Sofia's Story, page 5
* * *
As the days passed, Sofia became consumed by her memories of her home in Spain. Vivid images of the orchard overlooking the sea and the magnolia tree in the centre of the courtyard returned. She could smell the scent of orange blossom and hear the laughter in her papa’s voice as he tasted her marinated olives and suggested she’d oversalted them. How he loved to tease her! But Sofia never minded because she knew for all of his teasing, he was very proud of her. Proud of her efforts in taking on the family’s cooking at such a young age, and for the way she’d cared for the art gallery, rehanging the paintings to display them to advantage, and procuring the works of local artisans to be sold to tourists. And even though Sofia didn’t paint, her insightfulness had often impressed him, and he frequently included her when he and Andres discussed their work.
* * *
When Sofia glanced at the open newspaper on the backroom table, an advertisement caught her attention, and she knew it was no accident. Last Chance to Travel to London for £35, she read. The P&O Cruise Company was offering tickets on the Strathnaver, departing Port Phillip Bay on Friday. Interested parties should contact the Collins Street office immediately.
Spain to London to Australia. Sofia had made that journey before. Australia to London to Spain would be easy. Surely, this advertisement had been placed to beckon her home.
Yes, of course she must go; once she was home, the aching void in her soul would be filled. There, she’d marinate the olives and make almond cake for Papa and Andres. She and Papa would work in the garden, and afterwards the men would paint, and she would attend to the gallery.
Thinking about her plan, Sofia was excited. Now she had a purpose, where before she had none. She tore the advertisement from the paper and considered her next move. She would need to go in to the city soon, if she was to purchase a ticket on the Strathnaver. While Sofia considered telling Mrs Whyte about her decision to return to Spain, a part of her resisted, sure she’d be discouraged from making the journey.
As it emerged, the following morning Mrs Whyte had other things on her mind. Mavis, the solicitor’s wife, had returned to Melrose House after breakfast, with not one, but two black eyes and a nose so swollen, she could barely breathe. Additionally, she had a bald patch on one side of her scalp, and a faded yellow discolouration down her left temple. Sofia assisted Mrs Whyte as she attended to Mavis’ wounds.
‘He could have killed you, damn it! I told you this has got to stop.’ Mrs Whyte said.
‘He loves me...’ The words were muffled through Mavis’ blocked nose and the tears streaming down her face. Mrs Whyte asked Sofia to help by squeezing the bridge of Mavis’ nose, in a bid to staunch the bleeding that was leaving bright red splashes on the kitchen floor as well as on Mavis’ dress.
‘Oh, he loves you, does he? Mrs Whyte said. ‘Is this what you call love? Esther, get us the mirror, will you please? Let’s show Mavis exactly how much her Harold loves her!’
Sofia continued wiping the blood from the floor while Mavis sat on a chair in the kitchen, allowing the extent of Harold’s love to be assessed. She knew from the curses flowing from Mrs Whyte’s tongue, that today she was furious. Furious at Harold for his beatings and furious at Mavis because she kept going back for them. Furious at the government, whose laws said if a woman left her husband, she’d be abandoning her children and her security. At the publicans who happily served pints of beer to a drunken violent man, fuelling his temper and dulling his reason. At the church who told women it was a sin to leave their husbands with whom they’d vowed to stay ‘til death did them part’, and at the priests who insisted women had no alternative but to remain faithful to their promise to ‘love, honour and obey’ the abusive men they’d married. Mrs Whyte was furious with the police, so quick to arrest a man for striking another in the street, but averting their eyes to those same men when they beat their women and children within an inch of their lives.
When the bleeding refused to stop, Mrs Whyte decided Mavis needed treatment at the hospital. ‘And after that, Mavis my dear, we are going to pay a visit to Sergeant Davis. Let him make what he will of your black eyes and broken nose’.
