When I entertain, Shirley covers the round dining table with a fine damask cloth and decorates it with an extraordinary Greco-Roman fruit dish. It’s another of Roger’s vulgar, priceless antiquities. There are two sculptural naked figures entwined around the base. The male sports an erection while the woman is burdened with the upheld fruit bowl. It doesn’t surprise me that the young woman is distracted by daily practicalities, while the man fondles her.
Shirley is dead keen on it, ‘Cor, what a classy conversation piece, eh?’
If it’s an intimate supper for two, I entertain in my boudoir, with hothouse roses perfuming the air. My most private room has erotica on the walls, numerous cushions and many soft tiger skins to lounge upon. It pains me to admit it, but Roger Dasher knows quite a lot about the seductive power of satin, silk and fur.
Playing hand-maiden to a murderess can’t be providing Shirley with much social cachet. Although she reckons, ‘Them society folk are fighting tooth and nail to get a gander inside your tower, Miss Torte. They send their maids after me to get the dirt on your lovers and your furnishings. I tell them busy bodies to bugger orf.’
I can see Shirley’s point. Many of Wolfftown’s social set are plain nosy but I still invite them over occasionally, so I can feel the texture of small town life. The rest of the time I prefer to invite penniless artistes and the mad, bad folk I call my friends.
I never cook for my friends. I glimpsed my kitchen and pantry when I first arrived here but have managed to avoid it successfully ever since. Bruce does all my cooking and he’s a dab hand at the sort of delectable cuisine that my guests have come to expect. Being that I am a world famous pâtissière this must seem decidedly odd, but I’ve vowed that I’ll not touch so much as a wooden spoon until my imprisonment ends. Bold words indeed.
Even while I sit here penning my story I can hear keys scraping locks and guard dogs pacing and snuffling in the yard. In my mind’s eye I watch prisoners going mad in their cells and the prison Chaplain caressing alternately his rosary beads and the stable boy. I also picture the odoriferous Head Prison Guard, Frankel, stealthily creeping along the sandstone corridors eavesdropping on those poor souls in solitary confinement. He’s foul of face and disposition. Frankel’s a nasty piece of work and I imagine him in a previous life when he was gate keeper in hell; his fat fingers prodding the comelier of the new arrivals.
Fortunately, I’ve never had to endure Frankel’s attentions because I’ve got my own personal guard, a delightful young bloke called Ned Bantam. He takes me on my morning and evening perambulations around the grounds. Ned rather fancies himself in black and gets around on a black stallion wearing what could pass for a bushranger’s costume: long boots, wide-brimmed hat and swirling black leather. His appearance is calculated to cast terror into anyone foolish enough to plot against him.
Shirley keeps me well informed. ‘All them local girls are after our Ned. Real snaky some of them. One lying bitch, Hattie Box, the barmaid at the Tub of Blood, put it around that Ned got her up the duff. But the publican reckons Hattie’s just peeved Ned ain’t never touched her. Not even with a ten-foot pole.’
Townsfolk live to spread gossip and it’s easy for them to contrive gossip about Ned as he’s so secretive in his private business dealings. His long fingers are embedded in many a succulent pie and he’s also a prominent landowner. Ned has high social standing in Wolfftown and he’s frequently invited to sip port and play chess with the Chief Governor of the prison.
When Ned took on the job of being my protector at the gaol he said, ‘Sasha I don’t want your money. I just want to make sure you’ve got someone in your corner if the going gets rough. I’m your man.’
He is too.
But when Ned refused to be remunerated Grandpa put his foot down, ‘Mr Bantam, it will give the gossips more ammunition in their war on my granddaughter if I don’t pay you. I know you neither need nor want the money but we must think of what’s best for her.’ He repacked his pipe with tobacco. ‘Look, I need you to cosy up to the Chief Governor. He’s a real fucker with the power to break Sasha while she’s under his jurisdiction. But I’m determined to soften him up. Tell me honestly, Mr Bantam, are you any good at chess?’
