Ruth
Mamma had left potatoes for me to peel and a sink stacked high with dirty dishes. I was sure no one else at St Margaret's had this many chores waiting for them when they got home. The only advantage I could see was that they left me free to daydream.
But today, just to make me crosser, as I was stowing cutlery into drawers and hoping to escape to my room Zeida came in demanding his glass of tea. I wanted to tell him to make it himself, but bit my tongue. If I did, I knew there'd be another blow-up where I always seemed to come off worst.
I was handing him the glass when he said in Yiddish - he always pretended not to know any English - 'To make your grandfather a tea, you should be pleasant, not show such a farkrimpt, such a sour face.'
I gritted my teeth and stalked out slamming the door behind me. Of course that made him angry enough to tell Mamma. As a result she came into my room to give me a long lecture about treating him with respect.
'But I never get any from Zeida,' I whined. 'He hates me because I'm a girl.'
'What nonsense is this? As your Zeida, there is no requirement that he has to be polite to you. Anyway Ruth,' she sternly added, 'this family, and your Papa in particular, has enough problems to deal with right now without you adding to them.'
My tummy sank. 'What problems?'
She frowned before answering. 'You are now old enough to understand that whatever happens politically can affect this family very badly.'
'You mean all that stuff about communists and spies?'
She nodded. I nearly told her she had a real life spy living next door, until I remembered my promise to Eva. I stopped, my mouth still half open.
'You know what is happening in America. And I'm sure you know that Prime Minister Menzies wants to bring in new laws banning anyone with old connections to the Communist Party.'
'I don't see what that has to do with us,' I muttered, though of course I did. Right now I simply preferred to pretend that what happened to the grown-ups had nothing to do with me.
'What nonsense, of course you understand, Ruth. You must stop worrying about your needs and start to think about others.'
Before I could come up with any kind of decent answer, she stormed out of my room.
On Wednesday I glimpsed Patrick at the tram-stop and my heart leapt. He waved and beckoned me over. I stopped long enough to take in his smile, that endearing chipped tooth, his unruly hair peeping out from under his cap.
Everything came to a halt. For a long moment there was no one else in the entire universe except Patrick and me.
As if suddenly aware of the crowd milling about us and too many interested glances, too many wagging tongues, all he said was, 'Hi, Ruth.'
'Hi, Patrick.' When it struck me he might want to cancel Saturday's date, I added, 'You okay?'
He pushed his cap back from his forehead. 'Listen,' he said abruptly. 'Don't suppose you could come to my place instead? It's just that it'd be easier than managing two bikes. Besides, I'd like you to meet my family.'
My shoulders subsided in relief. 'Sure. What's your address.'
He reached into his blazer pocket and thrust a slip of paper into my hand. 'Got time for a milkshake?'
I shook my head. 'No, got to get home to babysit.'
Though I was sure he could tell how disappointed I was, his frown was so forbidding, I shrank into myself. Would this tip him into a bad mood? But as he climbed back on his bike, his voice was light. 'Can't be helped. See you Saturday at the tram stop, one-ish. You're coming for High Tea, but we'll have heaps of time before that to practice cycling.'
'Be there close to one,' I promised and waved him off. But all the way home I fretted. What did 'High Tea' mean? The only time I'd read about anyone taking High Tea was in Love in a Cold Climate by Nancy Mitford. It all sounded very upper class English where you could be damned forever if you said napkin instead of serviette, toilet instead of lavatory, and lounge instead of sitting room. What if I got it all wrong?
My tram clattered to a stop and I had to push and shove to get into the front cabin and then all the straps were taken so it was a balancing act all the way home. Saturday was only three days away. Though I was really scared I might make a fool of myself, I could hardly wait.
Saturday morning I was so nervous, I couldn't stop running to the lavatory. One time Zeida stayed and stayed in there until I was ready to burst. Nancy's new house in Kew had two bathrooms and a separate guest toilet. Lucky Nancy never had to fight for bathroom space.
Though I do admit she had other problems. I mean, if my mamma was keen on everything being in its right place - that was nothing on Auntie Doris. Since the Blooms moved into their new house, Auntie Doris expected it to look like a featured page in the Australian Home Beautiful.
I spent ages trying to decide what to wear. I did want to look right, though I had no idea what looking right was. Patrick had only seen me in my uniform; a pleated tunic tied around the middle like a sack of potatoes, white cotton shirt, striped school tie, grey lisle stockings, shapeless jumper, blazer, and that horrid pudding-bowl hat with the school ribbon. And gloves, of course; St Margaret's rules are strict. Any deviation warrants having to write: 'I must wear my full uniform' at least five hundred times.
