Hunger Town (27 page)

Beside me Miss Marie squeezed my arm. ‘To the barricades,
mon ami
.'

‘Don't talk silly French to me,' I snapped. ‘You know it's a pretence.'

She laughed. ‘You can do it, Judith. You know you can. You're not a frightened little girl.'

Mrs Danley was waiting, an inviting expectant smile on her face. People rarely refused her requests. Could I be the first? How timid and churlish of me. What a disappointment I would be. The whole hall seemed to be waiting. A baby cried briefly in the silence. The minute in which I tried to decide seemed an eternity.

I stood up. ‘Good on you, girlie,' Miss Marie said. I pinched her sharply on the arm. She yelped but looked pleased. My legs trembled as I walked down the aisle and climbed the two side steps to the dais.

Where to begin? What words to choose? How long to speak? I fell back on how I approached my cartoons. ‘Visualise it,' Miss Marie had said, ‘see your drawing in your head before you begin.' I reached the microphone, stood too close to it, cleared my throat and heard the sound blur back at me. I retreated a little and began.

It was not as difficult as I had imagined. At first my voice shook, then, as the episodes on the wharf sharpened in my memory, I described them. I did not embellish them with how I had felt, my own shock, fear and disgust, I simply told about the events as I recalled them. A hush fell on the room. Occasionally I heard an indrawn breath, a gasp, a ‘no' ejected as if someone needed to push away what I was saying. Once I heard a sob. When I stopped there was silence and then a storm of wild clapping. I didn't know what to do, how to get off the dais: like a guest who needs to leave a room but can't find the door.

Mrs Danley rescued me. ‘Thank you, Judith,' she said. ‘I knew we could depend on you.' She turned to the now quiet audience. ‘And that's a story your men probably didn't tell you.' She waited while I walked back to my seat. Many eyes followed me. Women along the aisle reached out, patted my arm and smiled. The soft sibilance of whispers ran around the room but it was not until I was completely seated that a hubbub of noise broke out.

Quite unused to such notoriety, I shrank into my seat. Miss Marie's eyes sparkled. ‘Marvellous, Judith,' she said, ‘very well done, indeed. A valiant tour-de-force.
Absolument.
'

‘Thank you,' I said weakly.

Mrs Danley put the resolution to the meeting that there would be a street march of women, that no men would be enlisted, that it would start from the Waterside Workers' Federation Hall and end at the government offices where a petition would be presented. She explained that the petition could be signed at the door as the women left. It demanded a negotiated end to the strike; the removal of ‘volunteer' labour from the Port; an increase in the dole (which was less than the basic wage of two pounds eleven shillings and eight pence a week), and the right of families to receive money assistance rather than ration cards so that they weren't always condemned to receiving inferior food. She put the motion to the meeting, calling for a show of hands. There was overwhelming support and no dissenters.

She was about to close the meeting when Miss Adelaide and Miss Abigail scurried out of their seats in the front row, hurried up the steps onto the dais and confronted her. For once in her life Mrs Danley was nonplussed. Clearly the sisters were demanding a right to speak. Mrs Danley waved her hand towards the audience, pointed to her watch, and shook her head.

But they were not to be disregarded. Ignoring Mrs Danley's angry face Miss Adelaide walked to the microphone, adjusted it to her height, and began to drone. This time she didn't read from notes but her oration sounded as if it had been learned by rote. Rather than make a fuss Mrs Danley shrugged and sat down beside my mother. They spoke briefly to each other, Mrs Danley throwing out her hands palms up with a gesture of defeat. They settled themselves resignedly.

It was obvious the women were puzzled by this new development, and restless. Resentful probably, I thought. Coming to such a meeting would have been a great effort for them. Many of their children were whining with tiredness, most of the mothers wore that harassed when-will-it-be-over-and-we-can-go-home expressions. Only a moment before they had been convinced that duty done, they could leave with a clear conscience. Now, disappointed, but reluctant to leave without Mrs Danley's blessing, they nevertheless looked impatient and antagonistic.

Miss Adelaide droned into the microphone, repeating the same words she had intoned on the hulk: ‘Not piece-meal reforms but the overthrow of capitalism must be inscribed upon the banners of the working class in the struggle against the exploiters. Capitalism today cannot find markets for the commodities it produces. It can only continue its parasitical existence by intensifying the degradation of the toiling masses throughout the world.

