‘Busy, I reckon.’ She opened her handbag, pretending to search for something. Phil had been busy, granted, but he’d also spent most of his evenings sitting in the parlour with them after he’d finished tinkering with the car once it got dark. On second thought, wasn’t there something forced about his cheerfulness? She hadn’t really paid attention. It was hard enough to hide her own growing worries from her family. She even resorted to taking different routes to the tram in the morning to feel safer.
‘Your uncle Sal sent Dolores flowers, by the way. And you don’t have to be embarrassed because Phil had other things to do than to hang around a girl. Either he’ll be back or he won’t. If not, he’s not a great loss.’
He whistled a few soft notes. ‘Stardust’; Dolores had sung that song, that first night at the club.
The whistling broke off. ‘What’s wrong with your friend Pauline, by the way? She burst into tears twice yesterday, because she forgot to put sugar into Dolores’ tea.’
She hesitated. ‘She’s a bit upset, that’s all.’
‘About what? That I can’t offer her a flat? I’d have done it, but we had to put up Len’s wife and the baby somewhere. You can’t have an infant in a homeless shelter.’
‘Len’s wife?’ Her sympathy was awakened.
‘The bastard blamed the whole shebang on her when he staggered home, stinking of snake-poison and raring to take his misery out on someone. He’d have knocked her around if Bluey hadn’t had the foresight to send one of the boys along in case it got ugly.’
Oh no. ‘Where’s Len now?’
‘He won’t come within a mile of her without invitation if he values his skin.’ He gave a snort of disgust. ‘I should have known. Artful Dodger, we called him in France, though there was nothing artful about his dodging out of any sticky situation. If it hadn’t been for his late brother-in-law’s sake, he’d never made it past the back door of the Top Note. So, if it’s about the flat, it’s too bad for Pauline, but there are lots of folks out there who had a thinner time than she.’
‘It’s Tony,’ she said, after a short discussion with herself. She shouldn’t have given in to Pauline’s badgering, but how could she say no to her best friend? Even if that friend might think too much of Frances’ influence. ‘She told me yesterday. He sent her a letter.’
‘He dumped her? Poor kid. That’s not what you want to find out through the post.’
‘He hasn’t dumped her. He’d never do that, at least not in this shabby way.’
‘What is it then? Is he ill?’
‘No,’ Frances said, ‘but he’s not coming home yet. He’s saved a couple of quid, and now he’s had another job offer, laying bricks in Fremantle.’
‘But instead of this news being the good oil it smells rancid to her?’
‘Pauline’s afraid he likes being on the road so much he won’t be able to settle down again. It happens. Her dad doesn’t write anymore, and her mum thinks he’s gone bush.’
‘How long has he been carrying his swag?’
‘Tony? Since October, but Mr Meara left almost two years ago, since they laid him off at the brick works. Tony worked there too, after he lost his job as a technical draughtsman, but they dismissed the older men first.’
‘That’s bad.’ Jack sounded genuinely sorry.
‘I told Pauline not to worry, but she misses Tony so much.’
‘She’s been hiding that pretty well from what I’ve seen at the club.’
That remark stung. ‘She wouldn’t look twice at any other man if Tony were around.’
‘Maybe,’ Jack said. ‘All I can say is, the poor bloke’s tramping all over the country to make a few honest shillings, and if his girl is losing faith in him, she’d better cut loose or else have it out with him. It's not fair to string him along.’
Something in his voice made her drop the subject.
∞∞∞∞
Phil and Uncle Sal were working outside as they arrived. A pile of picket railings leant against the house wall. Uncle Sal steadied a post while Phil forced the nails out with a crowbar.
‘Nice work,’ said Jack.
Phil paused, righted himself and rolled his shoulders back and forth. ‘Yeah. Maggie is letting me put up a shelter in the back for my Ford.’ He wiped the sweat off his forehead. ‘This fence was made to last until kingdom come. It’s a pity to take it down but there’s no other way to get the old bus up the back.’
