Table of Contents
PUBLIC EXHIBITION
INVENTORY
BOTTLE FOR MEDICINE OR POISON
SHARD OF AMBER GLASS
PICKAXE HANDLE
ALABASTER FIGURINE
SHOULDER PROTECTOR
PEARL BUTTON
LEATHER STRAP
HORSESHOE PIN
OAK STAVE
COINS AND A TOKEN
THREE EMPTY FRENCH WINE BOTTLES
OYSTER SHELL
HOOP HANDLE FROM A TRAPDOOR
WORK BOOT
SKULL
BROKEN HINGE
EMPTY FLAGON
PERFUME BOTTLE
JINGLE FROM A TAMBOURINE
CRACKED SAUCER
HORSE BRASS
PADLOCK
EPAULETTE
PIECE OF BENT WIRE
SEWING BOBBIN
BOTTLE
FRAGMENT OF WASHBOWL
GOLDEN GUINEA
HAIRPIN
HARD RUBBER PIPE
IRON FILIGREE
DARK LANTERN
BROWN PAPER
FRAZER’S SULPHUR POWDERS’ BOX
TIMBER POLE
SLATE PENCIL
PIECE OF STRING
WHITE GLOVE
WOOLLEN SOCK
FROZEN CHARLOTTE DOLL
DOORKNOB
TATTERED PIECE OF PAPER
EIDERDOWN
VELVET DRAPE
LEATHER SHOE
RED BAND
MUG
SCRAP OF HESSIAN SACK
RIDING WHIP
HOBBLE
FLAT IRON
VELVET COVERLET
HEAVY LEATHER BELT
JAR LID
BILLIARD BALL
SMALL INGOT OF GOLD
WALL HANGING
TROPHY
BRASS KNUCKLE
IRON GRID
RACING SILKS
FRAMED NEWSPRINT CUTTING
Author’s Note
IN LONNIE’S SHADOW
Chrissie Michaels
In Lonnie’s Shadow
Chrissie Michaels is a tree-changer who has happily settled into a country lifestyle. Her favourite pastimes are growing enough vegies for family and friends to share, and going for long strolls on the nearby beaches. She spends the rest of her time as a freelance writer, as well as teaching part-time at the local secondary school.
Born in Lancashire, England, she arrived in Australia aged six and grew up in Melbourne’s eastern suburbs. Her published work includes short stories, poetry, children’s fiction and educational texts.
In Lonnie’s Shadow is her first young adult novel.
For
M,
R, E, S, D, M JB and Ladybird
First published by Ford Street Publishing, an imprint of
Hybrid Publishers, PO Box 52, Ormond VIC 3204
Melbourne Victoria Australia
© Chrissie Michaels 2010
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
This publication is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests and enquiries concerning reproduction should be addressed to
Ford Street Publishing Pty Ltd
162 Hoddle St, Abbotsford VIC 3067.
Ford Street website: www.fordstreetpublishing.com
First published 2010
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: Author: Michaels, Chrissie
Title: In Lonnie’s Shadow
ISBN: 9781876462918
eISBN: 9781925000788
Dewey Number: A823.3
Cover design: © Michael Hardman at Gittus Graphics Pty Ltd
In-house editor: Saralinda Turner
Electronic version by Baen Books
http://www.baen.com
Spur
‘Squatters and other wealthy men sometimes raced fine horses recklessly through the streets of Melbourne, especially after the hotels closed. Perhaps this is a relic? 27/22/49’
Little Lon Collection
Museum Victoria
http://museumvictoria.com.au/littlelons/selobj
C’est double plaisir de tromper le trompeur.
It is double pleasure to trick the trickster.
Jean de la Fontaine
17th century
PUBLIC EXHIBITION
Long after Lonnie, Daisy and Pearl departed this world, after the bitumen sealed in the mysteries of Casselden Place, after the pollies turned a sod or hammered a commemorative plaque onto the likes of Miss Selina’s Home for the Wayward & Fallen, and shortly before the asphalt was ripped up to be replaced with a towering office block – someone came up with the idea of an archaeological dig.
Casselden Place was one of a cluster of lanes branching off a mean backstreet in the Melbourne grid. A block known as Little Lon that over the years became marked as a slum; the people living there thought of as one long dirty tapeworm, all packed together as murderers and thieves and lodged in its innards.
Until the time team came along. Using diggers, shovels and brushes, they tore up the tar, dug back to the cobbles and bluestone foundations, swept and scraped and sorted through the history. A retrieval of memories overlaid by time. And when they’d dug enough from the cesspits and spoil heaps, they placed some of those unearthed secrets, eight thousand or so of the squealing bits and pieces – the shoes and the buckles; oddments of flannel and wool; a shirt and a cap; buttons of wood, white glass, shell and bone; the pots and coins and bottles and ironwork – into the museum for public display.
Sometimes you have to strain your eyes, look under the scum on the surface, to see what really goes on …
INVENTORY
As requested from main location site – Casselden Place, for public exhibition.
