A Matter of Love and Death Read online

  A Matter Of Love and Death

  Caron Albright

  Bombshell Books

  Copyright © 2017 Caron Albright

  The right of Caron Albright to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bombshell Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bombshellbooks.com

  For Kathrin Bartelt, who brightens up the dullest day

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  A Note from Bombshell Books:

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Frances stepped out of the house a good quarter of an hour early. After an interminable week when heat held Adelaide in a relentless grip, the temperatures had tumbled, making walking to work tolerable.

  She strolled along at a pace that made sure she arrived at the telephone exchange unflustered and, for once, cool. Only this shift and then she’d be off duty for two whole days. Tomorrow unfolded in front of her in all its unhurried glory. She’d help her mum with the laundry – it took two people to feed sheets into the mangle – but they should be done by afternoon tea time. She’d reward herself with a long soak in the roll-top bath, before putting on her print dress with the low waist and the quarter sleeve and meet Pauline to go to the talkies.

  Frances wondered what the Empire Theatre would show. She rather hoped for something lighthearted, with one of her favourite stars, like William Powell or Jeanette MacDonald. But it didn’t really matter. As soon as the room fell dark and the velvet curtain opened, she was sure to escape the dreariness that was 1931.

  ‘Another stick-up,’ yelled a newspaper boy at the top of his lungs. ‘Another stick-up. Read all about it.’ He held out a paper to her, hope in his too thin face. Frances shook her head. Her pennies were too few to be spent without necessity, and besides, she’d hear all about the latest crime soon enough, if there really was one. One good thing about scraping by, she thought. No robber would mistake the Palmers for anything but poor.

  On impulse, Frances decided to walk around the post office building where she worked. That way, she passed the small shop where Tilda and Martha O’Leary sold barely-worn clothes. For valued clients, they looked out for desired items. That’s how Frances got the smart, lime green cotton dress she wore today. Two bob, and there'd been nothing wrong with it apart from a tiny tear at the hem that anyone could mend in a blink.

  An elderly lady, with grey wisps of hair escaping from a bun, bent down to put a pair of leather driving gloves in the window display. Frances knocked on the window to get her attention. The lady looked up and shook her head.

  Frances shrugged as she gave Tilda a smile. After all, they were just coming up to Easter. There was plenty of time for someone to bring in the nice woollen winter coat that she hoped to purchase for her mother, and the sisters knew what to look out for.

  Still smiling, she unlocked the back door of the post office and headed towards the narrow staff room. She put down her brown paper bag with her two lunch sandwiches. How lucky they were to have an ice-box.

  One last glance in the mirror, to make sure her light-brown hair, worn in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, was tidy, and she was ready to take over at the switchboard.

  Loud sobs brought her up short before she could enter the room.

  ‘You can’t do that. I’ve done nothing wrong.’ The voice on the other side of the door belonged to Gussie, the part-time girl who’d started a fortnight ago. Frances’ hand rested on the door handle, but she couldn’t bring herself to waltz into the room. Being forced to listen in was bad enough, but intruding would be worse by miles.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mr Gibbons said from behind the closed door. ‘But you’ve left me no choice but to dismiss you.’

  ‘I only told my friend, and she wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone.’

  Mr Gibbons’ tone grew grave. ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s the Prime Minister you’ve been talking to. This is a government agency, and we maintain strict confidentiality in every respect. Good Lord, babbling about something you’ve overheard on the telephone switchboard …’

  ‘But I need this job. Please!’

  ‘You should have thought about that earlier. I’ll write you a cheque for your wages, and nobody needs to know about your indiscretion when you apply for a job somewhere else, unless they ask me for a reference.’ Mr Gibbons paused. ‘That is the best I can do for you.’

  The door swung open. Frances had barely enough time to move out of the way as Gussie thundered past. Her eyes were swollen, but her jaw was set in a mulish line.

  ‘Come in, my dear,’ Mr Gibbons said. His face looked drained. ‘I’m afraid you've overheard a few things that should have been best kept quiet, but I trust I can rely on your discretion.’

  He sank on to one of the three straight-backed chairs that stood in a line. ‘Not that Gussie is much of a loss, but I did hope it would work out, for her family’s sake. And how I’ll fill her chair at such short notice is beyond me.’ He sounded almost as if he was talking to himself, having forgotten all about her own presence, Frances thought, or he wouldn't have been so embarrassingly frank.

  She took pity on her superior. Mr Gibbons always treated her fairly, and she’d never seen him this downcast before. ‘I’ve got two days off coming up,’ she said, watching the silent switchboard. ‘If it’s any help, I could come in and do some extra hours.’

  ‘Are you sure, my dear? You’d get paid extra. And it’d only be from twelve until five.’

