In Lonnie's Shadow

by Chrissie Michaels

  From her purse she drew out a delicate glass bottle and breathed in the calming vapours. Once the world regained its colour and texture and she felt composed enough to take a turn, she made her way into Allen’s Music Store. Browsing through the latest sheet music, but perhaps taking a few idle moments longer than she needed, her fingers came to a stop at a song called ‘Narcissus’. She crossed her fingers in the hope it was not an omen.

  Outside she found herself staring at a group of larrikins milling around the corner lamp post. Before they could send their catcalls and whistles her way, she turned stiffly and hurried off in the opposite direction. What if her father saw her talking to the likes of larrikins or barrow boys? What if Thomas mentioned Mr McGuinness when the Cricks came to call as they so often did? Her father would be wild with anger.

  Anything Thomas said or did seemed to have her father’s blessing. There was no doubting he was the preferred suitor. Rose knew her father only wanted the best for her. He wholeheartedly believed Thomas to be a fine, upstanding young man who was going places. Prospects were important, as he let her know often enough. The Paynes and the Cricks had land speculation deals in common and they both shared an interest in the sport of kings. All in all, Thomas Crick was her perfect match, at least in her father’s eyes.

  Rose thought she would like Thomas Wylie Crick much better if he had followed behind her when she left the apple cart. She wondered crossly where he could be. Only last Saturday they had enjoyed doing the Block together. He had romantically stolen her glove as they strolled through Royal Arcade, and she dared to imagine he kept it close by that night as he slept. Afterwards, they visited the book arcade and wandered alone around the fernery. They laughed together in the monkey house, sipped tea in the tearooms and smiled at their own reflections in a wall-sized mirror. How worldly and ardent he had seemed then, while today he had been downright ill- tempered. She looked behind her. Where was he?

  Rose slowed down her pace, waiting to see if she would be seized by a similar swoon, but romancing Thomas Crick in her imagination didn’t make her heart beat any faster. She stopped by the nearest window display and contemplated the dress on show. It reminded her of a spring flower. It was a darling, made of silk in a deep shade of daffodil with white sweetheart rosebuds, flounced at the bustle and nipped tightly at the waist; it looked her very size. Instead of smelling salts she started thinking of the first Tuesday in November, which would see her attend the Melbourne Cup. She should really start thinking about having a dress made for the occasion.

  ‘Miss Payne?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked tight-lipped, not bothering to turn around. ‘I thought you were working.’

  ‘Finished for the day. You recognised my voice?’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself. I see your reflection in the window, Mr McGuinness. You don’t happen to know where Mr Crick has gone, do you? I expected him to be escorting me this afternoon.’

  ‘You told him not to. I heard you myself.’

  ‘Stop teasing. Gentlemen never forget their manners.’ She was immediately conscious that her prickly voice had pointed out the obvious for he coloured up like a strawberry patch. ‘I daresay Thomas didn’t mention where he was heading?’ she asked more gently.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why were the two of you goading each other back at the market?’

  Lonnie thought it over for a moment or two before answering and convinced himself he wouldn’t be telling Rose Payne anything she didn’t already know. Since her father was such a good mate of the Cricks, she was bound to have heard something about the race.

  ‘Oh, Crick is such a scoffer. Do you know, he’s so desperate to prove he’s a better horseman than me that he’s willing to pay my entry fee for a race?’

  ‘That sounds very generous to me. And he is a

  good horseman. No one can question that.’

  Lonnie was more than a little put out. ‘Well, I’m better! And I’m putting good money on myself to prove it. You should do the same.’

  ‘Well then,’ she said, smiling. ‘I shall have a little bit each way on the both of you.’

  Lonnie plucked up the courage to ask, ‘I could walk you home if you like?’

  She picked up the nervousness in his voice. Conscious of where she was and how it must look to others, she was reluctant to answer. What if someone should see them strolling the streets? It would be a costly thing to be seen out with the likes of McGuinness. What if her father found out? He already thought her capricious enough.

