‘Chicago?’ Johnny looked thoughtful. ‘It’s hard to describe; it’s totally different from Perth.’ He shrugged. ‘Hmm. It’s big, exciting, beautiful and ugly all at once. Of all the large cities in the States, I think Chicago is the most open to doing something new, though. It was the first northern city to really embrace jazz. It was also the headquarters of bootlegging during Prohibition.’
‘Bootlegging? Smuggling alcohol?’
He grinned as the barmaid handed him a beer and me a shandy. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I’m not sure Prohibition was such a bad thing.’ I didn’t drink much, but I’d seen what alcohol could do to people, and it was usually bad.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it led to unforeseen consequences. Gangsters like Capone, Bugs Moran, Scarface.’
‘Chicago had lots of gangsters, didn’t it?’ I knew all about that, because I’d seen it in the pictures.
‘Sure did.’
‘But what is Chicago really like – to live in, I mean?’
‘Well, it’s way more crowded than here; it seems to grow every time I blink. Everyone in Perth seems to be the same; as far as I can tell, you’re all white and not badly off. Chicago has mansions and slums and everything in between. It has a big Negro population and they give a real energy to the city, especially in the music. I miss that. I really miss the music. Chicago’s a fun place. You’d like it, I think.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m not likely ever to see it.’
‘You never know what’s going to happen in life,’ he said. ‘I’ve learned that. Sometimes the best things happen without any warning. You might be sitting on a bench, minding your own business and your future comes tip-tapping down a path in high heels right into your life. You’ve just got to go with it.’
I was wondering how to reply to that when the barmaid came to tell us that dinner was being served in the dining room, so we took our drinks and moved into the wood-panelled room down the hall. The ceiling was pressed tin in an Arabian sort of design and prettily faded rugs softened the wooden floor. The food was hot and tasty and I felt a lot better once I had eaten, although, as usual, Johnny managed to turn the conversation to me and keep it there. And, as usual, I had the strong feeling I was giving away a lot more than I intended.
‘Your uncle sounds like a champion,’ he said.
I smiled at that. ‘He was. Big and loud and kind, and ferocious when his temper was up. He was wonderful.’
‘So why’re you set on marrying someone who’s his opposite?’
My eyebrows came together in a frown. ‘I’m not. Rob’s lovely, but in a different way.’
‘And rich.’
‘And why is that a bad thing?’
He sat back in his chair and regarded me levelly. ‘Seems to me that you’re determined to do what your mother did, and get out of where you came from. Get an education, get a rich husband, get out of Violet Grove.’ He shook his head and smiled a little. ‘Funny; it looks to someone like me that Australian society is classless – that Jack’s as good as his master here – yet you seem to be set on hauling yourself up a notch.’
My chin came up. ‘I’m not ashamed of my family. That’s not it at all. I stayed on at school and went to university because I loved it, loved learning, and my uncle loved me enough to make sure that I was able to do so. But yes, I grew up in a poor household and it wasn’t easy.’ I let out a breath. ‘I love my family. But . . .’
‘You don’t want to marry one of the clods from the village,’ he finished.
My voice fell away. ‘What’s the matter with wanting to do better?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, with an ironic gleam in his eyes. ‘So long as you don’t lose yourself in the relentless clambering upward. Nell, are you sure that you didn’t stop pushing to be an investigative reporter because you thought it wouldn’t fit what this guy Sinclair would like?’
‘That’s crazy.’ I was really angry now. ‘I got the columnist job because I was stuck at the Daily News as a part-time junior court reporter and I hated it.’
‘There’s a war on. If you’d stuck it out at the Daily News, you’d have got into what you wanted – you’d have got to write features eventually – because of the shortage of men. All good feature writers start out as junior reporters.’ His expression was hard, now, and gave me no room to wriggle away with a half-truth.
Was he right? Rob hadn’t liked me being a court reporter, and his mother had hated it. Aunty May had hated it too. And Father Tierney. But my cousin Mick hadn’t been happy to hear I was going to give it up and he had written to me, reminded me that I’d wanted to be a news reporter since I was a little girl. He’d told me to ignore Aunty May and stay at the Daily News. Instead, I’d ignored Mick, who, of all my cousins, was the one most like Uncle Pat.
