by Joan Lingard
‘Gerry got lost in a maze once,’ said Elma. ‘He had to shout his head off before anyone heard him.’
‘I’ve often wondered what happened to his head,’ said Ina. ‘Pity he didn’t know how to shout coo-ee.’
Tommy’s mother was in fine fettle this afternoon. Willa resumed reading before Elma could retaliate.
The people of Perth and Fremantle are being very good to us lads and making us feel welcome by putting on all manner of entertainments. There is a dance laid on for the squadron at the Town Hall every night of our stay. They’re making sure we won’t be bored!
‘Every night?’ echoed Elma.
‘There’s a lot of them, about 3,000,’ Willa told her. ‘Maybe they can’t all go the same night.’
‘They’d be tramping on each other’s feet,’ put in Ina.
‘Where do they get their partners from?’ asked Elma. ‘It’s only men on the boats, isn’t it?’
‘Well, what do you think, Elma!’ said Ina. ‘You ken fine there’s no women in the Navy. The men won’t be dancing together! They’ll get their partners in the town. They won’t come out of the bush shouting coo-ee.’
‘How was I to know? You said Tommy was always writing about black women.’
‘They won’t invite black women to their dances. For goodness’ sake, woman, have a bit of wit!’
One is ill-advised to venture too far into the Australian bush on one’s own. Many have perished for their foolishness.
‘Tommy’s no fool,’ said his mother.
Elma looked as if she might be going to comment so Willa read on.
A trip up the Swan River from Fremantle took us through picturesque scenery, past many resorts given over to yachting and other aquatic sports, to the city of Perth. It is a fine city with electric trams and many attractive buildings and shops as well as zoological gardens.
‘There’s nothing wrong with our zoo,’ said Elma.
‘Nobody said there was,’ said Ina. ‘Could we just hear what Tommy’s got to say, if it’s all the same to you?’
‘He says the foundation stone of the city was laid by Captain Stirling on 12th August 1829,’ said Willa.
‘So the British didn’t have to capture it in a battle this time?’ said Ina.
‘It must have belonged to somebody before 1829,’ said Willa. ‘Probably the aborigines.’
‘Who were they when they were at home?’ asked Elma.
‘Natives,’ I suppose’ said Ina.
Beautiful weather has prevailed throughout our stay. The climate would appear to be agreeable all year round, somewhat kinder than our windy city. One can enjoy more outdoor life. I think this would be a great place to live and bring up children. Either here, or South Africa.
‘I hope he’s joking,’ said his mother.
‘I expect he is,’ said Willa. ‘Anyway, he’s in the Navy, isn’t he? He doesn’t actually live anywhere.’
‘This is his home,’ said his mother, miffed. ‘And it’s not windy all the time in Edinburgh. You’re not going to go away and live in some foreign country with black men, are you, Malkie? No, you are not. Your granny wouldn’t let you. This is where you belong.’
‘You’ve got that child spoiled rotten, Ina,’ said her sister.
‘What do you know about bringing up children, Elma?’
‘That’s it,’ said Willa, ‘except for the usual at the end. Can I get you a cup of tea, Aunt Elma?’ Elma liked to be given the title, whereas Bunty did not.
‘No, thanks, I’ll need to be on my way.’ Elma was annoyed; Ina’s last remark had needled her. She addressed herself to Willa. ‘I thought I’d bake some flies’ cemeteries for Gerry. They’re his favourite. He likes home-made.’
When she’d gone, Ina said, ‘Elma can be awfully thick so she can. The questions she asks! And she likes to put on that pan-drop accent of hers. As if being married to a master butcher was the be-all and end-all! Of course she never was very bright at the school, not a patch on Bunty or me, though I say so myself. We always got prizes.’
