Leo Taylor is not called Ginger because he is a light black man. He is dark like his sister, Teresa. He is called Ginger because he brews real ginger beer from a West Indian recipe passed to him by his mother, Clarisse. Clarisse used to sell it but Ginger can afford to give it away as a treat. He has the strong arms and soft belly of a happy man. He often counts his blessings, wondering how he got so lucky in life. A good job, healthy beautiful children and a tough wife. That night, Frances crawls into bed next to Lily as usual but before long awakens from another nightmare. There are dreams Frances is used to by now, like the one where she gives her own amputated leg to Lily but it’s the wrong size. There are dreams she’ll never get used to, where she puts Lily in the oven by mistake and cooks her but Mumma doesn’t seem to notice that the roast is Lily and neither does anyone else at the table. But tonight Frances awakens with her throat constricted in a silent scream — Mumma in the garden on the scarecrow stick, wearing the old fedora and one of her baggy flowered dresses all crusty down the front, and she’s holding the steak-and-kidney-pie scissors with a bit of pink gristle hanging off. But the worst part is she has no face. Mumma! —
Frances is determined not to watch to the end of this silent picture, in case it becomes a talkie. She needs to sleep in a place of no dreams. A place both empty and utterly silent. The attic, being in a state of permanent shock, is both.
Trixie follows as Frances drags a blanket and a pile of cushions across the hall to the door of the attic stairs. She opens the door, but both she and Trixie hesitate. The problem is that, although the attic is not haunted, the stairs leading up to it are.
Frances stands barefoot at the bottom looking up into the narrow passage. She feels a tightness at her scalp as though she still had braids. In the darkness, her body distends and contracts wildly as though she were an elastic band — suddenly ten feet long and curved, then very small like a young child. “I forgot to put my housecoat on” — Frances sees her green tartan housecoat in her mind, “but that’s silly because I haven’t had that housecoat since Mercedes and I were little and everything matched.” Frances is on the first step. A wet chill down her spine restores her body to its normal size and she is seized with fear because she can hear voices. Just below the water, they are still fish voices but they are bubbling to the surface, in a moment she will understand what they are saying. Frances starts babbling quietly with her hands over her ears and forces herself onto the second step. Damp shadows slipper by, Kathleen is up there. No she isn’t, that’s just the kittens, stop — they have to be baptized — don’t — “who’s the killer?!”— don’t — “you’re the Devil!” — don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, all the way up the stairs till she gets to the top and opens the door.
Arriving in the attic is like arriving in the desert after almost drowning. She closes the door behind her. Trixie leaps silently onto the window-ledge. Frances lies on the floor. She closes her eyes and sleeps deeply and blankly, no longer any need to fear death by dreaming.
Frances awakens the next day more sober than she’s been in almost a year. She finds a train ticket to Boston in her Guide pouch but doesn’t remember how it got there. She goes to the station in Sydney and scalps it for cash. She has no intention of leaving the island until she has made enough money for Lily. And accomplished something else too. What, Frances? Something. She will know it when she sees it. She is a commando in training for a mission so secret that even she does not know what it is. But she is ready. Every night the obstacle course. Manoeuvring behind the lines. Camouflaged to blend with the terrain.
Your voice is sad whene’er you speak …
The night before the war ends, Kathleen unties an emerald sash from around the waist of her scandalous new dress of pale green silk chiffon, and winds it round and round the brim of her lover’s charcoal fedora. She runs her hands up the diamond-studded shirt front and slips her thigh between the stripes of the wide black-and-tan pant legs.
There are mixed clubs they can go to uptown. And there is a private place in Central Park. They have to be careful, but it’s hard. They are so young, they forget that the world is not as in love with them as they are.
And tears bedim your loving eyes….
Book 6. THE GIRL GUIDE
Don’t Whine
By May 1931, Mercedes is downright worried. She hasn’t heard from Ralph in eight weeks. She won’t ask Mrs Luvovitz about him because it is unladylike for a girl to seem to be pursuing a boy, and Mercedes doesn’t want to appear “fast” — especially in the eyes of her future mother-in-law. And besides, if Ralph were in trouble his parents would know, and they appear to be quite unperturbed. Nonetheless, Mercedes drops into Luvovitz’s Kosher Canadian several times a week, the darnedest items having slipped her mind — “Oh Mrs Luvovitz, would you believe I forgot to pick up a pound of blood pudding for Daddy.”
One Thursday afternoon, Mercedes returns to Luvovitz’s to buy a box of salt she forgot that morning. As Mrs Luvovitz rings up the purchase she smiles a little oddly at Mercedes and enquires, “Well now. And how’s your father, dear?”
“Oh he’s well, Mrs Luvovitz, thank you.”
The two of them nod and smile at each other yet neither makes a move to leave. Mercedes asks, “And how’s Mr Luvovitz?”
“Oh you know Mister, he’s grand, dear, just grand.”
Mercedes chuckles and nods.
Mrs Luvovitz asks, “How are your sisters?”
“Lily is grand, thank you, and Frances seems — well, I worry a little about Frances, she’s … still finding herself, you know….”
“We all worry, dear, but she’s a — deep down, you know, she’s fine.”
“Thank you, yes.”
Mrs Luvovitz reaches for a tin of Ovaltine and hands it to Mercedes. “Have you ever tried this? This we get from England.”
“Oh, really? No, I never have.”
“Here, try it, you’ll like it.”
“Oh” — Mercedes reddens and reaches for her purse, unsure as to — but Mrs Luvovitz places a hand on hers and, in the familiar scolding voice that puts Mercedes back at ease, “Ay-yay-yay, what do you think you’re doing, put your money away now.”
Mercedes says, “Thank you very much, Mrs Luvovitz, that’s awfully nice of you,” and feels foolish, aware she must be thanking Mrs Luvovitz rather too profusely because Mrs Luv’s smile has turned a bit pink. In fact Mercedes has never before seen such a sustained smile on the dear lady’s face. Mercedes smiles back, longing to ask, “Have you heard from Ralph?” Instead she thanks Mrs Luvovitz once again and turns to leave, but Mrs Luvovitz pipes up, “Have you heard from Ralph?”
Mercedes turns back. Now she is truly worried. “No I haven’t, oh dear —”
“He’s fine, he’s fine, our friends write he’s fine, he’s perfect, it’s just —”
“Oh, well, that is good news —”
“We haven’t had a letter from him and I wondered —”