Chapter One
Frances stepped out of the house a good quarter of an hour early. After an interminable week when heat held Adelaide in a relentless grip, the temperatures had tumbled, making walking to work tolerable.
She strolled along at a pace that made sure she arrived at the telephone exchange unflustered and, for once, cool. Only this shift and then she’d be off duty for two whole days. Tomorrow unfolded in front of her in all its unhurried glory. She’d help her mum with the laundry – it took two people to feed sheets into the mangle – but they should be done by afternoon tea time. She’d reward herself with a long soak in the roll-top bath, before putting on her print dress with the low waist and the quarter sleeve and meet Pauline to go to the talkies.
Frances wondered what the Empire Theatre would show. She rather hoped for something lighthearted, with one of her favourite stars, like William Powell or Jeanette MacDonald. But it didn’t really matter. As soon as the room fell dark and the velvet curtain opened, she was sure to escape the dreariness that was 1931.
‘Another stick-up,’ yelled a newspaper boy at the top of his lungs. ‘Another stick-up. Read all about it.’ He held out a paper to her, hope in his too thin face. Frances shook her head. Her pennies were too few to be spent without necessity, and besides, she’d hear all about the latest crime soon enough, if there really was one. One good thing about scraping by, she thought. No robber would mistake the Palmers for anything but poor.
On impulse, Frances decided to walk around the post office building where she worked. That way, she passed the small shop where Tilda and Martha O’Leary sold barely-worn clothes. For valued clients, they looked out for desired items. That’s how Frances got the smart, lime green cotton dress she wore today. Two bob, and there'd been nothing wrong with it apart from a tiny tear at the hem that anyone could mend in a blink.
An elderly lady, with grey wisps of hair escaping from a bun, bent down to put a pair of leather driving gloves in the window display. Frances knocked on the window to get her attention. The lady looked up and shook her head.
Frances shrugged as she gave Tilda a smile. After all, they were just coming up to Easter. There was plenty of time for someone to bring in the nice woollen winter coat that she hoped to purchase for her mother, and the sisters knew what to look out for.
Still smiling, she unlocked the back door of the post office and headed towards the narrow staff room. She put down her brown paper bag with her two lunch sandwiches. How lucky they were to have an ice-box.
One last glance in the mirror, to make sure her light-brown hair, worn in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, was tidy, and she was ready to take over at the switchboard.
Loud sobs brought her up short before she could enter the room.
‘You can’t do that. I’ve done nothing wrong.’ The voice on the other side of the door belonged to Gussie, the part-time girl who’d started a fortnight ago. Frances’ hand rested on the door handle, but she couldn’t bring herself to waltz into the room. Being forced to listen in was bad enough, but intruding would be worse by miles.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mr Gibbons said from behind the closed door. ‘But you’ve left me no choice but to dismiss you.’
‘I only told my friend, and she wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone.’
Mr Gibbons’ tone grew grave. ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s the Prime Minister you’ve been talking to. This is a government agency, and we maintain strict confidentiality in every respect. Good Lord, babbling about something you’ve overheard on the telephone switchboard …’
‘But I need this job. Please!’
‘You should have thought about that earlier. I’ll write you a cheque for your wages, and nobody needs to know about your indiscretion when you apply for a job somewhere else, unless they ask me for a reference.’ Mr Gibbons paused. ‘That is the best I can do for you.’
The door swung open. Frances had barely enough time to move out of the way as Gussie thundered past. Her eyes were swollen, but her jaw was set in a mulish line.
‘Come in, my dear,’ Mr Gibbons said. His face looked drained. ‘I’m afraid you've overheard a few things that should have been best kept quiet, but I trust I can rely on your discretion.’
He sank on to one of the three straight-backed chairs that stood in a line. ‘Not that Gussie is much of a loss, but I did hope it would work out, for her family’s sake. And how I’ll fill her chair at such short notice is beyond me.’ He sounded almost as if he was talking to himself, having forgotten all about her own presence, Frances thought, or he wouldn't have been so embarrassingly frank.
She took pity on her superior. Mr Gibbons always treated her fairly, and she’d never seen him this downcast before. ‘I’ve got two days off coming up,’ she said, watching the silent switchboard. ‘If it’s any help, I could come in and do some extra hours.’
