A Tattooed Heart (7 page)

‘I know where I'm going,' Jack grumbled.

Friday glanced at him. He'd pulled his hat so far down she could barely see the outline of his handsome face. It wasn't doing much to keep him dry; rainwater was dripping steadily off the brim and down the back of his neck, soaking the collar of his coat. He must be getting sick of carting her around and doing favours for her and half the time not knowing why. He got a bit shitty sometimes, though when she said she really couldn't tell him he didn't push
her. He was good like that. She supposed he thought folk were entitled to their secrets. She knew he certainly had a few.

‘Just saying,' she said.

Jack grunted, then a few minutes later they turned into Devonshire Street, the gig bumping violently through several enormous puddles. ‘Will I go in?' he asked. ‘There'll be a gate for hearses somewhere.'

‘Here'll do. I'll walk.' As Jack halted the horse in the black shadows of a dripping tree, Friday lit her lantern and climbed down from the gig, hauling the shovel and sea bag after her. ‘I won't be long, all right?'

A few yards into the cemetery, she was extremely grateful for the lantern. There were gravel paths but without the light she would only have found them by accident, and would have banged into headstones every couple of feet. She made her way to the Catholic section and, after an increasingly nerve-wracking few minutes, found Clarence Shand's grave.

Fast Eddie had told the truth — the chest tomb had been erected. It was oblong and about three feet high, each side quite elaborately carved, and the horizontal slab of sandstone had been laid on top. It was so precisely aligned, in fact, that for a few horrible moments she thought it might already have been mortared in place. Setting the lantern, shovel and bag on the grass she placed her palms against the edge of the top slab, shoved for all she was worth, and was rewarded with the tiniest sensation of movement. Thank Christ for that. Obviously, though, she wasn't going to be able to move it by herself.

Grabbing the lantern, she trotted back to the street and tugged on Jack's coat. Jack, who had nodded off with his hat over his face, nearly shat himself.

‘Can you come and give me a hand?'

‘Doing what?'

‘I need to shift a slab but it's too heavy.'

‘Not likely. What's under it? A corpse?'

‘Nothing, just dirt. Please?'

‘Christ.'

Jack climbed down, tied the reins to a low branch and followed her to Clarence Shand's grave, swearing under his breath every time he stumbled.

‘What are you trying to do?' he asked, eyeing the chest tomb.

‘I need to move the top slab, get in there, dig a bit of a hole and bury what's in the bag, then shove the slab back again.'

‘Why can't you just dump it in? Why do you have to bury it?'

‘The stonemasons might see it when they come back to mortar the slab. They might have to move it for some reason.'

Jack nodded. ‘Er, where's the real body?'

‘Six feet under. Miles out of the way.'

‘Whose grave is it?'

‘Clarence Shand's.'

‘Jesus, you've got a cheek.'

Friday ignored him and leant all her weight against the slab. ‘Come on — we haven't got all night.'

Jack did the same and together, inch by inch, they opened up enough of a gap to allow Friday to sit on the edge of the tomb and dangle her legs inside.

‘A bit more,' she said, ‘or I'll get stuck.'

‘Only because your arse is too big.'

‘Fuck off, Jack. I have to swing a bloody shovel in there.'

Rolling his eyes, he said, ‘Do you want me to dig the hole?'

‘No. I said I'd get it sorted, and I will.'

She jumped out, they shoved mightily again, the lid moved another two feet and Friday nodded her approval. She raised the lantern and peered in. The floor of the tomb was the top of Clarence's grave, a mass of mud and rotted flowers. She was going to get filthy in there.

‘Here, hold this.'

She handed the lantern to Jack, took off her cape, opened the waistband of her skirt and stepped out of it. That left her in her bodice jacket, a knee-length shift and her boots — far more sensible. She hiked her rump up onto the edge of the tomb, swung her legs over and dropped in, her boots landing with a splat that sent mud flying up her calves.

Jack handed her the shovel and she set to digging a hole at one end, only bothering to go down two feet. After all, once the top slab was mortared on, no one would ever be looking into or beneath the tomb. The soil was still fairly loose after Clarence's burial and it took her very little time.

‘Bag,' she said.

Jack passed it to her and she dumped the whole thing unceremoniously into the hole.

