In Lonnie's Shadow (14 page)

WHITE GLOVE

Item No. 906

Men’s dress glove.

Rose Payne stepped off the tramcar outside the Federal Coffee Palace, brushing aside the offer of a young gent’s helping hand. She raised her Parisian umbrella to guard against the sudden torrent of rain. Apart from a slight pallor around the cheekbones and lips, Rose did not show any visible signs of her distressed state of mind.

She tossed a quick backward glance over her shoulder then scurried inside the building. Without the least acknowledgement, she jabbed her umbrella in the direction of the attendant, spraying him with raindrops. She was in no mood to be pleasant.

The doorman’s job entailed him to be polite and ignore any mistreatment from the wealthier townsfolk, of whom Miss Rose Payne was definitely one. He dutifully held out his gloved hand to take the brolly to the cloakroom, reminding himself as he shot it open to dry, that it wasn’t worth losing hair over a prissy little miss, even if she did treat him like a toad.

Ignoring the six lifts, Rose fumed her way up the elaborate staircase to the first floor. She fired angry darts at people, through the salon, the smoking room, and the writing room, before eventually storming towards the family table in the dining room where she positioned herself away from prying eyes. There, safe at last!

This section of the Federal Coffee Palace was set aside exclusively for the most desirable patrons of Melbourne. Her father’s table was always held in reserve. She chose a chair guarded by a potted palm and lush emerald curtains looped to the side by a heavy cord, where she sat distracted, rhythmically smoothing the damp folds of her dress. How dare Lonnie McGuinness trail after her like a slobbering mutt. After what he had put her through, how dare he not leave her in peace. She thought of him running alongside the tramcar like some escaped lunatic, down Collins Hill of all places where everyone knew who she was, shouting her name for all and sundry to hear. What a disgrace! She shuddered to imagine what people must think.

From outside on the street, Lonnie looked skyward at the seven storeys of the Federal Coffee Palace. He surveyed the iron-framed dome, as if Rose could be nesting up there with the pigeons and sparrows, working his eyes down the tower. His gaze moved past the turrets and gables, down the five storeys of bedrooms, the first floor where she most likely would be and finally to the ground, fixing his eyes on every window, anxious for a possible glimpse. He failed to spot her, but he had a hunch she was somewhere inside.

After one step into the foyer Lonnie found his way blocked by the same doorman who Rose had so rudely brushed aside.

‘Hold on, my good man.’ The attendant spoke through half-closed lips, which Lonnie swore hadn’t even moved. His eyes took in Lonnie’s muddy shoes and well-worn coat, made worse by the rain. There was no remote hint in their expression of regarding Lonnie as a ‘good man’. More like his kind were better off using the kitchen entrance. The hand gripping his arm ready to guide him back towards the street was a dead giveaway.

Lonnie faced the doorman with as much pride as he could muster. ‘There’s a friend of mine here. Someone I need to see.’

‘And is this “friend” expecting you?’

Lonnie gestured towards the staircase. ‘She’s up there somewhere.’

‘Perhaps you’re mistaken? Perhaps she went elsewhere?’ His voice dropped low enough to be just audible. ‘There are plenty of coffee houses more suitable.’

Lonnie glowered at the man. ‘How about I take a look for myself first?’ he suggested defiantly.

‘Are you a patron?’

Lonnie was losing patience. ‘No! But I won’t be staying long. If she’s not here, I’ll go.’

The man tut-tutted. ‘Members only, I’m afraid.’

‘I’ve as much right to be here as anyone else. And if I want to see Rose Payne, I will.’

At the mention of her name, a visible nerviness settled on the doorman. To allow entry to a larrikin scruff like this lad could cost him his job. But to disgruntle Mr Payne or his family was worse. If he trod on their toes he would never again hold down a job in this town.

Lonnie noted his hesitation. It convinced him Rose was upstairs. ‘Let me have a few quick minutes. I only have to deliver this parcel.’ He started to unwrap the paper. ‘It’s her dress, see. Then I’ll be on my way.’

The attendant looked at him wide-eyed and accusing, not able to disguise his own suspicion.

‘What are you doing with Missy’s dress?’

Lonnie knew he had the advantage. The doorman wasn’t going to risk a scandal here on the premises.

‘Wait over there.’ The man pointed to a dark recess by a service door. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Much as it shamed Lonnie to be stood in the corner like a dunce in a classroom, he did as the doorman asked. Anything to see his Rose.

The doorman returned soon after with a look of triumph. ‘The lady will accept the parcel, but is unable to see you.’

‘Go back and tell her it’s Lonnie.’

‘We don’t want any trouble, lad.’ The doorman scrutinised the crumpled brown paper, with its dangling string tie and peep of blue silk. ‘Better give me the thing, then leave.’

