The Hanging Garden Part 2

She has these lines down her face. Like the ventriloquist's doll at the Zappeion.

*Well, soon-at once-because they have offered me return pa.s.sage in this boat. I can't lose the opportunity, can I? To go back to where I am needed.' The way she swallows on what she is saying.

*Aunt Alison will come to fetch me-Take me to the boat. Alison will always be here-and kind Mrs Bulpit. You will not be alone.' She is staring at the light as it was on the window, or the curve of a branch knocking on the gla.s.s-or nothing. *And soon we shall be together again.'

For the time being everyone seemed to have forgotten about her though Mrs Bulpit offered a bowl of what she called *porridge.' It was as convenient to forget as it was to be forgotten. The house was buzzing with the thoughts and actions of those separately in it. As she went outside leaving Mamma to tissues and the bathroom, Mrs Bulpit was attacking the kitchen. Her gloves had changed from asbestos to rubber, her curls hidden in a scarf, the ears of which trembled as she scrubbed, poked, and sang. She had just finished Two Sleepy People, and was starting on Red Sails in the Sunset.

Light lay heavy-it made the paths look substantial where the concrete had not crumbled, tree trunks and the branches of trees had knotted like the muscles in men's bodies. Wherever rust had broken out it glowered like blood in the act of drying.

At a moment when they least expected each other the boy came down into the yard. Perhaps for this reason the half-rotten terrible steps ahead threw him and the things in the half-empty case he was carrying rattled round inside it.

He was forced by the situation to grunt something about *... school...'

*Mmh...?' she answered.

*When you commin?' There was menace in his voice, forced on him by school or the light or Australia or something.

*I haven't been told,' she replied with as much precision as she could muster.

She took a sideways look at the blond legs but could not face the pale blue eyes.

Though it wasn't called for, she informed him, *My aunt-Mrs Lockhart-is coming for my mother.'

He muttered again, something about *Bruce and Kevin...' to convey contempt, before turning his back. As he mounted the slope to reach the street he was grinding his soles into the concrete. His socks were down around his ankles. She knew enough to sense he was wearing them that way deliberately.

He had scarcely gone when she ran back quickly inside. Mrs Bulpit had started on Yours. It seemed quite natural that Mrs Bulpit and Mamma should be so irrelevant, not in control of the house. What she most feared, that Gilbert Horsfall might dispute her ownership, no longer troubled her. Certainly he was temporarily absent; but his presence would not have mattered now that she felt mastery was within her reach.

Skipping, almost, inside the room where he had spent the night, and which still had the smell of what she supposed was a boy's sleep, she did not even bother to glance at the warrant-officer's blown-up portrait. That too was irrelevant. She only slightly hesitated before approaching the chest-of-drawers with the dried-out wishbone of some large bird, goose or turkey, lying where she had noticed it the night before. With a confidence she would have found odious in anyone else, she hummed a little of the tune the woman was singing in the kitchen. She gave her imitation a tinny edge reaching a crescendo as she dragged on the sticky k.n.o.b of that same upper drawer. Again it shot out and hit her where women don't like to be hit. There she had the advantage even over Mamma, even over boys, who might hit but can't hurt if you are strong. And she felt strong. She felt her thoughts were leaner than Gilbert Horsfall's. Inside the drawer the same tangle of used string, the roughed up dirty handkerchief lying on top of the laundered ones. She held her breath then slid her hand under the clean handkerchiefs, where women hide the valuables Turks and brigands are looking for, and precious secrets like love letters. Some of the letters had made her feel guilty. The jewels she had slipped on her fingers and round her neck, her flesh growing inside them. She had felt silly finally.

Now, under Gilbert Horsfall's handkerchiefs she came across the secret he had hidden. It was a jewel, rather a lumpy one, golden in colour, set in a brooch. Was it valuable? Had he stolen it? She shoved it back in its hiding place. She slammed the drawer. She might have reached the peak of power over this pale, threatening boy.

She did a few twirls in the centre of the room stretching out her plait as far as it would reach. Dropped the plait. Would it make her look foreign in Australia? It ought not to matter, now that she was strong-if she was. Mamma was leaving, the boy would return when school was out.