The three sisters each had different accents, which interested Willa. Elma’s was on the plummy side, consciously put on; Bunty’s was the most Scottish in that she liked to say ‘didne’ and ‘wouldne’ and ‘dinne ken’; and Ina’s the most straightforward. They’d been brought up by a mother who had wanted them to speak as pure English as possible and had frowned on playground speech being brought into her house. She’d sent them to elocution lessons. Bunty said she’d have been better off using the money to put more food in their mouths. Ina referred to her mother as having been ‘ladylike’. She had put great emphasis on holding your knife and fork correctly and putting your pinkie out to the side when you drank a cup of tea. (None of them did that now, though.) They’d lived up at Bruntsfield in a two-bedroom flat and their father had been a brewery foreman. Their mother had died before Ina married, which Elma said was probably just as well. She would not have approved of Ina’s choice of Roberto Costello, who sold ice cream for a living. He’d worked in his uncle’s shop in Leith Walk.
‘I came down in the world when I married, there’s no denying it,’ Ina had told Willa and when Willa had said that she must have been in love she had looked uncomfortable.
‘Aye, Elma can get up my back at times,’ sighed Ina.
‘I thought I’d go to the library,’ said Willa.
‘Malkie and I might chum you, for the walk. It’s quite a nice day. The sun was out earlier.’
‘It’s a bit of a push uphill.’
‘But you can push the pram going up, can’t you? And I’ll take it coming down.’
‘Well, are you sure? You might rather go across the Meadows. We couldn’t take the pram into the library.’
‘We’ll wait outside. You won’t be long, will you? You’ve only to change two books. And we can walk across the Meadows on the way back.’
They fetched their coats and Malcolm was fed into his knitted woollen pram suit, trousers, coat, bonnet, mittens. He was less pliant these days and he hated being dressed. He struggled throughout as Willa forced his legs down the trouser legs, his arms into the sleeves, and his hands into the pawkies. She was red hot and bothered by the time she’d finished.
‘He’s getting to be quite a lad,’ said his granny.
He didn’t like being strapped into the pram, either.
‘Reminds me of his daddy,’ said his granny. ‘Doesn’t give in easily.’
They were struggling with the pram straps outside on the pavement when Mr MacNab came along. He was walking with his head down and would have gone by without acknowledging them had Ina allowed it.
‘Good afternoon, Mr MacNab,’ she said in a voice loud enough to carry across the street. ‘And how is Mrs MacNab the day? We haven’t seen her for a while.’
He muttered something and made to go round them into the stair but Ina was not ready to move out of the way yet. She was standing in front of the open stair door.
‘I hope her nose is coming on?’
He nodded.
‘Tell her if there’s anything she needs just to tap on our door. We’ll be there right away.’
This time he did not so much nod as jerk his head and Ina let him pass. Willa wasn’t sure that speaking to him like that would help, except that it might let him know that they had their eye on him. Ina had given up the idea that they shouldn’t interfere between man and wife. She told Willa that she was lucky she had a man who would never lift his hand to her and Willa had said she’d hit him back if he did, while knowing that if it ever came to that she’d lose out. Tommy was a lot stronger than she was. Ina had laughed.
Finally, with Malcolm restrained, they set off up the hill, Willa hoping that Ina might change her mind halfway up and turn back. Her mother-in-law plodded stolidly on and Willa resigned herself to the fact that she was going to stand guard outside the library. Not that Ina would think she was actually standing guard. And not that Willa was going to be up to anything in the library. But she had
been looking forward to a chat with Richard. She hadn’t seen him since that day in Middle Meadow Walk and she wanted to explain about the gaggle of children. He surely wouldn’t have thought they were all hers, would he? Did it matter if he did? It was nothing to him, one way or the other. Nevertheless, she wished to explain.
They reached the library.
‘Are you sure you want to hang about?’ asked Willa. ‘There’s a bit of a breeze.’
‘I’ve got my hat and gloves on, and so has Malkie, good boy, haven’t you?’ He’d kept his pawkies on today.
He grinned, showing his solitary tooth.
‘You mustn’t forget to tell Tommy about his tooth when you write,’ said Ina.
‘I won’t,’ promised Willa. ‘I might be a few minutes. I like to take my time choosing.’
