Dust of the Land

by J. H. Fletcher

  ‘Not if it causes you trouble.’

  ‘It won’t. I talked to her last night.’

  Bella used the bathroom and afterwards tucked into the fried breakfast that Paul had prepared. She felt strength flowing back into her and, with strength, hope. Today, as Paul would have said, she’d be right.

  ‘Thank your wife for her kindness.’

  ‘You’re a good Pom,’ Paul said. ‘That Johnson cow’s a whinger. It makes a difference.’

  ‘Thank her anyway.’

  They walked out into the sunshine and he drove her to Townsville.

  He dropped her in the centre of town.

  ‘Port’s that way. Shops down there.’ He hesitated, looking at her searchingly. ‘Got any money?’

  ‘You’ve been so kind,’ she said. ‘I’ll not take your money as well.’

  He fished some notes out of his pocket.

  ‘Coupla quid. Pay me back when you’re right.’

  The wicked cruelty of some; the kindness of others. Bella was in tears.

  ‘I’ll never forget.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ She’d embarrassed him. He rammed the transmission into gear. ‘See ya.’

  He was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bella walked the town flat, looking for work. She went into the three hotels in the main street. When they asked what she wanted she said a job. She was willing to do anything, she told them. Work in the kitchen, clean the floors and bars, serve at table. Anything. There was nothing. As the shadows lengthened she found a lodging house near the docks. The proprietor – sour face, eyes that had seen it all – gave her a look but took her money anyway.

  The room was up a steep flight of uncarpeted stairs. It was frowsty, redolent of dust and what Mrs Johnson would no doubt have called sin. The smeared window looked out on the blank wall of a warehouse.

  She looked around her. She would sleep and tomorrow she would find work and risk the expense of moving to a better place. But for tonight it would have to do.

  She went out to a café. She had a bowl of watery soup to warm her and a bread roll and went back to the lodging house. There were lights from the port and the shapes of moored vessels, and shadowy figures walking to and fro. Somewhere a whistle sounded, echoing off the walls of buildings, and it was a lonely sound.

  She went into the lodging house and the man said:

  ‘Interested in makin’ a quid?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I asked if you was interested in makin’ a quid. I got blokes willing to oblige, if you are. Men off the freighters. If you’re willin’.’

  A slap in the face would have been less shocking.

  ‘No. No, thank you.’

  She scurried up the stairs, heels clattering on the boards. Even to be asked such a thing… Was it possible?

  She went into the room, closed the door and leant against it.

  Yes, she thought. It was possible. More than possible, if she found no work. Her mind would not accept it, yet that might be the future, if all else failed. I’ll kill myself first, she thought. But life was strong in her, and she doubted that she would.

  Tomorrow I’ll get a job, she thought. Then I’ll be able to smile at all this. But the next day was no better than the first. By evening she was exhausted and in despair. The lodging keeper’s suggestion no longer seemed ridiculous; it began to seem inevitable. She examined a mental image of herself with a man. With men. She could not, would not believe it. She would not accept it. But if it was that or starve…

  What have I come to? she thought.

  The man looked up as she came in. ‘There was a sheila lookin’ for you. Said she’d be back.’

  She knew no one in Townsville. She went wearily up the stairs. Her stomach was growling; she felt weak. It seemed years since she’d eaten her fried breakfast in Paul McNab’s house. She had to have a proper meal soon.

  Who was this sheila? What did she want?

  She didn’t have long to wait. There was a knock on the door. When Bella opened it, a woman was standing there. She was about forty years old, blonde and pleasant, seemingly respectable, although Bella, on her guard at the woman’s so timely arrival, had her doubts.

  ‘May I come in?’

  Inside the room, the woman looked around without comment. ‘My name is Moira Higgins,’ she said. ‘I may have a job for you, if you’re interested.’

  ‘How did you know about me?’

  ‘The word gets around.’

