‘You’re a bobby-soxer,’ I said with a laugh.
She replied with an expression I was getting to know well. Face tilted to the right, eyes half closed and mouth twisted slightly.
‘Ha ha,’ she said, before turning to examine the pile of clothes we’d thrown on the bed. ‘Now you.’
‘What about me?’
‘What are you going to wear?’
‘I’m just going into the office.’
‘But how can you face the day with equanimity if you’re not well dressed?’
That sentence surprised me so much that I let her pick through the clothes we’d tossed on the bed when looking for something for her. By the time she was done I was wearing a black tailored suit and a scarlet pullover, plus a small black hat with an accent of green and scarlet feathers. Aunty May had picked up the feathers from Mr Mathers on the corner, who kept parakeets. The little bundle of feathers had been a great hit in ‘This Old Hat’. I’d heard that people who kept birds had been bombarded with requests for feathers after the article appeared.
‘How are you doing your hair?’ she asked.
‘I thought I’d use a snood.’ My hair needed a wash, but it could wait until tomorrow. Evie had left just enough shampoo for one more wash. From the drawer I pulled out the black crocheted lace cap, tucked my hair neatly inside and pinned it to the back of my head, under the hat. My hair flowed onto my shoulders, but it was caught inside the lacy snood.
‘Gloves?’ asked Evie.
I reached into the drawer, took out a pair of black woollen gloves and pulled them on.
Evie sighed in satisfaction.
‘Turn around,’ she ordered. ‘I want to check your seams.’
I turned. It was important that the seams of your stockings were straight.
‘They’re perfect,’ said Evie. Then she repeated the line that had surprised me earlier: ‘Now you’re a well-dressed woman and can face the day with equanimity.’
I looked at her questioningly.
She blushed. ‘Oh, that’s just something Mummy used to say when she got dressed in the morning.’ Evie started to gather the clothes on the bed. ‘We’d better put these away properly, or they’ll wrinkle.’
Evie’s mother sounded like an interesting woman. Perhaps that explained why Evie could be so well mannered when she chose.
Aunty May was not happy when I said that I needed to go into the Marvel office.
‘Nell, it’s a big responsibility that you’re lumping me with,’ she said. ‘What if Evie runs off?’
‘She’d better not,’ I said with a slight smile. ‘She’s wearing my blue dress and my silk slip.’
Aunty May didn’t return the smile. I sighed.
‘I really do need to go into the paper, Aunty. I’ll try not to stay away too long, but I’m sure Evie will be fine. She was starving out there, and had nowhere to sleep. At least here she has good food and a comfortable bed. I don’t think we need to worry about her running off until Sunday at least – she’s not due to see the magistrate until Monday.’
There was a slow nod of the head. ‘I suppose you’re right. She helped me to clean up after breakfast without being asked, and was very sweet about it.’ Her face lightened and she nodded more briskly. ‘It’s Friday, so it’s cleaning day. I’ll enlist her help. That’ll keep her out of mischief.’
Aunty May arranged her week in accordance with the old schedule: Monday was washing day, Tuesday was ironing day, Wednesday mending day, Thursday shopping day, Friday cleaning day, Saturday baking day and Sunday Mass.
I had a sudden vision of Evie as I last saw her. ‘If she’s going to be cleaning, make her change out of my good blue dress and silk slip,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ll put out some old clothes for her.’ Then I smiled at my aunt. ‘Thanks for keeping an eye on her.’
‘That’s all right, dear,’ said Aunty May. ‘Actually, I’ll enjoy her company.’ A shrewd look came into her eyes. ‘Howsabout we all go out to the pictures tonight? Evie’d like that, I’m sure.’
And it would be an added incentive for Evie not to run away, I thought. ‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘I’ll be home early as I can.’
