Gwennie's Girl Read online

  ‘Oh dear, when I think about it, we’d better do something to salvage them.’

  She opened the door of the oven again, hoping that they might have improved. They hadn’t.

  ‘I don’t even dare try to turn them.’

  They sat looking at each other in despair until the old door signalled the entry of someone, and they both looked up to see Joe standing in the doorway.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Oh, Joe, you can’t imagine.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the marrows.’

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘I really stuffed them!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Oh, Joe, don’t look so shocked. I know I’m being vulgar—well, I’m not really because that’s just what I did do, with the mince you know, but as well as that I stuffed them. You should see them. They look ghastly. I can’t serve them to anyone and Dr B. will be furious because Matron will tell him it was just incompetence and I’ll probably lose the job. Oh hell! What am I going to do?’

  ‘Well, whatever you do you had better be quick because the dinner bell is about to sound.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘Oh yes, here, show me. They can’t be as bad as all that.’

  ‘Yes they can.’

  She opened the oven door and the man choked. ‘Bloody hell, woman, what have you done?’

  ‘Joe, I’ve never heard you swear.’

  ‘Woman, I’ve never seen such a mess!’

  ‘Oh, isn’t it awful?’

  She was halfway between crying and laughing as footsteps were heard outside the inner door leading to the dining room.

  ‘It’s Matron, Mummy!’

  ‘Oh help, here we go!’

  ‘Good afternoon, everyone. Are we all ready?’

  This was the royal “we”. It had no sense of involvement or equality with the lesser mortals who stood grouped in absurd horror at the entry. Lizzie had kicked the oven door shut with her foot and then watched aghast as the man moved deliberately to open it again. He wanted Matron to see that mess! He was reaching for the protective mitts and drawing the baking dish out into full view. He couldn’t! Mummy was standing stock-still. She looked stunned. The girl took her hand and joined her in her silence waiting for the crash to come.

  It came but not as they were expecting. The baking dish hit the floor. Mincey marrows slodged all over feet and furniture and gradually oozed down in greasy little rivulets from the legs of the table and the front of the stove. Matron yelped. The girl started. Joe apologised profusely. The woman remained silent and still.

  Eventually, Joe looked at her. The little girl watched the look. She watched the slow lightening of the woman’s eyes and saw a conversation she couldn’t understand taking place between the ugly man and the beautiful woman. She saw the man drop his eyes and the twisted mouth struggle into its horrible smile. She saw him stand up very straight and, even though Matron was still scolding him for his clumsiness and yapping about the cost and inconvenience he had caused, she saw him walk out of the kitchen as though he had just won Tatts or something. Mummy didn’t seem to notice or think it strange at all. She just kept smiling in that special, gentle way. Adults were very difficult to understand sometimes. However, Mum kept the job for a while longer and Lizzie kept helping with the cooking.

  Mum, Gwennie, was like that. It was quite unfair, the advantage that beautiful women had in this world. It wasn’t only looks. Gwennie had had charm in the real sense of the word. She could get away with the most outrageous statements and requests just by smiling and the most subtle forms of flattery. Always indulged and petted as a child by Nanna she had assumed everyone loved her, so they did. She didn’t mean to exploit people, never consciously manipulated anyone.

  When she found herself a widow at twenty-five with three young daughters to support, she set to and did support them. Being brought up to “play ladies” might not seem a real preparation for that life but it certainly worked for Mum. Looking deceptively fragile (or so Lizzie thought) Gwennie would parade in a new dress on the few occasions she could afford one and a neighbour, any neighbour, or a friend, any friend, would be called to share the excitement. If the dress were too long, they would all consider it. Mum would look crestfallen and helpless and the neighbour, or friend, would hem it while Mum glowed and chided herself for not being more practical about things like that. The neighbour, or friend, would glow and tell her not to worry about such a trifle. It was all so obvious, and it always worked. Lizzie would watch and understand because she too loved the warmth, beauty and joy in living that was her mother. Everyone loved Mum. You just couldn’t help it.

