Angel (32 page)

I feel permanently tired, impotent, despondent. My work hasn’t suffered because I won’t let it suffer, but the truth is that I am fed up with hospitals.

The discipline, the rituals, the constant battle with the women in authority. If you want to fart, you have to get permission. And Sister Agatha keeps a vigilant eye on me thanks to Harold and his letter. No one has ever unearthed a shred of evidence to confirm the rumoured affair between Duncan and me, but they’re dying to. For what purpose, I have no idea. I can’t be sacked for it, and Duncan can’t be made suffer for it. What the place needs is a new scandal with some meat to it, but so far Queens is being unusually well-behaved on the scandal front.

Sister Cas and Constantin are engaged, though they’re not planning on marrying before the end of the year. Something to do with Constantin’s opening a restaurant in Parramatta, where it can have a decent parking area and offer a menu suitable for the Parramatta populace, a pretty steak-and-chippy lot. Nice.

Naturally the whole place knows that I visit a child in the Psych Pavilion every day, though no one has managed to find out quite why. Gossip is rife among the

sisters, including those in psych nursing, but no one’s got wind of my custody application.

Which is going nowhere very fast. I have a weekly chat on the phone with Mr.

Hush, who keeps warning me that even after all the hearings about Flo are over and she’s slipped into an official pigeonhole, I can’t expect to get custody. I’m punting on Dr. John Prendergast’s report, but Mr. Hush doesn’t think it will have the weight with Child Welfare that I want it to. If Flo ends up diagnosed as a juvenile schizophrenic, they may send her to-of all places!-Stockton. This, despite the fact that her psychiatric history has rendered her unadoptable or fosterable! You’d think they’d grab at my offer, but no. I’m too young, too poor and too unmarried. It just isn’t fair.

“Harriet,” Mr. Hush said to me this afternoon, “you have to understand the official mind. To decide in your favour in the matter of Florence Schwartz would require a kind of wisdom and courage that official bodies don’t dare possess. It all boils down to the art of keeping the nose clean. They’re too aware that if someone having an axe to grind got hold of such an unorthodox adoption or fostering, there could be a terrific stink, and they’d be blamed. So they will not run the risk, my dear. They simply won’t.”

Ducky. Just ducky. She’s sitting there in her heavy duty restriction harness living from visit to visit, and there’s nothing I can do to get her out. Oh, but there have been some wild schemes chasing through my head! The first was to propose marriage to Toby, but that didn’t last 319

much longer than the lightbulb flashing on. If Toby condoned a child, the child would have to be his and only his. And a son, not a daughter. I love the man in so many ways-he’s straight as an arrow, brilliant, going places, great fun to be with, and very attractive. Parttime, terrific. Full-time, a pain in the arse.

Then I had another brainwave which I’m still mulling over. I could kidnap Flo and skip the state, eventually skip the country. Australia is a very big place. If the pair of us headed for Alice Springs or the Katherine and I worked as a domestic in some Outback motel, no one would question Flo. She’d simply spend her time playing in the dust with the Abo kids, who wouldn’t mind her muteness in the least-would probably read her thoughts the way her mother had. She’d be a part of a spiritual commune, and when I was off duty, she’d be with me. The scheme has its points.

I have the tarot pack off by heart, though I still haven’t tried a spread. That’s just an idle remark intended to branch me away from what I’m now going to say. That my hands aren’t quite steady, that my eyes are scratchy, that I feel as if the machinery of my body is wearing out or running down. Ridiculous, I know. It’s a mood, it will pass. Oh, if only something would happen!

I still gaze into the Glass every night after Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz wakes me up at ten past three. It was a lovely theory I had when Duncan found Flo, but events haven’t confirmed it. So I must assume that Duncan’s finding Flo that day was a coincidence.

Something odd happened this evening. When the door bell rang shortly after six, I went to answer it because none of the men were home. And there on the verandah stood Madame Fugue from 17d. Oh, dear! What is her proper name?

“How nice to see you,” I said, compromising. “Nice to see you too, dahling,” she cooed. “Would you like to come in? Have a coffee?”

She said no, she had to get back next door before business got too brisk, but she was, um, wondering, um, if, um, we had any, um, plans for the vacant rooms? “Some of my girls are interested,” she concluded.

How peculiar! Jim and Bob arrived on the Harley Davidson at that moment, and joined me as I was explaining to Madame that the Public Trustee was in control of things, and we hadn’t heard yet when they were planning to rent out the vacant premises.

“Fuckin’ old women!” she said, and departed, leaving a strong aroma of Patou’s joy behind her.

“Business must be good,” I said to Jim. “I believe that stuff costs more than diamonds or truffles.”

