Dark Fires Shall Burn

by Anna Westbrook

  ‘Know him!’ She snorts unflatteringly. ‘Newham’s my man.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Templeton flounders. ‘He’s your … fella?’

  ‘Lord have mercy.’ Tipper wheezes so hard she almost falls off her chair. Then she chuckles. ‘You’re alright, kid. We’re going to get along.’ She taps him on the cheek with her fist. ‘My fella? Jesus, that’s a good one. Bob’ll laugh himself stupid.’

  When Elsie finishes her drink, she steers him to the door. Before she leaves, she counts out a stack of bills and drops them on the bar. ‘Thanks, Barry,’ she says with a grin, tilting her hat brim at him. ‘A round on me, eh? For everyone.’

  ‘Anytime, Tipper.’ Barry looks up from polishing glasses.

  Templeton notices how the men all tip their hats to her as she moves towards the door. The bloke who had accosted him keeps his gaze down at his boots. None seem game to look her in the eye.

  Dot is reflected in the frosted-glass panels of the door, her fur collar pulled close to her chin against the cold, her cropped hair hugging the sharp angle of her jawbone.

  ‘Won’t you introduce me to your friend?’ Tipper says, ostensibly to Templeton, but she is already leaning forward to Dot, extending her hand, her mouth wide in a grin. ‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.’

  ‘I thought you knew who she was,’ Templeton says, dumbly.

  ‘Pleased to meet you at last.’ Dot turns, exhaling out the corner of her mouth and giving Tipper the full effect of her attention. ‘The one and only.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Oh darling, you’re here!’ Kate says as Nancy wanders sullenly through the lounge the following afternoon.

  ‘I was in my room.’

  ‘I have some news,’ her mother continues, ignoring this.

  ‘Have they found him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Him. Have they found him?’

  ‘Oh, biscuit!’ Her mother floats over to the chaise longue and scoops up the pile of newspapers, making room for Nancy to sit. Izzy is already draped over the imitation Louis XIV with a cup of tea.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what other news there could be.’ Nancy doesn’t want her mother’s fussing; she moves towards the kitchen.

  ‘Nan, come back here.’

  ‘Come here, Nancy, your mamma misses you,’ Izzy bids her.

  ‘This news changes everything. Believe me, it does.’

  Nancy sighs and sits down. ‘What is it?’

  Kate clears her throat dramatically. She smoothes the bodice of her dress, suddenly looking nervous. ‘I have to tell you the big news. I’ve … I’ve booked passage,’ Kate announces. Her long white arm quivers slightly as she raises her teacup to her lips.

  ‘What?’ Izzy says with a start. ‘When?’

  ‘Passage to what?’ Nancy asks.

  ‘We’re going home, biscuit.’ Her mother smiles.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Nancy says cautiously. ‘We are home.’

  ‘Our real home, silly,’ Kate says with a laugh. Her eyes are filmy and unfocused.

  ‘When?’ Izzy tries to sound casual, but it is clear she is stricken.

  ‘I paid for the tickets this morning. We leave in a fortnight.’

  ‘I — I don’t understand.’ Nancy’s thoughts are whirling.

  ‘Ireland! We’re going back. My old mam is there — your grandmamma. You’ll learn about where you come from, a Stóirín, a Ghrá. Oh, it’s beautiful, Nan. So green, and the soft rain on your face … There’s nothing like it.’

  ‘I hate the rain!’ Nancy says, hoarse with outrage.

  ‘But darling, I thought, after this tragedy … There’s nothing keeping us here. Your father, Aunt Jo and now Frances. It’s shocking. We need to get away, to make a fresh start. We can leave this all behind. It can be a nightmare we never think of again.’ She looks to Izzy for support and laughs musically. ‘All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. Isn’t that how it goes?’

  ‘But what about school?’

  ‘With that harebrained Mr Cameron? There are plenty of schools in Ireland, Nan. Where you can get just as good an education, probably better.’

  ‘Well, if you liked it so much there, why’d you leave in the first place?’

  ‘Times were different then. There was no work. No food. There was a war going on. Everybody was leaving. There were no opportunities for families like ours. My two elder brothers went to Canada. I came here. And then … then I met your father.’ She pauses. ‘And now that Aunt Jo has left us some money, on top of the pennies I’ve been putting aside, we can go home.’