  Lizzie wasn’t like that. At an early age, Lizzie knew herself for what she was and she loved her mother and grandmother all the more because they loved her anyway.

  Lizzie, the woman, remembered herself as a child in front of the mirror. The mirror had been cracked near the bottom. When she smiled at herself one side of her mouth was higher than the other, and if she half closed her eyes and turned her head slightly she could imagine herself with a moustache like a man. She stood on tiptoe to adjust the hat which was grey and rolled up around the edges so that it reminded her of one of Nanna’s pies with the bulge on top. Only there weren’t two little slits in the hat, and there was no braid on the pie. If Lizzie ate lots of pie she would grow, Nanna said. Nanna was always wanting her to grow. Really, Lizzie didn’t mind being short. Tall girls were noticed more, and she didn’t like to be noticed. If she had been pretty, it would have been different, but she knew she wasn’t pretty and it didn’t matter. She had known for sure the day she saw the photograph.

  There she had been, balanced precariously on the seat of a bicycle. It was a two-wheeler that felt about ten feet high and Billy, the best dog in the whole world, was bundled in the basket at the front. Because the bike was leaning against a hedge, she could feel the prickles all down one side and Billy was anxious too. His soft white fur was standing up around his collar and the stump where his tail had been was very still. Once he gave a sort of half-bark but the photographer, one of the dancing partners, had sworn at him and the dog and the girl both sat still. She had been in uniform that day, but she wasn’t wearing her hat so she was squinting in the sun. They said she had nice eyes but you couldn’t see them in the photograph. You could see the legs with the turned-down sky-blue socks. She really enjoyed those socks. Everything else was so sensible. The navy tunic with its contrary pleats that loved to fold in the wrong way and which was designed to make all the girls look the same—awful. The grey shirt didn’t show the dirt, the tie identified her as one of the six hundred girls who attended St Peter and Paul’s Primary. But the socks, the socks were the colour of a wedding-day sky. Mummy said special days were wedding days. The sun shone gently in the photograph, enough to gild the outline of the old houses and the tired fences and sullen chimney pots that were just too stubborn to fall down. The trees were lacy on wedding days and the sky was blue like her socks.

  In the mirror, she could see one tip of a tree. It looked as if it were growing out of her head. There, if she were taller she wouldn’t have been able to see it as clearly. She loved that tree. When she was missing Mummy, she sat under the tree and felt safe, and when someone came, she could hide in the tree. The tree loved her too, like Nanna did and Mummy did. Mummy even loved her nose. It wasn’t really snub, she said to the lady in the shop. It was turned up a little but that didn’t matter a bit. The girl tried to straighten the nose. No. It just squashed against her face until she almost laughed. That made her look like Billy.

  She remembered she had called the dog and lifted it so that their reflections were together through the crack. The dog began licking her face enthusiastically, and then Lizzie did laugh as the grey hat was pushed aside in the flurry of tongue and paws and as her tight little plaits fell over her shoulder, the dog attacked in delighted fury. He snapped for the tail where the plaits finished and rib
bon roped the long brown strands together. Lizzie reached for the other one and began to tickle the dog with it. The solemnity disappeared from the little girl’s grey, anxious eyes: the lips neither trembled nor pressed in their usual line. As the woman entered, she heard the unusual sound of laughter from the girl and her dog. Gwennie was glad. She smiled, then checked her own smile in the mirror. Yes, she still looked good, so she smiled at her daughter too. Lizzie had loved that smile and loved the woman. But now the woman was dead.

  Gwennie who never let any man get the better of her, who knew how to keep men guessing and loving it, was dead. There had never been any dearth of men around her, a widow with three children and never enough money to scratch herself. How did she do it? The answer was obvious. She loved everyone, the world was a circus, and she was always the star. Even when things went wrong, as they did frequently, she was still the star. From one role to another, she moved with panache and poise. Now the cultured widow living in a condemned house in the worst slums of South Melbourne, with no silver, no lace and no roof. Now the naive young girl struggling with an unskilled job to support her darling daughters. Now the woman left by a lover who had taken the little money and the few rings she possessed. And always the loving, warm person who gave and loved joyfully. No wonder Walt Whitman was her favourite poet. She loved them all and she kept them guessing. Even at the wedding.

