Lilian's Story (32 page)

We drove up William Street, past a Rolls-Royce as pink as a licked lolly, up the hill towards the Cross. We were borne along in the taxi on a gush of power, the springs bounced under me, sun glittered off the bonnet, and it was easy to see today why we all went on living,
Yes, I am Lil
Singer
, I said,
and will give you a short recitation.
The woman in lilac shantung gazed and smiled from behind her hankie and looked more familiar to me as the moments passed, and seemed to enjoy the recitation, beginning a little light applause between her gloved hands when I had finished. The driver, that lugubrious man, turned and showed me two gold teeth in a wild Slav smile, and then in some thick phlegmy language, flecks of which landed on the seat back between us, began to declaim. It went on for a long time, until cars behind us were blaring. It was easy to see why he had left his country. Exile would be the only place for such snarled language.
I am
a
poet
, he told me thickly before driving on, and although I did not believe him, I admired his attitude, and was pleased that my example had inspired him into a flight of invention.

An Encounter with Silent Dignity

Others failed to show the right attitude, and revealed themselves without knowing that they did so. The man in the back seat of another afternoon taxi was one of those who say nothing rather than say anything foolish. He stared, of course, at the sweating woman with all the chins, who had jumped in at the lights, but could think of nothing to say that might not have made him look foolish, and sat instead with a foolish look of expectancy on his face, in bogus calm. A man of character would have spoken to me, but this man, in his neat jacket and short fur of hair, was no man of character.

The taxi-driver was a man of character, and did not sit in bogus calm, or any other sort. He shouted and pushed at my shoulder, until the lights changed and he was forced to drive on, but continued slapping at my leg until all around us cars were honking at his erratic course from lane to lane.
Keep your eyes on the road
, I told him, and turned to the bogus man in the back seat, who was staring out of his window as if Market Street was interesting.
This man is driving badly
, I told him, and he was forced to glance at me.
Yes
, he agreed, and smiled a wan smile.
Where are you off to?
I asked, for it would be important for him if he could rise to this occasion. If he could manage that, and not solidify in bogus calm, his life might change. But he did not answer, looking mysterious and shaking his head at me. He did not realise that something was happening that he would always remember, that he would be mentioning this incident to people fifteen years from now.
What did she say?
they would ask. But, unchanged, he would have to shake his head and smile mysteriously, and say
I don't remember
, as if concealing something.

Timidity is no good to anyone
, I told him now, perhaps a little louder than I intended, perhaps a little annoyed with his smugness, for he retreated into his corner of the cab and might have jumped out to get away, except that he was too timid for that, too.
You are a success
, I said, and he looked successful, with his smooth clothes, and sitting in the back seat of the taxi, not watching the meter.
But you
are hollow.
A muscle in his jaw moved when I said that, and I hoped he would speak to me at last, but he wound down his window instead and waved at a policeman on a corner.
I am disappointed in you
, I told him as I opened my door and got out, ignoring the driver, who was still shouting, and now trying to hold me.
And you a husband.
For I had seen the gold band on his finger, and guessed that he would be too ashamed to tell his wife about all this. But when the sting of his failure had left him, after the years had passed, and I was famous and dead, he would be proud of having a story to tell about me then. His life had been made richer by that small story, and he would never know when he told the story of
How Lil Singer jumped into my taxi
that the story was against him.

And why should the policeman care? He pretended not to be able to hear the man with the gold band, and waited ponderously until the traffic cleared, and then ponderously crossed the road, and listened with a head bent to the cab window, ponderously unbuttoning his pocket to get at his notebook, and by that time I was watching from a block away, from the prominence of Central, and could see what an obstruction this stopped taxi was, and how the policeman would have to order the driver to move along.

