was very expensive. My annual salary was only 190 pounds and most of that was given to Ma for board. When I needed a lipstick refill I bought Boans’ own brand. The only choices of colour were dark red, red or pink, but refills cost a mere 1/3. Annie could afford Max Factor because her dad was the managing clerk for a law firm in Howard Street and he let her keep all of her salary to buy pretty things for herself.

  At the Max Factor counter at lunchtime I gazed wistfully at the myriad shades of red and pink. Annie picked up a tester.

  ‘Too orangey,’ I said. She put it back and picked up another.

  ‘So, is Captain Cute going to be at the dance?’

  ‘Tom’s got a fiancée,’ I said firmly. ‘That one’s too pale.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Annie said quietly as she put the lipstick back. ‘He sees a lot of you. If I were Phyllis, I’d be furious.’

  I blew out a breath as she picked up another lipstick.

  ‘We’re friends. Just friends. I really like him and I like spending time with him, but that’s it. And that one is too purple for your colouring.’

  Annie pouted. ‘Men usually don’t make so much effort to see a girl unless they’re interested in her.’

  She waved a deep scarlet lipstick in front of me. I nodded.

  ‘So men and women can’t be friends?’ I was annoyed. ‘That’s pretty sad, if it’s true.’

  Annie started to apply the lipstick. She said, a trifle indistinctly, ‘I think it’s hard just to be friends with a man. There’s always something else. It’s to do with sex.’

  Her bottom lip was now a rich red. ‘Mind you, Australian men think more of their mates than their women. They have no idea how to treat a girl. You know what they say, that on payday an Aussie man goes to the pub with his mates first, then places his bets on the ponies, and then picks up
his girl and takes her to the beach.’

  I laughed. ‘Because he’s spent all his money on his mates and the ponies?’

  She swept colour onto her top lip. ‘Americans always go for the girl first.’ She rubbed her lips together and smiled. ‘That’s why Americans are so great. And they stay with you the whole night.’

  I laughed, and she rolled her eyes. ‘I didn’t mean it that way, silly. I mean that when an American takes you out he really looks after you. If he sees a group of his mates he doesn’t leave you cooling your heels so he can spend time with them.’

  She was right. That was how it usually went if you were out with an Australian, the men all up one end of the room and the women at the other. Peter hadn’t been like that, though. I picked up a dark red. Too much like what Phyllis would wear.

  I put the lipstick back. ‘Anyway, Tom is Peter’s brother. It would be strange if he was interested in me in that way,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Annie was looking in the mirror, making a kissing expression. ‘In the Bible men are always marrying their brothers’ widows. I think it was required.’

  Annie was referencing the Bible? She laughed at my expression.

  ‘I went to Sunday School, you know. My sister Ellie and I knew every naughty bit in the Bible. There are lots of them. Have you read the “Song of Solomon”? Phew!’

  I grinned. ‘My cousin Alice and I may have looked it over once or twice.’

  ‘For an awfully long time I thought sex was all to do with your belly button. I was lucky Hettie O’Reilly lived nearby,’ Annie said, with a sly smile. ‘I got all my information from her. Hettie knew everything.’

  ‘I have to ask. What happened to Hettie O’Reilly?’

  ‘Got in trouble at age sixteen and had to get married. When last heard of she was having her fourth.’

  I laughed. ‘So it seems Hettie didn’t know everything, after all.’

  Annie leaned towards me and whispered, ‘I say, praise the Lord for the invention of rubbers. I’d be in big trouble otherwise. The American ones are much more reliable, you know.’

  ‘Annie!’

  She grinned again and picked up another lipstick. ‘Just giving you information. Do you like this better?’

  ‘No. I like the colour you’ve got on,’ I said, rather distractedly.

  I was thinking about Peter. Apart from my early Biblical investigations, I’d got all of my information from him. Although he’d been a little more experienced than me, in reality we had learned together. After the first time the main problem had been finding somewhere private. The blackout helped. If it was warm enough we lay down our rug in secluded parts of Kings Park, otherwise we used the back seat of Peter’s car. Then I remembered, with an odd jolt, that actually it had been Tom’s car; he’d let Peter use it when he was in England.

  Annie was looking at me with a quizzical expression. As I brought myself back down to earth I realised that although I had been thinking of Peter, I did not feel like crying. There was some sadness, but I was also happy just remembering him.

  The next day Tom was waiting for me with lunch when I emerged into the gardens. He had brought chicken sandwiches again because he remembered they were my favourite. The day was warm, but not as hot as it had been, and the sea breeze was in. Far above us was the hard blue sky of mid-February and the shadows of the trees around us were short and sharp in the clear white light.

  Tom was carrying another brown paper parcel, tied with string and about the size of a book. He put it down next to him and we ate our sandwiches.

  ‘I’m looking forward to the dance on Saturday,’ I said, at last. ‘Mind you, Don Dudley doesn’t approve of dancing at all.’

  ‘What do you think of him?’

  ‘He’s a bit of a prig. A wowser. Very Methodist.’

  Tom was stretched out beside me on the grass. He grinned.

  ‘He’s also stonkingly rich. And, actually, he’s a Congregationalist, not a Methodist. Have you heard of the Boston Brahmins?’

  I thought about it.

  ‘Aren’t Brahmins some sort of Indian priest?’ Or were they a type of cow?

  ‘The Boston Brahmins are the first families of Boston. They claim descent from the Protestants who founded Boston in the seventeenth century. They are a group of very old, upper-crust New England families.’