I did feel very well-dressed in Evie’s choice of clothes and received several admiring glances on the tram into town. I got off at the corner of William Street and walked the short distance to the Marvel offices. They were in a warehouse-like building in Stirling Street, which was in a rather shabby part of town, on the wrong side of the railway line. I waved at my friend Edna in classifieds as I made my way to my desk, tucked away in a dark corner of the cramped corridor that passed for the reporters’ room. I had a typewriter, three filing trays, an inkwell, a pen, three pencils, an eraser and a blotter. Paper was in short supply, so we were expected to be economical. There was one telephone between five reporters, but usually there were no more than three of us there at once, except as the Saturday morning deadline loomed. At nine thirty on Saturday morning every desk would be occupied by a grim-faced man, typing furiously. That was why I always tried to have my column finished by Friday.
I typed up my notes of the trial for the perusal of Dave Gleddings, our editor. Cadaverously thin with a nasty cough, the boss somehow managed to be editor, subeditor, picture editor, chief of staff and reporter all at once. A whirlwind of sound and energy, he would roar at the staff like a rampaging bull as it got close to the deadline, and then buy drinks all round once we were safely past it. Every week we somehow threw the paper together and rushed it out for sale late Saturday and into Sunday, when there were crowds on the streets but no other newspapers or journals.
‘Here you are, boss,’ I said as I walked into Mr Gleddings’ tiny office at noon and shoved the typewritten pages at him. ‘I’m no crime reporter, just remember that.’
He grinned. ‘No. I hear you’re a veritable Joan of Arc, protecting young innocents. Patron saint of the lost girls of Perth.’
I flushed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘My mate Syd Smith from the anti-vice squad.’ He would be mates with Sergeant Smith. ‘He phoned this morning to ask about you because you’ve taken that girl home. He’s mightily impressed with you, young Nell.’ Gleddings leaned across the desk, tapping his fingertips together, a pensive expression on his thin face.
‘I’ve had a marvellous idea for a feature,’ he said. ‘Pun intended. And you’re just the one to write it.’
A strange feeling washed over me, rather like icy fingers running along my spine. ‘A feature? You’ve always insisted that I’m a columnist. You’ve never asked me to do a feature before.’
He ignored me. ‘I’d like a feature piece on “The Lost Girls of Perth.” You know the stuff. Innocent young girls corrupted – that sort of thing. Get an interview with
Florrie Bonehill, and with the anti-vice squad – they’ll tell you it’s off the record, but see what they have to say. Do something on the Children’s Court Special Magistrate, Alwyn Schroeder, too.’
‘What about Mr Penny? He’s the crime reporter. He won’t like it if I’m sent to cover his patch.’
‘Percy Penny is a good crime reporter and he’ll keep covering the courts. But I need a feature writer for this. You’re perfect for the job, Nell – it’s a woman’s story really. Now listen.’
His eyes were shining as he set out what he wanted. A sensational story about the effects of the war, how it was responsible for the corruption of the flower of Perth’s girlhood. I listened in silence.
The boss picked up his fountain pen and started poking it towards me to emphasise his points. I was worried that he would flick me with ink, and I moved surreptitiously back from the table. It did sound like a fascinating story, and he was handing this opportunity to me on a plate.
‘Syd put me on to something interesting.’ There was a dramatic pause. ‘Richmond,’ he said triumphantly. I shook my head in bewilderment and he frowned. ‘You know, where that murderess, Lena whatever her name was, lived. Turns out underage girls have been running away fro
m there. Anti-vice squad has had reports of four girls missing – a lot in a small community like that. Two have been found up to no good, declared “uncontrollable” and interned. Another two are still missing. Include it in the feature – the effect of war on the morals of young girls in small communities. The honey pot of Perth, thousands of servicemen out for a good time at the expense of our girls and so on.’
Could I do this? Excitement swept through me. Of course I could. It would prove that I could do more than fashion and beauty and maybe I’d get the chance to do other features afterwards.
He leaned forward again. That was never a good sign. There was a sly look in his eye. I waited for what would come next.
‘Get John Horvath involved. He could teach you a thing or two about feature writing.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I said, horrified.
‘Syd said that you were pretty pally with Horvath last night.’
‘I hardly know him.’
