In Lonnie's Shadow (13 page)

TIMBER POLE

Item No. 221

Traces of blue paint still evident.

As the week wore on Lonnie let himself believe things were not so bad after all. Nothing was broken that couldn’t be fixed. Like the way Carlo had fixed his wagon again and was busy painting the poles that held the new canopy. His wagon was getting fancier all the time. The poles were a barber shop trio in swirls of maroon, blue and yellow. ‘Gotta catch the public eye,’ he said, proudly standing back to admire his own handiwork.

‘Got some more news about the race,’ said Lonnie and proceeded to fill his friend in on exactly how the Cricks were planning to fix it. ‘Lightning and Trident are full brothers; the same sire, the same dam. They’re almost identical but for a small, white, lightning-shaped blaze on the forehead of one and a scar on the neck of the other.

‘Bet Trident has the blaze!’ Carlo chuckled. Lonnie smiled. ‘Very funny. You’ll be hitting the stage soon, doing a bit of stand up. Seriously, mate, it’s a simple bloody horse switch! All those crooks’ve done is stain out the white blaze on Lightning and blanch one onto Trident. Not many people even know about Trident’s scar, you wouldn’t know it’s there unless you felt for it.’

Carlo was unconvinced. ‘They’ll never pull off a cheap trick like that.’

‘Ordinarily no. But think about it. This isn’t the Melbourne Cup; it’s a street race, run at night, after dark.’

‘Well, that’s dandy,’ said Carlo. ‘Crick gets to ride Lightning disguised as Trident, while you get to ride Trident disguised as Lightning. And you still lose.’

Lonnie shook his head. ‘Not so simple, mate.’

‘Then you plan to swap ’em back?’ Carlo pressed, taking Lonnie’s silence as tacit agreement. ‘Call me backwards, but I don’t understand why the Cricks need to cheat. They own Lightning, the fastest horse in Melbourne. Thomas Crick may well live up to his name as a pain in the neck.’ Carlo paused for Lonnie to crack a smile at his joke, but Lonnie didn’t budge, so he continued. ‘But even you can’t deny he rides well. So tell me why they would bother fixing a race they can win fair and square?’

‘Odds! And greed. Running as himself, Lightning will pay much less than he would running as Trident.’

‘I still don’t get it. Do we put our money on Crick then, is that what you’re telling me?’

‘If you back him you’ll lose.’

Carlo shook his head. ‘Mate, you’re confusing me.’

Lonnie tried to reassure his friend. ‘There’s more to it, but for now just make sure you get all our bets over to Bookie. I was hoping you’d drop by Pearl’s too and pick up her wager. Thought you both might have a friendly get-together for a change. Haven’t you got a bit of making up to do?’

‘Gee thanks, a great mate you turned out to be.’ Carlo grimaced in mock horror. ‘S’pose I’ll go. First let me get things straight: there’s this horse race, but we don’t know when it’s happening, we don’t know which horse is which and we don’t know who we’re betting on.’

‘All you need to know right now is the race’ll be coming up soon, it’ll be on a Saturday night, I’ll let you know when, and you’re betting on me.’ Lonnie knew there was still one important detail he was keeping up his sleeve, and for now that was where it was going to stay. He gave Carlo a secretive wink. ‘By the way, I put you down as my strapper.’

SLATE PENCIL

Item No. 3577

Fragment of child’s slate pencil.

When Carlo gave his word he kept true to it. There was a Benetti philosophy in life that his family tried to live by – it’s not what you say that matters, but what you do. So as promised he intended to collect Pearl’s wager, then hightail it out of there before he had time to dwell on the gloomy prospect of speaking to her. He hoped Lonnie knew what a favour it was, especially since he and Pearl usually ended up arguing. Somehow Carlo was the one who always ended up with one foot set firmly in his mouth, and blamed for the honour.

‘What’re you doing here?’

He could see by her greeting that Pearl was equally as delighted to see him. ‘Lonnie asked me to pick up your wager for the race.’

