The Frangipani Gardens Page 2

  Boy didn’t care, as all round him the dying moaned, but he did it for Jim — perhaps. It was written up, he got the medal. ‘Among the courageous and unselfish deeds for which decorations were awarded, the most admired throughout the Battalion was that of Private P. O’Brien, D.C.M. Rapidly gaining the enemy’s first trench, he made his way single-handed to the ultimate objective, accounting for fourteen of the enemy …’ They called it peaceful penetration. He did it with rifle and bayonet and Mills’ bomb, with the inner armour of self-initiative and confidence. It was described as sheer audacity. And then he fell down, and all round him were shadows and spectres, the impersonations of disease and famine, stalking to the general doom.

  As soon as she saw him she knew they were strangers. Though she smiled with all the others and ran forward to bury her face in his tunic. Flags waved and there was bunting and a big WELCOME HOME across the street. Boy wore khaki and his medal and cameras clicked, reporters scribbled in their pads. Boy’s mouth opened and shut, it mentioned pluck and gallant comrades. Gents blew their noses and ladies cried when it came to the poetic bit about battlefields covered with poppies, and a tiny lark rising. It was pathetic, Girlie wanted to hear of skulls sprouting from the mud like mushrooms and Prince Charles of Prussia’s azure aeroplane. Boy was a Sunday School hero with a sickly grin, shaking even Papa’s hand as if he loved him.

  Once Papa had been only Girlie’s; once he’d been a man, fierce and beautiful. He’d paid Boy back with cold indifference for pushing Mama towards her grave. But, when Boy was away at the war, Papa’s heart let him down. Overnight, the terrible autocrat was replaced by a weak-hearted puppet; his tyrant’s face was betrayed by an idiot grin. From being as good as the pantomime devil he’d turned into a comic Mr Punch. The pity hurt Girlie like a knife: she hated Papa for causing such pain, as much as she hated Boy. It was the war that had done it, people said — sometimes Girlie even believed it. Blaming the war made it Boy’s fault, meant he’d killed Papa as surely as Mama.

  But Girlie was clever, she kept her thoughts to herself. Even Granma and Pearl never guessed how badly she felt. Though Pearl got close sometimes, for Pearl was a dab at hating, too.

  Jim had died. Boy O’Brien had dragged him off to the war and plunged Pearl into mourning for life. The gloom cast by the death of a dear one generally left you without heart for forms and ceremonies — Pearl was an exception. She didn’t wish to be spared any share in the mournful details. Dead, Jim belonged to her as he never had alive. Each year she remembered him with a poem in the newspaper:

  Just when life was brightest,

  Just when his hopes were best,

  His country called, he answered,

  Now in God’s hands he rests.

  Pearl was a mourner par excellence, a natural for the livery of woe. After Jim died all her dresses were suitably sombre; she bestrung herself with jet beads. A hairnet worn low on the brow was a symbolic widow’s cap; her black silk petticoat and stockings showed grief had penetrated to her innermost sanctuaries.

  Her room was funereal, too, with its permanently lowered blind. On one side of the vase of woolwork pansies was a portrait of Jim in uniform; on the other, Jim again, in civvies.

  Pearl was a riddle. She sang that she was the white flower of a blameless life, but her tongue liked to linger on smut. Her hush-hush voice was a generous voyeur, always willing to share the peep-show.

  She was only paid help, but Girlie couldn’t keep away. Right from the start, from her florist shop days, Pearl was the person Girlie liked most. It was ridiculous, thank goodness no one guessed, but Girlie and Pearl were alike. They were both perfectly evil, perfectly strong — it seemed that way to Girlie … though, of course, she was only pretending. Imagining was a habit; Girlie had started early on. It was an antidote to her miniature size, and the attendant sweetness everyone expected.

  After listening to Pearl, life seemed merely a matter of bodies touching. Yet, as you urged on your Gully escort of the evening, your mind kept cool. It meant nothing at all, no sin was involved. It was utterly disappointing, but for ages afterwards Girlie felt defiled.

