White Gardenia

by Belinda Alexandra

‘The town and the camp are two separate communities and we need to do something to integrate them,’ the Colonel said. ‘How are we ever going to get these people out into society and get Australians to accept them if we can’t do it in a country town where people are friendly?’

  ‘I agree,’ said Ernie, pacing as much as he could in the small area behind his desk. ‘There have been protests against non-British migrants in Sydney, and even in the town there have been incidents.’

  ‘What sort of incidents?’

  ‘Some of the stores have had their windows broken. They reckon it’s because they served people from the camp.’

  The Colonel shook his head and stared at his feet.

  Dorothy stopped typing. ‘It’s a nice town,’ she said. ‘The people are good. It’s just a few of the riffraff who behave like that. But they are just stupid boys. No one should be afraid.’

  ‘That’s the thing,’ said the Colonel. ‘I’m sure the people of the town would like the folks here if they could just get to know them.’

  ‘Some of the other camps have held concerts in their local towns,’ said Ernie. ‘There are lots of talented people here. Perhaps we can try something like that?’

  The Colonel pinched his chin and considered the suggestion. ‘You know what,’ he said, ‘we could try that. Just something small to start with. I’ll ask Rose to organise it with the CWA. Do you have some musicians in mind?’

  Ernie shrugged. ‘It depends what kind of music they want—opera, cabaret, jazz…There’s plenty of people who could do it. I’ll find someone. You just tell me what and when.’

  I jumped up from my pile of paper and startled them. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘I have a suggestion.’

  The Colonel smiled at me. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if it’s as good as your one about the native trees, I’m all ears.’

  ‘I can’t believe you got me into this!’ Irina cried. Her voice echoed around the ladies’ room of the church hall, the venue for the Country Women’s Association’s social nights. The tiled area had three cubicles and its walls were the shade of stale bubblegum. It reeked of slimy water.

  She held up her hair so that it wouldn’t get caught when I zipped her into my green cheongsam. I could see a red rash forming on the back of her neck.

  ‘I didn’t know you got so nervous,’ I said, my own voice beginning to tighten. ‘I thought you liked performing.’

  Natasha, who was squeezing herself into a waspwaisted dress, snorted. She lifted her fingers one by one and cracked her knuckles. ‘I’ve never had so much riding on one performance,’ she said. ‘Colonel Brighton’s acting as if the success of “populate or perish” is dependent on us tonight.’ Natasha’s hand shook when she applied her lipstick. She had to blot her mouth with a handkerchief and start again.

  I straightened the cheongsam over Irina’s hips. We’d had to take it out for her fuller figure and restitch the side splits so that they started from the knee and not the thigh. Irina tied a Spanish shawl over her shoulders and knotted it at her bust. We’d decided that the red flamenco dress was too sexy for her Australian debut, and had gone for an exotic but modest look instead.

  Irina and Natasha twisted their hair into Judy Garland rolls. I helped with the pins. Whatever they were feeling inside, no one could deny they both looked beautiful.

  I left Irina to do her makeup and primped my hair in the mirror. Rose had collected an assortment of powders, lipsticks and hair sprays for us. It was amazing how a few cosmetics boosted our selfesteem after we had gone without the most basic things for months.

  ‘Go take a peek, Anya,’ said Irina, balancing herself against a sink to pull on her stockings. ‘Tell us what it’s like out there.’

  The performers’ toilets were down a flight of stairs that started from the wing of the stage. I lifted my skirt and hurried back up the steps. There was a gap in the side of the curtain and I peered through it. The hall was filling up quickly. The local CWA had invited their sister organisations from the nearby towns and women of all ages were ambling in and taking seats. Many of the women had brought their husbands with them, weather-beaten farming men who looked as though they’d been stitched into their Sunday clothes. A young man with curly black hair sauntered into the hall with a woman who must have been his mother. His suit was a size too big but he caught the eye of a group of girls in taffeta dresses. From the way the girls whispered behind their hands to each other and giggled, I decided that he must be the town ‘catch’.

