The Blue Mile

by Kim Kelly

  Back to my bebe roses then, my work, my salvation from all things atrocious, and our only means of paying for them. What I can’t do with the twist of a ribbon isn’t worth doing, and Miss Min Bromley is most certainly going to look gorgeous in this hat. We’re designing her whole trousseau, and this is one of two afternoon casuals I’m creating for her. She’s a very sweet blonde, and this shell pink is going to double her sweets so her girlfriends writhe in envy and must have one too – and won’t ever get it because I only do one-offs. Minerva Bromley is also the daughter of one of the directors of the Commonwealth Bank. If she’s pleased with her trousseau, we might indeed be travelling upwards. I stab my needle through the base of my next bebe with her other, less appealing connection: Minerva Bromley is also the cousin of Cassie Fortescue, with whom I went to school at Pymble Ladies, and the taunts still seem as nasty as they ever were: Sticky, sticky, stick insect. Is she a bug or is she a boy?

  I transform into a Parisienne muse now as I stitch. I’ll show Cassie and her ilk. One day, I’m going to be a costumière of international renown. I’m going to be as famous and fabulous as Coco Chanel.

  ‘Ollie?’ the shop bell dings with my name.

  It’s Glor, my friend, my newest and in some odd way my first real friend. Gloria Jabour, from downstairs. I turn and smile: ‘Hello, lovely one.’

  ‘Ollie, it’s six-thirty,’ her smoky amber eyes rouse on me. God but she’s relentlessly lovely: I don’t see her all day and it catches me up as if I’m seeing her anew. ‘Dad says it’s a mad mob of riffraff down at the Quay – he doesn’t want you waiting for the ferry after dark, and neither do I. Come on, knock-off time.’

  ‘All right.’ I smile at that too: Mr Jabour takes his fatherly responsibilities so seriously he extends them to every child he knows. He’s also our favourite and exclusive purveyor of all things silk. Jabour’s Oriental Emporium – he’s got a stock of gold-shot flouncery in at the moment that looks like it wafted in from Persia via magic carpet. I ask Glor: ‘Anything come in that I must have?’

  ‘Mmm, maybe a couple of samples,’ she says with a teasing grin. ‘Some fantastic Fujis, tough as leather, soft as cloud – in candy stripes. But you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Dad’s locking up now.’

  That he is: I hear the grille screech and thump over their shopfront, echoing up from the ground floor. A newly installed contraption, unfortunately necessary: there’ve been three robberies, in this arcade alone, this month. I’m compelled myself now to check our new cabinets are locked, the three of them we spent most of today fussing about with, arranging and rearranging our perfumery, our jewellery, our hosiery and glovery, and as I half-gag on an acrid whiff of the gleaming new polish I take some comfort at the thought that thieves would have a hard time heaving these things out into the street: well made, at least, even if the ‘mahogany’ is painted-on pine.

  ‘Oh Ollie, the chaise – doesn’t it look grand?’ Glor spots the atrocity, as if it might be possible to miss it, and she bends to run her hand over the ivory velveteen, that firm, graceful sweep over fabric that says she could true-up the edges of the air if she had need to measure it.

  But I look away, and I say, ‘Grand, yes.’ Distractedly, pretending my locking of the stockroom door now requires my full concentration, as I fight off a rush of resentment: well, you would think it grand, wouldn’t you, Gloria. Chi-chi showiness designed to attract those who like glittery things. And money: all Arabs worship money, don’t they. Equal rush of remorse for these thoughts as I think them, too; as if the Jabours don’t work hard for their money. As if I’m any better. Above money. Still, a nasty little voice says I am. Grand. I’m the only child of Viscount Mosely, Lord Shelby Lawrence Ashton Greene. Shouldn’t have a shop at all; shouldn’t be worried about the debt this stupid furniture has put us in.