On and on, she went, berating the multitude of systems who conspired to protect men and fail women, and Sofia was sure if Mrs Whyte could, she’d have marched Mavis through every institution through to Parliament House and the high courts to display the indisputable testimony of the crimes far too many men inflicted upon their wives. Sofia knew the sergeant, his men and anyone within earshot were about to get the fullness of Mrs Whyte’s fury.
Although Sofia felt dreadful for Mavis, and disturbed to see Mrs Whyte so very angry, her decision to remain quiet about her plans for the day seemed sensible; Mrs Whyte had far more important things to be thinking about than Sofia making a trip to the city. It was after nine when the women left the house and at ten AM, dressed in a clean frock, Sofia made her own call for a taxi then stood outside Melrose House, waiting for it to arrive.
* * *
It wasn’t Frank who drove the cab today, but rather a small, dark-haired man with a friendly manner. He leapt out and, with a gallant sweep, opened the door for Sofia. Her instructions for him were straightforward: she’d rehearsed the words over and over in her mind. To board the ship, she needed only two things, money and a ticket, and today she intended to get both.
‘Please sir, can you take me to the Commonwealth Bank in Flinders Street?’
The drive into the city took barely fifteen minutes, and as the taxi drew to the curb, Sofia thrust a slip of paper before him, showing the address of her next destination: the P&O Cruise Company’s office in Collins Street. She was disappointed when he shook his head.
‘Sorry, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘I am not allowed to wait here. But when you’ve completed your business at the bank, walk down the road—there, you will find a dozen taxis, any of whom would be pleased to take you.’ Sofia looked at where he was pointing and was relieved to see, barely one hundred yards away, a row of cabs awaiting customers.
* * *
The creak of the glass doors sounded loud to Sofia, as did the sound of her footsteps echoing through the large, empty space as she approached the long counter that separated clients from the tellers. Through the glass of one of the cubicles, Sofia could see a young woman with a thick black fringe who was examining her fingernails.
‘I’d like to withdraw two hundred pounds, please.’ Sofia’s request seemed to startle the girl into wakefulness.
‘Oh... ah... Have you got your passbook with you?’ the girl asked, her alert eyes scanning Sofia’s face with interest.
‘Sí, yes... here.’
‘Good-oh. Nonetheless, I’ll have to get the manager for this.’ The girl vanished before Sofia had time to respond.
The manager! Really—this had never happened before. A tremor of anxiety flickered through Sofia. Was the manager going to deny her her money? For it was hers. More than once, Sofia had come to this very branch and withdrawn money to buy a present or shoes or a winter coat for herself, and never before had her request been questioned. Certainly, those had been small amounts, five pounds or perhaps ten. Two hundred pounds was a large sum, but she was travelling across the world.
The manager introduced himself as Mr Stevens and invited Sofia into his office. As she walked with him, she sensed the eyes of the teller watching her. Sofia felt self-conscious. The dress she wore was green and slightly oversized, for the yellow one she preferred was in the dirty laundry basket, and her brown shoes—also from the ‘communal property’, as Mrs Whyte referred to it—fitted well enough, but in no way matched her dress or handbag.
‘Good morning, Mrs Tomlinson. Thank you for seeing me. I won’t keep you a minute. You wish to withdraw two hundred pounds today, is that correct?’
‘Yes, Mr Stevens, thank you.’
‘And do you have some identification beyond the passbook? A formality, of course, but for amounts over one hundred pounds, we like to have proof of identification. Perhaps a utility bill or some such?’
Identification? Trying to control her breathing, Sofia rummaged through her bag, doubting she carried anything remotely like a utility bill. There was a comb, a neatly folded handkerchief and a small change purse. She opened a side pocket and found two slips of paper. One was an old dry-cleaning bill for Jack’s work jacket, the other the note Mrs Whyte had given her recently, with the telephone number of Melrose House printed on it.
Still searching for a document to please the bank manager, Sofia opened a second pocket, where she found a small purple booklet. Of course, it was her passport. It had been a permanent fixture in this handbag since she’d first arrived in Australia, along with her bank passbook. Jack had told her to keep it close in case they ever found themselves in a situation where her nationality was questioned.
