6
News From The Big Smoke
Linnet handed Jimmy the letter from Morpeth, Swale of George Street, Sydney without speaking. It was addressed to both of them: she’d already read it.
“Shit, they’ve done it! Shit, they wanna see us! Shit, ya know what this means, don’tcha?” he gasped. “We’re in!”
Mr G. Squiggle Mor-squiggle had written to say their enquiries in England had yielded a most encouraging result and he would very much like a face-to-face meeting with Mr Muller or Miss Muller in order to discuss it.
Linnet returned calmly in response to her brother’s excitement: “That pale green writing-paper of Rose’s can’t have put him off, after all.”
“But shit, Linnet! They musta found out that Joe Sneed died before Uncle Jim! Otherwise why would they wanna see us?”
“Ye-es... Well, either that, or they’re in league with the blimmin’ airlines!” said Linnet with a little laugh.
“Yeah,” he agreed, grinning. “Um—wouldn’t have to fly. Could take the train,” he noted cautiously. “Or the bus.”
“Not the bus,” she said, shuddering. “The roads are even more dangerous over there. Remember all those bus crashes a couple of years back?”
Jimmy made a face. He still had a fair bit of pain from the leg. “No, all right. Not the bus.”
“I don’t see why they can’t write to us about whatever it is.”
“Well, maybe they’re in league with the Sydney YMCA as well as the airlines!” he said with a laugh. “No, look, it must be really big! –Here, how much did you tell them about ULR?”
Linnet had written the original letter to Uncle Jim’s Sydney lawyers: Jimmy hadn’t been feeling up to it. “Um—actually I didn’t tell them anything.”
Jimmy read Mr Morpeth’s letter over again. It didn’t yield any more information than it had the first time. “I bet they’re onto it, though! –Hey, either that or Joe Sneed left a huge chain of bakeries behind: whaddaya reckon?”
Linnet replied calmly: “Last time we were at the shops I got an English Women’s Weekly for Rose, and it didn’t have any ads for Sneed’s bread or cakes or biscuits in it.”
Jimmy’s jaw sagged. “Uh—well, that doesn’t prove anything.”
“No, but it would have, if it had of had.”
“Uh—yeah. –Did she read it?”
“She must’ve, she told me there was a nice recipe for a tea-cake in it.”
“Good, she’s improving, then,” he said pleasedly. “—What is a tea-cake?” he added in bewilderment.
“Dunno. A cake that you eat with a cup of tea, I suppose.”
“Sounds logical.” Jimmy re-read the letter.
“It won’t say any more the third time round, ya know,” she warned.
“No, but— Crikey! Listen, they are onto something, Linnet: this G. Morpeth type’s one of the partners!”
“He would be.”
“Idiot! No, look: he’s the third joker from the top!” He read out from the list of partners on the firm’s letterhead, not bothering with the letters after their names: “‘F.J. Morpeth, J.B. Swale, G.L. Morpeth, K.S. Swale, H.T. Harrington, B.D. Cummings.’ See!”
Linnet peered over his shoulder at the letter. “It says ‘G. Squiggle Morpeth’ here.”
“It’s got ‘G.L. Morpeth’ underneath in typing, ya clown!”
“Ye-es... Maybe the top ones sign every letter, though, Jimmy. You know: like in the Department: Bruce and Mike weren’t allowed to sign letters, I had to sign them, even if it was just to someone Bruce knew from the uni. I mean, if it was about the project.”
“Yeah, well, couldn’t write, could they?” he said grinning. “Hang on: I’ll check on the first letter!” He went over to the desk and disinterred it. “Ah-hah!” he reported. “‘P.L. Smith, (Mrs)’.” There was a short pause. “And she’s not even a partner!” he reported, eyes shining.
“Really?” Linnet read through the list carefully. “You’re right. She must be some sort of junior that they give all the dirty jobs to. Maybe they are onto something. Something big enough that they see a big fat fee at the end of it. Whether or not there’ll be anything left over for us.”
“You really have got your knife into the legal profession, haven’t you?”
Linnet returned in surprise: “Haven’t you? After what those lawyers at the Royal Commission were costing the taxpayers?”
“Uh—well, nice work if ya can get it, I suppose. Well, we’ll have to go over there, eh?” he beamed. “Oh—bugger, I can’t, I’ve got three assignments due in at the end of the month, and then it’s swot vac and exams after that.”
Linnet looked at him nervously.
“You’ll have to go,” he said firmly.
“Couldn’t we wait till after exams?” she faltered.
“Not bloody likely! And just you ask this Morpeth type why the fuck he hasn’t sold those shares, like he was told!” he added grimly.
“Me?” said Linnet faintly.
“They’re our shares, not his, Linnet!”
“I don’t think I could deal with a—a big Sydney lawyer, Jimmy,” she faltered.
“Bullshit! –Look, tell ya what: you go over there, get all the gen, and if it looks promising, we’ll both go and see him, straight after exams! And listen: you can pop in on Buffy, while you’re there!”
“Ye-es... Where shall I stay?” she said plaintively.
Jimmy was about to say there were millions of motels in Sydney if she didn’t fancy the Y, but thought better of it. “Why not stay at Mrs O’D.’s with Buffy?”
“Ye-es... Would she have room?”
“Bound to, didn’t Buffy say that that Indian joker that was writing his thesis finished up and went home? His room’ll be empty. And if it isn’t, you can bunk in with her!” he said cheerfully. “It’ll only be for one night. Or ya could go up in one day—grab the red-eye and come back that night. Mind you, if ya did, that’d be the day they were running three hours late and re-routing everything through Tullamarine and you’d miss your appointment.”
Linnet shuddered. “I’d rather go over the day before.”
“Yeah, might be safer. –I know! Buffy could go with ya to the lawyers!”
Linnet saw nothing grotesque in the idea of the juxtaposition of a smooth-suited top lawyer from George Street and Buffy the Supermodel: she cried: “Oh! Yes!”
“Good. Go and ring her and get her to ask Mrs O’D. if it’s okay. –No, hang on, have to get onto G. Squiggle Morpeth first! Look, I’ll do that, then we’ll know where we are!” He marched off to the phone, beaming.
Linnet sank numbly onto the pale green leather sofa.
The voice that answered the extension for Mr G.L. Morpeth was very sniffy at first. Then it went away. Then it came back on and said in a different sort of tone altogether that although Mr Morpeth’s diary was very full, he would be able to fit Mr Muller in at three o’clock on Friday. Having explained it would be his sister who’d keep the appointment, the sapient Jimmy went back into the lounge-room and reported: “There’s money in it, all right. Falling over themselves. Friday, three o’clock. –I’m tempted to go myself,” he admitted.
“Yes! You go, Jimmy!”
