Women and War (4 page)

Her chin came up.

‘Red wants! Well, why the hell do you have to do what
Red
wants?'

Out came the handkerchief again. Ed dabbed at his profusely sweating forehead.

‘It seems you upset him last night.'

‘So what?'

‘I'll tell you so what. Red wants you out of here. And in case you didn't know it what Red says goes. I don't want to lose you – you're the best draw the Canary has ever had. But I don't want the place done over either. I can't afford that.'

‘And Red will do it over if you don't get rid of me?'

‘That's right. Oh look, Tara, you still don't know who he is do you? He's only the most powerful man round here, that's all. He runs clubs, brothels, protection rackets, dial-a-bloody hit man, the lot. He has the sly grog shops sewn up, and the gambling dens. He's trouble, for Chrissakes. And I can't risk him putting the finger on me. I'm sorry, kid, but there it is.'

‘I see.' Tara was trembling. ‘And I don't even get to sing tonight – just this once?'

‘Sorry kid. I'll have to make my apologies to the punters. And you'd better get along home.'

Tara went, tears of anger at the injustice of it pricking behind her eyes. She knew why he'd done it all right. She could hear his voice still as clearly as if he was beside her saying what he'd said last night.
You'll come to me, Tara, in your own good time
. But she wouldn't. She wouldn't! There must be another way …

Oh, why did he have to come to the Canary Club last night? she asked herself. Why did he have to take a fancy to me?

But on one thing she was determined. Whatever happened she was not going to allow this big shot to ruin her career before it had even begun. Somehow she would play him at his own game. And somehow she would win.

‘Tara – is that you?' Maggie called.

Tara, climbing the last few stairs to the tiny apartment after her latest disappointment, sighed. Once she had used to run up those stairs, feet flying with the eagerness of youth. Now the weight of despair that ached inside her seemed to have got into her limbs too and her feet dragged on the stairs like the feet of an old woman.

A month had gone by since Red Maloney had come to the Canary and still she had been unable to find another job as a singer. All over Sydney she had tried and all over Sydney she had been refused. It was not for lack of talent, she knew. She had sung for too many bar owners and known they were pleased with her only to see their faces change when they learned who she was. In desperation she had tried lying about her name but her reputation – and her Irish accent – had scotched that. Still she had been turned away and she knew it was all Red Maloney's doing.

‘Tara?' Maggie called again and Tara's heart sank still lower. Surely Maggie didn't have someone with her this early in the day? If she had to go back out and wander the streets until Maggie had finished with them, she didn't think she could bear it.

‘Sure it's me,' she called back. ‘Can I come in?'

‘Course you can. It didn't sound like your step, that's all.'

Tara pushed open the door and sighed at the sight that met her eyes. Although it was midday the apartment was still in a state of early morning chaos – a milk bottle in the middle of the table, dirty dishes piled on the draining board, the bed unmade. Maggie had still been asleep when Tara had gone out; at least she was up now though she was still wearing her dressing gown and last night's stale make-up made garish streaks on her puffy face.

‘What's the matter with you?' Maggie asked.

Tara did not answer. She crossed to the stove and lifted the kettle, testing it.

‘There's tea in the pot,' Maggie said. ‘I just made some.'

Tara rinsed out one of the cups and poured tea from the brown tin teapot. It looked, and smelled, stewed, but she sipped it anyway, glad of the comfort it brought.

‘No luck again?' Maggie asked.

Tara shook her head. ‘ No. Oh Maggie, it's just not fair! I'm good – I know I am. And I could have made it – I could! – if it hadn't been for
him
. I don't understand it really. Why should anyone want to ruin my chances …'

Maggie reached into her dressing gown pocket for a packet of cigarettes, took one out and lit it.

‘He doesn't want to ruin your chances, Tara. You know what he's doing as well as I do. You know what he said to you.'

‘That I'd come to him in my own good time.'

‘That's right. He wants you and he reckons if you can't get work elsewhere he'll get you.'

Tara set down her cup with a bang, slopping tea onto the table.

