The Lost Sapphire Page 11

  The servants had all taken up their positions. Joseph had unlocked the double gates, ready for their guests’ arrival. Nikolai was stationed at the bottom of the front steps to open the car doors for each guest. The front door was open, with the butler and the footman in their white ties and tailcoats standing by in the hall to collect the coats, top hats and canes, while the maids were in the kitchen preparing to serve the meal at precisely twenty minutes past eight.

  Violet heard the crunch of the gravel driveway and the purr of a motor.

  The butler, Saunders, soon showed the guests in, announcing each one as they entered. ‘Mr and Mrs Ramsay. Mr Theodore Ramsay.’

  There was a commotion of greetings as Theodore and his parents were served drinks and seated in the drawing room. Next to arrive was one of her father’s business friends and golf partners, Mr Marchant, with his wife, who was wearing an ostentatious headdress featuring glittering diamonds and ostrich feathers.

  Finally, Saunders announced Miss Audrey Williams and Mr Thomas O’Byrne, whom Imogen had invited to provide some younger company for Theodore. Audrey, as always, looked elegant in a heavily beaded and embroidered black dress. Violet thought that Tommy looked especially handsome in his white tie and tails. He shook hands with her and asked if she was enjoying her holidays.

  As hostess, Imogen chatted dutifully to the older ladies and gentlemen until Saunders stood in the doorway and announced, ‘Dinner is served, Miss Hamilton.’ Everyone finished their drinks and followed him next door into the dining room.

  Crystal and silver sparkled in the light of dozens of candles, while the air was scented from the bowls of pale-pink roses scattered around the room. The long table was set with a white damask cloth and starched napkins, cobalt-and-gold-rimmed fine bone china and five crystal glasses at every place. Silver cruets, cutlery and candelabra, polished to perfection, were precisely spaced.

  Saunders and Harry pulled out chairs and helped seat the ladies, while Mr Hamilton took his place at the head. At one end of the table, the talk was all about business and investments, while at the other end, the young people talked about tennis and dances and summer excursions to the beach.

  ‘You must come down to our house at Sorrento in January,’ Audrey insisted. ‘I’m planning on inviting a crowd of us for a few days. We’ll have a heavenly time.’

  ‘We’d love to, wouldn’t we, Violet?’ Imogen replied.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Violet said, tucking her gloves away on her lap. But she was distracted by Theodore’s father’s talk of property development and construction times.

  ‘Do you mean to say that you plan to build flats there?’ asked Mr Hamilton. ‘I thought you were planning a large house, one in keeping with the area.’

  ‘No, flats are a much better investment,’ Mr Ramsay said. ‘We have to move with the times. No-one wants to build big houses like this anymore. They’re too expensive and you need an army of servants to run them. And as we all know, it’s impossible to find decent servants since the war.’

  Saunders and Harry remained impassive as they continued to pass the platters of oysters and fill the glasses with ice-cold champagne.

  As Mr Ramsay talked, Violet realised with a sinking heart that he was talking about building several blocks of flats right next door on the horse paddock. The horse paddock was the last remaining part of the Riversleigh estate, outside the gardens. Last year, her father had gradually sold off the orchard and most of the surrounding paddocks, and several large homes had already been built on them.

  At the time he had muttered something about a post-war slump and the collapse of import prices, which had made little sense to Violet and Imogen. It wasn’t until he’d sold the horses that Violet had really been upset. Now it seemed that the latest sale of Riversleigh land had been to the Ramsay family, and that their new neighbours would be flat-dwellers.

  Mr Hamilton looked shocked and struggled to regain his composure.

  Theodore turned towards him. ‘You needn’t worry, sir. They’ll be priced so that only the better sort of families will be able to afford them – you won’t have any uncouth, working-class neighbours.’

  Saunders and Harry cleared the oyster plates and served the soup course – a clear, golden-brown consommé.

  Mrs Marchant changed the subject to one of her favourites: the degeneracy of today’s youth. ‘Have you seen Bessie Douglas lately?’ she asked, directing her comment at the whole table. Her feather headdress jiggled with outrage. ‘The girl has bobbed her hair as short as a boy’s and has announced to her parents that she is getting a job!’