‘That’s all right. We can walk up and down if we feel the cold. You go on in and don’t worry about us.’
Willa went in and as she was returning the books she glanced around and saw Richard at a table, with his exercise book in front of him, a fountain pen in his hand. He waved. She lifted her hand just a couple of inches, in case she’d been followed in, though she had not, for she was keeping a watchful eye over her shoulder.
She went into an empty bay. A couple of minutes later, he joined her.
‘Hello, Willa, nice to see you. It’s a while since I have.’
‘I know. That day on the Meadows—’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Those weren’t all my children. Only the baby.’
‘I didn’t think they could be.’
She told him about the MacNabs. A woman was giving them cold looks. They retreated further into the bay and dropped their voices.
‘Have you heard from your husband again?’
‘I got a letter this morning.’
‘Where’s he got to now on his journey?’
‘Australia. I’ll tell you about it another time. I can’t go for a cup of tea today, I’m afraid.’
‘I was hoping—’
‘My mother-in-law’s out there with the baby.’
Willa realised, even as she was saying this, that she was letting Richard know that her meetings with him were clandestine. But he must have guessed that already. For she was a married woman, after all. But if he had guessed, what did he think about her reasons for meeting him secretly? She said.
‘Can you recommend me something? I haven’t got much time.’
‘Let me think.’
Willa was glancing from her watch to the door.
‘There’s a new woman writer I’ve found, or rather my mother has. She’s very well read, my mother. It would be nice if you could meet her sometime.’
Willa made a murmuring sound. She could not conceive of ever being introduced to Richard’s mother.
‘So this new writer?’ she said, wanting to urge him on. He enjoyed telling her about books and giving his advice and he liked to take his time, which she appreciated, but he would not be able to appreciate how limited her time was, reduced to stolen fragments, away from family ties, two of which were waiting outside on the pavement at this very moment.
‘Well, she’s not exactly new,’ Richard went on, ‘just to us, mother and me. She’s from New Zealand, or was. She died last year, quite young, only mid-thirties. TB.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Willa, thinking of her own mother.
‘Her name’s Katherine Mansfield. She wrote short stories. Would you be interested?’
Willa nodded.
‘Let’s see if we can find anything in of hers. M. We’ll need to go back a bit.’
She followed him round the bays. They passed the unsympathetic librarian, who stared at her. Willa felt that she was attracting too much attention by being seen so often with Richard. She would have to take more care in future. Formerly, she’d enjoyed the privacy and anonymity of the library. It was fortunate, though, that this was territory where Tommy’s family did not venture. Bunty liked to read, cheap paperback romances mostly, and magazines which she stocked in her own shop. Elma read Woman’s Weekly and the church magazine.
‘Here we are!’ said Richard. ‘Mansfield! Katherine. Bliss! Nice title, isn’t it?’ He took it from the shelf and gave it to her. ‘Does it appeal to you?’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘Good. How about Rebecca West?’
Willa had not heard of her.
‘She’s not Scottish but she lived in Edinburgh. Her book The Judge is set here.’
There were so many writers, so many books waiting to be read that Willa felt dizzy at the thought. Would there be enough time in life?
They went back round the bays, re-passing the librarian she did not like. They were standing perusing the spines looking for ‘West’ when Willa heard a familiar voice behind her saying her name.
She spun round to see Pauline’s mother.
‘Your baby’s been sick all over his pram cover, made a right mess he has,’ said Mrs Cant, her eyes going past Willa to rest on Richard. ‘Tommy’s mother sent me in to fetch you.’
~ 9 ~
Adelaide,
South Australia
14th March, 1924
Dear Willa,
We anchored for four days in Albany on the way here, during which time all the ships were freshly painted. Do we look smart now? We certainly do! On our arrival there, each ship was presented with a kangaroo as a pet! Ours has been named Tommy though, as you can imagine, I am not over the moon about that. But there are a few Tommies on board amongst the 470 men so I cannot take it personally.
