Jazz Baby (2 page)

A bit of the pleasure in the room dissipated; no matter what happened the shadow of her brother would always be between them.

Jack leant forwards and rubbed his thigh. Wollombi had been full of stories about the heroic way he'd struggled back across the English Channel, his leg and his plane shot to pieces.

‘We received a telegram telling us Ted was missing in action. Pa took it really hard. I think he just ran out of hope in the end.' She shrugged her shoulders, not caring how dispassionate she sounded. The memories still lurked too close to the surface to risk letting them free.

In front of her eyes Jack's smile vanished and the delight she had seen on his face melted into discomfort, filling the room like thick smog. A tic flickered in the corner of his eye. ‘So, explain to me exactly why you are here. You're the last person I would have expected to turn up on Mrs Mack's doorstep.'

‘I'm here for an interview. With Pa gone and Ted — well, you know. I couldn't earn enough money to keep the house. Father George found someone else to rent it and Alf, down at the hotel, arranged this interview for me.'

Jack let out a loud puff, an irritated sound she remembered from her childhood. ‘And what exactly do you imagine you'll be doing here.'

‘Why cleaning, changing the linen, that kind of thing. I wrote to Mrs Mack. She knows I'm coming. I get food and lodging thrown in. It'll give me time to get on my feet. Get to know Sydney and earn some money before I find a real job.'

‘Dolly!' Jack pushed himself to his feet and stared down at her, shaking his head. ‘Can you really be so naïve? How old are you now? Sixteen, seventeen?'

‘Twenty,' Dolly replied, raising her chin and looking him straight in the eye. He must have forgotten how long ago he and Ted had left.

‘Yes, well I suppose you must be.' He frowned and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘That's not the point. I don't care how old you are. This is not the place for a girl like you.'

‘Woman.' Dolly wanted to make clear to Jack she wasn't a child, the little sister he threw up onto his shoulders and tickled until she screamed for him to stop.

His eyes narrowed, the planes of his face standing out in the shadows thrown by the fringed table lamp. ‘Not here. No, Dolly. Not here.'

‘Yes, Jack. This is the job I'm applying for. It's my business. I am not a child anymore.' She sucked in a deep breath, pleased she'd made her point and cleared the air.

He glared at her. ‘Look Dolly, there are a hundred other places you could work. Let me help you find something else. Lend you some money for the time being. We can work it out.'

They couldn't. And besides she didn't want Jack to solve her problems for her. She wanted to stand on her own two feet. She'd been doing it for the last four years while she'd watched her father drown in his misery. This was her chance to make her mark on the world.

‘What would Ted say if he found out you were working in a place like this and I'd sanctioned it?'

Typical. Trust Jack to play the Ted card. There was nothing he or anyone else could do about it. Ted lay somewhere in France, God only knew where, and as much as she wished otherwise nothing could change the fact. ‘Ted's not here and I intend to look after myself. Just because I work
in a place like this
…' — she waved her hand around at the opulent surroundings — ‘…doesn't mean I've sold my soul to the devil.' Besides, it was the twenties, time for women to reach out and make their own way in the world. Do what they wanted to do. She intended to go places she'd never been before, experience every sensation and Sydney was just the beginning.

Jack stared down at her, shaking his head from side to side. ‘Dolly — '

‘No.' She wanted this job and she was going to do her level best to make sure she got it.

Cynthia reappeared rattling a tray with three glasses, ice and a decanter of whisky. Jack's mouth watered, he needed a drink, badly. Anything to dispel the cold stone lodged in the pit of his stomach. Shy, sweet, innocent Dolly might as well have been his little sister — she needed taking care of and Sydney was no place for a country girl. Darlinghurst and Kings Cross were dangerous places, with all the bordellos and sly-grog shops springing up like a pox.

Surely Father George knew better than to condone Dolly's mad idea. Why did she need to come to Sydney? Couldn't she have found a nice young man in Wollombi, one of the local farmers or a schoolteacher, to look after her? What in God's name was this ludicrous idea of hers about managing on her own?

She ought to be married by now — safe and secure, not in the middle of this den of iniquity. He had enough trouble covering his own back and the last time he'd tried to watch anyone else's it had turned into a bloodbath and they'd all gone down gasping.

