Steal My Sunshine Part 16

*I can't! I promised my sister. She's only agreed to Essie going back at all because Mr Gregory and his wife have begged for the child, and for once . . .'

I want to hear the rest but the blood is pumping in my ears so loudly I have to cling to the wall for support. James wants my baby a" our baby. At least, that's what I think Aunt Caro is saying. The Watsons wanted her too but then they sent her back. And does anyone want me in all of this? I see it now: I'm the carrier, just about good enough to transport the goods, but when that job is done, what then?

Silently, I go into the bathroom, as much of a caged animal as I was this morning. I drink thirstily from the tap until my belly swells, slide down the wall to the cold tiled floor and quietly cry for what I swear to any G.o.d who is listening will be the last time. Because I know what I have to do now: I won't swap one prison for another. I'm won't go home for that. I'll beg and borrow and use every gift I have to keep my freedom.

I splash my face with water and look deep into my eyes. There's one nagging feeling I need to search out the answer to; one choice I have to make. It should be easier than this a" just sixteen, living in a foreign land, nothing to give.

Then why, when I picture myself walking out of here, do I feel the weight of the baby in my arms?

By the side of a road, I feed her the final bottle and squint into the distance. It's early morning, the sun is low and my only hope of getting out of here is a pa.s.sing truck or car. There's not much time. As soon as Aunt Caro realises I'm gone she'll be out looking. That's why I couldn't risk the train station. I'll have to make it wherever I'm going by road. I pray for a stranger to come by a" someone who has never heard of the Sacred Heart Retreat or Aunt Caro and doesn't feel a burning need to save my soul.

I've got nothing on my side except hope and a willingness to do anything I have to in order to survive. I've only got one change of clothes but I'll worry about that another time a" I had to use the s.p.a.ce for supplies. Aunt Caro had condensed milk and I've filled her hot water bottle with clean water to mix it with. I've got bread, apples, cheese, tea, b.u.t.ter ration cards and a gla.s.s jar of something called Vegemite that smells like a punishment but will have to do.

My heart skips a beat at the sight of a light grey car with a grille that gleams from miles away. I pick up the ba.s.sinet and my suitcase and try to look as if I wouldn't be any bother. I smile as if it makes no odds to me whether they stop for me or not, when really I'm sure that all hope is lost if this car pa.s.ses me by.

It stops cleanly by my side. A woman with wild black hair sticks her head out of the window and looks at my belongings, and then a man in a torn Panama hat cranes his neck to see. With an accent I don't recognise, she says, *We're going to Melbourne. I'm Rose and he's Patrick. We're artists.'

*I'm Jo. This is my sister's baby and, as a matter of fact, I'm taking her to Melbourne. Only, she hates the train, you see a" the baby. I mean, she's very good, hardly cries. We won't be a bother.'

Of course at that moment the baby yells. I grit my teeth. *Don't mind that,' I say. *She'll be quiet soon a" you shouldn't spoil babies you know; they'll learn eventually.'

*You're not from around here, are you?' says Patrick. His beard looks like it's made of sand, and long creases spring from the corners of his eyes. He has an almost unbearably kind face, a bit like Pop.

I don't say anything.

*Listen, we don't judge you, and in return you let us paint you,' says Rose. *That suit?'

I look up and down the empty highway, and nod.

*Get in,' she says. *And Jo? You might want to work on that story.'

We drive into Melbourne on the brink of 1950, in the grey Holden that's been home for days, gliding through the beginnings of New Year celebrations. I feel overwhelmed with how strange it is to be here, thinking back to the hours I spent here on the s.h.i.+p all those months ago before we reached our final destination. But maybe this was my real destination. Perhaps I was always meant to come to this place.

The baby's crying again. She's hardly stopped, even though I remembered what Sister said and didn't spoil her. I've run out of everything, even water. Sometimes I'm sure this baby isn't mine. Sister could have given me any baby. She doesn't look like me. She doesn't feel like she's mine. Shouldn't she feel like she's mine by now?

Her crying is an insistent neh-neh-neh getting louder by the minute. I've got to get out of this car. The road trip is over and I need to figure out what's next.

I see a bakery. *Here. Can you stop here, Patrick?' It's now or never. I've got no money and no idea what I'm going to do next but I know I can't sit in this car, gazing at the scenery forever. Patrick nods and starts to pull over.

*Well, this is me!' I say. They know I'm lying but they're good enough to smile at me sympathetically, and Patrick helps me with my things.

*This is for you, Jo,' says Rose, handing me a canvas she painted in Sydney. It's me, holding the baby and my suitcase, with the Harbour Bridge over my right shoulder. I look old a" so old and ugly a" but I don't tell Rose that, of course. Who knows? Maybe someone will buy it for a few pounds.

I thank them both for the ride, but it sounds hollow when I say it out loud. They must know what they've done for me, even if they don't know the details.

*We're only going to be here for a few days and then we're heading back to Sydney,' says Patrick. *Here.' He hands me a piece of paper with an address on it, which I tuck inside the ba.s.sinet.

