Frances felt a quick stab of pain. She’d loved her dad, but somehow, she was so busy taking care of things, that whole weeks passed without her thinking about him. It must be different for Uncle Sal. He had too much time on his hands, and he and her dad had always been close, right up to his death in 1928, even if they didn’t meet up for months because Uncle Sal was on tour.
She took Uncle Sal’s arm and gave it a light squeeze. ‘You don’t look too shabby yourself.’ She gave him the once-over, admiring the white silk scarf and old-fashioned black dinner jacket with the wide velvet collar. It was hard to believe that these garments used to be part of Uncle Sal’s vaudeville costume. She had to look very hard to spot the faint stains left by sweat and stage grease.
‘I’m beginning to feel a bit like a swagman,’ Phil said, adjusting the bow-tie that sat uncomfortably tight on the unstarched collar of his dress shirt. His brown suit had seen better days, but it was well-cut and of good quality, as were the brown leather shoes.
Frances gave him a dazzling smile, basking in his obvious admiration. ‘Shall we go now? I’ll just fetch my rain coat.’
‘You won’t need that,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘Didn’t you hear the wind puffing like a steam engine? It’s blown the rain clouds right up against Mount Lofte. Don’t wait up for us, Maggie.’ He made a few uneven dance steps. ‘I can feel the old soft shoe routine coming up through my soles.’
6
The Top Note was a brisk five-minute walk from the tram stop. Frances and Uncle Sal emerged in high spirits. They left Phil to follow them, carrying, on his insistence, the bag with Frances’ satin dance shoes. She’d decided against wearing them on the way, for fear they might get dirty. The low-heeled brogues she wore everyday were at odds with her dress, but Frances didn’t care. She bubbled over with happiness.
The club occupied the first two floors of a three-storey, sandstone building erected in the eve of the war in classical style, with brick detailing and strapped gables. In less than two decades, its fortunes had changed from a private gentleman’s residence to vaudeville theatre and, since the end of 1928, to the Top Note, a popular night club. It held a place of its own, ranking between a frightfully exclusive club, notorious for its excesses, and the establishments that catered to the seedier elements.
An impassive giant in a black suit guarded the glossy, black-painted door. Frances’ eyes widened as Uncle Sal ushered her inside the building. Two discreetly signed doors to the left and right made her turn towards Phil and ask him for her bag.
‘I’ll be right back,’ she whispered to Uncle Sal.
He gave her a wink. ‘We’ll wait for you at the door, love.’
The powder room drew a gasp from Frances. One whole wall was covered from halfway up until a couple of inches under the ceiling with a gilt-framed mirror. Two shell-shaped marble basins stood on top of a marble shelf that was placed directly underneath. Plush chrome-legged stools sat at regular intervals.
A girl about her own age sat on a stool. She had one eye closed, reapplying a thick coat of turquoise eye shadow. Her open evening bag on the counter revealed a golden powder compact, a bejewelled lipstick case, and a purse made of a golden metal.
Frances sat on a stool and took her satin shoes out of the bag. She still needed to put on her new stockings. She gave the other girl a quick sideward glance. The girl raised her eyebrows. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said, painting the other eyelid. ‘I’m almost done anyway.’
Frances slipped into a cubicle and opened the cardboard box. She took off her socks and slid on the stockings, fastening them on to her garter belt, before she put on her dance shoes. She stepped out of the cubicle as the other girl glided out of the room.
Frances smoothed her frock and took a comb out of her evening bag. In this artificial light, her hair looked more bronze than light brown. Its soft waves touched her shoulders, curling inwards.
She examined her face. The powder hid the dusting of freckles on her nose, but with her glowing skin she’d never achieve that pale, mysterious look other girls sported. She’d tried to suck in her gently rounded cheeks, for that hollow effect, but it only made her look and feel foolish.
She took out her compact and snapped it open. A quick dab of powder on nose and chin, another coat of lipstick, and she was done. She gave herself one last satisfied glance in the mirror.
