Empire Day

by Diane Armstrong

Without missing a beat, Mick stepped forward and put in a quid and, not wanting to be shamed by his generosity, others followed suit. Most of the blokes dropped a few bob into the hat, and some even put in a quid, and by the time Bob placed it on the counter, it was full to the brim.

  ‘Here y’are, love,’ he slurred. ‘Let’s get that woman on the train.’

  As soon as the hands of the clock pointed to six, Cyril Aldred stood by the door and sang out, ‘Time, gentlemen, please.’ There was the usual grumbling when his customers heard that their drinking was over for the night and they had to go home to face their angry wives. Gulping down the last of their beer, they banged the glasses on the counter and staggered out into the street, swaying and belching.

  Cyril locked the door and turned around to see Kath putting money into a large paper bag. ‘What’s this all about?’ he demanded. ‘Someone been paying for your favours?’

  Ignoring his malicious comment and the way he eyed her as though she was the kewpie doll on top of the chocolate wheel, she explained why the blokes had donated the money.

  He was still eyeing her. ‘When my customers part with their money, they get something back for it,’ he said.

  ‘They got something back,’ she retorted, edging away from him. ‘A good feeling. For once they’ve spent their money on something worthwhile.’

  ‘This is a pub, not bloody St Vincent de Paul’s, and I won’t have you organising charity drives here.’

  Furious at his petty-mindedness, she pulled on her old coat and picked up the money, but it slipped from her hands and the coins scattered all over the floor. ‘Bloody hell!’ she exclaimed. She bent down to pick them up, and he was on his knees beside her, grabbing her shoulders and breathing heavily into her face. Pushing him away, she scrambled to her feet. His face reddened and his neck swelled so much that she thought the top button of his shirt would fly off.

  ‘I’d like to remind you, Miss High and Mighty, that you owe me something for all the time you’ve taken off over the past month since your boy got sick.’

  Unable to control her temper, she shouted, ‘I’m sick to death of you leering and groping, and if it wasn’t that I needed this job to feed four kids, I’d’ve walked out ages ago, but that’s it. I’ve had it. And I hope your wife finds out about you and kicks you out.’

  She hadn’t intended it as a threat, but from the look on his face she realised he’d taken it that way. Too bad. Telling her employer what she thought of him was a luxury she had never allowed herself, but the stress of the past few weeks had suddenly overwhelmed her. She was shocked but also relieved by her outburst. Finally she’d said what she thought, and to hell with the consequences.

  Chapter 24

  Over the past few weeks Kath had become increasingly concerned about the changes in Meggsie. There was a dull look in his eyes and he talked in a flat voice. She had other worries as well. Christmas was approaching and she regretted her reckless outburst at the pub. Now that she’d lost her job, she wondered how she’d make ends meet, let alone provide Christmas dinner and buy gifts for the boys. She felt she’d fallen into a deep well without a rope or a ladder to climb out. She’d never felt so alone or so desperate. Jobs were scarce, and with Christmas only weeks away, her chance of finding one was slim. And to make things even worse, Meggsie wouldn’t be home for Christmas.

  That’s what the medical registrar had told her when she’d made an appointment to see him. She hadn’t understood the medical terms he’d used, and she’d been too intimidated to ask what they meant, but she’d understood that the physiotherapy and hydrotherapy hadn’t worked as well as they’d hoped.

  The registrar had looked at her over his glasses and spoken in such a soft voice that she’d had to strain to hear him.

  ‘When do you think Meggsie will be well enough to go home?’ she had asked.

  ‘I wish I could give you a definite answer. Only time will tell how long recovery will take.’ Then, in his barely audible whisper, he’d added, ‘If at all.’

  That had stung her like an electric shock.

  ‘But he will recover, won’t he?’ she’d asked, fighting the panic.

  He’d paused too long before replying. ‘These things are in the lap of the gods, but your boy is in the best possible hands,’ he’d said. But instead of being reassured, she’d left his office feeling more downhearted than ever.

