Phil held out his hand. ‘Three would be better. I’ll take care of it.’
That would save her the hassle of finding a locksmith. Maybe having a lodger around had its good points after all. She gave him a grateful smile. ’Thanks, if you’re sure it’s no bother. I’ll pay you back tonight. I’ll be home as quick as I can.’
∞∞∞∞
Ten minutes early. She took off her cloche and put it over a hook on the coat stand.
She entered the telephone exchange room as noiselessly as possible, signalling Clara that she was ready to take over. Clara raised one finger, pulled out a plug and jerked the headphone off her frizzy hair.
‘You’re a life saver.’ Her shoulders heaved in a sigh. ‘I was afraid I’d have to pull a double shift when Mr Gibbons said Gussie no longer worked here, and Mum needs me.’
Frances arranged her own headphone. ‘Can you believe anyone’d be so daft?’
Clara leaned back in her chair, obviously ready for a bit of gossip while there was a lull. ‘She did it on purpose, if you ask me.’
‘Never!’
Clara lowered her voice. ‘From what I’ve heard, she thinks she can make more money somewhere else.’ Her sallow face blushed with excitement. ‘In a hotel on Hindley Street, that’s where you’ll find her in the evening, behind the bar.’
‘But that work’s illegal for a girl.’
‘Oh Fran, you’re such an innocent. As if anybody cares about laws like no drinking after six o’clock or no girls serving in hotels.’ Clara pushed herself off her chair. ‘I’ll better run and look after the baby while Mum goes on her cleaning tour. She’s got a new lady and she’s that hard to please, Mum says.’
‘Right-oh.’
‘Oh, and Fran, you make sure you stay on the line a bit longer, to make sure the connection works all right. I had one call cut off twice, and they were livid when they got through again.’ The first light began to flash.
‘Thanks, Clara,’ Frances mouthed as she listened to the operator at the other end who gave her a number.
With the thoughtless skill born out of practice, she plugged the jacks in, sent the ringing signal and waited for the other party to pick up. Usually she flipped the switch to cut off her headset straight away, but after Clara’s warning she’d decided to listen in for a few moments before she let people talk in privacy. It didn’t matter anyway, because all she did was let the words wash over her.
That’s why she’d already flipped the switch before the meaning of the words sank in. She sat there, heart racing. Her hands trembled hard enough to make it difficult to operate the switch again.
Crackling noises, and then again, the voice that had given her such a fright. ‘Next … after Easter,’ a man said. ‘When she’s with friends in the valley. Make it look like another stick-up.’
The line crackled louder. ‘Could be easier to take our cove lakeside,’ another man said, in a croaked, nasal voice. ‘Make him go for a swim.’
Frances clapped a hand to her mouth, setting Clara’s tin mug flying with her elbow. It hit the floor with a thud.
‘Hey,’ the nasal voice said, ‘did you hear that, boss? Think somebody's listening?’
She held her breath.
‘No,’ the first man said, just as she was starting to see spots dancing in front of her eyes. ‘Don't be a fool. And don't forget, you get paid to do your job. Leave the thinking to others.’
‘Good-oh. Sure, you didn't hear anything?’ A slight pause. ‘All right, boss. Where do you want me to do the job? The jeweller’s shop or home?’
‘Suit yourself.’ The man hung up.
3
A stick-up? She bit her knuckles. There could be little doubt about what was going on. If only she could remember the number she’d been given by the other operator, and where that call had come from. She needed that information for the police.
Another thought pierced through the fog that filled her head. It hit her for six. She couldn’t tell anyone – she’d get sacked, like Gussie. They’d lose the house. Mum, Uncle Sal, they’d all be out on the street and it would be her fault.
∞∞∞∞
Her hands still trembled as she locked the door of the telephone exchange at five o’clock. Only the switchboard at the big General Post Office stayed in service at night. She walked home in a daze, hardly paying any attention to the Sunday afternoon bustle around her.