‘Are you sure, my dear? You’d get paid extra. And it’d only be from twelve until five.’
‘I’ll be here.’ Frances gave him a reassuring smile as she pressed the headset down on to her hair, switched it on, and answered the first signal.
By lunchtime, her ears buzzed from all the noise and her eyes smarted from the flashing lights. She lifted her headset off and got up, moving her neck from side to side to prevent any stiffening. Lately, she’d taken to eating her sandwiches at the small table in the exchange, allowing her to keep an eye on the switchboard. She worked alone on her shifts these days. They'd become pretty quiet anyway, except for Fridays and Mondays, the days when tradespeople and business managers made phone calls. Not that long ago, there used to be three girls on busy days and two girls on slow shifts, but the depression had gotten too bad to allow for that. Calls during her lunch break were rare, the girls at the main exchange knew how short-staffed Mr Gibbons was and told callers to try again later, unless it was urgent.
With the unemployed roaming the country in ever growing numbers, it was beyond Frances how anyone could be stupid enough to jeopardise a steady job. A shudder ran through her. She called herself to order. The Palmers were fine, as long as she earned enough to meet the mortgage and the regular bills. Not to worry.
She bit into her ham and pickle sandwich. The bread tasted soft and fresh. She savoured the quiet around her as much as her meal. Mr Herbert, who worked behind the post office counter, preferred lunch in one of the small tea shops that somehow managed to survive on customers like him, but Frances hated the idea of spending two whole pennies on a simple sandwich and have even more talk wash over her.
Another light flashed on the switchboard. She took her headset and went to answer the call, fingers dancing as she worked the plugs.
The air felt crisp as she left. It cooled her cheeks as she rushed home. She’d promised her mother to try and pick up a leftover loaf or two at half price from the German bakery, halfway between the telephone exchange and Grenfell Street.
‘Whoa, steady there.’ A tanned hand grabbed Frances’ arm as she slipped off the kerb to avoid colliding with a ragamuffin boy chasing after a ball.
‘Thank you,’ she said, catching her breath. ‘You can let go now. I’m fine.’
The man relaxed his grip. ‘At least let me see you safely across the street. What’s with the big rush?’
‘I want to get to Kessler’s bakery before closing time.’
‘What a coincidence,’ the man said. ‘I could do with a loaf myself. Just show me the way to this bakery of yours.’
Frances glanced up at him. He seemed respectable enough, with good clothes and a broad jaw that reminded her of her brother, Rob.
‘Sorry, I forgot my manners,’ he said, taking off his grey fedora to her. ‘Jack Sullivan at your service. It’d be my pleasure to accompany you, but if you prefer to be rid of me, I understand perfectly well.’
There was a hint of amusement in his cool voice. Frances raised her head, openly scrutinising him. She shaded her eyes against the fast-setting sun. A dark-haired man in his thirties, pretty much the gentleman, as her mother would say, with sleepy blue eyes and a nose that had obviously been broken at one stage. The dark blue suit and buffed leather shoes were neat, but not flashy.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘will I do? I promise you I don’t bite.’
She felt the corner of her mouth curl up against her will.
He offered her his arm. ‘And your name is?’
‘Frances Palmer,’ she said, relaxing a bit more.
They entered the bakery in silent harmony. Mrs Kessler stood behind the counter, piling up the remaining half dozen loaves and a few pies and bread rolls in front of her. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, fiercely enough to raise her eyebrows. She looked like she herself was made of dough, thought Frances, with her round dumpy body and that shiny face with eyes like currants.
She said, ‘One crusty loaf, please, Mrs Kessler, and one sourdough.’ She turned to Jack Sullivan. ‘Mr Kessler makes the best bread for miles.’
A pleased flush crept into Mrs Kessler’s plump cheeks. ‘You’re a good girl, Frances,’ she said. ‘You found yourself a very good girl, sir.’
‘But Mr Sullivan is not …’
Mrs Kessler ignored her. They both did. Frances snapped her mouth shut. Setting the record straight with Mrs Kessler would have to wait until the next time they were alone. But she would mention it. She didn’t want people to talk about her, simply because she turned up with a personable man in her wake.
