The Lost Sapphire (8 page)

‘Let's take that photograph,' Violet suggested. ‘But first, tell me all your names.'

Violet looked up to see the sun's position and arranged the nine children in the centre of the laneway, the light falling on their faces. The smaller children were gathered at the front, Paddy holding the cricket bat and Freddy the ball. Helen held Bubby on her hip and smiled shyly, while Ruthie with the withered leg stood beside her, trying to hide her crutches.

‘Remember, you'll have to hold completely still while I take the photograph,' Violet reminded them. ‘If you move, it will be blurry.'

The children obediently held themselves still. Maisie hid behind her brother Frank, her face peeking out from behind the safety of his protective body. Billy looked solemn, as though he were engaged in the most serious business of his young life. Frank, however, twitched his cap to a jaunty angle and grinned broadly with delight.

Violet set the shutter speed, aperture and focus, and wound on the film. Looking down through the viewfinder at waist height, she checked the framing and positioning. ‘Maisie, can you just move forward a bit so I can see you? Billy, stand closer to your brother.'

Maisie shrank further back behind the others, while Billy moved a mere centimetre closer to his brother. Frank put his arm around his little sister, drawing her out. ‘It's all right, Maisie. It won't bite you.'

Nikolai stepped behind Violet and pulled some crazy faces to distract the children. Maisie and Billy forgot their nervousness at the novelty of having their photograph taken and moved forward, giggling.

‘Splendid, that's better. On my count,' warned Violet. ‘One, two, three …' She held her breath and pushed the button. She felt a huge sense of exhilaration as she took the photo – she'd done it! – and there were two more shots she was keen to experiment with.

‘Can I take some photographs of you playing?' Violet asked the children, who happily agreed. ‘You might just need to stay still for a moment when I tell you.'

Next Violet took a photograph of Ruthie bowling, while Frank aimed the bat in front of the fruit case. The other kids gathered around as fielders in the narrow laneway. The last shot was of Maisie and Billy, crouched in the gutter, rolling marbles down the grimy channel towards Nikolai, who was out of the shot.

‘Is your father sick as well?' Violet asked the two siblings.

‘It was the Great War,' Billy said. ‘Ma says he's got shell shock. He was a soldier, but he lost his arm. When he came home, he couldn't get work. Now he has funny turns where he trembles an' gets angry.'

‘Ma says it's the nightmares,' Maisie added.

‘Poor man,' said Violet. ‘Your father must have had a difficult time fighting in the Great War.'

‘Yes, but I wish he'd get better,' said Billy. ‘He's been sick for a bloomin' long time.'

‘Ma says it's
habominable
,' said Maisie. ‘He fought four years for his King and country, an' now he's treated like dirt.'

‘Your ma's right,' Violet said. ‘I think it's abominable too.'

A minute later Sally came out to call her siblings. She looked surprised when she saw the car still parked and Violet chatting to them. Nikolai by this stage was deep in conversation with the other children. They all had their heads buried under the bonnet of the Daimler while Nikolai explained the various parts of the engine and what they did.

‘What're you still doin' here, miss?' asked Sally, confused.

‘Nikolai and I decided to stay here and play with the kids while we waited for you,' Violet explained with a laughing glance at Nikolai. ‘I've been taking photographs.'

‘Oh, you shouldn't have waited, miss,' Sally replied. ‘I can walk back.'

Violet shook her head. ‘Truly, it's no trouble – but what about your mother? How is she?'

Sally sighed. ‘She's pretty crook. But hopefully a day or two in bed will fix her right up.'

Violet checked her watch. ‘We need to go in about fifteen minutes to pick up Father, so you can come with us then. Or if you'd rather stay with your mother, I'll explain it to Mrs Darling.'

Sally glanced back over her shoulder towards the house. ‘I'll come back with you, miss. I've just made the kiddies
some boiled potatoes for tea, but I want to do a quick tidy up. Ma tries so hard to keep the place spick an' span, but with four kiddies running riot, it's turned into a right mess.'

