Swords and Crowns and Rings (28 page)

Virgie left her situation and took over the house, bullying, worrying, working, trying to make out as best she could on the mother's widow's pension, and the minute income from the father's compo. Bede helped too, Claudie supposed.

The mother couldn't bear the sight of Claudie and Graham. Change-of-life children they were, and perhaps the mother begrudged the time they had kept her away from Pat's embraces.

Claudie hungered for the mother's love. She was always hanging onto her skirts, clutching her leg. Once the mother hit her on the face, moaning, ‘Get away from me! You're like a leech, a bloodsucker. I don't want
you
, I want your father. Take her away, Virgie, take her away!'

Virgie was everything to Claudie, shelter, mother, protector. She took her to school, threatened bullying kids, punched up a schoolteacher who had thrashed the child over the head with a cane.

Virgie, when Claudie was seven, carrying her on her back to the hospital, cursing a strange man in the street who was reluctant to help, yelling, ‘My sister's dying! It's her throat, all clogged up. You gotta help, mister.'

Claudie half dead with diphtheria in hospital, Virgie looking at her, crying, ‘Her back there, saying the rosary and watching you choke to death—she ain't a mother's toenail.'

And then suddenly Virgie grown beautiful, blooming overnight into something so queenly, so peach-like, that it seemed impossible that she had sprung from the pitch-dark terrace house on the steep street above the Woolloomooloo docks. The fellows were after her like flies. The mother screaming at her; Virgie shouting; Bede leaving home, boarding somewhere; then Virgie clearing out.

‘Leave me and Grah?' wailed Claudie. ‘But who's going to look after us?'

‘I don't know,' wept Virgie. ‘But you got to try to be good, look after yourselves, don't cross her too much. I'd stay if I could—I would, Claudie, true.'

Mad with fright, Claudie flew at her, punched her, kicked her. Virgie just held her off, saying, ‘You don't understand, you're too little. I'd stay if I could. I'll come back some day, I promise, Claudie.'

A voice retreating, fading like an old gramophone record. Claudie throwing herself on the bed, bellowing, scratching her own face till the blood ran, wetting herself, bashing the sleeping Graham till her mother ran in and smacked her half-silly.

The grown-up Claudie supposed that Virgie had been pregnant, had run away to spare her mother and clever, respectable Bede the scandal. But that did not excuse her.

‘She could have taken me,' said Claudie, hardening her face. ‘And she never did come back, in spite of her promise.'

So Claudie, eight years old, was left to the depressed woman's mercy. In her orphaned desperation she had loved her more than ever. Mrs Moy had been a small-boned woman. Even now sometimes when Claudie looked in the mirror she caught a spectral glimpse of her mother, looking through her eyes as though through windows. And then her heart jumped with longing, as if the years between did not exist. The years she had spent, seeking, seeking, being rebuffed, being outrageous so as to have some notice taken of her! But the mother never had loved her. Even when she had come back to herself, she had preferred Graham.

Virgie was not mentioned in the family again, even when her photograph began to appear in the smut shops in the arcades. Graham had swapped his pencil-case and a comic book for a postcard that was being passed around at school. The pair of them, Claudie and her young brother, looked at the ‘draped pose' with frozen horror. One of the subject's breasts was bare; she had nothing on her legs at all. But she was even prettier than the children remembered her.

‘It can't be her,' whispered Claudie. ‘She wouldn't.'

‘The fellas say it means that she's a low woman,' explained Graham. ‘No better 'an a fourpenny touch.'

‘How could she, showing herself off like that?' Claudie was almost in tears. Then she cried in fear, ‘You never said she was our big sister?'

‘Think I came down in yesterdee's shower?'

Graham, like his brother Bede, had his head screwed on the right way.

Later on Claudie discovered that for a brief period Virgie had been mildly celebrated, a favoured nude model, an occasional glimpse of whom was seen in classic poses as Victory or Renunciation behind a gauze curtain at the Alhambra.

Claudie, grown up, became furtively proud of Virgie, so saucy—naughty but nice. She bought a photograph of her and often looked at it.

But in her heart Virgie, as sister, remained unforgiven.

‘She was all I had, and she went away and left me,
abandoned
me.'

What was the meaning of it all? Virgie's face, sagging over the pub table, dissolute, swollen, ugly as hell.

‘Serve her right for leaving me,' thought Claudie. ‘Serve her right.'