  Boldly, Lonnie offered her his arm. ‘Won’t do you no harm.’

  Overlooking the same street, from a sweatshop where row after row of girls were making beautiful hats and dresses for the likes of the women doing the Block below, Daisy Cameron paused from the drudgery of her sewing treadle and gazed out the window.

  Instantly she recognised the young man in workaday clothes standing in front of the shop opposite, speaking to a pretty, well-to-do girl.

  ‘Well, well, Lonnie!’ Daisy muttered. ‘Here’s how to make a fool of yourself.’

  She watched the girl refuse his arm, hesitate, then turn back towards her friend and nod.

  JINGLE FROM A TAMBOURINE

  Item No. 7332

  Metal disc from the circular frame of a tambourine.

  Oompah! The Salvation Army brass band shrieked into action, their horns and bugles of glory waking up Little Lon and its surrounds. Amongst the good people inviting divine attention, Daisy fervently shook and jingled her tambourine for the Lord.

  A window flew open outside the Big House. Madam Buckingham’s voice roared out above the music. ‘Pack it in, you yelling maniacs.’ She spotted Daisy. ‘Glory be girl, you making that racket, too? At least there’ll be a bit of reasoning to be done then. Over here, I want a word.’

  Daisy caught the eye of the solemn-faced Drum Major and swiftly exchanged her tambourine for his collection tin.

  ‘See, I have no bones with the Army, but it’s a problem you all being here at this particular time.’ Madam Buckingham spoke in that contrary way she always did when addressing Daisy, with a tinge of kindness that bordered on annoyance. ‘Sweetie, there’s a matter of a few important parliamentary personages about to depart my fine establishment, who do not care to be recognised by the good Major over there. See if you can get the Army to move on, will you, pet? Quick smart, then you won’t hold up the gentlemen any longer. They’re running a bit late as it is.’

  Daisy rattled the tin close to Madam’s face in an action no one else, not even the Drum Major, would dare to do. ‘But we’ve three more hymns to play.’

  Madam Buckingham flashed her a wry smile and pushed four coins into the slit. ‘This should hurry you along.’

  ‘Or is it two hymns?’ Daisy jiggled the tin a few more times.

  The madam dropped in another coin. ‘That’s all you’re getting, Daisy Cameron, or I’ll tan your hide. Taking advantage of my own sweet heart, you are. Just like that scallywag friend of yours, disappearing without a word. If she thinks she can go back to Annie Walker without so much as a how’s your father, then I don’t know what the world is coming to. Tell that missy Pearl, if you see her, when I catch hold of her she’s getting a what-for she won’t forget in a long time.’

  Daisy wondered what Madam Buckingham was going on about. When had Pearl gone back to work for Annie? A wave of guilt washed over her. She hadn’t seen Pearl for days. Apart from searching her out that day with Lonnie, of late she was in no mind to be visiting anyone. There was always too much to do. As soon as the morning’s Godly duties were over she would make the effort to find her.

  Madam Buckingham may have stopped her tirade against Pearl, but she had unfinished business with the rest of the Salvation Army. ‘Go beat those drums and rattle your tins elsewhere. There’s many a rich sinner with deeper pockets asleep on Collins Hill or in Carlton. They’re more in need of the Lord’s good messages than the likes of us poor, penniless souls.’

&n
bsp; Daisy smiled candidly at the madam’s wickedness.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do about moving us along. I think we’re running a bit short of time, anyhow. God bless you then.’

  ‘And don’t you go forgetting the silks and the gloves, mind. We’ll be needing them soon. And tell Pearl she better be back quick smart. If it weren’t for my little Ruby and the other girls, I don’t know how I would manage to make ends meet.’

  ‘The dresses are almost finished,’ Daisy reassured her, doing her best not to set Madam off again.

  ‘You’re a cut above the rest,’ Madam Buckingham called. ‘I always knew you’d be fine; even if your mother was a thieving hussy and your father a drunken fool.’