Not that I had much choice when it came to the weekend. It didn't help that the weather had changed and it was cold and wet. My only coat was shabby, the sleeves finishing halfway up my arms.
Zeida just about had a fit if he saw me wearing slacks. He claimed only prost - by this he meant vulgar - women wore pants.
Would Patrick's family feel the same? I was about to pull out a skirt when I recalled I had to straddle a bike. I took a gamble that slacks would be acceptable and chose my only pair as they were less likely to catch on pedals and I didn't need stockings or a girdle. I pulled on a Fair Isle jumper Mamma knitted last year, even though it was tight around the bust and the sleeves stopped well above my wrists. My only halfway decent shoes were those I wore to school. At least my socks were new.
Once again I envied Nancy. Her dad being in the schmatte business, she always had lots of new clothes. I placed my purse in the pocket of my slacks then decided it wasn't safe there. What I needed was a handbag. I remembered Mamma's little leather bag where she kept a couple of broaches she'd brought with her from Bialystock. Hoping she wouldn't look for it, I hid the jewellery in a drawer in my room, and slid my purse, a comb, a handkerchief and one of her old lipsticks inside.
Just then, Mamma came in. I shoved the bag into a drawer.
'Ruth, why such a hurry?' She started hanging the clothes I'd left on the bed into my wardrobe.
I broke into a cold sweat. Had Eva broken her promise?
Mamma frowned as she closed the wardrobe door.
I managed a casual, 'I'm off to Kate Howell's to finish some maths. Also, there's Eva's messages. I'm trying to figure out how to fit everything in.' Her frown grew so forbidding, I quickly added, 'Mamma, I did tell you.'
'Of course,' though she still looked huffy. 'I did need you to look after Leon.'
My breath caught in my throat, sure she was about to forbid me to go. But as she was almost out the door, she said, 'I suppose you do need some independence. Just be careful crossing roads. And please don't talk to strangers.'
I almost collapsed with relief. I couldn't imagine what I'd do if she'd tried to stop me. Why did I have to be this devious when it came to meeting a boy I liked? Why was everything so unfair?
I ran across the road to catch the tram that would take me down Glenhuntly Road. Waiting for it to turn up, I took out the lipstick I'd taken from Mamma's dressing table, and a small mirror. I had to apply the lipstick and rub it off on a hankie three times before I got it right.
When my tram turned up, it sailed right past my school, only squealing to a halt two stops later. Stepping off, I glimpsed Patrick all rugged up in jacket, scarf and cap. My heart soared as I leant into him. In return I got a quick hug. 'Great you could make it. Had any trouble getting away?'
I shook my head and he stood back to look at me.
'You look great. But aren't you cold?'
Though my nose and fingers were frozen, my hair damp with drizzle, I quickly denied it. I suppose I could have worn my school blazer, but only little kids wore school uniform on weekends. Nor had I thought of bringing an umbrella.
'Never feel the cold,' I assured him trying not to shiver too openly. He put his arm around me and, ignoring a disapproving frown from a woman walking towards us, he couldn't wait to tell me that his footy team finally managed to beat St Kevin's. After he explained every kick in fine detail, he also mentioned that his class had a new Latin teacher he claimed was Donald Duck's twin. I burst out laughing as he demonstrated the teacher's strange voice and weird twaddle. 'Aliquis latet error,' he parodied for my enjoyment.
We strolled down a side street lined with double-story freestanding Victorian houses. All had well maintained garden beds, manicured lawns and elaborate front entrances. Down the far end we came to a tall cypress hedge that hid the house from the street. Patrick opened a gate and we walked along a winding path towards the house. Climbing up the front was a vine with stems so thick, I felt it must have been planted around the same time as the cypress hedge. The garden was filled with plants and late blooming flowers. Right in the middle was a small fountain with bubbling water falling into a pond covered in water lilies. As we walked past, I glimpsed colourful flickers of what I thought might be fish.
Patrick opened the front door and I stepped into a hallway with extra high ceilings. Light falling through a big arch at the entrance revealed a carved chest, a table holding a vase of mixed flowers, and a greenish bowl filled with sweet smelling flakes that I later learnt was called potpourri.
Right down the end of the passage was an alcove with a statue of a crowned Virgin Mary in a white robe and blue cloak, flowers and candles on the ledge below. Occasional side dressers had that expensive gleam that went with being valuable. Most of the walls were lined with a combination of 'Madonna and Child' paintings, but these were set amongst others less religious. One reminded me of what Leon brought home from kindergarten, only with such added fierceness I took a step back from it.
