Hunger Town (29 page)

‘Will that do any good?'

‘It's important to tell people about our protest.'

They looked disbelieving. One woman, more outspoken, was cynical. ‘More talk, more telling. What's the use if they don't look and see?' Her friends nodded.

I moved on. Yes, I thought, she's right. We all struggle to tell. A sort of blind faith. Even my cartoons.

The numbers grew. Mostly the women arrived in small groups, having collected their neighbours. Only an occasional woman came alone to stand lost and embarrassed on the outskirts. But Mrs Danley had eyes everywhere. ‘Look after her, Judith, she must have some friends here, someone from her own neighbourhood.'

Usually I found that she did and she was rapidly absorbed into a group.

As the numbers increased, so did the excitement and the noise. Children finding friends dodged in and out between the adults, playing tag, shrieking and squealing. Mothers yelled at them, or ran to clutch them as they raced past. An occasional one was grabbed and admonished with a sharp slap. Toddlers confused by the noise and the dense press of bodies wailed miserably. Babies in prams slept on oblivious.

Most of the women wore their cheap rayon day dresses with dark coats of brown, navy or black. The idea that they could change their day dress meant for work into something smarter had long gone out the door. Once these dresses were perhaps patterned but now, washed, ironed and patched, they had faded to a uniform grey. They all wore frayed gloves with mended finger holes. Cloche hats, only a sad reminder of their former prettiness, were shabby but still worn, for to go out without a hat was unthinkable. And they all looked so tired. Was it cruel to involve them in this additional effort?

Their dark coats looked strangely nocturnal in the morning sunshine and together they had the grey of an overcast day.

Miss Marie stepped down from her taxi and made her regal path through the crowd like dawn breaking through a mass of sooty clouds. She was a gasp of radiant colour, resplendent in the red, blue and white of the French flag. All eyes followed her.

‘Well,
mon amie
,' she said taking my arm, ‘this is the great day,
n'est ce pas
? And they are all here. All these wonderful women. There is such power in women,' and once again she held out her arms to embrace me.

A few women giggled. Some smiled indulgently. But all who saw her nodded and looked pleased.

‘You shed lustre everywhere,' I said, a trifle dryly. ‘And why the French colours?'

On this occasion I thought she might have been a little less ostentatious. But from the smiles around her it seemed that nobody minded such a gorgeous contrast with themselves. And that was her magic.

She looked wise. ‘Revolution, Judith, revolution.'

I opened my mouth to comment and it remained open for pushing her way towards me was Winnie. She pounced on me. ‘Judith, here you are. I thought I mightn't be able to find you. There must be hundreds here.'

I gaped at her, thunderstruck. ‘What on earth are you doing here?'

She bridled at my shock. ‘The same thing that you're doing.' Her little face puckered with determination.

‘But, Winnie, it's not for you.'

‘And why not?' She had that mulish expression I knew only too well. ‘Harry said I should come. If you could do it, so should I.'

I was furious, ‘Damn Harry. And who is going to look after you?'

‘Judith,' she said, ‘you don't go and shop in second-hand shops, do you?'

‘And what has that to do with anything?'

‘Not anything, Judith, everything. Experience,' she added loftily.

Miss Marie watched us with amusement. ‘I'm Marie,' she interrupted prettily, ‘from the Arts School.'

Winnie noted that Marie held my arm. She looked Marie up and down and took my other arm. ‘I'm Winnie,' she responded coldly. ‘Harry's cousin. You know Harry, her fiancé. I'm family.'

Miss Marie's mouth quirked. She had a repertoire of experiences in dealing with young students, like Winnie. ‘Not to meet,' she said, ‘but, of course, Judith speaks of him.'

Winnie turned to me. ‘Well,' she declared, ‘here I am.'

‘Winnie,' I wailed, ‘it could be dangerous.'

‘I'm not scared,' she said stoutly. ‘Well, not much.'

‘She's not scared, Judith,' Miss Marie was approving. ‘Of course she should come. Dear Winnie, where else would a brave sensible woman like yourself be on this day of all days?'

Winnie melted. ‘Nobody thinks I have any political opinions, but I do. You'd be surprised, Judith. She thinks I'm hopeless, Miss Marie, just because I couldn't stick up those silly posters. They were so, well, so sticky.'

