The Women in Black Page 10

  Once she was actually speaking to Frank’s boss—the slimy bastard—who sounded perfectly nice to Patty, a perfect gentleman— Patty discovered how easy it is once the lie is begun to make it sound exactly like the truth. She surprised herself.

  ‘He’s not well,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he’ll be back this week at all, really. I’d say he’ll be away until the New Year; I’m real sorry.’

  ‘Gee, Mrs Williams, that’s terrible,’ said Frank’s boss. ‘You tell him to put his feet up and not come back till he’s quite fit, we’ll manage; this is a slow week here anyway. We’ll hope to see him straight after the New Year holiday; you let us know if he needs longer. I hope you have a happy Christmas anyway. Bye-bye for now.’

  Thank God that was done. But the bastard: the selfish bastard.

  Leaving her to cope. Where was he: what was he doing? He had taken the old travelling bag and a few clothes, and all of his fortnight’s wages less the housekeep ing which he had already given her on the Thursday night. He’d meant to go: he’d known what he was doing. There was no excuse. Selfish, completely selfish. Who did he think she was?

  29

  The frenzy mounted steadily throughout the afternoon, taking on an edge of hysteria at around four o’clock and liquefying into near panic at five. The last thirty minutes made demands on the staff of F. G. Goode’s which their native stoicism alone enabled them to meet; but at last the ultimate Christmas sale was made, the crowd was all expelled, and the great glass and mahogany doors were closed and bolted fast.

  Fay dashed up the firestairs to change and retrieve her travelling bag: if she were to get to Central Station in time to meet Myra for the early evening train to the Blue Mountains she had not a minute to spare. Patty followed her slowly; the dreadful day was ended, the more dreadful evening now threatened. Appalling as was Frank’s mysterious absence, the thought of his possible return, of meeting him once again in these new and awful circumstances, was in a way more appalling still. She moved wearily towards her locker: it was strange how very tired she felt: it was not the exhaustion of the day’s work, but a lethargy more deadly, almost like sickness, and the journey home seemed an immense undertaking.

  Lisa skipped up the stairs with a light heart. There was Magda, to whom she had had no chance to speak throughout the extraordinary day. She called her friend, who turned.

  ‘Ah Lisa,’ she said with her best smile, ‘how are you this evening? Stimulating, this Christmas Eve nonsense, is it not? I have sold four Model Gowns this afternoon all to ladies who are attending the party tonight of Mrs Martin Wallruss, they feared at the last minute to be outdone. I am laughing like a drain. Tell me, did you ask your mother if you may come to my party? There is no need to acquire the couture model in order to attend in style, anything you happen to have will do very well.’

  ‘Oh yes, I did,’ said Lisa. ‘She asked me to thank you, she says I can come—I am looking forward to it!’

  ‘Very good,’ said Magda. ‘And let me wish you and your family a happy Christmas now—here!’

  And she kissed Lisa on each cheek.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘there is someone else to whom I must say a word pronto—goodbye, Lisa.’

  Fay was just emerging from the locker room when Magda laid an elegant hand on her arm.

  ‘If I may detain you for just five seconds,’ said she, with a charming smile.

  ‘Me?’ asked the astonished young woman artlessly.

  Magda laughed.

  ‘I have to make a request of you,’ she explained. ‘My husband and I are having a New Year’s Eve party—we would be so glad if you could come. There will be many people, some at least I hope will interest you—you would be doing us so great a favour, for the fact is we are slightly short of young ladies—is it not ridiculous? It is usually young men who are so thin on the ground. What is a party without many attractive girls? Please say you will come—Lisa will be there so you will not feel a complete stranger.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fay, quite unable to think—in a dreadful hurry, and in any case astounded by the invitation—‘thank you, I suppose I could come—New Year’s Eve—that would be real nice—yes, thank you!’

  Merde, thought Magda. Thank God that is done. Now Rudi has his healthy Australian girl, much good may it do him.

  ‘You know that Magda,’ said Fay to Myra as they sat on the train while it trundled through the suburbs on its way to the Blue Mountains, ‘you know, who does the Model Gowns—’ ‘Oh yeah,’ said Myra, ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, she’s asked me to her New Year’s Eve party.’

