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“Are they real?” asked Daisy.

“No, of course not,” Madelaine replied, trying to sound as though fake rubies were better than real ones.

“Oh. Oh well. Thanks. I guess,” replied Daisy in a meek voice.

“Daisy,” hissed Patricia. “Where are your manners?”

“Thank you, Madame du Pont,” sang Daisy in a mocking tone.

Although their hours were set as nine to five, Patricia would start at eight and Daisy would sail downstairs at about five to ten, just before Madelaine du Pont was expected to waltz through the door. Daisy would put her needle or pins down as soon as Madelaine left at four, leaving Patricia to finish off her own work and then Daisy's as well. The older sister would often work until eight or nine at night.

“You have to be more patient with Madame du Pont, Daisy,” she would chide.

“You mean put up with her silliness the way you do. I didn't know that was part of the job. If I did, I would have stayed in the home.”

“I know she is … different. And, as you say, she is a bit silly, but she is letting us work here and we can be together at least.”

"Letting
us work here? You're an idiot. You're making her rich. It's your designs she's selling off to all those rich people who come in here. And each time she says
'One day we will live like queens'
I want to stick pins in her eyes. She already lives like a queen, while we have to share this stupid, stuffy cramped room, and work in a stupid shop making your stupid designs while I get paid a slave wage.”

At first Daisy and Patricia had travelled together on Sunday to see their two brothers. But after a few months, Daisy found reasons not to make the trip, saying she would stay at home while Patricia went on her own. Patricia would return to find Daisy in their room and, although she suspected she had been out, Daisy did not confide in her. Several months later, her suspicions were confirmed when she returned from her visit to the home to find the house empty.

Then Daisy began to disappear after work, coming back in the early morning hours. She would sleep in and come down to work at almost midday, well after Madame du Pont had arrived. Patricia would make excuses that Daisy was sick, working extra hours herself to make sure they did not fall behind. Daisy had new fashionable shoes, silk stockings, a watch, a charm bracelet and a pair of pearl earrings — she always seemed to have extra money.

“Where did you get those shoes?” Patricia demanded as she looked at the satin pumps Daisy was putting in the wardrobe.

'From a friend,” Daisy said smugly.

“Who?”

“None of your business,” Daisy replied sharply, looking Patricia in the eye. “It's alright for you. You were never put in a home like I was. You don't know what I went through there. Bob and Danny have each other, I had no one. No one. And I won't let people walk all over
me.
You might be a Miss Yes-Madame, No-Madame but I'm not.”

Patricia sighed, “I don't know what it was like for you. But I am trying to help you now.”

“I don't need your help,” Daisy hissed. “I can take care of myself like I've had to ever since you let me be taken away to live in an orphanage.”

Patricia had always felt sorry for her sister's circumstances and she still felt pity for her now. As Daisy began to stay out at night and miss days of work, Patricia felt unable to confront her. The way her sister was treating her felt exactly the same as the way that her brother William had. He was often so angry with her, no matter how she tried. And the more she tried to understand him and please him, the more he seemed to pull away. Patricia felt she had failed both William and Daisy because she had never found a way to make them trust her and love her. Her attempts to rescue Daisy had only driven her further away.

Then, one frosty winter Sunday after Patricia had returned from her visit with Bob and Danny, she came home once again to an empty house. As she entered the store, she noticed that two of the designs she had finished the day before had been removed from the mannequins and that the lid on the box in which Madame du Pont kept her costume jewellery was unfastened. A feeling of emptiness ran through her as she trudged upstairs. The door to the small wardrobe she shared with her sister was wide open and the best clothes, both Daisy's and her own, were missing. Her mother's jade brooch was gone too. Sitting mockingly on the dressing-table were the red glass earrings.