‘Let’s have a look at those couple of papers, Mrs Tomlinson. I’d say they’ll do us.’
Sofia passed over the documents on the table in front of her, and watched as Mr Stevens carefully filled out the withdrawal form, ticking a box saying identification had been sighted. After saying ‘So this is your phone number?’ to which Sofia nodded, he jotted down the digits.
‘I don’t wish to pry, Mrs Tomlinson, but you are alone... Mr Tomlinson has not come in with you today?’
Sofia stared at the manager and inhaling deeply fought down the urge to weep which had been steadily rising along with a dozen memories of Jack, ever since she’d entered his office. Words failed her, for his question was like sandpaper grating against her heart. Tears welled up as she shook her head.
‘No, estoy aqui solo.’
‘Sorry, Mrs Tomlinson. I don’t speak Spanish!’ Mr Stevens laughed as though he’d made a joke. ‘However, two hundred pounds is a large amount of money to be carrying about in your handbag. Are you sure you’ll be alright with it?’
‘Sí. Yes, I will be fine.’ Thankfully, Sofia’s English had returned; however, her voice seemed to have vanished, for the words came out in barely a whisper.
‘How would you like the notes, Mrs Tomlinson?’
Sofia shook her head, unsure of his meaning.
‘Let’s say I give you four five-pound notes for your purse, and we put the remainder in an envelope which you can put in your handbag? Tuck it away in one of those side pockets. It should be safe there... What do you say?’
‘Fifty pounds for my purse, please.’
‘Of course. As you wish, Mrs Tomlinson,’ he said, adjusting the numbers he’d recorded on the withdrawal form.
To Sofia’s relief, Mr Stevens returned his pen to its stand and pushed back his chair. The inquisition was over. He stood, assisted her from her chair, and walked her to the door.
‘Okay, Mrs Tomlinson. Give this note to the teller; see Patricia over there—she’ll get you sorted. You take care now, won’t you?’
‘Sí, gracias.’ Sofia gave him what she hoped was a calm smile, but even so she felt his eyes upon her as she walked towards the counter and passed the form to the woman.
‘All sorted now, are we, ma’am? Very good... You’ll be able to buy a few pretty frocks with this little stash, I’d say!’
Accepting the envelope filled with the notes, Sofia replied, ‘Gracias.’ She followed Mr Stevens’ recommendation, tucking the envelope into her handbag alongside her passbook and passport, then folding the ten-pound notes, she placed them in her purse. It was a lot of money, certainly, and dividing it this way seemed sensible.
Sofia stepped out into the sunshine, walked to the taxi rank, and minutes later, she was set outside the P&O Travel Agency.
* * *
Already three booths were occupied with people seeking travel advice, and Sofia hoped the advertised tickets were not all taken. A young man greeted her, and she handed the now well-worn newspaper clipping to him. He studied it and nodded.
‘So, madam, you would like a berth on the Strathnaver, leaving for London on the thirteenth of July—tomorrow?’
‘Sí, gracia. I’d like to go to Spain,’ Sofia replied.
‘Spain! It’s really much too late for me to organise your passage through to Spain; you will have to make those arrangements once you are in England. For now, we’ll just get you over to London, if that’s alright. Come and have a seat, here, while I jot down a few details. Lucky you! There are barely a dozen tickets left, and at a good price too, I must say!’
‘Gracias...thank you, sir.’
‘So, have you got your passport with you?’
If it hadn’t been for her search for identification in the bank, Sofia would not have remembered the passport tucked into the concealed pocket of her handbag. Confidently she reached for it; reassured such a coincidence could only mean she was destined to take this trip.
‘Hmmm,’ the man muttered as he flicked through the booklet before turning it over in his hands. ‘I don’t see too many of these! Spanish—very well, now for your ticket. I need to record a few details and then you’ll be cruising, so to speak.’
