by Tony Birch
When Tom reached the other side of the park, instead of heading towards the train station for home, he turned towards the city. He didn’t know what he’d discover there, but he didn’t stop walking until he was standing outside the National Gallery of Victoria. It was a building he’d walked and driven by many times over the years without bothering to go inside.
He watched a large group of squealing children, some barefoot, playing at the gallery’s iconic waterwall entrance. They held flattened palms to the glass and stamped their feet, letting the water splash over their young bodies. One boy went as far as to lean forward and press the top of his head against the glass wall, showering himself with water. Tom watched as a man in shorts and a singlet, most likely the boy’s father, moved forward. He was about to scold the boy but when the boy turned, the father saw his beaming face and smiled. To the mildly disapproving look of a gallery staff member the father placed his own head to the wall and drenched himself alongside his son.
Tom entered the gallery foyer and looked up to see a giant ball wrapped in silver foil floating above his head. He turned and looked back at the crowd outside, their bodies distorted by the effect of water running over the glass. With no clear sense of where to begin, Tom rode the escalator to the first floor. He spotted a tour group ahead and joined the back of the line. The guide led them through a room filled with Chinese vases and sculptures, then into an exhibition of period furniture. The guide spoke in the hushed tones of a documentary narrator and Tom could hear little of what was said. He decided to trail off on his own, wandering from room to room until he eventually found himself standing in front of a painting by Vincent van Gogh. Tom looked around. He was alone. He stepped forward to examine the painting more closely and was surprised to see that the brush strokes were clearly visible. He also noticed what looked like a speck of dirt painted into the corner of the canvas and wondered if the artist had purposely left a blemish in the night sky. He had no doubt that he was looking at a genuine artwork, but it did little to move him; a fault of his own and not the artist, he was certain.
Tom made his way back downstairs and ordered a cup of black tea at the ground-floor cafe. He could hear laughter nearby, breaking the solemnity of the gallery. He left his drink and walked in the direction of the ruckus, into the Great Hall, a cavernous space famous for its stained-glass ceiling. The room was filled with children, some jumping on foam sofas, others rolling across the carpeted floor, crashing into parents and grandparents resting their heads on cushions, looking up in childlike wonder. The sounds of the children reverberated from the walls. Tom took a seat at one end of the hall, leaned forward and picked up a brochure from the floor. It explained that the artwork above his head was one of the world’s largest stained-glass ceilings, fifteen metres wide and over fifty metres in length.
His reading was distracted by a young child, barely old enough to walk, tight-roping across the room at an increasingly frenetic pace before slamming into a foam chair and falling to the ground. The girl looked up at Tom and frowned. For a moment it appeared she was about to cry. She didn’t. The reflection of the soft reds and greens of the stained glass had painted her bare arms. The girl raised her hands and looked with delight at her new skin, as did Tom. He gasped with unexpected pleasure. The girl got to her feet, turned and headed back to her family. Tom looked around the hall before gently easing himself to the floor. He rested a pillow behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. It appeared to be moving, creating a hypnotising effect.
When he woke the Great Hall was empty except for a young gallery attendant standing in a doorway at the other end of the room. She checked her watch and looked across the room at Tom. He got slowly to his feet and walked towards her, craning his neck to get a final look at the ceiling. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I must have dozed off.’
‘It’s okay. Plenty of people do. That’s why I like working in this room. It’s peaceful. Don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I do. It really is beautiful.’
‘The artist who did this, Leonard French, he died recently.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ Tom answered, taken aback by the unexpected but genuine sense of sadness he felt.
The attendant looked up. ‘Do you know how many pieces of glass comprise the work?’
‘Oh, I guess there must be hundreds.’
‘Not even close,’ the attendant smiled. ‘It took Mr French ten thousand pieces of glass to complete the work, using fifty different colours.’ She pointed towards a panel directly above her head. ‘I don’t know if you can see it, but that large triangle of blue-green next to the deep yellow square, that piece of turquoise glass, it’s my favourite. It reminds me of the sea.’
