Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Newcastle
Mima stared at the ceiling fan overhead as it spun around and around. It squeaked with every rotation as though ready to fall from the ceiling. She was tired after a long shift on the maternity ward. Her roommate was reading in bed, but Mima was restless.
“We should go out. It’s still early,” she said.
Tilda frowned over her glasses. “And do what?”
“Luca’s band is playing tonight at the Palais Royale. We could get a drink at a milk bar, then dance the rest of the night. It’d be fantastic.”
“Just the two of us? In a dance hall?” Tilda huffed. “I hardly think so. What would people think? They’d say we’re loose.”
“You worry far too much what other people think,” Mima replied. “You get one life, my girl. When are you gonna start living it?”
Tilda folded the book shut in her lap. “And you worry far too little what others think. It’s going to get you into trouble. Mark my words.”
“Pffft.” Mima shook her head. “If Edie were here…”
Tilda rolled her eyes. “If Edie were here, if Edie were here… you say that so often, I wonder you don’t get it tattooed on your shoulder.”
“Maybe I will,” Mima replied with a sullen scowl. “And you can get a tattoo of your mother, you never stop talking about her.”
Tilda gasped. “Well, I never…Only carnival women and prostitutes get tattoos!”
“Well, consider me open for business!” Anger clenched in her gut. She was sick of the rules, the self-righteous judgements. Sick of everything.
Mima sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
The mattress was hard beneath her rear end.
She scowled deeper still. How were they supposed to work on their feet all day when they had to sleep on a pallet like this?
The hospital was no fun. It was all work, no play.
And no gratitude for everything they did.
The food was bland, the company boring, and Mima’d had enough.
Tilda’s mouth hung open. Her eyes were wide.
She watched Mima with horror, seemingly dumbstruck.
Then she swallowed and spoke in a trembling voice.
“You should stay away from that man. He’s going to get you into trouble.
I’m serious, Mima. Your future isn’t something to sneer at.
You could destroy it all. Why don’t you come to church with us on Sunday?
There are so many nice young men there…”
Mima hadn’t been to church in months. She was angry.
Angry with God, with her parents, her friends.
Angry with the sister in charge, and in that moment, with Tilda.
It wasn’t fair. None of it was—she’d lost a nice young man already.
She’d tried to do things the right way. She fell in love and got engaged, and all that had resulted in was a broken heart and a deep desire to sink herself into the bottom of a bottle of rum or dance until her feet bled.
“Maybe Luca is a nice young man. You don’t know him.
And I’ve had enough of your judgemental attitude.
I’m perfectly fine living my life the way that I choose.
I am an adult, after all, and tonight I’m going out on my own.
” She stood to her feet and raised her chin as though challenging Tilda to stop her.
Tilda pressed her lips into a thin line and shook her head, then opened her book and pretended to read.
Mima got dressed, dabbed on some blush and lipstick, curled her hair and left the dormitory.
Tilda didn’t look up again from her book, but Mima could sense the tension between them.
Why was Tilda such a stick in the mud? She never wanted to do anything fun.
She always complained whenever Mima had a good time.
You couldn’t pay Mima sixpence to be a wowser like Tilda.
She and the other midwives didn’t understand.
All they wanted was to be good little girls who listened to their mothers and were respectable so they could find a handsome man to marry.
But Mima wanted more than that. She wanted this twisted knot inside to finally go away.
She longed to feel something more than anger and sadness.
If only she could make the loneliness fly off into the sunset and leave her with a whole heart again, she would be happy.
But how could she do that without setting herself free from all of these expectations?
She’d always hated rules. Never liked her parents telling her what to do.
Never wanted to be the good girl, the one who did as she was told.
She’d been a rebellious child, and now she wanted nothing more than to rebel against the system that had broken her heart by taking the man she loved from her to fight a distant war.
The bus ride downtown was bustling and busy with commuters.
Mima had to stand towards the back of the bus, her heels made her feet ache.
