Beneath the Southern Cross (31 page)

The die was cast, however, and Kathleen and David both knew it. After a performance of
The Squatter's Daughter
he asked her home for supper, and their sexual union was a foregone conclusion.

She was a virgin, she told him, a fact which, given their encounter on the porch, David had not expected, and which at first he found a little unnerving. He made love to her as gently as he could, taking care to cause her as little pain as possible, but after the initial hurdle had been passed and her sexuality unleashed, it appeared Kathleen's passion knew no bounds. They made love twice that night and again in the morning when her hands awoke him from a deep sleep, playing on his body, demanding pleasure. It had been twenty years since his virility had been put to such a test and David was exhausted. Exhausted, but deeply, passionately and obsessively in love.

It was difficult to disguise their affair at work, particularly for David whose feelings were clearly readable every time he looked at Kathleen, and Elsa Duckworth quickly spread the word in the back room that Kathleen O'Shea was a slut.

Although she dared say nothing out loud, Elsa Duckworth tut-tutted and sneered in Kathleen's presence, making her disgust apparent innumerous ways, all of which Kathleen ignored. She was blissfully content and she refused to allow any unpleasantness to encroach upon her ideal existence.

She was not in love with David Abraham, but she was very fond of him, and immensely grateful for the change in her circumstances. No longer did she need to scrimp and save in order to support herself and her brother. David had increased her salary handsomely, and he regularly gave her gifts, the more expensive of which she sold, salting the added revenue away for a rainy day.

Each Saturday they went to a performance. Sometimes to the theatre, sometimes to the vaudeville, but most often to the Bohemians. Kathleen loved the magic of their colour and pageantry, the world of excitement and make-believe. After the performance, and sometimes supper with Mr Coles and his players, they would return to David's house and make love, though Kathleen refused to stay with him more than one night a week. She needed to be with her young brother, she said, she was like a mother to Dan.

They'd been lovers for four months when Kathleen discovered she was pregnant. She was dismayed, it was all her own fault, she told herself, she should have been more careful. But she did not agonise over her decision; there was one option and one only.

Her gratitude to David Abraham for his kindness and generosity demanded that she bring him no shame. Besides, commonsense
told her that no man would desire a mistress with a child. She must leave both David and her position at Abraham's Millinery. But she would keep her condition a secret for as long as possible. She would need to squirrel away all the money she could in order to see her through her confinement, and to support herself and Dan until she was able to work again.

David Abraham, in the meantime, was in a terrible quandary. He desperately wanted to marry Kathleen, but dared not ask for fear of frightening her away. She was only just twenty, why should a young girl, and one of such beauty, agree to share her life with an old man like him? He knew she was fond of him, but her affection was bought with gifts and a salary far beyond that of an office worker. Even his money would not keep her for long; she would meet a young man and be swept off her feet. It could happen any day now.

A month went by, and another, and he wondered whether perhaps, after all, there was room for hope. He started to pluck up the courage. Next Saturday, he told himself. But then Saturday came and went, the courage he'd summoned up during the week deserting him as he found himself once again in awe of her vibrancy, her youth and her beauty.

Kathleen was nearly four months pregnant and the swell of her belly was evident. She reported for work on Monday knowing that she would have to leave at the end of the week. She would collect her wages on the Friday and leave a note on her desk, sealed and addressed to Mr Abraham, explaining that she had met someone else. It seemed cruel, but it was the only way, she knew, otherwise he would call on her to discover why she had gone.

David-did not come into the office that Monday morning, though no-one knew why, for he'd left no message as he usually did. Then, in the late afternoon, the employees of Abraham's Millinery were called together in the workroom and informed by the company's solicitor of the terrible news.

‘It is with great regret I must inform you,' he said, ‘that Mr Abraham has passed away. A heart attack it is believed. On Sunday, in the evening.'

On Sunday! Kathleen stared at the solicitor, shaking her head in disbelief. It was not possible. She had been with David that very morning.

Beside her, Elsa Duckworth was staring at Kathleen. She could see the girl's reaction and she knew what it meant.