  ‘I’ll be here.’ Frances gave him a reassuring smile as she pressed the headset down on to her hair, switched it on, and answered the first signal.

  ∞∞∞∞

  By lunchtime, her ears buzzed from all the noise and her eyes smarted from the flashing lights. She lifted her headset off and got up, moving her neck from side to side to prevent any stiffening. Lately, she’d taken to eating her sandwiches at the small table in the exchange, allowing her to keep an eye on the switchboard. She worked alone on her shifts these days. They'd become pretty quiet anyway, except for Fridays and Mondays, the days when tradespeople and business managers made phone calls. Not that long ago, there used to be three girls on busy days and two girls on slow shifts, but the depression had gotten too bad to allow for that. Calls during her lunch break were rare, the girls at the main exchange knew how short-staffed Mr Gibbons was and told callers to try again later, unless it was urgent.

  With the unemployed roaming the country in ever growing numbers, it was beyond Frances how anyone could be stupid enough to jeopardise a steady job. A shudder ran through her. She called herself to
order. The Palmers were fine, as long as she earned enough to meet the mortgage and the regular bills. Not to worry.

  She bit into her ham and pickle sandwich. The bread tasted soft and fresh. She savoured the quiet around her as much as her meal. Mr Herbert, who worked behind the post office counter, preferred lunch in one of the small tea shops that somehow managed to survive on customers like him, but Frances hated the idea of spending two whole pennies on a simple sandwich and have even more talk wash over her.

  Another light flashed on the switchboard. She took her headset and went to answer the call, fingers dancing as she worked the plugs.

  ∞∞∞∞

  The air felt crisp as she left. It cooled her cheeks as she rushed home. She’d promised her mother to try and pick up a leftover loaf or two at half price from the German bakery, halfway between the telephone exchange and Grenfell Street.

  ‘Whoa, steady there.’ A tanned hand grabbed Frances’ arm as she slipped off the kerb to avoid colliding with a ragamuffin boy chasing after a ball.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, catching her breath. ‘You can let go now. I’m fine.’

  The man relaxed his grip. ‘At least let me see you safely across the street. What’s with the big rush?’

  ‘I want to get to Kessler’s bakery before closing time.’

  ‘What a coincidence,’ the man said. ‘I could do with a loaf myself. Just show me the way to this bakery of yours.’

  Frances glanced up at him. He seemed respectable enough, with good clothes and a broad jaw that reminded her of her brother, Rob.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot my manners,’ he said, taking off his grey fedora to her. ‘Jack Sullivan at your service. It’d be my pleasure to accompany you, but if you prefer to be rid of me, I understand perfectly well.’

  There was a hint of amusement in his cool voice. Frances raised her head, openly scrutinising him. She shaded her eyes against the fast-setting sun. A dark-haired man in his thirties, pretty much the gentleman, as her mother would say, with sleepy blue eyes and a nose that had obviously been broken at one stage. The dark blue suit and buffed leather shoes were neat, but not flashy.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘will I do? I promise you I don’t bite.’

  She felt the corner of her mouth curl up against her will.

  He offered her his arm. ‘And your name is?’

  ‘Frances Palmer,’ she said, relaxing a bit more.

  ∞∞∞∞

  They entered the bakery in silent harmony. Mrs Kessler stood behind the counter, piling up the remaining half dozen loaves and a few pies and bread rolls in front of her. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, fiercely enough to raise her eyebrows. She looked like she herself was made of dough, thought Frances, with her round dumpy body and that shiny face with eyes like currants.

  She said, ‘One crusty loaf, please, Mrs Kessler, and one sourdough.’ She turned to Jack Sullivan. ‘Mr Kessler makes the best bread for miles.’

  A pleased flush crept into Mrs Kessler’s plump cheeks. ‘You’re a good girl, Frances,’ she said. ‘You found yourself a very good girl, sir.’

  ‘But Mr Sullivan is not …’

  Mrs Kessler ignored her. They both did. Frances snapped her mouth shut. Setting the record straight with Mrs Kessler would have to wait until the next time they were alone. But she would mention it. She didn’t want people to talk about her, simply because she turned up with a personable man in her wake.

  She gave Mr Sullivan a sideward glance. He seemed unruffled as he asked Mrs Kessler to fill a bag with the remaining rolls.

  ‘What do you usually do with the leftover bread?’ he asked

  ‘We give it to soup kitchen,’ Mrs Kessler said in the heavy accent she hadn’t lost in twenty-five years, rubbing her ample stomach. ‘It is good bread, made for filling hungry mouths.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Kind, I do not know. We do not like waste.’

  ∞∞∞∞

  ‘Is there anything else you need to buy?’ Mr Sullivan asked after they’d left the bakery.

  ‘The greengrocers over there,’ Frances said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘But I wouldn’t want them to get the wrong impression as well. You know how people talk.’