“No,” he said, making a face. “I can’t miss Friday’s lectures. You’ll be right!”
Linnet sighed, and didn’t argue.
So on Thursday evening Jimmy duly drove her out to the airport and saw her onto the plane. It was getting a bit late but he brought Fergie along: he didn’t quite trust Rose alone with her. Even though Linnet had now left Rose in charge a couple of times and had reported it had been okay. Well, when she’d left them they’d been watching TV and when she got back Rose had, both times, got some afternoon tea for both of them and they were still watching TV.
Jimmy didn’t notice, but also at the airport were some acquaintances from his architecture course: two young men and a girl, all around his own age, about nineteen. They eyed Jimmy and the red-haired three-year-old askance, and didn’t approach them.
Buffy greeted Linnet rapturously, hugging her very tight.
Linnet hugged her back automatically. “Are you glad to see me?” she asked dubiously.
“Yeah! ’Course I am, ya nit!” said Buffy, laughing. “This is Marilu.”
The family, only having the letters to go by, had been pronouncing it “Mary-loo”, admittedly with the emphasis on the “Mary”, but it wasn’t, it was “Marra-loo,” with the emphasis on the “Mar”.
Linnet gulped a bit but managed to say “Hullo, Marra-loo. It’s nice to meet you, Buffy’s written to us about you.”
Marilu was a pretty, dark-haired girl of around Buffy’s own age. At the moment this was a bit hard to see because the hair, which was long and thick, was in a great frothy mass of tiny, wrinkly ringlets, much of which draped over her face. She tossed it back—Linnet was soon to realize that this was a habitual gesture with Marilu and after a while it dawned that it was also deliberate and practised—and laughed and said: “All good, I hope!”
Although besides the hair there was the makeup, which featured sort of bruised and shiny blackberry smears round the eyes, a white matte face with faint blackberry shadows emphasising the cheekbones, and a dark blackberry mouth, not to say the garments, tight jeans torn at the knees, worn with a fiercely studded leather belt, very high-heeled plain black suede courts, a tight black tee-shirt and a shiny black leather bomber jacket with an assortment of enormous metal brooches on its lapels, not to mention the enormous round metal earrings which you only noticed when she flung back the hair, Linnet could immediately tell from the cheerful voice and the turn of phrase and—well, just the feeling she got—that Marilu was a nice, ordinary girl from a nice, ordinary home.
The other nice, ordinary girl was also in jeans. They looked vaguely familiar, and after a while, as the girls collected Linnet’s suitcase and chattered cheerfully and led her out to find the bus, it dawned that it wasn’t on Buffy that she’d seen them before, it was on an ad on TV, so they must be Levi’s. Apart from them the most outstanding features of the get-up were the huge fluffy fake-fur jacket, much too big for her, and the cloche hat. Linnet didn’t know enough to identify the latter as such, but it was: pulled right down almost concealing one eye and totally concealing the hair. On the hat was a huge brooch. Sort of prickly. It reminded you of an echidna. Prettier, though: shiny and prickly and sort of twinkly, in pale blue crystal beads. It had an awfully familiar look to it, too. As they waited for the bus Linnet said faintly: “Buffy, that’s not one of Aunty Mim’s brooches, is it?”
“Nah. ’Tis like those ones she makes, isn’t it? –Ya do it with pins and bits of cork,” she explained to Marilu. “No, we got it at the Salvos’ shop.”
Marilu immediately embarked on an argument as to whether it had been the Salvation Army shop or another op shop; Linnet was soon to realize that the two of them haunted the second-hand shops. Regardless of the fact that most of these were charity outlets, designed to help needy families. Though if questioned Buffy and Marilu would undoubtedly have maintained that they were also needy.
By the time the girls got Linnet back to Mrs O’Donaldson’s and unpacked for her—it took a while, as they had to go into town on the airport bus and then catch a suburban train—Linnet had also realized that Buffy and Marilu shared every garment they owned. Quite probably there were several other girls from the model school in this clothes ring, too. Though Marilu explained that some of them were real stuck up, y’know? Eh, Buf’? To which Buffy agreed: “Yeah. Snobs.” They then plunged into an antiphonal dissertation on the attitude to be expected from A Real Supermodel but Linnet, though she listened enough not to believe a word of it—she was sure that supermodels were as hard as nails and wouldn’t share so much as a scarf or a lipstick with their rivals—let most of it flow over her. She was just glad that Buffy had found a nice friend and was enjoying herself and hadn’t gone off the rails in the big city.
At Mrs O’Donaldson’s the kindly Mrs O’Donaldson had supper all ready, because she was sure Linnet must be hungry after the journey. Linnet was a bit rocked, it was just like arriving at Aunty Mim’s, but she ate the “supper” up hungrily. It was tea, really: shepherd’s pie with frozen peas, microwaved pumpkin, and cauli in a cheese sauce. Followed by apple crumble. The sort of food, in fact, that (though she had never learned to cook it) Linnet had eaten all her life. The supermodels didn’t partake, having had theirs hours ago, but Buffy ate a large apple and Marilu, who appeared just as at home there, though she wasn’t officially in residence, a banana. So whatever else they were up to, they weren’t starving themselves, recognised Linnet thankfully.
Mrs O’Donaldson asked nicely after Linnet’s household back in Adelaide, expressed strong disapproval at the news that Mr and Mrs Bayley hadn’t been to see them since they got back from their holiday in Queensland, and gave Linnet a lot of good advice about helping Rose to snap out of it. Just the same as the advice everyone else had given her, and Linnet was gradually coming to the realization that none of these well-meaning, helpful ladies could ever have had to deal with anything remotely like Rose’s state in their lives, let alone have been through something like it themselves.
After that Mrs O’Donaldson, Buffy and Marilu plunged into model-school talk and it soon became apparent that Mrs O’Donaldson had sort of—well, sort of adopted Buffy’s career, thought Linnet dazedly, not realizing that Mrs O’Donaldson had been a ballet mother in her daughter’s formative years and that the rôle of supermodel’s manager-cum-mother had therefore been waiting for her to step into. Not that Buffy wasn’t pushy and determined enough already, thought Linnet, listening in fascination as Mrs O’Donaldson told her in detail just what you had to do to get into the glossies. But it probably wouldn’t hurt to have a Mrs O’D. on her side. They had it all planned out. Of course the model school was very good at getting girls started but then it took work. Linnet could see it must do. She tried to say it was very good of Mrs O’Donaldson to take an interest but couldn’t get a word in edgeways.
