‘You mean apart from bloody toothpaste?’
‘Yes, of course. What then? Tell me some of them. I know you’ve always liked landscapes.’
There was a pause, but I couldn’t see what he was doing.
‘Leon?’
‘Just after dawn one morning, I photographed a cow, under a tree. There were no leaves on the tree. It was too misty for anything else to intrude, just the cow and the tree and the mist. There was no wind. The cow stood perfectly still and posed; it just stood there and watched me with its big, gentle eyes. I shot it in black and white.’ I’d emerged from my hole in the wall. ‘Things like that, I suppose – landscapes – yes, you’re right! Shadows and soft light.’
‘I’d love to see it, Leon. Where were you?’
‘In the Hunter Valley, almost two years ago. It seems longer than that, now. I was driving back to Sydney, and I stopped when I saw her.’
‘I love black and white, too. The cow sounds beautiful. Do you still have the shot?’
‘I’ve got it hanging in the flat where I can see it every morning before I come in here to this dump.’
‘Oh, you poor thing, Leon.’
‘Can you understand?’
‘Yes, of course I can. And I’m ashamed that I’ve never understood before.’
‘I still think it’s the best thing I’ve done. I’d like to do more, but I don’t get much of a chance, and I’d starve if I left this place. It’s a bugger, isn’t it?’
‘Everything’s a bugger at the moment, Leon.’
‘You ready?’
‘Yes. Where do you want me to stick the toothpaste?’ I could usually make him laugh – or at least smile. ‘When we become famous, Leon, we could work together. There’ll be a grand studio, and I’ll be your muse – or make the tea or something. Anything.’
*
The flowers waiting for me upstairs were a bit wilted by the time I collected them. No one had thought to put them in water. There was a card with a South American diplomatic crest. Quite useful cards I am collecting, I thought, and put it with the Minister’s card in my wallet.
Beautiful Aria – it said – I paid many pounds for your last swimsuit in the parade, and will pay more if I can meet you. Mrs T said I should ask. It will be good for the charity. The swimsuit is yours to keep. Please telephone.
I could tell by the way the eyes of the office were buried in files and folders that the card had been read.
‘So! What’s a girl to do?’ I called out to no one in particular.
‘Tell him to go to blazes,’ one of the senior women said.
‘But not before you get the swimsuit and a good dinner with bubbly,’ said another.
‘Okay.’
I’d had similarly suggestive invitations before, but this was the first from a South American diplomat. I couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.
I remember when I first started to work at Boston’s, an account rep. sent me a pair of lace knickers with a note saying – and I’ll bet you can’t guess what? – he’d love me to try them on in his presence to see if they fitted! A pathetic crumb offered to the wrong sparrow, and tossed in the garbage where it belonged. Stupid! Crass! Absolutely no style at all.
I am not so easily bought, but dinner with champagne sounded nice – and the swimsuit of course. If it was the one I remembered, I’d liked it. I ’phoned the diplomat’s office from Boston’s.
‘Thank you very much for the roses, they’re lovely.’
The reply was so predictable that I simply answered Yes – very nice and How lovely and What time, like a store dummy.
*
The restaurant was one of the two I had expected. There were two restaurants in Sydney where the social set dined, and where men took young women they hoped to seduce. They were very expensive.
The Columbian diplomat was known to the owner, the chef and the staff. A good sign for some! I tried very hard not to show how impressed, and curious, I was. And hungry. The dinner, I knew, to him, was to be the nuisance obligatory prelude to whatever else he had in mind plus swimsuit. This train of events was not new to me.
How very kind of you, I’d thought of saying, after I had eaten a decent meal and sipped champagne, and I think it’s wonderful that you will give so much more to Mrs T’s charity. What a generous man you are. I would love to stay with you, but alas I have an early start tomorrow. I wish you a good night and a long and fruitful life. If you would provide a taxi fare I would be very grateful: I don’t think I have quite enough.
