The Frangipani Gardens Page 8

  There was an assistant in a West End hairdresser’s, and a baronet took her to dine and she ended up stripped of her clothes and tied to a tree and coated with boot polish. There was another girl in a Sheffield razor blade factory who received an offer of marriage from an American business magnate, president of a corporation. (He saw her photo in an advertising circular. He sent it back with a ring marked round her, and wrote inside the ring: ‘May I marry you?’)

  The newspaper gave you hope for each day. Lifelong cripples were cured by prayer and cast aside surgical boots. Palmolive soap made you flushed, radiant, alluring. Mussolini’s clarion cry was ‘Live dangerously’; Melba had promised Marconi to cooee round the world by wireless.

  And there was Queen Maud of Norway. And Queen Ena of Spain. And the Infantas Beatrice and Christine … Thinking of them with their crowns and castles made Lou feel safe. It didn’t matter that they were up the top of the world, and she was down the bottom. The kings and queens, the princesses and princes (even naughty Carol who had amours), did for Lou’s saints. The wind kept blowing, sand was all over the verandah, but she went on believing.

  And like a half-forgotten poem at the back of her mind was Ella’s past: drowned violets, a pair of goose-girl plaits floating after dead animals down a creek.

  Dreaming sweetened Lou’s life, but it wasn’t something she could rely on. Most days that walk into town was real enough; you couldn’t imagine away the woman Ella was now. On bad days, reality had power to shrink even royalty to human size. The Infantas bled every month, too; Prince Carol was a man with a doodle. On a bad day Lou’s dreaming had the sense to turn modest: a sure escape-route meant relying on Alfred and Vi.

  And then Ella died and Lou left the house by the lagoon. But she went to meet the new life with Tom beside her; and, from the Bon Marché’s window, the bright lights of Adelaide burned dim. But Fish’s treacherous hands drove them into the Hills. Where nightmare faded. Auntie lived at Sorrento and she let them past the front door: Lou had got in at last.

  Auntie and her house were symbols. Doll, with her pale mouth and old-fashioned clothes was unquestionably respectable (it didn’t matter about being an artist, when your pictures always came out genteel); she did for all those other proper ladies who’d snubbed Lou through the years. And Sorrento, with its fretwork trim and down to earth paradise garden was just the thing, too. The town near the sandhills had been full of houses like that.

  The grandeur of The Frangipani Gardens wouldn’t have suited Auntie, but it was perfect as a setting for Girlie. Who wasn’t royalty, but had played a part in Lou’s imaginings, too. Unbelievably, Fern Gully had introduced her. In the Hills, Girlie had got free of her society page image to reveal herself as perfectly mortal.

  Those shaming schooldays had finally gained their reward. Somehow, all through them, Lou had kept dreaming. Against the odds, she’d believed and had hoodwinked her life into changing. The dreams were silly and sentimental, yet they’d had the potency of martyrs’ prayers. It was as if, by the intensity of her feeling and her longing to get away, she’d willed Girlie to come.

  Then, capriciously, Lou’s dreaming took a false turning. At the Fig Leaf Ball, she’d probably danced Girlie out of her life.

  And he was merely Pierrot — he was no one: she didn’t know his name. His cheek had felt soft but he was a larrikin; it was disgusting, Girlie had said.

  Lou supposed their friendship was over, but the very next day Girlie called. She was sweeter than ever; when they walked together, they linked arms.

  Pearl was banished from Girlie’s room, and it was Lou who helped her dress for an outing. And she did manicures; she held up the mirror so Girlie might inspect the back of her shingle.

  Whenever Lou thought of Girlie — then and after — she thought of a flower. Her dance frocks had daffodil skirts, and she had a collection of artificial shoulder posies, and her clothes smelled nice because of the potpourri sachets placed among them.

  But Girlie wasn’t rose or bluebell. She resembled something hothouse; something strongly-scented with a sweetness that suggested decay. She was an exotic waxlike party flower — something white, with a hint of blush or bruise. Lou thought of spider lilies and magnolias; of the frangipani trees that clustered about the house, their clumsy branches spiked with pale blossoms like stars.

  Girlie took Lou to the Arcadia Cafe’s sixteenth birthday celebrations, and it was St Valentine’s Day, so a little girl came on as Cupid and shot an arrow into the iced cake on the directors’ table. It was a whopper — three-tiered, adorned with sugar hearts. Everyone received a piece, and the orchestra played ‘Indian Love Call’.

