The Lost Sapphire (11 page)

‘By Jove, I agree,' Mr Ramsay boomed. ‘Like the workers at my tannery who are constantly wanting more pay and fewer hours. Yet to make the tannery more profitable, we need to reduce wages and increase production. You must have the same at yours, Hamilton. The workers are like recalcitrant children who need a firm hand.'

‘We've not had a strike at Hamilton's for many years,' Mr Hamilton replied, frowning. ‘Our workers are happy and fairly paid, and I think if the staff are content with their working conditions, they don't cause problems.'

Theodore leaned forward to join in the conversation. ‘We had some of those Bolshevik types sniffing around the tannery earlier this year, trying to cause trouble. The police said there was a Russian spy here in Melbourne, posing as a Norwegian, who'd been sent to Australia with the express purpose of fostering a communist revolution. He was discovered, of course, and deported a few weeks ago, but not before he'd spoken at a number of workers' meetings.'

‘The police think there is a ring of Bolshevik spies here in Melbourne, continuing with his work of inciting workers to strike and overthrow their bosses,' Mr Ramsay said. ‘I tell you, I'll bring down the full force of the law if they try causing trouble at Ramsay's again.'

Mr Hamilton glanced down the table, taking a sip of his white wine. ‘Yes, I read about the trial of the Russian Bolshevik, but let's not bore the ladies by talking about business and politics. We can save that for after dinner, when the ladies retire.'

Violet put down her silver fish knife and fork. Her temper had risen during the conversation. The poor families she had met in the slums didn't look like they were revolutionaries trying to cause trouble. They looked like they were sick and hungry.

‘Our maid Sally's mother is very ill, and they can't afford a doctor,' Violet said, her voice high with emotion. ‘Mrs Burke usually works as a cleaning lady. She takes in washing as well as running the house, so she's exhausted. They have five children, aged eight to fifteen, and the three eldest are working in jobs that pay just a few shillings a week. They hardly have enough to eat, and Sally is worried they'll be evicted if they can't pay the rent.'

‘They will be fine, Violet,' said her father soothingly. He shot her a glance that meant young ladies should be seen and not heard at adult dinner parties.

Mrs Marchant sniffed disapprovingly. ‘She's probably Catholic. Catholic families always have far too many children. They bring it on themselves.'

Mr Ramsay looked at Violet patronisingly. ‘Maid-servants are very good at spinning sob stories for their
mistresses to get out of work. I'm sure a little investigation would show that their situation is not so dire.'

‘I've been to the slums in Richmond,' Violet insisted, her voice rising. ‘I've seen the poverty myself.'

Mr Hamilton now glared openly at Violet. ‘I should certainly hope that you have not been to the slums. That is no place for a respectable young lady. There are all sorts of criminals and thugs there. It is simply not safe.'

‘Especially with that dreadful gangster Squizzy Taylor on the loose again!' Mrs Marchant exclaimed dramatically. ‘I can't believe he's out on bail. Didn't he grow up in Richmond? Certainly no decent girl would be seen there.'

‘Do you understand me, Violet?' her father demanded. ‘I expressly forbid you from visiting the slums.'

Violet lowered her eyes to the napkin in her lap and took a sip of her water. She felt like bursting into tears.

Imogen signalled Saunders to clear the fish course and begin serving the main course of roast chicken with creamy mushroom sauce, buttered French beans and sautéed potato.

The elder end of the table changed the subject to a shot-by-shot description of the latest competition game at the golf club. Theodore took the chance to tell Imogen and Audrey about his own recent golf game.

Tommy leaned over and spoke quietly to Violet. ‘Would you like me to go and examine your maid's mother to see how she is?'

‘Oh, yes, please, Tommy,' Violet replied, her eyes sparkling. ‘Could you?'

‘I'm not a qualified doctor yet,' Tommy reminded her,
‘but I'm in my third year, and I've been working as an assistant at Alfred Hospital.'

