I was working on an article for the women’s section, where I had been appointed fashion editor the year before. Ann White, after exhausting herself on coronation gowns and the Queen’s wardrobe for her royal visit to Australia, had married into the Denison family. Her flair for fashion was considered a bigger asset to the department store dynasty than her dowry and she was appointed head fashion buyer for their Sydney store. We saw each other at social occasions and had been out for lunch two or three times. It was ironic that after our shaky start we should have ended up needing each other’s patronage.
For the article I was writing I had asked three Australian designers to submit their ideas on how they would dress Grace Kelly for her wedding to Prince Rainier of Monaco. Judith put forward the most beautiful gown, an ivory organza sheath dress with a taffeta bust and swan-down collar, but the dresses submitted by the other designers were also worthy of the title haute couture. One was a mermaid-line dress with curved seams and fishtail hem, and the other was sable-trimmed brocade and iridescent silk. That dress had been submitted by a Russian who had come to Sydney via Paris. Her name was Alina, and when I wrote her name on the back of the photographs to go with the article, I started thinking about my mother.
Stalin had died in 1953, but that hadn’t stopped the West and the Soviet Union entwining themselves in a Cold War that made any sort of transfer of information impossible. Vitaly’s father had never heard back from his brother, and I had written to every organisation I could: the Russian–Australian Society, the United Nations, the IRO and many other smaller humanitarian organisations. But none had been able to help me. It seemed that Russia was impenetrable.
Australia was far removed from anything my mother and I had known together. I couldn’t see her in the trees or associate her with the sea. I still harboured my terror that I would forget the details of her: the shape of her hands, the exact colour of her eyes, her scent. And yet I could not forget her. Even all those years later she was still the first person I thought of when I woke up in the morning and the last person I imagined before I turned out the light. We had been separated for almost eleven years and yet, somewhere in my heart, I still believed that my mother and I would see each other again.
I slipped the article and photographs into an envelope and laid out my clothes for the office. A few weeks before I had put together a fashion spread titled ‘Too Hot for the Beach’ featuring the new bikini styles that were making their way to Australia from Europe and America. Because swimsuits were intimate wear, I had asked the model if she would like to keep the bikinis she had posed in, but she told me that she already had drawers full of swimming costumes from other shoots. So I’d brought the swimsuits home to wash, intending to give them to the junior reporters. I opened my wardrobe and rummaged through the straw bag where I thought I had put the bikinis after they had dried on the line. But they weren’t there. I stared at the empty interior of the bag, puzzled. I wondered if I’d been so busy with deadlines that maybe I had already taken the swimsuits to the office and simply forgotten. At that moment Mrs Gilchrist, the building supervisor, knocked on the door.
‘Anya! Telephone!’ she shouted.
I slipped on my sandals and rushed to the shared telephone in the hall.
‘Hello,’ Betty whispered when I picked up the receiver. ‘Could you come and get us, love?’
‘Where are you?’
‘At the police station. The police won’t let us go unless someone comes to pick us up.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing.’
I heard Ruselina talking to someone in the background then the sound of a man’s laughter.
‘Betty, if nothing’s happened, what are you two doing at the police station?’
There was a moment’s pause before she said, ‘We’ve been arrested.’
I was too surprised to say anything. Ruselina called something out but I couldn’t catch it.
‘Oh,’ said Betty, ‘Ruselina asked if you would mind bringing us some clothes.’
I hurried to the police station, my mind overflowing with possible scenarios of what Betty and Ruselina might have done to get themselves arrested. Betty had retired, and after selling the house in Potts Point had bought a three-bedroom apartment for herself and Ruselina and the bedsitter above it for me. Vitaly and Irina were living in a house in Tamarama, one suburb away. Since moving, Betty and Ruselina had begun to exhibit odd behaviour. Once they leaped off the rocks near the headland with knives between their teeth, claiming they were ‘going to fight the sharks in honour of Bea Miles’, who had been Bondi’s crazy lady for a number of years. The tide was out and the sea was calm and clear so they hadn’t been in much danger of drowning, but the sight of our dear old ladies floating around in an unpatrolled area was enough to terrify Irina and myself. We made Vitaly jump in after them to coax them back to shore.