She gave Mr Sullivan a sideward glance. He seemed unruffled as he asked Mrs Kessler to fill a bag with the remaining rolls.
‘What do you usually do with the leftover bread?’ he asked
‘We give it to soup kitchen,’ Mrs Kessler said in the heavy accent she hadn’t lost in twenty-five years, rubbing her ample stomach. ‘It is good bread, made for filling hungry mouths.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Kind, I do not know. We do not like waste.’
‘Is there anything else you need to buy?’ Mr Sullivan asked after they’d left the bakery.
‘The greengrocers over there,’ Frances said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘But I wouldn’t want them to get the wrong impression as well. You know how people talk.’
‘I see.’ The corners of his eyes crinkled. ‘In that case, I’d better say goodbye before I harm your reputation.’
She felt her cheeks grow warm. ’Well – yes. Goodbye.’ She gave him an apologetic look and walked away from him, to the shop.
‘Nice-looking fellow I saw you coming out of the bakery with,’ Mrs Jacobs said, as she splashed water on the cabbages to keep them fresh.
Frances ignored the remark. ‘Do you have some old potatoes or carrots for half-price, Mrs Jacobs? Anything that’d do in a stew?’
‘I’ve got some turnips and onions that need eating. And I could let you have a bag of potatoes if your mum doesn’t mind sorting out the odd one that’s already sprouting. Mind you, that’s a lot to carry, even if your young man gives you a hand.’
‘Mr Sullivan is not my young man.’ Honestly, these people. ‘He asked for directions to the bakery, that’s all.’
‘It’s always good to have someone lending a hand, that’s all I’m saying, seeing as he’s still waiting around. I can see him through the window.’ Mrs Jacobs wiped her hands on her apron. ‘That’ll be sixpence, love.’
Mr Sullivan strolled towards Frances as she struggled to carry the heavy bag with her arm outstretched to protect her dress from getting dirty.
She didn’t even bother to protest as he took it off her, or ask why he’d hung around. It was kind, after all. ‘Where do we go now, young lady?’ he asked.
‘Home. Off Grenfell Street, if you're sure you want to carry my bag. But then I really have to say goodbye to you.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘But I promise you, I’m perfectly house-broken and harmless.’
She felt herself smile as they fell into a perfectly matched step. ‘We’re here,’ she said finally, stopping in front of the sagging wrought-iron gate that her godfather, Uncle Sal, cared for with black-lead and twisted wire.
He put down the bags.
‘Again, goodbye, Mr Sullivan,’ Frances said, with something close to reluctance to see him go. ‘And thank you for your help.’
‘Any time.’ He tipped the brim of his hat with two fingers. ‘I’ll see you around.’
The front door creaked open while she still fumbled with the gate-latch. Uncle Sal must have kept a look-out for her, she thought, as he rushed to help her with the bags.
‘You’ve got no call to lug all that heavy stuff,’ he said, his mouth set in an obstinate line. ‘You tell ’em folks I’ll be along to pick up those things.’
‘You know as well as I do that I had help, you sly fox.’
‘I might.’ Uncle Sal pushed the door wide open with his shoulder.
Frances followed him into the big kitchen and sat down at the table. She propped her chin up with her hands, watching the dapper little man busy himself with storing the food in the wire baskets that hung from a beam. She knew better than to offend his sense of Italian manhood by helping. For a man who was two years shy of his old age pension, his movements were graceful, despite the gammy right leg.
Uncle Sal always said the steel in his ankle was better than any weather vane when it came to predicting rain. Hard to believe he’d barely been able to hobble along on crutches three years ago, courtesy of a drunken driver who ended the stage career of Salvatore the Magnificent. That’s when he moved in for good, and she couldn't imagine life without him. They were a team.
Uncle Sal paused to sniff at the potatoes. ‘Some start to smell a bit. Only good for pig-swill.’
‘That’s why they were cheap. Where’s Mum?’
‘Run over to give Bertha a hand with old Henry. It takes two these days to lift him out of his chair, and he won’t let anybody but the girls do it.’