‘Sorry,' she whispered.

She filled in the excavation. Lastly she scattered slimy clumps of rotted lilies, carnations, daphnes, lily of the valley and lavender — which she could still smell — over the disturbed soil, and climbed out. She put her wet skirt and cape back on, then they replaced the slab exactly as Friday had found it, and trudged back to the gig.

Neither of them said anything on the way home, except when Jack asked, ‘Did that skeleton belong to who I think it did?'

‘Probably,' Friday said.

Elizabeth felt bereft, as though Gil had at last really and truly died, and had to close her office door twice so she could have a quiet cry.

The second time Friday walked in without knocking — as usual — and caught her trumpeting into her hanky like an elephant.

‘Honestly, Mrs H, he's fine,' she said. ‘All tucked up nice and cosy in a lovely fancy tomb.' She sat down. ‘The girls want to know what's wrong. What shall I tell them?'

Elizabeth nodded, sniffed and popped the handkerchief into her bodice. ‘It's just that I always felt so close to him when he
was here. It was a great comfort to me, having him in the cellar, it really was.'

‘I know, you've said that. Lots of times. But you were
too
close to him. Literally.' Friday frowned. ‘Is that the right word?'

‘Yes, but now I'll never see him again.'

‘You never saw him before, you silly old goose. And you can see him. Well, not
see
him. You can just go along to Devonshire Street for a chat, like everyone else.'

‘Yes. Yes, you're right, I am being silly,' Elizabeth said, and let out a deep, quavering sigh. ‘You know, some days lately I've been feeling every bit of my fifty-five years. I don't know what's wrong with me.'

‘Nothing at all, probably,' Friday said, patting her hand.

‘Perhaps I'm just getting old.'

‘You are not. Now, what am I telling the girls?'

‘Oh, I don't know. Tell them I had a letter telling me someone's died. It's nearly the truth, anyway.'

‘That'll do.' Friday stood. ‘And the flogging room? When does Jack think he'll be finished the decorating? I can do that sort of thing, you know.'

That made Elizabeth smile. ‘You cannot. He thinks today. And the new drapes should be here this afternoon. Everything else is more or less ready so I'm thinking about opening tomorrow. How does that sound?'

‘Like the best news I've heard in ages.' Friday grinned. ‘That's only one more day to go.'

‘I thought you'd be pleased. How are you going with cutting down the gin? You're looking better.'

‘I've slowed down a lot, I really have. I'm only having a couple at night now, to help me get to sleep.'

‘Truly?'

Friday nodded. ‘And I feel so much better for it.'

‘Well, make sure you stick to just a couple. Remember what I said.'

‘I will. I have. I promise.'

‘Good girl.'

As Friday closed the door behind her, Elizabeth thought back to the countless times Gil had made, and broken, exactly the same promise.

She desperately hoped Friday wouldn't turn out to be such a woeful disappointment.

Friday didn't like lying to Mrs H like that. It gave her the guilts and she resented the old killjoy for making her feel that way. But if she'd just stop going on about the bloody drinking and leave her alone she wouldn't have to lie, would she? It was none of her business anyway.

Rose stuck her head out of the salon. ‘Your cully's here.'

‘Yeah, hang on a second.'

Friday rushed into the cloakroom, ferreted in her reticule for her flask and knocked back several large gulps, gin escaping out of the side of her mouth and running down her chin. She wiped it away and licked her hand.

She checked her appearance in the looking glass, savouring the heat spreading through her belly, and half-heartedly fluffed out her hair. It'd be Ralph Kidd waiting for her. She didn't mind Ralph. He'd been a long-time customer and while the sex was as much of a chore as it was with any man, he was physically fit, interesting, generous and, best of all, clean.

As she entered the salon, she offered him her hand and said politely, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Kidd. I apologise for keeping you waiting.'

Ralph Kidd stood and collected his hat. He was over six feet tall, slender and very fair. ‘No matter.'

Friday hooked an arm through his and led him up the stairs. ‘Been away?' She could dispense with formality now they were alone. ‘Haven't seen you for a few weeks.'

‘Yes, I've been visiting a shipbuilder colleague in Hobart Town. Doing very well, by all accounts.'

‘Very nice. Just you, or did you take the wife and kids?' Ushering him into a room, Friday closed the door.