‘Don’t worry so much about them,’ Vitaly told us afterwards. ‘They’ve both had tragedies in their lives but have had to be strong and carry on regardless. This is the time in their life when they want to let go and be irresponsible. They’re lucky to have found each other the same way you two have.’
I hadn’t telephoned Vitaly and Irina before I left for the police station. Irina was four months pregnant and I didn’t want to upset her. But all the way to the station I couldn’t help worrying. Why couldn’t Betty and Ruselina take up painting or bingo like other old ladies? The Bondi tram rattled past and I glanced up. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a solitary old woman sitting on a bench in the park. She was throwing bits of bread to the seagulls. The image of her lonely figure seemed to burn itself into my mind, and I began to wonder if I would be that old lady in another fifty years’ time.
When I turned up at the police station Betty and Ruselina were sitting in the waiting area in their terry-towelling robes. Betty was blowing rings of smoke into the air. Ruselina grinned when she saw me. There was an elderly man sitting next to her wearing a white singlet and shorts. His skin was as brown as leather hide and he was leaning with his elbows on his knees, deep in thought. In the opposite corner of the room a solid-looking man in a bib-style swimsuit and shorts was holding an icepack to his jaw. I read the word ‘Inspector’ printed on the ribbon around his straw hat.
The sergeant in charge stood up from his desk. ‘Miss Kozlova?’
I glanced at Betty and Ruselina but they weren’t giving anything away.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked the sergeant, lowering myself into the chair opposite his desk.
‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered, ‘nothing serious. It’s just that the beach inspector is strict about “decency”.’
‘Decency?’ I cried. Ruselina and Betty giggled.
The sergeant opened his desk drawer and pulled out a diagram of a man and a woman standing on a beach. He pushed it towards me. There were lines and measurements drawn over the figures. My head was swimming. Decency? What on earth had Betty and Ruselina done?
The sergeant pointed to various parts of the picture with his pen. ‘The legs of the swimming trunks, according to the inspector, must be at least three inches long, and women’s swimsuits must have straps or other support.’
I shook my head, not understanding. Ruselina and Betty had elegant one-piece suits. I had bought them for them from David Jones last Christmas.
‘Your grandmothers’ costumes,’ whispered the sergeant, ‘are a little too brief.’
There was another giggle from Betty and Ruselina. Suddenly what had happened dawned on me. ‘Oh God! No!’
I strode over to Betty and Ruselina. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Open up!’
Ruselina and Betty opened their robes and strutted around the reception area, mimicking catwalk models. Betty was wearing high-cut sarong pants with a strapless bikini top. Ruselina’s costume was patterned like a tuxedo with a v-shaped neckline. They were the bikinis from the fashion shoot. Although both women were in good shape for their age, they certainly weren’t the young women t
he costumes had been designed for. Betty’s bony hips were far too skinny for her pants and Ruselina’s bust wasn’t quite up to a low-cut front, but they both walked with an elegant poise.
I watched them dumbstruck for a few seconds then burst out laughing.
‘I don’t object to you wearing those costumes,’ I told Betty and Ruselina later, when we were sitting in the local milkbar and drinking strawberry shakes. ‘But why do it on the beach that has the strictest inspector?’
‘Getting chased by that old fart was half the fun!’ cackled Betty. Ruselina started to laugh too. The owner of the milkbar glanced over at us.
‘Who was the other guy at the station?’ I asked. ‘The one in the shorts.’
‘Oh, him,’ said Ruselina, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Bob. He was a real gentleman. When the inspector started marching us off the beach, Bob stepped in and told him not to “manhandle ladies”.’
‘Then he bopped the inspector one on the chin,’ said Betty, slurping her shake.
