In Lonnie's Shadow

by Chrissie Michaels

  ‘Not that I know.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him.’

  Through a crack of light, Daisy brought Pearl back into clarity as a sixteen-year-old.

  Pearl was speaking to her, the words coiling through the air towards Daisy in slow motion. ‘Do you ever wonder why Madam Buckingham has been so good-hearted to you, setting you up, seeing you comfortable at the Leitrim, not putting you on the streets like me or Ruby? Do you ever wonder why?’ Pearl was rubbing her hand anxiously, a puzzled look on her face. ‘Daisy, are you all right? Whatever’s the matter?’

  Daisy tried to readjust her thinking and bring her friend back into full focus. Her mouth felt as if she had swallowed gravel and her head was throbbing. She managed to say, ‘I came over all giddy.’

  ‘You scared me! You were in a stupor, staring out as if I was a ghost or something. Whatever were you thinking?’

  Daisy shrugged. ‘Nothing more than you being at the Leitrim and stroking my hand.’ But her head was filled with the recurring nightmare – the short sharp pain, the strap, hands tossing her into the air, sliding, falling, tumbling, a crumpled body at the bottom of the steps.

  She clutched at Pearl as enlightenment dawned.

  ‘What if it isn’t a nightmare? What if there really was a man at the bottom of the stairs? What if Madam Buckingham and my pa had something to do with a … a murder?’

  ‘Don’t speak such thoughts too loudly,’ whispered Pearl, anxiously looking around the empty room. ‘If they are true and Madam Buckingham gets wind of them, your life could be in danger. Say she did commit murder, it means she can get rid of you just as quietly.’

  Alarmed, the two friends flew into one another’s arms. Far from comforting each other, they sat pensively contemplating the murderous intents of those around them.

  MUG

  Item No. 558

  Fragments of an earthenware mug. Blue and white pattern, transfer printed. Staffordshire.

  When Lonnie turned up at number four, it was Daisy who opened the door. She assumed he was on the same mission to see Pearl and quickly whispered, ‘She won’t listen to one word about Miss Selina. See if you can do any better.’

  Lonnie decided to keep his business with George to himself; no point in causing alarm.

  Daisy glanced down at the small posy of dried- out poppies and gum nuts that he had lifted out of a blue mug on his mam’s dresser and was holding in his hand. ‘Buttering her up first?’ she asked. ‘Good luck, you’ll need it.’ She left him to it.

  Once they were alone, Lonnie pushed the posy towards Pearl. ‘You haven’t told her, have you?’

  She looked across at him with a perplexed look.

  ‘Told her what? And what’re you doing bringing me flowers, yer chump?’

  ‘Did you tell her about us two? About the other night?’

  Pearl’s face broke into a smile. ‘I never kiss and tell.’ She hastily changed her mind. ‘Anyways, not if I can help it.’

  ‘I guess she’s bound to find out eventually, what with you and me walking out together from now on. But I thought before we tell anyone we should set you up in a new line of work. Miss Selina could find you some laundering. I could go with you to see her now if you like.’

  ‘Don’t you start on me as well.’ To be spirited off the streets by a well-meaning mission lady was one thing, but to spend the rest of her working days drudging in someone’s scullery till her hands were raw from the soap was not Pearl’s notion of a rescued life. The rest of Lonnie’s words suddenly hit home.

  ‘Hold on, what’re you saying? We’re not walking out together.’ She took in the look of hurt crossing Lonnie’s face and changed her tack. ‘I’m sorry if I misled you into thinking such a thing.’

  Embarrassment was setting like mortar into the frown on Lonnie’s face. Without a word he took three steps backwards, making to leave. What more was there left to say when a girl had spurned a lad?

  ‘Wait on, Lonnie,’ Pearl beseeched him. ‘Don’t go. Not yet.’ She reached for his arm.

  ‘Where’ve I heard that line before?’ he asked sarcastically, breaking away from her. Without another word, he strode off.

  SCRAP OF HESSIAN SACK

  Item No. 5786

  Probably used for hard wheat.

