acknowledging one’s start in a slum district did not mean he had to act as if he had not learned there were some social graces worth cultivating.
Lisa, the product of a middle-class Dutch family and the best schools in Holland, a girl who had spent three years living at embassy level in London, had shown her own social graciousness when she had walked into the tenement house as if she had known such surroundings all her fife. Warned by him of the antagonism to be expected from his mother, she had greeted Mrs. Malone with a smooth friendliness that he could only imagine must be diplomacy at its best. Her reaction to the fight next door had been a humane rather than a
social one: she had been afraid for the safety of the woman with her drunken husband. Lisa had learned to adapt; he would have to learn to do the same. He walked back down the hall to the kitchen, determined to ignore the fight which had once more started up next door.
He stood in the hallway for a moment looking in at Lisa at the kitchen table. I don’t know how I ever did it, he thought. How did I get a girl like that to agree to marry me? Her blonde hair gleaming like a helmet under the hard electric light, she sat leaning forward to listen to his father. Her face in repose looked flawless to Malone; then when she smiled the perfection was not broken but, if possible, improved. But it was not just her looks that fascinated him. She had something else, a poise that placed her at ease with the world and the individual. At first he had thought it was what was called sophistication; then he had come to recognize that it was something deeper than mere social imperturbability. There was a tranquility about her; not a resignation but an acceptance that there were certain things, grief, duty, the demands of love, that would always have to be faced. Then he looked at the lined face of his mother and felt the pain: Brigid Malone would never achieve that serenity of spirit till she died. He loved them both, but he was glad he was not marrying a girl like his mother.
Later, as they were leaving, when Lisa had stepped outside into the tiny backyard to the outside toilet, he said to his mother, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Well, what do you think of her?”
“She’s all right.” Mrs. Malone was already tidying up, emptying the two old brass ashtrays that had been in the house as long as Malone could remember, straightening the two velvet cushions on the faded couch in the front room; it was as if she feared even the imprint left by visitors on her retre t. “She’s too good for you.”
“I thought you hinted this morning she wasn’t good enough for me. Not being a Tyke or an Australian.”
“I don’t mean religion and things like that. That way there’d be trouble, too. I mean, well, you know. Education, things like that. Position.”
“She’s well spoken,” said Con Malone, trying to say something not too extravagant in favour of Lisa. He had liked the girl, but he wasn’t going to get into any argument with the wife over her.
Malone shrugged in exasperation. He recognized what his mother and father were both trying to say. Without conceding that there was such a thing as class distinction in Australia, they were telling him Lisa was a class above him. His father had used the classic euphemism for breeding: Lisa was well spoken.
“For a couple who hate the Poms for having a Queen and an aristocracy, you don’t sound very democratic. Dad, ever since I was a kid you’ve always been telling me everyone is born equal.”
“They are,” said Con Malone, Labour Party to the core. “Only in the system like it is, some have advantages. She’s had ‘em.”
“It won’t work,” said Mrs. Malone. “But it’s your life. You do what you like with it.”
Then Lisa came in from the backyard, aware that they had been talking about her but unruffled by it. Outside the toilet gushed noisily like a young Niagara; everyone in the terrace of houses
Lisa, the product of a middle-class Dutch family and the best schools in Holland, a girl who had spent three years living at embassy level in London, had shown her own social graciousness when she had walked into the tenement house as if she had known such surroundings all her fife. Warned by him of the antagonism to be expected from his mother, she had greeted Mrs. Malone with a smooth friendliness that he could only imagine must be diplomacy at its best. Her reaction to the fight next door had been a humane rather than a
social one: she had been afraid for the safety of the woman with her drunken husband. Lisa had learned to adapt; he would have to learn to do the same. He walked back down the hall to the kitchen, determined to ignore the fight which had once more started up next door.
He stood in the hallway for a moment looking in at Lisa at the kitchen table. I don’t know how I ever did it, he thought. How did I get a girl like that to agree to marry me? Her blonde hair gleaming like a helmet under the hard electric light, she sat leaning forward to listen to his father. Her face in repose looked flawless to Malone; then when she smiled the perfection was not broken but, if possible, improved. But it was not just her looks that fascinated him. She had something else, a poise that placed her at ease with the world and the individual. At first he had thought it was what was called sophistication; then he had come to recognize that it was something deeper than mere social imperturbability. There was a tranquility about her; not a resignation but an acceptance that there were certain things, grief, duty, the demands of love, that would always have to be faced. Then he looked at the lined face of his mother and felt the pain: Brigid Malone would never achieve that serenity of spirit till she died. He loved them both, but he was glad he was not marrying a girl like his mother.
Later, as they were leaving, when Lisa had stepped outside into the tiny backyard to the outside toilet, he said to his mother, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Well, what do you think of her?”
“She’s all right.” Mrs. Malone was already tidying up, emptying the two old brass ashtrays that had been in the house as long as Malone could remember, straightening the two velvet cushions on the faded couch in the front room; it was as if she feared even the imprint left by visitors on her retre t. “She’s too good for you.”
“I thought you hinted this morning she wasn’t good enough for me. Not being a Tyke or an Australian.”
“I don’t mean religion and things like that. That way there’d be trouble, too. I mean, well, you know. Education, things like that. Position.”
“She’s well spoken,” said Con Malone, trying to say something not too extravagant in favour of Lisa. He had liked the girl, but he wasn’t going to get into any argument with the wife over her.
Malone shrugged in exasperation. He recognized what his mother and father were both trying to say. Without conceding that there was such a thing as class distinction in Australia, they were telling him Lisa was a class above him. His father had used the classic euphemism for breeding: Lisa was well spoken.
“For a couple who hate the Poms for having a Queen and an aristocracy, you don’t sound very democratic. Dad, ever since I was a kid you’ve always been telling me everyone is born equal.”
“They are,” said Con Malone, Labour Party to the core. “Only in the system like it is, some have advantages. She’s had ‘em.”
“It won’t work,” said Mrs. Malone. “But it’s your life. You do what you like with it.”
Then Lisa came in from the backyard, aware that they had been talking about her but unruffled by it. Outside the toilet gushed noisily like a young Niagara; everyone in the terrace of houses
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