‘Of course you couldn't.' Infuriatingly Marie agreed with her. ‘I find posters abominably sticky myself. All over your fingers, and then to get the bits of paper off,
mon Dieu
, it's impossible, and glue on your dress and in your hair.'

Winnie was amazed. ‘Yes, it was just like that. Horrible.'

The two of them looked like a pair of smug conspirators.

‘Damn Harry,' I hissed at them. ‘He's got no right to interfere. You're not coming, Winnie. You can go home right now.'

She looked at me coldly. ‘Stop ranting, Judith. Of course I'm coming.'

Miss Marie smiled benignly on her. ‘Of course you are.'

I gave up. ‘Very well, you can come, but see you look after yourself.'

She grinned at my surliness.

‘You and Harry,' I said resignedly. ‘Two peas in a pod.' Then a terrible thought struck me. ‘Winnie, you haven't any marbles, have you? Harry didn't give you any marbles?'

She glanced at me sidelong, half guilty, half defiant. ‘None of your business.'

‘Of course it's my business.'

‘He gave you marbles,' she retaliated.

I flushed. ‘Yes, but I'd never use them.'

‘What a Goody Two-Shoes you are, Judith. “I'd never use them”,' she mimicked.

It was a vile habit. She and Harry both did it, mimicking me, often when I was most serious. ‘Harry should mind his own business,' I flared.

‘A lovers' tiff?' Miss Marie grinned at Winnie, who giggled. ‘And I have my marbles, too, Winnie. It's an old revolutionary trick. Who knows, we all might need them. The police, they can be canaille.'

Winnie paled. She had not really thought of such an event. I waited for her to make some excuse and leave, even to sniffle, but she rallied.

‘If I need them I'll use them.' She was defiant.

Cursing Harry for being so ill-advised, I felt dismayed and defeated.

It was not easy to organise the women into a procession. Rail tracks ran down the centre of some of the roads and any procession would need to split in two to let the cargo train pass. Inevitably there would be difficulties with traffic. As the start approached apprehension grew. It was obvious that some of the women now had misgivings. I saw frightened faces and shaking hands.

Mrs Danley called to me to find my mother. She looked doubtfully at Winnie but Winnie clung to my arm, so clearly she must be included in those who headed the march. I hadn't noticed their arrival, but suddenly Nathan's sisters shoved themselves to the front and positioned themselves beside us. Mrs Danley frowned in annoyance but accepted the inevitable.

There were eight of us in the front row: Winnie, myself and Miss Marie were in the middle, my mother and Mrs Danley on one side, Ailsa Thornhill and Nathan's sisters on the other.

‘Fall in behind us,' Mrs Danley called through her megaphone, ‘eight across each row. You know the route. Take your time, ladies, the streets are ours today. We have the numbers to command them.'

And, I thought, we did. There must have been nearly a thousand women there, many clutching or hugging the small placards they had made with such fervour at the soup kitchen. They were a pathetic collection of bits of cardboard stuck or tacked onto pieces of wood saved from the fire. After the march they would be treasured as fuel. They had made up their own messages, which were frequently mis-spelled, the lettering clumsy, the paintwork blotched. SCABS OUT. FOOD FOR OUR CHILDREN. WORK FOR OUR MEN.

They didn't know what to do with these placards. Mrs Danley had bullied her son into making a dozen larger more sophisticated ones for those of us in the front to carry but most of the other women seemed hesitant to use theirs. Miss Marie surveyed them. She'd had many doubtful insecure students. She took the megaphone from Mrs Danley with a ‘You don't mind, do you?' and trilled, ‘Lift up your placards, ladies. Like this,' as she held hers aloft. Still they hesitated, glancing from her to Mrs Danley, always their stalwart adviser.

Miss Marie was undaunted. ‘I will count one, two, three and on three we will all raise our placards and shout hurrah.'

It worked. The hurrahs were faint but the placards went up.

Mrs Danley reclaimed the megaphone. ‘Be strong, ladies,' she called and we all set off. Beside me I felt Winnie quiver. If she started to cry I would slap her. ‘Don't you dare sniffle, Winnie.'

She was indignant. ‘As if I would. Really, Judith, you know me better than that.' If she hadn't been so serious and solemn I would have laughed at her.

