by Davina Bell
‘Is that what you’re going to do now?’ Alice asked. ‘Play cricket, I mean?’
James looked at her thoughtfully. Alice had a feeling that she’d never had before; that she’d quite like James to reach out and put his palm against her cheek, and hold it there – perhaps forever. Good grief, thought Alice, horrified. If I’m not careful, I’ll start writing awful love poetry, like Jilly.
He lifted up his left hand, which he’d been resting on his knee – at least, that’s what Alice had assumed. But as he leaned his left arm on the table, Alice saw that there was no hand at the end of his sleeve, which had been pinned shut.
‘Cricket’s out of the question, I’m afraid,’ he said, and though his voice was matter-of-fact, his eyes looked sad and wishful.
‘Why did you come back to WA – if you have no family here, I mean?’ asked Mabel, completely unfussed by a missing hand. She turned to Alice. ‘His father died while he was away, and he hasn’t anyone else. I know from the letters.’
James looked down at his plate and blushed, and suddenly Alice had a terrible thought: perhaps he’d come back for the beautiful, funny, trombone-playing Arabella he thought Mabel was. I bet he wanted to marry her, Alice realised, feeling as if her heart would melt for poor, handsome James. And now he had nobody. ‘Sorry, James – I mean, sir. It was rude of Mabel to ask,’ she said.
‘Not at all, Alice – and please, do call me James.’ He leaned back in his seat, and looked out the big windows to where the cornflower sea met the soft white sand. ‘I suppose after all those years in England I missed the sunshine. And things are tough in London. The place is crawling with men who are in a bad way. Shell shock’s an awful thing.’
‘What’s shell shock?’ asked Mabel.
‘It’s something that soldiers get in battle, isn’t it?’ asked Alice, thinking back to a conversation she’d overheard at the Post Office about Douglas McNair. ‘It’s what makes them go a little strange.’
‘Precisely,’ said James. ‘Poor fellows.’ He popped some lamington into his mouth. ‘Mm, good choice, Mabel. Also, I heard they’re going to open up the whole south-west of the state for returned soldiers to farm – give them land to grow things. I liked the sound of that. Even with my hand gone, I think I could grow fruit trees – apples, peaches, plums, apricots. And, well, I guess I’d like to have a family of my own some day. I’ll need some busy little hands to help me pick all that fruit.’
‘We’ve got fruit trees in our orchard,’ said Mabel happily as Alice imagined James smiling down at a bunch of flaxen-haired children out in a sun-soaked field. ‘You should come and see them. If you can stand on a ladder, you can get some apricots down for Little – that’s our sister. She makes jam. Can you balance on a ladder, do you think, or would you fall off? It might be hard with only a stump.’
Alice was about to kick Mabel under the table when she saw that James was struggling not to laugh. ‘Yes, come around and meet our mother,’ she said, feeling that she couldn’t bear to say goodbye to James just yet. ‘Are you free on Christmas Eve? That’s when we have our Christmas dinner because Mama’s French. Would you like to join us?’
‘As it happens, I have no plans. Your mother wouldn’t mind?’ he asked.
‘Not at all. About six o’clock? We’re at the corner of Forrest and View Streets.’
‘Two of my favourite things.’
‘We’d best be going,’ said Alice, nudging Mabel’s foot under the table to remind her about paying. But Mabel just glared and kicked her back.
‘Thank you, girls, for coming to meet me and explain,’ said James. ‘You could have left me sitting here, always wondering what might have been with the alluring Arabella.’
‘I’m sorry we weren’t what you expected,’ said Alice.
‘You were delightful company. The pleasure was all mine.’
‘Mabel has something to say,’ Alice said, looking at her pointedly.
‘Yes,’ said Mabel. ‘You’re every bit as nice as you were in your letters.’
‘No, Mabel, I mean about the –’
‘Be off before you make a man blush,’ said James. ‘I’ll see you on Christmas Eve.’
‘That went well, didn’t it,’ said Mabel, as she and Alice ran up the hill away from the beach.
‘It certainly did not,’ said Alice. ‘We almost got kidnapped! And you were supposed to pay to say sorry – that was the whole point.’