‘So why didn’t he come?’

Carlo was straight on the defensive. ‘Dunno. Busy.’

‘All right, but stay here.’ Pearl’s reluctance was as obvious as a swollen thumb. She looked back over her shoulder, before going to the back room and returning with a purse, which she emptied into his hand.

‘Is that all you’re putting on?’ Carlo asked bluntly.

‘What d’ya mean? This is all I’ve got. D’ya reckon

I’m made of money?’

‘If it’s all you’ve got, you should keep hold of some for a rainy day.’

‘All right for those who can afford to,’ she replied.

‘But you gotta know when it’s raining. Right now it’s coming down in bucketfuls for me.’

Carlo half-heartedly slipped the money into his pocket. He was full of doubt. ‘We shouldn’t really be betting on this race anyway.’

‘Why are you so worried?’

‘I’m laying out good money too, you know.’ He knew he was being defensive, but there were too many things about this race that were uncertain. Maybe Pearl knew something he didn’t. ‘Lonnie’s my best mate, but sometimes I don’t know if he’s being full-on honest with me. He doesn’t seem to care which horse he’s on. Half the time I think he’ll be riding Lightning, while the other half of me reckons he’ll be on Trident. He’s so cocksure of himself, he’d believe he could beat Crick and Lightning on the back of Bella … or even the milkman’s horse.’

‘Bet he could, too,’ Pearl remarked, scowling at

Carlo.

‘You must be sweet on him if you reckon that. It’s all right for you girls to do all the romancing, but this is real money we’re laying out. It could make or break me.’

‘So what do you want me to say? Lonnie’s no fool. He must know what he’s doing. Why else would he be saying that barring an accident he will win?’

‘But what if he’s just mouthing off ? He wants to get even with Crick at all costs. I don’t wanna risk all my hard-earned cash on his silly pride.’

Pearl gave Carlo a withering look. ‘I, for one, trust Lonnie. He can have all my money. He’s never let us down. Anyways, I was with him at the stables.’

‘He told me that much. Did you see him swap the horses back?’

‘Quit tormenting me. Ask him yourself,’ Pearl scoffed, trying to tally in her head how many bottles of wine she had guzzled in the haze of that night.

‘You must know if he swapped them back or not? And what if the Cricks found out and re-swapped them? Lonnie’s not telling us everything. Ever since he took that dare he’s been acting sneaky.’

‘That’s the difference between you and Lonnie,’ sniffed Pearl, her heart flaming up at Carlo’s pressing questions. ‘He’s not a stick-in-the-mud, snooty lordy- lord who’s running down his best mate right this very minute to one of his other best mates. You’re panicking over nothing. You’re still a scaredy-dare and always have been. No wonder you were Miss Sid- dy-bow-tum’s favourite at school,’ she said snidely, emphasising the syllables of their old schoolteacher’s name, knowing full well how this would rile him.

Carlo’s face disintegrated. The girl had a tongue and a half. And here he was trying to be fair and polite. All she had to do was answer some simple questions, but no, she had to bring up that story again. As if he could ever forget the day when at a tender age he’d gone to school for the first time. Together with Pearl, Lonnie and Daisy and all the other ragged children of the neighbourhood, Carlo had assembled for the first class at the Wesley hall, which they would attend mornings until they were eleven years old. During those few brief years they were expected to knuckle down and learn the three Rs, in the hope of avoiding any future rendezvous with Melbourne’s police force.

When the teacher had told the class her name, Carlo’s attention had been wandering out of the window and onto the street, where by now the littlies were playing marbles or spinning tops. A little while later, upon realising he’d been drifting, he had tugged on Pearl’s sleeve and whispered, ‘What’s her name?’ To which Pearl had answered from behind her

hand, ‘Sidebottom. Miss Sidebottom.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Quiet, you two down the back.’