‘That's fine. I'll send Frank in when it's time for us to go,' said Violet.

Just before they left, Violet loaded a new film into the camera and set up a family portrait of Sally with Frank, Billy and Maisie against the picket fence outside their home.

Nikolai parked outside the Hamilton's Fine Gloves factory a few minutes before five o'clock.

‘I'm going to visit my father,' Violet announced. ‘I'd like to see the factory – it's been so long.'

‘Very well, Miss Violet,' Nikolai replied. Sally and Nikolai settled back to chat.

The factory had lots of tall, airy windows and double-arched doors on the lower floor, which stood open. Violet took a photograph of the outside of the factory. She would have loved to take the camera inside, but she didn't want her father to see it.

She tucked the camera away and went through the entrance and into a wide hallway. To her left were the two offices, guarded by a fierce-looking secretary sitting at a
long desk in a small anteroom at the front. To her right was the showroom filled with glass cases and display shelves. Violet turned into the anteroom.

The secretary looked her up and down critically. ‘Yes, can I help you, miss?' she asked briskly, with the manner of one used to dealing with underlings and nuisances.

Violet felt momentarily uncomfortable and worried that her hat was crooked or her stockings stained from kneeling in the laneway. She pulled herself tall and projected her voice, speaking in her best Rothbury College accent. ‘Hello. My name is Violet Hamilton. I'm here to visit my father.'

The secretary's demeanour immediately became more attentive. ‘Welcome, Miss Hamilton. How nice to see you here. I'm Mrs Clarkson, your father's secretary. Let me check if Mr Hamilton is available.'

‘Thank you. That would be splendid, Mrs Clarkson.'

Mrs Clarkson bustled to one of the doors behind her and went into the office beyond. Violet could hear the murmur of low voices, then Mrs Clarkson beckoned for her to come through.

The office was pleasant, lined with bookshelves. Albert Hamilton was sitting in a commodious leather armchair behind his broad oak desk, talking on the candlestick telephone. A pair of smaller visitors' chairs were drawn up in front of the desk while a side table held piles of papers and ledgers. On the wall behind him was a large gilt-framed oil portrait of Violet's Scottish grandfather, Lachlan Hamilton, looking successful and stern.

It was Lachlan who had started Hamilton's Fine Gloves in 1870. He had arrived in the colony with thousands of
others during the Victorian gold rushes, hoping to strike it rich. His first fortune had been made, not through mining, but from selling tools and clothes to the miners from the back of his travelling horse-drawn dray.

Later, Lachlan settled in Melbourne with his wife and young family and, with substantial capital behind him, began with a small workshop in the back streets of Richmond, making gloves. As his wealth grew, he bought a large estate at Hawthorn across the river and built Riversleigh in the 1880s.

With the changes in technology in the early twentieth century, he built this new factory on the main road, expanding his range to include leather helmets and coats for motorcyclists, automobile drivers and aviators. Lachlan Hamilton always had a knack for business.

‘Just one moment, Mr Ramsay,' said Albert Hamilton. He looked worried, covering the black mouthpiece with one hand. ‘Violet. What are you doing here? Is there anything wrong?'

He looked her up and down. Violet pulled her skirt self-consciously. She had grown so much in recent months that it was a little short. Mrs Clarkson hovered behind her, waiting for orders.

‘No, no,' said Violet. ‘Nikolai collected me from dance class and said he had to pick you up at five, so I thought I'd pop by to see you.'

Mr Hamilton looked relieved. ‘Right, well, I'm a little busy now, Violet. Would you like Mrs Clarkson to make you a cup of tea while I finish these telephone calls?'

‘I … I thought perhaps I could take a look around the factory,' said Violet. ‘I haven't been here for ages.'

Her father looked distracted, glancing back at Mrs Clarkson, as though seeking help.

‘Would you like me to take Miss Hamilton on a little tour of the factory while you finish up, Mr Hamilton?' asked Mrs Clarkson.