I glanced down at the airy pink bubbles of my own drink and thought about how the two old ladies who had looked after me for so long were turning into my children.
‘What are you doing this afternoon, Anya?’ asked Betty. ‘It’s Saturday. You want to come to the pictures with us? East of Eden is showing.’
‘I can’t,’ I shrugged. ‘I’ve got to finish an article on wedding dresses for tomorrow’s paper.’
‘What about your own wedding, Anya?’ said Ruselina, sucking up the last lick of icy milk through her straw. ‘You’ll never find a husband if you’re always working so hard.’
Betty patted my knee under the table. ‘Ruselina, you sound like a Russian babushka,’ she said. ‘She’s still young. There’s no hurry. Look at her marvellous career. When she’s ready she’ll pick someone out at one of those glamorous parties she’s always going to.’
‘Twenty-three’s not that young to be married,’ said Ruselina. ‘It’s only young compared to us. I was married at nineteen, and that was considered quite late in my day.’
After I said goodbye to Betty and Ruselina I walked upstairs to my own flat and lay down on the bed. My bedsitter was small, most of it was taken up by my bed, and one of the walls was nearly all windows. But I had a view of the sea and a corner with plants and an overstuffed armchair and a desk where I could write or think. It was my retreat and I felt comfortable there. Away from people.
You’ll never find a husband if you work so hard, Ruselina had said.
There would be two other people working at the paper that afternoon: Diana, because Saturday was Harry’s golf day, and Caroline Kitson. The junior reporters took it in turns to cover weddings and dances. Despite all her ambitions, Caroline had not been able to catch one of the young men of her social class. Perhaps she had offended too many of their mothers in the social column. Whatever the reason, Caroline, at twenty-nine, had come to see herself as a spinster. She had started to wear frumpy clothes and thick glasses and had an air about her more suited to a widow than a young, healthy woman. There was a pretty brunette among the junior reporters who had her eye on the social editor’s position, and because of that Caroline had become much nicer towards Diana and myself. Though there was one habit Caroline had adopted that annoyed me much more than the snubbing she had given me in earlier years. ‘Hello, here’s Old Maid Two,’ she would say whenever I walked into the office. ‘Are you feeling just like me?’
Every time she said it I felt instantly depressed.
I turned and looked at the matroshka dolls lined up on my dresser. There were five altogether, two after me. A daughter and a granddaughter. That had been my mother’s vision for our lives. She probably once believed that we would all live out our days peacefully in the house in Harbin, adding a new extension each time another member of the family came along.
I lay back down on the pillows and squeezed the tears from my eyes. To have a family I would need a husband. But I had grown so used to living without a man’s love, I didn’t even know where to begin. It was four years since I had found out about Dmitri’s death, seven years since he had left me. How many years would it take to stop mourning?
Diana was already at her desk when I arrived at the paper. I dropped into her office to say hello.
‘What are you doing this Friday night, Anya?’ she asked, fingering the collar of her Givenchy-style dress.
‘Nothing special,’ I told her.
‘Well, I have someone I want you to meet. Why don’t you come over for dinner around seven? I’ll have Harry pick you up.’
‘Okay, but who is it you want me to meet?’
Diana’s face broke into a smile that showed all her pearly teeth. ‘Is that a yes or a no?’
‘It’s a yes but I’d still like to know who it is I’m meeting.’
‘Don’t you trust me?’ she asked. ‘A dashing young man, if you must insist. He’s been dying to meet you ever since he spotted you at the Melbourne Cup ball. He said he followed you around all night but you paid him no attention. Which, I might add, sounds just like you, Anya. He’s the best-looking man on this paper, has a great sense of humour and couldn’t even get you to say “boo”.’
I blushed. My embarrassment seemed to make Diana even more amused. I wondered if she’d had some way of reading my mood that afternoon and had worked quickly to find a solution.
‘Wear that gorgeous crepe evening dress you bought at the sales. It looks so lovely on you.’