‘Drinkies, darlings.' Cynthia settled the tray on the sideboard, added ice to the crystal tumblers and splashed the amber liquid almost to the brim. Giving her trademark salacious smirk she sashayed over to the sofa and handed him a glass. ‘Chin-chin.' She winked as she clinked her glass against his and took a sip. ‘Oh, how silly of me. Dolly, help yourself. I'm not sure how Mrs Mack feels about her girls drinking but since you're not technically one yet, I'd make the most of it.'

‘No, thank you.' Dolly shook her head.

‘Oh, come along, a sip or two won't do you any harm, a bit of Dutch courage before your interview,' Cynthia offered again.

‘No, really. I don't drink alcohol.'

Jack breathed a sigh of relief. That was one good sign, or was it? If Dolly fronted Millie Mack smelling of alcohol she wouldn't get the job. Then he could get her back on a train out of here.

The carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimed. The pubs would be closing. Millie would walk through the door any minute, preparing for the evening, chatting with the girls and making sure the place ran like clockwork, same as every other evening. Number Fifty-Four Boundary Street was a law unto itself. Millie presided over the place with an iron hand, determined to cater only for the rich and famous. Publically the politicians and businessmen supported the new laws restricting drinking hours although it didn't mean they intended to give away their own vices. Instead they'd taken them behind closed doors and Number Fifty-Four reaped the benefits.

In a matter of moments Dolly would have her job. Millie wouldn't turn her away — she was far too pretty. He cast his eye up and down her trim figure. She'd undone the dreadful brown worsted coat and the sight of the heart-shape neckline on her plain cotton dress made a man wonder what lay beneath. Jack quelled the desire to laugh at his reaction, sitting here watching his erstwhile sister thinking thoughts he didn't even dare admit. Like a country cousin she presented the very picture of modesty with her feet clamped close together. Beneath the faded cotton frock he knew her knees would be pressed tightly together too, although he sensed a hidden sensuality in the girl. Maybe it was the blush he had seen rise to her plump cheeks when he hugged her. He restrained a groan. Jesus Christ! If
he
thought that way, what the hell would Millie suggest?

As the front door opened he took a deep slug of his whisky.

‘Here's Mrs Mack,' Cynthia trilled. ‘Time for your interview, chickadee.'

Jack's heart twisted as Dolly rose, smoothed her dress and pulled her coat closer. She was scared witless, yet she had guts. She always had, even as a kid. The memory of her standing on the side of the creek, a rope as fat as her arm dangling by her side, flashed behind his eyes. Ted had slung off at her, calling her a coward because she wouldn't swing across the swirling floodwaters.

She'd done the same thing then, taken a deep breath, straightened her dress and launched across the water with her sky blue eyes wide open, staring blindly and her full lips clamped tightly together. Exactly the same look sat on her face now; he'd never talk her out of her interview.

Cynthia strolled to the door and held it open. ‘The dining room's first on the right, down the hallway. She'll be in there.'

He stood up. ‘I'll come with you.'

‘No, I'm fine. I'll do this on my own.' Dolly left the room without even a backward glance.

The same way she'd acted down at the creek all those years ago.

‘Tough little thing, isn't she?' Cynthia said as she closed the door behind Dolly's retreating figure.

There was no doubt about Dolly's toughness. She'd been like that from the word go. Determined. Determined to do what she wanted to do and determined not to be left behind. She'd had to be to survive. A mixture of pride and relief swept through him knowing she'd put behind her the abusive existence she'd suffered. His gut still twisted at the memory of the bruises her father had inflicted and he'd caught the flicker of fear in her eyes when he'd snapped at her, told her she shouldn't be in Sydney.

A part of him wanted to follow her down the passageway and stand guard over her. Millie didn't offer a charity service. She'd see beyond the worn dress and run-down shoes and before anyone could whistle Dixie, Dolly wouldn't be changing the sheets she'd be between them, earning a stack of money and giving more than half of it back to Millie for the privilege.

Who was he to interfere? He'd brought enough grief to Dolly and her family to last a lifetime. Besides, he wasn't going to be in Sydney much longer and dragging her off to Queensland wasn't an option.

