In Lonnie's Shadow (6 page)

THREE EMPTY FRENCH WINE BOTTLES

Item Nos. 31, 32 & 33

Found in cesspit. Thought to have been from one of the more upmarket brothels around Little Lon.

Pearl stood shivering at the corner by the Governor Hotel. It was a grim night, the wind taking bites out of her skin and blowing hints of grubby slum houses through the laneways. She cursed Madam’s choice of dress for her; a lickety-split of such frivolous green material that would surely have floated away with the wind if not for the satin band which pinned down the folds at her waist and refused to let go. She pulled a woollen shawl around her shoulders, cursing that muck-snipe Ruby who was at this very minute working in the warmth and luxury of the Big House, her sacred white feather having well and truly been plucked, while Pearl was left stuck out here in the cold.

She heard her own name being called from inside the Governor. ‘Get yerself in here, Pearl. Come kick up yer heels!’ The shrieks and beer swilling made her feel sick. Only one more customer, she pledged, and then she’d slip away to meet Lonnie at the oyster bar.

Served Madam right if she scarpered for a while. Mind you, she’d be getting more than a belt across the earhole if she were found out. All because Annie had turned Madam’s mood so sour. (Not to mention that mooching Ruby with her whimpering ways, plotting to put Pearl on this miserable street corner instead of up at the Big House or at number four, where at least she would be keeping out of the bitter night.) So what if she took some time off ? She deserved it. The thought of those hot steaming oysters made her want to devour them in one, solid, tongue-licking swallow.

Back at Casselden Place she had secretly stored some bottles of choice champagne. Didn’t see why the toffs or the pollies should have all the fun, when it was her legs going blue with the cold. She had mastered a trick of leaving half a glass in the bottom of each bottle, especially as the night grew older and the clients grew drunker. She would quickly whisk the open bottle away out of sight and return with a full one. Pearl learned quickly that a client always knew if he had ordered three or four bottles. There was never any problem, as long as his bill had the correct number. By the end of a good night, she was able to fill two or three bottles with the leftovers. Mixers, she called them.

Of course, mincing Miss-Ruby-Come-Lately had already stuck her nose into the affair and caught her out. Pearl had threatened her – if she ever spouted off to Madam about the little trick, then wouldn’t she know a proper what for. She’d think twice about messing with the likes of Pearl ever again.

If Lonnie was game, Pearl planned to take him back to number four to sample her latest blend. (And that was only for starters.) The other night when she had cleaned Lonnie’s wounds, she had sensed with a twinkling certainty that manly thoughts about her had crossed his mind. Anyways it was about time he grew up, instead of blushing to the roots whenever she teased him. She knew what men wanted. Only one thing after all. He wouldn’t be any different. She made up her mind to give Lonnie a coming-of-age for which he would be eternally grateful. She really wanted him to like her. And she was as good as anyone to be his first. Anyways, he needed cheering up after that bump on the head. It was a wonder he hadn’t lost his senses altogether.

She hoped Lonnie had been thinking more about the horse race. The right bet with good odds would see her debt fixed up. She worked out the sums. Win more and she could walk right out of the game, have enough to set herself up in St Kilda, with tramcars running past her door and the seaside across the road.

Her mind flitted to her other friend. Pearl loved Daisy Cameron dearly. Together with Lonnie, the three of them were inseparable, even though Carlo always tagged along and put a damper on everything. Daisy was all sweetness and kindliness, especially now she had found the Sally Army. Sometimes Pearl wished she could be more like her.

Strange how fortune played out. Daisy would have been lost to the streets as well, but for some perverse act of kindness from Madam Buckingham. No one had ever fully understood why she took a shine to Daisy, settling her in a room at the Leitrim and then enabling her to make a respectable living as a seamstress. If Madam Buckingham could help Daisy, maybe she would treat Pearl kindly. This had been in the back of her mind, the reasoning behind her move from Annie to the safety of the Big House. (Not that she’d seen any kindness so far.)

She was deciding which to do first, pop in for a quick chinwag with Daisy or drop in at the oyster bar, when a man sidled through the shadows. There’s me answer, she thought, giving a sigh and striking a dramatic pose. (But he’s my last for the night and then I’m knocking off.)

A rough hand grabbed her by the throat. She gave a strangled cry. Only a whiff of stale tobacco smoke and sour sweat, a split second of fear, and then the fist laid her flat with one blow.

OYSTER SHELL

Item No. 27

One of many discarded shells found. Takeaway food of the era, but still something of a luxury.

