The train pulled into Spencer Street Station and Beth stood on the platform overwhelmed by the noise and the rush. She hadn’t ever been to Melbourne and she didn’t know which way to go. There were people going in all directions so she followed the largest flow of people and found herself standing on Spencer Street looking up at a street sign that said Collins Street. Men hurried past, sometimes bumping into her and muttering Sorry love, sometimes bumping into her and nearly knocking her off her feet and not apologising at all. A group of twenty or so soldiers in uniform stood on the other side of the road, then together they crossed like a herd of oncoming cattle and she found herself swamped by them as they surrounded her and then moved on without a backward glance. Pedestrians played Russian roulette with the horse-drawn cabs and motor vehicles. Trams rang their bells as they played follow the leader up the street and down again.
Beth felt the heat rising from the asphalt footpaths melting the bottom of her shoes. There was not a tree in sight. Massive advertisements stared at her willing her to buy Velvet soap, Brasso, and Milo cigarettes exclusively for women — a delicate aroma of pureness. The noise lifted out of the footpath, scrambled across the road and bashed hard against her ears. She pulled her hat down harder and wriggled her toes, which were swelling in the heat. She pulled out the folded newspaper advertisement and checked the address. Yes, she was in the right street. Then she checked the numbers of the buildings to see which way they were going and once she was sure she was going in the right direction, she headed off. She lugged the case, changing it from one arm to the other as each arm got tired and she was amazed that not one man came and offered to carry it for her as they would have in Ballarat. She nodded hello to people as they came towards her but no one responded and soon she stopped. She was aching all over by the time she’d walked five blocks and she put the case down and stopped to catch her breath. She was at the number she was looking for.
Three young women stopped and smiled at her. They all wore city dresses, shorter than hers and more fashionable. One of the women had red hair tucked up under a sailor hat and a skirt and top cut like a sailor’s outfit. She looked so incredibly modern. The other two had on simple brown skirts and shirts and were wearing French berets. Beth thought she looked so obviously just-off-the-train-from-the-country. They looked at her and smiled as if they knew her and she smiled back as they disappeared into the building. Beth hoped they were headed to the same place she was.
She left her case propped against the building and walked out into the road and looked up. The building was five storeys tall and on each floor had verandahs with ornate bannister railings. She leant back and saw the turret at the top and then someone yelled, ‘Watch out, love!’ and hurtled past with their horse and cart and she quickly got back on the footpath. She checked the number again just to make sure, picked up her case and walked up to the front door, which was guarded by two massive columns. She whispered ‘please’ as she walked through. There was a wide foyer and she looked at the carved timber scroll on the wall listing the building’s occupants in gold lettering. Her destination was on the ground floor and as she walked up the passage she could hear the chatter of women before she got to the open door.
The three women she had seen outside were standing in a circle chatting with two others. The red-haired one saw her and put her teacup down on a nearby table and walked over.
‘Come on,’ she said, linking her arm through Beth’s as though they were sisters, ‘we’re always looking for new members. I was hoping you would be one when I saw you outside. I’m Clara, by the way.’ Beth thought Clara was about ten years older than her, maybe she was thirty-five. Her red hair was defiant and coils of it sprung out from under her cap. She was about Beth’s height and with Clara’s arm linked through hers and Clara leaning into her in such a pleasant way, surely they could become friends. The room was larger than it appeared from the doorway and was filled with chattering and teacups rattling on saucers and politics being argued. There were trestle tables laid out with teacups, enormous aluminium teapots and milk jugs just like morning tea at church. Beth could do with a cup of tea and Clara poured one for her, putting in too much milk.
‘Cake?’ Clara asked. ‘We’ve got some somewhere. I don’t think anyone’s put it out yet.’
Beth wanted to say that she hadn’t come for cake, she’d come for a new life, to be someone new, but she just said, ‘No thanks.’
A