‘Pity.’ Gleddings was obviously disappointed. ‘I’d like to meet him.’ He met my eyes with a fierce glare. ‘You know – this isn’t common knowledge – I’ve applied to become a war correspondent. They’ve accepted me. I just have to pass the medical examination next week.’
‘What about the paper?’ I blurted out.
He waved a hand dismissively. ‘It’ll be fine. Burgess will slot into my place.’
But then he started coughing and my fears subsided. I doubted that he’d pass the medical examination. His cough was very bad indeed.
There was a knock at the door and his secretary, Sally, stuck her head in. Her eyes were bright and she was grinning.
‘There’s a Mr Horvath to see you, boss,’ she said. ‘The American war correspondent.’ She rolled her eyes at me and pretended to whistle, as if to imply that, just between us girls, he was cute.
I felt a strange pain in my chest and my stomach tightened. Was the man stalking me? No, that was stupid. Surely he wasn’t here to see me.
Gleddings’ face seemed to light up. ‘Horvath. We were just talking about him. Show him in.’
Johnny walked slowly into the small room, looking as insouciant as he had yesterday. Not much seemed to faze him. I certainly didn’t. He threw me one of his million-dollar smiles and leaned casually on his walking stick.
‘Miss Fitzgerald, what a pleasure to see you again.’
‘Mr Horvath.’ My smile was less enthusiastic and my attitude aimed to convey polite indifference. Why was he here?
He moved past me to greet my boss, who had jumped to his feet, hand out, grinning idiotically. I thought he looked like a girl with a crush.
‘Charles Smith suggested that I catch up with you’, said Johnny, shaking Gleddings’ hand. Smith was the editor of the West Australian. ‘He said you were applying to be a war correspondent and he thought I could give you some tips.’
They started to discuss the business of being a war correspondent, both still standing because etiquette demanded that a man did not sit if a lady was standing. If I sat down then they could sit down. I remained standing. I knew it was childish, but I was annoyed. I wasn’t sure why I was annoyed, but I was.
I assumed my ‘I have better things to do’ look as their conversation turned from the various battle fronts to a discussion of what typewriter the well-prepared war correspondent should use.
‘So the Remington is fine in battle conditions?’ asked Gleddings.
He actually thinks he’ll be sent to the front. I was amazed. Gleddings was ill, we all knew that. Apparently he refused to accept it.
‘It’s a tough little machine,’ said Johnny. ‘Mine’s been battered around and it’s still going strong.’
Apart from his initial acknowledgement he hadn’t even glanced in my direction. I could feel my anger rising. That man had very nearly kissed me last night. I’d very nearly let him kiss me. He’d paid me compliments, he’d asked me to go out with him, over and over again. And now he was just ignoring me, as if I wasn’t worth his time.
‘Well, I had better get back to it,’ I said with a tight smile. ‘I’ve got a column to finish.’
Gleddings nodded vaguely at me and turned his attention back to Johnny. Neither of them made the slightest effort to stop me from leaving, and I had a strong suspicion that they didn’t even notice me walk out of the room. As I closed the door behind me I heard Gleddings say, ‘Sit down, Horvath. I heard you’ve injured your leg. Take the weight off it.’
It was as if I’d been doused in ice water. I had forced Johnny to keep standing, when I knew he had an injury. How could I be so thoughtless? The words echoed in my footsteps as I marched through the office to my desk, sat down and blinked away tears. Well, that was one problem solved, I thought bleakly. He wouldn’t want to know me now. I took a deep breath and pulled a manila folder towards me. It contained my notes for this week’s column. I had work to do.
I read over the lines I had typed.
The clothes situation seems to have brought out the mastermind in all of us. In the year since the introduction of rationing, women, with the adaptability that has characterised all our activities in these changing times, have had the satisfaction of transforming old garments rather than throwing them out. As the slogan says: ‘Give Tojo a blow, remake, mend and sew.’
I sighed. I loved to be fashionably dressed, but when your country was at war, it was almost unpatriotic!