‘What brings you here, Jack?’ Uncle Sal still held on to the post, his feet planted in a wide stance to keep his balance.
‘I wanted a quick word with Phil.’ The men exchanged an inscrutable glance.
‘Let’s sit on the back porch,’ Phil said. ‘I could do with a breather.’ Jack followed him, hands in his pockets, motioning Frances to follow.
She gave Uncle Sal a questioning look.
‘You go, and I’ll bring glasses and a water jug,’ he said. ‘If they want to be private, they’ll tell you.’
Phil squatted on the steps that led from the porch to the garden, facing Jack. Jack perched on the edge of the table. Phil’s face brightened as he saw Frances. ‘We’ve saved the chairs for you and Sal. Where is he?’
‘He won’t be long.’
Phil gave Jack a questioning glance.
‘There’s nothing I want to say that Frances can’t hear,’ Jack said. ‘I was wondering how you’ve settled in, that’s all.’
‘I’m sweet,’ Phil said.
‘Working which beat?’ The tension was almost palpable. Frances shot tiny glances from one man to the other.
After an agonising moment, Phil answered. ‘The big stuff.’
‘Right-oh.’ Jack studied his fingernails. They were square cut and blunt, with a few blue paint speckles marking them. Strange. ‘Ever heard of Whitey Morgan?’
A quick gleam came into Phil’s eyes. ‘I might have.’
‘That’s what I thought. In case you want to meet up, he’s rumoured to have taken a fancy to fresh air lately, hanging around the aerodrome in the Barossa Valley on certain mornings. Like Wednesdays and Fridays.’
Frances caught her breath. Jack gave Phil a nod and said, ‘I’ve got to go. Shall I give your regards to Dolores or do you want me to keep my mouth shut about seeing you?’
Phil cleared his throat. ‘Tell her I’ll be around as soon as I can. If she still wants me to.’
Something had changed. The air between the men felt less charged. ‘I’ll go and help Mum,’ Frances said, relieved. ‘Goodbye, Jack.’
‘Bye, kiddo. Well, Phil, did we come up as clean?’
Frances stopped in the doorway and turned around to face the men. What were they talking about?
‘Clean enough to hide in a cloud of snow, and with a halo of gold,’ Phil said. ‘You’d have done the same.’
‘You bet,’ Jack said, ‘but I wouldn’t have done any courting before checking. You’d better make up for it to Dolores.’
He clutched Phil’s outstretched hand and squeezed it until his knuckles went white, a friendly smile frozen on to his face.
Frances went inside.
∞∞∞∞
The next day she used her lunch break to study the phone register. If only she could remember that number. Her finger traced the row of entries. How could it have grown that long so quickly? There couldn’t be that many rich people in Adelaide, the way things had gone from bad to worse in a tail-shake.
Frances tapped her toes on the floor. It must be nice to have your own phone. Dolores had one, on her own private line, Jack had one, and then there was the line for the Top Note. She’d written down the numbers in her small notebook. Usually she jotted down shopping lists in there, and prices of things she’d bought, to keep track of expenses.
She’d learned that the hard way last year, when she gave in to impulse and bought the gramophone for the parlour, to find that her mum had dipped into their savings to lend two quid to a neighbour who’d lost his job. That month she’d had to ask for an extension
to pay the electricity bill.
She sighed. She pushed the notebook aside and concentrated on the register again.
When the lights began to blink, she was almost grateful. At least the work would distract her. She swallowed the last bit of the sandwich she’d nibbled on while studying the register and switched on her headset.
19
Her shift was over. Frances sat down in the staff room to change her shoes. She’d taken her ankle straps along in a brown bag. The brogues she wore were sturdy enough for walking to work and back home, but who could tell if Jack was waiting again with his car? Or Phil, for that matter.
She lifted her left foot, admiring the silvery sheen of the ankle-straps. They made her look much more grown-up. The brogues resembled school uniform shoes.
