1954-1965 Dane
"Well," said Justine to her mother, "I've decided what I'm going to do." "I thought it was already decided. Artsat Sydney University, isn't that right?""Oh, that was just a red herring to lull you into a false sense of security while I made my plans. But now it's allset, so I can tell you." Meggie's head came up from her task, cutting fir-tree shapes in cookie dough; Mrs. Smithwas ill and they were helping out in the cookhouse. She regarded her daughter wearily, impatiently, helplessly.
What could one do with someone like Justine? If she announced she was going off to train as a whore in aSydney bordello, Meggie very much doubted whether she could be turned aside. Dear, horrible Justine, queenamong juggernauts.
"Go on, I'm all agog," she said, and went back to producing cookies. "I'm going to be an actress.""A what?""An actress.""Good Lord!" The fir trees were abandoned again. "Look, Justine, I hate to be a spoilsport and truly I don'tmean to hurt your feelings, but do you think you're-well, quite physically equipped to be an actress?" "Oh,Mum!" said Justine, disgusted. "Not a film star; an actress! I don't want to wiggle my hips and stick out mybreasts and pout my wet lips! I want to act." She was pushing chunks of defatted beef into the corning barrel. "Ihave enough money to support myself during whatever sort of training I choose, isn't that right?""Yes, thanks to Cardinal de Bricassart.""Then it's all settled. I'm going to study acting with Albert Jones at the Culloden Theater, and I've written to theRoyal Academy of Dramatic Art in London, asking that I be put on their waiting list.""Are you quite sure, Jussy?""Quite sure. I've known for a long time." The last piece of bloody beef was tucked down under the surface ofthe corning solution; Justine put the lid on the barrel with a thump. "There! I hope I never see another bit ofcorned beef as long as I live."Meggie handed her a completed tray of cookies. "Put these in the oven, would you? Four hundred degrees. Imust say this comes as something of a surprise. I thought little girls who wanted to be actresses roleplayedconstantly, but the only person I've ever seen you play has been yourself." "Oh, Mum! There you go again,confusing film stars with actresses. Honestly, you're hopeless.""Well, aren't film stars actresses?""Of a very inferior sort. Unless they've been on the stage first, that is. I mean, even Laurence Olivier does anoccasional film."There was an autographed picture of Laurence Olivier on Justine's dressing table; Meggie had simply deemed itjuvenile crush stuff, though at the time she remembered thinking at least Justine had taste. The friends shesometimes brought home with her to stay a few days usually treasured pictures of Tab Hunter and RoryCalhoun. "I still don't understand," said Meggie, shaking her head. "An actress!" Justine shrugged. "Well, whereelse can I scream and yell and howl but on a stage? I'm not allowed to do any of those here, or at school, oranywhere! I like screaming and yelling and howling, dammit!" "But you're so good at art, Jussy! Why not be anartist?" Meggie persevered.
Justine turned from the huge gas stove, flicked her finger against a cylinder gauge. "I must tell the kitchenrouseabout to change bottles; we're low. It'll do for today, though." The light eyes surveyed Meggie with pity.
"You're so impractical, Mum, really. I thought it was supposed to be the children who didn't stop to consider acareer's practical aspects. Let me tell you, I don't want to starve to death in a garret and be famous after I'm dead.
I want to enjoy a bit of fame while I'm still alive, and be very comfortable financially. So I'll paint as a hobbyand act for a living. How's that?""You've got an income from Drogheda, Jussy," Meggie said desperately, breaking her vow to remain silent nomatter what. "It would never come to starving in a garret. If you'd rather paint, it's all right. You can." Justinelooked alert, interested. "How much have I got, Mum?" "Enough that if you preferred, you need never work atanything." "What a bore! I'd end up talking on the telephone and playing bridge; at least that's what the mothersof most of my school friends do. Because I'd be living in Sydney, not on Drogheda. I like Sydney much betterthan Drogheda." A gleam of hope entered her eye. "Do I have enough to pay to have my freckles removed withthis new electrical treatment?""I should think so. But why?""Because then someone might see my face, that's why."I thought looks didn't matter to an actress?""Enough's enough, Mum. My freckles are a pain.""Are you sure you wouldn't rather be an artist?" "Quite sure, thank you." She did a little dance. "I'm going totread the boards, Mrs. Worthington!""How did you get yourself into the Culloden?" "I auditioned.""And they took you?""Your faith in your daughter is touching, Mum. Of course they took me! I'm superb, you know. One day I shallbe very famous."Meggie beat green food coloring into a bowl of runny icing and began to drizzle it over already baked fir trees.