‘That would be wonderful, Tommy. I'd be so grateful.'

‘We'll talk later and arrange for me to visit her first thing in the morning.'

Audrey smiled at Violet over the roses. ‘Have courage, Violet. Don't let the old fogeys get you down.'

Theodore turned to Violet. ‘Things will never change. There will always be poverty amongst the great unwashed, and there will always be a few whose good fortune is to be very, very wealthy. Thank goodness we're amongst the lucky ones.' Theodore shot a triumphant look at Imogen.

Violet twisted and scrunched the napkin in her lap. ‘No, I disagree – it's not right that so many should have so little.'

Theodore patted her on the arm. ‘Look at the revolution in Russia. The Bolsheviks rose up and slaughtered the aristocracy, seizing their land and wealth, and now the Bolshevik leaders are living like kings while the poor old peasants are starving to death. One could argue that the peasants were far better off under the autocratic rule of the Tsar.'

Audrey rolled her eyes.

‘Social change is never easy, especially when it is achieved through violence,' Tommy said. ‘But surely it is our duty to improve the situation of the poor, through health care, education and legal reform if necessary.'

Theodore put his knife and fork down and leaned back in his chair. ‘Pretty words … but unrealistic. Most working men are like sheep and need firm guidance from their betters.'

Violet swallowed another sip of her water. ‘I think Tommy's right – we
must
do something to make society change.'

Mrs Ramsay gave Violet a disapproving glare.

Theodore laughed and turned to Imogen. ‘Your sister is quite the fierce little warrior. Are all the women in your family so revolutionary?'

Imogen smiled fondly at Violet. ‘I'm sure we come from a long line of Celtic warriors, stretching all the way back to Queen Boadicea.'

The servants cleared the main course and served homegrown garden salad dressed with vinaigrette.

‘Here's to Queen Boadicea,' said Audrey, lifting her wine glass. ‘Long may she battle the forces of injustice.'

Mrs Ramsay exchanged a horrified glance with Mrs Marchant. Mr Hamilton quickly changed the subject to progress in the international cricket match.

The sixth and final course was pudding – vanilla ice-cream served with raspberries and strawberries from the kitchen garden. Once everyone had finally finished, Imogen caught Violet's eye and rose gracefully to her feet.

‘Ladies, shall we retire to the drawing room and leave the gentlemen to their coffee and cigars?' Imogen suggested.

Violet wondered what serious business the gentle men would discuss over their cigars, while the ladies and their delicate sensibilities were safely removed. It annoyed her that as a female her thoughts and opinions were so easily dismissed.

It was nearly midnight by the time all the guests had left, and Violet rang the bell for Sally to come and help
her undress. Sally looked sleepy as she hung the evening dress on a hanger, unbound Violet's hair and laid out her nightdress.

‘Don't worry, Sally,' Violet said. ‘I have a plan for tomorrow. Everything will be all right.'

Sally didn't look convinced, but she nodded her head dutifully. ‘That's good, miss.'

But Violet lay awake for many hours feeling jittery and sick. Her anger bubbled up – anger at the smug complacency of people like her father's business associates and their wives. Anger that she felt so helpless. Anger that there seemed to be so many things wrong with the world and no way to fix them. Violet tossed and turned all night, thinking of ideas then rejecting them, thinking of more ideas, each one more outlandish than the one before.

It was very late when she finally fell into a feverish sleep.

The next morning, Violet implemented the best plan that had come to her in the early hours of the morning. She saw no option but to return to the slums that her father had forbidden her from visiting.

After breakfast, Nikolai drove Mr Hamilton to work at the factory as usual. Imogen was sleeping in after the late night. As soon as her father had left, Violet telephoned Tommy to arrange a meeting point, then visited Mrs Darling in the kitchen and Joseph, the gardener, to beg for more food to take to Sally's family. By the time Nikolai returned, Violet and Sally were ready to go with a basket of supplies.

