Queen of Flowers (34 page)

James was singing under his breath. Gradually Ruth realised that he was singing to her. She had heard the song before and thought it very romantic. The maiden is challenged to forsake her old love, whose half-ring she is wearing.

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She refuses indignantly. Then the stranger produces his half of the ring.

‘One half of the ring did young William show; she ran distracted with grief and woe. Crying William William there’s much love in store, for my dark eyed sailor has proved his love once more,’ he sang.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ asked Ruth, laying another nosegay in the basket.

‘Aye, it was me,’ he said gravely.

‘I liked you as soon as you came into the house,’ said Ruth. ‘She remembered you, you know. But she remembered you as Hamish.’

‘That’s how she knew me,’ he said. ‘Hamish is the Gaelic form of James. One of them, at least. And I called myself Hamish McGregor for the Folk Song concerts.’

‘Did you love her?’ asked Ruth, her eyes on her nosegay.

‘Aye, I did,’ he said.

‘Did she love you?’ asked Ruth.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps. But she sent me away. If she could not have Rory, she did not want me. Rory was barren and dying.

She was in despair. She lay with me to conceive so her mother would let her marry Rory. But I sent him home to die before she knew she was carrying and I never saw her again. I did not know about the bairn—about you—or I should have stayed if she wanted me or not. But it was my ring she gave you,’ he said, breaking a thin line of tarred string which was around his neck.

He put the pendant into her hand. Ruth pulled her mother’s ring from her pocket. They matched. It was the same ring.

Ruth put both arms around James Murray’s neck and embraced him tightly.

‘My bird,’ he said into her sweet-smelling hair. ‘My dowie, my dove.’

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He rocked her gently in his arms in the scent of the flowers.

Tears filled his eyes and spilled silently onto her plaits.

Something inside James Murray which was old and cracked, softened and relaxed. He had not wept in twenty years. Ruth snuggled into his embrace. She was as warm as a puppy. After a while, she released herself.

‘And you are going away,’ she said.

‘Aye, I was, at the end of the week. But I will do as you bid me to do, daughter. I have wronged you very cruelly.’

‘No,’ said Ruth. ‘You haven’t. I will stay here,’ she said. ‘And you will go home. We can write letters. Send pictures. I can get used to having a father and you can get used to having a daughter. Then, when I have finished school, you can travel.

Or I can travel.’

‘I would like to show you Orkney,’ he said. ‘I would like it fine.’

‘So you shall,’ said Ruth, picking up her nosegay again.

‘Father.’

‘You are very wise,’ he said. ‘Daughter.’

They went on making nosegays in perfect harmony. Jane, who had been listening through the open door and holding her breath, let it out again. Who would have thought that Ruth would be so sensible? She certainly had changed.

Three of the flower maidens were dressed. Phryne was ready.

Her gown was magnificent. The underdress was of heavy morocain, so dark a red as to be almost black. The loose overdress was formed of rose petals, many-shaded from purple to maroon. Her hat embraced her sleek head, the stem and inner petals of the rose, lapping her throat, clear to show her fine profile. Madame Fleuri had surpassed herself.

In the kitchen at Anatole’s, Anatole himself was putting the
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finishing touches to his menu for the celebration feast. The soup:
consommé printanier Imperatrice
; the fish:
sole à la Reine
; the meat:
selle d’agneau Duchesse
; dessert:
pêche Dame Blanche
.

He had composed a menu entirely named after female royalty, and he was sure that the Queen of the Flowers would appreciate it. He mopped his brow and poured himself another small calvados to celebrate. Jean-Paul rather pointedly brought him a cup of black coffee.

The nosegays were ready and the minions were waiting to dress the float, which was the bed of an old truck.

‘Oh, Miss Fisher!’ yelled Maxwell Drake, designer of the float. He was dishevelled, out of breath, and horrified. ‘It’s awful!’

Phryne, who had spent the night reliving Simonds and his shotgun, was curt. ‘Sit down, drink this, then tell me what is wrong,’ she ordered.

Maxwell Drake gulped, choked, and said, ‘The float! It’s been wrecked! Someone took an axe to it and the flat bed is smashed. It’s a wreck. And we found this on the top. Do you recognise it?’

Phryne recognised it all right. It was the ragged remains of a flower maiden costume, and Phryne was in no doubt as to who had destroyed the float. But she was not going to allow one nasty young woman’s malice to ruin the parade which everyone had worked so hard to bring about. She had an idea.

She scribbled busily. ‘Take this down to the circus and put it into Dulcie Fanshawe’s hand, no one else, right? Go!’

Maxwell sprang away and ran like the wind. Phryne doffed the outer garment of her costume, appearing in her shorter undergarment, and went into the street.

‘There’s been a change of plan,’ she said to the assembled minions. ‘Someone find some whitewash, make those big paper
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QUEEN OF THE FLOWERS

flowers into really huge wreaths, and buy me as many toffee apples as you can find. I need a dozen at least,’ she ordered.

To hear was to obey. Puzzled, the minions scattered.

It had been a pretty good parade, the denizens of St Kilda thought. Loads of marching bands, good oompah-pah, fine float from Mr Clapp of Eat More Fruit fame, with girls tossing apples into the crowd. Nice dancers, terrific horses, real loud Scottish pipe bands playing ‘Scotland the Brave’, files of marching soldiers and lifeguards and police. All very well and good. But where was she? Where was the Queen of the Flowers?

They had been expecting a float. That was the usual thing.

But stepping elegantly down the middle of the Esplanade, as though they were taking part in a durbar before the regent, came three huge elephants. They were white, thus precious, and they were garlanded with flowers. Huge baskets hung at each side of the elephants, out of which three girls dressed as sweet peas were flinging nosegays. The scent swirled all around them.