  It had to be the man at reception. Who had suggested she might like to make a quid entertaining men off the freighters. Bella’s suspicions were on high alert but, with no other jobs on the horizon, who was she to complain?

  ‘What sort of job are you talking about?’

  ‘Have you heard of the Cockatoo Club?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I work in the office. It’s a club patronised by businessmen and their wives, mostly. They go there for a drink, a meal, meet their friends. There might be a vacancy, if I think you’re suitable.’

  ‘As what?’

  ‘Hostess. We have several on the books, but are always in the market for more.’

  ‘What does a hostess do?’

  ‘Welcome guests when they arrive. Serve drinks. Sit with the customers, if asked. All highly respectable, I promise you.’

  ‘How much would I be paid?’

  ‘You’ll get tips, of course. Some of these sugar magnates can be most generous. Plus a basic. You’re a beginner, so you start at the lower grade. The manager, Mr Henry, will discuss all that with you once you’ve got started.’

  ‘You said you might have a job.’

  Moira Higgins smiled. ‘We’ll expect you at six o’clock,’ she said.

  It was dark; the clack of Bella’s heels rebounded from the shuttered buildings as she walked. The Cockatoo Club was in Cable Street, between the high street and the harbour, in an area where muddy lanes ran back between the buildings. Tugs hooted eerily and the salty air was ripe with the smell of mangrove and mud.

  Bella had accepted the offer without a second thought. It was not a real job but would do until something better turned up. When Moira had spoken to her she’d had fifteen shillings and four pence left; she couldn’t be too particular when a job was offered.

  ‘Don’t forget your things,’ the man at the reception desk had warned. ‘We’re not responsible for stuff left behind.’

  ‘I’ve left everything,’ Bella had said. ‘I’ll be back.’

  She was not ready to move on yet, this club opportunity not being a real job.

  The Cockatoo was located in a double-fronted house set back from the street, with steps climbing to the entrance and a sign creaking on a metal pole outside. Both house and sign were in darkness but a light shone from a window at the side of the building. Bella followed a concrete path and came to a door standing ajar; she pushed it open and went inside. The small room was empty, brightly lit, with what looked like a storeroom off to one side. There were four stick-back chairs, a padlocked cupboard and a table top running around the walls with mirrors above it. The air smelt of talcum powder and sweat.

  ‘Hullo?’ Bella said.

  Nothing.

  A second door led to a larger room. At this end was a bar, with bottles on glass shelves, at the other a small stage. In between there were perhaps a dozen tables, each with four chairs and a pottery ashtray advertising a brand of beer. The room smelt of tobacco smoke and the stale memory of last night’s liquor.

  She had not known what to expect, but it was nowhere near as smart as she had hoped. Perhaps it would look better with the lights up.

  A door behind the bar opened and a man came through. He was in his twenties, middle-sized but strong-looking. He wore a Clark Gable moustache, a muslin shirt – yellow, with a pattern of purple palm trees – that fitted tightly across his chest, and black, oiled hair combed back.

  ‘Help you?’ he said.

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Henry,’ she s
aid.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Bella Tempest.’

  ‘Moira mentioned you. Tempest your professional name?’

  ‘My real name.’

  He whistled and winked. ‘You musta been born to the job. Done mucha this work, have you?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it.’

  ‘Moira told me to see Mr Henry.’

  ‘Mr Henry’s away,’ the man said. ‘He asked me to fix you up instead.’ He came from behind the bar and stood in front of her. ‘Name’s Joe. Let’s have a look at you.’

  He walked around, looking her over, then smiled at her with sparkling, sassy eyes. ‘Very nice,’ he said.

  Bella didn’t like this at all but it was a job in a town where there were no other jobs to be had, so she said nothing.

  ‘Where are your things?’ he said.

  ‘At the hotel.’

  ‘Hostesses sleep on the premises. Moira shoulda told you. No sweat; I’ll send someone to collect them. She explained the set-up, right?’

