Down in the City (9 page)

She broke off, lifting a sundress of printed blue and green on white. ‘Rachel, you would look sweet in this, and I've never worn it. Do take it, pet. Try it on now. Pauline won't mind, will she?'

While Rachel struggled painfully to undress and dress without exposing an inch of bare skin, Esther was silent. She had gone back along the path to look again, detachedly, at a thought she had fled from earlier. Stan and another woman. She gave a sudden, pained frown, which Rachel saw, cut short a sigh, and rebuked herself. She knew that twenty-four hours ago she would not have had such a thought, idle as it was.

‘I was right. It really suits you very well. You must have it.'

And again her volatile happiness rose to the surface, full of optimism, expressing itself in her restless eyes and hands, in the high girlish laugh, the flow of trivialities.

Rachel, aware in her own nerves of the tension in Esther's, felt another wave of pity, so that she wanted to stretch out a hand and say, ‘Don't be like this, Esther. Don't let me be sorry for you, please.'

By this time the floor was a white sea of tissue paper and Esther's bed was a rainbowed barque of satins and cottons. As sandals and bathing costumes began to find their way into suitcases, Rachel breathed occasionally, ‘Oh, you're so lucky, Esther!' And, ‘Oh!' she would say again, as if no more coherent exclamation could express her envy.

Esther was grateful and indulgent: she wanted to be lucky. She was fond of Rachel, though not with a feeling of any strength, for, having tapped the source of her affections so seldom, emotion of any kind was slow to come; but the girl's admiration pleased her.

When the packing was completed they sat back for a moment in silence, and Rachel was overcome by a spasm of shyness. Esther was looking at her with kindness and sympathy.

‘Oh, I'm advertising for a job, Esther—my first,' she cried, swinging her legs for something to do. ‘Don't you think it's a good idea?'

Esther said she thought it was. She supposed it must be, since most people were unanimous on the subject. Idly, waving a cloud of cigarette smoke away with one hand, she asked for more details, but Rachel was deliberately vague. In certain moods she would not speak about herself except after the most supplicating encouragement: without it she would on an instant decide mulishly to be offended. Laura had humoured her in this, but Esther did not know the game and would not have played if she had.

Her faint interest faded against the girl's silence, and Rachel, looking speculatively at her from under her lashes, saw that this was so. Yet, recognising her defeat, she saw it also as a victory for common sense, and was wryly consoled that Esther had not plumbed her childishness.

In the courtyard the car horn played again, heralding Stan's return, and the two started, electrified. Rachel jumped to her feet. ‘I'm going!' she cried, as if she were afraid of being thrown out.

‘All right,' Esther calmed her, smiling. ‘But I've enjoyed this morning. I'm glad you came up.'

As they stood at the open front door Rachel paused, and, clutching her new dress close, knowing that she had failed ludicrously in the choice of time, said rapidly, ‘Oh Esther, you don't think these are the happiest years of my life, do you? I mean—I'm just going—but, just because I'm seventeen, do they have to be the best?'

Esther had been anxious for her to be gone before Stan came in, but when she heard the question, saw the palpitating earnestness in Rachel's face, she controlled her impatience.

‘They
can
be happy years,' she said, ‘and I wish they were for you. But judging by my own life, I shouldn't say the best.'

CHAPTER TEN

Autumn came in slyly, in the way of all Australian seasons, with a blustery day here and there squeezed in between late summer scorchers, praised for coolness, not recognised, so far away was last autumn, for what it was: gay striped blue days when freshly washed sheets flapped and cracked in suburban backyards, while along miles of foreshore dark green gums tossed and writhed in the sunny wind.

Ferries shuttling busily between the northern shore of Manly and the city quay suddenly began to plunge deeply, passing the ‘heads'—the high stone cliffs which form the entrance to the harbour—as the breakers from the Pacific swirled angrily in the confined space. Regular travellers thought: ‘Uh-uh! Winter!' and rolled themselves obligingly to the right and then to the left as the sturdy boats dipped for ten minutes among the waves. They said reassuringly to newcomers: ‘Clydebuilt! They came out from Scotland under their own steam!' And feeling sceptical but relieved, the nervous ones thanked heaven that they had not made the crossing from the old country.

