Beneath the Southern Cross (26 page)

It was the fleas that carried the plague, that's what the newspapers had said. The rats had come into the city on board ships from foreign ports and the rats brought the fleas.

Outbreaks of bubonic plague had seized the older and poorer neighbourhoods of Sydney and over three hundred people had been infected, one third of whom had died. It was no wonder that Samuel, strong as he was, had been taken. The wonder lay in the fact that his sons had escaped his fate, and Norah had been deeply thankful that the good Lord had seen fit to save her Benjamin. But her heart had gone out to Beth who had had to watch the hideous death of her husband.

‘Beth,' she said as they arrived at the shabby door of number 22 which opened directly onto the pavement and where, overhead, the red climbing geraniums in the corner tub wove their way through the iron lacework of the balcony. Norah was very proud of her red geraniums. ‘We should have bought a present for Beth.'

‘Mum can live without,' Benjamin replied, opening the door. ‘She can share Tim's marbles,' he grinned, winking at his son. ‘I bet she'll beat you, you know how good she is at marbles.'

‘I bet she won't.' The boy raced into the house yelling at the top of his voice. ‘Gran! Come and look at my marbles!' They heard him inside, thundering up the narrow stairs to the little rear bedroom he shared with his grandmother and which doubled as Beth's sewing room. ‘Gran,' they heard him yell as he went, ‘do you want a game of marbles?'

It was only then Norah realised, with horror, ‘Ben! We didn't buy you a present! It's your birthday, and we didn't buy you a present!'

‘Well, what have we here?' a female voice interrupted from overhead. ‘Royalty visiting Surry Hills,' and a loud guffaw followed. It was Nellie Putman, on the balcony adjoining theirs; she'd watched them walking up the street.

Benjamin and Norah stepped off the pavement and onto the street to look up at their neighbour who was dangling herself dangerously over the railing.

‘Wondered who it was under that fancy hat.' There was no malice in the tone, but Benjamin could feel Norah cringe beside him.

Nellie Putman was a large, loud, vulgar woman. Married to a petty criminal who spent much of his life behind bars, her two older sons were the terrors of the neighbourhood, but Nellie herself
had a heart as big as any to be found in Surry Hills and people respected her for it.

Not Norah, however. Norah found itembarrassing, having the Putmans as neighbours, and Benjamin found her embarrassment irksome.

‘Must have cost a pretty penny,' Nellie yelled down at them.

‘It did, but it was worth it,' Benjamin called back. ‘Doesn't she look a treat?'

He glanced at his wife, praying that Norah wouldn't spoil their perfect day. She would not be outrightly rude to Nellie, he knew that. But sometimes her embarrassment caused her to be aloof, and aloofness in Surry Hills was interpreted as snobbery, one of the cardinal sins, a public brawl being far more acceptable than a social snub.

Norah had automatically winced at Nellie's raucous tone, and she was now painfully aware that strangers passing by, and neighbours peering from doorways and balconies, were all looking at her hat. She wished wholeheartedly that she could disappear but, conscious of her husband's scrutiny, she bravely stood her ground and smiled up at the balcony.

‘He bought me these beautiful gloves too, Nellie, look,' she held up her hands, ‘and he bought some marbles for Timmy. But it's his own birthday. It's Ben's birthday, and we didn't even get him a present.'

‘You'll be his present in that hat, lovey, you mark my words you will.'

Pleased by Norah's unexpectedly friendly response, Nellie Putman gave them a wave before she went inside. ‘Happy birthday, Ben, we'll share a beer before tea, what do you say?'

‘Good-o. See you out the back at six then.' Benjamin returned the wave, then pulled Norah close to him. ‘She's right, love,' he kissed her lightly, ‘you're my birthday present.'

‘For goodness' sake, Ben, not in the street.' But she smiled as they went inside.

The door from the street led directly into the sitting room which was small and crammed with an assortment of second-hand furniture. To the left was a narrow staircase leading to the two upstairs bedrooms, and the wall to the right was given over to a large grey-pink sofa, the back of which was covered with several
lace-worked antimacassars which hid the moth holes. The sofa was far too big for the room but it doubled as a bed for Benjamin's young brother Billy.

