The Lost Sapphire

by Belinda Murrell

  ‘Thank you so much for coming, Tommy,’ Violet said as he climbed in the back seat beside her. ‘This is Sally; it’s her mother who’s sick. And this is Nikolai, our chauffeur who is helping us. Sally and Nikolai, this is Mr O’Byrne.’

  Tommy greeted everyone then looked at her sternly. ‘Well, Violet. What are you doing here? I thought your father forbade you from coming to Richmond.’

  Violet glanced at him guiltily. ‘Please don’t tell him, Tommy. I just want to help, and I’m perfectly safe with you and Nikolai.’

  Tommy smiled reassuringly. ‘I can keep a secret. Especially when it’s for a good cause.’

  At Sally’s house, Violet and Nikolai waited outside while Sally took Tommy in to examine her mother. Once again, the gang of children were playing in the street. Helen, who should have been at school, had Bubby on one hip while the others were fiddling around a homemade billycart, which was missing a wheel. Paddy kicked the cobblestones in frustration.

  ‘Would you mind if I take a look at the cart while we’re waiting, Miss Violet?’ asked Nikolai. ‘I might be able to fix it for them.’

  ‘No, of course not, Nikolai,’ Violet replied. ‘At least you can do something for the poor little mites.’

  Nikolai wandered over to check the billycart. In a moment he had his coat and hat off, and was crouched down, fixing the wheel with a spanner he kept in the toolkit. Violet pulled out her camera and took a photograph of the scene. By the time Tommy returned, the billycart was repaired and the children were taking turns pulling each other along, screeching with delight.

  ‘What’s wrong with her, Tommy?’ Violet asked, packing her camera away. ‘Will Mrs Burke be all right?’

  Tommy put his medical bag on the back seat of the car. ‘I’d like to take her into hospital for a second opinion, but I think she has tuberculosis. She’s coughing up blood and she’s very weak.’

  Violet’s stomach clenched with worry. ‘That’s terrible news. What should we do?’

  ‘I want to call for an ambulance to take her to Alfred Hospital, but there’s no telephone here, and Sally says none of the neighbours have one either. So perhaps we should set off in search of a telephone?’

  ‘Why don’t we drive her ourselves?’ Violet suggested. ‘By the time we find somewhere to call and wait for the ambulance, it will take ages. It’s not that far to the hospital.’

  Tommy frowned as he thought. ‘Good idea, but we do need to be careful of infection. Tuberculosis is highly contagious. When the patient coughs, they exhale the tuberculosis bacteria, which are then inhaled by anyone nearby. So it would be best if we all cover our mouths and noses with cloths or handkerchiefs, and wash our hands thoroughly after handling Mrs Burke.’

  ‘Will she have to stay in hospital?’ Violet asked.

  Tommy nodded. ‘If I’m right, I don’t think Mrs Burke will be coming home for many, many months. But we won’t tell Sally or her mother yet, just in case I’m wrong.’

  Tommy organised all the necessary health precautions. Nikolai helped him carry Mrs Burke and settled her comfortably in the back of the car, with Sally and Tommy beside her. Violet sat in the front beside Nikolai.

  They pulled up at the hospital and Tommy arranged for some orderlies to carry Mrs Burke inside. Sally followed along beside her mother, looking strained and pale.

  Tommy leaned in through the open car window. ‘We’ll take good care of her. There’s no point us all waiting around, so why don’t I telephone you at home, Violet, when we have a definite diagnosis?’

  ‘Tommy, I don’t know what we would have done without you,’ Violet said.

  ‘I suspect you would have thought of something pretty quickly,’ Tommy teased, ‘but I am very glad I could help.’

  As Nikolai drove off, Violet realised that she enjoyed the feeling of riding in the front – it seemed far more exhilarating. Nikolai drove back the way they had come, past the same rows of shops, chaotic traffic and colourful sights. One sign in particular caught Violet’s eye for the second time that day:

  Miss Annette Lester. Hairdresser and Wigmaker.

  Toupets, Transformations and Wigs.

  Lovely Switchings (best hair only).

  Hair Dying – All Colours a Specialty.

