Long bay, p.5
Long Bay, page 5
Rebecca sits with her mother on the front step, shelling peas for later. She promised to light the fire in the stove for tea but Lizzie just says, ‘Go on, get out then. At least you’ll get a breeze there.’
She tells Don to wait two ticks while she changes. Lizzie helps do up her stays and all she has to wear is a hand-me-down green calico from Amy and an old straw hat with a ribbon but when she comes out of the house Don grins. ‘Any fella would be proud to have you on his arm.’
The Bondi tram is packed with people. There is a clutch of young boys, slapping and swearing at one another, jostling everyone else out of their way. A family of six up the front, the father holding a baby as you might hold any old parcel, a one-armed grip to the side with the baby’s bonneted head lolling towards the street. A paperboy who swings from the footboards shouting ‘payur’, a stack of newsprint in his worn satchel, his hands and clothes stained with ink.
There is not a seat spare but Don holds the strap and she clings to a post, wedged in between two sets of knees. He has an arm about her, and a lipless crone with a fox round her neck looks up at them evil-like, but what does she know—and who cares what she thinks?
It is hot for November—a scorcher—and they fan themselves. Don’s suit jacket shows dark patches under the arms.
‘Have you been to Bondi before, then?’ Don asks, as they pick up speed down the hill of Bondi Road and the ribbon of blue appears on the horizon.
‘Once,’ she says. ‘I was just a girl then.’
‘Still are,’ he says, and holds tighter as the tram swings the final corner to Campbell Parade. At the tram sheds everyone pushes off at once and there is a bright stretch of sand before them, the surf beyond curving up into smooth hills of blue then breaking white in the shallows, spraying foam and saltwater onto shrieking swimmers. The boys from the tram run towards the sea, stripping off their clothes as they go, discarding shirts and pants and shoes along the crowded beach. Rebecca stands with her mouth gaping for a moment, forgetting herself, mesmerised by the sight of the beach like a crescent of gold, more sand than she can remember seeing.
They sit on the steps leading down to the beach from the promenade, and unlace their shoes. She follows Don barefoot in the hot sand up to the ocean’s edge, holding her skirts around her knees. At first it burns the soles of her feet but she grows used to it. Dark coils of seaweed lie in the wet sand and a breeze dries the sweat on her scalp. Don’s pants are rolled, his shirt pushed up above his elbows. His hat makes it hard for her to see his eyes but he smiles that uneven smile and she feels as light as one of the gulls ducking and swooping over the frothing waves. She has never swum in the surf. There is a woman in front of them in bathers that reach her knees, up to her calves in the cool frothy seawater. A wave crashes into her and she ducks under the roar of greenish water, then comes up with her hair wet, shaking her head as though daring another to come. Rebecca watches her, thinking that one day she will do it too.
‘C’mon, Bec,’ Don says, ‘All this water gives me a thirst.’
They walk back across the sand to the promenade. By now the sand feels pleasant, and Rebecca takes her time walking, wiggling her toes so that the grains fall across the pale tops of her feet. Don waits on the stairs where they left their shoes and they brush the sand from their feet before putting their stockings and socks and shoes on again. It is awful, putting her feet back into boots. If she was a girl still she would scream at the senselessness of it. But she is grown, now; she knows better.
They stand and walk the promenade, linking arms, Don giving her a sidelong smile. Lined up beside the changing sheds are stalls selling chipped potatoes, ice cream, cigarettes and lemonade. They buy two bottles of lemonade and a penny’s worth of chipped potatoes wrapped in newspaper. Sitting on the steps he rips the newspaper open, steam billowing out, and offers her one. She holds it between her fingers and blows, smelling the rancid oil mixed with the salty breeze. She bites into the chip and scalds her tongue. A couple walks past arm in arm, the lady holding a silk parasol, twirling it as she laughs. Her dress is cut on the bias so it fits narrowly, only skimming out at the mid-thigh so that she can walk. Rebecca fingers the worn cotton of her dress and sighs. A seagull lands beside her, cawing so that she can see the pink gape of its mouth beyond the curved orange beak. She throws it a chip and it snatches it and flies off. Soon the chips are gone and they lick the salt from their fingertips. Don crushes the newspaper in his fist and chucks it into the sand, where seagulls flock and fight over it, tearing it to pieces, searching for any stray crumbs.