  Then it was an afternoon when she sat in Pearl’s twilight room. Outside, the sun was shining — it was hot, quite Indian summer, and all through the Hills the nagging rattle of seed-pods sounded. And as Pearl talked she watched Girlie slyly, it was almost as if she were playing. Then Pearl edged closer on the sofa: her silk petticoat made a frou-frou, it rustled invitingly and Girlie weakened. She couldn’t bear it, her body would send her mad; there was a feeling deep inside her, as if a giant finger made forcible ingress. And then Girlie knew no shame, she pressed herself against Pearl’s mournful bodice. For once, it seemed something interesting might happen, but Pearl hesitated (it was only for an instant), and Girlie’s mind got clear. She saw what she was doing, and the fever in her body let her down. Girlie’s nose wrinkled. Cool-headed, her ardour abated, Pearl’s body smelled decidedly sour.

  After that, Girlie recognized the danger of her near defeat. It was humbling to fall so easily into another’s power. Pearl was strong, therefore Girlie must be stronger; she must know more.

  For instance, there was a lady who lived off Wakefield Street, Adelaide, near the Christian Brothers’ College. Well, Mrs Karioli, like Pearl, always wore black — which was fitting, for you visited her to make contact with a departed loved one. Mrs K. was a medium and, because of the war, business was looking up.

  Girlie started learning of visions and voices, levitation and speaking with tongues. She went to seances where spirits announced their identity with the aid of a roll-call from the alphabet, and there were luminous hands and accordion music played at a distance. It was wonderful, wasn’t it — how Mama sent her message telling that she longed to hold you in her arms? Yes, Girlie was as bewitched as all the others; she clutched her heart, she sobbed as bad. But even as she did, her mind stayed cold, her mouth wanted to giggle at the gullible ninnies — Girlie among them — who sat with little fingers touching, obediently believing in their tame spirit world.

  For Girlie didn’t want tameness, sameness, safety. Inside her miniature body was an ogre, longing to get out. Oh, why did she live now, in commonplace times — why couldn’t she have existed when there were giants in the earth? Constantly, Girlie longed for other ages, when monsters of impiety were the norm.

  It was the one she loved who’d stunted her most. Girlie had been maimed early on. The reward of Papa’s tyrant arms about her had set her off playing little girl for life. Yet all the time: Damn, blast, devil take it! — while a docile Girlie sat on Papa’s knee and breathed in his heady man-smell, a stranger Girlie jeered inside her head and spat out the silent maledictions that cut at the sentimental fug. After Mama went — after Boy was born and Girlie relied on Papa for love — it was always like that: Girlie was always two.

  So it was easy to run forward with a welcoming smile when the boy-hero came home from the war. United, Boy and Girlie made a striking pair. No one would have guessed the extent of their enmity.

  Yet there was a moment, early on, when their relationship stood a chance of being different; when Girlie was given an opportunity to change it to something warm and alive.

  They were walking in the orchard by the creek when, without warning, Boy began to talk of Jim. It was as if he couldn’t help himself; he wouldn’t be silenced, and the awful thing was, that part of her understood. Girlie, who had loved Papa, wanted to hold Boy close and comfort him; wanted to push away the barrier of hating that had been there all the years. But the Girlie whose name was down in the Social Notes jumped back.

  What would people say if they knew? Boy was a fool to let the mask drop. For you must always keep pretending. It was all right for Boy to love a man — quite the done thing, in fact, Queer Street being a fashion of the moment. But you did it lightly — with an ironic smile and lots of back-chat. You didn’t say ‘I loved him’ with tears
in your eyes.

  It was easy to silence him, she didn’t have to waste many words. Just enough to let him know it was filthy. But amusing. But she didn’t want to hear anymore.

  They disliked each other, yet they were brother and sister — in a curious way each needed the other, for each gave the other identity. He was Boy, she was Girlie: they were a pair, no questions asked. Year after year they kept up with all that was new. They were tops at politesse over teacups, their feet moved in strict tempo as they danced away nights with latest steps. They never made the mistake of expressing an opinion, you were never bothered to get to know them.