At long last Marilu’s dad arrived to drive his daughter home. He was a thin, dryish, smiling man of perhaps fifty. Marilu had informed Linnet, upon enquiry, that he worked for the govmint. Mrs O’D. had kindly elaborated this to “He’s with the Tax Office, dear.” Well, thought Linnet a trifle enviously, Mr Garfield (that was their name) would never be out of work, that was for sure! He gave Linnet a wink as he waited for Marilu, who’d dashed off to the toilet, and said: “We decided to let our one have ’er head. The fight had exhausted us, ya see. How ’bout you?” Linnet gave a startled laugh and said: “Yes! Us, too!”
Mrs O’Donaldson had put Linnet in the room that had formerly been the Indian student’s. When she and Buffy were at last alone in it, she said cautiously: “So you do like her, then, Buffy?”
“Yeah, she’s all right.” Her eyes narrowed. “Ya need someone like that.” She then proceeded to tell Linnet all about Rachel Whosit’s mum, that had been invaluable to her in her career. Linnet goggled at her and couldn’t help wondering if the mum had pushed the girl into it. Like Mrs Jackson down the road from Rose’s when Shirlene didn’t really want to go to ballet lessons.
“But Buffy,” she said feebly, “you can’t expect Mrs O’Donaldson to—to spend all her time—um—helping you.”
“She won’t do it for nothing! We’ll have a proper contract!”
Linnet sat down suddenly on the Indian student’s bed. “I see,” she said weakly.
On the morrow when Linnet came into the kitchen Mrs O’Donaldson, beaming, set a plate of grapefruit in front of her, informing her that Buffy had gone for her run but she should be back any moment. And did she like muesli? Linnet agreed she liked muesli. She had almost finished the grapefruit, which was one of the pink sort, very expensive, they never bought them, when Buffy came in, panting. “Hi!” she gasped.
“That’s a pretty tracksuit,” said Linnet weakly. “Where did you get it?”
It was pink. Buffy had got it at an op shop. See this appliqué? Well, she and Marilu had sewn it on, ya see, because under it there was this awful blue splodge. Musta been why they’d given it away. It was still good, weren’t some people mad? Linnet agreed, quite sincerely. She didn’t ask where Buffy had got the pink and green scarf that was tying back her hair like a sweatband because she knew it had once been Rose’s. Oh, well, Rose had drawers full of them, she’d never miss it.
“I really need proper trainers,” Buffy then said, looking mournfully down at her old sneakers.
“Your feet haven’t grown again, have they?” said Linnet in horror.
“No!” she replied angrily. “Jocelyn says I’ve got my growth!”
“I hope she’s right,” muttered Linnet. Meanwhile Mrs O’Donaldson was comfortably telling Buffy not to be silly, dear: her family couldn’t afford to buy her trainers. Wait until she started working. Buffy acquiesced in this sentiment, went over to the door, said threateningly: “One day I’m gonna have a pair of real Reeboks, see!” and went out.
“Never mind, dear,” said Mrs O’Donaldson comfortably. “The career doesn’t last long, but if you do well at it you can make a nice little nest-egg. She’ll be able to buy a house when the time comes!”
“That’s what we thought,” admitted Linnet, smiling at her and involuntarily thinking of Rose’s mortgage.
Mrs O’Donaldson then explained rapidly that Buffy went for a run every morning, that she herself had to go to work, that the second grapefruit was Buffy’s and to make sure Buffy ate a piece of wholemeal toast as well as the muesli, dear, but no marg—and this was the muesli Buffy liked. She bustled out.
Linnet looked at the packet limply. It was Kellogg’s Special K. Enormously expensive. Well, it no doubt had to be, to pay for all those ads they had for it on TV. Poor Jimmy liked it, too, but they never bought it. They made their own muesli, Jimmy had worked out how. You bought an own-brand packet of rolled oats and mixed them with sunflower seeds (Monica next-door was into health foods) and own-brand sultanas. Monica had also recommended things like dried apricots and almonds but even though South Australia produced both they were enormously expensive, so the Mullers didn’t bother. In the cold weather they sometimes had porridge—it was easy in the microwave: the microwave book told you how—also from the own-brand rolled oats. Linnet had been doubtful about giving it to Fergie at first: it looked a bit coarse and after all, she only had a little stomach, but Jimmy had said heartlessly that they’d try it on her and if it went straight through her they’d buy her some of that muck for little kids in tins, only let’s try it first, those tins cost the earth. Fergie had done a big poo after the first lot of porridge but Jimmy had decided that was because they’d given her too much. He went on trying it on her and whether because her stomach really did adjust or just because she was getting old enough to digest meals of roughage, she seemed to retain it okay. Sometimes when Jimmy had an early lecture Linnet would sneakily stew up some of the dried apples that Monica had recommended (reasonably inexpensive but not cheap, even though produced locally) and Fergie would have lumpy stewed apples with plenty of sugar for a treat. Which was as near as Linnet could get with Rose’s microwave and the dried apples to the pictures on the baby-food tins.
After breakfast Buffy informed Linnet that she could come in to model school with her, Jocelyn wanted to see her. Linnet stuttered a bit but duly accompanied her.
On the train Buffy grabbed a double seat from under the nose of a fat woman with a shopping bag, and forced a Vogue into Linnet’s nerveless hand.
She herself was reading a French one. She looked up at one point to say: “Those girls at model school can’t read any French at all, they’re dumb,” and re-immersed herself in it. Linnet felt too limp, what with the thought of having to face the lawyers this afternoon and Jocelyn, who she was sure would be terrifying, this morning, to point out that Buffy could only read it because Mémé had got her started on it and forced her to keep on at it until she was old enough for secondary school, at which point Miss Ferguson, or at least Miss Ferguson’s French teacher, had taken over.
Jocelyn was terrifying, all right. The smartest thing Linnet had ever set eyes on. She was a lot older, Linnet gradually perceived, than she at first appeared. Perhaps in fact near Mrs O’Donaldson’s age. She was, of course, tall and slim, being an ex-model. And of course terrifyingly made up, only somehow not quite how Linnet had expected: you wouldn’t have called it restrained, exactly, but it was sort of—well—sculptured. Jocelyn had a sculptured face with prominent cheekbones but the makeup was sculptured as well. Professional, decided Linnet. And quite perfect, in its way. A work of art. The face was pale but the cheeks glowed softly pinkish-peach. The eyes were huge and of course painted, but most artistically. Jocelyn’s lipstick was plum colour but it didn’t have the corpse-like effect of Marilu’s blackberry. Linnet couldn’t see why, though. The nails matched. It was perhaps Jocelyn’s hair that was the most stunning thing about her. It was a very, very pale gold: extremely shiny, and not streaked at all, and pulled back tightly off her forehead into an enormous neat bun at the back of her head. She was wearing a suit, a terrifying suit: dark plum, very smartly tailored, with shoulder pads that even Linnet could see were not overdone.
