Gwennie's Girl Read online

  It was at about that time when Anna was given her roller skates. She mastered them quickly and was generous in sharing them with her friend and for days, they practised on the wide verandas which ran on three sides of the college building. The light was lovely there where the verandas were tiled in dull-red squares that glowed warmly in the sunlight that filtered through the wisteria. Near the huge front door there was light of all colours that came from the stained glass surround of deep red panels with gently swirling lily lines and a blue that took your heart away when you first saw it in the morning sun. If you stood in the right place, your whole face turned the colour of the sea out where it meets the sky. Lizzie loved those verandas. They were like church for her, but more gentle and friendly because God wasn’t there.

  People didn’t skate in church, of course. They prayed. Lizzie prayed in church, prayed for some skates for Christmas. She loved that feeling of rolling free. Even when they were banished from the verandas because of the theology exams, she enjoyed the motion. That was when Dr Beveridge suggested the old tennis court as the students wouldn’t be using it for a while, not that many of them used it anyway. They were mostly serious-minded young men who considered God a solemn event. The young Lizzie was inclined to agree with them given that God was the only male she knew very well, and she never really felt comfortable with Him. But she wanted some skates, and He was her only hope, so she prayed earnestly and long during mass and once she found herself imagining what it would be like to skate down that long wide aisle. Imagine zipping up to communion and stopping in a spectacular curtsy in front of the altar rails. Imagine the gasps of the congregation and admiring eyes of the servers and choir. Imagine. She stopped imagining and continued to pray, pray for skates on Christmas Day.

  But Lizzie and Mummy had already done all the Christmas shopping for Nanna and the younger girls. Mummy had found enough money for the doll that one wanted and the tea set coveted by the other. There were smaller items like new socks, a Christmas stocking each with whistles, coloured lollies, masks and a comic each. Lizzie had a stocking too. She was too grown up to believe in Father Christmas and anyway she felt it might be more useful to believe in God, at least until after Christmas.

  After midnight mass, she helped Mummy put out the presents so they would be ready when the young ones scrambled out in the morning. When they had done the final budget together to work out how far the money would go, Lizzie had known that there wasn’t enough for roller skates. Mummy had been hoping for a Christmas bonus in that last pay packet but it wasn’t there. Dr Beveridge had explained that the college had economic problems and had had to cut back. He was very sorry. So was Lizzie. She smiled at her mother and said how much she liked the socks with lace edging on top. She kissed Mummy goodnight and crept into bed where she cried. Quietly. Then she slept. She wouldn’t cry in the morning.

  The young ones woke early and she was given milk from a teeny cup and offered a cuddle of the “mostest beautifullest doll” in the whole world. For a minute, she thought she would cry—her throat felt all thick and hot. Then they dropped a heavy parcel on her chest.

  ‘Open it.’

  ‘Open it.’

  ‘It’s yours. It has your name on it.’

  ‘Open it. Open it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Suddenly, Mummy was standing in the doorway with her special, loving smile. Lizzie was still. The young ones kept on bouncing up and down. The heavy parcel knocked at her ribs.

  ‘Open it, darling.’

  ‘But we didn’t have the…’

  ‘Christmas means magic, remember?’

  ‘But we didn’t have the…’

  ‘Well, it seems we did, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Open it. Open it.’

  She did and those skates were precious. God might be OK, but Mummy was terrific—even if she couldn’t cook.

  In memory, Lizzie heard the tired old door groan as the woman came out to the garden. She called, ‘Come and help, please, darling.’

  The roller skates were regretfully unbuckled, the wheels cleared of any small stones, straps entwined, and Lizzie’s feet placed on solid ground. It was such a funny feeling, rather like getting off Silver, Anna’s pony, after a long ride. Her legs felt soft in the centre, and with every step, her feet hit the ground before she was ready. A funny feeling, but a fun one.

