Swords and Crowns and Rings (29 page)

‘Oh, Titus, save me! Help me!'

She read his letter quickly. Life flowed back into her body. She put up a hand to her severely brushed back hair, loosened a hairpin or two, pulled a wave out over her forehead. Her body relaxed, her breasts felt heavy. She had a sensation as though her blood sparkled.

...Hurry up, Belle, darling. I long to see you sitting in the drawing-room, wearing a delicious teagown from Molyneux, enchanting all the old aristos and making Laetitia mad with envy. What does it matter if your husband is ill? Do be a sensible girl. What are hospitals for? Or bring him with you, and he might subside into a wheelchair, like poor Broome. I promise you, dearest, sister Tish had no such qualms after the old bart had his stroke. A wheelchair, a strong manservant, rooms on the other side of the house. Just the thing for what's-his-name. Come now, make up your mind, don't be naughty, I shan't wait for ever, you know.

Isobel went to the glass, passed her fingertips over her face. Her beauty was clouded, the skin above her eyes a little puffy, her hair had a look of straw rather than silk. She was perfectly aware that without her beauty Titus would not look at her twice. But this dimming was a temporary thing, caused by all the broken sleep she had had since Bede had his heart attack. In spite of the night nurse, she was not able to get proper rest. She would have to have professional beauty treatment before they left for London.

‘And I will go to London, I am going to London, I will arrange it somehow.'

She returned to her chair, rejected the temptation to read Titus's letter again, and looked at the others—one from her mother, bills, the Bank, Cushie's unformed hand. It looked like a child's careful, round-lettered writing. Was that all Mount Rosa could do for her?

‘Mama, please let me come home. I am perfectly well now. I don't like this place. It's very nearly in a slum, and Aunt Claudie and Mrs Pauley are quite common. I worry and worry about Daddy. Please let me come home.'

Mrs Moy's hand clenched on the page in a frenzy of irritation. Olwyn ran in, something almost like vivacity enlivening her narrow face. She was plain. The Jackaman nose, so impressive on the menfolk, stuck out like a beak in that countenance; the child's jaw also had grown too large for the rest of her. The eyes were Clara Jackaman's wan, blue, protuberant eyes. Why the devil couldn't Bede have passed on his matinee-idol features to his child? Mrs Moy's heart filled with love and compassion for Olwyn. London doctors would cure her, a long sea voyage, a change of climate...She might yet turn out a beauty, who could tell?

‘Is it all right if Mrs Cartwright teaches me how to bake a sponge, Mama?'

‘Of course. Only a sponge, however; no other dishes, except a trifle, perhaps. I don't like to think of my little girl in the kitchen.'

‘Oh, you've a letter from Cushie! Read it out, Mama.'

‘Presently, dearest. I must read it to Daddy first. Do you feel well this morning?'

Olwyn lingered. ‘What does Cushie say? Does she miss me?'

‘Of course. Run along!'

Isobel, her face firm, returned to Cushie's letter. The rest of it was as ineptly phrased as the first page, a passionate plea to return home, assurances of good behaviour, love, helpfulness.

‘You wouldn't need a nurse if you had me, I could look after Daddy, truly. I would be so willing.'

Mrs Moy neatly folded the letter. Power had come back to her fatigued body and mind. She felt it running, bright as electricity, in her veins. She sat quietly, conserving this now rare energy, thinking about Cushie.

What would be the advantage of having the girl at home? She could imagine Dorothy's distress when she saw the change in her father—tears, sobs, oh, darling Daddy, great soppy outbursts. Upsetting Bede, who was, God knows, hypochondriac enough, worrying about the Bank, his job, every twinge in his chest, his pulse, the late arrival of the doctor, the fussiness of the nurse. He had even seen the priest, and now kept a rosary under his pillow. After all these years of estrangement from his Church! She could not help a twinge of distaste. Holy water next, she anticipated.

No, Dorothy would not be good for Bede. There was also the danger that the Hanna boy might come home. The idea was intolerable.

The crisis of the girl's condition had been solved. She was temporarily in good care, and even if Claudie List and her friend were vulgar it would make Dorothy appreciate her own home, education, and refined background.

