It wasn’t what I had imagined myself doing when I started my career in journalism, but bills had to be paid, and the column was steady, full-time work. Yet, as the war dragged on, increasingly I ached to write something more interesting or topical, something that would really touch people’s lives. The world was tearing itself apart and I was writing about fashion and make-up.
After spending the day in court I wished I’d been able to look at the Mitrovic case more closely, because there were some things about it that just didn’t add up, in my opinion. I’d written to Rob about the case when it happened and again when Lena was charged. He thought that the circumstantial evidence was strong, and he wrote that unless the defence could come up with a good alternative theory as to who put the poison in the tea, then it looked like Lena would be convicted, because she was the only one with the means, motive and opportunity. What worried me was that it seemed to be a stupid, reckless crime, much like the Luca murder that had enthralled Perth earlier in the year, but Lena Mitrovic did not appear to be stupid or reckless. Looking at her today, I had found it hard to believe that she had done it, although I supposed that a woman could do just about anything if she had been driven nearly mad with despair.
Mr Williams sighed loudly and I was jolted back to the present.
‘Well, I’d better go and speak to the poor girl,’ he said. ‘It’s one of the worst duties of defence counsel, the talk with your client after a conviction. Then it’s back to Fremantle Prison for her.’
You shall be returned to your place of former custody . . .
Built by convicts in the middle of the nineteenth century, Fremantle Prison was, according to Rob, a bleak and terrible place. Life imprisonment meant at least twenty years. Lena was only twenty-four, the same age as me.
I walked out of the courtroom wondering about Lena Mitrovic, shackled in a holding cell, soon to be heading off in the windowless wagon for the twelve-mile journey back to prison. She denied the crime, and that denial had never wavered throughout the trial. Still, as Rob said, Fremantle Prison was full of men and women who swore black and blue that they were innocent. I shuddered. Some probably were innocent.
efore I left the building I went to the ladies’ room to wash my hands, make sure that my hair was smoothly in position and check that my hat was at a saucy angle. Last week I had written an article about the new ‘unbroken roll’ hairstyle and of course I had tried it on myself at home first. I had been so impressed that I’d made it my signature style. It was a bother to do, but looked very chic when it worked.
Miss Eleanor Fitzgerald, the Marvel’s willowy temporary crime reporter, looked elegant in a tailored suit of navy blue and white striped tweed, topped with a chic white Breton straw hat. Her glossy brunette locks were styled in the unbroken roll, instructions for which were contained in last week’s ‘Nell’s Corner’.
Hmmm. Well, something like that! Could you be willowy without being tall? I might be only average height, but at least I was slim.
Anyway, Rob thought I was beautiful and that was all that mattered. He had told me so, on our last evening together before he shipped out. We were lingering over dinner at the Kookaburra Grill Room in Claremont and, as usual, I’d been holding forth as Rob listened quietly. He had decided to grow a thin moustache and I thought that he looked very dashing – rather like Ronald Colman in wire-rimmed spectacles. I told him that he needed to take up smoking a pipe, to complete the picture. He said he’d think about it.
I suppose I was talking so much to take my mind off the fact that Rob was leaving. I was also trying to decide whether I should offer to spend the night with him, even though he hadn’t actually proposed yet. After all, it might be our last night together ever. The casualty lists from New Guinea were already horrific. I knew that Rob loved me, because he had told me so, and I knew he desired me. But he was a cautious man, and in the year we had been seeing each other, he had always stopped things before they really got out of control.
I made my offer, but Rob said that while he appreciated it – he always spoke like a lawyer – he thought it would be better to wait until we could ‘do it properly’. I didn’t regret being forward – not really – but every so often I wondered if it had been the right thing to do, because I had a feeling Rob was shocked that I’d made such a suggestion, and I wasn’t sure if what he had said meant we were engaged.
I saw him as my fiancé, though, and so I had never seriously considered offers of romance from any of the servicemen who had flooded into the city with the war. Perth was a fun place in wartime for the girls left behind; dance halls and cabarets were open every night of the week and there were always parties to go to. I went out dancing regularly with my girlfriends and occasionally acted as a ‘hostess’ at formal occasions, because it was considered patriotic to offer hospitality to the servicemen who were in town. Some girls offered a lot more; marriage rates had soared in the past few years, as had the numbers of unmarried mothers. Most girls were like me, though; they simply wanted to have a good time while the local boys were away, without getting involved in a love affair with a man who’d be back on the front line in a few days, or who’d leave Perth forever once the war was over.
I refreshed my lipstick – Scarlet Kiss – pulled on my white kid gloves, checked that my stocking seams were straight, picked up my handbag and walked out through the impressive portico at the front of the courthouse and into the gardens.
The American servicemen thought it was ‘cute’ that Perth women still wore hats and gloves whenever they went out; apparently American women were more casual. Until they mentioned it I hadn’t thought to question the practice. It was just something we did, like always wearing stockings. It was considered vulgar not to wear stockings, but they were in short supply these days. The government had forbidden employers to insist that the women wear them, but it just felt wrong to have bare legs. The problem was solved if a girl was friendly with the Americans and their seemingly endless supplies of nylons. If not, then she might have to resort to Cyclax stockingless cream, which tanned the legs to give the appearance of wearing sheer stockings. That was fine, until it rained.
