With his father’s permission, Thomas immediately sent a message to Bookie Win to change the details on the list of runners and riders. Lonnie McGuinness was to be added to the betting sheet as the rider for Lightning.
PADLOCK
Item No. 7765
Heavy metal lock.
Lonnie arrived early for work with only one thing in mind for the day, to search out Lightning and Trident and check them over. Soon the whole place would be crawling with trainers and jockeys. A quick inspection confirmed the horses weren’t in their usual stables. He tried to think where he might hide them if it was he who was going to mess with one or both.
He strode across the soft mud ditches, systematically checking every outer building on the property. He liked the mud. Liked where the ground fell in when his boot marked the earth, mixing with the tracks of the other riders and the scores of horseshoe prints that were stamped everywhere.
A magpie warbled from the corrugated iron roof of a stable that was used nowadays to stack hay bales. Its mate landed and joined in the rowdy hoohah. They were plucky black and whites. Clever, too. Lonnie looked sharp in case they swooped.
A further inspection revealed a brand new, heavy- duty, iron lock fitted to the doors of the old stable.
He gave it a swift rattle but it held firm. The wind blew straight through the gap in the timbers. He peered through. The fresh smell of horses hit him. The semi-darkness of the interior made it difficult for him to determine exactly what was inside. But his ears singled out a frisk of movement, the rustle of straw, an intake of steamy breath.
A gruff voice roared from behind. ‘What’re you doin’ here so early, McGuinness? You’re not supposed to be startin’ yet.’ The stable foreman was a Neanderthal of a man, thickset with forearms not unlike Lonnie’s own thighs and hands like shovels.
He needed a good excuse and fast. ‘Aren’t I supposed to be riding Lightning or Trident at track work? Only I can’t find them in their stables.’
‘Well, you won’t find ’em here. Go muck out until you’re called,’ the foreman growled, shooting him a fierce warning glare. He pushed a pitchfork into Lonnie’s hand. ‘Be quick ’bout it, you’re not paid to stand ’round doin’ nuffing.’ Lonnie sauntered away, much too slowly for the foreman’s liking. ‘Move yourself, lad,’ he grumbled.
Lonnie picked up pace, pretending to head away. When he felt he was out of sight he backtracked, this time determined to see what was inside the old stable. If he’d guessed rightly, he already knew what he would find.
He snuck down the side of the old stable to survey the whereabouts of the foreman. He was still there, seated upon a water barrel with his back to Lonnie, guarding the padlocked door like a sentry.
Hastily Lonnie withdrew, nearly tripping over a rickety wooden ladder which lay almost buried in long grass. He was lucky not to cause a ruckus and have the foreman come running.
EPAULETTE
Item No. 1841
Ornamental shoulder piece of the type worn by a Russian military officer.
There was no better place to be on a Saturday evening than the Eastern Market. Lonnie was feeling mighty pleased with himself that Rose had agreed to walk out with him. He could barely fathom her sudden change of mind the day he’d strolled home with her. Must have laid on his charms better than he thought. He felt like tonight was going to be a splendid affair, one of the best outings he’d ever have. He was dressed like a dandy in a yellow waistcoat and scarf, a hat cocked over one temple. Carlo’s one set of good clothes fitted Lonnie like a glove.
Rose was catching everyone’s eye. She was a classy girl all right in her silk dress and blue hat. Everything matched. Even her eyes were blue- bright and sparkling. Three dark curls tumbled over her forehead. When Lonnie handed her a posy of pineapple sage and grandma’s bonnet tied around with ribbon she gave him such a smile. For the first time in his life, he told himself, he had a sweetheart.
Light rain was falling, so the pair took shelter under the canvas awnings. Overhead, a dozen of the newest electric lamps spluttered out a haze of evening light. The wail of dogs and other animals mixed in with the hum of voices around them: Moon, the Syrian seller, his lips coated with sticky sugar, spruiking his Turkey Lolly; the mission preacher standing on his soapbox and yelling out a message of damnation and hellfire; and what Lonnie liked best of all, the loud good-natured din of the crowd.
