Zee wasn’t starving. I knew hunger: bones sticking out, hair falling out, eyes too big. No one here was starving, what with their fancy clobber and factory-made cigarettes.
“No hooly-gooly, please, darling,” Queen Mary said.
Godmother’s lips thinned. “She’s making up words now,” she said, so everyone could hear.
Zee’s lips twitched. I bit my cheek to not giggle.
Queen Mary continued talking and waving her bracelet-clinking arms as if Godmother hadn’t said a word.
Why did they hate each other?
Zee looked from the two white women to me, like she thought we belonged together. I bit me tongue to keep from saying, We don’t.
They weren’t trash or confused or Irish or Australian. They had grammar and jewellery and most likely automobiles, fur coats and houses too.
They weren’t the only ones at odds. The air crackled with everyone’s opinions of each other. If I had safety matches I could set it on fire.
Joshua leaned back in his chair, his long legs stretched to the side of the small table stacked with papers, and started to read.
His voice was low but clear. It tickled my ears, making me think about things he’d whisper to me. I blushed.
All eyes were on Joshua, especially Queen Mary’s. I twirled the ring on my finger but no one saw.
Joshua’s story was about working on the boat and white people being mean. Listening was like being back onboard with the waves and the ocean spreading out forever. Almost I felt the floor move.
I reckoned he really was a writer.
It was true, I supposed, that people had been mean, but I’d been lost in loving Joshua, and everything was so much better than Surry Hills—fresh water, food every day, learning words and places—it hadn’t mattered.
When he finished, we clapped.
Beside me Zee nodded. “He’s improved a lot.”
The tall black man with the crooked tie wanted to know about unions on the boat. Were there protections for labour?
The older black woman complained about the missing sense of place. What did it smell like? What were the sounds? Did the air taste like salt?
It tasted like salt out on the deck, but in the mess hall it tasted like cooking and sweat.
They talked about his choice of voice, of pointy views, of cymbals, and words I’d never heard. I stopped listening, daydreaming about dancing at a nightclub because we hadn’t been to one yet.
Godmother talked about hearing the steady beat of Africa in his words. Zee rolled her eyes, but the old woman didn’t see.
The other readers were dramatic, standing up, waving their arms, putting on voices.
I bit my lip not to giggle. Zee did too.
“The year is 1972,” the short black man with the cigar began, loudly.
No, it’s not, I wanted to say. It’s 1932.
His story was about flying automobiles and underground homes. It didn’t make sense.
I wondered if it was hooly-gooly.
* * *
Joshua took me to a rent party at his best mate’s. His friend at the door wouldn’t let me in. If his friends didn’t like me, would Joshua send me away?
“No room for Miss Anne.”
Why did they keep calling me that?
“She’s light.”
“Ain’t no one that light.”
“She’s my wife.”
“If it was just me, but ask Wash what happened last night.”
“She’s not like that,” Joshua said. “She’s poor, from the Caribbean.” Joshua looked at me, then at his friend. “She’s no Miss Anne.”
“My name’s Dulcie.”
His friend shrugged. “Can you lend—”
Joshua reached into his pocket, slid money into his friend’s hand, who nodded his thank you and opened the door. “Fats is on the piano tonight. If anything goes down it’s on you, not me.”
“Sorry, sugar,” Joshua whispered, pulling me into the crowded room of people dancing, screaming, laughing.
Joshua was greeted by most everyone with big handshakes and hugs.
In the Hills, you could go away years, return, and the men would barely nod a greeting.
They looked me over a touch too slow. One woman sucked her teeth. My cheeks burned.
“She’s light,” Joshua said too many times.
They couldn’t see my Irish, just my white.
In the Hills no one was white. We were Irish—Catholic like me or Proddys—or Poms or German or Italian or Aborigines or Chinamen.
I was white now. I was the only one in this room who was.
They didn’t have to say they didn’t want me. They felt the same as Tiny Bruce, Johnno O’Rourke and Tommy Newton did about me and Joshua being together, but they wasn’t loud about it.
I decided not to mind, stretching my mouth into a smile. Soon the thumping piano music made that smile real.
Joshua swung me into his arms, jammed in amongst the other dancers, moving me like he’d taught me on the boat.
We fit together. His smile echoed mine.
He kissed me. It was the first time in public. I grinned. He wouldn’t chuck me now.
“What do you think, Dulcie baby?”
“Of the kiss? It were dead good.”
“Child! Of this party, of Harlem?”
“It’s...” He’d taught me so many words and not a one was right. “I love it.”
He squeezed me tighter.
“Is this jazz?” I shouted.
His smile went wide. “Sure is.”
* * *
Joshua whistled as we walked home, his arm around me, though it wasn’t cold.
“No one thinks I’m black.”
Joshua smiled. “Not yet, but they will. You’ll learn.”
I liked that he was talking about the future, our future.
A couple strolled by. The man lifted up his tall shiny hat.
Joshua lifted his smaller grey one in return.
“Is everyone filthy rich in America or just in Harlem?”
I never saw him laugh so hard.
When he recovered he kissed me. “It’s the poorest neighbourhood.”
I couldn’t believe that. “But your house! It’s a palace!”