19

1949

B
EFORE MARCEL HAD TOLD HER that she could play at being his mistress, Daisy had kissed a man only once. When Mr Symonds came to tell her she was to leave to be with her sister, he had accepted her hug, then pulled her back, leant down and planted a soft, dewy kiss, like petals, on her lips. He had given her a bunch of purplish-red roses — de la Grifferaie, his favourite. One of them was pressed in her copy of
Little Women.

Now, as the months of their affair stretched on, Marcel began to suggest that he should look after her all the time. On her eighteenth birthday, he offered to rent a flat for her.

“But you already have a wife and a house,” she said, trying not to sound too enthusiastic.

“Yes,
ma belle,"
he replied with a smile. “You are right that I do not need another wife. But,” he continued as she straddled his legs, “I need somewhere special to keep a
bijoux
as beautiful as you.”

Daisy couldn't understand why Patricia toiled so hard. Her sister seemed to accept the way that Madelaine took her designs and made large amounts of money selling them. It used to grate on her that she and Patricia would be the ones who made the clothes and were paid such small wages while Madelaine was getting rich.

When Madelaine would say cheerily, “When we are rich, we will live like queens”, Daisy would feel herself grow cold with rage and felt entitled to take little extras from the business. She began with snippets of cloth that she admired. Then she would take swathes of fabric for her own dresses and scarves. She learnt how to unlock the large jewellery box that held the little pieces that Madelaine collected to sell to her clients. At first Daisy just borrowed the gold pieces that caught her eye, but she decided that a red satin choker with a red velvet rose should adorn no one's neck but her own. After stealing the first piece, the second one was much easier. It didn't seem fair that some women had lots of pretty things and she had none.

It was William she missed every day. When they had been a family, her mother always confided in Patricia in a way that made Daisy feel excluded. But the adoration and loyalty she had received from William encouraged her to feel as though she was entitled to something better. Daisy determined that she was going to be more like Madelaine du Pont — rich and independent — than Patricia, an exploited doormat. It was this restlessness and ambition that made her plan to find a way of living that did not involve making the dresses her sister designed and living in the cramped quarters above the shop.

At first she was curious to see just where Madame du Pont lived, to see the difference between the place where Madelaine slept and the place where she kept Daisy and her sister. She waited one Sunday and made an excuse as to why she could not go and visit Bob and Danny. She went to the address that she had seen on personal correspondence in the shop, catching the bus to Bellevue Hill to see the place where Madelaine du Pont resided.

It was a large white house, two storeys, with a garden with hydrangea bushes and blossoming blush-pink roses. As she studied the windows and their stained-glass patterns, she saw Madelaine, dressed in a smart coat and hat, stride out of the door and drive off in her car. Daisy turned her head and hid her face behind the brim of her hat. As Madelaine's car disappeared down the street, Daisy noticed a curtain being pulled back and a tall man with a dark moustache gazing out of the window. This gave her an idea, and after tidying her hair and pinching her cheeks, she walked down the path to the house and knocked on the front door.

Ever since she was a young girl, Daisy seemed to know how to make a man happy. She could always find the right thing to say to William to break his sullen moods and cheer him up. She understood him, knew he liked to feel she was fragile so that he could protect her. And she loved him because he adored her more than anyone else.

The ability to navigate William, to respond to his needs, had given her skills that helped her survive her time in the home. When Daisy first arrived, the other girls had taunted her, tried to cut her thick black curly hair, and ripped and stolen her clothes. “Daisy Dustbin, ugly little munchkin,” Penny Dwyer and Millie Carter used to sing-song as she walked past.

Because the other girls excluded her from their play, Daisy preferred to stay indoors, reading or drawing. This meant she had more contact with her house parents, Mr and Mrs Symonds, particularly Mr Symonds. He would seek out her company. She would listen attentively while he described to her how well he had played in his latest cricket match or how to best prune a rose bush. Regardless of how dull she found the conversation, Daisy would appear interested and ask the right questions in order to keep Mr Symonds's attention. She soon realised that if he did most of the talking he would leave their time together feeling as though it had been very enjoyable.

