A Question Of Country - Sue Parritt

Contemporary Fiction Set In Australia

A Question Of Country by Sue Parritt

Book excerpt

The Letter

Anna remembered arriving home that drab December day with all the clarity of freshly washed glass, details of those long-ago hours embedded deep in her blood and bone. They marked the birth of a tempestuous relationship that, after fifty years, still coloured the palette of her life.

            A pile of Christmas post greeted her sleet-sodden shoes, precipitating a clumsy dance away from new doormat to threadbare carpet. After depositing her handbag and shopping bag on the hall stand, she picked up the letters and skimmed through the small envelopes, smiling at the still unfamiliar address written by friends and relatives. At the bottom of the pile, a brown foolscap envelope caught her attention and her smile broadened as she noted the typed delivery details and London postmark. Gripping the envelope between gloved fingers, she made no attempt to retrieve the seasons’ greetings that fell like giant snowflakes over the faded floral carpet. A draught from the open door prompted swift action from her right foot, while her left hand reached for the light-switch, positioned for some unknown reason at least three feet from the door. Spread-eagled, she slid on Aunt Maud’s Christmas greetings, smudging the spidery fountain pen script, then tilted towards the hall-stand. Grateful for heavy Victorian furniture, she grabbed the polished edge to prevent a fall. Bird-light, the brown envelope fluttered down to join paler varieties on the carpet.

Balance restored, Anna kicked off her shoes and bent to pick up the scattered post. There seemed little point in holding the brown envelope up to the light; the hall was too dingy to see anything useful at this hour of the winter afternoon. Besides, they had agreed one shouldn’t know before the other; they must open it together, share the welcome or unwelcome news. Unfortunately, she knew Joseph would be late home, as his area manager’s monthly visit was bound to culminate with drinks in the pub on the Friday before Christmas.

***

Two hours and ten minutes later, dinner ready and kitchen cosy from gas cooker and paraffin stove, she was still waiting to slit the thick brown paper. Propped on the kitchen bench next to salt and pepper, the envelope seemed to mock her deliberate busyness, its glued-down flap and unknown contents never far from thought or eye.

            Suddenly, she heard the front door hit the wall with a thud. A second thump and footsteps pounding up the narrow hall confirmed Joseph’s arrival.

            ‘I’m home, darling,’ he called as usual, entering the lounge.

From the kitchen doorway Anna watched him toss his coat onto a lounge chair and walk sleet-softened leaves across the cracked kitchen linoleum. Chilled lips kissed, whisky breath warmed, wet hair dripped over her candy-striped apron.

            ‘What’s for dinner?’ he asked, releasing her and walking over to the cooker.

            ‘It’s arrived,’ she answered breathlessly, steering him away from saucepans and frying pan.

            ‘What?’ he asked, then noticed the envelope.

Side by side, they perched on the yellow kitchen stools he had made just weeks before, their heads close together, the letter held taut between winter-pale fingers.

            ‘Yes!’ he cried.

            ‘Yes,’ she echoed.

He lifted her lightly, twirling her away from kitchen claustrophobia. Elated, they danced through sparsely furnished lounge and across narrow hall to cluttered bedroom. In the kitchen, boiled potatoes cooled, baked beans congealed, sausages stuck to shiny aluminium. The letter from Australia House lay abandoned on the kitchen bench.

No Turning Back 

A taxi transported the young couple from station to docks, depositing them opposite a series of tin sheds that leant against one another for support. Anna could just make out the word Customs on the peeling sign above a half-open door. After unloading their two suitcases, the driver wished them good luck and sped away in a cloud of black exhaust fumes.

Behind the customs shed, the ship loomed large against a hazy summer sky, her sleek white lines punctured by portholes. Anna noted the yellow funnel, the lifeboats strung like lanterns along the starboard deck, and had to look away, not from regret at leaving homeland, family and friends, but to restore her identity. The ship overwhelmed her, snatching her insignificant life, all her dreams and fears reduced to numbers typed on a blue shipping contract. Last minute nerves, she presumed, recalling her parents’ barely concealed tears at the station, their forced smiles as the train pulled away from the platform. They had declined a dockside farewell, her father maintaining it would be too upsetting for her mother.

Joseph’s parents lived more than a hundred miles from the port and didn’t own a car, so coming to Southampton docks wasn’t an option. In-law goodbyes had been made weeks earlier, at the end of a difficult weekend cramped in a small terraced house along with Joseph’s three siblings and a smelly dog. Since their engagement a year before, Anna had tried to become friends with Alan and Stella, but it proved an uphill battle, her mother-in-law in particular making no secret of the fact she disapproved of Joseph’s choice.

At first, Anna had been miffed by the snide comments on her lack of style, her penchant for reading serious literature, her parents’ Methodism, but as the wedding day drew near, she had taken refuge in the clandestine appointment scheduled for the second day of their brief London honeymoon. A late November wedding offered limited locations for newly-weds keen to preserve their savings, so they had booked three nights in a modest London hotel, their primary objective being ease of travel to Australia House in the Strand. Months earlier, they had completed emigration forms in the privacy of Joseph’s bedroom – he shared a flat with two friends – and, following a swift response from Australia House, attended a specified doctor’s surgery for medicals. A letter advising that both of them met Australian health standards followed soon after. By mid-October, the would-be migrants had progressed to the final hurdle, according to the cheerful young man Joseph had spoken to on the telephone when arranging the obligatory interview to coincide with their honeymoon.

