The Women in Black (10 page)

26

As soon as Fay got home from Goode’s, she began to attack her flat. The area of battle was not large: it consisted of a medium-sized room with two armchairs and a divan bed and a few occasional tables, and a kitchenette. She shared a bathroom which she was not obliged to clean but often did. When she had dealt with her flat she did her laundry in her landlady’s copper and hung it all out on the clothesline where it flapped wildly in the ocean breeze, and then she had a bath and washed her hair and did her nails.

She had finished
The Women’s Weekly
by dinnertime, so when she had cooked herself some macaroni cheese she sat down on the fl oor to eat it, propping
Anna Karenina
open at the first page, and she began to read. Late on Sunday night she said to herself, it’s really amazing how fast time goes by when you’re reading a book. I never realised.

27

Mrs Crown was on the telephone, sitting by the little table where it was kept in her hallway.

‘What do you mean, you’re not coming over?’ she was saying.

‘I’ve got a big leg of lamb here specially, it’s just gone in, and I’ve already done the vegetables. What do you mean, you’re not coming?’

Patty shuddered with fright and confusion. This was proving to be more difficult even than she had imagined: it was a nightmare.

‘But Frank’s not feeling well,’ she said. ‘He’s not up to it.’

‘Frank not well!’ exclaimed her mother. ‘I never heard of such a thing. Frank’s always the picture of health. What’s the matter with him?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Patty, ‘it’s nothing, he just needs a day to himself. He’s lost his appetite, he feels crook.’

‘Well, perhaps he needs a doctor. Have you had the doctor?’ asked Mrs Crown.

‘Oh no,’ said Patty, ‘I don’t think he needs the doctor. I’ll see how he is tomorrow.’

And then she began to cry.

‘Patty Williams, or Crown as was,’ said her mother, ‘I’m coming right over there, even if the lamb has gone in. I’ll turn it off and come right over, even if it is ruined. If you won’t tell me what’s going on I’ll just come and see for myself. I don’t care about the lamb if you don’t.’

‘No!’ sobbed Patty, ‘leave the lamb in. I’ll come over, I’ll come myself. Just give me a bit of time to get ready.’

She wasn’t even dressed yet; she had awakened in the empty bed at six a.m. and had been sitting almost catatonic with fear and shock in her kitchen ever since, staring at the front page of the Sunday paper.

‘I’ll come over as soon as I can,’ she said. ‘Leave the lamb in.’

She looked through the coloured glass panels surrounding her mother’s front door as she had done as a child, and rang the bell.

‘Patty,’ said Mrs Crown, standing on her doorstep in a pinny, ‘now perhaps you’ll come in and explain yourself.’

They proceeded down the long narrow hallway to the kitchen where the lamb could be heard loudly sizzling in the oven. The table was already set for five.

‘Oh God,’ said Patty, sitting down suddenly in a heap, ‘is Joy coming?’

‘No, just Dawn and Bill,’ said Mrs Crown. ‘The kids are all at the beach with the neighbours.’

‘That’s something,’ said Patty; ‘I couldn’t face Joy.’

Mrs Crown put the kettle on.

‘I’m going to make some tea,’ she said, ‘and you’re going to tell me what’s going on. Now.’

‘Frank’s disappeared,’ said Patty.

‘He what?’ asked her mother.

‘He’s gone,’ said Patty. ‘He was gone when I got home yesterday. He hasn’t come back.’

‘Have you told the police?’ asked Mrs Crown, pale with shock.

‘He might’ve had an accident.’

‘They said not to worry yet,’ said Patty. ‘They said people do it all the time. They said to come to the station and fill in a Missing Persons form if he doesn’t turn up after a week. A week!’

And she burst into tears.

Her mother sat beside her and patted her shoulder.

‘There,’ she said, ‘there now. You cry for a bit.’

Patty cried for some time.

‘I don’t understand it, Patty,’ said Mrs Crown. ‘Have you had a row?’

‘
No
!’ cried Patty.

She could hardly tell her mother what they had done instead.

