Away With The Fairies (8 page)

The doors hissed open on a pleasant roof garden. White iron tables and chairs were scattered around a central fountain under striped awnings. It looked European and summery. Phryne sat down and extended a hand without looking and a uniformed maid put a menu into her grasp.

‘Vegetable soup, roast lamb, ugh, in this weather, cold collation, lemon meringue pie or Charlotte Russe. Very good. Just the salad, entirely omitting beetroot, and the pie, Jill. Miss Prout?’

‘I’ll have the same, if you please.’

‘And a gin and tonic, rather stressing the gin and adding a mere touch of tonic, Jill, please. I’m having a rather complicated day. Miss Prout?’

‘I’ll have one too,’ said Miss Prout.

Phryne waited until she had a drink, then surveyed Miss Prout. She was an enthusiastic young woman with bad skin, a mass of unruly hair bandolined to her scalp, an unwise hat and too much Tangee lipstick in a strange shade of orange. Not bad looking if she would eat more fruit and omit the rouge. Brown eyes, however, alight with a mission. In this she strangely resembled Mrs Charlesworth.

‘I’ve never been in a place like this,’ said Miss Prout.

‘Do me the favour of not writing about us. We like to keep ourselves to ourselves. But I,’ said Phryne, ‘am fascinated with this magazine world. Tell me about it. Is it always like it was today?’

Miss Prout took a vengeful gulp of her drink. The fact that she did not gasp at the strength of it was interesting. ‘Yes, it’s always like that. Me trying to make the mag more popular, Mrs Charlesworth trying to drag us back into the Middle Ages. She wants to make us a suffragist tract, no fun, no gossip. She only lets fashion notes in because the readers like it. She doesn’t approve of it.’

‘The same could be said for Hilda and her flower fairies,’ said Phryne.

‘Oh, well, yes, no one can really like that stuff, but the readers do, and it’s well known that readers have no taste.’

‘But they’d like the gossip and the film news,’ prompted Phryne carefully.

‘Of course. Everyone likes gossip, it’s a natural human desire. People in Mrs Charlesworth’s Middle Ages were probably listening with their ear to the castle wall, trying to get the latest on Guinevere and Lancelot. There’s nothing wrong with giving the readers what they want!’

‘Provided they want what you have to provide,’ said Phryne, picking up her fork.

‘Well, of course.’ Miss Prout looked at her cold collation. Someone had gone to considerable trouble to make curls in the celery and roses out of radishes and even the tomatoes were cut into interesting shapes. The ham was made into little scrolls, decorated with salad cream and capers. ‘This isn’t lunch, Miss Fisher. It’s a work of art.’

‘They say the first bite is with the eye,’ said Phryne.

‘It seems like sacrilege to eat it.’

‘Go ahead,’ urged her friend. ‘There’ll be tears before bedtime if you appreciate it so much that it goes back untouched. Apropos of gossip, aren’t there gossip magazines? And, come to think of it, film magazines, and American “True Confessions” magazines. Why do you want to import them into
Women’s Choice
?’

‘A lot of women can’t bring themselves to buy a magazine that is just about gossip. A respectable lady can’t be seen reading
The Hawklet
in the street. Husbands would object to their money being spent on
True Confessions
. But a magazine that gives them that vicarious thrill—all right, I’m admitting it’s a thrill—and still has a nice cover and some recipes for baked trout would pass unnoticed.’

‘Miss Prout, why not go and work for
Table Talk
? Why this crusade to change
Women’s Choice
?’

‘Because I want to save it. New magazines will spring up with just this combination of gossip and recipes, and then
Women’s Choice
will go the way of the dodo. It’s a worthy mag with a lot of things to say which ought to be said. It can keep its famous historical homes and its book reviews and its articles on companionate marriage. And on birth control and “Divorce: By a Woman Barrister”. But unless we sweeten the message a little, the readers will go elsewhere and all our work will be wasted. Anyway, Mrs Charlesworth’s lying when she says such stuff will not sully her pristine magazine.’

The stiff drink was having the effect of loosening Miss Prout’s tongue, at least. Phryne ate capers and murmured encouragingly.

