Vivien mocked. ‘Too busy with someone else.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Jean Harlow.’
He gaped. ‘What are you talking about?’
Her voice rose. ‘That blonde.’
Doug laughed. ‘Gladys? She’s Harry’s girl. You know that.’
‘Why wouldn’t you dance with me?’
‘Harry wanted some advice. Anyway, you didn’t get caught.’
‘Thanks to Eddie.’
‘Who’s Eddie?’
‘You know, the doorman at Harry’s.’
‘You’ve been with him?’
‘You should have looked after me.’
‘You’re shouting.’
‘I want to shout. You desert me then show up complaining. What do you want me to be? A wife or a ... harlot like Gladys?’
‘We’ll talk about this when you’re sober.’
Vivien’s voice rose higher as she yelled. ‘I haven’t had one drink, and you know it. Eddie says Harry serves rotgut and he’s a gangster. Do you give free advice to criminals now?’
One by one the neighbouring terrace houses lit up. Through a raised window a woman shouted, ‘Cut the flaming racket.’ ‘Waking decent people.’ ‘Stop the shouting.’ ‘Let a person get some sleep.’‘You and your noisy cars.’ ‘I’ll have the law on you.’ ‘Shame on you, shame on you, shame on you, shame on you.’
Vivien shouted back. ‘Shut up. Miserable old biddies. As for you, Doug Roberts, I’m tired of you and your complaints. Don’t drink, Vivien. Don’t smoke, Vivien. Don’t breathe, Vivien. Kiss my foot, Vivien. On and on and on. Go back to your mother, you weak-kneed ninny.’ She took off a shoe and hurled it. Doug put up his arm to shield himself, but the heel of the silver-painted shoe struck his cheek. He wiped the blood from it with his white silk scarf, tossed that around his neck and drove away.
Vivien sank to her knees, put her head in her hands and sobbed until Helen helped her stand. ‘Come on, Mum’s waiting.’ At the bottom of the stairs, her mother stood clutching at the neck of her dressing gown, her shoulders stiff, lips a thin, straight line. Her face loomed large and close in the spinning hallway. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Have you no shame? Look at the state you’re in. Where have you been?’
Vivien hung her head.
‘Cat got your tongue now, has it?’
Helen intervened. ‘Can’t this wait?’
‘You’ll be sticking up for her next. She’s a disgrace. What have you got to say for yourself, miss?’
‘Oh, Mum.’
‘Don’t you “Oh, Mum” me. You should see yourself. Muck all over your face. You make me sick.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry’s no use. You’ll be the death of me. Out all hours of the night, drinking and smoking and goodness knows what else. Where’s your pride? You’re a shameless wretch with no thought for anyone but yourself. Don’t fool yourself. Mrs. Roberts will never allow Doug to marry you. Disgusting, that’s what you are. Disgusting. Get out of my sight.’
Chapter Four
Sydney 1935 Bluebell
The next morning, the sound of sweeping woke Vivien. Over and over in the same place, her father swept the path beneath her window; he swept until someone moved him on and the unbroken rhythm began again. If the weather was too bad to sweep, he sat beside the wood stove swaying in a rocking chair until her mother seemed close to screaming. He often walked in his sleep, even off the upstairs balcony once and broke both his legs. Vivien remembered when she was a little girl and he was well; he called her his pretty Bluebell, picked her up and danced her around the room. On his rare good days, he still called her Bluebell.
This morning her mother would be po-faced; gentle Helen would try to smooth things over. Her face was kind, although you could never call her pretty. Bob, her husband, was barely up to her shoulder, wore thick glasses and had a squeaky voice, but they seemed contented.
She regretted the stupid things she’d said to Doug. She couldn’t imagine loving anyone else, but she wanted him to propose properly and make plans, not just talk about a vague future. Maybe he’d be waiting for her after Mass this morning. She pictured him standing near his new red Singer sports car, his arms crossed, his thick black hair falling forward over one side of his forehead—his eyes, dark blue with thick black lashes, half-closed and sleepy looking.
With her hands joined before her breast, Vivien watched the priest make the sign of the cross in front of the altar. It was the third Sunday after Epiphany and Father Donovan was wearing green vestments. She glanced sideways at her father who stared straight ahead, didn’t genuflect, kneel or pray.
Vivien went to confession every week just to keep the peace, confessed the same imagined sins.
‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned.’
‘How have you sinned, child?’
‘… I’ve committed the sin of pride ... not honoured my father and my mother … had impure thoughts, been unkind to my sister.’ If he only knew what she and Doug really did.
Mum and Helen were always gossiping about the neighbours who went to Mass. Mrs Lynch looking holy. What’s she so smug about? Beats her children within an inch of their lives. Her daughter, poor Teresa, pregnant at fourteen, some said to her own father, and sent away to the country as housekeeper to a widower with five children. Harry, the eldest, a thug who’d steal a penny from a blind man. And Miss Sullivan, looking white-faced and pinched under that awful black hat and veil, cruel to stray cats, so everyone said. Mean too, wouldn’t give her old mother a drop of brandy when she was dying, even though she begged for it. As for that Mrs Mulligan. Nine squalling brats and another on the way, all half-starved and living in filth, but pleased with herself because she follows the teachings of the church. Each Sunday, they would grovel to Donovan, nod and smile to their neighbours’ faces but gossip behind their backs. Not a drop of real charity among the lot of them. News of her fight with Doug would soon find its way back to Mrs Roberts through the parish council grapevine.
Doug’s mother would be praying hard for Doug’s soul, with her head bowed over her clasped hands in tight black silk gloves. She’d be at the next parish meeting with the rest of them, sitting around a long table in the hall, their needles darting in and out of clothes for the destitute and their tongues darting in and out of other people’s business. Her mother loved being lady superior to the impoverished lot while keeping one foot in with her old cronies who’d lost nothing.
In her last year at school, Vivien openly questioned the teachings of the church. She could’ve taken religion with a pinch of salt like most of the girls, but it made her angry to hear Sister Scholastica spouting nonsense. During one of Sister’s lessons on the Pope, Vivien raised her hand. She was a favourite because she was always top of the class, but when she said, ‘The Pope can’t be infallible, Sister; he’s just a man,’ Scholastica looked as if she’d burst. Her face turned red under her wimple, she clutched at the crucifix around her neck then strode across the classroom and smacked Vivien across the face. At the memory, she lifted her head and looked towards the Stations of the Cross. For as long as she could remember she had attended the Way of the Cross service on Good Friday when the priest wore purple vestments and in a sorrowful voice described the events in Christ’s journey, from when he was condemned to death, through his crucifixion, to being laid to rest in the sepulchre, all the time reminding the congregation that Christ died in agony to atone for their sins. Whenever she imagined Christ’s pain as nails were driven through his feet and hands, her toes curled.