by Tara Moss
Ever the professional, Sam held back a grimace.
‘Sorry, mate,’ Billie offered. ‘I’ll nip out and grab today’s papers. You find me that missing page.’
She looked her assistant over. He was a tad less robust-looking than usual, which still made him about five times more robust than any man she’d likely see on the street. ‘Feeling okay this morning? You need a pie or something to take the edge off?’
‘Stop looking at me like that. I’ll have you know I can drink like a sailor, Ms Walker. I only had three in the end. And besides, it’s not pies I’d take to stave off a heavy head – if I had one.’
She believed him.
Billie was returning from nearby Central Station with the weekend papers tucked under her arm, and was entering Rawson Place, when she saw a familiar silhouette near the entrance to Daking House. A dark, small-statured woman was standing by the entryway, wearing a charming navy bow in her short, tightly curled hair, worn flat leather shoes without stockings and a navy coat that seemed a touch too heavy for the weather. Her posture was impeccable, her head high. A delicate gold crucifix hung around her neck. There was no doubt in Billie’s mind whom she was waiting for.
The young woman turned at her approach and looked at her with prematurely world-weary eyes. The sunlight hit them and the eyes turned a warm caramel. ‘Shyla,’ Billie greeted her. It had been some weeks since she’d last seen her. ‘Can I get you some morning tea?’ Her other business could wait an hour. Shyla nodded and they set off back towards Central Station.
Billie and Shyla had met outside the big station by chance when Billie returned from Europe in ’44, and they had since struck up a friendship and something of a trade in information. Shyla was a young woman of the Wiradjuri – the people of three rivers – and she had been taken from her family by the Aborigines Welfare Board when she was four, along with her older siblings, and sent to the Bomaderry Aboriginal Children’s Home, run by Christian missionaries, tasked with assimilating the children into the lowest levels of white society. When she was old enough, Shyla had been trained for domestic service at the Cootamundra Domestic Training Home for Aboriginal Girls, and at fourteen she was sent off to a wealthy family in rural New South Wales, who paid a pittance for her often back-breaking labour. Her brothers had been put into service on sheep and cattle stations, Shyla said, and last Billie had heard she was trying to track them down and make contact, something Billie hoped to help her with. Shyla was a smart young woman and well connected with the other girls who had been put into service. Rich people often chose to overlook just how much their domestic help knew and were witness to, and in the right circumstances that information could be shared. Shyla was trusted by the girls, and in turn she trusted Billie, meaning Billie could benefit from her insider knowledge.
At the Central Railway Refreshment Room, Billie and Shyla were shown to a table made up with a crisp white tablecloth and neatly set silverware stamped with the railway insignia. A milk jug and sugar bowl sat in the centre of the table along with a fresh bouquet of white bougainvillea in a delicate glass vase. The handsome space had a high ceiling and was hemmed with carved wooden partitions and punctuated with structural pillars. Above the table, a metal fan hummed gently, pushing the air around.
Shyla chose one of the wooden chairs and Billie took a seat across from her, stacking the newspapers on one side of the table. She ordered strong black tea for them both.
‘You work all the days of the week,’ Shyla commented, and Billie smiled.
‘Sometimes,’ she responded. ‘I’m on a case.’
‘Working for women whose men are running around?’ Shyla guessed.
‘Thankfully, no, not a divorce case this time.’ It was pretty much necessary to hire a private inquiry agent to secure grounds for divorce, and it was often ugly work, skulking around bars and dosshouses to obtain proof of adultery. Had her financial situation been better, Billie would have refused such cases absolutely, but the Depression had taken its pound of flesh from the von Hoofts and the Walkers. Her mother might like to deny it, but if Billie didn’t get the agency to work – really work as a financial enterprise – her every last pearl and piece of silverware would end up sold. Maybe not this year, maybe not the next, but soon enough. Billie wasn’t about to let that happen.