That is what I would like to have said. And it would have been interesting to see how a South American diplomat handled it. But in the meantime wine glasses reflected the lights of lamps, champagne bubbles had the Midas touch, I was not eating from an ironing board and the napkins weren’t made of crepe paper. I felt gloriously comfortable with it all. And in control.
‘Tell me about Columbia. Tell me about your home. Do you live on high land with beautiful views?’
‘Yes. It is cool where we – I live, but I am there rarely. My home is currently in Sydney, of course.’
‘Is it true that there are beautiful emeralds in Columbia?’
‘Yes, it is true. Magnificent emeralds.’
‘I would love to visit your country. Would you take me there one day?’ I did not flutter my eyelashes – I don’t believe in that.
‘It is a beautiful country,’ he said in the way of a correct but suddenly bored diplomat. I knew that he’d expected an entirely different conversation. It was obvious to me that the evening was not going as smoothly as he had planned. ‘And you are very, very pretty, Aria, but I have to say it would be like – how do you say? – taking coals to Newcastle.’
‘Yes, of course, I understand, I imagine your women are very beautiful. But there is the rainforest too, and jungles. And I love tall trees . . .’
‘Columbia has magnificent forests, Aria.’ I could see him thinking, Trees?
‘And of course there is coffee growing. Columbian coffee is very good. Does your family have a plantation?’
‘Yes! Columbian coffee is the best in the world, and no, my family has other interests.’
At that moment he was warmly greeted by three men who passed our table. I recognised two of them. The one who winked at me was a tall Indian who was also a diplomat. The Columbian noted the recognition with some embarrassment, I thought. He excused himself and went to his friends’ table, where they had a brief and intimate conversation. The Indian turned his head and smiled at me once or twice. When the South American came back to me, and apologised for his absence, I said: ‘How nice it was for you to meet your friends here.’
‘Yes, I am sorry to have left you for a moment. I believe you know my friends?’
‘Not very well. We were talking about Columbia. Such a beautiful country, and filled with beautiful women. I believe there are also very powerful drug cartels in Columbia. You of course must know about them. I think that must be distressing, and dangerous. The business of hard drugs is very close to the business of murder, to me – would you agree?’
After that, the dinner suddenly fell flatter than a ruined crepe for my companion, but it was still very pleasant for me. After we’d eaten a delicious dessert and sipped coffee, the South American Consul General gave me more than enough for a taxi and asked the restaurant to order it.
‘Thank you. I will not forget this evening: it was lovely. Please give my best wishes to Mrs T – and to your family, of course.’
Some diplomats are so bad at their jobs, I thought, and not nearly as discreet as they should be. I’d offered him a gem of observation and dropped him back into his dessert wine like a pip. By the time I returned to the Camp it was very late.
*
The next day I had to report that the diplomat from Columbia, South America, had handled it all rather badly.
‘I caught him out.’ I didn’t say how. ‘However, the steak Diane was delicious, and so were the strawberries Romanov and the champagn
e.’ I reported in detail every knife, fork and spoon of the meal to the Boston office staff until their mouths watered. They approved.
‘But did you get the swimsuit?’ asked one.
‘No. I suggested that he give it to a beautiful Columbian girl.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘Forget about it. It was just something he said.’
The Camp – Autumn
The following week, out of the studio and back in the terrible reality of the Housing Commission Camp, the iron whispered of much cooler evenings. The messages were whispered snaps and squeaks like skates over ice. It seemed to me that autumn couldn’t wait to be over and done with – at least in the cells.
Hanora wore a scarf around her head, and one wrapped around her neck. There had been a blackout for an hour and a half and she had been forced to fire the stove. Rosy, with two candles, was being terribly Victorian with needle and thread and a ‘mistake’.
‘Candlelight suits you, Rosy.’
‘I know . . .’
I didn’t mind her saying that. I expect she got it from me. I’d become less irritated by her. I suppose I had begun to regard her as an adult then, with commonly shared secret experiences.