‘There will be no more work today,' the solicitor informed them, ‘you may all go home. But you will report as usual tomorrow when Mr Abraham's sister and nephew will have arrived from Melbourne. Mrs Bloomfield and her son are to take over the business and will instruct you all accordingly. I am sure you need fear no changes in your employ. As a mark of respect, the workshop will be closed on Wednesday for Mr Abraham's funeral. I am informed that no salaries will be docked and employees are welcome to attend the service. Thank you for your attention.'

The crowd dispersed, some girls in tears, others muttering their shock. Elsa Duckworth, herself in tears, her face white with grief, hissed under her breath at Kathleen. ‘Hussy.' Elsa Duckworth had been in love with David Abraham for the twenty years of her employ.

But Kathleen didn't hear her. She walked back to the front office, numb with disbelief.

A week later she found herself summoned to Mr Abraham's office.

‘Your services will no longer be required, Miss O'Shea. You will oblige me by clearing the front office of your belongings as soon as possible.'

Irene Bloomfield, seated authoritatively behind David's desk, her hands spread on the tabletop before her, did not look the least bit like her brother. A big woman with spongy features, she had none of David's dapper style. Her clothes, though expensive and fashionable, sat awkwardly on her bulky frame, creases and bulges appearing here and there as if the fabric were seeking a shape which did not exist.

Her son, hovering beside her, would probably end up the same way. He was a pallid young man whose skin appeared never to have been exposed to the sun.

Mrs Bloomfield continued, ‘In fact, given your lack of qualifications, I find it remarkable that my brother selected you for a position of such responsibility in the first place.'

Oscar Bloomfield did not find it at all remarkable. He did, however, find it nothing short of incredible that old Uncle David had bedded such a glorious young creature, for if they were to believe the forewoman, that was exactly what had happened.

‘Perhaps we are being a little hasty, Mother,' he interjected. ‘Uncle David would not have suffered sloppiness or inefficiency, perhaps Miss O'Shea …'

His mother did not so much as cast a glance in his direction. ‘That will be all,' she concluded. ‘Miss Duckworth will assist you in the clearing of your belongings,' Elsa Duckworth had intimated that the girl might well steal items of value if she were not supervised, ‘and she will see you from the premises. Good day.'

Kathleen did not look at Elsa Duckworth as she collected her few meagre items from the front desk. A mirror, a comb, two handkerchiefs. She did not even take the fine-tipped pen and the little brass inkwell David had given her, for fear she would be accused of stealing.

‘He was never a well man,' Elsa Duckworth said, her eyes swollen from last night's weeping, ‘and then you had to come along. It was you who killed him. He'd still be alive if it wasn't for you.'

Kathleen walked out of the front office and down the stairs. ‘Good riddance!' she heard Elsa Duckworth call out behind her. ‘Harlot! Slut!'

She left without looking back.

Four and a half months later Kathleen gave birth to her son in the little upstairs bedroom of her house in Woolloomooloo. As the months passed, the money she had saved dwindled alarmingly. With reluctance she allowed Dan to leave school—the baby must come first, they both agreed—but his meagre pay working on the newspaper delivery was not enough and Kathleen knew she must find a job.

One Friday night she left baby Robbie, now six months old, in Dan's care, and visited Mr Coles backstage after the Bohemians' evening performance.

‘I wondered if you might give me a job, Mr Coles.' She got straight to the point. ‘I am at present unemployed.'

William Coles looked her up and down; he remembered her of course, he'd always been impressed by her beauty. ‘Can you sing, my dear?'

‘Not that I know of.'

‘Can you dance?'

‘No.'

‘Can you act?'

‘I've never tried.'

None of which mattered, William Coles thought, looks like hers were always good stage dressing.

‘I thought I might perhaps work behind the scenes,' Kathleen pleaded. ‘I could help sew the costumes and make the scenery. I am not afraid of hard work.'

‘That would be sheer waste, my dear, we shall give you a try.'

Kathleen's talent was not vast, but she proved co-ordinated enough to manage simple dance routines, and her voice, though not strong, was tuneful enough.