A row! The memory of the strange shared secret was now like a dream, something which had not actually happened.

‘I don’t understand it either,’ she said. ‘I really don’t.’

And she began again to cry.

‘Listen, Patty,’ said Mrs Crown. ‘I’ll tell you this. No one understands men. We don’t understand them, and they don’t understand themselves. That’s flat. That’s why they do these wicked stupid things, like going off. I could tell you some stories! But they always come back, in the end. Usually, anyway. The ones that don’t, aren’t worth it, believe you me. He’ll come back. You’ll see. They can’t really manage by themselves, men can’t. They think they can, but they can’t. They’re just children.’

At this word Patty’s tears increased, and her mother continued to pat her shoulder.

‘Now then, Patty,’ she said, ‘you dry your eyes. Go and wash your face and we’ll have some tea. I’m going to put the vegetables in.’

She got up, and Patty went to the bathroom. When they were drinking the nice hot tea Mrs Crown looked at her daughter. Poor little Patty, the one in the middle; she had always been squashed by the determined Dawn, the assertive Joy. She was a bit of a mystery even to her own family, was Patty.

‘You know I like your hair a bit longer,’ said Mrs Crown. ‘Why don’t you grow it out for a bit? It suits you.’

‘Yes,’ said Patty dully, ‘I might.’

‘Meanwhile,’ said Mrs Crown, ‘what did Frank take with him? Did he take many clothes?’

‘I never thought to look,’ said Patty. ‘I just waited, I thought he’d come back any minute.’

‘So he might,’ said her mother, ‘but it won’t do no harm to look.

I’m coming back with you later and we’ll have a good look. Then you can get some things and come and stay here with me, while he’s gallivanting around, the selfish bugger, causing grief.’

‘No!’ cried Patty, ‘I have to stay at home, in case he comes back!’

‘Humph!’ said Mrs Crown. ‘He doesn’t deserve it. You think about it. Serve him right if he came back and found you gone.

Selfish, they all are. They never think.’

‘Please don’t tell Joy,’ said Patty. ‘Or Dawn.’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Mrs Crown. ‘We can’t say he’s ill, can we? Dawn won’t believe that any more than I did. I know. We’ll say he’s gone away for a few days on business—that’s all right, isn’t it? He used to do that when he was a travelling salesman there. We can say he’s filling in for someone else for a few days. Then we’ll see what happens. It’s too bad just before Christmas and everything. He’d better come back by Christmas, that’s all I can say, or he’ll have some explaining to do to me, that’s all I can say!’

And Mrs Crown looked properly fierce, and Patty, almost to her surprise, felt strangely comforted, and began even to feel quite fierce herself. He was a selfish bugger. They all were. But they couldn’t manage by themselves.

28

The scene which met the military eye of the Ruritanian army officer, as he ushered Lady Pyrke through the doorway of Goode’s at eleven a.m. on Christmas Eve, was pandemonium, with sound effects complete. To the
obbligato
of a hundred intense conversations between the black-clad staff and their customers were added the shrill ringing of cash register bells, the cries of lift attendants— Going Up!—and the unhappy shrieks of children large and small whom it had been impossible to park with neighbours: the women of Sydney, or a frightening proportion thereof, were still doing their Christmas shopping, and it could only, so the lieutenant-colonel observed to himself, get much worse as the day wore on, for after lunch the office workers let off early, as so many of them were on this day, would swell the throng. Lady Pyrke sailed sedately down the marble stairs into the mêlée as if stepping into the waters at Baden Baden. At a time like this, thought the lieutenant-colonel, it really pays to be
non compos mentis
: good luck to the old girl. He watched her proceeding serenely to the handkerchief counter and turned back to face the street.

The scene on the second floor was a little quieter. Here an atmosphere merely of contained frenzy had been achieved. It was astonishing, thought Mr Ryder, how many ladies seemed to leave it to the last minute to buy their Christmas frocks, but here they all were, going into the fitting rooms with several over their arms to try on at once, and much consequent confusion for his staff who were already hard pressed. There was Lisa now, emerging from the fitting rooms half-smothered in assorted cocktail frocks retrieved after customers had found, or not, the one which suited them. If nothing else in their brief lives had rendered these frocks fit to be marked down, he observed, this last Christmas shopping day must:they would hereafter be good for nothing but the sales.

