Beneath the Southern Cross (45 page)

‘There's going to be a real barney,' Ada said, twisting around to peer through the back window. Caroline said nothing, but the ugliness of the episode had shaken her a little and, seated beside her, Gene sensed it.

‘We're not all like that,' he said quietly, ‘they're from the South those guys, they've got strong feelings about blacks in the South.'

Caroline appreciated his concern, but she changed the subject nevertheless. ‘Where are you from?'

‘Maine. A little town called Casco, by Sabbathday Lake. Peaceful,' he shrugged, ‘pretty, but nothing much happens.'

He smiled and she noticed that the perfect white teeth in his handsome tanned face were slightly crooked. She rather liked that.

Kings Cross was the centre of Sydney's nightlife. Along the breadth of Darlinghurst Road flashed the gaudy lights of girlie bars and strip joints, and in Macleay Street, for the more wealthy and selective, the hotels boasted cabarets starring international celebrities. During the day, the fashionable open-air cafes of Bayswater Road were home to the bohemian society of writers and painters and poets, many of whom lived in the Cross.

The taxicab pulled up in Orwell Street outside the Roosevelt Hotel. Of all the nightclubs in Kings Cross, and there were many, the Roosevelt was the most fashionable and the most popular.

Steve and Gene protectively guided the girls through the crowds at the doors. Once inside, they led them around the periphery of the packed dance floor, amongst the potted palms and the waiters with silver trays, to the stairs which led to the upper-level balconies. They'd never get a table, surely, Caroline thought, and she wanted to say as much, but she would have had to yell to be heard
above the noise of the swing band and the excited chatter of the crowd, so she obediently followed as Gene and Steve led them up the stairs.

To her astonishment, a waiter greeted them effusively and, in an instant, ushered them to a table right at the front overlooking the dance floor. How amazing, she thought. Then Steve handed the man a five-pound note. Quite openly, nothing furtive about it. Five quid! Caroline was shocked. A whole week's wages! For her, anyway, and over half a week's wages for the average man. Then she noticed that nearly all of the tables on the upper level were taken by American servicemen. There were several men in ‘civvies' but not one Aussie uniform was present at the upstairs supper tables.

She leant over the railing and peered down at the dance floor, sensing the antagonism in the Aussie servicemen dancing and milling about below, and she couldn't help feeling guilty, sitting up there with the Yanks.

Ada drank Coca-Cola, she'd discovered a passion for Coke, it was addictive she said, particularly with a dash of bourbon. And Caroline, who'd never tasted bourbon and Coke, had to agree.

Steve offered his packet of Lucky Strikes to Ada and, to Caroline's amazement, she accepted one. She posed elegantly as he leaned close to light it for her and then, to Caroline's further amazement, inhaled like an expert. Since when had Ada smoked?

‘No thank you.' Gene was offering her his packet of Camels, and it appeared, a little suspiciously to Caroline, as if a cigarette was something shared between ‘couples'. ‘I don't smoke.' She smiled apologetically as she said it, not wanting to seem rude.

‘But you have to try,' Ada brightly insisted, ‘it's the fashionable thing to do. Besides,' she added, hoping the men hadn't noticed her kick Caroline none too gently under the table, ‘you'll enjoy it, it's very relaxing.'

Caroline gathered there was a hidden agenda which Ada would later explain and accepted a Camel, careful not to inhale as Gene lit it for her. She puffed tentatively, hating the taste, ‘thank you,' she said.

The supper was excellent. The girls had salmon, the men steaks and each of them followed up with the Roosevelt speciality, a rich dessert made with full cream. The chef obviously had an ‘in' with
the black market, Caroline thought. The government was already announcing the imminent issue of ration books.

It was late when the men escorted them home, for Caroline anyway, after two o'clock in the morning, and she hoped her grandmother was not worried.

‘We can walk from here,' she insisted outside the Roosevelt as Gene raised his arm to hail a taxicab. By now Caroline feltthoroughly guilty about the money they'd spent. ‘We only live in the Loo.'

Gene and Steve exchanged a glance of amusement. They'd heard the Pommie soldiers refer to lavatories as loos, and they'd found it difficult to come to terms with the fact that the dockland suburb where their ships were berthed was known as ‘the Loo'. No pun appeared intentional from the Sydneysiders however, so they didn't openly mock the name.

