The Alice Stories

by Davina Bell

  ‘Am not. I’m just saying that there are lots of good things about summer.’

  ‘Mosquitoes buzzing all through the night? Heat stroke? Sunburn? Sand down your bathing costume?’ George scoffed. ‘I like winter, myself. Lots of time for indoor pursuits – reading, quiet reflection, writing my opus . . .’

  Alice groaned. ‘Not your wretched opus. If you start on your opus again, I’ll fold you up and stuff you into that picnic basket.’

  ‘What’s an opus?’ asked Jilly.

  ‘Just a fancy word for a big piece of work – a big bit of writing or music or something. George has discovered Shakespeare.’ Alice sighed. ‘You know, the Englishman who wrote all the plays, and –’

  ‘The Bard,’ said George. ‘Born in 1564. The greatest writer who ever lived. I’m composing a series of theatrical pieces as a tribute to his genius. Would you be interested in being part of my troupe of actors, Jilly?’

  ‘Oh – I, er . . . it’s more Alice’s sort of thing, isn’t it? I think I’d be too shy.’

  ‘You could be a tree, perhaps. I’ll need a few of those for my tragedy, The Garden of Good and Evil.’

  ‘Good grief, George,’ said Alice. ‘I think Jilly has better things to do than stand around while you boss her about the angles of her branches. Ah – here comes the breeze.’

  Above them, the long, springy branches of the Norfolk pine trees started to bounce a little, and then a cool, light wind was swishing through everything, making it fresh again. It was called the Fremantle Doctor because it made everything better. Just like Papa Sir used to do, Alice thought, and he was a doctor, too.

  But Papa Sir had been lost at sea in the war in Europe that had just finished. When all the soldiers came home, he wouldn’t be among them, waving and smiling as his ship pulled up to the docks at Fremantle. Alice’s heart still felt bruised whenever she let herself remember. At least you’ll have Teddy, she reminded herself. He’ll be here soon. Alice felt she could stand anything if Teddy, her big brother, was beside her.

  ‘Have you had any word about when your papa will be back from the war?’ she asked Jilly. ‘And Hamish?’ Hamish was Jilly’s oldest brother, who had been away almost since the start of the fighting four years ago.

  ‘Well, I heard the other day that the first ones to join up are going to be the first ones home, so it won’t be that long, after all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Alice. ‘Won’t they just come home together?’

  Jilly shook her head. ‘The railways in France and Belgium are all clogged up with people, and there aren’t enough spare ships to send the soldiers all at once. Some will have to wait a few months.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Alice. Teddy had been one of the last to leave – he’d only been in France for a few months before the peace agreement had been signed. It might be ages before he was home, and by then it would be winter again, and they wouldn’t be able to play tennis or go out on Papa Sir’s boat. They’d have to sit inside listening to George’s opus and . . . Alice caught herself frowning. You’re lucky that Teddy’s coming home at all, she told herself sternly.

  ‘Must you be back soon, Jilly?’ she asked.

  ‘Mother lets me stay out as long as I like now. Come over and have tea with us, and you can see for yourself how much she’s changed.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Alice murmured. But she didn’t mean it. She was still frightened of Mrs McNair, and angry with her.

  Up until a month ago, Mrs McNair had been the strictest mother alive – as strict as a gaol guard. For weeks, she hadn’t allowed Jilly and Alice to see each other at all.

  But then Jilly’s brother Douglas had been caught doing horrible things around the town. And even though it was because fighting in the war had hurt his mind, Mrs McNair had felt very ashamed and blamed herself. Now she let Jilly do almost as she liked, and Alice and Jilly had spent most of the holidays together. It was only the week before Christmas, so there were weeks of holidays to come, stretching before them like a magic road.

  ‘Guess what, Alice? She’s even said I can start ballet again in the new year. You could start again, too – we could do it together.’

  In a second, Alice felt her stomach twist up in a big, uncomfortable knot. She opened one eye to squint at Jilly. ‘You know I’m not dancing anymore, Jilly. It’s different for me. It’s trickier.’

  ‘Just because you said that once, doesn’t mean you have to hold by it forever. Miss Josephine is taking the classes, in case you change your mind. She’s not Miss Lillibet, I know, but I’ve heard she’s nice. Think about it, anyway.’

