The Frangipani Gardens Page 6

  But Charlie only had a walking-stick and he spoke English, though in a peculiar way. Despite bearing no resemblance to Johnnie Chinaman who pushed the laundry basket or the Italian who wanted to sharpen your knives, his accent sounded as foreign. He didn’t talk Australian, his voice sounded like music.

  Charlie was comforting. Sitting beside him, you knew that the small tight worlds people sought to imprison you in had no power. For once, here was a person who couldn’t be neatly labelled, diminished to fit a certain pigeonhole of class or creed. He had the cheek to be an original, to flaunt an inconvenient hugger-mugger of styles. Before Charlie and his unruly hair and ravaged face, his workman’s hands and musical voice, the small safe worlds lost their threat.

  Yet Tom was used to being alone. By himself, he could read and summon up King Billy; he had the birds and his fits. He wasn’t like Ella, needing another body for company; he didn’t sit dreaming of royalty, like Lou. Not even Vi nor Alfred nor thought of the Protestant Boys’ Refuge could cast Tom down for long. Always, he’d felt assured of a last minute reprieve. It was shaming, then, that a clay doll should have upset him so much; that a fit — a familiar nasty-nice occurrence — had left him cowering, and a bird had been transformed into the thing he feared most. Tom had seen countless unfledged birds at the lagoon.

  But as he’d waded in the creek, when he’d pulled the pins from the manikin, everything had turned topsy-turvy. The earth had seemed haunted, unreal. Tom shivered, even though it was a record heatwave day. He wished he’d stayed in the dark at Sorrento. Against his will, he’d been propelled into a nightmare world.

  But the bad time was past — perhaps it had never happened. He sat beside Charlie under the willows; the creek ran blithely over pebbles that bore no resemblance to animals; there was no clay man, no bird.

  But it was no use pretending. Something had happened to him — something he didn’t understand — and everything was changed.

  For Tom felt now as if he hated birds; for a bird — the thing he’d loved most — had betrayed him, had hurt him more than even Ella’s dying, had proved crueler than the tongues of the ladies who’d whispered about him in town. For the first time in his life Tom hated. He wished he was the man who had ruined the lagoon with his gun. He wanted to shoot down ducks, pelt swans with stones, plunder the sparrow’s nest.

  6

  And the Renown had passed Jamaica and Panama, and now it was Crossing the Line. Neptune invested the Duke with the Order of the Skippered Sardine; the Duchess was appointed Mistress of Mermaids, Sea Nymphs and All Such by Amphritite, his consort. The Earl of Cavan was made a General of the Horse Marine. At the request of the Duke, the mainbrace was spliced and tots of rum were served all round.

  And in Adelaide, citizens met in the Mayor’s Parlour to hear the joint report of the Decorations and Illuminations Committee. It was decided that King William Street should be garlanded with gum leaves; that Victoria Square would feature columns similar to those erected to the Caesars in Rome.

  And in the Hills, the hot spell was over. Summer rains had fallen, filling empty water-tanks and freshening the country.

  Young grass was springing up everywhere, and the pear crop was likely to be heavy, and everything seemed right with the world. The Renown was making for the Marquesas Islands; Lou had a special friend.

  It had been a day before the heatwave. Lou was exploring the orchard when a lady came towards her. She was tiny, like a Japanese doll, with enamelled hair and porcelain skin. And she lowered her sunshade and smiled, and turned into someone familiar. For it was Girlie O’Brien, and Lou read of her on the social page regularly. It seemed natural they should be talking together. But it was unbelievable, too. Who’d imagine they should become friends at sight; that each day after that, Lou should take the short cut through the orchard to the model nursery.

  And you walked between the apple trees and came to a wooden gate (nothing could be more different to the fancy iron one that barred your way at the front). And painted on the flaking wood you could still make out that faint FLOWER HILL.

  But the old name meant nothing to Lou, now. She visited The Frangipani Gardens: it was Girlie’s home. Since meeting her, the fact that Auntie and Ella had lived there before her, had faded away. Frangipani trees and rustic bridge had meaning, now, only because Girlie saw them constantly. There were servants and an acetylene gas generator. Everything was so impressive that it was easier, more convenient, to imagine the place to have been O’Brien-owned from its inception.