‘Really, Alice, either way you would have got a nice free tea, so I don’t know what you’re so het up about. You should actually be thanking me for introducing you to the handsomest man alive. Perhaps you should have bought me the refreshments.’
Alice clenched her fists. ‘You’re unbelievable, Mabel.’ How on earth are we even related? she fumed as they marched home in silence. Mabel just does as she likes and doesn’t even think about how anyone else feels. And yet everything in her life turns out just fine.
But a tiny part of Alice wondered if it mightn’t be rather nice to not worry so much about everyone all the time – to not always be the stick-in-the-mud, trying to make things all right.
When they got home, yet another surprise awaited them: Mama – who never cooked – was in the kitchen whisking egg whites and sugar in the baking bowl. Pudding and Little and George were gathered around her, taking turns to dip their fingers into the mixture.
‘Alice!’ said Little. ‘I’ve something to tell you!’
The pretty pink spots on her small cheeks made Alice suddenly want to kiss them. ‘That you’re really the child of a fairy and an elf, and at night you sleep under a giant mushroom?’
Little frowned. ‘No. When I was in Claremont with Pudding and Uncle Bear this morning, we thought we saw Miss Lillibet in the distance. But we were late for Mr Logue, so we couldn’t run after her, and she was quite far away. Might she be home, Mama?’
Alice felt hope come swooping inside her as she thought of beautiful Miss Lillibet being amongst them once more. But it left almost as quickly as it had come when she remembered that she would have to tell Miss Lillibet she had given up dancing forever.
‘Well, the war is over now,’ said Mama thoughtfully as she tipped her mixture into the piping bag. ‘Germany ’as lost. It makes sense that they let the German people out of the camps. But I have ’eard that lots of them are being sent back to Germany – even the ones who have never been there before. C’est fou! It’s crazy.’
Alice frowned and ran her finger along the inside of the bowl. ‘You mean even people who were born here but whose relatives are German, like Miss Lillibet?’ Poor Miss Lillibet, she thought. I don’t think she even speaks German. She won’t know anybody. ‘That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘The fighting is over, but still people clutch onto their fears, non?’ said Mama.
‘But we won the war, so why go on being horrid to the Germans? It doesn’t make sense. People should just forgive each other.’
For some reason, the face of Mrs McNair flickered in Alice’s mind, and she felt a pang of guilt. You too, Alice, she said to herself.
‘Mama, we made a new friend today at the beach – a soldier,’ said Alice, suddenly remembering. ‘He’s called James. We invited him to Christmas dinner. Is that all right? He doesn’t have any family left.’
‘And he’s only got one hand,’ said Mabel, ‘but he’s devilishly handsome.’
‘Quelle triste – ’ow sad! Yes, of course ’e must come. And for this James, I will do a special Christmas dessert – a French masterpiece,’ said Mama.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Alice uncertainly. ‘We could just have meringues again – you’re good at those.’
‘Or Little could make her trifle,’ suggested Mabel.
Mama smiled and wagged her finger. ‘Aaah, you ’ave doubts! You think your maman is not a chef! You will see, mes enfants. From where do you think Little has got ’er talents?’
hristmas had been Papa Sir’s favourite time of year, and this was the
first one since they had found out that he was most probably dead. But with Mama home and full of happy plans, the days leading up to Christmas weren’t sad and sombre, as Alice had feared. They were magical.
Mabel had found a record of Christmas carols and played it non-stop on the gramophone. The house smelled like baking, and each day there were new stories of the peace – of soldiers meeting their babies for the first time, or returning home when their families had given up hope. It looked as if the Spanish flu would skip Western Australia altogether, and that alone was a reason to celebrate.
But when the doorbell rang on Christmas Eve, Alice suddenly felt a little nervous. What if James thought her family was strange? They were a little, if you thought about it. ‘He’s here, everyone,’ she called.
‘Just finishing off this scene,’ George called back from Papa Sir’s study.
Everyone else filed into the hall as Mabel bolted past them to the front door.
‘Good evening, Miss Arabella,’ James said with a wink as she opened it. ‘Hello there, Alice.’