  At this late stroke of the hour, Little Lon was a place of shadows. It was not for the nervous or faint- hearted to be out and about.

  George Swiggins had done his surveillance well; he and six of his gang were watching and waiting from every possible dark and secluded spot in the alleyway. When Slasher Jack came prowling – with a belly full of grog and in a frame of mind to slip a knife between a set of ribs faster and with no more sentiment than a butcher would have carved boiled ham – they struck. Appearing from nowhere like a lightning strike, six of the strongest with muscle and fist, their intention to kidnap him – one to wrestle each of his arms and legs, another to whip a hessian sack over his head, the last to bind him.

  Not one to be subdued without a fight, Slasher thrashed like a wild animal. One mighty swipe from a loose right arm sent a luckless Push unconscious to the ground. Jack fought hard and dirty, gouging at eyes and biting anything unfortunate enough to get close to his head. Blood mixed with spittle and dribbled from his mouth.

  The weight of numbers finally knocked the fight out of him. Jack cursed blue murder as the mob held him down. They tied his arms behind his back then dropped down the rope to secure his feet. When he was firmly hogtied they tossed him onto the hard boards of an open-backed wagon and covered him with old sacks.

  George took the reins and guided the horse down the hill towards the wharf. The rest of the Push piled heavily on top of the bundle, which reeled up each time Jack tossed his head around and tried to roll off the rattling cart.

  All seemed to be going as planned until the figure of a white-helmeted constable slowly formed, busy on his lone night rounds. He walked towards them from out of the darkness.

  There was a lively commotion on the cart. The gang threw themselves forward and packed close together over their hapless victim. They launched into a bawdy song to drown out the muffled oaths coming from beneath them, trying to ward off any chance of the law recognising the deed for what it was.

  ‘What you got there hiding under them sacks?’ the constable inquired, gingerly pushing his baton towards the writhing mass. He was new to the beat and an unsettling meeting so close to the dark waters of the bay with a group of youths nearly his own age made him jittery. ‘Some poor devil’s pig, no doubt.’

  George’s laughter exploded out of him as if someone had lit a fuse in his belly. He uncovered the toe of Jack’s boot to prove he was indeed no stolen pig. ‘Wish him well, he’s due to be wed in the morning,’ he gave by way of explanation. ‘We’re making his last night of freedom one to remember.’

  His light-hearted tone was convincing enough for the youthful constable, who was more than relieved to send them on their way with a piece of advice.

  ‘Don’t take your pranks too far and land yourselves in trouble. I don’t want to find no poor lad tarred and feathered or tied naked to a pole on my beat, do you understand?’ As he watched George suck in his cheeks to stop himself laughing and then drive off, he put it down to bachelor-night palaver. Keeping to his duties, he pencilled a few words about the incident in his pocket book.

  The wagon came to a stop at a gloomy row of warehouses, dimly lit from the moonlight. The dockside air smelt of tanned hides and offal, and was damp and cold on the skin. Out on the bay a mist was sluggishly rising from the sea.

  George jumped down from the wagon and nodded towards the waiting boat. ‘Toss him in there.’

  As the group manhandled Jack off the wagon, the sack ripped away from his blood-soaked head.

  Realising where he was and what they were about to do to him, he filled his lungs and let out a murderous shriek. With every wild movement he used to try and free himself, the well-tied ropes cut
deeper into him.

  On George’s order, one of the Push rammed a chunk of dirty hessian into Jack’s open mouth and tied it fast with string. He was lucky not to lose a finger. The remainder of the gang set about removing the iron weights from the wagon. They bundled Jack onto the small boat, away from where the clippers on the tea run were moored and out of sight of prying eyes.

  George Swiggins left himself the duty of relieving Jack of the purse from his pocket and the knife stashed in his boot. ‘You won’t need this anymore, not where you’re going.’ He held the knife close to Jack’s throat.

  ‘Nice one. Ivory handled. “Jack Smith”. Don’t tell me you had a sweetheart once?’ He gave a hoarse and throaty laugh at Jack’s muffled growl.