Johnny lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. ‘Hey, don’t look at me like that. I’m just asking the question. Only you know the answer.’
I stared into his eyes. ‘I don’t know the answer, Johnny. That’s the truth. I’m shy. You saw it, but not many people do, because I’ve learned to hide it. It’s been difficult for me today, asking all the questions. But you’re right; I do want to write about more than hats and hair.’
His smile lit up his face. ‘It gets easier, I promise. And I meant it about it being an advantage not to be brash and overconfident. For what it’s worth, I think you’ve got what it takes.’
The waitress arrived to take away our empty plates and I thought that Johnny seemed to understand me very well for someone who’d only known me for two days. I liked that about him. It was a surprisingly comforting feeling. Surely we could be friends – just friends. I hoped that we could, because even though I’d known him only a short time, I knew I’d miss him if he left my life entirely.
I remembered what Aunty May had said and I gave him a smile, raising my eyebrows at the same time, to show it was a joke. ‘I’m supposed to ask you if you want to come to Mass with us tomorrow at St Aloysius, and then join us for a hot roast dinner. I can tell Aunty that you’re busy.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ he said.
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ I said, with a slight laugh. ‘Father Tierney is as bog Irish as they come and his sermons are dogmatically questionable. And Aunty is not the best cook – it’ll be roast mutton and although you were polite on Thursday night, I know that you Americans don’t like mutton. You don’t need to be polite about this. It’s fine if you don’t come; we won’t feel in the least put out. I’m sure you’ve got many better things to do.’
‘I’d love to come.’
I shook my head.
He grinned. ‘I’d – love – to – come,’ he said, very slowly and deliberately. ‘What time should I be there?’
I stared at him. ‘Mass is at nine thirty. St Aloysius is only a couple of blocks away and we walk there. Be at our house at nine fifteen.’
‘I’ll come at nine,’ he said. ‘I’m a slow walker.’
We didn’t talk much on the drive home. When Johnny stopped the car outside my house, he didn’t get out straight away to open my door. Once again, we sat together in the darkness. My heart started thumping.
‘Nell,’ he said, ‘you should stop trying to be what you think you should be. You’ll do, exactly as you are. I happen to think it’s a perfect package.’
I sat very quietly, willing him not to say anything more. But of course he did.
‘Stop trying to make your life fit a pattern you’ve worked out in your head. Life isn’t like that. Wonderful, unexpected things happen, like me meeting you.’ His tone became softer. ‘I know you feel it too, Nell. I’m not an idiot.’
I said nothing. What was there to say? He’d be gone in a few days, a week or two at the most. He was smart, funny and kind, and probably the most attractive man I’d ever met, but the love affairs he had meant nothing to him, and he ended them without a qualm. I couldn’t do that. Around us the street was very quiet. My heart was beating so loudly I wondered if he could hear
it.
‘I’m going to marry Rob,’ I said at last, wondering why it felt so strange to mention Rob to him in this way. I’d been thinking long and hard about this, ever since Johnny had told me about his affair with Lena. I wanted to make him understand. ‘You’re going back to the front, then back to America. I’m not like Lena Mitrovic or the other girls you romance. I can’t treat it as a diversion.’
His voice was low and there was an intensity in it that I hadn’t heard before. ‘And if I said I loved you?’
‘I wouldn’t believe it. You’ve only known me two days.’ My voice was just as intense, but there was an embarrassing catch in it. ‘You only want to . . . Johnny, you quoted Shakespeare to Lena the first time you met her because you’d fallen head over heels for her, but it wasn’t real. I think you do that – you meet girls and fall in love quickly, especially if they’re not interested at first. But it’s not real.’
‘Nell—’ he began, but I interrupted.
