The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (6 page)

‘This is a bloody nightmare,' Archie mumbled to himself as he waited for Beatrice
on the steps of the town hall. She was surprised to see him so smartly decked out.
Perhaps the concert
was a formal one? If only she'd known, she said to herself. She
wore a knee-length tan skirt and bolero jacket, which broadened her shoulders, and
an elegant green velvet hat with a fine net over her forehead and eyes. Despite the
hat, she now felt distinctly underdressed.

Archie must have looked like he needed saving, because the ticket seller had given
him front-row seats. As they entered the grand hall they saw that the stage was decorated
with red flags. In the centre of each was a yellow star on which the words ‘blood
and fire' were emblazoned. Archie and Beatrice had only been in their seats a few
moments when a crisply dressed man in a military uniform strode onto the stage. He
introduced himself as Brother Amos, leader of the Salvation Army in Sydney, and announced
that this was a charity night in aid of homeless families. ‘The three S's! Soup,
Soap and Salvation. That's what we are here for tonight!' he shouted as the brass
band and choir mounted the stage.

The announcement added to Archie's worries: he was down to his last few shillings,
and the thought that Beatrice might consider him a skinflint convinced him that he
must part with all he had. The band and choir gave a peculiar salute, their forefingers
pointing skywards, and shouted, ‘Hallelujah!' When they launched into ‘I Will Follow
Jesus', Archie risked a peep at Beatrice. She looked glorious. And, he noted with
relief, she seemed to be enjoying the hymns. He began to relax.

‘Brother, come pray with us,' a voice boomed. It was Brother Amos. He was pointing
directly at Archie. ‘It's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle
than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Hallelujah, brother. We are delighted
to have a gentleman such as yourself here tonight! You are a beacon to your class.
Please do honour us by joining our choir for “Onwards Christian Soldiers”!'

There was no choice. Wishing that he might vanish, Archie dragged himself onto the
stage. He did his best with the hymn, but his wavering voice couldn't be controlled,
and he found himself slipping up an octave.

‘Sounds like a billy goat pissing in a tin!' a rough-looking chap in the centre of
the third row shouted derisively.

He was, thought Beatrice, probably a member of the ‘skeleton army', knockabouts recruited
by publicans and paid in beer to disrupt teetotal gatherings.

‘Tune don't suit, that's all,' said a more sympathetic voice, but all Archie heard
was ‘suit'. Was the owner of his splendid outfit about to mount the stage and strip
him of it there and then? His throat tightened, and he lost his voice entirely.

It was a terrible moment. Archie felt as if the eyes of the whole town hall were
on him. Then, to his astonishment, he saw that Beatrice was beside him, singing the
hymn in a beautiful soprano. She had amazed herself. In all her life she had never
done anything quite so public, or so brazen.

At last the band stopped and Beatrice and Archie stepped down from the stage. Archie
emptied his pocket into the collecting tin. Then Brother Amos asked if they would
help out in the soup kitchen.

‘Of course,' Beatrice replied. ‘That's why we came tonight. Wasn't it, Archie? To
help those less fortunate than ourselves.' She looked up at him and caught his eye,
for the first time without blushing.

Beatrice took to the soup ladle with gusto, while Archie handed out the bowls. They
had settled into a splendid rhythm, until a gent whose filthy pants were held up
by a rope round the waist held out his bowl to Beatrice. ‘Best tits I've seen since
I worked in the dairy!' he smirked, setting the entire line of men laughing.

Somehow, this upset Beatrice's soup-serving rhythm. Before she knew it, instead of
filling a bowl, she was emptying a ladle full of hot soup straight into Archie's
lap. It all seemed to happen in slow motion: the steaming soup cascading towards
Archie's trouser-front, his yelp of pain, his sharp leap backwards upsetting the
piles of waiting soup bowls, and his agonised clutching at his sodden trousers.

‘Heavens to Betsy!' Beatrice squeaked as she dashed forward. She averted her eyes
from the actual site of the stain, and dabbed ineffectively with a petite lace handkerchief
at Archie's chest. The homeless men were in gales of laughter. ‘Best prayer meeting
ever, Pastor, having that Charlie Chaplin bloke and his girl entertain us. Well worth
a hallelujah next Sund'y—just for the laugh.'

Beatrice and Archie walked towards the ferry in the gathering dusk. The scalding
had left Archie feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Beatrice, he knew, must be feeling
uncomfortable too, though in a different way. ‘Don't worry, Beatrice, please,' he
said. ‘It was a simple accident.' He recalled Dithers' admonition that a kiss was
required. By the time they reached the ferry he'd still been unable to summon the
courage to deliver it. So he boarded with her, though he had not intended to do so.
Beatrice led him to the bow, where the waters of the harbour lapped in the moonlight.
Archie, feeling that time was running out, made a rather unexpected lunge. Beatrice
had never been kissed.
Instinctively she turned away, causing Archie merely to brush
her lips before landing his kiss on her ear. Or rather in her ear. The explosive
sound made her squeal. She was always squealing, she told herself sternly. She must
stop it.

‘Tickets, please.' They were now halfway to Mosman. Archie had not a penny.

‘Ah, sir. I'm here by accident,' Archie mumbled.

‘I don't care if you're here on behalf of Billy Hughes hisself, mate, you need a
ticket,' barked the inspector. ‘Now where is it?'