‘She’s allowed the “Is This Problem Yours?” page. There’s not a lot of difference between that and
True Confessions
. We only print the relatively quiet ones but we’ve had letters which would curl your hair. Women have written to Artemis about rape and divorce and horrible happenings. I don’t know how Miss L … Artemis stood it. Stands it … It’s like having a sewer emptied on the desk. Revolting. And Mrs Charles-worth talks about poison! It’s already out there, people doing things to children and women dying of … illegal operations, and …’

‘Yes. But I rather think that Mrs Charlesworth’s point is that it should stay out there, not come into her nice clean office.’

‘But still,’ said Miss Prout, who had cleared her plate, ‘it’s rather exciting. To think that there are people—women—who do such things.’

Phryne’s sympathy for Miss Prout was evaporating rapidly. Her fascination with the wickedness of the world was jejune and she would undoubtedly be a leading light in any true confessions magazine, inciting the readers to commit more sins so that Miss Prout could vicariously (of course) enjoy them. And the readers, not Miss Prout, would endure the consequences and Miss Prout would point the moral and adorn the tale.

‘Who is Artemis?’ she asked abruptly. ‘You started to say Miss L and then stopped.’

‘I meant …’ Miss Prout thought frantically, ‘I meant Miss Herbert, of course, but that’s a dead secret. I’ll be fired if they find out that I told you. And you mustn’t mention it to her,’ added Miss Prout cunningly. ‘No one’s supposed to know.’

‘Of course,’ Phryne agreed. ‘No one will know from me, I assure you. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Miss Prout, I see a friend of mind over there. Back in a tick,’ said Phryne. ‘This may amuse you in my absence.’

From the sideboard she collected a bundle of scandal sheets from London, dropped them on Miss Prout’s table, and walked quickly away, behind the fountain.

‘Bunji, old thing, how lovely to see you. The Tasmanian flight went well?’

Bunji Ross, dressed in a frock in honour of her visit to Melbourne instead of her usual flying leathers, grinned amicably around a spoonful of Charlotte Russe.

‘Hello, old bean! Flight went like a dream. Bit of a tricky landing but we got them back. Nasty place to shipwreck, the south coast of Tassie. You look a bit frayed, Phryne. Have a drink?’

‘Thanks, I can’t. Got a job on a women’s magazine for a bit. I’ll explain later.’ Phryne patted Bunji’s shoulder and went back to collect Miss Prout. She detached her with some difficulty from the scandals of London, and went back to
Women’s Choice
in some confusion of mind.

Miss Herbert as the guide philosopher and friend of “Is This Problem Yours?”? Miss Herbert of the inappropriate make-up, devoted heart and soul to the pursuit of fashion? Phryne didn’t think so.

‘What’s that great bundle of fabric?’ asked Miss Herbert, kicking a little away as she sat down with Hilda and the flower fairies.

‘My Worth dress. I’ll hang it up,’ said Phryne. ‘I thought we might do a special feature on remodelling old clothes. If, of course, we can persuade Mrs McAlpin to do the photographs for us.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked the elderly woman, picking up a pencil and a layout pad.

‘We start with this ball dress, circa 1908. It cost me three quid. It’s a couture model. Put it on a stand for the first photograph.’

‘Never makes much impact, clothes on stands. Why not dress someone like Miss Herbert in it to show how it ought to look on the person?’ asked Mrs McAlpin. ‘Then we can show it being remodelled and cut down, and then a big picture of Miss Herbert in the finished product.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Phryne. Miss Herbert was struck dumb. She blushed and faltered, ‘But you can’t … I mean, I’m not a model.’

‘Even better. We can save money on a model and we can show a dress on a real woman, not a painted doll,’ said Mrs McAlpin flatly. ‘Don’t argue, Miss Herbert. Miss Fisher’s idea will do, yes, it will do. Who will handle the remodelling?’

‘Madame Fleuri,’ said Phryne. ‘I’m sure she’d be tickled pink. Nothing a French dressmaker likes more than the chance to save a little money by ingenuity. We’ll have to get rid of all that torn net, but the beading is magnificent. Well, that’s settled.’

‘Indeed. We might even have the fashion feature ready for the next month before this month’s is done, which is, let me tell you, Miss Fisher, unheard of in our profession. Well, I must be off. Miss Nelson? Can you take the tripod? And the slides? Good.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Phryne.

‘To try and get a good picture of the St Paul’s stained glass. I’m hoping that with a reasonably empty church, a long exposure and a strong afternoon light, we might actually manage an impression of them. Miss Nelson is going with me as my assistant. Someone else will have to get afternoon tea. Well, goodbye for now. Nice idea, Miss Fisher. Really quite a nice idea indeed.’

