The Sparrows of Edward Street

by Elizabeth Stead

‘Oh, love, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t feel this way about something I could hold in my hand.’ But she shivered at the thought. ‘What about the crickets?’

  ‘Interested spectators.’

  *

  Saturday morning broke over the Camp as fresh as a newly laid egg. The humidity had lifted, and the sun came gently as a rich, pale yolk and lit up the earth with no intention of burning the skin off it. The dust that lay upon our corrugated earth stayed low as a gesture of respect for a Housing Commission morning that could well have been envied by the house-and-garden lot on the proper side of the fork in the road.

  Tom Gardiner had started rocking and remembering in his high sea of dread at about eleven o’clock, and at twelve Hanora made a grand exit from the hut and down the steps. She had been saving her urine, diluted, in a bucket, for lemon-scented gum tree food – and before settling with a book she watered the tree gently around its drip line. I wondered about the chemically based tranquillity of her fertiliser, and hoped the tree would not be stunted by it. I placed the deck chair next to the tree. Rosy slept late.

  ‘Mr Gardiner seems to be very agitated this morning.’ Hanora adjusted the scarf under her hat. She wore her frilly pink costume for sunbaking and a button-through dirndl skirt for modesty. ‘Do you think he’s all right, love?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s been the same since the “Royal Visit”.’

  ‘That fool of a woman had no sense at all, upsetting him like that.’

  ‘You mean the Mrs?’

  There was a small ‘sparrow’ pause.

  ‘Take care, Aria, not to upset the power behind the throne too much when you visit the Minister.’

  ‘Of course I won’t. In my experience the “powers behind the thrones” can be helpful allies.’ I thought of Naomi Boston. ‘I know what I’m doing, Hanora.’

  She looked at me. ‘I think you are wise beyond your years, Aria.’

  ‘It could be true. I am a quick sparrow, but not as quick and wise as you, am I, Hanora?’ I did not think the tiny barb that had formed on the tip of my tongue had been noticed.

  ‘Do you really think so? What a lovely thing to say, love.’

  But when I’d said ‘wise’ I had almost, cruelly, said ‘scheming’. And I did not think it would have been a particularly lovely thing to say.

  Tom Gardiner rocked back and forth and moaned and began to make agitated movements with his hands.

  ‘Aria, help me take the deck chair down near him. I will just sit and read. It may have a calming effect.’

  And I did, careful to make as little noise as possible.

  If the Minister and the Mrs had observed that scene – Hanora stretched out on the deck chair, reading a book, and Tom Gardiner still greatly troubled, but, it seemed, silently glad to have her there, they might have had the grace not to photograph it. But I doubt it.

  ‘Bloody krakk! Krakk!’

  ‘Please try not to swear, Mr Gardiner. I am reading poetry.’

  ‘Look out! Here comes another one!’

  ‘I do understand your anguish, Mr Gardiner, really I do, but please try to be quiet. Would you like me to read something to you?’

  ‘Don’t come any closer, you silly bitch! You’ll fall in!’

  ‘I am aware of what I must not do, Mr Gardiner.’

  ‘The smell! It’s the smell. They’re all dead in here – all dead! Bloody krakk! Here comes another one!’

  ‘If you will allow me, Mr Gardiner – if you will be quiet – I will read something very beautiful to you. Would you like that?’

  Silence.

  ‘Are you quite sure?’

  Silence.

  ‘I have just read a poem by William Blake. I do not know his work well, Mr Gardiner, but it is very beautifully written. Would you like to hear it?’

  Silence.

  And Hanora read in almost a whisper from a poem entitled ‘Song’, ending with . . .

  He loves to sit and hear me sing,

  Then laughing, sports and plays with me;

  Then stretches out my golden wing,

  And mocks my loss of liberty.

  Hanora recited the words in a gentle voice. I listened and watched from a discreet distance, and thought it was a very nice reading. Her voice and the poem were soothing. It was a moving scene. Tom Gardiner had stopped knitting his fingers together, and had become less agitated.

  ‘Did you enjoy that, Mr Gardiner?’

  Silence, but with the slightest sigh. His shoulders seemed to have relaxed, but it could have been my imagination.

