Lilian's Story (18 page)

I never wore lace, never wore anything but my tartan skirt and the black coat that knew every one of my secrets. But Aunt Kitty continued to hope for me.
My own days are
nearly over,
she said, and held out a trembling veined hand to inspect the old skin.
But it is just beginning for you. And
for girls now it is all different.
She was silent for a long time, making each of her starched flounces lie tidily beside the others.
But I would have loved an outfit like a banksia.
She laughed a sudden robust laugh from the depths of her white frills and lavender water.
All those mouths. I love them, Lilian.
After so much animation she slipped into a reverie while the glass of barley water tipped more and more perilously in her hand.

It was time for me to go, time to leave Aunt Kitty in her chair with her mouth slipping ajar for her afternoon stupor. But I found it hard to leave. At home, cold leg of lamb awaited me, and the unread books that Father reminded me he had paid for.
You are letting opportunity slip,
he said tiresomely.
Opportunity is passing you by.

A Sad Street

Although there was so much of me, there did not seem enough to go around. Duncan saw me as I strolled among old stones with F J. Stroud, and waved in an uncontrolled way. He never mentioned what he had seen, but held my ankle tightly as we sat in our tree, and threatened never to let go. From a distance, Duncan in his white flannels looked like someone at ease. Anyone who had not seen him blush purple over lemonade and cream pie would assume he was just another crass boy in beef.

I was embarrassed when F.J. Stroud met me in the Gardens in his own white flannels. A pale blue stain in the pocket of his white shirt had been patiently scrubbed by someone and the cuffs had been carefully turned and darned. The flannels were too tight, too obviously left over from small days at school, strained at the waistband, and showed too much black sock at the ankle. F.J. Stroud was waiting on our bench, looking sardonic for the benefit of a gull, when I came over the grass towards him. He grimaced and held his lined palms out towards me.
Kindly
pretend I am not here today
, he said.
That other man's clothes do not
fit me.
I could see how much he wanted to return home and rip off those sad white clothes.

You are my secret vice, Lil
, he told me after a long silence, broken by a gull rudely shrieking at us.
I think of you at
night like a drug
. I watched his finger knotting together in a desperate way as he spoke at last.
In a year I will come into my
trust account
, he began again, and smiled at the thought of that trust account.
Then I will buy you things, Lil, and take you
to dinner.

I could not refuse then, to visit the street where he lived.
Come along
, he said, and gripped my wrist.
There is
nothing to be afraid of, or not much.
It seemed that the failure of his flannels had made him determined to see how far humiliation could go.

In his sad street the terrace houses crowded together with teeth missing from their railings and sheets of iron leaning askew. Everything smelled of milk gone bad. Thin dogs nosed along the gutters and from every gate lack-lustre children stared with pale faces. It would be important to have a secret vice in such a street.

Mother sacrificed everything when she left
, F.J. Stroud said,
and she would not accept a penny.
In that street he looked bigger, stood straighter, beside so many dustbins and dog turds.
This is where I live.
He pointed at flaking green paint.
That
woman, do you see, is my mother.
He pointed and tried hard not to be ashamed. His mother was one of the three women standing in aprons and hairnets talking at someone's railing, but I could not guess which one she was.

I was not breathing properly in this street of such poverty, but F.J. Stroud continued to grip my wrist and when I looked down at my own shoes rather than face those grey children, he tilted my chin up.
I am poor
, he said,
but I can be just as ruthless as anyone else.
He was thinking of Duncan as he squared his shoulders at the street, but was not used to standing as if he was proud of something, and began to cough.
That man is too healthy,
he said through his cough, so he sounded frantic.
He cannot be any good, so bursting
with health.
When he had finished coughing he stood staring at a dead sparrow that lay beside a rag in the gutter.
You will
be a young widow, though, if you choose me, Lil.
He coughed his sharp cough once more, demonstrating.
Do you wish to make
old bones, Lil?
he asked, and nudged the sparrow with his foot.
Are you aiming for that telegram from the King?

