Tools of War
Page 17
Stopping at the intersection lights, she turned back to shout: “Come on!”
Sophie did not move.
“Come on!” she called again.
Head bent into the wind, Sophie fought to catch up. “You mean it!”
Huddling together, they crossed the road and ran for the opposite arcade. Sheltered from the wind and rain, it was bright and warm and welcoming.
“I really do have to shop,” she explained. “It’s Gary’s birthday.”
“How friendly are you two? Does he know about Julian?”
“Of course he does. We really are just friends. He’s away from home. He’s lonely. He’s got no family here, so it’s good for both of us. I want to buy him something nice.”
“At least the money’s no problem,” Sophie sneered.
“If you’re going to start again...”
Sophie was immediately contrite. “Take no notice of me. We all know you didn’t want the promotion.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
“Are you going to eat before you shop?”
“I wasn’t going to. Why?”
“I just thought it might be nice,” Sophie suggested.
“It’s a good idea. We have time.” What had prompted Sophie’s sudden change of heart? Whatever it was, it was doubly welcome on this bleak night.
Slowing their pace, they joined the Friday night shoppers. No one was in a hurry; there was no sense of urgency. Though this morning’s headlines outside the news stands had screamed more dramatic news, tonight’s shoppers seemed calm and relaxed and intent on their private business. It was an illusion. The same illusion as she and Sophie were projecting. No problems, no more than shopping on their minds.
Entering a small dimly-lit restaurant they were led to a vacant table set for four. She’d often looked through the lace-curtained windows, seen the lush furnishings, the delicate china, the smart hostess and the beautifully groomed women chatting at the tables. They were from another world, a Hollywood movie world. She’d walked on.
Tonight was different. Tonight she had company, and money. When their order arrived, the tea was freshly made and the sandwiches paper thin.
Sophie whispered: “I feel guilty.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Not about being nasty to you. About the war.”
“Why? We’re doing our job.”
“I can’t help it. If I was a man, I’d be off fighting properly. They’re risking death, and here we are - safe and sound. Besides,” Sophie indicated the complacent shoppers outside the window. “Look at them. You’d never know there’s a war on.”
“Of course you would. There’s the brown-out, and there’s rationing. Anyway, if you look closer, you’ll see the families haven’t got their fathers with them. There’s soldiers and....”
“You know what I mean, Anne.”
“It’s not your fault. You don’t have to feel guilty.”
“I can’t help it,” Sophie grimaced. “It’s my good Catholic conscience.”
“Is that why you made it up with me?”
“Partly.” Sophie blushed.
“What’s the other part?”
Sophie’s blush deepened.
“You started this,” she prodded.
“I’m sorry, Anne. I shouldn’t have started it. Really…”
“Sophie! Get on with it!”
At sound of the slightly raised voice, the eyes at the adjacent tables glanced disapproval.
“Sh!” Sophie begged. “I’ll tell you. There’s these stories going the rounds.”
She lowered her voice. “What stories?”
“Nothing special. Just….” Sophie stopped.
Two fur-coated women, led by the smiling hostess, squeezed into the vacant seats at their table.
Conscious of the two women, Anne whispered: “What stories?”
“Not now.” Sophie shook her head.
Ten minutes later they left the comfort of the luxurious arcade, scurried across Bourke Street and entered the warmth of the Myer Emporium.
“Have you any ideas?” Sophie struggled to keep abreast in the Friday night crowd. “What does he like, Anne?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t really know.”
Together, they browsed through the displays in the ground-floor Men’s Wear. There wasn’t much choice. Ties and socks were of no use to a Service-man, handkerchiefs too obvious; she needed something more personal. Though not too personal.
“It’s getting late,” Sophie was becoming impatient.
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I’ve got to get face powder. See you in ten minutes.” Sophie disappeared into the crowd.
“Can I help, Miss?” The salesman was grey, wrinkled, rheumatic and gentle.
She explained what she was looking for.
“A wallet, Miss. A quality leather? Something not too personal, as you say. However, it will also effectively convey best wishes - as you desire.”
A wallet. Soft brown leather. Expensive. She could afford it.
“You’d like it wrapped. With a gift card, of course.”
His crippled fingers shakily removed the price tag, wrapped the wallet in shiny blue paper, proffered pen and matching blue card for her signature, then tied it to the package. “I am sure your young man will be happy with your choice, Miss.”
Thanking him, she made for the women’s section and Sophie. Unhappily contrasting with the pleasant old man she’d just left, the painted faces of the supercilious saleswomen were scrutinising her from their posts at the heavily scented cosmetic booths.
Uncomfortable and embarrassed, she was searching without success for Sophie when she heard shouting from a small crowd near the lift.
“Give her air. Make way, please. Give her air.”
“Call the ambulance.”
“Stand back! Give her air!”
“Call the ambulance!”
“I don’t want an ambulance!” The voice was Sophie’s!
“You’re ill, child. You can’t just leave.”