“I find our little talks very stimulating, Daisy,” he would say, as he brushed his greying fringe back off his face, his fingernails lined with grit. He would look down at her, his hands on his hips, the baggy folds of his pants covering his skinny legs. “And you should call me 'John' when we are alone together like this.”

Daisy was also astute enough to know that she needed to impress Mrs Symonds as much as she needed to maintain Mr Symonds's favour. So she would assist her House Mother with extra tasks and listen to her frustrations about post-war rationing. But it was with Mr Symonds that she learned to boost esteem and win trust.

“You are blessed with your looks,” he would tell her. “Your skin is so light, you can hardly tell that you are a half-caste. It is truly a gift from God that you can pass.”

In the environment of the home, she could feel the difference that favouritism from her house parents brought her. The other girls stopped bullying her and no longer stole the pretty things Patricia bought for her. When she did have a fight with Penny or Millie, Mr Symonds would always take her side and she would get what she wanted. It was with this training that she strode confidently to Madelaine du Pont's front door and introduced herself to Monsieur du Pont.

When Marcel du Pont started buying her presents and giving her money in exchange for friendship and favours, Daisy believed that she had suddenly worked out the way life was supposed to work. Marcel du Pont was rich and she was pretty; the bargain seemed fair. At first she would meet him at his home on Sundays while Madame du Pont was attending luncheons with friends and cultivating clients. As she spent more Sunday afternoons with him, he seemed to grow increasingly reluctant to see her leave. They began to meet during the week.

Marcel du Pont had left Paris when the Nazi invasion seemed imminent. Although he was never part of the Orthodox Jewish community, his mother had been before she married his father, and Marcel worried that this would be used against him. The war made ordinary people do the most vindictive things to people that they disliked. So he left his position in a banking firm and with his young wife boarded a ship for England. Eventually he came to Australia with a lucrative business manufacturing filing cabinets.

Daisy listened as Marcel talked about his problems with suppliers, customers, transportation and unions, shaking her head or kissing his forehead when she thought it was required.

“I could never talk to Madelaine about these things,” he would sigh. “She's too occupied with her hats, shoes and feathers. It was a mistake to give her a business. I gave it to her as a hobby, you know. To get her out of the house and stop her complaining about being bored. But after your sister came to work for her, she started making money.”

“I don't understand it,” Daisy would coo. “I have never had someone to look after me. All I have ever wanted was to have a husband who would take care of me.”

“Yes,
ma cherie,"
Marcel would say with a twinkle in his eye.

“It's just as well that I keep you occupied here while your wife goes off to sell her wares to all her friends. I should get more money for keeping you off the streets and out of trouble.” Daisy looked up at him through her dark lashes.

“Out of trouble?” he would ask with a laugh.

“I think I'm a good influence on you,” she said with a smile, stroking his moustache before kissing him gently on the lips.

At first, Daisy understood her arrangement with Marcel in the cold terms of a fair trade, but as their affair became more serious, she found herself feeling affection for him.

“You are a strange little creature,” Marcel would say as he cupped her face in his hands. “So young but so old at the same time. So hard but so soft. And so strong-willed, yet so compliant.” And then he would playfully slap her on the bottom.

He bought her the presents she had always imagined would be bestowed upon her, making her feel special in the same way William had when he preferred her to the rest of her siblings, or Mr Symonds had when he said he liked their talks. Marcel would smoke a cigar and look at her. Sometimes he would tell her to lie naked on the couch so he could admire her as he sipped his wine. He made Daisy feel that he saw the whole world when he looked at her.

“Do you love me?” she would ask when the depths of her own feelings would overwhelm her.

“What's love between two people like me and you?” he would answer, patting his moustache as though he had given her the reply she hoped for. “Now be a good girl and do that thing you do to me that I like so much.”

“Which one?” She smiled at him as she slowly moved to her knees, reminding herself that her role was to not make the sort of demands a wife might.