For some they were dangerous days. Even clever women were known to lose their reputations by blundering into town in white shoes, or by some similar crass action proving lack of sensitive divining faculties, proving inherent flaws in character. But for the more flexible, life was exciting, adventure just around the corner: they were filled with a yearning excitement for they knew not what. Scudding snowball clouds jumped across the blue; the air was crisp and conversation witty; appetites long satisfied by fruit and lettuce demanded more sustaining food. But when the tomorrows came, it was hot and dusty and dry again, and the yesterdays were quite forgotten.

Finally, when it seemed that summer would never end, that glare and humidity were eternal, winter came in with a bitter wind and a burst of torrential rain. The gutters overflowed and the leaves dripped on the trees.

On just such a wintry evening, hail bounced and rattled against the Petersons' bedroom window and wind shook the ill-fitting frame, until Esther, goaded, ran for a newspaper to stuff the cracks. Wedging it in the spaces, she stood staring into the impenetrable blackness outside, allowing herself to be submerged.

The rain had stopped, but the extreme darkness, the howling wind and the intermittent splash it carried, signified that the storm had not yet reached its climax. The empty street shone wetly for a few feet under each high streetlight, and every isolated pool of electricity, by its feeble attempt to illumine infinity, made the night more desolate. The city clung to the edge of the land that sloped up from the bed of the sea: it sat on its asphalt mat: the asphalt mat clung to the hills where the natives had roamed.

Her conscious mind seeking supremacy, Esther was won back to action, and moved from the window absently. She crossed to the shoe cupboard and frowned into its depths, resuming the search that had been interrupted by the wind. The black suede court shoes. Yes. Do begin to think. They were what she wanted. Seeing them, a little chastened by her censor's irritation, she hurriedly lifted a straw mule out of the way, and a trickle of sand shot through her fingers to the floor.

In that instant she saw the turquoise waters of the North, felt the hot sand, smelt the salty, weedy, low-tide smell of the coastal town where she and Stan had idled for three perfect weeks. She allowed the sensations to take possession of her, feeling herself for a timeless moment into the receding spiral of the past. But then, abruptly, it was all effaced and she was back in the present, crouching over a thimbleful of sand, in a world that was colder and less bright.

Hurry, hurry. She, at least, must be on time at the Maitlands', for Stan would be late. He couldn't help it. Something very big was on just now: he disappeared at all hours of the day and night ‘to see a man about a dog' he told her. But this, their first joint invitation from Laura, was an event; Esther hoped it would be successful. She wore a narrow velvet suit, black. She glanced at herself in the mirror and went downstairs.

Giving her a drink, Bill explained that Laura was still dressing. Anabel had been cross about going to bed. She had a slight temperature and it had taken longer than usual to get her settled for the night.

‘And I warned Laura that Stan might be late. He's never quite sure when he'll be in, but he promised to make an effort tonight. Tell me,' she said, changing the subject before he could ask any questions, ‘how is your house coming along? Is it almost finished?'

Bill said no, and brought out a bundle of photographs. ‘In any case, we aren't going to live there except at weekends, you know. But it should be a good place for entertaining. Here there's hardly room for more than four extra people at a time, and you know how it is—the firm expects…'

He pointed. ‘That's the games room. We'll be able to dance there. And that dilapidated corner beside the future rock garden is the future barbecue pit.' He grinned at her. ‘I hope you're using your imagination.'

‘You can tell from these,' she raised the photographs, ‘that it's going to be very attractive indeed. And I think you must have one of the best sites on the harbour. We passed it in the car once when we were going, out to Palm Beach.'

‘We'll have a view from every window.' He said it rather self-consciously, for it sounded like boasting, but the idea of a view from every window pleased him greatly.

Esther raised her eyebrows, impressed. ‘But I didn't know you'd decided not to live there permanently?' she said.

