Love in the Years of Lunacy (5 page)

She suddenly had a crazy idea and blurted it out before she could stop herself. ‘James, will you teach me? Teach me to play like you?'

He said nothing, as if further embarrassed by the predicament he now found himself in. He leaned over and picked up her brassiere from the floor of the carriage.

She remembered with shame her clumsy solo at the Booker T. Washington Club, the bum notes, the dragging tempo. She jumped from the carriage and looked around for her discarded dress. It was on the ground, over by the ride's generator. She slipped it on and began doing up the buttons, in spite of the fact that he still held her bra. One of her shoes was over by another carriage and she shoved her foot into it, then clumped around in the half-light looking for the other.

‘If you want me to teach you,' he called out to her finally, ‘we're gonna have to go back to basics. Break some of those bad habits.'

She paused, hardly breathing, waiting for him to continue, but he didn't speak, just fumbled in the pocket of his trousers.

When he found what he was looking for he held it up. It was small and blond-coloured, wrapped in cellophane.

‘You don't even know how to put a reed into your mouthpiece properly. Yours was too loose.' He gave her the reed he was holding. ‘We'll start with that.'

They walked back to the city across the Harbour Bridge. The buildings on the other side were wreathed in mist but they all still seemed to be standing. Pearl could make out the grey dome of the Observatory on the Millers Point hill, the clock tower of the general post office, the spire of the Mariners' Church, and the wharfie pubs opposite Circular Quay.

She was still rattled by the bombings, could still hear explosions echoing in her ears, but as she strolled beside James she felt as if she were fuelled by some potent substance her body was manufacturing for the first time. It wasn't just the electric lunacy of love, or lust, but something more indefinable. James had agreed to give her lessons, whenever he could secure leave passes from the camp, and it was this, coupled with everything they'd shared a few hours before, that sent a thrill through her.

He'd been adamant about two things, though: first, that she had to practise what he taught her at least four hours a day; second, she needed a new saxophone. Her father's old vaudeville alto was in terrible condition; James had noticed at the Booker T. Club the tarnished metal, the worn pads, the two lower keys held in place with rubber bands.

‘If you're serious, Pearl,' he told her, ‘you gotta get yourself a good axe. Not some piece of shit your daddy used to play.'

‘Okay,' she murmured, knowing that she'd never be able to afford one.

As they neared the south side of the bridge, they could hear orders being shouted from the decks of naval ships. Boats zigzagged across the harbour, leaving trails of silver foam. Pearl asked James about America, about the musicians he'd heard there. ‘Have you ever heard Artie Shaw?' she said. ‘He's my favourite bandleader.' James replied that he'd not only met the famous clarinettist, he'd jammed with him once in upstate New York.

Pearl was speechless. He then told her in a nonchalant voice—oh, as casual as you like—that he'd also played with Count Basie's band in Kansas City, along with the great saxophonist Lester Young. He'd toured the South with Benny Goodman. He'd met the great trombonist Jack Teagarden in New York and had got drunk with him in a bar in Harlem. And one day he literally ran into the famous hunchback drummer Chick Webb, who was walking with his head down through the foyer of the Apollo Theatre.

She, in turn, told him about the first time she'd ever heard an American jazz band.

‘Sonny Clay's Colored Idea,' she recalled. ‘A ten-piece band, twenty-five singers and dancers.'

Pearl and Martin were not even four years old when Aubrey took them to the Tivoli theatre. Pearl had a distinct memory of the moment the theatre curtain began to rise and the big, irreverent sound of the band bursting into the auditorium. And she was astonished to see the skin of all the musicians was almost as dark as the black keys on a piano. She sat holding onto the velvet armrests of her seat, mesmerised by the fast, whimsical beat of the music and the appearance of the men who made it.

‘It was the first Negro jazz band ever to tour Australia,' she added. ‘And I knew on that very afternoon what I wanted to be.'

James smiled. ‘You wanted to be coloured?'

‘No!' She elbowed him. ‘I knew I wanted to be a jazz musician.'

A few years later, she and Martin and Charlie Styles, a little boy who lived up the road and played the cornet, would pretend that they had formed their own band and would walk single file through Kings Cross, banging pots and pans and taking turns blowing into the boy's horn.

It began to rain. Pearl and James ran down the concrete stairs and into a tunnel that sloped towards a street in The Rocks. She stopped and pushed him against the tiled wall and kissed him. They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps and glimpsed a figure silhouetted against the other opening of the tunnel. James abruptly pushed her away. ‘Not here, baby,' he murmured. ‘Not now.'

She was surprised by his sudden change of mood.

‘Where's the nearest train station?' he asked.

‘Why?' she asked playfully. ‘You got a date with another girl?'

He clearly wasn't amused by the joke. ‘I got to get back to camp.'

They crossed the street and rounded a corner pub.

‘How about you meet me after my gig tomorrow night?' she suggested. He was walking slightly ahead of her and she had to stride to catch up. ‘I know a café in the Cross that lets black people in. Some of them even play in the band!'

As they passed a row of dirty brick terraces, James replied, ‘I'll try.'

Pearl felt panicky now, wondering if she'd ever see him again.

‘Well, what about next Sunday?' she persisted. ‘It's my birthday. And my brother's. We're having a Sunday lunch.'

James shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Will your parents be there?'

‘Of course,' she replied. ‘And my grandmother, too.'

He merely pursed his lips, still not looking at her. ‘We'll see,' he said finally. ‘I'll see if I can get away.'

3

I
t was around half past eight by the time she reached her street in Potts Point. She'd already led James to Town Hall Station, had handed him a note detailing her address and the time of her birthday lunch and the café where they were to meet the following night. They said goodbye with a handshake and, before he disappeared down the stairs to the platform, a brief wave. She desperately wanted to see him again but was still unsure about how he truly felt about her.

Even though it had begun to rain again, she noticed some of her neighbours were moving furniture out of their flats and houses and loading them onto trucks.

The rain grew heavier. Pearl dashed down the block, suddenly now wanting to be home with her family and in front of the fire.

When she walked through the front gate—her stockings gone, her clothes torn, wet, and sticking to her skin—Clara appeared in the open front doorway and cried, ‘Thank God you're alive!'

She rushed down the path and threw her arms around Pearl, then stepped back and looked with horror at the rip in her dress. ‘Those mongrel Japs! They did this to you? I'll kill 'em. I'll kill the bastards!'

‘No, Mum,' said Pearl. ‘I'm all right. I'm just—' Clara bundled her up the stairs and onto the veranda. Aub came racing up from the basement and hugged her tightly. Martin followed him onto the veranda, an unlit cigarette between his lips. He, too, was soaking wet and when he walked his damp shoes squelched.

‘This one just got home now, too!' Clara nodded at Martin. ‘I've been worried sick.'

Martin glanced at Pearl's dishevelled state and joked. ‘Been out wrestling Japs, Burly?'

‘You don't know the half of it!' She blurted out about her time at Luna Park, the crushing noise of the bombs, the Tumblebug ride she'd sheltered in all night.

‘I thought you two were playing bridge last night,' said Clara sharply. ‘With Nora and that Negro bloke.'

Pearl shot Martin a panicked look. She'd forgotten about the ruse she and Martin had cooked up.

‘Well, we did,' explained Martin. ‘For a while.' He held out his cigarette to Aub, who lit it with a match. He took a couple of puffs while everyone—especially Pearl—waited for him to continue. ‘But the Negro got bored and wanted to go to the pictures—' He took another puff. ‘While Pearl and Nora wanted to go to Luna Park.'

Pearl was so in awe of Martin's effortless fibbing, she had to stop herself from slapping him on the back and bursting into laughter.

‘Oh?' said Clara. ‘And what movie did you see?'

‘
Keep 'em Flying
. Abbott and Costello,' replied Martin automatically. ‘State Theatre. When the bombs started going off me and the Negro thought they were part of the show. That's until the screen went black and the ushers herded everyone down to the basement.' Martin casually flicked the ash from his cigarette and inhaled again. ‘We stayed there all night. Singing sea shanties.'

He looked at Pearl pointedly and grinned. And she beamed back with gratitude. ‘And me and Nora,' added Pearl, ‘we stayed in the Tumblebug all night. We were too scared to move until the sun came up.'

Aub nodded and took Pearl's hand. ‘Good idea, love. At least you're safe.'

Clara sighed and shook her head. ‘Well, let's get you two in front of the fire. Before you catch your death of cold.' She bustled the twins and Aub through the front door and into the warmth of the parlour, where their grandmother, Lulu, was dozing in a rocking chair and Mikey Michaels was drawing a picture of a burning boat.

Aub turned on the radio for a news update. The reader's voice was low and grim as he read the latest report: Early the night before, three Japanese midget submarines had entered the harbour. They'd been able to escape detection by the magnetic indicator loop installed on the harbour floor. For several hours they'd cruised beneath the passing ferries. No precautions had been taken to black out the city because, at the time, there was no reason to assume that Sydney was under threat. Even the naval base, Garden Island, had sat like an open target, with hundreds of arc lamps flooding the harbour until they were finally extinguished. By then, however, it was too late, as Pearl so vividly remembered.

She realised that the Pacific war had never before edged so close to Australia's biggest city but, as she digested the news, she felt oddly detached from the growing danger. Sure, it was a genuine threat on her city's doorstep, but that same threat had also brought James into her life, and she knew intuitively she would never have had one without the other.

The following day, as Pearl walked the wet streets of Kings Cross, she began to grow wary of the war again, especially when she heard the rumours which were spreading over shop counters, from open window to open window, over front gates and through paling fences. The story was that the surviving Japanese had escaped their submarines and were hiding in buildings at the lower end of Wylde Street, just around the corner from where she and her family lived. The enemy could attack at any moment.

‘They'd bloody well better not!' she said to the fruit stall owner on Macleay Street who was rushing to pack up, throwing his produce into wooden crates. She certainly didn't want a bunch of invaders—or, indeed, anyone—interrupting her romance with Private James Washington.

She arrived home to find her street cluttered with trucks and vans. They were loaded with furniture and clothes from flats and bedsits. Sofas were strapped to the roofs of cars; chair legs poked out of windows; pots, pans, gramophones, side tables and armoires were being thrown onto the backs of horse-drawn carts, in spite of the heavy rain. Everyone, it seemed, was intent on escaping the Japanese threat by moving to the Blue Mountains and beyond, to Lithgow, to Mudgee, even as far as Bourke.

Clara, instead of making arrangements to move, signed up for the local chapter of the Sydney People's Army, which gathered in the hall of Plunkett Street School, in Woolloomooloo. Around sunset, she returned home to boast that she'd learned how to make hand grenades out of jam tins, and how to bake eggless puddings. Aubrey, in the meantime, had begun drawing up plans for an air-raid shelter in the basement: an insulated, double-brick room that would include, eventually, fold-out beds, plumbing and a thick steel door.

The following day an air-raid warden appeared on the doorstep and demonstrated how to stick black tar paper to all their windows. Unfortunately Mikey Michaels got hold of a few spare strips when no one was looking and stuck his fingers to the upper register of the piano. Then two policemen knocked on the door and told Pearl they were preparing for a second invasion of the area.

‘If you come in direct contact with the enemy, Miss, you should simply smile and wave.'

She was neither smiling nor waving late the following night as she waited in the Arabian Café for James to arrive. She was sitting with her best friend, Nora Barnes, at an open window overlooking Darlinghurst Road. Usually, the street would be alive with pulsing neon, car headlights, American soldiers and good-time girls, but since the Japanese invasion, the revellers had vanished and the streetlamps had been dimmed with metal shields. Even the café, which was packed most nights, was only half full—mostly criminals and old-time locals who couldn't be bothered moving away despite a possible invasion, including the piano player with the wooden leg who was now thumping out ‘Beale Street Blues'. It was a popular venue with underworld because it served sly grog—usually red wine—in tea cups.