Proposals Abound

We were all quickly getting older, and thinking about marriage and death. People in shops called me
Miss
now instead of
Dearie
, and Duncan had been given a manly cutthroat razor for his birthday. On the lawns below us all the boaters and voiles were becoming serious about their prospects.

Duncan had never spoken about his beef, except to say he had eaten enough of it for a lifetime. He spoke about card games in the dry river bed with the abos, about how skinning a rabbit was like taking off a sock, about some dog he was fond of that was half dingo.
But it is dry
there, Lil
, he said, looking around.
Nothing decays there, it
just dries up like snakeskin.
We were silent for a long time as I thought about that kind of dryness.
You would like it,
Lil
, Duncan said, and I thought of how pleased Father would be, so that I had to lean over and watch a shining gob of my spit spin down to the grass. Duncan laughed and compared his own spit on the way down, stringier through the branches, hitting a leaf and dribbling.
I promise you would like it, Lil.

It was a day of recklessness and everyone's mother was a little shrill and inclined to tears under the jacaranda, because Rick had proposed to Ursula and been accepted. Ursula sat now in a chair with the mothers, turning the diamond on her finger so that it shot points of light. There were moments when, surrounded by the other girls exclaiming and blushing with envy, her smile seemed to be exhausting her. From the sedate depths of her wicker chair, she watched the girls in voile who were still creating their futures in a web of smiles and glances, and seemed to feel she had arrived at hers too quickly and by too direct a route. Some transformation she had been looking forward to had not taken place.

Duncan and I were made uneasy by the mood of panic and by so much wishing. We filled our hands with buns and lamingtons and climbed the tree again, awkwardly, with them. From high in the branches we could not see Ursula, but we could watch Rick standing in a group of boaters. We could not see his face, but we could watch as his foot drew patterns on the grass as he talked. Duncan swallowed lamington and said,
He is a husband now
, and I thought about husbands and wives and wondered if there was any alternative. Duncan coughed on a shred of coconut and said,
You are a mate, Lil.
When he looked up from his branch, no man had ever looked me so straight in the eye.
A good mate
, he said. I wanted to cry with pleasure, but felt a mate would not cry. I had seen mates, slapping each other's shoulders, shouting, spilling beer on each other, but I had never seen them cry with pleasure or anything else.

You could be a bloke, Lil
, Duncan said obscurely, through a mouthful of bun. He hardly knew what he was saying, but the gigantic bite he had taken, and the vigorous chewing that made the muscles of his face stand out, did not retract what he had said. I had not been happier in company for as long as I could remember. For those few minutes while I listened to Duncan chew, it became possible to imagine futures. I broke pieces off my bun and rolled them around my mouth, unable to swallow for the pressure of a future and happiness. I would see all the skies I wanted to, sleep on all the kinds of earth there were. I would be able to experience every dawn, and storms by the sea and in mountains. Duncan would rip buns apart with his short strong teeth and I would be his Lil, his mate.

Duncan on the Beach

Blue Gods wait outside some women's doors, but Duncan waited outside mine. In the moonlight his face was the colour of paper and by night he was warmer than by day. When he took my hand and led me down to our beach, I could feel that my whole large being was contained in his warm palm. On the cold sand Duncan warmed me with his side against mine, and we counted stars and kissed, while small waves toyed with the rocks. In small quantities, on quiet moonlit nights, the sea was very tame.

Other men did not kiss me. F.J. Stroud would have been welcome to, in spite of being so skinny and having cold hands, but he had never tried. And the young men doing well in law or medicine, who reached my name on the list of young ladies to be invited for a drive, did not try either. They took me out on Sundays in their new cars, opening the door for me, helping me up with an indifferent respectful hand. We drove and they shouted facts about the car, about the scenery, about the full dull history of some spot named after some colonial governor. They had good futures ahead of them and in the meantime they were willing to be respectful to fat Lil Singer. Their futures were full of boots up on brass fenders, of smiling serene wives and endearing clean children. But kissing and feeling cold sand slither between fingers and toes like something alive, that was something no one but Duncan tried.

