Heart of the Cross

by Emily Madden

  ‘Will you be able to organise it? It’s pretty short notice.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ Tam shook her head. ‘My mum has the kids tomorrow anyway, so we can catch up in the morning and go over all the details.’

  ‘And I have a couple of young guys we use on an ad hoc basis for events that I’m pretty sure will be willing to help out in the kitchen,’ John added.

  ‘Okay, then, I guess I’ll be back tomorrow morning? Say at eleven? I’m guessing you might have a lull in trade by then.’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ Tam said. ‘Now go home and rest. Rid yourself of that wretched jet lag. Tomorrow we plan Rosie’s perfect farewell.’

  But come midnight, Brie was wide awake, her mind racing with myriad unanswered questions. The house, Joe’s insistence on meeting her to discuss other matters and then Tam’s comment about the other café.

  Joe may not be able to meet her until Monday, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t go to the address in the Cross and see what it was all about.

  Brie resolved that was exactly what she would do first thing in the morning. After, of course, she got some sleep. Slumber eluded her for a few hours more, and when it came it was fitful, her mind amalgamating fragments of her day and constantly going back to the unanswered questions. Why had her grandmother kept the house sale from her? And if she kept such a big thing hidden, how many more secrets did Rosie Hart have?

  Five

  Rosie

  March 1959

  There was a nip in the air. Summer was well and truly over. The moon seemed to be edging out the sun sooner and mornings held a chill that made you shiver and reach for an extra blanket.

  It had been close to two months since Rosie and Jimmy had arrived at the house at the McElhone Stairs end of Victoria Street, perched on top of what seemed like a steep cliff, with a vista of the terrace houses of Woolloomooloo, their never-ending gun-metal grey slate roofs meshing into one another.

  The house was one of the older ones in the street, not like some that had their well-kept original cast-iron lace balconies. Its cream façade dirty and mouldy, its dim hallways dingy and robbed of light, the only saving grace was the front door with its stained glass and colourful bevels that seemed to catch whatever scarce sun there was. Rosie had taken the door as a sign—that while the rest of the house was depressing and uninviting, the door, the very heart of the house, provided some beauty, some hope.

  ‘Come on, Jimmy.’ She hurriedly ran her fingers through his fine baby hair. ‘I need to get you to Mrs Hawkins so I can head to the shops early.’ Dulcie Hawkins was their elderly neighbour who lived next door with her granddaughter, Mary.

  Rosie’s first impressions about the women next door were not particularly favourable. It quickly became apparent by the number of men coming and going at all hours of the day that she was living next to a house of ill repute. Perhaps much to her amazement, it seemed not to faze Tom when she shared her discovery with him. He simply grunted and made a comment that he had told her about the brothel next door. Rosie was sure he hadn’t. She wouldn’t forget something so shocking. Ruddy and gruff with a booming voice, Dulcie Hawkins cast an imposing presence, whilst Mary seemed to be flighty and floozy. But it didn’t take long before Rosie realised how wrong she was about them both.

  The first time Rosie thought that perhaps she had been wrong about the Hawkins women was about a week after she’d arrived. It was late in the evening. Tom had, as he done every night since her arrival, gone to the pub, and Jimmy was restless. He’d gone to sleep relatively easily but he’d woken not long after howling with pain. Rosie had noticed his swollen gums and wrapped a piece of apple in a cold cloth, just as she had done so many times before, only this time it wasn’t enough. It seemed that the more she tried to soothe her son, the more he cried.

  After what seemed like an age of trying to settle Jimmy, there was a brisk knock at the door.

  ‘That child hasn’t stopped crying in hours,’ Mrs Hawkins noted sternly, her hair piled up on her head in elaborate curls and a cigarette precariously dangling from her lacquered lips.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Hawkins,’ Rosie struggled to voice her apology over Jimmy’s incessant wailing.

  ‘What’s wrong with the boy? Is he sick?’

  ‘Teething, I’m pretty sure. Although, nothing I’ve tried seems to be working.’

  ‘Teething, ay?’ She narrowed her eyes and leaned in, and much to Rosie’s amazement, jabbed a bejewelled finger into Jimmy’s gaping mouth, not seeming the slightest bit perturbed when he chomped down on her knuckle.