  ‘Sounds very posh.’

  Tom smiled. ‘I like Don. He’s not good with people, but he’s extremely intelligent. He’s quite the expert on insects. He’s definitely a prig, though, and a wowser of the worst sort.’

  ‘Insects? He didn’t mention insects.’

  Tom picked up the small parcel. ‘Here,’ he said, handing it to me.

  I took it warily.

  He shrugged. ‘It’s nothing much.’

  I tried to unpick the knot, but it was too tight, and my hands were shaky. Tom pulled out a pocket knife and cut through the string. It was a book, English Poetry. It wasn’t new. Inside, on the flyleaf, was a name in a handwriting that was familiar and yet rather unformed: Peter Lagrange.

  ‘It was Pete’s school text,’ said Tom. ‘You’ll find that he made some notes in the margins. I used to help him with his schoolwork and he’d write what I said straight into the book.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Not all of the annotations come from me. Next to William Blake’s Tyger, he wrote: “Beaut poem. Really scary.” He did that a bit. Just wrote down what he thought about a poem. Some of the stuff he’s written is very funny.’

  I didn’t know what to say, so I looked down, leafing through the book and trying to make out Peter’s crabbed notes. When I raised my eyes Tom was watching me intently.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  He smiled and shrugged again.

  ‘Weren’t you studying poetry at Oxford?’ I said, just to say something.

  ‘Yes. Robert Browning in particular.’ He gestured towards the book. ‘Some of his poems are in there and they’re as relevant today as when he wrote them. Read Porphyria’s Lover. It’s a favourite of mine. The narrator is entirely mad and immoral, commits a pointless murder and attempts to rationalise his actions. I always think of the Nazis when I read it.’ He laughed. ‘Sorry if I sound like a lecturer. Pete wrote next to that poem: “This chap’s completely loony. It’s a worry Tom likes the poem so much.” ’

  I laughed too. ‘I’ll bear that in mind when I read it. Did you enjoy being at Oxford?’

  A dreamy look came into his eyes and his whole face softened. All of a sudden he looked breathtakingly handsome, which made me want to cry for some reason.

  ‘Enjoy Oxford?’ He nodded slowly. ‘It’s a sublime place. Impossible to describe really. I loved it. All of it, even the snobbery and ridiculous traditions. I was at Magdalen College, on the banks of the Cherwell.’

  ‘Will you go back, after the war?’

  ‘I’ve still got a year left on the Rhodes.’ He sighed. ‘After the war. Seems impossible to imagine a time after the war. I’m not sure. It depends on Phyllis – we’ll be married then. I don’t think she’d enjoy the life there, even if only for a year. She’s got big plans for our future. She wants me to follow my father into business, not spend my time in academia.’

  He looked away from me, over to the river. ‘Maybe I’ll go back. It depends if there’s anything to go back to. So far no bombs have fallen on Oxford. The rumour is that Hitler wants to make it his capital if he finally invades Britain, so he’s not allowing them to bomb the place.’

  His smile was wistful. ‘Yes, I’d like to go back to Oxford after the war. For a while, anyway . . . It’s very peaceful there.’

  I opened the door at home that afternoon to the sound of Dinah Shore on the radio, singing ‘Silver Wings’. I was clutching Peter’s book.

  Peter had told me he was going to enlist in mid-July in 1940. It was a cool, windy afternoon. We’d driven to Cottesloe and he’d bought me an ice-cream. We shared it as we walked along the beach, enjoying the salt-scented wind and the sound of
the waves on the sand. He had his arm tightly around me and my head was nestled into his shoulder. It was difficult to walk like that, but we didn’t mind.

  There were anti-aircraft guns on the beaches and barbed wire blocking access to the beach from Cottesloe to the north. But in those days the war was somewhere else. There were the occasional reminders: the return of injured combatants, and more and more people were receiving the dreaded telegram regretfully informing them of the death of a loved one. Yet, in the time before Japan attacked Pearl Harbor, we in Perth felt far from any armed conflict. We had been filled with horror as the Nazis stormed across Europe, and we knew that Britain was fighting for its life against the German Luftwaffe, but still it all seemed a dream that took place far, far away.

  ‘Meg, I’m going to join the air force,’ Peter said. ‘After I dropped you off last night I sat in the car and thought about it for hours. It’s only a matter of time before I’m called up and I’d rather choose where I go. I like the idea of flying.’

  My first thought was how handsome he’d look in his uniform.

  I was almost nineteen. He had just turned twenty. You don’t think of death. You think of excitement and self-sacrifice. You think of poor little Britain and helping to defeat the Nazi menace. You think of how handsome he’ll look in the uniform.

  I managed to act fairly normally for some time after I read about his death. I suppose I thought there’d been a mistake. I went to work, I spoke to people. I accepted sympathy, but for a while I didn’t really believe it. Then I got the letters from Phyllis. Shortly after that, ‘Silver Wings’ came on the radio one evening. It was a favourite of mine and I knew it by heart. It was the first time I’d heard it since Peter’s death.

  They told me later that I started to scream. And I wouldn’t stop. In the end, Ma got Mr Phoenix to call an ambulance. They took me to Claremont Hospital with the other crazy people, and they injected me with something that made me sleep for a day. When I woke up my hands were bloody with grazes and there were bruises on my body. Apparently I’d punched the floor, the walls, myself, over and over again.