Still looking like a Ladies’ Auxiliary worker, Mrs McAlpin hefted her camera in its case and followed her tripod out of the room. They heard her reproving Miss Nelson for banging the tripod against the stairs in the calm, concerned tone used by a nursery governess to a fractious child.

‘Have we got any of Mrs McAlpin’s photographs?’ asked Phryne.

‘Over there,’ said Miss Herbert, still pink with mingled joy and fear. Miss Alice Herbert! A model! In a national magazine! But what would her mother say?

Phryne saw three large photographs on the far wall. One was of a burning house. Dark shadows of people were running in front of the flames. A man was being held back by three others as he strove to run back into the fire. A small child clutched a struggling cat in its arms. Water from a fire hose arced across the leaping pattern of flames. It was fierce, immediate and tragic. But what sort of cool mind could adjust a tripod and consider lenses while that was happening in front of her?

The second was a study of the waterfront. The huge blurry side of a liner formed one boundary of the photograph. Against it was a moving tide of immigrants, some running to embrace their relatives, some collecting luggage, looking at watches, patting their hair and calling after scampering children, intoxicated with all that space after weeks of being onboard. Just at the forefront was a man. He had a European overcoat down to his heels and a carefully brushed hat which had seen better years. At his feet was a leather suitcase with polished brass locks and a handle mended with string. He seemed young. The curve of cheek and shiny-bare chin seen under the hat brim were taut, even hungry. He was looking down at a piece of paper in his gloved hand.

Phryne blinked. She had been approached by such men, fresh off Station Pier, with almost no English, who thrust forward a bit of paper with an address on it and said, ‘Miss? Pliss?’ That address, usually in Carlton, was their only link with someone who might help them in an entirely alien land. What a photograph. Achingly vulnerable, but proud and hopeful.

The third picture was taken from a hill. It showed the broad, out-of-focus sweep of a bay, somewhere like Queenscliff or maybe Portsea. The arms of the bay embraced the beach on which children were playing. The light was soft, hazy, protective. The naked babies toddled down to the edge of the kindly sea with their buckets and spades, watched by doting mothers and fathers reclining on blankets. It told a whole story. They would play in the sea until the sun grew too hot. Then they would retreat into the shade of small, cement sheet houses and eat a salad lunch and drowse away the afternoon in the scent of ozone and eucalyptus. The evening would bring a sausage and chop grill cooked over an open fire, or fish if anyone had caught some, and a few beers until the night grew cool enough for a walk by the sea, and so to bed and sleep tight.

Oh, she was a good photographer, Mrs McAlpin. She was a magician with a lens. What on earth was she doing working for
Women’s Choice
?

Meanwhile, thought Phryne with vast reluctance, back to ‘Hilda and the Flower Fairies’.

Hilda was walking in the garden one day when she heard
a little voice crying, ‘Oh my, what shall I do?’

Being a good little girl and always willing to help
others, Hilda knelt down and said, ‘What is the matter?’

‘Oh my, what shall I do?’ cried the little voice. ‘My
rabbit has his foot caught in a snare, and I will never get
to the ball!’

‘Show me,’ said Hilda, brushing her golden curls out of
her cornflower eyes. Under a rhubarb plant she saw the tiniest,
sweetest little bunny with his foot caught in a cruel horrid
snare. He was panting with effort, but he could not remove
the noose which had bitten deep into his poor little paw.

‘Let me help,’ said Hilda. She worked at the wire with
her pink fat little fingers until it loosened and the bunny
could pull his paw free.

‘But he is lame and I’ll never get to the ball!’ cried the
little voice passionately.

‘Let me help,’ said Hilda. She searched around the
garden until she found some dock leaves, which she wrapped
around the bunny’s paw and healed him instantly.

‘Now he is all better,’ said Hilda. ‘Show yourself,
please. Who are you?’

‘I’m the fairy of the bottlebrush,’ said the little voice.
Onto Hilda’s hand floated the smallest fairy, dressed in a
sparkling tutu of brightest red.

‘You are the beautifullest thing I’ve ever seen,’ said
Hilda.

‘Then you shall go to the ball, too,’ said the fairy. She
waved her wand. Hilda shrank to the fairy’s size.

Then she waved the wand again, and Hilda was
dressed in palest petals, pink and white.