She too took off her dress, folded and hung it over the foot of the bed. After this there was nothing to prevent her getting between Mrs Bulpit’s damp grey sheets.
She should have felt safely sandwiched, and the surrounding silence saved her from further depredations, if it had not been for a distant crash.
‘What is it—Gilbert?’ she asked.
‘Possums.’ His mouth made a big round O through the sheet.
‘They must be huge.’
‘Some of them are,’ the sheet veiling his face quivered with suppressed sniggers, before he snatched it off.
‘Gotter turn the light out!’
He tore across the room in the washed-out pyjamas, the legs and sleeves of which were by now too short.
Then darkness rushed at them. It swallowed the leaning warrant officer, the pieces of Bulpit furniture, and anything as personal as the hopes and fears of those temporarily living there.
A violent plunk of springs told Eirene Sklavos that Gilbert Horsfall must have landed back on his bed. The distance separating them stretched even wider than before. The rough sheets were sawing at her. The bloodspot on the finger she had pricked with a fork swelled against the darkness and swelled, becoming—was it? The head of that old man a tank had crushed outside the Royal (or National) gardens. Swelling and spilling. The old man’s bloody brains.
‘Tell us something.’
Gilbert’s voice had roughened in an attempt to become a man’s. She recognised the tone. It was that of the men Mamma enjoyed talking to. Holding her head on one side. You tried out your head in imitation against the rough, damp, Bulpit pillow.
‘I haven’t anything,’ she murmured back across the darkness lying between them.
‘You had plenty when we were talking before.’
‘That was then.’ She heard herself mewing into the pillow.
‘What’s up?’
She couldn’t tell him. She hardly knew.
The darkness was rocking, not so much the boat carrying her back to a war, but the motions of the dance she was dancing in the patisserie in Alexandria. Mamma hated this officer, but her body could not refuse to dance.
‘You’re a sooky sort of girl,’ Gilbert Horsfall was complaining.
All the girls he had known were crowding in on her through the darkness, long-legged yellow-haired English girls, cold and perfect Miss Adams said she loved the daffies in spring time at Home. Some of Gilbert’s girls wore lipstick. They were women in front.
‘I can’t help it,’ she mewed worse than ever.
They entered the worst silence of all. Was any of it happening to them? The war, Australia, this vast Bulpit room with iron beds clamped to opposite walls.
‘Why don’t you come over?’ he twittered.
Why should she? It made her raise her head against the pillow. Others always came to Mamma. This boy with the hoarse voice and shrunk pyjamas. Gilbert Horsfall’s wriggly torso. Who knew about bread and dripping. She snorted slightly, licked her lips. She had never felt so tall and slender. Her strength was returning.
‘Not if you’re afraid,’ he said, ‘but you needn’t worry about her . She’s as safe as a lead sinker once she’s under the brandy.’
‘ I’m not afraid. It’s you. Otherwise you’d come over here.’
To demonstrate the truth of her remark and her own superiority, she jumped out of bed before he could, only regretting her recklessness halfway across the gritty darkness, and set up a mewing again on stubbing her toe on a castor. At once the dark was full of threats. It was a comfort to find herself thrown forward, sprawling like a crab on Gilbert Horsfall’s bony chest.
‘ Ahoo … it’s cold,’ she moaned.
‘Not where I come from,’ he whinged back.
The temperature was at least an excuse for her to get into bed and pull up the clothes. She would have liked to snuggle, but lay as stiff and straight as he was lying. It seemed there was nothing either of them could do beyond go along with those private palpitations, fluctuating with rubbery
She should have felt safely sandwiched, and the surrounding silence saved her from further depredations, if it had not been for a distant crash.
‘What is it—Gilbert?’ she asked.
‘Possums.’ His mouth made a big round O through the sheet.
‘They must be huge.’
‘Some of them are,’ the sheet veiling his face quivered with suppressed sniggers, before he snatched it off.
‘Gotter turn the light out!’
He tore across the room in the washed-out pyjamas, the legs and sleeves of which were by now too short.
Then darkness rushed at them. It swallowed the leaning warrant officer, the pieces of Bulpit furniture, and anything as personal as the hopes and fears of those temporarily living there.
A violent plunk of springs told Eirene Sklavos that Gilbert Horsfall must have landed back on his bed. The distance separating them stretched even wider than before. The rough sheets were sawing at her. The bloodspot on the finger she had pricked with a fork swelled against the darkness and swelled, becoming—was it? The head of that old man a tank had crushed outside the Royal (or National) gardens. Swelling and spilling. The old man’s bloody brains.
‘Tell us something.’
Gilbert’s voice had roughened in an attempt to become a man’s. She recognised the tone. It was that of the men Mamma enjoyed talking to. Holding her head on one side. You tried out your head in imitation against the rough, damp, Bulpit pillow.
‘I haven’t anything,’ she murmured back across the darkness lying between them.
‘You had plenty when we were talking before.’
‘That was then.’ She heard herself mewing into the pillow.
‘What’s up?’
She couldn’t tell him. She hardly knew.
The darkness was rocking, not so much the boat carrying her back to a war, but the motions of the dance she was dancing in the patisserie in Alexandria. Mamma hated this officer, but her body could not refuse to dance.
‘You’re a sooky sort of girl,’ Gilbert Horsfall was complaining.
All the girls he had known were crowding in on her through the darkness, long-legged yellow-haired English girls, cold and perfect Miss Adams said she loved the daffies in spring time at Home. Some of Gilbert’s girls wore lipstick. They were women in front.
‘I can’t help it,’ she mewed worse than ever.
They entered the worst silence of all. Was any of it happening to them? The war, Australia, this vast Bulpit room with iron beds clamped to opposite walls.
‘Why don’t you come over?’ he twittered.
Why should she? It made her raise her head against the pillow. Others always came to Mamma. This boy with the hoarse voice and shrunk pyjamas. Gilbert Horsfall’s wriggly torso. Who knew about bread and dripping. She snorted slightly, licked her lips. She had never felt so tall and slender. Her strength was returning.
‘Not if you’re afraid,’ he said, ‘but you needn’t worry about her . She’s as safe as a lead sinker once she’s under the brandy.’
‘ I’m not afraid. It’s you. Otherwise you’d come over here.’
To demonstrate the truth of her remark and her own superiority, she jumped out of bed before he could, only regretting her recklessness halfway across the gritty darkness, and set up a mewing again on stubbing her toe on a castor. At once the dark was full of threats. It was a comfort to find herself thrown forward, sprawling like a crab on Gilbert Horsfall’s bony chest.
‘ Ahoo … it’s cold,’ she moaned.
‘Not where I come from,’ he whinged back.
The temperature was at least an excuse for her to get into bed and pull up the clothes. She would have liked to snuggle, but lay as stiff and straight as he was lying. It seemed there was nothing either of them could do beyond go along with those private palpitations, fluctuating with rubbery
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