  ‘Be careful – if you fall in I won’t be able to hear you. They might not find you,’ said Mr Gardiner in a softer voice – in a sort of trance.

  ‘I will be careful, Mr Gardiner. Would you like me to read to you again one day?’

  Silence – which Hanora took to mean yes. After a while of quiet and peaceful union, Hanora left Mr Gardiner rocking gently and I fetched the deck chair. He had not once looked at either of us.

  *

  When Rosy finally emerged she was dressed to go out.

  ‘Another date?’ I said. ‘And why are you carrying your case?’

  ‘I’m staying at a girlfriend’s place tonight. There’s a party.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘One of the girls at Madame’s. She’s having a party for her birthday. It’s a twenty-first. It’ll be too late to come back here.’

  ‘Rosy?’

  ‘Aria! I knew you wouldn’t believe me. Why can’t you just leave me alone?’

  Hanora said: ‘It’s all right, love, but you’d better leave her name and maybe a ’phone number in case.’

  ‘I can’t do that. It’s a surprise party. It’d ruin everything if you rang her. Stop looking at me like that, Aria. I’m not like you. I don’t stand around half naked all day like you!’

  ‘Aria’s just concerned for your safety, Rose. We both are. You mustn’t mind. If it’s a party you’re going to, then enjoy it, love, and we’ll see you in the morning. Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘I’m not hungry. I knew you’d understand, Mother.’

  Oh, for goodness sakes!

  ‘Well, if you want to know what I think . . .’

  ‘I don’t, Aria!’

  ‘. . . If that’s your party face, then I’d hate to see you all dolled up for a funeral . . .’

  I knew there was something going on, and somehow I didn’t think it was Neville – whoever Neville was.

  *

  It had been a mild and dry afternoon, and Hanora and I had strolled to the shops and back. I’d bought icecreams for us both. It was nice, having her to myself. I’d thought of asking her if she’d like to go to the cinema, but she was still a bit weak. I’d had to support her once or twice as we approached 19B Edward.

  ‘Do you think a cup of tea would be a trouble, love?’ She had taken a book from the shelves, slipped a record onto the player, and crumpled into her chair.

  ‘No trouble. I’d like one too.’

  ‘I’m worried about Rosy too, you know,’ she said.

  ‘Why didn’t you say something to her?’

  ‘She’s growing up. She has to work things out for herself. I wonder who he is?’

  ‘Who knows . . . Some male who likes the weak and watery types . . .’

  ‘Aria!’

  ‘What’s the word?’

  ‘Vulnerable.’

  ‘Yes, that’s Rosy. Vulnerable.’

  The corrugated iron was still warm to the touch. The wall behind the stove and the griller was oily, and smelt of stale fat, like a food stall at the Royal Easter Show left over from the last one. Hanora asked me to check the gaps in the wall for livestock. I reported two crickets waiting to be eaten by tarantulas, and a black house spider building an impenetrable web, already stocked with mosquitos. Apart from that I found no ogres, peeping Toms, genies, anti-Christs or archangels.

  When I went to the bathroom I saw that a puddle of bath water was still slopping around, unable to flow throu
gh the blocked drain; and the cistern was still not working well. I’d reported this, of course, again and again.

  ‘I think there are new people moving in next door, love.’

  ‘Have you seen them?’

  ‘No. But there were sounds yesterday. They must not have had to move in a rush like us.’

  ‘Let’s hope they’re not like the last lot.’

  ‘Fingers crossed since then, love.’

  ‘It won’t be long before I see the Minister.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Don’t expect too much, Hanora.’

  ‘I’ll try not to, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t be long before he is putty in your hands, Aria. You’re very clever.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s fair, Hanora. You’re expecting too much.’

  ‘Sorry, love, if you think so. You can only do your best.’

  It occurred to me from time to time that my mother’s conversations with me sometimes left uncomfortable gaps between the lines that were too easily read. Unusual, suggestive gaps. I might have imagined it, but I don’t think so. I never questioned or criticised. It’s just the way she is – she can’t help it. It is the way sparrows are, and I think she sees me as the most useful in our flock.

  *

  Sunday was to be hot and humid again.