Uncle Sal dropped the offending potatoes back into the bag, took three of the onions out of their basket and began to juggle them, catching them on the way down. ‘So,’ he said, keeping a steady rhythm with his hands, ‘who was that young man and why didn’t you ask him in? It’s not because of me, is it? I may not be much to look at, but I wouldn’t embarrass you in front of a friend.’
‘You wouldn’t, and he’s not a friend,’ Frances said once more. ‘Mr Sullivan was being polite, carrying my bags for me, that’s all there is to it. I wouldn't dream of inviting a stranger in, as you well know. You helped Mum set out those rules, remember? If you could stop being silly now we might get supper on the table as soon as Mum’s back.’
Her right arm shot up as Uncle Sal flung an onion her way.
‘Good catch,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘We’d have made a nice double-act, you and me, if we’d ever put our show on the road. Salvatore and Francesca, the billboards would have read in bright lights.’ He sighed. ‘We came so close to the big time, my love.’
She planted a kiss on his thin cheek.
Maggie rushed into the kitchen as Uncle Sal lifted the stew-pot off the burner.
‘Sorry it took me so long,’ she said, grabbing her apron from the hook on the wall. ‘You sit down, love, and I’ll do the rest.’
Frances propelled her mother onto a chair. ‘Uncle Sal and I can manage perfectly well.’
‘That was wonderful.’ Maggie put fork and knife on to the empty plate. ‘You spoil me.’
Uncle Sal said, ‘Easy enough to cook for the three of us, with no one getting under your feet and talking me silly.’
‘Then we’ll do our best to keep our new lodger out of the kitchen.’
Uncle Sal groaned. ‘Oh, Maggie, not another Mr blimmin’ Hoskins? You’ll end up running a nursing home soon.’
‘Oh, no!’ Frances stared at her mother, open-mouthed. Mr Hoskins had stayed with them for five months, making nights miserable for everyone with his pneumatic snores, and days as bad with his stories about all the misadventures that seemed to have befallen anyone who came into close contact with himself. Despite the undeniable help that his twelve bob a week for board and lodging had constituted, she did somersaults when he left.
How she wished they could afford to have the house to themselves. A deep crease developed between her brows. She did what she could to take care of her mum and all the bills, but sometimes that wasn’t enough. They didn’t run a proper boarding house, of course, although it had been no trouble at all for them to get the required references and pass all the regulations when they first were introduced to get rid of rat-infested dumps where men slept four or more to a room. But the Palmers had one spare bedroom that they let out if the opportunity arose.
Maggie said, ‘This time it’s a much younger man, I suppose. Your Uncle Fred sent a letter from Melbourne, saying that he’d recommended me to Mr Anderson, who’s moving to Adelaide. Fred says we won’t regret it, and if there’s one thing you learn in the police, it’s how to judge people.’
‘When’s he coming?’ Frances asked.
‘Tomorrow afternoon, I’m afraid. It is short notice, but we’ll manage, won’t we?’
‘Sure.’ Frances forced herself to sound chipper. ‘It’s – Gussie got herself the boot and I’ve promised to work her shifts. That means I’ll have to be in the exchange at noon.’ And if they didn’t get the housework finished in the morning, they’d have to do it later, meaning giving up her night at the pictures. It wasn’t fair. Now that her best friend worked at the Top Note, she hardly saw Pauline at all.
She needn’t have worried. When she got up at dawn to tackle the spare bedroom on the other side of the landing, her mother had already aired the bedding and was pulling the linen bed sheet taut. It was the only sheet in the house that was as good as new, she realised as she helped her mother, folding in the corners under the mattress. The fabric felt as smooth and cool as mornings on the Adelaide Hills where they once spent a blissful week’s holiday.
Frances took the pillow and buried her face in its snowy softness, breathing in the sweet smell of sun-dried laundry. If she ever came into money, she’d take Mum and Uncle Sal and head straight to the hills with them. And she’d buy enough sheets and eiderdown and pillowcases to dazzle them with white sumptuousness. As things were though, she’d have to put up with a stranger enjoying the linen that, by right, ought to belong to her mother, while she herself made do with a sheet that had been turned and washed so often, you could read a newspaper through the fabric.