Bottle for medicine or poison Item No. 4261
Shard of amber glass Item No. 135
Pickaxe handle Item No. 4929
Alabaster figurine Item No. 47
Shoulder protector Item No. 5111
Pearl button Item No. 2856
Leather strap Item No. 130
Horseshoe pin Item No. 6248
Oak stave Item No. 4321
Coins and a token Item Nos. 647, 648, 649 & 650
Three empty French wine bottles Item Nos. 31, 32 & 33
Oyster shell Item No. 27
Hoop handle from a trapdoor Item No. 2018
Work boot Item No. 19
Skull Item No. 1834
Broken hinge Item No. 654
Empty flagon Item No. 641
Perfume bottle Item No. 4
Jingle from a tambourine Item No. 7332
Cracked saucer Item No. 1198
Horse brass Item No. 5439
Padlock Item No. 7765
Epaulette Item No. 1841
Piece of bent wire Item No. 1035
Sewing bobbin Item No. 1446
Bottle Item No. 23
Fragment of washbowl Item No. 6531
Golden guinea Item No. 772
Hairpin Item No. 6551
Hard rubber pipe Item No. 455
Iron filigree Item No. 3080
Dark lantern Item No. 903
Brown paper Item No. 4642
Frazer’s Sulphur Powders’ box Item No. 368
Timber pole Item No. 221
Slate pencil Item No. 3577
Piece of string Item No. 7543
White glove Item No. 906
Woollen sock Item No. 333
Frozen Charlotte doll Item No. 6150
Doorknob Item No. 718
Tattered piece of paper Item No. 3947
Eiderdown Item No. 445
Velvet drape Item No. 749
Leather shoe Item No. 5117
Red band Item No. 4
Mug Item No. 558
Scrap of hessian sack Item No. 5786
Blade Item No. 1338
Riding whip Item No. 956
Hobble Item No. 1616
Flat iron Item No. 21
Velvet coverlet Item No. 6772
Heavy leather belt Item No. 4273
Jar lid Item No. 955
Billiard ball Item No. 4169
Small ingot of gold Item No. 3524
Wall hanging Item No. 727
Trophy Item No. 3769
Brass knuckle Item No. 3965
Iron grid Item No. 732
Racing silks Item No. 5127
Framed newsprint cutting Item No. 1791
BOTTLE FOR MEDICINE OR POISON
Item No. 4261
Brown glass bottle with stopper. Contained medicinal compound. Exact contents not known. Found in cesspit.
Pearl clapped a hand on one ear and rolled over on the iron bedstead. Cruel enough trying to grab some shut-eye with all these nitties chomping ferociously at her crevices and her having to scratch and flick them on their way, now she had to battle with the wails from the room below. Stabbing her ears out they were. Poor girl sounded like a banshee. Pearl buried her head into the muddle of greasy rags which served as a pillow, their stink of unwashed sleep so strong she could scarcely breathe, and gave a silent curse at being stuck here in this dirt-swallow mess of an attic.
But there was something spellbindingly ill-fated about that noise. It made her ears prickle, sent the shivers running into her back. She climbed out of bed with a grim inclination to see the goings-on for herself.
Slight as a kitten, Pearl padded down the stairwell and shrank into the dark space of the landing. A sour vapour drifted across, bringing a whiff of musk and carbolic acid. Better not let on she was spying, or else Annie Walker would wipe the floor with her.
A smudge of gaslight revealed the gloomy room beyond. The walls were mildewed from the damp and in need of a good scrub down. There was the same impassable gash of a window, planked up on the outside, as the one upstairs. No shimmering lace curtain blown by a sweet breeze here; only a bed as sorrowful as all the others where the girls were made to spend their working days and flea-bitten nights.
Pearl could see Biddy lying on her back, her hair spread damp and defiantly loose by her side. She had dirty skinny ankles. Her knees were bent and her stomach wobbled like sloppy blancmange. Slasher Jack, a man they all despised, pinned Biddy down roughly by the shoulders, while Annie Walker leaned against the end of the bed. Her blood-smeared hands were meddling with the creases between the girl’s legs.
Biddy let out a violent wail.
With a swift wrench of her arm, Annie pulled up by the neck what looked like a pale, palm-sized doll.
Although Pearl’s past four years had stamped a permanent print of this dirty life, she was shocked to the innards at the sight of these crooked leeches doing their unholy business on poor Biddy. This was the first time she had ever witnessed the horrid and joyless event with her own eyes. And though she knew she should be turning away, she stood gawping, her eyes refusing even to blink; the lids could have been stuck open with hat pins.
Annie flashed Slasher a pitiless glance as she thrust the silent, milky-white piece of flesh towards him.
‘One less for the baby farmer.’ That woman may have been no bigger than a small barrel but she was as acrid inside as pickling vinegar. A fit of grief seized Biddy; sobs wrenching out like cramps from her belly. Perhaps at the unfairness of this baby’s life – a misery in the making and its gruesome, forced end. Perhaps just for her own terrible existence.
Annie gave the girl a sound slap across the jaw.
‘Stop whimpering before yer wake the dead. Yer not the first to spit out a lump of lard before its time.’ As if struck by a sudden forlorn thought she put an apologetic hand on the girl. Her voice came out sharp and strange. ‘Pull yerself together. It’s all done with. Put it behind.’
