“Lisa,” said Fay, “I think Magda wants to speak to you.”
Magda had indeed been making eloquent signals with her great eyes across the several yards of space which separated Model Gowns from Ladies’ Cocktail. Lisa looked across the chasm and Magda beckoned; the girl hurried across to her. Had she not completed her allotted task the day before? She did not like to think of the frost which would settle on Mrs. Williams, if not also Miss Jacobs and even Miss Baines, were she to abandon them once more on this busiest of all mornings.
“Lisa, my dear,” said Magda, “I will not long detain you. I merely wish to invite you to luncheon today if you have nothing more amusing to do. I have so much described you to my husband who looks forward to meeting you, it will be very simple, we do not trouble with the haute cuisine on a Saturday—psssht!—it is the end of a long week—a piece of sausage, a glass of wine, a few cherries—please give us the pleasure of your company!”
Lisa was overwhelmed; she stuttered. “I’ll have to ask my mother,” she said. “I mean, I’ll have to tell her.”
“But naturally!” cried Magda. “I have thought of that too! Here are four pennies, I keep some always in my bureau in case of need—run quickly to the public telephones there and call your mother and ask her permission, please. You know we live in Mosman, it will be quite easy for you to find your way home, no? It is not so far. Go quickly, they will not notice, the ladies, and tell me what your mother says. And give her first my respects, please.”
Fay watched, unable to hear, and wondered. That Magda, how intriguing she was, as well as frightful. But Lisa did not seem to find her frightful; fearsome, possibly, but not frightful. Lisa seemed to enjoy her time at Magda’s side: she would return from her stints at Model Gowns in a state of something like elation.
“There are frocks from Paris in there,” she had told them, “and London. Beautiful, the most beautiful frocks—you should go and see. Magda won’t mind.”
As if they would go and see!
“I don’t want to see frocks from Paris and London,” said Patty Williams. “I’ve got enough to do with frocks from Sydney and Melbourne.”
But Fay, silenced by this remark, thought to herself, geez. I’d love to look at those frocks. And perhaps I will, later; or some time. She thought, perhaps they look like the frocks in magazines. Geez, think of that: fancy having a frock that was in a magazine.
“We will jump onto a tram in Elizabeth Street and go quickly to the Quay,” said Magda to Lisa as they walked forth from Goode’s at 12:35. “I am in no mood for a promenade. Come.”
Lisa had rarely had the occasion to travel by ferry and had entirely forgotten, if she had ever really known, the ravishing delight of the experience.
“We will sit outside, of course,” said Magda, running up the staircase and going out onto the upper deck, “here, with our backs to the sun. Ouf! What could be more glorious?”
Lisa looked around at the Harbour, the sky, the Bridge, Pinchgut, the fairyland foreshores, the entire glittering panorama. Intoxicated by this spectacle and by the mad throbbing of the great engine and the strange allure of the smell of its oil, carried across the twinkling water on this comfortable wooden vessel with its cargo of fortunate passengers, the salty breeze in her hair, Lisa felt herself to be no longer on the threshold, but suddenly projected wholly into real life; to have left—at last—Lesley, that child, far behind.
“Isn’t it lovely!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it glorious! I am happy!”
Magda turned and smiled at her brilliantly. “Good!” she said. “Be happy—always!”
And she kissed Lisa on the cheek.
Lisa smiled shyly at her.
I’ve heard, she thought, that Continentals kiss each other much more than we do: it means nothing. They do it all the time, even the men. The men even kiss each other. But how strange I feel.