She pushed the menu across the table and watched her quiet companion. ‘Would you like something to eat?’ She wasn’t sure of Shyla’s age, but thought she might have been about eighteen, though at times Billie guessed her as older or younger. Shyla took her navy gloves off, and Billie noticed the rough skin of her hands, and how the gloves she seemed always to wear had been worn in patches and repaired with careful mending. She had a fine hand with a needle.
Shyla informed Billie in a quiet voice that she’d like the made-to-order French cutlets and bacon. It was still well before lunchtime, so Billie ordered a single scone for herself instead of her usual Salad Niçoise. A blonde waitress delivered their tea and took their order. When she returned to her post, it was obvious that she was talking about the unusual pair with the other server, but Billie couldn’t make out what was being said.
Tea steamed in Shyla’s cup. After a moment, she sipped it gingerly, seemingly oblivious or resigned to the fuss her presence was causing among the refreshment room staff.
‘I got your note,’ Billie said. ‘I’m sorry to say that I haven’t heard anything yet about your brothers, though there is a cattle station down at Urana that I hope to hear back from soon.’ Her inquiries into the whereabouts of Shyla’s brothers had been surprisingly difficult and frustrating. The system was simply not set up to make it easy for separated Aboriginal parents, children and siblings to find their families again. For a start, the names of the taken children were routinely changed from those given at birth by their parents to anglicised Christian names like Elizabeth and John.
‘I didn’t come to speak to you about my brothers,’ Shyla interjected to Billie’s surprise.
She sat up in her seat, then leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Tell me, Shyla,’ Billie prompted in a low voice.
‘There’s a white fella up at Colo. There’s a bad feeling about him. He has some of my mob there – four girls.’
‘Girls you trained with at Cootamundra?’
Shyla nodded, and her eyes darkened.
‘What is the bad feeling about him?’ Billie asked. She knew Colo was a town on the northern fringes of the Blue Mountains, but she had not been there. It was a fairly remote area of bushland, a few orchards and farms.
‘He came after the war, one year now they say. They say he has no woman, no children and he has a lot of money. Four girls do the work for him.’
‘What does he do? Is it a property he has there? Sheep or cattle? Crops?’
‘A house only. There are no men working there, only him. He lives alone, except for the girls, and travels in a motor car, carrying things to Sydney.’ Shyla took another sip of her tea, seeming to hold on to her cup for comfort. Though she wasn’t usually one to be emotional, she was upset about something, beneath her usual reserve. ‘Since the girls went there to work no one has seen them. It’s not good,’ she said.
Was he a delivery man of some kind? Billie wondered. Delivering what? Shyla knew a lot of girls in service to different families. She wouldn’t have come to see Billie about this man without reason.
‘What does he carry? Do you know?’
She shook her head. ‘I haven’t been told.’
‘It would be good to find that out,’ Billie said, keeping her voice low. ‘What is the bad feeling about him? Do they think . . . Does he hurt them?’ she asked.
‘I can’t say,’ Shyla said, shaking her head slowly. ‘I think it’s not good.’
Billie’s eyes narrowed. Their food arrived, and she leaned back in her chair. Her scone was warm and she spread a touch of jam on it. She looked up at Shyla. ‘When you say he came after the war, do you mean that you think he might not be Australian?’
> ‘They say he’s a foreigner.’
‘What does he look like? Were you given any description?’ Billie asked.
‘He’s white and big. That’s what they told me. Odd-looking face. A big man.’
‘I see. And he travels alone in a motor car. Do you know the type?’
‘A Packard. A fancy one. It’s black.’
‘Number plate?’
Shyla shook her head. It was a shame about the plate, but there couldn’t be too many Packards in Colo, surely? Billie could dig it up.
‘Do you want me to check him out, Shyla? What would you like me to do?’ Perhaps it was time for some real quid pro quo. Shyla had come to Billie with good information several times, and now perhaps she was coming good on the promise to ask for something more in return than simply some tea and some shillings here and there for her work.
Shyla nodded. ‘I promised I would do what I can, and you are someone who . . .’
Billie waited, anticipating the next word. ‘Someone who?’