Anna anticipated a formal atmosphere, stuffy civil servants sitting behind a desk firing questions, but the two immigration officers – youthful and genial – had spent most of the time enthusing about life in the ‘lucky’ country, their speech peppered with enticing descriptions of beach and bush. Joseph’s queries about job prospects were answered with a casual, ‘No worries, mate, plenty of work for those willing to work hard,’ followed by friendly advice to ‘learn Aussie ways quick smart’ and ‘don’t whinge.’ Listening to subsequent dialogue, Anna surmised that ‘whingeing Poms’ were a despised breed, destined to be ostracised at social events and in the workplace.

‘Just remember, comparing Australia with Britain is a futile exercise,’ the younger officer declared towards the end of the interview. ‘In my book, the two countries represent opposite ends of the spectrum. Britain is an old, overcrowded nation that has had its day. Empire in tatters, high unemployment, industry in decline, grim-faced people struggling to make ends meet. Australia, on the other hand, is racing up the achievements ladder, a vibrant new nation destined for greatness.’

Although Anna admired his enthusiastic patriotism, she couldn’t help feeling his views were somewhat biased. Thousands of Britons might be seeking a life elsewhere, but fifty-five million remained. Prudently, she remained silent, playing the role of compliant new wife that the officials appeared to require. There would be time later, in the privacy of their hotel room, to chew over the interview, laugh about over-embellished language and, if necessary, express long-held feminist views. The final question almost proved her undoing and it took immense effort to remain serene and respond to what she considered downright impertinence.

‘How many children do you plan to have?’ the older man asked, leaning towards her.

            Anna and Joseph exchanged glances. Babies were not on their immediate agenda. They had discussed children but agreed that starting a family could wait for some years, with Anna being just twenty-two and Joseph twenty-four next birthday.

            ‘Three at least,’ Anna replied, in what she hoped was a convincing tone.

‘Sooner rather than later?’ A supercilious smile sauntered over the official’s thin lips. ‘Populate or perish, you know.’

            ‘Give us a chance,’ Joseph retorted. ‘We’ve only been married for two days!’

***

Waiting in the customs queue, Anna recalled the officials’ laughter and thought of the packets of contraceptive pills safely stored in her capacious shoulder bag. The previous week, a visit to her local doctor had secured a prescription for three months’ supply, to cover the travel period plus give her time to register with an Australian GP. There would be no unplanned pregnancy in the Fletcher household.

            The queue shuffled forward, the occasional suitcase opened for inspection, passports scrutinised, or, in some cases, the documents of identity supplied by Australia House at no cost to those without a current passport. One-way ticket, Anna mused as Joseph handed over the document, their particulars hand-written and two unsmiling faces glued inside black-bordered boxes at the bottom. It had taken Anna several attempts to acquire suitable photographs. Cramped in a photo booth, her sombre expression twice dissolved into giggles as the camera snapped. ‘What the hell are you doing in there?’ Joseph had asked, standing on the other side of the curtain clutching his strip of four acceptable snaps.

            ‘Make your way to the ship now,’ the customs official instructed, indicating a door to his left.

            Joseph reached for her hand. ‘This is it, my girl.’

            Anna grinned. ‘No turning back now, we’re signed and sealed.’

***

Once on board, they shuffled along narrow, crowded corridors, searching identical doors for their allotted cabins. B deck contained mostly four-berth cabins; families were housed on lower decks. Married couples without children were segregated, four wives in one cabin, four husbands in the next. A ten-pound assisted passage didn’t cater for the appetites of newly-weds. In the heady days of mass migration, it was a case of cramming in as many as possible. Every week, a ship carrying hundreds of hopeful emigrants left Southampton for the long journey south.

             They didn’t linger to meet cabin mates, preferring to be on deck when the ship sailed. According to Anna’s much-travelled Aunt Maud, departure would bring ceremony and celebration. Streamers, a brass band, ship’s horn booming, crowds on the wharf waving, cries erupting the moment a tough little tug began to tow the huge ship away from the dock.

            A sailor pressed a coloured streamer into Anna’s free hand as Joseph pulled her along the deck. An unbroken line of passengers stood by the rail waiting for the signal to throw. Anna would have to toss her streamer high and hope the wind carried it down to the dock, not into some stranger’s backcombed tresses.

            ‘In here!’ Joseph shouted, pushing her through a tiny gap.

She clutched the rail and glanced at the upturned faces gathered for farewell. Thank God her parents had decided against coming to see them off. Uninhibited, she could relish the moment, punch the air in triumph, jump for joy, yell until her lungs were fit to burst. ‘Goodbye, goodbye! Off with the old, on with the new, Australia, here we come!’