As twilight filtered across the landscape, lights began to sparkle throughout the city.
Street lamps blinked on. The noise of vehicles growled along the street as they dodged around bakery wagons, horses pulled deliveries into neighbourhoods, and men bicycled home from work or strode out for a night on the town with newsboy caps and fedoras pulled low.
The city was alive, and Mima felt alive in it.
She held on to the metal pole that kept her steady inside the speeding bus.
Would Luca be happy to see her? Would he be surprised?
They’d spent some time together since she’d been rescued by him a month earlier.
He’d taken her to the cinema, they’d walked along the beach, and they’d eaten ice cream.
Always with a group of friends, never alone.
He’d told her he was playing at the dance hall tonight, but he hadn’t invited her.
Did that mean he didn’t want her there, or was it simply because he was working and wouldn’t be able to give her much attention? She’d find out soon enough.
Even with as much time as they’d spent together and the dates he’d taken her on, she wasn’t sure how he felt about her.
He hadn’t tried to hold her hand, hadn’t flirted with her any more than he did with the other girls.
He’d shown her special attention, but was it enough?
Would he ask her to marry him? She wasn’t certain.
And perhaps he wasn’t the marrying kind.
He was a musician, after all, and from what she could ascertain, he often stayed up all night, slept all day, got drunk and smoked cigarettes.
He’d never included her in any of it. He had always been respectful and treated her like a lady.
She could only assume it was because he saw her as the type of woman you take home to your mother, not one for a good time.
It was true—she was the marrying type. It was what she wanted, in the end.
But did that mean she couldn’t enjoy herself along the way?
She wanted to feel things, to try things, to really live.
And there was something about Luca that made her believe he was exactly the kind of man who could help her with that.
As the double-decker bus rumbled away from the station, Mima spun on her heel to face the throngs of people bustling along Hunter Street.
The road was lined with parked cars—FJ Holdens and their torpedo tail lights and chubby Morris Minors with their split windscreens.
There was even an occasional flashy American import—a Chevy Styleline Deluxe with the unique chrome grill like bared teeth, and a hybrid Plymouth Coupe transformed into a hard-working Aussie ute, after the strict post-war import restrictions on fully assembled cars in Australia gave people ideas.
Mima wished she had a car. She was sick of catching the bus everywhere.
But Luca had one, and so far, he’d driven her around in it twice.
His was an old Holden with the bumper half hanging off and rust holes along one side where someone had dinged it years earlier, but he loved it, and she loved the freedom it gave them.
The dance hall was a short walk from the bus station.
Mima ducked and wove through the crowds to the Palais Royale.
As she passed them, the pubs were closing.
It was six pm and young men tumbled out of the bars, hooting, hollering and striding in clumps towards the dance hall.
They smelled of beer and cigarette smoke.
Some still had clouds of smoke wafting around them as they strolled along, hands pushed deep into their pockets.
Some slapped each other on the back and stumbled about as they made their way.
Mima fell into step with them, self conscious at being a little too visible walking alone.
There were whistles and a few bumps from the men as they eyed her with interest. What was she doing out by herself?
The question registered in the men’s eyes.
But she tipped her chin up to walk with as much feigned confidence as she could muster.
When the Palais came into view, Mima grinned to herself.
It had a large, sweeping, curved entrance with the name painted in large letters across it.
She stepped inside and was immediately transported into a paradise.
The darkening and dirty streets of industrial Newcastle were left behind, and instead, she found herself standing on polished terrazzo flooring, with vibrant Art Deco-styled plaster curving around the outside of the room and over the ceiling.
She was pushed along by the crowd through the foyer to the box office and stood in line, her heart in her throat.
What would she do when she entered the main ballroom? Stand by herself against the wall? Hope someone would invite her to join them? Beg for a dance partner? Would she find Luca? There were so many people. Her pulse raced, and sweat trickled down her spine.