‘Hang on,’ she says, and turns his palm over. His sleeve normally covers it, but there, on his left forearm, is a tattoo. Blue ink against the pale white of his Scottish skin. It is a circle with a smaller circle inside it and some letters.
‘What’s this?’ she says, trying to keep her voice light.
‘Just a little thing,’ he says. ‘I sailed to England once, when I was twenty. Got it on board from one of the sailors after I’d drunk my fill of rum.’
She leans in closer to see the letters. ‘D.R.S.’ She reads aloud. ‘Is that you?’
He nods. ‘It’s a lifebuoy, Bec. Like the ones they toss out to you if you’re drowning at sea.’
‘What’s the R stand for?’
‘Roderick.’
She puts up her hand to shield her grin. It is the sort of name that dashing heroes have in the novels Louis brings her.
‘You’d best not be laughing at me!’ Don says.
‘And what are the initials for? In case you forget your name?’
Don shakes his head. ‘Women,’ he sighs.
He studies his own forearm, his brow growing heavier by the moment.
‘It’s a little reminder, Bec, that I’ve got to look after meself. I can’t rely on no one else to save my skin.’
He has that look again for a moment, that hurt look, and she sees there is more to it. She wants to know all there is to know about him. It takes her by surprise—how much she wants this.
‘Ever had an ice cream?’ Don asks, changing the subject. She can see he is pleased when she says no.
They buy ice cream from a man calling ‘Ice cream and jelly is good for the belly.’ She will always remember the surprise of it: sweet cold on her tongue and how it melts. Like magic, turning from solid to liquid as it passes your lips.
‘How do they keep it from turning to soup before you buy it?’ She asks, licking around the cone before the drips run down her wrist.
‘Big blocks of ice,’ Don says. ‘Ice shipped across the ocean from places that are colder’n here. Like America. Huge ships of ice from America.’
He is very convincing. Don starts explaining how men are figuring out how to manufacture ice in the city so that it no longer has to be expensive, so that it no longer has to come across the ocean, when two women arm in arm stroll up to them and stop. They wear bright coloured dresses with striped skirts and one carries a purple parasol.
‘Don Sinclair,’ she says. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
Don nearly spits his last mouthful of ice cream.
He takes off his hat but uses it to shade his eyes, so that he can see them better. ‘What do you want? Can’t I enjoy a little peace and quiet with my girl?’
The blonde leans in closer to get a better look.
‘Not your old girl, is it? Are you still with her? Are you here on the whisper?’
‘Go on, get!’ Don stands, waving an arm like he is ready to hit one of them.
Rebecca grabs his sleeve. ‘Leave him be,’ she says, leaning towards the two girls, her voice hardly audible.
The blonde one leans in close. ‘You’re the one who’d best leave him be,’ she says.
Sweat runs down the band of Rebecca’s straw hat into her eyes. She wants to swing at the blonde. She turns her back on the girls; she will not let them get the better of her. Soon Don is behind her, his brow heavy.
‘Bloody whores,’ he says. ‘Can’t just leave a fella be.’
She walks off.
It takes him a minute to realise. ‘Hang on a tick, let me talk. Let me explain what they’re on about.’
She keeps walking. She pulls her hat low over her eyes. She should have known it was too good. How could she be such a dumb girl? Of course he was just having a lark—he is no different to other men. He catches her arm and spins her around, but she pulls away.
‘Don’t lay a hand on me. How could you? Letting them shame me like that. Not telling me there’s another girl.’
‘There’s not, Bec. Hang on.’ He follows, talking as quickly as he can as she rushes towards the tram shed.