Even Model Gowns seemed to be doing business which verged on the vulgarity of being brisk. Mr Ryder noted with satisfaction that Magda—the inimitable! worth every penny!—was at the moment attending—but with such calm, such infl exible tact—to no less than three different customers; and
that
was at least five hundred guineas’ worth of business on the hoof. If that wasn’t a lovely sight, he would eat his hat.

There was Fay Baines, taking a handful of notes from a satisfied customer, with four more waiting their turn, and Lisa again with a great armful of frocks returning to the rails; Miss Jacobs stolidly explaining matters to an
echt
North Shore matron wanting a size they hadn’t got in a model they had, and Patty Williams looking awfully pale and even—well, on the verge of—interesting, as she wrote out a charge form: if you want to get sick, Mrs Williams, he thought, just wait until five-thirty p.m., there’s a dear. He smiled encouragement at them all as he proceeded on his rounds.

At lunchtime Lisa, after changing, ran out into the hot and thronging city to buy her Christmas presents. She had done the necessary research during the previous week and now she dashed along to Grahame’s and purchased a copy of
The Story of British Bloodstock
, extensively illustrated and bearing on its dustjacket the fine portrait of the Godolphin Arab, for her papa; in Rowe Street she bought a tiny snuff box made from a seashell for her mother. The total expenditure came to slightly more than one week’s wages. In the canteen afterwards she saw Patty Williams looking rather ill. I wonder if I should speak to her, she thought. But she didn’t; there was a forbidding expression on Patty’s face which she had never seen before, neither had anyone else.

Oh the bastard, Patty was thinking, the bastard. The selfish, selfish bugger, leaving me to cope like this; who does he think I am? It was the ancient question and it had now occurred at last to Patty. Just run off, without a word, and left me to cope: thanks. It had been only this morning when she awoke that Patty had suddenly realised that if Frank had absented himself from home he was likely to have done so no less from work, and that she had better try to make his excuses in that quarter. But what—dreadful thought—if he were absent only from home? During her lunch hour she telephoned her mother to ask her to ring Frank at work in order to discover whether or not he were there; then having waited for ten minutes she telephoned her mother once more.

‘He’s not there,’ Mrs Crown informed her. ‘I didn’t tell them anything. I didn’t tell them who I was or anything. They just said Mr Williams hasn’t come in today, they suppose he’s crook but he hasn’t let them know yet. They said to ring you if I wanted to know any more. Humph! You’d better phone them now, tell them he’s sick and you don’t know when he’ll be back, that’ll do for the moment.’

Once she was actually speaking to Frank’s boss—
the slimy bastard—
who sounded perfectly nice to Patty, a perfect gentleman— Patty discovered how easy it is once the lie is begun to make it sound exactly like the truth. She surprised herself.

‘He’s not well,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he’ll be back this week at all, really. I’d say he’ll be away until the New Year; I’m real sorry.’

‘Gee, Mrs Williams, that’s terrible,’ said Frank’s boss. ‘You tell him to put his feet up and not come back till he’s quite fit, we’ll manage; this is a slow week here anyway. We’ll hope to see him straight after the New Year holiday; you let us know if he needs longer. I hope you have a happy Christmas anyway. Bye-bye for now.’

Thank God that was done. But the bastard: the selfish bastard.

Leaving her to cope. Where was he: what was he doing? He had taken the old travelling bag and a few clothes, and all of his fortnight’s wages less the housekeep ing which he had already given her on the Thursday night. He’d meant to go: he’d known what he was doing. There was no excuse. Selfish, completely selfish.
Who did he think she was
?

29

The frenzy mounted steadily throughout the afternoon, taking on an edge of hysteria at around four o’clock and liquefying into near panic at five. The last thirty minutes made demands on the staff of F. G. Goode’s which their native stoicism alone enabled them to meet; but at last the ultimate Christmas sale was made, the crowd was all expelled, and the great glass and mahogany doors were closed and bolted fast.

