were here before?’ asked Máire suddenly.
Tinker spun the back wheel, delighted with the way it ran.
‘The Johnsons? Dunno. It’s a mystery. Miss Fisher got here and they’d done a moonlight flit.’
‘Fetched away?’ asked Máire, taking better hold of the bicycle as Tinker shifted his attentions to the front wheel.
‘Snatched, you mean?’ asked Tinker. ‘I dunno. All their stuff went. The boss is going to send some telegrams and make a few phone calls. Then we’ll see,’ he added with relish, as the front wheel came free of its accretions and moved under his hand. ‘That’s bonzer. Better let go now, Mary, you’ll get oil on your clean apron.’
‘That’s what aprons are for, surely to God,’ replied Máire. ‘I need to steady it. There, look at that now!’
‘You’re one of them O’Malleys, ain’t yer?’ asked Tinker, who had just remembered something.
‘O’Malley is my name, and that a fine one,’ replied Máire with spirit.
‘Nah, nah, don’t get your Irish up. I mean, that Grainy, she’s your sister, ain’t she? The sailor girl?’
‘She is,’ said Máire. Her jaw set and her sea-blue eyes regarded the boy one candle watt short of a glare. ‘My father Dubhdara forbade Gráinne my sister to go out upon the sea—unlucky, not fitting for a girl. But she stowed away, and when she was found she expected a beating. But my father embraced her and told her she was a true daughter of Black Oak and he would teach her all he knew about the sea, and so he did. Here they say things about her. But not to me, for she is my sister and a good girl and very dear to me.’
‘True dinks?’ asked Tinker. Máire did not know the idiom but divined the meaning.
‘By Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ she swore, crossing her aproned bosom. ‘And Patrick,’ she added, lest the patron saint should feel left out.
‘All right then,’ replied Tinker. ‘I’ll know what to say to the cur who says she’s . . . who says . . .’ He faltered. Euphemism was new to Tinker.
Máire rewarded him with a beaming, radiant, sunrise smile.
‘Let’s see to this bike then, God love you,’ she suggested. ‘We must be back in the kitchen in ten minutes. Can I not be seeing the clock from here?’
They bent to their task, well pleased with their company.
Phryne and Dot looked in at the post office, a most imposing building erected by someone with a strong inclination for turrets, and sent two telegrams which might or might not find Mr Thomas, somewhere near the Roper River. They strolled further, past Simpson Family Butchers and Game, A House, Land and Commission Agent, and then paused at the door of Leonard’s Hair and Perfumery, Wig-maker and Artificial Flowers, from whence issued a ferocious smell compounded of attar of roses, patchouli, chypre and singed hair. A woman with hennaed hair and over-liberal lipstick snarled at them as they stood in her light. Then she changed the scowl to an unconvincing smile.
‘How can I serve you, ladies?’ she asked.
‘Oh, just wandering for the present,’ said Phryne airily, and led Dot away.
‘I do not feel that I will need a haircut while in Queenscliff,’ she opined.
‘Nor me,’ said Dot. ‘Smelt like she was burning rope.’
‘It’s those marcel irons,’ said Phryne. ‘If you want hair like corrugated iron, you need to discipline it very severely.’
‘I like my hair as it is,’ said Dot, feeling the weight of her French plait. ‘And so does Hugh.’
‘Never felt like cutting it all off? No more long afternoons waiting for it to dry? Much easier to manage in summer,’ teased Phryne.
‘No, Miss Phryne.’
‘Well, stay out of the way of the phantom pigtail snipper,’ advised Phryne. ‘And now I think we should carry our burdens up the hill for a little afternoon rest. And I fancy another swim. Does the road wind uphill all the way?’ she asked, with Christina Rossetti.
‘Yes, to the very end,’ said Dot, unconscious of poetry.
Phryne
Tinker spun the back wheel, delighted with the way it ran.
‘The Johnsons? Dunno. It’s a mystery. Miss Fisher got here and they’d done a moonlight flit.’
‘Fetched away?’ asked Máire, taking better hold of the bicycle as Tinker shifted his attentions to the front wheel.
‘Snatched, you mean?’ asked Tinker. ‘I dunno. All their stuff went. The boss is going to send some telegrams and make a few phone calls. Then we’ll see,’ he added with relish, as the front wheel came free of its accretions and moved under his hand. ‘That’s bonzer. Better let go now, Mary, you’ll get oil on your clean apron.’
‘That’s what aprons are for, surely to God,’ replied Máire. ‘I need to steady it. There, look at that now!’
‘You’re one of them O’Malleys, ain’t yer?’ asked Tinker, who had just remembered something.
‘O’Malley is my name, and that a fine one,’ replied Máire with spirit.
‘Nah, nah, don’t get your Irish up. I mean, that Grainy, she’s your sister, ain’t she? The sailor girl?’
‘She is,’ said Máire. Her jaw set and her sea-blue eyes regarded the boy one candle watt short of a glare. ‘My father Dubhdara forbade Gráinne my sister to go out upon the sea—unlucky, not fitting for a girl. But she stowed away, and when she was found she expected a beating. But my father embraced her and told her she was a true daughter of Black Oak and he would teach her all he knew about the sea, and so he did. Here they say things about her. But not to me, for she is my sister and a good girl and very dear to me.’
‘True dinks?’ asked Tinker. Máire did not know the idiom but divined the meaning.
‘By Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ she swore, crossing her aproned bosom. ‘And Patrick,’ she added, lest the patron saint should feel left out.
‘All right then,’ replied Tinker. ‘I’ll know what to say to the cur who says she’s . . . who says . . .’ He faltered. Euphemism was new to Tinker.
Máire rewarded him with a beaming, radiant, sunrise smile.
‘Let’s see to this bike then, God love you,’ she suggested. ‘We must be back in the kitchen in ten minutes. Can I not be seeing the clock from here?’
They bent to their task, well pleased with their company.
Phryne and Dot looked in at the post office, a most imposing building erected by someone with a strong inclination for turrets, and sent two telegrams which might or might not find Mr Thomas, somewhere near the Roper River. They strolled further, past Simpson Family Butchers and Game, A House, Land and Commission Agent, and then paused at the door of Leonard’s Hair and Perfumery, Wig-maker and Artificial Flowers, from whence issued a ferocious smell compounded of attar of roses, patchouli, chypre and singed hair. A woman with hennaed hair and over-liberal lipstick snarled at them as they stood in her light. Then she changed the scowl to an unconvincing smile.
‘How can I serve you, ladies?’ she asked.
‘Oh, just wandering for the present,’ said Phryne airily, and led Dot away.
‘I do not feel that I will need a haircut while in Queenscliff,’ she opined.
‘Nor me,’ said Dot. ‘Smelt like she was burning rope.’
‘It’s those marcel irons,’ said Phryne. ‘If you want hair like corrugated iron, you need to discipline it very severely.’
‘I like my hair as it is,’ said Dot, feeling the weight of her French plait. ‘And so does Hugh.’
‘Never felt like cutting it all off? No more long afternoons waiting for it to dry? Much easier to manage in summer,’ teased Phryne.
‘No, Miss Phryne.’
‘Well, stay out of the way of the phantom pigtail snipper,’ advised Phryne. ‘And now I think we should carry our burdens up the hill for a little afternoon rest. And I fancy another swim. Does the road wind uphill all the way?’ she asked, with Christina Rossetti.
‘Yes, to the very end,’ said Dot, unconscious of poetry.
Phryne
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