No, Dorothy must not return. In fact, it might be better to leave her in Sydney until they all went to that city to take ship to London. London! Isobel closed her eyes, a tremor went through her, her cheeks flushed. For an instant she looked like Belle Jackaman, dazzling Belle.

At first she had seen Titus's invitation as a possible avenue of escape to her old life, the rich, dignified life to which she had been born. But now she saw it as a certainty. Bede's illness had seemed a fatal blow to her hopes; but perhaps in its way it was a blessing. He was frightened and submissive. She knew that if she played enough on his apprehensions he could be wheedled into retirement. Going to England could be presented as a means of restoring him to health: the restful voyage, the finest medical care in the world, Harley Street...she could imagine his dull, anxious eyes lighting up with the importance of that famous name. She smiled. Bede would be no trouble.

And if he should die? The doctor had said there was a grave possibility. Well, she did not wish her husband dead, but if he should—Isobel did not trouble to prevaricate. It would be the simplest way out of a predicament, and the girls were young enough to get over their bereavement quickly.

No. Cushie's intransigence was a barrier to be removed. She would stop this homesick wailing and whining once and for all, by writing a letter of some asperity. Cushie was too soft, vacillatory: in truth, a real Moy. She had to learn her lessons the hard way.

The days during which Cushie waited for a reply to her letter were uncomfortable ones. Claudie did not speak to her, but treated her to an entire repertoire of looks—haughty, wistful, heartbroken, and innocent. Yet Claudie had other things on her mind: she seemed obsessed with the reappearance of Virgie, and did not go out any more in the evenings in case she met and was recognised by her sister.

‘I just couldn't manage, Iris,' she said pathetically. ‘Whatever would I say to her? Oh, why did she have to turn up again; it's just too awful.'

When her mother's letter finally arrived, Cushie opened it with hope and gratitude.

To someone other than Cushie it may have seemed a little brusque, no more.

...You must understand that Daddy has been very ill. It is likely that he will have to retire.

You must cease this nonsense and pull yourself together. I am happy that you have recuperated so well from your illness, but this is all the more reason why you should understand my present burdens and co-operate with my plans for us all.

You are now eighteen, my dear Dorothy, and I expect from you the support of a grown-up daughter. Remember that you have brought upon yourself this separation from your family. You must bear your troubles with fortitude, as indeed I try to do. Olwyn, too, has been brave and helpful, though not at all well.

Of my plans for Daddy's convalescence, more later. In the meantime, I expect you to behave like a lady, and my daughter, even though your circumstances may not be entirely to your liking. These people have not had your advantages. You must make allowances at all times.

Cushie, examining the letter, could see where, now and again, the fine nib of her mother's pen had dug into the paper.

She's still angry with me. She doesn't want to see me. Yet I've been away so long!

She read the letter over and over again, and the words stabbed into her heart. How long, how long? Grown-up? She felt no different from the way she had when she was twelve, except then she had been happy and now she was wretched. She longed for relief from this nagging pain and emptiness. But the brandy bottle was almost empty.

‘I have to have something,' she thought in desperation. ‘Something to help me stick it out till things get better. What does it matter if Mama wouldn't approve? There are so many things she doesn't seem to understand.'

Vividly she recalled her mother's disdain of the drunken men who sometimes lurched along the streets in Kingsland—spew on their chins, their eyes unseeing, faces varnished crimson.

‘It's because they wanted to shut life out, Mama. They couldn't cope with life somehow. Like me, Mama.'

She went downstairs. Iris was preparing a meal.

‘Well?' she said. Cushie knew Iris had noticed the letter from Kingsland arrive.

She said, in as indifferent a voice as she could produce, ‘She wants me to stay here. My father seems more ill than I thought. But I suppose if you and Aunt Claudie want me to go...if you write...'

‘Neither of us wants you to go. We're just sorry you haven't been happier here.' She turned down the gas to a ring of azure dots, sighed. ‘Have you thought of going to your other relatives, your Grandmother Jackaman?'

Cushie shook her head. ‘My mother made me promise not to let them know I was in Sydney, and I truly don't want to worry Granny.'

Iris nodded. ‘Well, let's sit down in the dining-room and try to sort things out. Yes, come on—you can't dodge everything, damn you!'