  They went to the New Ideas Revue, and the Garden Theatre was al fresco and the fairy-lights in the trees lent an Oriental touch. The velvet curtains swished apart to reveal Mr Billy Maloney with his infectious humour and exaggerated walk. He twirled his silver stick, presented by his admirers in Brisbane, and sang ‘Princess Betty’s Lullaby’, his latest hit.

  Girlie gave Lou status; through her, more dreaming would come true. For the Renown had sailed over the international date line — Monday becoming Tuesday on the stroke of eight bells — to reach Fiji. Soon the Duke and Duchess would be in Adelaide. Already the conundrum of the hour for many was whether they’d be invited to the Lord Mayor’s Ball to be held in Their Royal Highnesses’ honour. Lou longed to be included on the guest list. Girlie smiled sweetly, and said anything might be arranged.

  Lou liked Girlie. But sometimes a small fear nagged. It was nothing — it was a warning. For Girlie was dangerous, part of Lou knew. But, knowing, part of her felt not fearful but excited.

  She kept visiting The Frangipani Gardens; it had become more home than Sorrento. The O’Briens were so friendly, Lou felt one of the family. Even Pearl seemed pleased to see her. She started on a hymn as Lou went up the stairs.

  And this day Pearl’s voice was triumphant. She sang ‘The Lamb shall ev-er, ev-er reign’. Lou wondered if Girlie would be going out, and what dress she’d wear.

  But Girlie only wore water-snake shoes. She’d left off her camiknickers, she sat at her dressing table naked. Up top she was more like a boy.

  Girlie was combing her hair. She teased it out, till it rayed about her head in savage tufts. Then swiftly, brutally, she flicked them away. Now her head was glossy and smooth.

  But there was nothing to fear. They were merely girls together. It didn’t signify anything — the shiver creeping over Lou’s body. They were girlfriends … Girlie was skinny. Except for the silky private hairs she might have been a child. Looking at her, Lou felt bigger and clumsier than ever. Yet she felt soft, sort of floaty.

  Slowly, deliberately, Girlie dabbed scent between her breasts. Nothing would be nicer than feeling her sharp-edged body press against you. Bruising, hurting. Now she was stepping into one of her beaded dance frocks. She was sheathed with jets and bugles. She glittered and rattled when she moved.

  And then it was like playing at Ella, or standing in for Girlie’s dead mama. Lou was holding Girlie; she was crooning nonsense words, whispering pet names.

  Girlie was small and lost, and Lou must comfort her. But all the time the beads on Girlie’s dress pressed into her skin. It was a torment. The beads were shiny black ants eating Lou’s body. Girlie was hard and unmoving. Lou wanted to call out ‘Oh please’. It was Lou’s body that needed the comfort — she would let Girlie do anything. The voice was moaning, now, because little insects were marching over Lou, she would be eaten alive. And then the moon shone cold in her eyes and Ella’s shadow went past and Pearl’s voice screamed louder that there was light on the gloomy hills and the nations should rejoice, rejoice …

  Did it happen? Girlie wore her silk kimono; they were sitting side by side on the sofa, and she was pouring out tea. She smiled at Lou, and said it must have been the walk up in the sun that had done it. Lou felt dizzy. Everything was scary; she did
n’t want Girlie to leave her, ever. Anything could creep up and get you. Secret holes were bitten in the peach leaves; the baby oranges fell off. Aunt Doll stamped on snails and squashed caterpillars between her fingers. Fish’s hand fluttered palely like a fan. Lou knew she was meant to tell Girlie something: she started to tell about Fish.

  Lou loved Girlie. She was it and a bit, and Lou had a pash. She was gone on Girlie and she wanted to giggle and rub up against her. At school, girls had crushes on Dymphna Trott. You wheedled her autograph and wore a bangle engraved with twin hearts. Lou had felt scornful, but now she was enslaved, herself. She was telling it all — about the hairs up his nose and what a reader he was and how he’d caught her in the schoolgirl corset.

  Girlie laughed his fingers away. He was only a man, he was nothing. Men were the giddy limit; they were something like monkeys. ‘Oh, my dear,’ said Girlie, and she moved closer on the sofa; she started confiding, and the world went drab and dark. What had been written up in the lavatory at school was true. Man and woman love was a small thing — comical, worthless.