  ‘Humph,’ she declared after sufficient investigation, apparently satisfied that Rosie had been telling the truth. After retrieving her finger, she turned and left as abruptly as she’d arrived.

  Moments later, when there was another knock on the door, Rosie was surprised to see Mrs Hawkins again.

  ‘Here.’ She thrust a small bottle into Rosie’s hand. When Rosie simply stared, Mrs Hawkins explained with a brisk nod, ‘It’s clove oil; apply it directly to his gums.’ She barked it more like an order rather than advice and was gone before Rosie could thank her.

  She promptly followed Mrs Hawkins’s directive, fearing that if she did not do as she was asked, her neighbour would be round once again. But even as she battled to rub the oil against Jimmy’s swollen gums, she highly doubted it would work. When her son’s cries subsided within minutes, she heralded it a minor miracle.

  Later she would discover that Dulcie used the same oil on Mary as a child, as well as Mary’s mother many years before. It would be the first of many things her neighbour would teach her.

  * * *

  As they rushed out of the house they were met by their other neighbour, Floss, short for Florence to those close to her. The first time she met Florence, Rosie thought she was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Dressed in a long, flowing pink silk gown with tulle overlay, her white-blonde hair was piled atop her head in perfectly rounded and coiffed barrel curls, and her coffee-coloured eyes were framed with the longest, darkest lashes. She was tall, yet she was wearing the most impossibly high heels ever.

  ‘Hello,’ she greeted the glamorous woman as she approached.

  ‘Hello, darl,’ came a reply, and Rosie was stopped in her tracks, her mouth hanging wide open, gaping for the longest of whiles. The voice was not as she’d expected. She was a he! Face aflame, she promptly closed her jaw.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘It was just that …’

  ‘Let me guess, darl, you thought I was a sheila.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, I’m so sorry.’ Rosie finally found the courage to meet Florence’s gaze. ‘I feel so foolish.’

  ‘Don’t give it another thought. You’re not the first and you certainly won’t be the last. I was born Floyd Richards, but you can call me Floss.’

  Floss extended a perfectly manicured hand, and Rosie accepted it gingerly.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Floss, I’m Rosie.’

  ‘Is that an Irish accent I hear?’

  ‘Yes. We just arrived last week.’

  ‘We? Did you move here with your family?’

  ‘My son, Jimmy, and I. Tom, my husband, he’s been here for a couple of years.’

  There was an element of surprise that flashed across Floss’s eyes. ‘You’re Tom’s wife?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Rosie tugged self-consciously at the less-than-glamorous dress she had thrown on that morning. Her hair was neatly braided, but she was well aware that it was both staid and straight-laced, and she wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup. She was the very antithesis of glamour and she wouldn’t be surprised if Floss was wondering what a handsome man like Tom was doing with a waif like her.

  ‘And you have a child you say?’

  ‘Yes, Jimmy, he’s two.’

  ‘Well, you’re a jewel, Rosie darl, no wonder he kept you hidden!’

  The frankness in Floss’s voice led Rosie to believe Tom had never told Floss he was married. Why was that? She specu
lated if it was because he hadn’t wanted anyone to know, but another part told her Floss didn’t seem like the company Tom would keep.

  Today, Floss was wearing a head-to-toe teal ensemble. Even though as a blonde Rosie could pull off the colour, she knew she would never do so with the flair and flamboyance that Floss could. Rosie had only known her for a handful of weeks, but she rarely saw Floss in the same dress more than once. Which had her pondering—where did she store all her clothes, how did she afford such extravagance, and finally, who was her dressmaker, because surely, given her height, the clothing would all need to be handmade.

  ‘Hewo, Foss!’ Jimmy bounded excitedly next to her.

  ‘Well, top of the morning to you, Jimmy. Where are you off to today?’

  ‘I see Mary today!’

  ‘I’m leaving Jimmy with Mrs Hawkins while I head to Darlinghurst. It’s Easter next week and I want to cook a nice lunch on Sunday.’

  ‘Oh, how splendid. I do love Easter. I’m not much of a cook, but Roberta is planning a roast.’ Roberta was Floss’s housemate and dearest friend.

  ‘I want to take Jimmy to mass on Easter Sunday, and Tom too if he’s not working.’

