A Few Days in the Country (5 page)

‘Well, I saw some of them on the ferry this morning…' She ate silently until a latent flame of spirit made her ask, ‘I suppose you have lots of friends?'

It had been intended to sound careless, indifferent. She would go down fighting, she thought. But her voice was all wrong. She glanced up at Leonie. A calm mask had replaced her bored coldness.

She said in a level tone, ‘No, I haven't any friends. I didn't like many of the girls I knew at school, and my best friend went away to Queensland with her family three years ago.'

Wonderful, wonderful Leonie! How can she admit it like that? Because there are two of us? Or because she doesn't care? Or is it just the way she acts when she does care and doesn't want anyone to know?

Janie allowed herself to relax a little. ‘My best friend lives way out in the country, too. I hardly ever see her.'

The waitress brought a tall silver coffee pot to their table, gave them a check and took the dishes.

‘Do you like this restaurant, Janie?' Leonie asked as she poured the coffee. Her blue eyes had a new expression, unguarded and vulnerable.

‘Oh, yes, I do. We must come here often,' she said, recklessly showing her hand in turn.

For no reason that they could have explained, they both started to laugh, and they looked round at the other diners hoping that they would notice the two attractive girls laughing together, the two friends enjoying each other's confidence, the two lonely Martians meeting unexpectedly on Earth.

The strange silent world of adolescence had exploded, the eggshell walls had collapsed, proclaiming,
You are not alone
. Eyes alight, cheeks flushed, voices bubbling: the questions and answers flew.

‘Do you like swimming best?'

‘I do!'

‘I like nice clothes. I like to read. I like to see plays.'

‘The very things that I like.'

‘What do you think of grown-ups?'

A sigh, a frown.

‘I know. I think so, too!'

No family secrets barred, no holding back from one so close, they thought, and talked and talked, each the best friend of the other.

4

Summertime

It was summertime in Sydney. At about half-past two on a certain Wednesday afternoon Claire Edwards was leaning on the filing cabinet in the office of J. W. Baker's wholesale fashion house. She smiled into the telephone receiver.

‘Oh, that's fine. I'll meet you at quarter to six, then, outside the Martinique. Try not to be late,' she cautioned as she had done without success many times before. Her smile deepened to one of indulgent disbelief at Annette's vehement promises of punctuality. ‘I believe you. Bye-bye.'

Miss Frazer had come through the door leading from the factory a few seconds before Claire replaced the receiver, and she stood watching the girl, her clear grey eyes noting every fleeting change of expression.

‘Annette?' she asked, glancing at the phone. ‘What kind of job has she found this time?'

‘She's in a fur shop—a furrier's in Double Bay,' Claire answered. ‘I'm meeting her after work to hear how she gets on today. I hope she likes it.'

Miss Frazer looked at her watch and sat down at one of the three empty desks in the small office. Paddy, the accountant, was at the bank; Mr Baker was out for the afternoon, she knew. She felt like having a talk and a cigarette.

Claire recognised the signs with feelings of interest and impatience: interest, because in some of her mind she enjoyed these lengthy, emotional chats with Miss Frazer; impatience, because in her fanatical zeal for her job she resented any hindrance to her plans for the afternoon.

‘Would you just have a look to make sure the girls are working and bring my bag back when you come, please, dear?' Miss Frazer smiled.

Claire's impatience melted and her heart warmed as it always did under the older woman's direct influence. No one had ever made her feel so appreciated, so efficient, so necessary. ‘Of course.' She smiled back, and went through the stockroom to the factory with a swift, haughty, high-heeled walk.

Forty girls were bending over their machines more or less industriously; a few stood at the ironing boards ostensibly waiting their turn to press some small piece of material. Several canvas stands clad in half-finished dresses blocked the narrow passageways between the machines, cutting tables and delivery racks. At the far end of the factory the designers were discussing a difficult new pattern.

Claire's eyes swept over the room, her face stern and, she hoped, reproving. She found Miss Frazer's bag under a pile of soft pink organza and started back for the office. The noise of the machines and the blaring wireless was muffled as the door closed behind her.

