In Lonnie's Shadow (7 page)

SKULL

Item No. 1834

Human skull. Adult male. Identity unknown. Has undergone forensic examination.

The former draper’s shop had been a front for many a trade, including a furniture mart and a fancy goods dealer. Old Postlethwaite, recently retired from pulling teeth, had lately taken up residence, opening a phrenological shop. To passers-by the chief attraction was the skull in the front window, covertly donated by an acquaintance who worked in the back rooms of the Melbourne hospital where skeletal remains were stored for medical study. Now proudly exhibited, the skull advertised the belief that the analysis of its shape helped to understand the workings of the mental powers.

Daisy’s nose pressed flat to the window as she intently considered the centrepiece. ‘Do you think it’s human or monkey?’ she asked Lonnie. Mapped out on the head were the continents of Animal and Moral, subdivided into countries called Combativeness, Vitativeness, Benevolence and Hope. ‘What do they all mean?’

Lonnie answered with a shrug. ‘Who knows? You’re not seriously going in there and letting that quack’s old fingers play a tune on your head?’

‘I am and so are you.’

Lonnie threw her a disgruntled look. ‘Having your bumps read won’t help with nightmares.’

‘Employers in the rag trade often check out their workers’ skull shapes before they employ them,’ she sniffed, ‘so it must work or else they wouldn’t do it.’

‘Postlethwaite’s an old shyster,’ warned Lonnie.

‘We’ll be wasting our time.’

‘What harm can he do? Come on, it’s worth a try. Besides, you gave me your word.’

‘I didn’t think you were serious.’

Daisy folded her arms obstinately, a stance Lonnie had lost many a battle over. She was a headstrong girl and would never take no for an answer.

‘Okay, Daise,’ he relented. ‘But I won’t stand for any messing around. If Postlethwaite tries anything creepy, we’re out of there.’

With a loud snort of victory, Daisy grabbed his hand and pulled him through the doorway before he had a chance to reconsider.

The self-proclaimed phrenologist, Alfred Postlethwaite Esquire, as the nameplate described him, was an earnest dabbler in all the sciences. His shop counter was bursting with bits of glassware and equipment – pipettes, tubes and crucibles, basins and burners. Arranged in glass cases were tweezers, forceps, scalpels and saws. Fungal colonies and spores were putting out shoots from bowls, ripening for closer examination. A collection of organs and animal specimens floated in formalin. Like any amateur’s dream, Postlethwaite wished to make a great healing discovery without killing the human body in the process.

The sign behind the counter read: First Consultation Only 6d. No one need go untreated!

‘Count me out,’ Lonnie muttered, as Postlethwaite bundled Daisy into a chair and set about outlining a portion of her skull with his fingers.

The phrenologist stopped at several bumps and deliberated with a swift tap, chattering away as if he was dictating notes to an imaginary person. ‘We are measuring the extent of this region to indicate the little lady’s temperament.’ His fingers continued their soft-shoe journey across her skull.

Suddenly he swept up a pad of papers and placed a tick against a word here and a phrase there. ‘Such scientists as Charles Darwin,’ he instructed knowingly,

‘have been most keen to promote this science. A slight knock here will enlarge the reflective section and encourage our little lady’s Agreeableness.’

‘Daisy’s agreeable enough,’ muttered Lonnie. ‘It’s her nightmares she’s come to find out about.’

‘Ah, I see.’ His hands circumnavigated Daisy’s skull. ‘The moral sector is well defined. You have a great amount of Spirituality.’

Lonnie was growing impatient. More likely the old fraud had seen Daisy jiggling her tambourine and wearing her Sally’s uniform.

Postlethwaite moved his hand to the back of her skull. ‘Here is the section we call Fear.’ He tapped hard on the site.

‘Ouch!’

‘Steady on, mate.’ Lonnie gripped Postlethwaite’s arm. ‘You’ll do her an injury.’

‘I’m merely working on the area of her trouble. If you wish to remain for this consultation then I insist you show less impertinence.’ Postlethwaite brushed down his sleeve and resumed his map work across Daisy’s skull. ‘There are of course other possibilities for repair. Say we drilled here,’ he said, pressing his thumb down hard on Trepidation, ‘we may destroy the part of the brain which contains the important background to the fear. Only a small indentation will be left. Very easily fixed.’ He gave Daisy an encouraging smile.

