Treading Air

by Ariella Van Luyn

  The woman says, ‘I’m Bea, and these are some of the blessed strays and waifs that gather at my door.’

  The four of them grin at that, but only the men look at Lizzie. The other woman, younger than Bea, with a bob that crowns her head in a blonde wave and fluffs out at the ears, ignores her. She wears a cotton dress with a square neck outlined by a crooked row of bugle beads, a bracelet on each arm pushed above the elbow. She keeps her eye on the dark bloke, an Italian maybe, and he looks away from Lizzie, who sees from side-on that he waggles his eyebrows at the woman. Lizzie doesn’t like the look of him, and she feels the churn and froth like she used to at the races. ‘I’m Betty,’ she says.

  Bea offers her a seat, and Lizzie chooses one of the padded chairs. The dark bloke puts his hand out and introduces himself as Mr Scarcella. The Chinese man introduces himself as Mr Zhang, then fills a glass two fingers high with whisky and slides it over to her. The other white man doesn’t have a tie or coat. His suspenders rise from the table and cover a collarless shirt ripped at the elbow and where the sleeve joins the trunk. The shirt is unbuttoned, another one underneath. He says his first name is John, then his surname, but Lizzie forgets it, startled by his green eyes, the way he looks at her straight from underneath his brows.

  ‘This is my niece, Dolly,’ Bea says about the blonde girl, who looks at Lizzie at last and gives her a smile as though it hurts. Lizzie pegs her for a jealous type who doesn’t like the competition. Lizzie doesn’t much either.

  ‘You played before?’ Dolly asks. She lifts a cigarette to her mouth.

  Lizzie shakes her head.

  ‘Easy. Chow game. Even a monkey could do it.’

  Zhang shoots her a look. Lizzie moves away from him, to the end of the table where Bea has her right hand in a calico bag. She runs her fingers through what sound like chips – reminds Lizzie of the rush of rain at night. Bea pulls a chip from the bag and shows it to Lizzie. It’s not a chip but a ring of metal with a square hole in the centre and marks engraved at the edges.

  ‘These coins are worth something where he’s from.’ Bea points to Zhang. She tips the coin back in the bag, dives her hands inside and pulls out a handful, which she spreads across the table and covers with a metal bowl. ‘I’m banker,’ she says. ‘Idea is, I’ll count these out in lots of four.’ She picks up a hooked wooden rod from the table. ‘Usually get Georgie to use the chopsticks.’ Zhang takes the rod from her and holds it deftly between thumb and forefinger. ‘Put your chip on the square you think will be the number of coins remaining.’ She points to a chalked grid in the middle of the table, with the numbers one to four. ‘Buy in at a shilling. More if you’re game. True odds, three to one, and a five per cent commission.’

  Lizzie slides across two shillings, pocket money left over from the races.

  ‘Good girl,’ Scarcella says. That dago, Lizzie thinks, doesn’t seem hard to impress.

  Bea gives her an ivory tile with a foreign symbol etched out in red paint. Some colour has spilled over the lines, sloppy. Has she just given away two shillings to a bunch of crooks? But Scarcella and John put their tiles on the two and three squares readily enough. She takes a sip of whisky and is warmed, floating.

  ‘This stuff’s alright,’ she says to Bea.

  ‘I’ll charge you for the next one.’

  Lizzie laughs, embarrassed she’d just assumed the drink was free. It’s clear Bea runs a serious operation – more than the casual game between friends Chris Stephens made it out to be. She wonders if she should leave.

  ‘You gonna bet or not?’ Dolly snaps.

  Lizzie places her tile on the one square, and Dolly on the four. Zhang deftly slides the coins across the table with the rod, lining them up in groups of four.

  Bea turns to Lizzie. ‘You been here long?’

  ‘Less than a month.’

  ‘Golly, you’re quick, finding us.’

  Lizzie smiles, flattered. ‘Just met Chris at the Garden of Roses. He told me.’

  ‘He’s a good man, sharing my place with those who appreciate it.’

  ‘He likely to come round?’ Lizzie’s not exactly sure why she asked. Hopes she isn’t too obvious. She’ll need to tell them about Joe – the wedding ring is right there on her hand, not that it seemed to bother Chris any.

  ‘Chris? Usually can’t keep him away. He’ll turn up. If not this afternoon, tomorrow.’

