CHAPTER EIGHT
Pearl Whitney poured another cup of tea. She needed to pep herself up, for today's lecture. Her time spent at the university, was starting to bog down. She needed to re-infuse herself, for two good reasons. One was a real goal, that without her Arts degree, she would end up like her sister. And being a waitress, was the last thing she wanted. The other, was financial. He father had made it clear, that unless she had good results, this year, there was no more money for fees. It had taken her a year to convince him, to support her. He did not agree that young girls should waste their time at abstract, as he called them, studies. Doctor or solicitor, he could understand. Otherwise, young ladies had a place in society.
It wasn't as though he was short of money. The drapery shop, he owned in Bondi Junction, was doing well. The house her parents, together with her elder sister, and she, lived in, was quite middle class. It overlooked Centennial Park, and had a spacious back garden. And Pearl was a determined young lady. Determined to make it in this world, on her own, but not turning her back on any support. She was also not stupid.
Last night, a group of them had spent several hours, discussing literature, particularly the works of romantic writers. They had differing views on her current favourite, Lord Byron. It had annoyed her, that some people could reject him, as out of touch with the essence of life. She coughed, deciding, for the one hundredth time this year, to give up cigarettes. He throat always felt like hell, after a few. She downed the tea, and decided there would be time to drop in and see Betty, before she needed to put in an appearance at class.
Betty worked at Mark Foys, in the city. She was in the music section, and had managed to get some new releases of records, at staff rates, for her. Pearl's mother was sewing on the back veranda. She heard Pearl leave the kitchen, and yelled out. "On the back veranda, dear."
Pearl poked her head out. "I'm off to uni. Probably catch up with Betty, on the way." Before her mother could say anything, she was off. Once her mother started, it ended up the same. 'Am I doing the right thing? What about a family? and so on.' Today she wanted a clear head. Tomorrow night she could let her head be muddled. Betty had been asked to a party, and wanted Pearl to go with her. 'Should be a buzz,' she thought, and a chance to show Pablo off.’
Pablo was the current love of her life. From Argentina, he had jet black hair, olive skin, and the fiery passion accredited to may Latin Americans. They met at a class at the university, and captivated her with his knowledge of the arts, fine foods, and love.
On the tram ride to the city, she wondered if she could afford to move out, and get herself a room. Her parents would freak out, and dad may not support her. It was a problem. On the other hand, a place close to uni, and with Pablo, maybe, to share it, would be an enticement. Wait and see.
She raced inside and into the music section. Betty was serving a customer, so Pearl hovered near the pianist, who was producing a love song, on the small piano, the store had installed. To Pearl, he was old. Probably forty, she thought. Why didn't they employ young, delicious, men?
Betty signalled, and Pearl dived over. "What's new? Just have five minutes. On my way to class."
"There's a new release by 'The Ink Spots', if you're interested," replied Betty.
Pearl screwed up her nose. "You have to be kidding. When I'm old. No time to look today. I'll be around to your place about seven, tomorrow night. The black dress is coming out," she said in a conspirator like voice.
"You aren't?,” Betty looked shocked. Then changed her expression to one of joy. "Then if you're game, so am I. The red strapless."
Both girls giggled. "Three or four from work are coming," added Pearl's friend, "Ought to raise a few eyebrows, and start rumours, here."
“And I’m dragging Pablo along. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all. At least it should be fun.” They kissed lightly, and Pearl danced her way out of the shop. She went down the road, and felt like indulging, before the ordeal of lectures. She would have a ‘Spider’.
She found a small milk bar, with big high backed booths, and ordered her drink. As the ginger, tickled her throat, she started mentally assembling her attire for next Saturday night.
* * * * *
The noise of traffic, invaded his senses, and he stirred. Sean had gone back to bed, after Kelly left. There was no working today for him. On the other hand, Kelly had no choice. The store didn't close until noon. He kicked back the covers, and strolled to the window. Their room was at the side, but glimpses of the street, were possible. 'Anyway,' he thought, 'come Monday, and this will be a memory.' He went down the hall, and did a quick shave, and an even quicker wash, and then headed to the kitchen, to see if he could find left overs.