Leaving Riversleigh, Nikolai drove them back across the Yarra River and into Richmond. Violet examined the now familiar streets, framing up potential photographs as they passed the many colourful sights. A rabbit vendor, pushing a small handcart, held up a fistful of fluffy carcasses, calling
out ‘Rabbitoh! Rabbitoh! Buy your fresh rabbits.' A cheeky newsboy, with his flat cap and leather satchel, darted into the traffic selling newspapers. A tram rattled past, laden with passengers hanging out the doorways. A young girl of about ten pushed a wicker pram with three smaller siblings crammed inside. Violet promised herself that she would come back later to take the real photographs.

They passed a number of small shops and businesses, and lots of large advertising posters for films, products and remedies. One sign caught her eye – an old-fashioned black-and-white sketch of a woman with a pompadour hairstyle.

They pulled up at a tram stop in Victoria Street, near Sally's house. Tommy was waiting there, carrying a black leather medical bag. The locals stared at the buttercup yellow Daimler, with its uniformed chauffeur and well-dressed occupants. It obviously belonged to a wealthy family from across the river.

‘Thank you so much for coming, Tommy,' Violet said as he climbed in the back seat beside her. ‘This is Sally; it's her mother who's sick. And this is Nikolai, our chauffeur who is helping us. Sally and Nikolai, this is Mr O'Byrne.'

Tommy greeted everyone then looked at her sternly. ‘Well, Violet. What are you doing here? I thought your father forbade you from coming to Richmond.'

Violet glanced at him guiltily. ‘Please don't tell him, Tommy. I just want to help, and I'm perfectly safe with you and Nikolai.'

Tommy smiled reassuringly. ‘I can keep a secret. Especially when it's for a good cause.'

At Sally's house, Violet and Nikolai waited outside while Sally took Tommy in to examine her mother. Once again, the gang of children were playing in the street. Helen, who should have been at school, had Bubby on one hip while the others were fiddling around a homemade billycart, which was missing a wheel. Paddy kicked the cobblestones in frustration.

‘Would you mind if I take a look at the cart while we're waiting, Miss Violet?' asked Nikolai. ‘I might be able to fix it for them.'

‘No, of course not, Nikolai,' Violet replied. ‘At least you can do something for the poor little mites.'

Nikolai wandered over to check the billycart. In a moment he had his coat and hat off, and was crouched down, fixing the wheel with a spanner he kept in the toolkit. Violet pulled out her camera and took a photograph of the scene. By the time Tommy returned, the billycart was repaired and the children were taking turns pulling each other along, screeching with delight.

‘What's wrong with her, Tommy?' Violet asked, packing her camera away. ‘Will Mrs Burke be all right?'

Tommy put his medical bag on the back seat of the car. ‘I'd like to take her into hospital for a second opinion, but I think she has tuberculosis. She's coughing up blood and she's very weak.'

Violet's stomach clenched with worry. ‘That's terrible news. What should we do?'

‘I want to call for an ambulance to take her to Alfred Hospital, but there's no telephone here, and Sally says none of the neighbours have one either. So perhaps we should set off in search of a telephone?'

‘Why don't we drive her ourselves?' Violet suggested. ‘By the time we find somewhere to call and wait for the ambulance, it will take ages. It's not that far to the hospital.'

Tommy frowned as he thought. ‘Good idea, but we do need to be careful of infection. Tuberculosis is highly contagious. When the patient coughs, they exhale the tuberculosis bacteria, which are then inhaled by anyone nearby. So it would be best if we all cover our mouths and noses with cloths or handkerchiefs, and wash our hands thoroughly after handling Mrs Burke.'

‘Will she have to stay in hospital?' Violet asked.

Tommy nodded. ‘If I'm right, I don't think Mrs Burke will be coming home for many, many months. But we won't tell Sally or her mother yet, just in case I'm wrong.'