Seeing he would make no more headway, Lonnie reluctantly handed over the dress. The doorman held onto it with his thumb and forefinger, making a show of not soiling his white glove.

Outside, Lonnie made up his mind to wait for Rose if that’s what it took to see her. The rain was still falling. He sheltered in a small alcove across the road. Shivering, he pulled up his collar and fixed his eyes determinedly on the entrance.

He was already planning how to win her over. After all, she couldn’t be blamed for not wanting to see him. First, after he apologised, they would take a stroll, her hand linked through his arm, towards the Princess Theatre. There he hoped to impress her with a glimpse of Sarah Bernhardt arriving for her concert. Rumour had it the great French actress had brought along a whole host of pets, including a pug dog, a native bear, even a cage of rainbow parrots. If Rose and Lonnie didn’t see her in person, chances were they’d spot her menagerie, which would be just as good in Lonnie’s opinion, seeing he couldn’t afford the two pound ticket for the concert. Instead he would woo Rose with a stroll through the Carlton Gardens, stopping at the fountain, where he fully intended wrapping his arm tenderly around her lovely waist and apologising once more, most indulgently, for the uproar the other night at the Australian Building.

Lonnie was daydreaming of the romance ahead when a hansom cab came to a halt in front of the Federal. Thomas Crick stepped down, dusted off his lapel, corrected his bowler hat, settled one arm behind his back, placed a hand firm around a walking cane – set to impress, Lonnie thought sarcastically – and swaggered inside the building.

Thirty minutes passed. Still no sign of Rose. Or Crick. Lonnie felt his blood boil. If that backslapper was anywhere near his Rose! Restlessly, he paced up and down. The doorman had better have delivered that parcel in the first place. What if he hadn’t even told Rose that Lonnie had come looking for her?

While Lonnie was deliberating whether or not to return and have it out face-to-face, the door of the coffee palace swung open for the eighteenth time; Lonnie had counted every single entry and departure. Thomas Crick stepped outside, accompanied by Rose. In one hand she held her umbrella; the other was tucked behind her back. Lonnie saw her eyes scanning about. She would be looking for him. He took a step out to greet her.

A cab drew up. Crick spoke to the driver. Rose hesitated on the running board before climbing inside. Her hand let something unwanted drop into the gutter. As the horses pulled the cab away, the brown package caught beneath a wheel, spilling out its contents along the road in a trail of blue silk.

WOOLLEN SOCK

Item No. 333

Well-darned woollen sock.

Lonnie needed to cool off his angry heels. He ploughed through the puddles, kicking out a beat as he ran. Boom. Boom. Boom time. Bloody marvellous Melbourne. Only for some. Fancy that hoity-toity Rose Payne giving him the cold shoulder. He couldn’t believe she preferred Thomas Crick, the mongrel, to him. There were definitely two worlds: there was a world for those toffs and there was his world. As far as the Paynes or the Cricks and their lot were concerned, no matter what Lonnie did he would always be the muck the night-rakers picked up. He fisted the bricks on the wall alongside him. Wait until the horse race, he would show them all.

Heavy clouds lingered overhead, pulling the sky downwards. The water soaked through his boots into his woollen socks. He concentrated on how high the splashes reached up his trouser legs. So what if I catch my death of it? he thought dismally.

What a fool. All the signs had been there, but he’d been blind. Was he still such a lad, when all the time he had been thinking he was a man? Wasn’t he trying to do the best by everyone? Daisy’s rebuke was still troubling him. He hadn’t seen her since their argument and it saddened him deeply that he’d been the cause of her tear-filled eyes.

He ran a fair way before he realised he was almost at the bridge over the Yarra. He slowed down his pace. Cupping both hands to his mouth, he drew in the cold moist air until his cheeks felt hollow. With lips like a puffer fish he blew out a long sustained flow of hot breath. A white plume formed in the cold night air. It reminded him of Da blowing smoke out of his clay pipe and his trick of turning it into rings. The white formation blew away in a bullying gust of wind – as rapid as his da’s life, whoosh, gone. He wished they had talked more about what it meant to be a man.

Lonnie contemplated becoming a sundowner. Not a bad idea, to spend the rest of his days roaming the bush, picking up work and a bed where he could, calling at outback stations for a meal when the sun went down, seeing the country. Not a worry in the world anymore about ladies or landlords, or lugs like Slasher Jack, or George Swiggins, or Billy Bottle. Yeah, a swaggie, go on the wallaby and leave the lot of ’em to it.

The clouds chose this moment to burst open with a vengeance. Rain ran down the back of his neck. He pulled his collar high, tucking away his ears. He picked up the pace and headed for the bridge, intent on taking cover underneath.

