Sofia's Story, page 3
The station master knew her, of course, and he took her penny and gave her a return ticket with a gentle smile and barely a murmur. He knows, she thought, and was glad he did not try to offer words of condolence.
When the train’s familiar rattle and sway paused at South Yarra station where she usually disembarked, Sofia remained on board. Exiting instead at Flinders Street Station, she walked up the ramp, through the turn-style, and out under the clocks. The street was busy; it always was. After crossing the road and veering right, she felt breathless as she ascended the hill. The church was only three blocks away, a journey which she’d normally walked with ease, pushing Scotty in his pram before her, but not today. More than once, she needed to sit and rest.
Not only was Sofia’s body exhausted, but so was her mind, and when she saw a low stone ledge beside a stairwell, she stopped and sat. And when she leant forward to rest her head on her arms, she fell asleep. Sofia only knew this when, opening her eyes sometime later, it was obvious the sun had moved across the sky and clouds had formed. Sofia struggled to her feet and then continued walking towards the church, whose towering steeple was visible against the backdrop of heaving black clouds.
Jesus, Mary, Mother of God, please look after my baby... Jesus, Mary, Mother of God, please keep Jack safe... The words repeated themselves, a chant whose rhythm matched the clip of her heels against the pavement as she made her way up the hill.
But when Sofia ascended the final rise and looked across the street to the main entrance of St Patrick’s, she was filled with disappointment. The iron gates of the main entrance were closed, as were the arched doors leading into the cathedral. In disbelief, she walked around the block. St Patrick’s had many entrances, and Sofia hoped to see another of its doors standing open. Or if not, perhaps a gate into the garden might be ajar, which would allow her to access the beautiful garden where she could rest on a bench or sit at the base of one of the saints’ statues and pray.
The sky seemed darker, and not only because of the heavy clouds overhead. The sun was sinking and Sofia realised it was late afternoon. Again, she walked the periphery of the church and noticed a flickering light through the stained-glass windows.
“Father, are you there?” Her voice sounded feeble, and Sofia knew even if someone was inside, they wouldn’t hear her.
As the grey sky deepened into twilight, Sofia waited, hoping perhaps there’d be an evening mass. But as time passed, there was no sign of people arriving, or movement from within the church. Moisture filled the air, and Sofia knew a shower of rain was barely minutes away. She pulled her cardigan around her shoulders and brushed her tear filled eyes. Was it possible even God had abandoned her?
Sofia looked down the road where the shadowy silhouette of the gateway into the Fitzroy garden was visible. Perhaps the conservatory might be open, or even Cook’s Cottage? Either would offer shelter from the rain.
* * *
She wandered through the park until she heard the voices of two men arguing. One seemed determined to sleep on the bench he lay upon, and the other voice belonged to a policeman who was trying to move him along. The coarseness of the exchange caused Sofia to shudder in fear, and she gathered her arms across her body and retreated in the direction she’d arrived as quickly as she could. She stumbled trying to follow the path in the darkness which had descended, and balked more than once as the shapes of the bushes surrounding her appeared threatening. The familiar walkways of the park, lovely by day, were now shadowy and menacing, and Sofia knew it was not wise to shelter there.
Reaching the road, Sofia turned leftward and stumbled towards Flinders Street Station, and was glad when the lights of the intersection in the distance came into view. Droplets of rain felt like chilly darts on her forehead and she tried to walk faster. A chant from within her again picked up the repetitious pace of her footsteps. What to do, what to do.... Jesus, Mary, Mother of God.... Please care for my baby... Jesús, Maria, madre de Dios... Please keep Jack safe.
Just as the rain set into a steady downpour, Sofia arrived at the building opposite Flinders Street Station whose stairs led to a sheltered doorway, and Sofia climbed them. Once out of the rain, she sank down and pulled her now soaking cardigan tightly around her shoulders. What next? Return to Montsalvat? Go back to Jack? Bring the curse of death to him? Sofia desperately needed direction from God.
As she gazed at the lights of the station across the intersection, her eyes felt heavy. She knew what she would do. She’d wait here on the steps until sunrise, and then she’d return to St Patrick’s. Here the street lamps offered safety, and in the morning she’d walk back up the hill to the cathedral. Surely the priest would be there then! She’d speak to him of the curse and he’d offer her some guidance and they could light a candle and offer prayers for Scotty and Jack.
