One Sunday (20 page)

‘Ask her sister. She's still over there, her ears on swivels.' The widow stood, flipped her skirt down with the backs of her hands and stepped off the veranda.

‘Those chaps will be requiring two rooms and all meals.'

‘They'll go roomless and hungry then, won't they?'

‘You can charge them city rates. What are you quibbling about?'

‘Who are they sending up?'

‘Clarrie Morgan, for one. He's a sergeant now.'

‘Morgan?' she said. ‘You think I'm giving
him
a room?'

‘You'll have to.'

‘You think I'm having him on my premises? You've got a bigger think coming to you, Thomo. I'm not cooking for him, and I'm not paying anyone else to cook for him either.'

‘There's no place else for them to stay. I haven't got any room – and I can't have him here with Rosie the way she is.'

‘The Greens take in boarders.'

‘They've got that bank chappie and Willie Johnson staying there.'

‘They had four lodgers at one stage – and I don't care what you do with them. Bed them down under a barbwire fence, for all I care. I mean it – I'll close up. I'll leave town before I share a roof with that mongrel.'

‘I suggest you start packing then.' He looked at his watch.

She was already on her way, blowing Miss Lizzie and Co a kiss as she passed, then stooping to pick up a marble and send it spinning into the ring, scattering the kids' marbles.

He watched her through a haze of pipe smoke as she got into her car and drove off in a cloud of dust. He stood, walked to a veranda post where he leaned, watching that dust until it settled, then he turned towards the railway station, and maybe to Rachael's handbag waiting there. He didn't blame the girl for wanting to run. Folk got themselves stuck in bad situations and they learned to roll over and play dead. He sighed, slipped his watch back into his vest pocket. Morgan's projected time of arrival still half an hour off, he had time for a quick ride around to the railway station. That girl's bag was somewhere. Kurt had seen her with it earlier that night, but maybe he'd imagined seeing it at the site.

As he mounted his bike and pushed off down Station Street, he was smiling, knowing that if the widow Dolan said she wouldn't be supplying room and board, she wouldn't be supplying room and board. He shouldn't have been smiling, not on a day such as today. His brains were probably fried, and if they weren't yet, they would be by the time he got back. He'd forgotten his helmet and the sun was now at its zenith.

One o'clock and the town tree's shade, inching away to the east, exposed Tom's veranda to the full might of the sun. A nest of bull ants in residence beside Bill's petrol pump, directly opposite Tom's veranda, now waited their turn for some small relief as that patchy shade crept across the grease-stained clay towards their nest. A few ants were about – scouts, perhaps, measuring distances then scuttling downstairs to pass on their calculations. Red clay was hot underfoot when you had six feet.

Perhaps the blowflies felt the heat, or did their busy wings do double service, supplying both flight and fan? Drawn by the rich scent of meaty midday meals, they buzzed at every kitchen door and window, wanting in, and out of that sun. They infiltrated kitchens, found gaps in wire screens, crawled beneath doors, flew down unused chimneys. But the women of Molliston were on guard, their flysprays, swats and rolls of newspaper at the ready.

‘Get him quick before he blows that meat,' Mary Murphy yelled. She'd pared every edible morsel from a large leg of mutton, and was now measuring it equally onto eight plates. Three of the older boys were in Willama, searching for those missing children. Irene, having eaten early, was sleeping but, like the blowflies, the rest of Mary's tribe now converged on her too-small kitchen.

‘Did Jeanne say how it happened, Ma?'

‘No. I don't think anyone knows yet. She just said they found her down near the Reichenbergs' place, pretty close to their gate, and that Squire reckons Chris killed her. Of course, he would, wouldn't he?'

‘Reckons Chris killed who, Ma?' her third youngest, not long from his bed, asked.

‘Reckons that he killed Rachael Squire last night. And you get yourself washed up and that hair combed before you step into my kitchen.'

‘Chris Reichenberg? Bullshit! Him and Rae have been on for years!'

‘I didn't say it. Squire said it, then Jeanne said it; now, swat that fly, someone. He's on the curtain there.'

Mike, just returned from the swimming bend and ready to eat a horse, had got one foot inside the kitchen. Now he turned on his heel and left the room.

Next door, at the post office, Jeanne Johnson watched her aunts prepare luncheon for three. She always had Sunday lunch with her aunts, though she would have preferred to eat at Mary Murphy's table. She could smell that roast wafting out of Mary's kitchen window and creeping up through Lizzie's, rich smells of roast lamb and onions and thick brown gravy. Lizzie set a mean table the blowflies found easy to ignore.

‘How is Olivia taking it?' Lizzie asked.

‘With the usual glass of wine,' Jeanne said, watching her aunt slice corned beef paper thin. ‘Helen is a mess.'

‘And Arthur?' Lizzie asked.

‘With that face, who'd know what he was feeling?'

