The Unexpected Education of Emily Dean Read online

  This time her feet began to move of their own accord.

  They sat at the shearers’ dining table opposite each other. Claudio poured the tea. He stirred a heaped teaspoon of sugar into her tin pannikin and pushed it across the table. She took a sip of the hot sweet liquid, knowing Grandmother would not have approved of this either. A drop of milk or a slice of lemon was acceptable; sugar, on the other hand, was the choice of the hoi polloi. It was a revelation to discover how delicious it was. She took another sip, her head lowered over the mug. If only she had the courage to look at him, but it was all she could do to focus on her fingers curled around the pannikin.

  ‘Are you really a communist?’ she asked, when the silence had gone on for too long.

  This time she managed to raise her eyes, but all too quickly they skittered away from his face, and she noticed something she had failed to see earlier: scraps of paper torn from a notebook, pinned to the wall, and on each, handwritten words. Table, chair, kettle, mug, she read, along with, she assumed, their Italian equivalents.

  ‘Is wrong wanting same for everyone?’ Her eyes flicked back to him. ‘Food? House for live? Go to school?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She heard condemnation in his voice, and it made her want to contest the point. She remembered her father using the term godless atheists.

  ‘But communists don’t believe in God.’

  ‘What god, why he’s letting this war?’

  ‘Because of free will.’

  ‘Free will?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who is free?’

  ‘No, not who. Free will.’

  Claudio was frowning in frustration. How could she make him understand? They were getting tangled in language.

  ‘You know, making a choice. You can do a good thing or something bad.’ She paused. ‘We must choose what is right: that is our duty and our responsibility.’

  The words had no sooner left her mouth than she was cringing at their pompous certainty. And why on earth had she introduced God when she wasn’t even sure she believed in him?

  ‘No! We are small people, not choosing. In Italia the strong choosing. Church and fascisti.’

  ‘But we must fight. We have to stop them.’

  ‘Who you are stopping?’ He raised his voice. ‘You think in Australia you all free? You have the king. All the bosses same, by jingo. Send small people out, shooting, get shot. Die. That is all.’

  He leaped up from the table and she jerked away, thinking he was going to grab her. But he rushed off into the kitchen where she heard him moving around. Her eyes darted towards the exit. Had she made a mistake? Grandmother’s words about Claudio’s violent streak returned to her. But thoughts of sneaking away were quickly dashed when he stepped back into the room with a plate of Della’s ginger biscuits. He put them on the table and abruptly sat down again.

  ‘What about Hitler?’ she managed to squeak, determined, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, to continue. ‘And the Japs. And Mussolini too.’ She had read how Mussolini was still at large in the north of Italy where the Germans were in control. Officially Italy was now an ally but what did Claudio really think? She had to know. The question of his political beliefs had receded before the even more crucial question of whose side he was on.

  ‘We have to stop them, don’t we?’ She waited for his answer. Everything depended on it, but it seemed he would not speak.

  ‘Yes, we must stop them.’ His answer came softly, and it gave her the courage to look at him. ‘Sorry, Emilia, very sorry. Not mean to frighten you.’

  ‘That’s alright, I wasn’t frightened,’ she replied. It was only a white lie. But her voice betrayed her, and she was mortified to realise that she was on the verge of tears. She had to leave before he noticed. She made a show of looking at her watch. ‘Gosh, is that the time? Della needs me,’ She ran for the door as if it was some kind of emergency, which, in a way, it was.

  Just as she reached the end of the building and was turning the corner, Claudio shouted, ‘Emilia.’

  She turned to see him standing outside the shearers’ dining room.

  ‘You will teaching me English,’ he called. Before she could think of an answer, he stepped back inside.

  She crossed the paddock and took the short cut under Lydia’s snake fence, hurrying through the orchard as if on an urgent mission. Her route, however, was random, the only objective being the release of inner turmoil while avoiding the others – Grandmother, Eunice and especially Lydia. It had something to do with Claudio, but she wasn’t quite sure what.

  She changed direction once more and began to count her footsteps in an effort to calm down.