And riding on Kali, her costume fluttering in the wind, a red-headed mahout in front of her, dripping with many-coloured petals, was the most beautiful flower of them all, smiling, waving, appearing like a goddess on a cloud of sweet perfume. She was very beautiful and very exotic. Professor Merckens, in the crowd, caught his breath. Kali raised her trunk and trumpeted as though to announce her advent and her power.

She was Phryne Fisher, Queen of the Flowers.

Mr James Murray to Mr Aaron Murray

15 January 1914

Dear father, I have taken the new cruise ship job and I will be
home by midsummer. With a reasonable sum, enough to begin
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with, in fact. There is nothing for me here now that Rory has
gone and Neil shipped off to Malaya. There never was much
here for me, and now it has been taken away. I will see you soon,
God and the trade winds willing. Your loving son, James.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

BOOKS

Barrow, Andrew,
Gossip
Hamish Hamilton, London, 1978

Brennan, Niall (ed.),
The Melbourne University Students’ Song
Book
University of Melbourne, 1946

Broome, Richard with Nick Jackamos,
Sideshow Alley
Allen & Unwin, Sydney, 1998

Brown, George Mackay,
The Two Fiddlers
Piccolo, London, 1979

An Orkney Tapestry Quartet
, London, 1973

Buck, Percy C.,
The Oxford Song Book
Oxford University Press, London, 1931

Child, Francis James (ed.),
The English and Scottish Ballads
(five volumes) Dover Books, New York, 1965

Clayre, Alasdair,
100 Folk Songs and New Songs
Wolfe, London, 1974

Darling, F. Fraser and J. Milton Boyd,
The Highlands and
Islands
Fontana, London, 1964

Dower, Alan,
Deadline
Hutchison, Melbourne, 1979

Escoffier, Auguste, translated by Vyvyan Holland,
Ma Cuisine
Mandarin, London, 1965

Flecker, James Elroy,
The Golden Journey to Samarkand
in
Hassan
Penguin Books, London, 1922

Healey, Tim,
The World’s Greatest Trials
Hamlyn, London, 1990

Lawler, James R.,
An Anthology of French Poetry
Oxford University Press, London, 1960

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Lloyd, A.L.,
Folk Song in England
Paladin, London, 1967

Lussier, Suzanne,
Art Deco Fashion
V&A publications, London, 2003

Mackie, J.D.,
A History of Scotland
Penguin, London, 1964

Martin, A.E.,
Common People
Wakefield Press, South Australia, 1994

Miller, Christian,
A Childhood in Scotland
John Murray, London, 1981

Parlett, David,
The Penguin Encyclopaedia of Card Games
Penguin, London, 1979

Wilson, Colin,
World Famous Murders
Robinson, London, 1993

Wilson, Colin and Patricia Pitman,
The Encyclopaedia of
Murder
Pan, London, 1961

PUBLICATIONS

‘Community Song Books’, Allan and Co, Sydney, circa 1925

‘Harmsworth’s Home Doctor & Encyclopaedia of Good Health’, The Fleetway House, London, 1924

‘Pears Shilling Cyclopedia’, Pears’ Soaps, London, circa 1820

‘The Home’, Art in Australia Ltd, vol. 10, no. 6

The legal principle discussed in this book is to be found in
R v Hallett
[1969] SASR 141 (Supreme Court of South Australia).

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AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. I have researched it as carefully as I could. There are undoubtedly some small errors of fact and timing and one big anachronism, which was when I unilat-erally moved the Flower Parade from 1929 to 1928. Please forgive me and do not feel moved to correct me. Anyone else is welcome to email me on [email protected] MR BUTLER’S REFRESHING COCKTAIL

one measure of cherry brandy

one measure of gin

squeeze of lemon juice

splash of Cointreau

sugar syrup to taste

Shake all the ingredients together. To make a long drink, add soda water or bar quality lemonade. Garnish with a cherry.

THE DARK-EYED SAILOR

Anon

As I roved out one evening clear

It being the summer time to take the air
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I spied a sailor and a lady gay

And I stood to listen to hear what they would say.

He said fair maiden why do you roam

when the day is spent and the night is come?

She heaved a sigh as the tears did run For my dark eyed sailor, so young and far from home.

Tis seven long years since he left this land A ring he took from off his lily white hand One half of the ring is still here with me And the other’s rolling at the bottom of the sea.

He said you must wipe him out of your mind Some other young man you will surely find Love turns to sorrow and full cold does grow Like a winter’s morning, the hills are white with snow.

She said I’ll never forsake my dear

Although we’re parted this many a year And Willy wasn’t a rake like you

To induce a maiden to slight a jacket blue.

One half of the ring did young William show She ran distracted with grief and woe Crying William William there’s much love in store For my dark eyed sailor had proved his love once more.

And there is a tale from my younger days This couple’s married and no more grieved So maids be loyal when your love’s at sea For a cloudy morning brings forth a sunny day.

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Document Outline

• Title page
  
• Chapter one
  
• Chapter two
  
• Chapter three
  
• Chapter four
  
• Chapter five
  
• Chapter six
  
• Chapter seven
  
• Chapter eight
  
• Chapter nine
  
• Chapter ten
  
• Chapter eleven
  
• Chapter twelve
  
• Chapter thirteen
  
• Chapter fourteen
  
• Chapter fifteen
  
• Chapter sixteen
  
• Chapter seventeen
  
• Chapter eighteen
  
• Chapter nineteen
  
• Chapter twenty
  
• Bibliography
  
• Author's note