‘Mr Sparkle wrapped three pork chops on the quiet, love,’ said Hanora. ‘For dinner. Delivered them this afternoon. Isn’t he a treasure?’
‘Where are they?’
‘In the ice box, love. I thought you might fry them, Aria. I was afraid of ruining them.’
‘Oh, for goodness sakes . . . put the pan on the stove.’
I cut a small piece of fat from a chop and greased the pan with it.
‘There’s a tomato, love, and half an onion.’
‘I’ll cut them up and fry them when the chops are finished. Or maybe someone else could do the cutting.’ I’d spoken to the wall behind the stove, with little hope.
The globe in the standard lamp flickered into life and Rosy blew out her candles.
‘What did the South American really say?’ Rosy asked. ‘You never did tell us. Was he furious?’
‘Of course not. Sulky, but not furious. After all, he is supposed to be a diplomat, and I imagine one with a wife and children. I’m sure they think the title of Consul General is enough to make us faint with desire no matter what they look like, but we can do better than that, can’t we, Rosy? I caught him out, as a matter of fact, with three of Sydney’s more interesting characters. I knew two of them. The diplomat and the men seemed to be very close friends. The reasons couldn’t have been clearer. At least my diplomat looked embarrassed for a moment or two, and I wouldn’t have minded staying for the latest on that, but I didn’t. I left with supreme dignity, I thought. Aren’t I a good girl?’
‘Good for you, Aria.’
‘Well, I couldn’t have Mrs T and the rest of them thinking her models were like a tray of mixed grills in a butcher’s window. If I’m to be a true coathanger I can’t be trying on swimsuits for middle-aged men every five minutes, even if they are Consuls General.
‘What part of South America is he from, love?’
‘Columbia.’
‘Oh, well, there you are.’
*
Hanora sat under the lamp and continued to read her book. The frying chops spat at the iron wall, and the iron wall spat back.
‘I have a surprise for you, loves.’
‘What?’
‘Mr Gardiner said “thank you”. He did not look at me, and he rocked back and forth as he usually does – but he said “thank you”, very quietly. I’d been reading Dylan Thomas. He’s never spoken to me before.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t spoken to anyone else, either, apart from his poor wife, of course,’ I said. It was uplifting news, really. Suddenly having to cook dinner didn’t seem such a pain, after all. The power of poetry! Father Beale would have been very put out.
‘Have you seen the new people next door yet?’
‘I think they’ve gone, love. I haven’t heard a thing.’
‘Nobody lasts long in those cells. They must be haunted,’ I said.
‘Maybe they’re dead, Mother.’
‘Maybe they are, Rosy. Lucky them.’
‘Should we check on them?’
‘I don’t think so. I haven’t smelt anything unpleasant. Leave them in peace, I say, love.’
They were casual and silly remarks – cruel, but we all smiled. I was reminded of something I’d read: the kind of cruelty that smiles . . . I could not remember the name of the author. I think it might have been Samuel Beckett.
‘When are you seeing the Minister, Aria?’ Rosy had not stopped sewing. She seemed much calmer. An air of calm and thoughtful resignation had closed over her like a snow dome. Her nervous disposition must have been tossed out with the fetus. I wonder if that happens when they’re discarded – I wonder if they take the indiscretion, the anxiety and the grief and shame and pain that must cling to them at the end? I wonder if they leave behind them an empty womb with hard-bitten wisdom that serves a woman to the end of her life?
‘It’s the beginning of next week, love, isn’t it?’
‘No, it’s tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Oh, my goodness, so soon! Do you want me to come with you?’ Rosy had not looked up from her sewing.
‘No thanks. It’s a solo act. It’s all planned. But I’ll probably finish up flying without a net, as usual.’
‘We’ll be thinking of you, love.’
