The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte

by Lesley Truffle

  It was a warm morning but there was something chilly about her aura. ‘Mr Pearson will be down shortly to instruct you. You’re a lucky girl being invited to play such a magnificent instrument.’

  ‘Thank you for having me, Madam.’

  Clare Dasher gloated over her piano. It had elaborate carved legs and monstrous innards. The piano crouched on balled feet and its claws gripped the marble tiles. Although everybody drooled over its unique craftsmanship, I could only see it as a torture instrument. Later, when I was left alone in the ballroom and felt like a real scare, I peered into the darkness of the piano’s interior. It had a strange deathly odour and I imagined a secret colony of rats had been massacred inside. Picturing them in an advanced state of decomposition gave me a thrill and their pink eyes followed me into my deepest and most hidden nightmares.

  My hostess was determined that I should be immensely grateful that she was allowing me to get my paws on her pride and joy. ‘Take note, Sasha, my piano was made by Benjamin Schwartz of New York. The workmanship is unsurpassed and it was frightfully expensive. You see, it’s made of Rosewood and weighs over one thousand pounds. Only the Very Best People own Schwartz pianos.’

  Clare clutched her head. She had a reputation to uphold as the leading light of our Amateur Dramatic Society. ‘Oh my God, you’ve got no idea! The weight. The expense. The despair. We had to rip out the ballroom window frames just to get it in. It took ten strong men, wrestling like beasts for hours and hours with pulleys, ropes and other paraphernalia.’ She took a deep breath and paused dramatically. ‘But I did gain an understanding of what it must have been like for all those naked Egyptian slaves, when they were whipped mercilessly and forced into dragging huge blocks of stone.’

  I was perplexed. ‘But why?’

  Tears threatened and her voice choked up. ‘The slaves were made to suffer just so those beastly Pharaohs could build their pyramids. But it didn’t finish there. Oh no, the poor had to go on contributing to the Pharaoh’s immense wealth. And when those bastards died, all their dogs and cats had to die with them.’

  Lady Dasher dabbed her eyes, took a big sip of tea and sighed heavily. She felt deeply about animals and had founded a charity that worked hard for the betterment of all God’s creatures in Tasmania. Great and small.

  I knew Lady Dasher had three sons but as they were a few years older than me I hadn’t had much to do with them. Her eldest son, Caesar, was usually absent because he was away at sea on family business. I’d often spied on Roger Dasher at the Baudelaire Theatre from the safety of the Royal box. But because he always kept company with the Cads gang, I never warmed to him. I thought the Cads were just a bunch of spoilt rich brats who needed a good smack and some hard manual work to occupy them.

  Clare Dasher’s youngest son, Adam Dasher, steered clear of all Wolfftown’s gangs, especially the Cads. At the tender age of fourteen he’d joined the family enterprise and by the time we first met he’d been working on Caesar’s ship for about five years.

  Caesar preferred being at sea to hanging around Wolfftown, so we met by chance when Adam was on shore leave. It happened one humid summer’s morning at the Dasher Estate. I finished my weekly piano lesson with Tremont Pearson, waved goodbye and then lead Satan around the corner of the mansion. Because there were no mounting steps, Satan and I had established a routine. Once we were out of sight, I’d climb up onto a garden plinth that held a stone urn and slide down onto the saddle. Satan always remained perfectly still. On this particular morning I dropped onto Satan’s back, lost my grip on the freshly waxed saddle and landed face down on the gravel.

  Someone laughed. I glared at the young dark-haired man lounging in the cool shade, smoking a cheroot. He was too smartly dressed to be a servant and his bold manner indicated that he wasn’t a menial. He tossed away the cheroot and sauntered over.

  ‘May I be of some assistance, Miss?’

  I sat up but wasn’t sure if I could stand up. ‘I’m just a bit winded. It’s nothing.’

  I wanted him to bugger off but he didn’t move. His grin widened. ‘I should introduce myself. I’m Adam Dasher, and you must be our very talented equestrian rider, Sasha Torte.’

  I ignored his helping hand, staggered to my feet and tried to nonchalantly flick the gravel from my grazed hands. I’d tried to protect my face with my hands and my palms were raw and bloody. The pain was excruciating and my eyes filled with tears.

