A Matter of Love and Death

by Caron Albright

  ‘Thank you, that was very prompt.’

  ‘I’m much obliged to you, for your patience.’ She swallowed. ‘I’ll make sure something like this won’t happen again.’

  ‘I trust it won’t,’ he said. ‘We try to be lenient, but headquarters …’ His sentence trailed off. ‘Anyway, there’s no harm done. Of course, we prefer if our clients let us know in advance if they will fall short on a payment.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I wish you a pleasant afternoon, Miss Palmer.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Smith. And good-bye.’

  ∞∞∞∞

  She almost dragged Uncle Sal out of the bank. ‘Phew!’

  ‘All sorted?’

  ‘Yes! That poor man – I think he was at least as relieved as me.’

  Uncle Sal juggled imaginary balls in the air. ‘See, nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Thanks to you coming to my rescue.’

  ‘We’re a team, eh. Salvatore and Francesca.’ A bank note appeared in his hand. ‘And now you’ll go and buy that lipstick your mum was talking about.’

  Frances stared at the ten-shilling note. ‘But where did you get that money?’

  ‘I’m not a pauper. And,’ he put a finger over her lips, ‘I had a chin-wag with Bertha. Three quid’s worth of chin-wag, and she’s very grateful to Maggie for her patience.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her about our trouble?’ Tongues wagged freely around Grenfell Street, and if people thought the Palmers couldn’t pay the mortgage, and then Frances suddenly waltzed around with strange, prosperous-looking men, they’d put two and two together and come up with a baker’s dozen.

  ‘We talked about my ankle, and if I should go and see the doctor again.’ His eyes twinkled as he led her towards Rundle Street, right up to John Martin’s Big Store. ‘In you go, Signorina Francesca, and promise me to stop worrying about anything. You’ll be the belle of the ball.’

  He smiled to himself as he watched her lift her head up high and glide through the revolving door. She needed to be allowed to be a carefree girl of twenty-two sometimes.

  Maggie, he crossed himself hastily, possessed a kind heart and a generous spirit, but she expected the girl to be a child at home and a grown-up outside the house. It wasn’t fair how she allowed Frances to carry all the burden of caring for them. Including himself. If only he were less of a burden, although he did his best to make himself useful around the house.

  Maybe he should push on, he thought. But where to? Frances and Maggie were all he had. He pushed his hat further up his forehead. He’d think about his future another time, once he’d fixed the gutter. And the shed. The veggie patch in the garden also cried out for attention. A lot of work. But first, a night on the town.

  ∞∞∞∞

  For a moment, the bright lights in the Big Store shone directly into Frances’ eyes as she stared at the high ceiling. She lowered her head and caught her breath as she inhaled the perfumed air. Nothing she’d ever experienced could rival this. Even the shop girls were special. They could have stepped right out of a fashion magazine, with their bobbed, glossy locks, perfect arcs of pencil-line eyebrows emphasising lightly shadowed eyes. Their dresses fit like a second skin and were the latest chic, with floppy bows and dainty piqué collars.

  Frances’ spirits surged as she fought the urge to take the lift to the top floor and work her way aimlessly down, as if she had a pocket full of cash. Reason won, although she stole a few glances at the fetching mid-calf skirts that came in all colours of the rainbow.

  Clutching her purse, she made her way towards the beauty counter when a pair of silk stockings caught her eye.

  The bleached blonde shop girl behind the stocking counter smiled at her invitingly. ‘Come and have a look at these, miss.’ The girl held a gauzy stocking closer to a lamp. The light caught in the fine thread and bounced back. ‘Aren’t they lovely? We got a new consignment two days ago, and they fly off the shelves.’

  Frances gazed at the stockings with unexpected longing. The sight of the price tag stopped her reverie. More than two bob a pair, for stockings as fragile as spun sugar. ‘Artificial silk for me, please. Two pairs, one in size eight and one in a ten, please.’