  Girlie’s papa was a stage Irishman with a yappy voice. The boy-hero was a melancholy man.

  It seemed unlikely that Mr O’Brien should possess a mama, but he did. Gran, poor soul, turned giddy when she stood, so must sit all day. She was wrinkled as a dried fruit; her veined hands were specked with age marks. But Gran, despite her ancient body, wasn’t worn out in spirit. You only said the ‘poor’ automatically. She wasn’t a nice old lady by any means; she stayed nasty and indomitable with a Clara Bow mouth.

  But they should have sat her in another room. The one she was in had been a nursery — Lou knew that little wicket gate on the landing; those faded wallpaper rosebuds.

  The room was all wrong. Ella’s past mocked Lou’s present. Strawbridges had lived here once; The Frangipani Gardens had been Flower Hill.

  Though you only caught glimpses of wallpaper, for there was a forest of pot plants, and the holy pictures blocked out the bits that fern fronds didn’t hide. Blood fell in dewdrops from Jesus’ thorny crown; a host of saints clasped lily stalks as they endured impossible tortures.

  Granma had visitors when they went up to see her: two Christian Brothers who put down their teacups while Girlie introduced them. ‘Brother Keogh,’ she said, ‘Brother Wells.’ And one faded into the gloom of the room, he wasn’t as real as the plants or the saints on the wall. But the other, Brother Wells, stood out. He had a face like a gargoyle; he had watery eyes, and the folds underneath reminded you of bat’s wings. And his nose was a snout with tight nostrils, but he had loose lips — the lower was so swelling, it cast such a shadow, that it seemed he had a scab on his chin. And he had black hair brindled with grey, and was red round the mouth … perhaps he shaved very close; perhaps it was caused by his rubbing. For, all the time he talked he did it — rubbed his mouth with his hand, so that the words sniggered out through his fingers, so that everything he said sounded secret. His hands were long and white. When he wasn’t talking, his fingers moved in his lap. Lou watched them latticing, making steeples.

  Where Brother Keogh looked merely dusty, the other was beautifully got up. If you skipped his face, Brother Wells was a dandy: his tab-cat hair sticky with pomade, the scurf brushed away from his shoulders; his priest’s dress fitting above waist like a skin, to flare to a missish skirt. The beads round his neck glistened; ditto the silver cross with its little writhing man.

  Gran’s companion, Pearl Reed, came in for the tea things. With her pale hair and skin, and the curiously frosted shadows round her eyes, she resembled some original variety of Snow Queen.

  Lou felt uncomfortable — she had a feeling Pearl disliked her. She was glad to leave Granma and the Brothers, and follow Girlie down the stairs.

  A bal masque was to be held at the Floating Palais. It was the Fig Leaf Ball, and the name was adopted from the motion picture Fig Leaves, which was the coming attraction at the Wondergraph. Girlie had the tickets already and Lou was invited to attend. Fancy dress might be worn as well as masks; there’d be a fashion parade and an Adam and Eve contest.

  There was a letter in the newspaper from ‘Deeply Concerned’ urging Christian parents in the City of Churches to protest against the proposed demoralizing exhibition of youths and maidens (leopard skin and fig leaves were degrading; even on the Continent it wouldn’t be allowed). But the manager of the Floating Palais wrote in to say that the Adam and Eve costumes were being made by a well-known Adela
ide firm. Of heavy imitation leopard skin worn over trunks, they were a modern adaptation, both modest and graceful, of the costume of an ancient day. The Floating Palais was a high-class dancing resort. ‘Fig Leaf’ was used more with the object of inspiring fun than suggesting anything risqué.

  All through the heatwave, Lou sewed her costume. Left to herself, she would have chosen something dashing — perhaps the Queen of the Amazons in a tiger-skin bodice. But Girlie took charge, and said Lou should take advantage of her old-fashioned looks. She narrowed her eyes and mused … Yes, she had it: Lou would make a striking Last Rose of Summer, and Girlie would supply the tulle that would do the trick.

  At last it was the night of the Ball. The pink tulle, with its elbow sleeves and ruffles, suited perfectly, as did the wreath of roses in her hair. Auntie said it was like seeing Ella again. Lou went through the orchard feeling excited, strange. She had turned into someone beautiful.