From now on, according to Daisy and his mam, he had better pull his finger out. But one thing was for sure, and there was no escaping this fact: at seventeen years old, he’d finished once and for all with the ladies.

FROZEN CHARLOTTE DOLL

Item No. 6150

Child’s toy.

An unjointed, porcelain doll, popularly known as a penny doll or Frozen Charlotte. Originated in USA.

Pearl found herself below the bridge that spanned the Yarra river, standing alone on a grass verge under a great stone arch. Above her was a wide roadway, double tram tracks and two footways broad enough for a thick line of pedestrians. Normally the bridge would be a bustling place, but the rain had started to hammer down, sending everyone except her scurrying indoors for shelter. There wasn’t a soul in sight, walker or cab.

Here she was, driven out into this dismal night instead of warming herself in the Big House with the pollies, sipping French wine from a crystal glass held in a warm hand covered by a pearl-studded glove. Out any longer and she would set solid from the cold and rain. Already she felt hard as a statue. Her arms and legs were as stiff as the penny doll she’d once found, cherished and then lost. Her hands and lips felt frozen over. She could have put skates on them and done a twirl or two. Fed-up was the word. Her new work dress, flowing ruffles of pink champagne and a neckline of scarlet roses all hand sewn by Daisy, was soaked through, already ruined for the boudoir, wouldn’t even see her through one summer night. Her red, all-covered-in boots were caked with mud. She was tired of it all.

When the runner had delivered a message from Annie Walker that a client would arrive for her down by the Yarra bridge at eight o’clock, and she would earn a good sum from it to help pay off her debt (but if she didn’t show she’d be sorry for many a year to come), she had no choice but to clear out of the Big House and make her way hastily downtown. So where was the chump?

Once Annie’s lug had turned up, she intended to make a speedy end to this whole dark sorry episode and get back to the Big House before she was missed. If Madam Buckingham should discover her gone; if she ever found out that Pearl was at this moment doubling up on her shift and cheating her on account of Annie, she would face a hiding and a half. Hopefully, dear sweet Ruby the goody-two-shoes was covering for her, under the cloud of Pearl disclosing to Madam a few eye-opening truths about that little she-devil herself. Life was all a game of bluff.

Whatever was she thinking? The reality hit her in the face like a wet flannel. There was no end to all this, whether it was over at the Big House with the silver spooners from Parliament, the speculators and the doctors, lucky enough to be born in the right bed, on the right side of Melbourne; or on the corner by the Governor, where the theatre patrons and the passers- by beckoned her over; or in the laneways, where the drunks and the bully boys were too rough and de- manding, some of them only lads themselves. Every time she shared herself, when she horsed around, teased and taunted – every time – they took a part of her away with them; small fragments, a penny for her laughter, sixpence for her charms. The debt was never-ending. Eventually she would be ripped apart; there would be nothing of any worth left to sell.

Her mind toyed with the shadows. Sounds of water amplified the night, the plop of rain falling from high above the bridge structure, the slosh of water running along channels into the river. She could hear the scuffle of rats. Filthy creatures. Gnawing the skin to the bone. A scrawny tom doddered by, too old to catch the lively rodents, more intent on scavenging through the muck by her feet. Pearl kicked out savagely. In return, the old cat arched its back and set about wailing threateningly. They both felt the same helpless rage.

She began to think about what to say if a constable passed by. Say she agreed to being a parlour girl, he might take her to the cells at the gaol. Even the cold stone walls would be warmer than this icy river bank. At least she would be dry. Say that did not work, she could pretend to be a lunatic. But then Madam Buckingham would find out. And if she didn’t meet this client for Annie, she’d be a goner.

Pearl’s tiny hand buried into a hidden pocket to search for the coins that should be there – nothing. Momentarily she panicked, and then remembered she had given all her money to Carlo to put on the race. Maybe Lonnie would win her a small fortune. Then her luck might change.

A sense of a presence from behind came too late to save Pearl. A monstrous arm lifted her until her feet cleared the ground. She screamed against the force and was suspended like a rag doll under the arm of a vengeful child. A brutish palm covered her face, trapping her nose and mouth, muffling the cries but not her terror. She was carried off into a darker section further under the bridge. The coarse tweed of the man’s coat scratched against her skin, the size of him, the stink of his body – she had known even before she heard his menacing threats, who this man was. This prowler abroad at night. The dirtiest of maulers.

Slasher Jack’s hand left her face and forced its way downwards, filthy, foul fingers creeping down her body and between her legs.

She found her voice. ‘It’ll cost you,’ she demanded. A rush of foul breath brushed past her ear like a spectre of death. ‘You’ll not get a penny from me, slut. You’re the one who has to pay.’ With his giant hand around the back of her neck, he forced her

down roughly.