"Is it important to you, Justine? Fame?""I should say so." She tipped sugar in on top of butter so soft it had molded itself to the inner contours of thebowl; in spite of the gas stove instead of the wood stove, the cookhouse was very hot. "I'm absolutely iron-bounddetermined to be famous.""Don't you want to get married?"Justine looked scornful. "Not bloody likely! Spend my life wiping snotty noses and cacky bums? Salaaming tosome man not half my equal even though he thinks he's better? Ho ho ho, not me!""Honestly, you're the dizzy limit! Where do you pick up your language?" Justine began cracking eggs rapidlyand deftly into a basin, using one hand. "At my exclusive ladies" college, of course." She drubbed the eggsunmercifully with a French whisk. "We were quite a decent bunch of girls, actually. Very cultured. It isn't everygaggle of silly adolescent females can appreciate the delicacy of a Latin limerick:
There was a Roman from Vinidium Whose shirt was made of iridium;When asked why the vest, He replied, "Id est Bonum sanguinem praesidium."Meggie's lips twitched. "I'm going to hate myself for asking, but what did the Roman say?" was "It's a bloodygood protection." his"Is that all? I thought it was going to be a lot worse. You surprise me. But getting back to what we were saying,dear girl, in spite of your neat effort to change the subject, what's wrong with marriage?" Justine imitated hergrandmother's rare snort of ironic laughter. "Mum! Really! You're a fine one to ask that, I must say."Meggie felt the blood well up under her skin, and looked down at the tray of bright-green trees. "Don't beimpertinent, even if you are a ripe old seventeen.""Isn't it odd?" Justine asked the mixing bowl. "The minute one ventures onto strictly parental territory, onebecomes impertinent. I just said: You're a fine one to ask. Perfectly true, dammit! I'm not necessarily implyingyou're a failure, or a sinner, or worse. Actually I think you've shown remarkable good sense, dispensing withyour husband. What have you needed one for? There's been tons of male influence for your children with theUnks around, you've got enough money to live on. I agree with you! Marriage is for the birds.""You're just like your father!""Another evasion. Whenever I displease you, I become just like my father. Well, I'll have to take your word forthat, since I've never laid eyes on the gentleman.""When are you leaving?" Meggie asked desperately. Justine grinned. "Can't wait to get rid of me, eh? It's allright, Mum, I don't blame you in the least. But I can't help it, I just love shocking people, especially you. Hewabout taking me into the 'drome tomorrow?" "Make it the day after. Tomorrow I'll take you to the bank. You'dbetter know how much you've got. And, Justine . . ." Justine was adding flour and folding expertly, but shelooked up at the change in her mother's voice. "Yes.
"If ever you're in trouble, come home, please. We've always got room for you on Drogheda, I want you toremember that. Nothing you could ever do would be so bad you couldn't come home."Justine's gaze softened. "Thanks, Mum. You're not a bad old stick underneath, are you?""Old?" gasped Meggie. "I am not old! I'm only forty-three!" "Good Lord, as much as that?"Meggie hurled a cookie and hit Justine on the nose. "Oh, you wretch!" she laughed. "What a monster you are!
Now I feel like a hundred."Her daughter grinned.
At which moment Fee walked in to see how things in the cookhouse were going; Meggie hailed her arrival withrelief.
"Mum, do you know what Justine just told me?" Fee's eyes were no longer up to anything beyond the uttermosteffort of keeping the books, but the mind at back of those smudged pupils was as acute as ever.
"How could I possibly know what Justine just told you?" she inquired mildly, regarding the green cookies witha slight shudder. "Because sometimes it strikes me that you and Jussy have little secrets from me, and now, themoment my daughter finishes telling me her news, in you walk when you never do.""Mmmmmm, at least they taste better than they look," commented Fee, nibbling. "I assure you, Meggie, I don'tencourage your daughter to conspire with me behind your back. What have you done to upset the applecart now,Justine?" she asked, turning to where Justine was pouring her sponge mixture into greased and floured tins. "Itold Mum I was going to be an actress, Nanna, that's all." "That's all, eh? Is it true, or only one of your dubiousjokes?" "Oh, it's true. I'm starting at the Culloden.""Well, well, well!" said Fee, leaning against the table and surveying her own daughter ironically. "Isn't itamazing how children have minds of their own, Meggie?"Meggie didn't answer.