  Girlie was a Child of the Dawn in a frock of green chiffon besprinkled with glittering beads that resembled dewdrops. Boy was a dandy in tails and white tie, with crystal links at his cuffs and a carnation in his lapel.

  The Dodge waited in the drive. Girlie just had to pick up her half-moon shawl and they’d be off.

  But time ticked on. Lou was the Last Rose, but she felt like the Invisible Girl. The O’Briens ignored her — they were engrossed in a game of cards. It wasn’t Fish or Snap. Girlie turned the card over and a thunderbolt chopped the top off the pyramid. And the maiden had her hand in the lion’s mouth; the hanging man’s hair touched earth.

  It was only cards — only a game, but they played as if they took it seriously. Boy sucked his mouth in, he concentrated so hard that his face was mazed with lines; Girlie’s cheeks were on fire as her hands revealed Enchantress and Martyr, but her voice was ice-cold. The Child of the Dawn sat in the drawing room, but really she was far away. Girlie was out of Lou’s reach. It was the drawing room — it was a land of perpetual snow … there were icecaverns, brittle glaciers, frozen seas.

  But, not so long ago, apples had baked on trees, apricots collapsed and grapevines were scorched. It had been hot, very hot, and Sorrento was an oven with every blind drawn, but Lou stayed inside, squinting as she sewed at her dress. Aunt Doll went out in the garden and came back with a lobster face, the sun climbed higher in a cloudless sky, but Lou’s needle kept flying, she kept pricking her fingers, but the stitches went on. For the dress was for Girlie as much as for Lou — oh, how she missed her friend. The earth was cracked like elephant skin; hatpins turned fiery; old people were dying, babies, too, and Lou dreamed of Girlie. Then a change came. Cooler conditions were ushered in by a westerly breeze which gradually gained in strength. And the dress got finished, rain fell, and the pomegranate flowers would soon be lacquered red fruit. And, dreaming, Girlie merged with the Duchess: the Renown came closer across the Pacific; a doll-like being waved from the rail … Sometimes, when she awoke, Lou felt afraid. It would be awful if Girlie cast her aside.

  But the Tarot cards had been gathered up, now; Boy’s fate was shut away in a box. Girlie’s voice was cooing, coquettish as it complimented the Last Rose on her dress.

  Yet still they didn’t start off. Girlie sighed and said she wished he’d come.

  But when the door opened it looked like a girl. A skinny creature minced in, so proud of her silk jumper suit, her matching Lenglen bandeau. The O’Briens stared, as if they didn’t know her. Then Girlie started to laugh.

  The smart girl was a man. They introduced him as Swells. He was a horror, with his fuchsia mouth, his primrose hair; yet he had the nerve — despite the pin-prick shave dots showing through the powder, the half-plucked hairs like tacking threads under his eyebrows — to make you feel small.

  Silent secret laughter was everywhere. It was a lark, a giggle, and Boy and Girlie and Swells — despite occupying separate chairs — were linked together, tight-clenched. Lou was left out as their smoke-screen words said one thing; as their smirks and side glances said another.

  First they talked about the Tarot cards, and: ‘Devil cards,’ sniggered Swells. ‘Naughty, naughty.’ And he said he was dying for an outing in the wicked city, and the boarders were back already — it would soon be copybooks and inkwells again. And it had been simply ages since he’d broken bounds — last time had been for Greta Garbo in The Torrent. And Dame Gossip wondered how Girlie was progressing with her new little friend; and wasn’t Boy’s profile just too Valentino; and didn’t they fancy Swells’s ensemble, wasn’t his toilette divine? And all the time he talked, his hands kept rubbing — if Swells wasn’t careful he’d rub off the make-up, and who would he be then?

  And now Brother Wells was sipping a Manhattan, he was smoking a miniature cigarette. And cocktail glasses were elegant; maraschino cherries, delightfully red — Lou felt more alone than ever as she drank lemonade. They were sophisticates, playing a game of pretending, with smoke coming out of their nostrils.