When a hand touched her shoulder she jumped.

‘You're nearly asleep, ducks,' murmured Iris. ‘It's after one. She'll be all right. Come to bed, Bubby.'

‘I'm miserable, Iris,' said Claudie dolefully. She rose and put her head on the taller woman's shoulder.

Drooping against her friend's strong arm, she left the room.

Christmas passed, intense heat, so that the tiny house was like an oven. Claudie and Iris, worked off their legs at the shop, tottered home late at night with bits of Belgian sausage and potato salad from the ham and beef shop, Claudie crying because her feet were so swollen and sore, and Iris with tart tenderness bathing them, powdering them, gently rubbing them, till Claudie went to sleep on the settee, saying drowsily, ‘Virgie used to do that when I had a toothache...poor Virgie.'

Cushie had a five-pound note from her father, with a scrawled note wishing her a happy and holy Christmas. She wept over his handwriting, so feeble, so bloodless. She had longer letters from her mother and Olwyn, full of Kingsland chatter, her mother hinting at a lovely surprise that the New Year would hold for them all.

Cushie wondered what sort of Christmas Jackie had on the Dovey River. Jealousy sharp as a spear went through her heart. But now she knew how to make herself feel numb to such pains.

One later afternoon, Iris took the brandy bottle from the sideboard, shook the dregs and asked her friend, ‘Hey, have you been hitting this stuff behind my back?'

‘Not me,' sang Claudie, swinging her beads and jazzing up to Iris and back around the table again.

‘There was half a bottle there on Monday,' said Iris. ‘My godfather, you don't think our star boarder has been blotting it up?'

The two women looked at the bottle and each other. Claudie said thoughtfully, ‘Well, she's certainly spent a lot of time sulking in her room lately.'

‘Sulking, my eye! That kid's turning into a cupboard drinker.'

Claudie giggled. ‘Oh, lord, just imagine Isobel bitch's face when her darling daughter gets on the grog and drops the teapot on the vicar's family treasure.'

Iris scowled. ‘Funny, funny! It's no joke, Bub. That girl's in a bad way.'

Claudie shrugged, began to jiggle once more. ‘Well, she can jolly well pull herself together like anyone else. Going on like a bloody big softy. It's not the first time a girl's been let down by a boy.'

‘You'll have to speak to her about the brandy, damn it,' said Iris.

Claudie put on an impudent face, danced past. With a sudden spurt of anger Iris seized her by the shoulders and shook her.

‘Are you seeing him again tonight? You are, aren't you?'

‘Maybe and maybe not. Mind your own business. Honestly, Iris, you give me the pip.'

She hissed at her friend like a cat, one hand raised to strike.

‘Don't you push me too hard or I'll clear out. You just remember that.'

Iris said under her breath: ‘You just do it to make me jealous, don't you?'

‘Don't flatter yourself,' said Claudie, a soft, teasing smile relaxing her drawn-back lips. Her eyes were once again a doll's eyes.

Iris muttered, ‘Don't do it to me, Bubby.'

Claudie glanced at her enigmatically, danced away.

Iris replaced the bottle by a full one, but by the middle of the week it was three-quarters empty once more.

‘Are you going to say something to Dorothy, or aren't you?' demanded Iris. Claudie looked helpless.

‘Oh, sweetie, I wouldn't know what to say, honest. Besides, does it matter? The odd spot doesn't hurt anyone. Don't be a wowser, Iris!'

That evening, after Claudie had gone out, Iris said mildly to Cushie, ‘I don't care about the brandy. I just care about a baby like you trying to drown your sorrows with something that never drowned any.'

Cushie said stiffly, ‘I'll pay you for it. It's just that, as I'm under age, they won't sell it to me.'

Iris was shocked. ‘Girl, what are you trying to do to yourself?'

‘I don't want to talk about it, Mrs Pauley.'

Iris pleaded, argued, reasoned. Cushie stood with her head bent, like a child, a yellow strand of hair falling beside her cheek. When Iris paused for breath, Cushie said, ‘May I go now?'

The older woman said compassionately, ‘Oh, Dorothy, whatever you feel now—he wasn't worth it.'

‘Yes, he was,' said Cushie.

Claudie came home early, irritable, restless, snapping at Iris.

‘Stood you up, did he?' murmured Iris maliciously.

‘No, he didn't,' shouted Claudie. Then she dropped her head in her hands. ‘Oh, God, Iris, I saw her again.'