‘I will,’ I said, unnerved by the uncanny coincidence. It was as if Diana were my fairy godmother and she was granting me a wish.
‘And Anya,’ she called after me when I turned to go.
‘Yes?’
‘Try not to look so terrified, darling. He doesn’t bite, I’m sure.’
I didn’t say a word to Ruselina or Betty about Diana’s dinner party. I was proud of myself for at least agreeing to meet a young man, although the thought still terrified me. Telling them about the dinner meant I wouldn’t be able to back out of it if I decided not to go.
When Friday night came around, I felt queasy and had second thoughts about turning up. But I couldn’t offend Diana. I wore the dress she had suggested. It had a fitted bodice, wide shoulder straps and a panelled skirt. I slipped my feet into silk shoes with pointed toes and swept my hair to one side with a diamanté clip.
Just after half past six Harry came to pick me up in his navy Chevrolet. He opened the car door for me and squinted at the late sun glistening on the beach. ‘It looks so calm after those terrible storms,’ he said.
‘I read in the paper that the lifesavers pulled one hundred and fifty people from the water on New Year’s Day,’ I told him.
Harry slipped into the driver’s seat and started up the motor. ‘Yes, your beach was one of the worst hit. They say the storm churned up so much seaweed that one of the lifesavers got his line caught in it. It dragged him under and he started to drown. The rescue boat couldn’t break through the waves to reach him.’
‘Goodness,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t heard about that.’
‘One of his mates got him out though,’ said Harry, turning the car into Bondi Road. ‘A big guy who’s just come up from Victoria. They say he tunnelled through the water like a torpedo. He’s Russian too. You might know him.’
I shook my head. ‘Probably not. I only seem to get to the beach these days after everyone else has left.’
Harry laughed. ‘Diana says you work hard,’ he said.
Diana and Harry lived in a Tudor-style house overlooking the water at Rose Bay. When we pulled into the driveway Diana, gorgeous in a red silk dress, ran out to greet us. ‘Come along, Anya,’ she said, gliding me like a tango dancer into her house. ‘Come and meet Keith.’
The interior of the house was spacious with modern white flooring and walls. Recessed shelves lined the hallway, displaying photographs of Diana with celebrities, and the knick-knacks she had collected from all over the world. I stopped to look at the porcelain piggy collection sh
e had brought back from London and laughed. As glamorous as she was, Diana did not take herself too seriously.
Diana tugged me into the living room and nearly sent me flying into the lap of the young man who was sitting on her modular lounge. As soon as he saw us he rose, a smile breaking out on his clean-cut face. ‘Hello,’ he said, reaching out his hand to shake mine. ‘I’m Keith.’
‘Hello,’ I said, taking his hand. ‘I’m Anya.’
‘Good,’ said Diana, patting my back. ‘I’m going to see to dinner, you two have a chat.’
With that Diana rushed out of the room. Harry was just at that moment stepping inside the room, a bottle of wine in his hand. Diana grabbed him and yanked him down the hall as if he were a bad actor being whipped off stage.
Keith turned to me. He was handsome with cobalt blue eyes, blond hair, a neat nose and plum-like lips. ‘Diana has told me wonderful things about you,’ he said. ‘And apparently you have a rice story I have to hear over dinner.’
I blushed. Diana hadn’t told me anything about Keith. But then I hadn’t exactly asked either.
‘Keith works on the sports pages,’ said Harry, walking into the room with a platter of cheese and saving me from making a fool of myself. I realised then that he must have been standing outside the door, listening.
‘Really? How wonderful,’ I said, sounding like Diana and not at all like myself.
Harry winked at me behind Keith’s back. Diana glided in with a tray of olive halves on crackers. She must have been waiting outside the door too. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He won an award for his coverage of the Melbourne Cup.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ I said, turning to Keith. ‘I didn’t. They obviously didn’t think my piece on Cup hats was impressive enough.’
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