‘Let me spell it out. I’m looking for a yes from you
and I’m not known as a patient man. Tell you what, we’ll even let your mate join as well.’ He nodded at Carlo, who had come in with Lonnie and was keeping a low profile in the corner.
Carlo gave a nervous look around and muttered,
‘Leave me out of this.’
To their relief, George didn’t press for an answer. He strode over to his gang who were busy entertaining themselves by showing off, marking a bottle as if it were a footy over the heads of the people scurrying past.
‘Let’s beat it,’ whispered Carlo. ‘If we stay any longer there’s bound to be trouble. Pearl’s not going to show. You’ll have to catch up with her later. Don’t forget we still have to sort Auntie’s stuff before we call it a night.’
Taking advantage of the shortest possible route, Lonnie and Carlo bolted in and out of the lanes that took them in a matter of minutes to Cumberland Place. The midnight backstreet seemed soundless and dark. While Carlo attended to things inside, Lonnie waited at the end of the row of houses. At the appointed time he waved his dark lantern in an arc. When his mate’s cart turned the corner, the sound of iron horseshoes rattled over the cobblestones. Making haste, they rescued the bulk of Auntie Tilly’s belongings.
The last thing to do was collect Auntie Tilly. Linked between the boys’ arms to hold her steady, she climbed onto the cart. As she took her seat she was as stately as any abdicating queen. ‘Never does to look back,’ she said with finality, as though she might not see them again in her lifetime. She dabbed her glistening eyes with a handkerchief but her tight smile didn’t falter.
‘’Course you will,’ said Lonnie. ‘When it’s all blown over we’ll be sure to come and see you.’
‘We can’t do without your oatmeal rounds for too long,’ added Carlo with a shaky grin.
She gave a warm chuckle and clipped them both on the earhole. ‘Just mind your manners until then, duckies.’
The boys rode a little way on the back of the cart, seeing her off safely before jumping down. Their walk home was sober. The thought of no longer having Auntie Tilly where she’d always been was unnerving.
The day had been a long one. When Lonnie arrived home there was one final thing for him to do before nodding off for the night. Making sure his mam was fast asleep, he wrapped the watch in a handkerchief and placed it in the bottom drawer of the dresser. He was too tired to deal with anything more. Better for the time being to leave the watch hidden and stay silent. It had been a full and eventful day and early tomorrow he was due at the stables.
HOOP HANDLE FROM A TRAPDOOR
Item No. 2018
Round, circular handle used for raising and lowering a trapdoor.
On the other side of town not far from Little Lon, at about the same time as Lonnie was settling down for the night, Pearl came around in a cramped, dark place beneath the floorboards of an old building. Her cheek was sore and she felt the burn of vomit in her throat. In spite of all her guile, the worst had finally happened. She groggily recalled the violent arm that had grabbed her and the thump which had left her insensible.
She tried to sit up. There was barely enough room to straighten her back so she shuffled to the side and lay down. She stared into the darkness of her premature grave. Tears splashed like fiery splinters on her cheeks as she imagined what was in store for her.
Sometime later a trapdoor lifted open from above. Pearl made out the twisted face of Annie Walker.
‘Didn’t think you were being watched, did yer?’ she barked. A ghost of a smirk flitted across her thin, mean lips. ‘Did yer think yer were invisible and no one could see yer out there working for Madam Buckteeth? Next you’ll be toadying across to that Missy Do-Gooder Selina Southern and who else after that, I wonder?’
Eyes blotted with spite examined her. ‘This is it, girlie. Sort out what yer owe because until yer clear that debt, yer my goods. That means keeping yer pussy away from that sour-faced hag, yer understand? See how easy it was for me to have Jack bring yer in.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘He can do it any time and if there is a next time, there’ll be no holding him back. Not from you, not from yer friends, not even from Saint Selina herself. No bit of scrawny flim-flam can cross me and get away with it.’
Pearl shrank back from Annie’s hissing anger. She felt a sob rising from her belly, but held it in. ‘I’ve been trying to pay you out. Only I need more time.’