Jocelyn explained that the girls had Etiquette this morning and took Linnet into her office. There she explained that they were extremely pleased with Buffy’s progress and that Buffy had a good face. Linnet nodded dumbly. Jocelyn then whipped out a huge great contract and, assuring Buffy’s legal guardian that it was just the usual thing, dear, urged her to sign away large proportions of Buffy’s earnings for the next six years. Linnet retained just enough sense to mutter that she didn’t understand anything about contracts: she’d ask the lawyers to look at it.
Jocelyn explained rapidly that it wasn’t every girl that got offered a contract by the model school. Even Linnet didn’t believe that for a moment. She didn’t say anything. Resignedly Jocelyn agreed that Miss Muller’s lawyers would look at it, then. –Could she call her Linnet? Limply Linnet, who’d expected her to anyway, agreed. Jocelyn invited her, with a terrific smile which revealed the fact that she had perfect teeth except for one near the side of the mouth which had a tiny gold piece on it, to call her Jocelyn. Linnet hadn’t actually dared to call her anything so far but she nodded and said faintly: “Yes.”
Jocelyn then swept her off to see the girls working at Etiquette. It was quite interesting, they were learning all about table settings. Jocelyn explained in an undertone that this was why some of the girls’ mothers sent them: to learn grace and poise and nice manners. But it stood the ones who went on to modelling careers in good stead: gave them confidence in a social situation. Linnet could see it would, yes. Though as the Vogue had featured girls in strange draperies under what Buffy had revealed was the Brooklyn Bridge, that photographer, he often used that, she couldn’t help wondering precisely where these social situations would arise.
After Etiquette the girls had Aerobics—it looked like Jazzercize to Linnet but Jocelyn assured her it was Aerobics. Jocelyn didn’t remove the suit and get down to it: she had an extraordinarily sinewy, deeply tanned woman in perhaps her late thirties to do that. There were about fifteen girls in the class: it allowed them to give each girl personal attention, explained Jocelyn. Linnet nodded, though she wouldn’t herself have desired personal attention from Jocelyn. During Etiquette she had told one girl that we didn’t handle our wine glass as if it was a sledge hammer, Cheryl, dear, and another that people would wonder where she came from if she put her serviette on that side, Kylie, and yet another unfortunate that that was an entrée plate, thank you, Ailsa, and we didn’t put our bread roll on an entrée plate when she was at school! –Tinkle of ice-cold laughter, followed by sycophantic sniggers from the other girls. And we BREAK IT, Ailsa, put down that knife immediately! Any girl that was tough enough to get through Jocelyn’s model school, decided Linnet at this point, would undoubtedly be tough enough to survive in the cut-throat world of Real Modelling.
After Aerobics the girls took showers and then it was time for an early lunch.
“We’re having it early today, Linnet, dear, because we’ve got a little treat planned for you afterwards!”
The unsuspecting Linnet smiled gamely.
There were four tables for lunch—the tables the girls had earlier set but which had had to be cleared away for Aerobics in the big, bare room. Even though it was only Lunch not Etiquette Jocelyn inspected each table with an eagle eye when they’d re-set them. Yes, they always gave the girls lunch, Jocelyn explained graciously: didn’t Linnet remember it featured in their brochure? It meant that they could supervise at least part of their diets, and make sure they ate enough greens and roughage.
Linnet had expected she’d be able to rejoin her sister for lunch: numbly she let Jocelyn lead her to a table with herself, the Aerobics instructor (Miss Tandy), and a tall, pretty, youngish blonde woman who had just come in: Susanna, who came in to help with Makeup in the afternoons.
There were several courses of lunch, possibly to get the girls used to the concept of courses, but they were hardly what the ranks of silverware had been intended for. If lunch was always like this the girls certainly wouldn’t need any greens and roughage with their other meals, because greens and roughage was what it was. First they all had a small glass of juice. Mixed carrot, prune and celery. The colour was awful but the taste, if you stopped thinking about what it consisted of, not too bad. Then there was a mushroom cocktail. The glasses it sat in were just like the ones Aunty Mim served avocado and prawn cocktail in but there the resemblance ended. The finely shredded mushrooms, raw, mixed with shreds of raw carrot and celery, sat on a bed of very curly lettuce which, when tried, proved to be awfully, awfully bitter and quite prickly. And tough. So Linnet left it. That was okay because, although Miss Tandy was eating the lettuce, the other two ladies weren’t. Jocelyn explained proudly that the dressing was an invention of her own: a little unsweetened yoghurt with a very little soya mayonnaise in a base of low-cal, oil-free dressing. Lying in her teeth, Linnet said it was delicious.
The cocktail was followed by an entrée. The entrée plates proved it must be. A sort of little pale green boat—peeled cucumber, maybe?—bearing a scoop of cottage cheese and sitting in a little pond of... tomato juice, verified Linnet. Cold, of course. The cottage cheese was sprinkled with the tiniest portion imaginable of chopped nuts. Well, virtually powdered nuts. The bows of chive were a nice touch, though. Miss Tandy ate her boat but the other teachers didn’t, so Linnet didn’t, either.
The main course was nut cutlets. Hot. Everyone was served with one nut cutlet and a helping of coleslaw. By now, though she hadn’t thought she was hungry, Linnet, who was opposed to the slaughter of the native fauna, could have consumed a kangaroo steak with enjoyment. She fell upon her nut cutlet without even wondering what it was. Miss Tandy invited her to admire the coleslaw’s dressing: the school added lemon juice to the low-cal dressing.
“Don’t you think it’s a nice touch, Linnet?” she beamed, displaying large, horse-like teeth.
Linnet agreed weakly, but couldn’t manage to get through her coleslaw. Miss Tandy eyed it wistfully.
Next came a separate salad course: torn pieces of large dark leaves—help: silverbeet?—with chopped celery, lots of chopped parsley, grated carrot, and grated... ugh: grated raw beetroot? Topped with a puff of alfalfa sprouts. Linnet left most of hers, she was beginning to wonder if the whole lunch was going to go through her like a dose of salts.
Then they got cheese or dessert: on the one hand, a slice of low-fat, ready-sliced cheddar plus a crispbread biscuit, and on the other four small cubes of melon on top of two thin slices of Granny Smith. Linnet took the cheese: she didn’t think her insides could cope with the fruit.
Mineral water had been served with the lunch: after it they had a choice of decaffeinated coffee or herb tea. Linnet took the coffee. Nutra-Sweet, not sugar, and non-dairy whitener instead of milk. Linnet lied in her teeth again and said she took it black: Belinda had given her some of that non-dairy stuff at work when they’d run out of milk, and it was terrible.