  The sales assistant opened a drawer and took out two cardboard boxes. ‘There you are, love. Can I help you with anything else today?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Frances put a shilling on the table and headed straight to the beauty counter. This was the right thing to do, she thought, keep busy and concentrate on the positive things instead of fretting about things she couldn’t change. She’d make her mum promise to talk to her before she gave away any money, and she really would stop being influenced by mystery dramas on radio, or sensational newspaper headlines, like the ones she’d read lately in The Advertiser about stick-ups. They gave her silly ideas.

  ∞∞∞∞

  Her calm mind-set lasted until Wednesday night when Frances came home to find her mother gone.

  ‘A boy came to fetch Maggie,’ Phil said. ‘She left me in charge of tea and told me we shouldn’t wait for her.’

  ‘Is it about old Henry again? Mr Cooke?’ She took an apron off the wall hook and tied it around her waist. ‘Let me peel the vegetables. You can slice the onions if you don’t mind your eyes watering. Where’s Uncle Sal?’

  ‘Outside, inspecting the broken tiles on the roof.’

  ‘He’s doing what?’ She nearly dropped the pie dish she’d taken off a shelf. She put it down and ran outside.

  Phil followed her, frowning. ‘Is there something wrong with that?’

  ‘Apart from the fact that he’s old and lame and might fall off the ladder, breaking every bone in his body?’ Frances tried to stay calm. ‘Why didn’t you stop him?’

  ‘He looks fine to me. Besides, what right do I have to order your Uncle Sal around?’

  ‘None whatsoever, mate, so you calm yourself down.’ Uncle Sal climbed down the ladder and planted his feet wide to support himself. ‘As for you, love, you’d better have some faith in me. I may not be as spry as I used to be, but I’m not drawing my pension yet.’

  Frances put her hands on her hips, exasperated. ‘You promised you wouldn’t try to tackle the roof.’

  Uncle Sal gave her a hurt look. ‘When have I ever broken a promise? I simply took a geek at the damage, that’s all. And the sooner you stop treating me like a cripple and get our supper on the table, the better it’ll be for all of us.’ He limped off.

  She bit her lip. Now she’d hurt his feelings. What was the matter with her? No, to be honest, she knew what bothered her. It was that stupid talk she’d overheard. She’d tried so hard to put it out of her mind but it was still there, lurking in a recess, ready to pounce.

  She needed to talk to someone she could trust with anything, someone who’d laugh at her and tell her she was seeing ghosts, all because of a few words on the phone line. Only one person fit that bill.

  ∞∞∞∞

  She knocked on Uncle Sal’s door.

  ‘Yes?’ He still sounded tetchy.

  ‘May I come in? Please?’

  He opened the door with less than his usual exuberance. He looked smaller, as if the harsh words between them had deflated him, but his gaze held hers without flinching.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, stepping into the room. ‘I didn’t mean to belittle you. It’s … It’s hard to explain, really, Uncle Sal, but something’s happened that makes me feel, well, silly and anxious at the same time.’

  ‘I knew something was eating at you.’ He shut the door behind her. ‘Let’s sit down and have a talk.’

  Frances sat down on the sea chest that doubled as a window seat and hugged her knees. Uncle Sal pulled up the chair in front of his battered dressing table and turned it so he faced her.

  ‘Spit it out, love,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong? Something at the phone exchange?’

  Her bottom lip began to tremble. She nodded. ‘It’s all because of Gussie,’ she said. ‘If only she hadn’t
gotten herself the boot. You see, Uncle Sal …’ Something caught in her throat.

  ‘Hush, love,’ he said, as he got up to sit down next to her. He hugged her, cradling her like a child. She closed her eyes.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Uncle Sal said, with the special tender note in his voice he had for her. ‘You worry too much, love. You’d never do anything stupid and lose your job. I know it’s not easy to have us all relying on you. But things will get better and then we’ll go travelling the world, just you and me, the way we always planned.’ He planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘I count my blessings every day, that I have you and Maggie in my life. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  She hugged him back with all her power as the knot in her chest tightened.