Mr Hamilton waved his hand, shooing them away. ‘Good idea, Mrs Clarkson. I'll only be ten minutes, Violet, but I do need to get this done.'

Violet swallowed her disappointment. She had actually hoped to look around the factory with her father so she could ask him questions. She'd imagined him explaining the process to her, their heads bent together, the way he had when she was a little girl.

‘Come this way,' urged Mrs Clarkson, ushering Violet out of the office like a mother hen herding a chick. ‘Now these, of course, are the offices – your father's here and the accountant's there. And across the hall is the showroom, where buyers can examine our whole range.'

Mrs Clarkson didn't give Violet time to look at the goods on display, hurrying her past the lavatories and kitchen to the loading dock and warehouse at the rear. Men were unloading a truck filled with rolls of soft leather in many colours. The side of the truck was emblazoned with Ramsay's Tannery. The workers shot a glance towards Violet but, with the formidable Mrs Clarkson there, they didn't dare pause for a moment.

‘A new delivery from Ramsay's,' explained Mrs Clarkson. ‘The skins are cured at the tannery a few blocks away, in River Street, then brought here for cutting and machining upstairs.'

Violet followed Mrs Clarkson up the narrow stairs on the left-hand wall. The second floor of the factory was one big room, roughly divided in half by a long wooden workbench. Large windows let in plenty of light and air, while extra illumination was provided by several electric bulbs dangling from the high, vaulted ceiling. Dust motes danced in the air, while scraps of leather and silk offcuts littered the floor and benches.

‘And this is our workshop,' Mrs Clarkson explained. ‘To the right is the cutting area. The men cut out the shapes for each item. The skill is to make sure there is as little wastage of material as possible.'

Violet wandered around the room, watching the cutters work. Mrs Clarkson followed her, explaining the process as she went.

Ten men stood at high benches, tracing and cutting out glove and bag shapes on leather hides, using metal patterns and sharp blades. Tables were piled high with rolled leather hides of various colours from white kid, to fawn, dark tan, navy, crimson and black. The air smelled of leather and strong glue.

A tall, skinny foreman with a bobbing Adam's apple walked back and forth, supervising the workers. The leather shapes were gathered up from each cutter by a young apprentice, about Frank's age, and delivered to the central dividing bench. Another boy delivered fresh hides to the men and periodically swept up the leather offcuts from the benches and floor.

‘To the left is the machining area,' Mrs Clarkson continued. ‘The women assemble and sew the garments together.'

About forty women sat on either side of long tables, perched on round stools behind their sewing machines, stitching seams. The noise of the whirring machines was deafening. A group of older women sat together, working on the more elaborate and decorative gloves.

‘The workers at this table are our most experienced machinists who do the fancy work,' Mrs Clarkson said. ‘While over there are our apprentices.'

Two teenage girls ran back and forth, keeping the machinists supplied with cut-outs and taking the finished garments away. Another group of girls worked at a separate table, tying on labels and packing the finished gloves into tissue paper.

‘Is there a girl at that table called Peggy Burke?' asked Violet.

One of the girls, who looked remarkably like her older sister, turned around. Violet walked over. ‘I'm Violet Hamilton, and your sister Sally works at our house.'

The other girls and women slowed their sewing to listen in.

‘Hello, Miss Hamilton,' Peggy replied. ‘Nice to meet you.'

‘I'm sorry to hear about your mother,' Violet said. ‘Sally says she thinks she just needs a good rest.'

A look of concern crossed Peggy's face. ‘She's been poorly for a few weeks.'

Violet chatted to Peggy for a moment about her work. Then her father came in. Violet noticed that all the workers quickened their pace.

‘Dad, did you know that Peggy is Sally's younger sister?' Violet asked. Mr Hamilton looked momentarily confused,
looking at his latest employee. ‘Our maid at home, Sally Burke. Peggy is her sister.'

‘Oh, truly?' Mr Hamilton said. ‘Well, I hope you've settled in well, Peggy, and become as dedicated a worker as your sister.'

‘Yes, sir,' Peggy replied, looking down at the floor.