With the Compliments of a Minister of the State Government blah blah
During the following morning, in the studio, I was asked to ‘love’ a sort of instant pudding mix while looking excited and thoughtful, as though I was planning my family’s surprise evening meal: smiling, licking a finger, rolling the eyes in ecstasy – that sort of thing. It gave me time to think about my appointment with the Minister.
‘You’re looking as though you’re planning an attack on an alien planet,’ said Leon. ‘It’s pudding, Aria. Think pudding.’
‘Sorry.’
‘What time is the audience with the Government?’
‘Three-thirty.’
‘He must be shaking in his boots. I know you’re not.’
‘I probably will be a bit nervous at first. You make me sound like a monster!’
‘Not at all, darling Aria. But they’re probably having the furniture French-polished as we speak.’
‘Just wish me luck, Leon.’
‘Of course I do.’ And his peck on the cheek warmed me. In fact, his whole face radiated warmth when it was close to mine.
‘Are you all right, Leon?’
‘Of course. Why do you ask?’
‘Your lips felt a bit hot – feverish.’
‘You wish!’
We laughed, and I decided that it must have been the heat of the lighting.
*
As I walked down the street to the Minister’s building, a truckload of full-length mirrors disguised as council road workers drove past and told me in their very special way that I looked okay.
I have never pretended to object to ‘wolf whistles’ or approving shouts or rolling eyes or similar expressions of interest. In fact, I have usually thanked them with a smile. I use them a bit like the talking mirror in the Snow White picture. Who is the fairest one of all? The day I will object is the day the whistles stop. If that sounds too conceited for words – I’m not sorry. Rosy tells me she hates ‘wolf whistles’, but I have never believed it. I have never believed any female who objects to a male’s admiration after she’s spent an hour or two in front of a mirror making herself look desirable, who teeters along in heels, a pencil-slim skirt and a sweater one size too small, trying to look like Jane Russell, and cries ‘Disgusting!’ if a man gives a whistle. I simply don’t believe them.
The building in which the Minister had his office is one of the oldest in the city. I must have walked past it a hundred times and not really noticed it – but that day I took in as much detail as p
ossible.
A colonial pile of stone, blackened in part by the exhausts of a city road and the general grime of generations of city dwellers. There were columns and crests and gargoyles and pale grey marble steps worn to dips in the middle by a hundred years of feet. Brass numbers and names were being polished to within an inch of their lives by a man in grey overalls, and on the top of the building, the verdigrised copper dome sat like a lady’s hat under a halo of pigeons. The brass-cleaner winked at me. That was the final glance in the mirror for me.
I walked up the steps with a back even straighter than usual, strode across the foyer and took the lift to the third floor.
I announced myself at the desk of a secretary of some sort. He was a slim, pale and ageless man in a pin-striped suit and a smirk.
‘I have an appointment with the Minister.’
Oh, I’ll bet you do. A nibble with afternoon tea. The expression in his eyes was too easy to read.
‘Who shall I say?’ he asked, searching through a diary the size of a desk blotter.
‘Aria Sparrow.’
He barely glanced at me.
No. That’s silly, I’m really the three-thirty hooker . . . But I doubted his ability to read behind my own eyes.
‘Here – I’ll give you my card.’ I searched through my purse and handed him the South American diplomat’s card. The man glanced at it and I said: ‘Ooops! Sorry, wrong one.’
The secretary spoke quietly on a telephone.
‘Sorry. It’s Miss Sparrow, isn’t it? Three-thirty?’
‘Yes, that’s who I said I was.’
‘Please sit and wait for a moment.’
I sat on an antique chair opposite his desk and crossed my legs. The secretary glanced at me again, raised his brows and rolled his eyes at the ceiling before disappearing through a very old and highly polished door. When he came out he said: ‘You can go in now.’
‘Thank you. By the way, do you play poker?’
‘No, I’m afraid I do not.’
‘Good. I shouldn’t start if I were you – you would not be very good at it.’
*
‘What was all that about?’ The Minister had the courtesy to greet me at the door with a handshake.
The Sparrows of Edward Street Page 20