  ‘Crikey! Are you going?’

  Myra had tried to persuade Fay to come in a large party of acquaintances to the New Year’s Eve gala night at her club, when she herself would be very much on duty, in a new emerald green chiffon number with an orchid worked in silver and black sequins on one shoulder.

  ‘Well, I said I would,’ said Fay. ‘You never know.’

  ‘It might be good,’ said Myra. ‘Those Continentals always have nice food and drink, anyway. They know that much. You might even meet someone interesting, who knows?’

  ‘Oh, I think they’ll all be Continentals,’ said Fay.

  Then she suddenly thought: like Count Vronsky. He must’ve been a Continental.

  ‘Do Russians count as Continentals?’ she asked Myra.

  ‘Who are you thinking of?’ asked Myra.

  ‘Oh, no one in particular,’ said Fay. ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘Well, I suppose they do,’ said Myra. ‘But you know they’re not allowed out, Russians. You never really see any Russians, do you? They’re all in Russia.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Fay. ‘Still, if they were allowed out, they’d be Continentals, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh yes, I reckon so,’ said Myra. ‘All them people are Continentals.’

  30

  Dawn was on the telephone talking to Joy.

  ‘Don’t you say anythink,’ she said severely. ‘Don’t you let on one word or I’ll never speak to you again. It’s Christmas after all.’

  ‘I don’t see what difference that makes,’ said Joy. ‘He’s gone, hasn’t he? Christmas or no Christmas. We have to know sooner or later, it might as well be sooner.’

  ‘Now you just listen to me, Joy,’ said Dawn sternly. ‘I promised Mum faithfully not to let on I knew a thing. She made me swear.

  I’ve only told you because I reckoned you’d guess something was up anyway and cause more trouble trying to find out. So you’re not supposed to know a thing.’

  ‘Oh yes, typical,’ said Joy, ‘typical. I’m the youngest so I’m not meant to know anything that’s going on even in me own family. Typical. Well, I can always find out, I don’t need your help, do I?’

  ‘Honestly, Joy,’ said her exasperated elder, ‘have a heart. I’ve told you what’s going on, I’ve told you as much as I know. I just don’t reckon it’s a good idea to go blabbing about it on Christmas Day. And how would you like it? She’s trying to put a good face on, she doesn’t want to talk about it, it stands to reason. So just keep quiet, okay?’

  ‘Oh, if you say so,’ said Joy airily, admiring her smart new sandals which she had just bought at Farmer’s, bugger the Goode’s staff discount. ‘I don’t care, I just think it’s ridiculous to have to pretend, with your own family. I wouldn’t want to pretend, if it was me it happened to.’

  ‘No, well you’re different, aren’t you?’ said Dawn. ‘Everyone isn’t like you. Patty likes her privacy, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Patty likes her secrets, you mean,’ said Joy. ‘She always was that secretive. Well, she can keep her secret for all I care.’

  ‘Good,’ said Dawn. ‘So you won’t say anythink. And don’t say anythink to Mum either because she doesn’t know I’ve told you. She only told me because she was that worried. She said do you think he’s gone for good? And I said of course not Mum. Frank won’t get far. I had to say that to stop her worrying about Patty. But I don�
�t know. Frank’s a dark horse, I’ve always thought so.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Joy, ‘Frank’s not a dark horse, Frank’s a drongo. Get far! He couldn’t get from here to Manly without a guide. He’s just buggered off somewhere in a stew, he’ll be back, worse luck. Poor old Patty.’

  ‘That’s no way to talk now,’ said Dawn. ‘Frank’s all right, he’s just a bit—’ ‘Stupid,’ said Joy. ‘Dim.’

  ‘Quiet, I was going to say,’ said Dawn.

  ‘And he’s being even quieter at the moment,’ said Joy, cackling with laughter.

  ‘Joy,’ said Dawn, ‘you’re awful.’

  That was Joy all over: awful.

  ‘Anyway at least we know one thing,’ said Joy cheerfully.

  ‘What?’ asked her sister.

  ‘We know it’s not another woman,’ said Joy.

  ‘What do you mean, another woman?’ said Dawn.