‘Still,’ said Ina, ‘it wasn’t very nice of them. Calling a kangaroo Tommy!’
‘How in the name can you keep a kangaroo on board a ship?’ Bunty wanted to know. ‘Some of the things those sailors get up to are beyond me.’
Willa said she thought the poor animal would probably prefer to be on dry land.
‘I expect it’s a laugh for the sailors having a kangaroo hopping about the deck,’ said Bunty, getting up to demonstrate.
‘Bunty!’ said Ina, shaking her head.
We plunged into the Great Australian Bight on leaving Albany, a crossing that has an evil reputation. We certainly rolled a bit due to the heavy swell but it was not too bad and I came to the conclusion that seas have their good times as well as their bad.
‘Like folk,’ said Bunty.
‘I hope the kangaroo wasn’t seasick,’ said Ina.
So now we are in Adelaide, a beautiful city, well laid out on modern lines with the streets running at right angles. It is surrounded by parks and has a fine race course, zoological and botanical gardens.
A piece of paper drifted down to the floor.
‘You’ve dropped something,’ said Ina, picking it up.
‘It seems to be a cutting from an Adelaide newspaper,’ said Willa, taking it from her.
AMONG THE BLUEJACKETS
Dance at the Palais
PRETTY GIRLS AND CHARMING FROCKS
Scores of petty officers and blue jackets from the ships of the British Special Service Squadron had their first experience of how Adelaide girls can dance, at the Palais Royal, North Terrace, last night. The party was arranged by a committee of forty-one hostesses, who had gone to endless trouble to make sure their guests had a good time. If ‘Jack’s the boy for work’ he’s also ‘the boy for play’ and he – every single one of them – dances as to the manner born.
‘They’re not telling us anything we didn’t know!’ said Bunty. ‘Jack can play all right! And to the manner born. Our Jack the lad has never needed any lessons.’
Ina ignored that, saying, ‘Imagine, forty-one hostesses! What could they all be doing?’
‘Looking after the boys. Making sure they have a good time. Finding nice partners for them.’ Bunty rolled her eyes and when Ina glared at her she said, ‘Well, you canne dance on your own, can you?’
The Palais was a festive scene with its myriad of coloured lanterns and balloons, and the floor was thronged every
time Mr Val Royal and his orchestra struck up the latest dance tune. Huge punkahs swayed to and fro above the heads of the dancers, and coloured lights gave a kaleidoscopic effect and changed the frocks of the girls to all the hues of the rainbow in turn. Wherever the lads in blue may go, they will nowhere see a prettier array of girls than those with whom they danced in Adelaide. There were some charming frocks worn and dozens of bobbed and shingled heads were to be seen.
‘I’m sure our girls at the Palais could give them a run for their money,’ said Bunty.
Willa doubted it. The girls in Adelaide sounded as if they could be in pictures. She put her hand up to her hair and again wondered if she should get it bobbed, but then she remembered how Tommy had loved to run his hands through it.
‘He’ll have been getting up to a few high jinks there no doubt,’ remarked Bunty.
‘What on earth’s a punkah?’ asked Ina.
Nobody gave her an answer.
Variety was lent to the party by the clever turn at the piano of Mr Sherman, from the Majestic Theatre, who imitated a grand organ, a musical box and a Russian pianist playing a well-known ditty concerning bananas. Mr John Fisher sang ‘Shipmate o’ mine’ and was encored.
‘Yes, we’ve got no bananas,’ sang Ina, surprising them.
‘Bravo!’ cried Bunty. ‘What’s the brave boy himself got to say about all that dancing?’
Willa went back to the letter.
Nine hundred girls were present by special invitation and I should think they were carefully selected – a real bevy of beauty, by any standards, adorned with gorgeous dresses of all colours and styles. An excellent supper was served.
‘Too bad if you’re plain,’ said Willa. ‘You get left out.’
‘That’s the way of the world,’ said Bunty.
‘I’m glad they fed them,’ said his mother. ‘Tommy can’t go without his food.’