‘Well, he won't! I wouldn't work for him if he was the last man in Sydney.'

Maggie drew out a chair and sat down. ‘He is, isn't he?'

‘What?'

‘The last man in Sydney – as far as you're concerned. You might as well face facts, kid – he's got it sewn up. Either you go to sing for him or you don't sing at all.'

Tara picked up her cup again, went to drink, then pushed it abruptly aside as the bitter smell assailed her nostrils, suddenly revolting her.

‘There are other places where Mr Red Maloney can't reach,' she said stubbornly.

Maggie leaned back in her chair arching her back and crossing her legs.

‘Oh Tara, don't be such a fool. Why go chasing off all over Australia when you've got the chance of singing in the best clubs right here in Sydney? I don't know why you've stuck out against it so long. It's your mother in you, I suppose, determined to be independent. But there's no point fighting it. You're only hurting yourself.'

‘But Maggie …' Tara's hands clenched to fists. ‘You know what he wants, don't you? He doesn't just want me to sing.'

‘Oh Tara, Tara …' Maggie drew on her cigarette, blowing smoke towards the doorway then looking back at the young girl with eyes that were half amused, half sad. ‘I thought you were a woman of the world.'

Inexplicably, Tara felt her knees go weak.

‘You mean to say you've been around the clubs all this time and nobody has had you?'

Tara shook her head. ‘ Ed said anyone touching me would get thrown out.'

‘And Ed didn't …?'

‘No.'

‘Well, well. And what about boys? Surely in some back alley …?'

‘Oh, sure they've tried. But they don't go on trying very much when you've given them a good kick where it hurts.'

‘Well, well, Tara,' Maggie said again, blowing smoke in a thin steady stream. ‘No wonder Red Maloney fancies you. If you've any sense, my girl, you'll get in there double quick while you've still got what he wants. All it takes is someone to get the better of you, kick or no kick, and you won't be such desirable property anymore. Use what you've got, Tara. Use it well. All men want the same when it comes down to it. You might as well sell to the highest bidder.'

‘Holy Mother.' Tara pressed her hand against her mouth as the bitter tea she had drunk turned in her stomach.

She felt trapped suddenly, as if she stood in a darkening room with the doors slamming shut around her one by one. Men were all the same, Maggie had said and she supposed that was true. But to give in, to go crawling back to Red Maloney …

It was all right for Maggie. Maggie was a whore. Tara had known that since she was just a child though she did not think about it more than she could help. Maybe Mammy had been a whore too. Tara's lip trembled at the thought and she caught it firmly between her teeth. No. Mammy had been a singer and
she
would be a singer too – a really successful one. Somehow.

‘Have a bit of sense Tara,' Maggie pleaded. ‘You'll lose it one day anyway. Might as well have something worthwhile in return or you'll end up just like me. And that would be a pity.'

Tara looked at her, at the bloated, mascara-smudged face behind the curling cigarette smoke, at the tangle of red hair that had not yet seen a comb though it was past midday. Maggie's dressing gown had fallen open slightly so that one of her crossed legs stuck out between the folds of cheap art silk – a once shapely leg, now notched and streaked by varicose veins, as bright a blue as her painted toenails were red. Once Maggie had been going through an old trunk and shown Tara a photograph she had come across – a photograph of herself as a young girl, not much older than Tara was now. And she had been a beauty. The highly coloured studio portrait had shown that. But now …

‘Take my advice, Tara. Aim high,' Maggie said. And quite suddenly Tara knew what she was going to do.

If this was the way her cards had been dealt then this was the way she would play her hand. She owed it to Maggie, she owed it to Mammy, and most of all she owed it to herself.

‘I'll make a pot of fresh tea and then I guess I'd better go out again,' she said.

And though neither mentioned it both of them knew exactly where it was that Tara intended to go.