  It was Girlie’s fault that things went wrong.

  Boy came back from the war one of the living dead. Apart from that shaming mention of Jim in the orchard, he gave no sign of feeling. If he went off now and then for a measure of dissipation, he did it discreetly — you were never embarrassed by a rumour. But Girlie was different, part of Girlie got bored. For that giant inside her kept living — it stayed a fidgety nuisance that couldn’t be paid off with compliments, or flattered out of existence by the successes of a social whirl.

  All the time she was so lonely. Though there was Papa to remind her of what she’d lost and Boy to hate and Granma to scorn and Pearl to … was it fear or love that Girlie felt for Pearl?

  She took little comfort from her surroundings. Even as she paid lip service to Papa’s nymphea pond, to the frangipanis which gave the estate its name, she dismissed them. They’d belonged to others first. The house and its grounds, the orchards and market-gardens about them, were constant reminders that Girlie O’Brien was small. Papa had brought them here on false pretences. It was someone else’s stately home they lived in: Papa was a nobody who’d made money from selling seeds.

  And when you strayed off the Gully Road, the hills encircled you; the gum trees humped together; the sky rose higher — you felt more and more alone. The real Gully country was gloomy and malevolent. The trunks of the gums were cold and polished as bone. It was an old old country. Who were you? Why were you there?

  Then one day Mr Teakle from the jam factory came to inspect Papa’s exotics. Hazel, his daughter, accompanied him. She was an innocent — rabbit-mouthed, moony-eyed. Peaches and cream complexion, hair that made you think of a sheep. A good girl, Hazel, modest. She blushed when Girlie took her hand.

  And walking side by side through Papa’s greenhouses, they came to a perfect place. There were leaves like tea trays, and stems making monkey-ladders, and orchids frilled everywhere. Hazel Teakle. The orchids rose in tiers; they looped overhead to form a flaming jungle roof. Each morning Girlie spread Teakle fig on her toast.

  She came to see Girlie every day. They talked; they sat silent. They were friends, it was a comfortable feeling. With Hazel, Girlie didn’t mind being tiny; she no longer felt she must dance faster, dress smarter, talk harder than all the rest or else she might disappear.

  Pearl was always watching them, her eyes were cold. Hazel shivered, but Girlie didn’t care. She was a new person. The split that had divided her all those years had healed, and Girlie felt reborn.

  But she wasn’t strong enough to stay whole. The giant triumphed, a storm started raging in Girlie’s head. She loved Hazel, but she scorned her, too. And it was the best excitement yet. Girlie felt herself grow larger than life. Soon Pearl would be no one to fear; through Hazel, Girlie would succeed where she’d failed.

  Yet Girlie hadn’t planned it. She hadn’t meant to … Why did it happen?

  Why did the voice keep saying it? ‘Do you love me?’ the voice kept asking — a familiar voice, persistent. And it was Girlie’s, of course, but it sounded like another’s. The strange thing was, that, even as Girlie’s mouth said the words, the voice sounded like Pearl’s. It asked on and on. ‘Do you love me? it pestered — whining, wheedling. And Hazel said she did, but it wasn’t good enough. For if she did, why didn’t she, wouldn’t she? — why not agree, why was it wrong? The voice went on — cajoling, urging — and now Hazel was sobbing and Girlie knew she had won. Hazel’s hands fluttered, then they were still. She was sighing, saying it was wrong. Then a dove started cooing in her throat.

  So it was done, and the precious thing ruined. Girlie had triumphed terribly — she was more alone than ever. Hazel had been proved as worthless as everyone else. But the hypocrite still lisped her I love yous, even as Girlie told her it was a sin; that she didn’t want to see her again. It was thrilling. It only took minutes, a few words, and Hazel was someone mad. She left the model nursery in a dream. Girlie began to giggle. Pearl came out on to the drive and stood beside her. Pearl was laughing, too, as they watched Hazel go away.