Lonnie grabbed hold of his friend and hoisted her out of the chair. ‘That’s enough, Daise, no one’s drilling holes in your head.’ He glared hotly at the phrenologist.

Postlethwaite was as aggravated as Lonnie, who turned his back and strode to the door, dragging the protesting Daisy along behind him. The scientist rushed after them. ‘Now see here, wait a minute! What about my payment?’

Lonnie reached into his pocket and dismissively tossed a sixpence in his direction. ‘Daylight robbery, mate.’

Outside Daisy ripped her hand away from his. Her eyes were grey specks in a stormy sky; the tempest was coming. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘He’s demented. I told you so in the first place. Gives me the creeps.’

‘In. The. First. Place.’ Daisy sounded out each word as brutally as the force of an executioner’s axe.‘Who said I can’t speak up for myself ? Am I mute? Do you think for one moment I’d give permission to anyone to drill into my skull, or for that matter I needed you to rescue me? I thought you knew me better, Lonnie McGuinness. And in the second place, who says you’re right? Mr Postlethwaite may well have helped. So now you’ve dragged me out, have you any other bright ideas about how I’m going to stop my nightmares?’

‘Come on, Daise, I didn’t mean it. Postlethwaite’s an old fool.’ Lonnie trailed off, lost for words. There was no doubt about it, if anyone knew her own mind it was Daisy Cameron. He should’ve known better than to get on her wrong side. ‘We’ll find another way of sorting this. Let me think it over. I promise I’ll help.’

‘Be careful you don’t make promises you can’t keep,’ warned Daisy sternly, but then relented and slipped her arm through his. ‘Walk with me to number four. Let’s see what Pearl’s up to. I haven’t seen her around for ages.’

‘Good idea,’ Lonnie said, relieved that Daisy was no longer cross with him. ‘The little shirker was supposed to meet me at the oyster bar the other night, but she didn’t show.’

BROKEN HINGE

Item No. 654

Metal T-hinge. A shaped hinge
still commonly used today.

A slit of light broke through the exterior wall. Pearl dug her fingers into the dirt and slowly pulled herself towards it. One hand settled on a small soft creature moving in front. Startled, she jerked back and bumped her head on the timber above. After a few deep breaths she willed herself calm and continued to move inch by inch towards the wall. She began to scrape and scratch at the crumbling mortar with a broken hinge she’d found in the dirt. If she could gouge a hole large enough to squeeze through, then she could make a run for it before Annie cottoned on.

A squeak and a groan on the floorboards above warned her the trapdoor would soon be on the move. She hastily shimmied back to her place underneath the hulking door and lay still. Annie dropped a small, partially filled bottle through the hole. Pearl grabbed it and drank thirstily. With a feeling of disgust she threw it aside. There was more spit in her mouth than there was water in that bottle.

‘Ungrateful slut, if yer never heard of again, no one will even miss yer,’ snarled Annie. ‘Yer depend on me, all I have to do is close this and forget about yer. That’s how easy it is, girlie.’ And just to prove her point she slammed down the trapdoor once again.

Dread enveloped Pearl. ‘Don’t let me rot down here,’ she whimpered. Her plea dissolved in the empty air.She clutched the rusty hinge and moved back to the outer wall to continue scratching and scraping. ‘I won’t give in,’ she vowed. Not without putting up a fight.

EMPTY FLAGON

Item No. 641

Stoneware ginger beer or sarsaparilla flagon. Found in cesspit.

Lonnie was turning things over in his mind. He was hot-headed, there was no denying it. Because of that crazy phrenologist Postlethwaite, he was going to have to find a cure for Daisy’s nightmares. So what was he supposed to do? Work a magic trick? Become a vicar or a priest and exorcise her evil spirits? He was fast realising that finding a remedy for everyone’s complications in life was not always easy.

He stifled a yawn. It was still early, barely sunrise in fact, yet he had already worked several hours. At least it was a short shift. A few days had shot by since the Glen’s foreman had asked him to call over. Even though Lonnie had half convinced himself he might be offered a job, he wondered deep down if anything would come of the meeting. The prospect meant a lot to him, maybe a real chance of becoming an apprentice jockey. Lonnie McGuinness wearing silks? Now that would be a complication he welcomed. Still, it would have to wait.

