Blaze (6 page)

Nina closed her book and hurried from the tiny garden at her mother's call.

Clara struck a pose, chin lifted, snooty pained expression, one hand on her hip, the other out in the air with artfully poised fingers. Her mouth twitched and she began to laugh. ‘So what do you think, darling? How does it look? The rose or the gardenia?'

‘Not both? I rather like the cluttered garden look, Mama.'

Clara held up a length of ribbon. ‘The cream or the lemon?'

‘You're the milliner. You decide. Who's the hat for? Is it to go with a special dress?'

Clara pulled the hat from her head revealing a mass of dark hair sprinkled with silver, loose strands springing free, mussed from the hat. ‘You're no help. Lady Benson wants something “frothy” for the races. What is such a word? Frothy?'

Nina kissed her mother's cheek. ‘Like a milkshake.'

‘Ah! Thank you, precious. I know exactly what you mean now. Vanilla and banana. With sprinkles on top . . . pretty beads on a bow. Yes, that's it. You are so clever, darling.' Satisfied, she turned back to her workroom, humming an old tune from Europe.

Nina trailed behind. ‘Mama, don't you think you should tidy up, comb your hair? Mrs Morgan will be here soon.'

‘Oh, my. Oh, that's right. Is her hat finished? Is it in the box yet? It's the red cloche on the black velvet band.' Clara fussed among the rows of bald and faceless wooden heads until she found the smart hat destined to adorn the coiffured head of Mrs Cedric Morgan, wife of the publishing magnate who owned the most popular newspapers and ladies' magazines in Australia. As she packed it in the hatbox with tissue paper, Clara glanced at her daughter. ‘I see you are prepared to meet Mrs Morgan.'

Nina smoothed the skirt Clara had made and fiddled with her simple blouse. ‘She said she would talk to me about a job when she came for her hat.'

Clara stood back and regarded her striking teenage daughter. ‘You look very nice, Nina. I've taught you to dress well. But I think it needs a little something . . .' She squinted and tilted her head.

‘No, Mama. Please, no frills. No bows. No flowers. No beads. I like things simple.'

‘Ah, simple. Like a peasant woman,' clucked Clara. Then beamed. ‘That's it.' She rummaged in a large box and pulled out a wondrous scarf of shot silk in muted lavender and blue. She slung it around Nina's waist, knotting it low over her slim hips on the soft grey skirt. ‘There. Perfect.' Clara tilted the mirror stand so she could see.

Nina nodded, looking pleased. ‘You're right. It's just the finishing touch that my outfit needs.'

‘You can always add a little something to finish an outfit, Nina. And also, you can take away something. When you think you're dressed and ready, stop and look again. Ask yourself: Add on? Or take away?'

A rap on the door of their cottage in a quiet back street in Sydney's Double Bay made Nina jump and she hurried to answer. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Morgan. Please come in, Mama is just packing your hat.'

‘Oh, no, I must try it on. Just to check it's as lovely as I imagine it's going to be.' She swept in and greeted Clara while Nina went to prepare the good cups for afternoon tea.

When she carried in the tray and made space on Clara's cluttered work table, the two women were admiring the hat now hugging Mrs Morgan's head.

‘It's perfect, Clara. I'm so glad we decided on the black velvet band. I've bought a new black bag, with velvet trim. I think I can get away with it in daytime. It is the big race day, after all. My husband has a horse or two running. All very exciting when one can cheer on one's own, don't you think?'

‘Tea, Mrs Morgan?' asked Nina, the teapot poised.

‘Lovely idea. Do you mind if I sit down? Been such a day at the art gallery, on my feet for hours.'

Clara caught the worried expression on Nina's face as Mrs Morgan turned her attention to the hat designs Clara had painted on a stack of white cards. She wished Nina hadn't taken to heart a tossed-away remark made by Mrs Morgan about helping her find a job. ‘Please excuse me for a moment.' As she left the room, Clara prayed that this woman, the wife of such an influential man, would indeed take an interest in her daughter. Nina was beautiful, talented and worked hard to better herself. She always had her nose in a book ‘to learn something'.