Ned regularly uses his esteemed position to gain special dispensations for me. He arrives unannounced in my tower with a grin on his chops and makes the point of being off-hand in his kindness. ‘Miss Torte, Governor Clements sends his kind regards and asks if you would care to take the air in your carriage this evening as well as Saturday evening.’
‘Really? This is astonishing. I can’t believe he’s being so amenable.’
‘No problem. I gifted Clements half a dozen bottles of French claret and when he was pissed as a newt, let him win the second chess game by sacrificing my queen. Then I mentioned your good behaviour and popped the question. With a few more losses I reckon I should be able to make your excursions a thrice-weekly event.’
‘Oh, Ned, thank you so much!’
He laughed, his sly eyes flicking sideways. ‘The only problem is that the fucker now reckons he’s a top-ranking chess meister.’
Ned is a comfort to me. Particularly when the wind howls and the past preys upon me. He’s so tall that his feet protrude from the end of my bed. Shirley adores Ned and she generously knitted him up a pair of size thirteen black woollen bed booties. Mr Bantam never wears them but as we all know, it’s the thought that counts.
A couple of days ago, Shirley yanked back my curtains with more vigour than was necessary. Instantly I was very suspicious as Shirley usually wakes me in a seemlier manner.
‘Morning, Ma’am.’
‘Good morning, Shirley.’
She placed my breakfast tray down and needlessly fussed with a small yellow rose which lay upon my napkin.
‘Strange things afoot, Miss Sasha.’
‘Oh?’
‘Bit o’ trouble is brewing now.’
‘Really?’
‘Frankel’s number is up, they is out to get him.’
‘Spit it out, Shirley.’
She seated herself on my bed and smoothed the shirt ruffles which barely covered her abundant breasts. ‘Cook Number Two told my Bruce that if there’s something crims can’t stand it’s the rape of children. Only eleven years old she is.’
‘Oh, God. Is she all right, Shirley?’
‘I thinks so, I know the family. She’s only a little thing, it takes her two hands to pick up a glass of milk.’ Her face hardened. ‘But don’t you worry, Miss Sasha, her dad ain’t letting the matter rest. He’s got some connections here at the gaol. And he assures me that Frankel will be strung up like a bleeding pig before the next full moon.’
‘Ah, how fitting.’
‘Bruce reckons there’s going to be a riot in the cell blocks and Frankel will be cornered and gutted.’
‘Disembowelment. You know what, Shirley? It couldn’t happen to a more capital fellow.’
‘Too right. A pusbag like Frankel should’ve been done in years ago.’
‘I trust this information is under wraps?’
‘Of course, Ma’am. Me and Bruce is like oysters.’
They are too. Their discretion and loyalty is a constant source of wonderment to me.
Sure enough, last night there was a tremendous noise from the men’s quarters; screams, cheers and prisoners banging their metal mugs on the metal bars. I sensed time was up for Frankel and I slept peacefully through the racket.
When I fed Alphonse this morning it was obvious he was excited about something. When he’s trying to communicate with me, Alphonse swims on his back and maintains eye contact. His improvised backstroke is a dead giveaway that something serious has occurred within the walls of our prison.
Ned arrived mid-morning, settled his lanky frame into the plumpest armchair and accepted a cup of coffee from Shirley. He smiled and she melted accordingly. Alphonse is a very good judge of character and he too is smitten with our Ned. Alphonse gets frisky when Ned arrives an
d has been known to leap from his fishbowl on such occasions.
I waited impatiently for Ned to reveal the gruesome news about Frankel. But in a leisurely manner he tipped three spoons of sugar into his cup and stirred eight times to the left and five times to the right. This is a man who knows how to play his audience for maximum effect. He then placed a fluffy scone on his plate and with the greatest attention to detail plied it liberally with jam and cream. Bruce came up from the kitchen and hopped from foot to foot and Shirley hovered, making no attempt to conceal her impatience.
I however, feigned disinterest and addressed my attention to a freshly baked zwetschkenkuchen. There’s no doubt about it, Bruce’s baking skills are coming along by leaps and bounds. But I found it impossible not to notice that the butter and sugar needed further creaming and the plums could have been layered more tightly. If one fails to pack the fruits cosily they lose moisture when baked.