  Thinking about ballet was something Alice tried hard not to do. That was why she loved summer – you could fill the days with outdoorsy things so you didn’t have to think about the letter hidden under your mattress that said you could be the best ballerina in the world. ‘Shall we fly the kite now the breeze is in?’ she asked, sitting up.

  Jilly grinned. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed you change the subject. But we may as well – we brought it all this way.’

  ‘George, we’ll be back as soon as the sun’s down,’ said Alice.

  George looked up. ‘I do find the ocean sunset a particularly productive time for my writing,’ he said gravely. ‘As did the poet Shelley. We should come here every evening.’

  ‘Sometimes George is so ridiculous,’ Alice said as they skipped along the path to a point high enough to launch their kite.

  ‘You never know, he could be a famous writer some day. Just as you could be a famous dancer.’

  Alice sighed as she unwound the string from the spool. ‘Jilly, I said I wouldn’t dance anymore because I felt like it made me selfish. And with Papa Sir gone now, it’s my job to take care of everyone. I don’t have time for ballet.’

  She handed the kite to Jilly, who did the run-up and launched it into the sky. They watched it climb up and out and up and out until it looked as if it were higher than the sun, which sat on the line of the ocean like a ball of gold.

  ‘You won’t like hearing this, Alice,’ said Jilly carefully, ‘but taking care of everyone isn’t your job – at least, not yours alone. And besides, for someone as good at ballet as you, couldn’t dancing be your job?’

  Was Jilly right? Alice wasn’t sure. She looked out at the huge orange sky and the silvery sea that stretched across to Africa. The war had changed so many things that she wasn’t sure of much anymore.

  he next morning, Alice and Mabel didn’t have to dye anything because Mabel found a lemon-yellow party dress in the dress-up box. The front was covered in tiny glass beads that sparkled like crystal. Alice thought it was completely ridiculous, but she was getting so worried about the whole thing that she didn’t argue, and even tacked the hem up so Mabel could walk in it.

  As Alice quickly did the lunch dishes while she waited for Mabel to choose some shoes, Mama swept in and dropped her handbag and a newspaper onto the kitchen table.

  ‘Mama! Why aren’t you at work?’ Alice asked in surprise.

  ‘Bonjour, ma petite. I ’ave the rest of the day off. Where is everyone?’

  ‘Pudding’s gone with Uncle Bear to see Mr Logue – Little’s gone, too. George is up a tree, thinking about his opus. And Mabel and I are off to the seaside.’

  ‘An outing?’ Mama said as she sat down. ‘I shall join you! You know I adore the seaside.’

  ‘Oh – ahh, I think . . . sorry, Mama, it’s a special sisters’ outing,’ said Alice, feeling mean but not wanting Mabel to be embarrassed. ‘I promised Mabel we’d do something, just us.’

  Mama stuck out her lip. ‘D’accord, I will stay home like Cinderella, weeping and sewing in my rags.’

  She scowled and unfolded the newspaper. But after a few moments she stood up again and stalked around the kitchen. She seemed tense and springy, not her breezy self at all.

  ‘Is something wrong, Mama?’ Alice asked as she set the last dish in the drying rack.

  ‘This flu – it is everywhere,’ Mama said, po
inting to the paper crossly. ‘It is spreading like a fire. These poor soldiers – they survive months and years of fighting, and then poof! The Spanish flu, it kills them in days. C’est pas juste – it is not fair.’

  ‘But not here – not in Australia. It’s only in Europe and America, isn’t it?’

  George had told them all about the Spanish flu when he’d tried to look it up in Papa Sir’s medical encyclopedia. He’d said that you could catch it in the morning and be dead by nightfall – that it had already killed more people than the whole war – and predicted that none of them would still be alive by the new year. ‘When you bleed from your ears,’ he’d said grimly, ‘you know that’s that.’

  But thankfully the new year was less than a fortnight away, and so far there had been no cases of the Spanish flu in Western Australia.

  Mama paused at the big kitchen window, looking out at the white sails of the boats on Freshwater Bay, flapping like big handkerchiefs. ‘Oui.’ She sighed. ‘But that is not what is on my mind,’ she said eventually. ‘Mr Peterkins is home from the war.’