‘Can we go somewhere so I can explain? Where there aren’t all these people?’
The shed is crammed with sunburnt families. An old fella who has had one too many schooners at the Beach Hotel stumbles and nearly falls on top of her, and the skinny young boys beside her with damp swimmers rolled together laugh and whisper to one another.
‘Everyone’s heard it already. You’re not taking me anywhere.’
They wait in silence for the city tram. On board, packed in like sheep, the crowd stinks of sweat and stale beer and ham sandwiches that sat too long in the sun. Rebecca finds a seat and Don sits facing her. She can feel his eyes though she refuses to meet them. She is beside the drunk old fella who has fallen asleep, his head against the rattling timber seat, a thin line of drool trailing down from his floppy lips. On Oxford Street Rebecca rings the bell. She wants to get home, take off her awful dress, and have a drink of water to wash the sickly sweet ice cream taste from her tongue. She wants to forget everything about the day. She does not even look at him as she steps off the car, relieved to be away from the press of bodies. She is not surprised that he follows her though. And she is not disappointed when she feels his hand on her arm again. She is turning onto Elizabeth Street, to walk down the hill home.
‘Slow down. You’re going to kill a fella trying to catch up with you.’
She turns to him. ‘Would it be such a shame if he died?’
Don tries to keep from smiling. She can see he is just glad that she is talking to him.
‘Stop a minute. You’re getting yourself all worked up. I haven’t got another girl. Let me explain.’
For some reason that brings it out in her. Those bloody tears. More than anything she wants not to care, but she already feels too much. Don sits at a bench at the edge of a square of park, patting the seat beside him. The only park in a neighbourhood of houses packed like biscuits in a tin. She is not going to bring him home in this state. She sits. He tries to edge in closer, to clasp her hand, but she pushes him off.
‘Say what you’re going to say, Don Sinclair. I’ve got to get home and help Ma with the tea.’
He takes his hat off and sets it on his knee. ‘I had a girl when we met. That’s what the whores were talking about. Zara—she lived next door to me—next door to my ma’s, and she was the first girl I kissed. She was my girl because I didn’t know better. But when I met you at the rink, Bec, I knew it was wrong with Zara. I didn’t feel nearly the same. Here I’d just met you, and couldn’t stop thinking about it. But with her, well, it was ordinary. So I called it off. Haven’t seen her since.’
She feels split apart. He’s not been able to stop thinking of her, but he’s kissed this other girl, and known her forever.
‘But you ought to have told me. If you’re asking me to marry you, you’ve got to tell me these things. Besides, what about those whores? How do they know you?’
Don plays with the brim of his hat. He slouches on the bench and looks up at the pink flowers of the crepe myrtle above them.
‘This is what I’ve been nervous about. See, I’m afraid you won’t want me no more if I tell you.’
‘What’s so bad?’
‘Promise you won’t go running off again?’
She does not answer, just looks at him, expectant.
He sighs.
‘I suppose I’ll just tell you and we’ll see.’
CHAPTER 6
At first she does not understand what Don is on about. Seems he is lucky that his mother is well off—she runs a private hospital, he says, in their house at Glenmore Road.
She takes in women who are pregnant and have no maid to look after them at home. He says that she has been a midwife as long as he can remember, but only in the last five or six years did she set up the hospital. There is even a doctor who visits and all their meals are prepared. It is popular with women from the bush, who are scared to be having their babies miles from help.
‘That doesn’t explain your friends. The ones who told me I’d best leave you be.’
Don puts his hand up, ‘I’m getting to that, don’t hurry me.’
He explains how business has dropped off for his mother lately. Women are more likely to stay at home for their lying-in and hire a girl who stays a month to help out. So his mother is losing money. Costs of running the hospital are high. She keeps one girl to help and another in the kitchen. But then more women are coming asking her to get rid of their babies. It is becoming more and more common. His mother knows this is done, of course—every midwife worth her salt does. But these girls are desperate and taking pennyroyal and iron pills from the chemist, some crazy enough to try to get rid of it by throwing themselves down the stairs.