As they drive away, I face the bakery head-on and look up at the sign: Logan's. I don't know why or how but it seems as good a place as any to start. With my suitcase, my painting and the ba.s.sinet, I walk through the door and prepare to meet my brand-new life.

*Logan's! That was your shop, Essie!' I'm freaked out to have arrived at a part of the story I finally recognise, even if I can't make sense of the distance between the present Essie and the sixteen-year-old Essie walking through the door more than fifty years ago.

I'd always known that Essie and Grandpa had a shop, and that Grandpa had worked in it until he'd disappeared. Mum never said where he went. A look would pa.s.s between her and Dad and we'd know not to ask any more questions.

*Don't tell me, Essie, I can guess,' said Chloe. *You walked into the bakery and the dude behind the counter fell madly in love with you, married you and gave you his shop.'

For the first time, Essie looked annoyed with her. *It wasn't quite like that, no.'

When I walk inside, the smell of fresh bread is overpowering. The place is empty a" almost dark.

*May I help you?' says a voice in the corner.

As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I see a large woman in a white ap.r.o.n, standing like a sentry. I walk towards her and place all my belongings on the floor.

*I'm looking for work. And a place to stay.'

She doesn't say anything. The place is a kind of still I recognise a" the stillness that used to come just after a bomb went off during the Blitz, when it seemed like the whole city held its breath.

From another part of the shop I hear a sniffling sound. There's a thin lady sitting on a chair in the corner, picking at a bread roll and eating it in tiny pieces. She looks up and gives me the biggest smile. I can't tell her age but her face looks like Rebecca's from the retreat, who some of the girls called a simpleton or an idiot. I remember Jo telling me Rebecca was no less than the rest of us. We were all equal in there.

The lady gets up and walks over to me. She pinches the sleeve of my s.h.i.+rt and laughs, and I smile back.

*Olive, sit down, dear.' The older woman's voice is kind but firm, and Olive does as she's told.

*I don't mind,' I say. The older woman looks over her counter at my belongings. *Oh, this isn't my baby. It's my sister's. I'm just looking after her. My sister is . . .' I'm losing my nerve. What can these people offer me anyway? A job? I only know how to do sheets and speak French. It's not the best combination. Then I decide I might as well practice my story. *She's in a hospital. They took her away.' I look towards Olive. *They said she wasn't fit to look after a baby, but it's not her fault. It was the war, you see. Her husband came back but he wasn't the same after the camps. He took his own life at Christmas.' My muscles tighten. I'm sure I've overdone it. There is silence. I can't bear it; what if I can't survive on my own, what if no one buys my story? *I'm just looking after the baby until she gets well again,' I try.

The woman lifts one part of the counter and comes through. She crouches by the ba.s.sinet and gently strokes the baby's chin. For once the baby is quiet. *Where was he?' she says, still looking at the baby. For a moment I've lost track. Then I remember. My sister's husband.

*Singapore. He was in a camp at . . . um . . .'

She looks up and there's hope in her eyes. *Changi?'

*Yes. He was there.'

Olive comes over and sits on the floor. She takes the baby's foot and wiggles it gently, and the baby coos.

*Olive, no touching,' says the woman.

*No, really, she can,' I say, and crouch down next to them.

*We're not run off our feet, as you can see,' says the woman. *People around here, well, they've got their own opinions.' She gestures to Olive, who is still cooing into the ba.s.sinet.

*I'm used to that.'

*I can't offer you much. We barely make enough for ourselves.'

*Olive's good with the baby,' I say.

*Yes, she is. She's as gentle as any person could be.' The old woman gets up with some difficulty and arches her back. *I'm Mrs Logan. Olive and I can offer you a bed for a few nights, and then we'll see.'

I nod and stand to collect my things. Mrs Logan sees the painting. She gestures towards it and I hand it to her. She frowns and I hold my breath. What has she seen that will make her change her mind?

But she hands it back and smiles. *You've come a long way, dear.'

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed like tiny church bells. Essie leaned back and closed her eyes.

*So you worked in the bakery and Olive looked after the baby,' said Chloe. She sounded like a nosy journo.

*It wasn't just the baby,' I said. *She was my aunt.'

*Get over yourself, Han. She wasn't your aunt back then, you didn't exist.'

I turned my back on her and faced Essie.

*Yes, I worked from four in the morning until we closed. No one ever mentioned it, but after Olive and Mrs Logan started to spend more time with the baby and I was in the shop, sales went up. That's just how it was in those days. Mrs Logan wasn't very good with people. She was good with bread, though. Taught me well.'

*I can't imagine you baking, Essie,' I said.

*For years I did. It was better than sheets. I loved being out front best, though, and they all loved me. Especially the men.' She laughed and I think of the photo I've got in my room of Essie looking so young and pretty.

*And you fell in love again after James,' I said. *When did you meet Grandpa?' I never knew him but he was a legend in Mum and Essie's endless rows.

*I didn't fall in love, no. I married a great friend. Someone who helped me when a"' Essie stopped suddenly. Her hands went to her face as if something horrifying had just occurred to her. But it was obvious this thing had been there all along. *I'll tell you how it ends,' she said.