The Arm of the Law

Policemen became my friends, now that I knew how far I could go without running the risk of
hard
, and I became familiar with the different kinds of policeman that the city produced. My preference was always for the young blushing ones, buttoning up their lips under the caps that seemed a little too large for them. They were good at cajoling, and it was easy to imagine them at home with their children, when they cajoled me out of a taxi or someone's car that had stopped too long at the lights. They were not usually too cross with me.
Come along now, Lil
, some fresh-cheeked young policeman would coax me, as if I was three, like the chubby child he had left at home that morning. When I was three I would have enjoyed a little of that, but now I felt it was too late, and I could not start again, with a sensible and cheery policeman for a father, who knew how to deal with women in taxis.
But it is too late now, young man
, I told him,
too
late
, and I watched him push back his blue serge to inspect his watch.
Too late for what?
he said, curious, even though being curious was against the rules of being a policeman.
I would have liked cajoling, and to be taken up by strong arms
, I told him.
I longed for it.
His chin was beginning to flush purple now, and he took a step closer to me, dislodging a scrap of paper from under his shoe like a diversionary tactic.
I said
come along
, he said, trying to be strict but fair, but it was too late for being strict but fair, too.

Those policemen went home, too, with their story of Lil, to tell their wives. I loved the knowledge that these muscular men would be taking me home, into the warm kitchen where their wives stood mashing potatoes and the baby gaped and gestured.
I saw Lil Singer today
, he might say. His wife would stop her mashing and wait with the saucepan in her hand for her husband to join her small life with my big one, by telling his story.
She was causing an
obstruction
, my policeman would say, and kick at the lino in his inadequacy, for there are born story-tellers, but policemen and their formulas are not among their number.
She
said some stuff at me.
His wife would go back to her potatoes and turn pink, the way he liked, with the exertion of mashing.
What did she say, exactly?
she might ask, but it would be unreasonable to expect him to remember, and the baby might have her own ideas, and a better flair for a story than her father.

Fame

I was beginning to be a public figure and was enjoying it, the way people nudged each other and pointed. My story was beginning to have a part in the stories of others, and I was becoming a small part of history.

I was at my best on a slow tram, or a bus lurching down George Street. Everyone greeted me, and I greeted them all as I hauled my weight on board.
Morning, everyone
, I called, and they looked, even the ones who did not know me, and who were playing the game of not noticing anything. Women in lilac frocks, freshly powdered after tea and scones at David Jones, were fascinated by my moustache of sweat.

The air is free
, I told the conductor who came with her wide-jawed leather pouch and stood in front of me while the tram rang its bell, but this was a stony-faced one who looked as if she had woken up with a headache.
Did you
wake up on the wrong side of the bed?
I asked as nicely as I knew how, to cheer her up, but she tightened the skin on her face another notch and thrust her grey palm at me.
Fares, please
, she said, and tried to stare me down, but no one could.
Fares, please
, she said again, and her voice was becoming shrill and nasty. I watched her lips, where the lipstick had worn into the grooves, and the saliva was collecting in one corner. She was becoming excited, and jabbed her seamed palm towards me, but stopped short of touching me.
I will
not wear out the seat
, I told her,
and will breathe only the air I am
entitled to, and will provide a free recitation for your pleasure
. I had to raise my voice over her squarks, and began a little William, but saw her lips pucker into fury, and she twitched the bell-rope so that the tram stopped there in George Street, outside the marble bank. I made myself comfortable and spread my large knees apart under my coat, and listened to all the different sounds this furious woman could make. She snapped closed the leather pouch as if to lock me inside, and threatened, and pointed, and even stamped her foot once, so some cigarette butts jumped and the dust flew.
We will not budge, not until you have paid
, this woman shouted.
I know who you are, Lil bloody Singer, and I am telling you I
am not impressed.
She was on the point of becoming eloquent and I sat, listening and smiling a little, to encourage, and to bedevil her further.
They told me about you, up at the depot,
she hissed, becoming proud now, and coming so close I could feel her hot angry breath on my face.
I told them you
would never get away with your tricks with me and by Jesus I meant
it.
She flushed, hearing herself blaspheme in her pride and rage, and had to begin shouting again, to cover the moment where she had taken the Lord's name in vain, and in uniform, too, when she was devout and made sure she went to Mass for her immortal soul's sake, and would never have said such a thing if the fat devil easing her knees apart had not provoked her past bearing. The driver had come up behind her by now, too, and saw that this was a woman's fuss, full of shrillness, and was preparing to play the tower of strength, and calm all that emotion with his man's steadiness and sense.
Now now now
, he said, and stood hitching up his pants and looking magisterial.
What's the
fuss here, Flo?
Flushed Flo pointed her trembling finger at me and I nodded and smiled, getting ready to enjoy a long dispute. I knew that it would end with a small crowd, and a blushing policeman the centre of attention as he tried to lever me off the seat. I would not resist, but I would not help either, and in the end he would be forced to hug me hard, plant his feet solidly on the floor of the tram, and heave so that through his blue serge I would feel his breath coming heavily, and perhaps even his heart beating. For a few moments I would be enveloped in his strong young arms and smell his sweat, and see from the closest possible range how the down grew on his earlobe.