  ‘What do you think I mean? I mean, it’s obvious Frank hasn’t left Patty for another woman.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Dawn, unsure on whose behalf she ought to take offence at Joy’s assertion.

  ‘For God’s sake, Dawn,’ said Joy scornfully, ‘just take a look, if you ever get another chance. Frank’s not exactly Casanova.’

  ‘Well, and a good thing too,’ said Dawn stoutly.

  ‘There’s no need to go completely in the other direction,’ said Joy. ‘Frank doesn’t hardly seem to know what women are for.’

  ‘And what are women for?’ asked Dawn.

  ‘I’ll draw you a picture,’ said Joy, ‘the next time I see you.

  And you can give it to Frank if he comes back. Then you’ll both know.’

  ‘Joy,’ said Dawn, ‘you’re awful. And how come you know so much about Frank?’

  ‘I can just tell,’ said Joy, ‘and anyway you only have to look at Patty. Etcetera. I think she’s better off without him. She should buy some new clothes, have a good holiday, go to the Barrier Reef or somewhere, and start again.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s one way of looking at it,’ said Dawn, ‘but I can’t see Patty doing that.’

  ‘No,’ said Joy, ‘that’s too true. Never mind. I won’t say anything tomorrow: we’ll all have a real happy Christmas. Now what—’ and the two sisters turned to one last conference on who was responsible for which viands on the morrow, when all her offspring and their husbands (where available) and their children (where present) were to converge on Mrs Crown bearing jointly and severally all the provender essential to a proper Anglo-Saxon Christmas dinner, with all the trimmings.

  31

  It was after six o’clock by the time Mr Ryder and Miss Cartright left Goode’s on Christmas Eve; they were among the last few to leave the great edifice and a lackey waited by the Staff Entrance with a bunch of enormous keys, ready to lock the door.

  A Jowett Javelin was double-parked by the kerb and Miss Cartright turned to her colleague. ‘There’s my young man,’ she said. ‘Can we offer you a lift? We’re headed for Turramurra.’

  ‘Now that is very good of you,’ said Mr Ryder, ‘but I’m meeting some friends at Pfahlert’s for our annual get-together. Old school mates.’

  ‘Enjoy yourself then,’ said Miss Cartright, ‘and have a very happy Christmas.’

  ‘And you too Miss Cartright,’ said Mr Ryder, raising his hat as she stepped into the impatient automobile.

  He walked along Castlereagh Street through the now-diminishing throng and turned into the vastness of Martin Place. He had a fancy (who does not?) to walk along the GPO colonnade, and a moment after he had ascended the steps and begun his progress he realised that the figure at the nether end putting a letter through one of the fine brass-clad posting slots was their own Miss Jacobs. Strange time to post a letter, he thought. She’s missed the Christmas post by several lengths. And there was something so sad about the picture she made—that lone, dumpy, self-contained figure, with her hair in a bun, with her half-empty string bag, posting her mysterious letter—that he almost wanted to run down the colonnade and catch her up, and then—well, it was futile. He could hardly hope to gladden what appeared to be such a lonely and indeed secret existence—he could hardly, for instance, offer her a drink. An ice-cream, perhaps. ‘Would you care to accompany me to Cahill’s, Miss Jacobs? We might have a Chocolate Snowball together.’ Then he remembered Pfahlert’s. Well, not tonight, he thought. But perhaps one day. Oh Miss Jacobs. You poor, poor dear. Have a very happy Christmas.

  32

  ‘Now Lesley,’ said Mrs Miles, ‘I want you to eat a proper breakfast, you don’t know how long it will be before you get your Christmas dinner, you know what your Auntie Mavis is like.’

  They were all to go this year for Christmas dinner to Mrs Miles’s sister and her family who lived at Seaforth; Mrs Miles’s large family took it in turns, more or less, to preside at the feast.

  ‘No, I don’t, we haven’t had Christmas there before,’ said Lisa.

  ‘Of course we have, don’t you remember? Four or five years ago, of course you remember. We didn’t eat until well past three.