  At the back of the hall a matronly woman was manning a table laden with lamingtons, apple pies and jam rolls. Next to her, a woman in a twin set was serving tea. The minister, who seemed young, walked by and she held out a cup for him. He accepted it with a graceful nod of his head and made his way to a seat in the back row. I wondered why he sat there instead of at the front. Did he think he might suddenly be called away to do God’s work?

  The Colonel and Rose were introducing the president of the local CWA to some of the migrants who had been handpicked to represent the camp. There was a pharmacist from Germany, an opera singer from Vienna, a Hungarian linguistics professor, a professor of history from Yugoslavia and a Czechoslovakian family who had been chosen for their impeccable manners. Ernie was talking with Dorothy, who was wearing a yellow dress with a flower in her hair. Ernie was making some sort of joke, waving his hands like a butterfly, and Dorothy was batting her eyelids.

  ‘Ah ha, I see,’ I whispered. ‘Why didn’t I notice that before?’

  Irina and Natasha were looking over the music when I returned to the ladies’ room. ‘The hall is full,’ I said.

  I saw both of them swallow and decided it was better not to say anything more. They had been expecting to perform for about twenty people, but there were already almost a hundred out there.

  There was a knock at the door and the Colonel and Rose popped their heads inside.

  ‘Good luck, girls,’ Rose said. ‘You look gorgeous.’

  ‘Don’t forget,’ said the Colonel, ‘we are depending on you—’ Rose dragged him away before he could finish.

  I glanced at my watch. ‘We’d better go up there,’ I said.

  With a strained ‘Good luck’ I left Irina and Natasha on the stage and took a seat at the far end of the front row. The hall had filled up to capacity. The minister was rushing around looking for extra chairs. I hoped they would turn the lights off before the curtains opened. I wasn’t sure it would be good for Irina and Natasha to see how many people had turned up.

  The CWA president walked up the stairs to the front of the curtain. She was a buxom woman with wiry hair kept in place by a net. She welcomed everyone and then handed the microphone to the Colonel to introduce the performers. The Colonel pulled out some notes and started telling the audience about the day-to-day running of the camp and the importance of new migrants to Australia’s future. I noticed Rose signalling to him to keep it short.

  ‘Thank God he didn’t bring his cardboard signs,’ I heard Ernie whisper to Dorothy.

  When the Colonel mentioned ‘populate or perish’ I almost groaned. Rose crawled along the front row and behind the curtain. The curtain suddenly opened on a surprised Irina and Natasha. Natasha rolled her fingers down the keyboard and the audience started clapping. The Colonel thanked everyone for coming and took his seat. He glanced over and smiled at me. Rose slipped back next to him, unnoticed.

  Irina started with a song called ‘The Man I Love’, which she sang in English. Her voice sounded tight. Rose and I had helped translate the words of the songs she and Natasha knew. Rose had also bought the music to some new pieces. But as soon as I heard Irina singing I knew we had made a mistake. English wasn’t a language she could relax with. I could see how constricted her throat was, her eyes looked dull. She wasn’t Irina at all.

  I glanced around the audience. Most of them were listening politely, but here and there I saw a frown. Irina stumbled over some of the words and blushed. A couple towards the back whispered to each other. A few m
inutes later they stood up and made their way along the row to the door. I wanted to get up and run away too. I couldn’t watch the humiliating disaster that was unfolding before my eyes.

  The shawl slipped from Irina’s shoulder and under the stage lights the combination of red and green didn’t work, she looked like a lampshade. My eyes flitted over the audience again. The dresses there were white, pink or baby blue.

  Irina moved on to a French song. She sang some of the verses in English and some of them in French, which had been my idea, so that the number would keep some of its original flavour. Irina could sing the French with gusto, but faltered on the English. Far from sounding exotic, the song sounded broken down and strange.

  I pulled a handkerchief from my bag and wiped down my palms. What was I going to say to the Colonel? I glared at Dorothy whose face was expressionless. She’d probably have a field day with this. I imagined myself trying to comfort Irina after the concert. ‘We tried our best,’ I would say. It had taken weeks to cheer Irina up after the necklace incident. What would happen after this?