Maggie snatched the pillow from her, plumping it down on the bed. Next came the eiderdown – no scratchy woollen blanket for lodgers in Mrs Palmer’s house – and then her mother stepped back to cast a critical glance over her handiwork.
‘It looks fine, Mum,’ said Frances, who knew her mother’s fastidiousness. True, the striped cream-coloured wallpaper had faded in the fierce Adelaide sun and the chest of drawers had a chipped leg, but the ash floorboards were sanded down and polished, the brass bedstead gleamed, and freshly cut dahlias, in a gold-rimmed vase, lent the wash-stand, with its daisy-patterned ewer, a cheerful air.
‘That should do it,’ Frances said. ‘Why don't we have breakfast now, and then I’ll sweep the rugs and mop the floors while you and Uncle Sal take care of the laundry? I don’t want you trying to work that mangle on your own.’
Chapter Two
‘Honestly,’ Pauline said, rolling her eyes, when Frances explained her belated arrival at the Empire, ‘your mother’s house would be fit for the governor himself.’
Poor Pauline, Frances thought. She, her mother, and her granny had been forced to leave their comfortable rented house two streets from Frances just before New Year’s Eve, moving to an ice-box of a two-up, two-down house. It was squeezed into a long row of small, depressing buildings that hardly saw any sun in winter, with yards barely big enough for a chicken to scratch in. Not that any chicken would survive for long in that neighbourhood. It’d soon find its way into a pot, no questions asked.
In comparison, the Palmers’ spacious four-bedroom brick house with its two storeys and an indoor bathroom, as well as the outdoor dunny, felt like a palace. Frances hoped that Pauline’s new job at the night club worked out and that no one bothered her.
Frances had never been to a smart place like the Top Note, apart from one time at the no longer existing Floating Palais, but she’d heard stories about lecherous customers from Uncle Sal.
Pauline seemed happy enough. Maybe she’d get a pay rise soon. She might be able to leave the horrible house and rent a nicer one.
Frances frowned. The next time she grumbled because it was so hard to meet the mortgage payments, she’d better remind herself how lucky she was.
On a whim, she turned to her friend. ‘Shall we go for an ice cream after the pictures? My shout.’
They settled with their bowls at a window table. ‘That was so romantic, when the brother fell in love with the chorus girl,’ Pauline said, starry-eyed. ‘I’m glad you chose Fast and Loose. Do you think I should change my hair colour? Not that I’d ever look like Carole Lombard.’ She dipped a spoon into her chocolate ice cream.
‘Bleaching your hair platinum blonde would be expensive,’ Frances said, pondering her friend’s smart, dark bob. ‘You told me yourself, when Miss Arnold did it? She had to go to the beauty parlour every four weeks, because the roots showed up, and that on a teaching assistant’s salary.’ She let a spoonful of ice cream melt on her tongue. Funny how something this cold could warm your heart.
Pauline sighed. ‘I know.’ She’d worked as a shampoo girl for almost two years, picking up a lot of skills when it came to doing hair, before the salon closed. ‘But, Frances, remember what happened when that waitress from the Floating Palais got her hair done just like Greta Garbo, only much lighter.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘She’s married now, with a house in Glenelg and her own maid, and she’s got a chauffeur who drives her around in a tan-coloured Packard. She had the car especially painted to match her brown mink coat.’
Frances suppressed a giggle. ‘What a good thing she doesn’t wear black and white rabbit. Imagine how ridiculous a matching car would look then.’
‘It does look ridiculous all right, when she waves like this at people.’ Pauline gave a languid wave with her hand. ‘But like I said, she caught the eye of a rich man as soon as she swanned around like a movie star.’
Frances felt a stab of alarm. Surely Pauline wouldn’t be stupid enough to spend a fortune on her hair in the hope of finding a wealthy husband at the Top Note? And what about her boyfriend Tony? He was still travelling, searching for work, but they’d been as good as engaged when he left.
She scraped the last bits of ice cream out of the bowl before she pushed back her chair. ‘I think we’d better get going,’ she said. ‘They’ll be worrying at home if I stay out too late.’