The crowd parted for the eight of us and slowly jostled themselves into position to fall in behind. A strange almost eerie silence had fallen. Even the children were subdued and quiet. It was as if the solemnity of the occasion possessed us all and we were awestruck by our own temerity. I was aware of this moving mass of women behind me. I could almost hear a great breath inhaled and exhaled to the rhythm of feet, slap slapping the pavement. At first the walking seemed tentative, as if a marching pace were briefly emulated and then abandoned. Now the pace was slow, steady and determined.

‘They're getting used to it,' Miss Marie said. ‘At first it is strange.'

‘Yes,' I replied, ‘I hadn't thought of it like that. I suppose they thought a march involved marching while a walk was walking, so how to decide between the two.'

Winnie giggled. ‘I feel like the Pied Piper. Do you remember that poem we had to learn in third grade, Judith?'

‘Of course. The Port Adelaide school had it, too. I can still recite it.' I began,
‘
“In Hamlyn town in Brunswick …
”
'

A train bisecting the road trundled towards us. The marchers split in two: Miss Marie, Ailsa and Nathan's sisters on one side, myself, Winnie, Mrs Danley and my mother on the other. Between the train carriages I saw Miss Marie diverge to lead a group of women along the footpath and under the verandas. A clothing shop advertised its sale with a large red flag. Miss Marie hoisted it from its stand and wrapped it about herself. When she returned to the road she was garbed like a flame from head to toe. She laughed with satisfaction. ‘The colour of revolution,
mes amies
.'

‘Harry should have told me.' Winnie looked at her wistfully. ‘He knows all about revolution. I have a beautiful red dress I could have worn. And it cost me only a shilling.'

Crowds gathered on the footpaths to watch us. Most vehicles pulled over to let us through. Comments thrown from the footpath reached us. ‘Good on yer, Mum. You tell the bastards. Cheers for the Bolshie women. Great stuff, girls, keep it up.' And, of course, Miss Marie drew the ubiquitous whistles and cat-calls. She responded with a beaming smile. To crass invitations to take her home any time or doing anything tonight, she threw kisses and some boys in the crowd pretended to stagger, smitten to the heart they clutched.

Slowly we became aware that there were men joining the march, falling into step behind the last of the women. Near the Labour Exchange a large group of men waited quietly. Some of them carried iron bars, others hunks of wood. I saw Mrs Danley glance at them. Her face puckered in concern. She spoke to my mother who looked worried.

‘Judith, can you leave the march and speak with them? They mustn't join us.'

‘No,' I said, ‘I can't leave Winnie.'

‘And why not?' Winnie hissed at me. ‘I'm not a baby. Miss Marie is here.'

‘No,' I repeated, ‘I won't.'

‘Perhaps Ailsa?' But my mother was doubtful. Ailsa Thornhill was a staunch foot soldier but lacked the backbone to stop any nonsense.

By then it was too late. Propelled by those behind us we had passed the waiting men and knew that they, too, had joined us and added something unpredictable. Harry told me later that they had determined amongst themselves to protect us.

And then it happened. It was all so fast that none of us had time to think. A boy burst out of the crowd on the footpath and running alongside the men shouted, ‘The scabs are loading at Queens Wharf.'

Behind me some of the women halted, at first confused, then shoved forward by those behind. Mrs Danley shouted through her megaphone, ‘Ladies, continue the march. We must reach the Town Hall. Be calm.'

But we were already on North Parade, approaching the wharf. Obsessed with reaching the scabs, the men bulked behind us, herding us before them in their thirst for confrontation. The crowd surged at my back and clutching Winnie I had no choice but to hurtle forward with the protesters. I searched desperately for some means of escape from what had now become a scrum of screaming, hysterical women and children. But there was no way out. We were being corralled between the warehouses and the river. The momentum precipitated us onto the wharf and there before us, lined up and immobile as carved granite, sat a row of mounted police. In unison they drew their batons from their holsters and waited.

One woman's scream topped all others and ricocheted off the stone walls of the warehouses. A flock of seagulls perched on a rooftop took off in panic. I knew that behind me prams toppled and babies were thrown on the rail tracks. The crowd concertinaed as women braced themselves against the rush to save their children before they, too, were flung to the ground. Still on my feet, I pelted forward, Winnie and Marie running beside me. Mrs Danley, still on her feet in the crush, bellowed through her megaphone for the police to back off. ‘We're women and children. Back off! You're killing us!' She might have been King Canute, ineffectively and hopelessly ordering the waves to retreat.