‘All right?' Miss Frazer raised her thin eyebrows.

‘Working away,' Claire said, ignoring the idlers by the ironing boards.

Miss Frazer, who was really Mrs Douglas Preston, lit a cigarette and leaned back in her chair. Apart from her fine skin and large, clear grey eyes she had nothing much, as far as appearance went, on the credit side, except that she dressed well. That magnetism, that charm couldn't come under the heading of appearance, and yet they were so real as to be almost visible.

Everyone knew that hers was an ideal marriage; it had lasted for fourteen years, so far, in a state of extreme harmony. Miss Frazer was naturally reluctant to discuss so intimate a subject as her own married life with many people, but she did mention it to those who were unhappy and came to her with troubles.

It's the least I can do, she thought, to give the poor things a little glimpse of what life can mean when you are loving and beloved.

And so, while she didn't talk about her happiness to many people, most knew about it. It was the kind of news that seemed to circulate. In any case it somehow shone from her.

‘Annette's a funny girl,' she began now, her eyes fixed on Claire's. ‘What is she again? Hungarian or Polish?'

One must start a conversation in some way and, although Miss Frazer's interest lay more in the rich deep seams of pain, problem, and frustration than in the thin surface soil of mere chatter, she understood the art of mining for such drifts. She'd had practice, of course.

Claire, aware of herself, aware of Miss Frazer and half suspicious of her motives, always responded to her cue and squashed her doubts. It was a stylised game, stimulating and satisfactory, like chess.

‘No, she's Estonian,' she said. ‘Her mother and father came out here when she was a baby. She doesn't even know the language.'

‘They're beautiful stockings you have on today, Claire,' Miss Frazer said as she blew a cloud of smoke into the air. ‘Really lovely.'

Claire glowed with pleasure as she glanced down at her long legs.

‘Is she a naturalised Australian?' Miss Frazer asked, frowning for a moment at the chipped polish on her thumbnail.

‘No, I don't think she's ever bothered about it,' said Claire. ‘It costs five pounds or something like that, and you know Annette—she never has any money.'

‘If she would stick to one job for a while, she might have,' Miss Frazer said rather tartly.

Annette was a pretty blonde girl whose mother had led her to believe that her looks alone would provide all the necessities and luxuries of life. And, although this belief in the magical properties of a good figure had not so far been justified, Annette's indolent and optimistic disposition made her content to wait for the inevitable. Miss Frazer knew her only through Claire, but she felt slighted by the girl's self-sufficiency.

‘How does she get enough money to go out with you?' she asked, feeling that, since it was rather a boring afternoon on the whole, she might as well get to the bottom of Annette.

‘Her brother runs a taxi. It was left to him and Annette and her mother when her father died. She gets a share of the takings now and then, and I think they own the house they live in.'

This fact-finding mood of Miss Frazer's always seemed the least attractive side of her to Claire. She wants to know everything about everyone I know, and everything I think, she thought. Claire refused to acknowledge that censorship of principles, opinions, and friends was the price she had to pay for the sympathy and understanding that had become necessary to her.

Miss Frazer ground the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray and stood up. She smoothed the skirt of her well-cut coffee-coloured dress and picked up her bag.

‘Well, she's a silly little girl, Claire. She has some mistaken ideas about life, I think. Although she's been here all her life, it's not the same as having British blood.' Miss Frazer gazed into Claire's eyes. ‘I only hope she doesn't pass any of them on to you, dear.'

It was impossible not to feel flattered that Miss Frazer cared about the ideas one had. Claire smiled a reassuring Anglo-Saxon smile.

Rubbing her hands together rather impatiently Miss Frazer said, ‘Now I must make a few calls before Paddy comes back from the bank.'

Claire returned to the factory at once, revived and relieved by the noise, warmed by Miss Frazer's goodwill, eager to dispatch her work with even greater efficiency and speed than usual.