‘OK, let's walk,' Gene agreed.

The four of them parted company at the corner of Bourke and Plunkett Streets, Steve walking Ada home and Gene accompanying Caroline.

Outside Kathleen's house, Caroline shook his hand. ‘Thank you very much,' she said as formally as she could, praying that he wouldn't try to kiss her. ‘It's been a lovely evening.' Americans might be gentlemen as Ada professed them to be, but they were still men when all was said and done, and Caroline had fought off the unwelcome attentions of many a suitor in the past.

‘It sure has, Caroline.' His returning handshake was warm and unthreatening. ‘May I call on you? Tomorrow maybe? We could go out and dine.'

‘Oh.' She wasn't sure what to say. She'd felt self-conscious walking back from the Cross with a Yank, but Ada's lack of inhibition had made it seem acceptable. She didn't want to go out with Gene on her own. She wished Ada was with them now.

He sensed her reluctance, and felt he knew why. ‘Perhaps we could repeat tonight,' he said. ‘We could go to the Trocadero with Ada and Steve.' His suggestion sounded casual, but Gene was desperate. Don't let her say no, he was inwardly praying. Please don't let her say no.

‘Two nights in a row'd be a bit much for me,' she said, and she meant it, three Coca-Colas laced with bourbon had gone to her head, she wasn't used to hard liquor. She wasn't even used to Coca-Cola.

‘Next Friday then?' Please, he was begging, please.

‘All right,' she said after a moment's hesitation. Then she smiled, not wishing to appear ungracious. ‘I'd love that. Like I said, you're a beaut dancer.'

Gene laughed out loud. She delighted him. She looked like a film star and yet she was guileless. Most beautiful women played games, he'd found, he'd never met anyone quite like Caroline O'Shea.

‘I'll come by and pick you up in a cab. Say, seven o'clock, or eight maybe?'

‘No. No, I'll meet you outside the Troc.' She had that wary look in her eyes again, he noticed. ‘Do you mind?' she asked.

‘Not at all,' he said as airily as he could. ‘Eight o'clock OK?'

‘Yep. Eight o'clock's fine.'

Gene pulled out an unopened packet of Camel cigarettes from his pocket and placed them in her hand. ‘Just a little present,' he said, ‘Iwish I had some flowers, but …'

‘No, please,' she protested, trying to give them back. ‘I don't smoke, really I don't.'

‘I know that.' He took her hand in both of his and folded her fingers over the packet. ‘Looked to me like that kick Ada gave you under the table packed quite a punch.' She frowned. ‘Hey, no offence taken,' he hastily added, ‘Ada's quite right, cigarettes are a valuable commodity. But you don't have to pretend to smoke.'

‘I didn't have a cigarette so that you'd give me a whole packet,' she said, annoyed that Ada's hidden agenda had been so readable to everyone but herself.

‘I know that too,' he insisted, charmed again by her candour. ‘Come on now, it's only a gift, if you don't want to sell them, then give them to a friend.' He squeezed her hand gently. ‘Goodnight Caroline. I'll see you next Friday.'

‘Goodnight.' She stood, holding the packet of Camels, and watched for a moment as he strode briskly up the hill towards William Street. Fair enough, she thought, she'd share the cigarettes around at work on Monday. Many of her workmates smoked, and she'd seen them preserve the tobacco from their used butts to roll up in airmail paper when they'd saved enough for a fag.

‘You most certainly will not give them away,' Kathleen said over breakfast the following morning. ‘We can swap them for coffee and sugar.'

‘Oh. All right,' Caroline agreed.

‘He might give you two packets next week, and maybe some nylons and flowers, who knows?' Kathleen's eyes gleamed mischievously, but Caroline knew that her grandmother wasn't altogether joking. Kathleen De Haan was an eminently practical woman and her household wanted for nothing. Various commodities were already in short supply as the war progressed, and Kathleen unashamedly bartered this for that.

Although there was little ready cash, Kathleen refusing to accept any more than two pounds of Caroline's meagre weekly salary, and the rent from Stefan Brandt being half that amount, Kathleen's supply of items for barter seemed endless. Mostly household goods, they camedirectly from Caroline's godfather, Tim Kendall.