I was looking forward to all this, and the morning promised well, but a blushing woman with a raffia shopping basket came forward.
Please
, she said,
please!
Flo stopped for a moment in the stream of her outrage to stare. The woman burnt brick-red under an ugly smocked bonnet like a tea-cosy. Everyone was staring, and she had the appearance of a woman not used to much attention. Her upper lip began to perspire, but she was driven by something urgent, and said, in a voice made unsteady by so many people staring:
I will pay, I am in a very great hurry, I must catch my ferry, I will
pay the fare.
This was the easy part, and then she had to turn to me, her eyes grown small and red with urgency and embarrassment:
Will you let me pay, Lil? Because I must
catch my ferry.
She looked to me like a good woman, and I could see spinach at the bottom of the raffia basket, and could imagine her pride in making the tea-cosy hat. She was a brave woman, too, and it has always been my policy to reward any kind of courage.
Thank you so much
, I said in my most impressive way.
I should be charmed.

After she had fumbled and found the change, and poor Flo had had to take it, and swallow her rage and righteousness, ripping the ticket off and thrusting it at the woman, the tram began to jerk along George Street again. The woman with the tea-cosy did not know what to do. She would have to tell the story of her courage to the family later, over dinner, to the husband chewing his way through her leg of lamb, the children squashing their potatoes. How would she tell such a story? Would they believe her? She stood swaying with the tram, holding the rail, still blushing as if a fire raged inside her. She was waiting it out, until this terribly public event would be over, and in the sea breeze on the way to Manly she could slowly swallow her public flame, and arrange the story so that she would feel it could be believed. Her children would listen with potato in their open mouths, and would be struck by the way their mother's face became the colour of a flower as she told her story, and would have to be reminded to swallow their dinner.
It is rude to stare
, their father would tell them.

You are familiar with me
, I told the woman as she waited for the cool air of her ferry,
but who are you?
I seized her wrist above the raffia bag, to make her sit down beside me, because I wanted to participate in the story she would tell about the two of us. Now that she was beside me, and we were nothing more alarming than two middle-aged ladies on a tram seat, she became calmer.
I am Agnes Armstrong
, she told me, and smiled, because close up she could see that I would not bite her, or embarrass her any more.
And what else?
I asked, and she peeked in to consult the spinach, then said,
Well, I am a wife, and a
mother of two.
But I was still not satisfied.
What else are you?
I asked, but she was standing up now, the Quay in sight, smiling and glad that this was nearly over. That gave her courage, and she laughed recklessly and lifted her chin like a young beauty, and cried,
Oh, what else I am would take a year
to tell!
and I had made her beautiful for that moment. She was off the tram then, springing away for her ferry, but I could see that her face still had the echo of that smile and would see her home, and be with her while she told her remarkable story.