She seized Cushie's arm and propelled her into the little room, sat her down. ‘Sit there and shut up. And don't come the little lady with me. A drunk is no longer a little lady, and that's what you're promising to be.'

Cushie flushed, tried to speak, hung her head.

Iris continued. ‘You think I can't possibly understand how you feel, about your boy especially; but I do, and so does Claudie. It's just that we're old enough to know that nothing lasts, not even misery, or the feeling you've been let down and nobody loves you and the end of the world has come. By the time you're twenty you'll have forgotten all this.'

Cushie shook her head.

‘I'm telling you that's the way it is. You kids never listen, that's the trouble. No matter how bad you feel, time marches on, and the day comes when you won't even be able to remember Jackie's face.'

Cushie gazed at her in dumb misery.

‘It's hard to believe, isn't it? It's more romantic to think you're the centre of a tragedy, like someone in a play, and that your whole life is finished. But life isn't like that. It's self-mending, if you let it be. Claudie's had her troubles, worse ones than you know exist, and so have I. I was married once, and my husband left me. And I had two little boys who both died in one week during the big 'flu in 1918. Eight and six they were. I took a dose of chloral, but it didn't do the trick, and I'm glad now. And then I went into hairdressing, and I met Claudie, and I began to feel happy again.'

‘You're not happy,' said Cushie abruptly. She looked straight at the older woman, saw her eyelids flicker. Then Iris grinned.

‘Well, it doesn't matter about that: contentment, happiness, who knows the difference? I just want to tell you nothing's worth drinking yourself silly for. Sure, booze deadens your troubles for a while, but it cures nothing. And it'll ruin your looks and your health, sure as eggs are eggs.'

She put out a hand and gently lifted Cushie's chin. The girl did not pull away, and looked fleetingly at the woman—a glance of such sad incomprehension that Iris sighed.

‘Ah, girl, I'm not even alive for you, am I? Just an older woman, butting in where I'm not wanted, embarrassing you, and all for nothing.'

‘I know you mean to be kind,' muttered Cushie, hanging her head. ‘And I'm sorry about the little boys. I didn't know.'

Iris nodded. ‘Well, no more then. But promise you won't hit the bottle any more? Word of honour?' But before Cushie could answer she said, ‘Anyway, Claudie and I have agreed that not a drop more of the stuff will come into the house while you're here: so you're euchred, kiddo.'

‘But that will mean that you and Aunt Claudie won't be able to have a drink if you want it.'

‘Do us good.'

‘Liar,' thought Cushie.

She knew that Claudie at least would not go without alcohol; it would be hidden somewhere around the house. The frequent quarrels between her and Iris were sharpened and precipitated by drink. How quickly Cushie had learnt to recognise it in their voices! She did not care how things were between the two women, but she learnt from the nagging, the complaints, that Claudie was fed up with everything, wanted to go away for a little fling. Yet Iris was desperate that Claudie should not go away. Why? Cushie could not think of a single reason why a sensible, self-sufficient woman like Iris Pauley should want to continue an association with the flighty Claudie.

The protests of ‘You're smothering me, Iris!' made no sense to Cushie.

Cushie was clumsy and speechless in the hairdressing shop. She got on Claudie's nerves so that at last she couldn't bear the girl's doing anything but sweep away hair clippings or make the tea.

But Iris did her best to keep her occupied, sending her on errands here and there to fetch supplies, to get scissors and razors sharpened in queer eyries at the top of crumbling buildings in Pyrmont and the Haymarket. So she began to learn a little of the city that lay, like a lump of irregular, time-worn stone, on the palm of a huge hand that was the blue-fingered Harbour. It was a city she had not guessed existed. On her brief holiday forays with her mother and Olwyn they had shopped only in the fashionable streets, with a cab waiting at the shop doors, the cabman ready to dart forward to take their parcels. Then afternoon-tea at Quong Tart's, and back to the Metropolitan Hotel with its palm-shadowed drawing-rooms. Cushie, sweating along precipitous back alleys, up flights of hollowed stone stairs, in and out of warehouses so tall and narrow they seemed to totter against the clouds, could have laughed at the child's idea she had had of Sydney.