  ‘Are you feeling better now?’ he asked. ‘Or is there anything else you wanted to tell me?’

  She stretched her lips apart, trying hard to sound cheerful. She couldn’t tell him. He'd only get nightmares too. So, instead, she said, ‘Just that I’m happy I’ve got you, Uncle Sal.’

  ∞∞∞∞

  Mum must have been up with the Cookes all night, Frances thought, as she put on the kettle for breakfast. If her mother hadn’t been fit to drop she’d never have tolerated her dirty plate, cup, and cutlery to sit in the sink come dawn, next to the soaking pie-dish.

  Ten past five. She wondered if she had enough time to spare to wash up the few things, but then she might be cutting it a bit too fine. At least Maggie was asleep now, and tonight they’d go out together for the first time in almost two years.

  Her mood brightened, and she was determined to keep it that way. She’d spent enough time tossing around in her bed, repeating in her mind what she’d heard. Long past midnight it had come to her in a flash, the one explanation that made sense. The man had said pick up, not stick-up, and obviously they wanted to meet a friend and take him for an outing, lakeside or somewhere else. Imagine if she'd gone to the police with that! They’d have laughed at her all the way to Timbuctoo.

  What a fool she’d been to lose sleep over that. It didn’t bear thinking about that she’d nearly confided in Uncle Sal, burdening the poor darling with her crazy ideas. Well, she wouldn’t go down that path again. Instead, she’d be back to her normal sensible self.

  ‘You’re sounding pretty chipper today,’ said the operator of the telephone exchange in Port Adelaide, while Frances tried to get through to the China Gift Store for her.

  ‘I’m going out dancing tonight.’ Her grin widened. ‘And then I’ve got all of Good Friday off, and Saturday and Easter Sunday as well.’

  ‘Gosh, you’re lucky,’ the other operator said. ‘I wish I had someone to take me out, but my boyfriend says as we’ll have to make do with a picnic this Easter.’

  ‘I’m not going with a boyfriend, just Mum, Uncle Sal, and our lodger.’ She listened for the ringing tone. ‘China Gift Store? You’ve got a phone call from Port Adelaide.’ She flipped the switch on her headset, still smiling.

  ∞∞∞∞

  Mr Gibbons handed her a brown envelope when her shift was over. Because of Easter they got paid a day early.

  ‘Happy holiday, my dear,’ he said. ‘Enjoy yourself and thanks again for helping me out last weekend.’

  ‘Have you found a replacement for Gussie yet?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘The head office hasn’t yet decided what to do. We aren’t as busy as we used to be, and if the revenue doesn’t add up …’

  Fear shot through her as his words sank in. ‘They’re not going to close us down, are they?’

  Mr Gibbons took a quick step forward. ‘You needn’t worry, Frances. Your job is safe, and even if this exchange gets closed, I’d see to it that you’d be put on another switchboard.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘Your father was with the Royal Post until the day he died, and you’re the best, most reliable operator I have. It’s simply that there might be no new girls joining us.’

  ‘But what about Gussie’s shift?’

  Mr Gibbons took off his spectacles to give them a polish with his handkerchief. ‘Either the main exchange will take over or I’ll ask around who can help fill in, until it has been decided if she’ll be replaced. Gussie was only doing twelve hours a week.’

  ‘I could help out,’ Frances said, eager to show her gratitude, and earn some extra money. ‘You’ll let me know if I’m needed, will you?’

  ‘Thanks, Frances, I might have to take you up on that. But I won’t keep you any longer. The sky doesn’t look too promising, and we don’t want you to get drenched on my account.’

  A brief glance out of the window told her that Mr Gibbons was right. The clouds that were clearly defined, snowy-white and briskly moving when she arrived, now loomed grey and bloated. She took the umbrella she kept in a stand for such cases and gritted her teeth. After almost a month of rainless days and nights, the weather had to turn sour on the one day when she needed it to be fine.

  Frances wondered how far it would be from the tram stop to the Top Note. She could carry her ankle-strap satin shoes in a bag and wear her wellies on the way, but what about her frock? She’d rather stay at home than risk spoiling it with water stains, and her raincoat fell a good ten inches short off her hem.

