Hunger Town (35 page)

‘We can burn them.'

‘Not enough time. Besides it'd be suspicious. A fire in the middle of the day and no washing?'

‘Then I'll take them to the hulk. My father will help. We can chuck them in the river. You go now. Better you're not seen here.'

‘Yes,' he said, but hesitated. ‘Harry wouldn't like me to leave you alone.'

‘Go, Jock. You're too well known. I've got my bicycle. Harry found me an old second-hand lady's bike. '

Still he lingered. ‘You'll be OK, Judith?'

‘Of course. No one will stop a girl on a bicycle. I'll put all this stuff in my art bag. Now, for God's sake, go.'

He went.

I grabbed the copies of
Imprecor
, the
Workers' Weekly
and
Spearhead
, raced about the house, snatched up notes Harry had made, shoved copies of
Ten Days That Shook the World
,
The Iron Heel
,
The State and Revolution
behind some other books at the back of the bookshelf, threw my drawing gear out of my art bag, and stuffed in all the incriminating material. It was bulky but I couldn't help that. To help conceal it, I put my sketch book on top. With my bag slung across my shoulder I wheeled my bike onto the street and mounted. Lipson Street was busy, cycling on the road difficult and slow. I got off and wheeled my bike along the footpath.

Two policemen blocked my way. ‘Got something interesting there, miss?' one of them asked.

I batted my eyelashes at him, tried to look a little tremulous, and wished I could do it as meltingly as Winnie. If I hadn't been so scared I would have felt a complete idiot. ‘Really, officer,' I said, ‘that's not a nice thing to ask a lady.'

He blushed. ‘I meant your bag, miss.'

‘Well, I hoped that you did … otherwise …' I left the sentence unfinished.

He studied me with a puzzled frown, his eyes fixed on the bag. I felt sick.

Suddenly he said, and his face broke into a grin, ‘Aren't you the girl that does those cartoons? Remember I asked you out one night.'

I recognised him and knowing him, however sketchily, made the situation a little less frightening. Relieved, I beamed at him, ‘Of course, I was sorry to refuse.' I hoped that I didn't sound too effusive.

‘Well,' he said, ‘if it isn't too late.'

I made my left hand obvious.

‘Oh,' he mumbled, seeing my wedding ring. ‘Sorry. You've married.'

I continued to smile.

‘And the bag,' he persisted.

‘Art bag,' I said and made as if I intended to show him. I hadn't the slightest idea what I would do if he insisted on looking. ‘It's such a beautiful morning.' And I began to wheel my bicycle past them. ‘The river calls.'

Yes,' he said, ‘it would. You must have a lot of equipment there.'

‘Yes.' I tried not to sound breathless.

His companion, who had stood by silently, pulled his arm. ‘Come on, Bill, we've work to do. Stop trying to chat up a married woman.'

Bill touched his cap to me and they moved on.

The sweat trickled under my arms and slid coldly down my sides. I remounted my bicycle shakily. Better to be on the road. I didn't want any more face-to-face meetings with the police.

It was a relief to burst onto the wharf area and see the river open out in front of me, the water winking brightly and companionably in the morning sun, the few ships at rest, the gulls squawking and squabbling.

I wheeled my bicycle over the rail tracks and the uneven planking of the wharf. Our hulk looked solid, secure and familiar. My breathing steadied and my panic subsided. I left my bicycle on the wharf and hurried up the gangplank.

My mother came out of the galley wiping her hands. ‘Judith,' she said questioningly, ‘you don't usually visit us in the morning. How are you, darling?'

I kissed her. ‘No. Is Dad about?'

She looked around. ‘Somewhere, Judith. He's been doing some painting. The wood work, as you know, the salt. It needs constant repair.'

She noted my bag and then studied me. ‘Is something wrong?'

I didn't want to worry her. ‘I need Dad to help me get rid of some stuff.'

She was quick. ‘What stuff, Judith?'

‘Some newspapers and journals.'

‘Newspapers and journals?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's urgent?'

‘Yes, I think so.'

‘Niels,' she shouted, hurrying along the deck, ‘Niels, Judith is here and needs you.'