  She had just reached thirty-two when a gunshot rang out. She screamed and suddenly Lydia emerged from behind the lavender hedge carrying her gun.

  ‘You ought to watch where you’re going – I could have shot you.’

  Emily knew that she was not the one at fault and that Lydia was responsible for taking proper precautions, but asserting her innocence while in such a rattled state was impossible. She could not even speak.

  ‘Did you give Claudio the rabbits?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And my handkerchief? Did you get it?’

  Damn. She’d forgotten all about that. Not wanting to admit her failure, she found herself saying, ‘He lost it. On the way back from church. It must have fallen out of his pocket. At least that’s what he said.’

  Why hadn’t she just told the truth? But it was too late to undo it now: the hole was dug and she was in it.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Lydia asked.

  ‘Of course not.’

  The words came out with uncharacteristic force, and she saw how Lydia noticed. But such interest, which she had so often tried to elicit from her aunt, now felt intolerable. She avoided Lydia’s eye and made her face go blank. It seemed to work. Lydia shrugged and walked off in the direction of the olive tree. At the foot of the tree was a shallow stone trough where snakes sometimes came to drink on warm evenings.

  The garden no longer felt like a sanctuary, and so Emily made her way to the kitchen, seeking the comforting rhythms of Della and Florrie at work – the sound of their voices rising and falling as they shared out the tasks to be done, interspersed with Della’s Bible recitations and spiritual exhortations.

  Once there, Della put her to work rolling out pastry for the apricot tart. It was all hands on deck. Mrs Emerson was coming to stay and due to arrive at any minute. They’d had to fly into action and prepare a special dinner.

  ‘Who’s Mrs Emerson?’ she asked.

  ‘Alma,’ Della said.

  ‘Oh.’ So this was the Alma she’d overheard Grandmother and Eunice talking about when they were deadheading the roses.

  Della looked across at Florrie, who was stringing beans at the other end of the kitchen table, and added with a grin, ‘The Belle.’

  ‘The bell?’ Emily repeated, feeling puzzled.

  ‘The belle of the ball,’ Florrie said and giggled.

  ‘It’s too bad no-one gave us more warning,’ Della complained.

  ‘Given as we’re doing all the work,’ Florrie added.

  ‘If you ask me, she’s getting snappy as an old foxy,’ Della said.

  ‘Alma?’ She was trying to keep up.

  ‘Don’t be daft. Your gran.’ Della abandoned her vegetable preparations and moved across to check Emily’s progress, only to find her attempting to conceal the hole that had opened up in the middle of the pastry. The cook took the rolling pin and shoved her aside with a deft hip movement. ‘Blinking hopeless,’ she said with a shake of her head.

  Emily knew that on this occasion, she, not her grandmother, was the focus of Della’s criticism. She stood aside and watched as the cook skilfully repaired the ravaged pastry before pressing it into a fluted tart tin. When that was done, she poured in a cup of split peas for the blind bake.

  ‘Let’s just hope it’s only the Belle who turns up,’ Della said, sliding the tin into th
e bottom right-hand oven.

  ‘Who else would turn up?’ she asked, feeling left behind yet again. Della’s conversations often had this effect.

  ‘Roy saw a swaggie on the road this afternoon. Might be heading our way.’

  ‘With the Belle?’ Emily was even more confused.

  Della gave her a withering stare. ‘What would the Belle be doing with a blinking swaggie? All I’m saying is he might turn up for some tucker. Wild-looking fella, so Roy reckons.’

  Emily knew that swaggies came knocking from time to time, offering to do odd jobs in exchange for a meal and a place to camp for the night. Sometimes they only wanted to fill their tucker bags and be on their way. ‘They’re just men like any others,’ Della had told her on a previous visit, when a whiskery old fellow had turned up at the kitchen door. But hadn’t Della also warned her never to trust a swaggie. ‘They’ll cut your throat for five bob,’ she’d said.

  ‘He better not come here,’ Florrie squeaked nervously.

  ‘Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth,’ Della intoned.

  ‘He doesn’t sound awfully meek,’ Emily protested, but it did not go down well, and Della declared that too many cooks spoiled the broth.

