the boy vault onto the stage and kiss his daughter on the cheek. An uproar, a laugh, more applause; the youth turns pink, drops to his knees, laughing, worshipping. She knights him with a daisy, James is on his way down the aisle, going to put a stop to this, when “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your urgent attention, please!”
Clanging a handbell at the back of the hall, it’s grey Mr Foss, head of the Orpheus Society. James stops in his tracks halfway through the brass section. The roar of the crowd dies. All eyes are on Foss, who clears his narrow throat and, with a reedy dignity befitting hope and glory, announces, “The offices of The Sydney Post have just received a cable from the provincial parliament in Halifax. Today, Great Britain declared war on Germany. Canada will heed the call of the Mother Country in her hour of need. Ladies and gentlemen. We are at war.”
Two minutes of silence will come four years later, but for now it’s a dotted-quarter-note rest broken by the boy on stage, who springs to his feet con spirito , hurls three cheers into the air followed by a handful of petals. The Sydney Symphonette strikes up “God Save The King”. The audience sings. James reaches for the lip of the stage to steady it, for it’s suddenly gone a little lopsided.
Late that night, twelve hours into The War, Kathleen sits at her vanity, brushing her hair before the big oval looking-glass. She is not sleepy, how could she be? Tonight she sang. The world will never be the same.
Who is that in the glass? She sees herself for the first time. She doesn’t require soft light, not at her age, not with her looks, so the effect of three candles is excessively ravishing. Her hair sparks at every brush stroke. The candlelight carves a grotto in the gloom around her. The mirror is a sacred pool, in it she sees the future: her lips swollen with kissing, eyes caressing, come with me to my home beneath the sea and I will love you.
She unbuttons her nightgown. My beautiful throat. Bares a white shoulder, ohh. Parts the fabric to reveal her breasts, sailor take warning. Her image floating just beneath the twilight surface, tempting herself overboard.
She hovers her hand above a nipple that gathers and pleats to a point seeking heat. Kisses her palm with one eye on the mirror. Again, this time with her tongue. Experiments with the creation of cleavage. Arranges her hair: Gibson girl, milkmaid, madwoman, dryad. And leaves it there, spilling over her shoulders.
It’s a self-portrait and the artist is in love.
Her mother has warned her against gazing too long into a mirror. If you like too well what you see there, the devil will appear behind you. This has always worried Kathleen in spite of the fact she knows it to be nonsense, so she has never lingered. But tonight she feels brazen. Prepared to test the theory.
She smiles at herself. And gets stuck. Can’t move. Can’t look away or break the smile tightening to a grin on her face until she seems to be mocking herself. That’s when she sees him. Pete. In the shadows behind her. His smooth stuffed head. His hat. His no ears. His no face. She whimpers. Pete watches, Hello there . She can’t find her voice, is this a dream? In a wistful tone, Hello little girl . His no mouth, Hello .
She explodes from the sateen stool with a cry, flies blindly through the room, through Pete for all she knows, crashes out her door, across the hall, screaming like an incoming shell to the room where her father sleeps alone. She lands heavily on his bed sobbing, “I want to sleep with you tonight!”
He’s bolt upright, prepared to kill an intruder, but his fists turn to hands just in time to seize her shoulders. She’s shaking.
“Shshsh,” he says.
Carefully, through the darkness, he strokes her face. His thumb grazes her lips. “Hush now.” His hand slips round the warm back of her neck, “Hush my darling.” He kisses her cheek, the warm scent of her — he gets out of bed. Takes
Clanging a handbell at the back of the hall, it’s grey Mr Foss, head of the Orpheus Society. James stops in his tracks halfway through the brass section. The roar of the crowd dies. All eyes are on Foss, who clears his narrow throat and, with a reedy dignity befitting hope and glory, announces, “The offices of The Sydney Post have just received a cable from the provincial parliament in Halifax. Today, Great Britain declared war on Germany. Canada will heed the call of the Mother Country in her hour of need. Ladies and gentlemen. We are at war.”
Two minutes of silence will come four years later, but for now it’s a dotted-quarter-note rest broken by the boy on stage, who springs to his feet con spirito , hurls three cheers into the air followed by a handful of petals. The Sydney Symphonette strikes up “God Save The King”. The audience sings. James reaches for the lip of the stage to steady it, for it’s suddenly gone a little lopsided.
Late that night, twelve hours into The War, Kathleen sits at her vanity, brushing her hair before the big oval looking-glass. She is not sleepy, how could she be? Tonight she sang. The world will never be the same.
Who is that in the glass? She sees herself for the first time. She doesn’t require soft light, not at her age, not with her looks, so the effect of three candles is excessively ravishing. Her hair sparks at every brush stroke. The candlelight carves a grotto in the gloom around her. The mirror is a sacred pool, in it she sees the future: her lips swollen with kissing, eyes caressing, come with me to my home beneath the sea and I will love you.
She unbuttons her nightgown. My beautiful throat. Bares a white shoulder, ohh. Parts the fabric to reveal her breasts, sailor take warning. Her image floating just beneath the twilight surface, tempting herself overboard.
She hovers her hand above a nipple that gathers and pleats to a point seeking heat. Kisses her palm with one eye on the mirror. Again, this time with her tongue. Experiments with the creation of cleavage. Arranges her hair: Gibson girl, milkmaid, madwoman, dryad. And leaves it there, spilling over her shoulders.
It’s a self-portrait and the artist is in love.
Her mother has warned her against gazing too long into a mirror. If you like too well what you see there, the devil will appear behind you. This has always worried Kathleen in spite of the fact she knows it to be nonsense, so she has never lingered. But tonight she feels brazen. Prepared to test the theory.
She smiles at herself. And gets stuck. Can’t move. Can’t look away or break the smile tightening to a grin on her face until she seems to be mocking herself. That’s when she sees him. Pete. In the shadows behind her. His smooth stuffed head. His hat. His no ears. His no face. She whimpers. Pete watches, Hello there . She can’t find her voice, is this a dream? In a wistful tone, Hello little girl . His no mouth, Hello .
She explodes from the sateen stool with a cry, flies blindly through the room, through Pete for all she knows, crashes out her door, across the hall, screaming like an incoming shell to the room where her father sleeps alone. She lands heavily on his bed sobbing, “I want to sleep with you tonight!”
He’s bolt upright, prepared to kill an intruder, but his fists turn to hands just in time to seize her shoulders. She’s shaking.
“Shshsh,” he says.
Carefully, through the darkness, he strokes her face. His thumb grazes her lips. “Hush now.” His hand slips round the warm back of her neck, “Hush my darling.” He kisses her cheek, the warm scent of her — he gets out of bed. Takes
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