  The window slammed shut after this harsh, but truthful, reminder of her childhood. Daisy slipped away for a quick and quiet word with the Drum Major. After one resounding chorus of ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’, God’s army marched off in the capable hands of Jesus to wage war against evil in a different street.

  CRACKED SAUCER

  Item No. 1198

  Spoil heap. Fragment. Residue of wax. At one time used as a candleholder.

  In the gloom of the cellar Pearl lay curled in a ball of misery, having abandoned her plan of escape. She spent her waking moments listening to the pitter- patter of a rat scratching behind the wall, expecting sometime soon the little feet would break through and crawl over her skin, the teeth gnash into her ear and gnaw her cheek, then she would share the fate of all those babbies who fell asleep in their cradles never to wake up again in this world. Her eyes remained shut tight, true to the notion that anything she could not see would not hurt her.

  Hunger had given way to numbness. Her face felt sunken, as if the bones inside were turning to powder. She could only guess how many days she had been captive and wondered how long a body could remain alive with so little water or food or light. She only knew that soon she would become a ghost child. Well, it would serve Annie right if Pearl’s lingering spirit scared her half to death.

  When her prison door scraped open one more time, she blinked and raised an involuntary arm towards the square space of light above. From an upturned bucket a torrent of icy water splashed over her, plastering Pearl’s stringy hair to her head, the wet seeming to seep through her skin and form ice crystals on her insides. She felt her body shake from the cold. The thirst had overcome her so heavily she sucked at the hair ends, greedily licking the liquid from her hands and arms like the animal she had become.

  ‘Look at the state of yer, filthy vixen, stinking like a wheel of mice,’ Annie hissed. ‘Clean yerself up.’

  It was true. Pearl could smell her own skin, stinking foul from neglect and fear. Thinking that Annie meant her to climb out, she strained to stand upright. Her limbs had stiffened, almost set into rigor mortis. She forced her upper body to reach towards the opening and painfully eased her head and shoulders through the small hole. She blinked again, this time forcing her eyes to accustom themselves to the light, dim as it was. The room that came into focus was small and one Pearl recognised.

  Across its timber floor she made out the glow of a clay pipe. A man on a makeshift bed of newspapers and old clothes sprawled close by, his hand twitching in a fitful sleep.

  Annie’s attention also turned to the groggy man.

  ‘What’ve I told yer about smoking in that state, stupid old fool. Yer’ll burn the place down.’ She picked up the pipe and kicked the man hard in the ribs. Blacked out to the pain, he moaned and turned over.

  Annie’s voice ripped Pearl out of her stupor.

  ‘Where do you think you’re off to?’ She pushed a foot hard against Pearl’s shoulder and sent her hurtling back down into the hole.

  Pearl screamed as she fell backwards, the desperate voice of a stranger, no longer recognisable as her own.

  ‘Get a load of this, Lolly.’ A blubbery girl, with rouge so plastered it could have been slapped on by a brickie’s trowel, slouched sullenly alongside Annie, who pinched her on the shoulder and snarled. ‘See what happens to girls who don’t do as I say?’

  Annie had more menacing words for Pearl. ‘Stop yer squawking, yer rattling bag of bones. Yer only good enough for the likes of Slasher, because yer don’t do as yer told.’ Without a further word of warning she spat on Pearl, then let the trapdoor slam down.

  Left alone, Pearl’s body took on a dreadful, involuntary life of its own, her limbs shaking as if she had caught the typhoid. Surely to become a ghost child wouldn’t be so bad, once the darkness took over completely. She felt detached from her body, a colourless wisp of air.

  From beyond the exterior wall came a faint noise, a slight suggestion of music, enough to coax Pearl away from these morbid wonderings. She concentrated on the beat of the Oompah. As it became a little louder, she could make out the ring and clashing of the Sally Army. Hadn’t Daisy been teaching her this same salvation song? She jostled her memory for the words ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers, marching as to war, with the cross of Jesus … coming down before …’ No, she thought, that isn’t right, I should have paid more attention. Annie’s voice filled her mind, Yer a muddling slag, a smut of soot.