  The iron gave me the forecast, with its ticks and drum-beats and snaps, crackles and pops. The iron also cast a shadow that darkened the cells.

  ‘There could be a storm later, I think, love.’

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Much better. I’m teaching myself to be tolerant towards our wall gap wildlife. If I stay still, they are still and we simply stare at each other and get used to one another.’

  ‘That’s creepy, Hanora.’

  ‘It is a bit, I suppose. I’ve noticed that Mr Gardiner has just settled himself. I think I’ll go down and read to him for a while.’ Tom Gardiner had squatted, knees up, in his usual position. He rocked as gently as a cradle. ‘When do you think Rosy will be here?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. Depends how long the party went on for, I imagine.’

  ‘If there was one,’ Hanora said quietly.

  ‘So! You’re as suspicious as me.’

  ‘Rosy’s very young and very pretty, but I do try not to worry. She’s really a sensible girl.’

  *

  Rosy came back to 19B Edward at eleven o’clock that morning.

  She walked very slowly up the steps, practically dragging her bag. She glanced at me. Her eyes were red, but the rest of her was as pale and grey as bath water slops.

  ‘That’s the worst hangover I’ve seen – ever!’

  Rosy stumbled into our cell and flopped onto her bed.

  ‘Rosy?’

  ‘It’s not a hangover. I’ve had nothing to drink. Where is Mother?’

  ‘Outside, reading to Tom Gardiner. You look terrible. Are you ill?’

  ‘Not really ill . . . I’m just . . . I don’t want to talk just now.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘Rosy?’

  ‘Everything . . .’

  ‘What? Rosy?’

  ‘It wasn’t a party. I lied.’

  ‘I know that! I think we both knew that. What, then?’

  ‘I’ve had an abortion.’

  ‘Oh, Rosy!’

  ‘I feel so sick, Aria, and I’m bleeding. I feel so sick about the whole thing. Have you got some spare pads?’

  ‘Oh, Rosy! Oh, my God!’

  ‘Yesterday – in the afternoon. Don’t say anything. I don’t want Mother to know just yet. She’ll be too upset.’

  ‘Who was it, Rosy?’

  ‘What does it matter?! Just a man I met in Madame’s salon. I’ll never see him again. It was just one date, Aria. He’s a friend of Madame’s.’

  ‘But where . . . Who did the abortion?’

  ‘He knew a doctor in Red Hills.’

  ‘Red Hills – that dump of a place? That’s where all the backroom jobs are done. Was it a proper doctor?’

  ‘I don’t know – I think so. It was a surgery. It was fairly clean, I think. I was too terrified to notice. Oh, Aria, it was awful! Terrible!’ And she sobbed silent tears all over her face – she hardly made a noise at all.

  ‘How far gone were you?’

  ‘I’d only missed one period, and the next was only a few days overdue, but I knew something wasn’t right. I just knew it. My breasts were sore – and I had a craving for eggs.’ She tried to smile about it, but only her lips moved slightly. Her eyes were as full as lakes.

  ‘Oh, Rosy, you poor thing.’ And I have to admit I was almost close to tears myself. I hugged her. ‘Do you want tea or something?’

  ‘Yes, please. I’ve got something to take in case of infection.’

  ‘Well, that’s something. Was the doctor clean?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Please don’t tell Mother just yet.’

  ‘No, I won’t, but she’ll have to know sooner or later.’

  ‘I know, but can’t I have a sleep first?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I think you’d better. I’ll make tea and get some pads, and then you’d better sleep.’

  I left Rosy in our cell and closed the door.

  When Hanora came in she was flushed from the sun. She fanned herself with her book. ‘I thought I saw Rosy, love. Is she home?’

  ‘Yes, but she’s worn out. She’s asleep. I think we should leave her for a while.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Yes. No. She’ll tell you later. Just let her sleep.’

  ‘Have you been crying, love?’

  ‘You know I never cry!’

  Hanora was still lip-cracked and paper-dry from the ’flu, despite the sun. She chose another book.

  ‘Are you making Rosy tea? Do you think I could have some more, love? I think I’ll sit by the lemon-scented gum and read for a while. Would you bring the deck chair, love? Mr Gardiner was very much better today. Is Rosy very sick from the party?’