  ‘She said something about serving drinks and entertaining the customers.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ He laughed at a private joke, and again winked at her. ‘Service before self: the Cockatoo’s motto. I can see you’ll be right at home here.’

  ‘How much do I get paid?’

  ‘Mr Henry will sort all that out when he gets back. You sleep upstairs with the other girls. I’ll get one of them to show you later. In the meantime let’s fix you up with something to wear.’

  Bella looked at him.

  ‘Can’t let the customers see you like that,’ Joe said. ‘Long dress, that’s what you’ll be wearing. This is a classy joint: didn’t Moira tell you?’

  ‘I don’t have a long dress.’

  ‘We’ll find something for you. What size are you, anyway?’ But lifted his hand before she could answer. ‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess.’

  He found a dress in the storeroom. ‘That should be about right. Put it on, let’s have a look at you.’

  The dress was black, with sequins and crimson highlights across the bodice. It was made of some harsh material and smelt faintly of sweat.

  ‘Where’s the changing room?’ Bella asked.

  ‘Right here.’ He did not move. ‘Let’s get on with it, darling.’

  ‘Do you mind not watching me?’ Bella said.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said with mock humility. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’

  He turned his back. Bella was down to her underwear before she realised he was watching her in one of the mirrors. It made her mad.

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘Whatever you say, sweetheart.’

  He strolled out, smiling and taking his time.

  She put on the dress, pulling it this way and that. It was tight over the bust and showed an awful lot of cleavage, but otherwise fitted her well; whatever else, Joe had a good eye for women’s sizes.

  She went to show it to him.

  ‘V-e-r-y nice,’ he said. ‘Just one thing.’

  Before she could move, his hands were beneath her breasts, lifting them until they were halfway out of the dress.

  She leapt back. ‘Take your hands off me!’

  ‘Got ’em, show ’em: that’s what my old granny used to say.’ He looked at her, the laughter wiped off his face. ‘Get used to it. You’ll have worse from some of the customers. Especially boozed up on a Saturday night.’

  ‘Anyone tries it, I’ll slap his face for him,’ said Bella. ‘Service before self, remember?’ The grin was back, and the wink. And Moira Higgins had said it was a respectable club.

  * * *

  Bella wondered how she would get on but the first few days weren’t too bad. There were wives, or women at least; the tips came on schedule; and apart from the odd stroke and squeeze, the customers left her alone. But tomorrow was another day, and the weekend was coming.

  ‘How you going?’

  Stephanie was one of the girls but spent most of her time serving behind the bar.

  ‘So far so good,’ Bella said.

  She knew the other girls were talking about her behind her back. What could she expect? She came from a different background and they were suspicious of someone who, as she had overheard one of them saying, might turn out to be a la-di-da galah.

  ‘I was you,’ Stephanie said, ‘I’d keep your tits out of sight. Some blokes might take it as an invite, the way you’re showing ’em now.’

  ‘That was Joe’s idea,’ Bella said.

  ‘That Joe,’ Stephanie said. ‘If it was up to him he’d have us topless.’

  Mr Henry came back Saturday. He had a white face and black, glittering eyes. He was not a big man and was wearing an unremarkable black suit and sharply pointed shoes, yet there was something about him that said watch out. He wore a chunky ring of yellow metal on the middle finger of his right hand and was smoking a cigarette.

  He spoke to her in his office, just before the club opened. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘All right so far.’

  His black eyes dissected her, inch by inch. ‘I been hearing good things about you. A bit shy, but that’ll change. You’ll want to know about pay, I suppose?’

  He waited, a man who would always expect people to come to him.

  ‘Yes,’ Bella said.

  ‘Two quid a week and board,’ he said. ‘How does that sound?’

  ‘That’s not much,’ Bella said.

  ‘It’s all you’re going to get,’ Mr Henry told her. ‘There’s ten per cent out of work, or hadn’t you heard?’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘It was much higher last year and people are saying it could easily go up again. I reckon two quid a week is better than starving in the street. Isn’t that so?’