Usually she enjoyed afternoons like this, with the sun giving a warm glow to the Victorian brick and limestone buildings and enough of a breeze to move the clouds along at a pace that kept the heat at bay. Today it was all she could manage not to bump into people and to stay clear of cars when she crossed the streets.
She dug her nails into her sweaty palms. She must have misunderstood. No one in their right mind would plan a crime in such a casual way. There’d been a lot of crackling noises on the line, so the words had been slightly mangled. A misunderstanding, that's all it was. Like a game of Chinese whispers, where you could rely on the meaning being distorted.
Her pace quickened. She’d read too many sensational stories. The books had given her ideas. And the newspapers. The Advertiser was full of articles about shoot-outs and underworld figures with nicknames straight from the silver screen. But that was in Sydney, or Melbourne at a stretch.
Frances stopped in her tracks, nearly causing a young man to collide with a tree as he swerved on his bicycle to avoid hitting her.
‘Watch out what you’re doing, lady,’ he yelled.
Frances gasped. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry!’ She had to pull herself together. She wouldn't think about that phone call any more before tonight, in the privacy of her own room.
∞∞∞∞
By the time she opened the front door, she had calmed down. Sunday evening was the best time in the week, when they all sat down together in the parlour after dinner, listening to the radio programme. Frances and Maggie would share the deep settee, with its comfortable upholstery and the warm plaid rug that covered the worn blue fabric. They’d sew or knit, while Uncle Sal, settled in one of the two oak-framed armchairs that Grandpa had brought with him from Scotland, would sit and look at his old scrapbooks, dreaming of past glory. There’d be tea and biscuits or fruit, and contentment.
She took off her cloche, patting her hair back into place.
‘Mum?’ She went into the kitchen where her mother attacked a lump of dough with her rolling pin. A floury streak ran down her left cheek.
‘What are we having?’
‘Apple pie. Edna had some windfall fruit to spare,’ her mother said. ‘And Yorkshire pudding, with lots of pudding and gravy and a wee bit of braised beef.’ She pushed her hair back from her forehead, leaving another trail of flour. ‘Tell Sal and Phil we’ll eat in half an hour. And take the pipe-cleaners with you, please. Sal left his new packet in the cupboard.’ She prodded her pastry and nodded satisfied. ‘Oh, and there’s a letter for you under the bread bin. I forgot to tell you yesterday.’
Frances picked up pipe-cleaners and letter and shoved both without a glance in her shirt pocket.
∞∞∞∞
She found the men sitting on the back porch, smoking their pipes and chatting. She flung the packet with the pipe-cleaners without a word of warning.
Uncle Sal snatched them in the air. ‘That’s my girl,’ he said. ‘You’ve got the eye, and you’re quick. We’d have gone far together, love.’
She felt the heat rising in her cheeks. Why did Uncle Sal have to be so talkative? Nobody knew about the vaudeville act they’d worked on in secrecy, until the Post Office took up most of her time. Even Maggie was blissfully unaware of Signorina Francesca’s blonde wig and the sequined costume that were stowed away in Uncle Sal’s stage trunk. Nobody but Uncle Sal knew how much Frances longed to travel and see new, exciting places, a world removed from her real life.
She kept her voice lighthearted. ‘Don’t pay him any heed, Phil. It’s one thing to juggle a few balls or fling a knife or two, anot
her to have someone fling them at you.’ She gave Uncle Sal a warning glance. He winked at her, raising both thumbs in the air.
Phil grinned. ‘Thanks for the warning. I’d better mind my manners around the house, before I set myself up as an unwitting target.’
‘Rest easy,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘We never perform our tricks without a paying audience.’ He put the parcel down, dug deep in the pocket of his shapeless brown cardigan, and flung Frances a set of keys. She caught them in mid-flight. Uncle Sal motioned her to follow him as he got up and went down the porch steps to the retired dunny. Well-tended flower beds flanked it. They’d tried growing vegetables there, but the soil wasn’t right.