  Lizzie had been grown up when Gwennie had decided to accept the proposal of the good, kind, unexciting man who loved her as he had never loved anyone. She was the fairy on the Christmas tree to him. Lizzie had watched and tried to read his mind during that particular performance of Gwennie’s  ‘Gwennie the bride.’ He had turned to watch the bride come down the aisle. She was walking hesitantly, stepping carefully so that she didn’t wobble on those shaky heels. He looked at Gwennie with such love. Lizzie could read his thoughts. Silly damn shoes for a female her age. Still the legs looked good, nothing wrong with them at all. Hell, she was taking her time. And he knew they didn’t have too much time. He knew this woman had never been a saver, even of time. Her girls are probably the same—especially Lizzie, the oldest one. Runs in the family from what he could see. They were all alike, those women, this beautiful woman and her beloved daughters. He’d never thought he’d go for an older woman, one with kids. Yet here she was—no blushing, virgin bride. So much for the convent education and all that nunnery stuff with their blue cloaks, white veils, their gloves and their hats. ‘A child of Mary,’ Gwennie had told him laughingly that first time they met. And look at her today. He might have known she’d choose blue. Always nutty about blue and weddings. White gloves, grey hat that looked a bit like an old-fashioned pork pie. He’d tell her that later, and they’d both have a good laugh.

  Gwennie liked to laugh. Said it was because she had to make the most of her time. He didn’t really understand what she meant by that. There were a few things he didn’t really understand about her when he came to think of it. Here she was, looking every inch a lady—head held high, soft, dark hair curling gently on her shoulders, long lashes flickering demurely. But the woman was laughing. He was sure she was. Well, almost sure. She lifted the flowers to her face. Through the lace stuff of her gloves, he could see her fingers trembling slightly. Strong, working fingers she had, and they were entwined about the resilient stems of the posy she probably made herself. Some of her friends had been shocked when she said she would pick the flowers that grew wild around town. Hothouse flowers weren’t for her, she wanted blossoms that had grown because they couldn’t do anything else when the rain rained and the sun shone. They were pretty enough, he had to admit.

  So was Gwennie. Her complexion reminded him of one of those white opals he wanted to give her, a milky glow with warm flashes of blood-red underneath. She said they were bad luck for brides and they didn’t need any more of that. A superstitious lot, the Irish. All the same. Moody too. A bit unsettling that was sometimes. She was taking her time coming down to the altar. He couldn’t tell now whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Well, women always cried at weddings or she would only be laughing because she was happy anyway. What else was there to laugh at? Not him, surely. Not herself? You shouldn’t laugh in church. Marriage was serious business. Like living. And dying. He wouldn’t talk about that and bloody doctors didn’t know everything. She looked a picture, and she was smiling at him now as she came closer. He heard those fragile steps against the cold stone and reached out to hold her. He still wasn’t sure. Was she laughing or not?

  Even Lizzie who had watched her mother in the golden light of the blue wedding day had not been sure. Now she envied her mother who had laughed at the world and lived out her plays and dreams. Even the name, Gwendoline Shirley, straight out of a gothic romance. Gwendoline Shirley, who always believed in the knight in shining armour. Nanna always said Gwennie would have to grow up one day but Nanna was wrong. Mum never did grow up. She just died. Lizzie grew up for her and lived to envy her mother who suffered the pain of bones disintegrating and clear white skin being transformed into grey, slimy pulp.

  Lizzie knew there had been those times of pain and fear for Gwennie. Because she was Gwennie’s girl, Lizzie knew. She remembered that Gwennie’s hair had still seemed dark under the gauzy grey that had settled softly on it. The eyes were deep, deeper than they had ever been, with the pain. Once, she had been appealingly vain about her eyes, boasting that all Irish eyes had been put in with a sooty finger. Nanna always said that. She remembered Mum saying that. Poor Mum.