Through vacant eyes, Biddy nodded dumbly. Right there and then, Pearl made up her mind that (supposing she was up the duff, which she wasn’t, but if and when the time came) there was no way she would be fed any strange concoction from a medicine bottle to help a poor girl out of a slip-up. No way that any babby of hers would be torn out early by the hands of those filthy maulers. She blessed herself in the name of good sweet Jesus (wouldn’t her friend Daisy be relieved to think she was calling on the Almighty) and swore on her mother’s grave (although she wasn’t really sure if her ma was indeed dead) that she would never again do for another man in Annie Walker’s name. Not ever. And to be doubly sure, she blessed herself again.
That same night, as Pearl plotted to leave one Little Lon madam to go under the protection of another, a wild and unnatural storm hit the streets. The spouting rains tumbled from the heavens and a deathly wind swept through the town’s very centre. Water ran so fiercely it surprised like an avalanche. The overflow raced in torrents along the channels by the roadsides, churning up stones and muck. And reek it did, like diluted diarrhoea, of blood and pig gut from the slaughter yard, dung from the stables, malt and barley from the brewers. A rush of unwelcome sludge slid around every corner and filled every hollow, flooded over doorsteps and swamped the cellars. Barrows and billboards and anything else not fast tight went with it; the whole stinking mess racing to a finishing line at the river.
Three deaths were reported. Forked lightning took careful aim at a horseman riding at full gallop, killing him instantly in a blue flash. A hansom cab overturned, the driver jumping to safety but the lone traveller inside killed. The last casualty of the night was the lifeless body of a part-formed infant, wrapped in calico and day-old Argus newsprint; the bundle sliding and slopping its way along the gutter of Spring Street before becoming lodged against the wheel of a dray outside the very gateway of Miss Selina’s Home for the Wayward & Fallen.
Afterwards, Daisy told Pearl how the dead miniature babby looked perfectly all right except for a look of sheer horror on its dear seraph’s face. That the Sally’s Drum Major called it a precious little martyr, and how it drifted to Miss Selina’s by divine intention; God flushing it in baptismal waters and delivering the little angel to a safe resting place away from evil, where it would bask in eternal light. Hallelujah!
But Pearl, who knew the bitter sin of the entire sorry episode, having witnessed with her own horrified eyes how Biddy’s babe was torn out early, and knowing full well that the babby was never christened by holy water so would float forever in a state of damnation without ever seeing Heaven, stared down at the ground and kept the truth of the unhallowed birthing quiet as death.
SHARD OF AMBER GLASS
Item No. 135
Shattered fragment of amber glass with curved edge, probably from a fanlight. Found on site of 6 Casselden Place. Believed foreign to this location. More commonly used in neighbouring, more affluent suburbs, such as Carlton.
Keeping low, the youth crept through the shadows of the nightcart lane. The afternoon was already curtaining into early darkness. He turned up his collar against the drizzling rain and came to a standstill. All in all he couldn’t have chosen a better hour to do his business.
Only a dozen paces across a bluestone yard kept Lonnie McGuinness from the door he planned to force. He fought the temptation to tear across. Hold on, mate, he steadied himself, don’t be too foolhardy. Once he made a move, there’d be no turning back.
From his vantage point the line of houses had a forlorn look, not too different from where he lived across the gardens. But their plain rear walls were a lie. Odds on they’d be much grander inside than he’d ever seen. Of course, he had only ever been in one big house. Mrs B’s. All red velvet and golden drapery and set up solely for comings and goings, you might say. Not that he had ever frequented the Big House for its real purpose, only sneaked in with Pearl to have a sq
uiz at the high jinks. He shook his head. All those fathers and sons, uncles and nephews, never reckoning on Mrs B penning each and every name into a ledger alongside a list of their antics. Lordy, if he’d been a bit of a dodger he could have bled a fortune to set aside for his old age. No doubt Mrs B already had this in mind. As if she’d never know an opportunity when it smacked her in the face.
With a last glance around, Lonnie pulled down his cap and hightailed it to the murky recess of the doorway. No backing out. Didn’t have no choice. He made his way quick as a tack over the cobbles. A neighbouring dog barked at the tip-tap of his leather boots. Once across he wedged himself safely into the corner.
The barking grew to a volley of snarls. Lucky for him the dog was behind a high gate. He could hear the scratching of the animal’s paws as it pushed against the palings. Its ears would be quivering, its muscles taut, ready to spring. Lonnie licked a line around his dry mouth and wished the mutt would shut it. He plastered his back hard against the stone wall like a gargoyle and waited.
When he felt safe enough, he pulled out a curved iron bar from its hiding place in his jacket. A jemmy. The housebreaker’s tool of trade. Skilfully, swiftly, he prised the back door latch. As the iron claw splintered the jamb, his thoughts moved to his da. He could almost feel him breathing down his neck from above, for the woodwork skills he had taught Lonnie were never meant to be used in this way. Sorry Da, he mouthed silently towards the heavens, but I think you’ll understand.