by Mandy Sayer
Each day from then on, she would be confined to a steam cabinet, would have cold water poured onto her head, followed by wet packs and douches and enemas prepared from herbal teas. It was as if the doctors were trying to flush from her the very essence of her being.
Now that she’d lost her job at the Trocadero, she was listless and bored. Only her bickering parents, her deaf grandmother, the radio, her daily therapy and the postal service now defined her life. But her lowest point was when Clara returned her saxophone to Palings to help pay off the debt her parents now owed—not only on the remaining balance on the bank loan they had taken out to buy the instrument, but also on the mounting bills of the new telephone that had saved Pearl’s life the month before. As the sax was packed away in its case and carried out the door, she felt her entire face go numb and she began to itch all over. After that, she stayed in bed for most of the day, staring at the embossed roses woven around the borders of the pressed metal ceiling of her room.
The only things that could lift her mood were the postcards she received from seaside villages and gold-mining towns, with pictures on the front and arrows drawn over them, pointing to a riverbank or hillside where Martin’s unit had been performing. And early in the new year, she received a letter from Nora Barnes in the Blue Mountains. Pookie’s peacocks were bringing in truckloads of money, she wrote; his plumes were now feathering the hats of all the girls in Sydney. She also confessed that she and Pookie had eloped to Lithgow for a quickie marriage, because she was already two months pregnant and wanted to avoid a scandal within her circle of family and friends.
Twice a week, after her treatment in the steam cabinet, she’d be summoned by the Master of Lunacy to his office in Reception House. It had deep leather chairs and a wide bay window. He’d take her pulse and check her blood pressure, put a stethoscope against the left side of her chest. And while he examined her, he asked her seemingly irrelevant questions, like what her favourite flower was, and if she liked to wear perfume.
She made an effort to eat more, and whatever she couldn’t she hid in her pockets, later flushing it down the toilet or throwing it over the back fence when no one was looking.
One afternoon in late May, after the Master of Lunacy had checked her heart, pulse and weight, he asked her to sit in one of the big leather chairs and offered her a glass of lemonade. He disappeared for a minute and returned with two filled glasses, handing her one before settling into his chair and picking up her file. Staring at his notes, he asked her how she was feeling.
Pearl shifted, wondering if it were a trick question. She sipped her drink. ‘My little finger’s sore,’ she said, waggling it. ‘I accidentally cut the nail down to the quick.’
The Master smiled briefly and shook his head. How did she feel inside herself? he wanted to know. How did she feel generally?
She still didn’t know how to answer and so remained silent, her hands folded on her lap.
‘Are you feeling better than you did, say, in December? When we first began?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Pearl nodded. ‘I’m sleeping more.’
‘Well, you’re certainly eating more. Eight pounds in five months. Do you feel any happier, any more at ease?’
Pearl thought for a moment, watching the ice cubes bob in her glass. She began to blush, terrified that she would burst into tears in front of the doctor and tell him how lonely she was; how she’d ruined her career and how there was nothing in the world she looked forward to anymore and she had no idea what she’d do with the rest of her life.
Instead, she drew in a deep breath, lifted her chin, and flashed the doctor a smile. ‘Your therapy has worked wonders, Doctor. I feel like a woman reborn.’
She wondered why she’d told such a brazen lie, and could only attribute it to the fact that she’d sensed the doctor had very much needed to hear it. And her intuition was confirmed when his hunched shoulders relaxed, his legs uncrossed. He sipped his drink, a nervous smile playing on his lips.
‘Well, Miss Willis, I’ve been reviewing you, I mean your file, and uh, well—’ he glanced at the papers in his lap ‘—you’ve made such good progress, such excellent progress. Don’t you think?’
Again, Pearl wasn’t sure how to answer: it was as if her true feelings were the subject of an examination for which she hadn’t studied. She still felt like a husk of her former self but—it was true—she was improving. She suspected, however, that this was due more to the monotony of her life rather than to any particular treatment. Finally, she nodded.