They ventured through the archway towards the flower stall, which burst with the sickly sweetness of yellow jonquils and pink carnations. Rose breathed in the heady fragrance as it laced the chill night air. The stall took up one full corner, a wooden sign swinging the dealer’s name back and forth: Gilbert Smale, Flower Seller.
Catching sight of a pair of lovebirds offered for sale on the neighbouring stall, Rose said excitedly,
‘Do buy them Lonnie. Then we’ll set them free.’ Trust a girl to become all soppy. Still, he wished
he could oblige Rose if only to impress her, but he didn’t have the money. ‘Over here,’ he said, steering her away, ‘come see the shooting gallery.’
At a canvas-covered booth a band of young lads pretended they were on the battlefield. They took aim at the large belly of a wooden Russian soldier. A hail of shots rang out at the target and the riflemen moved on, having happily saved their country from the Russians for the cost of a halfpenny a shot.
Rose was keener to watch the Punch and Judy show.
‘Father has never allowed me to come here,’ she said in wonderment, as the puppets battered each other mercilessly with clubs and chairs, while the children cheered them on with squeals and jeers. Rose looked giddy and light-hearted. Her eyes sparkled with the thrill of the evening.
She had never before in her life dared to venture into the notorious Eastern Market, scared off by her father’s threat of lice lurking in the shadows of the floor straw and sawdust, ever waiting to march upwards under her dress. As a child, she’d had nightmares of the lice soldiering their way along her legs. Worse was the menace of catching scabby blisters and sores from the slum dwellers who brushed past.
Startled by these curdling thoughts, she scanned the faces in the crowd and, just to prove her point, settled on a lad watching the puppets. In the corner of his mouth was a sore, bloated with pus. When he moved on, Rose saw he had a limp. In turn he spotted Rose staring open-mouthed as he plopped up and down, nearly stepping straight out of his oversized boots. He grinned cheekily back at her and poked out his pale tongue.
Rose averted her eyes, repulsed by the sight of him. Her heart beat a little flustery and she wondered if she were about to swoon. No, she vowed, she wasn’t going to let some bothersome ill-bred child blow over her like a cold wind. Not tonight when this was her one and only chance to experience a different, lesser side of life. Until this moment it hadn’t fully hit home that Lonnie was one of these simple and backward people. She took another look around her, relieved to see no one she knew.
Lonnie misread the changing expressions on Rose’s face. Deceived or not, all he could absorb was her admiration, which filled him with pleasure. Here with Rose it was easy to believe they were indeed a couple.
‘What stall would you run if you had a chance?’
he asked.
She didn’t answer immediately. Lonnie stroked the faint auburn tuft of hair on his chin, wishing it would hurry up and thicken, mark him more as a man. He remembered his outing with Daisy and decided to put it to good use. ‘Okay, I’ll start,’ he volunteered hopefully. ‘What about a lumps and bumps stall where you can change character? You know, “Come right up, find the right bump!” Then get hit on the head with a hammer. Make the bell ring.’
Rose seemed genuinely impressed. ‘How clever! Test the phrenological hammer. You could say something like, “Want to be more like Mr McCubbin or Mr Streeton or Mr Roberts?” and then knock them on the head with the hammer on the right bump for Artistic Temperament. I love it!’
‘McWho?’ asked Lonnie, wondering what she was rabbiting on abou
t.
There was a polite silence. Finally she replied,
‘You know … the cigar-box lids.’
Lonnie looked as blank as a sheet of white notepaper.
‘“One hundred and eighty-two small panels painted on cigar-box lids”? Their “nine by five” exhibition in eighty-nine? Mr Frederick McCubbin? A Bush Burial? “Like a little poem without words”? You must have heard speak of our famous artists?’ Rose waited for him to acknowledge the Impressionists whose work had been taking Melbourne by storm these past few years. Her father had just added two paintings from the Heidelberg school of artists to his collection and was keen to purchase a Roberts.
Lonnie shrugged. ‘Never heard of anything like that. I was only thinking of Postlethwaite’s shopfront.’
A look of realisation crossed Rose’s face.
This serious about-turn in her mood was not in Lonnie’s plan. He hastily set about to remedy it. ‘Are you up for some fun?’