As Tara had discovered Red Maloney owned two nightclubs, three brothels and a high class restaurant, besides all his other interests. He also owned a mansion in Elizabeth Bay, built on colonial lines and furnished with every luxury money could buy. As she approached the colonnaded front door down a path flanked by meticulously kept beds of marigolds and roses Tara was overawed – and trembling with disbelief.

She had misunderstood Red Maloney surely! For what would someone who lived in a house like this want with her?

It took all her courage to ring the bell and when the door was opened by a large, hard-faced man who she realized must be one of Red's bodyguards, she almost turned and ran. She gave her name and he left her standing on the doorstep while he went to announce her arrival. Then, just as she thought she would be there forever, the door opened again and the hard-faced man showed her into the house.

Too nervous to look around Tara was nonetheless aware of a breathtakingly large entrance hall, big enough to fit the whole of their apartment into, she told Maggie later, with chandeliers, more flowers and a sweeping staircase with gilt handrails.

‘This way.'

She followed the bodyguard through a maze of corridors. He pushed open a door padded in black leather with more gilt and to her surprise Tara found herself in a room equipped as a gymnasium. For a moment she stood uncertainly looking around at the benches and the weights, the punchbags and the exercise cycle. She had never seen a gymnasium before and could hardly believe that anyone would have one in their home. Then the double doors at the far end of the gymnasium swung open and Red came in. He was wearing a blue towelling robe, monogrammed in gold on one shoulder, bare feet were thrust into flip-flop sandals. A white towel trimmed with the same blue as the robe was thrown loosely over his head and beneath it Tara could see that his hair was lanky wet and his face misted with moisture.

‘Well, Tara,' he greeted her. ‘I've been expecting you.'

In her pockets her hands clenched so that the nails drove hard into the palms.

‘You don't look as though you were expecting me.'

He laughed, the same laugh she remembered from that nightmare night in the back of his Cadillac.

‘I've been working out. And after a good workout I always tike to treat myself to a sauna and massage.' He slipped the white towel down onto his shoulders so that it lay around his neck like a stole. ‘So – tell me why you're here.'

She looked at him, at the casual power of him, and hated him. He wasn't satisfied that he had brought her to this. He was going to make her crawl. For a moment she was tempted to turn and walk out of this house – this monument to wealth – away from this powerful arrogant man. But she knew that if she was ever to fulfil her ambitions she could not afford to.

‘You know very well why I'm here, Mr Maloney,' she said.

At the mansion in Toorak, Melbourne, Beverley Peterson's engagement party was in full swing. In the banqueting room the crystal chandeliers shimmered light onto the scene, the men immaculate in their evening suits and their ladies bright butterflies in jewel-coloured silks, floating chiffons and glittering lamés with diamonds, emeralds and rubies glinting at their throats and on their well-manicured hands as they danced with genteel enjoyment to the strains of the five piece orchestra which had been imported for the occasion; the waiters moving smoothly amongst them to offer chilled Dom Perignon in crystal flutes; the buffet table laden with every imaginable delicacy; the ferns and flowers banked against the walls so thickly that the party could have been taking place in a garden rather than inside the house. There were portraits on the walls, gilt framed oils of stern looking men and grand ladies. Some were of Frances Peterson's aristocratic English ancestors – part of a line which could be traced back unbroken to the 14th century; some had been purchased at auction though the Petersons would never have admitted such a thing.

But there were no portraits of Daniel Peterson's family. Daniel was a self-made man. He had left a father and mother in England who occupied a small house behind the family bakery business in Darlington, to come to Australia to make his fortune – and make his fortune he certainly had. His primary business interest was in import and export, but he had a finger in a dozen pies besides – banking and finance, real estate and shipping. He owned a store and had shares in almost everything that made money from vehicle manufacturing to alluviual mining and cyaniding, from textiles to the companies which worked the immense brown coal deposits in the Latrobe Valley. Even the racehorse he owned was seldom anything but first past the post. Everything Daniel Peterson touched seemed to turn to gold and the ties with the family back home in Darlington had now been severed forever – except for a fat cheque which fell through the letter box onto the tiled floor of the bakery along with the bills at the beginning of each year.