"Do you disapprove, Nanna?" Justine growled, ready to do battle. "I? Disapprove? It's none of my businesswhat you do with your life, Justine. Besides, I think you'll make a good actress.""You do?" gasped Meggie.
"Of course she will," said Fee. "Justine's not the sort to choose unwisely, are you, my girl?""No." Justine grinned, pushing a damp curl out of her eye. Meggie watched her regarding her grandmother withan affection she never seemed to extend to her mother.
"You're a good girl, Justine," Fee pronounced, and finished the cookie she had started so unenthusiastically.
"Not bad at all, but I wish you'd iced them in white.""You can't ice trees in white," Meggie contradicted. "Of course you can when they're firs; it might be snow,"her mother said. "Too late now, they're vomit green," laughed Justine. "Justine!""Ooops! Sorry, Mum, didn't mean to offend you. I always forget you've got a weak stomach.""I haven't got a weak stomach," said Meggie, exasperated. "I came to see if there was any chance of a cuppa,"Fee broke in, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "Put on the kettle, Justine, like a good girl."Meggie sat down, too. "Do you really think this will work out for Justine, Mum?" she asked anxiously.
"Why shouldn't it?" Fee answered, watching her granddaughter attending to the tea ritual.
"It might be a passing phase.""Is it a passing phase, Justine?" Fee asked.
"No," Justine said tersely, putting cups and saucers on the old green kitchen table.
"Use a plate for the biscuits, Justine, don't put them out in their barrel," said Meggie automatically, "and forpity's sake don't dump the whole milk can on the table, put some in a proper afternoon tea jug." "Yes, Mum,sorry, Mum," Justine responded, equally mechanically. "Can't see the point of frills in the kitchen. All I've got todo is put whatever isn't eaten back where it came from, and wash up a couple of extra dishes." "Just do as you'retold; it's so much nicer.""Getting back to the subject," Fee pursued, "I don't think there's anything to discuss. It's my opinion that Justineought to be allowed to try, and will probably do very well.""I wish I could be so sure," said Meggie glumly. "Have you been on about fame and glory, Justine?" hergrandmother demanded. "They enter the picture," said Justine, putting the old brown kitchen teapot on the tabledefiantly and sitting down in a hurry. "Now don't complain, Mum; I'm not making tea in a silver pot for thekitchen and that's final.""The teapot is perfectly appropriate." Meggie smiled. "Oh, that's good! There's nothing like a nice cup of tea,"sighed Fee, sipping. "Justine, why do you persist in putting things to your mother so badly? You know it isn't aquestion of fame and fortune. It's a question of self, isn't it?""Self, Nanna?""Of course. Self. Acting is what you feel you were meant to do, isn't that right?""Yes.""Then why couldn't you have explained it so to your mother? Why upset her with a lot of flippant nonsense?"Justine shrugged, drank her tea down and pushed the empty cup toward her mother for more. "Dunno," she said.
"I-dont-know," Fee corrected. "You'll articulate properly on the stage, I trust. But self is why you want to be anactress, isn't it?" "I suppose so," answered Justine reluctantly. "Oh, that stubborn, pigheaded Cleary pride! It willbe your downfall, too, Justine, unless you learn to rule it. That stupid fear of being laughed at, or held up to somesort of ridicule. Though why you think your mother would be so cruel I don't know." She tapped Justine on theback of her hand. "Give a little, Justine; cooperate."But Justine shook her head and said, "I can't."Fee sighed. "Well, for what earthly good it will do you, child, you have my blessing on your enterprise.""Ta, Nanna, I appreciate it.""Then kindly show your appreciation in a concrete fashion by finding your uncle Frank and telling him there'stea in the kitchen, please." Justine went off, and Meggie stared at Fee.
"Mum, you're amazing, you really are."Fee smiled. "Well, you have to admit I never tried to tell any of my children what to do.""No, you never did," said Meggie tenderly. "We did appreciate it, too."The first thing Justine did when she arrived back in Sydney was begin to have her freckles removed. Not aquick process, unfortunately; she had so many it would take about twelve months, and then she would have tostay out of the sun for the rest of her life, or they would come back. The second thing she did was to find herselfan apartment, no mean feat in Sydney at that time, when people built private homes and regarded living en massein buildings as anathema. But eventually she found a two-room fiat in Neutral Bay, in one of the huge oldwaterside Victorian mansions which had fallen on hard times and been made over into dingy semi-apartments.