‘Someone who knows things. I know you are good at finding things out.’
‘So are you,’ Billie said truthfully. ‘I will make some inquiries on my end, give you the lowdown on this man, then you decide what’s next, okay?’
Shyla paused for a moment, thinking of something, or perhaps someone, then nodded, and tucked into her cutlets. She was quiet for a while, but after she’d finished and wiped her mouth with the white napkin, she said simply, ‘I’m worried, Billie.’
‘I understand.’ Billie opened her handbag and passed her a fountain pen and asked her to write the man’s name and address on the corner of the paper. When she got it back there was simply the name ‘Frank’, and ‘Upper Colo’.
Billie looked at it, disappointed. ‘No address?’
‘The big house,’ Shyla explained, holding her hands apart in a gesture to emphasise the size of the house. ‘By an orchard. It is easy to find they say. Not far from the river.’
‘Okay.’ It was far less information than Billie would have liked, but she could probably track him down by the car and the big house, if Shyla was correct. ‘I’ll find out whatever I can about this Frank. Would the girls go to the police if they were in danger, do you think?’
‘I can’t say,’ Shyla replied, but her head was shaking as she spoke. That was hardly a surprise. A lot of Aboriginal people were suspicious of the police, or gunjies, as Shyla sometimes called them. Through conversations with Shyla, Billie had some of the picture – how contacting the authorities about anything might lead to being arrested about something else, or having the men taken, or having the Aborigines Welfare Board take children away ‘for their own good’. Stuff like that tended to ensure trust was in short supply. That long and troubled history had not been forgotten, and had created understandable tension between Aboriginal communities and the white authorities. That couldn’t simply vanish overnight. Much as Billie knew and liked a lot of police, she could hardly blame Shyla or her friends if their trust was lacking. Hell, Billie’s trust was often lacking too. She had learned through her father that the New South Wales police force had its corruption issues – there were a lot of decent cops but a fair few rotten eggs to poison the mix. It was one of the reasons he’d given her for retiring and going out on his own.
‘I’ll see what I can find out about him,’ Billie repeated. ‘And I can see if the police want him for anything.’
‘They don’t want any trouble out there,’ Shyla said, stiffening. ‘I can tell you, but no one else. No police.’
Billie got it. ‘I’ll look into who this fellow is however I can and get back to you. If the police need to speak with him about something, so be it, but I’ll keep the girls out of it.’
‘That’s the best way,’ Shyla agreed. ‘Thank you for the lunch, Billie.’
‘You’re welcome. Any time. How will I reach you when I have something?’ she asked.
‘I’ll find you,’ Shyla said, as always. She rose from her chair and walked away, a proud if lonely-looking figure in the room of whispering passengers and staff.
CHAPTER NINE
When Billie returned to the office with the weekend papers, her thoughts swirling with speculation about the mysterious ‘Frank’ and the girls Shyla was worried about, she found Sam looking triumphant and a touch fresher for the extra cups of tea he’d made himself.
‘Don’t tell me. You found our missing page?’ Billie guessed.
‘Sydney Morning Herald, Thursday, November 21, 1946,’ he said, holding up the newspaper in question. A section was ripped out of a page on the right-hand side.
This narrowed their focus even better than an entire missing page. ‘This is the only possibility?’ she asked.
‘Well, this is the only thing ripped out of these papers,’ he said, his face falling a little, doubtless imagining another tedious run through soggy newspaper.
‘Excellent work. And that gels with what the boy Maurice told me about the date. I’ll get you to head to the library and find out what was on that page,’ Billie said.
‘I have it here,’ he said to her surprise. Again, her assistant’s smile was triumphant. He held up a wrinkled copy and her eyes widened.
‘Nicely done, good sir. What is it? Do tell.’ She hurried over to his desk.
‘It’s an advertisement for an auction that’s running this weekend. We still had our copy of that edition.’