  Apart from her own problems, Kath wondered how to get the money she’d raised to Betty’s mother. Sister Davis had said she had her hands full running a ward without taking on the duties of a bank, and when Kath had asked the superintendent’s secretary about it, she’d been told that although they appreciated her concern, passing on money to the children’s parents wasn’t one of the hospital’s functions and there was no precedent for that kind of transaction.

  Kath sighed. Problems wherever she looked. Gran was right; she had made a mess of her life.

  Meggsie had read The Count of Monte Cristo several times by now, and each time he’d discovered something new in its pages. The first time, he’d been caught up in the sheer excitement of the story; the second time, he’d been inspired by Dantès’s determination to escape; and the third time, it had been his quest for justice and revenge that had enthralled him.

  But as the weeks passed, Meggsie began to doubt whether he himself would ever escape from the prison he was in. Some of the children in the ward had already gone home, and others had improved sufficiently to be sent to a convalescent hospital, but he was still here, anchored to his bed, like a wrecked ship at the bottom of the sea. Sometimes he felt so desperate that he wanted to shout the place down, hurl himself onto the floor and crawl out of the ward on his hands and knees.

  Betty was still here too. She rarely even cried these days, so he was surprised when he heard her calling frantically for the nurse one morning, and he raised his head to see what was wrong.

  Sister Davis was striding across the ward. ‘What’s all this rumpus about?’ she said gruffly. ‘As if I haven’t got enough to do. Well, what is it?’

  Meggsie didn’t hear Betty’s reply, but he heard Sister Davis shouting, ‘You naughty girl! A big girl like you wetting the bed! You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  He watched as she pulled the wet sheet out from under Betty and rubbed it all over the little girl’s face. While Betty screamed, Sister Davis called for a nurse to change the bed, and stomped out of the ward.

  Meggsie was so shocked that it took him some time to get his voice out. ‘Don’t cry,’ he whispered. ‘She’s just a bully. One day she’ll pay for this.’

  For the next few days the thought of revenge buoyed his spirits. His mum had always said that bullies were really cowards, and when someone confronted them they always backed down, so if someone picked a fight with him he should give as good as he got and then they’d leave him alone. But this was different. Betty couldn’t fight back and neither could he. He had to be like Edmond Dantès and search for some way of making Sister Danglars pay for what she’d done. He thought of telling one of the friendly young resident doctors about it, but he knew that she’d deny it, and then she’d be meaner than ever.

  The following Sunday, while his mum was taking the latest Superman and Captain Marvel comics from her bag, Meggsie said, ‘Mum, if you wanted someone to get into big trouble, what would you do?’

  ‘That depends.’ She looked searchingly into his eyes. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘If someone important, like Sister Davis, did something bad and you wanted to tell on them, who would you tell?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened and then I’ll see.

  ‘Are you quite sure?’ she asked when he’d described the incident. ‘You actually saw her do that?’

  He nodded. ‘It was horrible. How could she do that to Betty? What can I do, Mum? Should I tell someone?’

  His mum shook her head. ‘She might take it out on you if she found out you’d reported her. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do in sit
uations like that, but bullies always get found out in the end.’

  He stared at her. ‘So you’d let her get away with it? You always told me to stand up for myself and now you’re telling me to be spineless and let the bully win. And what about Betty? Who’s going to stand up for her?’

  Meggsie’s words had stung, and Kath was thinking about them while she was doing the dishes that evening when, to her surprise, Ted Browning dropped in to see her. Although she’d watched him grow up from a boy into a young man, she hadn’t seen much of him since he’d become a journalist, and she wondered what had brought him here.

  ‘I’m going to write an article about children with polio and I was wondering if I could interview you,’ he said.

  While she was getting out the teacups and putting the kettle on the stove, he explained that people would be touched by the plight of a sick little girl fretting for a mother who couldn’t afford to visit her. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘ever since Meggsie got sick, Mum’s been on at me to write about polio.’

  ‘Well,’ Kath said while they were drinking their tea, ‘I can tell you something else that’ll really make your readers sit up and take notice.’