The rent was five pounds ten shillings a week, outrageous considering that the bathroom and kitchen werecommunal, shared by all the tenants: However, Justine was quite satisfied. Though she had been well traineddomestically, she had few homemaker instincts.
Living in Bothwell Gardens was more fascinating than her acting apprenticeship at the Culloden, where lifeseemed to consist in skulking behind scenery and watching other people rehearse, getting an occasional walk-on,memorizing masses of Shakespeare, Shaw and Sheridan. Including Justine's, Bothwell Gardens had six flats, plusMrs. Devine the landlady. Mrs. Devine was a sixty-five-year-old Londoner with a doleful sniff, protruding eyesand a great contempt for Australia and Australians, though she wasn't above robbing them. Her chief concern inlife seemed to be how much gas and electricity cost, and her chief weakness was Justine's next-door neighbor, ayoung Englishman who exploited his nationality cheerfully.
"I don't mind giving the old duck an occasional tickle while we reminisce," he told Justine. "Keeps her off myback, you know. You girls aren't allowed to run electric radiators even in winter, but I was given one and I'mallowed to run it all summer as well if I feel like it.""Pig," said Justine dispassionately.
His name was Peter Wilkins, and he was a traveling salesman. "Come in and I'll make you a nice cuppasometime," he called after her, rather taken with those pale, intriguing eyes. Justine did, careful not to choose atime when Mrs. Devine was lurking jealously about, and got quite used to fighting Peter off. The years of ridingand working on Drogheda had endowed her with considerable strength, and she was untroubled by shibbolethslike hitting below the belt. "God damn you, Justine!" gasped Peter, wiping the tears of pain from his eyes. "Givein, girl! You've got to lose it sometime, you know! This isn't Victorian England, you aren't expected to save it formarriage." "I have no intention of saving it for marriage," she answered, adjusting her dress. "I'm just not surewho's going to get the honor, that's all." "You're nothing to write home about!" he snapped nastily; she had reallyhurt.
"No, that I'm not. Sticks and stones, Pete. You can't hurt me with words. And there are plenty of men who willshag anything if it's a virgin." "Plenty of women, too! Watch the front flat.""Oh, I do, I do," said Justine.
The two girls in the front flat were lesbians, and had hailed Justine's advent gleefully until they realized she notonly wasn't interested, she wasn't even intrigued. At first she wasn't quite sure what they were hinting at, but afterthey spelled it out baldly she shrugged her shoulders, unimpressed. Thus after a period of adjustment she becametheir sounding board, their neutral confidante, their port in all storms; she bailed Billie out of jail, took Bobbie tothe Mater hospital to have her stomach pumped out after a particularly bad quarrel with Billie, refused to takesides with either of them when Pat, Also, Georgie and Ronnie hove in turns on the horizon. It did seem a veryinsecure kind of emotional life, she thought. Men were bad enough, but at least they had the spice of intrinsicdifference.
So between the Culloden and Bothwell Gardens and girls she had known from Kincoppal days, Justine hadquite a lot of friends, and was a good friend herself. She never told them all her troubles as they did her; she hadDane for that, though what few troubles she admitted to having didn't appear to prey upon her. The thing whichfascinated her friends the most about her was her extraordinary self-discipline; as if she had trained herself frominfancy not to let circumstances affect her well-being. Of chief interest to everyone called a friend was how,when and with whom Justine would finally decide to become a fulfilled woman, but she took her time.
Arthur Lestrange was Albert Jones's most durable juvenile lead, though he had wistfully waved goodbye to hisfortieth birthday the year before Justine arrived at the Culloden. He had a good body, was a steady, reliable actorand his clean-cut, manly face with its surround of yellow curls was always sure to evoke audience applause. Forthe first year he didn't notice Justine, who was very quiet and did exactly as she was told. But at the end of theyear her freckle treatments were finished, and she began to stand out against the scenery instead of blending intoit.
Minus the freckles and plus makeup to darken her brows and lashes, she was a good-looking girl in an elfin,understated way. She had none of Luke O'neill's arresting beauty, or her mother's exquisiteness. Her figure waspassable though not spectacular, a trifle on the thin side. Only the vivid red hair ever stood out. But on a stageshe was quite different; she could make people think she was as beautiful as Helen of Troy or as ugly as a witch.
Arthur first noticed her during a teaching period, when she was required to recite a passage from Conrad's LordJim using various accents. She was extraordinary, really; he could feel the excitement in Albert Jones, and finallyunderstood why Also devoted so much time to her. A born mimic, but far more than that; she gave character toevery word she said. And there was the voice, a wonderful natural endowment for any actress, deep, husky,penetrating.
