Frances gave her a swift hug, careful not to dislodge the plates. ‘It was splendid, but I still wish you could have come. Poor Bertha! I hope she's feeling a bit better.’ She put the plates on a tray. ‘I’ll take these. Do we need anything else for breakfast?’
‘The hot cross buns.’ Maggie lifted a metal sheet out of the oven and slid the steaming buns on to the blue and white serving plate they kept for Easter and Christmas. ‘They need to cool off a bit.’
Frances carried the tray into the south-facing dining room. They rarely used it these days, because it needed too much heating, and the kitchen was much cosier, but the holidays needed to be celebrated properly.
Maggie had spread the best table cloth on the rosewood table. Frances set the cutlery in even distances next to the plates. Tea and coffee stood ready on an electric hot plate, and a vase full of flowers on top of the piano added a festive touch.
She went along the wall, adjusting the framed music hall pictures celebrating Uncle Sal’s days of glory so they hung straight. She loved these pictures, with their gaudy colours and promises of giddy pleasure. They shone brightly on the faded duck egg blue wall. Most of them featured exotic dancers or comedy acts, but two had a small portrait of Uncle Sal a few inches under the top billings. She traced the outlines of his portrait with a finger when the door opened.
‘Good morning, love,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘None the worse for wear, I hope.’
She kissed him on the cheek. ‘It was bonzer, wasn’t it? I hope the dancing didn’t hurt you.’
‘No worries, my darling. I told you I’m still pretty nifty on my feet.’
∞∞∞∞
Phil sprung the invitation on Maggie as soon as they’d started breakfast.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, putting down the half eaten hot cross bun. ‘Going out with people you just met?’ She turned to Uncle Sal, a deep crease between her brows. ‘I’m not saying they’re not perfectly nice and decent, but mixing with a nightclub crowd, why, that’s courting trouble.’
‘She’ll be fine, Maggie.’ Uncle Sal chased his bun down with a mouthful of almost black tea. ‘White Jack’s no more a crook than you and me, and if the law’s stupid enough to make honest coves turn crims with its half-baked prohibition, I say bugger to the law. To be honest, you probably met worse sorts backstage in my heyday, and you never minded them, rum lot that they were.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Why don’t you come along and have a geek for yourself? After all, what can happen on an afternoon in Elder Park?’ Uncle Sal reached for the teapot. ‘It’ll perk you up to get away for a bit, and you said yourself that Bertha’s got other company today.’
∞∞∞∞
Maggie and Frances tidied the bedrooms. Good Friday or not, the mattresses needed turning and that was easier to do as a team. Uncle Sal turned his hand to whatever needed doing around the house, and he gladly donned an apron in the kitchen, but he’d never entered their bedrooms. People might start to get the wrong idea, he said.
‘Mum?’ Frances pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘Are you all right? You look all in.’
‘I’m a bit tired, that’s all.’ Her mother flipped the mattress over and pummelled it into place.
‘You spend too much time cooped up in this house or taking care of the whole street.’ Frances shook out the fresh sheet, handing her mother the other end. ‘Uncle Sal’s right. You should come with us to the picnic.’
Maggie wavered.
‘Please? You already missed last night’s fun.’
Her mother gave in, as Frances had known she would. ‘If you think it won’t be a bit embarrassing, having us old folks around, when you go out with a young man.’
‘You’re not old, Mum, and whatever gave you the idea that I’m going out with anyone but Uncle Sal?’ She pulled the sheet taut with force. ‘You don’t think that anyone will get the wrong idea?’
‘Of course not,’ Maggie said after a moment’s pause. ‘And anyway, you’ll have Uncle Sal and me to chaperone you. Nobody would dream of talking about you.’
She blew her a kiss. ‘You’ll see, Mum, it’ll be a bosker day. The best we’ve had forever.’
Maggie insisted on packing a picnic hamper, despite Phil’s pleas not to.
‘One doesn’t turn up empty handed,’ she said, pushing him gently but determinedly aside. ‘We’ve never bludged anything, and we’re not going to start now.’ She took four leftover hot cross buns and put them next to a bottle of home-made lemonade. Frances rummaged in a drawer for the cut-up handkerchiefs Maggie had bought as napkins from one of the endless stream of hawkers.