It was empty, but there was some bacon left, and a sad looking egg. He cooked a piece of toast, ate the lot, and returned upstairs. Taking a folded piece of newspaper, from under his clothes in the bottom drawer, he lay on the bed and read, and re read it. It had become an important part of him, this piece of paper. Without it's message, he was sure he would not cope.
Deciding the day was too nice, to lay about, slacking, he grabbed a coat, and decided on walking to the city, to meet Kelly. The sound of gunfire, stopped him in his tracks, when he reached the street corner. Then he realised it must have come from the Victoria Barracks, nearby. 'Drilling or parade, or something,' he thought. He was in half a mind to have a visit, but it would be nicer with Kelly, so he headed for the city.
Sean wasn't in a hurry, and mused how different the area was now, to earlier times. He wandered through the War Memorial in Hyde Park, remembering his uncle, who never made it back from Borneo. Uncle Walter was captured, and all the family knew for sure, was that he was transferred to a place called Sandakin. He was never seen again. His father never quite recovered from his brother's loss. They were very close.
Kelly arrived, almost at the same time, as he did, just near the entrance to St. James Station.
“Waiting long?”, she asked.
“Hours,” he replied.
“Rubbish,” she retorted. He looked at her without emotion, only momentarily, but taken back by her statement. She was never usually so direct. She did have a smirk of sorts.
“Perhaps I exaggerate. How about ten seconds.”
“Close,” she said, “I saw you arrive.” They laughed, and holding hands, moved off towards the kiosk, for a light snack.
Strolling around the Botanical Gardens, they debated how the gardens never seemed to change. The topic became quite lively at times, drawing glances from passers by. Sean wanted to pick a flower for her, but she prevailed, saying they didn’t need any trouble with the police, or whoever. Their life was very precarious, as it was, without any extra complications.
A myriad of birds seem to abound in the dense foliage, and their songs almost drowned the artificial noises of the nearby city. Even a kookaburra made an appearance. They wandered around the lily pond, and when perchance, the sun silhouetted her fair hair, producing an halo effect, Sean felt euphoric, and holding her tight, kissed her. Somehow, she was not embarrassed, and responded eagerly.
They walked past the palm groves, then towards the entrance.
"What have you got in mind for a name?", Sean said, as they passed the Art Gallery.
"I assume you mean the baby," she replied. He nodded.
"Henrietta," was the reply.
Sean almost choked. "You've got to be joking."
She looked at him, with a face as stern as Queen Victoria's. His heart missed a beat.
Then she couldn't control herself, and burst out laughing. Sean felt relieved, but just wasn't quite sure. She saw his indecision.
"No. Not Henrietta, dearest. How’s Samantha grab you?"
"I can live with that. Hey, what about if it's a boy?"
"Your turn." Without waiting for a reply, she said, "That's yucky. How could you saddle a person for the rest of his life, with that?"
"Very funny. You haven't any idea what I was going to say," he retorted.
"Algenon is out. I'm sorry Sean, there is no way. This is fun. You should see your face. So much confusion. OK, what is it?"
They stopped to let a car go by, the spires of St. Marys, throwing shadows down the hill.
"If I may be allowed to get my piece in...." he started to say.
"You've already done that, love," she interrupted, "that's why I'm in this condition."
Sean stepped in front of an approaching couple. "Excuse me sir," he said, addressing the man, "Is your name Harvey?"
The man was taken back for a minute. "No. You must have the wrong person. It's Oliver."
"Thanks Oliver. You will be pleased to know, that our son, when he arrives, will be called Oliver. You have solved a problem, we had." Kelly was speechless.
The man's female partner, grabbed his arm, and started to move off. "Come on Ollie, don't get involved. Let's go." They moved away.
"Oliver has a nice ring to it," said Sean, "If you're not sure, I can give you another name. I'll just ask this....."
"Sean McCauley. You are brainless and insane, ....and I love you."
As they caught a tram, to head back home, another thought crossed Sean's mind. 'Whether it's a little Ollie or a little Ollietta, I'd like to show my mother. That’s not going to be easy.'
The bathroom was occupied, when they arrived back at the boarding house. Still, they had plenty of time. The party wasn't until much later. Wasn't the first time he'd used the back laundry. The mood was still there. Soon the blind was drawn and the light put out.