So when he saw her with a cup of tea in her hand, sitting with a book open on her knees, he came to sit besideher.
"What are you reading?"She looked up, smiled. "Proust.""Don't you find him a little dull?""Proust dull? Not unless one doesn't care for gossip, surely. That's what he is, you know. A terrible old gossip."He had an uncomfortable conviction that she was intellectually patronizing him, but he forgave her. No morethan extreme youth. "I heard you doing the Conrad. Splendid.""Thank you.""Perhaps we could have coffee together sometime and discuss your plans" "If you like," she said, returning toProust. He was glad he had stipulated coffee, rather than dinner; his wife kept him on short commons, and dinnerdemanded a degree of gratitude he couldn't be sure Justine was ready to manifest. However, he followed hiscasual invitation. up, and bore her off to a dark little place in lower Elizabeth Street, where he was reasonablysure his wife wouldn't think of looking for him.
In self-defense Justine had learned to smoke, tired of always appearing goody-goody in refusing offeredcigarettes. After they were seated she took her own cigarettes out of her bag, a new pack, and peeled the topcellophane from the flip-top box carefully, making sure the larger piece of cellophane still sheathed the bulk ofthe packet. Arthur watched her deliberateness, amused and interested.
"Why on earth go to so much trouble? Just rip it all off, Justine." "How untidy!"He picked up the box and stroked its intact shroud reflectively. "Now, if I was a disciple of the eminentSigmund Freud . . .""If you were Freud, what?" She glanced up, saw the waitress standing beside her. "Cappuccino, please."It annoyed him that she gave her own order, but he let it pass, more intent on pursuing the thought in his mind.
"Vienna, please. Now, getting back to what I was saying about Freud. I wonder what he'd think of this? He mightsay. . ."She took the packet off him, opened it, removed a cigarette and lit it herself without giving him time to find hismatches. "Well?" "He'd think you liked to keep membranous substances intact, wouldn't he?" Her laughtergurgled through the smoky air, caused several male heads to turn curiously. "Would he now? Is that aroundabout way of asking me if I'm still a virgin, Arthur?"He clicked his tongue, exasperated. "Justine! I can see that among other things I'll have to teach you the fine artof prevarication.""Among what other things, Arthur?" She leaned her elbows on the table, eyes gleaming in the dimness.
"Well, what do you need to learn?""I'm pretty well educated, actually.""In everything?""Heavens, you do know how to emphasize words, don't you? Very good, I must remember how you said that.""There are things which can only be learned from firsthand experience," he said softly, reaching out a hand totuck a curl behind her ear. "Really? I've always found observation adequate.""Ah, but what about when it comes to love?" He put a delicate deepness into the word. "How can you playJuliet without knowing what love is?" "A good point. I agree with you." "Have you ever been in love?"No.
"Do you know anything about love?" This time he put the vocal force on "anything," rather than "love.""Nothing at all.""Ah! Then Freud would have been right, eh?"She picked up her cigarettes and looked at their sheathed box, smiling. "In some things, perhaps."Quickly he grasped the bottom of the cellophane, pulled it off and held it in his hand, dramatically crushed itand dropped it in the ashtray, where it squeaked and writhed, expanded. "I'd like to teach you what being awoman is, if I may."For a moment she said nothing, intent on the antics of the cellophane in the ashtray, then she struck a match andcarefully set fire to it. "Why not?" she asked the brief flare. "Yes, why not?""Shall it be a divine thing of moonlight and roses, passionate wooing, or shall it be short and sharp, like anarrow?" he declaimed, hand on heart. She laughed. "Really, Arthur! I hope it's long and sharp, myself. But nomoonlight and roses, please. My stomach's not built for passionate wooing." He stared at her a little sadly, shookhis head. "Oh, Justine! Everyone's stomach is built for passionate wooing-even yours, you cold-blooded youngvestal. One day, you wait and see. You'll long for it.""Pooh!" She got up. "Come on, Arthur, let's get the deed over and done with before I change my mind.""Now? Tonight?" .
"Why on earth not? I've got plenty of money for a hotel room, if you're short."The Hotel Metropole wasn't far away; they walked through the drowsing streets with her arm tucked cozily inhis, laughing. It was too late for diners and too early for the theaters to be out, so there were few people around,just knots of American sailors off a visiting task force, and groups of young girls window-shopping with an eyeto sailors. No one took any notice of them, which suited Arthur fine. He popped into a chemist shop whileJustine waited outside, emerged beaming happily.