Maggie lifted the lid off a ceramic jar and peered inside. ‘I should have enough sugar left to make an apple and rhubarb crumble, if you can face sugarless tea tomorrow morning.’ She pulled a mixing bowl out of the kitchen cabinet.
Phil gave Frances a helpless look. She shrugged, mouthing, ‘Don’t worry, it’s fine.’ He winked at her, before he turned his attention to Maggie. ‘I’ll peel the apples for you,’ he said. ‘Unless you’ve got another chore for me.’
∞∞∞∞
The door-bell rang as Maggie put the cake tin into the oven. ‘Can you answer it, Frances?’ she said, taking off the headscarf she wore for housework. A big-boned, elderly woman stood on the doorstep. Her callused hands clutched a black-rimmed handkerchief.
‘Edna?’ Maggie brushed past. ‘Do come in. Is anything wrong?’
Edna swallowed, her baggy cheeks working. She gave Phil and Frances a quick glance. ‘If I could have a quick word? Between you and me and the lamp-post?’
Frances said, ‘Phil and I’ll see how Uncle Sal’s getting on in the back yard. If you’ll excuse us, Miss Edna.’
∞∞∞∞
They found Uncle Sal sitting on the veranda, eyes closed against the sun.
‘Have you come to pretty yourself up, my lad? I’ll have first dibs at the bath just so you know it,’ he said, without moving.
Uncle Sal and Phil had their own bathroom, a small affair built as an annex to the main house, making the old dunny obsolete, unless the electricity was out. Cold water was laid on to the bathroom, which offered enough space for a tub, a sink, and a toilet. Bathwater needed to be topped up with hot water from the kitchen, but at least it gave the women free rein of the indoor bathroom and prevented trouble with any lodger over long, expensive baths.
Frances decided to leave the men alone. ‘If Mum’s asking, I’m upstairs,’ she said.
Uncle Sal stretched. He peered at the sky. ‘Past noon,’ he said. ‘I reckon there won’t be any lunch today unless we make it ourselves.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t forget, love, we won’t be leaving for another couple of hours. And remind Maggie. If she puts on her finery now she’ll get all fidgety, not knowing what to do with herself until we leave.’
‘Mum’s got a visitor. Edna's with her.’ She turned around to go inside.
Uncle Sal said, ‘On Good Friday? Well, well.’
∞∞∞∞
Once inside the house, Frances lingered. She sat on the top of the stairs, sunlight streaming in from the window behind her, while she waited for Edna to leave. She didn’t want to ear-wig on Maggie and her visitor, and Phil and Uncle Sal were cosy enough, which left her alone with her thoughts. She usually didn’t mind letting her hands and her brain idle for a bit, but today felt different. Unwanted thoughts kept pushing their way into her head. And she’d done so well since she’d come up with an innocent explanation for the words that still replayed in her head, like a stuck gramophone record. But in her mind the words were clear. They said, stick-up, stick-up, stick-up.
Goosebumps dotted her arms, despite the warmth of the sun on her exposed skin. She clamped her hands down on her ears, to shut out the unwanted voice. She’d think of something else instead, like the picnic. What should she wear, so she wouldn’t look too dowdy compared with Dolores?
The front door banged shut. She brushed off her skirt and went downstai
rs.
Maggie had her back towards Frances. She grabbed a pot holder, jerked the oven door open, pulling out a cake tin. Her jaw was set in a grim line.
‘Mum? Is something wrong?’
The clock ticked precious seconds away. Maggie’s features smoothed a bit. ‘I was a mite worried the crumble might have burnt,’ she said. ‘That was the last of our sugar, and the shops won’t open again until tomorrow.’
Frances breathed in the rich aroma. ‘It looks fine, and the smell is heavenly.’
∞∞∞∞
Frances dressed with care. She wanted to look smart, but casual. She’d brushed out the skirt she wore to work, glad her cloche matched the soft lemon of the jumper that went so well with the emerald green of the skirt. She put on ankle socks and her brogues, whistling to bolster up her spirits, as she joined the others.