Jessie shuddered, trying to concentrate on the wilted lettuce leaves she'd set in a basin of water, hoping to encourage the dead to rise. She always shuddered, and often blushed, when Arthur Squire's wounds were mentioned. He'd been one of the few able men who had not volunteered during the first wave of patriotic passion, and thus had received his fair share of white feathers – most of those feathers having been sent by the Martin sisters – big feathers, pulled from their own rooster's tail. Like most in town, she'd felt for the Squire family when the telegram arrived advising the parents of young Frederick's death, but when word came through that Arthur had been seriously wounded, Jessie Martin had suffered weeks of terrible guilt and depression, until Lizzie asked one of the Murphy boys to behead the white leghorn rooster, which she'd turned into chicken broth – good for whatever ails you, chicken broth.

‘Do you think you could cut a bit more meat for me, Aunt Lizzie? I had a long walk in and I'm starving.'

‘Too much red meat isn't good for the blood. So, when did you find out that Rachael was in the family way?'

‘Oh, months ago. We knew before she got married.'

The Martin spinsters had few visitors. Jeanne, who was more informative than the
Willama Gazette
, was eagerly awaited on Sundays. Always a gold mine of information on happenings at the Squire estate, she would have been welcome at any table in town today.

Before the turn of the century, George Johnson had wed Alice Martin – George, a farm labourer; Alice, a kitchen maid, both employed by Squire. George now managed those acres while his wife managed the big house, which only went to prove that for those who could kowtow low enough, anything was possible. They'd trained their brood early to bow down and worship their Squire masters – or trained most of them. All families have their failures and their successes.

‘Oh, no. Not again, Lizzie,' Miss Jessie wailed as the telephone bell rang. ‘Wouldn't you think that people would have the common decency to not make phone calls at lunchtime?'

‘It won't connect itself, will it? Get the thing,' Miss Lizzie said.

‘I'm doing the lettuce, and my legs are near worn out from running up and down those stairs. Isn't it your turn, Lizzie?'

‘I'll do it,' Jeanne said. She'd never been allocated a specified position on the Squire estate, because she'd never learned a servant's place, which meant she could cook, clean and play kitchen or even serving maid – in an emergency. Her mouth finally proved her undoing with Nicholas Squire. A month back, he'd suggested she seek employment in town. She still cleaned at the big house on Wednesdays and did the laundry on Thursdays, but her Mondays were now spent cleaning at the police station.

Her burning ambition was to become a telephonist – some of the things people spoke about on the telephone should have been illegal. The dream of achieving her unspoken ambition kept her coming back here each Sunday, putting up with her aunts' squabbles and their wilted lettuce.

‘Will you get it, Jessie!'

‘It's your turn, and it was your turn last time too,' Miss Jessie said, heading for the stairs.

‘Remember what I said. Two quick taps with the wooden spoon,' Lizzie yelled after her, then she turned to her niece. ‘I always did have my doubts about that girl's hurried marriage to Lieutenant Kennedy.' She shook the lettuce leaves free of water, rolled and sliced them into fine wilted strips. ‘And for more reasons than one. I'm not at liberty to say where I heard it, but Gloria Morrison, who used to be O'Brien, had an understanding with Dave Kennedy before he went off to war. Dave wrote to her from his hospital bed, breaking off the attachment, because his injuries prevented him from fathering children – or that's what I heard, which was definitely not the reason, if, as you say, Rachael was in the family way.'

‘Having kids isn't all he can't do!' Jeanne scoffed. ‘It wasn't his baby, Aunt Lizzie. It was Chris Reichenberg's baby.'

‘Then what in God's name was he thinking –?'

‘As if Mr Squire would let her marry him –' but Jessie was back, and staring at Jeanne, her small eyes stretched to their limit, her jaw trembling with suppressed information.

‘Well, spit it out, Jessie.'

‘I know why Mrs Hunter was trying to call Alice all morning.'

‘Was it her again?'

‘No. No.' She walked to the table, sat down. ‘It was for the Curtins. Their oldest girl, who works at the Willama hospital.'

‘What did you find out?'

‘She said a baby was brought in from Molliston, in the ambulance, around six o'clock this morning. It's a boy –'

‘Get to the point!' Jeanne and Lizzie chorused.

‘It's got the Johnson name on its crib.'

‘Oh . . . double, triple shite and multiply it by ten. It's Ruby,' Jeanne wailed.

‘Ruby?' Jessie gasped.

‘Ruby?' Lizzie scoffed. ‘She's working for Judge Cochran in Melbourne – or this is what we have been led to believe –'

‘Well, she wasn't, but it's a long story, Aunt. Mum said no one was allowed to tell you. She said we'd get murdered if we dared to mention anything about it to anyone.'

The telephone exchange interrupted them with its new demand for attention. They left the lettuce to die in peace, left the sliced meat at risk on the table, all three running downstairs to connect that call.