The fireplace beneath the wooden mantel in the corner was framed by green tiles with, here and there, a flower motif. Several of the tiles were cracked and chipped, but they were attractive nonetheless. The tiles were kept glossy and shining, and always there was a small vase of flowers on the mantelpiece, violets or pansies or even sweetpeas, whatever was available from the street vendor on the corner. The fire in the little iron grate gave off a good strong heat too, and the family was cosy in the colder months, unlike many of their neighbours who lived in damp and rotting dwellings.

Benjamin and Norah walked through to the kitchen where they found Beth and Timothy seated at the table, admiring the set of marbles. The kitchen was where the family invariably gathered, and most of the space was taken up by the old, scarred wooden table which Samuel had made. Pots and pans hung from hooks screwed into the yellowing plaster walls, and utensils dangled from nails driven into the big wooden beam above the stove.

‘Well, well, well,' Beth said, rising to admire the hat closely, ‘now that's what I call posh.' She felt the texture of the blue satin bow. A seamstress by trade, employed as an outworker by the Goulburn Street tailor, J Cohen, Beth certainly knew her fabrics. ‘Very, very posh.'

Norah fumbled with the hatpin. ‘Try it on, Beth. Do. You can borrow it whenever you wish. It can be ours to share if you like.'

Knowing how hard Beth slaved away in her little sewing room, the second-hand machine Samuel had bought her whirring away till well past midnight, young Timmy all the while sleeping soundly in the upper bunk, Norah once more felt a wave of guilt that she had not insisted upon buying a present for her mother-in-law.

‘Put it on,' she urged. ‘Please.'

Benjamin watched, puzzled as he often was by the genuine affection between them. He remembered a time when Beth had been highly critical of Norah. ‘Above herself,' he could remember his mother saying to Samuel. ‘She's just a Surry Hills lass like the rest of them, who does she think she is?' But somewhere along the line, she had changed her tack. ‘Shy she is,' Beth would say in defence
of her daughter-in-law. ‘Shy that's all,' when the neighbours insinuated that Norah was a bit stuck up. Benjamin was grateful that the two had become friends, but it only confirmed his confusion about the female sex. Much as he loved and admired the look and the smell and the touch of them, their minds remained a mystery to him.

‘Fine piece of craftsmanship, I must say.' Beth turned the hat in her hands, examining it from every angle. ‘Very nicely worked.'

‘Here, let me help you.' Norah sat Beth down and tucked the stray wisps of grey hair back up into the untidy chignon. She placed the hat on Beth's head and secured the pin. ‘There. Now come and look in the mirror.'

Benjamin and Timothy followed as Norah dragged her mother-in-law into the sitting room, and together they all looked in the mirror over the mantelpiece.

The hat was totally at odds with the colourless face which peered from beneath its brim. It mocked the once blue eyes, now a faded grey, and emphasised the sunken cheeks which had once been rosy. Beth was fifty-five years of age, but in that hat she could have been seventy.

‘Now, there's a sight for sore eyes,' she said, her weary face cracking into a smile. ‘It's a younger woman should wear this hat, and that's a fact.' She laughed out loud as she took it off.

The flash of humour revealed a strength which belied the aged face beneath the hat. There was plenty of life left in Beth Kendall. The fight for survival might have drained the colour from her, but survive she had. She would never admit defeat, although the death of her husband had brought her close to it. In the thirty-three years of their marriage she had weathered two miscarriages, given birth to a stillborn baby, and lost two, one to scarlet fever at ten months, and a three-year-old to measles. None of which had prepared her for the death of her husband.

For the first week or so they had persuaded themselves that he had caught a chill. His high temperature, his headaches, his dry cough. ‘Just a chill,' Samuel had said, and she'd believed him. Then, overnight, the plague had struck with a passion and within three days he was dead. Mercifully quick some might say, but it was a hideous death to behold. Daily Beth had watched her Samuel wasting before her eyes, coughing up blood-stained sputum, his
skin turning blue. Delirious. Vomiting. And when the end finally came, withered to a husk, skin ulcerated, abscesses covering his body.

She had nurtured him throughout, washing him, caressing him, lying beside him and whispering her support. She'd held his decaying body close, the once strong body she had known and loved, and often she'd wished that the plague would take her too. But it hadn't. And she supposed she should be grateful, it was a death no-one should have to suffer. And there was more living to be done after all, she still served a useful purpose.