‘I haven't got a ticket. I got on by accident.'

‘Don't be a smart-arse with me, son!'

‘But I've got no money!' Archie almost wailed.

‘You look well enough dressed to me, mate,' the inspector said. ‘Flash as a pox doctor's
clerk, I reckon. Now pay up or I'll slap a fine on yer!'

‘Please, inspector. Give me two singles to Mosman.' Beatrice handed the inspector
a shilling. When they alighted she swiftly turned, kissed Archie on the cheek, and
vanished into the darkness.

It had not occurred to either of them that Archie had no way of getting home. He
walked to the ferry at Blue's Point and cadged a lift, promising to pay the pilot
on the morrow. As the ferry crossed the calm waters, Archie looked up and imagined
what the great bridge might be like when it was completed. The pylons on the north
and south shores were already taking shape. He imagined the arches reaching towards
each other from either shore. One day they would be joined, and the bridge would
be complete. Would he and Beatrice ever make their own arch?

Chapter 4

Now, over five years later, and despite Archie's proposal of marriage by letter,
that question was still unanswered. As he walked towards the anthropology offices, intent on finding Beatrice, Archie felt
nervous and unsure. He reminded himself that he had been initiated into manhood in
the Venus Isles. He was now a fully competent adult in the world, cured of all silly
shyness and prudery.

He turned the corner into the anthropology department and saw her, bent in silent
concentration over the great leather-bound register. She was wearing a white blouse
and knee-length grey skirt which revealed her perfect legs and accentuated her slender
waist and full breasts. Her curling blonde hair cascaded almost to her waist, and
her posture, even while seated, was
perfectly upright. He stole up behind her, not
wishing to break her concentration. She was holding an elegant fountain pen, from
which flowed line after line of exquisite script. The register entry—as much as the
artefact she was registering—was a work of art.

‘Beatrice. Darling.'

Despite his best efforts at self-control, Archie's voice was breathy, less manly
than he'd intended.

She turned to face him. For a moment her exquisite blue eyes were kind, if inquiring.

‘Archie Meek, is it—you? How dare you,' she half screamed. ‘How dare you send me
that…that…that THING. You—you—BEAST!' She squeaked as she flung down her pen and
fled out of the room.

Archie was stunned. He looked at the register. An ugly inkblot was spreading across
the otherwise immaculate page. The top line, yet to be engulfed, was still legible:
‘Love token, Venus Islands. Don. A. Meek. December 15, 1932.'

Archie felt puzzled. ‘Love token'. Could that be his foreskin? If so, her entry stated
that he had donated it to the museum. Had there been a terrible misunderstanding?
Or was this a rejection? As the implications of the entry sank in, blind rage surged.
How could his fiancée tag and number his foreskin—his own flesh—which he'd sent as
a pledge of his commitment to her, and so make it the property of the government
of New South Wales!

No, she was not his fiancée. In treating his sacred love token so foully she had
ground his love and trust into the dirt. Yet he could hardly believe that a girl
as tender and intelligent as
Beatrice could act like that. And why had she fled as
if he were the devil incarnate? After all her loving letters, her promises, had his
Beatrice really turned into an unfeeling monster?

Archie needed to sit down. He looked about and saw his name on a door. He pushed
it open and groped in the gloom for a light switch. When the naked bulb flicked on,
Archie discovered that his new office was barely larger than a broom cupboard, and
windowless. In fact, he decided, it was a renovated closet of some sort. A desk and
chair all but filled the space, and his small library of anthropology texts was stacked
on the floor.

Beatrice Goodenough was already stomping across Hyde Park. ‘How dare he call me
darling
!'
she muttered. ‘How dare he send me that—thing!'

Archibald Meek had caused her the most severe embarrassment she had ever experienced.
No, he had ruined her life. Beatrice flopped on a bench and began to sob.

It was some time before she looked up and saw the half-completed war memorial. It
reminded her of how many women had waited in vain for the man of their dreams to
come home. She cried some more at the thought. She had not recognised him at first.
He looked ridiculous in that ill-fitting suit. Yet at the same time he seemed so
brown and grown-up. That had scared her and dismayed her all at once. Mixed with
her fierce anger at him was another, deeper emotion. She feared that Archie had experienced
a great deal during his time away. He was now a
man and she felt a mere girl. Had
he left her behind?

Despite herself, she remembered the letter she'd written to her sister Betty shortly
after attending the Salvation Army concert. She'd omitted the unfortunate incidents.

‘But, oh Betty, he is a most interesting young man,' she wrote. ‘He's not so tall
and rather thin, but he has expressive hazel eyes and he seems so pale and wan that
I'm certain there's something quite spiritual about him. He doesn't say much, which
makes me feel sure he is wise and kind. Last night we attended a concert. He dressed
splendidly, and gave all the money he had to feed the poor. He'll soon be going to
the islands to complete his studies, so we can communicate by letter, which will
be easier and more satisfying, I feel, than if he were here. I don't know whether
he has the sort of vim that Father would like to see in a young man, but I am rather
fond of him, Betty, though please don't tell anyone.'

Beatrice was thrilled that Archie wrote to her so often from the Venus Isles. When
she opened his last letter, her heart swelled to bursting. She loved him, loved him,
loved him, she told herself over and over as she read its opening words: