Sylvia Lennox

CHAPTER 1 - SYDNEY 1965

Sylvia put her suitcase down and gazed across the harbour at the three giant cranes that towered over the framework of the Sydney Opera House.

I wish I could create something, she thought.

She leaned on the railing and inhaled the salty air, enjoying the rhythm of the lapping water, the calling seagulls and the breeze ruffling her long dark hair.

A ferry cruised towards the wharves and a dinghy, swept off course by its wake, hit the white liner berthed at the Overseas Terminal. The men in the dinghy paddled furiously to regain their course. Sylvia watched with alarm. This was very different from Armidale, the country town she’d lived in for eighteen years.

After she was satisfied the men were safe, she resumed her journey, up Argyle Street then through the Argyle Cut - a fifty foot high, three hundred foot long tunnel, that had been hewn through sandstone by convicts in the 1840’s. She ran her hand along the chisel marks as she walked. Water dripped down at intervals and green ferns sprang from damp cavities.

She emerged from the shadow of the Argyle Cut and proceeded down Lower Fort Street, almost to the pylon of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. It was a fine spring morning. Frangipani grew in the tiny front gardens of some of the terrace houses she passed and the scent hung in the air.

Sylvia had answered an ad for a room in Lower Fort Street, while she was in Armidale. It was on weekly tenure, so she could move if it was awful.

The rooming house was a three-storey grey terrace and the front door was open. Sylvia rang the bell and two barking greyhounds sprinted down the stairs followed by a woman struggling with their leads. Sylvia guessed this must be Mrs Johnson, the landlady.

Sylvia Lennox? I hope you like dogs. You need to in this house.

I love animals.

Come in, your room’s ready. Mrs Johnson shooed the dogs upstairs and led Sylvia inside.

It was an L-shaped space painted white with a narrow iron bed, an old pine wardrobe and a dark brown dressing table with a fly-specked mirror. She could store books on the mantelpiece over the boarded-up fireplace and use the low white cupboard in the small part of the L for food. The room smelled faintly of cabbage. Sylvia opened the narrow louvered window that looked on to the outside laundry and shared bathroom. Above her, a train thundered toward the Harbour Bridge.

Her heart fluttered excitedly. This was the first time she’d lived away from home.

It’s not far from Sydney University. I start next week. I’m studying English, History and Psychology. I think I’m going to become a teacher.

Mrs Johnson nodded approvingly. Sylvia would be a quiet tenant. She seemed well brought up and was nice looking too - a bit below average height and slender, with shoulder-length dark hair, large brown eyes and an ivory complexion.

After you’ve unpacked and settled in, go upstairs to room five and say hello to Jade. She’s studying fashion at East Sydney Tech. She’s Eurasian - very pretty and intelligent. You’ll like her. Well I must get on – I’ve got laundry to do. If you want anything, just ask. There’s only one rule - no men in the room after midnight.

OK, said Sylvia, having nothing to lose as she didn’t have a man in her life. But that would surely change when she went to university.

She unpacked and took her jar of coffee and a cup to the alcove which served as the shared kitchen. A battered kettle stood on the green enamel two-burner gas stove that had been made in 1940. As she waited for the kettle to boil, she heard someone behind her. She turned and was startled to see a tiny old woman wafting a faint scent of decay.

I’m sorry; did you want to use the kitchen? Sylvia stepped out of the alcove, which could only accommodate one person at a time.

No hurry, after you. The little figure bobbed and trembled. Sylvia noticed that the old woman only had one breast.

My name’s Sylvia. I’ve just moved into room number three.

Ruby Marsden, dearie – I’m next to you in number four. We share this kitchen, but I won’t get in your way. I only use it for cups of tea.

Sylvia indicated the boiling kettle. Would you like me to make you some tea?

You are a dear. Thank you.

Ruby held out a crazed china cup containing a used tea bag. Sylvia poured boiling water on it and the water turned a pale brown.

It’s good tea. I get three cups to a bag - saves me a lot of money.

How long have you been living here?

Fifteen years, dear, ever since my Harry died. But I’ll be with him again soon. The doctors want to cut off my other breast, but I won’t let them. I’ve lived seventy years. That’s enough.

Is someone looking after you?

No. We didn’t have children. I couldn’t afford to stop working. I worked in a biscuit factory for forty years. I keep myself going with tea and biscuits. I’m no trouble to anyone.

You can’t live on tea and biscuits! That’s not healthy!

No sense eating healthy when you’re dying. The doctor thinks I’ve only got six months.

I could make you some dinner when I make mine.

It’s kind of you but I can only digest one food at a time.

I’ve got some peaches in my room. They’re easy to digest. Would you like some?

Just one would be a real treat if you can spare it.

Sylvia fetched a peach for Mrs Marsden who now had her hands full, with her peach and cup of tea, so Sylvia opened the door of her room and was nearly suffocated by the smell of unwashed clothing and dog. A small black mongrel with a greying muzzle sat up and thumped its tail in greeting. Mrs Marsden bent down and opened the door of her cupboard and placed the peach on the top shelf. Sylvia glimpsed a row of dog food cans and a packet of arrowroot biscuits. Mrs Marsden straightened up with difficulty.

Would you like me to open the window? Sylvia offered.

Thank you. I haven’t the strength.

What’s your dog called?

Rex. He’s been a friend for many years. Mrs Johnson bathes him for me and takes him for walks with her dogs. She’s promised to look after him when I go. She’s a good woman - always on at me to eat something, just like you.

Sylvia was relieved that someone was keeping an eye on Mrs Marsden. She decided she would find a way to feed her healthy treats so she didn’t have to live on tea and biscuits.

After saying goodbye to Ruby Marsden, Sylvia drank her coffee then set out to explore Millers Point and The Rocks, which were adjoining suburbs on the peninsula. She walked all the way down Lower Fort Street to the sea, which was only five minutes from her room. Across the water, she could see Luna Park, with its entrance through the mouth of a grinning clown, and the big Ferris wheel on the corner. I’ll go there one day, she thought.

She turned and walked up to the other end of Lower Fort Street. A military band was playing in the bandstand on Observatory Hill.

She lingered at the Garrison Church, built between 1840 and 1878, according to the sign. The doors were open so she walked inside and sniffed the white carnations massed in brass vases at the back of the church, and inspected the stained glass window. As she was emerging from the church, a tourist asked if she’d pose for a photograph. She felt flattered until the tourist said that her red waistcoat would contrast agreeably with the sandstone walls of the church.

Sylvia let the tourist take a photograph then crossed over the road to the Argyle Place village green where two kookaburras were pecking at the ground under a Moreton Bay fig tree. One of them dislodged a clod of earth and inspected it for edibles while the other stood guard with the sea breeze ruffling its feathers.

Sylvia watched them for a while then continued her exploration of The Rocks and Millers Point with its intriguing combination of wide streets with substantial terrace houses and narrow lanes with meagre workers’ cottages. After that, she wandered around the brick and sandstone bond store buildings, the wharves, and the parks, each with its view of the sea.

There had to be at least twenty pubs in the area. The Hero of Waterloo, The Orient Hotel, and The Lord Nelson Hotel built in 1842, looked historically interesting.

There was no shortage of places to drink in, but where could she buy food? Eventually, in Kent Street, she found a small grocery store and a dingy butcher’s shop with a sign that said Our steaks are so tender; you wonder how the cow held together. Both shops were closed, as it was Sunday.

But in North George Street, the Sea Shell Shop was open and full of tourists. Sylvia bought salt and pepper shakers, each made from a cowry shell, as a birthday present for her mother.

She tried to open the gate of the Victorian Regency mansion opposite her rooming house, but it was locked. A plaque next to the door indicated that it was occupied by a professional organization, but it must have once been a residence for someone very wealthy.

She returned to the rooming house in Lower Fort Street, elated with her good fortune in finding a cheap room to rent in such an interesting area.

At five thirty, Sylvia knocked on Jade’s door and introduced herself. Jade, a pertly pretty Eurasian with an urchin haircut, invited her in and offered jasmine tea.

While Jade made the tea, Sylvia studied her room. A dressmaker’s dummy draped in purple muslin, with a cactus in a pot for the head, stood next to the door. The walls were covered with fashion drawings, screen prints and textile designs.

The only chair was piled high with art and fashion books, so Sylvia sat on the bed. This is the best room I’ve ever seen. Are those your drawings? If so, you’re a very good artist.

Yes, they’re my drawings, said Jade, as she poured the jasmine tea. I’m no artist but I’m good enough for the fashion industry.

I’ll probably become an English teacher because English was my best subject at school. But I loved drawing when I was a kid. I wanted to take art as a subject in high school but father wouldn’t let me. He made me do Latin instead – you had to do Latin if you wanted to stay in the A class at my school. Dad’s a doctor so Latin is useful to him, but I hated it and still wish I’d done art.

Sounds like you were an obedient child.

I’m an only child, so it was always two against one. Dad was fifty and mum was forty when they had me, so they’re rather old-fashioned. I grew up in Armidale - it’s a country town. Mum used to paint but dad isn’t interested in art. After dad asked mum to be his receptionist, she stopped painting and went to work for him instead.

No man will ever stop me doing what I want to do.

You’d better not get married then, because men like to rule. But no one rules me now. I’ve left home and I start university tomorrow.

The chick breaks out of the shell! said Jade approvingly, draping an emerald silk scarf around Sylvia’s shoulders. Sorry about this, but I can never resist dressing people. You have such beautiful skin! You’re lucky - you can wear so many colours. I’ve got an emerald brocade Chinese jacket I never wear. It would suit you. Do you want to try it on?

In fifteen minutes, Jade transformed Sylvia from a country kid into a sophisticate, by adding Jade’s emerald jacket to Sylvia’s black jeans, sweeping her long dark hair to one side with a tortoiseshell comb and enhancing her cheek bones and dark brown eyes with makeup.

Beautiful! said Jade, closing her mascara. Let’s go out for dinner. It’ll have to be cheap Chinese because I’ve practically run out of money. I’ll show you a place only Chinese people know.

Sylvia followed Jade, entranced.

The Chinese eatery was on the top floor of a restaurant in Haymarket, some distance from the more popular restaurants in Dixon Street, Chinatown. They climbed several flights of rickety wooden stairs then entered a dimly lit large room with a low ceiling. About forty Chinese sat on benches in front of long trestle tables.

For a small charge, Jade and Sylvia were allowed to help themselves to rice, noodles, vegetables and two meat dishes, which looked awful but tasted good. Over the din of Chinese voices, between mouthfuls, Sylvia and Jade exchanged information.

Parents, Jade announced. Mine are almost the opposite of yours.

How so? asked Sylvia.

You see, already you speak Chinese after just a short time with me!

Sylvia giggled. What I mean is in what way are your parents opposite to mine?

Dad’s away a lot on business. That may be why he’s the soft one with the kids. Mum’s the scary one. She had me when she was eighteen and she’s always telling me I ruined her life. She would have been a Great Artist but for me.

Can’t she be an artist now you’ve left home?

I see you live in a world of one. I am the eldest of five. The youngest is only three years old. Mum married dad because she was pregnant with me. Their first four kids were girls so they had to keep breeding until they had Ben. Mum still looks beautiful, which gives her some influence, but father has the real power because he makes the money. Mum isn’t maternal. She’s too much a high-strung narcissist for that. She certainly has the temperament of a Great Artist. Still she is ambitious for us to do well and I suppose that is a kind of love.

Sylvia shredded a piece of lamb with chopsticks and conveyed a morsel carefully to her mouth so the sauce wouldn’t drop on Jade’s jacket which she was wearing. The thick brown sauce dropped on to the paper tablecloth instead.

My mother would never think of being a Great Artist. She’s modest and quiet, not temperamental. She used to paint flowers – mainly roses. We have pink and white roses in our garden in Armidale and one of Mum’s paintings of them in every room of our house. They’re quite good paintings but you wouldn’t call them great.

My mother’s started making jewellery. She thinks I can help her sell it when I become a fashion designer.

My parents want me to be a teacher and get married before they die. They believe in security and convention. It worked for them.

I believe in independence. More Chinese tea?

Thank you. This food is very filling. Tell me - apart from you, Mrs Johnson, Ruby Marsden and three dogs, who else is living in our place?

Mrs Johnson’s husband Fred - looks like a gypsy, doesn’t say much; Georges is Austrian - works as an apprentice chef; Holy Bridie you don’t want to know; Alison is an air hostess so hardly ever home; and then there’s the Englishman.

Sylvia leaned forward. What’s he like?

Good looking, blond, thirtyish.

How old are you, Jade?

I’ll be twenty in April. How old are you?

Eighteen. You’re not keen on this Englishman, are you?

I don’t even know him. I’ve met him in the hallway a few times. He’s always been polite and he has a classy accent, but he can’t have money or he wouldn’t be living in a rooming house. Mrs Johnson says he goes out during the day and he pays the rent every week, but she doesn’t know anything else about him.

Perhaps he’s new to Australia and is lonely. We could pay him a visit.

I think he’s more private than lonely. But I agree that we should check him out. I’m curious and it’ll be quite safe with the two of us.

As long as it’s not after midnight.

Don’t take any notice of that rule of Mrs Johnson’s. Alison’s boyfriend has stayed overnight plenty of times. Talking about time, we should get going. I’ve got an assignment for tech that’s due tomorrow.

They clattered down the rickety stairs then walked to Dixon Street and mingled with the crowd of mostly Chinese people enjoying the pleasantly warm evening. The restaurants with their red and gold signs and large front windows on to the street were filled with customers. Around the corner, a line of Chinese people queued outside the Taiping restaurant. We’ll go there too when I get some money, Jade said.

In George Street they caught a bus that was going to Millers Point. After they’d settled in their seats, Jade said, I’m glad you moved in.

So am I. Thanks for showing me the Chinese place.

We’ll take the Englishman with us next time.

Good idea. I’m so happy I’ve met you. I thought that rooming house tenants would be mainly old men. I was only going to rent the room until I found somewhere to share with students. But now that I’ve met you, I’m definitely going to stay.

Jade looked pleased. It’s cheaper and more private than sharing a house. The only problem’s Holy Bridie.

What’s wrong with her?

If you’re lucky, you’ll never find out. But you may run into her because Holy Bridie, Ruby Marsden, the Englishman and you all share the outside bathroom.

Sounds like a cosy arrangement.

If Holy Bridie ever complains about you, act like you don’t know what she’s talking about. That’s what I do. I’m sure she doesn’t realise I speak English and have lived in Australia since I was two.

Do you also speak Chinese?

A bit. Mum and Dad speak English except when they want to hide what they’re saying from the children but we’ve all picked up some Chinese from trying to guess their secrets.

They arrived at their rooming house and Jade went upstairs to finish her assignment for tech.

Sylvia collected her sponge bag and walked outside to the bathroom that was shared by the ground floor tenants. It had grey concrete walls, a grey concrete floor, a worn enamelled bath with a shower head over it and a large cylindrical gas heater with matches and tapers on a shelf beside it. Above the shelf a note said Light the taper with a match then turn on the gas and light the heater promptly with the taper to prevent explosions and burns. The only good thing about the bathroom was that you could lock the door.

After brushing her teeth, she inspected the outside laundry, which was shared by all the residents of the rooming house. It had a gas meter you had to put a shilling in and a copper with a long pole for stirring clothes in boiling water. She’d never used a copper and didn’t fancy starting. She could do her washing by hand in the concrete tubs but they felt so rough inside they would probably snag her stockings. Maybe she could wash her clothes in the bathtub or perhaps there was a laundromat nearby?

She went back inside and rang her parents from the pay-phone in the dimly lit hallway, to let them know that she’d arrived safely and had settled in.

Back in her room, she had nothing to do. She’d finished her book on the train and she didn’t have a television or radio. I’ll start a diary, she decided, and wrote Left home today. Have my own room. Landlady, Mrs Johnson, is nice. Ruby Marsden next door is dying, unfortunately. Jade is terrific - like a big sister. We went to a Chinese eatery only Chinese people know. A mysterious Englishman lives here, and Georges, Ruby, Mr and Mrs Johnson, three dogs, Alison the air hostess, and Holy Bridie whom Jade doesn’t like.

She sat on the bed and surveyed her room. She could probably iron on top of the low food cupboard, if she spread a blanket on it. But she didn’t have an iron. Maybe Jade or Mrs Johnson could lend her one.

Was everyone sitting alone in their rooms? The ticking of her clock began to jar. She moved it to the mantelpiece.

Something rustled near the boarded-up fireplace. She looked down and was thrilled to see a little grey field-mouse. What was it doing here in the middle of the city? Had the previous tenant fed it? It will be like having a pet, she thought. Then wondered if there was a nest of them and hoped not. She broke off a piece of cracker biscuit for it but the field-mouse disappeared behind the fireplace.

She was still excited about leaving home. Having to start university tomorrow seemed like too much to handle. Hopefully she wouldn’t get an assignment in the first week as Jade had.

She decided to have an early night. She set the alarm, laid her head on the pillow and inhaled dust from the lace curtain over the louvered window. The starched sheets and the grey Army blanket felt scratchy. The mattress was so thin she could feel the bed springs, which jangled when she turned over. For a moment she thought she heard the beating of her heart, but then realised it was the thumping tail of Rex in Ruby Marsden’s room next door.

A light went on in the yard. She peered through the lace curtain. A man who looked like a gypsy was taking a pile of sheets into the laundry. That must be Fred Johnson. He came out of the laundry and stood in the yard while he finished his cigarette. Then he threw the butt on the ground and trod on it firmly as though he was establishing his territory.

But it wasn’t really his yard. Jade had told her that the Johnsons rented the rooming house for a pittance from the Maritime Services Board. They made their living by letting the rooms out separately.

Fred Johnson turned off the outside light, went inside and locked the back door. Sylvia lay down and inhaled more dust from the curtain.

Ten minutes later, she heard the front door open and someone walk up the hallway and unlock the back door. The light went on again in the yard. She sat up and saw a good looking blond man walk into the bathroom. He must be the Englishman. She lay down quickly so he wouldn’t see her.

She consciously relaxed her muscles from head to foot as per the dead man pose in yoga. I am not dead only resting, I am totally relaxed, she intoned to herself. I hope I don’t fail university, she thought. The Englishman turned off the outside light as he re-entered the building. Soon after, she fell asleep.

CHAPTER 2

Do you go to Sydney University? Sylvia asked the bus driver.

No, I drive a bus, he said. Then he took pity on her and wrote the bus numbers for Sydney University on her ticket.

She got out at Victoria Park, where a flock of seagulls were squabbling around the lake, walked past the jacaranda tree next to the watch-house and through the university gates.

At the top of University Avenue, the massive neo-Gothic Great Hall inspired respect. She felt dwarfed as she walked around the quadrangle but summoned the nerve to tiptoe up a carved wooden staircase that led to a small shabby lecture room. It smelled musty and seemed too dark to be functional.

It looks like something out of Dickens, she thought. I hope I can adjust to this place.

Emerging into the sunlight, she noticed a delicate weather-vane, tinged with copper verdigris, on the slate roof. Her mood lifted because she liked the little weather vane and it was good to get away from that dark musty lecture room.

University could be a bit of a mixed bag, she told herself. But thousands of people manage to pass, so why not her?

She strolled past the Faculty of Medicine, with the sandstone angels on either side of its name.

Did they really keep foetuses in jars in there? The campus was as big as a suburb. It would take hours to explore and she didn’t have time right now. Her first lecture was due in thirty minutes.

She bought a cappuccino and a coffee-iced walnut bun and sat down at a table in the garden of Manning House. She poured a stream of coffee crystals into her cappuccino and looked around at the other students.

At the table next to her, a bearded man and a long-haired girl, both dressed in black, were arguing. The girl had heavy black eyeliner and