During lunch Jocelyn and her helpers at first favoured Linnet with much information about former pupils’ and present teachers’ successes in the modelling world. For example, did Linnet realize that the runner’s legs in the ad for never-heard-of-it had been Miss Tandy’s? Of course! And then there was that ad that had been on about three years back for never-heard-of-it, with the rock climbers? Yes, the one on the rock face had been Miss Tandy! This clue enabled Linnet to say shyly had it been dangerous and the beaming Miss Tandy to explain in a superior but kindly voice that it wasn’t dangerous at all if you knew what you were doing. Jocelyn then revealed that Susanna was a hand model—show her, dear. Linnet must have looked as blank as he felt because Jocelyn and Miss Tandy together explained, while Susanna held out her hands. They were long, pale, well-shaped hands with real, uncoloured, nicely-shaped nails. Linnet stared at them. Susanna, of course, had been the hands in never-heard-of-it and never-heard-of-it.
In the midst of these revelations Jocelyn, Miss Tandy and Susanna also revealed to Linnet—though not aware they were doing so—that Jocelyn’s carefully pitched, nicely rounded tones were so horribly artificial that she must have learned them, that Miss Tandy, at the moment subdued by virtue of her awe of Jocelyn, was probably by nature a cheerful character and fairly hard-boiled with it, not to say from a pretty hard-boiled sort of background, and that Susanna was undoubtedly a working-class Sydneysider who had pulled herself up by her bootstraps—or her photogenic hands—and was pretty dumb but also quite well-meaning. It hadn’t needed the lunch, however, to indicate to Linnet that Jocelyn was about ten times as hard-boiled as Miss Tandy and considerably less well-meaning than Susanna.
By the middle of the main course it began to dawn on Linnet that Jocelyn had invited her for a purpose which wasn’t just to get her to sign Buffy’s earnings away. The innocent Buffy must have revealed to her preceptress the purpose of the visit to the lawyer—though Linnet knew she didn’t understand the details of the tontine—because Jocelyn began to chat in a horribly artless, wistful sort of manner about her own dream. A really high-class health farm, along the lines of the Elizabeth Arden ones!
Needless to say Linnet hadn’t heard of these establishments but Jocelyn and Susanna pretty soon put her straight—Miss Tandy was working on the coleslaw; and Jocelyn further revealed that with the right contacts, and the right staff, of course—Miss Tandy came to with a jump and nodded hard, smiling sycophantically at her—and the right site—
“Though we have that picked out, more or less, don’t we, Susanna?” She gave a sad smile and swallowed a sigh. “Over towards the Blue Mountains, Linnet... But it would take capital. And a sympathetic backer, naturally.”
“Yes, I suppose it would,” said Linnet, not entirely innocently. “Would it appeal to the Australian public, though?”
“Oh, yes, Linnet, dear: to the Right People! And people are so conscious of their bodies, these days, aren’t they? Men as well as women, of course! Look how well the gyms always do! Though naturally one would only be looking at the Top End of the market,” Jocelyn explained in her most refined tones. She told Linnet a lot more about the Elizabeth Arden vision, Susanna and Miss Tandy both nodding eagerly and sympathetically as she did so.
Actually, Linnet could see that she had a point, and that she would undoubtedly run one of these establishments very capably indeed. In fact, if Linnet had been able to wave a magic wand she would have granted Jocelyn her dream: why not? It was pretty moderate, as dreams went, these days. Quite admirable, really: it didn’t involve retiring on the proceeds of someone else’s hard work, or anything like that.
Then there was a pause. Everyone looked expectantly at Linnet.
“I can just see you running something like that, Jocelyn,” she said, pinkening, not because it was a lie but because she didn’t want to give the woman the wrong idea. And also because of addressing her as “Jocelyn”.
Jocelyn was terrifically pleased and beamed at her—she had a piece of parsley stuck in her teeth, which was consoling in a way, it showed she wasn’t perfect—and, to Linnet’s great relief, politely changed the subject.
The treat planned for Linnet was not the lunch or hearing about people’s modelling careers or Jocelyn’s dream, or even watching Makeup: it was being Made Over at Makeup! Jocelyn and Susanna would do it—only if you’d like to, dear! What with the innocent eagerness of all the girls and of Susanna, who had already got out her gigantic makeup kit, and indeed of Jocelyn herself— Well, who cared? thought Linnet defiantly. She was only going to see a blimming Sydney lawyer that was no doubt planning to take them for what he could get, he could put up with a made-over, made-up face on top of her newest tee-shirt (a year old), her best jeans (eighteen months) and a large heavy-knit white cardy, somewhat the worse for wear, that had been Marion’s and that she’d thought she might as well get a bit of wear out of.
Little did she guess the full cunning of Buffy and the model school girls and staff, however: they were about to make her over from top to toe! A pity there wasn’t really time to shampoo and set... Never mind! With terrific determination they set to.
Jocelyn started on the top while the girls got going on the toe and places in between. Linnet had very average-size feet: did she know that? Linnet hadn’t known that. There were horrified gasps when she didn’t know her dress size but they got the garments off her and whipped out the tape measures. More horrified gasps as the bra was revealed. Linnet didn’t think it was too bad, it was just a cotton one that she’d had since her teens, but it was still good. She knew it wasn’t anything like the lacy nylon pastel wisps that Rose and Buffy wore, but it wasn’t that bad, surely? Evidently it was that bad and Jocelyn informed her severely that a woman must never wear bras that were sizes too small for her. Linnet replied humbly that it wasn’t tight.
Grimly Jocelyn returned, eyeing the three-quarters of Linnet’s breasts which were exposed over the top of its cups, between the let-out straps: “I can see that, dear.”
They made her take it off. Poor Linnet cringed, but there was no help for it. All of the girls of course treated their bodies like the working tools they were, so they looked at her with critical but not in any way prurient interest and decided they were a really good shape, nice and firm, but a bit big for modelling. Though Krista thought she could do underwear ads for the fuller figure. Linnet began to wonder what they were going to cram her into but just as Noreen was determining she’d be a C-cup Jocelyn vetoed the whole bit: she didn’t need to wear a bra at all!
Linnet had never gone without a bra since she was thirteen, so she cringed again.
The girls began to sort slips and tights and shoes. Jocelyn continued grimly to brush out Linnet’s long, thick hair. She should use conditioner on this, dear (grimly). Buffy noted that she’d told her so. Susanna continued to match makeup shades against Linnet’s wrist. Heather and Kylie brought in a selection of perfumes but were told off by Jocelyn. Jocelyn continued the torture. Susanna continued the testing. The girls rushed in and out with slips and tights and shoes and dresses and skirts and tops and accessories...
“I TOLD you!” cried Buffy triumphantly when her made-over sister was at last allowed to look in the mirror. “You’ve got a good face, Linnet!”
The accolade. Linnet looked limply at the face. Had Susanna actually put shading down the side of her nose? And her cheeks weren’t really like that: it must be the shading Susanna had put on them...