Pearl had already told Nora about James—describing their night in Luna Park, their morning stroll into the city, how tall and handsome he was—until Nora murmured that she'd like to meet him sometime.

Pearl then felt guilty for gushing about James. Her friend had enamel-smooth skin, shiny ginger hair and slate-blue eyes that glistened when she laughed. She had an almost perverse sense of humour and was one of the most generous people Pearl had ever met. But she was the plumpest girl in the band—she was virtually bursting out of the uniform white lace gown—and that, combined with the fact that she played the drums, seemed to put off potential suitors. At the age of twenty-four, Nora had only been out on two dates in her life, and both had ended early and in tears. For a few months she'd been enjoying a flirtation with the Trocadero doorman, Pookie, but nothing had come of it yet.

‘Well, you can meet him tonight!' Pearl had assured her. ‘After the gig, at the Arabian Café.'

Now it was almost midnight and there was no sign of James or even Martin and Roma, who were supposed to be meeting them there too. Nora sipped wine from a chipped cup and listened attentively to the piano player, who soon took a break and hobbled into the kitchen. Pearl was growing more edgy, not only because James was half an hour late but because she sensed that Nora was feeling sorry for her and had already written off James as one of those American cads who picked up and dropped local girls faster than they could order a double hamburger.

Finally, Martin appeared in the doorway, still wearing his tuxedo from the Trocadero, with Roma on his arm. In the candlelight, the girl's white, knee-length dress shimmered against her coppery skin. She had her hair swept up into a loose bun studded with lilies. She glanced around the café uncertainly, as if she wasn't sure that she was in the right place.

Martin walked her over to the table and introduced her to Nora. Roma nodded shyly and took a seat next to Martin. Up close, Pearl saw that Roma's skin was darker than she'd first thought, and she had a distinctive beauty spot to the side of her upper lip. For a moment, she felt a stab of jealousy—no girl had ever come between Martin and herself before—and yet she was acutely aware that, had James already arrived, she probably wouldn't be feeling this way.

Pearl made an effort to be welcoming, ordering them cups of wine. She asked Roma polite questions about her family and hometown, and learned that she was the daughter of a stockman, and had been harnessing horses from the age of five. This was her first trip to Sydney.

Pearl asked her what it was like to be a hostess at the Booker T. Washington Club, but before Roma could answer, Martin butted in, ‘You know, Pearl met her boyfriend there the other night—James, the sax player.'

This was followed by an awkward silence. Pearl looked into her teacup and swilled the wine around in it, as if she might glimpse her future in the dregs. It was bad enough that James hadn't turned up, but seeing Roma and Martin so happy together made her even more miserable. The piano player began packing up his sheet music and the owner called for last drinks. Had she offended James somehow? Embarrassed him? She recalled how he had pulled away from her in the tunnel in the Rocks. Maybe he thought she was too forward.

Pearl raised her hand for the bill. Or maybe Nora's suspicion was right.

Since they only worked at night, Pearl and Martin spent their days helping their father build the air-raid shelter in the basement. As she helped Aub pour cement and lay bricks, Pearl mentioned that she wanted a new saxophone for her eighteenth birthday, but the request was met with a grunt and a long silence. Money was tight, she knew that, but she'd had to try at least once.

The days passed slowly and she found James entering her thoughts repeatedly, like a recurring dream. It had been five nights since their evening at Luna Park and still she hadn't heard from him. She'd tried ringing him at the Booker T. Washington Club from the one telephone at the Trocadero, but the receptionist always reported that he was unavailable. What if he didn't want to see her again? What if he'd been transferred to another state and hadn't bothered to let her know? What if he'd met another girl—someone black like him?

As she swept up dust and mixed cement she yearned for a telegram boy to arrive with a message. Whenever she heard the doorbell's trill echoing through the house she dropped whatever she was holding and ran up the basement stairs, only to discover another inquisitive neighbour who'd heard about the shelter she and her family were building and had come to see it for themselves. She would just have to face the fact; it was over. And it had barely even begun.