Clara had brought Nina to Australia from postwar Yugoslavia. Just one of many families hoping for a better life who'd plunged their meagre savings into one of the immigration schemes offered by Australia. The country needed workers and for men there were many job opportunities in the postwar boom years. But for a widow with a small girl, little money and no relatives, it was a brave move. Especially as they had been forced to escape from Zagreb. Clara was not one to look backwards and felt her options in Europe were limited.

She had been the only child of an upper-class family in Croatia, her father a doctor, her mother's family the owners of a large country estate and city home. Clara, against her parents' wishes, had married a struggling musician with little money or, they felt, prospects. He had been killed in the war, leaving Clara with their only child, Nina. Despite her entreaties, Clara's elderly parents had refused to abandon their home. They had hung on during the war and, difficult as times were, would not consider leaving. However, hard though it was, they had convinced Clara she had to move to a safe and distant country with their beloved grand-daughter. The escape was planned and paid for and they farewelled Clara with what American dollars they had and jewellery to sell. But her mother gave Clara one piece of jewellery to keep, and one day to pass on to Nina. It was a goldsmith's work of art, a magnificent brooch in the shape of a dragonfly.

Australia had been good to them. Clara had been taught sewing and millinery under a migrant training scheme and, remembering the beautiful gowns owned by her mother, she had started altering clothes for dress shops and friends. After being asked to restyle one lady's hat, Clara saw an opening and concentrated on making hats. She soon had a thriving millinery business in Sydney. She had saved every penny to send Nina to a private girls' school near their home, but she worried how she could manage the extra cost of putting Nina through university. Taking money from her parents back in Croatia was impossible.

‘Don't worry, Mama. I will make my own way in the world. I can't sew like you, but one day I will work with beautiful clothes too and buy you a Paris-designed dress.'

‘Where do you get your big dreams from, girl?' Clara wondered what had given Nina such ambitions and she fretted they would never be fulfilled.

Nina handed Mrs Morgan a cup and passed the milk jug.

‘Sugar?' She watched Mrs Morgan add the milk and cubes to the strong brew. How could she remind Mrs Morgan of the promise she had made on her last visit? Had it just been idle chatter? Nina burned inside. What could she say to jog her memory yet not appear pushy or rude?

‘I love the way you've wrapped that scarf on the skirt, Nina, very nice touch.'

‘I love clothes and fashion ideas – and, of course, hats,' said Nina, adding with a smile, ‘How could I not? I live in the middle of it all.'

‘Your mother is an inspiration,' declared Mrs Morgan. ‘Coming here after all that sadness in your homeland, making a new life for herself when she had never worked. If I fell on hard times – heaven forbid! – I don't know what I could turn my hand to doing.' She sipped her tea.

Nina leapt in. ‘I would love to go to university, but Mama can't afford that. And I do know what I'd like to do,' she said quite firmly. ‘Writing and working with clothes is what I love. If there was a way I could combine them . . .' she looked at Mrs Morgan with a slight questioning air.

‘My goodness, Nina. I nearly forgot! After our last talk and the folder you gave me with your ideas and articles – I passed them on to the editor of
In Home and Garden.
It's one of my husband's little magazines. There is an opening there for a young girl willing to start at the bottom. Write little bits, help the staff ladies, that sort of thing. It would be a start if you're interested. I'm afraid
In Home and Garden
isn't where we look for fabulous fashion ideas – have to go abroad for that – but they're lovely ladies and they do nice homey stories in the magazine.'

‘I'd love it! Just to work in that world! I'll do anything, Mrs Morgan,' said Nina, her excitement tinged with relief. ‘Who do I see?'

Nina lifted her eyes. She saw the main course before her and picked at it, forcing herself to make small talk with the Baron and other guests at the table.

‘You're not entirely with us, my dear,' he whispered eventually and touched her hand softly.

She nodded and smiled. The dessert was served. Nina's choice of birthday cake, a
pièce montée
, had been wheeled out, the chef igniting a trickle of brandy at its peak, lifting a single flaming profiterole onto the scoop of sorbet on Nina's plate. The guests applauded as she gently blew the brandy flame out. A delicious botrytis dessert wine was poured and the guests settled into their chairs, eyes fixed on Nina as if a curtain were about to rise and a diva to perform.