Nevertheless I sampled a slice and licked my lips appreciatively. ‘Bruce, this is heaven. I can tell you’ve mastered our temperamental oven.’
He blushed with pleasure. One must be kind as undoubtedly it’s nerve-wracking cooking for such a famous pâtissière as I.
Finally Ned decided to address the issue. ‘Frankel’s body was found in the prisoner’s kitchen. It was a bloody horrible sight.’
Shirley was all ears and promptly sat down, almost on top of Ned. She’s got a fascination for the macabre and maintains her horror on a steady diet of shilling shockers, revelling in foul tales of rapists, murderers and monsters. Her eyes were as round as saucers, ‘Golly, how did they kill him, Ned?’
He gave her a long look. ‘The details are unspeakably gross and shouldn’t be mentioned in polite society, Shirley.’
Goddamnit.
She gave him a slow wink. ‘So you’ll let me in on the nasty bits later then, eh, Ned?’
How well she knows him.
Clearly Ned is hell bent on maintaining the polite fiction that I am a lady. What a bore. It means that I’ll have to squirrel all the sordid details from Shirley but that shouldn’t be too damn difficult.
Ned popped the better part of a scone in his mouth. I waited for it to travel down safely. My love has a wide soft mouth and his kissing technique is perfection itself. Some men tend to swallow their lovers in one gulp but Ned would never be so negligent. Just thinking about the last time we spooned made my temperature soar.
I fanned myself with a linen napkin, hid my salacious smile and enquired in a ladylike tone, ‘Has anyone been apprehended, Ned?’
‘No, there were no witnesses. No one saw anything.’
‘Oh come now! Not one of seventy-two prisoners saw or heard anything?’
Ned smiled silkily at me, ‘Believe it or not, neither did any of the prison guards or ancillary staff. As you know, I was playing chess with the Governor at the time and he swears that he knew nothing about it until this morning.’
I looked into Mr Bantam’s lying eyes and smiled back. It would appear Frankel had been universally hated.
Sitting quietly in my tower this evening, I can feel the bones of the prison relaxing. The clouds have banked and are turning a delicate mauve as night creeps across the Southern Ocean. The mysterious moon is swathed in wisps of golden haze and the ghost gums stand white and isolated against the retreating storm. It’s now so quiet that I can hear the low thrum of waves on the distant shore.
The gaol is packed to the gills with ghosts from the past. They’re all here. Many are descendants of Marigold and Emerl Wolff: the men and women of Wolfftown who managed to lose their way and wound up incarcerated in these clammy bluestone walls.
My tower has its own resident ghost and frequently the mistress of a former governor keeps me company in the midnight hours. Becky is a real little gossip, all innocent blonde curls, rosebud mouth and viperish wit. She likes to curl up like a cat at the foot of my bed but sometimes I wake during the night to find her perched on top of the wardrobe. It is she who regales me with scandalous tales of what used to go on at formal dinners with the gaol governor, magistrates and Van Diemen’s Land Company officials.
‘Sasha, you should have seen those bigoted pricks, marinating their livers in magnificent French wines. What a dreary bunch of stuffed shirts! There were a great many mushrooms amongst them and as we both know, there’s no pride so stiff and ungraceful as an upstart.’
‘True. But how on earth did you cope with such dull fellows, Becky?’
‘I took to nicking off with the folk the Governor cruelly called my social inferiors. But I didn’t have any choice. It was either die from boredom or make nice with the governor’s young valet, Francois. Usually in the hay above the stables. Or sometimes we’d liaise in the Governor’s private library, on an improvised bed of official papers.’ Her face softened with the memory. ‘We laughed like hyenas, lying there buck naked after we’d satisfied our sensual hunger. And then warming our bottoms by the fire, Francois would read aloud those dreary proclamations, mimicking the Governor’s pompous voice. Ah, Sasha, those were my glory days. Every young man I met wanted my soul.’
Becky has such a graceful way of putting things.
Becky is absent tonight but I can sense that our other resident ghosts are at peace. With Frankel’s timely demise there is an air of relief flowing through the place. His sadistic cruelties, criminal actions and personal nastiness have been swept away by the storm that raged all afternoon. Frankel’s victims both dead and alive are breathing lightly and evenly.
