Emma drew in a sharp breath. There it was. Martha hesitated, looking concerned. ‘No, please go on,’ said Emma, as the maid arrived with a tea tray.
‘I was about to say that in a short time my best models can make a great deal of money. Enough to buy beautiful clothes, cars, apartments. Enough to achieve financial independence. My success is their success, Emma. Do you think you’d be interested in working for me?’
Emma tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. Martha seemed to understand, and poured her a cup of sweet, milky tea. Emma took a few sips. ‘Would I … would I do well here, do you think?’
‘You’d be a favourite, Emma, a beautiful young woman such as yourself. But my gentlemen want more than a lovely face and nice figure. They can get that at many other places, and at far less expense. No, they also want a clever companion. Someone who’d be at home at the theatre or opera. Someone who speaks well and can hold a conversation. This is such an important aspect of what we offer here at Hampton Hall, that I employ tutors to teach the girls about politics and history and world affairs. Your obvious intelligence and education gives you a natural advantage.’
‘I’ll need to rent rooms, or a flat.’
Martha’s eyes twinkled with kindness and something else. Admiration. ‘You’re thinking of your mother?’
Emma nodded. ‘For her and a nurse, until she can get into that hospital.’
‘You’re a good girl, Emma, and your mother is lucky to have you. I could offer an advance if it helps, considering you already have an important client.’
‘A client?’
‘Tony Angelo. He’s half in love with you already, dear. I doubt anybody else will get a look in.’
Emma smiled with relief. Thank God for Tony. ‘Do I have the job then?’
‘Yes, my darling girl. You have the job. Would you like to choose a new name? Most of my girls do.’
Give up her name? She could see the sense in it, but it felt wrong. Her parents had given her that name. It was a link to the person she’d been before. But no, she didn’t deserve to keep it. Emma said the first name that popped into her head. ‘Constance,’ she said. ‘Constance Stone.’ The first woman to practise medicine in Australia. What a terrible irony.
‘Very well, Constance. Welcome to the family.’
* * *
Emma would begin her duties — whatever that meant exactly — in a week’s time. That would give her a chance to arrange Mum’s accommodation and organise her trip to Hobart. A taxi all the way from Launceston was extravagant, but necessary, and she could afford it. With Tony’s contribution, her own savings, Martha’s generous advance and the money from selling Melvyn’s ring, Emma had never been so rich in her life.
Martha showed Emma to her room; a large, beautifully appointed space with views of the harbour. ‘I expect my girls to live in,’ she said, ‘but for you I shall make an exception. You may stay with your mother every Sunday, and return the next morning. If Tony Angelo requires you to sometimes stay away overnight, which I have no doubt he will, make sure you let me know first. I do worry about my girls.’
First impressions counted, and Emma couldn’t help but like Martha. That opinion was echoed by the other models when they were called in to meet her. All seemed genuinely fond of the house madam.
‘We’re a family here at Hampton Hall,’ said Martha. ‘These girls will become your sisters, teachers and friends.’
‘And Martha’s our mother,’ said one girl. ‘There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for us.’
There was a general murmur of agreement from the assembled women. Ranging in age from about twenty to forty, they were an exceptionally beautiful and sophisticated lot – not at all how she’d imagined.
Martha seemed to read her mind. ‘My girls are not prostitutes, Constance, and neither will you be. They are paramours of wealthy, influential men. Seducing them with wit, wisdom and artistic talent, as much as with physical beauty. Diana here is a pianist of concert quality. Giselle, a gifted portrait painter. Anne has the voice of an angel, and the ear of the Premier.
You’ll have the right to refuse any gentleman’s request for companionship, and the freedom to conduct affairs as you see fit. The only house rule is – never fall in love. Never give away your power, Constance. You are to be a fabulous courtesan with the world at your feet – not one man’s needy mistress.’
Emma felt a shiver of excitement, not unlike the day when Mrs Woolhouse first interviewed her at school. She took in the sumptuous surroundings, the elegant women, the startling promise of money and sex and sin. Hampton Hall was no Campbell College, but she’d be getting an education. If she kept her wits about her, if she maintained an open mind, life here could be a grand adventure.