“Sophie!” She fought the surging crowd. “Let me through! Let me through!”
“Watch who you’re pushing!”
“Give her air! She needs air!”
“Please! Let me through. She’s my friend. Please - let me through.”
“Let her through. Let her through…”
The circle clearing, she saw Sophie being assisted to her feet by an elderly woman. “What happened?”
“Thank God! Anne, get me out of here.”
“You should rest a while, young lady.” The woman looked to Anne. “You’re her friend. Tell her she should take it easy.”
“Honestly,” Sophie argued. “I’m all right. Thank you. I’m all right. Truly. Anne will look after me.”
Uncertain, the woman backed away.
“I’ll make sure she’s okay.” Steadying Sophie, she steered her clear from the onlookers. “What happened?”
“I fainted. What’s the fuss? It’s overheated, for God’s sake!”
“She’s right. You should rest.”
“Not here, I shouldn’t.”
Shouldering much of Sophie’s weight, she searched in vain for a place to rest. “There’s no seats!”
“I’ll be all right.”
“We have to find a seat.”
In the book section, Sophie paused. “Wait a minute - I’ll lean against these.”
“You look awful. What happened?”
“I told you. The heat. It was the heat.” A fine mist of sweat coated Sophie’s face.
“It’s not all that hot in here.”
“Just help me into the fresh air,” Sophie straightened. “I’ll be okay.”
“It’s freezing out there!”
Sophie was already climbing the short flight of steps that led to the exit on the far side of the store. It opened onto the outskirts of the central shopping area and a thin stream of traffic with few pedestrians. Though it was no longer rain
ing the wind was merciless. Shivering, they readjusted coats and berets and gloves and scarves.
“Where are we?” She’d never been this far across the city before.
“Lonsdale Street. You know.”
“No. I don’t know. How do I get home?”
“I’ll show you.”
“Just tell me, I’ll find it. Where does your tram go from?”
“Don’t worry about it, Anne. Tonight I’ll get a taxi. Just in case I go off again.”
“You are sick!”
“Aren’t we all?” Sophie was bitter.
“I should be with you.”
“Rot. You should get on home. Your mum will be worrying.”
“That’s for sure,” she agreed.
“Tell you what - I’ll get a taxi from your tram stop. Then we’ll both be happy.”
Crossing Lonsdale Street, they started towards Elizabeth Street and the trams. Unexpectedly, Sophie stopped outside a high fence.
“Are you all right?” Again, she was alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Sophie pointed to a narrow iron gate. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going in here. You’re nearly there. You’ll be safe now.”
“What’s in there?” She peered into the gloom beyond the gate.
“It’s Francis’s.”
“What’s that?”
Sophie passed through the gate. “You can wait for me, if you want to.”
Following Sophie, she protested: “You can’t do this! You’re sick!”
Sophie was already halfway across the paved forecourt in front of a single story building.
What was going on? “Sophie! Please! You should be going home.”
“Not yet.” Sophie paused at the building’s entrance. “You go on. I’m fine.”
“I have to see you to your taxi.”
“I’m all right, Anne. Stop mothering me.”
“I’ll wait.” She retreated into an inadequately sheltered niche in the wall.
“You can come in, you know.”
She peered into the dim lights of a book-lined foyer. “What is it?”
“I told you I’m Catholic. It’s St Francis’s. You know.”
“No. I don’t know. Is it a church?”
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a Catholic church, Anne. You can come in. We don’t bite.”
“I’ll wait.” She watched Sophie disappear into the shadowed lights of the building. From her secluded post, it was impossible to discern much more than the entrance.
Why wait? Sophie didn’t expect her to. Retracing her path to the narrow exit gateway, she was obstructed by a young mother and a pair of youngsters, heads bent against the wind. She watched them cross the forecourt and enter the building. What was to fear? Why shouldn’t she follow them?
She shouldn’t follow them because Roman Catholics were mysterious and dangerous. Because the world of all the different Protestant Churches disapproved of the world of the Roman Catholic Church. Because somewhere in her father’s past a Catholic man had beaten his Protestant wife. Because the Vicar at St Margaret’s Church of England was suspicious of the Roman Pope and his celibate priests and their misguided worship of false idols.
She shouldn’t follow the mother and her two children because she’d been warned that Roman Catholic churches were decorated with pictures and statues, which the Bible said was wrong. It would be wrong to follow them because mixing was not permitted. It would also be wrong to follow them for the simple reason that the rules said she must not.
She made up her mind. Exiting the deserted quadrangle, she mounted the shallow steps and entered the hushed foyer of St Francis’s Roman Catholic Church. A few people were inspecting the brochures, pamphlets and books on display. To one side, heavy timbered doors swung closed as the mother and her children passed through. Again, she followed them.