Caroline adored Tim. She'd adored him for as long as she could remember. Tim Kendall was the father she'd never had, and, although he now had children of his own, the eldest only four years younger than she herself, Caroline had remained his ‘princess', and he remained her hero.

Wealthy and successful as Tim Kendall now was, he still called in regularly, at least once a fortnight, to check on his ‘princess', and these days, more than ever, he brought presents.

At first, Kathleen had been suspicious. It had been shortly after Otto had died that Tim, attentive and solicitous of both Kathleen and Caroline, had arrived with a brand new wireless set.

‘I appreciate the thought, Tim,' she'd said, ‘but I can't possibly accept that.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because it's brand new and it's worth a fortune.'

‘So?'

‘And it's stolen, it has to be, that's why not.'

He laughed out loud. ‘Do you read the newspapers?' he asked.

‘Of course I do.' She'd been quite defensive. She might be getting old, but she kept herself abreast of the times.

‘But not the business pages I'll bet.'

‘No,' she admitted.

‘Kendall Markets,' he said, bursting with pride. ‘I've announced the opening of three more stores, and one day there'll be a whole chain of them, just like Coles and Woolies, you wait and see.'

‘Oh Tim, that's wonderful.'

She'd known that he'd gone into the retail business. ‘Specialist shops and variety stores,' he'd said at the time, ‘in the suburbs. The days of the big city family stores are coming to an end, you mark my words.' But she'd thought it was just youthful boasting.

‘You see I was right, Kathleen,' he said as he handed her the wireless set. ‘This is just the beginning.'

And it had been. Tim Kendall now owned fifteen stores throughout suburban Sydney, the depressed property market having worked to the advantage of a quick-thinking battler like Tim. And, despite the war, business was thriving. He'd been right about the big city stores too. Still recovering from their losses during the Depression, they were now suffering from the effects of the war. Staff shortages and blackouts were crippling the big stores and it was predicted that rationing might see the end of many. The Foy family was struggling and rumour had it that Kendle and Streatham's was on the brink of closure.

Tim had done well for himself and Kathleen was inordinately proud. For, just as he was a father to Caroline, Tim Kendall was a son to Kathleen De Haan.

The following Saturday morning, Kathleen discovered a shoulder spray of orchids and two packets of Camels sitting on the kitchen table. She pottered about getting breakfast, careful not to wake Caroline, who had been out until three in the morning. Kathleen knew exactly the time of her return. She'd lain awake, just as she had the preceding week, waiting to hear the click of the front door and her granddaughter's feet on the stairs. She didn't mean to spy, and she wasn't particularly worried, but old habits died hard.

Kathleen neither approved nor disapproved of Caroline going out with a Yank, appearances had always been of little importance to her, if people wanted to point and make judgements, let them. Kathleen was only too relieved to see her granddaughter being a young woman again, dancing and enjoying the attentions of a young man, albeit a Yank; it was healthy.

‘No nylons?' she asked when Caroline emerged at ten o'clock, tousled and still a little sleepy.

Caroline gave a throaty chortle, she'd always chortled, even as a child, Kathleen found it most infectious. ‘I tried, Gran,' she said, ‘Idid my best. I told him that my grandmother wanted flowers, two packets of cigarettes and some nylons.'

‘You did not!' Kathleen grinned delightedly, it was exactly what Caroline would do.

‘Oh yes I did, I told him all about you. And he said to tell you that, in his opinion, nylon stockings were a little too personal for a second date, but if I'd go out with him next week, he'd promise to bring along a pair just for my grandmother.'

Kathleen guffawed. ‘I hope you accepted the offer.'

‘I did.' Caroline sat at the table. ‘I asked him to tea on Friday, is that all right?'

Oh dear. A sudden, sobering thought occurred to Kathleen. She placed a mug of tea in front of Caroline and busied herself with the pot of porridge on the stove. ‘Does this mean it's serious?' she asked, trying to sound unconcerned. Surely Caroline wasn't about to fall in love with a Yank, she thought. Oh dear, oh dear.

‘No,' Caroline scoffed, ‘of course it's not serious.' She sipped her tea and said solemnly, after a moment or so, ‘He's leaving soon.' Kathleen turned, a bowl of porridge in each hand, and gave Caroline her full attention. ‘He hasn't told me exactly what day, or where they're going of course, but I thought a meal insomeone's home before he left. You know …'