‘Are there any of Mr Henzell’s paintings on display around here?’ I asked.
‘There’s an exhibition on in the gallery, up past the station. Molly’s trying to sell his paintings to raise money for the baby – the other artists in that commune of his said that she might as well have the proceeds. She’ll be there now, minding the till.’ He ran a hand across his eyes and sighed. ‘One girl in prison and another in trouble. Rick caused a lot of harm.’
‘Don’t waste sympathy on that Mitrovic woman.’ The tall woman’s voice was dry. ‘She murdered the lad, remember.’
The Reverend nodded. ‘Yes, there’s no doubt about that,’ he said to me. ‘No doubt at all.’
I suddenly felt ill at ease and tired. How could these people have anything to tell me? What was I supposed to ask them? I made an excuse and left the shop. It was now twelve forty. I didn’t want to continue trying to extract information out of strangers. I was entirely out of my depth. It was almost certain that Lena had killed Rick Henzell. And even if she hadn’t, my questions were unlikely to elicit the truth. I had enough information about the ‘lost girls of Richmond’. I decided to see what sort of a painter Rick Henzell had been.
I made my way towards a little huddle of buildings on the other side of the road, a short walk up the hill from the railway station. Once I had passed a wooden church and rectory, I could see the Richmond Gallery, a square weatherboard and asbestos hall, perched among the trees. Pushing open the door, I walked into an argument.
‘—bloody Yank. Dirty mongrel bastard.’
More than an argument. A very large man with big hulking shoulders and a shock of straw-coloured hair had pushed Johnny up against a wall. One of the man’s hands was at Johnny’s throat, and the other arm was held out wide, as if he was about to land a punch. He’d obviously landed a couple before I arrived, because Johnny’s face was bloody and he looked disoriented. His walking stick had been broken and was in pieces by his feet.
There were two other men in the gallery, neither as big as the man who had Johnny, but big enough. They were all dressed in checked shirts and dungarees. One had straw-coloured hair and looked like the man who was hitting Johnny; the other fellow’s hair was ginger. Ginger saw me enter and nudged his mate, who turned to look at me. Johnny’s eyes had gone wide when I entered, and I thought he shook his head. There was a thin trail of blood running from his nose.
‘Watch it, Nugget,’ drawled Ginger. ‘Ducks on the pond.’
That was the universal Australian male code for a female in the vicinity. Nugget let his raised arm fall to his side, and released his grip on Johnny slightly. He twisted around to take a look at me, then nodded at the others, who came across to stand close by. When they were in position, Nugget let go of Johnny and turned to face me.
‘What do you want? The gallery’s closed.’
Thoughts tumbled through my brain, but I couldn’t think of anything, other than that it would be better if they didn’t know I knew Johnny. I raised my chin and adopted the look I used when a man was being particularly irritating at a party. One of superiority and annoyance.
‘It says it’s open on the door. I was intending to buy a painting.’ I adopted a hoity-toity drawl as well.
My cool expression hid a feeling of terror. My heart was racing and I felt sick. I desperately wanted to get Johnny out of there. I had no idea what they were intending to do with him. He couldn’t protect himself, or at least he couldn’t run away from them on his injured ankle. And it was three against one. If I left now to get help they might really hurt him before I could return. But what could I do if I stayed? I tried to remember some of the fighting moves that Danny had taught me, but my mind was blank. The men were just too big.
Nugget’s look at me was appraising, probably taking in my expensive-looking clothes. ‘Come back in an hour.’
I looked past him to Johnny, trapped behind the other two men. His eyes were wild and he was trying to tell me something, undoubtedly to leave there right away. But it made me angry to think that Nugget thought I’d just walk away and leave a helpless man to face more violence.
‘Why an hour?’ I asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘Will he be dead then?’
As soon as I said it I knew it was a mistake.
Nugget’s face didn’t change, but his voice became harder. ‘None of your business, love. If you want to buy a painting, come back in an hour.’
‘Let him go, then I’ll leave.’
‘We don’t like Yanks. We were just showing him how much we don’t like Yanks.’