  Imogen caught Violet’s glance and raised her eyes.

  ‘No,’ Audrey murmured, pushing a strand of her own short bob back into place. ‘How dreadful.’

  Violet, Imogen and Tommy grinned at Audrey over their soup spoons.

  ‘What on earth is she going to do?’ asked Mrs Ramsay, her voice thick with horror. ‘Don’t tell me she is going to become one of those typists.’

  Mrs Marchant shook her head. ‘Worse than that … She is going to get an apprenticeship at Alice Anderson’s garage and learn to drive a car. She’s going to be a chauffeur and a mechanic!’

  ‘Apparently Miss Anderson is teaching lots of the local ladies how to drive,’ said Violet.

  Mr Ramsay chortled. ‘Remind me not to go driving near Miss Anderson’s garage! Women generally don’t make very good drivers. They get too easily distracted.’

  Theodore laughed. ‘I’ve heard they have the prettiest chauffeurs at Alice Anderson’s. They’re all the rage in Kew.’

  ‘Yes, but they wear breeches,’ his mother objected. ‘Now, you wouldn’t let your daughters do anything so vulgar, would you, Albert?’

  Mr Hamilton shook his head. ‘Under no circumstances would my daughters do any such thing. It was different during the war, when everyone had to do their bit. For example, Imogen tells me Miss Williams was an ambulance driver in France. I’m sure she did an excellent job, but now she’s home and settled down.’

  Audrey looked around the table. ‘Driving in France during the war was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and I saw some terrible sights. But coming home again to the life of a leisured lady, I think perhaps it is even harder to sit around doing nothing. Well, nothing truly meaningful. I much prefer to be busy, and I don’t want to live my life feeling like I’ve wasted it.’

  Mrs Ramsay looked shocked. ‘But Miss Williams, Theodore told me that you girls are working hard on organising a little charity ball to raise money for some worthy cause or another. Surely that’s doing something meaningful.’

  Audrey arched her eyebrows. ‘Just a little ball. But we hope it will save lives.’

  ‘It’s for the Russian War Relief Fund,’ Imogen added quickly. ‘We’re hoping to raise two hundred pounds for the starving Russian children. Violet has come up with some wonderful ideas for decorations.’

  Mrs Marchant nodded her head in approval. ‘A very suitable project for young ladies, something to do until you get married.’

  Theodore glanced proprietorially at Imogen. ‘Indeed. You’ll be busy soon enough with a husband and household to look after.’ Tommy bristled beside Violet.

  Saunders and Harry cleared the soup bowls then walked around the table offering guests portions of poached white fish fillet with lemon-and-parsley sauce, served with a finely sliced cucumber salad.

  ‘I’d like to do something for the children who live in poverty just a mile away from here, across the river,’ Violet said, thinking of the barefoot slum children with their stunted growth and hungry eyes.

  ‘We see some very sad cases at the hospital,’ Tommy added. ‘Children with terrible diseases, like polio myelitis, diphtheria and typhoid, which spread like wildfire in the slums, especially when you have four or five children sleeping in one bed. Yet they could be so easily prevented with clean water, nourishing food and decent housing. It’s a disgrace that poverty like this exists in Melbourne in the twentieth century.’
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  Mr Marchant shook his head as he helped himself to a large serving of fish and sauce. ‘Charity just encourages the workingman to stick out his hand to get something for nothing. We don’t want to crush the spirit of independence in the workers – they’ll just sit around doing nothing, expecting to be fed.’

  ‘By Jove, I agree,’ Mr Ramsay boomed. ‘Like the workers at my tannery who are constantly wanting more pay and fewer hours. Yet to make the tannery more profitable, we need to reduce wages and increase production. You must have the same at yours, Hamilton. The workers are like recalcitrant children who need a firm hand.’

  ‘We’ve not had a strike at Hamilton’s for many years,’ Mr Hamilton replied, frowning. ‘Our workers are happy and fairly paid, and I think if the staff are content with their working conditions, they don’t cause problems.’

  Theodore leaned forward to join in the conversation. ‘We had some of those Bolshevik types sniffing around the tannery earlier this year, trying to cause trouble. The police said there was a Russian spy here in Melbourne, posing as a Norwegian, who’d been sent to Australia with the express purpose of fostering a communist revolution. He was discovered, of course, and deported a few weeks ago, but not before he’d spoken at a number of workers’ meetings.’

