Bent Lilies: Two Sisters, Two Wishes. Who Gets Theirs Granted?

By Margaret McGuigan

In 1955, sisters Dolly and Jean are the proprietors of Star Caf on Hoddle Street, inner city Melbourne. They are petticoat crooks who run an SP book, sell sly grog to the local police, and fence jewellery all from the caf.

While they agree wholeheartedly on their criminal activities they are at opposite ends in matters of the heart. Dolly is a compulsive flirt who drifts into a relationship with Carlos who also operates on the fringe of honesty. While on a holiday in 1953 Jean falls in love, but the outcome means keeping a lifelong secret. Jeans left with a deep desire for marriage and a family and is envious of Dolly.

When their sister Heather visits she brings trouble and things change.

The caf becomes a burden. Arson is the only answer and it means a shared secret for Dolly and Jean. They leave Melbourne and start a new life in Brisbane. Jean is plagued by both secrets. Then there is a visit from the past and a terrible accident, and thats when their working relationship starts to disintegrate. But does this mean they each finally get what theyve always wanted?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: May 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503505568

Margaret McGuigan

Margaret was a primary school teacher which means she can talk in front of a crowd and manage mob control with flair. She began writing seriously in 2006 and is an active member of the Queensland Writers Centre. In between writing and working she has travelled and lived overseas, particularly in Ireland. In 2010 she graduated from James Cook University in Townsville with a Masters in Writing. The next year she moved to Brisbane. ‘Bent Lilies’ is Margaret’s first adult novel.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Margaret McGuigan.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015907819

ISBN:      Hardcover   978-1-5035-0558-2

                  Softcover     978-1-5035-0557-5

                  eBook          978-1-5035-0556-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Shutterstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Rev. date: 06/22/2015

Xlibris

1-800-455-039

www.Xlibris.com.au

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Part II 1983

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Bent Lilies

Before

Launceston, Tasmania, 1953

Dulcie was right; Jean did feel much better after a rest. She’d been resting for just over a month.

‘I’ve been here long enough. It’s time to go home.’ Jean stood up and placed her empty teacup on the sink.

‘Oh love, don’t feel as if you have to rush off. You can stay for as long as you want. I love having you here,’ Dulcie said.

‘Thanks, you’ve been so kind. I’d have been in real trouble if I couldn’t have come here.’ Jean smoothed back her hair and straightened her skirt. ‘I suppose there’s still no mail for me?’

‘No, love,’ Dulcie shook her head, pushed her chair back, and stood up. ‘I’m so sorry.’

So this was it, the end of everything. Jean doubted she’d ever see him again. She thought of David with his blond hair and blue eyes and those large hands and marvellously long fingers. She picked up the ferry ticket, Davenport to Melbourne, and underneath, Jean DuPont, written in large print across it. Then she firmly put David and the tiny memory of her baby in a locked box in her heart and picked up her suitcase.

‘I’m ready,’ she called to Dulcie.

CHAPTER ONE

Melbourne, Australia, 1955

A t half past five the late afternoon light filtered through the curtains at the front windows of the Star Café. It showed up the cake crumbs on the black-and-white checkerboard linoleum floor and the smeared fingermarks on the red Formica tabletops. The glossy black, glass-panelled front doors were locked.

‘There’s no blood on the footpath,’ Dolly said to Jean, her older sister. ‘Not any that I can see anyway.’

‘Good.’ Jean swished a wet cloth across a table. ‘It’s bad for business.’

‘That was some thumping that young fella got.’ Dolly leaned against the doorjamb and continued to peer through the curtain. ‘And in broad daylight, but Sergeant Bob handled it really well.’ She sighed, dropped the curtain, and pressed her painted fingertips to her bosom, reaching for the locket hidden at the top of her cleavage.

Jean’s lips tightened. She didn’t want to encourage any fanciful notions about the ability of the police sergeant. She threw the washcloth into a chipped enamel basin of hot soapy water and moved to the next table. As she wiped it down she watched Dolly fondle the shilling-sized gold locket. Most of their customers were men: policemen, bus drivers, and small-time crooks. She hated it when Dolly waited on the tables and bent over just far enough for the locket to stay hidden. She’d seen those poor men’s eyes fixed on the spot where it disappeared, the tiniest instrument of torture.

Finished with the tables, Jean marched to the doors, elbowed Dolly out of the way, unlocked them with one hand, strode to the spot of the earlier fracas, and flung the soapy water onto the cracked concrete. At the single wooden step into the café she stopped and stood with her hands on her hips, the basin dangling from her fingers, and glared at Dolly.

‘Those floors aren’t going to sweep and mop themselves you know,’ she said, then shoved Dolly aside on the way back into the café.

‘And men don’t like plain women,’ Dolly whispered at Jean’s back.

‘And while you’re at it take down the rest of those tatty Christmas decorations.’

Jean marched through the empty café to the kitchen; her flat rubber soles squeaked like a nurse walking through a ward of sleeping patients.

She stood for a few seconds at the huge, scarred wooden table that dominated the kitchen and rested her hand on the back of a timber chair, one of three pushed under this side of the table. The work happened on the other side where her bulky chopping board waited for her. She surveyed her world. Still angry at Dolly, she knew she was queen of the kitchen. Across the back wall was a line of cream-painted cupboards with bracket-shaped metal handles, a small pushbutton opener in the middle of each. The bench was topped with the same red as the café tables and edged with a ribbed metal strip that was dinted all the way along. A large cream enamel sink nestled in the middle of it. Jean loved her kitchen but worked it as hard as she worked herself.

