A full week after his release from quarantine, Tim sent Bandy to the hospital with a basket of puddings and biscuits for Sister Raymond, and then himself resolutely took from the bookcase the envelope with the inscribed photograph of Miss Florence Meades playing Young Arthur, put it in his breast pocket, decided not to wear a tie, and walked down Smith Street past the curtained Southern Cross Billiard Rooms, the Greek cafe, the Good Templars’, and took to the stairwell—beside Holt’s Ladies’ Fashions—to Ernie Malcolm’s office.
At the head of the stairs, Miss Pollack, from the Rudder’s Hill Pollacks in East, still kept Ernie’s outer office.
He told her he wanted to see Ernie.
“Could I have your name, sir?” she asked in her bush-flash, piss-elegant manner. Her parents would be his future customers with any luck, but he was tired of dancing around people.
“Tim Shea,” said Tim. “I was in plague quarantine with Ernie and his wife.” Watch it or I’ll breathe on you! he implied.
And she was chastened by such a pronouncement, and went and spoke to Ernie, who then appeared haggard in his dove-grey suit at the door of his office, looked out and said, “Oh, yes, Tim. Could you hold hard a few moments?”
As Ernie spoke his eyes darted around towards unseen things in the office. His manner said, “Expect nothing.” Then he near-closed the door on his visitor.
Some minutes passed, but Tim would not take the seat Miss Pollack recommended to him. He wanted Ernie to get a sense of a restless presence in his outer office, and indeed Ernie seemed to, coming to the door at last and wearily murmuring, “Yes, Tim,” ushering him in then with a slack hand.
From Ernie’s office you got a view of the butter factory and the laneway leading to Burrawong’s berth at Central wharf, left vacant—or else taken up by droghers—through the influence of plague. The walls of Ernie’s office were covered with bright certificates, some of them from Melbourne, from municipal councils there. An apostle of service all along Australia’s south-east coast.
“Sit, sit, sit,” sighed Ernie, gesturing to the visitor’s chair, going behind his desk which was covered by files, the ramparts behind which he defended himself against gusts of disabling loss and accusation. He looked once out of the window to the river, but then faced Tim.
“Ward mates, Tim, eh?”
There seemed to be great weariness not so much in the eyes as in the lower face, in a hang-dogginess there.
“You have no bad effects from all that?” asked Ernie.
“No,” said Tim. “Since I had no credit before, and I still have none.”
“Oh, yes,” said Ernie, staring out at the river again for an answer. “Have you thought of going to Queensland, Tim? It’s said to be full of opportunity up there for people of your type.”
“My type? What is my bloody type?”
Ernie shrugged. “You take pretty quick offence at a man who means you no harm at all.”
“You yourself mentioned a reference when we were together in that place.”
“Yes, Tim. A random impulse of generosity.”
“Yes. But it had the features of an undertaking, Ernie.”
“Let me tell you it won’t do you any good. Your credit is shot through the head for some time yet. A solitary reference from me, even if I appended all my honorary secretaryships, would not cut sufficient ice for you, Tim. I must tell you this frankly.”
It was probably the case. All his charitable vanities, all his fussiness about asking for bills to be paid. It had ended with him being swept from the business map of the Macleay.
“What about for my wife then?”
“What, Tim?”
“What if you wrote a reference—to my dictation if you don’t mind—for my wife?”
“You want your wife to be your boss?”
It was what on reflection he wanted: the humble arrangement by which he’d be disciplined and saved. Better than depending on a future brother-in-law.
He said that. “Bloody sight nicer than the alternatives, Ernie.”
“But I don’t know your wife. I think you should just go, actually. Declare your true situation. Leave the business to be picked over by creditors. Queensland, Tim. That’s the go.”
Tim sat back. He was content for the moment with the strong tide of his blood.
“Why don’t you go to bloody Queensland, Ernie?”
“I am, despite everything, settled in here.” Ernie pointed to his walls of certificates. “These are the signs of the man I am. Bereaved, Tim. But solid.” He leaned forward, a man to be congratulated.
At once Tim took from his breast pocket the envelope with the photograph of Missy as a boy. He took the picture out and held it up. Ernie stared at it.
“You notice,” said Tim, “Winnie was careful that you should be saved. She scratched out the inscription. She wrote on the back, but named no one except the girl. Who badly needed to be named.”
Ernie stared at him and had the grace to cover his eyes with his left hand.
“How did you bloody get it?”
“She asked me to post it. But we were quarantined first.”
“You’re right, Tim,” Ernie murmured very calmly. “Winnie very loyal.”
“I just want some reasonable help,” Tim reminded him.
But Ernie raised his head and seemed to begin arguing with an unseen audience. “Tyler’s Touring Company. Premier British Touring Group. From triumphs in New Zealand and before that Fiji, before that again America! Acclaimed in California. Travelling players. Jesus, travelling! Grand repute. Crowned bloody heads. By appointment to the court of. Young Arthur. Tyler’s Touring Company. She came to the house as Young Arthur, wearing actor’s rags from the Tyler Company. Asked for me and Winnie. Primrose said we were not there. Winnie didn’t actually meet her. Poor bloody Primrose did the turning of her away. But Winnie watching from deep inside the house thought straight away, That’s an actress playing a boy. And it was, of course. Astounded that dolt of a sailor Reid didn’t spot it straight off. The role of Young Arthur famous on three continents. Tyler’s a company, of course, you’d never find touring a bushweek place like this! Cities! Golden harbours.” Ernie stood up. “I’d no idea at all Winnie found the picture.” He shook his head. “Only safe thing with women is to have no secrets.”
Tim put the picture away in its envelope and looked up at standing Ernie.
“For an ugly bastard I have known beautiful women,” Ernie told him, his eyes softened and glistening.
“This was a girl though, Ernie.”
Ernie said, “I know that. Met her when I was doing audits for North Coast Cane Company. Big trip to bloody Sydney, Tim. A party at the Hotel Australia. Next day she and I drove out to Watson’s Bay and looked over the cliff. Should’ve bloody jumped. I was proud, Tim. So bloody proud. Thought I was bloody Christmas. Young Arthur. Utter enchantment, but didn’t touch her. Some other bastard touched her. Some other bastard got to her core.”
“Did you tell Winnie that?”
“Wouldn’t believe me. Anyhow, Ernie wasn’t home, was he? On Showground Hill when Flo called there. Since we were friends for bloody life—she’d said so—you would have thought she would have come down to the office in Central, would have gone there first, much closer to the boat. Maybe… well, I thought she might have wanted to claim me, cause trouble between Winnie and… So she went up to the house, and she might have been tired all at once. She’d gotten Mrs. Mulroney’s address from someone. Addresses like that shared amongst women in the know. Actresses and so on. Must’ve got overwhelmed from the sea journey. The strangeness of bloody Kempsey. Sort of blackness of its tone. Dullness. I don’t know. Defeated anyway. And straight to Mrs. Mulroney. No names. Bloody huge final pain. Face in a flask. Do you know this poor bloody girl? I know her, I know her, constable. Her name is poor bloody Flo.”