‘What don’t you like about them?’ My voice was tight with rage. ‘That they have good manners, or that they’re helping us to win the war? Or is it because they’re stopping you from learning how to speak Japanese?’
The man was a boorish idiot. Now we were in a staring contest. His eyes were an unpleasant muddy colour. To my horror, he started to walk towards me, smiling because he had seen my fear.
‘Interfering little bitches get into big trouble around here,’ he said.
‘Mind your language,’ said Johnny. Ginger shoved him hard against the wall and he winced. Nugget’s lips were twisted into a snarl, and the look in his eyes was malicious.
I heard the door being pushed open behind me.
‘Neil Buchanan,’ said an authoritative voice. ‘Paul. George. Whatever is going on in here? Where’s Molly?’ There was a quick intake of breath. ‘And what are you doing to that man?’
I turned to see Reverend Dodd. He was looking at Johnny’s bloody face with an expression of shock, which quickly turned to fury.
‘George Loew, stop that immediately,’ he said. Ginger removed his hand from Johnny’s shoulder and stood beside him, arms hanging loosely at his side, a sheepish expression on his face. Johnny slumped against the wall.
‘This is appalling. Three against one.’
Nugget looked mutinous, but the other two hung their heads. Ginger seemed very worried, and now seemed very young – not much more than eighteen, I thought.
‘You can do your fighting when you’re in the army,’ said the Reverend. His voice hardened. ‘Against the Japanese. Not engage in a cowardly attack against one of our allies.’ His voice had become sonorous and I was getting a feeling for what his sermons must be like. ‘George, Paul, when do you ship out?’
‘Next month,’ mumbled Ginger, regarding the floor intently. The other nodded.
‘Once you’re in uniform you can be as violent as you like. But I suspect you won’t like it at all when you’re facing the real thing. Neil, you are older and should know better.’
No remorse showed on Nugget’s face. ‘The Yank’s not a soldier,’ he said. ‘He’s a bloody – a stupid – reporter. He made Molly cry with all his questions about Henzell. I was just showing him that it wasn’t on.’
The Reverend wasn’t having any of it. ‘There are other ways to show displeasure,’ he said dryly. ‘Where is your sister?’
‘Molly’s gone for a cup of tea. She’ll be back at one o’clock.’
‘Get out of here, all of you, and count yourself lucky if this gentleman doesn’t report you to Sergeant Pell.’
They shuffled past me to the door. Ginger and Paul looked contrite, but Nugget’s face was closed and angry. He threw me a very nasty glare as he left. I was tempted to poke out my tongue, but I refrained, and when the door shut behind them I wanted to collapse with relief.
Johnny limped over to me.
‘Nell, I told you never to scare me like that again.’
Although his face was battered and bloody, his breathing was steady. I, on the other hand, was shaking and teary. He tried to smile, but winced because his cheek was bruised and cut. Then he pulled me into a hug.
‘We’re both fine. No need for tears.’
I buried my head in his shoulder and felt his arms close around me. ‘I hate violence. I hate it.’
‘Then you should have left the gallery when they asked you to.’
I sniff
ed and blinked the tears away, then tilted my head up to look at him. ‘You know I couldn’t do that.’
‘I know. You couldn’t do that. Not Nell Fitzgerald.’
He managed a smile, and I felt my heart contract painfully. I had never in my life been so scared as when Johnny was in danger and I couldn’t help him. These feelings were too big, too much, and I needed time to think about what it all meant. I took a shaky breath and pushed away from him.
‘You need a wash,’ I said, surveying his face.
Johnny touched his wrist to his cut cheek and winced. Now he looked sheepish. ‘They jumped me. And it was three against one.’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ I said. ‘Where’s your cap? I’m longing for a cup of tea.’
‘I am so sorry,’ said the Reverend. He seemed very distressed. ‘Please come to the rectory, it’s very close and you can wash there. I would be very pleased to offer you a cup of tea. And lunch. I already have a guest for lunch and it would be no trouble to set two more places.’ A look that had a hint of greed in it passed over his face. ‘I even have cake. Seed cake. One of my parishioners makes it. With real eggs and butter. It’s very good.’
I turned to Johnny, who nodded.