* * * * * * * * * *
For Robert, Friday had gone without his realising it. He drifted through the day, supported by images of the previous night. It nearly cost him, his job, when he forgot to turn off the kerosene tap, on the drum stored at the back of the building. Mr. Lester, the manager, found it, and came storming through the store. Robert didn't deny it, and offered to pay for the spillage. Probably this help saved him. Lester thundered about it not happening again, and 10/- would cover it. Robert was glad to make knock off, without any more transgressions, and went straight back to the boarding house.
Allan wouldn't be back until about nine. Robert washed up, and decided to try the dining room, for the first time. There were about seven or eight people seated, and a noticeable short break in the conversations, when he entered. He said hello to no one in particular, and noticing the covered bowls and other items on the side board, took a plate and helped himself. Veggies and a slice of steak and kidney pie.
Some one leaned over and pulled a chair back. "Sit here. You must be one of the new blokes up on top floor. I'm Alf."
Robert nodded, and returned the smile. Conversations ran up and down the table. The butter was hard as a rock, and he dismembered his slice of bread. 'Hurry up margarine', he thought.
"I know what you're thinking."
Robert nearly choked on his mouthful. He looked up and at a middle aged woman, opposite. "You do?"
"No secrets from me. Clare's the name. Medium and psychic. Professionally, I'm Madame Clare, but here, away from it all, just Clare." Robert smiled, and noticed she had enough bangles and chains, to keep BHP steelworks in business for a year.
"What we want to know," this time from a younger woman, "that is, the females here, are you as good looking as your friend, minus the bath towel?"
Robert blushed. "I'll leave that decision to you," he replied.
"When's bath time?”, she countered, then gave a laugh. "Cindy's the name. I'm sort of independent."
"Insecure is a better word," piped up a younger fellow.
'I like independent women," offered Robert, recovering from the initial onslaught. "I'm sure my friend, Allan, does too."
"Staying long?" A middle aged man at the far end of the table, spoke.
Robert looked at him, trying to think of a suitable answer. "All depends, I suppose."
"On what?" asked Cindy.
"Oh, a couple of things. We're looking for some friends, and family. Reasons for going, and reasons for staying." Robert decided this was getting too deep.
"I'm liking this conversation." It was the man who last spoke. "Things do get rather boring around here. No offence, dear company, but the challenge of the mind, must never be put aside.
Robert winced. A pie at the station, might have been a lot less trouble.
"Attica, is the name. Attica B .Armstong. I lecture in literature, amongst other academic attributes. Let's start with the desire to stay."
"Please. It's all rather personal," replied Robert, getting up and ladling some fruit and custard into a bowl. He hoped this might distract any further conversation, along this line. He was wrong.
"I'm all ears." It was Cindy. "A gentleman with a good story, and another with a good body. Life at 'The Terrace' is improving."
"Dry up Cinderella, you’re embarrassing our new tenant." It was the young bloke, opposite Robert.
"It's Ok," said Robert, "I am sort of involved, with a lady." 'Or hoping to be', he thought. "That's probably the part of me that wants to stay in this area. Where I should be, well that's sort of personal."
"A man of intrigue, and romance. The essence of human emotion, is not dead after all." Attica's voice floated across the room.
The young man, opposite, quickly butted in. "What about some of us? I did high school, and there's a lot you don't know about why I left home, and that."
"Some things are probably better left unsaid, my young man. When you are my age, and have attained life's wisdom, I shall only be too pleased to listen." Attica left no doubt, about his feelings on the young man's statement.
"Hey," he replied, "when I'm your age, you'll be dead."
"Most perceptive, my fellow. There's hope for you yet."
Robert had to stare into his desert, to stop laughing. The games being played, were amazing.
"Where's your friend, did you say Allan?" It was Cindy again.
"He helps out at the Ashfield Refuge." There was a short silence. "Allan likes to help," he added.
"He must have a nice heart," a woman, who hadn't joined in the conversation before, ventured.
"I would agree,” said Cindy, "the parts I've seen are all nice."
The young man threw a slice of bread at her. "God, you're sick. What's with you and these older blokes? What about us fellows? I'll let you know when I'm using the bathroom next, so you can see for yourself, and not write me off, I mean us blokes, off."