  Adam studied me intently. Then he bent down close to Satan’s belly, linked his fingers together, cupped his hands and said, ‘I wouldn’t have laughed if I’d known you’d hurt yourself badly. Here, let me give you a leg up.’

  I planted my foot on Adam’s calloused hands and he had me up in the saddle in an instant.

  I was mortified as I assumed Adam thought I was a bit daft. I stared down at the reins and whispered, ‘Thank you.’

  He stroked Satan’s snout and I was greatly surprised when Satan nuzzled him affectionately. Satan was not the sort of horse to ingratiate himself. Adam leant in closer and expertly adjusted Satan’s girth strap. ‘This is one hell of a horse you’ve got. Will you be all right? Or would you like me to get you something for your cuts?’

  ‘No thank you. Really, I’m fine.’

  ‘All right, Sasha. Now you take it nice and easy, eh?’

  I nodded, nudged Satan with my heels and we headed for home. And that was that. I looked for Adam every time I went for my piano lessons. But he soon got his own ship and like Caesar Dasher he rarely spent time on the Dasher Estate.

  Lady Dasher informed me, ‘My youngest son is taking after Caesar and doesn’t believe in filial duties. When he makes port he stays in town with his current mistress or sleeps on his ship. It’s probably just another phase. After all, he’s always been a renegade.’

  I didn’t run into Adam Dasher again. Summer passed, soon it was winter and I forgot about him.

  Lily was fascinated by the Dashers. Once when I was telling Grandpa and Lily about Lady Dasher’s wonderful life on her estate, Grandpa said, ‘Got to hand it to the old girl. Clare’s too damned smart to remarry. Instead she retains an ever-changing buffet of virile male flesh. She keeps the gossips in hand by donating recklessly to every charity that calls. Always remember, possum, nothing is more forgiving than money applied with dexterity and charm.’

  Lily frowned. ‘Father, stop it. Sasha doesn’t need to hear this. It will make her cynical well before her time.’

  Too late. I was already schooled in the hypocritical ways of the adult world and I suspect Grandpa knew it.

  When Cook retired, Lily advertised for a new one. She did so not only in Tasmania’s True Colonist newspaper, but also in the mainland gazettes. From Queensland came a letter from Charles Daniel O’Rourke. Lily examined his application with great interest. ‘Let’s see now, he’s twenty-nine years of age and a very experienced chef. What’s this? Oh my goodness. Sasha, what do you think a flambéed pineapple would taste like?’ She grinned at me and mockingly fanned herself with Mr O’Rourke’s application. ‘Apparently it was Mr O’Rourke’s signature dessert when he was in partnership with a Mr Rogers at the quaintly named Sydney restaurant, Mon Amour.’

  It sounded quite exotic to me. ‘Lil, a flaming pineapple would have to be tastier than Cook’s spotted dick or her date scones. Tim reckons her scones made great shotgun targets.’

  ‘Really? You know, I hear Tim’s become Wolfftown’s top gunslinger. Shortly before she left, Agnes told me he’d taken out the shooter’s trophy at the annual fete. She also waxed enthusiastically about his prowess as a horse whisperer. I’ve been led to believe he’s developed something of a reputation. For subduing nervy mares that is.’

  I didn’t know what to say, so I digressed. ‘Tim’s a crack shot. I’ve seen him hit long distance targets with Papa’s elephant gun.’

  I’d become adept at sensing the unspoken in adult conversation. Lily’s comment struck me as rather odd. Had someone blabbed about Agnes neighing when Tim made
love to her in the stables? Or was Lily trying to find out if Agnes was still writing letters to Tim?

  I glanced at Lily but she appeared to have lost interest in Tim and was now engrossed in the chef’s letter. ‘Ah good. Charlie O’Rourke’s references are impeccable. I really think we must have him. As soon as possible.’

  Within two weeks Lily had installed Charlie in the kitchen. Incredibly pale, he stood well over six foot, was whippet thin and looked like he’d never eaten a square meal in his life. He had one of those well-modulated voices that indicated he’d been around, a strange blend of upper crust English vowels peppered with Australian colloquialisms and choice swear words. Charlie told me that he’d become the black sheep in his respectable family when he’d abandoned his legal studies and run away from home to become a lowly chef. It tickled me to think that someone as gifted as Charlie had been deemed a black sheep. Given the glamour attached to both Lil and Charlie, I came to the conclusion that being called a black sheep was an achievement. I couldn’t wait to grow up and assume my full black sheep status.