  I keep a grip on the stockroom door handle, to keep this all locked in. Glor knows nothing of it, of course, no one here does – it’s our private atrocity. As far as the wider world’s concerned, poor old Daddy was lost in the war, and I would be happy to believe that if it weren’t for the birthday cards, the payment of my school fees, and these days a contemptibly pitiful allowance that barely buys my thread – £15 per month. How old does he think I am? Ten? He’s in Kenya at present, on a hunting expedition, and I hope a lion eats him. Forgive me. Mother might’ve picked herself up from the divorce and carried on, sent home from whence she came, but I didn’t; haven’t. I was only seven when he put us out to sea –

  ‘Oh! And these fresh flowers, too?’ Glor is now gushing over the white roses, the ones that are sitting on the magazine table by the chaise; the bold extravagance of two dozen white roses, which arrived this afternoon at about five past three.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I laugh, not looking at them either, and my laugh is so brittle Glor guesses that these are not part of Mother’s refurbishment.

  ‘Oh.’ A say-no-more-about-it sort of oh.

  The Jabours will have seen Mother flying by their window, jade chiffon whirling out to the waiting cab. His cab. This barrister chap: Bartholomew Harley. A criminal barrister, chasing Mother. And Mother chasing in return. Darling Em, the card says, see you at 6.15 – try not to be too late. Bart x. She only kept him waiting ten, if that. He’s something heroic around town, name in the papers for putting some terrible razor-gang crook behind bars, and he’s taking Mother to the Merrick Club, for the third time now. Which is where they met: in the Jazz Room. Which is part of the refurbishment: Mother parading our creations on the dancefloor of the latest and most popular place in town on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights. Not a bad idea at all: her beauty alone is enough to draw attention. No one would ever guess, to look at her, that she herself is the seamstress, and no one could be more admiring of her glamour than me. But really. She didn’t get in until almost two o’clock on Sunday morning. She’s not known him a fortnight. This in itself isn’t entirely unusual, but the Darling Em and the spectacular nature of these roses are. I don’t like it. I haven’t met him – I never meet them – but I don’t like him either.

  ‘Ollie?’ Glor’s concern is the sound of loveliness itself, but I turn away from her again, packing my bits and pieces into the drawers of my work table, brushing up my squiggles of thread ends. ‘Why don’t you come to ours for dinner? You could stay the night – Mum would love to have you over.’

  Yes, I know she would, and genuinely: if Mrs Jabour could have the whole world over to her house in Randwick for dinner she would never be happier. But I can’t accept the invitation, not tonight. I’d be there ten minutes, squeezed in amongst their big boisterous happy family, half of Beirut round the table, Mrs Jabour telling me I’m too thin, while her sister, Aunty Karma, pinches my arm to demonstrate it, and I’d be wanting to run. I tell Glor: ‘Thanks, lovely one, but I’ve got so much to do with this trousseau, I’m going to plough on with it – at home, don’t worry.’ I’m already reaching for a hatbox.

  ‘If you’re sure . . .’

  ‘I’m sure. Toodle-oo. Off you scoot. I won’t be far behind you.’

  ‘Promise.’ She rolls those delicious Arabian eyes, because I will linger a little longer here. I always do. ‘Lunch tomorrow,’ she insists. ‘Just you and me. Pearson’s, yes? Before the silly season gets too silly and we don’t have time to scratch ourselves.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds fab.’ I wave her out, and I will have lunch with her at Pearson’s tomorrow. Plate of sweet, fat summer prawns: yummy. I’ll look at those candy stripe Fujis in the morning, too, get to them before anyone else does – could be just the thing for a kimono I’ve half-conceived for Min Bromley’s loungery.

  But for now I go back to my ribbons, back to half-finished afternoon casual bebes, and I’m about to toss a card of the pink satin into the box when I decide, no, I’m not going to work on the trousseau at all tonight, not taking this vagabond home with me. I’m going to have some fun of my own. Design something especial
ly for Glor. Something snazz, for Christmas. I do love her so. But what shall I make her? It takes a while to come to a decision, staring into the limbs of our hat tree, our style samples that ramble over the steel display frame that covers almost the whole of the back wall, but finally I see it: a little taupe sisal mid-brim I’d almost forgotten we had. I pluck it and pack it into the box with some silver and bronze ribbons – colours that will look more than gorgeous against those amber eyes and that creamy, flawless skin.