“Yes, that soft apricot lipstick’s ideal with her skin tones, Susanna,” approved Jocelyn.
“What have you done to my eyes?” said Linnet weakly.
Everyone began to explain, though it was not clear to Linnet whether or not they had grasped Susanna’s highly technical explanations as she worked, but they were overridden by Jocelyn’s dry: “Not enough, dear. You kept screwing them up.”
“Well, I think it looks marvellous, Susanna!” said Linnet with an amazed laugh. “Heck!” She tilted her head slowly this way and that.
Susanna preened herself. “Aw, it was nothink, really,” she lied. “You’ve got a good face.”
“It’s brought out your potential, Linnet!” said Buffy proudly.
Linnet had thought Susanna’s efforts would result in something wholly artificial and loud—overcoloured—but it wasn’t, it was—well, very delicate. Elegant, really. Though she didn’t feel like herself, at all.
“Turn round, dear, get the effect!” urged Jocelyn. “Ye-es...” she decided as Linnet revolved in front of the long mirror, “that dark green’s really your colour!”
“It’s a bit tight, isn’t it?” said Linnet weakly as the slim figure in the mirror revolved to show every line and curve of its rather nice bum and thighs.
“Yes, but it fits round the bust,” pointed out Buffy, not denying it was tight.
Linnet blushed. The jersey-knit dress’s neckline was entirely modest—well, it was only September—but the cut certainly left you in no doubt that what was under the bodice was all Linnet.
“She’s got good shoulders, we could take the shoulder pads out,” said Krista.
“No, the dress needs them,” pronounced Jocelyn.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to walk in these shoes, Jocelyn,” said Linnet feebly.
“That’s all right, dear, you won’t have to, we’ll pop you into a taxi.”
Linnet swallowed.
“Like the hair?” said Jocelyn casually.
“It’s wonderful, Jocelyn.” –Jocelyn had, after much brushing, drawn the hair back free of Linnet’s face and wound it into the most wonderful sort of involved coil on her neck. She’d then just about asphyxiated her with spray and Linnet was now feeling silently guilty about the ozone layer.
Jocelyn smirked. “Well, I am a qualified hairdresser, dear. –Go and see what the weather’s doing, Kylie,” she added.
Obediently Kylie went over to one of the tall windows. She came back to report that it looked a bit dull.
“She’ll need a coat,” said Heather immediately. –Heather had brought in a huge selection of coats. Some of them real fur, help! Linnet hadn’t realized that they were lapin, and very old. Buffy had kindly explained they were for learning how to get in and out of a fur coat and show it off properly on the catwalk.
Briskly Jocelyn chose a brown fur coat for Linnet, explaining to the girls as she did so why it was suited to Linnet’s colouring and that of the dress. Briskly she oversaw the transference of Linnet’s meagre belongings from her own scruffy shoulder-bag to a brown crocodile purse half filled with makeup that Marilu was holding out. It still looked quite nice, didn’t it? But Linnet was to take care, the catch was a bit loose. And the lining was torn. Linnet said weakly: “What about my things?” but Buffy, assuring her briskly that they’d come back for them, led her out. Linnet trying to thank Susanna and Jocelyn all over again as they went.
“Buffy,” she said feebly, as they went down the stairs of the old building: “you do know crocodiles are protected, do you? I think it’s against the law to have crocodile bags and stuff.”
“Pooh,” replied Buffy calmly. “Not old ones.”
Wildly Linnet wondered if she should pin a notice on her chest which said: “This is actually an old crocodile bag.”
“You look ace,” Buffy reassured her as they waited in the doorway for the taxi that the competent Marilu had been calling as they left.
“I feel peculiar.”
“Well, ya look ace. You’ve got a good face.”
“You look nice, too.” –The girls had made over Buffy in the intervals of watching Susanna and Jocelyn do Linnet. The dress was very similar in style to Linnet’s, in that it was extremely tight around the thighs and bottom, and not that loose above them, and non-existent below the thighs. It was a bright flame colour and until her little sister had turned round Linnet hadn’t realized that there was a large round piece cut out of its back just below the neckline. Buffy had wanted to adorn it with a brown fur stole but Jocelyn had vetoed that. Marilu had then draped her in a very nice modern fawn trench coat with shoulder pads. Ailsa had objected that her mum ’ud kill her but Marilu had pointed out she could just say she’d forgotten it at model school. The trench coat was still draped over the shoulders, so that must be the In way to wear them. Buffy’s hair was still short but longer than when she’d been at home. Linnet didn’t know whether she’d had it straightened or it was just all the gel, but anyway it was gelled back dead straight. The girls, possibly because they had been aware of Jocelyn’s cold eye upon them, had just done “a light street makeup” for Buffy. She really looked very nice, though Linnet wouldn’t have chosen all that eye-shadow. Or those dinner-plate gold earrings, which were the size of Jocelyn’s but pretty evidently very much cheaper.
Linnet herself had refused to wear earrings and Jocelyn had decided she needn’t, but had allowed Marilu to attach a brooch to the left shoulder of the dress: “Very elegant, dear.” It was large but very plain, probably not real silver.
Linnet had to admit that she and Buffy both looked nice; but really, the whole afternoon had reminded her irresistibly of the times when Buffy, at the age of about four, used to play “dress-ups” with Marion’s scarves and shoes and necklaces. But she wouldn’t have said so to any of the girls for the world.
Nor would she have expressed her true thoughts about the impression the girls all gave: far from twenty-four and sophisticated with it, which seemed to be the sort of thing they were aiming at, as they were all around sixteen or seventeen with young figures which were still immature and a little coltish, they really looked like nothing so much as a collection of little girls who had got at their mothers’ cosmetics! Good faces or not.
Morpeth, Swale turned out to have offices on four floors of the large George Street building that was their street address and Linnet said in a panic: “What’ll we do?” but Buffy replied scornfully: “Go to Reception, of course! –Come on! No, this side, those lifts only go halfway!” She dragged her off to the right side of the gleaming lobby.
The reception area of Morpeth, Swale was even more gleaming, all chromium legs and glass walls and coffee tables. Buffy marched straight up to the terrifying female at the desk and informed her it was Dr Muller to see Mr G.L. Morpeth.
“Ah—yes. –Dr Muller? I have ‘Miss Muller’ here.”
Linnet cringed but Buffy said sturdily: “It’s Dr Muller. I’m Miss Muller.”
They were invited to take a seat but barely had they sunk into the pale grey wool of the acres of visitors’ sofas when another terrifying female appeared and saying to Linnet: “Dr Muller? Please come this way,” led them off.
Mr G.L. Morpeth’s office was on the same floor as Reception, and Mr Morpeth was behind his desk when they were shown in. He got up immediately and came round the desk smiling, with his hand held out.