  Another couple got up to leave. The French song ended and Natasha hit the first note of the next one, but Irina put up her hand to stop her. Her cheeks were flushed and I thought she was going to cry. Instead she started to speak.

  ‘My English not good,’ she said, breathing heavily into the microphone. ‘But music say more than words. This next song I sing in Russian. I sing it for my best friend, Anya, who taught me to love this beautiful country of yours.’

  Irina nodded to Natasha. I recognised the sad melody.

  ‘They told me you would never return, but I didn’t believe them.

  Train after train returned without you, but in the end I was right.

  As long as I can see you in my heart, you are with me always.’

  We had cut the song from the program, thinking it would be too sad for the occasion. I lifted my eyes to the ceiling. I no longer cared what other people thought. Irina had been right about Australia all along. It was the wrong place for her. I would work hard and somehow get us to New York where her talent would be appreciated. Perhaps if I could save up some money, we wouldn’t be dependent on Dan. And if we left the country, what could the Australian government do to us except ban us from coming back?

  My eyes drifted back to Irina. Her body was alive with the song, emanating power through her vibrant voice and the language of her heart. The woman next to me opened her handbag and pulled out a handkerchief. I looked over my shoulder at the audience. A change had come over them. There was no fidgeting or movement, instead jaws hung slack, eyes were moistened and tears glistened on cheeks. They were as mesmerised by Irina as the people on Tubabao had been.

  Irina closed her eyes but I wanted her to open them and see what was happening, what her voice was doing to people. They had probably never heard a word of Russian in their lives before and yet they all seemed to know what she was singing about. They may have not known revolution and exile, but they knew grief and they knew war. They knew what it was like to have stillborn babies and sons who never came home. I thought again about Natasha and Mariya’s tent on Tubabao. No one misses out on the hardness of life, I told myself. Everyone just tries to find what happiness and beauty they can.

  The music stopped and Irina opened her eyes. The hall was silent for a moment then the audience broke out into loud applause. One man stood up and shouted, ‘Bravo!’ More people stood up to join him. I turned to look at the Colonel; his face was as delighted as a boy about to blow out the candles on his birthday cake.

  It wasn’t until a few minutes later that the applause died down enough for Irina to speak again. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘we have happy song. And this big hall. Plenty of room. Dance if you like.’

  Natasha’s hands flew across the keyboard and Irina started to sing a jazz number that I had first heard at the Moscow-Shanghai.

  ‘Whenever I look at you It’s like the sun is out and the sky is blue.’

  People glanced at each other. The Colonel scratched his head and shifted in his seat. But the audience couldn’t resist the catchiness of the tune: they tapped their feet and thrummed their fingers on their laps, but no one got up to dance. Irina and Natasha weren’t discouraged this time, they rolled their shoulders and gave the song all they had.

  ‘So don’t be shy Time will just go by And if time goes by and you’re still shy Well, before we know it we’ll be saying goodbye.’

  Rose elbowed the Colonel so hard he jumped out of his seat. He straightened his uniform then offered her his hand. They moved out to the front of the stage and danced a quick step. The audience applauded. Ernie grabbed Dorothy’s arm and they started dancing too. A farmer, who had come in his overalls, stood up and walked over to the Viennese opera singer. He bowed and gave a flourish of his hand. The linguistics professor and the history professor started stacking chairs against the walls to make more room. Soon everyone in the room was dancing, even the minister. At first the women were too self-conscious to dance with him, but he managed on his own, shuffling his feet and clicking his fingers until one of the daughters from the Czechoslovakian family stepped forward to join him.

  ‘So when I ask you to dance Give me this one chance Tonight is the night for romance.’

  The following day, the local paper reported that the Country Women’s Association’s social night had lasted until two o’clock in the morning and had only come to an end when the police arrived to ask the participants to lower the noise. The article went on to say that the CWA’s president, Ruth Kirkpatrick, had declared the evening ‘an astounding success’.