  ‘But this is our home now. I was born here.’ Nancy’s voice is climbing, becoming shrill. ‘We’re Australian.’

  ‘Oh Nan, don’t be foolish. It’s not just about nationality. You’ll understand when you’re older.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ Nancy shouts, red in the face. ‘Tell me why we have to leave. Even without Frances — this is still my home. You don’t care what I think. You don’t care about me.’

  ‘Nancy! Of course I care about you.’ Kate’s blood is up, and even if she wished to she couldn’t stop. ‘It’s everything. Young girls being murdered on the streets. It’s not a safe place, especially since the war ended. The people are Luddites, or Puritans: the shops close at five; you can’t get a drink after six. The only thing that inflames any passion is the bleedin’ horses or the never-ending cricket! It’s stinking hot — and the flies! There’s no theatre, no opera, no concerts. There’s no culture.’

  ‘There’s the amateur theatrical society —’ Izzy attempts.

  ‘I’m sorry Izzy, but really. It just … doesn’t compare. The women are prudish and uneducated and dull, the men are boorish gorillas —’

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t care about any of that. Those are the stupidest reasons I ever heard. So what if everyone likes cricket and horse races? I do too. I wish Dad were still alive! You’d never make us leave if he was here. This is because of him. You’re only thinking about yourself. You only care about yourself!’

  Nancy sees her mother crying, the tears making silent, wet lines down her face, streaking her make-up, but she forces herself not to care and her resolve feels hot and smooth and solid, calming her down. She goes to her room and slams the door, determined never to speak to her mother again.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Later that evening, Dot and Templeton are seated in a grand café upstairs in the Royal Arcade with Elsie and Nellie. It’s a fancy place Tipper has taken them to meet Bob: they’re even eating with silverware. He soaks up the soft glitter of the wall-set lamps and the casual elegance of the other diners. He’s not quite sure why Tipper would bring them here, other than that she wants something from them … or simply to show off.

  Templeton sits up straight in his jacket, a cast-off from one of Nellie’s fellas and far too big. Still, he is determined not to stain it with any of this delicious Bolognese sauce — he’s never eaten something with such rich flavours before.

  Dot is vocally enjoying her dish of strange little lumps. ‘Pierogi,’ she tells him, popping a dumpling into her mouth and licking her lips like a cat. ‘They remind me of when I was a little girl.’

  ‘Champagne,’ Nellie beckons to the waiter, her other hand pressing gently on Tipper’s inner arm. ‘Can we? Oh, let’s. Do say yes.’

  ‘Of course, hen.’ Tipper nods.

  A bucket arrives, brimful of ice, the bottle lodged jauntily. The waiter goes to open it, but Tipper tells him not to. ‘Would Sir care to pour?’ he defers. Templeton is shocked but Tipper’s gaze doesn’t betray concern.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Tipper attacks the cork, producing a satisfying bang, and upturns the stream of bubbles into their glasses.

  Over the rim of his champagne, Templeton notices a part
y of men enter: about half a dozen, between the ages of twenty and forty, all in beautifully tailored suits, silk ties and trilbies — charcoal, grey, olive green. They are talking and laughing loudly as they are seated, right by the door. Templeton feels his stomach somersault upon noticing one man in particular. Had he seen him, too? Templeton looks at Tipper, who is flirting shamelessly with Nellie and Dot; they’ve noticed nothing amiss.

  ‘Now, do you see this here?’ Tipper’s voice cuts across the table. ‘What does this remind you of?’ She winks cheekily, holding up her empty glass.

  ‘A saucer?’ Nellie says.

  ‘That’s right. It is a saucer. Or a coupe, as the French would call it. But what else does it make you think of?’ Her face is flushed, her hair slicked back with pomade. ‘What part of the body does it resemble?’

  ‘Oh.’ Dot turns red, which she does rarely.

  ‘She’s got it. She knows it.’ Tipper slaps the table.

  ‘What? What part? What is it?’ Nellie says, already a little tipsy, and pouting.

  ‘They say it was originally modelled on Marie Antoinette, for she had the two most perfect specimens.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Templeton is confused.