He finished up at work, dusted off his trousers and set off to meet Carlo. Here was another promise to keep. Next time he was going to keep his big mouth shut. Not that he really minded helping out Carlo every now and then, if only for the reason in the shape of Rose Payne.

‘Do ya reckon she’d ever walk out with me?’ asked Lonnie, when the boys met up outside Carlo’s house. Bella, ready to pull along Carlo’s festively-painted cart with its new blue and yellow canopy, was taking an interest. Her ears swivelled around at the sound of his voice. Lonnie stroked her mane. The cart behind was stacked high with winter fruit – pears to sink your teeth into, oranges with the promise of bursting juice on the first bite, firm yellow bananas and crisp red apples shone to a gloss.

‘You’re making her jealous,’ observed Carlo. ‘She’s getting a bit toey. Needs some of your whispering; those horsy things you do. Beats me why the girls all seem to like you, but. Even Bella! But you got no chance with Rose Payne. Too stuck up. Ordinarily that is. Too dangerous a name for the likes of you.’

‘She can’t help who her father is.’

‘It’s in the breeding. Stick to the girls around here. There’s Daisy for starters.’

‘Daise is like my kid sister.’

‘Pearl’s sweet on you as well.’

‘Come off it, she’s only a mate.’

‘Hey, you going blind or what? Why do you think she came to see you about the horse race?’ Carlo couldn’t resist a chuckle.

‘Wrong again, mate. I went to her. She didn’t come to me. If she’s so keen,’ Lonnie replied in self defence, ‘why did she stand me up at the oyster bar, and where was she when Daise and I went looking for her?’

‘Probably done a bunk. Scarpered for a while. You know how flighty she is. Besides, you can’t look after every skirt in Melbourne, even if they all fall for you. You’d be a bit strapped for cash with the lot of ’em on the go. Better choose one and be done with it.’

Carlo had a point. Lonnie had to admit he was showing more interest in girls than ever before. Well, if he must, he decided to settle long and yearningly on the unattainable Rose Payne. Out of his league or not.

‘I’m telling you, mate, she’s too uppity. Reckon it’d empty the coffers taking her out.’

Lonnie was not to be deterred. ‘But say I did, where’d I take her?’

‘Can’t see you doing the Block with the toffs on a Saturday arvo. And the Federal Coffee Palace won’t let the likes of us through the door. Guess ya could walk around the Eastern Market. But you’d have to protect her from all us riffraff.’

‘Take a lot to keep her entertained. I’d have to keep her laughing,’ mused Lonnie, ‘and stop her spending too much of my money.’

‘You’re dreaming, mate.’

Lonnie sighed and picked up a flagon from a stack on the wagon. ‘New line?’ he asked.

‘Ginger ale. Heard it’s selling well so thought I’d carry some. See how it goes.’

Lonnie inspected the stoneware jar with its corked lid. There was no doubting Carlo was a go-ahead.

‘With all your enterprising, bet you’ll be living with the toffs yourself before too long.’ Carlo was already an owner-driver and determined to make enough to build an ice works factory. Lonnie fully expected Carlo would take his place on Collins Hill one day, where the houses of the wealthy, three storeys tall, lined the street behind wrought iron railings and raised garden beds. ‘So long as you don’t let those building societies nab your profits.’

‘My stash is staying under the mattress. Best bank in Melbourne right now. Rumour’s going around the Macquarie is about to close. That’ll make nearly all of them shutting this year.’ Everyone was having to tighten the purse strings. It was a sobering thought.

‘Say I marry Rose Payne,’ Lonnie said. ‘Say we lived at her place on Collins Hill, you could be rich enough to set up next door. Do you reckon the nobs get more sleep than us?’

‘Not if they stop off at Mrs B’s.’

Lonnie laughed. As Bella plodded through the back lanes towards the main thoroughfare he murmured quietly to her. He became aware that Carlo was grinning smugly. ‘Just making sure her heart’s not broken.’ It was a double-edged truth. He had an intuitive understanding of horses, knowing well this was the way to give them confidence. You had to learn how a horse was feeling, anticipate what it was thinking, then work with it to bring out the best. Up until recently the most placid of the Benetti family, old age was catching up with the good-natured dobbin. The time was drawing nearer when after a day’s work Bella would be sent to the glue factory instead of the stableyard. It would be a sad and sorry day for them all.