‘But yer crossed me, girl. I don’t like being taken for a fool.’
‘Let me out.’
‘Yer can rot here till yer mean what yer promise. Ungrateful muff. Let’s see how yer do without my help.’
The trapdoor slammed shut above Pearl and darkness overwhelmed her.
WORK BOOT
Item No. 19
One of a pair. Brown leather, well-worn toe.
‘Steady, boy.’
Lonnie leaned down and patted Trident. The sun had hardly made its way over the nearby hills, turning the clouds into orange wisps, but already the day was turning into a busy one. On top of the stable duties yet to start – mucking out, laying clean straw, bringing fresh water for the horses and the grooming – it was open day at Golden Acres. The forthcoming auction meant other stables would be showing their interest. And although he loved it, the call for extra track work meant Lonnie had more than enough to do for his day’s wage.
Crick was on Lightning. There was no doubting it was a magnificent horse. But the beast beneath Lonnie was a little beauty, too. Oh to be a horse owner like the Cricks; he would consider buying Trident for himself. Lonnie had no real pretensions that his boss was seriously trialling him as a jockey. He knew he had to be satisfied with what track work he could get, keep stealing every opportunity to ride horses, and hope against hope that one day he would have a real chance to make it.
‘Open Day at the Acres’ the sign outside read.
‘Inspections welcome for the upcoming horse auction. Open to all offers’. Ned, the foreman from the Glen stables over Flemington way, was taking early advantage of the invitation. He made his way unannounced through the arched iron gates and wandered over to the practice track, taking a private opportunity to check some of Golden Acres’ horses at work.
Two dark shadows were on the rise of the hill. As they galloped he noted the sheer elegance of their silhouettes against the carroty sky, in particular the poise and balance of the second rider.
As Crick and Lonnie brought their steaming horses back, Lonnie immediately recognised the man standing by the rails as the foreman from the Glen. He must have come along to check over the yearlings, but was here far too early. That would rile the Cricks. Track work was always a secret business. Horses were not to be timed by bookmakers or outsiders; their abilities exposed to the world, thus ruining odds and spoiling bets before a race meeting. He wondered what the Glen’s foreman had made of them as they raced over the crest.
‘Here a little early for the open day? Doing a bit of scouting, are you?’ It was about as much of a greeting as Thomas Crick could muster.
The slight was not lost on the Glen foreman. ‘We can all learn, Mr Crick. Actually I’m here to look at your yearlings, sadly not at you, sir. There are a lot of studs to visit before the auctions. I have to start somewhere.’
Lonnie detected the cutting tone of the reply, but it passed over Crick’s head like a horse clearing a hurdle.
‘Well then, be my guest. McGuinness, earn your keep, help Ned see the yearlings before you groom these two.’ He dismounted, tossed Lonnie his reins and swaggered over to the manager’s office, leaving them alone.
‘McGuinness, is it?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘I was watching you this morning.’
As Ned was talking to him Lonnie felt his big toe sticking through the hole in his boot. Without fuss he eased it back into comfort. ‘You were?’
‘Why don’t you come over to the Glen for a quiet word?’
‘A wor
d, sir?’ Lonnie wondered if he dared think what this could mean. ‘I mean, of course, anytime,’ he added.
‘Good lad,’ said Ned, ‘but give me a chance to finish buying our yearlings before you call over.’
Lonnie tried to stifle his excitement as he swung down off Trident, keeping in mind that he still had a job to do, which was to showNed the horses on offer.
SKULL
Item No. 1834
Human skull. Adult male. Identity unknown. Has undergone forensic examination.
The former draper’s shop had been a front for many a trade, including a furniture mart and a fancy goods dealer. Old Postlethwaite, recently retired from pulling teeth, had lately taken up residence, opening a phrenological shop. To passers-by the chief attraction was the skull in the front window, covertly donated by an acquaintance who worked in the back rooms of the Melbourne hospital where skeletal remains were stored for medical study. Now proudly exhibited, the skull advertised the belief that the analysis of its shape helped to understand the workings of the mental powers.