He came quickly, cleaning his hands with a rag and smelling of paint. ‘What is it?'

‘The police,' I said. ‘They're raiding houses. They've closed the
Port Beacon
.'

His face darkened. ‘The dirty rotten bastards.'

My mother gasped. ‘Where's Harry?'

‘I don't know. Jock came to warn me. He helped. I came on my bicycle. I need to dump these.'

My mother looked in the bag and paled. ‘Could we be searched here, Niels?'

‘Don't know, but first things first. I'll need a sack I can weight.'

He hurried off and returned with a hessian bag. He pulled out the newspapers, grunted when he saw the copies of
Imprecor
, and stuffed them all in the sack. He had brought a short heavy iron bar and he forced this down on top of the papers. Then he twisted the top of the sack and wound a rope tightly around it, knotting it, as only a sailor could.

I watched his quick efficiency with relief. Years of crises on windjammers and the need for instant decisions had honed his responses. He had a cool head. He lifted the sack and we followed him across the deck. He hurled the sack into the river.

We saw it float a moment, ballooning as the air inside swelled, then this collapsed and slowly the water consumed it. My father dusted his hands and grinned at me. ‘Goodbye to bad rubbish, daughter.'

‘No,' I said soberly, ‘not bad rubbish, Dad. Freedom of the press, respect for the ideas of others.'

He patted my shoulder. ‘Don't worry. I'm sure Harry will be safe.'

‘I hope so.' My voice trembled.

‘He's a good boy. Far better that he didn't come home. He'll be OK. He's a quick-witted lad. Let's make her a cup of tea, Eve, and some of those scones you made this morning.'

My mother, white-faced with shock, had sunk onto a seat at the stub of the old mast, cut down and never now used to fly a sail. I looked at her anxiously. I hadn't meant to frighten her.

‘Judith,' she wrung her hands, ‘this is sinister.'

‘No,' I said stoutly. ‘It's just a foolishness, a stupidity. It'll pass.'

Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I'd like some peace, Judith, like in the old days.'

I took her arm. ‘A scone would be nice, Mum, and a cuppa.' She rallied and managed a weak smile.

I left after the tea and scones. I needed to get home in case there was some news of Harry. It was dreadful that our home should, today, be a dangerous and threatening place for him. Home should be a haven, or else there was something seriously wrong with the world.

Although distracted, I cycled carefully. I had enough worries without injuring myself. I let myself in the front door and called his name hopefully. But the house was silent and smelled empty. I went through to the backyard and into the laundry but there was no Harry. I wandered back inside and stood irresolutely in the kitchen. Should I stay home or should I go out and search for him? But where might he be? Where to begin searching? Would my searching seem odd? Might there be police spies watching me, following me?

Bizarre scenarios of conspiracies, spy rings, people disappearing off the streets, prison beatings, and other imagined horrors all opened out in front of me. My search for him might alert someone, anyone who meant him harm. Memories of Harry's injuries after Victoria Square haunted me.

I sat down at the kitchen table, clutched my head in my hands and rocked back and forth in an agony of fear and indecision. Was this how people felt in a police state? Helpless?

The knock on the door, although a mere tap, seemed thunderous. I leapt to my feet. Should I answer it? What if it were the police? Had I got rid of everything?

The tap was repeated. Now it was more tentative. The police wouldn't be tentative. Maybe it was Harry who'd forgotten his keys. No, Harry would call out. I heard a third tap, a rustle of paper and then retreating steps. I waited until I could no longer hear them, then ran to the door. There was a note on the mat, thrust under the door.

‘Darling,' he wrote, ‘I've got some business in town. I'll be home for tea.'

So he was OK. I sank onto a chair and cried with relief. I needn't start preparing the tea for another three hours. I tried to work but couldn't concentrate, so I set about cleaning the house. After this I prepared some vegetables. I looked at a piece of fish in the safe, a good-sized snapper my father had caught, but it was too early to bring it out. At a quarter to six I guessed that he would be home soon. In the main Harry was punctual. I put the vegetables on the stove and set the table.

Six o'clock came and went. Half past six. The food was cooked. I went to the front door and looked along the street. No Harry. I returned to the kitchen. Should I start my meal without Harry? Serve him right if his was cold.