Tommy organised all the necessary health precautions. Nikolai helped him carry Mrs Burke and settled her comfortably in the back of the car, with Sally and Tommy beside her. Violet sat in the front beside Nikolai.

They pulled up at the hospital and Tommy arranged for some orderlies to carry Mrs Burke inside. Sally followed along beside her mother, looking strained and pale.

Tommy leaned in through the open car window. ‘We'll take good care of her. There's no point us all waiting around, so why don't I telephone you at home, Violet, when we have a definite diagnosis?'

‘Tommy, I don't know what we would have done without you,' Violet said.

‘I suspect you would have thought of something pretty quickly,' Tommy teased, ‘but I am very glad I could help.'

As Nikolai drove off, Violet realised that she enjoyed the feeling of riding in the front – it seemed far more
exhilarating. Nikolai drove back the way they had come, past the same rows of shops, chaotic traffic and colourful sights. One sign in particular caught Violet's eye for the second time that day:

Underneath was a smaller sign that read, ‘Good money paid for quality hair.'

‘Nikolai, could you pull over, please?' Violet asked. ‘There's something I need to do.'

Nikolai obediently parked the car in a narrow space between a horse-drawn dray and a vegetable cart.

‘Are you sure?' Nikolai asked. ‘Wouldn't you rather I took you back to Hawthorn to shop?'

Violet swallowed nervously. ‘No, I shouldn't be too long. Would you mind waiting for me?'

The hairdresser's shop was small, with a long mirror on one wall. A narrow counter with an arrangement of glass bottles and a stack of magazines ran below it. Three reclining chairs were positioned at equal intervals in front of the mirror; pendant lights dangled from the ceiling. On the opposite wall was a display of wigs, braids, artificial buns and ornate hair pieces.

Violet felt sick with anxiety as she walked in. An imposing-looking woman with impossibly blonde hair piled in a tumble of artful curls stood beside a sink in the centre of the room. The hairdresser cast a glance over
Violet, taking in her clothes, her hat and, of course, her long plaited braid hanging over one shoulder.

‘Are you Miss Lester?' asked Violet.

‘Yes, can I help you, miss?' the woman asked. ‘Here to have your hair styled?'

‘No,' Violet said. She swallowed her nerves. ‘How much will you pay me for my hair?'

Miss Lester looked momentarily surprised, then a sly look crossed her face. ‘You do have beautiful hair, but auburn is not awfully fashionable at the moment.' She pretended to think. ‘I shouldn't, but I suppose we could give you a few pennies.'

Violet felt bitter disappointment rise in her throat. She glanced at the wigs on the opposite wall. She remembered seeing catalogues for expensive hair pieces from one of Melbourne's top hairdressers. Surely her hair was worth more than just a few pennies. It occurred to Violet that perhaps Miss Lester was not being entirely honest with her, and she decided to test her theory.

Violet shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Never mind. Mr Theiler in Chapel Street offered far more money than that, and he is a rather
exclusive
wigmaker, so I'll go and see him.'

Miss Lester hesitated. ‘Let me take a closer look at your hair.'

Violet took off her hat and undid her plait. Miss Lester ran her fingers through it, feeling the weight, length and quality of her hair. ‘Now that I've taken a proper look, I can see your hair is of particularly fine quality, so I can match any price Mr Theiler would give you, and I'll style your remaining hair free of charge.'

The two bartered back and forth until Violet was happy
with the pile of shillings and copper pennies she received in exchange for her waist-length, red-gold hair. Violet took her courage in both hands and sat down in one of the black reclining chairs. Her stomach was knotted with nerves as Miss Lester combed the hair thoroughly.

‘How long would you like it to be?' asked the hairdresser.

Violet stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked pale and wan. It wasn't too late to change her mind. With the side of her hand, Violet indicated the length that Audrey had first suggested a few days ago, level with her cheek.

‘Just there,' said Violet confidently, as though she meant it.