∞∞∞∞
‘That was quick,’ Phil said as she joined them. He leant over the wooden counter that separated the cloakroom from the corridor. ‘Uncle Sal has gone to secure us a table, after he introduced me to your charming friend.’
Pauline, who stood on the other side of the counter, gave Phil a wink and a smile. Frances suppressed a grin. Trust Pauline to flirt mildly with any personable man.
Pauline turned to Frances. ‘I’m sooooo glad you came.’
She handed Phil a metal plate with an engraved number, fluttering her lashes at him, before she addressed Frances again. ‘You know, I might be able to join you later for a bit. I’ll ask after I’ve done my spell here and helped Miss Bardon backstage.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I'm sure she’ll let me go once I’ve helped her dress, when I tell her I’ve got friends here. She’s so nice, and she sings like an angel. You’ve never heard her, have you?’
Frances shook her head. Miss Bardon’s name was well-known to her, it was through her that Pauline got this job, but she’d never seen her in person. The singer used to be a regular at the beauty salon where Pauline was employed as a shampoo girl and general dogsbody, until the business folded.
Pauline leant over to Phil. ‘She’s the best night club singer in Adelaide, if not the whole of Australia, and everyone is crazy about her, in a nice way, I mean. Otherwise Mr Jack would be sure to teach them what’s what. He’s the boss.’ Footsteps interrupted her. ‘New customers,’ she said. ‘See you later.’ She put on a professional smile as she turned to a slick man with a pencil moustache and two-tone shoes.
∞∞∞∞
They found Uncle Sal waiting for them at a small table close to the dance floor. Phil said, ‘Your friend’s a nice girl. Very chatty, and very pretty.’
‘Pauline’s been my best friend since we started school,’ Frances said. ‘I’m glad you like her.’ She looked around her with delight. A dozen tables were scattered along the white-washed walls. Sconces fitted with electric candles and chandeliers spread enough light to chat and dance, without casting anyone into sharp and unflattering relief. The hardwood floor was partly covered with crimson rugs, making it easy to roll them up to enlarge the dance floor.
The place filled up rapidly, Frances noticed. People were in a high old mood, the men meeting and greeting each other, the women embracing while appraising the other’s fur stoles and jewels. Hardly anyone gave Frances a glance. She didn’t mind. It offered her the opportunity to soak up every detail without being scrutinised herself.
Uncle Sal gave her hand a little squeeze. ‘Happy?’
‘Very.’ She blew him a kiss.
Phil said, ‘We’ll wait to order our drinks until the hubbub dies down a bit.’ He relaxed into his chair.
The five-man band moved on to the small stage while people were still milling around.
To Frances, it seemed rude to chat without giving the musicians a single glance. She frowned, but Uncle Sal shook his head a fraction of an inch. ‘It’s not like a theatre,’ he said, ‘where you get a bell ringing and the curtain comes up.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘Glory days, love.’
She smiled at him, her gaze directed towards the dapper looking band who seemed so cool despite the heat of the limelight. She’d try and memorise as much as she could, to share with her mum.
A slight young man with slicked back hair and a tuxedo stepped in front of the band, raised his baton, and the concert was in full swing.
She tapped her feet under the table. Her fingers drummed on the tablecloth. The first couples took to the dance floor. Her gaze followed them.
Phil held out his hand.
‘Shall we dance?’
Uncle Sal nodded. ‘Off you go, child, but mind to save the first foxtrot for me.’
Phil was a fabulous dancer, matching his step to hers. It was heaven to glide across the room without having to worry if she’d step on his toes. She hadn’t been to a dance in ages, and her knowledge of the one-step, two-step, and Lindy Hop was limited to what she and Pauline had seen at the pictures and practiced in Frances’ parlour, to the sounds of the radio.
The band was bonzer, too, playing all of her favourite tunes, like ‘Three Little Words’ and ‘Ten Cents a Dance’. Phil’s hand grasped her waist tighter. Her cheek came up to his shoulder, and for a second he pulled her close enough for the top of her head to rest against his chin.
Her pulse quickened. She made a wrong step.
‘Would you like a break?’ he asked.