'That's by Albert Tucker,' Patrick explained. 'Father reckons one day it'll be worth lots; athough,' he added with a sly grin, 'he really hates Tucker's politics.'
'Oh, why?'
'He says Tucker's a commie.'
'Oh!' It was news to me that one could admire a painting and still hate the artist.
I looked further along the wall, and finally pointed to one I found interesting. Though it didn't attempt to show what people really look like, it was more like an outline or a cartoon, it was of a man and woman in what seemed like a new house. It was the man's flinty face and stance that leapt out at me, the way the woman nestled into him despite his lack of warmth and emotion. Also, everything in the painting was square, as if tenderness didn't exist at all. I said, 'What about that one?'
'It's a John Brack. See how he's caught the man's blank face?'
'Yes. So what's he saying?'
His grin was rueful. 'Suppose that we men are incapable of showing our true emotions, and our women have to cop it sweet.'
Could this be right? Surely it didn't apply to everyone. Papa always showed how much he loved his family. I gave a little shudder, and returned to something closer to my heart. 'So painting, that's what you want to do?'
He nodded.
'Have you got any of yours to show me?'
'Later.' He sounded unexpectedly nervous.
If I wondered at this, there was no time for any questions as he led me down another hall into a room lined with bookcases so high a wooden ladder was permanently fixed to the ceiling. All these books were leather bound and clearly more important than any in our school library. Any wall not filled with bookcases was covered in more paintings. Most featured landscapes.
There was no time to look, because seated behind a rosewood leather-tooled desk covered with papers was a tall, gangly man who was so much an older version of his son, I knew exactly what Patrick would look like when he grew up.
As we came in, the older man glanced up. One hand fingered a set of beads I later learnt was a Rosary, the other held a cigarette. His hair was the same brown as his son's, only streaked with grey, and his eyes the same shade of intense blue. His face, however, was craggy and weatherbeaten, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. He smiled as we came in, but it was a thin difficult smile, and I got the impression that it rarely appeared. That, plus his square chin and unyielding gaze reminded me of the John Brack painting back in the hall.
Patrick pushed me forward with a shaking hand, as if this action, him bringing me here, made him intensely nervous. 'Father, this is my friend Ruth. Ruth Adele Cohen.'
Mr O'Sullivan carefully placed his cigarette on an ashtray, stood up and held out his hand. 'How do you do, Ruth?' As he took in everything about me - everything from my frizzy hair down to my slacks and lace-up school shoes, his expression was so bland, I couldn't tell whether he approved or disapproved of what he was seeing.
'Thank you for inviting me,' I murmured.
'Nothing to do with me, young lady,' he quickly returned, his voice the same clipped tone I heard over the ABC. 'Your invitation is all this young man's doing. Each Saturday one of the children is permitted to bring a friend no matter what religion she might happen to be to High Tea. I understand from your name that you are Jewish.'
I nodded and now knew where I stood. He'd made it totally clear that he did not approve of Patrick bringing a Jewish girl home.
Surely Patrick knew this? So why did he invite me? Then I suddenly realised that this was his way of defying his dad. Well, I knew all about that. This was something we both shared: his father and my mother, though I didn't know whether I would dare be as brave as Patrick.
Mr O'Sullivan was saying, 'Patrick, the girls are out the back. Take Ruth to meet them.'
We walked down a long narrow hallway past a flight of steep stairs, to the rear of the house. I heard the ping-ping of balls bouncing against bats and table. Patrick ushered me into a very large room that might originally have been a conservatory. Floor length windows opened out to a garden with gravel paths, slightly overgrown shrubbery, and a riot of lavender, rhododendron, azalea, rose and lilac bushes. Down the rear of the property, I glimpsed a tennis court.
In the centre of the room was a billiard table, on top of which was a green table-tennis board divided by a net.
Two girls were batting a ball to each other. Both were taller than me, and skinny, all up and down, with straight fair hair cut to chin length, floppy fringes, small neat features and their father's intense blue eyes. In one corner of the room, a little girl with similar delicate features and dark hair was playing with a doll's house.
The game stopped as we walked in. Patrick guided me towards his sisters saying, 'This is Ruth Cohen. Ruth, these two who think they can play table tennis - although they're really playing ping-pong - are Deidre and Mary.'
'Hi, Ruth,' they chorused ignoring their brother's comment.