Pauline peered at the wall clock. ‘Quarter past ten. Shall we walk or take the tram?’
‘The tram.’ Frances pulled a face. She’d promised her mum that she’d never walk home in the dark. That was tempting fate for a pretty girl, her mother said, with so many vagrants passing through who might get ideas. Safety was more important than saving a few pennies, she said. Frances gave in, to keep her mum happy, although she’d never felt anything but safe on the streets.
Pauline linked her arm with Frances’. ‘So,’ she said, ‘what’s your new lodger like?’
‘I haven’t seen him yet. I went to meet you straight after work.’
‘Don’t tell me it’s another old codger?’
‘He’s supposed to be young, but why don’t you come and see for yourself? He might still be awake. If not, you can interrogate Mum about him.’
‘Frances Palmer!’ Two pink spots appeared on Pauline’s cheeks. ‘I only asked to see if you’d care to try my new powder, to look nice for him. It’s scented.’
The tram was already waiting as they reached the stop. The girls boarded the brightly-lit wagon and took a seat as far removed as possible from the two other passengers.
Pauline pulled an enamelled box out of her handbag and flicked it open with an experienced hand. ‘Can you smell violets?’
Frances took the small box, admiring its smooth feel in her hand and the satiny powder inside, which had nothing in common with the lumpy talc they sold at the chemist’s in her neighbourhood. ‘It’s wonderful. How did you get it?’
‘All the girls at the Top Note get one. The boss says it’s to make sure we all smell nice and we all smell the same.’ She took the puff and dabbed a few grains of powder on Frances’ nose. ‘There’s nothing cheap and tawdry about our club, believe you me.’ She perched her head to the left. ‘Why don’t you come along one night, and bring your lodger with you? If he’s handsome, of course.’ She fluttered her lashes seductively.
The house lay almost completely in darkness. A single light shone in the hallway, casting a feeble glow through the stained-glass panel in the top of the front door.
Frances stood still for a moment, hesitating whether to invite Pauline in and risk waking the others.
‘Don’t mind me,’ Pauline said. ‘I’ll come another day to meet your mysterious stranger.’
‘Wait. You’ll take the tram again, won’t you? Do you have tuppence?’
When she came down in the morning, she found her mother alone in the kitchen. The table was already set for four people and the kettle steamed.
‘Where is everyone?’ Frances pushed her loose hair behind her ears. She’d slept longer than planned, which meant that grooming would have to wait until she’d helped Maggie. As a result, she already felt annoyed with Mr Anderson who, when she steeled herself to make an unflattering first impression, simply wasn’t there.
‘Haven’t you told our lodger that we’ve got set meal times?’ she asked. ‘He hasn’t cried off, has he?’ She hoped not, because although lodgers were a nuisance, they could do with the money.
Maggie patted Frances’ hand. ‘Don’t fret, love. Uncle Sal’s showing Phil around. It shouldn’t be too long until they’re back. How is Pauline? Did you girls enjoy yourself?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ll tell you later after I've made myself presentable.’ Frances dashed upstairs to brush her hair and dab on a pinch of her own powder. Cheap and unscented as it was, it did cover the bothersome freckles on her nose.
‘We’re back,’ Uncle Sal announced, flinging the door wide open. ‘Our gracious hostess you’ve already met, my boy, but let me introduce you to our little Frances, one of the fairest flowers in our fair city.’ Uncle Sal winked at her while making an exuberant bow.
She laughed. ‘You’ll need to ignore Uncle Sal when he’s in one of his theatrical moods.’ She held her hand out to the dazed looking man who entered in the old artiste’s wake. ‘Welcome, Mr Anderson. I hope you found everything to your liking.’
‘Better than I’d dared hope for,’ he said. ‘And please, call me Phil.’ He had a nice voice, rich, without being loud. Add to that broad shoulders, open, regular features, slicked-back hair, and an air of solidity. Yes, Pauline would approve of him. She’d make sure to introduce them, but only if Tony was yesterday’s news, which she fervently hoped he wasn’t.
She stole a glance at Phil’s left hand. No wedding band.
‘Frances?’ Maggie said.
She sat down with a thump.
Maggie busied herself pouring tea.