  ‘The police think there is a ring of Bolshevik spies here in Melbourne, continuing with his work of inciting workers to strike and overthrow their bosses,’ Mr Ramsay said. ‘I tell you, I’ll bring down the full force of the law if they try causing trouble at Ramsay’s again.’

  Mr Hamilton glanced down the table, taking a sip of his white wine. ‘Yes, I read about the trial of the Russian Bolshevik, but let’s not bore the ladies by talking about business and politics. We can save that for after dinner, when the ladies retire.’

  Violet put down her silver fish knife and fork. Her temper had risen during the conversation. The poor families she had met in the slums didn’t look like they were revolutionaries trying to cause trouble. They looked like they were sick and hungry.

  ‘Our maid Sally’s mother is very ill, and they can’t afford a doctor,’ Violet said, her voice high with emotion. ‘Mrs Burke usually works as a cleaning lady. She takes in washing as well as running the house, so she’s exhausted. They have five children, aged eight to fifteen, and the three eldest are working in jobs that pay just a few shillings a week. They hardly have enough to eat, and Sally is worried they’ll be evicted if they can’t pay the rent.’

  ‘They will be fine, Violet,’ said her father soothingly. He shot her a glance that meant young ladies should be seen and not heard at adult dinner parties.

  Mrs Marchant sniffed disapprovingly. ‘She’s probably Catholic. Catholic families always have far too many children. They bring it on themselves.’

  Mr Ramsay looked at Violet patronisingly. ‘Maid-servants are very good at spinning sob stories for their mistresses to get out of work. I’m sure a little investigation would show that their situation is not so dire.’

  ‘I’ve been to the slums in Richmond,’ Violet insisted, her voice rising. ‘I’ve seen the poverty myself.’

  Mr Hamilton now glared openly at Violet. ‘I should certainly hope that you have not been to the slums. That is no place for a respectable young lady. There are all sorts of criminals and thugs there. It is simply not safe.’

  ‘Especially with that dreadful gangster Squizzy Taylor on the loose again!’ Mrs Marchant exclaimed dramatically. ‘I can’t believe he’s out on bail. Didn’t he grow up in Richmond? Certainly no decent girl would be seen there.’

  ‘Do you understand me, Violet?’ her father demanded. ‘I expressly forbid you from visiting the slums.’

  Violet lowered her eyes to the napkin in her lap and took a sip of her water. She felt like bursting into tears.

  Imogen signalled Saunders to clear the fish course and begin serving the main course of roast chicken with creamy mushroom sauce, buttered French beans and sautéed potato.

  The elder end of the table changed the subject to a shot-by-shot description of the latest competition game at the golf club. Theodore took the chance to tell Imogen and Audrey about his own recent golf game.

  Tommy leaned over and spoke quietly to Violet. ‘Would you like me to go and examine your maid’s mother to see how she is?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please, Tommy,’ Violet replied, her eyes sparkling. ‘Could you?’

  ‘I’m not a qualified doctor yet,’ Tommy reminded her, ‘but I’m in my third year, and I’ve been working as an assistant at Alfred Hospital.’

  ‘That would be wonderful, Tommy. I’d be so grateful.’

  ‘We’ll talk later and arrange for me to visit her first thing in the morning.’

  Audrey smiled at Violet over the roses. ‘Have courage, Violet. Don’t let the old fogeys get you down.’

  Theodore turned to Violet. ‘Things will never change. There will always be poverty amongst the great unwashed, and there will always be a few whose good fortune is to be very, very wealthy. Thank goodness we’re amongst the lucky ones.’ Theodore shot a triumphant look at Imogen.

  Violet twisted and scrunched the napkin in her lap. ‘No, I disagree – it’s not right that so many should have so little.’

  Theodore patted her on the arm. ‘Look at the revolution in Russia. The Bolsheviks rose up and slaughtered the aristocracy, seizing their land and wealth, and now the Bolshevik leaders are living like kings while the poor old peasants are starving to death. One could argue that the peasants were far better off under the autocratic rule of the Tsar.’