  From his excited reaction to the story about Sister Davis, and the way he wrote down everything she told him, Kath could tell he’d include the incident in his article. It was late when he left, but she continued to potter around the kitchen, too stirred up to sleep. She couldn’t wait to see Meggsie’s face when she told him that the bully wouldn’t win after all.

  Dr Wilkie was doing his ward rounds and Sister Davis was fussing around him as usual. The entourage came to a halt by Meggsie’s bed and Sister Davis handed Dr Wilkie a folder with an ingratiating smile that set Meggsie’s teeth on edge.

  He waited expectantly as the doctor flicked through the notes. Perhaps he’d say he could go home soon.

  The doctor pulled back the cotton cover and proceeded to poke and prod Meggsie’s legs, using words that Meggsie couldn’t understand.

  Then he snapped the folder shut and, without a glance in Meggsie’s direction, said to the other doctors, ‘This boy will never walk again.’

  With that, he thanked Sister Davis, handed back the folder and walked out of the ward.

  There was a dull humming in Meggsie’s ears as the doctor’s words kept going through his head.

  ‘That’s a lie!’ he muttered to himself. ‘I will walk again!’

  Chapter 25

  After Sunday School, Beverley Noble sashayed into the street in her new dress and twirled around so that the full skirt flared out like an open umbrella. All the other girls sighed in envy.

  ‘Oo-wah, I can see your pants,’ her little sister Daisy said in her singsong chant, but the older girls hushed her as they gazed in wonder at the ice-blue organdie dress with its sash, Peter Pan collar and short puffed sleeves. While their eyes were devouring the dress, their fingers stroked the crisp fabric.

  It was the most beautiful dress Hania had ever seen, even nicer than the communion dress her foster mother had made for her in Poland, from white silk trimmed with lace.

  She was still thinking about that dress when Beverley ran up to her. ‘My mum said you can come and have tea with us tonight. Say you’ll come!’

  Eventually Hania persuaded her mother to let her go. The Nobles were already at the table when she ran inside and as soon as she sat down, they clasped their hands together and closed their eyes while Uncle Bill said grace. ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful,’ he said.

  While he carved what was left over from Sunday’s roast lunch into thin slices, he said, ‘When I was little we kids used to say, “Two, four, six, eight, bog in, don’t wait”.’

  They all laughed, but Hania’s laughter was tinged with envy. They always had so much fun at Beverley’s place.

  ‘Beverley said you liked the dress I made her for the school dance,’ Aunty Muriel said as she placed a slice of cold lamb and a few slices of cucumber and tomato on Hania’s plate. ‘I can make you one like that if your mum gets the fabric.’

  ‘You’d better make it in a different colour or they’ll look like the Bobbsey twins,’ Uncle Bill joked.

  ‘The Beverley twins, you mean,’ Aunty Muriel said, and they all pealed with laughter again.

  The school year was drawing to a close, and Beverley couldn’t wait for the Christmas holidays to begin. Her little sister was impatient for the family’s annual pilgrimage to the city to sit on Santa’s knee at Anthony Hordern’s department store and tell him what they wanted for Christmas.

  ‘Make sure you leave some water outside your room for Santa’s reindeer on Christmas Eve, ’cause they’ll be thirsty after that long sleigh ride from the North Pole with all those presents,’ Uncle Bill said to Daisy, with a wink at Beverley and Hania.

  ‘What do you mean, she’ll make you a dress like Beverley’s?’ Eda Kotowicz demanded when Hania came home. ‘Did you ask how much she wants for making it?’

  Hania shrugged. ‘Aunty Muriel just said for you to get the material, that’s all.’

  ‘How many times have I told you, she’s not your aunty. And how do you know she won’t charge me? Why should she make a dress for nothing?’

  ‘You just don’t understand,’ Hania said. ‘She wants to do it for me because I’m Beverley’s friend.’

  Eda scrutinised her daughter. ‘If you need a new dress, why don’t you come to me instead of to the neighbours? You think I can’t make you a dress as good as Beverley’s mother?’