His used bed was still unmade. It looked very narrow against the wall. She shuffled towards and lay down on it raising her arms above her head in defiance of the bed's rightful owner. The mattress was thin and hard. She whimpered slightly, before turning on her side, taking the shape Mamma had rejected the night before. She lay listening. Now that Mrs Bulpit had shut up, she could hear her own heart jumping round inside her like a caught fish. Otherwise silence. She had the day to fill. She did not fit in. She lay snuffling, whimpering, rubbing her cheek against the single cold pillow to warm them both.

Hid yourself most of the day. Mamma did not call or come to look. If Mrs Bulpit called she soon gave up, too intent on all she suffered: *... from morning to night-in Australia, madam.' For the benefit of anyone interested, she announced, *We only ever serve a light lunch.' She might have been talking to the air. Till Aunt Alison came.

*Oh yes, Mrs Lockhart, Madame Sklavos is in the lounge room. The little la.s.s. I-reenee? Your auntie! A little bit upset-and ent.i.tled to it-under the circs...'

No-one followed up this initial concern by coming in search of the *little la.s.s.' It left you free to investigate Mrs Lockhart-you could hardly think of her as aunt-by more satisfactory methods than those which adults use for children. Sisterly voices were already issuing by bursts and gusts out of the saloni window round the corner. Vines and a thicket of shrubs provided perfect cover for a listener if one of the sisters should look out the window.

Mrs Lockhart had an older, throatier, smokier voice than Mamma's. *Good Lord ... meeting after all these years makes you feel b.l.o.o.d.y idiotic.'

*... unnatural...' Mamma corrected in her more precise and foreign-sounding voice from years spent in making foreigners understand, whereas Aunt Alison swallowed her words or bit them off like thread after it had served its purpose. Miss Adams would have found it slovenly speech.

*... always a bombsh.e.l.l artist, Gerry, but never let off one like this...' trumpets of smoke accompanied the Lockhart voice through the window.

*How a bombsh.e.l.l to want to bring my child to safety? I am letting off nothing. A situation forced on me by fate.'

*... like marrying that Greek commo-if you did-Harold bets you didn't-not that it matters-I'd never blame anybody for not-if it wasn't for the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds of children...'

A cigarette b.u.t.t came flinging out the window to smoulder on a mattress of damp leaves.

Mamma's voice had never sounded so cold and pure.

*We married to baptise the child. Whatever a Greek believes or doesn't believe in, birth and death are reasons for Orthodoxy.'

*All very high-flown, the Orthodoxy bit. In between, the drudgery was left to you.'

*Petros loved-he adored his child. But had to be away most of the time.'

Couldn't help hating this aunt's smoky voice. When Papa loved. Adored. Fingers spilling seed from these little pods which fringe the sill do not hurt what they sow. If you could only hurt this hurtful Lockhart voice, bite it out from where the words came hurtling.

*... away when you changed the nappy and powdered the rash in her little crotch.'

*Petros was dedicated to a cause...'

*Handy enough.'

*... which I married into. Something that you, Ally, could never understand, living in a country which has always been causeless.'

*I like to think we have a sense of duty towards our children.'

*Would I have brought her here if I hadn't felt it my duty?'

*And do you love her, too?'

*What an inquisition! Of course I-love-her.'

Mamma's fury is so fierce you can almost feel it burning from the other side of the sill. But do you, oh, Mamma, do you?

*Do you, I wonder?' Mrs Lockhart asks of anyone who has the answer. *No-one ever went off at such a bat after dumping her dumpling.'

*The pa.s.sage, I tell you-could I-in these days-refuse the offer?'

Mamma is really suffering. She is suffering, has always suffered from anything she suffers. The lies people tell make her suffer, but she suffers most when she tells her own.

*That was up to you-and the cause, I expect.' The Lockhart voice is sucking on another cigarette.

What you can't see is hard to believe. To see is always better than to hear. If only to see them at it. There is this flowerpot lying collecting snails under the skirt of the sooty vine. Turned wrongside up you will have a footstool from which, if careful, you can see inside the room, from the back of the sill.

