The Blue Mile by Kim Kelly

Perhaps she hasn’t. What an awful thought, and a curious one. She’s impeccably turned out. New frock from Hordern’s – I checked for a label, the pin tucking at the bodice too precise for your average homemade. But there’s something about her that’s . . . not exactly of this world. Or my world, at least.
    She asks me as we judder slowly upwards: ‘Will we really go to the Christmas Tea Party today?’
    â€˜Oh yes, we shall,’ I assure her. The children’s morning tea on at David Jones, at the new Elizabeth Street store – they always have one, and I’ve never been. I want to be amongst the tinsel snowflakes hanging from the ceiling and see the mechanical Santa display, too. I also want to abandon Mother to the five-minutes-to-Christmas Saturday morning super-rush for an hour or so, see how she likes that herself.
    She’s on the telephone when we arrive at the door of the salon. Frowning into it: ‘Oh, I see.’ And looks up with a frown for me, and the child: What is that thing you’ve brought in with you? ‘Of course, Mrs Bromley, I do understand. Absolute confidentiality and discretion, yes, you may rely upon it, and your kind offer of settling the account as agreed is most appreciated.’ Mother closes her eyes with concern: ‘Yes, Mrs Bromley, thank you. Goodbye.’
    She places the telephone back on the cradle, a pained expression; rare display of crow’s feet, wincing. For Mrs Bromley, Min Bromley’s mother, who’s telephoned to settle the account, at eight-fifteen Saturday morning, when it’s not due until Monday. Oh, no. I think the Bromleys have found out about Mother’s illicit liaisons with Bart Harley and withdrawn their custom. My world is in ruins. I demand to know: ‘What, Mother – what has happened?’
    â€˜Poor Minerva; poor Bromleys,’ she sighs, and she looks tired about her eyes, too much concern, too late at night. ‘The groom must delay the wedding – Samuels have gone into voluntary liquidation.’
    Oh dear. Right. Samuels, wheat merchants and family company of Min’s fiancé, Bryden, have gone under. My first thought is an uncharitable one: good. Cousin of my Pymble Ladies tormentor Cassie Fortescue takes tumble from high horse. Serves her right for entangling her heart in a boy. But this is quickly followed by: good God, we’ve lost our best hope of entrée into the upper circle via Commonwealth Bank board of directors. Not ruin exactly, we’re clearly going to be paid, but our business has just taken a trousseau load of backwards. Min Bromley will not be wearing my bebe roses; going-away frock not going anywhere. All my work – mothballed.
    â€˜Damn that,’ I say, and stomp my foot: damn them.
    And Mother chastises: ‘Swearing and stamping will not alter the situation.’ All her work mothballed too. That’s business. Live with it. She glances at Agnes and back to me: ‘What’s this? Lost child?’
    â€˜Lost? Ah. No. Hm . . .’ I search the perfume cabinet for the answer. Why have I brought a child to the salon today? That’s right, the bottles of Number Five remind me: I am a fool sabotaging my own best interests. ‘I’m minding her today, a favour for an acquaintance.’
    â€˜What acquaintance?’ Mother glowers. I don’t have any friends she doesn’t know of – indeed, as the Jabours don’t really count as people as such to her, I don’t have any friends at all.
    And, the situation having altered as it has, there is no triumph of preposterous payback in my announcement now: ‘A young man, the girl’s brother –’
    â€˜ What young man?’ Mother’s impatience is sharp as her pattern cutters.
    â€˜A young man I met this morning. Ah. I went for a walk in the Gardens, and I . . . ah . . .’ I am shame-faced and resentful at once. ‘Well, he was