  ‘Out you go,’ she said, shooing her from the kitchen.

  14

  BEFORE MRS EMERSON ARRIVED, GRANDMOTHER warned everyone to make sure they were presentable at dinner. ‘I don’t want Alma reporting that standards have dropped,’ she said, not for the first time.

  Uncle Cec was ordered to put on a tie and his better sports coat, the one without patches on the elbows, and the women were to wear dresses.

  ‘You too, Emily,’ Eunice added.

  Now, with a sinking heart, she opened her wardrobe to see the meagre offerings that hung there. The cotton church dress was impossible – she was sure to faint from lack of breath and she’d never be able to eat wearing it. That left the puffy-sleeved, lace-collar horror. She tugged it from its hanger, feeling resentful towards the as-yet unmet guest.

  She squinted sideways in the mirror. Was it really that bad? It was worse: ridiculous and ugly, like a stupid doll from the toy department of the Myer Emporium. Why couldn’t she be struck down with rheumatic fever or measles – something, anything that meant she could stay in bed? Of course. That was it, she would pretend to be ill. The cloud of gloom had scarcely had time to lift when the bedroom door opened and Eunice poked her head in.

  ‘Come along, our visitor’s here. Didn’t you hear the Bentley?’

  It was only once she’d spoken that Eunice seemed to notice Emily’s outfit and her eyes widened. She looked as if she wanted to say something but could not find the right words. Emily wanted to say she felt unwell but couldn’t find the words either.

  By the time she and Eunice entered the sitting room everyone was gathered for a sherry before dinner. She was consumed with self-consciousness and tried not to look at anyone, staring instead at Uncle Cec’s ancient brown brogues with such intensity that she almost shrieked when Grandmother gripped her by the arm.

  ‘Emily, dear, I don’t think you’ve met Mrs Emerson. You know she’s a great friend of your Aunty Fran and Uncle Robert.’

  Emily had only the vaguest recollection of Aunty Fran and Uncle Robert, who were not real relatives anyway. She had no idea what the connection was between them all – her parents, the unrelated relatives, Grandmother and Mrs Emerson – and, what’s more, she didn’t care.

  Up close, Mrs Emerson’s eyes were large and blue. Her skin, of which quite a lot was on show, was pale as alabaster. Florrie and Della’s description – belle of the ball – came back to her.

  ‘How lovely to meet May’s granddaughter. I’ve heard all about you,’ the Belle said with a low chuckle.

  ‘How do you do,’ she responded stiffly. She could not imagine what Mrs Emerson had heard about her and was sure the chuckle bore a direct relationship to the hated dress. Her fears were soon confirmed.

  ‘What a fascinating dress,’ the Belle added. ‘So … unusual.’

  Just then Eunice announced that dinner was being served in the dining room, and Emily was able to scuttle through the door ahead of the others.

  Grace had been said when Mrs Emerson focused her large blue eyes on Emily again and wanted to know if she had ever been to Hong Kong. Of course she hadn’t, and it soon became clear that the question was a flimsy excuse for the Belle to recount the details of her six-month cruise to the Far East in 1933, a cruise she had undertaken on doctor’s orders, after her husband’s tragic death.

  It was obvious from the lacklustre nods and smiles around the table, and Lydia’s expression of excruciating boredom, that Alma had entertained those present with tales of her travels on previous occasions. Emily was not the least bit interested in the cruise, being much keener to find out about the husband’s tragic death, but the Belle was in full flight.

  ‘I was,’ Alma paused for effect, ‘the favourite of the ship’s captain.’

  ‘And the belle of the ball,’ Grandmother added, drawing a winning smile from the guest who seemed oblivious to Grandmother’s ironic tone. It was exactly how Florrie and Della had spoken those words, and Emily allowed herself a smile too.

  As the six-month cruise was relived in intricate detail, she was relieved that Alma’s focus shifted to Uncle Cec, who began to clear his throat nervously, tugging the end of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

  With Uncle Cec the object of the Belle’s attentions, Emily allowed her thoughts to drift. Every now and then she nodded, pretending to take an interest in the conversation. The year of the cruise, 1933, was so long ago. The Belle must have been thirty-five then, a calculation she was able to make because Alma had managed to weave into the conversation the fact that she was fifteen years younger than Grandmother, who was sixty. A thirty-five-year-old belle seemed indecent somehow. Lydia was twenty-two. The perfect age, and the perfect time to get married.