"Now we're all set, my love.""What did you buy? French letters?"He grimaced. "I should hope not. A French letter ,ness like coming wrapped in a page of the Reader's Digest-condensed tackiness. No, I got you some jelly. How do you know about French letters, anyway?""After seven years in a Catholic boarding school? What do you think we did? Prayed?" She grinned. "I admitwe didn't do much, but we talked about every-thing."Mr. and Mrs. Smith surveyed their kingdom, which wasn't bad for a Sydney hotel room of that era. The days ofthe Hilton were still to come. It was very large, and had superb views of the Sydney Harbor Bridge. There wasno bathroom, of course, but there was a basin and ewer on a marble-topped stand, a fitting accompaniment to theenormous Victorian relics of furniture. "Well, what do I do now?" she asked, pulling the curtains back. "It's abeautiful view, isn't it?""Yes. As to what you do now, you take your pants off, of course." "Anything else?" she asked mischievously.
He sighed. "Take it all off, Justine! If you don't feel skin with skin it isn't nearly so good."Neatly and briskly she got out of her clothes, not a scrap coyly, clambered up on the bed and spread her legsapart. "Is this right, Arthur?" "Good Lord!" he said, folding his trousers carefully; his wife always looked to seeif they were crushed.
"What? What's the matter?""You really are a redhead, aren't you?""What did you expect, purple feathers?""Facetiousness doesn't set the right mood, darling, so stop it this instant." He sucked in his belly, turned, struttedto the bed and climbed onto it, began dropping expert little kisses down the side of her face, her neck, over herleft breast. "Mmmmmm, you're nice." His arms went around her. "There! Isn't this nice?""I suppose so. Yes, it is quite nice."Silence fell, broken only by the sound of kisses, occasional murmurs. There was a huge old dressing table at thefar end of the bed, its mirror still tilted to reflect love's arena by some erotically minded previous tenant. "Put outthe light, Arthur.""Darling, no! Lesson number one. There's no aspect of love which won't bear the light."Having done the preparatory work with his fingers and deposited the jelly where it was supposed to be, Arthurmanaged to get himself between Justine's legs. A bit sore but quite comfortable, if not lifted into ecstasy at leastfeeling rather motherly, Justine looked over Arthur's shoulder and straight down the bed into the mirror.
Foreshortened, their legs looked weird with his darkly matted ones sandwiched between her smooth defreckledones; however, the bulk of the image in the mirror consisted of Arthur's buttocks, and as he maneuvered theyspread and contracted, hopped up and down, with two quiffs of yellow hair like Dagwood's just poking above thetwin globes and waving at her cheerfully.
Justine looked; looked again. She stuffed her fist against her mouth wildly, gurgling and moaning.
"There, there, my darling, it's all right! I've broken you already, so it can't hurt too much," he whispered.
Her chest began to heave; he wrapped his arms closer about her and murmured inarticulate endearments.
Suddenly her head went back, her mouth opened in a long, agonized wail, and became peal after peal ofuproarious laughter. And the more limply furious he got, the harder she laughed, pointing her finger helplesslytoward the foot of the bed, tears streaming down her face. Her whole body was convulsed, but not quite in themanner poor Arthur had envisioned.
In many ways Justine was a lot closer to Dane than their mother was, and what they felt for Mum belonged toMum. It didn't impinge upon or clash with what they felt for each other. That had been forged very early, andhad grown rather than diminished. By the time Mum was freed from her Drogheda bondage they were oldenough to be at Mrs. Smith's kitchen table, doing their correspondence lessons; the habit of finding solace ineach other had been established for all time.
Though they were very dissimilar in character, they also shared many tastes and appetites, and those they didn'tshare they tolerated in each other with instinctive respect, as a necessary spice of difference. They knew eachother very well indeed. Her natural tendency was to deplore human failings in others and ignore them in herself;his natural tendency was to understand and forgive human failings in others, and be merciless upon them inhimself. She felt herself invincibly strong; he knew himself perilously weak. And somehow it all came togetheras a nearly perfect friendship, in the name of which nothing was impossible. However, since Justine was by farthe more talkative, Dane always got to hear a lot more about her and what she was feeling than the other wayaround. In some respects she was a little bit of a moral imbecile, in that nothing was sacred, and he understoodthat his function was to provide her with the scruples she lacked within herself. Thus he accepted his role ofpassive listener with............