‘Please don’t see me as a challenge and try to push me. You’d probably win, but I’d lose too much.’ I took a quick, jerky breath. ‘I don’t mean—’
I was very glad that we were in pitch blackness and he couldn’t see my burning cheeks. Quickly, I went on. ‘I mean I’d care too much. You take love easy. I can’t do that. Please don’t push me into something I’d regret.’ That annoying catch in my voice was back.
He sat beside me silently for a while, then opened his door, got out of the car and came around to open mine.
‘Friends, then,’ he said flatly. ‘Just friends.’
‘Just friends,’ I echoed, in a small voice.
At the front door he waited until I put my key in the lock, then he bent suddenly and kissed my cheek. A friendly kiss, cool and quick.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said, and limped slowly down the path to the car, leaving me standing by the open door, feeling empty inside, like a log hollowed out by fire.
In the lounge room Aunty May and Evie were sitting comfortably together, listening to the wireless. It was Crackerjack, the variety show, and Louis Armstrong was singing ‘All of Me’. He lived in Chicago, I remembered, just like Johnny. I realised that my hand was caressing my cheek. I let it fall.
Evie looked up at me, eyes shining. ‘Jack took me to Matilda Bay and we saw a pod of dolphins. They were playing in the water around the American flying boats. It was so beautiful, Nell. I had the best day ever.’
‘Is Johnny coming to Mass tomorrow?’ Aunty May was settled in her armchair, knitting what looked like a pink cardigan, probably for one of Biddie’s children; the youngest, Karen, was only six.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He’ll be here at nine. I’m really tired, and I think I’ll be off to bed.’
Rob’s unopened letter was on my dressing table. I picked it up, turned it over and read the return address: Lieut. R Sinclair. For a while I just looked at those words.
I sighed. Rob was kind, thoughtful, generous and loving, but he always seemed to hold back a part of himself; even in our most intimate moments he always seemed to be in control. It had been one of the things I liked about him, that ability to consider everything – even our physical relationship – with a degree of detachment. Clothes always stayed on, even when I had made it clear that I wanted more, wanted him to go further, wanted him to lose control. I enjoyed the feel of Rob’s hands on my body and when he kissed me I felt happy, but was there any real passion? Did there need to be, if there was genuine love and respect?
With Johnny there would be passion; that was abundantly clear. But Johnny was a man of the world, a heartbreaker who was experienced in making women want him. What I felt for Johnny was lust, simple lust.
I sat heavily on the bed and sighed.
It was more than just lust. I liked Johnny. We seemed to understand each other, to enjoy each other’s company. There was an ease between us that reminded me of the relationship between Uncle Pat and Aunty May. And with Johnny there was also the intellectual element – he discussed ideas with me. Like Rob, he gave me the mental stimulation I craved. Johnny, like Rob, saw me as more than just a pretty clotheshorse.
Without pausing to think I ripped open Rob’s letter and scanned it quickly. My dearest Nell, it began. He always wrote that. He’d been busy, he’d attended a concert at the Conservatorium, he’d played bridge, he’d gone out dancing, he’d had dinner with friends. All my love, Rob.
I took a deep breath. What did I really want? The answer was simple. I wanted to marry Rob, to have his children, to share his life in a nice house by the river and to be his good, loyal and supportive wife. And that was going to happen – I would make it happen. Johnny Horvath was an impossible dream. I couldn’t let myself fall into a fantasy of a life with him that would never eventuate.
Even so, surely I could still be friends with Johnny, learn from him, spend time with him until he left Perth forever. And when he was gone, we could still write to each other, still be friends. Perhaps some time in the future we would meet up, both happily married, and laugh about the intense few days we’d spent together in Perth in 1943.
I always felt better once I’d thought something through and come to a decision. I can do this, I thought. It’s the only sensible thing to do.
hen the telephone rang at nine o’clock the following morning I wasn’t in the least surprised to hear Aunty May shout, ‘Oh, it’s you, Johnny,’ into the receiver. I had assumed he would rethink the decision to come to Mass.
‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that,’ she yelled. No matter
how often I told her just to speak normally, she insisted on pitching her voice very loudly. I suspected she thought it helped to send the sound waves along the wire. ‘Righto, we’ll see you then.’