  Slasher Jack acted like a man who knew his fate and was helpless to change it, but there were no prayers, no requests for forgiveness, no begging for mercy. He could only try to suck in some desperate, ferocious breaths of air past the suffocating gag, before George flung the sack back over his head, making his breathing even harder.

  The water slurped around the side of the boat. Each stroke of the oars pulled them further from shore. A gruff voice broke through the misting air.

  ‘Think we’re out in deep enough water yet?’

  ‘It’s not the depth that concerns me,’ replied George indifferently. ‘I don’t want him washing up on the morning tide. Take us out a little further.’

  They continued to row out on the bay to a place where the mist was thickening into a heavy fog. One of the Push secured the iron weights to the ropes that bound their captive.

  For the last time, George ripped away the sack covering Slasher’s face. Two of the gang helped to manhandle him over the side. The weighted man pulled down heavily against their strong young arms. It was a merciless conclusion, but the Push leader wanted Slasher Jack to have a final view of his vanishing world.

  ‘A favour well paid, I’d say. See ya later, Jack. With compliments of Pearl.’

  BLADE

  Item No. 1338

  Handle missing. Double-edged, long, thin blade. Dagger type.

  The night of the street race celebrated the event with one of those moonlit skies well suited to late- hour pursuits. By the time George Swiggins was making his way to watch the race, after leaving the billiard hall with two of his Push, the streets had all but emptied, leaving only a few night owls from the skittle saloon and the odd oyster bar patron who lingered on a street corner.

  George was not intent on causing trouble. Indeed, he had left most of the gang still enjoying themselves at the tables. The Push had placed good bets on Lonnie and were looking forward to peacefully watching the race and collecting some quick money.

  Billy and his gang had other ideas. They swanked their way along the street, looking for trouble, and nothing could have made them happier than when their full contingent of thirteen met up with the three Push.

  ‘Good night for a blue, George,’ challenged Billy, as he and the rest of his gang began their ritual smashing of bottles against the stonework, keeping the razor-edged necks in their gloved hands.

  George drew the ivory-handled knife he had wrested from Slasher Jack and held it towards his attackers. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit unfair; three Push onto a dozen or so of you?’

  Billy’s laugh came out as a whistle. A gaping black hole in his mouth exposed the result of a smacked- out tooth. ‘Your tough luck.’

  ‘Wrong, you great galah.’ George smiled mockingly. ‘It’s your safety I’m concerned for. You won’t stand a chance in hell against the three of us.’ At the jibe the Glass and Bottle Gang charged towards the Push.

  ‘Run, split up, meet back at the billiard hall,’ George commanded. A bottle thrown from one of the mob stung his hand and he dropped his weapon.

  ‘You’ll keep,’ he yelled back over his shoulder, as he shot off to avoid further injury.

  Billy picked up the knife that lay discarded on the ground. Having a scuffle, short-lived though it was, always gave him a thrill, especially when the Push ran away and he scored a trophy. He checked out the ivory handle and wondered who Jack Smith could be.

  RIDING WHIP

  Item No. 956

  Flat paddle type, used for spurring on horses.

  Over in the gardens the more cautious of a party of gentlemen were trying to conceal themselves in those same elms where, on that day several months earlier, Lonnie had tried to outwit the pursuing dog. The ghostly shadows of the trees blackened the gents’ faces, but silver moonlight flashed over an occasional top hat, cane or beard to reveal some aspect of their identity.

  A private carriage stood silent on the roadway. From inside the cabin, two dark curtains twitched open. Crick senior peered out from behind one of them to inspect the line up, while Henry Payne spied from the window opposite. On his good friend’s advice, Payne had a lot riding on a favourable outcome.

  For an illegal race, the line-up was impressive. Seven riders with their seven strappers and seven of the best horses in Melbourne, as good as any Saturday race could draw, had assembled on the lawn beside the white stone fountain and were waiting for the starter’s orders. The horses were lean and muscular, ranging in colour from chestnut to grey, their ribs showing under shiny, well-groomed coats. Some wore blinkers and sheepskin nosebands. Without exception, they were at peak fitness, proud, showy and strong, their nostrils flaring in anticipation of the workout to come.