‘Just as before the Great War of 1914 to 1918 capitalist rivalry between British and German imperialism made war inevitable, so …'

My attention strayed. From the rows behind me I heard murmurs, sighs, and the scrape and squeal of chairs as women fidgeted. I glanced behind and to my amusement saw that a baby had escaped and crawled into the aisle. The nearest woman retrieved him and he was passed like a parcel along the row to his mother.

Oblivious to the flurry of activity and the muted giggles, Miss Adelaide ploughed on, resolute and undeterred. ‘So today, with the development of a resurgent Germany, the stage is set for another even greater conflict for the re-division of world markets and cheap labour.

‘The continued existence of the first workers' republic in Russia and its rapid progress to communism make the situation even more insecure for capitalism, consequently the imperialist powers, lead by Great Britain, are straining every nerve to encircle and destroy by armed intervention the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics.'

The audience mood of resignation was changing. They were not interested in armed intervention against the Soviet Union. They had come out at night with tired children to help their husbands, brothers and sons. But there was still more from Miss Adelaide. Like Nathan, she didn't know when to stop. Finally she got around to what might have interested her audience—the plight of men out of work.

In a passionless voice she plodded on. ‘Australia is now more and more drawn into the imperialist orbit. As a result the past two years have been marked by a savage attack on the workers of Australia.'

It was too late, her speech too abstract. They chafed at having to listen. Someone in the audience booed. A shocked silence followed, then another booed and another. Miss Adelaide struggled on, although Miss Abigail standing beside her glanced apprehensively at the audience.

Miss Adelaide rallied. ‘The next war,' she pronounced, ‘will be between fascism as we are seeing in Germany and communism. Don't be deceived by capitalist propaganda.'

Someone began to count. A slow remorseless chorus drowned her out. She stopped, confused. She had lost her place in the script. I pitied her. Only a short time before I had also feared being pilloried. Beside me Miss Marie stiffened. ‘
La pauvre
,' she said, clearly enough for those around to hear. ‘She lacks judgement but she speaks truth. Indeed, we will all rue the day of a resurgent nationalist government under German Hitler.'

Already women were getting up, shuffling out of their seats. Mrs Danley tried to reclaim control of the meeting and failed. They were chatting to each other, collecting their bits and pieces, their babies, toddlers, children, prams. In haste they jostled each other along the aisle. Some stopped to sign the petition. Others just hurried out, with resentful faces, determined to make a rapid escape.

Miss Adelaide's warning words had bored them but I wondered if she had added a further threat to their lives, one they were not prepared to add to their present burdens. They weren't interested in the plight of unemployed workers in Germany or in the falsity of accusations that the misery was caused by Jewish Bolsheviks. They weren't interested in police bashings and shootings in another country half a world away. They had enough problems of their own to cope with. The communist doctrine of an international brotherhood of working people united to defeat their capitalist masters was hot air to them. They just wanted to go home and put the kids to bed.

I stood up to leave. ‘Coming?' I asked Miss Marie. But she had her attention fixed on Miss Adelaide and Miss Abigail who now stood isolated on the platform. Mrs Danley and my mother had ignored them and left. Mrs Danley's anger was evident in her offended stiff-backed stride. She shepherded my mother in front of her. When my mother had glanced back indecisively at the sisters, Mrs Danley said something to her and although I could tell that my mother was discomforted, she allowed herself to be lead away. I was irritated that Mrs Danley sometimes overstepped the mark. My mother was quite able to make her own decisions.

Meanwhile Miss Marie squeezed past me and with quick apologetic murmurings to the departing women she manoeuvred herself down the aisle against the flow and eventually on to the dais. With one hand holding up her gown, she rushed across the platform and held out her other hand to Miss Adelaide. There was a brief hiatus while Miss Adelaide stared at her hand, took stock of her shining gown, and retreated a step.