  A single tear spilled from her eye. If it was the works of her mind gone insane, well, it would be understandable. After all, she had suffered so miserably of late and couldn’t be blamed for losing her wits. But what if the sound was a sign that Daisy was coming to find her? Daisy who was always kind to her, the way she always was with everyone. To be with Daisy would be safe. Daisy was good and kind and generous. Not scampish and wayward the way Pearl had turned out. Not stinking vermin. Pearl didn’t do what she was told. Pearl was only good enough for Slasher. That’s why Madam Buckingham was so good to Daisy, but wouldn’t help her. Madam knew Daisy was an angel and Pearl was wilful. Daisy could reserve a place in heaven. Pearl had nowhere.

  She strained to hear the Sally’s song of prayer. Could she dare to hope that sweet, kind Daisy was leading an army of God’s angels to save her?

  A feeble shaft of filtered light crept through the gaps between the trapdoor and the floor joists, directing her attention to a cluster of objects which, obscured by dust up until now, had gone unnoticed. For the first time since her capture, the light was shining upon this particular spot, illuminating these remnants of someone’s earlier stay.

  The music of the Army softened. The band passed by. Pearl realised she would not be liberated this time by her angel from God. But neither would she become a ghost child. For a fragment of candle stuck to a saucer with wax was lit up by the light as if itself were burning. Two matchsticks left there could be no less than a sign. It was an eerie feeling to rise from the dead. She was convinced there and then that an angel must have been sent to lighten her troubles.

  A sense of hope filled her, warm and soothing. Yes, she might remain at Annie’s mercy, probably she would die soon, but she would have some respite from the dark and the rodents until then. She struck the two match heads together and prayed the way Daisy did, asking for a swift deliverance, a good feed before it came, and the most fervent request of all: that Annie Walker lose her footing over a cesspit, topple down senseless and be left to rot in the bog forever.

  HORSE BRASS

  Item No. 5439

  Brass ornamentation worn on a horse’s harness.

  Over in the office at the Golden Acres stud farm, Thomas Crick stood pleading with his father over the plan to let Lonnie McGuinness ride in the upcoming street race. ‘That impertinent stableboy called me an ape. He needs teaching a lesson. How dare he compare himself with me or the other jockeys? You have to consent to him riding Lightning.’ For the umpteenth time that week he tried to make his point. His father must see it was a matter of pride.

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’ Crick said to his son.

  ‘If anyone’ll be able to tell there’s something fishy going on, it’ll be McGuinness.’

  It wasn’t proving easy to convince his father, but Thomas wouldn’t be silenced. ‘It�
��s clear as day. When Lightning gets beaten in the race, everyone will be suspicious of us because we’ve made such heavy bets against it. But if we put McGuinness on Lightning we can blame its defeat on his bad riding. All we have to say is we put money on Trident because we knew McGuinness wasn’t good enough. Our plan’s infallible.’

  As his father considered this new point Thomas realised he was wavering, which prompted him to advance the argument even further. ‘We’d look even better if we say that we were trying to do those Little Lon scum a favour by letting one of their own ride the best horse in Melbourne. Think of the publicity for Golden Acres. You could even fix it so that the story gets covered by the Argus. He drew the headline in the air: ‘Lightning luck for a Little Lon lad. We’d sure look good, helping out the poor unfortunates.’

  ‘The Argus? Are you a complete lunatic? This is an illegal race! We can’t go admitting our horses are in it.’ Mr Crick paused. ‘But your idea is basically sound. ’Course it’d have to be done by word of mouth. Only rumours mind you, nothing official.’

  Thomas could see from his father’s expression that he was at last winning the argument. ‘It’s a perfect ruse, Father. Explains why I’m not riding Lightning. We just let slip about my bet with McGuinness and how, through the kindness of my heart, I’m letting him ride the “best” horse. Trust me, it’ll work, I know it will.’

  ‘Just make sure you win.’