  ‘Ha ha! This kid. God love him.’ Tipper claps him on the shoulder. ‘Only the Queen of France. Before she got the shhhhwwiiit.’ She runs a finger across her neck sharply. ‘Old head chopped off.’

  ‘Oh, I get it.’ Nellie takes Tipper’s empty glass and her own and holds them up against her chest. ‘Look, they do it better than my own brassiere. Mine must be perfect specimens too!’ She giggles drunkenly.

  ‘Stop it,’ Templeton hisses, scrunching down in his seat, mortified. He looks to see if the table of men is watching.

  ‘The baby doesn’t like it. Aww. A little prude, isn’t he?’ Nellie jokes. Dot jabs a finger in his ribs playfully and he gives her a dark look. Tipper finds this hilarious. Her booming laugh ricochets off the chandeliers, and Templeton cringes.

  ‘Don’t.’ He flinches and smoothes himself down, his eyes sliding once more over to the men’s table. He knows it’s him: the man from the Archibald fountain. He’s partly concealed by the shadow of a corniced archway, but it’s him. Templeton’s heart lurches. He considers leaving, but where would he go? Instead he slides back into the chair, chin down to his chest.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Dot asks.

  He grimaces. He wonders why she seems to like this strange, rough woman so much. Being with Tipper is like being trapped with someone’s drunk uncle.

  ‘Don’t worry, he won’t hurt you,’ Tipper comments, looking over his shoulder towards the doorway.

  ‘W-what?’ Templeton looks at her quickly. Did she know? How could she?

  ‘Bob.’ She stands, arm outstretched. ‘Mate.’

  He turns, perplexed. Bob Newham is coming right towards them. Templeton’s eyes flash over to Dot, who is still and poker-faced. His thoughts of the man from the fountain are momentarily eclipsed.

  ‘Tipper.’ Bob takes her hand and pumps it briskly. He sports a black eye patch; his good eye is an unusual but pleasing shade of blue, the colour of a fairy wren. His dark hair sits flat to his skull, shining with Brylcreem. ‘Nellie,’ he says with a nod in her direction. ‘You’re looking lovely, as usual.’ She giggles at him and gives a little wave.

  Then he turns to Dot. ‘I’m Bob Newham. I hear you’re here to see me.’ He stretches a hand to make Dot’s acquaintance. She coolly gives him her slender fingers.

  ‘I know who you are,’ Dot says, with no edge in her voice. ‘You almost shot me.’

  ‘If I'd succeeded, it would have been unforgivable.’ He grins crookedly.

  ‘Indeed. I would not have forgiven you.’

  He laughs. ‘But they do say that the death of a beautiful woman is the most poetical topic in the world, don’t they?’

  ‘That’s enough, you snake,’ Tipper says. ‘Straight to the honey-trap, you are. Sit down.’

  He takes his chair, nodding towards Templeton. ‘G’day, son.’

  Heart still thumping, Templeton meets his eyes warily. Jackie’s enemy or no, he was still one of the Rocks mob.

  A waiter hovers nearby to take Bob’s order.

  ‘Don’t want that foreign stuff, mate. A beer will do me — or make it a whisky. You’ll join me, won’t you, son?’ Without waiting for a reply, he winks at the waiter. ‘And a whisky for my young friend here. Be a good man, bring the bottle.’

  He turns back to them. ‘I know the owner,’ he says to Dot with a smirk.

  The waiter returns with the drinks and Bob takes his noggin in an easy swallow and measures himself another. Templeton stares at the whisky the waiter has put in front of him. He’s been served an alcoholic drink in the fanciest place he’s been in his life — it’s all so strange; the whole night has the tinge of unreality. He slides a glance over at the other table, but the man is consumed in conversation.

  ‘Down the hatch,’ Bob says with a grin, showing a fine set of white teeth. ‘Now, tell me why I’m here.’

  Tipper clears her throat. ‘I invited you here because my new, young friends may be in need of your services.’

  ‘Services?’ Bob looks at Dot and Templeton sharply. ‘And just what kind of business do you think I’m in?’

  ‘It’s about Jack Tooth,’ Dot says levelly. She rams the butt of her cigarette in the ashtray and fixes her large brown eyes on him. ‘I want him dead too.’

