She was short with broad hips. Her buttocks moved from side to side as she walked. She wore glasses. Her name was Mary Frobisher.
She started work half an hour earlier than the rest of the staff. I was generally early myself. She swept my office and tidied my table. She talked to me as she worked.
‘George took me to Luna Park last night.’
‘Go on! Did he? Have a good time?’
‘Oo—great. But doesn’t it cost money? George spent over ten shillings. George doesn’t mind, though. Laugh! . . . We kept putting pennies in those machines—you know. . . . You know, where they tell you your fortunes. Some of them are good. Mine said that I was generous and that. George reckons it’s good. It is good. I’m going to keep it.’
She bustled about the office dusting and moving chairs. I commenced checking a bundle of clicking dockets.
‘I was in George’s last night for a while.’
‘Oh, yes! George has a new stepmother hasn’t he? How does he like her? What do you think of her?’
‘Oh, I like her. She likes me, too. She’s real young. George likes her. She’s funny, though. She kisses George good-bye and everything.’
‘She must be fond of George,’ I remarked.
‘She likes him; but she bosses him. That’s silly. George just takes it. He says he doesn’t want to start rows. After his father leaves for work she gets George his breakfast. George doesn’t start work till nine. She chips him about being out late with me and that, and says, “Now, now,” and things like that. I said to George, we don’t stop out very late. Others stop out till after twelve. George says not to take any notice of her.’
I looked at my pencil, twisting it round in my fingers.
Some weeks later Mary walked in carrying a book called White Sin, by S. Andrew Wood. She placed it on my table while she took off her hat. I glanced at it.
She said, ‘It’s George’s. His mother gave it to him.’
She gazed at herself in a hand mirror while she dabbed at her face with a powder puff.
I turned the leaves of the book. ‘What did she give it to him for?’ I asked.
‘Oh! just a present. She says George “helps” her a lot. She says she “relies” on him. Sometimes she puts her arm round his neck and says, “You help me such a lot, George.” She’s funny, isn’t she? George just puts up with it.’
‘You met George last night, did you?’ I asked.
‘Yes. There’s a friend of his over from Tasmania.’
She commenced dusting.
‘He invited him out to his place for the evening but instead of bringing him to his place he brought him to our place. There’ll be another row, I suppose. His mother says he comes to our place too often. She says he’ll wear out his welcome and that.’
She swung a chair into the centre of the room and commenced sweeping under the table.
‘But if he is in love with you . . .’ I said.
‘Yes, that’s what I say. Last night I heard a bike-bell ring. Mum was ironing clothes, piles and piles of them—you know. . . . When I went out George had this chap with him and he introduced me. I thought, this is funny—you know. . . . He brought him in then and they stopped till eleven. George took him to the station afterwards. When he came back he said, “I wasn’t going to bring him home to our place. . . . Not on your life! . . . With her there. She’d get narked again. She doesn’t like other chaps about with me. Not at home. She says it spoils our friendship, other men about.’
Mary stood erect. She stayed her sweeping, ‘Isn’t she silly?’
‘She does seem a bit that way,’ I replied.
Mary continued her sweeping. After a while she said, ‘George was engaged once.’
My back was to her, yet she spoke as if she were hiding her face.
‘Was he, really?’ I said, interested.
‘Yes. It was up in the country. George had a lot of papers and things in his room. I helped him to clear some of them out. There was a lot of letters from her. She was always saying she was lonely and that sort of thing—you know. . . . He was sorry for her. So he got engaged to her. It was really out of pity—to take her away from the place and that sort of thing. He didn’t love her. He said she was thrilled to bits but he wasn’t.’
She was silent for a while, sweeping slowly.
I stroked by chin and looked at a calendar picture of the Duke of Gloucester.
Mary drew a breath. ‘George said she had sex appeal,’ then with an embarrassed little laugh, ‘What is that?—I mean, how do you make it?’
‘Ah! that’s the question,’ I replied, leaning back in my chair and looking at the roof. ‘We all want to know that. Its worst enemies are corsets and woollen singlets.’
‘Coo!’ exclaimed Mary. She looked ahead of her in silence, softly biting a finger nail.
‘I suppose you would have to be passionate,’ she said, wistfully, after an interval.
‘I daresay that would help,’ I replied, thinking of a girl I had to meet that night.
‘George says I’m not passionate enough. I can’t kiss back. I always think, “I wonder is he laughing at me.” You act sort of silly when you kiss back—you know. . . . My girl friend says you should just put your lips near theirs then draw away, sort of. Keep doing it. She says it brings them on.’