William Coles was pleased with his latest acquisition and before long Kathleen had a strong following of ardent admirers who were convinced that beauty was talent. Even the odd newspaper critic was duped. ‘In a minor role, the gifted Miss Kathleen O'Shea brings a refreshing fillip to the ranks of the Bohemian players,' said the variety columnist of the
Sydney Morning Herald
.

Kathleen quickly realised that the world of entertainment was not the magic fairyland which had once so enchanted her, but sheer hard work for those employed in it. She enjoyed her moments onstage, the boisterousness of the audience as it booed the villain, cheered the hero and shrilly whistled its approval at the appearance of beauty—more often than not Kathleen's—but she was never onstage for very long, her roles always being minor. William Coles was no fool, he knew the difference between beauty and talent. When Kathleen was not actually performing, she was busily helping others with their quick costume changes, assisting the backstage workers or setting up the properties for the next scene.

She liked the members of the company, an energetic, rowdy lot in the main and, as she was not competitive, she was popular with her co-workers. In awe of those with true talent, and aware of her own limitations, Kathleen was forgiven her beauty by the women and admired for it by the men, a number of whom tried, without success, to seduce her.

Kathleen's refusal to succumb to the actors' advances was not due to any timidity on her part. It wasn't even because she found them unattractive; indeed several male members of the company she found most sexually appealing. But her discovery that work in
the theatre was arduous had been quickly followed by her discovery that actors were not particularly wealthy or stable. In fact actors had very little to offer Kathleen, who needed a father for her child.

It was amongst the ranks of her admirers that she searched, accepting invitations to the Athenaeum Club, the Cafe Français, the Dawn and Dusk Club, all the fashionable nightspots where, in the social potpourri of after-show suppers, artistes mingled with the aristocracy of Sydney and anyone could meet anyone, and most hoped that they would.

After several such suppers with an admirer whom she decided she liked, Kathleen would accompany him to his home or hotel and sleep with him. Over the ensuing weeks such a relationship more often than not resulted in at least one expensive gift. Sometimes two, or even three, all of which she took to the pawnbroker in Pitt Street.

Eventually, when she thought the time was ripe, and when she felt a genuine affection for her benefactor, Kathleen would invite him hometo meet her child. That was inevitably the end of the relationship.

Kathleen looked down at the chipped cup in her hand and wondered whether she should keep it, it was one of the good ones. No, damn it, she could afford to buy more, she could buy a whole new set if she wanted to. How dare Dan call her a whore! But her initial anger had abated, and he was probably right, she thought, when all was said and done.

She peered through the door at the clock on the living-room wall. Time to get Robbie his tea before she left for the theatre.

Kathleen no longer worked for the Bohemians. She was now employed at the Tivoli Theatre in Castlereagh Street. Her talent being insufficient to get her into the chorus, she served more as stage dressing, a term which she'd learned over the past several years applied to those with no more to offer than beauty. The work was boring and, with constant costume changes, tiring. Furthermore, the Tivoli was far more regimented than Mr Coles had been. Dress codes were strict. Members of the company were expected to arrive and depart the stage door smartly dressed; shabby appearances would not be tolerated, the queues of fans waiting to see the performers expected glamour. And if a member of the
company was late, as Kathleen often was, there was a shilling's fine to be paid to the stage manager.

The Tiv, however, paid twice as much as the Bohemians and attracted a more sophisticated clientele, so Kathleen had little option but to accept its rules. At twenty-eight years of age she was running out of time. She doubted a woman of thirty would be employed as stage dressing. Besides, she needed the admirers the Tivoli offered.

Kathleen had long given up finding a father for Robbie amongst her stage-door Johnnies, but the gifts she received from them augmented her income so dramatically that she could not afford to ignore them. She wondered if Lewis Carlingford would be in the audience tonight. She supposed he would, he'd been there each Saturday night for the past six weeks. She didn't particularly like Lewis Carlingford but she'd recently broken her rule about sleeping with only those whom she liked. The brooch he'd given her last week had fetched twenty pounds at the pawnbroker's.