You should not let me do this
, Duncan said, and let go of me so that I rolled away on the sand.
Do you let other men do this?
Our mouths had been fastened together for so long my lips were tender and faltering. On the second try I could still not form words, so I abandoned the idea.
Lil, you are crazy
, Duncan whispered, his hair grey in the moonlight, his eyes in shadow. His tie lay like an eel on the sand between us, but he still wore his shoes. When dew began to fall and the stars retreated in their sockets until they were tiny sharp points of light, he sat up and emptied sand out of his shoes. You, he said, looking at me as sand poured out.
You
devil.
His smile was wet by moonlight.
You are trying to egg me
on, eh, Lil?

I was hungry for each next step, each new shape of skin waiting to be discovered. I was hungry for the grit of sand between our naked skins.
Lil, you cannot do this
, Duncan said with a hand on my thigh, and removed it.
You cannot do this,
he said, and turned away.

But I was a bold girl, and hungry for everything. I took Duncan's hand and put it boldly on my breast.
I am an innocent
, I told him, although I knew he already knew that.
But you,
have you done this?
Drunk with the feel of sand on the back of his hand, I listened for an answer for so long I thought he must have fallen asleep. But under his eyebrows I could see his eyes shifting in thought. When he looked at me, it was a plea.
Look, Lil
, he entreated,
you are a good mate. I cannot
take advantage.
There was more, so I did not allow myself to answer.
You are a good mate, and a person of class
, Duncan said in a confused way. There was still more and I waited for it to make sense, but Duncan could not find any more words. The silence between us began to congeal and something cold crept up my spine. My lips felt puffy now and Duncan sat hunched under the moonlight as under a weight.

Aunt Kitty had warned me against boldness, but I had laughed at her.
It is said they lose respect
, Aunt Kitty said.
If it is respect you want. Do you want respect?
I had experienced respect. The boys with good prospects had treated me with respect. After they had handed me up into the car, I watched their faces as they walked around the nose of the car to the driver's seat, and their faces were full of how pleased they were with the way they respected me.
Respect
is not much my line
, I told Aunt Kitty.
What is, Lil? What is your
line?
she asked. It was a natural question but a hard one. Finally the silence between us gave up the effort. Respect seemed a subject that could reduce all of us to silence.

Answers from Joan

Joan had the answers to many questions, so I tried her with the one that was troubling me.
What is it all about, Joan?
I asked.
How does it all work?
I could not find a better way to ask than that, and trusted Joan and her understanding. She thought for a long time, shredding a leaf until she held up just the stalk of its spine, and then knotted it back onto itself. I had been thinking about F.J. Stroud when I asked, and his skinny nervous hands under the fig tree, and about Duncan sighing in the knots of his clothes, but Joan could not have known any of that.
Well, Lil
, she said at last,
it is all about whatever you like. It is about kittens and roses,
if that is what you fancy.
She poked her stalk at me until it squirted up a nostril and I squealed.
Or it is like that, if you
like.
Joan's small green eyes watched me closely, as if she was thinking about purchasing me. Up so close I could see how her skin was different from mine, from all the Annes and Ursulas I had gone to school with, not pink and white, but brownish, olivish, with a sheen as if water would run off it smoothly.
Does that satisfy you?
Joan finally asked, and I nodded and said,
Yes
, although I did not know if her question was about her answer or the way I had been looking at her skin.
Look, Lil, if you want to see
something
, she said, and suddenly raised an arm and pulled at the loose sleeve of her blouse until a beard of kinked black hair sprang out at me.
Now, that is worth a look
, Joan said.
That is one of the things it is all about.