  Audrey rolled her eyes.

  ‘Social change is never easy, especially when it is achieved through violence,’ Tommy said. ‘But surely it is our duty to improve the situation of the poor, through health care, education and legal reform if necessary.’

  Theodore put his knife and fork down and leaned back in his chair. ‘Pretty words … but unrealistic. Most working men are like sheep and need firm guidance from their betters.’

  Violet swallowed another sip of her water. ‘I think Tommy’s right – we must do something to make society change.’

  Mrs Ramsay gave Violet a disapproving glare.

  Theodore laughed and turned to Imogen. ‘Your sister is quite the fierce little warrior. Are all the women in your family so revolutionary?’

  Imogen smiled fondly at Violet. ‘I’m sure we come from a long line of Celtic warriors, stretching all the way back to Queen Boadicea.’

  The servants cleared the main course and served homegrown garden salad dressed with vinaigrette.

  ‘Here’s to Queen Boadicea,’ said Audrey, lifting her wine glass. ‘Long may she battle the forces of injustice.’

  Mrs Ramsay exchanged a horrified glance with Mrs Marchant. Mr Hamilton quickly changed the subject to progress in the international cricket match.

  The sixth and final course was pudding – vanilla ice-cream served with raspberries and strawberries from the kitchen garden. Once everyone had finally finished, Imogen caught Violet’s eye and rose gracefully to her feet.

  ‘Ladies, shall we retire to the drawing room and leave the gentlemen to their coffee and cigars?’ Imogen suggested.

  Violet wondered what serious business the gentle men would discuss over their cigars, while the ladies and their delicate sensibilities were safely removed. It annoyed her that as a female her thoughts and opinions were so easily dismissed.

  It was nearly midnight by the time all the guests had left, and Violet rang the bell for Sally to come and help her undress. Sally looked sleepy as she hung the evening dress on a hanger, unbound Violet’s hair and laid out her nightdress.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sally,’ Violet said. ‘I have a plan for tomorrow. Everything will be all right.’

  Sally didn’t look convinced, but she nodded her head dutifully. ‘That’s good, miss.’

  But Violet lay awake for many hours feeling jittery and sick. Her anger bubbled up – anger at the smug complacency of people like her father’s busin
ess associates and their wives. Anger that she felt so helpless. Anger that there seemed to be so many things wrong with the world and no way to fix them. Violet tossed and turned all night, thinking of ideas then rejecting them, thinking of more ideas, each one more outlandish than the one before.

  It was very late when she finally fell into a feverish sleep.

  11

  The Secret Plan

  The next morning, Violet implemented the best plan that had come to her in the early hours of the morning. She saw no option but to return to the slums that her father had forbidden her from visiting.

  After breakfast, Nikolai drove Mr Hamilton to work at the factory as usual. Imogen was sleeping in after the late night. As soon as her father had left, Violet telephoned Tommy to arrange a meeting point, then visited Mrs Darling in the kitchen and Joseph, the gardener, to beg for more food to take to Sally’s family. By the time Nikolai returned, Violet and Sally were ready to go with a basket of supplies.

  Leaving Riversleigh, Nikolai drove them back across the Yarra River and into Richmond. Violet examined the now familiar streets, framing up potential photographs as they passed the many colourful sights. A rabbit vendor, pushing a small handcart, held up a fistful of fluffy carcasses, calling out ‘Rabbitoh! Rabbitoh! Buy your fresh rabbits.’ A cheeky newsboy, with his flat cap and leather satchel, darted into the traffic selling newspapers. A tram rattled past, laden with passengers hanging out the doorways. A young girl of about ten pushed a wicker pram with three smaller siblings crammed inside. Violet promised herself that she would come back later to take the real photographs.

  They passed a number of small shops and businesses, and lots of large advertising posters for films, products and remedies. One sign caught her eye – an old-fashioned black-and-white sketch of a woman with a pompadour hairstyle.

  They pulled up at a tram stop in Victoria Street, near Sally’s house. Tommy was waiting there, carrying a black leather medical bag. The locals stared at the buttercup yellow Daimler, with its uniformed chauffeur and well-dressed occupants. It obviously belonged to a wealthy family from across the river.