  He was right, of course.

  ‘There are tips on top,’ Mr Henry said. ‘And some of the girls earn extra on the side. Know what I mean? The ones who go upstairs with the customers? We keep twenty per cent for overheads but the rest is theirs. Looks like yours, it would soon add up.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want that,’ she said.

  ‘Your choice.’ He looked at her neckline and at what it did not quite conceal. ‘Enticing but not crude,’ he said. ‘I like it.’

  Saturday was a rough night, as expected: lots of booze, loud voices in an atmosphere so blue with smoke that it was hard to see across the room. There was a three-piece band, with half-drunk customers shoving each other unsteadily around the tiny dance floor. No doubt Bella’s was not the only backside to get felt up that night.

  ‘Lookit the knockers on that one.’

  A young bloke leering. She ignored him.

  A customer’s booze-red eyes regarded her over the top of his glass. ‘In the trade, are you, darling?’

  She had already seen two of the girls taking customers upstairs.

  ‘Yes,’ Bella said. ‘In the carry-around-drinks-for-the-customers trade.’

  ‘If you change your mind…’

  ‘You’ll be top of my list.’

  She was learning; a few days earlier she would not have had the courage to say such a thing.

  All in all, she thought, she should be able to survive. Stay here two months and, with tips, she should have twenty-five pounds. Enough to get her to the Pilbara. She would not think what might happen after that.

  But at the end of a month there was a problem.

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t owe me anything?’

  ‘Hire of the dress,’ Joe said. ‘Rent of the room. Food…’

  ‘Board and lodging was part of the deal.’

  ‘So they are. For the girls who take customers upstairs.’

  ‘That was never the agreement,’ Bella said.

  ‘So sue me,’ Joe said.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ Bella said. ‘I work for you but only get paid if I take customers upstairs?’

  ‘Got it in one,’ Joe said. ‘Basic principle of business. Money comes in, money goes out. I’
m not seeing any money coming in from you. Or have I missed something?’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Looks like yours, you’d have a queue. Then we’d be sweet.’

  They were cheating her and it made her mad. All right, she thought, if that was the way they wanted it…

  She could walk out, but that would leave her with only seven pounds in tips to show for four weeks’ work. And Mr Henry was not a man to cross.

  She had to think.

  It was close on midnight, the club as full as ever, when Stephanie said: ‘I got to have a pee. Watch the till while I’m gone.’

  One of the girls came with a drinks order. Bella dealt with it, then there was a gap. She looked around. No sign of Joe or Mr Henry; no one was watching her. She opened the till drawer and pulled out a roll of notes. No time to look at them; she closed the drawer again, leant down so that the bar concealed her, lifted her skirt and slipped the notes into the waistband of her knickers. She let the skirt fall back about her ankles and smiled as another girl came with an order.

  Her heart was thundering fit to burst. They would check the till first thing in the morning yet would certainly see her if she walked out now.

  The only thing to do was wait until the club was closed and slip out then. She refused to think what they might do to her if they caught her.

  It was three o’clock when Bella came tiptoeing down the wooden stairs. She was wearing a sweater and carried her shoes and suitcase in her hand.

  The bar was still. The motionless air remembered the rowdiness but only the staleness of booze and tobacco smoke remained. Every creak of the staircase made her heart stop. Behind the bar the line of bottles gleamed in the solitary light.

  The main entrance would be locked and barred. The side door should be a different story, with the key hanging from a hook in the storeroom. It was dark but she found it all right. She slipped the key into the lock and turned. It clicked back. She put on her shoes, drew a deep breath and inched open the door.

  The clamour of an alarm shattered the night.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  She was running, frantic in the dark street. Behind her… Commotion.

  Within seconds, she thought, they would be after her. Mr Henry was not the sort to let anyone walk out on him in the middle of the night. Worse, he would guess she would never do it without raiding the till, because that was what he would do himself.