‘What!’ I exclaimed, sitting erect and wondering whether I heard aright.
‘Yes. You know, makes them want to kiss you a lot.’ She looked at me simply.
‘Oh!’ I said, looking at the Duke again. ‘It would certainly do that. I can quite imagine the effect on a man confronted with a girl acting like a hen drinking.’ I laughed. ‘By jove I can! Would it bring him on! Good Lord!’
I leant forward to answer the phone. When I had finished dealing with the call Mary had passed to the main office. I could hear her humming as she swept.
I was in Sydney on business for three weeks and had almost forgotten George when I returned. Mary had not, however. She was busy at work when I arrived at the office.
‘George’s mother’s mad,’ she said to me, almost without any preliminary.
‘Go on!’ I said.
‘She’s always saying to me that it would do George good if I went out with other boys. She says it would make him value me more and that. She said you should make them jealous.’
‘Don’t take any notice of her,’ I said.
‘I know George doesn’t like it. He has gone out with other girls but gets narked if I want to go out with other boys. Yet his mother keeps saying I ought to go out more.’
‘The mother can’t like you,’ I said.
‘Oh! she does. So does the father. I think she’s right. I don’t see why I shouldn’t go out with whom I like.’
‘Well, if you want to go out with other boys, go.’
‘Yes, but other girls are in love and go out with other boys.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I sighed. ‘I wouldn’t like a girl of mine going out with other men.’
‘Oh! but I’m different. I wouldn’t do anything.’
‘I’m sure of that.’
‘You see, George is getting worse. It would do us both good if we went out with others. You see, he has been engaged. I’ve never been engaged; but I could have been. I know boys that I could have had.’
She was silent a moment, thinking.
‘It’s not that I want to go out with other boys, but George’s mother keeps telling me,’ she added, almost plaintively.
‘She might be trying to come between you and George,’ I suggested.
‘Oh! no she’s not,’ said Mary, quickly. ‘She loves me; so does the father.’
Two days later she walked into the office in high spirits. She laughed as she removed her coat.
‘Look, I must tell you. I went round to George’s last night. I went in and there he was washing the dishes. Look, I nearly died. He had one plate and was rubbing it up and down—you know. . . . Look, I nearly died. They were going to the pictures and they left him to do them. I had to go into the dining-room. Laugh! I nearly died.
‘We went to the pictures after. George is lovely to go to the pictures with. He is real funny. Though I say it myself, he is the wonderfulest chap. You like people seeing you with him—you know. . . . He says lovely things to you and that. I know lots of girls who would love to have him. But his mother hates him to talk about other girls. It’s only me she likes. But she likes me too much. She won’t leave me alone. She always talks to me when I go there and George and I never get a chance together. George told me last night that she’s not speaking to him. He had a row with her over something or other.’
I was called from the office and heard no more that morning. However, two days later Mary came in looking troubled and began again.
‘Talk about worry! George is sick. He’s got the influenza. Mother went round yesterday morning with the eggs. She was there. She said, “It’s that daughter of yours upsetting George!”
‘Mother said, “Excuse me.’
‘But she took no notice. She still doesn’t talk to George. But she was rather nice after. She brings him in lemon drinks. George says she said to him, “It’s a wonder your girl hasn’t been round to see you”—sort of sarcastic like.’
She looked at me and added, sadly, ‘You see, I’d go round but George wrote and told me not to.’
She didn’t say any more for some time, then, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t put one over me by making bad over something I’ve said.’
‘You want to have a talk to George about it,’ I suggested.
‘George doesn’t like me running her down like that. He’s got to like her.’
Mary walked slowly round the office moving chairs.
‘I missed my train this morning to see if I could catch his father and hear how he was, but he’d gone.’
‘You go round and see him,’ I said. ‘Take no notice of what any of them say.’
For the next fortnight I was late arriving at the office and missed seeing Mary. On the Friday, however, I was sitting at my table writing when she entered. I bid her good morning without raising my head—I was at work on a balance—but some atmosphere, some note in her voice made me look up. She had her back to me hanging up her coat. I watched her. She turned and walked to a chair still without looking at me. I said, ‘What is wrong, Mary?’
She raised her eyes then, and we looked at each other. Hers were bewildered, suffering.
She said, in a toneless voice, ‘I went round to George’s last night. I didn’t knock. I just went in. I saw—George—and his mother. . . .’
She stopped and looked at me. She lowered her face to her cupped hands.