Miss Lester pulled the hair into a loose ponytail at the nape of Violet's neck with an elastic band, then bound the hair at the end with another. She took the scissors and began to snip above the elastic band, taking the weight of the hair in her other hand.

Violet closed her eyes and held her breath.
Snip. Snip. Snip
. She could feel the metal scissors, cold against the back of her neck. Her head began to throb.

It was done. The long ponytail was laid on the counter, coiled like a copper snake. The scissors continued to snip, shaping the remaining hair into a curly bob with a long fringe sweeping off her face.

Miss Lester stopped and fetched a
Motion Picture
magazine from the counter. She flicked through until she found the photograph she was looking for: a black-and-white portrait of a teenage girl with curly bobbed hair.

‘You remind me a little of this American girl called Clara Bow,' said Miss Lester, showing Violet the photograph.
‘She won the Fame and Fortune competition last year when she was only sixteen, and is a rising actress in the moving pictures. She has curly red hair like you – an unusual, athletic beauty. Apparently in her latest film, they dressed her up as a boy.'

Violet gazed at the photograph, then at her reflection in the mirror. She could hardly recognise herself. Miss Lester had styled her hair to look like the young American actress. The bob framed her face and made her features seem more delicate, her head lighter. Violet didn't know whether to burst into tears or laugh out loud.

She took one last look at the copper snake on the counter, lifted her chin high and stood up. ‘It does look very modern. Thank you.'

Violet picked up her hat and bag and, with her head bare, walked back out to the car where Nikolai was waiting, patiently reading his book. As she approached he jumped up to open the rear door. His tawny eyes widened when he noticed her short hair, but he didn't say anything.

‘I might sit in the front again, Nikolai, if that's all right with you,' she said.

‘Of course, Miss Violet.' He moved around to open the front passenger door.

‘What do you think, Nikolai?' Violet asked in a small voice. ‘I've chopped off all my hair.'

Nikolai smiled at her. ‘It suits you. You look
très chic
.'

‘I sold my hair so I could give the money to Sally,' Violet explained. ‘She's going to need all the help she can get with her mother in hospital. I hate to think what Dad will say about it.'

‘He'll get used to it,' Nikolai said. ‘And he should be proud of you for trying to help a family in trouble.'

Violet wasn't convinced as she played with the hat in her lap. ‘Nikolai, have you ever wished that you could change the world?' she asked suddenly. ‘Well, perhaps not the whole world – but, I mean, fix things that are unfair, do something to make things better for people?'

Nikolai looked over at Violet, his eyes serious. ‘Yes, definitely. It's important to stand up for what you believe in. As the English philosopher Edmund Burke once said, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”'

Violet nodded her head thoughtfully. ‘When I see life in these streets, people living in such poverty, it just seems so wrong. But the problem seems so big. Far too big for any one person to make a difference.'

‘One person can definitely make a difference,' Nikolai said. ‘And think about the massive change that might happen if hundreds of people all made little changes together.'

Violet sat in silence, digesting Nikolai's words, before continuing. ‘My father's business associate, Mr Ramsay, says that there have always been a few people who are very rich and many people who are very poor – that's the natural order of the world.' Violet paused. ‘But I can't actually agree. My grandfather was a poor crofter from Scotland; he was evicted from his home as a child and watched as it burned to the ground. His family had lived there for hundreds of years, but the laird wanted the land for sheep.'

Nikolai turned to her, his eyes filled with compassion. ‘That must have been dreadful.'

‘Yes. Like so many others, his family migrated to Australia hoping to find gold and a new life. As a teenager, my grandfather Lachlan trudged around the goldfields selling tools and boots and shirts. It was he who started Hamilton's Gloves.' Violet patted the handbag and gloves in her lap. ‘My grandfather always said he pulled himself up by his bootstraps, and that he was living proof that with hard work and determination, anyone could make a good life for themselves in Australia.'