The Phar Lap Mystery

by Sophie Masson

  My Australian Story

  THE

  PHAR LAP

  MYSTERY

  Sophie Masson

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  April 3, 1931

  April 5

  April 7

  April 10

  April 15

  April 17

  April 18

  April 20

  April 22

  April 25

  April 27

  May 1

  May 2

  May 3

  Later

  Later—after dinner

  May 8

  May 15

  May 16

  May 20

  May 24

  May 26

  May 30

  June 3

  June 4

  June 5

  June 6

  June 7

  June 8

  June 9

  June 10

  June 11

  June 12

  June 13

  Later, after dinner

  July 1

  July 16

  July 20

  August 5

  August 7

  August 15

  August 29

  August 31

  September 1

  September 3

  September 6

  September 8

  September 9

  September 11

  Later

  September 12

  September 19

  September 23

  September 25

  October 1

  October 3

  October 10

  October 16

  October 24

  October 26

  October 27

  October 29

  October 31

  November 3

  November 5

  November 6

  November 12

  November 14

  November 20

  November 27

  December 15

  December 20

  December 25

  January 4, 1932

  January 6

  January 22

  January 30

  February 2

  February 10

  February 21

  February 24

  February 28

  March 7

  March 9

  March 14

  March 15

  March 17

  March 18

  March 19

  March 20

  March 21

  March 22

  March 24

  April 3

  April 6

  April 15

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The Diary of Sally Fielding

  Sydney, 1931–1932

  April 3, 1931

  It’s funny how some days that start off well can end up really badly. Today, my eleventh birthday, was just like that. It was bright and sunny when I woke up, and Dad sang happy birthday to me at breakfast and gave me a new set of pencils and this diary. He knows how much I love writing, and that I want to be a writer when I grow up. So he picked out a really nice one for me, it’s even got a tiny key so you can lock it up and no-one can poke their nose into what you’ve written! He said, ‘This is for you to practise, sweetheart, because all famous writers have to start somewhere!’

  And Miss O’Brien made me a cake—a sponge, with real chocolate icing. I haven’t seen one of those in ages, we can’t afford to buy cake or expensive ingredients like chocolate. Anyway, Dad can’t bake to save his life and as to me, I’ve never really tried.

  Miss O’Brien invited Dad and me up to the big house this afternoon to celebrate and blow out the candles. It was lovely at first, we had tea and cake (I had three slices!) and Miss O’Brien had her gramophone out. She played a couple of new records she’d bought, one by Bing Crosby and one by Cab Calloway (they were really good) and she and Dad had a little dance! (Dad’s a good dancer and so is she.) But then Miss O’Brien asked if I would like to go and have a look at her dollhouse in the sitting-room next door. I was a bit surprised because I’ve seen the dollhouse before—it used to belong to Miss O’Brien when she was a child—and besides, she knows I’m a bit old for that sort of thing now. But before I could say anything, Dad said, heartily, ‘That’s a good idea, Sal, why don’t you go and have a look?’

  And then I understood that what they really wanted was to have a talk in private. It annoyed me. I’m not a baby and I don’t like to be treated like one, especially not on my birthday! But there’s no point arguing with grown-ups when they’re determined to do something, so I stumped off crossly, slamming the door. But I didn’t go to the other room. I put my ear to the door and listened, or at least tried to, because they were speaking in low voices and it was hard to make out what they were saying.

  I like Miss O’Brien. She’s much richer than us, but she’s never snobby. She’s cheerful and likes to laugh and have fun, and even though she’s old, at least thirty-two I think, she’s quite pretty. She reminds me a bit of the film star Norma Shearer, with nicely waved brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. She dresses just as stylishly too, which is not surprising as she owns a smart dressmaking shop in the city called Paris Modes, which means Paris Fashions in French—Miss O’Brien speaks and writes French, because she spent two years in Paris learning fashion design when she was younger. She started the shop six years ago, when her parents died in a railway accident and left her their beautiful mansion in Glebe and all their money. Times are hard, so the shop doesn’t do nearly as well as it used to, and she only has two people working for her now, not five or six like she used to have. She has to do a lot of the work herself, and has cut her prices. But somehow she’s managed to carry on. Dad says Miss O’Brien is a hard worker but clever at business, too, like her dad, who started out poor but ended up quite rich.

  Like I said, I like Miss O’Brien. But I’ve begun to think that she’s kind to us because she likes Dad in that way. She doesn’t go obviously lovey-dovey on him, but still, you can tell. And after all, she’s sort of old and not married yet and she might be lonely.

  It’s a long time since Mum died, and I hardly remember her except from photos, but I don’t like the idea of anyone taking her place. It’s all right Miss O’Brien talking to Dad and even dancing with him sometimes, but that’s all. Dad’s not lonely. He’s got me! We don’t need anyone else. We get on well. At least we used to until Mr Fleming’s private detective agency closed nearly a year ago and Dad lost his job. He’s had work since then, but only bits and bobs here and there, and he’s getting worried because his savings are dwindling. Soon even the rent on Miss O’Brien’s garden flat, which is pretty cheap (and which we were very lucky to find), might be too much for us to pay. That would be a real disaster.