  ‘This place all yours?’ Lizzie peers through the curved archway where another room opens out. A long lounge faces two armchairs, a small table set up in the middle. The curtains are drawn on a large window. A hallway runs parallel to the room, a door open along it.

  ‘Yeah,’ Bea says. ‘I own a couple places along this road.’ Lizzie wonders where she gets the money from, whether the five per cent commission off these games covers her for that. It doesn’t seem as if it could, but then Lizzie’s judging by her father’s standards. He was never able to hold on to his coin.

  Zhang finishes the count. ‘One left,’ he announces. Dolly sighs, and Lizzie feels a fizz of elation at the small win. She settles in for another round.

  When she leaves Bea’s house, the afternoon light blinds her. Bea follows her out and says, friendly enough, ‘Coppers here are lazy buggers. If you go to them, talk about this place, they’re more like to arrest you for gambling than chase anyone up about it.’

  ‘Wasn’t thinkin’ of it,’ Lizzie says, and Bea nods at her.

  Lizzie meets Joe at the gate and feels pleased that the time until his arrival has gone so quickly. She’s stopped herself from counting the hours.

  While he’s under the house getting changed, she calls to him through the slats. ‘Let’s have dinner at the pub tonight.’

  ‘You not cooked anything?’ His voice is muffled with the shirt going over his head. He never bothers undoing the buttons.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pay.’ She comes in under his shirt, and she’s hit with the thrill of seeing his bare chest and the hair coiling across it. She holds out her hand with the winnings.

  ‘Where’d you get that?’ he asks.

  ‘Found a little fan-tan parlour up the road.’

  ‘That oriental game?’

  ‘Yeah. You should come sometime.’

  ‘Be careful, Lizzie. Don’t lose all my money to a bunch of chows.’

  ‘’Scuse me –’ she rattles the coins in her closed fist ‘– but who’s the one with the sugar?’

  He takes the money and ignores her. ‘If you’re paying, let’s go. I’m starving. Just don’t make a bloody habit of it.’

  She holds his hand. They head back up Roberts Street towards Charters Towers Road. The Causeway Hotel juts out against the gravel roadway. She finds a seat in the ladies’ lounge and watches the bikes moving outside, framed by the darkened doorway. Joe gets them drinks. A man on his bike, one leg held out stiffly, slows down to peer through the open doors. He disappears from sight, and a minute later sticks his head round the doorframe, silhouetted in the bright outside light.

  Inside, the floor heats up, sweating out the booze spilt the night before, the floorboards opened like pores. Joe returns with two beers and sits with her on a stiff-backed rattan chair. She arranges her legs around the table so she can touch his feet, lets her husband wait on her as though she’s a proper lady, a woman with a future. A woman who wins. Voices fall in on her, the vibrations of a man’s baritone and, once, a woman’s high-pitched laugh. Joe leans in to speak to her. She’s light-headed with gazing at his face, his dark eyebrows sweeping across the brow. She wants to touch them.

  Behind Joe, a man ungums himself from the bar and walks unsteadily out back. The bloke with the bike orders two pints, balances one in each hand, the foam trembling. He has a funny way of walking; something’s wrong with his leg – wounded in the war, probably. Is it even real? She’s heard stories of whole limbs blown off, wooden prosthetics strapped on in their place.

  The man catches sight of Joe and nods.

  ‘Know him?’ Lizzie
asks.

  Joe swivels around. ‘Hello!’ he calls.

  The man changes direction and upsets the beer. He walks faster; Lizzie isn’t sure why men do this, think speed will minimise the spillage, as though if they move quick enough they’ll get the drinks to the table before any drips have fallen. He rests the beers to the table, their outsides slick with liquid.

  Joe holds his hand out, and the man wipes beer off onto his trousers before shaking it. ‘Glad you’re here, McWilliams. Wanted to introduce you to me missus.’

  ‘G’day, missus,’ McWilliams says, straight-faced, and Lizzie laughs at him. Up close, she can see his response to her, the curve of his cheek over his eyes when he grins. He looks her full in the face.

  Joe says, ‘This is the fella that got me the job.’

  ‘Ah.’ Lizzie scans his pale blue eyes, the hollow of his cheekbones.

