Siddon Rock (22 page)

The next day he called to Catalin as she passed the shop.
Why don't you bring Jos to tea tonight?
he said.
Nothing fancy, just a different place for you to be for an hour or so.

Alistair dragged the kitchen table into the lounge-room and set it with white linen and fragile-looking bone china. In the centre he placed a small vase of pale pink everlasting daisies. As a last touch he folded darker pink damask napkins through silver holders and put them next to each plate.

The spring evening was cool, so Alistair set kindling and paper in the fireplace ready to be lit. Then he arranged the model with the partly completed gown against the cream of the window curtains and angled a tall lamp so that it stood in a pool of light.

And how was school today, young Jos?
Alistair called from the kitchen as he carved a leg of lamb into slices.
Getting on all right with the young ruffians, I hope.

Catalin had noticed how intense Alistair's violet colour was when they arrived, and did not want to dim the sheen with careless words.

Jos does not speak to anyone but me, and he has just started to do this,
she said gently.
Do not be offended, it's just how he is. And yes, he does well at school. Mr Best is very good with him.

No offence at all
, Alistair said.
We all have our ways of dealing with things, and it must have been a rough start in life for the kid. Now take Brigid Connor for instance. She seems all tough blokey talk and prickly reactions. But underneath she's as feminine as you are
.

Catalin laughed.
As me? But I am not feminine. Look at me, sitting here in trousers. I'm not a pink and pretty person at all.

Pink and pretty isn't necessarily feminine
, Alistair said from the kitchen.
I do hope you like lamb. It's all Sybil had left by the time I got there.

Of course. We eat all meat, after not having any for so long. So what is feminine for you, Alistair?

Alistair brought out the platter of roast lamb and vegetables and put it down in front of Jos.
There you are, young fellow. You take as much as you like.
He turned to Catalin.
For me feminine is the essence
, he said thoughtfully.
It's the strength and desire under whatever surface the world sees, hidden away right at the heart of being.

And sometimes masculine is hidden by the feminine, and sometimes the other way round
, Catalin said quietly.
Sometimes nothing is really as it seems, is it.

Alistair hesitated, feeling Allison wanting to speak with this immigrant woman.

Catalin continued.
Sometimes the surface cracks a little. Yes? And maybe someone who knows about surface and heart of being sees a little and understands.

Allison begged to be let out.
She knows
, she said to Alistair,
I want to talk to her.
But Alistair just smiled brightly.
Of course, for every woman it's a bit different
, he said.
Take that dress there …

Catalin laughed.
This glorious gown? But this is the soul of feminine.

So say you
, Alistair continued, making up the story as he spoke.
But the person I was making it for didn't think so. She wanted pink and pretty! Then she decided not to go to the ball at all. And so there it is, left hanging on that poor old plaster girl.

Catalin got up and looked closer at the gown.
But Alistair, this is superb. The fabric, so beautiful. It too hides what it is. See how the colours change from blue to green. And there's a silvery sheen. It looks like the salt lake when the wind is blowing over it.
She moved the skirt under the light so that the surface rippled like small waves.
See, there is concealed colour. And such a beautiful cut it is. Where did you learn to do this?

Alistair shrugged, pleased.
Just learnt as I went along, really. And I've seen … things. Things that taught me. I'd like to set up my own couture
,
but this isn't really the place for it, is it now?
He laughed.
Can you imagine? Alistair of Siddon Rock doesn't quite have the right ring about it, does it?

Catalin returned to the table and helped herself to the lamb and vegetables.
But everywhere is exotic to someplace else. Europe is exotic to here. Here is exotic to Europe. Mundane is always where you are. Exotic is always where you are not. So, why not Alistair of Siddon Rock, selling in Europe?

Why not indeed?
Alistair said lightly.
It's a shame you don't want to go to the ball though
.
Here Jos, don't let this lamb go to waste
.
Have some more.
He pushed the plate in front of Jos and Catalin.
You too Cat, I hate waste. Anyway, I think this dress would come close to being your size, and I could finish it off for you to wear.

Catalin waved away the plate.
Thank you, but I have eaten enough. And I could not do that, take the dress
.
I cannot owe you.

Rubbish. If you don't, I'll have a half-finished gown on my hands forever. It would be such a waste of lovely fabric. Here, let me pour you a brandy while you think about it.
Alistair turned to Jos.
What do you think, Jos? Would this gown look wonderful on your mother?

Jos slid off the chair and went to the gown. He stroked the material of the skirt and turned, smiling at Catalin.
Mama
, he said. And the strangeness of the word from the silent child took Alistair's breath away.
Mama.

Ah,
Catalin said.
You think I should try it?

Jos nodded. Catalin turned to Alistair.
So, do you think I should take the opinion of a six-year-old boy?