She strolled over to the back door and peered through its glass panel. One lonely car, but this one was occupied by an elderly man. That didn’t have to mean anything. Phil, for example, preferred to park on the other side of the building, right in front of the public entrance. Maybe she should have a quick peek around the corner. If she wanted to, she could always change back into her walking shoes.
Frances almost slipped on the envelope as she stepped forward to crane her neck to survey the cars sitting at the kerb. She bent to pick it up. The flap gaped open, and the edge of a small cardboard book stuck out. The envelope was unsullied. It must have been dropped a short time ago.
She turned it in her hands. There was no address, nothing to indicate who it belonged to. She took out the book, hoping for more information.
‘Oh no.’ Inside the book, a signed piece of paper had been tucked away, with what looked like a grocery list. Frances groaned. Some woman had lost her precious food dole book, with the food chit for one adult and three children. Almost fourteen bob’s worth of food, and the owner wouldn’t be able to claim it. Worst of all, she’d need that book to get it signed again, tomorrow at ten o’clock, or she’d have to go without for a whole week.
Frances surveyed the road again, hoping to see the woman returning, but she was all alone.
Her stomach tensed. Where was Jack when she needed him? And this was urgent. As much as the thought of venturing out alone still scared her, she really had no choice. That book and the paper needed to be returned, at once. She stuffed them into her handbag, took out her brogues and put them on the ground. Hopping on her left foot, she undid the strap of her good shoe, took it off, holding it in one hand and slipped into a brogue, before she repeated the process, all the while clutching her shoulder bag to her chest.
Frances set off at a clipping pace. At least the name Alice Kaye and address were inscribed in the book, so all she had to do was to find out where she needed to go. She’d have to take the tram and ask the driver where to get off, because she wasn’t familiar with the area.
She broke her stride. Maybe she should also ask the trammie what sort of area it was. There were a few places in Adelaide where a girl in her right mind shouldn’t go. But what choice did she have? She needed to return the book and the chit straight away, or the woman and her children would go hungry. She pushed ahead, glad she had a couple of hours of daylight left, and that there were people milling around. Surely nothing bad could happen to her in a crowd.
∞∞∞∞
The trammie told her to get off halfway along O’Connell Street and look out for a boarded-up house on the left. There she’d have to turn left, walk a couple hundred yards, and turn into an alleyway.
He sounded cheerful giving these instructions. Frances spirits rose. Anything that didn’t involve Hindley Street or Sturt Street with its ladies of the evening should be safe for a girl on her own, and she was far enough from the phone exchange that no one would know her here, especially with her cloche pulled deep over her face. She hopped off the tram and walked on.
She found the address without much trouble. The Kaye’s house itself was shabby, with paint peeling off the weatherboard, but the straggly lawn was cut and the cracked window pane shone. Someone took care of their home. Frances rang the doorbell, but the only answer was silence.
The woman had probably walked home, saving the thruppence tram fare. More, if she had her children with her. Heaven knew then when she might turn up.
‘Can I help you, Miss?’ A care-worn woman struggled with a pram. A toddler sat in front, giving Frances a grin that revealed all his five teeth. Sucking noises behind him told her that there was another child in the pram.
‘Are you Mrs Kaye?’
‘No, love.’ The woman rocked the pram, beaming at her baby. ‘But if it’s her jam you’re after, I got some of me own left.’ She leant over the pram, hefting a box that she’d kept wedged in between the children. ‘I got marmalade and strawberry. Goes down a real treat, it does.’
She practically thrust a jar into Frances’ hands. ‘Home-made, after me gran’s recipe, and you won’t find any better.’ A crooked smile revealed gappy teeth, although she couldn’t be much over thirty. ‘For you it’s fourpence, love.’
Frances hadn’t the heart to say no. She handed over the money.
‘Now love, is there anything else you were wanting?’ The woman rocked the pram harder as the baby began to wail. ‘Only I got this lot here to feed their tea.’ She ruffled the toddler’s hair. He stuck his thumb into his mouth and sucked as if to prove his mother’s point.
‘I need to return something Mrs Kaye has lost.’