Finishing his drink before he answered, Bill said, ‘Well, it's a fair way out, you know. We thought we'd keep this place on until we can get around to a little car for Laura. She'd be cut off out there all day without one. But at the rate the building's going, I think we'll be set to move, new car and all, by the time it's finished.'

‘We'll miss you,' Esther said.

‘You and Stan should build on the next block and keep us company,' Bill said.

They turned to the plans again, and as Bill leaned close to her, pointing out details that she might not have appreciated, describing difficulties that had been overcome, Esther was restfully at ease, warmed by the log fire that burned in the grate, by the drink, by Bill's unassertive confidence and thoughtfulness.

And then Laura swept in, perfumed, beautifully made-up, her skirt rustling, her eyes shining. The night was made: the star had arrived and her presence guaranteed life enhancement for everyone in reach. She glowed: without dominating she guided. Esther caught from her an air of ease and soon they were all laughing. Bill was comfortably quiet, but admiration for his wife shone from him. He glanced now and then at Esther, the only other member of the audience, to assure himself that Laura was appreciated, and each time, seeing that she was, he relaxed and sank into enjoyment.

They talked about nothing in particular, for they had few, except public, personalities to discuss, and little else in common but age and propinquity. But it seemed enough, and it was—until Stan came in.

He accepted his drink and raised it and his eyebrows at Bill with a kind of glum significance. Two men against two women, he indicated. What was all this dressing-up about? Why the throaty chuckles—the expectant looks?

Seeing Esther's eyes on him, he sat forward in his chair and tried to pretend that he was listening and interested. Tried to pretend—it was as far from convincing as that.

Bill swallowed his rage at the insult to Laura, and she, too, though contemptuous and bored by Stan's lack of
savoir faire
, was outwardly unaffected. Esther guessed something at their reactions and could sympathise, even as her liking for them deteriorated in the face of their well-hidden disapproval. For Stan's uncouth behaviour she felt a mixture of pity and hopelessness.

‘Hmm. Mmm.' Stan would clear his throat and act as if the noise he made had some bearing on the conversation, as if the tone indicated intelligent agreement or reasoned opposition.

If there was a flurry of laughter, he would notice that the three faces in front of his had turned up their mouths, that the skin at the corners of their eyes had crinkled, that their bodies shook very slightly at the shoulders, and then, ten seconds too late, his mouth and eyes and shoulders moved in imitation.

Bill tried business, finance, horses, golf, the weather, and finally, with an apologetic glance at Esther, their own new house. Then Laura and Esther took over. Eating steadily through the excellent dinner Stan answered, ‘Yeah…yeah.' Even the numerous drinks that Bill poured hopefully for him had no loosening effect. He became more morose and bothered less to hide it as the night wore on.

When at last it was over, and the Maitlands were alone in their flat, they gazed at one another with anger and relief.

‘My God!' Bill stormed over to the drink tray. ‘Never again! God, what a night! What's the matter with that character? Here you are, angel.' He handed her another drink, and Laura began to laugh.

After frowning into his glass for a while, Bill joined in. He wiped his forehead with an exaggerated gesture. ‘God!' he said again. ‘How could she have married him? Do you think he's usually as bad as that? Or has he got something special against us, do you suppose?'

Laura said, ‘Come here,' and Bill leaned over and kissed her. ‘You've seen more of him than I have. It was just what I expected. I thought it would be interesting to see them together, though; that's why I asked them.' She pushed Bill's hair back from his forehead.

‘Well, it was!' he said emphatically.

‘Oh, now, darling,' she teased, ‘she has improved him a bit. Really. The poor dope was just in a bad way tonight.'

Bill shook his head. ‘I don't know. Maybe she has. Maybe she likes her men that way. I think you're right, though—he must have something on his mind.'

At this understatement laughter swept over them again. Laura groaned, exhausted. ‘Maybe!' she repeated. Then, more seriously, she said, ‘But did you notice the way he looked when I took them in to see Anabel?'

‘Oh, I think he likes kids all right,' Bill admitted reluctantly.

‘But she did look sweet, darling, didn't she? The lamb. Come here, angel,' her voice deepened, she held up her arms.