  THIRTEEN

  Betty’s Café

  Sydney seemed different the second time I saw it. The skies had opened and torrential rain was beating waiting for a tram. Pools of water ran around our feet and splattered mud onto our new stockings, which had been Rose Brighton’s parting gift. I stared at the stone walls and massive arches of Central Station and mused at how our trip back to Sydney had seemed much faster than the one we had taken inland.

  I tucked my handbag under my arm and thought about the envelope inside it. In my imagination I could see the address written in bold print. Mrs Elizabeth Nelson, Potts Point, Sydney. I was tempted to pull the envelope out and study it again, but I had already memorised not only the address but the directions Colonel Brighton had written down for me. The moisture in the air would only smudge the ink, so I left the envelope alone.

  A few days after Irina’s concert, Colonel Brighton had called me into his office. I looked from the King’s portrait to the Colonel to the envelope he pushed across the desk to me. He stood up from his chair and paced towards the map, then back to his desk again. ‘Rose and I know a lady in Sydney,’ he said. ‘She owns a coffee lounge in the city. She’s looking for some help. I spoke to her about you and Irina. She has some Russian chappie doing the cooking for her and she seems very happy with him.’

  The Colonel sank back into his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers and considering me with grave eyes. ‘Waitressing is not what you’re used to, I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trying to get you some secretarial work but it seems there’s not enough to go round for New Australians. Betty will give you time off if you want to do night classes, and she won’t make trouble for you with the employment office if you find something better once you get there. She has space in her flat and can give you cheap board to help you out.’

  ‘Colonel Brighton, I have no idea how to thank you,’ I stammered, half out of my chair with excitement.

  He waved his hand. ‘Don’t thank me, Anya. I hate to lose you. It’s Rose who has been at me every day to do something for you.’

  I clutched the envelope in my hand and took a deep breath. The prospect of leaving was both exciting and frightening. As much as we hated it, camp life was a safe haven. I wondered what we would have to face once we were fending for ourselves.

  The Colonel coughed into his fist and frowned. ‘Work hard, Anya. Make something o
f yourself. Don’t just marry the first man who asks you. The wrong man can make you miserable.’

  I almost choked. It was too late. I had already married the first man who had asked me. And he had made me miserable.

  ‘You’re preoccupied,’ said Irina, dabbing at her neck with her handkerchief. ‘What are you thinking about with such a serious face?’

  The walls of Central Station snapped back into focus and I remembered that I was in Sydney.

  ‘I was wondering what the people will be like here,’ I said.

  ‘If Mrs Nelson is anything like the Brightons, then we can be sure that she’s crazy.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I laughed.

  A bell rang and we looked up to see the tram approaching.

  ‘Sad too, though, I imagine,’ said Irina, picking up her suitcase. ‘Rose said Mrs Nelson’s husband died a year ago and that she lost both her sons in the war.’

  The conductor reeked of perspiration and I was glad to hurry past him to take a seat at the back of the tram. The floor was slippery from muddy shoes and dripping umbrellas. There was an advertisement for the Immigration Department in between one for Raleigh’s tomato sauce and another for Nock & Kirby’s Hardware Store. In the immigration advertisement a man in a hat was shaking the hand of a short man in an oldfashioned suit. ‘Welcome to your New Home’ the slogan read. Someone had scrawled over it in red crayon: ‘No More Bloody Reffos!’ I saw that Irina had noticed. She’d heard the word ‘reffo’ enough times by now to know it wasn’t a friendly message. But she didn’t make any comment. I glanced around at the other passengers. Men and women, they all looked alike in their grey raincoats and sombre hats and gloves. As long as Irina and I didn’t speak, we could be one of them.

  Irina rubbed at the fogged-up window with her glove. ‘I can’t see a thing,’ she said.

  By the time Irina and I reached Potts Point the rain had lifted. The shop awnings were dripping and steam was wafting up from the street. The powder and lipstick we had applied before leaving the train at Central had evaporated. My hands felt plump and Irina’s skin was shiny. The mugginess made me think of a magazine article I had read about New Orleans. It said that human relationships were at their most raw and sensual in a hot, humid atmosphere. That was true in Shanghai. Would it be true in Sydney too?