Tom followed her gaze up to the triangle, and yes, once prodded to consider it, he could see the patch of sea, a sea he had once enjoyed, floating in the kaleidoscope sky. It was truly magical. And it was art.
‘How is it that you know so much about the ceiling?’ Tom asked.
‘Everyone who comes in here loves it, and they always have questions. I want to be able to help.’
‘Are you an artist?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m here to guide people. It’s enough for me. Are you an artist?’
‘No. I came here to look around. I’m … I’m a writer.’
‘A writer. Wow!’ She again looked up. ‘I’m sure there’s plenty in here for you to write about.’
Tom also looked at the colourful ceiling. ‘Yes. I think there might be.’
Tom was the last visitor to leave. Outside, the afternoon sun lit up the gallery entrance. A new group of children were entertaining themselves at the waterwall, and people were sitting along the edge of the moat, eating ice creams and taking photographs. Tom noticed a young couple holding hands and kissing. A pair of teenage boys waded through the moat, occasionally duck-diving for coins that had been tossed into the water by passers-by for the price of a wish. Tom stood and watched. A woman seated nearby had removed her shoes, hitched her dress up around her knees and was soaking her feet in the water. She turned to Tom.
‘I don’t think it could be a good thing, stealing somebody else’s wish.’
He didn’t know what to say. Although the woman looked a little odd she had a pleasant face.
‘They mean no harm, of course,’ she went on. ‘The innocence of youth. There’s so much you don’t know when you’re a kid. It’s what saves you. Growing up is the killer.’
Tom gave her a nod and left the gallery. He made his way towards the train station, pausing on the bridge. The tea-stained water of the wide river beneath him drifted slowly towards the open sea. He stopped, looked down and contemplated the task of putting words together.
SISSY
Sissy had never been on a holiday and didn’t know anyone at Sacred Heart School who’d travelled much further than the local swimming pool. At best they’d enjoyed a tram ride to the picture theatre in the city, maybe once or twice a year. A girl in the same year at school, Ruby Allison, who lived behind the dry-cleaners with her mother and two older brothers, came back to school after the holidays and told a story about how she’d been to the ocean that summer. Ruby sat in the schoolyard at lunchtime, a circle of girls around her, and talked animatedly about the giant waves and the seals basking on the rocks above the beach. No one else in the group had seen the beach and they had no reason to question Ruby’s story. Except that she’d been seen most days helping her mother behind the counter in the oppressive heat of the dry-cleaning shop. If the story was untrue, and Ruby hadn’t been near the sea, she’d displayed a vivid imagination, which was hardly surprising. If the girls from the school excelled at anything, it was storytelling. As Sister Josephine often remarked, Those who have little or nothing have the greatest capacity for invention.
Each afternoon, following the final bell, Sissy would walk to the House of Welcome on the main street, operated by
the Daughters of Charity. She’d join a line at the front gate, queuing to collect a tin loaf of white bread, or fruit bread if she was early enough, and an occasional treat of biscuits, before heading home. She also attended Girls Club at the House on Saturday mornings. The sole reason Sissy’s mother allowed her to join the club was because the morning ended with a mug of chocolate milk and a buttered roll, followed by a hot bath for every girl. Sissy didn’t look forward to bath time. The girls were required to line up in alphabetical order and the bath water was changed only after the Ks – Sheila Kane and Doreen Kelly – had bathed, usually together for the sake of economy. Sissy was sure that more than one girl on the line ahead of her took a pee in the water, out of either spite or necessity. She’d spend all of thirty seconds in the bath, and never put her head under the water let alone wash her hair, which she preferred to do under the cold water tap over the gully trap in the backyard at home, no matter how bitter the weather.