* * *
‘Miss, miss, are you alright?’
‘You can’t stay here, love. This is no place for a lady. Where do you live?’
Coming awake, Sofia was startled by the vision of a woman with a halo bending down over her and the shape of a second figure alongside her. Were they a pair of spirits here to guide her?
‘Miss, please. It’s raining... you’re getting a bloody soaking.’
Sofia realised these were not spirits, but earthbound creatures. Women, one with fair hair and a strong fragrance of perfume, the other, taller and with a raspy voice possibly caused by the cigarette whose tip glowed as she took a deep drag.
‘I’m waiting for the priest,’ she told them.
‘What did she say, Shirl?’
Sofia attempted to repeat the words, but her tongue felt thick and the dryness of her mouth made her voice raspy.
‘I don’t know... has she been drinking?’ the voice to her right asked.
‘I can’t see any bottles, nor can I smell anything...’
Sofia pulled herself upright, and looking around her, she tried to make sense of why she was sitting on these steps in the dark with these two women.
Jesus, Mary... Mother of God... please keep me safe.... Where was God? Where was Jesus and Mary?
Loneliness shrouded Sofia like a damp fog, and she shivered. She scrubbed at her cheeks with the back of her hand to mop up the salty tears she could feel trickling into the creases of her mouth.
‘She’s crying—has she been hurt? I hope no bastard’s got at her!’
‘Love, can you tell us your name? Where do you live?...’
‘Vivo en Montsalvat.’
‘I don’t think she’s speaking English. What do you think? Should we call someone?’
‘Not the police, the mongrels.’
‘Certainly not. What about Mrs Whyte? She might have a bed.’
‘It’s late... after ten... Here, love, take my coat, you’re freezing!’
The coat was prickly and reeked with the overpowering odour of stale perfume. Nonetheless, Sofia leaned forward, welcoming the warmth of the fabric around her shoulders and the softness of its fur-lined collar against her neck
‘Should we check if she’s got money, Lydia? There’s a handbag there.’
‘Yes, do it. If we don’t, you can bet your life someone will, and they’ll be happy enough to take it for their own.’ She said then to Sofia, ‘Love, we’re going to check your purse. We’re not here to rob you. You don’t need to worry. We just want to get you off the streets—get you into a taxi and take you somewhere safe for the night.’
‘Yes, there’s a pound note here. Do you think she’d mind if we use it?’
‘Can’t see she has much choice, to be honest. Wait, there’s Frank over on the corner. He’ll take her to Mrs Whyte’s. Perhaps we should go with her... anything could happen!’
‘Yoo-hoo, Frank!’
‘Ladies—a quiet night for you?’ The man’s voice came from the base of the stairs.
‘You know how it is. Give it another hour and the johns will be prowling the streets.’
‘Who have you got there, Shirley? Hasn’t been drinking, has she? I don’t want vomit in my taxi. You know it takes weeks to get rid of the stench!’
‘No, Frank, nothing like that. We’ve never seen her before. She’s not one of the usual girls, and look at how she’s dressed. Perhaps her husband’s thrown her out, or something. We think we should get her to Mrs Whyte’s place.’
‘Whatever you say, Shirl. I hope you’ve got some money tonight! I am not a charity, you know.’
Sofia allowed the women to guide her down the steps and across to the taxi resting at the curbside.
‘We’re coming too, Frank,’ Shirley said before encouraging Sofia into the back seat. As they squeezed in, Shirley on one side of her, Lydia on the other, Sofia’s sense of disconnection from the world increased. She fought to regain control. No, she should be saying. Not this way! Take me to Saint Patrick’s; take me to God. But the words were lost somewhere between her mind and mouth. Instead, she stared out the window into the blackness of the night, wondering what she was doing, enveloped in the warmth of a stranger’s jacket, seated between these ladies who seemed intent on protecting her, riding through the dark streets with the pounding of raindrops drumming on the rooftop of the vehicle.
‘God, look at this rain now! It’s really coming down!’
‘Yes. Well, we can kiss goodbye any chances of earning a pound tonight! There will be no decent customers out in this weather.’