At that moment, his face reddened by embarrassment, he stood up, and walked out of the dining room.
"Well, well," said Atticus, "I don't need a degree in sociology, to understand that man, eh Mr Robert?"
Robert had assumed the same as Atticus. He smiled. "No. Pretty obvious."
However, the young man's infatuation for Cindy, wasn't obvious to her, it seemed. "Ignore him," she said, "I always do. He needs to grow up."
Robert suddenly thought he had little to lose, and he was too old to be upset. "If I were you, Cindy, I would put down your spoon, go find that young fellow, and tell him your not leaving his room, until tomorrow morning."
"What do you mean?" she shakily asked.
"Get him into bed, if he doesn't, and stay there until breakfast." Robert couldn't believe he was saying this, 'but what the hell'.
"You sort out your life, mister, and I'll sort out mine." then she left, with a toss of her head.
"Bravo," said Attica, "most romantic, if not direct."
Robert made the best of a weak smile. Madame Clare, put her hands together, in a pontifical gesture. "The vibrations are strong tonight." Before she could have added more, and to Robert's relief, Allan walked in.
He looked around, saw Robert, and said hello to the room in general.
"Eating?" said Robert.
"No," he replied, "ate at the refuge." There was a round of introductions, names that went in and out of their heads.
Allan asked Robert, quietly, if there was any mention of the bathroom incident.
Not quiet enough though. "Streaking from the bathroom, is history, my fellow. The focus has shifted to room 7, upstairs." It was Atticus.
Allan looked confused, but all Robert said was, "don't ask."
Just then, Sylvia, the landlady, appeared. "Good evening, dear tenants. The radio is fixed, at great expense to me, and you are welcome to join me. Indeed a night for a sherry, or two. Our new guests may like to join us?" There seemed to be some evasiveness by the guests.
"We'll see," said Robert, "we have a big day tomorrow."
A quick exit, followed.
In their room, Allan said, "exactly what is happening tomorrow? Oh, by the way, I'm not required tomorrow. Some Rover Scouts, are doing a service thingo, this weekend."
"I don't work either," said Robert, "I was thinking of taking the tram outside, to Balmain, maybe the ferry to Circular Quay. Highlight for me is the counterweight trolley at Balmain. Never saw it, in my younger days. If I'm here, then why not."
"Whatever," said Allan, I'm easy." Then with a more serious tone to his voice, he added, "If there's the slightest chance of getting back, no matter what, we take it. Yes?"
"Yes. We can survive, and make the most of it, but I think our place is back in 1998." He was thinking of Myra. It would be sad to leave, if they ever did.
Next morning, Allan said he would get something to eat, down the road, whilst he picked up a paper. He was still fascinated by the news and the advertisements. Robert had been paid yesterday, and after settling up with the landlady, they had a little left, to enjoy and explore.
When Robert came out, after a hurried breakfast of bacon and fried eggs, he found Allan talking to one of the tenants, at the front gate.
"Who was that?" he asked.
"Bill, or Will. He mumbled a bit. He's on the ground floor, at the back. Asked if we were interested in dancing. I told him you had plans elsewhere, but I have nothing at all to do, so, I'd go. Think it's the Albert Palais, nearby."
"See, life isn't so bad. Might get lucky," Robert said, smiling.
Allan pulled a face. "We'll see. Think I’ve lost my 10/-. I hear a tram coming. Is it for us?"
"Yep."
They got on, as the stop was almost outside their terrace. The trip was pleasant enough, and they arrived at the top of Darling Street, in Balmain, where an odd little tram vehicle was attached to the front. Allan looked down the steep hill, to the water, and had thoughts of walking.
"This is the counterweight trolley, I mentioned," said Robert. "I was disappointed I never saw it, and presto, here it is." He took a photo. "Only three shots left. Better keep them. Chances of finding 35mm film are not that good."
They travelled slowly down to the wharf, with Robert explaining about the underground tunnel under the tram track, that housed the actual counterweight. Looking at the number of people on board, Allan thought it couldn’t be that dangerous, and thought it was quite novel. They caught a ferry, and got off at Circular Quay.
There were loads of boats and other craft on the water, and the ever present seagulls.