I turned to ‘This Old Hat’. I knew that some of the suggestions I made in that column were silly rather than stylish but, once again, needs must. Women had started sending me old hats they had found in the house to see what I could do with them. This week’s was a felt cloche from the 1920s. The reader who sent it correctly pointed out that many households would have one of these tucked away. Aunty May and I had turned the brim upwards rather than down and sewn colourful braid around it. Now it looked slightly fez and slightly peasant, but it was not one of my better efforts. I wouldn’t have worn it out of the house in a pink fit.
‘Oh well,’ I muttered. ‘It’ll do.’
I moved on to the beauty section.
A few drops of your favourite perfume in the final rinsing water when shampooing will leave your hair delightfully fragrant.
That’s all very well, I thought, if you have any shampoo left after an uncontrollable child has used it all up. My shampoo recipe had been scented with geranium oil, but I thought I’d leave that line in. A lot of women used plain soap on their hair.
I felt someone touch my hair. Tug it, actually. I swung around to find Johnny Horvath standing behind me, leaning on his walking stick.
‘You look swell in that red sweater,’ he said with a teasing smile. ‘But I’d lose the hairnet.’
‘It’s called a snood. They’re very fashionable.’
‘In 1864 maybe. It makes you look like a . . .’
I gave him a look. ‘A what?’
He laughed. ‘An old-fashioned girl.’
I realised that he was standing and I shot to my feet, looking around for a chair.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘There’s a chair over there. Let me get it for you.’
‘I’ll get it,’ he said, with a quizzical look. ‘I’m not an invalid.’ He limped over to the neighbouring desk and returned with an old chair, set it down close to my desk, sat in it and grinned at me. ‘I’ve been asked to assist you in preparing your first feature. I said I’d be delighted.’
I felt my mouth become hard and tight; I did not want to risk spending any more time with John Horvath. ‘There’s no need. I’m still deciding whether or not to do it.’ And I think it’s dangerous to spend time with you.
‘Gleddings seems set on you doing it. C’mon, Nell – it’ll be fun.’
His enthusiasm made no sense. ‘Why would you want to help me?’ My tone was suspicious and I wasn’t smiling.
‘I like you. Besides, I can use the information myself. Do a feature of my own.’ His face became serious. ‘The truth? I want
to go up to Richmond and see what’s what. I’ve got my doubts about the Lena Mitrovic verdict. It would be useful to have you along as well because it would let me get on with my investigating in private while you’re asking around about the missing girls.’
I knew it! ‘You know her – Lena Mitrovic. Don’t you?’
He looked at me, his cat’s eyes glittering. ‘I’m not going to discuss it here. How about we talk over lunch?’
I hesitated, remembering the night before and the almost-kiss.
‘Please, Nell – I told your boss we had a date for lunch. If you don’t say yes then I’m stuck with him.’
Really, there was no problem accepting an invitation to lunch, even if I was almost engaged. The advice imparted to girls by their mothers (or aunt in my case) if an older man or one of dubious reputation asked us out was: ‘Lunch, dear, never dinner.’
I left him chatting to Sally while I went to the ladies’ room, and returned to find him ensnared by the Marvel’s social columnist, who called herself Lola. She was beautiful – more than that, she was sexy – with long straight black hair, a stunning figure, and a gravelly Marlene Dietrich voice, caused by the cigarettes she chain-smoked through a long ebony holder. Lola didn’t give a snap of her beautifully manicured fingers about scandal and, as a result, her copy was lively and sometimes just plain wicked. She was a great favourite of Americans, and spent a lot of her time at the Allied Services Club in the old Swan River Rowing Club headquarters and, of course, at parties frequented by Americans. Johnny seemed to be enjoying their discussion.
I liked Lola well enough. She often made me laugh with her insightful comments about the people we both knew, but some of her stories were cruel and that made me uncomfortable. I enjoyed gossip, but not nasty gossip.
‘So, it’s a date,’ he was saying to her as I walked over to them.
Her glance at him was sultry. ‘I told you, Johnny, I really don’t know much about the case at all. Just the gossip around the tracks.’
Taking a Chance Page 8