Frank grunted, and their voices fell into silence as the taxi driver and working girls alike accepted that the wet night ahead offered slim prospects of trade for them.
Finally, the taxi turned into a quiet street, and weaved left and right before coming to rest. The back door opened, and the resourcefulness of the girls seemed limitless as the fair one—Shirley—rummaged in a large bag for an umbrella, which she opened and held over Sofia before enticing her along a narrow pathway towards a front porch.
‘Come on, Sofia. This is Melrose House. You will be dry and warm here, and Mrs Whyte will find a bed for you for the night. She’s marvellous. She’ll get you sorted.’
Chapter 5
Nothing could describe how strange Sofia felt the following morning when she woke between crisp, clean white sheets, in a strange room. Aside from the bed, its furnishings included an old-fashioned dressing table with a cracked mirror and a mismatched wardrobe.
‘Ma’am, would you like a cuppa?’ The face peering at her was dark, belonging to a young Aboriginal girl, perhaps fourteen years old.
Sofia stared at her, bewildered, and without saying anything more, the girl placed a floral cup and saucer on the bedside table and then left the room.
Minutes later, a second person appeared. This time it was a woman of perhaps sixty years of age, who introduced herself as Mrs Whyte.
‘Good morning, lovey. Have you got a name? We’ve got more than one “love” here, and it can get a little confusing. Names can be very helpful...’ She chuckled at her joke.
‘Sofia...’ The word felt strange as it crossed her lips. Her throat was dry, and she reached for the cup to take a sip of tea.
‘Sofia. Pleased to meet you. Do you have a surname?’
Sofia stared back at her. Did she? Her mind was blank.
‘Not to worry; it’s not necessary. Sofia will do us fine. Do you remember anything about last night? A couple of the girls in the city brought you here. They were worried about you—you didn’t belong on the corner where they found you. They’d know, of course. Quite territorial, they are, and they know where everybody belongs. You were in their spot. Lucky for you, Lydia and Shirley are good types. Some of the others may not have been so caring.’
Sofia’s recollections of the previous night were a hazy blur of muffled voices, tumultuous rain, driving through dark streets, and then being brought into this room.
‘Sofia... not Sophie...? Sofia. I don’t want to pry, but I do want to make sure we have our bases covered. I’ll ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind. Firstly, are you in any pain? Have you been injured?’
‘No... no...’ Sofia could feel the words at the base of her throat, but they wouldn’t come out.
‘Is there anyone else we should be thinking about? Any children, perhaps?’
Children! Tears ran down Sofia’s cheeks, and she shook her head before lying back against the pillow and turning her face to the wall.
‘Okay, love. I will leave you to rest for a bit. We can have another talk later. Please be assured, you are safe here. Concentrate on getting some more sleep. Trust me, it’s your best medicine.’
Sofia slept on and off throughout the day. Turning over from time to time, she was conscious of sunlight fading to grey to black and then to pink and gold.
More than once, Sofia sensed movement in the room. On hearing crockery rattling close to her ear, she opened her eyes to see a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches resting on the bedside table. Later, when sunshine filtered through the lace curtains, Mrs Whyte appeared with the young Aboriginal girl, whom she introduced as Esther, and they encouraged Sofia to sit on the side of the bed and wash her face and hands in the basin they’d brought. She then changed into the dress they offered, pale blue with white flowers, and a broad belt.
‘I don’t mean to be cruel, Sofia but it’s lunchtime. You’ve been sleeping for almost thirty hours and it’s time for you to get up for a bit. Come and sit outside in the sunshine. A couple of our ladies are having a cuppa out there.’
Sofia knew Mrs Whyte was right. It was time to leave the bedroom. She followed her through the house to the garden, taking the vacant seat Mrs Whyte offered and accepting the plate of cold meat and salad Esther placed before her.
‘Ladies, this is Sofia. Sofia, this is Marie and Vera.’ The two ladies gave Sofia a quick nod before continuing their conversation. Marie had a black eye and plenty to say about the man who’d inflicted it, prefacing each sentence with “The Bastard, this” and “The Bastard, that,” as she gave a detailed account of the many times his stray fists had left their mark on her.