  It had taken a long time, but she was loved to the last moment—and then some. She had found her knight in shining armour, a strong, calm, solid man who was exasperated, infuriated, enchanted and beguiled by her. There would only be a little time, he knew that, but it would be a wonderful time, he knew that too. But had he really understood the loss? Had he understood what they would be like, those last months of seeing her pain, her fear, the crumbling courage and more fear? Christ! Why did you let her be so scared? Why? You bastard God. Why? Why? Answer me! You bloody man-God! Why did you let her be so scared at the end, when she had managed not to be scared all those other times?

  Oh yes, that had been bad. But it was worse when it stopped. Not for Gwennie perhaps but for Lizzie because she had the added guilt of not wanting it to stop because then Mum would be gone and Lizzie didn’t want to face the loss without Mum to help her. That was it. The guilt of wanting her not to die. Nanna used to say we needed guilt to spice our lives. Poor old Nanna. Thankfully, she hadn’t had to see her lovely, laughing Gwennie calling out to be cuddled and comforted, calling for someone to make the pain go away. Walt Whitman hadn’t helped then. ‘To die is different from what everyone expects and luckier.’ It was different all right, that was what had frightened Gwennie. She had to die by herself and it wouldn’t be put off. Like giving birth, once the labour began, it just couldn’t be avoided. One way or another, it was going to happen. Nanna didn’t see her Gwennie face that. Thank God—or thank something!

  In many ways, they had been so alike, those two women. The girl could remember several Poppas who had different names from Nanna because Nanna had had lots of husbands, not all of them legal, of course. That meant Mum had had lots of fathers. McLachlan, Camelleri, Bradbury, Newndorf and Harris, they had been Nanna’s own little league of nations but Camelleri was the only one she really cared about. It was his son, the little baby Martin who had died before Nanna adopted the dark-eyed girl called Gwendolyn Shirley whose natural mother had been told by her wealthy landed family to get rid of the baby as quietly as possible. The father was married to someone else and left the western district in quite a hurry. Nanna was enchanted by the child, and her husband, the big Martin, gave her gentle care and love. He was Dadda to Gwennie. A small Italian man settled in a strange, raw country in a place called Carlton with a buxom, embracing young Irish woman. Nanna must have been a handful when she was young. Mum probably was too. They were so alike in so many ways even if they were not biologically related
.

  There was old Poppa Newndorf too. A tall, white-haired man who looked like a soldier with a limp and who always used his silver-topped walking stick to wave in the air when he told stories of his youth when had been fiery and strong. Then he was old and pottered in his garden at the front of the house in Station Street, Carlton, and called Lizzie Doddikins and loved his tired old dog. His favourite flowers were “puppy-dogs” too. ‘Snap-dragons,’ Nanna said. Yellow, mauve, white and purple they were, with little heads that moved up and down as if they were barking silently at the birds and the dog and the girl and Poppa Newndorf.

  Lizzie had always enjoyed those occasions when Nanna moved. Because Mum didn’t arrive home until after six each night, the three girls travelled home from school together, and it was Lizzie, as the eldest, who was responsible for tidying the leftover mess from the morning’s rush, light the gas fire to warm the flat, give the younger ones some afternoon tea and prepare the family’s dinner. She was so accustomed to the routine that she didn’t think to mind it, but it was always a joy to open the door and see Nanna’s boxes piled in the little lounge room.

  Nanna never could fit her belongings into the one suitcase she owned, so she moved in vegetable or grocery boxes all tied up with string or old stockings. There were the inevitable string-bags too, so crammed that there were little bulges between the criss-crosses. It only took a moment to take in the sight, and then Lizzie would become aware of the warm, the smells, the slappings and clatterings from the kitchen. Nanna was at work with her pinny tied under her boobs and tied in a bow above the hills of her bottom. No matter what drama had precipitated the move, Nanna always had a fresh pinny or two. No matter what else happened she would always have brought the makings for a pie and she would always have flour spread across the table and the board and her hands and arms. When Nanna cooked, she threw herself into it, heart and soul.