‘James,’ Mabel said breathily, holding out her hand for him to kiss, ‘this is my mother, Marie-Claire – can you shake hands, James? Oh yes – it’s only your left one that’s gone. And this is Little, she made almost all the food even though she’s small, and Pudding’s in the garden, riding the goat – that’s not her real name, in case you were wondering – and George is coming, he’s just working on his opus, and that’s Uncle Bear, and he doesn’t talk but he’s the cleverest man I know. Except Papa Sir, of course, but he passed away.’
‘Enchanté,’ said Mama. ‘Enchanted to meet you.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said George, as he rushed in and stuck out his hand. ‘I was just –’
‘Working on your opus, I understand. Good to meet you, George.’
‘Come through, James,’ said Alice, leading him through the parlour and out the back. ‘It’s such a nice evening that we’re going to eat outside on the terrace. Pudding, come and meet James! Unhitch Tatty’s cart and tie him to the tree, please.’
‘So, what are you writing, George?’ James asked as they all sat down and put the special lace serviettes onto their laps, and Uncle Bear helped Little carry out the last of the dishes.
‘A series of theatrical pieces inspired by the works of –’
‘Don’t say it,’ said Alice and Mabel together.
‘The Bard,’ George went on.
‘Shakespeare,’ said James. ‘Finest writer who ever lived. My favourite. You know, my father was a writer.’
‘Really?’ said George.
‘What kind of writer?’ asked Mama as she elegantly sliced the goose with a very long knife.
‘Thank you, Little,’ said James, accepting a dish of cheesy potato gratin. ‘This all looks delicious. He wrote books – novels, actually. He was also a reverend, so he wrote under a different name and nobody ever guessed.’
‘Would we know him?’ asked Alice.
‘Perhaps. I’m sorry – this is very rude of me, coming here and only talking about myself.’
They all protested – of course it wasn’t.
‘Who is it? Do tell us,’ insisted Mabel. ‘Is it someone famous?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, but I think you might have heard of him. His books are for children, but adults seem to like them just as much. He writes as Babington Wilder.’
They gasped – everyone except Pudding, who was the only one who couldn’t read, and had her mouth full of potato.
‘Babington Wilder,’ said Alice with awe. ‘He is famous. He’s our very favourite author.’
‘Except for The Bard,’ said George, ‘though their styles are very different, so perhaps it’s accurate to say that he is our favourite novelist, and Shakespeare is our favourite playwright.’
‘Your favourite playwright,’ said Mabel.
‘Alors!’ said Mama with feeling. ‘We ’ave read them all! Sunward I Have Climbed and Come Home, Mrs Cloud . . .’
‘The Castle of Good Mr Malmsberry. But my best is Hope and the Wide, Bright Sky,’ said Alice. ‘When the mother died, I cried for a week.’
‘That’s my favourite, too,’ said James. ‘Father wrote it about my mother dying. Though obviously the bit with the flying boy wasn’t real. At least, I don’t think it was, anyway.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry for bringing it up,’ said Alice. ‘That must have been awful.’
‘But now it’s been turned into a beautiful story, and my mother would have been happy about that,’ said James.
They all had a thousand questions for James, and he didn’t mind answering them a bit. And he knew exactly the part of Paris where Mama had grown up, and he talked to George all about iambic pentameter and cinquains. As the feast went on, Alice thought he looked more and more . . . what was the word? Not surprised, not pleased but enchanté – enchanted, just as Mama had said. Alice felt relieved.
As Little started to clear the plates and Mama brought out her grand dessert, James lifted Pudding up and put her on his shoulders and galloped around the garden, just the way she loved. That was what he was doing when Miss Lillibet walked around the corner in her long, white skirt.
‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Here you all are! Oh dear – I hope I’m not interrupting your Christmas dinner.’
‘Miss Lillibet!’ cried Alice, as she and all the girls ran over, launching themselves at Miss Lillibet so that she was almost knocked down with love.
‘Ma cherie,’ Mama cried. ‘You are just in time for my triumphant dessert. A Bûche de Noël – a log of Christmas. Come, meet our new friend, and we will all be merry together.’
‘Miss Lillibet, come and meet James – his papa is Babington Wilder!’ said Mabel. ‘Don’t mind his missing hand.’