“Dr Muller, is it? I’m George Morpeth. Thank you so much for coming.”
George Morpeth was a burly, prosperous-looking man in a very smooth, dark navy suit which Linnet failed to recognize during the visit as pin-striped, though the term would later come to her. His tie was a mixture of dark blue and dark red.—Paisley silk, Linnet didn’t identify that either.—His face was rather red also and Linnet failed either to recognize this as what was more conventionally referred to as high-coloured or to consider it handsome, though most women would have. George Morpeth had what Linnet did not recognize as a heavy beard and nor did she recognize that he must have had a second shave very recently and slapped some cologne on. His hair was short and thick and iron grey and altogether he was an attractive, dynamic male creature of perhaps fifty-five at the most, but Linnet only saw him as a man in a smart suit and old, and was immediately terrified of him.
She put her hand into his and said weakly: “Hullo.”
He squeezed the hand quite hard—his was very warm—and then said to Buffy: “And this must be Miss Barbara Muller, is that right? How are you, Miss Muller?”—holding out his hand again.
Buffy replied with the utmost composure—they’d been having lessons! it suddenly dawned on Linnet in a blinding flash: “How do you do, Mr Morpeth? Please call me Buffy.”
“Buffy, then,” he said crinkling his eyes at her. “May I say how pretty you look, Buffy?”
“Thank you,” replied Buffy composedly.
“Could I take your coat, Dr Muller?” he said.
Jumping, Linnet replied lamely: “Oh—thank you.” She began to take it off, but Mr Morpeth came round behind her and helped her. Linnet felt exceedingly awkward and went very red. At the same time she couldn’t help noticing how gracefully Buffy was swinging the trench coat off, saying to the secretary who was hovering: “Thank you so much.” Help!
George Morpeth then asked them to sit down—not indicating his visitor’s chair, though there was one by the desk, but on a sofa over by the wall. Like most of the furnishings they’d seen so far at Morpeth, Swale it was pale grey wool. The coffee table in front of it was very thick glass with tiny bubbles in it. He himself pulled up an armchair to the coffee table and sat down, saying: “Well, this is cosy! I’ll just get Bethel to bring in some afternoon tea.”
Bethel immediately picked up her cue, and asked them if they’d like tea or coffee. They both chose coffee though to Linnet’s knowledge Buffy hadn’t been drinking it when she’d left home. Linnet herself didn’t like it but she didn’t like tea, either.
With Bethel and coffee came a young, handsome, smiling brown-haired man in a grey suit as smooth as, though rather less conservative than, George Morpeth’s. The senior partner explained that this was his nephew, Peter Morpeth, and as they’d be handling the Mullers’ affairs together, he hoped they didn’t mind if he joined them? What would he have said if they’d said they did mind? wondered Linnet.
Peter Morpeth said he was pleased to meet them, and shook hands across the coffee table, his uncle introducing them firmly as: “Dr Muller, Peter, and this is Buffy Muller.”
Peter Morpeth had a smooth tan and friendly brown eyes that crinkled up, a little as his uncle’s did, when he smiled, and the smile itself was very friendly; but Linnet, far from being attracted to him, felt only a mixture of dislike and fear: he was a lawyer, and a man in a business suit. And unnaturally smooth: how many people could have shaken hands across a blimming coffee table with—with such aplomb?
The coffee was in a silver coffee-pot, and instead of mugs there were china cups and saucers, with an all-over pattern of little blue flowers on white, and the milk jug and sugar bowl matched. Buffy accepted a spoonful of sugar but refused a biscuit. Linnet herself took a piece of shortbread: it wasn’t just that she was very fond of shortbread, though she was, it was also that as the starchiest biscuit on offer it might help to counteract all that vegetable matter from lunch.
Morpeth, Swale had indeed discovered that Joe Sneed was dead. Mr Morpeth, Senior, explained the consequences of this discovery as if he didn’t think they had the brains to understand the tontine document. Considering who had translated it, that was a bit hot! thought Linnet, starting to feel rather cross and as a consequence rather more lively.
Morpeth, Swale had advertised in the Southampton papers and all the major English dailies—help, what was that going to set them back? Linnet goggled at him in horror—and a Mrs Frey had come forward.
“Frey?” she echoed weakly.
“Comme Sami Frey!” said Buffy impatiently.
“Oui, ça serait ça, sans doute,” she recognized limply.
“F,R,E,Y,” spelled George Morpeth, a little uncertainly.
“Of course,” said Buffy in a kind voice, smiling graciously at him.
“Uh—yes,” he said, sounding disconcerted. –Had there been a medal to hand, Linnet would have awarded it to her little sister on the spot.
Mrs Frey, it appeared, was the daughter of the former Mrs Sneed by her second marriage.
“What—Millie?” said Linnet.
“Er—Millicent Sneed; I believe that’s correct, Peter?” he said.
“Yes. Joseph Sneed’s wife.”
“I see. Millie remarried after Joe Sneed died, then. What happened to their tea shops?” asked Linnet with interest.
“Er—the bakery business? It was lost during the bombing. I think the main bakery suffered a direct hit and also their house, and Mrs Sneed didn’t care to carry on after her husband’s death.” He looked apologetically at Linnet and explained that there might have been a little capital that had gone to Mrs Sneed, but—
“We don’t want poor Millie’s money,” said Linnet grimly.
“No,” agreed Buffy, game but regretful. “Not if he was killed and the tea shops were all gone and everything.”
“No, of course not!” agreed Peter Morpeth eagerly, beaming at Linnet.
Linnet blinked.
The main point of Mr Morpeth’s story was, of course, that Mrs Frey could definitely confirm that Joe Sneed had been killed in the 1940s and had signed an affidavit to that effect.
And if you were satisfied with the investigations in Southampton, Dr Muller, George Morpeth would just explain the next steps that needed to be taken...
He explained.
“What about our twenty percent?” said Buffy suddenly. “Why can’t we have that first?”
“Um…” Linnet looked nervously at the Morpeths. They both gave her terrifically nice smiles and she suddenly experienced a desire to wipe them right off their smug, Sydney-lawyer faces and said grimly: “Yes. What about the twenty percent of Uncle Jim’s estate that’s due to us as his heirs and not as the heirs to the tontine? My brother asked you to sell twenty percent of the shares, didn’t he?”
Mr Morpeth explained about probate again.
Linnet replied impatiently that she saw that, but the matter of the right to the tontine inheritance was surely a separate issue: couldn’t they finalize Uncle Jim’s estate in the meantime? Putting the eighty percent in trust, she added, just as he was opening his mouth.
Peter Morpeth leaned forward and explained smoothly that they had thought it easier to wait.
“We want the money,” said Buffy before Linnet could reply.