“Well, she was wearing plenty of diamonds, too, unless you think her earrings and pendant are hunks of bottle,” said Jim.

“It isn’t fair, is it?” asked Bob a little wistfully. “Good girls like you and camp girls like me are lucky if we get a two-bob box of Black Magic chocolates.”

I grabbed at the door knob in shock. “Bob! Do you mean to say that Jim gives you a whole box of Black Magic choccies?”

Bob leered to show her Dracula canines. “Jim loves me.”

“Well, I’m seriously thinking of asking Madame Fugue for a few tips on how to get started in the game,” I said. “The game’s one way to earn a decent-oops, indecentliving at home! It would also provide Flo with heaps of uncles.”

Jim was frowning, but not at the banter. “You know, Harry, that was a very odd thing for the Madame to do. She has to know that it isn’t in our power to rent rooms. I wonder what she was really after?”

“I haven’t a clue,” I said.

Bob suddenly whooped with laughter. “I wonder what the Child Welfare would say if they knew about 17b and 17d? Ooooooo-aa!”

But they know about 17b and 17d, of course they know. Jim was right, however, Madame Fugue’s appearance was peculiar. What could she have been fishing for? Though I suspect that Child Welfare wasn’t as shocked by the brothels next door as Miss Arf-Arf was on her second visit when she saw the winged phallus embroidered on the inside thigh of Jim’s jeans. Whereas she was hugely impressed by Lady Richard, on Jim’s arm. Alone among us, Lady Richard has gone into traditional formal mourning for Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz. Still in black, though shortly, he announced, he would be able to wear lilacs and greys. Even, if the occasion warrants it, white.

Mr. Hush’s secretary phoned me at work this morning and asked if I could be in his chambers at two o’clock. Not a request, my instincts said. A summons.

Which meant that I had to see Sister Agatha and inform her that I’d have to leave Cas X-ray early. It wasn’t a particularly busy day, but that, of course, isn’t relevant.

“Really, Miss Purcell,” Sister Agatha began in peevish tones, “this downing tools and flying off at a moment’s notice has become a rather nasty habit of yours lately. It isn’t good enough.”

“Sister Toppingham,” I said stiffly, “you exaggerate. The occasions when I have taken time off work this year amount to three. January the second, January the eleventh and January the thirteenth. I did attend a funeral on that Friday the Thirteenth, as a matter of fact, however inappropriate you may consider the date. I did not ask to be paid for any of those absences, and I am not asking to be paid for the two hours you will lose from me this afternoon.

Miss Smith and the junior can cope, it’s quiet in Cas. And yes, I know that I am inconveniencing you, Sister, but it is no more than an inconvenience. This hospital will not cease to function at optimum level because I will not be here.”

She gobbled just like the Missus. “You are impertinent, Miss Purcell!” was the best retort she could muster.

“No, Sister Toppingham, I am not impertinent. I am merely doing the unpardonable by sticking up for myself,” I said.

Sister Agatha reached for a register. “You may go, madam. I assure you that I will not forget this.” Ooooooaa! I’ll bet the old bitch won’t forget it either.

Ah, but it felt good as the Purcell worm turned over! Mr. Hush’s mood was little better than Sister Agatha’s. His face looked as if he’d just discovered that the meat chiller had died a minute after he closed the shop for a long weekend.

“I went to see Child Welfare yesterday,” he said, “with a view to lodging a formal application to adopt Florence Schwartz. I’m afraid that their reaction was more adamantly against you than I had expected, Miss Purcell. Simply, they informed me that you are not morally fit to have charge of a child.”

“Morally fit?”

“That is the term. Morally fit. First, there is the matter of the two houses of ill fame which flank your late landlady’s premises, in which you intend to rear the child, who is debatably her heir. Secondly, one of the Child Welfare officers interviewed Mrs. Duncan Forsythe. Apparently there is a rumour about you and Dr. Forsythe going about, and this officer was apprised of it by a Queens friend. Mrs. Duncan Forsythe left you without a feather to fly with.” His face indicated that the meat was badly off. “I’m very sorry, but that is the situation.”

“The bitch! I’m going to kill her,” I said slowly.

He looked at me sympathetically. “I agree that it would do your heart good to kill her, Harriet, but it won’t help Flo, now will it?” The knives came out, he selected one sharp enough not to cause me too much pain. “Child Welfare also notified me that Flo is about to be discharged from Royal Queens. The diagnosis is a nonspecific form of autism, which means that she will be sent to an appropriate institution.”

“Stockton,” I said hollowly.

“Highly unlikely. Child Welfare is conscious that Flo has a group of regular visitors who are based in Sydney. I imagine she will be sent to Gladesville.”

