Steal My Sunshine (19 page)

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 bassinet 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 passes 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 – 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 – 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 ship 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 – so old and ugly – 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 bassinet.

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 bassinet, 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 pass 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 – 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 apron, 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 – 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 shirt 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 practise 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 bassinet 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 bassinet.

‘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 –' 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.