  I pat the lid down on the box with that swish of good feeling I get whenever I’m about to begin something new. Not knowing what it will be until it is, letting inspiration take me. With a little help from Vogue: I lay the October and November issues in my portfolio and clip it closed, swing it over my arm, hatbox following, and as I lock the door of the shop behind me, I look up through the glass roof of the arcade to see the sky is the most divine shade: gold-shot teal. Magic-carpet sky.

  And it is getting on for late: bonggg . . . bonggg . . . bonggg . . . the Town Hall clock strikes seven as I scoot down the stairs around the lift well, through this dim cavern of shut-up shops, only the Aristocrat Cafe across from Electrolux still open, at the George Street end, and it’ll close in a minute as well. Out on Pitt, Ned the barrow man is shutting up too, tossing his leftover bits and pieces of fruit into a crate and tipping his hat to me, ‘Night, miss.’

  ‘Goodnight to you too, Ned,’ I reply under my brim, already scooting past him.

  Mindful of Mr Jabour’s warning of mad mobs, I quicken my steps, keep my eyes on my mary-janes and my mind on their rhythm, soon joined by the oompah-pah of a Salvo band playing ‘Good King Wenceslas’ in front of the Commonwealth Bank on the corner of Martin Place. I don’t stop to hunt about for change to pop in their box, though; I’ve barely got tuppence for a tram myself and whatever I do have I shall be spending on Pearson’s prawns. I don’t look up.

  There is quite a mob out tonight, mad or not, a lot of shoes. I keep my eyes on my mary-janes; I really must give these a fresh coat of paint: starting to look like crumbling stucco. Certainly can’t afford a new pair. Glance up as I near the corner of Hunter Street, where Bartholomew Harley’s chambers are, and where Mother met him for lunch at the Tulip on Tuesday. Bart. I really don’t want to think about him, them, about what this might mean for us, if . . . No, that won’t happen. I just hope she’s safe with him. I’m sure she is; of course she is. She knows what she’s doing, even if it might not be immediately apparent to anyone but herself; even if the neckline on that jade chiffon plunges just a little too . . . dramatically.

  Take a deep breath. Take in the salty smells of the harbour drifting up on the warm breeze and I’m here, at the Quay. Glance up again as I cross the broad boulevard of tramlines and there’s no one about. No mad mob anyway, only the normal quantity of late-ferry stragglers, and a few tramps, the usual poor souls; the blind man with his cup and his sign under the awning of the kiosk: spare a bob for a digger. Not from me tonight, I’m afraid – my ferry is here, I see, and I just about scoot through the old beggar for it as the deckhand reaches for the board rails of the gangway.

  ‘Please, wait!’ I call out across the wharf, hatbox clattering against portfolio.

  He doesn’t look up.

  ‘Wait!’ I shout, and I make a leap for it.

  ‘All right, miss, where’s the fire?’ He shakes his head as I thump aboard, bumping his shoulder. He says some other disparaging thing but I don’t hear it as the whistle blows.

  Blowing me and my embarrassment round to a lonely seat up near the bow. Where the water looks strung with fairy lights, there are so many vessels dotted about – it’s a dream. I close my eyes for a second and see a beaded evening cloche: teal, gold, pearl. Mmmm.

  Open them again as the ferry chugs under the great claw of the Bridge, as it is so far, this Dawes Point end. Look out across the harbour at its matching pair in the north, at Milsons Point. Two monstrous, grasping claws, they seem. Black against the teal dream sky.

  I don’t know about this Bridge creature. It’s a necessary evil: that awful ferry crash with the schoolchildren last month, and half-a-dozen near misses every year, the harbour is just too crowded at peak times. This Bridge will also be something heroic, some kind of wonder of the world, if it succeeds in holding itself up, so they say. But no matter how wondrous it is, it’s going to ruin the view. Our view over Lavender Bay. What will that do to the value of our house? It’s only a tiny thing, a tiny, leaky-roofed cottage, but it’s all we own, apart from hats and frocks. No one thinks about that sort of thing, do they, when they go off and build a bridge. Oh dear, your home is worthless now. Tough luck. Be grateful they didn’t demolish our house with a wrecking ball, I suppose.