Fay dashed up the firestairs to change and retrieve her travelling bag: if she were to get to Central Station in time to meet Myra for the early evening train to the Blue Mountains she had not a minute to spare. Patty followed her slowly; the dreadful day was ended, the more dreadful evening now threatened. Appalling as was Frank’s mysterious absence, the thought of his possible return, of meeting him once again in these new and awful circumstances, was in a way more appalling still. She moved wearily towards her locker: it was strange how very tired she felt: it was not the exhaustion of the day’s work, but a lethargy more deadly, almost like sickness, and the journey home seemed an immense undertaking.

Lisa skipped up the stairs with a light heart. There was Magda, to whom she had had no chance to speak throughout the extraordinary day. She called her friend, who turned.

‘Ah Lisa,’ she said with her best smile, ‘how are you this evening? Stimulating, this Christmas Eve nonsense, is it not? I have sold
four
Model Gowns this afternoon all to ladies who are attending the party tonight of Mrs Martin Wallruss, they feared at the last minute to be outdone. I am laughing like a drain. Tell me, did you ask your mother if you may come to my party? There is no need to acquire the couture model in order to attend in style, anything you happen to have will do very well.’

‘Oh yes, I did,’ said Lisa. ‘She asked me to thank you, she says I can come—I
am
looking forward to it!’

‘Very good,’ said Magda. ‘And let me wish you and your family a happy Christmas now—here!’

And she kissed Lisa on each cheek.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘there is someone else to whom I must say a word
pronto
—goodbye, Lisa.’

Fay was just emerging from the locker room when Magda laid an elegant hand on her arm.

‘If I may detain you for just five seconds,’ said she, with a charming smile.

‘
Me
?’ asked the astonished young woman artlessly.

Magda laughed.

‘I have to make a request of you,’ she explained. ‘My husband and I are having a New Year’s Eve party—we would be so glad if you could come. There will be many people, some at least I hope will interest you—you would be doing us so great a favour, for the fact is we are slightly short of young ladies—is it not ridiculous? It is usually young men who are so thin on the ground. What is a party without many attractive girls? Please say you will come—Lisa will be there so you will not feel a complete stranger.’

‘Well,’ said Fay, quite unable to think—in a dreadful hurry, and in any case astounded by the invitation—‘thank you, I suppose I could come—New Year’s Eve—that would be real nice—yes, thank you!’

Merde
, thought Magda. Thank God that is done. Now Rudi has his healthy Australian girl, much good may it do him.

‘You know that Magda,’ said Fay to Myra as they sat on the train while it trundled through the suburbs on its way to the Blue Mountains, ‘you know, who does the Model Gowns—’ ‘Oh yeah,’ said Myra, ‘I know.’

‘Well, she’s asked me to her New Year’s Eve party.’

‘Crikey! Are you going?’

Myra had tried to persuade Fay to come in a large party of acquaintances to the New Year’s Eve gala night at her club, when she herself would be very much on duty, in a new emerald green chiffon number with an orchid worked in silver and black sequins on one shoulder.

‘Well, I said I would,’ said Fay. ‘You never know.’

‘It might be good,’ said Myra. ‘Those Continentals always have nice food and drink, anyway. They know that much. You might even meet someone interesting, who knows?’

‘Oh, I think they’ll all be Continentals,’ said Fay.

Then she suddenly thought: like Count Vronsky. He must’ve been a Continental.

‘Do Russians count as Continentals?’ she asked Myra.

‘Who are you thinking of?’ asked Myra.

‘Oh, no one in particular,’ said Fay. ‘I just wondered.’

‘Well, I suppose they do,’ said Myra. ‘But you know they’re not allowed out, Russians. You never really see any Russians, do you? They’re all in Russia.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Fay. ‘Still, if they
were
allowed out, they’d be Continentals, don’t you think?’

‘Oh yes, I reckon so,’ said Myra. ‘All them people are Continentals.’