  Lou sipped her tea and shuddered. Without meaning to, she thought of Ella. Even she had taken men seriously.

  9

  It was perfect weather for rambling about the Gully. The sky was a soft blue, the sun was gentle. Peaches fell into the grass with muffled thuds; the apples grew ruddier each day.

  Tom and Charlie were two friends walking past stately drives lined with agapanthus, cottages buried in hydrangeas; strawberry gardens and beehives … and then you turned a corner and it was like entering a different country. There were melancholy crags and glens that would have suited robber barons; there were groves of inky pine trees and, behind everything, the gum trees rose distantly in tiers. They looked unreal, infuriating. So softly scalloped, so regular … a few pale trunks wavered stilly, pretending to support that great flocky mass. They were nothing like trees should be … more like a dream landscape of moss.

  Almost every day, now, they were together. While Lou made for the model nursery, Tom dodged traps and trenches and tunnelled towards Charlie’s hut.

  Though the wild bees were always on guard he was never stung. Caesar jumped up in welcome — he seemed Tom’s dog as much as Charlie’s.

  And they walked past neat rows of cabbages, signs saying CHERRIES FOR SALE; walked among bluegreen paspallum grass and: ‘Apple of Sodom … scarlet pimpernel …’ murmured Charlie, and everywhere Tom looked there were flowers: spider orchids and the brown and yellow ones — bunnies or donkeys they were called; and wild pea and something pink and twining like fingers … It was so pleasant. Tom broke open a peach and it was yellowy inside, juicy. Juice trickled down his arm as he bit into it, and Charlie spoke of interesting things.

  Most people seemed to walk about dead. It was as if some ague crept upon them early on, so that by the time they were adult, they were embalmed. It was nothing physical, though — no, the mischief was mental. Proper people were deadly. Their minds were stiff and unyielding; all the magic images of the earth were captured inside them, and every scrap of freshness got pondered away.

  But Charlie’s mind had stayed alive. It was up there under his battered hat, darting about, acknowledging the wonder of summer verging on autumn. Walking with him, the natural world wasn’t diminished.

  And Charlie told stories of hobgoblins, satyrs, and dragons; and there was a man who went out with a burden and he tumbled in the slough and Mr Worldly Wiseman dwelt in the town of Carnal Policy … it sounded a good book, and Tom was allowed a lend. And gossamer spiders wove balloons to sail through the air; the trap-door spider had a nest lined with silk. In the sea were sponges called Neptune’s cup and Venus’s flower basket; in the sky was Vega in Lyra and Arcturus in Bootes.

  And certain plants, roots and barks possessed medicinal properties. You drank the juice of herbs and your sickness abated; you rubbed on marshmallow ointment and the sore on your lip healed up. Charlie knew of fever powders and sweating teas and itch salves; decline syrups and strengthening cordials. He taught Tom the names of plants and their uses. This was tremble blossom that removed the yellow tinge from the skin; that, tansy, the flowers of which, dried and powdered fine, might be taken in treacle as a sure remedy for worms.

  Charlie was a herb doctor. He traded his tinctures and ointments for a basket of hens’ eggs, a pot of jam (Caesar had been payment for a speedy cure in a bad case of scald head). The people who consulted him were old-fashioned; the modern world appeared to have passed them by.

  When Charlie had been a young man, he’d walked through the Hills with an old lady called Lizzie Potter, who’d taught him the things he told Tom. Lizzie had been noble and benevolent, a skilled doctoress in roots and herbs, but because her clothes were eccentric, and she kept to herself, the proper Gully people scorned her. It was curious to think that her tin house had stood where Sorrento did, now; that, all those years ago, Charlie had gone behind the squeaker hedge to visit her.

  Charlie stooped, and knapweed was hard to pull, so he cut at it with his knife. He would mix it with sugar and boil it up. The infusion would be drunk for pains in the bones — yes, knapweed had been put in the world for use in curing. But some plants were malevolent; you mustn’t touch them. Bindweed, that twisted in intestinal fashion, was known as the devil’s guts; enchanter’s nightshade, with its dusky flowers, induced delirium and death.

  Sometimes when they walked about the Gully they found things even more unwelcome. There was another clay manikin in the creek; HAZEL was written on a piece of paper nailed to a tree. Charlie crumpled the paper and sighed. Someone had believed that Hazel, whoever she was, would decline as the paper was destroyed by wind and weather.

