She was gobbling, her face scarlet, her eyes starting out of her head, and by now Madame Toccata was standing on 17b’s balcony, and Madame Fugue and Chastity on 17d’s balcony, cheering me on.

Duncan had moved onto the pavement, but not to rescue his wife. He leaned against the railings, crossed his ankles, folded his arms and grinned.

“Mind your own business, you silly bitch!” I yelled as I dragged her back to the car. “If you want to be Lady Forsythe one day, then shut your mouth and wear me along with Balenciaga, you skinny little clothes horse!” And I threw her in.

Duncan stood howling with laughter while the Missus huddled in the Jag’s passenger seat and cried into her lace hanky.

“Knockout in the first round,” he said, wiping his eyes on his own hanky. “God, I love you!”

“And I you,” I said, touching his face. “I don’t know why, but I do. There’s a lot of strength and courage in you, Duncan, there has to be to cope with life and death, maiming and disease. But when it comes to personal relationships, you’re a coward. Be everything you can be, and the hell with what other people think. Now take the Missus home.”

“May I see you again?” he asked, suddenly back the way he had been that night when we came in from Victoria Street, lit up from within, crackling with life.

“Not now, not for God knows how much time to come,” I said. “Harold murdered Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz on New Year’s Day, then killed himself. And I have to keep my nose clean because I’m going to apply for custody of Flo.”

Of course he was shocked, horrified, sympathetic, eager to help, but I could see that he didn’t understand why I wanted Flo. Never mind. He still loves me, and that’s an enormous comfort.

Tuesday,

January 3rd, 1961

Work today. Brave words to Duncan and all, I can’t afford to lose my job. If I can hire some kind soul to look after Flo while I work, between what’s left of my salary and the rents of The House, the pair of us ought to be able to live—terrible word!—respectably if not luxuriously. At five, she’s school age, but what school would take her? I’d have to enquire about special schools, but I’ve never heard of any in the State system, at any rate. And how would Flo survive in a special school, surrounded by retarded or spastic children? There is nothing wrong with her, but she’s like that plant which closes up when its leaves are touched. Yes, there’s the Spastic Centre at Mosman, it’s got a terrific reputation, but would Flo qualify? She’s not spastic, she’s just a mute.

All questions for the future, when I’d been granted custody of Flo. In the meantime, I had to keep my job and its male charge pay, save as much as I possibly could. If the Public Trustee isn’t co-operative—and what public institution ever is?—Flo and I might not even be able to live at 17c, let alone utilise its rents. No birth certificate, no marriage certificate. She had Flo at home on the dunny floor, not in a hospital maternity ward.

There’s no point speculating. All I can do is wait.

Sister Agatha carpeted me at nine o’clock this morning, sent a replacement technician to cover my absence. Serious, very serious.

“Do you realise the extent of the inconvenience you caused yesterday, Miss Purcell?” Sister Agatha demanded. “You telephone at ten minutes to six in the morning—ten minutes before you are due on duty!—to say you won’t be in. And do you tender a reason? No, you do not. You hang up in Miss Barker’s ear.”

I stared into the cold blue eyes with this odd vision of the dancing Sister Agatha imposed upon the icicle in the chair, but I couldn’t fuse them together no matter how I tried. And of course she was the recipient of a letter from Harold, which wasn’t going to help. But it did give me an idea. I knew perfectly well that to explain about Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz, Harold and Flo would only turn her more against me—respectable women didn’t get themselves embroiled in murders and their consequences.

“I am very sorry, Sister Toppingham,” I said, “but I was too upset to think logically yesterday morning. This is an embarrassing subject, but I think you will have to know.” Embroider, Harriet, lie when you have to. Flo is worth a million lies. “My father received an anonymous letter which accused me of having an affair with Mr. Duncan Forsythe. It is, of course, nonsense. But you must see that it completely destroyed my day. My father demanded my presence at home, and I had to go.”

“Hmmmf,” she said, and paused. “And did you clear this most disturbing business up, Miss Purcell?”

“With the help of Mrs. Duncan Forsythe, Sister, yes, I did.”

Cunning old bitch, she wasn’t about to tell me that she was already in the know. Mentioning the Missus did the trick, however. “Your apology is accepted, Miss Purcell. You may go.”

I lingered. “Sister, there is one unfortunate consequence of this frightful matter. Um, it appears that there will be legal enquiries, so I may have to leave work at something close to my official knocking off time on some afternoons over the next few weeks. I assure you that I will endeavour to make any appointments as late in the day as possible, but I will have to knock off in time to be where I’m supposed to be.”

She didn’t like that, but she understood it. No hospital department head ever enjoys being reminded that the staff work a lot of unpaid overtime. “You may keep such appointments, Miss Purcell, provided that you notify me on the relevant days.”

“Yes, Sister, thank you, Sister,” I said, and escaped.

Not too bad, all considered. Oh, why isn’t Royal Queens one of those hospitals like Vinnie’s and R.P.A. that never has a quiet weekend? If I were rostered for weekends, I’d have whole days during the working week to do what has to be done. Between Ryde and Queens, I hadn’t picked my places of work very well.

Thursday,

January 5th, 1961

Joe the Q.C. has given me the name of a law firm specialising in children’s work. Partington, Pilkington, Purblind and Hush, in Bridge Street. Straight out of Charles Dickens, but she assures me that there are heaps of Dickensian-sounding law firms, it’s a part of legal tradition and most of the partners listed in a firm’s title have been dead for a thousand years if they ever existed at all. My pick is Mr. Purblind, but I’m to see Mr. Hush next Monday at four o’clock.

I still can’t get any sense out of the Child Welfare, who keep on refusing to tell me where Flo is. She’s well, she’s happy, she’s this and she’s that, but if she’s in Yasmar they won’t admit it. The inquest on Harold and Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz has been set for Wednesday of next week, so I’ll have to think of a brilliant reason why I might need the whole day off. All of us in The House are obliged to attend and answer questions if we’re called, though Norm tells me that the Boys in Blue haven’t found hide nor hair of Chikker and Marge from the front ground floor flat. Fled interstate is the theory, which means that they might not have been on the game, but they were up to something. Trouble is that without fingerprints, no one knows exactly who they are. Possibly bank robbers. I think they are just seedy people who don’t trust The Law.

Something very strange happened last night at about ten past three. We were all in, and all asleep. I was woken by the sound of heavy footsteps thumping down the hall from upstairs, for all the world like Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz doing a small hours patrol. No one else walks like that! Even The House, a stout old Victorian terrace, used to shake when she walked. But Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz is dead, I saw her dead, and I know that right now the poor creature is lying in a morgue drawer. Yet she was walking upstairs! Then came the rumble of her laugh, not the hur-hur-hur, the ha-ha-ha. My hair went straight for the first time in its life.