  ‘Bathurst.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘He’s in Bathurst.’ Bob shrugs. ‘I know where he is, the rat bastard. Mates down there cabled last week.’

  ‘I hear he is back in Sydney,’ Dot says, less sure of herself.

  ‘No. I’ll bet you London to a brick he’s in Bathurst. Got my boys out west on it. They could tell me what the prick had for breakfast. Christ, they could tell me what time Jack Tooth went for a shit.’ Templeton sees the muscles pull and twitch, like ship’s rigging, in his forehead and around the patch over the vacant socket Bob’s eye once inhabited.

  ‘Right. Bathurst,’ Dot says. ‘When is the last time you heard from your boys?’

  ‘Day before last. He’s got a car. Snowy Jenkins sorted it out.’

  Snowy? Why on earth would he want to help Jackie? Then Templeton remembers Annie’s deal with Dolly.

  Nellie signals to the waiter, loudly whispering something in his ear about dessert.

  ‘Snowy saw Jack himself,’ says Dot. ‘Go on, Lucky, tell him what you overheard.’

  ‘I heard Snowy say he saw Will Worthington yesterday, and he’d just been with Jackie,’ Templeton says. ‘Snowy had a cut on his forehead. Says Will belted him, thinking he was you.’

  ‘You’ll swear to this?’ Bob licks his lip.

  ‘Turns out your boys are a bit slow on the uptake.’ Tipper smiles at Bob, revealing her teeth.

  ‘I believe you’re telling the truth, son. And I don’t know if you’re right or wrong. But I’ll get that ratfucker when the time is right.’

  ‘I hate Jack Tooth!’ Nellie interjects loudly, her voice strident with booze. ‘That skinny shithead broke my damn nose last year.’

  There is a quiet gasp. At the next table, a stylishly coiffured woman looks over, aghast. Her male companion drops his fork with a clatter. ‘What’re you looking at, love?’ Tipper barks, and the couple quickly turn back around.

  Templeton darts a glance at the man, but he’s leant back in his chair and his face is in shadow; it’s impossible to tell if he’s watching.

  ‘I want to help you,’ Dot says quietly to Bob, with flint in her tone.

  Bob leans back, but keeps his curious eye on her. ‘What makes you think I need your help?’

  ‘Because I was there and I saw you make a mess of it last time.’

  Templeton braces himself for Bo
b’s reaction. Typical Dot: always going right in for the kill. But to his surprise Bob emits a noisy, amiable chuckle. He winks at Tipper. ‘I like this one.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  Their conversation is interrupted by a phalanx of waiters who begin to distribute dessert. A plate of little cakes with icing in robin’s egg blue and sherbet pink, glistening ices pert and frosty on immaculate china, wafers as delicate as birds’ breastbones — Templeton looks at the plates in wonder. He remembers eating scones with clotted cream and blackberry jam in the mountains with his mother one day when he was young — how he had thought the splendour would never be matched.

  The others begin on their dessert, but Templeton’s appetite has evaporated. He feels eyes on him. He sneaks a glance at the other table. The Archibald man is watching him now: subtly but definitely. The man smiles, the same cocksure smirk from that night. Templeton turns quickly as though he had not seen him, his neck a blushing inferno beneath his stiff collar, the hot shame stifling.

  The flush has only begun to subside when Tipper stands and drops her serviette into her plate. ‘Perhaps we should continue this somewhere else.’ Dot stubs out her cigarette and pushes her chair back, Bob following, and Templeton joins them hesitantly. Nellie seems reluctant to leave her ice.

  He feels the man’s eyes track him as he moves towards the door. Can he hear the echo of the men’s laughter following him? Has anyone seen the looks between them?

  Out on the street, Tipper leans on the bonnet of a black car, conversing with her driver through the window. Nellie droops against her, shaky on her heels, one strap of her dress slipped from her pale shoulder. Bob and Dot look grim. He opens the door for her, and they both climb into the vehicle. ‘Come on, Lucky,’ Dot calls, looking back at him.

  ‘No. I think I’ll walk.’ He digs his hands in his pockets, looking over his shoulder to see if the man has followed him out. The night is unseasonably warm, and the trams rattle by noisily. The city is lit up like a birthday cake.

  ‘Get in the car,’ Dot snaps. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’