  ‘I see.’ The corners of his eyes crinkled. ‘In that case, I’d better say goodbye before I harm your reputation.’

  She felt her cheeks grow warm. ’Well – yes. Goodbye.’ She gave him an apologetic look and walked away from him, to the shop.

  ∞∞∞∞

  ‘Nice-looking fellow I saw you coming out of the bakery with,’ Mrs Jacobs said, as she splashed water on the cabbages to keep them fresh.

  Frances ignored the remark. ‘Do you have some old potatoes or carrots for half-price, Mrs Jacobs? Anything that’d do in a stew?’

  ‘I’ve got some turnips and onions that need eating. And I could let you have a bag of potatoes if your mum doesn’t mind sorting out the odd one that’s already sprouting. Mind you, that’s a lot to carry, even if your young man gives you a hand.’

  ‘Mr Sullivan is not my young man.’ Honestly, these people. ‘He asked for directions to the bakery, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s always good to have someone lending a hand, that’s all I’m saying, seeing as he’s still waiting around. I can see him through the window.’ Mrs Jacobs wiped her hands on her apron. ‘That’ll be sixpence, love.’

  ∞∞∞∞

  Mr Sullivan strolled towards Frances as she struggled to carry the heavy bag with her arm outstretched to protect her dress from getting dirty.

  She didn’t even bother to protest as he took it off her, or ask why he’d hung around. It was kind, after all. ‘Where do we go now, young lady?’ he asked.

  ‘Home. Off Grenfell Street, if you're sure you want to carry my bag. But then I really have to say goodbye to you.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘But I promise you, I’m perfectly house-broken and harmless.’

  She felt herself smile as they fell into a perfectly matched step. ‘We’re here,’ she said finally, stopping in front of the sagging wrought-iron gate that her godfather, Uncle Sal, cared for with black-lead and twisted wire.

  He put down the bags.

  ‘Again, goodbye, Mr Sullivan,’ Frances said, with something close to reluctance to see him go. ‘And thank you for your help.’

  ‘Any time.’ He tipped the brim of his hat with two fingers. ‘I’ll see you around.’

  ∞∞∞∞

  The front door creaked open while she still fumbled with the gate-latch. Uncle Sal must have kept a look-out for her, she thought, as he rushed to help her with the bags.

  ‘You’ve got no call to lug all that heavy stuff,’ he said, his mouth set in an obstinate line. ‘You tell ’em folks I’ll be along to pick up those things.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that I had help, you sly fox.’

  ‘I might.’ Uncle Sal pushed the door wide open with his shoulder.

  Frances followed him into the big kitchen and sat down at the table. She propped her chin up with her hands, watching the dapper little man busy himself with storing the food in the wire baskets that hung from a beam. She knew better than to offend his sense of Italian manhood by helping. For a man who was two years shy of his old age pension, his movements were graceful, despite the gammy right leg.

  Uncle Sal always said the steel in his ankle was better than any weather vane when it came to predicting rain. Hard to believe he’d barely been able to hobble along on crutches three years ago, courtesy of a drunken driver who ended the stage career of Salvatore the Magnificent. That’s when he moved in for good, and she couldn't imagine life without him. They were a team.

  Uncle Sal paused to sniff at the potatoes. ‘Some start to smell a bit. Only good for pig-swill.’

  ‘That’s why they were cheap. Where’s Mum?’

  ‘Run over to give Bertha a hand with old Henry. It takes two these days to lift him out of his chair, and he won’t let anybody but t
he girls do it.’

  Uncle Sal dropped the offending potatoes back into the bag, took three of the onions out of their basket and began to juggle them, catching them on the way down. ‘So,’ he said, keeping a steady rhythm with his hands, ‘who was that young man and why didn’t you ask him in? It’s not because of me, is it? I may not be much to look at, but I wouldn’t embarrass you in front of a friend.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, and he’s not a friend,’ Frances said once more. ‘Mr Sullivan was being polite, carrying my bags for me, that’s all there is to it. I wouldn't dream of inviting a stranger in, as you well know. You helped Mum set out those rules, remember? If you could stop being silly now we might get supper on the table as soon as Mum’s back.’

  Her right arm shot up as Uncle Sal flung an onion her way.

  ‘Good catch,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘We’d have made a nice double-act, you and me, if we’d ever put our show on the road. Salvatore and Francesca, the billboards would have read in bright lights.’ He sighed. ‘We came so close to the big time, my love.’

  She got up and planted a kiss on his thin cheek.

  ∞∞∞∞

  Maggie rushed into the kitchen as Uncle Sal lifted the stew-pot off the burner.

  ‘Sorry it took me so long,’ she said, grabbing her apron from the hook on the wall. ‘You sit down, love, and I’ll do the rest.’