‘Drunk?'

‘She was standing with the Salvation Army at the corner of Hay Street. Singing hymns.'

‘Well, gee whiz, that doesn't sound so bad,' said Iris. ‘What's the matter with the Sallies?'

Claudie burst into tears. She cried with her mouth open, like a child, her eyes squeezed shut, and tears tinged with eye-black spurting down her cheeks. Cushie saw that her aunt was pale; she seemed genuinely distressed. She rose, saying to Iris, ‘I'll go to bed. It's time, anyway.'

But Claudie turned to her blubbering: ‘Your own Auntie Virgie, and looking so dreadful, clothes hanging off her, and her hair...her lovely hair. And so fat. You can't imagine. Like a balloon or something.' Suddenly she blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and glared fiercely at Cushie.

‘And that's exactly how you're going to look, you silly mutton, if you don't stop sneaking booze and making a fool of yourself.'

Cushie felt that she had been slapped in the face. She gaped at her aunt. A fearful indignation, such as she had never felt before, rose in her. A vulgar, glittering spate of words rushed to her tongue: Mount Rosa had never heard the like. With physical effort she choked them back.

‘Don't you dare speak to me like that,' she managed,

‘Why shouldn't I?' yapped Claudie. ‘I'm supposed to be looking after you, aren't I? Your father entrusted you to me when you were in a nasty fix, and I've done my very best to be kind and sympathetic to you, with mighty little encouragement, I might say. Not everyone would have taken you in, the way I did.'

‘Don't you preach to me, you, you common thing,' cried Cushie. ‘Do you think I haven't heard you come in drunk yourself? You can talk! And as for being kind and sympathetic, you've been well paid for it. Fifteen pounds a week! Why, my father doesn't earn half that at the Bank!'

Both Iris and Claudie were gazing at her as though hypnotised. Furiously Cushie went on: ‘I shouldn't have helped myself to your liquor, but I'll pay you for it. Then you won't have anything to complain of about me.' She paused to draw breath, seeking some epithet both cutting and ladylike, but before she could think of anything Claudie ran wailing into the kitchen and slammed the door.

Iris let out a long breath. ‘Well, all I've got to say is, there's more to you than meets the eye.'

‘She shouldn't have spoken to me like that,' mumbled Cushie, cold and shaken.

‘Maybe not,' said Iris. ‘Just the same, you shouldn't have set her down like that. There's no harm in Claudie.'

The girl said defiantly, ‘I've written to my mother asking if I can go home.'

Iris nodded. ‘You've done right. You're a fish out of water here. And at least when you're at home you won't be able to get at the booze.' A softer expression flitted over her face. ‘Or perhaps you won't want to, you poor little chump.'

‘Kindly mind your own business,' said Cushie. Her voice sounded peculiarly familiar to her ears. After a little she realised that she had perfectly reproduced her mother's freezing tone when she was displeased. In some unexplained way this upset her.

Iris said, ‘Cushie, this isn't you. Don't be like this.'

In spontaneous kindness she put out a hand to touch the girl. Cushie jerked away.

‘Don't you call me Cushie. That's for my family and Jackie.'

She rose unsteadily and went up the stairs.

‘Damn you, Jackie,' said Iris. ‘Damn you, and all you Moys.'

She went to the kitchen. Claudie was leaning against the sink, sniffing, blowing her nose angrily, talking to herself.

‘She made little of me, Iris,' she snivelled.

Iris held her comfortingly. ‘Well, you should have been honest. Never mind, she's written to her mother asking to be allowed to go home. Yes, I know, you'll miss the money, but at least we won't have the bother of her. We'll be alone together once more.'

Claudie began to bawl.

The postman came early in Kingsland. Mrs Moy had scarcely bathed and dressed before she picked up the letters from the front doormat where they had fallen. She listened at the foot of the stairs, hearing the day nurse moving around in her husband's room, his washed-out whining voice. Olwyn, whose health had improved lately, was chirruping to the daily woman as the latter washed up the breakfast dishes.

Mrs Moy went into the morning-room. She felt thin, brittle; the mirror over the fireplace showed her face as gaunter and more set than usual. She sat down, still erect, though her aching back longed to bend. She riffled through the letters. Titus! His bold black handwriting prowled across the thick envelope. It so resembled Titus's personality that like a young girl she raised the envelope to her lips, kissed the paper his hand must have touched.