  Their walk would be ruined by a find like that. But when they reached the hut it didn’t take Tom long to cheer up. There was the Nondescript and the Mermaid to admire, and then they’d drink tea and Charlie would tell about his travels.

  For, once upon a time, Charlie had travelled the world with a dwarf and an albino in a one-horse caravan. ‘Hi! Hi! Hi! Walk in ladies and gents. No deception, no ‘umbug about this show!’ cried a man standing on a tub by the side of a flaming gas jet … Charlie told the story so well that Tom felt he was there. He saw the fair ground’s striped booths. The roundabout gallopers raced on, and he queued to see the Human Frog who could eat sponge cake at the bottom of the aquarium without also swallowing water.

  Charlie had known exotic cities which no longer existed. St Petersburg in January had only five hours of daylight and the coachmen were wrapped in newspaper under their great-coats. There were Caucasians in astrakhan hats with silver daggers stuck in their belts. The troika drivers wore peacock feathers in their caps …

  It was a fairytale told to a child. They were equals, but part of Tom was still a little boy. He never knew what Charlie was travelling for; what he had to do with a dwarf and an albino.

  The part of Tom that Charlie seemed to consider most valuable, most grown up, was the part that others despised. Once Tom had asked him if he could brew up a remedy for his fits. Charlie had shaken his head. Tom’s fits, he said, weren’t the sort you dosed with antispasmodic tincture. Tom’s fits were a special gift, he should treat them as something precious.

  But Tom hadn’t had a fit for a long time. Instead, he’d started having curious dreams.

  Charlie was always in them, but strangely altered. In the dreams he’d turned into Cockroach. Dreaming, Tom was pursued by a mumbling horror with tangled elf-locks and fingernails like spears. But the glass eye was worse, because it had come alive: in the dream it was swimming in blood.

  When he reached the hut next day, he steeled himself — and it was all right: the eye was glassy and dead. But Tom wondered about the scar down Charlie’s cheek. A voice whispered treacherously inside his mind that Charlie’s past must indeed be villainous.

  And there was a dream that featured Charlie doing his cures. But
he was muddled with Peg Fox. It was Peg who’d killed Ella; there’d been blood then, too. It was Peg’s voice that came from Charlie’s mouth and told about the child like a walking skeleton with his head wagging backwards and forwards. A clock pendulum head meant water on the brain; meant catnip, rosemary, red sage, marjoram, wood betony and pennyroyal, but Peg’s voice didn’t agree. Charlie’s mouth opened and Peg recommended henbane that was Satan’s eye and snapdragon that was his beard and garlic that flourished wherever his left foot touched earth outside the Garden of Eden.

  But night was a thing that passed. Daytime always replaced it, and Tom went on loving Charlie. Though the dreams grew worse, and the Judas voice kept up its chat.

  For Charlie had to be a villain. Even if you disregarded the scar, there were other pointers to go by. Why was it that he hid away his hut, why did he seek to avoid most other people? For, sometimes when they were walking, Charlie ceased being Tom’s wise friend. He skipped off the road to become elusive, vanishing. It was as if the leaves or the grass had signalled a warning. Tom stood unaccompanied on the Gully Road as the person — it might be the butcher, the postmistress, anyone at all — approached. And if Charlie didn’t go to earth, but stayed his ground, Tom felt even more alone. For, unaccountably, Charlie became a stranger, a mere parody of himself. He was almost Cockroach, as he scowled ferociously, as he muttered vindictively at the unlucky passer-by.

  It was as if Charlie had an enemy that had charmed its way into Tom’s head. It hid somewhere near his ear; it whispered and whispered, determined to persuade him to deny his friend. But Tom’s love was too strong for the intruder to wear away. He stopped his ear against the insidious voice, he cast Peg and her devil plants from his mind. Nothing would separate him from Charlie.

  In the end, it was Aunt Doll who did it. One afternoon she was waiting for him when he returned to Sorrento. She’d stopped being calm — her face was swollen with crying, her eyes were full of pain. She knew where he’d been. An anonymous letter had come, telling of Tom’s friendship with the Gully hermit. And it was wrong — now Auntie’s voice duplicated the one that maligned Charlie in Tom’s head; now he heard them speaking together. Cockroach was dangerous. He stole away little boys and put them in a stew-pot to simmer; he sliced them up fine to eat for his tea.