  She looked up at the sky with a sinking heart.

  ∞∞∞∞

  The grey clouds expanded, until there was barely a patch of blue left, but the rain held off.

  She ran up the stairs. ‘Mum, you need to get your rain gear out,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have a bath now, and then I’ll help you dress your hair.’

  She didn’t wait for a reply. Instead she locked the bathroom door, plugged the enamel roll-top bath and opened the chrome taps as wide as possible. From a stoppered glass-bottle she poured a handful of rose scented bath salts that her mother had given her for Christmas into the bathwater.

  She sank into the foaming water. She stretched luxuriously. The bathroom was less than ten years old, and had been ingeniously converted from part of the landing and a broom cupboard. Until then, they’d used a zinc bath tub in the kitchen, filled with hot water from the copper and topped up with cold rain water from the butt in the garden.

  She sank deeper until her chin touched sudsy bubbles. Heavenly to stretch out like this, she thought. She rarely allowed herself to fill the tub more than ankle-deep, with the hot water boiler using so much electricity.

  The water had cooled to lukewarm when she roused herself and grasped a striped cotton bath sheet to towel herself off. She wrapped in her green flannel dressing gown and wound a towel around her wet hair.

  ∞∞∞∞

  Back in her room, she opened the drawer and took out the new stockings. ‘Mum?’ She knocked on her mother’s bedroom door before she went inside.

  ‘I’m downstairs,’ Maggie sang out. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  Frances sat down on the edge of the bed. Her mother’s dress, a low-waisted affair in a golden brown that had been fashionable in 1925, hung ready on the wardrobe. She wished her mother had a new frock as well, but at least the colour suited her, and she always looked distinguished. A rush of pride swept over her, as Maggie joined her.

  She patted the spot beside her. ‘You sit down and I’ll bring brush and hairpins,’ she said, giddy with anticipation. ‘I thought we’d do your hair up with the diamante combs I got at the jumble sale.’

  Her mother gave her a weak smile. ‘We’d better get you ready first. Is your hair dry?

  She unwound the towel. ‘Almost,’ she said, touching her hair. ‘If we do it in rollers while I get dressed, it’ll just need ten minutes in front of the fire.’ She peered at Maggie’s anxious face. ‘We are going, aren’t we? Don’t say something has happened.’

  Maggie sank down next to her. ‘It has, but that won’t spoil your fun. I can’t wait to hear every little bit tomorrow morning.’

  Frances opened her mouth.

  Maggie fingered the quilted bedspread. ‘Henry Cooke
passed away this morning at a quarter past three, while I was sitting with him. Bertha is beside herself. I promised I’d come and stay with her until she can cope. She needs help with the arrangements.’ She took Frances’ face into her hands. ‘You understand, love, that I can’t go out with you tonight. They’d been married for fifty-three years, poor soul.’

  Frances felt tears well up in her eyes. ‘Oh no. Poor Bertha, and poor you, watching him die. I’ll come with you. There must be something I can do to help. I’d feel like a beast enjoying myself at a time like this.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Maggie said. ‘Stop acting all tragic and silly, my darling. You’ll go out and have a great time with Uncle Sal and Phil, and maybe we’ll all go out together another day.’

  She rose, pulling Frances along. ‘You put your frock on, and then I’ll do your hair and make-up.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ A tiny part of Frances felt bad about enjoying herself when someone she’d known all her life must be devastated, but she had looked forward to this treat so much that giving it up would have been a hardship, especially after her own turmoil these last days.

  ‘Very sure,’ Maggie said. ‘Now hold still while I do your hair.’

  ∞∞∞∞

  Frances felt self-conscious as she glided down the stairs. It was the dress, she decided. It made her feel almost like a butterfly that had emerged from its chrysalis.

  Uncle Sal made a formal bow, while Phil’s lips formed themselves into a whistle.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘I wish your father could see you.’

  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.