Frances nodded as he led her off the dance floor, confused about her own reaction. For an instant, the image of another man had flashed inside her mind, a tanned man with dark hair and a nose that had once been broken. Silly.
She sank down onto her chair.
‘Thirsty?’ Uncle Sal asked.
‘Very. It’s hot with all those chandeliers above the dance floor.’
‘I’ll get us something to drink from the bar,’ Phil said and got up.
Uncle Sal held him back. ‘No need. I’ve already seen to that.’
Frances still felt flustered. ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy,’ she said, picking up her bag. On her way to the powder room, she looked for Pauline, but she’d been replaced by a stout man.
∞∞∞∞
Two women stood in front of the mirror. Their conversation stopped as they saw Frances. Cold eyes took in every inch of her appearance, before they dismissed her with a shrug and a yawn.
‘And then,’ a brunette, with jutting hips in a cut-out, pink, silk dress that revealed every bone in her back, said, ‘I told her to take her hands off my man. As if he’d look twice at a scrawny bit of used goods like her. I bet you she’s been around the block more often than a bobby on the beat.’
Her heavily peroxided friend dabbed perfume behind her ears. She ran her fingers through a frizzy halo of bleached hair. ‘You should have slapped the little hussy once and for all. She’s been after your Harold for ages, and Will said she’s been trying her luck with him as well, as soon as Nancy’s back was turned.’
The brunette said, ‘Who cares about trash like that anyway?’ She touched a sparkling choker around her thin neck. ‘What do you think of this? Harold’s little surprise to make up for finding him with that vulture almost on his lap.’
The blonde’s eyes were hungry. ‘Where did he get it from?’
‘Who cares? He didn’t stick anyone up to get his hands on it, that’s all I need to know. I’d hate to have the force sniffing all over me.’ The brunette smoothed her dress over her hips and grabbed her bag. ‘Let’s go before the boys start to get naughty ideas.’ Their heels beat an aggressive staccato as they sashayed off.
Frances’ mouth gaped open. Those words again. Her mind must be starting to play tricks on her, or maybe that kind of talk was fashionable among the fast crowd those women obviously belonged too. It had nothing to do with her, anyway. She swiped her lipstick over her mouth.
∞∞∞∞
A silver bucket and four glasses stood in front of Uncle Sal. He winked at her. ‘I thought you might be a while,’ he said, filling a glass with a pale-yellow liquid.
She picked it up and held it under her nose. A fruity scent tickled her nostrils.
Uncle Sal and Phil raised their glasses. ‘Cheers, love,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘And go easy on it.’
Frances took a sip. She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s sourer than I thought,’ she said. ‘What is it? Champagne?’
‘I couldn’t order a schooner of beer for you, love, now could I?’
‘But isn’t that terribly expensive? And what if the police turn up and arrest us for illegal drinking?’
Uncle Sal gave her a chuck under the chin. ‘The police have got better things to do. And I’m not skint yet, Frances. There’s a few quid left from the money that grogged up toff paid for mowing me down.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Wipe that frown off your pretty forehead. Do you think your mother would let you come along if she didn’t trust us?’ Uncle Sal drained his glass with a few sips. ‘Mind the table, Phil. The next dance is mine.’
∞∞∞∞
Feet aching, Frances made her way back to their table only when the band announced the last dance before their break. They’d played for over two hours.
She felt giddy, even though she had forbidden Uncle Sal to order another bottle of champagne and stuck to iced water after her second glass.
‘There you are.’ Pauline’s dimples deepened as she pulled Frances down on the chair next to hers. ‘Isn’t this bonzer? I told you you’d love it.’
‘How long have you been sitting here?’ Frances dabbed her hot forehead with a lace handkerchief.
‘Only long enough to have had one drink. Iced water! Frances, honestly, how can you?’
‘Why not? Don’t tell me you have champagne all the time when you’re working.’
‘As if!’ Pauline stuck out her lower lip. ‘I’ve had a sip once, that’s all. We’re not allowed to drink with the customers, not even if they invite us.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘Your mum would not be happy if you start picking up bad habits.’