  ‘Knew each other down south,’ says McWilliams. ‘In the cutting gang at Dorrigo.’ He shakes Lizzie’s hand. His hair sticks up above the shaved sides of his head, and his forehead is creased, giving him an expression of slight concern. He seems to care about her, about Joe. He sits down and takes a flat cap out from under his arm, puts it on his head, glances around and takes it off again. He runs his hand through his hair.

  ‘Want to thank you for getting Joe the work,’ Lizzie says.

  McWilliams shrugs it off, ducks his head.

  ‘Got a first name?’ Lizzie asks.

  ‘Can’t remember it,’ he says and grins again. She likes that smile, the slightly receded upper incisor. Wishes he wouldn’t turn it on her so hard.

  ‘Lizzie,’ she says. ‘Who’s the other one for?’ She points to his drinks.

  ‘Me.’ He sucks at his drink, puts the glass down and launches into a speech to Joe about the boss man having a go at him.

  ‘The man’s a coot,’ Joe says.

  McWilliams shouts them a round. When he sits down again, Lizzie glimpses metal at his ankle. He catches her staring and pulls his trouser leg over it.

  The room grows orange with the sunset, as if Lizzie’s inside one of the beer glasses, Joe and McWilliams sliding away from her like bubbles. The men move away to the bar, disappear from her vision. When they come back, they’re red-eyed and sniffing. McWilliams takes her hand under the table, and it’s a thrill to have him touch her. The possibilities of the gesture. He presses a twist of snow into her palm and says, ‘Don’t tell,’ nodding at Joe where he stands at the bar. ‘Your hubby didn’t want to share.’

  ‘Greedy bugger,’ Lizzie says.

  She slips into the bathroom to inhale and returns to find a black woman at their table, leering over McWilliams while Joe sizes up her backside. Lizzie clips Joe on the ear. He turns his attention to her, cups his hand over the top of her thigh.

  ‘Caught you,’ she says, and Joe shrugs.

  ‘You’re better,’ he says.

  McWilliams stands at the bar and downs his fifth. Joe orders them sandwiches. The bread is still warm from the oven, and Lizzie holds it in her mouth. A treat to have lettuce this time of year; when she asked for it at the store, the owner told her that floods cut off the farms further south. ‘Can’t get it to grow up here,’ he said, rolling his eyes to the sun.

  Joe has a crumb on his cheek, and Lizzie puts her hand up to brush it off. Goosebumps prickle her arms when she touches him. She holds and repeats his words from earlier in her head: you’re better, you’re better. Joe catches her look and puts his hand up to hers on his cheek.

  The man behind the bar shouts, ‘Five minutes ’fore closing,’ and Joe slides his hand out from under Lizzie’s.

  ‘Get myself one last. You want another?’ he asks McWilliams, who nods.

  Joe joins the line of men getting their last before closing, and McWilliams leans over and whispers in Lizzie’s ear, ‘Any snow left?’ His breath, heavy with yeast, touches her cheek. She lingers, his lips close to her face, shaking her head. His skin is almost hairless, and fine wrinkles curve out from under his eyes. She wonders how old he is. Doesn’t like his effect on her body and clamps down on it.

  Joe comes back with the drinks on a tray. The two men suck theirs down. Lizzie slows up, remembering she had those whiskies earlier in the afternoon, although she can’t feel their effects anymore. The pub is emptying out. The man turns off the lights glowing behind the bar. McWilliams says, ‘It’s too early to go home.’

  ‘Let’s try this new place I found,’ Lizzie says. ‘It’s really close by.’ She wants to show the fan-tan parlour off to the blokes, even though part of her enjoyed the gambling men’s eyes on her and the possibility that Chris would appear again.

  She leads Joe and McWilliams out the back of the hotel to number fifty-one.

  Bea greets her cheerfully at the door. ‘Here again so soon?’

  ‘Brought some fellas with me.’

  Bea hooks her fingers around Joe’s right arm, McWilliams’ left. ‘Welcome,’ she says and pulls them both inside. More people are at the table now. Still more have spilled into the lounge room, where they sit on the chairs, drinking. Another table, lined with bottles and stacked glasses, has been set up in the corner.

  At that distance, Lizzie doesn’t recognise faces. She hopes Chris isn’t there – might get awkward with Joe. Now she’s not even sure if this is a real possibility, or if she was just getting her hopes up in her boredom. She reckons she’s safe to lead the men to the fan-tan table, where Bea stands with her hands on either side of the bag of coins.