‘Thank you, Reverend. That would be lovely.’
We found Johnny’s officer’s cap on the floor near a painting that was like the one in Rob’s flat, but with different colours. This one had large red and orange swirls, with jagged slashes of black and purple. It looked angry. It looked like the scene I had walked into a short while ago.
Outside, though, it was as peaceful as ever. The sunshine was still bright, and the long shadows of winter lay on the ground. I took another deep, shaky breath. Johnny was fine, I told myself. He wasn’t hurt and I wasn’t going to cry. A blonde girl was hurrying towards us. She was wearing a loose pinafore.
‘Oh, Reverend Dodd, I’m so sorry you got mixed up in this,’ she said. Her voice was high and girlish and there were tears in her eyes.
‘Molly, were you aware that your brothers and George were going to hurt this man?’
The tears spilled over onto her cheeks. She reached into her handbag, found a handkerchief and wiped ineffectually at her face. ‘What could I do? You know Nugget.’ There was a spark in her eyes. ‘He told me to put the “closed” sign on the door when I left, but I didn’t do that.’
Looking at Johnny with a contrite expression she said, ‘I’m so sorry, mister. I shouldn’t have cried, but talking about Rick always makes me cry. Of course I’ll speak to you about it all – come back when you’re feeling better. The boys won’t be back. They’ll be too scared that Reverend Dodd will tell Mum what they did.’
I thought of the enormous, brutish Nugget and his brother cowed by their mother, and felt slightly hysterical.
‘I will come back, thank you, Miss Buchanan,’ said Johnny.
Molly smiled and I thought that she was rather sweet. She seemed pretty and anxious to please. I wondered what would happen about the baby, because raising a child as an unwed mother simply wasn’t done. Either her parents would raise the child as their own, or it would be given up for adoption.
Johnny leaned on me heavily as we made our way to the rectory. It felt strange to be so close to him now, when I’d tried so hard to keep him at a distance. His arm was around my shoulder and he was using me for support, but he kept his head upright, saying he was afraid he’d get blood on my jacket. He seemed very tired and his limp was more pronounced than it had been previously.
‘Did they hurt your ankle?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ His voice was clipped. ‘I just need to rest.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Reverend. ‘Is there a problem?’ He came over and took Johnny’s other arm, which was a huge relief for my shoulders and back.
‘His ankle was broken in a jeep accident in New Caledonia a couple of months ago and I think those men just made it worse.’
We reached the wooden cottage that was the rectory. A sleek Jowett Tourer was parked outside, and I assumed it belonged to his guest. We helped Johnny up the step on to the verandah.
‘Now don’t worry,’ the Reverend said. ‘Dr Rountree’s here already. She’ll know what to do.’ He left me holding Johnny while he opened the screen door and called out into the hallway, ‘Hilda? Hilda! We need you.’
When the door opened a woman appeared, and I was surprised to see that she was dressed in the khaki uniform of the Australian Medical Corps.
‘Whatever is the matter?’
Johnny was leaning on me heavily. She looked at his drawn face and quickly came across to us.
I found myself almost gabbling, I was so anxious. ‘He broke his ankle in a jeep accident a month or so ago, and he was attacked just now by some men. I think they did something to it.’
‘Don’t you worry.’ Her voice was steady and comforting. ‘We’ll take care of him. Let’s get him inside and see what’s what.’
Dr Hilda Rountree was short and plump, aged in her early fifties. A pair of thick dark eyebrows glowered over round eyes of an indeterminate blue sort of colour that seemed to burn with fierce intelligence. Her light brown hair was cut short. She was a no-nonsense whirlpool of sound and movement, with a surprisingly sweet speaking voice.
We helped Johnny onto a couch in the small living room, and she removed his left boot and sock. When she pulled up his trouser leg I saw that his ankle was strapped tightly with bandages.
‘Were you kicked?’ she asked.
‘Yes. By a pretty large guy. He saw I was limping and decided to make it worse.’
‘Neil Buchanan,’ put in the Reverend.
‘Nugget? He’s a nasty piece of work. I wonder about him; I think there might be an underlying psychosis.’ She unwrapped the bandages to reveal red, scarred skin.