‘I can look after myself, thank you very much.’ Pauline pouted. She swivelled around to face Phil. ‘Don’t you think he treats us like children?’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him, the way they did in the pictures.
Phil gave her an amused smile.
‘Anyway,’ Pauline went on, ‘Miss Bardon said it doesn’t do to mix business and pleasure, and she’s always right.’ A drum beat interrupted her. She cocked her head to the left. ‘Quiet, now,’ she said, in a hushed voice. ‘It’s her turn.’
Loud applause greeted the singer, interspersed with whistles. Dolores Bardon stood motionless in the centre of the small stage, until the noise calmed down.
She was older than Frances had thought she would be from Pauline’s stories, probably in her early thirties, and of a luminous beauty. A black dress hugged her curves which defied the current fashion for boyish slimness. Eyes like molten chocolate scanned the crowd. Dark curls pinned up in a careless fashion brushed prominent cheekbones. The brows were arched but not plucked, and the deep red mouth was as unfashionably generous as Frances’ own. Peardrop-shaped diamond earrings and a matching pendant sparked off tiny rainbows whenever the light fell on to them. Frances stared, spellbound.
She clasped her left hand to her heart as Dolores Bardon began to sing. There was a haunting quality to that rich, velvety voice. A warm sensation rose in Frances’ stomach, as she listened to the ‘St Louis Blues’ and then to ‘Stardust’. With all her experience of vaudeville shows, Frances had never seen or heard anything like it. She held her breath as long as possible, anxious to break the magic.
‘Care to dance?’ Phil asked.
She shook her head, her gaze fixed on the singer.
She heard him ask Pauline, and then Pauline’s skirt rustled, but it was all in the background. People milled around, hogging the dance floor. The smoke of cigarettes drifted by, twisted columns in the air that burnt in Frances’ throat. It didn’t matter. Nothing did, but the music.
When Dolores Bardon took her final bow, Frances felt drained of all emotion.
Uncle Sal blinked back tears. ‘What an artist,’ he said. ‘What a beaut.’ There was longing in his voice, as if he ached for those days when he’d shone on the stage. He got up and bowed, his hand almost sweeping the floor, before he sat down again.
She felt for his hand and pressed it. Together they watched Miss Bardon receive a bouquet she had to hold in both hands, made up completely of white flowers.
Frances gave Uncl
e Sal’s hand another squeeze, wondering if he remembered the first time she’d given him flowers on stage, when she was eight years old and he performed for two weeks at the Empire Theatre. Uncle Sal had forever been part of her family, because his father had worked as a waiter in London and he and his folks had come over from England on the same boat as her grandparents and her dad. Whenever he performed in Adelaide, he’d drop by, but that was the first time she’d been allowed to come along to a matinee.
He’d looked like a matinee idol then, with his black and silver hair setting off the deep tan of his skin, the thin black moustache curled up at the ends. The dinner jacket could have been the same he wore today. She looked at him with pride. He still was Salvatore the Magnificent, where she was concerned. Maybe she’d tell him so, but without an audience.
Pauline and Phil returned. He appeared unruffled and cool, but Pauline was flushed. ‘I’m off to the powder room,’ she said. ‘My nose must be all shiny. I’ll be back in a twinkle.’
She glided off, weaving her way expertly through the crowd.
7
‘Phil? Is that really you?’ A male voice, relaxed but with a hint of doubt. Frances’ heart beat faster. She’d recognise that voice anywhere.
‘Yes?’ Phil said. ‘Do I – but of course, we’ve met before. Sorry, I forgot the name.’
‘No wonder, after all these years. It’s Sullivan,’ the man said. ‘Jack Sullivan.’ The men engaged in a firm handshake. Frances’ head swivelled towards the man as Phil whistled in amazement. ‘Jack Sullivan! Last time I saw you was on a ship. Fancy meeting you here.’
Mr Sullivan sounded amused. ‘I’m always here. This is my joint.’
‘Lucky you,’ Phil said. His eyebrows shot up. He looked around as if he saw the room for the first time.
A Matter of Love and Death: a historical mystery you don't want to miss Page 6