  I shiver with the cooler breeze coming straight off the water. I shiver with the wonder of how precarious everything seems, and not just for Mother and me. For everyone, everything. Whole stock exchanges tumbling into the drink . . .

  Look up into the great North Claw, reaching out into nothing. Imagine working up there, catching fifty tons of girder or what have you, dangling off a crane perched high on the edge of nowhere. I’d rather not. Listen to the clang, crunch, grrr of the workshops below, grinding on all day and night, and be grateful we don’t live at Milsons Point. Good God, that must be appalling to live on top of. But I look up at the claw again now as the ferry pulls away towards McMahons Point and it’s a different view altogether. I see the zigzag that will run along the whole arch, soaring from point to point, a glimpse of the majesty of it. The genius of its design.

  And I’m swished right the way through with inspiration at it. When the ferry pulls in to the wharf, I’m the first to thump off, ‘Excuse me!’, bashing a man in the leg with my hatbox on my way. I don’t stop to say sorry: I fly up the steps to the ridge top and home. To make a start on my creation for Glor. I’ve seen it now. I know exactly – exactly – what I want it to be.

  Yo

  ‘Shut your mouth, woman,’ our father spits into our mother’s crying. His face is grey with hatred and his mouth is an old scar ripped through it as he blames her: ‘It’s you who killed him.’

  That makes the cop flinch. Constable Smith, I think he said, and no older than me, if he’s a day. Never seen this one before, but he’s getting his lesson in O’Paddy tonight. He’s just now brought our brother Michael in through the back and laid him across the kitchen table. Michael’s dead, and the grazes across his neck tell how. He’s hanged himself, at the boarding house up on Goold Street, where he was living. Dying. I haven’t seen him for more than a month before this, since he left the tin-pressers at Ultimo, where he was working; not laid off: sacked for drinking on the job. Drinking himself to death, here’s the evidence. Lost two stone off him, at least; it’s a wonder the weight of him could do the job. But it has. Found this afternoon when the landlady came for the rent.

  But regardless of these facts, our father now turns his menace to the other cop, McKinley, who on any other day is a bastard to match him, and he tells him: ‘You will find out who did this, who murdered this boy.’

  I’m sure I look at him just as McKinley does: disbelieving. Doesn’t want it known that Michael has murdered himself. Jesus, at what low place in the shitheap of hypocrisy does this sit?

  McKinley shakes his head: ‘We’ll leave that to you, O’Keenan.’ The cops have done us enough of a courtesy as it is, bringing Michael home, instead of tossing him in the morgue for the pauper that he is.

  And now they’re leaving, the constable saying, ‘Evening, missus, er, sorry . . .’ to our mother, who won’t stop crying, if ever she has.

  I look at Michael again. He’s grey as our father, only he is in fact dead. My brother is dead; not me. I’m having trouble with this fact: half-relieved I’m not getting a fist in my face for coming in sacked. Jesus. Michael is dead? Yes, and he is not at peace about it. His jaw is crooked, as if he’d taken one there. Maybe he di
d. I wouldn’t know. I didn’t know him well at all. There’s another fact to trouble me: twenty years under the same roof and three streets away after, and I didn’t know him well. I can’t remember a time he wasn’t drinking. Always fucked or looking to be; he was never going to run very far. Twenty-three years old, he is; was. Never had a life. Never knew him. Nor Brendan, our other brother. He’s seventeen and I’ve not seen him for more than a year. No one has. He could be dead too for all anyone knows.

  Our mother is holding Michael’s hand in hers, his dead hand, and crying, ‘Michael, my Michael,’ over and over again, until it’s like a siren far away, from me, although she’s right here, a kitchen table’s breadth away.

  ‘I said shut your mouth, woman,’ our father says again, but softer, telling her something in Gaelainn, the language I don’t know, calling her Kathleen and pouring her a glass of the Royal Reserve. Pouring blood into a filthy glass.