Daisy’s nose pressed flat to the window as she intently considered the centrepiece. ‘Do you think it’s human or monkey?’ she asked Lonnie. Mapped out on the head were the continents of Animal and Moral, subdivided into countries called Combativeness, Vitativeness, Benevolence and Hope. ‘What do they all mean?’
Lonnie answered with a shrug. ‘Who knows? You’re not seriously going in there and letting that quack’s old fingers play a tune on your head?’
‘I am and so are you.’
Lonnie threw her a disgruntled look. ‘Having your bumps read won’t help with nightmares.’
‘Employers in the rag trade often check out their workers’ skull shapes before they employ them,’ she sniffed, ‘so it must work or else they wouldn’t do it.’
‘Postlethwaite’s an old shyster,’ warned Lonnie.
‘We’ll be wasting our time.’
‘What harm can he do? Come on, it’s worth a try. Besides, you gave me your word.’
‘I didn’t think you were serious.’
Daisy folded her arms obstinately, a stance Lonnie had lost many a battle over. She was a headstrong girl and would never take no for an answer.
‘Okay, Daise,’ he relented. ‘But I won’t stand for any messing around. If Postlethwaite tries anything creepy, we’re out of there.’
With a loud snort of victory, Daisy grabbed his hand and pulled him through the doorway before he had a chance to reconsider.
The self-proclaimed phrenologist, Alfred Postlethwaite Esquire, as the nameplate described him, was an earnest dabbler in all the sciences. His shop counter was bursting with bits of glassware and equipment – pipettes, tubes and crucibles, basins and burners. Arranged in glass cases were tweezers, forceps, scalpels and saws. Fungal colonies and spores were putting out shoots from bowls, ripening for closer examination. A collection of organs and animal specimens floated in formalin. Like any amateur’s dream, Postlethwaite wished to make a great healing discovery without killing the human body in the process.
The sign behind the counter read: First Consultation Only 6d. No one need go untreated!
‘Count me out,’ Lonnie muttered, as Postlethwaite bundled Daisy into a chair and set about outlining a portion of her skull with his fingers.
The phrenologist stopped at several bumps and deliberated with a swift tap, chattering away as if he was dictating notes to an imaginary person. ‘We are measuring the extent of this region to indicate the little lady’s temperament.’ His fingers continued their soft-shoe journey across her skull.
Suddenly he swept up a pad of papers and placed a tick against a word here and a phrase there. ‘Such scientists as Charles Darwin,’ he instructed knowingly,
‘have been most keen to promote this science. A slight knock here will enlarge the reflective section and encourage our little lady’s Agreeableness.’
‘Daisy’s agreeable enough,’ muttered Lonnie. ‘It’s her nightmares she’s come to find out about.’
‘Ah, I see.’ His hands circumnavigated Daisy’s skull. ‘The moral sector is well defined. You have a great amount of Spirituality.’
Lonnie was growing impatient. More likely the old fraud had seen Daisy jiggling her tambourine and wearing her Sally’s uniform.
Postlethwaite moved his hand to the back of her skull. ‘Here is the section we call Fear.’ He tapped hard on the site.
‘Ouch!’
‘Steady on, mate.’ Lonnie gripped Postlethwaite’s arm. ‘You’ll do her an injury.’
‘I’m merely working on the area of her trouble. If you wish to remain for this consultation then I insist you show less impertinence.’ Postlethwaite brushed down his sleeve and resumed his map work across Daisy’s skull. ‘There are of course other possibilities for repair. Say we drilled here,’ he said, pressing his thumb down hard on Trepidation, ‘we may destroy the part of the brain which contains the important background to the fear. Only a small indentation will be left. Very easily fixed.’ He gave Daisy an encouraging smile.
Lonnie grabbed hold of his friend and hoisted her out of the chair. ‘That’s enough, Daise, no one’s drilling holes in your head.’ He glared hotly at the phrenologist.