‘What sort of fun?’
‘We could take a glass at the skittle saloon.’
Rose eyes widened in horror. ‘Father says the skittle saloon is built on the foundations of a leper hospital. I’m never to go near it.’
‘There aren’t no lepers there.’
A scowl swept her face. She shook her head.
‘We could stop by the coffee stall for a cuppa and a bite o’ plum duff,’ he offered.
‘I won’t drink from those filthy cups. Father says they rinse them in the open drains.’
Rose’s withering look told Lonnie that no decent lady would even mention what they contained. He only ever thought fondly of the coffee stall outside the market, with its huge boiler, shining brass nozzle and spout. How it kept the water piping hot on a pan of charcoal. How much he enjoyed stopping off to drink the steaming coffee from those thick heavy cups. And if you were early enough, grab one of the plum puddings or Chelsea buns, although he wasn’t as partial to the buns – the currants always reminded him of dead flies.
‘Flies’ graveyards,’ he found himself commenting out loud.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Them buns.’
At the suggestion Rose threw out her lower lip in a childish sulk.
Lonnie was at a loss to know why she disapproved of everything he said. Self-conscious to the bootstraps, he mentally prepared for his next move. Keep her entertained, a little voice inside barked.
‘How about I take ya somewhere you’ve never been?’
‘Where?’
Not willing to chance another rebuff, he said, ‘Wait and see. If you’re game.’
Rose stared him steadily in the eye. She had never felt so daring in her life. Marvelling at her own bravado, considering she already risked disease by being here in the first place, she said, ‘Of course, I’m game.’
Deep down she knew she was being her father’s ‘capricious little girl’. She crossed her fingers and fervently hoped she would not come to regret the decision.
PIECE OF BENT WIRE
Item No. 1035
Oddly shaped wire. Strong.Opinion is divided on its use.
Melbourne was located too close to the South Pole for all but the most adventurous traveller. After the gold boom a few decades earlier, the town had grown into itself marvellously. Buildings were draped in filigree and clambered skywards, crying out for recognition. On the central corner, the Australian Building was the tallest in town, boasting its twelve storeys northwards to the boulevards of Paris and London, aspiring to be equal to any place there. Come one, come all!
Lonnie led Rose along a dimly lit laneway towards the much plainer rear entrance to this gigantic building. The shop windows on the ground floor were barred and shuttered, while the upper floors with their multitude of offices were abandoned for the night. Apart from the clattering of a hansom cab around the corner, the place was silent. Deaf and dumb. Deserted. Lonnie removed a piece of oddly bent wire from his jacket and nimbly released the tumblers on the lock securing the oak door, the way he had done a few times in the past. He slipped in through the opening and pulled Rose inside.
She wrenched her hand away and swallowed nervously. ‘Are you mad? This is burglary.’
‘We’re not here to thieve anything. Only to play the lift.’
‘Do you think I’ve never ridden a lift before?’ She surveyed him with a cold stare.
‘But have you ridden one in the tallest building?’
‘No.’
‘Ever been in a lift that works without cables?’
‘No.’ Rose turned away as if she couldn’t bear to look at him. She waited a moment before speaking again. ‘Well, is it safe?’
Lonnie was becoming desperate to impress her.
‘Safest in the world, so they say. The latest hydraulic engineering. A steel ram pushing up and down.’
‘Don’t be a bore,’ she said imperiously. ‘Show me the view from the top and then let’s get out of here.’ Before she could change her mind, Lonnie rushed
forward. ‘Come on then.’
As the decent-sized lift rattled upwards, taking them to dizzying heights, the Glass and Bottle Gang prowling the streets below discovered the open rear door of the building.
Lonnie drew Rose closer and gingerly placed his arm around her waist.
She pushed him away. ‘We really shouldn’t be here.’
Nothing was going to plan. Rose was acting all snaky. She should have been swooning in his arms by now; the way Pearl did when she wanted to practise falling into the arms of her clients and Lonnie was ordered to catch her so she wouldn’t fall to the ground. He wondered if he had gone too far. After all, Rose wasn’t like Pearl. He set the lift in a downward motion, hurt by her rejection but determined to do the respectful thing. ‘No worries. We’ll leave right now if you want.’
