Butterflies and Demons. Eva Chapman

called out something unintelligible to Svitochka who stopped skipping about and joined her mother on the veranda. No one knew what to say next. Svitochka was fascinated by the stiff blue spikes that protruded from the side of Mrs Taplow’s hat.

      Finally, Mrs Taplow spoke. ‘I believe that Swi-switokka starts tomorrow at Hendon Primary school. So does Trevor. We would like to pick her up and take her. We know a shortcut.’

      Tatiana looked uncertainly at Ivan. She wasn’t quite sure what this nice lady was saying. Svitochka gabbled something to her mother.

      ‘Oh yes, tank you, tank you – vairy goode.’ She rattled a question at Svitochka.

      Svitochka looked up shyly, and pointing to the watch on Ivan’s wrist, asked, ‘What is time for shkool pliz?’ Svitochka obviously did a lot of translating for her parents.

      ‘We will pick you up at half past eight.’

      ‘Huff pust eight,’ repeated Svitochka slowly.

      There then ensued a dramatic discussion between the trio. Mrs Taplow wondered how so much could be said about such a simple instruction, and why did they need to shout and gesticulate so much. She wasn’t to know that in the Russian language half past eight was said differently. It was expressed as half of nine. So Tatiana wasn’t sure if Mrs Taplow meant half of eight which would actually be half past seven! Finally, Ivan twiddled with his watch, put the hands to 8.30 and showed it to Mrs Taplow.

      ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Taplow.

      ‘Yes,’ chimed Tatiana and Svitochka triumphantly.

      ‘We will meet you on the back road by the railway station at half past eight.’

      ‘Yes, tank you, tank you.’

      Perspiring beneath her stiff blue hat and with a ‘come on Trevor,’ Mrs Taplow pirouetted clumsily on her stout navy shoes and swept imperiously out the gate.

      That evening at Number 17, over stuffed peppers and tomatoes, Tatiana said to Ivan, in their native Russian.

      ‘Wasn’t that lady nice – and that young boy? Very good manners.’

      ‘Goody, goody, I have someone to play with,’ piped up Svitochka. ‘And he really liked the frog!’ Svitochka shivered as she remembered the flash of bright green, leaping so high, from between the clods of earth.

      ‘A frog is a very good sign,’ said Tatiana. ‘In my country, a frog in the garden means plenty of money and riches coming into the house.’ Tatiana had seen an expensive raincoat in John Martin’s for Svitochka, and a lovely dress for herself. She was just about to say this when Ivan interrupted.

      ‘Ah good. We will need a lot more money coming in so that we can buy Svitochka’s schoolbooks.’ He was worried and felt a little out of his depth with this big new house. He was digging up the front lawn to plant potatoes. As a boy in Odessa his family had avoided starvation by growing their own food. This experience, the first of many such experiences, served to inculcate within him the injunction that he always had to prepare for the worst.

      Tatiana felt deflated. Although she was pleased to have her own house, she wanted pretty clothes too. She had been through such an austere time in her young life. Here she was in the land of plenty and she wanted it all. Her heroines were Kim Novak and Marilyn Monroe. She wanted to be like them, and had dyed her hair blonde. She sighed as she dipped a piece of pepper and meat into the delicious sauce she had made from fresh tomatoes, onions, and garlic, purchased from the market. The Rosella tomato sauce which Svitochka had nearly vomited over stayed in the cupboard. They couldn’t understand why Australians seemed to love something that looked like bright red glue.

      Further up the road at Number 35 over lamb chops and boiled vegetables, Mrs Taplow said to Mr Taplow, ‘Well we went and did our duty today and said hello to the New Australians down the road.’

      ‘Very nice dear,’ said Mr Taplow, lobbing dollops of Rosella tomato sauce all over his chops. He was tired. He had spent a large part of the day sorting out a big mess in the cold room at the back of the canteen. His head pounded.

      ‘Very strange people though. Hardly know any English. The little girl, what’s her name, Switokker or some such silly name, seems okay – a bit wild. But you know that wonderful lawn that old John Briggs watered so conscientiously – they’ve dug it all up. The cheek! And all those lovely roses. Mrs Briggs’ pride and joy they were. Couldn’t believe it. Just all gone. Disgraceful.’

      Trevor sniggered.

      ‘What are you laughing at? And eat up your cabbage.’

      ‘That Witchky girl couldn’t even say frog properly – she was saying “flog, flog”.’

      Tatiana was delighted that her new house had a bathroom. As she prepared a bath for her daughter, she told her about her girlhood where water had to be carried from the river and heated up on the wood stove. Baths were unheard of. Svitochka sank into her first ever bath, luxuriating in the hot water and wondering about that cold northern country from which they had come. She was a bit afraid of going to a new school. Would the children like her? Would they shun her like the children in Commercial Road? She was glad that Trevor and his mother were taking her. But that Mrs Taplow did scare her. She felt uncomfortable when she thought of her. Her eyes were cold, dead even. She was ruminating for so long that the water became tepid. As she started to get out she looked at her hands and feet. They were all wrinkled.

      ‘Mama, mama,’ she screamed. ‘I’m getting old.’ Tatiana came in and teased her.

      ‘Yes, you are. Old and wrinkled. Just like Baba Yaga.’

      ‘Oh no,’ cried Svitochka, recoiling at the thought of that wrinkled hag who was every Russian child’s nightmare. ‘I can’t possibly go to school looking so old.’

      Next morning, Svitochka, relieved that her hands looked young again, waited on the back road and saw Mrs Taplow and Trevor walking towards her. Tatiana had plaited coloured ribbons into her hair and insisted she wore boots and long trousers in case she caught cold.

      ‘Good morning,’ said Mrs Taplow, casting a disapproving glance over the clothes.

      They’ll have to go, she thought. And as for that silly hair – makes her look like a peasant!

      Svitochka looked at Mrs Taplow’s forced smile and saw something in her eyes that made her cringe. But she skipped ahead with Trevor, her plaits swinging from side to side. When they reached the Philips Factory gates, they turned left into a narrow lane that skirted its perimeter. Behind a barbed wire fence were untidy piles of pipes and rusting machinery; detritus of the lapsed munitions factory. On the other side of the lane were the back fences of the houses on the continuation of Pudney Street. Svitochka jumped in fright as a dozen bulldogs rushed at the fence, snarling and snapping.

      ‘Oh, don’t worry – they belong to old Mr Craxton. They won’t escape.’ They walked on past dilapidated asbestos chicken coops, a few more houses and empty blocks, until they reached Tapley’s Hill Road. This was a main road that connected the south coastal area of Adelaide to Port Adelaide. And even in 1952 there was a steady stream of cars. Svitochka reluctantly held Mrs Taplow’s hand as she crossed over. Down another small street, and there it was, her new school. Her heart was in her mouth as she went through the front gate.

      CHAPTER 4

       Pit Men

      Midlato climbed into a tall gum tree and sucked a piece of wattle gum. From her vantage point she could just spy the sea in the distance, and the growing myriad of white-skin wardlis; so many different shapes; oblong, round, square, tapered at the top; alien forms draping over the pristine land as more ships disgorged passengers. She had never seen so many people. Why were they here? In discussions around the fires, it was suggested they must be long-lost ancestors returned from the pits of the dead. After all, she had noticed her dead grandfather taking on a whitish tinge after a few days. The name bandied around for these strangers