  Anyway, there I was listening at the door, trying to make out what they were saying—they were still mumbling—when suddenly I heard this terrific shout from Dad. ‘No, no, no, I won’t accept charity, Lily! Not from you, not from anyone!’ And in the next instant, before I got a chance to move away, he wrenched open the door and walked out. He saw me standing there and snapped, ‘What are you staring at?’

  Before Dad lost his job, he was a happy-go-lucky sort of person who didn’t shout at people or lose his temper easily. But that was before. Now he gets touchy pretty easily. Right then he looked angry and upset, and I didn’t dare to ask what had happened. He was in a bad mood the rest of the day, which wasn’t fair at all, especially as it was still my birthday! After tea he went out without telling me where he was going, just saying he wouldn’t be back for a while and I should
go to bed. But how can I just go to sleep when I’m feeling so miserable and worried? And I can’t do anything about it.

  If I was a grown-up I could have made Dad tell me what had happened, or I could go up to see Miss O’Brien now and ask for an explanation, but I’m a child, and nobody takes children seriously. My teacher, Mrs Bennett, told me the other day that I was a little know-all, far too old for my age, and that I would come a cropper if I wasn’t careful. That’s generally what grown-ups think of children who try to act sensibly and not like unimportant mini-people you can just ignore. Miss O’Brien never says things like that, but I don’t suppose she’d like it much if I came marching up to her and asked what she’d done to upset Dad so much. So instead I decided to pick up the diary and write everything down that happened and how I feel, and that makes me feel better.

  April 5

  Today Dad told me what Miss O’Brien had said. And it wasn’t what I expected at all. She just said we did not need to pay her rent till, as she put it, we were on our feet again. I thought that was really nice of her, but Dad said it was quite impossible, he couldn’t accept such a thing, it would put him under an obligation and he really didn’t want that. Not only because she was well-off and we were poor, and his pride would be hurt. Not only because she was our landlady and renting was a business arrangement, not a charity. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate her kindness, or the fact she had been a real friend to us in all sorts of ways. (That just made it worse. You didn’t sponge off your friends, he said. You didn’t take advantage. Or you were lower than a red-bellied black snake.) No. He’d take no charity from anyone. If we couldn’t pay the rent, then we’d have to pack up and go. Maybe he’d go on the bluey, strap on a swag and try to find work up-country somewhere. Any kind of work. But when I said I could come with him and help, he sadly shook his head and said that was quite impossible. I could go for a while to my mother’s parents, in Newcastle.

  I was horrified. My grandparents are not the kind, jolly sort you read about in books. Nan’s very strict and Pop doesn’t like children. You’re not allowed to do anything at their house. There are all kinds of rules and you get growled at if you make even a tiny bit of noise.

  They don’t even like it if you read too much. They say I’m a bookworm and that I’ll ruin my eyes, and that instead I should be doing something useful, like sewing or something. Nan loves sewing. I hate it! I hate it! All my stitches are crooked and I keep pricking my fingers with the needle. I think I would die of boredom and loneliness if I had to stay more than a day with them. And they don’t approve of Dad, who took their only child, my mum, away from them. It was bad enough when he was working for Mr Fleming (they think being a private detective is not very respectable) but now he’s lost his job, they’re sure to think he’s a real no-hoper. And they won’t mind saying so even in front of me. And I can’t go to Dad’s parents’ place because they are no longer with us. Anyway, Dad comes from New Zealand and he only has one sister, Auntie May, who lives in Wellington and whom I’ve never met. Dad and she aren’t really close, because she’s a lot older than him, about fifteen years older I think. She writes to us a couple of times a year and sends us a card at Christmas, but Dad says she’s a homebody who most certainly won’t leave New Zealand to visit us. And we’ve never had the money or the time to go over. Anyway, she’s much too far away for Dad to send me there now.

  But if Dad sends me to Nan and Pop’s, I’ll run away. Oh, how I wish I could find him a good job! I’ve got to try and think of something. Anything!

  April 7

  Nothing much to report, except that I met Miss O’Brien in the garden this morning as I was leaving for school. She waved at me, but didn’t look like she wanted to speak. I’m terribly afraid Dad has mortally offended her. Oh! If only he wasn’t so stiff-necked and proud!

  I had a look at the corner-shop noticeboard on my way home—they have advertisements there, things for sale and places to rent, and occasionally jobs. There was one—a job as an odd-jobs man. But Mrs Thomas at the shop said, ‘Sorry, love, it’s already been taken.’ She said that whenever anything is advertised, even the smallest, meanest job, at least fifty people turn up for an interview. She said she’d keep an eye out for Dad. But it didn’t exactly sound promising.

