Unnatural Habits: A Phryne Fisher Mystery (Phryne Fisher Mysteries) (34 page)

‘Any of the nuns seem friendly?’

‘Friendly? Those bloodless bitches?’ demanded Ann with scorn. ‘They told us all the time we were atoning for our sin with labour, and no labour could be too great to save our immortal souls. Didn’t matter if we actually sinned, you know. Mary didn’t sin. Neither did I. We were raped.’

Mary O’Hara winced and Ann Prospect patted her shoulder.

‘Well, we were,’ she said. ‘Don’t take on, Mary. It wasn’t your fault, just like it wasn’t mine. Your dad sold you, for God’s sake. Therefore it wasn’t our sin. It was their sin. But we paid for it, all right. By God we paid. We paid in beatings and sweat and injuries and pain. And no one’s ever going to get me into a church again. Not till they carry me feet first. Even then I might fight me way out of me coffin to stop them.’

‘Are the others all right?’ Mary caught Phryne’s faded sleeve. ‘Have you talked to them? I didn’t want to leave my little sister, she’s about the right…’

‘Age for Mr. Fraser’s attentions? I have spoken to them, and I am sure that Mr. Fraser will behave with great propriety, because I shall have him killed if he doesn’t.’

Both faces turned to her in astonishment. Then Ann Prospect laughed suddenly.

‘Knew I’d seen yer before! You’re Phryne Fisher, aren’t you? The comrades told me about you. It’s all right, Mary. Comrade Bert says she can do anything she sets her mind to. I reckon your Mr. Fraser will keep it in his trousers all right. And there’s always the chance your bastard father will drink himself to death. Cheer up. It’s all gonna be all right.’

‘If you say so, Annie,’ said Mary.

‘I do say so. Have I ever led you wrong? Got us out of that hell-hole, got us here, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, Annie,’ whispered Mary.

‘Right, then.’ Ann seemed to consider the matter settled. So did Mary.

‘Have you thought about what you are going to do after you leave here?’ asked Phryne.

‘I’m going up country,’ said Ann. ‘Grazier’s wife wants a housekeeper. I can keep house. I can take little Isa with me. Comrade Isobel arranged it. It’s hard for the outback stations to find staff. I like the wide open spaces. It can’t be harder than working in that rotten factory. Mary wants to stay here. She’s good with children. Barely more than a child herself,’ she added. ‘It’s a crying shame. When the revolution comes those child-raping bastards will be hung from the nearest lamppost.’

‘Live the day,’ said Phryne. ‘Travelling money,’ she said, handing over some of her stash. ‘Always good to have a pound or two in hand. And I’ll let the comrades know that you’re all right.’

‘Thanks,’ said Ann.

‘Anyone else here from the convent?’ asked Phryne.

‘Nah,’ said Ann. ‘Poor cows come from the gutters. Gimme a hand, Miss. I got to sit up and drink me veggie broth. Tell you one thing,’ she added. ‘The food’s better here.’

Phryne helped her to sit up, then wandered through the large house. In one room, children were pasting labels on pickle jars while a young woman read to them from
The Condition of the Working Class. At least it wasn’t Das Kapital
,
thought Phryne. Engels had a much more readable style.

‘Do not believe that you can ever rely on the bosses,’ read the lector. ‘Their interests and yours are diametrically opposed
…
’

Phryne passed into a large living room where other women were resting, reading, knitting, kissing, playing cards and drinking tea. They looked up when she came in, then returned to their recreations. Phryne asked if they didn’t work as well.

‘We’re day shift,’ one told her. ‘Afternoon shift’s come on. Three shifts a day. Gotta always have someone awake when you’ve got a house full of women.’

‘Of course,’ said Phryne. ‘Have you had any trouble?’

‘Some of the local oafs thought they’d see if we could provide them with any fun,’ said a stalwart woman, rippling a few muscles. ‘We didn’t and they ran home with their bums on fire. Some idiots decide to try to scrump fruit or steal livestock. We’ve got noisy dogs and shotguns. They’ve largely given up.’

‘Though you didn’t mind the little kids pinching fruit,’ said another, putting down her copy of The Social Revolution
.

‘Poor little scraps,’ said the first woman. ‘They don’t take much and they don’t hurt the trees. We’ve got a lot,’ she added. ‘We can share.’

‘So we can,’ agreed the first woman, and went back to the matchless prose of Alexandra Kollontai.

A third woman was sewing a sampler. Phryne wondered what text could possibly suit a wall which already had a banner proclaiming The Workers Revolution tacked to it. She asked to examine the text, which was being surrounded with very conventional cottage flowers.