  And then the car swerved, for Boy was momentarily blinded by the sun. It hung before them, luminous orange — gleaming, glistening, raying out. The sun seemed to dance, and below it lay a pastel-pink city … and that haze was the sea. Lou’s eyes watered, she blinked: tiny mauve suns danced like confetti across the windscreen, and the suburbs lay before them, sober, pearl-grey. Then they took another bend and the real sun came back, but so changed. Now it floated diminished on the ocean; now, reflected, the sun duplicated itself to form a pair of lips. Then, in a last pout of orange, it disappeared — the sea sucked the sun away.

  It was dark when they left the car and joined the gay throng, masked like themselves, who made for the Torrens. In the daytime, this part of the river was where you ate your lunch from a paper bag and pelted seagulls with sandwich crumbs and hummed in tune to the band that played from the rotunda. With evening, everything was different. The river bank had turned into the badlands of Pinky Flat, and an army of ragged metho-drinkers who stayed hidden by day stationed themselves under the poplars to pass round bottles and curse the moon. And voyeurs crept through the reeds; and sometimes a typist in an incipient condition tried to drown herself; and, always — up by the University Bridge, down by the weir — the lovers pressed closer together and ignored the sounds of departing last trains and the chiding voice of the GPO clock. But tonight was a dance night — the derelicts were tidied away, the trees hung with Chinese lanterns. Love stayed decorous and fairy-fingered, as you circled to the ‘Floating Palais Waltz’.

  And yet it was merely a dance hall built on a raft moored against the river’s south bank — only a structure of flimsy wood with a little picket fence round the promenade deck … but crowned with several fanciful domes, reminiscent of Baghdad, City of Delight.

  There was a crowd of sightseers gathered round the gangway, on the chance of seeing something shameful. Lou went past them on to the barge, and wished she wasn’t partnered by Swells.

  For, in public, Girlie and Boy were a pair. They walked side by side like husband and wife; they sat with elbows touching. Now they were out on the dance floor, one-stepping briskly with fixed smiles.

  Left with Lou, the Christian Brother didn’t bother to be amusing. He slumped in his chair, drawing moodily on his cigarette. His lurid mouth drooped; he twitched at his skirt with restless fingers. Lou wished more than ever that she wasn’t fated to sit out the evening with this gawky half-thing beside her.

  But the big sliding windows were open to the night and it was romantic: the river beneath you, the stars coming close. The swinging opal lamps were wreathed in sweet peas; you sat on a gilt chair and, as the Palais Syncopating Melodists played latest tunes, watched Spanish dancers and Eastern princes, Christy minstrels and a clever set of Pierrots with whitened faces.

  Lou admired fringes and feathers, petalled skirts and handkerchief-point hems. The ladies danced, and a shimmer of bugle beads and glitter-glass, sequins and diamante danced, too. Chiffon roses and
delicate orchids bloomed on shoulder-straps; there were pearls like pigeon’s eggs, diamonds like threepenny pieces; bracelets inset with lapis, cornelian, sapphire.

  Watching the dancing, Lou forgot Swells. She could smile when Girlie and Boy came back, and they went up on the roof where Fig Leaves was being continuously screened.

  It was the sensation of the cinema season, gripping in its interest. All about woman’s craving for adornment through the ages. Eve and the modern flapper … the same old tale: I haven’t a rag to wear …

  They came down in time for the fashion parade of My Lady’s Wardrobe, during which Miss 1927 gave a dissertation on the evolution of dress, and ‘Emancipation’ appeared swathed in black, which was wound off her to reveal white silk tights trimmed with flowers and leaves (she made her exit in a scarlet shawl). Then came the couples in their leopard skins; then the band started up a Charleston, and Girlie laughed rougishly as she manoeuvred Swells forward to partner Boy.

  And, for an instant, Lou saw the boy-hero as he must have looked on the battlefield. His face was grim as he pushed the Christian Brother away. People were staring; the white-faced Pierrots edged closer. They giggled softly as Swells reeled back. There was hate on Boy’s face as he seized Girlie’s wrist and dragged her out on the floor.

  They were Charlestoning, and all the Roman Catholic Bishop of Derry said in his Lenten pastoral was true. For the Charleston as Girlie and Boy did it, was a mad bad dance — an open incentive to passion, immodest, freakish and negroid.

  Now they clung together; now they drifted apart to turn and kick out dangerously. They were ardent showoffs with supple knees. Girlie’s dress rippled in beaded shivers; Boy’s teeth were bared as he clasped her to his piqué chest, then flung her away.