I stayed in my seat fascinated to watch this small drama and the suspense of wondering who would triumph, sour Miss Adelaide or sunny Miss Marie. Miss Marie was speaking, gesticulating. She always used her hands wildly when talking. Her face was luminous and beaming and to my amazement she physically grasped Miss Adelaide's hand. I expected Miss Adelaide to snatch it away but she only looked down at Miss Marie's hand, then up at her face. Her thin body trembled, her face crumpled, and she reached out and clutched Miss Marie's hand in both of hers. She clung to her as if here was the lifeline she had prayed for.

I had never expected her to be so vulnerable. In her surliness she always seemed impervious to the feelings or opinions of others. With one arm comfortingly about her Miss Marie was leading her from the dais. Miss Abigail trailed after them. Miss Marie shepherded them through the throng and down the still congested aisle. I heard her voice, silvery and sweet but very clear. ‘Excuse us,' she said several times. ‘Excuse us. You don't mind, do you? I need to see these ladies out.' And they didn't mind, stepping back to allow them to pass through. Only she could have managed it with such nous, courtesy and determination. In many ways she was like Harry. They shared an ebullience, a buoyant confidence that their generous impulses would always meet with favour.

She returned at last to find me. ‘
Les pauvres
,' she said again. ‘So desolate. So alone.' In the face of her sympathy I struggled to feel kindly towards Nathan's sisters, or if not kindly at least charitable. I failed on both counts. I could only dredge up a smidgeon of compassion. ‘I can't like them,' I said.

She looked at me sharply. ‘It is their timing that is at fault,' she repeated, ‘not their hearts. They speak the truth, Judith.'

‘But what if no one listens because they're so objectionable? They lack moderation.'

‘Ah, yes,' she said, ‘the wise Aristotle. But moderation is not easy. It involves compromise and to compromise what do we give up? I've lived in France. I have letters from friends. They are afraid of this Hitler. Already Jewish people are fleeing to France. These women speak truth, Judith.'

‘Maybe,' I said. ‘But it was the wrong time and the wrong place.'

She sighed. ‘I wonder when it will ever be the right time to convince people.'

Worrying whether my cartoons would be accepted became an obsession. Frequently I awoke in the night with some vague idea and lay awake struggling to visualise an image and form the words for a caption that might fit. I discarded more ideas than those that worked. From initial excitement at my success, I now expected every piece of work to be accepted. Of course they weren't and these rejections plunged me into despair.

In actuality, I received few rejections and the reasons given often seemed odd. Some I put aside but a few bothered me. When one daily paper complained that my cartoons were ‘a bit strong' and that they would only consider my work if I ‘toned them down' I didn't know what to think. How could I tone down a cartoon? It was by its nature sharp and to the point. Did they want me to alter the drawing or re-word the caption? Or was it all just an excuse to put me off?

‘Ignore them,' my mother said. ‘Send them another cartoon and see what happens. Probably someone in the editorial department is flexing his muscles.'

I took her advice and the next cartoon was accepted without comment. But when another daily wrote me a serious letter advising me to publish my cartoons under a male pseudonym I was very annoyed. ‘What do I do about this sort of nonsense?' I appealed to my mother again.

‘Ignore it.'

‘But if they're serious?'

‘Withdraw your cartoons if they insist.'

I was horrified. ‘But they take my work regularly. I could compromise and sign them J. Larsen.' I didn't like to point out what she already knew, that the money was vital.

‘No, Judith. You are not going to publish under a male pseudonym, or a pretence of one. Your work is outstanding. Everyone knows that. It is yours and it should be acknowledged. You will not sacrifice your reputation. I won't have it. Nor will your father. Let that be an end to any silly thoughts you might have in that direction.'

Although incensed, I wrote a careful response, explaining that I would feel most uncomfortable with such deception and hoped they would reconsider. They did and I felt a triumphant glee at having stood up for myself. Of course, I was also vastly relieved when payment for the cartoon arrived.

Since learning about the women's march, Harry turned up at the hulk more often. For many weeks he had gone daily to the Labour Exchange seeking work but it was dispiriting and degrading and since he still had some work in dance halls and picture palaces he could get by and help his mother manage on her ration card. Given her genteel pretensions, I was not sure how she brought herself to collect her rations. Probably Harry did it for her and she went on deceiving herself with the same genteel lie that he was still working at the foundry and promoted to the office.