  The old door groaned again while Lizzie’s feet felt the stone floor, and she was welcomed into the long, cool passage where the floors and walls were all green. ‘Bathroom green,’ Mummy said. The surface was inclined to be bumpy under the layers of full-gloss paint. Through the scullery, past the pantry with those big flour bins. The girl could imagine herself falling into those bins one day. They had slanted lids like old chook houses and she had to walk around to the side to fling them back fully. There was a green tin scoop that hooked inside each one and looked like the tin man’s head from Wizard of Oz. If Mummy or Joe hadn’t filled a bin for a while the girl had to half roll over the edge to reach down to the flour. If someone—like Mummy—tickled her waving legs and made her laugh or gasp the flour would fly around her face. It was like being inside one of those Christmas water scenes with snow drifting up from the bottom. Lizzie smiled at the pantry as she passed. Mummy was in the big kitchen. Everything in the big kitchen was big, the table, the stove, the sinks, the benches, the drawers, the cupboards, the knives, the…

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘They’re called marrows.’

  ‘They’re big.’

  ‘I know. Aren’t they awful, darling?’

  The green things were rather a bilious colour, and they weren’t a very pleasant shape. They seemed to ooze around in a tight skin so that you felt sure they were squashy inside. They looked a bit like Nanna in her stays. But Mummy looked as though she positively hated them. Perhaps they were poisonous or something.

  ‘What are they for?’

  ‘Well, Matron said I had to—excuse the expression—stuff them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For dinner, of course.’

  ‘No. Why excuse the expression?’

  ‘Oh never mind that, darling. What am I going to do? I’ve never had to stuff anything before. Oh, I wish Mum were around. Why didn’t she ever teach me anything useful? It should be written in all parents’ handbooks: lesson 43—How to stuff marrow. I mean, where does one begin?’

  ‘What do you have to stuff them with?’

  Another giggle.

  ‘Oh dear, I think I’m losing control. What a conversation!’

  Lizzie had watched in confusion. Mummy was very confusing sometimes. She seemed upset but she was giggling.

  ‘Mummy…’

  ‘Yes, dear; it is serious. We must be sensible. We have to stuff, fill, the marrows with a mixture of mincemeat, onions and things. That’s all right. But how do we put it inside and keep it inside without it falling out again? And do we take the inside out or leave the inside in? Help! I sound like Alice in Wonderland.’

  Lizzie had thought Mummy looked like that too. The shoulder-length hair was pitch black and curled softly as it bobbed around. The wide band held it back from an oval face with clear, luminous skin and eyes set deeply under fine brows and thick lovely lashes. The girl was like her mother but different. It was as if a heavy, amateurish hand had copied something delicate. To describe the two faces would be to make them sound similar, but looking at them, the younger one lacked the magic and charisma that made people want to keep looking at the older one. When Gwennie was in a room, Lizzie always watched and saw those eyes and the mouth that were ever changing in light, mood and expressions. The face was lovely when it was still, but bewitching in its mobility. It was smiling ruefully at Lizzie.

  ‘Darling, what do you think? Where should we begin with these obscene things?’

  The girl accepted the plural person. You couldn’t just leave Mummy on her own.

  ‘Let’s make the mixture.’

  ‘Right; you wash your ha
nds and I’ll gather the ingredients.’

  As Lizzie entered the passageway, the door creaked again and there was Joe, a dark outline between the girl and the summer sunlight. He stood back to allow her to pass into the alcove which was also the washroom. She didn’t smile. She knew he was ugly. She resented him staring at her beautiful mother. Why should Mummy smile at him too? Why should he watch her as the girl did? It was extraordinary that Mummy didn’t see that twisted face and the dirty skin and smelly clothes. Everyone else did. Even Anna, who thought Joe was harmless, knew he was ugly. The girl had once thought of telling her mother but something in those lovely eyes and a tightening of that gentle smile had warned her not to mention it. So Mummy didn’t know, and Joe wasn’t ashamed in front of her. He was ashamed in front of the girl. He knew she knew.