The Baron stood, lifted his glass towards Nina and said, ‘Nina, we wish you happiness and joy on this special occasion. If you could share a few of your thoughts it would bring us much pleasure.'

He saluted her with his glass as Nina placed her napkin on the Wedgwood plate, slowly smoothed her skirt then rose to her feet. She looked around the tables at the candlelit faces, every eye on her beautiful, serene face. A master of timing, she paused enough for each guest to feel she had looked directly at them, and them alone, with an intimate, private message.

‘My dear, dear friends and colleagues.' A warm smile, a slight embracing gesture of her hand. ‘How can I thank you for sharing this special evening with me, and especially . . .' and here a brilliant smile at the Baron ‘. . .
mon cher ami
, Baron Triton, for making it possible.'

There was a swift acknowledgement between them and Nina lowered her eyes, took a small breath and continued. ‘What I have to say may surprise a number of you. As I approached this tidemark, I began to think more deeply about my life and the future these past weeks, particularly outside the world of
Blaze.
I have been thinking back to the start of my journey to create this magazine. How I started working in magazines in Australia and was bold enough – and naive enough – to think that I could create a magazine of my own. One that I would like to read and so, hopefully, would others. And so
Blaze
was born and grew to become
Blaze USA
, which has now expanded to include many international editions.

‘But rather than sitting back and basking in
Blaze
's wonderful success – due to so many of you – I have become nostalgic, a little sad that perhaps my usefulness here is limited.'

She gave a slight smile at the ripple of disagreement in the atmosphere of the room. ‘And I feel a little angry – well, frustrated – that I have crossed a kind of mythical border in society's mind. I find myself assessing my reactions and actions. As a result, questions present themselves to me. Have I performed well as a human being? Have I properly used my gifts and talents? Have I fulfilled my responsibilities and obligations? Are there still contributions that I can make?'

Her gaze swept the still and silent room. ‘Yes, perhaps these are the expected reflections of a woman passing yet another milestone, but I realise I have asked myself these questions before this, and rarely answered them satisfactorily. It seems that when one enters one's seventh decade, one should bow out gracefully and settle into a luxurious retreat and enjoy life. My friends, let me tell you what I enjoy.' She paused for effect, noting every face was riveted to hers. ‘I enjoy a challenge, the cut and thrust of daily jousting, internally and in the wide world that comes with running a magazine. In this age of electronic, digital and satellite communications, I still believe the printed word and images on paper will never become obsolete.'

There was a hearty outbreak of applause. Nina's voice was steady as she continued, ‘There is still a huge need for independent publications to be read and digested at leisure, publications that can provide pleasure, entertainment, in-depth analysis and varying points of view. The magazine market has changed somewhat since I began my career as a seventeen-year-old on a small magazine called
In Home and Garden
in Sydney.' She smiled in acknowledgement of the understatement and the mood she had created among her audience.

Nina continued, ‘Today, women from their forties to their nineties have much to offer. And, as such women come into their power, they should embrace it, and
use it
.' Her voice rose on the emphasis. ‘We are the role models to adolescents, to younger women in and out of the workforce, to other older women. I don't like to pigeonhole anyone as old. I prefer to think of reaching a specific point in one's trajectory through life. Each point should be considered an opportunity to learn, to grow, to enjoy life. I don't want to be an adolescent again. Life was challenging enough then, but how much harder it is for them today. And how they see themselves is a result of how they see us.'

She looked down briefly, thinking of Lorraine, then continued, ‘Therefore it is our responsibility as mature women, or as wise women elders, to show our young people that life is rich and that we can each bring about changes in the world. We must take control of our lives for everyone's benefit.' She paused and there was a ripple of polite applause, with most of the audience of older men and younger women wondering where Nina was heading with this speech, while the women of fifty and over clapped the loudest. Nina gave a broad smile, ‘So . . . I am not retiring.'