* * *
Martha spent much of that afternoon helping Emma organise her affairs, giving her a map of Hobart so she could get her bearings. It listed local services such as a dentist and doctor. ‘I require my girls to attend monthly medical appointments. Dr Chapman will discuss contraception and ways to protect your own health, along with that of your clients.’ Martha even scoured the classifieds for rentals that might suit Emma’s mother. ‘Here’s a place just down the road, and yes, it’s downstairs.’
‘Pricey,’ said Emma, reading the advertisement. ‘Can I afford it, do you think?’
‘It’ll be a doddle once you build a client list. Tony, and your advance, will cover the rent until then. I’m happy to sign the lease on your behalf, since you’re not of legal age.’
Emma made an appointment to see it straight away. The furnished flat was just round the corner. Three large bedrooms with a modern kitchen that Elsie would love. The bathroom was small, but had a good-sized tub. Best of all, the lounge and main bedroom faced onto a park. She imagined her mother sitting by the open window, a stiff sea breeze tossing the trees, watching the leaves unfurl in spring. What a change from staring at their half-dead hedge.
‘I’ll take it,’ she said to the hovering agent, feeling very grown up. ‘Can I move in today?’
* * *
By five o’clock the flat was hers. Emma couldn’t believe it. She used her brand new key to open the front door and put her suitcase in the smallest bedroom. She danced around the rooms, humming, looking in drawers, opening cupboards. She tested the gas heater. Everything was perfect. She put on her coat, hoping it wouldn’t rain, and took the short walk to the harbour.
The sky was growing dark, but the waterfront was still a blaze of lights and activity. Ship’s horns blared, stevedores hauled trolleys, fishing boats unloaded their catch – a favourite, familiar scene. She often used to walk here after school, and her feet started taking her down the path leading to Campbell College. Emma came to her senses when she reached the street stall with a sign saying Best Fish & Chips In Tasmania. A fair claim; she’d eaten there before. Emma joined the queue of three or four people. Having not eaten all day, the delicious smell of warm chips was making her stomach rumble. There was still one man in front of her when the heavens opened.
‘Here, Miss.’ He turned and gallantly offered his coat.
Emma was about to say thanks, but no thanks, when she stopped short. ‘Harry?’ At first he didn’t seem to recognise her. ‘It’s me, Emma.’
His handsome face split into a broad grin as he held his coat over her head. ‘Emma? Jesus, what happened to the smelly girl in men’s trousers. You’ve turned into a real doll.’
The stall owner wrapped Harry’s food in newspaper, and took Emma’s order. She went to pay when it was ready, and Harry waved her purse away. ‘I’ve got it, Em.’ He took her arm and they ran for the cover of a street awning.
‘I work at the shipyards, just round the corner,’ he said, as they tucked into their meal and shared his bottle of lemonade. ‘Are you back at school, then?’
She hesitated, the question bringing her back to earth with a thud. ‘I’m a model now.’
Harry whistled approvingly as she nibbled her fish. He moved a little near
er and his thigh brushed hers. He lowered his voice and turned on his best Valentino eyes. His resemblance to Tom was painfully plain. ‘Honestly Em, you look gorgeous.’ Her insides tingled. ‘Can I see you?’ he asked. ‘Take you to a movie or something?’
The crisp chip she was eating turned dry and floury in her mouth. Emma’s appetite deserted her, replaced with an aching sense of loss. Her recent choices seemed suddenly wicked and bizarre, designed to cut her off from the simplest pleasures of an ordinary life. The warm flush of a tentative attraction. The skin-prickle of meeting a good-looking boy. Of wondering if he wanted to put his arm around her. Of wondering if he might try to kiss her, the way Tom had kissed her. Can I see you? Emma felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. She could never answer yes to that question again.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I have to go.’
‘Whoa, wait up. At least tell me where you’re staying.’
‘I can’t.’
Harry’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not still mooning over my brother, are you? Well, you’re wasting your time, Em. Tom’s off on the mainland, training to be a flyboy. He’s forgotten all about us. Might never come back.’