If no one ever marries me—

And I don’t see why they should,

For nurse says I’m not pretty,

And I’m seldom very good—

If no one ever marries me

I shan’t mind very much;

I shall buy a squirrel in a cage

And a little rabbit hutch.

I shall have a cottage near a wood

And a pony of my own,

And a little lamb quite clean and neat

That I can take to town.

And when I’m getting really old—

At twenty-eight or nine—

I shall buy a little orphan girl

And bring her up as mine.

‘Very pretty sentiments,’ she told the embroiderer.

‘I found it in a book,’ said the woman.

Phryne kept walking. The house was orderly, if not very neat, comfortable, and felt welcoming. Only an iron will and a delicate hand could keep all this running without exploitation and complaint. And she knew who had both of those.

‘Isobel,’ said Phryne, when she located her in the fowl yard, mediating a dispute between two factions, one of which wanted chicken for dinner (aged about twelve) and one of which (aged about six) opposed the killing of her favourite hen. ‘You have accomplished great things.’

‘Daily,’ agreed Isobel. ‘Everyone stop crying. Just this once, Milly, you can go over to Mrs. Thomas and buy three of her boiling hens, cleaned and plucked. Here’s the money. You, Janice, shall tie a ribbon round the leg of your favourite hen so that everyone knows about her and she doesn’t get sacrificed by mistake. And I want you both to meditate on this. If you want to eat flesh, you must kill to get it. For you to eat chicken, a chicken has to die. Either accept this or don’t eat chicken. All right?’

‘But not Henny,’ declared the six-year-old.

‘No, not Henny,’ said Isobel.

All parties dried their eyes.

‘All right,’ they agreed. They decamped. Peace returned to the chicken yard. Phryne gently dislodged a hen which was attempting to repose on her shoe.

‘So you find jobs for women in outback stations?’

‘Yes, they find it hard to get staff. It’s a long way from anywhere in those places. But our women select themselves for intelligence and ingenuity. That’s why we use the cipher. They have to be bright to work it out. I only deal with women I know or who are vouched for by women I know. I wouldn’t want to run the risk of sending our women into slavery. Again.’

‘That is just what I am investigating,’ said Phryne.

‘That’s why you mentioned the name of that employment agency?’

‘Yes. Can you ask if any of your comrades have heard of it?’

‘Of course. Stay to dinner. It’ll be ready in an hour or so.’

‘After Milly gets back with the chickens?’

‘No, they’re for tomorrow. City children don’t know where milk comes from, or eggs, much less that eating meat involves killing something. They are almost always shocked. We used to do our own slaughtering until we acquired so many children. Now we send animals to be slaughtered to the next farm. It isn’t so upsetting. In any case, we don’t kill much, except the occasional chicken. Half the commune are vegetarians.’

‘And the other half?’

‘Are carnivores like me.’ Isobel grinned. ‘I buy a lot of rabbits from the local kids. They’re pests. And depending on who’s cooking, they can be very tasty. You can meet the commune at dinner. What would you like to do in the interim?’

‘I’d like to meet your pig,’ said Phryne. ‘I like pigs.’

‘Pigs, at present,’ said Isobel, leading the way. ‘She’s just farrowed.’

‘You don’t kill your own bacon, either, do you?’

‘No, I buy a cleaned carcass from Mrs. Gargaris. She’s got good stock. Then we cure it ourselves. We can always sell the piglets when they are a little bigger. And when they are loosed in the barley field, they eat all the grubs and bugs and weeds and churn up the soil so it’s easy to plough. I only keep them penned when the piglets are very young. There are eagles around here that could carry off a small pig.’

The pig pen was well appointed. The sow lay on her side, a huge breadth of breathing pink flesh, while her piglets suckled and walked across her. She raised her head and grunted when she heard a step. Isobel spoke to her.

‘It’s all right, Belinda,’ she assured the creature. The sow subsided, laying her head on her straw pillow with an almost human sigh.

‘Lord, seven piglets,’ marvelled Phryne.

‘I know. Poor creature. Another thing which makes me glad I’m human.’

‘Isobel,’ said Phryne, ‘that old lord who sacked you?’

‘Yes?’

‘He was such an idiot.’

***

Dinner was held in the biggest room in the house. In the original farm it had probably been three bedrooms. Now it held long trestle tables, which during the day were dismantled and stacked against the wall. Here was the commune, sitting down on a variety of chairs and picking up its soup spoons. Twenty-five people and an indeterminate number of children. The noise was appalling.

Then the soup came in, carried in a galvanised-iron bucket, and was ladled into bowls. Phryne took some. It was a thick hearty vegetable broth. The servers moved around the table and, once everyone was served, moved around again with refills until the bucket was empty.