Mamma's sister looks old, older it seems than Great Aunt Cleone Tipaldou, from being too much in the sun like the peasants. Her skin is rough as bark, scaly as a hen's legs. Mamma's brown eyes, capable of keeping her own secrets are not related to this blue, accusing Lockhart stare blazing out of the burnt face, skin shrivelled most noticeably where it forks below the throat and sweeps away inside any old kind of crumpled cotton frock. Mountain slopes crack open like this at the height of summer. Above the cleavage she is wearing a blackhead like a brooch. Would love to give Aunt Ally's blackhead a squeeze.

She is stamping, and if smoke and drought had allowed her, would have been shouting at the top of her voice about what they had got on to *-expect there's a man involved in it. You never ran out of men Gerry...'

Anger and argument have filled the room with movement. Mamma consoling her smooth arms avoids her stamping sister. Mamma moves very beautifully.

*I can't deny someone is taking an interest. It would be hypocritical wouldn't it?'

(Would it?) Mamma's eyes are as terrible in their own brown way as the accusing blue.

*... and Aleko was Petros' closest friend...'

*... and the Cause plays at shuttle-c.o.c.k...'

They are going on at a great rate about principles. Neither understands the other. Perhaps in the end, n.o.body understands.

The Lockhart is clutching her long carton of American cigarettes as though her life depends on them.

*Well, Ireen can depend on me. Couldn't have her in my own house ... four boys-and Harold didn't want to risk a girl-says he knows all about them. I reckon he must...'

Mrs Lockhart's skin is every moment shabbier while Mamma's arms and cheekbones, her beautiful neck look waxed. Why are you not in bed, Eirinitsa? Mamma is crying as you stand in the door like a wax figure, eyes closed, leaving anger and discipline to Papa. You could feel Papa hated you, for that moment, anyway. Will Aleko, his closest friend, hate too if he catches you staring at the wax figures? Or because you aren't his, will he leave it to Mamma to command? Only it will not happen, you will not be there, you ...

The old cracked flowerpot slanting lurching cracking crunching you are standing in the slush and smell the quivering of mashed snails mercifully below the sill. There is the garden. Doxa sto Theo, there will always be the garden to scuttle through like any of its insects who have learnt the hiding places.

Scuttle then.

Looking back from where you have dropped on your knees on something sharp it no longer matters worse blood could not be drawn the sisters have arrived at the window and stand looking out a fright or at least suspicion has shut them up for the present they stand in the wreckage of their principles there is nothing they can see exactly except looking down the rubble of an old flowerpot their faces quivering like a pulp of drying snails. Almost as though they have been caught out like children.

The Lockhart glances at her wrist. *Mustn't forget this boat you have to catch.' It is a relief to remember there is something she can do, where she can be of use, after straying into the p.r.i.c.kly thicket of principles.

Mamma receives less comfort. *... yes, the boat...' She ought to feel released, perhaps she will when they draw up the gangway, but standing at the window, her ideals are still squirming for the trampling they have undergone in what she sees as this rough neglected Australian garden. She says s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up her face, *I must say good-bye to my poor child. I could not bear to have her come to the boat. That would be too heartrending.'

The Lockhart tears a fresh pack from the cellophane binding it to the carton. *I don't doubt...' she turns a laugh into a cough, swivelling the end of a scaly nose.

Mamma says, *It is only a temporary separation. When we have won, Eirene will come ... join in building a better Greece...'

They turn back into the house, two sisters united over practical details, like stuffing a suitcase with what has almost been forgotten, and fastening the hasps.

Mamma's voice is choked at first. When it is next heard, agape now, she is standing on the rotten back steps. She clears her throat and the voice floats out as clear as that of a singer in opera. *Eirene? We must say good-bye darling. Mamma cannot miss her boat.'

The Lockhart one has gone up the path to start the car.

Mamma continues, her voice like a descending scale of feathers floating down through the tangle of trees, as you lie with your face in rotting leaves, so warm and smoky they may be at the point of kindling. A red centipede is crawling over your bare arm. A black beetle scratches at your cheek as it tries to climb.