While his free hand pulled at her clothing, Pearl forced herself to imagine she lay in warm linen sheets. A light-headed feeling overcame her. She was transported to one of Miss Selina’s beds at the mission house, tucked up safely. While Jack twisted her arm and kicked her legs apart, she only felt her face being gently stroked. Her fingers interlocked with others, sweet smelling and warm. Her head sank lower and lower into the feather pillow.

A grey heaviness of rain hit Pearl’s face bringing back a faint stirring of comprehension. Slasher was gone. Her body felt stiff. She had refused to be his victim, but there was no Miss Selina, nor sweet- smelling hands, nor feathery pillows to alleviate the hurt. She pulled herself up into a half-sitting position and leaned against the side of the arch, staring out at the river, the raindrops hitting the water in a vicious stampede.

Once on a sunny day she had gazed into the same section of the river and seen it ripple and glisten. The thought now occurred to her that if you looked a bit harder you saw straight through the shiny surface to the dark and predatory. Larger fish ate smaller fish, which in turn ate the weed. Below her was a world of violence and resignation, the same one she was living in. There was no escape.

Her leg ached. Her neck was pinched. All she could sense was the stink of Slasher and his hands upon her. She straightened up her clothing as best she could and forced herself to climb onto the bridge spanning the river, where she clung to the iron rail- ing. A bridge made for the princes of the empire. Half their luck.

When would Annie stop having this revenge on her? Was there ever to be an end to the ordeal? The road ahead would take her away from this stinking place. If only her legs would do as they were told she could keep on walking right out of Melbourne, for good. Far away from this pitiable life. Anywhere.

Pearl stopped short, her vision of the future ob- scured. Where to? Where would she go? Where could she go? Who had come for her when she was being held captive by Annie Walker? No one. Not one soul had come looking. Not even Daisy or Lonnie had missed her. No one cared whether she was alive or dead. Annie was right, no one was going to help some scrawny bit of flim-flam like her. She shuddered at the thought that there was no one to reclaim her; neither brother nor sister to apply to someone like Miss Selina or the rescue brigade from the mission hall for help in bringing her home. No family wait- ing. No home. No welcome. No protection. At the very extent of her hopelessness, misery spilled from her body and over the bridge like a waterfall.

A hansom cab splashed its way across the bridge, swaying violently in the wind. The driver reined in the horse as he navigated through the pouring rain. The unlikely sight of a soaking-wet girl leaning over the handrail, when everyone in their right mind should be rushing for shelter, drew his attention.

At first glance she looked about the same tender years as his own cherished daughter and he won- dered what on earth the girl was doing, playing out in a storm. It did not take him long to realise. Still he found some empathy for her. He slowed down the horses and was about to call her out of the rain and onto the backboard, when a gruff voice came from the comfortable dryness of the cabin. ‘Be swift, man. It’s already past the hour.’

It was a voice Pearl would have recognised – the voice of Thomas Crick – had her mind not become a brown swirling torrent, daring her, drawing her into a raging darkness. She paid no heed to the cab driver or its occupant hidden in the blackness of the cabin.

The river was calling. A siren’s song. She did not have the energy to walk away. How easy to end her life; over and done with, once and for all. Not a surrender, but an escape. She wondered what it would be like to lie beneath the swollen waters and how long it would take for her to die. Would it be painful? The idea of dying scared her. She thought about Biddy’s babe. ‘Do we have to be dead to be cradled in Heaven’s arms?’ she asked aloud, looking skywards. ‘Are we ever truly safe?’ If only one person cared, she would have a reason to live, a reason not to jump.

A sheet of grey rain blew horizontal, biting into the face of the warm-jacketed youth who rushed over the bridge. As he approached Pearl, she moved back from the railing and raised her head, indifferent to the downpour, staring at him wild-eyed, a shiver- ing fragile girl in a dress so flimsy it glued itself to her body.

The young man who approached her was rip- ping off his jacket to cover her shoulders. ‘What are you doing here, all dripping and drenched through? Lordy, it’ll be the death of you. Take my coat. You’re grey as a ghost. Even Mrs B can’t expect you to stand out in this weather.’

‘It won’t be the death of me, yer chump.’ Pearl’s voice was faint. ‘A little rain never killed anyone.’ She gripped Lonnie’s arm and turned from the bridge.

‘Let’s leave. I’m freezing.’

‘Too right, I’m taking you home. Take it easy. Lean on me.’

As they staggered through the rain, Pearl kissed him tenderly on the cheek. ‘Out of all the people in Melbourne, Lonnie McGuinness, I should have known it would be you. I shall love you for always.’

Lonnie blushed up like a dark cherry. ‘Get away with you, Pearl. Are you trying to embarrass a man?’