  Lizzie takes a moment to recognise Dolly next to her because she’s changed her clothes. She wears a silk dress, buttoned to the neck and then fanned out in a wide collar of a contrasting colour. The skirt is pleated tightly and ends with a zigzag hem, its shape echoed in the white zigzags that cascade down the skirt. Lizzie longs for a dress like that.

  Bea doesn’t bother with introductions this time – too many people are pressed around the table, waiting for the game to continue. Joe and Lizzie buy in together. She catches Dolly eyeing Joe off, and she wraps her arm around his elbow. He’s hers.

  Dolly moves away from Bea and takes her place behind the table bar. McWilliams follows her and orders another round of drinks for them. Dolly pours out the whisky with easy gestures, and McWilliams struggles to get his hands around the three glasses. Dolly says something to him and picks one up. He takes the other two and leads her over to Joe and Lizzie.

  Dolly comes straight to Joe and gives him the glass, smiling at him. He wraps his fingers around it. ‘Cheers, love.’ He winks at her. Lizzie could throttle her for the glance she gives him in return, the curl of her mouth genuine this time.

  McWilliams hands Lizzie’s drink to her. ‘Hussy,’ she hisses near his ear.

  ‘I’d say so,’ he says.

  Joe has turned back to the game, Zhang counting out the coins. They lose, take another bet, win, lose, then win again. Dolly watches them from the bar, and Lizzie’s chest tightens. She wishes she’d kept this place to herself. Bringing Joe here was a mistake.

  Next to her, McWilliams slumps in his chair, half-asleep – the excuse she’s been looking for. ‘Time to go,’ she says to Joe. ‘Your mate’s had enough.’

  Joe looks down at McWilliams in mild disgust, shakes him a bit. ‘Here, get up.’

  McWilliams springs alert and totters with the suddenness of the movement. He looks so lost that Lizzie laughs. ‘How’re you getting home?’ she asks.

  He gestures vaguely towards the Causeway. ‘Bike.’

  Joe and Lizzie share a glance.

  ‘Nah, mate,’ Joe says. ‘You’ll end up in a ditch. Get run over.’

  ‘Be fine.’ McWilliams concentrates on taking a step, stops and steadies himself against the fan-tan table, takes another, his balance wildly off.

  Joe grabs his arm. ‘Mate, stay with us. We live around the corner.’

  ‘No, no,’ he says. He looks at Lizzie. ‘Would put your missus out.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘Come on.
I’ll be offended if you turn me down.’ She feels generous towards Joe’s friend, who’s helped them so much already and is now offering her a way to escape from this place, from Dolly’s gaze all over Joe.

  ‘No, no,’ McWilliams says again, and Lizzie truly is offended. But he refused Joe too, so she decides not to take it personally.

  She nods goodbye to Bea, and they take McWilliams back to the Causeway. The black woman they met earlier at the pub is standing where all the bikes are lined up. She’s leaning against the building and smoking, as though she’s waiting for something.

  ‘Hello, love,’ McWilliams greets her. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Thelma.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He turns to the bikes, puts his flat cap on and scratches his hair underneath it.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ Thelma asks.

  Seems right enough for a gin, Lizzie thinks. Not that she’s spoken to many. In Brisbane you never see them.

  ‘I reckon he’s forgotten which one’s his,’ Joe says to Lizzie.

  Thelma contemplates the bikes propped against the wall. ‘All look the same to me.’

  ‘You should come home with us,’ Lizzie tells McWilliams again. She puts her hand on his arm, feels odd doing it, looks at Joe, who isn’t paying attention, decides it’s alright and tugs on McWilliams a bit. His skin beneath her fingers. He lets himself be touched but doesn’t budge.

  ‘Come on, mate.’ Joe’s starting to lose his temper.

  ‘I have to get home,’ McWilliams says.

  ‘Go home with the white girl,’ Thelma says to him. ‘Looks like she could make you happy. These white girls.’ She stares Lizzie up and down. ‘You can’t trust ’em, mate. One minute they’ll be butter wouldn’t melt, the next they’re takin’ your clothes off.’

  ‘Here,’ Joe growls, ‘don’t you say things like that about me wife.’

  Thelma holds her hands up. ‘Just trying to help. Didn’t realise she was your missus.’ She throws her cigarette on the ground, stamps it out, wanders off round the back of the pub.