nice alterations,’ she told Miss Henrick, who with two other Misses Henrick constituted Henrick Modes.
‘My sister Faith made the dress,’ said Miss Henrick, a small and bouncy young woman with a cap of curly blonde hair. ‘My other sister Charity did the embroidery. And I do the alterations.’
‘Stout work, Miss Hope,’ said Phryne. ‘I may be throwing some business your way but for the moment I would like this parasol, please.’
‘They’re a bit expensive,’ said Miss Henrick, uniquely of all dressmakers in Phryne’s experience. She bit her lip. ‘They’re the English ones. I’m afraid they’re three pounds each.’
‘And Dot shall choose one for herself, so that makes two, and here is your six pounds, and thank you,’ said Phryne, handing over the money. Dot, flushed with the excitement of a new dress and now a sunset orange parasol to go with it, kissed Phryne on the cheek.
‘I like being on holiday,’ she exclaimed.
The kitchen staff, relieved of having to make a proper lunch for Miss Phryne, had lunched heartily on sandwiches made of various ingredients. Ruth never tired of ham and pickle, Jane loved tinned salmon and mayonnaise, Máire was introduced to the club sandwich by Tinker, who ate everything, as did the dogs, who prowled the floor begging for scraps. They accompanied this repast with lemon cordial and soda water.
Then, as Miss Dot required, they all rested for an hour. Dot, whose father had ulcers and believed that they were caused by exertion immediately after food, had made this a rule.
Therefore Máire found herself, for the first time in her life, sitting in a deckchair in the garden with nothing to do, accompanied by Tinker, who was still perfecting his bike and Gaston,who had retired to the mint bed for a snooze. Jane and Ruth took Molly up to their rooms, where Ruth drowsed over a book and Jane fell asleep. Reading aloud was just as tiring as working, she thought.
‘What sort of people are they?’ asked Máire eventually, after she had recovered a little from her surprise. No one she had ever worked for had ever given her any time off.
‘Good sort of people,’ said Tinker, unwinding the last bit of wire so that the rags of the old tyre started to peel off. ‘That’s got it! The boss, she’s a lady. A titled lady. And she has a maid called Dot. And the two girls are her daughters, adopted. And they all work hard, so we work hard, and then they rest so we rest. I never thought,’ said Tinker, blowing scraps of rubber off the bare rims, ‘I never thought in all me born that I’d be working for a private detective.’
‘And she gave you the bike?’ asked Máire, staring down into her cupped hands.
‘She lent me the money to buy it,’ corrected Tinker. ‘She’s no soft touch. I got to pay her back. It’ll be a bonzer machine when I’ve got all the rust off and put on them new tyres. You one of the fishos down Fishermen’s Flat?’
‘Just come from Eire—what you call Ireland,’ she confessed. ‘Me and seven of us, to join our cousins. My dad’s a fisherman, my brothers also. But it’s been a bad season, they say. Not enough of the ’couta to make the quota some weeks.’
‘So,’ said Tinker, negotiating the last curly twist of wire without stabbing any more fingers. ‘How d’you like Australia, then?’
‘It’s so strange,’ said Máire, not wanting to offend any natives. ‘So hot and bright. All the time the sun seems to shine.’
‘It gets chilly enough in the winter,’ Tinker warned her. ‘And you want to get a hat. You’ll burn in this weather. You want to help me?’
Máire was not used to doing nothing. She willingly knelt down to steady the bicycle as Tinker fitted his new tyres. Tinker decided that even though she was a Mick, she wasn’t all that bad, really. It was dawning on Tinker that everything his harassed mum said about the Church being the Scarlet Woman might not be entirely right.
‘What happened to the people who
‘My sister Faith made the dress,’ said Miss Henrick, a small and bouncy young woman with a cap of curly blonde hair. ‘My other sister Charity did the embroidery. And I do the alterations.’
‘Stout work, Miss Hope,’ said Phryne. ‘I may be throwing some business your way but for the moment I would like this parasol, please.’
‘They’re a bit expensive,’ said Miss Henrick, uniquely of all dressmakers in Phryne’s experience. She bit her lip. ‘They’re the English ones. I’m afraid they’re three pounds each.’
‘And Dot shall choose one for herself, so that makes two, and here is your six pounds, and thank you,’ said Phryne, handing over the money. Dot, flushed with the excitement of a new dress and now a sunset orange parasol to go with it, kissed Phryne on the cheek.
‘I like being on holiday,’ she exclaimed.
The kitchen staff, relieved of having to make a proper lunch for Miss Phryne, had lunched heartily on sandwiches made of various ingredients. Ruth never tired of ham and pickle, Jane loved tinned salmon and mayonnaise, Máire was introduced to the club sandwich by Tinker, who ate everything, as did the dogs, who prowled the floor begging for scraps. They accompanied this repast with lemon cordial and soda water.
Then, as Miss Dot required, they all rested for an hour. Dot, whose father had ulcers and believed that they were caused by exertion immediately after food, had made this a rule.
Therefore Máire found herself, for the first time in her life, sitting in a deckchair in the garden with nothing to do, accompanied by Tinker, who was still perfecting his bike and Gaston,who had retired to the mint bed for a snooze. Jane and Ruth took Molly up to their rooms, where Ruth drowsed over a book and Jane fell asleep. Reading aloud was just as tiring as working, she thought.
‘What sort of people are they?’ asked Máire eventually, after she had recovered a little from her surprise. No one she had ever worked for had ever given her any time off.
‘Good sort of people,’ said Tinker, unwinding the last bit of wire so that the rags of the old tyre started to peel off. ‘That’s got it! The boss, she’s a lady. A titled lady. And she has a maid called Dot. And the two girls are her daughters, adopted. And they all work hard, so we work hard, and then they rest so we rest. I never thought,’ said Tinker, blowing scraps of rubber off the bare rims, ‘I never thought in all me born that I’d be working for a private detective.’
‘And she gave you the bike?’ asked Máire, staring down into her cupped hands.
‘She lent me the money to buy it,’ corrected Tinker. ‘She’s no soft touch. I got to pay her back. It’ll be a bonzer machine when I’ve got all the rust off and put on them new tyres. You one of the fishos down Fishermen’s Flat?’
‘Just come from Eire—what you call Ireland,’ she confessed. ‘Me and seven of us, to join our cousins. My dad’s a fisherman, my brothers also. But it’s been a bad season, they say. Not enough of the ’couta to make the quota some weeks.’
‘So,’ said Tinker, negotiating the last curly twist of wire without stabbing any more fingers. ‘How d’you like Australia, then?’
‘It’s so strange,’ said Máire, not wanting to offend any natives. ‘So hot and bright. All the time the sun seems to shine.’
‘It gets chilly enough in the winter,’ Tinker warned her. ‘And you want to get a hat. You’ll burn in this weather. You want to help me?’
Máire was not used to doing nothing. She willingly knelt down to steady the bicycle as Tinker fitted his new tyres. Tinker decided that even though she was a Mick, she wasn’t all that bad, really. It was dawning on Tinker that everything his harassed mum said about the Church being the Scarlet Woman might not be entirely right.
‘What happened to the people who
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