Rebecca has heard of this sort of thing—every girl in the neighbourhood has. But it is always women’s talk and even then just hinted at, bubbling away beneath the surface. Someone’s sister in trouble and disappeared for a little while. She comes back pale but with no need for loose dresses and shawls held across her middle. A mother of seven telling Lizzie over a pot of tea how she had tried all the remedies and nothing worked, how she could not imagine feeding another. Lizzie had seen Rebecca listening and told her to fetch some thread from the front room, and take her time about it too.
Don scratches at his chin. There is the hint of stubble growing, and a scab on his cheek where the razor nicked him.
He says his mother just did what any clever person would have done. ‘She started letting those women come and stay. Then she looks after them while they recover. She calls it women’s troubles or miscarrying if anyone asks.’
He says that she still had women come for lying-in, but most of the business now is different. And she still has the doctor, in case any of them turn out bad. He is the one who visited for her ankle, Don says.
‘Most of Ma’s business is women wanting to be rid of their babies now. Which is how the whores know me. All the whores know Ma. They all need her now and again, some more’n others. There’s plenty of people doing the same thing as me mother, but she was one of the first. Still, she’s one of the best.’
Don puts his hat back on his head and straightens the brim. ‘Now, I understand that it’s not what you call proper, but I won’t hear any bad spoke of her. I’ve told you and you can make your own mind up whether you want to stick by me. Understand?’
She nods, not knowing what to say. Yet there is something here that pleases her. Here she had thought how low Don sank to come calling on her, but he is not from such fine stock himself. His mother an abortionist.
She remembers the visit from Violet, the other day, when she brought the money, the money Rebecca still had. And what she said about Don’s mother: all the girls knew her. How she ought to be careful. Don makes it sound like she was just helping out, but she is making a living out of their troubles. Rebecca starts to take the pins from her hair, aware that Don is watching. She shakes it out and then puts it up again, twisting and pinning it to the top of her head.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
What will she say? She is glad, somehow, that he is not perfect. You would not pair a ragged skirt with a brand new blouse and expect them to match. They need to be equal parts worn, or soiled. Still, Nurse Sinclair. Just her name makes Rebecca queasy in her belly. He sits beside her, the air alive with waiting. What does she think? She could stand and walk away now. He would not chase her. It could be done.
But beside her his soft, long fingers drum the black trouser fabric stretched across his thigh. Beside her he waits, breathing, knowing already that things are never as easy as we make them out to be. She pictures herself in a hole, like the hole they lowered her father into, and Don at the top, silhouetted against the sky, a hand reaching down. Away from her family, from John and Amy, from the dirt which always finds its way to the creases in her skin. The distance between them is not as great as she thought. She leans over and rests her head against his shoulder, linking her arm through his.
‘I think she did what she had to do. I can’t find fault with your mother,’ she says.
‘I should have known you’d understand.’
He kisses her cheek, his whole body slack with relief. She shuts her eyes, letting him think she is overcome with emotion. His mother sounds awful, truly, but she would never say as much. She does not want him looking at her too closely, does not want him knowing how she lies because she does not wish to let him go.
Rebecca feels like a hatch has opened to show her his dark places, the things he keeps from most people, and so she feels closer to him. It is hard to believe they have only known each other three months because it feels like longer. It feels like she was born for this, to be with him. She still works most hours of the day in that dark, damp front room—Lizzie on the Singer, Rebecca cutting pieces, or embroidering, or doing the fine stitch work. But she is not thinking of much besides him: when she will see him next, what to wear, how to mend her dress, how to fix her hair. She has more pricked fingers and bloodied blouses in that month than in the seventeen years up to it, but Lizzie seems to understand. She just sighs and gets the salt to rub onto the stain, puts the fabric in the tub to soak.