  Charlie’s cooking skills were astonishing. The first night in our kitchen he made: yabby pâté with brandy, lamb florettes with honeyed carrots, Duchesse pommes de terre and minted baby peas. He told me pommes de terre meant apples of the ground. To be sure it was more exotic than boiled spuds.

  His finale was crêpes Charlie. These consisted of the finest, lightest pancakes smothered in a buttery orange sauce and lashings of brandy. Lily and I watched as he flamed them in the dining room with our dearly departed’s best Cognac. Lily seemed relaxed but she gave the game away when she exclaimed, ‘Charlie, do chefs ever lose control of their flaming apparatus?’

  ‘Rarely, Ma’am. You’ve got more of a chance of being trampled by a runaway horse.’

  As he spoke, blue flames shot halfway up the curtains. Charlie reached up and with one quick motion, wrenched the heavy brocade to the floor, then jumped up and down to extinguish the flames. Lily laughed until she choked and I had to administer water. She raised her champagne glass in a toast. ‘Charlie that was an inspired demonstration of pyromania. Those hideous curtains have finally met their match. Good riddance. Let’s eat, shall we?’

  It would be impossible to express in words the sublime flavour of crêpes Charlie. I devoured two helpings, liberally topped with cream and was more stuffed than Charlie’s legendary Christmas turkey. I asked God to bless our new chef and prayed he would stay with us forever.

  Charlie O’Rourke was also a qualified pâtissièr. There was nothing he didn’t know about pastries, cakes and assorted desserts. His vanille mille-feuilles – known later to Tasmanians as vanilla slices – were a breathtaking confection of vanilla cream and feathered pastry layers, dusted with finely ground sugars. My goodness the things that man could concoct with just a few eggs, flour and spices. The kitchen became my favourite room in the whole house. With Charlie in the kitchen I began to take more interest in baked goods than my homework. I was in awe of his cooking.

  Soon the whole district was agog as social climbers vied for a dinner invitation to Appletorte. Lily was in her finest hour as she discussed menus with Charlie. Stage one of our move into polite society was in progress.

  The dining room had to be completely restored. In the last few months of his life, my father had blasted the cornices off the ceiling rose and used a sabre to slash the large framed portrait of his wayward wife. Rose had been left with two bullet holes for eyes.

  Too drunk one night to work the lock on the liquor cabinet, he’d plugged it with lead. On that occasion he’d grabbed Agnes Pinkerton and waltzed her up and down the thirty-seater antique dining table. His sturdy riding boots left deep gouges in the French polished wood.

  Agnes revealed, ‘The more I whimpered, the harder Mr Torte laughed and the faster he twirled me up and down the table. He tried to pour brandy down my throat and cursed most foully when I refused to swallow. He told me to stop whining or he’d turn me over his knee, rip off my pantaloons and smack me on my bare bottie. He even had the cheek to imply that I’d enjoy the experience. Imagine that! Filthy beast. Then when the phonograph record got stuck, he shoved me out the open window. He was laughing like a maniac but I thank my lucky stars that I had a soft landing on Mrs Torte’s lavender bushes.’

  The table’s restoration was expensive but as Lily said, ‘It’s worth every damn penny just to obliterate the memory of my brother-in-law. From now on, Sasha, we will create only happy memories.’

  Nothing could be done about Madam’s portrait as the canvas hung in tatters. After lengthy discussions with Hobart’s leading art dealer, Lily replaced it with an enormous, heroic oil painting of Napoleon invading Moscow. There Napoleon stood wearing a mammoth greatcoat, implacable through all our Tasmanian summers. Snow lay deep and many soldiers were wounded or dying and the garrotted horses particularly gruesome. Our defeated hero had a strange faraway look as he sternly assessed the coast through our dining room window.

  I didn’t like the painting much but it did lend an air of sophistication to even the most basic meals. However, it was only on Charlie’s evenings off that we encountered food less than amazing. Wholesome as they were, the bangers and mash made by Charlie’s new apprentice, Harrison Pinkerton, failed to titillate our taste buds. Although in fairness I must admit that Harrison’s toad in the hole was superb.