A Bing Crosby record was playing. The machinists joined in, concentrating more on the reproduction of Crosby-like voices than on their sewing, Claire thought. But it was a hot afternoon. No one could really blame them. The factory needed air-conditioning to make production rise.

As she bent over the thick invoice book she heard the jukebox in the café downstairs begin to play. The competition spurred the girls to greater efforts and their voices rang out above the whirr of the machines.

Claire worked steadily for the rest of the afternoon, invoicing, answering the phone, interviewing travellers, delighting in the knowledge that she had become a vital part of the firm. I hope Annette has something she likes as well as this, she thought as she ran downstairs just before five-thirty, clinking the keys of the business possessively.

Annette arrived at the Martinique promptly at a quarter to six. ‘Hello, honey.' She smiled widely at her friend, and groaned as they went into the bare but atmospheric coffee lounge. ‘Wait till I tell you.'

By mutual consent they saved the news for some minutes. Removing their short white gloves with casual deliberation, they studied the menu with the air of detachment they had practised since they were sixteen.

Their order given, they gazed at the other coffee drinkers with bored, haughty faces. Their own reflections were scrutinised even more carefully in a full-length mirror conveniently close to their table.

It gave back Annette's yellow hair, smooth, tanned skin, and wide mouth: a very attractive face. And Claire saw with satisfaction her own beautifully simple black-and-white sleeveless dress, crisp and elegant over a taffeta petticoat. They smiled at one another affectionately.

‘Now tell me!' Claire cried, impatient to know Annette's decision. She had always felt that Annette needed guidance and, being blessed herself with sense and intelligence, it was her duty to help Annette choose the right path in life. Theirs had been an ideal friendship for this reason. Claire organised everything, including Annette, and this suited them both.

Annette said, ‘It's no good, honey. I just sat out in the shop all day and I was bored stiff. I didn't like the other girl, and the boss expects you to look busy even when there's nothing to do.'

‘Oh, Annette, you're always getting bored stiff,' Claire wailed. ‘You might like it better tomorrow.'

Annette looked stubborn. ‘Well,' she said, choosing her words carefully, ‘I might not go tomorrow.'

They were both silent when the waitress brought their order, then Annette went on rather defiantly, ‘Otto and some of the boys rang me this afternoon. They're up on leave from the Snowy River and they want me to go round with them while they're here in Sydney for a few days.'

‘Who's Otto?'

‘He's a Lithuanian. He works in a migrant camp. Remember he came to a party at our place last time he was on leave?'

‘No, I don't remember.'

She had never seen Annette's mother or her home or been to one of the many parties that enlivened Annette's existence. They seemed to be very gay affairs, starting round eleven and going on until breakfast time, when the family and the guests would usually go to bed for the day.

Annette had always told Claire that she didn't think Claire and her mother would like one another, and for that reason she kept them apart. Claire didn't mind about not seeing Annette's mother, but she was sorry that the ban placed parties out of bounds, too.

After one of these sprees Annette would say, ‘You wouldn't like it, though. All foreigners.' Her eyes would shine with remembered fun, and Claire would feel, but not say, that there was nothing that she would like better than a party, ‘all foreigners'.

Annette's eyes were shining now, and she smiled, showing her beautifully even white teeth. ‘I was sure I'd told you about Otto. He was the funny little one who kept saying he loved me.' Remembering that she was in disgrace for threatening to leave her job, and had no right to be smiling, Annette's high spirits subsided and she concentrated on her meal.

Claire's irritation collapsed in laughter. ‘This is good! Cheer up, honey, and enjoy your dinner,' she said. ‘You win! But you are a problem. What are you going to do when Otto and his friends go back to work?'

Annette raised her eyebrows and looked indifferent. ‘Don't know. I might get another job, or I might just go swimming instead of sitting inside a dreary old fur shop.'

‘How much money have you?' Claire demanded.

‘About ten shillings.'

‘And how much were you to get at this place in Double Bay?'

‘About twelve pounds a week.'

Claire asked the waitress for the check. She and Annette wiped their buttery fingers, inspected and repaired their lipstick, and put on their white gloves.