One Saturday morning, as Sissy was about to leave the House, Sister Mary took her aside and asked to speak with her. Although she couldn’t think of anything she’d done wrong, Sissy worried that she was in trouble. She asked her closest friend, Betty Reynolds, to wait for her out front and went and stood outside Sister Mary’s office door. The nun occasionally looked at Sissy over the top of her steel-rimmed glasses as she wrote in an exercise book. When she had finished, Sister Mary closed the book, picked up an envelope, opened it and read over the details of a typed letter.
‘Come in, Sissy,’ she said.
Sissy stood in front of Sister Mary and looked down at the navy-coloured habit covering the nun’s head. She wondered, as she often did, whether it was true that Sister Mary, along with the other nuns, had a shaved head. She quickly looked away in an attempt to purge herself of the thought. Sister Mary stood up.
‘Let me ask you a question, Sissy. How would you like to go on a holiday?’
The thought of a holiday was so foreign to Sissy she couldn’t make sense of what the sister had asked her. ‘A holiday?’
‘Yes. Exactly. Each year the Diocese is contacted by our more fortunate Catholic families. Very generous families offering summer accommodation for those less fortunate living in the inner city. This year, for the first time, our parish has been chosen to nominate several children who we consider suitable. I have nominated you, Sissy.’
The sister caressed the piece of paper she had been reading from. ‘This letter is from a family who write that they are interested in taking a girl for the coming holidays. They have a daughter of their own who is about to turn twelve, your own age, as well as a younger son. I have spoken to your class teacher, Sister Anne, and she tells me that you have been a diligent and well-behaved student this year, with excellent examination results. I see this as your reward, Sissy,’ Sister Mary smiled. ‘What do you think of the idea?’
Sissy wasn’t sure what to think. She was reminded of Ruby Allison’s story from earlier in the year. Perhaps she could return to the school in the new year with her own story of the ocean? A true story.
‘Are you interested?’ Sister Mary asked, when Sissy didn’t reply.
‘Yes …’ Sissy hesitated. ‘I’ll have to talk to my mother about this, Sister. She’s never had me away.’
‘Of course you would. And I will speak with her also. Your mother has always been a grateful woman. I’m sure she’ll be happy for you.’
The sister carefully folded the sheet of paper and returned it to the envelope.
‘I want you to take this letter home to your mother. Is she able to read?’ Sister frowned.
‘Yes. She reads well.’
‘Very well then. The details are contained in the letter. You must inform your mother that she will need to make her decision by the end of the week, as there are many girls in the school who would welcome such an opportunity.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
Sister Mary took hold of Sissy’s hand, a rare display of affection.
‘This could be of great benefit to you, Sissy. Many of your people have never enjoyed such generosity.’
Your people? Sissy had no idea which people Sister Mary was referring to.
Sissy walked out into the street and found Betty doing handstands against the front wall of the House of Welcome, exposing her underwear.
‘Betty, don’t do that!’ Sissy shouted. ‘You’ll get in trouble.’
‘I don’t care,’ Betty said. ‘I get in trouble anyway, for doing nothing at all.’
On the walk home Sissy showed Betty the letter and repeated what Sister Mary had said to her. If she expected Betty to be excited for her, Sissy was mistaken.
‘I know why Sister Mary chose you,’ Betty said, picking a stone up from the gutter and wrapping her fist around it.
‘Why’s that?’ Sissy asked, so pleased with herself she began skipping along the street.
‘It’s because you have whiter skin than me. And your hair is nicer. Mine’s like steel wool and yours is straw. You’re exactly what them rich white people want, Sissy.’
Sissy stopped skipping, her cheeks flushed with anger. She grabbed Betty by the arm, stopping her from walking on.
‘That’s not true, and you know it. The reason I’ve been picked is because I did the best in class this year. Sister Mary said so. You remember the statue of Jesus Christ I won for getting the top mark for Catechism. The holiday has got nothing to do with my skin.’