‘What brings you to Adelaide, Phil?’ Uncle Sal planted his elbows on the table, butter knife upright in his right hand.
‘A new job. I’ll start after Easter.’
‘Doing what?’ Uncle Sal asked.
Phil took a second slice of toast. Maggie offered him the jam jar, giving Uncle Sal a reproachful glance for interrogating their new lodger. ‘Strawberry,’ she said. ‘It’s home-made.’
He spread the jam thin enough for the bread to shine through and took a bite before he turned to Uncle Sal. Frances reached for the honey pot, listening with unashamed curiosity. After all, they’d have to live with this man, so it was only fair that they should know something about him.
‘Sanitation,’ Phil said, with an air of finality, after he’d finished his toast. ‘I’m helping keep Adelaide clean.’ He turned towards his hostess. ‘Is it all right if I’m not back for dinner? I’d like to use my week of freedom to get acquainted with my new surroundings.’
Maggie smiled. ‘I’ll leave the light in the hallway burning for you. The front door will be unlocked.’
‘But you shouldn’t do that.’
Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘Why ever not? We’re all decent folks around here, not as in some parts of town I’m sure, and how else are you going to drop off something for your neighbours if they’re out? Like this jam, that Edna Brown left for me on the kitchen table last week?’
She gave him a pitying look. ‘This isn’t Melbourne or Sydney, where, I dare say, the most horrible things happen. You can still feel safe in this part of town. It’s not like Hindley Street, or parts of Sturt Street, where I wouldn’t go on my own.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Although, to tell you the truth, even we did have a few thefts in the last months. Bicycles, mostly, and a few odd pieces of clothing from the laundry line, but surely that happens everywhere.’
‘And the stick-ups?’ Frances heard herself say.
‘But that was jewellers’ shops, and on the other side of the river,’ Uncle Sal said, giving Frances a warning look. ‘As long as you girls don’t flout your tiara you’ll be safe.’
‘Still,’ Phil said. ‘Lock the door, please. To humour me.’
‘Sal?’
The old man wagged his head as if to weigh the options. ‘He’s right, Maggie. You can’t be too careful these days, not with so many desperados out there. You don’t just have to worry about being out and about.’ He furrowed his brows. ‘How about I make a little hidey-hole for the key under the roof overhang of the dunny? That’s set back where no one can watch you put it there. Suits you, my boy?’
‘Good-oh.’
‘Give me the key,’ Frances said, ‘and I’ll get a couple of spares cut on my way to work.’ Thank goodness, she’d offered to do the extra ten hours, with all these unforeseen expenses.
She perked up. She could even go and tell Tilda and Martha that she’d be willing to go to a whole pound for a winter coat for her mother, if the coat had a fur collar. But first she needed to get the cleaning out of the way before she set off to work.
She attacked the banister and ceilings with vigour. There was something soothing about clean, cobweb-free walls and ceilings that made this one of the few chores she enjoyed. The long broom she used made quick work of the few half-hearted attempts any spider had made since last week.
Frances put the broom down, resting her hands on the handle. The sun’s rays painted golden swirls and stripes on the floorboards. Singing under her breath, she ran up to her room and changed into a clean skirt and jumper.
She gave herself an approving look in the mirror as she adjusted the butter-coloured felt cloche that her mum and Uncle Sal had given her two Christmases ago. One slick of pale pink lip-paint – maybe not as fancy as Pauline’s bright red lipstick, but good enough for a girl from Grenfell Street.
Phil waited for her in the hallway. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
‘Are you sure? I’ve got to warn you I’ve got a bit of a walk ahead of me. You’d be more comfortable taking the tram if you want to go into town.’
He gave her an ingratiating smile. ‘But it’s so much nicer to walk, especially in the sunshine, with a pretty girl as my guide.’
She raised her eyebrows, hoping he didn’t mean to flirt with her. He seemed spiffy enough, but it would upset her mother, and Uncle Sal had quite a temper when it came to protecting their honour.
Phil held the door open for her. ‘Shall we go?’
Frances knew she was being watched, as good as if she saw the glances that followed her from behind flimsy curtains. She resigned herself to her fate. Being seen with two different men in the span of a few days was bound to set a few tongues in motion.