‘Good!’ said the Master. ‘I think it’s time we terminated your treatment here at Reception House. I’d like to refer you to your local GP, Dr Vincent Ward, whom you should visit once a month.’ He glanced at her file again. ‘Keep taking the quinine sulphate, but halve the dosage from now on.’
The Master’s eyes narrowed as he read something on the chart. ‘It’s almost your birthday,’ he observed. ‘Are you doing anything special?’
Pearl shrugged. ‘Mum and Dad want to take me to an afternoon tea at the Coogee Bay Hotel.’
‘Ah, lovely,’ he said, turning one foot in a semicircle, as if he had a stiff ankle.
‘I wish my brother were here.’ Pearl ran her finger around the rim of the glass. ‘It’s our first birthday apart.’
The Master of Lunacy nodded sagely. ‘It’s all part of growing up, Pearl.’ And then the Master did something highly unusual: he leaned across and touched her hair briefly, as if he were blessing her.
As soon as Clara learned that Pearl had officially recovered from her illness, she began to talk about packing her off to typing school, or the possibility of her getting a job in one of the local shops, or perhaps joining the Women’s Army. But Pearl didn’t want to do anything but play music. She yearned only for her saxophone, her lover and her brother.
In any case, Clara’s ideas came to naught; within two weeks of her recovery, Pearl received a letter from the government telling her to register for a Manpower job and begin work for the war effort immediately.
In some ways, the letter was a gift, as it relieved her from having to make any decision herself. The work was compulsory, like her treatment at Reception House had been, and would get her out of the house and away from her nagging mother.
At her interview at the local Masonic Hall, she was given a choice between a job at Armstrong Steelo, a clerical position at the Rationing Commission, or a place at A. Jordan and Company, sewing army shirts for the Allies. She had no desire to make steel wool or keep books in an office, so she opted for the third choice, and within days was surrounded by bolts of material, buttons and the hum of machinery. Her job was to sew the front pockets of khaki shirts. To relieve the boredom of the job she often wrote notes to the soldiers and slipped them inside: Thanks for the great job you’re doing . . . Are you far from home? . . . I used to be a jazz musician. One day, she received a letter back from an Australian stationed in New Guinea: I have to get out of this shit hole. I don’t know why I’m here anymore. His name was Private Jack Stanley. They wrote to each other twice more. Six weeks later, a brief, matter-of-fact note arrived from Stanley’s best army mate, informing her that Stanley had been killed in the New Guinea jungle.
The day of her nineteenth birthday was unusually warm, with light clouds scudding across the sky and a breeze that carried the scent of salt and seaweed. From the roof of the Coogee Bay Hotel, she could hear the gentle rhythm of waves breaking on the shore across the road. The musicians were seated on a dais at one end of the roof, tuning their instruments, framed by an arbour of flowering vines.
Clara and Aubrey had told her she could invite a friend. Pearl had written to Nora Barnes, asking her to visit Sydney for her birthday weekend, but Nora was now heavily pregnant and did not wish to travel alone. Instead, as a gift, she sent Pearl a bunch of long feathers from one of Pookie’s finest peacocks.
And so Pearl sat alone with her parents, quietly sipping tea as the band finally struck up and couples rushed to the diamond
-shaped dance floor. The roof was decorated with ceramic pots holding tall ferns and window boxes of flowering geraniums; the tables were covered with heavy linen cloths fringed with lace. It was a kind and thoughtful birthday treat, but Pearl couldn’t stop comparing it to her birthday of the year before, when James had been with her and she’d unwrapped her saxophone and all her dreams had seemed within her grasp.
She nibbled at a sandwich as the band played their first number. It had been months since she had played any music herself, but still she recognised that the band wasn’t very good: the trombonist’s tone was painfully thin, the trumpet was out of tune and the tempo kept speeding up during the chorus. She abandoned the sandwich and stood up, weaving her way between tables, trying to find the ladies’ powder room. When she found it, she bludged a cigarette off one of the waitresses and sat smoking it on one of the stools, staring at her sad twin in the mirror.