In all fairness, at this point the schoolmistress had not seriously reprimanded him at all. She’d merely remained perched behind the rostrum at the front of the class, her watchful eyes and monotone voice disciplining them all on the etiquette of good behaviour; stressing how they must never utter a peep while she was instructing. But Carlo preferred the way he remembered it – being singled out, made to stand up, the terror he felt when the teacher threatened to march him out of the classroom forever, the puddle of water forming on the floor between his legs, the sniggers and the ticking off, and before he knew it he was close to tears and blurting out, ‘Sorry, Miss Sidebottom.’

It wasn’t his fault she had blown up all red and blue and purple in the face. He wanted to run home there and then to his own loud but effusive mamma – who saw no wrong in her children – and snuggle into her bosom, let her wrap her arms around him and hold him close to her until he could barely breathe, even though there would be five other littlies clamouring for the same right and he would have to wait his turn.

A murderous scowl on her face, Miss Sidebottom thundered straight for him. Without another by your leave she clapped him hard around the earhole until it was ringing: ‘My name is Miss Sid-dy- bow-tum, my lad, and you’ll do well to remember. Sid-dy-bow-tum!’

After the walloping, Pearl wouldn’t even look his way, although he had watched her cup her hand trying to cover that stupid grin. For the rest of the day he silently fumed, not daring to say another word. Later when his mamma asked him what he had learnt on his first day at school, the only two things he could think of were how to properly pronounce Miss Sidebottom’s name in four syllables, and to never ever again in his life believe a single word Pearl said.

It was pointless trying to be civil to her. He turned away from the door with an abrupt ‘Seeya.’

She called after him, ‘Wait on, yer chump, I was only teasing. Don’t be so peppery. Lonnie’s our mate, we can trust him.’

Carlo wanted no favours. He was jack of being the butt of her jokes.

PIECE OF STRING

Item No. 7543

Short length of hemp string.

Lonnie tucked the parcel containing Rose’s dress inside his coat and buttoned up tight against the inclement weather, determined to keep the brown paper wrapping and string secure until he delivered the dress as clean and neatly folded as Daisy intended. He would do her proud. She was a rock all right and did a good job of everything she put her mind to. Look how she had attended to the dress. Rose was bound to be full of appreciation, especially when she saw how carefully Daisy had mended the tears for her and sewn back the buttons. Well, he would keep it neat as a pin.

How delectable Rose had looked that evening at the Eastern Market. How invitingly vulnerable. She was a girl who needed his protection. It seemed to Lonnie that she was dusted in fine icing sugar. All he wanted to do was wrap his arms around her and lick up her very sugariness until he was filled with the powdery white.

Surely she would understand that none of the mauling was his fault. Returning the dress would help make things right between them. He summoned a picture of Rose, happy with her dress all sewn and pressed, letting him make up for that bad turn of events with the Glass and Bottle Gang by taking a tour around the Carlton Gardens on his arm. He imagined brushing a shy kiss across her cheek.

It did not reassure Lonnie to see the heels of her dainty boots board the open tramcar the instant he turned the corner into Collins Hill. Nor when he saw her pay her threepence to the conductor, then bob down into a seat at the very moment he called out her name. Rose surely must not have heard him, for she was barely seated before she stood up and moved further out of view. He yelled an appeal to the lever guard. ‘Hold on!’

The guard doffed his cap and gestured back. ‘Too late.’ With a clang of the bell the tram jerked to a start, before picking up speed and rattling down the hill.

Lonnie tried to catch up, but it was difficult to maintain even a walking pace along the footpath. At this hour of the day, everyone in Melbourne seemed to be stepping out and obstructing his way. He pushed through the crowd. A bevy of young ladies glided along in his direction, their noses snubbed in the air as they did their best to show him they were scandalised. It was certainly not his good looks that had caught their attention, rather his screaming the name of their acquaintance, Rose Payne, at the top of his voice, completely unabashed.

