Hunger Town (31 page)

‘They're anarchists,' I said.

She was off hand. ‘Of course.
Naturellement.
'

‘Are you an anarchist, Miss Marie?'

She avoided my eyes. ‘There are many paths to a perfect state, Judith. I jump in and out of ideas. Now take my advice and send your vulgar cartoon to
Spearhead
. I can guarantee your instant acceptance.'

She was right, of course. I sent the cartoon and a letter came back post haste with acceptance and effusive thanks. They had seen my cartoons in the
Workers' Weekly
and the
Sun News Pictorial
and admired them for some time. They had even hoped that I might offer them an occasional cartoon. But now I was so well-known, so acclaimed, they had hesitated to ask me because they could not pay me as much as the daily papers or the
Workers' Weekly
. They hoped humbly that I would accept a smaller payment. The letter ended with an enthusiastic comment that it was a jolly good cartoon and they had all split their sides laughing over it, despite its serious intent.

So, it was a letter from a young person, like me, and its enthusiasm warmed me. I had not realised that my work was so widely known and it was delightful to have it sought after even if I was not so well paid for it.

When Harry arrived at the hulk waving a copy of
Spearhead
at me he looked agitated and distressed. ‘Judith, I've seen your cartoon. It's here.' It was almost an accusation.

‘Yes.' I was non-committal.

‘Judith, it's in
Spearhead
.'

‘Yes. They accepted it and paid me. Not a lot but they've contracted me for a weekly cartoon. It's regular money and they like my work.'

‘But, Judith,' he protested.

In the face of my cool response to his agitation, he looked at a loss. ‘Judith, they're on the other side. They're anarchists.'

I sighed. ‘Harry, they're on the left. We all agree society needs to be better. We all look at things that are wrong. How can they be on the other side? The
Despatch
is on the other side and the
Register
.'

He looked nonplussed. ‘They hate the communists.'

I grinned. ‘And vice-versa it would appear. What a waste of time.'

He looked unhappy. I stood up and kissed him. ‘Come on, we'll make a pot of tea. Are you out tonight?'

Harry's work was mostly at night. His small band continued to play regularly at the Semaphore and he rode his bicycle there and back to save us money.

He still looked uncertain as he followed me into the galley. I took down the teapot, cups and saucers, and found some biscuits, filled the kettle with water and put it on to heat. Then I sat down opposite him. ‘Harry,' I said, ‘these newspapers, whether they're communist, anarchist or capitalist, buy my cartoons. They do not buy me. They are free to accept or reject my work and I am equally free to send it to whoever I choose. Whatever the newspaper, my work doesn't change.'

‘You're so determined, Judith. So strong,' he said miserably and I felt that unfortunately his comment was not praise but a sort of reproach.

My mother made us curtains for the windows of our house. They were blue-check gingham, cheap but bright and clean. She had tried to make a seamstress of me but I had always preferred to draw. Sometimes with a new piece of cloth in my hand I imagined myself making something beautiful but usually after this first flush of pleasurable anticipation the long haul of cutting, stitching and hemming bored me and my mother would reproach, ‘Judith, you never finish anything.' Eventually she gave up expecting me to sew.

‘Do you like these?' she asked, holding up the neatly hemmed oblongs of cloth. I think they'll brighten your rooms and they'll be easy to launder and won't require a lot of ironing.'

I looked at them, speculating on how long it would be before I had to do either of these tasks. Washing and ironing didn't appeal to me any more than sewing. My mother understood and laughed. ‘You'll have to do a little housework, Judith, if you have a house. You can't live in a pig sty.'

I grinned at her. ‘Of course, I'll do a little—as little as possible. And don't say “Poor Harry” as if the absence of a wife devoted to his domestic comfort will somehow leave him deprived.'

She chuckled. ‘Harry's so sweet-tempered I doubt he'll ever criticise you.'

And I didn't tell her that I baulked at the idea that I should be grateful for Harry's sweet temper. As far as I was concerned our marriage was a marriage of equals.

Harry and I did the rounds of second-hand shops searching for a wardrobe, chest of drawers, kitchen table, chairs and a food-safe. We found two old wooden rocking chairs for the parlour and my mother made us some cushion covers, which I stuffed with kapok. We had found an old iron bedstead but we had been extravagant on a new mattress. It was cheap but clean and firm.