‘Now, Violet,' said Mr Hamilton, changing the subject, ‘seeing you're here, I thought you might like a little present.'

Mr Hamilton led the way to the work table where the completed items were being labelled and wrapped. There was a range of beautiful leather handbags in a variety of colours and sizes, as well as gloves and other goods.

‘We've just made a new selection of bags in the very latest fashion for the Myer Emporium's summer collection. So why don't you choose one you like?'

Violet looked up at her father with delight. ‘Thanks so much, Dad. That'd be marvellous.'

After a few minutes' deliberation, Violet chose a large chocolate tote bag with a gold clasp. Mr Hamilton opened a side cupboard and pulled out a rectangular-shaped cardboard box and offered it to Violet. ‘And this is also something new that we've recently added to our range.'

Inside the box was a black leather book with
My Memories
embossed on the cover and thick blank pages inside.

‘I'm not certain if you'd use it, but apparently scrap-books are very popular now,' her father said gruffly. ‘You stick invitations and dance cards and photographs inside. It might give you something to do now that you are on an extended holiday.'

Violet rifled through the pages, touched by his thoughtfulness. ‘It's beautiful, thanks, Dad. I'd love to keep a scrapbook.'

‘My pleasure, Violet. Let's take you home.'

The next day Imogen came home from her stay at Edie's, just in time for afternoon tea.

It was such a gorgeous afternoon that Violet had given orders for tea to be served in the summerhouse. The round, open-air structure was draped with wisteria vines and surrounded by gardenia shrubs; it looked out over the river to the west and the sunken garden to the south. A gentle breeze wafted sweet scents from the rose bushes. Violet sat in a white wicker chair, wearing a large straw sunhat. Romeo lay at her feet, and he whined with pleasure as she tickled him under the chin.

Imogen threw herself back into one of the wicker armchairs theatrically, pulling off her gloves and hat and tossing them onto a spare chair.

‘We had the most marvellous time at Edie's last night,' Imogen declared, her eyes sparkling. ‘We danced and laughed and chatted until three in the morning.'

‘Did you dance with anyone special?' Violet teased. ‘Any poor young medical students, for example?'

‘I danced with countless young men,' boasted Imogen. ‘Now that you mention it, though, I think one of them might have been a medical student. What was his name?'

‘Would that be Tommy O'Byrne, by any chance?' Violet asked, raising her eyebrows.

‘Yes, that does sound familiar,' Imogen agreed nonchalantly. ‘It was quite ridiculous because Tommy kept cutting in on whoever I was dancing with, and then Theodore would cut in on Tommy, then someone else. But Tommy had to leave to go home early – he had university today – so that took some of the fun out of it.'

‘I imagine Theodore was happy about that.'

‘Blissfully,' Imogen said. ‘Daddy has actually invited Theodore and his parents for a cosy dinner tonight. Apparently they have some boring business to discuss.'

‘Bother – I'd forgotten we were having people to dinner tonight,' Violet said. ‘I'm not sure what to wear. Everything I own seems to be shrinking.'

‘Time for a shopping trip, Vivi. And we need to start thinking about getting our gowns made for the Russian Ball. I'm determined to have something absolutely adorable.'

Violet nodded. ‘I wonder where the tea is. It seems to be taking an awfully long time.'

Violet glanced towards the house and saw Sally picking her way down the steps and across the lawn, carrying a heavy tray. Romeo sat up at once, tongue lolling. He knew what the tea tray meant.

Joseph the gardener was clipping the box hedges. He said something as Sally passed, and she stopped for a moment to talk to him before hurrying forward.

‘Here she is,' said Violet, stroking Romeo's soft, velvety ears.

Sally stepped into the summerhouse and carefully unloaded each item onto the white tablecloth – the silver
tea pot, milk jug, hot water jug, and plates of scones, sandwiches, biscuits and fruitcake.

‘Thank you, Sally,' Imogen said, pouring milk into two dainty cups. ‘I'm dying for a cup of tea.'