Justice has been done.
2
CHOPPING THE WOOD
The sorry state of my present affairs originated in a series of unfortunate events. These events unfolded when I was eight years old, in the winter of 1898.
For several days it had been hinted by the town’s gossips that my mother, Rose Torte, had been seduced away from home by fifty bushels of Tasmanian apples. My father, Alain Torte, refused to be drawn and blithely went about town taking care of business. He made a point of being jocular in public and whistled as he rode off to meet his hunt club for their weekly luncheon and booze-up. The picture he presented to the world was that of a member of Wolfftown’s landed gentry rising above all the usual grubby innuendo and rumours. And his louche manner indicated that he had more important matters to think about.
But rumours gained substance when following an unexpected visit from the law, my father went on a bender and didn’t come home for three days.
On the fourth night of my father’s absence, my night time fears were aroused when I was woken by the discordant sound of chopping and sawing. This terrible racket seemed to be coming from the direction of our orchards.
Nobody was in their bed that night. Servants voices were raised, Nanny’s candle burnt down until it guttered and maids whispered on the stairs. When I lit my bedside candle the mantelpiece clock showed it was three and a half hours past midnight.
I could hear heavy boots running up our gravel carriage drive and there was a whole lot of yelling going on. Who were all these strange men rushing around?
While I’d been sleeping my world had erupted into a hellish inferno. When I slipped out of bed and rushed to the balcony, the orchards were in flames and massive plumes of smoke obscured the moon, mountains and sea. I sensed that this wasn’t just an ordinary bushfire. The apple trees that hadn’t yet ignited were silhouetted against a backdrop of fierce orange flames and native animals and birds were trying to flee the encroaching blaze. It was gut wrenching.
Our hunting dogs were going crazy in their kennels and bells clanged as firefighters arrived in horse-drawn steam fire engines. I heard the firemen yelling and swearing but couldn’t work out what was going on.
A posse of neighbouring landowners galloped up. Judging by the looks on their faces they were having a fine time. They were followed by a fancy coach which careered around the fountain before the four sweating horses steamed to a sudden halt at our front steps. The monogrammed door swung open and by the lig
ht of the blazing coach lamps I saw my father’s crony, the honourable Mayor Horace Wolff falling out. He looked pissed as usual but he was accompanied by our family doctor who seemed decidedly sober. Both gentlemen were attired in black evening capes, white gloves and silk top hats. Wolff staggered to his feet, tossed his satin-lined cape back over his shoulders and went into a huddle with our estate’s foreman. Then Dr Dual levered Wolff back into the coach and they thundered off in the direction of the fires.
Meantime Cook, my governess Agnes, Nanny and all the female servants – dressed in plaid woollen dressing gowns and white nightcaps – had gathered around the fountain in the front garden. The women shivered, their warm breath fogging the cold night air as manservants and stable boys streaked off in the direction of the orchards. Clearly the fire was secret men’s business.
I crept down the servants’ stairs but Nanny caught me sidling past the fountain. ‘And where do you think you’re going, young lady?’
‘I just want to see the fire, Nanny. Please.’
‘No. Get back to bed. Now.’
Her closed face told me in no uncertain terms that there was no way she’d let a child of eight be privy to such goings on. So I slunk back to bed and spent the rest of the night tossing and turning. Sleep was impossible, so I impatiently watched for dawn’s cold light to creep over the mountains and bring Appletorte Homestead to its senses.
By morning the smoke haze was starting to clear but an acrid burnt smell hung heavily in the air. I cornered the head stableboy and pumped him for information. Cornelius Pinkerton was mucking out a horse stall but he dumped a full shovel of horseshit into a wheelbarrow and removed the cigarette from his mouth. He smirked at me. ‘It was your old man and a bunch of pissed mates who dunnit.’
‘Why?’
‘I dunno. Maybe the tosser ain’t got nothing better to do at three in the bloody morning but burn down his own fuckin’ property.’
Cornelius jammed the cigarette back in his gob and continued shovelling.
The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte Page 2