It's a busy morning but I get to all the customers like I've been doing this my whole life. They wouldn't believe it if I told them where I was really from. The way to survive is to keep talking. I never let the shop go quiet. That way, I can pretend that this is really my life I'm living even if that's not how it feels.

Sometimes I look around for a face from my past. I want to say to someone who knew me in London *can you see me now?'. I'd laugh and they'd be horrified and just a glimpse of that would make it worth it.

Olive's got the baby upstairs. It's like Connie belongs to all of us now, and that feels safer. n.o.body could love her like Olive does.

Mrs Logan's at the doctor's, she hasn't been well. It's up to me to run things. I'm good at it, too.

Fat Mrs Pringle walks in. She'll want her usual a" two vanilla slices, a large lamington sponge and half a dozen Eccles cakes. The woman looks like she's made of raw cake batter, and lots of it. I wish Mrs Muir a good day and turn my smile on Mrs Pringle.

*Isn't it a beautiful morning?' I say. I'm not stretching the truth there. It's autumn and I've never felt more in love with the place.

*It certainly is, Essie. Now then, I'll take a"'

*Don't you worry, Mrs Pringle, I've got it all right here.'

*You're a wonder! I hope Mrs Logan knows how fortunate she is. Now, where is she today?'

*She's out for the morning, Mrs Pringle. Shopping, she said.' Mrs Logan didn't want people knowing her business with the doctor. I didn't blame her. The gossip around here is just how I remembered it being at school.

*I see.' Mrs Pringle leans over the counter, where I'm cutting a long strand of ribbon. *And who is looking after the baby? Such a dear little thing.'

I'm tying a bow on Mrs Pringle's box. *Olive. Here we go then. Enjoy those, Mrs Pringle.'

Mrs Pringle leaves with her goods and another customer arrives, and another, and another. The work is non-stop but it's different. I'm Essie again.

Olive has Connie in a routine now. She never cries and she takes all her milk, she even smiles now. This is how it should be for me, I realise. Maybe some girls would mind not being the one to take care of their baby, but this is what I'm good at and Mrs Logan says she's never seen Olive so happy.

Five days later, Mrs Pringle walks into Logan's again. I smile and say, *You're two days early for your order, Mrs Pringle, but you're in luck, we've got a new batch of vanilla slices here.'

She doesn't smile in her usual way and now I see that the man and woman who came in behind her are not more customers, they're here for some other reason.

*Can I help you all?' I say.

*Essie, could you fetch Mrs Logan?' It's the man who says this.

*She's not well. She's in bed.' As I'm saying these words I realise I should have lied. And for the first time I wonder if the worst decision I ever made was to use my real name again.

*Could you fetch the baby then?' The woman this time. *Connie a" isn't that her name?'

*Why do you want to see her?'

*If you could just do it, pet, that would be the best thing,' says Mrs Pringle.

My skin is tingling. I can feel something bad is happening but I can't grasp why. *She'll be asleep. It's not very convenient. Perhaps you'd like to come back another day.'

*Not another day, no,' says the woman. *Is the baby yours, Essie?'

*No! Of course not. She's my sister's.'

*And your sister is . . .?'

*She's dead.'

Another customer tries the door but the man steps briskly towards it and puts the lock on, pulling down the blind in a swift, sure movement.

*And where is . . .' The woman looks at a notepad. *Miss Olive Logan?'

*She's upstairs. She's very good with the baby, is that what you mean? There's nothing to worry about. I trust Olive.' I look at all three faces, but they remain completely unmoved and it unnerves me so much I can't keep myself together any longer. *You're not taking her.' I slam my hands on the counter. *You're not!'

*Essie, this is not a matter for you to worry about,' says Mrs Pringle, as if she and I are on the same side simply because I've been serving her fat face with vanilla slices for a few weeks. *These people are just doing their job. It's all for the best.'

When they walk out of the shop with Connie in their arms, I feel like all the air is sucked out of me.

*But Essie, they couldn't do that!' I said. *She was yours, you can't just take a baby off its mother.'

*They could do what they liked and they did,' said Essie, with all the fury of being cheated and robbed, just as fresh as it must have been on that day.

*I didn't mean it was your fault, Essie.'

*It's all right, I know what you meant. It's a lot to take in. I had no paperwork, you see, to prove Connie was mine or that she had anything to do with me. I'd lied about her in the first place.' Essie kept her eyes downcast and I knew that deep down she felt guilty. Knowing she'd been powerless didn't change that.

*I was too scared to tell the truth in case they sent me somewhere,' she said. *Mrs Logan couldn't help me either. She was worried they'd take Olive. But I know she felt it terribly.

*Olive died the next year. We thought it was a broken heart that did it. She'd been strong as an ox before. Mrs Logan only lasted three more years after that and by then I'd met Malcolm. He was a friend a" a good friend. I didn't have any others. I could never make friends with girls for some reason. Maybe it was because of Jo. I envy you two.'