Harry continued to be assiduous for any telltale signs of borers or bed bugs. Bed bugs were particularly hard to detect because usually the furniture had been wiped over and there were no signs of smeared blood. They were cunning little blighters that slid into the smallest interstices where they hid and thrived before their nightly attacks. Often children at the soup kitchen arrived with ridges of raised welts across their legs and arms, which they scratched frantically. We always had a bottle of bicarb-soda and regularly dabbed the sufferers with a gluey mixture of soda and water. Afterwards they looked like little spotted clowns.

We were very excited to see our purchases installed and went from room to room hand-in-hand exclaiming how nice everything looked and how clever we had been to manage so cheaply. Harry cleaned and polished the front windows and I swept and scrubbed the old linoleum floors. Its pattern was faded and it was cracked in places but we couldn't afford to replace it so in front of the parlour fireplace, where there was a large hole, I decided to put the rag mat which had always been in my cabin on the hulk.

It was the mat more than anything else that made me realise the complete change that was about to take place in my life and when I took it up I burst into tears. My mother put her arms about me. ‘My little cabin,' I sobbed. ‘I won't ever sleep here again when I'm married. I won't smell the sea or hear it lap against the wharf. I don't like our new house. It's horrible.'

She consoled me. ‘No, my dear, of course it's not. You can come back here to sleep whenever you want. Your father and I aren't going away. Your house in town is only a little change and you'll love it. So much to look forward to.'

I hiccuped, miserably certain that she was deceiving me and that I wouldn't enjoy my future life one jot.

However Harry's enthusiasm for the mat lessened my misery. ‘It looks grand, Judith,' he said, ‘and it's so generous of you. I'm sure you didn't like taking it from your cabin.' He touched it lovingly. ‘It'll be our special treasure. I love hand-made things.'

Darling Harry, so many of his feelings matched mine.

Winnie and I went shopping for my wedding outfit. Winnie was ecstatic.

‘No, Winnie,' I forestalled her, ‘don't give it a moment's thought. I'm not going all in white, done up like a wedding cake. I need a nice dress that I can wear again for best.'

She looked disappointed but accepting. ‘I suppose that's sensible. You won't have much money.'

‘No.'

‘A second-hand shop? They've usually got great bargains.'

‘No, Winnie, something brand new, from Myers I think. One of the new rayons.'

‘OK.' She looked resigned. ‘It won't be much fun. Myers is so very staid.'

I took her arm. ‘How you've changed, Winnie. We're a bit like the two bears—one got better and the other got wuss.'

She giggled. ‘I suppose it's thinking about marriage that has sobered you.'

I poked her jokingly. ‘Shut up, Winnie. Don't tease me.'

She giggled again, then glanced at me seriously. ‘What do your parents think about your marrying Harry?'

‘They expected it.'

‘Yes, but are they happy with it?'

‘They love Harry.'

‘Yes, everyone loves Harry. But let's face it, Judith. He isn't much of a catch, doesn't have many prospects. And fewer now because he's mixed up with all those bolshies. Doesn't it worry you that he may never get a steady job?'

‘I'm not marrying a prospect, Winnie. I'm marrying someone I love. He has his band and we'll always have his piano playing.'

She sighed and said, sententiously, ‘Love doesn't pay the bills.'

This is just what I'd heard my father remark, quietly to my mother, when he thought I couldn't hear.

‘I'll pay the bills,' I asserted. ‘It doesn't matter which of us brings in the bacon.'

‘You probably will have to, Judith.'

‘It's not like you to be so cynical, Winnie. You've always been so romantic.'

‘Not really. At heart I'm a practical shop-keeper's daughter and this depression has taught me a lot about reality.'

‘And you're afraid that I've lost both my heart and my sense of reality?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you'd have me refuse Harry because of what might happen in the future?'

She looked unhappy. ‘I don't know.'

I hugged her. ‘I couldn't do that, Winnie.'

‘No,' she said, resignedly. ‘I can see that. It would be quite impossible for you to do that.'

‘Yes, quite impossible.'