  So you want a proper breakfast. Do you want boiled or fried or scrambled?’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Lisa. ‘Magda says you shouldn’t eat eggs for breakfast, it—’ ‘I don’t care what Magda says,’ said Mrs Miles. ‘Magda doesn’t know everything. If you won’t eat your eggs for breakfast you won’t ever get fatter. You’ll waste away. You’re still growing. Just have some scrambled eggs now, I’ll put some bacon in with them the way you like.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ Lisa drawled, ‘anything for a quiet life.’

  ‘That’s better,’ said her mother.

  Mr Miles came in.

  ‘Three eggs,’ he said, ‘fried, runny yolks, and four rashers of bacon. Is the tea made yet? I’ll have some toast too while I’m waiting. I could eat a horse. I’ve seen horses that are fit for nothing else too come to think of it.’

  ‘Can we open our presents now?’ asked Lisa.

  ‘What presents?’ asked her father.

  ‘Dad,’ said Lisa, ‘do you know what day this is?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Miles, ‘I suppose you mean Christmas presents. Well, I don’t know about that. That’s your mother’s department.’

  ‘We’ll open our presents after breakfast,’ said Mrs Miles. ‘First things first.’

  The meal was at last concluded and they went solemnly into the sitting room where the presents were ranged at the foot of the Christmas tree. Lisa presented her gifts to her mother and father, the small and the larger, and her mother gave her father one large package and then gave her one small and two larger packages. An episode of unwrapping followed by exclamations of surprise and gratitude followed, at the end of which time it was suddenly apparent that Mr Miles had made no contribution to the exchange.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, ‘I suppose you’ll both be wanting something from me. I suppose that’s fair enough. It’s Christmas after all. Let me see what I can find.’

  He fished in his pocket and found some coins.

  ‘That won’t do,’ he said. He fished in another pocket. ‘That’s more like it,’ he said. ‘Here now Lesley, you take that,’ and he handed her a ten-pound note. ‘And this is for you, Cora,’ he said.

  ‘Happy Christmas both.’

  Mrs Miles looked down, bemused. He had given her a twenty-pound note. The sight of it alone was a novelty.

  ‘Gee. Thank you, Ed,’ she said. ‘That’s lovely.’

  Lisa had been squealing with delight the while.

  ‘Gosh Dad,’ she said. ‘Thanks!’

  ‘All right then,’ said the paterfamilias, ‘let’s get going. Seaforth, eh? We might have a swim first. What do you reckon? We’ll catch the Christmas tide!’

  33

  ‘Doreen’s bringing a big ham,’ said Mrs Parker to Myra, ‘and the pudding, and John and Betty are bringing the chooks, so they can go in as soon as they get here. I’ll just turn on the oven and have it ready. So if we can finish doing t
hese vegies before they all arrive there won’t be anything more to worry about. Until the gravy.’

  Myra was peeling five pounds of potatoes. There would be thirteen of them to dinner counting the toddler. Unlucky number, she thought. Better not count the toddler.

  ‘Did you and Fay finish setting the table?’ asked her mother.

  They were going to squash around the ping-pong table on the back verandah to eat this feast; it was now covered with Mrs Parker’s best tablecloth, which she still had from when she was first married, but as it wasn’t quite large enough there was a double-bed sheet underneath it.

  ‘Sure,’ said Myra. ‘Fay’s just folding the serviettes now, in shapes.’

  Fay had acquired this art in one of her cocktail waitressing years; she was making mitres. Mrs Parker put down her peeling knife and went to make sure for herself that everything was as it should be.

  ‘Now that’s just lovely,’ she said to Fay. ‘It looks real posh.’

  Later on that day, many hours later, Fay was playing skipping games on the lawn with Myra’s nieces while her nephews did rough things in trees and the toddler slept exhausted on a rug. The men were drinking beer and Myra and her mother and sister and sister-in-law gossiped together in deckchairs.

  ‘You want to find a husband for that Fay,’ said Mrs Parker to Myra. ‘None of your nightclub riff-raff. Someone nice and steady.

  Look how she’s playing with the girls. You can see she gets on with children. She wants to be married and have some of her own.’

  ‘Well, I’ve done my best,’ said Myra. ‘But she’s a bit particular.’ ‘So she should be,’ said Mrs Parker. The sorts of men you see these days.’

  ‘Now, Mum, what do you know about that?’ asked Doreen.