            Yachts shared the liner’s passage down Southampton Water, heading for the Isle of Wight or out into the Channel for a run down the coast. The island slipped by; patchwork quilt fields edged with high white cliffs. Open water from now on, first port of call the Canary Isles, specks of rock in the wide Atlantic. No cruise through the Mediterranean for their batch of migrants, as the Suez Canal had been closed to shipping since the 1967 Arab-Israeli War. Nowadays, the voyage to Australia took five weeks instead of the pre-war four, heading down the west coast of Africa, around the Cape of Good Hope and across the Indian Ocean, with only two stops before reaching the western Australian port of Fremantle.

            The first few days passed in a blaze of sunshine, the hours between meals occupied with swimming in the pool, deck games and exploring the ship. During the brief visit to Tenerife, largest of the seven Canary Isles, Anna and Joseph, along with others from the ship, took advantage of a cheap coach tour to view Mount Teide, the third largest volcano in the world. Other passengers opted to walk the streets of Santa Cruz de Tenerife, admiring well-preserved colonial buildings.

One week into the lengthy voyage, many passengers remained afflicted with seasickness and on several occasions Anna and Joseph sat alone in their section of the dining room, much to the disappointment of waiters trying to offload five courses. For the first time in their lives, they ate grilled steak, relishing each succulent mouthful. Joseph demolished four pieces at one meal, delighting the Italian waiter. ‘Troppo sottile,’ he said, indicating Joseph’s thin arm. ‘Eat, eat!’

            Crossing the Equator brought fun and celebration, Anna volunteering to be one of half-a-dozen young women dressed in grass skirts, bikinis and floral garlands, cavorting on deck for the ‘crossing the line’ ceremony. Her reward was an ornate certificate written in Latin, featuring Neptune astride a horse, trident in hand.

            But three days into the Southern Hemisphere, the Lord of the Sea shook his three-pronged spear, scattering passengers to the safety of bar and coffee lounge. Cold rain lashed empty decks and sun and stars retreated behind dark storm clouds as the ship ploughed through huge seas.

            Barriers appeared around the dining tables as the ship neared the Cape of Good Hope, but food, especially soup, still had to be consumed quickly to avoid spillage. Once again, beanpole Joseph enjoyed copious portions.

            Cape Town harbour provided two days respite from the wild seas, yet for Anna, the majestic Table Mountain and beautiful coastal scenery were marred by the ever-present injustice of apartheid. From the moment she stepped onto South African soil, the consequences of racial segregation smothered her like a malevolent cloud. Twenty-two years of living in a prosperous seaside town had not prepared her for the sight of children begging in the streets.

            In the doorway of a large department store, a young black woman clad in a ragged cotton dress sat on the ground, holding out a tiny baby swaddled in sackcloth. Behind the woman, fluorescent lights illuminated rack after rack of tailored coats, sleek jersey dresses and jaunty hats. Shocked, Anna stood staring, unable to raise her eyes from the infant’s puckered face. Wind gusted up the street from the harbour, lifting the veil of her youthful naiveté, tossing it high into the charcoal clouds shrouding city and flat-topped mountain.

            ‘Not this shop,’ Joseph said, unaware of her distress. ‘We need a supermarket for washing powder.’

Still focused on extreme poverty, she allowed him to lead her down the street, remembered too late her failure to augment the few coins in the woman’s begging bowl.

            In the supermarket, it took some time to locate laundry products, as the first shopper Anna approached muttered, ‘No speak white woman,’ before scurrying away. Joseph said perhaps the woman hadn’t understood the question, but Anna thought this unlikely.

            Back on board for lunch, the young couple from Yorkshire whom they had befriended didn’t seem to share Anna’s horror and bewilderment. Small boys begging in the street had annoyed rather than upset Clive and Janette, as had the sign in the post office, which prevented them joining the shorter Blacks Only queue.

            Later that evening, the absence of a similar sign caused further irritation when the two couples tried to enter a city nightclub and were refused entry by a scowling doorman of gigantic proportions. Through the windows, crowds of brightly dressed people could be seen dancing to a jazz band. ‘Pity about that,’ Joseph remarked as they retreated, ‘the music sounded fabulous.’

‘Bloody stupid rules,’ Clive retorted. ‘Thank God we’re not moving here.’

            Janette slapped his wrist. ‘Keep your voice down, we don’t want to upset him.’

            By contrast, the Whites Only venue further up the road had recorded music – a poor selection, the English couples considered, having grown up on the Beatles and Rolling Stones. Bored, they left after an hour and decided to walk back to the ship, rather than take a taxi.

            As they neared the wharves, the distance between streetlights widened, traffic diminished, and shop windows became grey shapes in the dim moonlight. They walked briskly, jacket collars turned up against the cold night air. Not far from the ship, a group of young men stood talking and smoking in a darkened shop doorway. The English foursome passed by without giving them a second glance, half-a-dozen youths congregating on a Saturday evening being a not uncommon sight in their respective hometowns. Footsteps quickening behind them were barely discernible above friendly chatter; within minutes, they were surrounded.

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: Sue Parritt

BOOK TITLE: A Question Of Country

GENRE: Contemporary Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 304