  Mr Peterkins had been the manager at the bank. Mama had replaced him when he’d joined the air force – he was a friend of Papa Sir’s, and knew that she was a wizard with numbers, so he’d given her the job.

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ asked Alice. ‘That means you won’t have to work as hard.’

  ‘It means I will not ’ave to work at all,’ said Mama bitterly. ‘I am no longer needed.’

  ‘Oh. Well, couldn’t you get another job?’

  Mama shook her head. ‘The soldiers who are coming ’ome need to work too, n’est ce pas? And so the women must give up their jobs – it will be happening everywhere. But ma petite, what shall I do? This job, it showed me that I love to work. And I am just as good as a man! Mon Dieu – my God, I shall be bored. Per’aps I will take up golf.’

  But Alice couldn’t imagine that. Mama liked doing things: busy things or beautiful things.

  ‘You could take up something new,’ Alice suggested. ‘You could train for the Swim-Through! It’s going to be so exciting.’

  For the past couple of weeks, Peppermint Grove had been humming with the news of the Swim-Through – the first-ever swimming race across Mosman Bay. It wasn’t until March, but already people were training each morning, cutting across the water with slick, quick strokes.

  ‘Splashing about in the cold? Tiens! I would sooner kiss a spotted pig.’

  Mabel and Alice set off down Forrest Street, and soon they were walking against the crowds that had come from the railway station at Cottesloe with their baskets and puppies and empty kerosene tins for catching crabs. All summer long, people journeyed to Peppermint Grove from miles around to spend the day on the foreshore, picnicking and swimming and sailing in little boats. But we don’t even have to catch a train or a ferry; we only have to walk down the hill, thought Alice dreamily, and it’s all here; it’s all ours.

  As they crossed over the railway line and started up the hill, however, Alice began to feel nervous. At the very least, this man would think they were fools. At worst, he could, well, he could do anything. Break cake plates over their heads. But as Mabel marched along, admiring how the glass beads shimmered on her dress, her fear from the night before last seemed to have completely vanished.

  As they got to the crest of the hill, Cottesloe Beach stretched out before them, and immediately Alice felt calm again. Today, the water was bright blue – a blue as strong as cornflowers – and it made Alice feel strong, too. The beach and the tall pine trees always reminded her of Papa Sir, who had brought her here every weekend in the summers before he’d left for war. As she and Mabel walked into the Indiana Tea House, Alice had the feeling that Papa Sir was with her and things would be all right.

  The tea house wasn’t a posh tea room; it was more like a big tin shed with a long row of windows along the seafront, so you could see the ocean. You’d get a beautiful view of the sunset, Alice thought. When Teddy comes back, we should bring him here so he can paint it.

  The big space was bustling with people, and Alice looked around for a soldier sitting alone at a table. ‘What does he look like?’ she whispered.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Mabel whispered back. ‘Shall I stand on a seat and call his name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There! By the window, in the uniform. I bet that’s him,’ she said, striding off. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she demanded, before Alice had even reached the table.

  The soldier’s fingernails were black and his hair was greasy, and as he looked up from stirring his tea, his eyes were red and narrow. As he took in Mabel and the yellow dress, his lip curled up, and something about him looked hungry.

  ‘Sorry sir,’ Alice said. ‘I think we’ve got the wrong person. Come along, Mabel.’

  ‘How do you know what sort of person I am if you don’t sit down?’ he said. ‘Come now, girls, keep a soldier company.’

  ‘Sorry, but we’re looking for someone special,’ said Mabel, starting to back away.

  The soldier flicked out his hand and caught Mabel by the wrist. ‘I’m special,’ he whispered.

  The sight of Mabel’s little wrist in his big grubby hand made Alice’s throat burn with sick. She grabbed hold of Mabel’s other arm. ‘I’m sure you are, sir, it’s just that we have to –’

  ‘Don’t move and don’t scream,’ snarled the soldier quietly, standing up.

  ‘Cousins! My dear little cousins – you’re here,’ came a kindly voice from behind them, and they all turned to see a tall man sitting at a table for two, spinning a straw boater on his finger. ‘Thank you, officer, for bringing me the rascals. Come girls, I’ve been waiting an age to order tea.’