  In truth the only time I really appreciate nursery food is when I’m feeling sorry for myself. Self-pity finds solace in such things as boiled eggs, rice pudding and warm apple crumble with custard. I should confess that since I’ve been in gaol I’ve acquired a taste for nursery food. Soft boiled eggs with bread-n-butter soldiers are now one of my favourite things. And to think that I am Australia’s foremost practitioner in the dark art of patisserie.

  Dear reader, it makes one shudder at just how low one has fallen.

  7

  DINING WITH BLACK WIDOW SPIDERS

  On the morning of what we referred to as our first grand dinner, Lily was precariously balanced on a stool outside her bathing room door. She was running her hand along the top of the door frame. ‘It’s slim social pickings in this town, Sasha. What a pity we aren’t living in Hobart. Well, at least Rose and Alain’s sins aren’t getting the same airing they were a few months ago. And you know what? Everyone on our invitation list has more than their fair share of skeletons in the closet.’

  I was supposed to be holding the stool firm but Lily was wobbling madly.

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘Well let’s take the widow, Mrs Darling. Two of her husbands died from snakebite. Her first husband sat on a snake, which just happened to be taking a kip on the lavatory seat and her second husband stood on a snake as he got out of his bath. How very odd, don’t you think? Damn, I can’t get a grip.’

  The stool tilted dangerously but Lily was on a mission.

  ‘Lil, why was it odd?’

  ‘Because the Darlings lived in the heart of town. Their bathing room was on the third floor. In both cases the merry widow sent for the doctor after each husband had died. The first husband she treated with gunpowder by heaping it onto the wound then igniting it. And she treated her second husband internally and externally with ammonia and a bottle of brandy . . . Ah, I thought so, Sasha. This is how Rose and I used to hide our treasures at home. Here we go.’

  Lily leapt off the stool clutching a slim velvet jewellery case that had been wedged into a hollow above the door. ‘Shortly before she disappeared Rose realised Torte was giving her jewellery away to his other women when he was crapulous. She wrote me that she kept a few hidden jewels here, but stashed the rest in her private bank vault. You must remember that in case I’m trampled by a runaway horse. My God, look at this!’

  Lily held a heavy diamond necklace up to the light. It was breathtakingly beautiful. The diamonds conjured up images of glaciers, mists, hardhearted women and mountain snows. I’d seen photographs of Russian Tsarinas draped in arctic furs and encrusted with
similar gems. At the time I hoped that finding Rose’s necklace was meant to be an omen for my glittering future.

  I still have the necklace but have never forgotten Lily’s warning: ‘Never forget Sasha, this is just a geological collection. It’s only women’s conceit and greed which renders such jewels priceless. However if a man offers you diamonds, you must accept them with alacrity and grace. Diamonds are understood in every language. You know what? I think we need to get the rest of Rose’s jewellery out of the bank vault.’

  Lily was not short of diamonds herself and her jewellery safe was crammed to the gills with precious baubles in every hue and shade. She’d named each piece after the admirer who’d ardently demonstrated his appreciation of her charms by giving her precious jewels. Accordingly, Lily wore Giuseppe’s ravishing rubies to our first grand dinner and gifted me the delicate creamy necklace she called Aloysius’s precious pearls. When Lily fastened the pearls around my neck, I was in heaven. Aloysius was the name of Lily’s laxative manufacturer and he’d remained one of her most devoted admirers. Given I was an apprentice black sheep on the make, the pearl necklace seemed to be the first step on the ladder of success.

  Back then pearls were a young girl’s first adornment. Lily wanted me to conform to local mores until we were redeemed socially, so I had to wait until my first ball before I could wear the Kane sisters’ diamonds publicly. However, I was permitted to wear whatever I liked when we dined in private. Even my dog sported an emerald choker on occasion. I must have been the only thirteen-year-old in the whole of Tasmania who ate dinner decked in layers of rubies, emeralds and diamonds. Often my arms were so burdened with precious baubles that I couldn’t lift my wrist to get at the cheese board.

  Grandpa was the first to arrive on the night of our inaugural grand dinner. He filled the whole doorway, a giant being without an ounce of fat. Brendan Kane had been a champion boxer in his day and townsfolk used to line up just to watch him train. In his reckless youth he’d fought in boxing tents on the mainland, where he took on all challengers for a hefty fee.