‘Somethin’ important?’ The baby fell quiet.
‘Her food dole book.’
‘Blimey! I reckon you better not hand that to anyone, love. There’s folks as’d love to get one and claim what isn’t theirs.’ The woman shook her head, clucking her tongue. ‘Not that I’d blame them, when your kids are all hollow inside and bawling for food.’
‘But Mrs Kaye isn’t home,’ Frances said, ‘and I can’t wait too much longer.’
‘Slide it under her door. I’ll pop around later and tell Alice you were here in case she don’t bother to look down. It won’t be nicked. Alice and the littlees are on their own now her old man’s taken off. You know what blokes are like when it gets bad.’ She gave her the kind of conspiratorial look that implied a bond between them.
Frances found herself nodding. She slipped the resealed envelope under the door.
The woman grunted as she swung the pram around. ‘You want more jam, you ask for Hattie. You’ll find me the next street down towards Whitmore Square. You can’t miss it, with the bits of scrap metal in front.’ She smiled again. ‘Mustn’t grumble, eh? Them older kids are that good, collecting tins and stuff to sell, or it’d be burning Collingwood Coke instead of good wood for us.’
‘Whitmore Square? There’s a tram stop, isn’t there?’ Frances asked on impulse. Jack and Dolores used to live there, didn’t they? And the phone call had been made to somewhere around there. Curiosity struggled with fear. If it was far, she wouldn’t go there. If, on the other hand, it was close by, it couldn’t hurt looking, if simply to prove to herself she wasn’t such a bad coward after all.
‘Aye, love, and it won’t be longer than traipsing back the other way. You walk straight down here, and then it’s right and right again, and you’ll be there in a twinkle.’
∞∞∞∞
Frances rearranged the contents of her bags before she set off. She’d rather not put the jam in with her shoes and risk breaking the jar, messing everything up.
With a sense of triumph, she located a string bag that her mum had purchased from an old lady, hawking doilies, potholders, and these bags from door to door. She’d put it inside her bag, to please her mother, although she got exasperated with Maggie’s generous use of her hard-earned pennies when it came to the flood of people who sold everything from wire-pegs to patented candle-holders that fell apart if you breathed on them. That much she knew from experience. They had three at home.
The jam jar went into the string bag.
∞∞∞∞
She almost stumbled over a pair o
f legs. A scrawny man sat on the ground, a saxophone cradled in his arms. He didn’t look up as he lifted it and began to play. A beggar’s bowl sat next to him, an itinerant musician’s license pinned to it. The notice had faded in the harsh sunlight. It dated from Christmas and was issued in Sydney. Its validity had long expired.
She fumbled in her purse. The jam jar hit her hip. She put the jar into the bowl, laying a penny on top.
The music followed her as she hurried down the sidewalk, sweet and melancholy, echoing her mood. The houses were bigger now than the ones she had passed a few minutes ago, but there, women had sat on their porch, brushing carrots or peeling potatoes, and children ran around, squealing. This area was almost deserted.
She clutched her bag tighter, almost wishing she’d resisted the impulse to walk to Whitmore Square. It was stupid to have come here, on the odd chance of finding out more about Jack’s and Dolores’ past. She tried to picture their house in her mind. The singer would have chosen a modern building, all sharp angles and metal framed windows, Frances thought, considering Dolores’ taste for fashionable opulence. But she couldn’t picture Jack in a flashy house.
There was something restrained about him. His clothes were well-made and clearly expensive but also unobtrusive, his shoes shone with polish instead of having that brand-new sheen, and the bits of furniture she’d seen were comfortable rather than impressive; pieces you’d inherit rather than find on Rundle Street.
If she was honest with herself, she had also, for a wild moment, harboured the idea that one of the buildings would trigger something, so she could impress Jack after all. She’d copied the addresses of all the houses with private phone lines on Whitmore Square into her notebook. They alone filled a page, and she hadn’t even started on the adjoining streets.
A Matter of Love and Death: a historical mystery you don't want to miss Page 17