  Like everyone here, Lonnie kept an eye open for a potential police raid. The law had been trying to clamp down on reckless riding though the streets. Only last year there’d been an outcry when a speeding street racer ran down Harold, a young night-raker. Poor boy had been cleaning the horse muck off the streets ready for the morning traffic, but for all his trouble had become a cripple. Not long afterwards, a pollie was trampled. What a big hullabaloo! ’Course, the scandal was fuzzed over by the Argus when they found out he’d left the Big House in the early hours and staggered across the road blind drunk straight into the path of the rider, with no one to blame but himself. Lonnie tried to put the risk out of his mind and concentrate. No good scaring himself over knocking someone flying. He’d be extra careful.

  Lonnie drew the outside and carried the number seven saddlecloth. He was not in the least surprised to see Crick had the most favourable inside draw, number one. He stroked his horse’s mane and spoke quietly in its ear. This may well be an illegal race, outside the bounds of officialdom, and in reality, the Cricks had done their best to fix it, but he was set on being the first across the line. At last, he had a chance to match his skills equally against six jockeys. Most of all he intended to settle once and for all who was the best rider.

  As arranged, Carlo was here as Lonnie’s strapper. They didn’t have much time. Carlo quickly checked the reins, saddles and foot irons, going about his duties as if he was a second in a duelling match; the pistols ready, the powder dry. ‘We’re not the amateurs around here, mate,’ he joked, enjoying his new role. ‘Now all you’ve gotta do is prove it to them by winning.’

  The other riders seemed in high spirits. Only Thomas Crick was out of sorts. When he grudgingly caught Lonnie’s glance, he glared across and waved his whip arrogantly. Lonnie felt his mount tense noticeably beneath him at the mere sight of it. ‘Easy, boy.’ He leaned forward, once more stroking the horse’s neck and shoulders.

  Carlo had also sensed the horse’s fear. He too began soothingly stroking its neck. His hand moved across scar tissue from an old wound and he gave a startled look up at Lonnie. But the time for explanation was lost to the sound of Bookie Win bringing the riders under starter’s orders. Along with all the other strappers, Carlo hastily retreated out of harm’s way. Lonnie knew his friend needed an explanation, but whatever had to be said would have to wait until the race was over.

  Bookie Win hurriedly outlined the rules in his compact accent. As well as being the bookmaker, he was also the official starter. The race was to be run the distance of the Melbourne Cup, o
nly tonight there were no handicaps or set weights. The fountain marked the start and finish of the race. All decisions would be final. The riders had to follow three main rules – all horses had a fair and even start, riders must follow the designated course through the town’s streets and the race was to be run in a gentlemanly fashion. ‘Plea, no short cut, gent-men.’ When Bookie finished, there was a definite hum of excitement from the small crowd.

  ‘Simple enough rules to follow,’ scoffed Lonnie, irritated by the idea of what a gentlemanly race meant to the Cricks. For them the words gentleman and fair play were a contradiction.

  Lonnie settled his feet firmly into the irons. He shuffled his backside into the saddle, making sure the straps were tight. He clutched the whip in his right hand. Satisfied all was well, he slackened the reins ready for the off.

  The starting pistol cracked. Horses were off and running. Lonnie’s mount began roughly, rearing at the start and almost throwing him from the saddle. He struggled with the loose reins, and then grabbed with both hands at the horse’s neck, somehow managing to hang on. His whip fell to the ground. By the time he had recovered and settled the horse

  into an even gallop, he found himself trailing the rest of the field by a good eight lengths.

  In stark contrast and much to the delight of the Crick dynasty, Thomas had begun the race well. Past Parliament House he was leading the field, his horse travelling magnificently.

  There was a thundering of hooves as the seven horses swept around the first corner. Lumps of dirt went flying from the roadway. Lonnie was still the widest of all the runners. He knew he was riding a particularly timid animal; staying out wide and away from the others would give it a little more galloping room.