After pinning wisps of hair back into her pompadour bun, she returned to the rooftop. As she made her way back to the table she gazed at the slate-coloured ocean and swooping seagulls and then something to her right caught her eye—a ship on the horizon—and before she knew it she was walking straight into one of the potted palms. She reeled back, spun on the ball of one foot and fell into the lap of a man, knocking over his ice bucket and bottle of champagne.
‘I’m so sorry!’ she exclaimed, springing to her feet.
The man was dressed in a black suit and wore a charcoal-grey hat that shaded his face. He was pale and clean-shaven, a spot of blood on his left cheek where he’d cut himself shaving. He still wore his glasses but in the sleek black suit and white tie he looked curiously transformed, more debonair. He stood up, and she took the hand he held out to her.
‘Miss Willis,’ he said, peering into her eyes. ‘You’re looking so much better.’ He crooked his arm and held it out to her. ‘Would you care to join me on the dance floor?’
The band was into the second chorus of ‘Tea for Two’. She didn’t know how to dance but for the first time in her life she didn’t care. She hooked her arm through his and allowed the Master of Lunacy to lead her onto the polished wood, to take her into his loose embrace. As she rested her cheek on the lapel of his jacket Pearl glimpsed her mother beaming at her as if she’d performed some heroic deed or miracle. Her father, however, was stony-faced.
During the winter of 1943, at Clara’s invitation, Hector Best visited the house twice a week. He joined the family for their traditional Sunday roast, and on Saturdays escorted Pearl to whatever recreation or amusement she desired. Her health was gradually improving, and the Master of Lunacy was an attentive companion, who tried very hard to please Pearl. Sometimes he seemed more like a close, adoring uncle than a beau, and to be sure, he was no longer the young sportsman who had once thrown javelins and discuses in state competitions. He was still tall and slim but his limbs had grown stiff over the years and now his only daily exercise was walking from his home in Millers Point to his Office of Lunacy at Hyde Park Barracks, or from the Barracks to Reception House. He wore expensive tailored suits and crisp starched shirts with grandfather collars and neckties the colour of dishwater. His skin was so pale he often looked as if he were recovering from an illness himself. The Master’s most attractive feature was his eyes—wide and gentle, the colour of honey. He was almost thirty-six and had never been married.
Aubrey did nothing to encourage the relationship, believing that Hector was taking advantage of Pearl, particularly since she hadn’t fully recovered. Clara, however, was thrilled that a professional man, especially a doctor, was romancing her—even if he was nearly twice her age. The Master was a refreshing change from all the vaudevillians and musicians in the family. Clara told Pearl that he was the type who would always have a good and regular salary, and in the delicate way he guided Pearl down a flight of stairs or wrapped his coat around her shivering shoulders, Clara recognised a man who would take care of the girl, who would always cherish her.
The companionship that the Master provided each week was a welcome diversion from the monotony of sewing shirt pockets in the factory. Each Saturday, he brought her bouquets of lilies and dewy violets cultivated in a small greenhouse that he’d built in his backyard. They often strolled through Hyde Park, and he would point to plants and flowers, reciting their various popular names and then the Latin monikers. Sometimes they walked as far as Circular Quay and caught a ferry across to Manly, where they picnicked in an area of the beach that wasn’t sectioned off by fencing and barbed wire. If Pearl wished to see a particular film, they both saw it immediately. If she had a craving for sausages, the Master promptly found a café or restaurant that served them.
Hector was intimate with all Pearl’s weaknesses, yet they didn’t seem to deter him; if anything, they seemed to make him care for her even more, as if her flaws were something to be admired. They occasionally enjoyed a chaste kiss now and then, but the doctor had never ventured further.
To please him, she pressed and dried the flowers he picked, mounted them on white cardboard and framed them behind glass. She loved to see his face brighten when she presented him with a gift. Even though his name was Hector Best, Pearl preferred to call him the Master or, when she was in a whimsical mood, Mr Lunatic, which always made him smile with embarrassment. His hands were gentle and warm, and when he traced the curve of her jaw or dusted her hair with his fingers, she often felt more relaxed and secure than after drinking the quinine sulphate or undergoing her hydrotherapy.