Presently the guardian's voice. *... too upset I expect, Madame Sklavos. Poor little soul.' She blunders about a bit, because it is her duty, barely leaving the path once she has run her face into a great spider's web *... urrh ... nasty! Poison a person...'

*Sensitive child ... don't you worry, madam, every care will be taken of her. Mamma and the woman are struggling up the path towards the snorting car carrying Mamma's heavy suitcase. Mamma soon leaves it to the one whose services will be paid for.

Soon there will be the garden alone. If only you could take the form of this red thread of a centipede or beetle that might have crawled out of the dregs of an inkwell to claw and scratch and burrow and hide amongst what is not just rottenness but change to change. To become part of this thick infested garden so swallowed up where Mamma suffers. You could no longer want either house or garden for your own. Only to burrow. Only this other enemy would come, and crush the beetle out of you. Crush you as a girl too, if you did not resist.

As you get up on your uncomfortable heels, the garden which is yours, in your nostrils and under your nails, glooms and shimmers with whatever is to happen. The gate squeals-is it Gilbert Horsfall, socks around his ankles, the battered case with very little joggling round inside it, returning to dispute your ownership?

Ready yourself to kick him in the shins when the pins and needles have died like so many insects in what are still your legs.

Mrs Bulpit had given up clambering up and down the paths and steps of a garden she would not have wanted to own, if it hadn't gone with the house Reg bought.

*When you've stopped being contrary, young lady,' she called at her last gasp, *you can show yourself and we'll come to terms.'

She went inside banging the door with the hole in the mosquito wire.

Presently the boy came out, chewing on a hunk of bread. He was carrying a second, holding it at a distance from him. Though the evening had started cooling off, the fat from this second slice of bread had begun to melt, he could feel it messing up his fingers as the dripping from the hunk he was tucking into had smeared his mouth, fattening his lips, making them lazy and content.

If he didn't find her, he could eat hers as well, so he meandered on, not particularly looking, at moments forgetting the mission Ma Bulpit had sent him on. Then he caught sight of this Irene Sklavos standing below him at the sea wall, which was where he would have least liked to find her. He was looking down on that straight white parting as she sc.r.a.ped the gulls' white scribble from the wall.

*Hi,' he mumped, but not loud enough, he really didn't want to find her.

She went on sc.r.a.ping, and he went on, his thick-soled school shoes growing heavier as he dragged them along the gritty path to show his indifference, and yet not loud enough for her to hear. If only he would never reach her. What ever would he say to this foreign girl if he did?

As he made the last elbow in the downward path, brushing up against the guava tree to remain unseen till the moment they must face each other, he turned in the direction of the city, and that evening dazzle of sun and water. There was no postponing it. She jerked round to see who had caught her out-or was she catching him? Her eyes were still screwed up in her face, either dazzled, or disgusted.

*She sent you this,' he mumbled.

*What is it?'

*Bread and dripping.'

She took hold of it at last as though it might have been a dog's t.u.r.d you were handing her.

Squinting at it. *I never ate anything like this.' Smelling, touching the stuff with the tip of her tongue, biting in.

*Aah-po po po!' Spitting, but not throwing it away.

*... love it...' Chewing his last rag of crust he made the act look as ugly as he could. *If you don't want it you can give it here.'

She became more screwed up than ever, and disgusted or something, before glancing back over her shoulder at the fire in the west. *My mother's sailing.'

*Didn't go to see her off.'

*I wouldn't be here if I had, would I?'

He felt himself grow so hot and red she could only notice. He hated her for the weakness she provoked. She must be one of those, not girls, he hadn't known enough of them, but like grown-up people, fathers, teachers, who go out of their way to make you look stupid-when you weren't-or were you? He swallowed down the last of the mush his crust had become.

*I wouldn't go. I didn't want to.' She suddenly began biting into the bread and dripping.

*I'd go along any time to watch a ship sail.'

*You wouldn't understand, even if I told you.' The bread was making knots in her throat as it went down. She looked to him like that emu in the zoo, a skinny black emu.

*All right,' he said. *You're too clever by half. Anybody can see that.'