  The water dribbled gloomily from the old brass tap as the soap slushed and slipped between her fingers. Wash quickly. Wipe them quickly. Return to the kitchen quickly. Just in time to see Joe relieve Mummy of her load of meat and vegetables from the pantry. In time to hear the woman flutter about not knowing where the mincer was stored. In time to see him find it and set it firmly on the rim of the bench, screwing it firmly so that the chimney looking part wouldn’t wobble, and the handle wouldn’t stick. In time to hear the woman thank him. To see him love her with his horrible old eyes. To stare and make him uncomfortable. To watch in unhappy triumph as he left without the cool drink for which he had come in the first place. To see Mummy watching her. To hear the sigh. To wonder about the hug and the funny way she told her she would always love her little girl so she shouldn’t worry. Lizzie didn’t worry. She knew Mummy loved her best of all.

  So back to the marrows. First, mince the meat. The chunks were pushed in at the top, the handle was slowly turned and the red worms oozed out of the criss-crossed grille. Provided you were careful not to graze your knuckle on the edge of the bench, it was an easy and relatively quick process. Gwennie had assembled the big bowl and several large baking dishes. The bowl was patterned inside with a network of fine surface lines, was heavy and sat firmly when you mixed things in it. Lizzie tipped the fragments of meat from the catching tray and watched them tumble over one another in the bowl and saw onions and herbs and salt added. Mummy had chopped the onions. The girl giggled at the sight of the woman with eyes streaming and a teaspoon held in her mouth.

  ‘It stops the smarting,’ Gwennie always asserted.

  ‘Look, it doesn’t. You’re crying.’

  ‘It would be worse without the spoon. That’s what Nanna always says, anyway.’

  They both oozed and squelched the mixture in the bowl. ‘Perhaps we should add some eggs to bind it.’ Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Four eggs joined in the fun and the girl squealed with delight at the last crack. It was a double-yoker and that was good luck. It would be a fine meal. Nanna always said that too. Nanna knew lots of things like that. She knew that if you spilt salt it meant an argument and the only way to avoid it was to throw a pinch over your shoulder. It mattered which shoulder, but Lizzie couldn’t ever remember when she needed to do it. Nanna knew that black cats were bad luck. When she was young, Nanna had a baby boy, her only natural child. ‘He was a bonny boy,’ she said.

  He was only six-weeks old when Nanna was bathing him on the kitchen table of her terrace house with the front door open. Nanna felt a chilly draught and saw the curtains that hung in the passage move. They quivered ever so slightly. In the dull light, Nanna saw a shape against the burgundy velvet drapes. Eyes glittered. The blackest cat she had ever seen stood there, staring right past her at the child she held in her arms. For a long time it stood, then it glanced at Nanna, turned and stepped stealthily back through the curtains. Nanna had known what it meant. She prayed and prayed. But her baby boy died within a month. Nanna knew about black cats and things. She would have known what to do about these horrible marrows too.

  The moment for decision had come for the woman and the girl. They had the mixture. They had the marrows. Mummy had the knife. It was time to strike the blow. ‘What if they explode when I prick them?’ They both giggled.

  ‘Mother and child killed by flying marrow in kitchen of a theology college.’ They giggled again.

  ‘Dean fears visitation of the devil as marrow pierces chapel wall.’ More giggles. ‘People at Parkville today are still searching for the remains of a marrow which spread out after a savage attack on local residents. The detective leading the investigation says he has never seen anything like it before in his career.’

  By this time, the carving knife was doubling as a murder weapon and microphone. The woman was enjoying herself, changing from role to role and always keeping a cautious eye on the offending vegetables as if she expected them to spring up any moment. ‘Bang!’ The girl nearly fell off the stool on which she was precariously perched. ‘Don’t do that, Mummy!’

  ‘Sorry, darling, that’s enough nonsense. Now say a quick decade of the rosary or something while I execute this obnoxious creature. It’s decision time. Make a decision. I can’t. I can. I can’t. Perhaps I can. Perhaps I can’t. I can’t decide whether or not I can make a decision. Aayeeowh!!’ With a leap like a Japanese Samurai, she threw herself on the helpless marrow decapitating it most efficiently. The little girl’s face was aching with laughter. She loved the woman in these moods.