Opening the doors into a totally alien world she stood, shocked and uncertain, in the central aisle. Gradually settling, she inspected the dark carved timber ceiling, walls and pews, the pictures on every wall, the statues at every turn, the red carpet at her feet. She smelt the aroma of incense and the distinctive smell of burning candles that failed to suppress the repulsive stench of rain-soaked clothes. Astonished, she saw there were hundreds of people kneeling in prayer. The only sound, apart from a subdued intermittent rustle of clothing, was the whimpering of a baby.
Raising her eyes she saw ahead, far to the front, a brilliant altar. Ablaze with dozens of candles, golden accessories and huge vases of flowers it was dominated by an enormous golden monstrance. It was empty of people. No priest or preacher was conducting these prayers.
She dropped to her knees. It was impossible not to. Garish and theatrical, St Francis’s was overwhelming. The opposite of St Margaret’s, it had managed to bring her to her knees as St Margaret’s never had. It was impossible. It was unacceptable.
The baby stopped crying; no one stirred. Where was Sophie? The silence was palpable. She could not move. No one looked her way. She rose from her knees and slowly edged back towards the exit. Until her attention was caught by a side chapel, a small recess which held a tiny altar, more flowers, incense, candles, ornaments, worshippers and silence. Centrally placed above the altar was a statue of the Virgin Mary. Robed in blue, her gentle smile above the bent heads at her feet was deeply comforting.
Sophie was in the back row.
“I’m here.” Diffidently, she tapped Sophie.
“Want to light one?” Sophie indicated the rows of burning candles set in a stand by one wall. “Say a prayer.”
Following Sophie’s instructions, she purchased a candle, ignited it from another and, recoiling from the intense heat burning her face, set it in a vacant slot. If the Vicar knew, he’d never forgive her. This was not right. She didn’t belong in this sinfully wasteful place. She didn’t belong in this place that worshipped idols, no matter how warm and caring and serene the face of the statue in the side altar. Obviously Sophie did belong. You never could tell about other people.
Head down, she crept back past the worshippers to the entrance. It was a full five minutes before Sophie reappeared through the swinging doors, and led the way past the bookstalls and out into the bleak night. Sophie was very quiet, as though she was still in the church. It was unlike her. Or was it? She didn’t know much about her. She hadn’t even known she was a Catholic. The fact that Sophie had not only wanted to be with her tonight, but had also let her see this part of her life had somehow changed their friendship. But how?
The wind had intensified. Dark clouds whipped across the ill-lit sky. Even so, it was too light. What if the Japanese bombers got this far! The brown-out would be useless. They’d bombarded Darwin. Terrible things were possible. When would it all end? Was June up there? Where was Dad? They weren’t allowed to say. Would she ever see them again? Sophie was at her side, shouting above the wind. It was impossible to hear. Arriving at the corner of Elizabeth and Lonsdale streets, they crossed with the lights to the tram stop.
A tram lumbered from Flinders Street, stopped, idled, and moved off. She couldn’t leave until Sophie was safe. The corner was lonely and dark. What would happen if Sophie had another fainting spell? Although she’d blamed it on the heat in the store, there were no guarantees it wouldn’t happen again.
“You should have caught that tram!” Sophie’s yell, barely audible, was whipped away on the wind. “I’ll be all right!”
She shook her head. There was no point in even trying to talk. It was ten minutes before an empty taxi pulled in to rescue Sophie, another chilling quarter hour before an east-bound tram arrived. She’d be very late, Mum would be worrying. There was no way to contact her, to reassure her. Fighting her way through the tram’s mid-section, crowded with home-bound Friday night shoppers, she found only standing room. Eventually an exiting passenger vacated a seat and she squeezed between a pair of overweight overloaded matrons.
The whispering wind mocked her. Was that the scrape scrape of branches on high fences? Or was it….? Fear was irrational. She walked on. There was something!
Stopping to listen, heart hammering, she heard the scuffle of shoes quickly skimming the lonely path behind her. Peering back into the murky gloom, she tried to see who it was. There was no one there, not behind her. Not daring to move forward, she carefully searched the way ahead. No one there either. Two hundred yards to go. She took another fearful step.
Crack! From the path behind came the sharp snap of someone stepping on a fallen branch.
“Who’s there? Who’s …?” Her terrified throat closed, her feet would not move. She could see only the overhanging branches and the shaded street lights. She could hear only the wind rustling the bushes. Had she imagined the sound? Of course she’d imagined it.
She started to move on. Immediately, she again heard the unmistakable sound of shoes slapping the footpath. They were very close. Someone was hurrying to catch up with her!
Looking quickly back, she could see only dim lights and shadowed fences. Ripping off the high heels, she raced across the road for home. Toby, hysterically yapping, skittled along the next-door fence. His barking drowned any sound she might hear. Turning, she saw a shadow running across the road. She’d never make it! Another few yards... Please God…
She reached the gate. Shaking fingers fought the latch. It jammed.
“Mum!” Screaming, she tried to steady her hands.
“Anne!” The porch light came on. “Anne! Is that you, Anne?”
Opening the gate, she raced for the safety of her mother’s voice.