Alistair laughed.
I think you should definitely take the opinion of this one. He seems to have a natural eye for beauty.

Catalin changed into the gown in Alistair's bedroom and walked back into the lounge-room where Alistair had lit the fire against the chill.
It fits perfectly
, she said. Alistair could hear the desire in the words.

Oh my
, Alistair said.
Oh my
.
This is not the person we see walking around town. This is a very beautiful woman. The colour makes your hair and eyes look even darker. So dramatic.

Catalin looked at herself in the mirror near the sewing machine, holding her wild hair at the nape of her neck.
I don't think I have ever had anything so delicious on my body
, she said.
I don't even look like me.

This must be the inner you
, Alistair said.
On display for the first time. You will let me finish it for you, won't you. It would be a sin not to.

Yes.
Catalin nodded.
Yes.

She stood watching in the mirror as Alistair pinned the hem to the right length and made minor adjustments, smiling to himself as he did.
Pretty good guess for size, if I do say so myself
, he thought.
Quite magical, really.
When it was a perfect fit he put it back on the model, and moved it next to the sewing machine.
I'll have to let the skirt hang for a couple of days because it's cut on the cross of the material, you see. And if we don't let it hang, it'll drop unevenly later. So why don't you come back on Friday night, and we'll make certain it's right, and you can take it then.
He turned off the bright light overhead so that the room was lit only by the standard lamp and by firelight.
Now, another brandy before you take Jos home to bed?

Thank you
, Catalin said,
that would be lovely. Jos, come and sit by the fire.
Jos laughed, but was nowhere to be seen.

All right, young man, where are you?

Jos's laughter filled the room, but Catalin and Alistair could not tell where it came from. Then he crawled out from under the gown, sitting on the floor as the blue-green taffeta flowed off his head and shoulders like water.

Catalin picked up her son and hugged him.
You look wonderful in blue, or is it green
, she teased him. Then she turned to Alistair.
I still don't know, Alistair. I cannot go and leave Jos alone at night
, she said.
I could never do this.

Leave him at the pub. Marge Redall won't go to the ball until late, and Bluey never goes. They love Jos and look after him like their own kid. You know that.

On the afternoon of the ball Catalin and Jos walked to the pub, Jos carrying a small bundle with his pyjamas and toothbrush wrapped in a towel.

It's just for tonight
, Catalin said.
You go to bed and stay there asleep all night. And I'll come and get you as soon as I wake up tomorrow. All right?

Jos smiled at his mother.
All right.

Mrs Redall will give you your dinner tonight, you eat it all, even the bits you don't like. And then she will put you to bed. Mister Redall will be there all night, as he does not go to the ball. And he will come and see that you are asleep and happy. So, you go to bed, you just go to sleep, okay.
This is a safe place, good people. You know them. You'll be so safe.

Don't worry, Mama.
Jos rubbed her arm.
You will come and get me in the morning.

Of course, Jossie. Always I will come to get you.
Catalin put her arm around her son and hugged him tightly.
Always. Look
, Catalin took a small torch from her bag.
Look. Put this under your pillow, and then if you get frightened by something, you can switch it on and shine it around the room. Then you will see there is nothing to be frightened by.

And so it was that Jos had tea at the Railway and Traveller's Hotel on the night of the Spring Ball, and then went to sleep in a room off the first floor verandah, with the double doors propped open to let in the fresh night air.
Bluey's just down the stairs if you want anything
, Marge said.
You sleep well now.

There she was, Catalin, in her room at the hospital, empty without Jos, filled with silence. In the high corners of the room murky green and grey colours flickered, but she was used to them hanging there and took no notice. The gown lay on her bed ironed and spread to avoid wrinkling the crisp taffeta. At the foot of the bed was a pile of folded tissue paper that Alistair had wrapped the gown in, and on the top piece Catalin wrote, in pencil:
To dance is to write poetry with the body. Tonight I dance the Australian way.

She prepared herself carefully, mindful that this was her first appearance in the social stream of the town, and struggled to control her wild hair into a smooth and elegant chignon. She turned to the mirror, and in its tarnished glass
saw her mother dressed in a floating sea-green gown that reflected the light of stars like echoes of ancient conflagrations. She laughed and touched the surface.
Viktoria Mama. I'm pleased to be you
, she said.

Catalin opened the cello case propped near her bed and took out the instrument. She ran her finger along its edge, seeking the words she knew so well:

 

Margit Catalin 1879 to 1930 … Viktoria Margit …

Catalin Viktoria … Josis Matthieu …

 

But her fingers told her the words had changed. Now they read:

 

Margit Catalin 1879 to 1930 … Viktoria Margit 1899 to 1948 …

Catalin Viktoria … Josis Matthieu …

 

And where the neck and body of the cello joined, there was a picture of Catalin's mother.