  Underneath was a smaller sign that read, ‘Good money paid for quality hair.’

  ‘Nikolai, could you pull over, please?’ Violet asked. ‘There’s something I need to do.’

  Nikolai obediently parked the car in a narrow space between a horse-drawn dray and a vegetable cart.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Nikolai asked. ‘Wouldn’t you rather I took you back to Hawthorn to shop?’

  Violet swallowed nervously. ‘No, I shouldn’t be too long. Would you mind waiting for me?’

  The hairdresser’s shop was small, with a long mirror on one wall. A narrow counter with an arrangement of glass bottles and a stack of magazines ran below it. Three reclining chairs were positioned at equal intervals in front of the mirror; pendant lights dangled from the ceiling. On the opposite wall was a display of wigs, braids, artificial buns and ornate hair pieces.

  Violet felt sick with anxiety as she walked in. An imposing-looking woman with impossibly blonde hair piled in a tumble of artful curls stood beside a sink in the centre of the room. The hairdresser cast a glance over Violet, taking in her clothes, her hat and, of course, her long plaited braid hanging over one shoulder.

  ‘Are you Miss Lester?’ asked Violet.

  ‘Yes, can I help you, miss?’ the woman asked. ‘Here to have your hair styled?’

  ‘No,’ Violet said. She swallowed her nerves. ‘How much will you pay me for my hair?’

  Miss Lester looked momentarily surprised, then a sly look crossed her face. ‘You do have beautiful hair, but auburn is not awfully fashionable at the moment.’ She pretended to think. ‘I shouldn’t, but I suppose we could give you a few pennies.’

  Violet felt bitter disappointment rise in her throat. She glanced at the wigs on the opposite wall. She remembered seeing catalogues for expensive hair pieces from one of Melbourne’s top hairdressers. Surely her hair was worth more than just a few pennies. It occurred to Violet that perhaps Miss Lester was not being entirely honest with her, and she decided to test her theory.

  Violet shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Never mind. Mr Theiler in Chapel Street offered far more money than that, and he is a rather exclusive wigmaker, so I’ll go and see him.’

  Miss Lester hesitated. ‘Let me take a closer look at your hair.’

  Violet took off her hat and undid her plait. Miss Lester ran her fingers through it, feeling the weight, length and quality of her hair. ‘Now that I’ve taken a proper look, I can see your hair is of particularly fine quality, so I can match any price Mr Theiler would give you, and I’ll style your remaining hair free of charge.’

  The two bartered back and forth until Violet was happy with the pile of shillings and copper pennies she received in exchange for her waist-length, red-gold hair. Violet took her courage in both hands and sat down in one of the black reclining chairs. Her stomach was knotted with nerves as Miss Lester combed the hair thoroughly.

  ‘How long would you like it to be?’ asked the hairdresser.

  Violet stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked pale and wan. It wasn’t too late to change her mind. With the side of her hand, Violet indicated the length that Audrey had first suggested a few days ago, level with her cheek.

  ‘Just there,’ said Violet confidently, as though she meant it.

  Miss Lester pulled the hair into a loose ponytail at the nape of Violet’s neck with an elastic band, then bound the hair at the end with another. She took the scissors and began to snip above the elastic band, taking the weight of the hair in her other hand.

  Violet closed her eyes and held her breath. Snip. Snip. Snip. She could feel the metal scissors, cold against the back of her neck. Her head began to throb.

  It was done. The long ponytail was laid on the counter, coiled like a copper
snake. The scissors continued to snip, shaping the remaining hair into a curly bob with a long fringe sweeping off her face.

  Miss Lester stopped and fetched a Motion Picture magazine from the counter. She flicked through until she found the photograph she was looking for: a black-and-white portrait of a teenage girl with curly bobbed hair.

  ‘You remind me a little of this American girl called Clara Bow,’ said Miss Lester, showing Violet the photograph. ‘She won the Fame and Fortune competition last year when she was only sixteen, and is a rising actress in the moving pictures. She has curly red hair like you – an unusual, athletic beauty. Apparently in her latest film, they dressed her up as a boy.’