‘I’m glad the children were away this time. They didn’t see anything.’ However, it emerged her children were expected home from their boarding school the following day—perhaps her sister might take them for a couple of weeks. Her sister was no pushover Marie explained. If The Bastard turned up on her doorstep, he’d get his marching orders!
The second lady, Vera, was quiet, although as she picked through her meal, she offered enough nods of agreement accompanied by ahs and tut-tutting to encourage Marie with her story. Sofia noticed Vera’s arm was in a sling. Surely it hadn’t been broken by her husband!
* * *
After lunch, Mrs Whyte invited Sofia into the lounge and gently questioned her. Was there any family, perhaps a sister or parents who ought to be contacted? Told where she was?
Although Mrs Whyte’s questions made perfect sense to Sofia, her mind was in turmoil. She couldn’t remember anything beyond hours of walking around a church whose doors had been closed to her, and then shivering on the stairs in the rain until the ladies had brought her here. Additionally, it seemed her voice had left her. Whenever she replied, her answers came out as a whisper of barely audible Spanish.
‘No,’ she tried to say. ‘Nobody.’
The next morning Sofia rose early, dressed and made her bed. She then took herself to the kitchen, where Esther had the stove alight and a kettle bubbling away on the hob. When Sofia glanced at her, she gave a sharp nod towards the stove.
‘Help yourself, Ma’am. The water’s boiled and the teapot’s on the bench. Here, I’ll get the cosy for you; it’s cold today.’ Sofia realised Esther had thought she wanted a cup of tea.
A few minutes later, glad for the warmth of the hot cup between her hands, Sofia accepted Esther’s offer to sit on a chair close to the fireplace. The room was chilly, with a draft seeping through the cracks in the wooden window frame, and the warmth the stove offered was welcome. Being in the unfamiliar kitchen felt peculiar, but in its own way comforting. Rows of cannisters were set on a shelf: flour and sugar and tea. These made sense to Sofia in a world where little else did.
Sofia watched the firm movements of Esther’s hands as she kneaded and pounded a lump of dough in the manner of one who’d done it a thousand times. Beyond her, Sofia caught sight of a bowl of lemons, and beside the stove stood a bottle of oil.
Without speaking, Sofia took her cup to the sink where she found a stack of dishes and cutlery waiting to be washed. Feeling Esther’s eyes upon her, Sofia paused. Perhaps she shouldn’t be touching things in Esther’s kitchen. The young girl smiled and nodded though, and Sofia proceeded, first filling the basin with cold water, then adding hot water from the kettle and using the brush in the sink, she washed the dishes.
Mrs Whyte appeared at the doorway and must have noticed Sofia eyeing the flour cannister as she washed.
‘You are welcome to cook if you like, Sofia. Esther will give you anything you need. Perhaps you’d like to make scones or some biscuits for morning tea?’
Sofia nodded. She’d make magdelenas. They were the easiest thing in the world to bake; she’d been cooking them since she was a child—her father and brother loved the lemon flavoured muffins, and she could never make enough to satisfy them.
* * *
The fourth morning, Sofia swept the house from front to back, finding the busyness gratifying. When she finished the floors, she returned to the kitchen, where Esther was cutting a slab of raw beef into cubes. Without asking, Sofia lifted the basin of beans from the bench onto her lap, then proceeded to top, tail and slice them. Afterwards she helped tidy the kitchen, set out the lunch plates, dish up the meal and then, again, to clean and tidy.
* * *
A number of times through the following days, Mrs Whyte tried to draw Sofia into conversation.
‘Sofia, I can see you love cooking. Do you have a job in a commercial kitchen? Perhaps at one of the hotels, or at a hospital?’
‘No... sí... Galleria Touloisie.’ That had been her job. Work Sofia loved, cooking for her café and managing the art gallery in Malaga. The memories of days spent marinating olives and baking polverones and roscos fritos in her large sun-filled kitchen blended with other memories; hours she’d spent in another kitchen. One where she’d chopped vegetables alongside a tall lady with blond hair, and together they’d laughed and chatted as they floured bite-sized chunks of beef. Was that her job, too? The confusion of memories bothered Sofia, and her eyes filled with tears. Was there somewhere she should be? Something she was supposed to be doing?