  There was the middle of the marrow. It hadn’t exploded, and it hadn’t collapsed like a burst balloon. It was quite pretty with the flesh inside a gentle green with a dewy surface that reminded the girl of gossamer. She had never seen gossamer but she knew it would have tiny beads like that.

  ‘Well, now. I guess we scoop it out.’

  The woman was looking tentative again. ‘What will we do with the innards?’

  ‘We could mix it with the meat.’

  ‘I suppose so. It’s rather mushy, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think it’s pretty.’

  ‘You’re right. It is. Fancy being frightened by a marrow. You scoop, I’ll mix. We’ll both stuff it. Oh dear.’

  Lizzie began to prod at the soft green flesh, and by twisting the big spoon it came out easily.

  ‘I thought it would be harder, like pumpkin,’ said the woman. ‘But it’s more like zucchini or squash. I hope it holds together. I suppose these are the ones Matron meant. They must be because I couldn’t see any others out there.’

  The end was cut off the second one as the small hand was disappearing into the bowels of the first bringing out chunk after chunk. It all went in on top of the meat and onion until the mixing bowl was soon brimming.

  ‘It looks rather a lot, Mummy.’

  ‘Lord, yes. We’d better take some out again.’

  A reasonable balance was finally achieved, and all that remained was to fill the yawning holes in the two huge vegetables.

  ‘The sides are really quite thin, aren’t they?’

  ‘Do you think it will all fit in?’

  ‘We’ll make it fit!’

  Deliberately, the woman held the upended marrow and stuffed the mixture inside. At last, it seemed full to overflowing. She lowered it onto its side again in the baking dish and the mixture oozed out. She pushed it back. It oozed out, again.

  ‘We’ll have to put the end back.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Could we tie it with string?’

  ‘Good girl. A brilliant idea. Find some string.’

  String was found. ‘Tie it like a parcel.’

  The string kept slipping off the smooth curved surfaces.

  ‘Oh, Damn!’

  ‘Cut a little grove for the string.’

  ‘You really are a clever child. That’s just the thing.’

  A groove was cut and the string was pulled tight. It sliced through the thin shell and mixture oozed out.

  ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’

  ‘Well, as long as you don’t move it, it will probably be all right. I mean, not much will come out of that little crack.’

  ‘It looks rather odd.’<
br />
  ‘No one will notice, Mummy.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. Once it’s baked and all golden brown it will probably look superb. Anyway, let’s get the wretched things in the oven and out of sight.’

  The heavy oven door clanged open then shut. They both sighed with relief.

  ‘Let’s clean up and have a cup of tea.’

  Cups of tea always made things better. They chatted, sipped and played ladies together and quite forgot about tedious things like marrows and mixtures, until sometime later, when the woman went to check and turn the vegetables and gave a gasp of dismay, a real one, not play-acting. The whole thing seemed to have fallen in and it was a soggy, greasy mess.

  ‘Oh, darling! What are we going to do?’

  ‘Quick. Close the door before anyone sees it.’

  Clang.

  ‘Oh, doesn’t it look dreadful? Matron will be furious at the waste if we throw it out and we can’t expect anyone to eat it.’

  ‘Is there anything else in the pantry?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The students will have to be given meal vouchers for the cafeteria.’

  ‘They like those.’

  ‘Yes, but the Dean doesn’t because it costs him so much money.’

  ‘Will he be very cross?’

  ‘He might think I’m totally incompetent and fire me at last. He has been rather patient about a few accidents.’

  Like a tray full of crockery dropped and smashed when Gwennie was talking to the students and forgot about the step down from the dining room. And like the stray dog that she had been feeding which took fright at a saucepan clanging and ran berserk through the college corridors until it found the chapel where service was being held and it howled and howled when anyone went near it.