Postlethwaite was as aggravated as Lonnie, who turned his back and strode to the door, dragging the protesting Daisy along behind him. The scientist rushed after them. ‘Now see here, wait a minute! What about my payment?’
Lonnie reached into his pocket and dismissively tossed a sixpence in his direction. ‘Daylight robbery, mate.’
Outside Daisy ripped her hand away from his. Her eyes were grey specks in a stormy sky; the tempest was coming. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘He’s demented. I told you so in the first place. Gives me the creeps.’
‘In. The. First. Place.’ Daisy sounded out each word as brutally as the force of an executioner’s axe.‘Who said I can’t speak up for myself ? Am I mute? Do you think for one moment I’d give permission to anyone to drill into my skull, or for that matter I needed you to rescue me? I thought you knew me better, Lonnie McGuinness. And in the second place, who says you’re right? Mr Postlethwaite may well have helped. So now you’ve dragged me out, have you any other bright ideas about how I’m going to stop my nightmares?’
‘Come on, Daise, I didn’t mean it. Postlethwaite’s an old fool.’ Lonnie trailed off, lost for words. There was no doubt about it, if anyone knew her own mind it was Daisy Cameron. He should’ve known better than to get on her wrong side. ‘We’ll find another way of sorting this. Let me think it over. I promise I’ll help.’
‘Be careful you don’t make promises you can’t keep,’ warned Daisy sternly, but then relented and slipped her arm through his. ‘Walk with me to number four. Let’s see what Pearl’s up to. I haven’t seen her around for ages.’
‘Good idea,’ Lonnie said, relieved that Daisy was no longer cross with him. ‘The little shirker was supposed to meet me at the oyster bar the other night, but she didn’t show.’
BROKEN HINGE
Item No. 654
Metal T-hinge. A shaped hinge still commonly used today.
A slit of light broke through the exterior wall. Pearl dug her fingers into the dirt and slowly pulled herself towards it. One hand settled on a small soft creature moving in front. Startled, she jerked back and bumped her head on the timber above. After a few deep breaths she willed herself calm and continued to move inch by inch towards the wall. She began to scrape and scratch at the crumbling mortar with a broken hinge she’d found in the dirt. If she could gouge a hole large enough to squeeze through, then she could make a run for it before Annie cottoned on.
A squeak and a groan on the floorboards above warned her the trapdoor would soon be on the move. She hastily shimmied back to her place underneath the hulking door and lay still. Annie dropped a small, partially filled bottle through the hole. Pearl grabbed it and drank thirstily. With a feeling of disgust she threw it aside. There was more
spit in her mouth than there was water in that bottle.
‘Ungrateful slut, if yer never heard of again, no one will even miss yer,’ snarled Annie. ‘Yer depend on me, all I have to do is close this and forget about yer. That’s how easy it is, girlie.’ And just to prove her point she slammed down the trapdoor once again.
Dread enveloped Pearl. ‘Don’t let me rot down here,’ she whimpered. Her plea dissolved in the empty air.She clutched the rusty hinge and moved back to the outer wall to continue scratching and scraping. ‘I won’t give in,’ she vowed. Not without putting up a fight.
EMPTY FLAGON
Item No. 641
Stoneware ginger beer or sarsaparilla flagon. Found in cesspit.
Lonnie was turning things over in his mind. He was hot-headed, there was no denying it. Because of that crazy phrenologist Postlethwaite, he was going to have to find a cure for Daisy’s nightmares. So what was he supposed to do? Work a magic trick? Become a vicar or a priest and exorcise her evil spirits? He was fast realising that finding a remedy for everyone’s complications in life was not always easy.
He stifled a yawn. It was still early, barely sunrise in fact, yet he had already worked several hours. At least it was a short shift. A few days had shot by since the Glen’s foreman had asked him to call over. Even though Lonnie had half convinced himself he might be offered a job, he wondered deep down if anything would come of the meeting. The prospect meant a lot to him, maybe a real chance of becoming an apprentice jockey. Lonnie McGuinness wearing silks? Now that would be a complication he welcomed. Still, it would have to wait.
In Lonnie's Shadow Page 6