The rest of the morning was spent, wandering the city and the Botanical Gardens, and, after lunch, they went to the pictures, at the State Theatre. They had both been there, in 1997, and it didn't appear to have changed much, then, from 1950. ' The Big Steal' was on, but neither remembered ever seeing it. The tiny screen, and lack of colour, were difficult to get used to.
They came back by tram to Leichhardt, and walked to the boarding house. Robert wanted to be sure there were no delays in getting to Burwood, tonight. Allan thought he was overdoing it, since he didn't need to be there until about nine. They had a beer at one of the hotels, sitting in the lounge, to enjoy the quieter atmosphere.
As they approached the house, they noticed an ambulance parked outside, and some onlookers, doing what onlookers do. Suddenly, out of the front door, came two ambos, carrying a stretcher. The patient was fully covered over by a grey blanket. They waited whilst the stretcher was loaded, and the vehicle left, without a siren, then went to the front door. Sylvia was standing there, mopping away some tears.
"What happened?", asked Allan.
She blew her nose, then looked up to see who had spoken. "Poor Mr. Trent in No.12, at the top. One minute he was making a cuppa in the kitchen. The next, stone dead on the floor. His heart, I'd imagine."
"Sorry to hear this," said Robert.
"Yes, we don't know when our time comes, do we? I need a sherry to calm my nerves. Please join me," and turned and disappeared inside.
The men through up their arms in despair, and followed her in. They found her in her private parlour, already pouring into some glasses.
Somehow, it wasn't so bad. Maybe the death had restrained her, but she seemed pleasant, and they felt they were safe from being devoured. She told them some pieces of her life, including what she felt about two previous husbands. Robert could sense, another person trying to get out of her body, and realised everyone has some pain in their life. She treated them as equals, not tenants or a conquest to be made. The previous beer and the sherries were beginning to make his head feel light, and he put down his glass.
"Another one?", she offered.
"No thanks, I have to go out tonight, and I don't want my real self to be hidden," said Robert.
"What he means," said Allan, his cheeks glowing, "is that being a little under the weather, may not be the right thing. Especially when a lady is involved."
Robert glared, then felt foolish. Allan was right, and their lives should not be that guarded. Sylvia was a woman, and she would understand.
"Quite so," she said, "thank you for stopping by. Maybe you," looking at Allan, "would like one more, unless you too, have plans."
To Robert's surprise, Allan said he could stay for a few more minutes. Robert grinned, and left.
Allan knew he was getting drunk, but he didn't care. He sat back and sipped. She asked him about his life, and he answered generally, but was sober enough not to mention that it all happened nearly fifty years into the future.
He wasn't sure when it happened, but as she stood to refill his glass, he took the bottle out of her hand, put it down on the mantle piece, and putting his hands on her shoulders, kissed her. Allan remembered her surprise, and the fact that she responded. Then there were tears in her eyes. She stood back a little, and held his hands with hers.
"Thank you," she said quietly, "I need a little time. It's not you, and I hope you will come back. It’s something in my own life I have to settle." She smiled at him, and leaning forward, gave him a slight kiss.
His head was spinning, but he thought of understood. He returned her smile, and walked, unsteadily out of the room. He sat in the kitchen, and drank two cups of strong black tea from the pot, he found on the table. It wasn't very hot, but it helped to clear his head a little. 'What had happened?', he tried to think.
He had often, felt the pangs of love, of wanting to love, over the years. but he backed away when ever any relationship, appeared to start. And as for sexual involvement, he felt even more inadequate. He had managed to get that far, just a few times, but it was usually over for him before he even started. He never met anyone who cared. They never came back. The prostitute was even worse. He thought she would be understanding, only she was callous and distant, a waste of money.
Linda was the closest he got to experiencing real love and real passion. She had something worth appreciating, a personality, and nice looking, for her age. She initiated sex, the first time and he the next. It was awkward, but he was improving. And he wasn't backing off from the relationship. Then her ex husband appeared on the scene, and she was gone in a week.
He felt like topping himself, but realised it did no one any benefit, including himself. He tried drinking, but after two months, and chucking up in a hotel car park, quit. Then came some hard decisions, and here he was. But what had happened a few minutes ago? Anyway, there was tonight to lose himself, and he may even enjoy the dancing.