  Hania let out a long, exaggerated sigh. Trying to talk to her mother about anything was like crossing a field of stinging nettles. You might manage to avoid one, but you’d be sure to be stung by others.

  ‘It’s not fair!’ she shouted. ‘Why do you always have to spoil everything? I just wanted a dress like Beverley’s for the dance.’

  And she flounced out of the room before her mother had time to ask where to buy the material.

  Hania hated the idea of Christmas in Australia. In Poland, with her foster parents, it had been different. Shivers still ran down her spine whenever she thought of the hushed atmosphere in the church on Christmas Eve, with the flickering candles, the smoky smell of incense and the soulful voices chanting and praying. After Mass, she’d looked forward to the traditional spicy beetroot borsch with potato pirogi. Her foster father would lug home a huge fir tree and the house would be filled with a sharp piney smell. Then they’d hang shiny baubles and coloured stars on the ends of the branches and arrange gifts around the tree. She’d been Catholic then like everyone else, but now that she was Jewish she didn’t belong anywhere. She was excluded from the preparations, decorations and celebrations, the beautifully wrapped gifts and the visits the other children looked forward to from aunts, uncles, cousins, godparents and grandparents. Even Tina, who was usually as much of an outsider as she was, celebrated Christmas with her Greek family.

  Her mother had tried to console her by saying that Jews observed Chanukah instead, a beautiful festival that also fell in December, but as far as Hania was concerned Chanukah didn’t count. Who had ever heard of it?

  ‘Jewish children, that’s who,’ her mother had retorted. ‘There must be some Jewish girls in your class. Why don’t you make friends with them? Or you could join a Jewish youth group like Habonim. There must be one around here, with all the Jewish migrants. There’s a synagogue on the corner of Grosvenor and Grafton Street. Why don’t you talk to your scripture teacher at school?’

  Hania had shrugged. She hadn’t told her mother that she never went to the Jewish scripture classes. Instead, she always sneaked into the Church of England classes with Beverley.

  ‘I don’t want Jewish friends and I don’t want to go to Habonim, whatever that is,’ she’d grumbled.

  But what she wanted most of all, she didn’t dare to tell her mother.

  Across the road Kath sat up at the kitchen table trying to figure out how she could stretch her meagre savings to put
Christmas dinner on the table and buy something for the boys as well.

  A few times lately, whenever she’d passed the red telephone box on the corner, she’d been on the verge of swallowing her pride and ringing Gran, but at the last moment the thought of going begging, and then having to listen to her grandmother’s acid comments, had changed her mind. Help from Gran came at too high a price.

  Kath didn’t care about Christmas for herself but she did want to try to make it special for the boys, especially little Pete. But what kind of Christmas would it be, with Meggsie still in hospital, unable to walk, and no one knowing when he’d recover?

  ‘I’d better start praying for a miracle because that’s the only thing that’ll help me,’ she muttered to herself.

  She glanced out of the window, and noticed the timid foreign woman standing at her front gate, lost in thought.

  Marija Olmanis was thinking about Christmas too. Christmas in Latvia. Walking to church on Christmas Eve on snow that creaked under her fur-lined boots, placing Advent wreaths in the front of her home, watching the mummers who visited homes to bless the occupants and drive out evil spirits. And preparing the traditional food: brown peas with bacon, beef pies filled with cabbage, yeast cake with chopped almonds and cardamom, and ginger biscuits that made the whole house smell wonderful and which they ate with a drink made from honey, cranberries, rye bread and whipped cream. In Latvia, St Nicolas didn’t arrive with gifts on just one night, he stopped by every evening for twelve wonderful nights.

  She sighed as she looked out into the street. The frangipani trees were in full bloom, and she picked up three brown-edged flowers that had fallen onto the verandah and breathed in their cloying perfume. Apart from a scrawny ginger cat that shot across the road and disappeared, and a black mongrel that lay panting in front of one of the semis, there was no other sign of life, although Marija knew that most of her neighbours were home.