One day in early August Clara announced that she could hear the telephone ringing and suddenly left the parlour. Before Pearl could say she couldn’t hear a thing, the Master fell to his knees and, with a magician’s deft sleight of hand, suddenly produced a ruby-studded ring. Pearl had sensed this would happen eventually, but she hadn’t been expecting it so soon after her illness. She was uncertain of her feelings for Hector. She didn’t know whether she felt affection or love or something else that she couldn’t name. Perhaps it was merely gratitude—gratitude for his friendship, his tenderness. All she knew for sure was that she wasn’t obsessed with Hector as she had been, and still was, with James. She took the ring between her thumb and forefinger and turned it in the sunlight. She then placed the ring over her right eye and looked through it, as if it were a tiny monocle. ‘It’s pretty, Mr Lunatic.’
Hector chewed on his bottom lip. ‘Will you, Pearl?’
Stalling for time, she tried to slip the ring onto the third finger of her left hand, but it was too small and she couldn’t push it over her second knuckle.
Hector’s face dropped. ‘I’ll get it enlarged.’
Pearl turned the band of gold around the first knuckle of her finger. She was desperate not to hurt his feelings.
‘You think I’m too old,’ he said.
‘No, I don’t.’ Her reply came a little too fast and he wilted a little before lowering himself from his kneeling position to sit directly on the floor. ‘I was your doctor once. Does that make a difference?’
She considered lying, agreeing with the suggestion and letting him down easily, when she noticed Hector had begun to tremble. She reached out and touched his shoulder but he whimpered like a young boy. And she realised that she no longer felt like that carefree young girl who had frequented the sly grog joints in the Cross and made love in a fairground, in the Botanic Gardens, in an abandoned mansion. She had thought of herself as a woman of the world, but now her younger self seemed immature and childish, never thinking about the consequences of her actions, or how many people she hurt. Perhaps marriage would mature her, would make her more responsible.
9
Her engagement to a doctor redeemed Pearl’s reputation in the neighbourhood. The Willis girl was now no longer considered a reckless teenager, but a beautiful young woman who was about to be married. Of course, there were still a few cynics who thought it was entirely appropriate that someone as mad as Pearl should wed a psychiatrist. For the most part, however, friends of the family we
re happy for the couple and began dropping off gifts for her glory box.
There were invitation lists to draw up, bouquets to design. Nora Barnes, who had given birth to a baby boy, was to be the one and only bridesmaid. Aubrey’s five-year-old great-niece, Lavinia, would be the flower girl (Clara decided the girl could wear her polio brace at the wedding, but not her thick round glasses). Hector didn’t have any close friends so his father was appointed to be the best man, which made a good joke when anyone asked about it—the best man really was a Best man: Hector Best, Senior.
War rations made it difficult to find any decent materials for a wedding dress, and after weeks of scouring the tables of department stores, Pearl had to settle for one of her mother’s old theatre gowns made from ivory magnolia satin. Clara would alter the dress, while Lulu would stitch the pattern of teardrop crystals around the bodice. They decided on a net veil crowned with a garland of fresh camellias.
On the weekends Hector brought her bouquets of tiger lilies from his greenhouse. And it was this behaviour that continued to draw Pearl to Hector—his thoughtfulness and generosity—when many men as accomplished as he was would find it easy to be narrow-minded and demanding. These qualities didn’t make her want to rip the buttons off his shirt or tongue his ear all night; theirs was a quieter, gentler connection. She was fairly certain she wasn’t in love with him, but she knew now that she’d never hear from James again, and she couldn’t bear to hurt Hector and cause him unhappiness. And even if she did have the occasional reservation about spending the rest of her life with him, she figured that her feelings were a normal response to such a serious commitment—and anyway, they were engaged now and it was too late to change her mind. She was also aware that she would never lose Hector to the war effort, as his position as Master of Lunacy was a protected occupation. Marrying him was the right thing to do.