They headed for Melbourne’s answer to the boulevards of Europe, an area where roads were lined by young elm trees and cobbled in timber and bluestone; where tramcars rattled downhill; and on a Saturday morning well-dressed young men and women were inclined to shop in the arcades, then stroll in the afternoon along the sheltered walkways, a pastime they fondly called ‘doing the Block’.

On the street corners barrow boys were already setting up their loads. Coals warmed in their braziers ready for roasting horse chestnuts and potatoes. Flower sellers made ready their posies of pansies tied around with pale ribbons. Large bouquets trailed wild ramblers. There was a clatter of noise as the handcarts and wagons rolled into place and the traders dropped down the timber sides, showing off their heavy-skinned vegetables for sale. Everywhere the fruit was so fresh it could have fallen from the trees straight into the crates. On seeing this fat, rich fare it was hard to contemplate how some folk were already going hungry.

As they were setting up their fresh produce, Lonnie took the opportunity to tell Carlo about his recent track work on Trident. ‘Reckon I could have beaten Crick,’ he said. ‘There’s more to Trident than meets the eye.’ He suddenly stopped short, as if he’d had second thoughts about something.

If Carlo picked up any slight hesitation on Lonnie’s part, he failed to show it and the remark passed by without much of a comment, Carlo more concerned with his own prospects. ‘Sure way to lose your job, but could be a good thing,’ he declared. ‘Then you’d have to come work for me full time. ’Bout time we went into partnership.’

‘Can’t, mate, may have some new prospects at the

Glen.’

‘So are ya telling me the Glen may steal you first? Talk about loyalty!’

A surge of customers descended into the main thoroughfare. Rings of young ladies stood twirling their umbrellas. They made a fetching sight, all buttoned up against the wind, their plumped-out bustles making each pinched waist even slimmer. Carlo caught sight of a particular girl heading their way. ‘Here comes Lady Muck.’

Lonnie shoved Carlo aside, nearly knocking him off his feet. ‘Quick, let me serve her!’ He brushed himself down, put on his brightest smile and started to spit and polish an apple.

The sixteen-year-old beauty walked towards them. Lonnie could not take his eyes off the few dark curls that escaped from beneath her blue bonnet. A padded jacket of the same colour squared off her slight shoulders. Buttons made of mother-of-pearl pinned the collar tightly around her neck and ran like cameo rainbows down to her tiny, drawn-in waist. On this bracing winter’s morning, she looked like the dazzle of a Melbourne summer sky, warming Lonnie through to his very bones.

It was hard to believe that a scumbag like Henry Payne could have fathered her. It still made Lonnie furious to think of poor Auntie Tilly having to leave Little Lon because of Henry Payne. That man caused nothing but grief. As Lonnie imagined her as a baby swapped at birth, Rose greeted him with a fetching smile. Lingering in the crisp air around her was a delicate fragrance of dried rose petals and lavender.

‘Do you think I should try a red or a green apple today?’ she asked. Her heart-shaped lips shot arrows of desire at him with each softly formed syllable.

Ping, ping, the arrows hit. ‘The red ones are crisp, freshly pinged, I mean picked,’ he stammered. ‘The sweetest, too.’ Like you, he wanted to say, but he kept the thought private. He took a bite. ‘See.’ He offered her another of the same.

She giggled behind her hand then accepted, the tip of her glove making contact with his skin. She bit lusciously into the fruit, all the while staring squarely at him, her eyes sparkling a challenge. Ping, ping, more arrows hit. There and then, as she held the fruit to her mouth with those half-open lips, there was no other girl in the world for him. He was lost to her forever. If it had been summertime and he had offered her ice-cream, it would glisten transparent in the sunshine, and Rose’s rosebud lips would open, and her tongue would lick and melt the cool ice. Ping.

‘Delicious.’ She interrupted his daydreams, undid a silver clip on her beaded purse and pulled out a coin.

Lonnie reached over and lightly brushed a hand that he was certain felt as charged as his own. ‘No cost.’