‘Thanks mate, don’t mind if I do.’ George Swiggins helped himself to the open oyster shell in Lonnie’s hand. ‘So are you with us or against us?’

The leader of the Push lounged against the lamp pillar. He was nineteen and had an air of instinctive danger about him. He looked like a spiv, dressed like a spiv, and acted like a spiv. His dark hair licked to the back, oiled down sleek. His hat tilted at an angle, shading eyes where a reckless animal lay caged and ready to pounce. When he flashed his smile it was enough to make a girl stop short in panic. His tight jacket was cut away sharp at the hip. The trouser legs, with their fourteen-inch bottoms as narrow as pencils, had creases keen enough to slice fingers. The silk neckerchief was too bright and there was enough shine on his shoes to see his own face in.

‘Come on, George. I’m not exactly built like a brick dunny, am I?’ Lonnie replied, cautiously sidestepping the offer to join the gang. He wanted neither to be with him, nor against him.

This was not the answer George wanted. He bent down to flick an invisible speck of dust from his shoes.

‘It’s the pimpernel in you we’re looking towards. You got a knack of never being caught. Could use a bit of that skill in our gang.’

‘I don’t get caught ’cause I never do anything.’

‘Not what I heard. Word’s around you outran one of Payne’s watchdogs.’

Lonnie grimaced at the reference to his outing in Carlton. Did everyone know? He changed his tack. ‘I don’t get caught ’cause I’m a loner. You lot stand out like dogs’ balls.’ George gave him a back-off look. Lonnie shuffled uneasily; being frank was one thing, but knowing when to stop with the smart prattle was a lesson he had yet to master in life.

‘Let me spell it out. I’m looking for a yes from you

and I’m not known as a patient man. Tell you what, we’ll even let your mate join as well.’ He nodded at Carlo, who had come in with Lonnie and was keeping a low profile in the corner.

Carlo gave a nervous look around and muttered,

‘Leave me out of this.’

To their relief, George didn’t press for an answer. He strode over to his gang who were busy entertaining themselves by showing off, marking a bottle as if it were a footy over the heads of the people scurrying past.

‘Let’s beat it,’ whispered Carlo. ‘If we stay any longer there’s bound to be trouble. Pearl’s not going to show. You’ll have to catch up with her later. Don’t forget we still have to sort Auntie’s stuff before we call it a night.’

Taking advantage of the shortest possible route, Lonnie and Carlo bolted in and out of the lanes that took them in a matter of minutes to Cumberland Place. The midnight backstreet seemed soundless and dark. While Carlo attended to things inside, Lonnie waited at the end of the row of houses. At the appointed time he waved his dark lantern in an arc. When his mate’s cart turned the corner, the sound of iron horseshoes rattled over the cobblestones. Making haste, they rescued the bulk of Auntie Tilly’s belongings.

The last thing to do was collect Auntie Tilly. Linked between the boys’ arms to hold her steady, she climbed onto the cart. As she took her seat she was as stately as any abdicating queen. ‘Never does to look back,’ she said with finality, as though she might not see them again in her lifetime. She dabbed her glistening eyes with a handkerchief but her tight smile didn’t falter.

‘’Course you will,’ said Lonnie. ‘When it’s all blown over we’ll be sure to come and see you.’

‘We can’t do without your oatmeal rounds for too long,’ added Carlo with a shaky grin.

She gave a warm chuckle and clipped them both on the earhole. ‘Just mind your manners until then, duckies.’

The boys rode a little way on the back of the cart, seeing her off safely before jumping down. Their walk home was sober. The thought of no longer having Auntie Tilly where she’d always been was unnerving.

The day had been a long one. When Lonnie arrived home there was one final thing for him to do before nodding off for the night. Making sure his mam was fast asleep, he wrapped the watch in a handkerchief and placed it in the bottom drawer of the dresser. He was too tired to deal with anything more. Better for the time being to leave the watch hidden and stay silent. It had been a full and eventful day and early tomorrow he was due at the stables.

HOOP HANDLE FROM A TRAPDOOR

Item No. 2018

Round, circular handle used for raising and lowering a trapdoor.

On the other side of town not far from Little Lon, at about the same time as Lonnie was settling down for the night, Pearl came around in a cramped, dark place beneath the floorboards of an old building. Her cheek was sore and she felt the burn of vomit in her throat. In spite of all her guile, the worst had finally happened. She groggily recalled the violent arm that had grabbed her and the thump which had left her insensible.

She tried to sit up. There was barely enough room to straighten her back so she shuffled to the side and lay down. She stared into the darkness of her premature grave. Tears splashed like fiery splinters on her cheeks as she imagined what was in store for her.