I liked the Americans I’d met. When they first arrived, in February last year, it seemed as if the whole of Perth had gone crazy for them. There were lots of other ‘foreign’ servicemen in the city – Dutch, British, New Zealanders – and of course we had lots of Aussies here too. But the Americans were polite and charming and Perth girls loved them. That was probably why there had been some pitched street battles between American and Aussie servicemen.
My heels made a tapping noise on the path as I walked briskly through the pretty gardens between the Supreme Court and St Georges Terrace, Perth’s main street. I liked Stirling Gardens, and I had often joined Rob there for lunch, because his chambers were nearby. It was a cool afternoon and the air was heavy with the moist scent of winter. Dark clouds threatened, but had not yet delivered rain. I shivered a little and regretted not bringing my raincoat with me when I dashed out of the office that morning. I’d left my umbrella behind, too.
I thought again about Lena Mitrovic and wondered what Mr Williams was saying to her. If Rob wasn’t away at the war, he would have assisted Mr Williams to prepare for trial, but he wouldn’t have told me much about Lena or the trial preparations because he was always very discreet about his work. Mr Goodley had described Rob as a ‘nice boy’. That made me smile to myself. Most people probably would describe Rob as ‘nice’, but I knew that he was so much more.
I had met him at a garden party, two years before, when I was still reeling from the sudden death of my beloved Uncle Pat. My uncle had taken me into his family after my parents died, and had been the only father I had really known. Standing alone in the crowd, feeling lost and desolate, I was introduced to a tall man with sandy hair, grey eyes and high cheekbones. At first glance, Rob had seemed too serious, but when he smiled his face was transformed and I had known right away that this was a man I could like. Over the co
urse of the afternoon I learned that he was twenty-seven years old and the only child of a widowed mother. Also that he was a lawyer, unattached, lived in his own apartment in the city, could quote Dickens, played golf, loved classical music, hated spinach, adored modern art, found the law fascinating, danced moderately well, and would very much like to see me again.
So we had met again, two days later, for dinner and dancing at the Adelphi Hotel, and we fell into an uncomplicated relationship that suited us both very well. Rob was the perfect antidote to my misery after my uncle’s death and if I had been asked to list the features I wanted in a future husband, Rob would have had them all. He was loving and kind, and we shared a sense of the ridiculous so that we laughed a lot together.
Aunty May liked him, but she couldn’t get past the fact that he wasn’t Catholic. Because Rob was a Protestant, Father Tierney could refuse to marry us unless we agreed that any children would be brought up as Catholics. If Rob refused to accept this condition, and Father Tierney stood firm, then we’d have to marry in a Protestant church and the marriage wouldn’t be lawful in the eyes of the Catholic Church. That possibility terrified my aunt.
So when she had told me, just before Rob shipped out, that she was worried there was no passion in our relationship, I assumed it was yet another tactic to try to drive me away from Rob.
‘Aunty, we do kiss, you know,’ I had told her, blushing.
‘Of course you do, dear. But does he make your heart race? Is the sun brighter when he’s in the room? Do you feel a sweet, sharp pain inside when you think of him?’
I told her I did, but it was a lie. I loved Rob, but it wasn’t like they portrayed it in the movies. Rob and I were best friends and he treated me with love and respect. Respect. My footsteps slowed and I sighed. The strange pain in my chest was back. I was worried that I might have destroyed any chance of him asking me to marry him by offering to sleep with him that night before he shipped out. Nice Girls Didn’t. I was well aware of that. I’d had it drummed into me that if you slept with a man before you were married then he’d lose all respect for you, dump you and you’d be spoiled goods for any other man. What if Rob thought I was easy now? Would that change his mind about wanting to marry me?
‘It’s Nell, isn’t it?’
I stopped abruptly. The American reporter called Johnno was sitting on a bench under the palms.
‘No, it’s Miss Fitzgerald,’ I replied.
I looked at him closely and saw a man who was above average height, with broad shoulders and a strong chest. What my cousin Biddie would call ‘a fine figure of a man’. His tan officer’s cap was beside him on the bench, so I could see his face clearly. He looked to be about thirty, with tousled brown hair and light brown eyes, as clear and pale as amber. For some reason he looked roguish, possibly due to the fan of laugh lines that spread out from the corners of those eyes. He was obviously amused by my response, as his mouth was quirked up in a crooked smile. That smile must get in the girls, I thought. Like most Americans, he had good teeth. And he had nice hands, at present engaged in rolling a cigarette.
‘I’m John Horvath.’ He bowed his head slightly. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Fitzgerald.’
My Uncle Pat would have called him a ‘charmin’ divil’. I instinctively mistrusted him. But I was curious.
‘Do you know Miss Mitrovic?’ I asked.
‘Why do you ask?’ He pinched one end of the cigarette and put the other in his mouth.
‘She seemed to be talking to you – well, mouthing something to you. In the court, just after she was sentenced.’