  ‘Oh, he won’t be working, darl, they close for Easter and Christmas.’

  ‘Good, then he’ll be able to come.’ They hadn’t spent much time alone. Tom worked most days and came in late, except for Fridays, when he was home by five and at the Piccadilly as soon as he was done with dinner. If he wasn’t working, it seemed the Piccadilly was where her husband was. It was a routine Rosie had learned quickly. When she had quietly mentioned that Jimmy would like to get to know his father, Tom had not taken kindly to it. He’d told her that he worked hard and deserved some time on his own.

  Rosie wanted to point out that he’d had three years on his own. He certainly wasn’t the man who had left Tinahely, rubbing her still-flat stomach and telling their unborn child how much he couldn’t wait to meet him. It seemed that the time on his own was enough to make him forget how it was to be married. His indifference raised questions. Questions she wanted to push to a tiny corner of her mind and forget about.

  What had happened in these years to make Tom so different? From his letters, she knew the first months were hard—finding a job, somewhere to live, getting used to all things different. But …

  ‘Well, if your plans fall through and Tom doesn’t come for … whatever reason, lemme know, darl, and I’ll be happy to come with.’

  ‘You want to go to church with me?’ Rosie squeaked in disbelief.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked. I might not dress the way the Lord intended me to, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in Jesus Christ as our saviour.’

  ‘Well, you could’ve knocked me down with a feather,’ she admitted.

  ‘Father Michaels at St Columbkille’s down in the ’Loo is a progressive soul. Well, as progressive as a Catholic priest can be. He doesn’t mind us flamboyant folk or even the prostitutes; it’s the queers and the lesbians he doesn’t like.’

  ‘The ’Loo?’ Rosie asked before it dawned on her that Floss was referring to Woolloomooloo. She was slowly getting familiar with the area, the language and the slang. She already knew Kings Cross was known as the Cross, and that it was unlike anywhere else in Sydney, or indeed, from what she could tell, anywhere else in Australia.

  It wasn’t your ordinary Australian suburb. Seemingly drab and dreary by day, the Cross was transformed at dusk, when the liquid fire of the neon lights became incandescent, inviting, iniquitous and radiated across the nocturnal sky in a kaleidoscope of colours, words and images.

  After bidding Floss farewell and leaving Jimmy with Mrs Hawkins, Rosie briskly walked down Victoria Street, where the oppressive plane trees and their lush deciduous emerald foliage were now dotted with various shades of brilliant yellow, orange and red. The wind whistled and rustled, swaying branches, causing leaves to fall towards the ground in an errant and somewhat elegant fashion. The sun peeped through the receding limbs, like eyes trying to see through bony fingers, reflecting off the falling golden stipule.

  Saturday mornings seemed to bring every man and his dog to Darlinghurst Road and Rosie quickly caught on to head to the shops early for it wouldn’t be long before you could hardly move for the human tide. It was one of the many things Rosie had come to learn about the Cross.

  Kings Cross seemed to be at best described as a giant melting pot—it was home to the very wealthy, while simultaneously inhabited by the poor. It was a mecca for artists, for prostitutes, glue sniffers and hashish smokers. But at the same time, it was a byword for sophistication, where bohemians (who were referred to as ‘beatniks’) were in abundance.

  It was also a place where foreigners and their food were accepted. Rosie had thought all the exotic ports she had visited on her journey would be the only strange and exciting places, people and food she would be exposed to in her life—but she was very much mistaken. In her street alone, there was a French bakery called a patisserie that served all sorts of heavenly pastries, then there was a Russian restaurant where half the time she wasn’t even certain of what she was eating, all that she knew was that her mouth had never entertained such a strange yet mouth-watering combination of tastes. But her favourite had to be, by far, the Italian deli run by Giuseppe and Alberto Di Norro, two brothers who had emigrated after the war. Shaved-ham-and-macaroni salad was fast becoming Jimmy’s favourite meal, and Alberto’s wife, Rubina, had taken a shine to Jimmy and snuck him a cannoli as a treat every time they frequented. At first, between their broken English and Rosie’s thick Irish accent, it took time for them to understand what she was after, but now, after weeks of regular visits, their conversations became clearer and more elaborate. Every time Rosie walked in, she met yet another member of the Di Norro extended family. And it seemed that today would be much the same. Today, there was a young girl standing somewhat timidly behind the counter. Her dark hair spilled like chocolate waves from a bright-purple headband.