‘The fracture was fixed?’ Dr Rountree asked Johnny.
‘Yes, ma’am. In Melbourne. It was healing well. Until now,’ said Johnny with some bitterness evident in his voice. ‘I’ve only had the plaster off for a week.’
With sure hands she touched, pulled and squeezed his ankle.
‘My specialty is psychiatry, not orthopaedics, but I don’t think there’s any serious damage,’ she said. ‘You’ll have some painful bruising tomorrow, though. You should get straight to hospital for an X-ray when you go back to town, just to make sure.’
Johnny nodded.
‘I’ll restrap the ankle now, and that should hold it until you see an orthopaedic consultant.’
She did a professional job of strapping his ankle, and then she washed his face and dealt with the cuts and grazes. I held his hand throughout, and once or twice I smoothed his hair back from his forehead. It was the least I could do.
fter that, we were all on first-name terms and we sat down to a feast. Arthur Dodd brought out plate after plate of food I hadn’t seen since rationing started. Thick slices of ham, potato salad, green beans, hard-boiled eggs and fresh bread with lashings of butter.
‘Oh, we’re in the country here, and the ladies of the parish all ensure that Arthur is well looked after,’ said Hilda with a smile, when she saw my face. ‘Arthur’s wife is away, and they’re sure he’ll starve otherwise.’
I wondered where Mrs Dodd was, and if she knew Arthur was inviting lady doctors to lunch in her absence.
Hilda went on, ‘Mind you, the butter and the beans came from me. I’m stationed at Hollyoak, a convalescent home nearby. It’s a big old house on about three acres of garden and orchards. We have our own dairy herd, and there’s a stone dairy in the grounds that dates back to last century.’
In answer to Johnny’s raised eyebrow, she said, ‘We look after soldiers with emotional or mental problems.’
‘Why isn’t Nugget away at the war?’ I asked Arthur. ‘I’d have thought he’d have been conscripted.’
‘He’s got a damaged heart, due to rheumatic fever as a child. I know,’ he said, in answer to my puzzled look, ‘he seems as healthy as a horse, but he isn’t really.’
‘He’s a dangerous fellow,’ said Hilda. ‘He’s needlessly violent and often cruel.’ Her face grew very grim. ‘I firmly believe that cruelty to animals is a sign of probable mental disorder.’
‘Did you know Rick Henzell, Hilda?’ asked Johnny. It hadn’t taken long for him to return to the main subject on his mind – trying to exonerate Lena Mitrovic. I speared a bean and as I chewed I tried not to think about Johnny and Lena.
‘I did. He was a cad. Far too handsome for his own good – and he knew it. But he was a charmer, and I liked him. I thought he was a good painter, though Arthur disagrees.’
She smiled at the Reverend, who murmured something about being no connoisseur of art and offered us more bread. I accepted with pleasure, just so I could slather on the butter. I loved butter, and hated that it was so severely rationed.
‘Rick was a good cricketer, though,’ Arthur said unexpectedly.
Seeing our bemused looks, he elaborated. ‘I coach the Richmond cricket team. We’re suffering, what with most of the local men away for the duration, but we still field a reasonable team. Rick was an excellent bowler.’
‘A cricket-playing communist?’ Johnny said with a grin.
‘Cricket transcends mere politics,’ said the Reverend reverently. ‘Paul Buchanan is a champion batsman, and George Loew is in the team too. I’m not sure what we’ll do when Paul and George ship out. They’ve both been conscripted.’
‘Use women?’ suggested Johnny.
The Reverend looked at Johnny as if he’d blasphemed, then recollected himself. ‘You’re American, of course,’ he said, with a slight smile.
Johnny caught my eye, and I looked down to hide my giggle.
‘Did you know Lena Mitrovic, Hilda?’ Johnny’s voice was light, but I caught a deeper undercurrent.
‘I met her once or twice. And when Rick died they were worried about her mental state, so they called me in. I sat with her during her initial police interview and on the trip to the Perth lock-up.’ There was a professional smile. ‘I’m afraid I can’t repeat anything she said.’
Taking a Chance Page 14