Free The Hanging Garden by Patrick White Page A

jump—to go . She is glad to show off its virtues.
    But such an old rattling dirty car—is Mamma’s sister poor perhaps? Then Mamma should see her as virtuous. But doesn’t. More people hate than love one another.
    *   *   *
    If I had one of those lustrous, winged machines—Bentley, Lancia—would I have the courage to step on it and escape from the web of duties in which I am caught? Mornings like this demand winged cars and freedom, to match glistening water, gulls’ wings, a ship breasting the swell at the Heads.
    But I doubt my habits would be altered by a glamorous car.
    Anyone observing me still following my beaten track in the winged Bentley delivering children to school, bullying greengrocers and butchers into letting me have their wartime produce cheap would interpret my behaviour as devotion to duty. Because I am outwardly an active, positive character (‘bossy’ to those who dislike me) not even enemies guess at my lack of will power and dread of being trodden on. Better say something to Ireen. ‘Mr Harbord—the headmaster—is a man I can respect—and hope you will too.’ She’s probably not listening to you, foreigners are like that, they back away into their own language. ‘Some parents—children too—find him too strict—but in such a mixed school—you’ll see.’
    Oh Lord children can make you feel idiotic. They know too much in some cases. Where the hell they get it from …
    ‘I gather you haven’t had much schooling.’
    ‘There was Miss Adams when I was little.’
    ‘Governesses were all very well in the past.’
    ‘She didn’t stay long. Mamma said they couldn’t afford her.’
    ‘I thought it was your father’s aunt who paid.’
    ‘Don’t know.’
    Trust Geraldine.
    ‘Mamma says it depends on the parents—to civilise.’
    ‘Civilisation—it’s exams that count in real life. And anyway if your parents weren’t there…’
    ‘There was Aunt Cleone. She speaks five languages.’
    ‘A very gifted old lady, I understand. Let’s hope some of it has rubbed off on you Ireen. You’ll need it.’ I am talking the most utter cock, the sort of thing adults tell children—and one another, for that matter. ‘One more bend, and I’ll be able to show you your school.’
    Poor kid’s stiffening like a little cat.
    ‘You know what I’m going to do. I’m going to stop a second and light up.’ Grapple with the cellophane. Terrible how you can become dependent on a puff of smoke.
    Ireen sits. I can feel gratitude for a reprieve seeping out of her. Stay here in this hot old car. It’s what each of you would prefer. Don’t think I ever grew up. On the other hand Ireen was born old. It could provide a meeting ground of sorts.
    ‘That’s better.’ As the smoke tendrils grow upward against the windscreen like grey plants against the glass wall of a conservatory.
    Say something. ‘Out there amongst the rocks, that’s lantana. It’s a curse. I used to think it pretty, till I was told it wasn’t. A great haunt for cats. Know it?’
    ‘No-oh.’
    *   *   *
    It is neither pretty nor ugly—like so much so far. Mrs Lockhart is picking at a shred of tobacco stuck to her chapped, lower lip. Her teeth are stained and irregular. But this about the cats begins to make her Aunt Alison—Ally—I wish we could sit here forever amongst the invisible cats, disappear into the sun, the light, as it was in Greece before the war began. Mamma would not sit long enough, Ally might if you persuaded her.
    As I can’t talk to her in any language, she starts grunting, getting into gear, and we are driving round the last bend before the school. We are re-entering the streets of little purple and blood-red houses.
    ‘There,’ she says, ‘see?’ trying to make it sound exciting and important, though she is not the least bit excited. ‘There’s the school in the far block—set back a bit above the houses— out of alignment . D’you know what “alignment”