  ‘Eh, Rosie, ciao, come stai?’ Alberto welcomed her with a wide smile and his usual warmth.

  ‘Molto bene,’ she returned, although she was certain that with her accent, it sounded nothing like it was supposed to. To his credit, Alberto didn’t correct her pronunciation.

  ‘What can I do for you today, mi bella rosa?’ The melding of his home tongue with broken English was common for Alberto, as it was for many new Australians.

  ‘All of the usual, Albi,’ she said, using the moniker that Jimmy had come up for him, mainly because he couldn’t say Alberto. So Alberto was Albi, Rubina was Ruby and Giuseppe was Peppe.

  ‘This is Elena, my … how do you say … nephew?’

  ‘Niece,’ she corrected before turning towards the girl. ‘Buongiorno, Elena.’

  ‘Hello,’ Elena said shyly, busying herself with laying out cannoli.

  ‘Elena’s mamma is mia sorella. She’s a helping for the school holiday, but soon she a leave school and come work here all the time,’ Alberto said proudly as he went about filling Rosie’s order.

  Di Norro’s Delicatessen was a family business, and like many new Australians they worked hard and saved every penny, and at times, this didn’t sit well with those who had come to the country earlier, or those who perhaps had been here for a few generations.

  It wasn’t uncommon for new Australians to be called ‘wogs’, a term that Rosie first heard Doug, the boarder who occupied their spare room, use. Doug worked with Tom at the stevedoring place in Woolloomooloo. Doug had been kicked out by his wife and was extremely bitter about it. According to Doug, he wasn’t the one with the faults. Apparently, it was acceptable for him to take his hard-earned money and spend it however he pleased and his ex-wife could go and ‘fuck her poofter wog neighbour’.

  Rosie wasn’t fond of Doug, and that was putting it mildly. She didn’t like his foul mouth and she didn’t like the way he glared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Her protests to Tom fell on deaf ears. He told her they w
ere lucky they had Doug as a boarder and that the money he was paying helped towards the rent. So far, any money Doug had contributed went straight into Tom’s hands, and like most of the money Tom earned, that all went straight with him to the Piccadilly.

  After the deli, Rosie made her way to the butcher, where Fritz loaded her up with all sorts of goodies, then the French bakery to purchase a baguette, then to the fruit-and-vegetable stand where Spiro proudly displayed his produce. By the time she was done with the last thing on her list, her string bags were laden and cutting into her hands, and her feet were sore. The walk home wasn’t long, but it was hampered by those strolling about, taking their time enjoying their Saturday, which was fine if you didn’t have a child to get home to, lunch to make, clothes to wash and—

  She felt something tug, then before she knew it, the bag in her left hand gave way, the contents strewn across the footpath. Two potatoes tumbled one way, and a fragrant orange that Spiro had held under her nose to show her how ripe and lush and fragrant it was, was now rolling swiftly towards the oncoming traffic of Victoria Street. Instinctively, Rosie made haste to rescue her errant citrus with the sickening sound of crushing eggshells underfoot. Her stomach sank to her knees as she realised that somehow her half-dozen eggs hadn’t broken on impact, but she had managed to obliterate them in the aftermath.

  ‘For the love of God!’ she cried, exasperated. Her shoes slimy, she tried to stand, but as she did, she slipped, hitting the ground with an indignant thud. Almost instantly, pain shot from her backside all the way down the right side of her body. When the shock of the fall subsided, she went to leverage herself up, but immediately winced. Her hands were riddled with asphalt: grit and bits of rock were embedded in her scrabbled palms, which were covered with tiny lacerations. As she surveyed the surrounding carnage, tears pricked her eyes. Nearly all was lost: very little of her purchases could be salvaged and she didn’t have any money left to replace them. She would need to ask Tom for more money, but the very thought of doing so caused her heart to palpitate. Tom wouldn’t like it—he provided her with enough, more than enough, or so he said, for her to purchase all the required household items. Most of what was ruined was needed for Easter lunch. What was she to do now?