‘Makes no difference,’ Betty smirked. ‘It’s why you get the best marks, too. White skin equals teacher’s pet. That’s the way it is. Always has been, and you know it.’
Sissy stamped the heel of her shoe against the bitumen.
‘You can’t believe that, Betty. I’ve never heard you talk like this before. You must be jealous.’
‘I’m not jealous. I’m ...’
Betty aimed her stone at the street pole on the next corner. She pitched it. The stone skimmed through the air and slammed into the pole. She looked pleased with herself.
‘Gee, I’d make a good hunter.’
‘Not around here, unless you were after a stray cat, or a rat.’
Betty stopped at the corner and sat on the horse trough that hadn’t been drunk from for decades. She had a deep frown on her face.
‘What’s wrong?’ Sissy asked.
‘I’m scared for you.’
Sissy sat next to her. ‘Scared of what?’
‘That maybe you won’t come back.’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course I’ll be coming back. It’s only a holiday. For two weeks.’
‘It doesn’t matter what it is. One of my cousins, Valda, the Welfare told her mum, my auntie, the same story, that she was going on a holiday. Valda was excited, just like you are now. You know what happened to Valda? She disappeared.’
‘I don’t believe it. You’re making this up, Betty, because you don’t want me to go.’
‘So what if I don’t?’ Betty shrugged. ‘Even more than that I don’t want you to disappear.’
Sissy stood up and tried skipping away, but couldn’t recover her rhythm. She stopped, spread her legs apart, leaned forward and touched her forehead on the footpath, an exercise she’d learned in gymnastics class at school. No other girl had conquered the flexibility exercise. She looked through her legs at her upside-down friend.
‘The story is not true and I won’t be disappearing.’
‘Please yourself,’ Betty said. ‘Don’t blame me when they powder your face even whiter than it is and force you to church every day of the week.’
Three weeks later Sissy was seated on a wooden chair on her front verandah wearing her best dress, a daffodil print, and a matching yellow ribbon in her ponytail. A small suitcase sat at her feet. It contained another three dresses, a blue cardigan, a toilet bag and new socks and underwear. Sissy usually wore her mother’s hand-me-down underpants, seve
ral sizes too big. She was forever hitching them up as she ran around the schoolyard at lunchtime playing netball. As most other girls battled with the same predicament, the situation caused little embarrassment, except on the odd occasion when a pair of underpants fell around a girl’s ankles. Sissy had also made a visit to the Book Depot on Christmas Eve, where she swapped two paperback novels for four more plus the cost of a shilling. The books were also in the suitcase. She was a voracious reader and never left home without a novel in her schoolbag.
Sissy was admiring her dress when she heard the rusting hinges of a gate shriek further along the street. She looked up and saw Betty crossing the road. Betty stopped at the front gate, rested her chin on the edge of a splintered picket and looked down at the case.
‘So, you’re leaving for your holiday?’
‘Yeah. The lady I’m staying with is coming soon to collect me. In her own car.’
Betty leaned a little too heavily on the gate and hung on as it swung open.
‘Your dress is so pretty, Sissy. I bet you must be happy that you’re going away?’
In the weeks since Sissy had been offered the holiday by Sister Mary her enthusiasm for the holiday had gradually faded. She was no longer sure how she felt.
‘I am happy. I was so excited last night,’ she fibbed. ‘I couldn’t sleep properly with the nervous stomach ache I had.’
‘So, you’re really going then?’
‘Of course I am.’
Betty hung her head over the gate and tucked her chin into her chest. Sissy heard her friend sob.
‘You okay, Bet? What is it?’
Betty wouldn’t answer. Sissy stood up, walked over to her friend and lifted Betty’s chin. ‘What’s wrong with you, bub?’
Betty burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry what I said about your skin and being teacher’s pet. That was mean of me.’
Although what Betty had said had hurt Sissy’s feelings, she’d been quick to let go of the pain. Her friendship with Betty meant the world to her.