Striking a match he lit his cigarette and inhaled. ‘Probably a communist slogan,’ he said, looking thoughtful as he exhaled. Then he smiled. ‘Why don’t we talk about it over a drink?’
Cheeky beggar, I thought. And he hadn’t risen, but was just sitting on the bench looking up at me, which was very rude.
I assumed my ‘I’m not interested’ look ‘Sorry, but I have to get back to the Marvel to file my story.’ Actually, I had until ten o’clock on Saturday morning to get it in – two days away – but this American needn’t know that.
‘And I’m sorry for not getting up,’ he said, with another of those crooked smiles. ‘I’ve got a bung leg, as you Aussies say. When I was in New Caledonia a bomb flattened the jeep I was travelling in. And one of my ankles.’
It was then I realised.
‘John Horvath! The war correspondent?’
That was stupid; I’d seen the badges sewn to the shoulders of his jacket. He raised an eyebrow and looked towards the badge on his left shoulder. I felt the heat in my cheeks.
‘I really enjoy reading your pieces,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your ankle. Will it improve?’
He nodded. ‘Eventually. Are you sure about that drink? Dinner? I don’t know anyone in this town and it’d be a real kindness.’
I was tempted. John Horvath was one of the best war correspondents around, a bit of a legend. He worked for the United Press, and his work had appeared in various publications. He’d won a Pulitzer Prize for a piece he did on the Battle of Bataan last year.
He changed tack. ‘What about a cup of tea, then? That won’t take long and your feller can’t get upset about a cup of tea.’
I hesitated. What did he know about Rob?
‘Look,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I am assuming that a girl as lovely as you would have a guy waiting in the wings, but you weren’t wearing gloves in the courtroom, so I know there’s no ring on your finger. I can’t see the problem with a cup of tea and a chat. If the guy had any sense he’d have formalised things before now, so he deserves the risk of other guys asking you out.’
He’s used that line before, I thought. It was a good one.
Still, he was right: having a cup of tea with him couldn’t hurt and I’d love to find out about his time in the Pacific. I wondered if I should tell him that I’d cut out and kept the piece he wrote about taking care of the wounded on the battle front, because I’d found it so moving. No. He’d just think that I was an unsophisticated Perth girl with a touch of hero-worship and he’d think that he had a chance with me. I was, but he didn’t.
‘What’s the verdict?’ he said, looking rather less cocky.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Girls don’t usually spend so long thinking about whether or not to join me for a cup of tea.’
‘Oh, sorry. I’d love to.’ I looked him straight in the eye. ‘And for the record, my fellow has been fighting in New Guinea and was mentioned in dispatches.’
He sighed very audibly and theatrically. ‘So he’s a war hero? Might have guessed.’
I nodded. ‘Military intelligence.’
He raised an eyebrow and made a mock whistle, as if impressed.
‘Good-looking, too, probably,’ he said, his sad tone belied by the look in his eyes.
Rob’s face was too sharply angled to be described as good-looking, although the moustache had added a raffish charm. But his subtle intelligence and sense of humour was clear in those soft grey eyes and he had a beautifully moulded mouth.
There was a laugh, and my attention was dragged back to John Horvath.
‘You shouldn’t have to think about it, you know. Anyway, I bet I’m better company.’ He raised his eyebrows like Groucho Marx and grinned.
‘I bet you’re not,’ I said, smiling in response. ‘Still, I can’t see that a cup of tea would cause him unnecessary concern. Lead on, Macduff.’
His grin widened. He seemed very pleased indeed, but I didn’t believe that for a minute. I suspected that if I’d refused again he’d have simply turned those cat’s eyes on to another girl, and then another, until one accepted his offer.
‘This is the problem,’ he said. ‘I’m from Chicago via Melbourne and I have no idea where to take you.’
‘What about the Colour Patch in Howard Street?’
‘Is it far?’ A slim walking stick was leaning against the bench; it was carved out of a dark wood
with a handle in the shape of a bird’s head. He used it to get to his feet, grimacing slightly as he did so. ‘I’m a slow walker at present.’
He wasn’t exaggerating; a slow limping gait was the best he could manage as we made our way across Barrack Street, past the posh Weld Club and along the Esplanade. This was the name of both the road and the parkland by the river. The greensward was no longer pretty, though. Before the war it had been all smooth grass running down to the Riverside Drive, and people had played bowls on it. When Japan entered the war the government had ploughed up the grass to prevent enemy planes from landing there, and put in split trenches. They hadn’t touched the marvellously quirky Pagoda Tea Rooms, though. The bizarre Oriental fantasy was still opposite the Lawson Flats; Rob lived on the sixth floor of this very swanky Art Deco apartment block.
As we walked past the honey-coloured stone building on the corner of Sherwood Court, I glanced at the row of bells by the door to the lobby. The handwritten label R Sinclair Esq. had been crossed out and replaced with Lieut. R Sinclair. There were quite a few military names on the list of tenants now, I noticed. On the ground floor of the flats was the Australian Comforts Fund wool depot. I’d collected wool there, and Aunty May and I used it to knit socks for the men fighting overseas.
Taking a Chance Page 2