‘Oh Miss Lillibet, merry merry Christmas!’ said Alice, kissing her teacher on both cheeks. ‘So you don’t have to go and live in Germany?’
‘No, I don’t have to live in Germany,’ said Miss Lillibet, ‘though lots of people I was with in the camp have been sent there. Hello, I’m Lily – or Miss Lillibet, whichever you prefer.’ She held out her dainty hand to James, and he took it and bowed his head, and Alice thought that Miss Lillibet was just as pretty as before she’d been sent away to the camp – maybe even prettier – and that’s when a big plan hatched in her mind; the kind of plan that made her stomach tight with happiness.
‘I’m James. And I’m going to call you Lily, just to be original.’
Miss Lillibet laughed. ‘You’re the son of Babington Wilder – could you be anything else? I’m a huge admirer.’
‘Miss Lillibet,’ said Pudding from up on James’s shoulders.
Miss Lillibet leaned forward, her mouth open. ‘Well I never, Pudding, you clever thing. You’ve learned to speak!’
‘Yes,’ said Pudding shyly. ‘With Lionel.’
‘Lionel Logue – that’s her speech therapist,’ said Mabel. ‘Miss Lillibet, tell us all about the camp. Was it awful?’
‘Mabel! This is not polite. You do not ’ave to say a word if you would rather not,’ said Mama, passing Miss Lillibet a cup.
‘No, no, I’m perfectly happy to speak of it. Well, Mabel, it was . . . difficult. And sad. And uplifting. All at the same time.’
‘What was uplifting about it?’ asked Alice. ‘Wasn’t it a prison?’
‘In some ways, and the lack of freedom – well, that was truly horrible. To walk around now wherever I like feels as if I have wings.’ She sipped her tea. ‘But there were good things, too – brave things; people coming together and making the most of an awful situation. Some of the internees had set up a theatre group, and a choir, and a shop. I saw Wagner’s operas sung in German by people with the love of their home in their hearts.’ Miss Lillibet’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘But there were also people like me – people whose grandparents or even great-grandparents were German, but who’d never been to Germany and didn’t speak the language. It seemed so silly that we were locked away when we were no
threat to the war. So there was anger, too. Yes, it was such a mixture of things, I feel as though I may never understand it,’ she said, looking off into the distance. ‘But come now, tell me your news! I hear that you’re waiting for Teddy to return, is that right?’
‘Probably not for a while,’ said Alice.
‘Teddy’s our brother,’ said Mabel to James.
‘The one with the big muscles who was going to thump me?’ he said, his eyes full of mischief.
‘Teddy couldn’t thump a drum,’ said Miss Lillibet, smiling. ‘He’s an artist – a beautiful painter. I do hope he’s well.’
‘And Miss Lillibet is a ballerina – a very good one,’ said Alice proudly. ‘You can probably tell because she’s so graceful. She’s also a dance teacher.’ Then suddenly Alice remembered all the things that Miss Lillibet didn’t know, and she wished that she hadn’t brought it up.
‘No longer, I’m afraid,’ said Miss Lillibet.
‘Mais non! Pour quoi – why?’ asked Mama.
Miss Lillibet sat back in her chair, rubbing her fingertips over her forehead. ‘It seems that even though the war is over, the local women aren’t comfortable with me teaching their children. Apparently I’m still the enemy. So I’m at rather a loss about what to do with myself. Besides teaching you, of course, Alice.’
‘Actually . . .’ said Mabel.
Alice felt shame bloom inside her. But she made herself look straight into her teacher’s brown eyes. ‘Miss Lillibet? I’ve . . . I’m not dancing anymore. Because . . . because of everything. I can’t talk about it this minute, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Oh, Alice,’ said Miss Lillibet, and her face filled with sadness.
In the big pause that followed, they could hear the soft clinks of the anchored boats on the river, knocking against their chains.
‘Are you very disappointed in me?’ Alice whispered.
‘My dear child . . . It’s just . . . all the time I was locked away, I –’ Miss Lillibet smoothed her hair and cleared her throat. ‘Not at all, Alice. I could never be disappointed in you. I shall just need something new to do, that’s all.’