We found a dress I loved. It was turquoise and rayon as I had planned, with a nipped-in waist and a full flowing graceful skirt. I also found a natural straw hat, decorated with a matching turquoise ribbon. Summer gloves and a pair of new black shoes and I was set.

‘You know, Winnie, this turquoise is the exact colour of one of the marbles you threw at the policeman.'

‘Heavens, Judith, don't go remembering all that.'

‘It's hard to forget. It was just one marble and it stuck in the horse's mane and trickled down its neck. It was this blue.'

She shuddered. ‘I thought he would kill you.'

‘So did I, Winnie. Thank you.' She flushed and looked teary. ‘No, Winnie, please don't cry.'

She laughed shakily. ‘A coat. Have you got a coat, Judith? It may be cold. Spring days are unpredictable.'

‘My old coat'll have to do. I can't afford a new coat.'

‘It might spoil the effect.'

‘I'll hope for a warm day. And no, Winnie, I won't search the second-hand shops.' I didn't tell her that my skin crawled at the idea of wearing someone else's cast-off clothes. I'd rather go in rags.

We were lucky. It was a beautiful spring day for our wedding. The breeze was a little cool and I might have been more comfortable wearing my coat but for the occasion I preferred a few goose bumps on my arms.

We had decided on the Adelaide Registry Office. Harry's mother had complained vaguely that a proper church wedding would be nice, more like a real marriage. She maundered on about her own wedding and how exquisite it had been and how she had worn a lace gown and veil and had three bridesmaids and at the memory of past happiness wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. Harry did his best to cheer her with promises that the Registry Office was very pleasant. He reminded her, perhaps unwisely, that things had changed since she married and we all had to be careful about money. We were all in a depression he said.

‘Well, dear,' she was concerned. ‘If you are depressed about getting married you should call it off. Are you also depressed, Judith?' And she looked anxiously from me to Harry.

‘Not a bit,' I said and grinned at her.

‘There, Harry,' she reproached. ‘Judith isn't depressed, so you should cheer up. No woman wants a depressed husband.'

His mother, Winnie's parents, Winnie, my parents and Miss Marie all attended the ceremony, which was brief. Harry was nervous and I hoped that Winnie's father hadn't given him a ponderous lecture on responsibility.

When the Registrar asked him if he would take an oath of affirmation on the Bible Harry got confused and said yes.

We had decided not to swear on the Bible because communists didn't believe in religion and I was indifferent to it. But in the confusion the Registrar ruled a large black line across the secular part of the marriage licence. He handed the Bible to Harry. ‘It's unusual for people to object to taking the oath but these days it happens and I have to ask.'

Since Harry had taken the oath and that large black line looked so daunting I did similarly.

Later Harry said to me apologetically, ‘I couldn't retract it, Judith. Did you mind?'

‘Not at all. It was really quite funny. Your uncle and aunt looked so bemused. They thought we were heathens to get married in the Registry Office anyway.'

Afterwards we all returned to our new house. My mother had made the best cake she could with the ingredients available to her. I had asked Miss Marie to bring her nasturtium-leaf sandwiches and she arrived with a huge box of chocolates. Winnie's mother contributed a box of delicacies, some ham, cheese, dried biscuits, fruit, and two bottles of white wine from the Barossa Valley.

For a wedding present my mother and father gave us their piano. When the carriers had brought it a week before, Harry had been speechless. Crimson with joy, he opened the lid with shaking hands and reverently played a few notes. ‘Now,' he had breathed, ‘I'll learn to read music and play something really worthwhile. It deserves the very best. My own piano. I never dared dream.' I had secretly contributed money to having it tuned and I shared my parents' happiness in his awed delight.

Miss Marie gave us a hand-painted tea set. She must have worked for months on its intricate flower design. Winnie's family gave us a cheque for 200 pounds. It was twice the amount Joe had left me and I had eked out that money for years. Glowing with pleasure, I kissed and thanked them both. What could Harry and I do with 200 pounds? I had once boasted to him that we could live like kings on two pounds a week and now we had before us the magical possibility of living like kings for two years. I need no longer lie awake at night worrying about the success of my cartoons. Whatever they brought in would be a bonus. Marriage, I decided, draining the last dregs of wine from my glass, was a very happy state.