“Exit Flo, neatly pigeonholed.” I looked straight at him. “Mr. Hush, I don’t care what Child Welfare say, I want that formal application lodged. And every time I’m turned down, lodge another one. For years, if necessary. When Flo is a grown woman, I want her to know that I tried and tried and tried. I f she’s still alive, which I doubt. That’s the real tragedy.”

I walked home across the Domain, kicked my shoes off, peeled my stockings off and felt the tough, springy grass fight my feet. Oh, why had I publicly humiliated the Missus? Dragged her out of her car under the Mesdames’ noses, chucked her back in after I’d said my piece? Shown her just how small and petty she is? Well, she’s had her revenge.

Except that I think she’d have done the same even if I hadn’t flown up her. But I am going to get the Missus, oh yes. Starting next week. Since I’ve already been judged morally unfit, what does it matter if I have gentlemen visit my flat?

I’ll ring Duncan up at home and invite him over for the entire night. If you want to play dirty, Mrs. Forsythe, you’re going to find out how dirty dirt can be. Cockroaches … I’ll catch a giant mortuary jar full of them and let them loose in your poncy little Pommy car. Huge ones that fly, hur-hurhur. I’ll picket the next Black and White Committee meeting with a big placard that says MRS.

DUNCAN FORSYTHE DOESN’T GIVE HER HUSBAND ANY NOOKY AND THAT’S WHY HE’S

TAKEN UP WITH A MORALLY UNFIT GIRL YOUNG ENOUGH TO BE HIS DAUGHTER.

Nice thoughts. They carried me as far as Woolloomooloo, where I put my shoes on and stopped thinking of things to do to the Missus that I know I can’t because they’ll rebound on Duncan. However, the cockroaches are feasible. And the invitation to Duncan to spend a night in my arms is a definite. Even better, I’ll curse her. B.O. and halitosis. Intractable thrush.

Heaps of weight no matter how she starves herself. Wrinkles. Swelling of the feet and ankles so gross that it flops over the edges of her shoes and wobbles.

Conjunctivitis. Dandruff. Worms that lay their eggs in the anus so she has to pick her bum in public. Oh, yes! Sicken slowly, Mrs. Forsythe! Die of thwarted vanity! May all your

mirrors crack when you look in them, may your haute couture clothes turn into hessian bags and plumber’s boots.

That got me as far as the McElhone Stairs, where, halfway up, I stood and cried. Flo, my Flo! Angel puss! How am I ever going to get you home again?

I was still crying when I let myself in the door, where even through the grey wall of tears I could see how much the scribbles have faded. She’s going away from me, I’ll have to sit on the sidelines of her institutionalised life, breaking my heart because I can’t spend all day every day there with her. I’m young, poor and unmarried. I have to work. I have to go tomorrow and apologise to Sister Agatha. God rot you, Mrs. Duncan Forsythe, with your spiteful barbs.

You’re in the process of ruining more lives than your spineless mug of a husband’s.

I threw myself onto my bed and howled myself to sleep, woke up after dark.

17d’s windows glowed iridescent mauve, the usual chatter and laughter floated down, and one screaming fight between Prudence and Constance, who never can get on together. Good luck to you, ladies, I thought as I dealt with my indignant cat. There are worse ways to make a better living. A lot worse ways, Mrs. Bloody Duncan Parasite Forsythe.

Well, it will have to be the kidnap, a flight to somewhere like the Northern Territory, where men are men and women are in short supply. A terrible wrench. I can’t even tell Mum and Dad what I’m planning, nor contact them after I find a place to live. Flo and I must

disappear off the map. Tell one person a secret, and it’s no longer a secret. I’ll have to empty my bank account in cash, hide it in a bag under Flo’s pinny.

Drab clothes. We’ll have to look as if we’re on the breadline. Flo’s own, stuff is perfect, but I’ll have to rat around in the cast-offs at the Salvos or St. Vincent de Or-joke, hur-hur-hur. Yes, I can do it. Why? Because I’m smart enough to keep track of all the threads in a tissue of lies. My husband deserted me-that’s a good, standard story. Australia’s chocka with deserted wives. Buy wedding ring. My poor wee daughter misses her daddy so much that she won’t talk. No, that doesn’t sound right-why would she miss a bastard who did the dirty on her mum? She doesn’t talk because a bit of her brain went wrong after her daddy hit her in a drunken rage. Yes, that sounds convincing. Marceline! My poor old boy had trusted me with his angel puss-how can I let him down? But I have to-cats don’t travel. Or do they? If Marceline has her canvas shopping bag, maybe she will travel. I’ll do a dummy run to the Blue Mountains with her. If she copes with that, then I’ll take both my angel pusses to the Outback.