  Violet gazed at the photograph, then at her reflection in the mirror. She could hardly recognise herself. Miss Lester had styled her hair to look like the young American actress. The bob framed her face and made her features seem more delicate, her head lighter. Violet didn’t know whether to burst into tears or laugh out loud.

  She took one last look at the copper snake on the counter, lifted her chin high and stood up. ‘It does look very modern. Thank you.’

  Violet picked up her hat and bag and, with her head bare, walked back out to the car where Nikolai was waiting, patiently reading his book. As she approached he jumped up to open the rear door. His tawny eyes widened when he noticed her short hair, but he didn’t say anything.

  ‘I might sit in the front again, Nikolai, if that’s all right with you,’ she said.

  ‘Of course, Miss Violet.’ He moved around to open the front passenger door.

  ‘What do you think, Nikolai?’ Violet asked in a small voice. ‘I’ve chopped off all my hair.’

  Nikolai smiled at her. ‘It suits you. You look très chic.’

  ‘I sold my hair so I could give the money to Sally,’ Violet explained. ‘She’s going to need all the help she can get with her mother in hospital. I hate to think what Dad will say about it.’

  ‘He’ll get used to it,’ Nikolai said. ‘And he should be proud of you for trying to help a family in trouble.’

  Violet wasn’t convinced as she played with the hat in her lap. ‘Nikolai, have you ever wished that you could change the world?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Well, perhaps not the whole world – but, I mean, fix things that are unfair, do something to make things better for people?’

  Nikolai looked over at Violet, his eyes serious. ‘Yes, definitely. It’s important to stand up for what you believe in. As the English philosopher Edmund Burke once said, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”’

  Violet nodded her head thoughtfully. ‘When I see life in these streets, people living in such poverty, it just seems so wrong. But the problem seems so big. Far too big for any one person to make a difference.’

  ‘One person can definitely make a difference,’ Nikolai said. ‘And think about the massive change that might happen if hundreds of people all made little changes together.’

  Violet sat in silence, digesting Nikolai’s words, before continuing. ‘My father’s business associate, Mr Ramsay, says that there have always been a few people who are very rich and many people who are very poor – that’s the natural order of the world.’ Violet paused. ‘But I can’t actually agree. My grandfather was a poor crofter from Scotland; he was evicted from his home as a child and watched as it burned to the ground. His family had lived there for hundreds of years, but the laird wanted the land for sheep.’

  Nikolai turned to her, his eyes filled with compassion. ‘That must have been dreadful.’

  ‘Yes. Like so many others, his family migrated to Australia hoping to find gold and a new life. As a teenager, my grandfather Lachlan trudged around the goldfields selling tools and boots and shirts. It was he who started Hamilton’s Gloves.’ Violet patted the handbag and gloves in her lap. ‘My grandfather always said he pulled himself up by his bootstraps, and that he was living proof that with hard work and determination, anyone could make a good life for themselves in Australia.’

  Nikolai looked puzzled. ‘What does “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” mean?’

  Violet laughed. ‘It’s a funny saying, isn’t it? It means to pull yourself to greater heights by the impossible task of dragging yourself up by your shoelaces. To make your fortune through hard work.’

  Nikolai chuckled at the image. ‘English is definitely a very strange language. But that’s what I hope to do in Australia. I’m going to pull myself back up, by my bootstraps.’

  ‘Not back up, just up,’ Violet corrected. ‘And I’m sure you will, Nikolai. Look how well you’re doing already. You’re awfully young to be a chauffeur. It’s a very responsible position.’

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ said Nikolai, looking straight ahead through the windscreen.

  ‘Where did you learn to drive?’ Violet asked. ‘Was it here in Australia, or in England before you came over?’

  Nikolai chuckled and shot Violet a mischievous look. ‘It was actually in Russia before the Great War.’

  ‘Before the Great War? That’s impossible. You were only a tiny child then!’ Violet exclaimed, incredulously.

  ‘I know, but it’s true,’ Nikolai insisted. ‘You see, my cous–, I mean, the son of my father’s employer, was given his own small car for his ninth birthday. It was a Peugeot Bébé – a real motor car but made a lot smaller. I was the same age as him, and we often played together, so I learned to drive it too.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! What sort of parents would buy their nine-year-old child a motor car?’ Violet huffed.