  ‘Pretty much. What did you read today?’

  ‘Something by Rudyard Kipling. I don’t think it matters about the words – it’s the sound Mr Gardiner likes. It’s the rhythm of the sound. Are you sure Rosy is not ill, love?’

  ‘A little, but she’ll be better soon.’

  I expected Hanora to say something about Rosy’s party, but she was silent.

  I set the cups out and spooned a few ants out of the sugar. The hut was heating up like a warning to us all and I felt perspiration on my forehead. The iron spoke to me with a sound like a very distant whip crack. Hanora went to her cell and took off her hat. She was very quiet. And I thought: Bugger everything! Bugger this place and bugger everything in it!

  *

  Rosy was still asleep, and I think Hanora was too, when Father Beale made an unexpected and unusual Sunday afternoon visit. He wore a grave expression all over his face.

  ‘Father! What a nice surprise.’ I smiled a Sunday smile, but I didn’t mean it.

  ‘A few words, if I may?’

  ‘Hanora and Rose are resting. My sister is not well; please be as quiet as you can.’

  ‘It’s about the books.’

  ‘Can we please talk outside, Father Beale, away from the steps? My sister is asleep. What books?’

  ‘The books your family distributes throughout the Camp.’

  ‘Please keep your voice down. We don’t distribute books. People come and borrow them, like a library.’

  ‘I have been speaking to the Biddles.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Books, Miss Sparrow. I asked Mr Biddle to show me the latest book given to him. I was shocked to find it contained – passages – of a highly unacceptable nature.’

  ‘You mean passages of a sexual nature, Father Beale?’

  Father Beale’s chin was suddenly apple-red and his forehead a beetroot. After all, I expect he
would have thought I was too young to be so frank about that subject, even though I looked old enough to be married and ‘in love’ with domestic appliances.

  ‘You know, Miss Sparrow – this is difficult. I should really be speaking to your mother.’

  ‘I’ve told you, she’s resting, too. My mother and my sister are not well.’

  ‘Then, I must say that passages in the book you made available to Mr Biddle were indeed about – sex. But not “the coming together” in the purity of love as the Lord intended – but – other aspects of it. Pages and pages of it, Miss Sparrow.’ He’s been enjoying himself, I thought.

  ‘You read pages and pages?!’

  ‘It is part of my service to the Lord to be sure about such wickedness in order to protect the vulnerable from disturbing influences. I am committed to knowing the enemy, no matter how distasteful it may be.’ And I thought, I wonder where your Lord was when my sister was being knocked up and messed about with! She was ‘vulnerable’ . . . ‘And yes, Miss Sparrow, there is quite a lot of material in the book that the Church views with strong disapproval.’

  ‘Oh, you must mean queer sex . . . homosexual content?’ I pictured Leon laughing. ‘But did Mr Biddle say he liked it – the book, I mean? He reads on the bus and the train.’ Hanora had given him his latest book. I wondered which one it was. ‘He looked quite pleased with his book the last time I saw him.’

  ‘Whether Mr Biddle enjoys the books is not the point. Not at all! It is wrong to fill a troubled mind with the sins of the Devil himself. I believe your mother also reads to Tom Gardiner.’

  ‘Poetry.’

  ‘Poetry also contains passages that can upset an already unbalanced mind.’

  ‘Look here, Father Beale, can we move further away from the steps? I really don’t want to disturb my mother or sister.’

  ‘Then we’ll stand by your beautiful little tree.’ And like the possum he tippy-toed away from the steps with his ping-pong-ball head nodding from side to side as though it was on a spring. ‘Do you not have Bibles to lend and to read? I would be most happy to donate.’

  ‘Thank you, Father, but my mother has discarded the Bible. We do have a couple of old Korans, if that’s any use, but they’re soon to go, too. Pages missing.’

  ‘I’d like to think that you intend no harm to your neighbours with your books.’ And the ping-pong ball turned and faced me. ‘But I would like you to discuss this with your mother, Miss Sparrow, if you would be so kind. Some adjustments to your “lending library” are most definitely needed.’