  April 10

  Today after school I went with my best friend, Lizzie Walters, back to her place. They have a narrow, tall terrace house a fair way up the street from where we live, back towards Broadway—you don’t get half as nice houses up there as you do closer to the water. But then the Walters are not well-off, not like Miss O’Brien. Lizzie’s mum and dad have a saddler’s shop at the back of their house. Lizzie said that things had been improving a bit lately, and her dad had even mentioned something about maybe hiring another person to help out (he has an apprentice as well). When we got there Mrs Walters was out and Mr Walters was listening to the Randwick horseraces. We had to wait till the race was over—he was pleased because the horse he backed won—before we could ask about a job for my Dad.

  But Mr Walters shook his head sadly and said, ‘I’m sorry, lass—things are improving a little, but we can’t afford to take on anyone for a few months yet.’ He saw the look on my face and added kindly, ‘But when we do, I’ll keep your dad in mind for sure.’

  So that was that. Lizzie apologised for raising my hopes in vain, but it’s not her fault, it’s me trying so hard to get something that I’ll jump on the least little bit of information. And after all, I can hardly see Dad working in the saddler’s. It’s not really his sort of thing at all.

  April 15

  It’s nearly ten at night and I’ve got to go to sleep because I have to be up early tomorrow, but first I’ve got to write down what happened today. The most amazing thing! Dad got a job! And not just any sort of job. It’s the kind of thing that you imagine happens only to other people. Very mysterious and intriguing. And, I might add, nothing to do with my efforts!

  This is what happened: just before I went off to school this morning, Dad got a phone call. Or rather Miss O’Brien did (we don’t have a phone) and she came down to the flat to tell Dad he was wanted on the telephone by a man called Mr Kane. Dad had no idea who this person might be, he didn’t know anyone called Kane, but when he came back he told me Mr Kane was a solicitor and that he had been instructed by a client to bring Dad in for an important job. Mr Kane did not say what the job was or who the client was, but apparently it was someone who knew of Dad’s work for Mr Fleming and was impressed by his results.

  ‘It sounds like a dream come true,’ said Dad, in a dazed sort of way. ‘But I suppose it’ll be a blanky nightmare.’ Poor Dad, he used to be so cheerful, but months of unemployment have knocked it out of him. But off he went anyway to Mr Kane’s office in the city. I had to go to school, though I wished I could have gone with him. All day I thought about it, and I got into trouble with Mrs Bennett for daydreaming when I should have been doing my arithmetic. She even kept me in after school and made me write fifty lines on the blackboard about not being lazy. As if I was being lazy! Mrs Bennett is always picking on me, I don’t know why.

  Finally I was able to leave horrible old school and run home as fast as my legs could carry me. I burst into the kitchen to find Dad sitting at the table with a cup of tea and a fat envelope in front of him, with a funny look on his face. When I came in he looked up, smiled and said, ‘You didn’t want to go to Newcastle, did you? But how do you feel about a little trip to Melbourne?’

  I stared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t say what, Sal, it’s rude. Say pardon.’

  ‘Pardon,’ I said impatiently. Dad looked different, somehow. Younger. Happier. ‘Dad, please don’t pack me off like that while you—’

  ‘Who said anything about packing you off? If I go, we both go. I made that clear. And they agreed.’

  ‘Dad—is it—the—the job?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Oh, Dad, what is it? What did they say?’

  �
�It’s a real job. A nice tidy sum paid on results, and all expenses paid,’ he said, dreamily. ‘A case that’s baffled even the police. That’s what they say.’ He tapped the envelope. ‘Mr Kane gave me a heap of clippings. I read about it at the time, of course, not in any great detail though.’

  ‘But Dad, what’s the job?’ I was almost hopping up and down with frustration. In his happy-go-lucky days Dad loved to tease, and he hadn’t teased for ages, so I should have felt good about it, but it drove me crazy just then!

  ‘Oh, didn’t I say? It’s the Phar Lap mystery,’ he said.

  I thought I hadn’t heard right. ‘The what? Oops, I mean the pardon—I mean—’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Dad, laughing. ‘And yes, you did hear right, poppet. I’ve been asked to look into the attempted shooting last year of that blessed gee-gee.’

  ‘Dad!’ I stared at him. ‘Do you really mean Phar Lap?’

  ‘Yes I do,’ he said, smiling. ‘What do you think of that, eh!’

  ‘Oh, Dad!’ I was so excited! Phar Lap, of course, is the most famous horse in Australia. Maybe in the world! He’s amazing, a wonder horse, they call him. Wins just about everything. Last year I went to a race at Randwick with the Walters, and I actually saw him! It was his last race in Sydney, before he was moved to Melbourne, and he came first, of course. Lizzie and me, we managed to get near the parade ground afterwards, and we’d seen him so close, almost close enough to touch. He is so beautiful, a big, dark-eyed, glossy chestnut. Because of that, people nickname him Big Red and the Red Terror. He looked like he’d really enjoyed himself, and liked having the crowds cheer him. Everyone loves him, and you can see why. Everyone, that is, except the nasty people who’d taken a pot-shot at him last year, just before the Melbourne Cup.

  ‘The police never found out who did it,’ Dad said, ‘and the case was dropped. They said Phar Lap was no longer in danger anyway. But my client thinks the case was dropped too quickly and that Phar Lap could still be in danger. They want me to delve more deeply into it and see what I can come up with.’