9
They took the tram up to North Terrace. Frances squeezed in next to her mother. The men had to stand up in the crowded carriage, being jostled from side to side. The air was stale, with that peculiar mix of cold sweat and cheap lavender water that seemed to seep into the very bones of the tram, no matter what. Maggie pinched her nostrils under cover of her handkerchief, but Frances was used to the smell. She held the picnic basket on her lap, clamping its lid shut as hard as she could.
She was glad there was a blanket in Uncle Sal’s swag. On a day like this, when Adelaide shone like a jewel, the sky sapphire-blue, the trees emerald, and the stone of the buildings melted in the sunshine to gold and amber, nothing compared to sitting in the grass of the park.
The tram squealed to a stop. Phil took Maggie’s arm, helping her off the step in her unfashionably long skirt. Frances handed the picnic basket down to her mother before she hopped off.
On an ordinary weekend, streams of people of all ages swamped Elder Park. Because today was Good Friday, it was a mere trickle. They should have no trouble finding a nice spot under a tree, close to the grand bandstand that was the central focus of outdoor entertainment in Adelaide since it came over from Scotland thirty years ago.
Frances stole a sideways glance at Uncle Sal and her mother. Uncle Sal was dragging his chain a bit, trying to fool everyone he didn’t feel his gammy ankle. She’d have to find a chair for him, and for Maggie as well, so they wouldn’t have to squat on the ground. She slowed her pace to match Uncle Sal’s steps.
Phil still walked with Maggie, carrying the basket for her.
Maggie looked back over her shoulder at Frances. ‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘I’m glad I let you sway me.’ She turned to Phil. ‘Do you have anything like this in Melbourne, or is that a stupid question?’
‘This park is a corker, but Melbourne does have its attractions, only not as close to everything, and not as homey; maybe because it’s that much bigger.’
‘Phil, darling!’ Miss Bardon’s unmistakable voice rang out. ‘Over here.’
Frances blinked. For a moment, she thought they’d walked on to a stage set. A huge moss green patio umbrella shaded a cast iron table and six matching chairs, strewn with cushions. Under the table sat two silver plated buckets and a wicker hamper. The table was laid with real china. Any minute now, an army of servants would bear down on them, Frances thought, because there was no way Jack could have set up all this on his own, even with Dolores’ help. She suppressed a giggle. How her mum would react to that opulence, given her doubts about the night club crowd?
If her mother found anything out of the ordinary, she hid it well, showing nothing but well-mannered pleasure as Phil introduced her to Jack and Dolores. Frances breathed a sigh of relief.
At Jack’s insistence Maggie took the place at the head of the table, with Uncle Sal at the other end. Dolores sat down next to Phil, opposite Jack and Frances.
‘Our little offering,’ Maggie said, as Phil opened their basket.
‘You shouldn’t have.’ Dolores said. ‘We’ve got pies and salads and a cold turkey.’ She gave Maggie a mischievous smile as Phil put the cake tins on the table. ‘But I’m glad you brought this. I adore home-made cake. Will you cut me a piece?’
Maggie’s baked goods were the first ones to be demolished. Her face glowed with pleasure, and if she had had any misgivings about their hosts, surely she couldn’t harbour them any longer, given the easy way she chatted with Dolores.
Frances smiled. They made such an odd couple, the glamorous singer whose skilfully painted face was shaded by a picture hat with a floppy brim, and the plump, middle-aged woman, in her outdated dress and a straw hat that had both been of good quality once but now betrayed their age. But they seemed comfortable enough. Good; it would have been awful if Maggie had objected to Dolores and Jack simply because they belonged to another, more exciting world. She wanted her very much to like them.
∞∞∞∞
‘That was a beaut.’ Uncle Sal wiped his fingers on the linen napkin. ‘What do you say, Maggie, shall we go for a walk to aid digestion, before I take you home? The young’uns can do without us.’
Mum held out her hand to Jack. ‘In that case, I’ll say good-bye now. Don’t be too late, Frances.’
‘But, Mum, you’ve hardly been here any time.’ She looked at Uncle Sal for support.