‘Look here, Frances.’ He tapped a fingernail on a piece of pipe he’d nailed directly underneath the roof overhang. ‘I plugged her up good and proper, so she’ll stay dry inside, and that’s where we’ll keep the spare keys. Mind you, plug her up again when you’ve put the keys back in. You too, young man.’
‘I promise,’ Frances said. ‘You’d better tell Mum as well, after we’ve had our dinner.’
∞∞∞∞
She peered under her lashes at Phil while her knitting needles clicked away. She couldn’t imagine going to stay with strangers. He must feel lonely.
If he did, though, he hid it well. He’d changed into slippers and looked, for all the world, as if he’d spent many an evening spread out in the armchair, absorbed in reading the paper. The pages rustled as he turned them.
‘Not much worthwhile in there, except for the sports pages,’ Uncle Sal said.
Phil folded The Advertiser and laid it down on his lap. ‘It’s still the best way to learn about a place.’ He flicked his fingers on the paper. ‘Less than half an hour, and you know where to buy your shaving cream or your socks, which pictures are shown and where to go for an outing. Anything one needs to know about a city, confined to a few pages.’
‘You could ask us,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘There’s not much we don’t know between us three, eh, Maggie?’
Maggie cut off the thread she used to sew new buttons on an old white blouse, to freshen it up, and nodded while rethreading the needle.
‘If there’s anything you’d like us to tell you, you’re more than welcome to ask.’ She squinted at her handiwork. ‘Are the buttons in a straight line, Frances?’
‘Hold the blouse up.’ She ran her finger down the seam. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘You’ll be the best-dressed lady in church for Easter.’
She turned to face Phil. ‘Mum’s one of the ladies in charge of the flowers, so she has to leave earlier than we do most Sundays, to make sure everything is as it should be, lest a flower might have wilted overnight.’
Her mother cut off the last thread and put the scissors into her sewing basket. ‘If you and Sal aren’t busy otherwise, having to miss the service again, you mean. Are you a regular churchgoer, Phil?’ She folded the finished blouse. ‘There’s no need to pretend if you aren’t, But if you are, you’re welcome to join me. And now, about the neighbourhood ...’
Frances tried to concentrate on her work. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered with knitting. Her efforts were slipshod at best, with practice not making a whit of difference. But it made her mum happy, to see her perform homely tasks like that. It helped reconcile her with the fact that it was Frances who paid the mortgage and bought their bread.
What her mother, and many of her generation, couldn’t understand was that Frances, along with most of her unmarried friends, enjoyed earning money. Any job was better than running yourself ragged with keeping the home nice and clean, looking after husband and little ones, without getting recognition or independence in return. Even Pauline, with her romantic notions, half-agreed with her.
Frances stifled a yawn. She cast a critical glance over the scarf she was knitting. She’d made good progress tonight. A couple more nights should see it finished, and Uncle Sal could be presented with the result. Those few uneven rows would be invisible once he tucked the scarf under the collar of his jacket.
Her eyelids began to droop. ‘Good-night, everyone. I’m sorry I haven’t been better company tonight.’
‘Nonsense, dear.’ Maggie rose to switch off the radio. ‘It’s almost ten, time we all turned in. Do you have tomorrow off instead, to make up for the days you gave up?’
‘No, those were extra hours I did. I’m on the early shift this week, but I’ll try and sneak down without disturbing you.’
∞∞∞∞
At a quarter to six, she stepped out on to the quiet street. She loved these mornings, when a sparkle seemed to be cast over the city, as yet undisturbed by the stench of coal fires and car exhausts, and the noise of the human race.
She drew in a deep breath. Nothing could spoil this. True, most houses could have done with some paint or new pointing, but the trees hadn’t lost their splendour, the cockatoos greeted each new day with glee, and the people kept their heads high because they’d get through this together. That’s what she hoped her mother had told Phil. That it was the schools and the churches and the neighbours that bound Adelaide together. You stayed true to your community, and the community stayed true to you.
