‘I do love a good sing,’ he whispered. ‘Can’t stand all that moaning!’
Phryne laughed softly and agreed. The gentleman slipped a card onto the open page of her hymn book, and she reciprocated with one of her own. It had been engraved, not printed, on heavy cream card, and merely said, ‘The Hon. Phryne Fisher, Colling Hall, Kent’. She knew it to be in the best of style. His card was also engraved, and stated that the rosy gentleman now listening devoutly to a reading by a clerical person with the snuffles was Mr Robert Sanderson, MP of Toorak. Phryne recalled that he was on her list of noteables, and she slipped the card into her purse, giving her attention to the sermon.
It was not long, which was a mercy, and dealt mostly with Christian duty. Phryne had heard so many sermons on Christian duty that she could almost predict each word, and amused herself for some time in doing just that, as well as admiring the stained glass, which was catching the morning sun and blazing like jewels. The sermon passed into the general confession, and Phryne admitted with perfect frankness that she had done those things which she ought not to have done and left undone those things which she ought to have done. The service went on as she reflected on her time in Paris, on the Rive Gauche, where she had done many things which she ought not to have done but which nevertheless proved very enjoyable, for a time, and reminded herself that she had seen Marcel Duchamp checkmated by a child in a Paris café. That, Phryne thought, must be worth a certain number of small sins. She stood hurriedly for the final hymn, and the church began to clear. Mr Sanderson offered her his arm, and Phryne accepted.
‘I believe that I have left a card with your wife, sir,’ she smiled. ‘I’m sure that we shall meet again.’
‘I hope so, Miss Fisher,’ said the MP in a deep, rich voice. ‘I’m always disposed to like a young woman who can sing. Besides, I believe that I knew your father.’
‘Indeed, sir?’ Phryne showed no sign of horror that her working-class past was to be revealed, and the MP admired her courage.
‘Yes, I was introduced to him when he was leaving for England; some little trouble with the fare. I was delighted to assist him.’
‘I trust, sir, that he remembered to repay you?’ asked Phryne frigidly. Mr Sanderson patted her arm.
‘Of course. I regret mentioning the matter. May I escort you, Miss Fisher?’
‘No, sir, I am going to the Queen Victoria Hospital. But perhaps you could remind me of the way?’
‘Straight up the street, Miss Fisher, and turn into Little Lonsdale Street and thus into Mint Place, just past the Town Hall. A matter of half a mile, perhaps.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ smiled Phryne. Then she released herself, and walked away, a little offended and saddened. If her father had left debts of honour all over Melbourne, then establishing herself in society was going to be difficult. However, she was inclined to like Mr Sanderson, MP. He had a hearty voice and an open and unaffected manner, which must be an asset to any politician. And perhaps he could give her lunch at the Melbourne Club, the bastions of which Phryne had a mind to storm.
She climbed the hill to the museum, located Mint Place with a certain difficulty, and announced herself at the desk in a ramshackle building, smelling rather agreeably of carbolic and milk.
It was partly wood and partly brick, and seemed to have been built rather on the spur of the moment than to any pre-arranged plan. It was painted buttercup-yellow and white inside.
Dr MacMillan appeared, dressed in a white overall which became her well, and gentleman’s trousers with a formal collar and tie showing above a tweed waistcoat.
‘This way, dear girl, and I’ll show you a consulting-room, a ward and the nursery, and then we’ll go to luncheon,’ said Dr MacMillan over her shoulder as she took a set of oilcloth-covered stairs like a steeplechaser.
For all her age and bulk, Dr MacMillan was as fit as a bull. They reached the top in good order, and Dr MacMillan opened a painted door and disclosed a small white room, windowless, equipped with couch and chair and desk and medicine cabinet.
‘Small, but adequate,’ commented the doctor. ‘Now to the nursery.’
‘Tell me,’ asked Phryne, ‘how did this hospital for women come about? Was it a charitable endowment by the old Queen?’
‘It was a surprising thing, Phryne — could only have happened in a new country. Two women physicians began a practice here in Melbourne, and the medical establishment, being what they still are — blighted and hide-bound conservatives — would not allow their femininity to sully the pure air of their hospitals. Nurses, yes. Doctors, no. So they set up in the hall of the Welsh Church — the only hall that they could get; I’ve felt kinder toward the Welsh ever since — and they had one tap and one steriliser and, pretty soon, more patients than they could cram in. They were sleeping on the floor, and there were deliveries on the hour. But they didn’t want only a lying-in hospital, and they petitioned for a general hospital. Parliament refused them any funds, of course. So they petitioned the Queen, and every woman in Victoria gave her shilling, and the old Queen (God bless her) gave them their charter and the right to call it the Queen Victoria Hospital. Unfortunately the fabric of this building is none too good. We shall be moving in a few years to a new home, and then we can raze this tenement to the ground. It used to be a governesses’ school. In here, Phryne, is the nursery. Do you like babies?’
Phryne laughed. ‘No, not at all. They are not aesthetic like a puppy or a kitten. In fact, they always look drunk to me. Look at that one — you’d swear he had been hitting the gin.’
She pointed out an unsteady infant with a wide and vacant smile, repeatedly reaching for and failing to seize a large woollen ball. Phryne picked up the ball and handed it to the child, who waved his hand and gurgled. Elizabeth lifted the baby and tickled him while he cooed. Not the faintest spurt of maternity?’ she asked slyly.
‘Not the faintest,’ Phryne grinned, and shook the baby by its small, plump hand. ‘Bye, baby. I hope your mother loves you better.’
‘She may,’ replied the doctor dryly, ‘but she abandoned him all the same. At least she gave him to us, and not some baby farmer who’d starve him to death.’
‘How many are there?’ asked Phryne, covering her ears as one baby began to cry, which set all the rest of them off so that the nursery resounded with little roars of fury.
‘About thirty; it’s a quiet night,’ replied the doctor. She replaced the child in his cot and led the deafened Phryne out of the nursery and down a flight of stairs to a ward.
Rows of white draped beds stretched to infinity. There were moveable screens in yellow around some of the beds, and on most of the white painted lockers were small traces of individuality; pictures or books or flowers. The floor was polished and dustless, and down the length of the room was a long trestle table loaded with linen, and trays and equipment.
‘Here’s a remarkable man, you know,’ she added, stopping at the seventh bed from the door. ‘He brought this poor lass in — she collapsed in his cab.’
Cec stood up, laying Alice’s hand gently down, and ducked his head. Waking up, Alice saw an elegant lady standing before her, and smiled.
‘Hello, how are you?’ Phryne asked, feeling a wave of affection for the girl.
‘Better,’ whispered Alice, ‘I’m going to get better.’ And Cec said slowly, ‘Too right.’
‘Sleepy,’ murmured Alice, and floated off again. Cec sat down and took up her hand.