Phil interrupted her thoughts. ‘Are there any public phone boxes nearby?’
‘There is one on the upper part of King William Street, if that’s convenient, Mr Anderson.’
‘I told you to call me Phil, or else I’ll feel as old as your Uncle Sal.’
‘Don’t let him hear you call him old. There’s no knowing what he’ll do to prove you wrong. He has his pride, you know.’
‘I got the impression. He doesn’t resemble any of you, does he?’
‘Oh, no, he’s my godfather, not my real uncle, if that’s what you mean. But he’s as good as one or even better. Uncle Sal is brilliant.’ She pointed towards a metal box next to a street lamp. ‘Here’s your phone box, and now I’ll better rush, or I’ll be unable to get things done before I go on duty.’ She jingled the two keys on their wire ring. ‘Front and back door. Will two sets do?’
Phil held out his hand. ‘Three would be better. I’ll take care of it.’
That would save her the hassle of finding a locksmith. Maybe having a lodger around had its good points after all. She gave him a grateful smile. ’Thanks, if you’re sure it’s no bother. I’ll pay you back tonight. I’ll be home as quick as I can.’
Ten minutes early. She took off her cloche and put it over a hook on the coat stand.
She entered the telephone exchange room as noiselessly as possible, signalling Clara that she was ready to take over. Clara raised one finger, pulled out a plug and jerked the headphone off her frizzy hair.
‘You’re a life saver.’ Her shoulders heaved in a sigh. ‘I was afraid I’d have to pull a double shift when Mr Gibbons said Gussie no longer worked here, and Mum needs me.’
Frances arranged her own headphone. ‘Can you believe anyone’d be so daft?’
Clara leaned back in her chair, obviously ready for a bit of gossip while there was a lull. ‘She did it on purpose, if you ask me.’
‘Never!’
Clara lowered her voice. ‘From what I’ve heard, she thinks she can make more money somewhere else.’ Her sallow face blushed with excitement. ‘In a hotel on Hindley Street, that’s where you’ll find her in the evening, behind the bar.’
‘But that work’s illegal for a girl.’
‘Oh Fran, you’re such an innocent. As if anybody cares about laws like no drinking after six o’clock or no girls serving in hotels.’ Clara pushed herself off her chair. ‘I’ll better run and look after the baby while Mum goes on her cleaning tour. She’s got a new lady and she’s that hard to please, Mum says.’
‘Right-oh.’
‘Oh, and Fran, you make sure you stay on the line a bit longer, to make sure the connection works all right. I had one call cut off twice, and they were livid when they got through again.’ The first light began to flash.
‘Thanks, Clara,’ Frances mouthed as she listened to the operator at the other end who gave her a number.
With the thoughtless skill born out of practice, she plugged the jacks in, sent the ringing signal and waited for the other party to pick up. Usually she flipped the switch to cut off her headset straight away, but after Clara’s warning she’d decided to listen in for a few moments before she let people talk in privacy. It didn’t matter anyway, because all she did was let the words wash over her.
That’s why she’d already flipped the switch before the meaning of the words sank in. She sat there, heart racing. Her hands trembled hard enough to make it difficult to operate the switch again.
Crackling noises, and then again, the voice that had given her such a fright. ‘Next … after Easter,’ a man said. ‘When she’s with friends in the valley. Make it look like another stick-up.’
The line crackled louder. ‘Could be easier to take our cove lakeside,’ another man said, in a croaked, nasal voice. ‘Make him go for a swim.’
Frances clapped a hand to her mouth, setting Clara’s tin mug flying with her elbow. It hit the floor with a thud.
‘Hey,’ the nasal voice said, ‘did you hear that, boss? Think somebody's listening?’
She held her breath.
‘No,’ the first man said, just as she was starting to see spots dancing in front of her eyes. ‘Don't be a fool. And don't forget, you get paid to do your job. Leave the thinking to others.’
‘Good-oh. Sure, you didn't hear anything?’ A slight pause. ‘All right, boss. Where do you want me to do the job? The jeweller’s shop or home?’
‘Suit yourself.’ The man hung up.