  She found herself thinking about Lydia and Harry’s engagement, and then, without really noticing it, her thoughts drifted on to Claudio and the last thing he’d said. You will teaching me English. He hadn’t said it as a question, or a request, but as a statement of fact. But teaching Claudio would be impossible without Grandmother’s permission, and she needed a plan of how to approach her, of the arguments to use. So far she had come up with nothing more compelling than that it was a good idea, which was not an argument at all but simply an assertion, and one that Grandmother would very likely quash with a counter assertion such as its being ‘quite impossible’.

  At the end of dessert Alma lit a cigarette at the table. Emily was still distracted with her own thoughts, but she noticed Eunice’s look of outrage. She saw too the warning stare from Grandmother that stopped Eunice from taking action. For once she felt herself to be on Eunice’s side and imagined plucking the offending item from the fingers of the fading enchantress and plunging it into the cream jug. If only she were the sort of person who could dare do such a thing – like Lydia – and she glanced across at her aunt. Lydia, however, seemed to be as lost in thought as Emily herself had so recently been, and it was doubtful that she’d even noticed Alma’s transgression.

  Della began to clear away the dessert plates as the talk turned to the usual topic of the war. Emily let it flow over her, catching the occasional words.

  ‘New Guinea … damn Japs … Hitler on the run.’

  ‘And poor William?’

  It was the Belle who had spoken and the room fell silent. Even Della stopped in the middle of removing Lydia’s plate. All eyes turned to Grandmother.

  ‘He is not poor William,’ she said in a voice vibrating with suppressed emotion, giving Alma a look of such ferocious intensity that Emily felt it zap past like an arrow on its way to the bulls-eye.

  For the first time that evening, the Belle’s composure cracked. She opened and closed her mouth like a hooked trout, as if searching for something innocuous to say. ‘And Harry?’ she finally managed, t
urning to Lydia.

  But her new enquiry was equally disastrous for, at the mention of Harry, Lydia rose abruptly from the table with a garbled excuse and hurried from the room. Emily recalled the tear that had rolled down Lydia’s cheek as they’d made their way to the back of the swamp and felt an inner glow of satisfaction at being Lydia’s confidante, forgetting that her aunt hadn’t actually confided anything.

  After Lydia’s departure, Grandmother steered the conversation into safer waters, encouraging Alma to entertain them once again with anecdotes from her travels. The social crisis passed and even Eunice joined in the laughter, albeit in a somewhat forced manner, as the Belle regaled them with her exotic tales. When a final coffee had been drunk and the meal was over, Eunice announced that it was time for cards.

  Uncle Cec looked alarmed and departed, mumbling something about ‘bookwork’.

  The Belle placed her plump hand on Emily’s wrist, leaning towards her. ‘What luck you’re here,’ she cooed. ‘You can make up a four.’

  Emily was almost certain she didn’t want to play cards, and felt lightheaded from the sudden proximity of the Belle’s Je Reviens perfume and the closeness of her generous, though somewhat crepey cleavage. But the matter was quickly settled when Grandmother decreed that it was a splendid idea.

  15

  A CARD TABLE WAS SET up in the sitting room, and Eunice fetched two packs of cards from the bottom drawer of the roll-top desk. They were going to play Solo, and each of the women had a small beaded purse filled with sixpences to be used as the stakes. Grandmother counted out a pile of coins for Emily as she had none of her own.

  Once they sat down and were ready to play, Eunice assumed control. She shuffled the cards, snapping them briskly, and did not wait to take her lead from Grandmother. She was not the same person at all and radiated authority.

  ‘No table talk except for Emily’s instruction,’ she announced, glaring at the Belle, who had not said a word. ‘Now, Emily. If I am of sense bereft, place the cards upon my left. If I’m not demented quite, place the cards upon my right.’