Two shadows moved in an alleyway. ‘Morning, miss,’ one man said, touching his worn cloth cap with a trembling hand. His mate gave her a toothless grin. A bowl sat at their feet, with a halfpenny inside.
They looked older than the hills, with their dull eyes and careworn faces. Frances dug in her coat pocket. She kept a few pennies loose in there for just such a case. She dropped a penny into the bowl. ‘Good luck,’ she said.
‘Thanks, miss,’ the first man said. ‘Bless you.’
Up close, the men seemed shrunken, as if their clothes had grown without them. Frances bit her upper lip. She’d have loved to give more money, but there was the winter coat to think of, and roof tiles to be replaced.
She opened her lunch bag. Two sandwiches and two apples; more than sufficient to keep her going until supper. She took a sandwich and an apple and handed them to the man with the cloth cap. ‘It’s not much,’ she said, feeling apologetic, ‘but I thought you might be hungry.’
‘Thanks again, Miss.’ He tore the sandwich in two, handing the other half to his mate.
∞∞∞∞
Frances reached the telephone exchange without further delays. During the whole shift, the lights kept flashing, making her wonder how people had dealt without a phone.
The Palmers still hadn’t got one in their home though, and they coped fine. With neighbours and friends you visited at home, or chatted at the market or in the shops, wherever you ran into them, and you had to be destitute to be unable to afford the stamp for a letter.
The letter! She still hadn’t read it. Well, whatever it was would keep until she was home.
She rolled her shoulders to loosen them up, accepting yet another request from an operator up north. The voice could have come from next door, the connection was so clear. She flicked the off switch once the other party had answered. She had no reason to stay on the line as a silent third any longer than necessary. If only she’d done that the day before. Try as she might, Frances couldn’t shake off the sickening feeling that washed over her whenever she thought of that phone conversation. Last night she'd been tired enough to nod off straight away, but her dreams had been filled with faceless men chasing her, with phone cords dangling from their hands. It had been a relief to wake up.
After Easter, the man had said. Four more days to go until Good Friday. A chill crept over her. She glanced at the clock; another hour until she could escape into the sunshine.
4
Her shift over, Frances resolutely pushed every thought about the phone call aside, as she made her way to the O’Leary’s shop. A browse through the racks full of frocks and skirts might chase away the lingering fear, and Martha and Tilda always made her feel better. The sisters loved a good chin-wag, and because she’d known them all her life, there was no awkwardness involved if she left without
spending anything.
A bell above the door tinkled as she entered the shop. It smelt of the incense the sisters burned to cover the cloying odour of moth powder some of the clothes were sprinkled with.
Martha hurried towards the counter, spectacles askew on her thin nose. Sticking plaster held the frame together, at the expense of the correct shape.
‘I’m so glad you came in today.’ She beamed at Frances, pushing the spectacles further up the bridge of her nose. ‘We need to go through to the back. Tilda, love! You’ll have to mind the shop.’
Her sister appeared from behind a crowded rack.
‘This way,’ Martha said, almost touching Frances’ head with hers as she led her through a maze of shelves and boxes, into a makeshift changing room. ‘You won’t believe your eyes, my dear. I won’t be a tick.’
Frances sat down on the straight-backed chair, handbag on her lap. Her curiosity increased. The last time the old dear acted this mysteriously, before Christmas, she offered her a padded bed jacket in a crimson that flattered Maggie’s olive skin and brown hair shot with grey. At tenpence, she’d snatched it up.
Martha drew the curtain of the changing room. Her whole face glowed with happiness as she presented the coat hanging over her arm.
Frances stretched out her hand before she could stop herself.
‘We got it in this morning,’ Martha said, ‘and I said to Tilda, why, this was made for darling Maggie.’ She rubbed a sleeve between two fingers. ‘Real wool. Feel the quality. And the collar’s real fur, and the right size too, if I remember correctly. Do tell your mother she must come in and see us one day. It’s been too long.’
A Matter of Love and Death Page 3