  Alice didn’t have any cousins – at least, none in Australia – but she realised suddenly that the tall, kindly man was trying to help them. She swallowed. ‘Hello, Cousin . . . Jimmy.’

  The soldier glared, but as he took in Cousin Jimmy’s wide chest and broad shoulders, he let Mabel’s wrist go and walked away, muttering to himself.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked the man who wasn’t really Cousin Jimmy. ‘Do you need to sit down a moment?’

  Alice felt herself start to tremble. But Mabel, who had been pale as pale a moment before, brushed back her hair and forged on. ‘We’re looking for someone called James Busby-Wilks. Do you know him?’

  ‘I am him,’ said the kind man, looking curious.

  Before he could even stand up to hold out his hand, Mabel plonked herself onto the seat opposite him and leaned forward.

  ‘Here’s the thing. I’m Arabella – well, I’m not, obviously, but my sister wouldn’t let me stand on her shoulders under a coat. I wrote the letters and yes, I’m a big liar, and if you’re going to get violent, I’ll have you know that my brother’s also a soldier, and he’ll be home soon and probably thump you. And by the way, I’m not twenty, I’m eight. And my name’s Mabel.’ She paused to draw breath and picked up the menu. ‘Now we’ve got that out of the way, have you ordered any refreshments? Oh – and that’s Alice.’

  Alice and James Busby-Wilks stared at each other, completely bewildered. Just at that moment, a waitress in a frilled apron came over with another chair. ‘For you, ma’am,’ she said to Alice. ‘Now, what can I get for you folks?’

  ‘Tea for all,’ said Mabel. ‘And possibly a plate of lamingtons . . . If that’s all right, James?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ James stammered, his eyes wide. He swallowed. ‘That sounds very nice indeed.’

  The waitress took the menus, and Alice sat down and took a deep breath, her legs jittering under the table. ‘Mr Busby-Wilks, I’m really truly sorry to tell you, especially as you just saved our lives, but I only learned last night that Mabel has been . . . misleading you. You see, she’s been writing you letters pretending to be someone else, because . . . actually, I have no idea why. Mabel?’

  ‘Lots of ladies write to soldiers they don’t know. It’s romantic.’

  ‘You’re no
t a lady! You’re a child!’ Alice rolled her eyes.

  ‘But I write just as well as any lady, don’t I, James?’

  Mabel had a point – she was very good at composition.

  Any shock that James felt had been smoothed from his friendly face. He nodded. ‘You had me utterly convinced. You have a lovely way with words, Mabel.’

  Alice felt relieved. ‘So you’re not going to break a plate on our heads? Oh – I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Sorry,’ she said, feeling her neck get hot.

  ‘Not at all. I save my plate-breaking for special occasions – birthdays, Christmas, that sort of thing.’

  Mabel giggled as the tea and cakes arrived and were passed around.

  Alice frowned. ‘But how did Mabel write to you if she didn’t even know you?’

  Mabel blushed as James pulled an envelope out of his pocket. ‘To the handsomest boy in the 48th Battalion’ it said in her flowery writing.

  ‘Were you really the handsomest?’ asked Alice.

  Mabel snorted. ‘Of course he was – look at him.’

  ‘Mabel!’ said Alice. ‘Sorry, sir – my sister has no manners.’

  James looked sheepish. ‘The fellows in my squadron took a vote and decided the letter was for me.’

  As Alice took in James properly – his blue eyes with their long lashes and his honey-coloured hair and smooth, brown skin, and the way only one of his cheeks dimpled when he smiled – she decided that she would have given him the letter, too.

  ‘And we’ve been writing ever since, haven’t we, Mabel,’ said James, picking up his teacup in his big hand, and sipping it gently. ‘Thank you so much for your letters. In dark hours, they gave me hope.’

  Alice thought it was nice of James to be grateful, given that Mabel had told the most jumbo lies. ‘You’re English,’ she said, recognising James’s crisp accent. ‘Our father is English. Was English,’ she corrected herself.

  ‘Actually,’ said Mabel, ‘James is from here. It’s just that before the war he lived in England for a bit, playing professional croquet.’

  James smiled. ‘Not croquet – professional cricket. Yes, I fancied myself a batsman for a while, and Father was good enough to let me go over there and try it out.’