‘No!’ The cry slipped out unawares. Tom leaving was for the best. She had to forget about him, but some small part of her, buried deep in her heart, must have still held out hope.
A brief scowl crossed Harry’s face, but then the charm was back. ‘You live round here?’ She nodded without thinking. ‘We’re bound to run into each other again, just like we did today.’ He reached for her hand and she brushed him away. ‘Know what, Em? I’m not going to rest until I’ve cured you of my little brother.’
‘Goodbye, Harry.’ Emma hurried off into the rain, turning to see if he was following. If Harry or Tom ever found out about her new life, she’d simply curl up and die.
* * *
Emma had been looking forward to spending the first night in her very own place, but her encounter with Harry had ruined everything. He was right. They might accidentally run into each other, and she couldn’t let that happen. There’d be no more fish and chips on the waterfront. No walks to the harbour she loved to watch the boats come in. As much as possible, she’d confine herself to the flat and Hampton Hall.
Emma changed out of her wet clothes, hung them to dry by the heater and stared miserably out the window. Already she felt trapped, hemmed in. The glow of a street lamp showed that the rain had stopped. A pressure was building inside, a terrible restless energy that could not be contained. She could not sit there for one more minute, alone with her thoughts and gazing into the gloom.
Emma unfolded the map Martha had given her. The zoo wasn’t really that far; she could walk there in under an hour. It would be closed, of course, but just being near Karma would help ease her loneliness.
Emma put on her damp coat. She found the torch she kept in her bag, and slipped out into the darkness, just as the rain began again.
* * *
Emma stood shivering outside the zoo gates, listening to the wails and cries coming from inside. Something was wrong, very wrong. On a night so bitterly cold that she couldn’t feel her face, the animals should be quietly sheltering in their sleeping quarters. Out of the weather; not howling like that.
She could hear the devils and lions. The baboons. Then, out of the blackness, came Karma’s loud, coughing bark, repeated three times in quick succession. Emma froze. She knew that call. It was the one Karma made when she was locked out of her den, and there was a despairing quality to the sound that she’d never heard before. The rain redoubled its efforts, and Emma pulled the coat tight around her. Why on earth would Alison leave her charges exposed to this shocking weather?
Emma huddled as best she could in the shelter of the fence, determined not to leave until she could hear the animals were safely away. Time passed, but the desperate cries of the animals did not abate. Emma kept on waiting, with chattering teeth and water dripping off her nose. Not only was her face numb, but now she couldn’t feel her feet either. She checked her watch — nine o’clock. Where the hell was Alison?
Suddenly a figure loomed out of the darkness. Emma lurched in fright, struggling to make her cramped legs move. She shone a torch into the stranger’s face.
‘Alison?’
‘Emma? My God, what are you doing here?
‘Waiting for the animals to be put away. Can’t you hear them? They’ll freeze to death.’
Alison burst into tears. Or maybe she’d already been crying, and Emma had mistaken her tears for raindrops, and her sobs for the moaning wind.
‘Whatever’s wrong?’
Alison drew her in for a long, heartfelt hug. ‘You’re soaked to the skin,’ Alison said when she finally let go. ‘Come back with me to the cottage, Emma, before you catch pneumonia.’
‘What about the animals?’ said Emma, shocked by her friend’s uncharacteristic carelessness. ‘Aren’t you going into the zoo to help them?’
‘I can’t.’ Her face crumpled in the glow of Emma’s dying torch. The lion gave a heart-wrenching roar and Alison put her hands over her ears. ‘They’ve taken away my keys.’
* * *
Ten minutes later Emma was sitting in the cottage, warming up in front of a meagre fire. Alison fussed about, tidying the table and making tea. ‘We don’t have any biscuits.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Emma. ‘Come and sit down,’
Alison put a log on. ‘I’m afraid that’s the last of the wood.’
‘For goodness sake, Alison. Tell me what’s happened?’
She finally sat down. 'My father died before Christmas.’
‘Oh no, I’m so sorry. He was a great man.’
‘Thank you. Dad was very fond of you. He believed you’d make a fine zoologist.’
Emma squirmed inside, thinking how disappointed Arthur would be at the kind of life she’d chosen. ‘What about the zoo? Aren’t you the new curator?’