He shook his head in a tiny movement. He bent down to Frances, whispering into her ear. ‘There’s been a theft. Mrs Jacobs’s box’s gone.’
‘Oh no.’ A sick feeling crept into her mouth. Uncle Sal dropped a kiss on to her hair and set off after Maggie.
‘What’s the matter, kiddo? You suddenly look like whitewash.’ Jack pulled Frances up off her chair. She offered no resistance, grateful for the warmth of his hand. ‘We’ll go down to the lake for a bit,’ he told Dolores, ‘and you can talk to Phil without us being a nuisance. All right, Frances?’
‘Sweet.’ Dolores only half listened.
‘They’ll do for a while,’ Jack said, as he offered Frances his arm. ‘You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, of course, but if you need someone to listen?’
Frances bit her lip.
‘It’s okay,’ Jack said. ‘Whatever it is, it’s not worth fretting yourself into a right old state. Most things aren’t.’
She kicked at a few pebbles, scaring a couple of lorikeets into screaming flight. He was right, she needed someone to talk to. She’d kept enough bottled up already.
He walked silently beside her. ‘It’s all so beastly,’ she said. ‘Why do some people have to be so horrible?’
Jack remained silent, but in a comforting way. They had almost reached the lake.
‘Look at all this,’ she said, struggling to put her thoughts into words. ‘It’s all still pretty good, isn’t it? No one’s got a lot, but then, no one is starving, not with the Salvation Army around, and the food dole, and friends and family pitching in. I can understand someone being maybe hungry or desperate to find the money for the doctor, or to keep the roof over one’s head, and stealing from a rich person.’ She gulped. ‘That’d be awful enough, but I could understand that, when you’ve got a sick baby or the rent collector knocks on your door with an eviction notice in his hand.’
She turned her head towards Jack. ‘You want to know what happened?’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘Do you remember the greengrocer’s I went to? Well, Mrs Jacobs kept a box next to her till. It’s for donations, to help pay for funerals, and everyone puts in a few coins if they can.’
Her voice shook. ‘It started last year, when a baby died, and the parents didn’t have the money to pay for his funeral. They pawned off their kitchen table and chairs and even their china to see him buried properly. So Mrs Jacobs collected money to ensure that doesn’t happen again. Now someone’s swiped the whole lot. Taken the box and cleared off with it.’
A vein in Jack’s throat pulsed.
She sniffed. ‘Mum has promised a neighbour she’d go door to door with her, asking people to help out with paying for old Henry Cooke’s send off.’ Tears formed in her eyes. ‘How can anyone steal from the dead?’
/>
‘Never mind the dead. It’s the living those bastards hurt.’ The anger in his eyes died down as quickly as it had flared up. His tone changed back to the relaxed style she was fast becoming used to. He handed her a handkerchief. ‘Do you feel better, now that that’s off your mind?’
She nodded as she patted her eyes dry. ‘I don’t normally cry,’ she said. ‘It’s just …’ She stopped herself. She’d almost blurted out what really weighed her down, the fact that she thought she was an accessory to a crime and there was nothing she could do about it.
‘Frances?’
He sounded so much like her brother that she had to remind herself that she barely knew him. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, handing back his handkerchief. ‘Thank you for listening.’
‘Any time.’
∞∞∞∞
Dolores and Phil sat where the others had left them. He talked in a soft voice, his hand on hers, and she listened with rapt attention.
Frances felt shy again. She tugged at Jack’s arm. ‘Let’s walk the other way,’ she said.
‘Feel like we’re in the way?’
‘A little, yes.’
‘Stay here,’ he said. He strode over to the table, took the rest of the bread and the half-filled bottle of lemonade and said to no one in particular, ‘I’ll be back in half an hour. Bluey’ll be here soon to help pack up.’
She doubted Dolores heard his words, but Phil gave Jack a quick nod.
∞∞∞∞
Jack tore the bread into small pieces. He threw a handful on to the lake, where they floated for a few seconds. The first mallard swam closer, in unhurried circles, until he picked up a morsel of bread.
A Matter of Love and Death Page 8