Deidre came over to shake my hand. She wore a blue jumper over a matching dirndl. 'Kate's told us all about you.' Her voice was surprisingly light and high, her tone nervous, jumpy. I suspected she found it hard to meet strangers.
'Oh.' I tried smiling back, but her comment had sent a shock through me. What had Kate been saying?
'Yes, takes a lot to please Pat.' When she looked back at her brother, her glance was sly. 'You must be special.'
I felt myself flush scarlet.
Patrick scowled so forbiddingly, I was sure she'd get a big telling off when they were alone.
Seems Deidre wasn't bothered by her brother's moods because she added, 'Pat only goes for someone special.'
What was she actually telling me? I didn't have time to consider this, as Mary was offering me her hand too. Her shy smile revealed a mouthful of silver bands.
It was unusual for teenagers to shake hands. In my experience only adults did that. Did this mean the O'Sullivan children were old fashioned? I knew Deidre was fourteen, and Mary was twelve. Finally their little sister, who'd been quietly watching and sucking her thumb, ran over and looked shyly up at us. Patrick stroked her fringe. 'This poppet is Teresa. She's four.'
I bent down. 'We've got a four year old too. He's a boy.'
She considered this, her expression quite serious. 'What's his name?'
'Leon. He loves stories. He goes to kindie. Do you?'
She nodded solemnly.
'His favourite story is Thomas the Tank Engine. What's yours?'
'Milly-Molly-Mandy,' she proudly announced. 'Mummy's promised to buy me Animal Friends for my birthday.'
'Sounds like you're keen,' I said smiling.
A loud groan from all siblings. 'Is she ever,' said Deidre. 'She makes us read those books over and over again.'
'Leon does that too. He loves Thomas the Tank Engine. We have to read all his Thomas books so often, we nearly go mad. '
Everyone laughed and this relieved some of the obvious tension. Mary gestured towards the table. 'Do you play?'
Sometimes Nancy and I played table-tennis on her dining room table. 'Kind of,' I said cautiously, in case they thought I was any good. 'But I haven't in ages.'
'Want to try a double?'
They first gave me a chance to warm up. I partnered Patrick and played better than I'd hoped, sending and receiving without too many misses, even getting in a couple of smashes. The others cheered every good return.
Between games I looked around at walls almost hidden behind paintings and photos. Lots of photos. There were many sepia prints of people who might be great-great grandparents. Though this was obviously a moneyed house, it was very untidy, and I knew Mamma would disapprove. But I found this mess comforting. Here, no one insisted that everything be in its proper place. Books, magazines, newspapers, toys and cushions were scattered everywhere.
As we were playing, a dog, a red kelpie, came to the back door and waited. Mary brought the dog inside. After he shook himself sending water everywhere, I was introduced to Wowser who smelt like a carpet Mamma would definitely throw away. Shortly after, a plump black and white cat sidled in, followed by another. The second cat was totally white. Both settled on one of the couches. If I was slightly put off by animal hair and smell, I couldn't help admiring how relaxed it all was. Nor did it take long for me to realise that both sisters had easily accepted me as Patrick's friend; well, beyond using this to tease him.
I couldn't help contrasting this house to our small flat with its three tiny bedrooms and the closed in balcony converted into my bedroom, our sitting-dining room, all filled with worn furniture, and one small bathroom that had to accommodate five people. I suppose that was why Mamma was so insistent that everything be kept in its proper place. I rarely complained about my tiny space, but when I compared dwellings, it seemed unfair that some people had so much and others so little.
Their mother turned up, interrupting our game. She was as slim as Deidre, with a cloud of black hair, the most delicate white skin I'd ever seen, and blue almost violet eyes with astonishing dark eyelashes. She was quite, quite beautiful. As if to reinforce this, Patrick later told me very proudly that his mother was noted as a 'typical Irish belle'.
If Mrs O'Sullivan seemed slightly bemused by my presence, she tried not to show it. Instead she waited for Patrick to introduce me. Like her daughters she shook my hand, then told everyone to get ready for High Tea.
'First Ruth gets another lesson on the bike,' Patrick butted in. 'We're just waiting for it to stop raining.'
I suddenly thought, what if Deidre didn't want me to ride her bike? What if I damaged it?
To my relief, she seemed to accept my borrowing as perfectly natural, so I had to assume Patrick had previously prepared her. She led me out the back door into a shed where a rack held maybe a dozen bikes of all shapes and sizes. She looked me up and down as if measuring what I could manage. 'Try that one,' she decided pointing to a bike with a low middle frame. 'And Pat,' she warned. 'Be back by four, or you know what'll happen.' She left the rest unsaid.