‘Not me.’ Alison looked grim. ‘Guess who?’
‘Not bloody Bruce Lipscombe?’
Alison nodded, and the story she proceeded to tell broke Emma’s heart. ‘The council said a woman couldn’t run a zoo. First thing Bruce did was fire all the experienced staff, and employ only sussos. Second thing he did was cut off my stipend and take my keys away. Things are bad Emma, really bad. Animals are fed the wrong things, or not fed and watered at all. Food left to rot in filthy cages. They’re permanently locked out of their dens without shelter, even on nights like this. You should see their poor coats: filthy and matted from the rain and cold.’
‘How long has it been like that?’ asked Emma.
‘Six months. More and more animals are dying. Bagheera became ill, but Bruce wouldn’t let me call a vet. “Can’t afford it,” he said. Lord knows what he does with Mrs Buchanan’s monthly contributions. He doesn’t spend it on the zoo, that’s for sure. One morning I went in to find Bagheera had perished overnight.’
Emma’s eyes clouded with tears.
‘I was so desperate that I went over Bruce’s head to the Town Clerk, begging for the keys so I could check the cages after hours, let the animals into their shelters and feed them properly. I argued that we had the last thylacine left in captivity, and they were too rare to ever find another one.’
‘And?’
‘I made things ten times worse. The Town Clerk reprimanded Bruce, and now he’s so angry, he’s throwing me and Mama out of the cottage. We have to leave, Emma. Abandon the animals to that monster.’ She poured their tea with a trembling hand. ‘Kahn died yesterday.’
‘Oh no, not Kahn.’ The young Bengal tiger had been Alison’s pride and joy. Emma recalled his golden eyes and glorious striped coat. The sheer majesty of him.
‘In the end he was just a bag of bones. I’m glad he’s dead. At least he’s free of his torture.’
Emma pressed a hand to the pain in her chest. Karma’s call came again, fainter this time. Weaker.
Alison shuddered. ‘I lie awake at night or wande
r around outside the zoo, listening to the animals calling for help. It’s unbearable, Emma. Completely unbearable. But when I leave this place, the silence will be worse.’
Chapter 19
Tom was larking about one Monday morning, trying to steal one of Stu’s breakfast sausages, when a senior came into the mess hall and held up an envelope. ‘Telegram for Air Cadet Abbott.’
The distraction allowed him to snatch the snag.
‘Oy.’
Tom ducked away, laughing, and went to fetch his telegram. On opening it the laughter died away and the sausage stuck in his throat. It was from Grandma Bertha.
I regret to say that your grandmother Mrs Isabelle Buchanan has died from a heart complaint stop Funeral ten o’clock St Paul’s Church Hills End this Wed stop Deepest sympathies stop Mrs Bertha Cunningham.
Nana dead? Tom reread the telegram in disbelief. He’d received a letter from her just last week. She’d told him about the seeds she was raising in the greenhouse, the ones he’d collected for her last year. She’d told him about her quoll and the dogs and how sixty-seven-year-old George had become besotted with a widow in town. She’d sounded happy and upbeat, with no hint that she was unwell. Still, it was her way. She never wanted anybody to fuss, and he hadn’t been home since January to see for himself. A lot could happen in six months. A lot had happened. His extraordinary, unique, most dearly loved Nana was dead. It seemed impossible.
Tom ran to his barracks as a kaleidoscope of memories ran through his head. That first day at Binburra, when she’d saved a shy, broken boy from his grief. A thousand fragments of a happy childhood lived in the light of her love and protection. That last magical trip to Tiger Pass, when Nana told him the secrets of his past, and bestowed upon him the guardianship of a lost valley.
He flung himself down on his bed as emptiness closed in. There was so much he wanted - no, needed - to share with Nana. He wasn’t finished yet, nowhere near. She had to see him fly a plane. She had to see him graduate as a pilot. She had to be part of his future, a future that suddenly looked blank. His hands clenched weakly. Why the hell hadn’t Nana told him how sick she was? Careless of his mates’ curious looks, Tom sobbed into his pillow like a child. It was like losing his mother all over again.
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