‘Just me. Helen doesn't care for ocean voyages.'

‘How are they, the kids?'

‘Oh, good. Will's lost both his top front teeth now and Stephanie sits at the dinner table waggling hers constantly. It makes Helen ill.'

Friday laughed.

‘How have you been?' Ralph asked, draping his coat over a chair and getting to work on his cravat.

‘Same as usual. There is something I have to tell you, but.'

‘Sounds ominous.'

‘I'm not going to be doing this for much longer. Well, only today, actually.'

‘Christ.' Ralph looked astonished. ‘Don't tell me someone's making an honest woman of you?'

‘Doubt it. We're opening a flogging room. I'll be working in there from now on.'

‘In what capacity?'

Friday made a flicking gesture.

‘You? I didn't know you did that.'

‘Well, I do.'

‘So there'll be no more of this?'

‘'Fraid not. Sorry.' Though Friday wasn't, not at all.

Ralph's shirt landed on the chair. ‘What about privately? I'd be happy to pay you more than Mrs Hislop charges here, and you'd get the lot.'

‘I'll be too busy for that. I can't work every hour of the day.'

‘Well, can I whip you? I've always fancied that. Does it come with a fuck?'

‘No, it doesn't, and no, you can't,' Friday said. ‘Why don't you try one of the other girls? Hazel's lovely, and so's Connie. Or you could give Lou a go if you fancy a bit of class.'

‘I don't want class. I want you.'

Thanks, Friday thought.

‘So while I've got you I'm going to make the most of it,' Ralph said, propelling her towards the bed.

Only today, she told herself as she landed face down on the mattress. Just one more day.

‘How did it go yesterday?' Sarah asked, reaching for a Madeleine biscuit. ‘These look nice, Harrie. Did Daisy make them, or you?'

‘I did,' Harrie said, her eye on Charlotte galloping around in the ankle-length grass behind the house. From the back verandah, where they sat on a recently purchased matching set of wicker furniture, there was a lovely view of the rear garden, the Domain, glimpses of Government House and the rather castle-ish Government Stables, and Sydney Cove.

‘Where did you buy the dried cherries?'

‘How's store on Pitt Street. They only came in last week, apparently.'

‘God, listen to you,' Friday grumbled. ‘You're like a pair of bloody old grannies. Where's the Sarah Morgan I used to know?
She
wouldn't've been caught dead talking about dried cherries.'

Sarah shrugged. ‘Just asking. Adam likes his home baking. Anyway, don't worry, I'm still here, inside Mrs Green. How
did
it go yesterday?'

‘Pretty good, actually. I woke up in a really good mood for a change and for a moment I couldn't remember why and then I realised, thank
bloody
Christ, no more having to lift my bloody leg!'

‘That must be such a relief,' Harrie said.

‘I'll say.'

Sarah nodded. They all knew how much Friday had hated her old job. ‘And the work?
Not
that I want to know all the gory details, thanks.'

‘Child's play, compared to what I've been doing. Well, nearly child's play.' Friday rubbed at her right shoulder. ‘I think I might have done myself a slight injury. I had seven customers one after the other and it was a bit much even though I kept changing hands. We were busier than Mrs H thought we'd be. And my feet hurt from standing for so long in those stupid boots. The heels on them!'

‘What does the room look like?' Harrie asked. ‘Are the drapes nice? I'm thinking about new drapes for here, but velvet seems a bit extravagant.'

Friday lit her pipe. ‘Not really what you'd expect.'

‘Some of us have no idea
what
to expect,' Harrie said prissily. ‘Charlotte, no! That's a snail. We don't eat snails.'

‘Oh, leave her, it won't hurt her,' Friday said. ‘A lot of flogging rooms tend to look a bit gaudy but ours doesn't. Jack gave all the trims and the ceiling boards a fresh coat of white paint, repolished the floor, and hung this pale grey Chinese silk with white flowers and birds on the walls. Pheasants, I think. Then Mrs H added the dark grey velvet drapes, a big blue and grey carpet and a white cabinet for the whips and stuff. And there's good bleached linen sheets on the bed, because she says we're not having common old oilcloth in
our
flogging room, and it's all come together really nicely. It's quite . . . well, elegant.'