‘That was Johnny,’ she told me once she had hung up. ‘Apparently his ankle is very bad this morning. He’s worried about walking to St Aloysius from here, so he’s going to take a taxi and meet us there.’
So I would be seeing him after all. I went back into my room and looked in the mirror. I had put my hair up into the unbroken roll, but I now thought that it was a bit severe.
I pulled my hair loose and brushed it out so that it lay over my shoulders. I can make this work, I said to myself in the mirror. Johnny and I can just be friends.
We set out for church ten minutes later, wearing our Sunday best. I had been dressed by Evie in one of my favourite frocks, made from a soft green wool jersey, with a pin-tucked bodice and a swing skirt. I wore a little cream felt hat and matching gloves. Over it all went a fawn coat I had made in 1939, before the war and rationing was even thought of. Evie had on my sky-blue hand-knitted dress, the one she had worn on Friday, with white cotton gloves and my white Breton straw hat. I lent her a pair of my precious nylons and my warm teddy bear coat. I thought she looked fresh, young and absolutely gorgeous. By the way Jack Morrison’s face lit up when he met us at our front gate, he thought so too. He asked if he could walk with us to Mass. He and Evie soon fell behind us, talking together intently.
We found Johnny standing pensively out the front of the little wooden church. He looked handsome in his uniform and was getting a few curious looks. I tried for a friendly smile, but my lips were trembling nervously and I felt dizzy. When he saw me his expression seemed to sharpen before he shook his head a little and his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. He gave the four of us a mock salute as we approached him.
‘Dr Rountree was right,’ he said, in answer to my query. ‘I’m pretty badly bruised and it’s hard to walk. I’m fairly sure that there’s no real damage, though.’
Aunty May was making worried noises. ‘I’ll see if one of the parishioners with a car can drop you off at our house afterwards,’ she said, before introducing him to Jack.
We all went into church together. By the time we’d found a pew and were waiting for Father Tierney to make his way down the aisle I no longer felt faint. It was clear that simply being close to Johnny had a physiological effect on me that I couldn’t contr
ol. Surely it would pass if I spent more time with him; I was not a giddy teenager, after all. In the meantime I could breathe deeply and concentrate on remaining calm. Eventually my heart rate slowed to normal as I kneeled, rose, sat with the rest of the congregation and made the
correct responses.
The homily was an embarrassing homage to ‘our American friends, whose special day this is’. Father Tierney made Johnny and two Catalina airmen in the congregation stand up and we all clapped enthusiastically. He thanked America for answering ‘Australia’s desperate plea for assistance against the Japanese Empire’ and, as was the case on most Sundays, managed to give voice to his profoundly Irish dislike of England by simply ignoring Britain’s desperate fight against the Axis forces in Europe, North Africa and Asia.
‘For, to be sure,’ he said, ‘Mr Churchill wouldn’t spare us a single English soldier, and it was he that wanted to send our boys to fight in other places and keep them from their home, where they were so badly needed. So let us all join in saying “God bless America”.’
Johnny bent towards me and whispered, ‘If he wasn’t a priest, he’d be in the Irish Republican Army.’
I giggled behind my hand. ‘I sometimes used to wonder if he wasn’t in it anyway. Apparently he used to collect funds for them in the twenties.’
Aunty May gave us a stern look. I also wondered sometimes if Aunty May didn’t sympathise rather too readily with Father Tierney’s views. Many of the congregation were Irish originally and most were nodding approvingly. Uncle Pat had put all that behind him, saying that Ireland’s fights should stay in Ireland.
Mr and Mrs Kavanagh were more than happy to help ‘one of our American friends’ and drove Johnny back to our house. Over lunch he behaved impeccably, acting friendly towards me, but keeping his distance. Aunty May, however, had completely fallen under his spell, and smiled at the two of us as if we were a happy couple. By dessert, Johnny seemed to be preoccupied, and it was when he spoke to Evie that I realised he had been thinking of Lena.
Taking a Chance Page 17