Sometime later a trapdoor lifted open from above. Pearl made out the twisted face of Annie Walker.

‘Didn’t think you were being watched, did yer?’ she barked. A ghost of a smirk flitted across her thin, mean lips. ‘Did yer think yer were invisible and no one could see yer out there working for Madam Buckteeth? Next you’ll be toadying across to that Missy Do-Gooder Selina Southern and who else after that, I wonder?’

Eyes blotted with spite examined her. ‘This is it, girlie. Sort out what yer owe because until yer clear that debt, yer my goods. That means keeping yer pussy away from that sour-faced hag, yer understand? See how easy it was for me to have Jack bring yer in.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘He can do it any time and if there is a next time, there’ll be no holding him back. Not from you, not from yer friends, not even from Saint Selina herself. No bit of scrawny flim-flam can cross me and get away with it.’

Pearl shrank back from Annie’s hissing anger. She felt a sob rising from her belly, but held it in. ‘I’ve been trying to pay you out. Only I need more time.’

‘But yer crossed me, girl. I don’t like being taken for a fool.’

‘Let me out.’

‘Yer can rot here till yer mean what yer promise. Ungrateful muff. Let’s see how yer do without my help.’

The trapdoor slammed shut above Pearl and darkness overwhelmed her.

WORK BOOT

Item No. 19

One of a pair. Brown leather, well-worn toe.

‘Steady, boy.’

Lonnie leaned down and patted Trident. The sun had hardly made its way over the nearby hills, turning the clouds into orange wisps, but already the day was turning into a busy one. On top of the stable duties yet to start – mucking out, laying clean straw, bringing fresh water for the horses and the grooming – it was open day at Golden Acres. The forthcoming auction meant other stables would be showing their interest. And although he loved it, the call for extra track work meant Lonnie had more than enough to do for his day’s wage.

Crick was on Lightning. There was no doubting it was a magnificent horse. But the beast beneath Lonnie was a little beauty, too. Oh to be a horse owner like the Cricks; he would consider buying Trident for himself. Lonnie had no real pretensions that his boss was seriously trialling him as a jockey. He knew he had to be satisfied with what track work he could get, keep stealing every opportunity to ride horses, and hope against hope that one day he would have a real chance to make it.

‘Open Day at the Acres’ the sign outside read.

‘Inspections welcome for the upcoming horse auction. Open to all offers’. Ned, the foreman from the Glen stables over Flemington way, was taking early advantage of the invitation. He made his way unannounced through the arched iron gates and wandered over to the practice track, taking a private opportunity to check some of Golden Acres’ horses at work.

Two dark shadows were on the rise of the hill. As they galloped he noted the sheer elegance of their silhouettes against the carroty sky, in particular the poise and balance of the second rider.

As Crick and Lonnie brought their steaming horses back, Lonnie immediately recognised the man standing by the rails as the foreman from the Glen. He must have come along to check over the yearlings, but was here far too early. That would rile the Cricks. Track work was always a secret business. Horses were not to be timed by bookmakers or outsiders; their abilities exposed to the world, thus ruining odds and spoiling bets before a race meeting. He wondered what the Glen’s foreman had made of them as they raced over the crest.

‘Here a little early for the open day? Doing a bit of scouting, are you?’ It was about as much of a greeting as Thomas Crick could muster.

The slight was not lost on the Glen foreman. ‘We can all learn, Mr Crick. Actually I’m here to look at your yearlings, sadly not at you, sir. There are a lot of studs to visit before the auctions. I have to start somewhere.’

Lonnie detected the cutting tone of the reply, but it passed over Crick’s head like a horse clearing a hurdle.

‘Well then, be my guest. McGuinness, earn your keep, help Ned see the yearlings before you groom these two.’ He dismounted, tossed Lonnie his reins and swaggered over to the manager’s office, leaving them alone.

‘McGuinness, is it?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘I was watching you this morning.’

As Ned was talking to him Lonnie felt his big toe sticking through the hole in his boot. Without fuss he eased it back into comfort. ‘You were?’

‘Why don’t you come over to the Glen for a quiet word?’

‘A word, sir?’ Lonnie wondered if he dared think what this could mean. ‘I mean, of course, anytime,’ he added.

‘Good lad,’ said Ned, ‘but give me a chance to finish buying our yearlings before you call over.’

Lonnie tried to stifle his excitement as he swung down off Trident, keeping in mind that he still had a job to do, which was to showNed the horses on offer.