A weedy larrikin with small eyes singled out the prettiest girl and spat on the footpath. This was a signal to the tight-fitting suits and polished boots who congregated around a lamp pillar to yell out,

‘How’s about a smacker then, love?’ The girl shot them an outraged glare, lifted her skirt free of the dirty path and primly tiptoed past, happy at the very least she wouldn’t be the target of the latest gossip surrounding a certain Miss Rose Payne, the next time she did the Block.

The tram continued to rumble downhill, sounding its bell to alert pedestrians and taking Rose almost out of Lonnie’s reach. Droplets of rain started to fall. Lonnie kept his head down, threading his way around verandah posts, dodging the red and white barber’s pole, a pawnbroker’s sign projecting over the walkway with its three balls hanging like a chandelier, cases of books, hanging bells, wire cages and sea chests. He felt like he was playing a game of blindman’s buff.

Raising his head, he caught a glimpse of a clear space by Mackinerny’s Billiard Hall. As he broke into a run, a gang of youths spilled from the hall. They were laughing loudly and pushing each other around as they crowded onto the footpath. Lonnie couldn’t prevent himself from bowling straight into them. He bounced clean off one of the lads and, with the wind knocked out of him, crumpled to the ground.

It took a few dazed seconds for him to register the cut of the two-tone shoe near his face, a signature one of shiny cut leather, the heels high, and so tight the impress of every toe was visible.

A strong fist grabbed him by his coat lapels, lurching him upwards to his feet. ‘What’s the hurry, me old pigeon?’

The face of George Swiggins grinned down at him. The leader of the Push seemed friendly enough, quickly letting him go and slapping him heartily on the shoulder. George had never bothered Lonnie – in fact he had often been quite sociable, like on those few occasions when he had invited Lonnie into Mackinerny’s to lose a few games of billiards to him. However, there was a shadowy quality to the young man’s behaviour that made Lonnie break out in a cold sweat. An air of self-importance and danger. George was too poker-faced, his forehead too low. He was too fast speaking, too quick-minded and lively for the constable on the beat and much too shrewd for the law. He was a young man not to be meddled with, nor, as Lonnie thought, one to run smash-bang into.

He brushed himself down nervously. ‘G’day, George.’

‘Still chasing the girls? They’re nothing but trouble, especially those toff-nosed beauties you keep chasing after.’

Lonnie gave a weak grin and started to move off, but some of the Push lads cut across his path, ambushing his escape route.

‘Hang on a mo,’ said George. ‘Reckon Billy Bottle’ll be wanting a spill of your blood after the other night. Better be looking over your shoulder from now on. But let me tell you something, me old pigeon.’ George nodded across to the rest of his lads.

‘The Push here owe you one for giving us the nod about the Law.’ He studied Lonnie for a moment.

‘So are you up for it, mate? Joining us?’ He dropped his voice conspiratorially. ‘I could do with a few more brains around the gang.’

Over George’s shoulder, Lonnie heard the tramcar’s gong and saw the vehicle take leave of its stop.

‘Lost something, have ya?’ A pointy-chinned lad with drainpipe legs picked up the package Lonnie had dropped in the collision. The string had loosened. The paper was damp and crushed, open at one end with an edge of blue material tucking out from one corner.

Lonnie went to grab the parcel. Before he could retrieve it the holder mashed the wet lump into a ball and tossed it to one of the others.

‘Give it here.’

Dodging Lonnie, the lad passed it to another Push member who tossed it on again, until a stern nod from George’s direction sent it flying into Lonnie’s hands.

‘Only having a bit of fun. Can’t you take a joke? Now don’t keep me waiting too long for your answer.’ Lonnie’s main thought was that when Rose discovered her dress soiled, she would not be in the mind to walk out with him ever again. And if Daisy knew, she would murder him. And how was he going to explain to George Swiggins that he had too much on his mind to think about joining his gang? The rain had started to bucket down. Cursing his misfortune, Lonnie pulled up his coat collar, nodded at George and strode off. Still, it was something to know he had the Push on side.