Jack knocked back the rest of his drink and slapped the glass down on the small table next to the sofa. Cynthia's over-glossed mouth quirked as she studied him. He raised an eyebrow. ‘What?'

‘A side of you I hadn't seen, Jack.' She toyed with her glass, running a manicured nail around and around the top. ‘I somehow didn't imagine you had a past. I only see you as the dashing aviator. All leather jacket, goggles and derring-do.'

‘Shows you how little you know, Cynthia.'

She slid from her chair and deposited her glass on the table at his elbow. ‘I'd like to know so much more.' She slid to her knees and ran her hands up and down his thighs, her touch firm and deliberate. The neckline of her dress swung loose and, as she intended, Jack got more than a glimpse of her pert breasts and slippery satin camisole.

He sucked in a deep breath, betraying the effect her touch had on him.

Cynthia didn't miss his reaction. ‘The night's young. Let's go upstairs.' She pushed to her feet and held out a hand. ‘You're
so
tense, you need to relax.'

Her low, husky drawl made something snap and he ignored her outstretched hands. ‘I have an appointment.'

Cynthia pouted at him. ‘In that case I'll go and get ready to earn myself some money.' Thrusting her shoulders back she swivelled on her high heels and walked out, letting the door slam behind her.

The lie sat heavily on Jack's lips. Why had he invented some fictitious appointment? He'd intended to spend the evening at Millie's with Cynthia. She could do with the cash and if he went out drinking he wasn't going to be fit for anything tomorrow morning. He needed to get his mind out of the past and look firmly to the future. The offer to fly for the new air service in Queensland was exactly the kind of proposition he could sink his teeth into. The vision of Dolly's fingers clasping the thin cotton of her frock and lifting her chin rose unbidden. He owed her and her family so much. He poured himself another glass of whisky.

Bloody Ted.

Drawn to the sound of laughing voices Dolly walked down the corridor. Through the open door on her right a long wooden table dominated the space that was filled to overflowing with chattering girls; their clothes reflected the light giving the impression of a bustling flock of brightly-coloured lorikeets fighting in a field of freshly slashed wheat.

Clamping her lips together to keep back the cry of fear hovering in her mouth, she walked into the room. The animated gossip died, dropping a wet blanket of silence over her. Everyone stared, delivered rapid appraising glances from the top of her head to the soles of her sensible brown lace-up shoes, then dismissed her and turned back to their raucous chatter.

‘I'm looking for Mrs Mack,' she said, her voice barely breaking the noise. Sucking in a lungful of smoke-filled air she tried again. ‘I'm looking for Mrs Mack.' The group closest to her turned and stared again.

‘She's up the other end, love.' A pasty-faced girl, with hair the colour of a rusty gate and lips to match, pointed down the room.

Dolly nodded her thanks and made her way to the far end of the long table, taking great care not to bump any of the assorted chairs.

Clad from head to toe in black the tiny woman presided over the table from her perch on a high stool. Wisps of brown curls escaped from the black cloche hat sitting low over her eyebrows, softening a series of very sharp features.

‘Mrs Mack?' Dolly asked.

The woman turned her head, her chin resting on her interlocked fingers. ‘And who would be asking?'

A wave of heat racked Dolly's body as Mrs Mack's cinnamon eyes, framed by ridiculously long darkened eyelashes, swept her from head to toe. ‘Dolly Bowman, Ma'am. I've come about the job.'

Possibly the word ‘job' or the mere fact that the matriarch had spoken halted the girls' conversation again.

‘And which job was that? I get lots of girls coming to me looking for jobs.'

‘The cleaning job, Ma'am. Alf at the hotel in Wollombi put me in touch with you. I wrote you a letter. You said I should come. I travelled down on the train — '

‘I don't need to know how you got here. Take that dreadful coat off.'

Dolly blinked twice.

Mrs Mack's gaze didn't falter. ‘Take it off. I want to see what's underneath.'

Dolly peeled the coat from her shoulders and let it slip to the floor, resisting the temptation to hug her arms around her overheated body. Her thin cotton frock clung in all the wrong places — if only she had a petticoat to wear underneath.