‘You keep the hat for yourself, Norah,' she said, handing it back. ‘I'll play with Tim's marbles, they suit me better.'

‘Fancy a drink out the back?' Benjamin asked. ‘Nellie said she'd join us.'

Beth caught the hopeful plea in her grandson's eye. ‘You two go on,' she said, giving Tim a nod, ‘we'll be out when we've had a game of marbles.'

The boy raced off into the kitchen and Beth smiled at her daughter-in-law. ‘It's a lovely hat, Norah, it suits you well.'

Norah smiled back happily. ‘Thank you,' she said.

Strange how transforming that smile was, Beth thought. For a relatively plain young woman, Norah looked very pretty when she smiled.

Norah's plainness had been included in Beth's litany of criticism during the early days. ‘She's not even pretty,' she'd grumbled to Samuel. ‘She's stuck up and she's not even pretty. Why, she's nowhere near as good-looking as the other girls Ben's courted.'

‘Ben's never “courted” a girl in his life,' Samuel had replied with more than a touch of cynicism, ‘and well you know it.'

Beth had known it. Only too well. Devilishly handsome with charm to boot, Benjamin was a magnet to women. And at his age, if girls wished to surrender themselves to him, who could blame him for enjoying his conquests? But it had been only a matter of time, despite his father's regular warnings. ‘You be careful, boy,' Samuel had said time and again. ‘Many a young ram's had to pay for his pleasure.' Only a matter of time. And then there she was. Norah Davis. Twenty-one years old. A full five months pregnant. And plain.

In Beth's eyes it had all added up to one thing. A trap. How
come all the pretty girls Benjamin had bedded over the past five years had managed to keep themselves out of trouble? Well, two of them hadn't, she knew that for a fact, but they'd found the solution to their problem.

‘There are ways, you know. Ways to get rid of it.' Beth had been cruelly direct with the girl. Didn't she know they were in the depths of a depression? The lad was too young and the times were too hard to be saddled with a wife and a baby. ‘There are ways,' she said. Then she told the girl about hot baths and gin, about smashing her stomach against a chair or a railing. ‘Did you try anything?' she demanded.

The girl shook her head, about to cry. ‘I prayed,' she said, ‘I prayed that I'd lose the baby.'

Prayer! Beth had little time for prayer, it had certainly never worked for her. ‘Oh well, it's too late now. Five months. Nothing you can do about it now.'

The tears started then. Silently. Coursing down the girl's cheeks. Beth refused to be moved. The distress was genuine, she could see that. But her son was trapped. Why should she waste her sympathy?

‘There's no need for that. Ben will do the right thing, you'll be married before the baby's born.' She rose from her chair. ‘Now pull yourself together, I'll put the kettle on for some tea.'

After the marriage and the birth of the baby, Beth's attitude towards Norah softened a little. The girl loved her son, and was a good wife and mother, for that she should be grateful. And gradually she realised that Norah's reserve was not due to any snobbishness on her part, that she was indeed shy, and painfully self-conscious.

The death of Norah's second child, the little girl she had so longed for, finally sealed their relationship. Without Beth's strength and support, and above all understanding, Norah would never have survived her loss, Beth knew it. And from that moment on, she became protective of her daughter-in-law.

Following the game of marbles, which she let Tim win—the first game with his new set, it seemed only right—Beth and her grandson joined the others in the communal backyard shared by the Kendalls and the Putmans.

There had once been a dividing fence, but in the lean times
Samuel Kendall and Jack Putman had pulled it down and used it for firewood. No-one had told the landlord, but then he was unlikely to find out. Most landlords in the poorer areas of Surry Hills were disinterested in the living conditions of their tenants and, so long as the rent was paid, were rarely seen. Neither of the families had ever mentioned rebuilding the fence, although Norah always wished they would. The Kendalls and the Putmans preferred it that way. A communal backyard was neighbourly, they said.

‘A grand age for a man, thirty.' Nellie toasted Ben yet again with her bottle of beer, then took another swig—she always drank from the bottle. ‘A man's not a man till he's thirty, that's what I say.'