All it took was ten minutes for the paperwork to be completed, Sofia to add her signature, the ticket to be drawn up and inserted into a cardboard fold, and the transaction of thirty-five pounds to take place.
‘Now, madam, you realise it is an early departure—you’ll need to be at the docks by seven AM. Will you manage? It’s very important we get everybody on board by nine so the ship can be on its way. I can’t promise they would wait for late arrivals.’
‘Sí, I’ll be there. I will catch a taxi.’
‘Very good. Here are a few pamphlets you might like to look at. A bit of general information about P&O’s trips, and also some information on travel to France and Spain you might find helpful. Bon voyage and all that! I wish it were me... I’d love to be out of this office and seeing the world!’
‘Gracias, señor. Thank you for your assistance!’
As she returned along Swanson Street, Sofia felt dazed. She could barely believe she held a ticket which would take her back to Spain, or at least nearly there. London was more than halfway, she concluded. Once there, she could be home in a matter of days.
Chapter 8
The following morning, when Sofia rose from her bed and glanced out of her window, the last of the stars still twinkled in the breaking dawn sky. Ten minutes to five, the clock in the kitchen told her. It was too early for Esther to be up; she usually arrived to light the fire in the kitchen stove at six AM, and Mrs Whyte rarely appeared before seven.
Methodically, Sofia laid out the garments she’d been wearing over the last few weeks. They were hers, but not hers. In her first week at Melrose House, Mrs Whyte had shown Sofia the collection of dresses, underwear, petticoats and shoes kept in the storeroom for emergencies, all neatly folded on the shelves which were beside other shelves, ones Sofia always ignored. The shelves holding stacks of snow-white nappies, tiny singlets, baby nighties, knitted garments and piles of children’s wear. When Sofia first arrived, she’d been reluctant to wear the dresses in this room, sure they belonged to someone else. But Mrs Whyte had been insistent.
‘No, Sofia, take whatever you like. These clothes are for anyone who needs them. I keep them here because, like you, many women arrive here unexpectedly.’
And when on the previous evening Sofia had collected two more dresses for her journey, she’d found a small suitcase amongst the shelves of shoes. She was sure that, like the other garments, Mrs Whyte would be glad to see the case prove useful to someone. Taking it, she’d returned to her room and packed her belongings.
Now, she removed the sheets and pillowcases from her bed and took them to the laundry. Returning, the kitchen clock revealed it was five forty-five; time to phone the taxi.
Before making the call, Sofia returned to her room and emptied her bag of the pamphlets and dockets she’d accumulated from the travel agent the previous day. She then checked that her ticket, passport, passbook and envelope of cash were safely stored in the side pocket.
As she sorted out the documents, Sofia was torn, wanting dearly to wake Mrs Whyte and tell her she was leaving and to thank her for the kindness she’d shown. But she didn’t; she knew taking a trip to Copelen Street, and even into the city as she’d done the previous day, was one thing, but to venture across the world, was altogether different. And having set her mind on going home, she couldn’t risk being stopped by anyone, including Mrs Whyte.
Instead, taking a ten-pound note from her purse, Sofia set it upon the folded blankets she’d placed on the end of her bed, where she knew it would be found by either Esther or Mrs Whyte later in the morning.
Next, she called for a taxi. Then quietly she opened the front door, walked to the front gate and waited. She listened to the melodious morning song of magpies and the sounds of bottles clinking to the sway of the Clydesdales pulling the milkman’s cart along the street. Her taxi arrived to collect her within minutes, and rapidly navigated the quiet streets, delivering Sofia to Port Melbourne’s docks at six twenty-five.
Chapter 9
PART TWO - The Strathnaver
Despite the early hour, Sofia was not the first passenger to arrive at Station Pier. Dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of people were present, resting beside their portmanteaus, valises and hatboxes in readiness for their voyage. Others walked up and down the length of the pier, gazing at the enormous ship. Already its drawbridge was lowered, although the chain across its entry prevented the Melbourne passengers from boarding.