 

Rosie hated ringing bells. As Tom rode back in from the railway station, he heard his telephone jangling first, then saw Mary Murphy, manhandling Rosie in through his front door, Gwyneth picking up a saucepan and his water dipper from beneath the tree. He may not have appreciated Murphy's Saturday night gramophone parties, but that woman, living close by, had been a godsend to him these past few months.

His fault. Too much on his mind today. He'd forgotten more than his helmet when he'd ridden around to talk to the station master – he'd forgotten to lock his front door, and he hadn't found Rachael's handbag.

‘Grab that telephone for me, will you, Gwyneth. Tell them I'm out and to call back in ten minutes.'

He settled Rosie, with the help of two brimming teaspoons of an opiate he only ever gave her at night, and in desperate situations, and never two teaspoons, but the situation having been reassessed and found
very desperate
, he double-dosed her, scooping up what she spat out and shovelling it back in while Mary Murphy held her down on the bed.

He saw his neighbours out, told them they were worth their weight in gold, locked his door and walked down to his kitchen. He should have locked that door when he went out. He should have got his helmet out of the vestibule and locked that flamin' door. What the hell had he been thinking? ‘You bloody fool of a man,' he said, lifting the lid on his pot.

His ride had been worth the effort. Mrs Wilson was certain that she'd seen the headlights of two vehicles swing right across her bedroom wall, which meant they'd turned around in the station yard. One set would have been the widow Dolan's little green roadster, the other pair had definitely been Kennedy's, because he'd dropped off crates of peaches for the Melbourne market, left them on the platform sometime after Wilson had gone to bed, which meant that Kennedy could have found Rachael at the station. That weasel-faced bugger was looking more guilty by the minute. When Tom had spoken to him earlier, he'd made no mention of driving down to the station with his peaches, and that omission was enough to convince Tom of his guilt.

Ruby Johnson hadn't come in on that train last night. No passengers and no goods had come in last night. During the last week, only Mrs Hall, old Mrs Walker and one of the Greens' cousins and his wife had come in, which cancelled out Tom's hope of finding beds with the Greens for Morgan and his sidekick. And that's fate, Tom thought. He'd have to give up his beds and sleep in the lock-up.

He lifted his lump of corned beef from the pot, placed it in a dish, and the telephone started jangling again. Meat back in the water, lid on, he ran to answer it.

‘Hello. Who wants me now?'

Good news for once. Morgan's car was giving him trouble. New estimated arrival time, mid afternoon. Tom had been willing that breakdown for hours, though the heat was more likely responsible than his will. Any fool who knew anything at all about mechanics knew what could happen given these sort of temperatures – if the motors didn't boil then the fuel vaporised in the line.

‘You've spoken to the pickers?' Morgan said, as if there might have been two or three pickers to speak to. And what the hell did he know about picking time? He had no idea what it was like up here, and how many coots would need to be interviewed, and how far out of town some of those orchards were – no idea, and he didn't care. It was his lack of care that got Tom's back up.

‘Having been assured I'd have a car at my disposal this afternoon, Clarrie, I've put off pushing the bike out to a few of the out of town properties,' he said, calling him Clarrie too, and that mongrel could like it or lump it.

Tom hadn't spoken to one solitary picker – or no more than a good morning. He'd have to make a bit of an effort this afternoon, take a ride out to Curtin's and O'Brien's. They weren't too far out. He mentioned Kennedy's empty wardrobe and the missing handbag, mentioned his growing suspicion regarding Kennedy.

‘From what little I've heard of Lieutenant Kennedy, he was something of a hero, Thompson,' Morgan sneered, as if army lieutenants wouldn't think of murdering their wives. He didn't sneer when Tom mentioned Vern Lowe, though.

‘Vernon Lowe?' he yipped. ‘Get out –' Midway through a very positive response, and the line went dead. Miss Jessie tried to get him back, but was unable to reconnect.

There weren't many ways to read that
Get out
, other than
Get out there and pick him up.
Bringing Vernon Lowe in, just for old time's sake, could be a pleasant afternoon's work. Of course, if he was in the cells, Tom wouldn't be able to sleep in there tonight.

Back in the kitchen, he served himself two thick slices of corned beef, hot from the pot, a carrot, an onion and two potatoes, from the same pot. He mixed up a bit of mustard in an egg cup, buttered a slice of bread. Hot food on a hot day might make you sweat like hell, but it always cooled down Tom's externals. He took his boots and socks off, his vest and shirt, which he flung over the back of a chair. He stepped out of his trousers, folded them neatly, placed them flat on the seat of his chair, put a cushion on top, then sat on it, which he'd found to be the best way to get a bit of shape back into trousers.

No one to see him sweating there, no one to disturb him. Jeanne wouldn't be coming by for a time. He'd told Miss Jessie to tell her not to come until two.

Those telephones were useless flaming things most of the time. Weeks could go by when that bell rarely rang, when he'd get to consider that box as a waste of good wall space. But take a day like today, and where would he have been without it?