I served myself, sat down, looked at the food miserably, and pushed my plate aside. I'd rather wait. It didn't matter if it were cold. Why did he not come?

Time went by, minutes became hours, and my anxiety grew. Harm must have come to him. He would send a message if he could. I wished for a telephone but that expense was beyond us. There was no way I could contact anyone. If I left the house Harry might return and find me gone. Then he'd panic about my whereabouts. I couldn't go to bed. To behave normally would seem like abandoning him.

I wandered from room to room, my awareness of Harry sharpened by anxiety. His shaving soap was left untidily on the wash basin. His razor strop hung behind the bathroom door. He had just cleaned his dancing pumps and they shone with the smell of shoe polish. His Brilliantine sat on our dressing table where he had left it. No matter how vigorously he applied it to his hair in an effort to flatten it, like Harry it always sprang up again ready for life.

At last, cold and shivering, I huddled in one of our rocking chairs and wrapped a blanket about me. Eventually, distraught and exhausted, I dozed fitfully.

Dawn edging around the curtains on the window awakened me. For a few seconds I couldn't recall where I was or why. Then memory flooded back again, overwhelming me. I got up stiffly and struggled into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

The small amount of sleep and the new day had restored some of my strength and while I made a hot drink I forced myself to review the situation calmly. Harry hadn't come home but it didn't necessarily mean he was in prison. Not contacting me needn't be sinister, just an insurmountable difficulty. If he had been hurt or detained surely one of the comrades would have told me. After all, Jock had come to warn me.

Despite my memories of Victoria Square, we didn't live in a lawless state. But, and I knew this for certain, I couldn't sit helplessly in the house all day, taking no action, a prey to out-of-control fearful imaginings. I forced down a piece of toast, took a bowl of hot water from the kitchen into the bathroom and stripped down for a thorough wash. I couldn't face the effort of lighting the chip heater over the bath.

After a wash, clean clothes, a hot drink and some food, I felt stronger and saner. I would go to the Federation Hall. Surely someone there would have news or if not news, advice. I wouldn't go to the hulk. My mother had had enough worry.

I waited impatiently until it was close to nine o'clock. No one would be at the Hall before nine. Then I set off on my bicycle. How bright and normal everything looked in the morning sunshine, how clean everyone in their fresh working clothes.

The Federation Hall was surprisingly quiet. Given Jock's panic of yesterday I had expected turmoil, frantic comings and goings, a bustle of people like myself desperately seeking news. I went down the empty passage to the union organiser's office and knocked.

‘Come in,' he called.

When I did he looked up startled. ‘Judith, Mrs Grenville, you're an early bird.'

He hurried from behind his desk, found me a chair and pulled it forward. He was a burly man with a thick body and short bowed legs. He was new to the job having replaced Matty Gibbs. Recently I had drawn a caricature of him lumping a three-bushel bag of wheat on his enormous shoulders while his legs bowed beneath him with the weight. I had many such drawings, all unpublishable, but together a graphic representation of life at the Port.

‘Is something amiss?' he asked. He was a bluff but kindly man. ‘Your father, is he ill? Does he need some help?'

‘No,' I said, ‘it's my husband, Harry.'

He looked puzzled. ‘Your husband? He's not one of us, is he? Not a watersider?'

‘No, he's a musician.'

He wrinkled his brow. ‘Then how can I help?'

‘He's missing.'

He smiled benignly. ‘Judith, Mrs Grenville, husbands often go missing. It's a usual mishap in marriage. Have you tried the pubs?'

‘No.' I was indignant. ‘It isn't that. Harry doesn't drink. Or very little. It's …'

He interrupted me, continuing to smirk, and I supposed that many women defended their husbands' reputations by denying their heavy drinking.

‘Mrs Grenville, if your husband is really missing, and you should probably wait a day or so to make certain, you should contact the police.'

‘No,' I pleaded. ‘The police are the problem.'

He looked stern, then cleared his throat, preparing to give me a homily. ‘If your husband has done something wrong, Mrs Grenville, we can't involve ourselves.'