He passed her the paper and she ran her eyes over it. Georges Boucher Auction House. This was not what she had been expecting at all. An auction? ‘How fascinating. I think we’ll have to attend this tomorrow.’ The advertisement featured photographs of antiques and jewellery. A carved sideboard. Rings. An unusual necklace. It looked like high-end stuff. Why would it interest the boy, let alone enrage him?
‘I suppose we ought to look into this George character and his business,’ Sam said.
Billie laughed softly. ‘Georges,’ she said, using the correct French pronunciation. ‘We’ll need the library anyway,’ she decided. ‘Head there now, please, and research this Georges Boucher. Find out what you can about when he came to Australia and what his story is. I want a physical description too,’ she said. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll visit the fur shop. I feel like there’s some element missing in the story Mrs Brown told me.’
‘Like what?’
‘We’ll see,’ she said, leaving it at that.
She bade her assistant adieu and strode into her office, making her way to her modest corner balcony, where she opened the doors, a fresh breeze blowing in with the sounds of the city below. She stepped out and leaned against one of the two Roman-style pillars, gazing out over the top floor of nearby Station House, which was connected to Daking House by a small safety bridge, and the bustling Rawson Place and George Street below. It was humble as balconies went, with barely enough room to turn around, but it was one of only three balconies on the sixth floor, and only half a dozen in the whole building, the rest being on the first floor. It had been a favourite contemplation spot of her father’s. Naturally she’d saved this spot for herself when necessity meant subletting the other offices.
Seconds later, Sam appeared among the foot traffic below, strolling along the footpath in his trench coat, soon blending into the moving crowd. In a few minutes she’d take the lift down herself and walk to Brown & Co Fine Furs shop to see what else her clients could tell her. In the meantime, she continued to watch the moving streetscape, her mind on Shyla’s unexpected request, and on the thin doorman and his expression when he’d realised he’d been seen talking with her. It bothered her, that expression. There was something there, she thought. Something.
Far below on George Street eyes watched her – eyes that did not approve of the woman in her high tower.
Brown & Co Fine Furs was located in the grand Strand Arcade building on George Street. The last of the great shopping arcades built in Victorian-era Sydney, it still held appeal after the ravages of the wars it had survived, if the crowds Billie saw mill
ing around were anything to go by.
As Billie stepped inside the arcade the hustle of the main street fell away and she saw that little had changed since she’d last ventured inside. As always, it was cooler within the arcade than on the street. Patrons strolled slowly on the patterned tile floor, looking in the timber-fronted shop windows at jewellers working with fine tools, at cobblers repairing shoes, at racks of fine clothes, and milliners arranging tilt hats of the latest style. She picked up the scent of a florist before turning to see a beautiful display of dahlias, gardenias, roses and little plain daisies in pleasing arrangements. Leaning her head back, and holding her brimmed hat, Billie looked up at the vaulted ceiling of tinted glass panes which hung high above the two further levels of shopping, each level lined with cast-iron balustrades, the shops announced with oval, hand-painted signs propped up on curved Victorian iron posts.
Billie pulled off her round smoked sunglasses and contemplated her surroundings with shrewd eyes. This was a strangely tranquil place. Busy but never bustling. Something about the design, she supposed, or the businesses that set up shop here. The Brown & Co Fine Furs shop was down a large staircase just in front of her, announced by a tasteful painted timber sign propped up on a stand of swirling ironwork. Yet amid the tranquillity she felt eyes drilling into her back – a feeling she was rarely wrong about. She turned the sunglasses in her hands, pretending to clean them with the edge of a scarf in her handbag, and the reflection showed a man who had entered the arcade, his hat pulled low, watching her. She tucked the glasses into her handbag and looked around in one simultaneous movement, but by then he had his back to her, his attention apparently drawn elsewhere. Nonetheless, out of habit she memorised the texture and colour of his well-tailored grey suit, his slightly crumpled fedora, his height against the shop-front windows, the black hair above his collar, shot with strands of grey. He was heavy-set, and moved away before she caught a glimpse of his profile, a face. Then he was gone, just another stranger back on the street outside.