Silently the gang filed in, darting into the darkened corners as soon as they heard the lift descend, more than ready to meet the nightwatchman doing his rounds.
As the lift settled onto the ground floor, Lonnie sensed Rose and he were no longer alone in the building. Slowly, he eased open the cast-iron gate. Turning to Rose, he whispered, ‘Stay there,’ and heard her gasp.
A hand on the other side blocked Lonnie’s exit. Billy Bottle leered through the grill at Rose. ‘So, McGuinness,’ he said. ‘Who’s your scrag?’
‘Leave her be.’
‘Or else?’
Billy was the sort who did not think twice about smashing a bottle then thrusting it full into a man’s face.
‘I’m warning you,’ Lonnie said. So far he had avoided a bottling, but didn’t fancy his chances the way things were going. He clenched his fist, bracing to thump the gang leader.
‘What ya going to do, eh?’ Billy turned to his Glass and Bottles who were yelping around behind him like a pack of bulldogs. ‘We know a threat when we hear one, don’t we, lads?’ The rest of the gang was eager to join in. From their point of view, nine onto one made a fair fight.
Lonnie’s bravery was short-lived. He was no match for the burly larrikin, who sent a huge set of knuckles crashing into his cheek. He sprawled down onto the lift floor. Billy continued with his jibes. ‘Caught you cold did I, McGuinness?’ With one rough hand the gang leader grabbed Rose’s waist, slipped the other into the neckline of her dress and ripped off a button. He moved his fingers suggestively along the open seam. ‘Soak up this bit of silk,’ he said, letting out a whistle as he pretended to feel the cut of the material. He jerked her towards him to the lip- smacking catcalls of his mates. ‘Give us a kiss then, sweetheart.’
Still groggy from the punch, Lonnie caught her terrified scream.
‘Think I’ll give her a lesson in not playing so hard to get, hey, lads?’
Two glass buttons fell to the floor, exposing Rose’s pale vanilla throat. Billy’s dirty fingernails worked their way up and across her mouth.
For one fleeting moment, Rose Payne became a box of fireworks and resisted for all she was worth. Billy let out a yelp
and sprang back. He checked the bite on his hand. With a smirk, he licked up a smear of blood and wiped his hand down his belly. ‘Maybe she’ll have more fun if you’re not around,’ he said, ordering one of the gang to take Lonnie back up the twelve storeys.
Lonnie attempted to stand, but his legs gave way. As a last resort he jammed one foot in the way of the gate, struggling with all his might to hold it back.
Billy fought against him to slam it shut. ‘You’re a cocky little runt, aren’t you?’
Out of nowhere came a rush of feet. The foyer of the Australian Building was suddenly packed with angry young men and their unfinished business.
A familiar voice called out, ‘You know how to pick your weight, Billy Bottle.’ The words swirled around Lonnie like a spinning top. The Push, who had been tracking the Glass and Bottles all evening, had been waiting for a chance to pounce. This was even better; to catch their rivals unprepared and outnumbered as indeed they were. George Swiggins pulled out a brass knuckle from his pocket, spat and shined it on his well-tailored suit. ‘Beating up on little girls now, are we?’
The rival gangs squared up to one another.
Billy never shirked a fight. ‘Looks like we’re set for a fine time tonight, lads.’
Rose broke away. To the sound of smashing bottles, she scrambled over to Lonnie. He managed to drag himself to his feet. They linked hands and struggled past the brawling men who were battering and pounding each other, and taking much delight in the blood sport.
As soon as they were out of immediate danger, in a darkened doorway across the road, Rose jerked her hand away. ‘I hate you. I hate you,’ she screamed in a voice shrill with hysteria. ‘How could you?’
‘I never meant to put you in so much danger,’ Lonnie protested feebly.
‘Well, you did,’ she snapped back. Rose calmed down enough to notice the blood streaming from Lonnie’s nose. ‘You’re bleeding.’
In Lonnie's Shadow Page 9