Read Online Hunger Town by Wendy Scarfe - Free Book Online Page A

cartoons of everyday life, but few were as good as these. Now I could readily find a caption for this fool boy swinging on the belt, but equally important is your background sketch of the foundry. Our Australia is entering the urban and industrial phase of its life and artists will begin to reflect this world. There were artists in the last century who had to find their Australian-ness in the landscape. Recently some fools told us that our Australian-ness has been born of going to war and that’s nonsense. Now in peacetime many of us are becoming city people. Artists will reflect that.’
    Overwhelmed by his burst of knowledge, I protested, ‘But, Joe, I’m not an artist.’
    He grinned. ‘Maybe you’re not but maybe you are. These are very good. Could you leave the belt-swinger with me? And this one of fuelling the furnace? I have a mate on the Workers’ Weekly . He may be able to do something with them.’
    â€˜Do what, Joe?’
    â€˜Leave it with me, Nearly-Twelve. Leave it with me. And you must keep on doing these. They’re very good.’
    He took down a book from the shelves and handed it to me. ‘Have a look at these. They are drawings by Goya, a Spanish painter.’
    â€˜I saw them before, Joe. They’re ugly and queer.’ I shuddered.
    â€˜Yes, very ugly at times. Quite horrible. But they say something. Have another look. You may find them stimulating. We don’t learn just from pleasant things. Have a think about the way he draws.’
    Joe opened a door for me, a small crack that let in just a smidgeon of light. A week later it was extinguished, because Joe died suddenly.
    I continued to waitress at the Chew It and Spew It, but now the regulars called me Judith and occasionally enquired about my health. It was as if they expected the soup-throwing incident to have permanently scarred me and they drew me comfortingly into their own circle of victimisation. They were warm in a rough way. I responded with a smile or a laugh and their company made my work easier and more pleasant. But Nathan, the reader, didn’t come for his bun and tea any more.
    In the occasional spare moment when I wasn’t serving or cleaning I sat down with my sketchpad and, remembering Joe’s encouragement, drew from memory the faces I had seen that day.
    I had wanted to attend Joe’s funeral but both my parents were against it. ‘Only men will be there,’ they said. ‘It’s no place for a girl.’
    A month after Joe’s death Winnie and Harry came to afternoon tea. My mother was delighted that Winnie and I were friends. Winnie’s pretty ways comforted her with a dream that I might learn to be more feminine. In her realistic moments she doubted this possibility, even blaming herself for this not happening. I jokingly teased her, ‘What sort of imbecile would you want me to be? A weepy?’ I grinned and put my arm about her and she laughed with me.
    As Winnie teetered up the gangplank my father looked askance. She looked gorgeous in a tangerine dress and a wide-brimmed cream hat. Harry offered his hand to help her balance and she giggled, first at him and then appraisingly at my father. He was still a handsome Nordic man with eyes the sapphire blue of ice caves and as she fluttered her absurdly long eyelashes at him his skin flushed a dark mahogany.
    Later he subjected us to his outrage. ‘She tried to flirt with me, at my age. Her no older than Judith. The little minx. I don’t know what young people are coming to these days. Absolutely no respect.’
    His strictures amused my mother. ‘You want her to regard you as an old man, Niels?’
    â€˜No, no, of course not.’ And again he blushed like a boy. ‘Just some respect,’ he mumbled, discomforted by her amusement.
    But she was having fun. ‘I’m sure next time she’ll find lots of respect for you, Niels, when she notices all those grey