She pulled her hand away. ‘You mustn’t do that.’

‘What?’ Ping. ‘Do what? Why not?’

She glanced over at Carlo, who was keeping track of the exchange. ‘You’re supposed to be selling them. Won’t you get in trouble from your boss?’

‘He’s not my boss. We’re partners.’

Carlo’s eyeballs nearly popped out and fell on the ground. He coughed, trying to stifle a laugh, and quickly diverted his attention towards Bella, who was happily shoving her nose into an oat bag.

‘Ooh, I see. Well, you’ll never be rich if you give away your fruit,’ Rose said. ‘Or if you eat it.’

‘Let’s say we want your valued custom. Once you’ve tasted our apples, you’ll be sure to come back. Carlo calls it marketing. He’s a real go-ahead.’

‘How very sure you are.’

Before Lonnie could think of another clever reply, a snappily suited young gent, the last person in the world Lonnie wanted to see, all butterfly collar and starched cuffs, strolled towards the cart and tipped his hat to Rose. The toffs who did the Block were as elegantly dressed as the ladies. They wouldn’t be seen dead without their top hats or their ebony and silver-finished canes.

‘Thomas, how nice to see you.’

Glumly aware of his own worn trousers, brown waistcoat and workman’s cap, Lonnie wished he could swipe the walking cane right out of Thomas Crick’s hand and whack him hard over the head with it.

‘Do try one of these delightful apples,’ Rose chirped. ‘They’re crisp and fresh. By far the sweetest in Melbourne. You’re allowed, it’s marketing.’

Lonnie spat on an apple and slowly rubbed it into a shine on his sleeve before passing it to Crick. ‘The lady’s right, they’re the best in town.’

Eyes brown as mud fixed coldly on Lonnie. ‘I don’t care to buy from street vendors.’

‘Not even for me?’ Rose asked.

Thomas scowled. With his white-gloved hand he picked another apple. ‘This one.’

He glowered at Lonnie and Lonnie glowered back. ‘That’ll be sixpence.’

‘A ridiculous price for one apple, McGuinness.’ Rose looked from one to the other in surprise.

‘You two know each other?’

‘The boy’s a stable hand. Maybe not for long. We don’t allow moonlighting. Can’t afford to have the hired help too tired to put in a decent day’s work.’ He reluctantly handed over a sixpence.

Lonnie knew a threat when he heard one. So did Rose. ‘Thomas, how very unfair,’ she protested. ‘Mr McGuinness is obviously only helping his friend out as a favour.’ She looked anxiously at Carlo who was busy serving another customer, but was less than amused at the turn of events. Quarrels were not good for business.

Lonnie had never liked Crick and he liked him even less now that he was trying to humiliate him and move in on Rose. ‘Even if I had three jobs, I could still do my work and ride as well as you, or as well as any other man.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. Are you forgetting you’re paid to muck out? You may ride fair for a trumped- up stableboy, but you don’t compare with a true horseman.’

Rose looked shocked. ‘Thomas, don’t be so rude.’ Lonnie felt his anger rising. ‘The only horse I’ve seen you win on is Lightning. Even a monkey could

win on the back of a champion like him.’

‘If you believe you’re a better man than me, how about proving it in a real race?’

‘Which race will that be then?’

‘You’re both so quarrelsome. I’m going,’ snapped Rose to neither one in particular. ‘Don’t bother escorting me, Thomas, I shall take myself.’ Without a second look at either, and although it wasn’t raining, Rose unfurled her umbrella and walked off in a huff.

‘A race you’d only know about if you could be trusted to keep your mouth shut,’ Thomas said, once Rose was out of earshot. ‘A heavily wagered race.’

Lonnie gave it some quick thought. It could only be the fixed one. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

‘There’s a gentleman’s race coming up shortly.’

‘So I’m a gentleman now, am I?’

‘I merely want to prove,’ Crick hissed, ‘that a monkey can ride better than you. So I’ll be better than fair. You’ll get a good mount to ride and I swear I’ll still beat you. Let’s see, I’m willing to put you on …’ He paused for a moment as if he was contemplating a list of possible horses. ‘How about Lightning? Then there’ll be no doubt left as to who is the man and who is the ape.’