  And now Girlie pretended a new thing. She said I am a witch. She said Yes, I am perfectly evil. And she took Pearl’s advice and wrote to Melbourne for the set of books. They had a star made of triangles on the cover; they told secret wicked things.

  For a while Hazel kept coming back. She stood at the gates of The Frangipani Gardens, twisting her hands. She looked awful, a fright. She was dying of love, the Gully said. People wondered who had caused it. Some said Boy, others whispered another name. They stopped talking when Girlie went by. But that was ages ago. People started to forget. To most of the Gully, it seemed, now, that Hazel had always been lacking.

  Part Two

  Lou and Tom

  1

  The town was really quite near, though the scrub and the sandhills disguised the fact. Lou was the princess who waited, as she stood on the verandah and swept. It was her task, she must sweep up every speck of sand. Swish-swish, went her broom — and if she did, if she swept the verandah quite clean, something wonderful would happen. There was the Prince of Wales, there was Rod La Rocque. But Valentino was dead, and the wind kept blowing. Every day there was more sand, and you had to go to town, there was always shopping to do.

  In town people stared, ladies whispered behind their gloves. Tom was odd, with his staring eyes, and in summer he went brown as a blackfellow. The ladies whispered, they drew together. Why isn’t he at school? … Yes, the image of her mother … But Ella wasn’t ashamed of her body. She’d yawn and you saw the fluff in her armpit; her skin was soft, you saw the shape of a nipple. Compared to her, Lou was merely a lump, and it had happened — she bled every month, it was awful. A proper girl was pliant as a willow-wand; the Berlei corset ad reckoned the theme to be slenderness. And there was the shingle, the Hindenburg crop, but Lou stayed a fat girl with hair like Rapunzel’s.

  Sometimes, when Tom was sleeping, she got out of bed and stood before the mirror and undid the plait. Her hair made a shawl, it was crinkly, all gold, though you couldn’t see properly in the dark. She was blurred in the mirror and she let her nightie fall. She felt wicked: she was big and creamy like Ella — in the dark she almost believed it. And will go the same way, said the ladies in town. For their mother was bad, it was because of the men. Now and then they came through the scrub; they left their buggies on Parrot Road, the man with the black moustache had a car. They smiled at Lou and Tom as they went up the path, but when you saw them in town they didn’t know you. When a man came, Lou and Tom went away from the house. Further from town, past the red gums that in winter stood in water. There were insects on the native peach trees — those trees were sickly. Apple berry crept up trunks; running postman was everywhere.

  That plant was red; bridal creeper was white. Like the soursobs along the cliffs it was a common weed, its seeds spread by starlings and blackbirds. Lou liked to pick bits and put them in her hair. In the sun her plait looked on fire, all the small hairs that edged it were flames. A bride, she would be a bride in a Limerick lace veil. Lou mooned, dodging three-cornered Jacks, while Tom concentrated on the birds.

  For they were out of the scrub, now, they were through the sedge swamps: they’d reached the lagoon. The water was fresh, not salt; sometimes it was covered with ducks.

  Round the lagoon w
as a thicket of tea-tree. Tom and Lou had a tunnel. They squeezed through (it was dark, the tunnel might have been dug in the earth), and once nests were everywhere; once the tea-tree was one moving mass of wild fowl of every description. Nests hung on every branch, containing eggs and young birds and old ones — myriads of them, known and unknown. The birds gazed at Lou and Tom; their tameness was marvellous.

  They waded in water under which were fallen tea-tree twigs. It was hard to balance, for if you put out a hand to steady yourself, you might squash a fledgling. The noise of the birds was deafening; when Tom shouted their babble grew worse. There were all sorts of ducks — teal and whistlers and widgeons, and those ones with the rainbow necks. There was a big tree on which perched several eagle-hawks; under it was a bank of swan feathers and bones, for the hawks usually killed a swan each day.