“My sister means we need the money,” said Linnet on a grim note.
“Yeah. Want it and need it,” said Buffy firmly.
Mr Morpeth, Senior, immediately became terrifically kindly and expansive: there would be no problem about that, and it was quite usual in the circumstances for the firm to advance— And how much would Dr Muller like?
“How much is there?” said Buffy immediately.
“Uh—well, I wouldn’t advise selling all the shares, Buffy, my dear!” he said with a jolly laugh. “Not even all of your twenty percent!”
“Dave Hordern said that,” admitted Linnet.
Mr Morpeth seized on that: so they did have an older male relative to advise them? –And he must just mention how very sorry they had been to hear of the sad loss of their parents.
“Thank you,” said Linnet faintly.
Buffy apparently hadn’t done bereavement etiquette: she added firmly: “And Kyle.”
“Er—of course,” said Mr Morpeth limply.
“He was all right, really,” she admitted.
“Yes. Um, Dave—Mr Hordern—isn’t a relation: he was Uncle Jim’s nearest neighbour,” explained Linnet quickly.
“Oh, I see.”
“We haven’t got an older man to advise us in Adelaide. Or even an older woman,” said Linnet on a grim note.
“You can do it instead,” said Buffy confidingly to the older lawyer with a blinding supermodel smile. –It meant absolutely nothing: she’d been practising it for years.
Mr Morpeth duly beamed fulsomely, and assured her he’d be more than happy, young lady, and Linnet began to see past the suit and the smooth good manners and to perceive he was pretty pathetic, really. Though she didn’t perceive that he was just, in spite of the smoothness, an ordinary family man who had daughters of his own.
Peter Morpeth then fetched his uncle’s cheque book and after Linnet had ascertained grimly that they wouldn’t have to pay Morpeth, Swale interest—the Linnet of last February wouldn’t have thought of this but she’d had a baptism by fire since—George Morpeth started to write out a cheque. Would two thousand be enough, he asked, Parker pen poised. Five?
“How many thousand does it come to?” said Linnet, staring.
Mr Morpeth explained that with the fluctuations of the share market, and the rural property market was always unsure and then, the property hadn’t been farmed for a while… But the shares alone should realize around a hundred thousand, Dr Muller—with a kindly, not to say fulsomely patronising laugh.
“BHP the Big Australian: toleja,” said Buffy.
Linnet began to feel she might take that medal off her. “But—um—”
“Of course, these days, it won’t go all that far,” warned Mr Peter with his nice smile.
“It’ll pay off Rose’s mortgage,” said Linnet limply.
“Not my quarter!” cried Buffy in alarm.
“Shut up,” said Linnet grimly, definitely withdrawing that medal.
“This is Mrs Bayley?” said Mr Morpeth, Senior.
Linnet agreed and he asked about the mortgage and said: “Well, Dr Muller, I’m glad to be able to tell you we have also traced the Foulkes inheritance. He left no heirs: he was a childless man and his only brother was killed—”
“Roger. Yes,” said Linnet, nodding. “He was Regular Army.”
“Regul— How on earth do you know all this?” he croaked.
“Yes: and the tea shop bit,” added Peter Morpeth with interest.
“It’s in the letters, of course. And the newspaper cuttings. I only sent you the relevant ones,” replied Linnet composedly.
Mr Morpeth passed his hand over his forehead. “I really think you’d better send me all of the cuttings and letters. They may give us some valuable clues.”
“Nah, Dad weeded them,” said Buffy.
George Morpeth bit his lip. “I see, my dear.”
Buffy didn’t notice he was being kind to a poor little girl who had lost her parents so tragically. “Hey, Linnet, if the shares come to a hundred thousand, I get twenny-five!”
“Yes,” Linnet agreed: “twenty-five. –What were you saying about poor Captain Foulkes, Mr Morpeth?”
Jumping, the lawyer explained that they’d traced the Captain’s solicitors, a London firm, it hadn’t been difficult, and everything had been left very neatly, and sensibly invested, and there would be another two hundred thousand from that. Approximately. After death duties.
“Pounds or dollars?” asked Buffy keenly.
“Australian dollars,” said George Morpeth limply.
Peter Morpeth frankly chuckled. “Got a head for business, haven’tcha?” he said to Buffy.
“No. Only I’m sensible,” she said with a hard look at her sister.
George Morpeth coughed. “I think we can arrange to settle Mrs Bayley’s mortgage and any outstanding debts her husband may have left. Are there—?”
“Mill-yuns,” said Buffy with gloomy relish. “Kyle bought a boat and everything.”
“Yes. Um—we’ve sold everything we could,” admitted Linnet. “But they bought everything on credit.”
George Morpeth decided he’d better see all the papers. –Peter here murmured something but was frowned down.
Linnet said warily she’d ask Jimmy but she thought it would be all right.
“Yeah! Otherwise you’ll be paying interest on Rose’s Visa card an’ stuff!” said Buffy urgently.
“Exactly,” agreed George Morpeth with satisfaction.
“Yeah. Only don’t pay it out of my quarter,” she ordered him.
“No,” he said, giving in entirely and grinning all over his high-coloured face: “I won’t do that, Buffy, I promise. And everything we spend will be written down. –You can use it in evidence against us!” he said with a chuckle.
“Hah, hah,” returned Buffy, giving him an urchin grin which was very far from the blinding supermodel smile. She then looked wistfully at the coffee-pot and said: “May I have another cup of coffee?
Peter Morpeth, grinning a bit, poured her another coffee, also offering Linnet one. Linnet accepted, it was awfully nice, not like usual coffee at all. A bit like Mémé’s strong coffee that Mum had always said was bad for your insides and the kids weren’t to have any.
Peter himself also had another cup, but his uncle refused one. The older Morpeth then made the mistake of offering the supermodel the biscuit plate. Kindly Buffy explained just what too much sugar did to your figure, into the bargain giving a summary, which some might have said could have been shorter, of Jocelyn’s dicta on diet and exercise.
In response, both the Morpeths smiled at her for all the world like two kindly uncles! Linnet just sipped her lovely coffee and looked on somewhat limply. And involuntarily thought again “Pathetic”—this time in reference to both the older Morpeth and his handsome young nephew. Never mind those terrifying suits or the glitz, which she had now registered was both tasteful and understated, as downtown glitz presumably went, of their undoubtedly hugely expensive offices—floors of offices—in the most desirable section of Sydney’s CBD.
At least they seemed reasonably on the ball—though she was in no doubt they’d have to watch them like hawks and keep right on top of them until they’d sorted everything out. Not to say, she thought with a tiny frown, make sure they did what they were told, and not what they thought they oughta do.
Next chapter:
https://frazerinheritance1-adelaidesdaughters.blogspot.com/2024/06/the-french-connection.html
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