  Nikolai laughed. ‘Very wealthy aristocrats who adore their children. Poor Alexei wasn’t very well and couldn’t do lots of normal, active boy things, so his parents spoiled him. They had a whole fleet of motor cars and several chauffeurs, so the Head Chauffeur taught us both to drive.

  ‘Later on, after the Revolution, when we were in Paris, we stayed in the house of a Russian benefactor, Countess Orlova. When the countess found out I could drive, I became her chauffeur.’

  Violet was fascinated. It was the first time Nikolai had opened up with details about his past working for Russian countesses and spoiled princelings.

  ‘I would like to learn to drive a motor car,’ Violet said. ‘I used to drive the buggy all the time, and I miss it now that the horses are gone.’

  ‘It’s easy to drive with a bit of practice,’ Nikolai said. ‘Perhaps I could give you a lesson one day on a very quiet street.’

  ‘Would you, Nikolai? That would be marvellous.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure. Speaking of driving, would you like me to take you home now?’

  She shook her head and laughed. ‘I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.’

  ‘Sorry, Miss Violet?’ Nikolai asked, looking puzzled.

  ‘I want to go and take some photographs around the streets,’ Violet explained, pulling the Kodak Brownie from her new handbag. ‘Would you like to come for a walk with me?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Nikolai said. ‘It would be good to get some exercise.’

  The two walked together, chatting and pointing out interesting things to photograph.

  ‘What about the Chinese market gardener?’ Nikolai suggested, indicating a man zigzagging through the crowd with baskets of greens balanced at each end of a long pole over his shoulder.

  The market gardener pattered past, wearing traditional Chinese garb – wide blue trousers, heel-less slippers and a long black pigtail hanging below his hat. He stopped, calling out his wares to passers-by. He saw Violet with her camera and stopped to pose, looking very serious. She waved her appreciation and carefully set the shutter speed, framed up the man and clicked the button. She took some of the photographs she had planned earlier – the newsboy selling his newspapers, and an overcrowded tram rattling past, with workers hanging off the back.

  The iceman – whose shirt and trousers were soaked with water – pulled up in his horse-drawn cart, yelling, ‘Ice. Ice. Ice.’ His horse stood p
atiently still by the kerb while he ran into each of the cottages with a huge block of ice wrapped in sacking and balanced on his shoulder. The ice would be put inside the iceboxes to keep food cold.

  A crowd of children gathered around the cart, begging and pleading. The iceman teased the kids but then relented, chipping off splinters of ice, which the children sucked with delight. Violet snapped a photograph of the scene, focusing on a boy in the foreground, eyes closed and face beaming as he crunched the unexpected treat.

  Suddenly Nikolai noticed the time. ‘We’d better get back, miss. I need to get you home so I can pick up Mr Hamilton. He’s playing golf this afternoon, and he’ll be annoyed if I’m late.’

  Violet suddenly felt disappointed – she had been enjoying their laughter and conversation. She packed the camera away in its case.

  ‘Of course,’ Violet said. ‘I’d hate Dad to be cross with you. He’s going to be furious enough when he sees my hair.’

  12

  In Trouble

  Albert Hamilton usually came home in a good mood after playing golf, especially if he’d played well. He arrived just in time to change into his evening clothes for dinner.

  Violet had changed into her only good dinner dress – a blue silk, which was getting a little short, with white silk stockings and Mary Janes. She came downstairs and took a seat in the drawing room to wait for dinner. Saunders was standing nearby, ready to serve the pre-dinner drinks. Imogen had already seen Violet’s hair, so she made sure she came down early for once, to give her sister moral support.

  Violet could hear her father’s footsteps on the stairs, right before he strode into the drawing room. She felt a flicker of hope – he seemed to be in a jovial mood.

  ‘Good evening, girls. Did you have a good day?’ he asked.

  ‘Delightful,’ said Imogen hurriedly. ‘How was your golf game?’

  Then Mr Hamilton caught a closer look at Violet. For a moment he looked confused, then he looked thunderous.