She took a deep breath and walked a few steps to the tall, cream door close to the end of the table. It opened into a pantry as big as a bathroom. Shelves lined the three walls. On the floor near the door was a rolled-down hessian bag full of dirty potatoes. Jean pulled a faded floral apron from a hook behind the door, tied it on, gathered the bottom edge in her left hand, and bent to fill the makeshift basket with potatoes. She loved the earthy smell; it reminded her of being in the garden with her grandmother.

When she tried to stand, the apron banged above her knees and she realised she’d overfilled it.

‘What am I doing?’ she scolded herself as she leaned forward and tipped half the potatoes back into the bag.

Dolly’s small pointy heels clip-clopped on the café floor and through the kitchen before she flung open the back door. Outside she banged the mop into the bucket and carried them both back into the kitchen.

‘Can’t you do anything quietly?’ Jean snapped and offloaded the spuds onto the table.

Dolly propped the mop handle up against the cupboard but it slipped and crashed to the floor. Jean winced.

‘Well, we can’t all be perfect.’ Dolly clopped over to the stove and pressed two fingers to the side of the kettle to see if the water was hot. Jean ignored her and rummaged in a drawer for her favourite paring knife. Satisfied with the temperature of the kettle, Dolly poured the water into the galvanised mop bucket on top of a capful of pink Handy Andy. The astringent detergent smell filled the kitchen. With the mop in one hand and bucket in the other she headed back into the café.

Alone, Jean waited for the natural cooking smells to engulf the kitchen again. Slowly the rich smell of baking pastry returned. It comforted her. She knew she was a good cook and it made her feel valued in ways that she didn’t have to compete with Dolly.

After Dolly had finished the floors, she used the handle of the mop to roll the metal bucket from the café through the kitchen. It scratched, scraped, and clunked. As Dolly rattled past her, Jean’s forehead creased into a furrow you could plant seeds in.

Dolly flung open the back door, pushed the bucket onto the landing with her foot then dragged the mop through its wooden rollers. She flopped the wrung-out mop over the rail and emptied the water onto the woody hydrangeas their mother had planted when she had been pregnant with Jean. Dolly left the empty bucket on the landing.

Back inside she fiddled with the doorknob till it locked, all the time keeping her back to Jean to avoid any consequences from her earlier bitter words. Turning slightly she fished a Rothmans cigarette from the soft-sided packet in one pocket of her apron and her gold-ringed, tortoiseshell filter from the other and twisted them together into what she thought was an elegant accessory. With a sideways glace at Jean who chopped louder and louder, she tipped her chin up and blew the first trumpet of smoke at the ceiling.

Jean threw her heavy knife onto the table with a clunk, grabbed a bowl of unshelled peas and a saucepan from the bench behind her, and dumped them down on Dolly’s side of the table.

‘Put that thing out and shell the peas,’ Jean said and picked up the knife as if she was going into battle and returned to her chopping.

Dolly went to the sink and fished out a dirty teacup. She put it beside the bowl of peas and dropped her ash into it before taking another long draw of the cigarette.

‘You are disgusting,’ Jean said, snatching the cup up and rinsing it in the sink. Dolly leaned across the table and flicked ash into the vegetable peelings while Jean’s back was turned.

She then picked up a pea pod between her thumb and finger as if it would sting her. She twisted it open and took each pea out separately and plonked them into the saucepan.

‘If you can’t go any faster there’ll be no peas on the plates tonight,’ Jean sniffed and savaged the onions, mincing them finely.

The onion fumes wafted across to Dolly, who wrinkled her nose.

‘Do you have to chop those in front of me?’ Dolly coughed and waved her hand in front of her face.

‘Why should I stop, just for your convenience, to save your make-up?’ Jean said.

‘Stop, stop chopping,’ Dolly said. Jean kept up her attack on the onions, harder and faster and louder.

‘I can hear something knocking and it’s not you,’ Dolly shouted and sat up a little straighter. ‘It sounds like the front door.’

Jean turned towards the door, her knife still in her hand.

‘Listen,’ said Dolly, ‘that’s the door rattling.’

Jean stepped towards the servery counter and looked through the café. In the half light the legs of the upturned chairs looked like a cluster of dead spiders.

‘It’s the Slippery Fox,’ Jean spat between her teeth. ‘You tell him to go away.’ She turned back to her chopping board.

Dolly sprang up from her chair and knocked the bowl of unshelled peas over in her hurry to get to the tap and wash her hands.

‘Damn,’ she muttered; the tips of her fingers were green.

‘Hurry up, what are you doing? He’s nearly rattled the door off its hinges.’

Dolly ripped off her apron, dried her hands on it then flung it over the edge of the sink.

She flew through the shop, her skirt hissing like a steam train on her stockinged legs.

Dolly opened the door only a crack but Charlie Fox thrust his knee forward, forced the door further open, and slithered in. Dolly slammed the door behind him.

‘What do you think you’re about, Charlie Fox, pushing in here after hours?’ she said and pinched her nose and covered her mouth. Up close Charlie Fox smelt like green meat and sweaty socks.

Charlie Fox ignored her. He took off his hat, sauntered past the counter with its brass cash register, milkshake dispensers, in front of the big mirror, and wove his way between the tables to Jean who stood at the kitchen door, her hands on her hips, still holding her chopping knife. Dolly followed him, her arms crossed.

‘Any sly grog on offer tonight?’ Charlie grinned at Jean and licked his lips.

‘What do you want, Charlie Fox? You can’t stay here. We’ve got work to do,’ Dolly said behind him.

‘Sit down, ladies, sit down and make yourself at home,’ he said and slid into the last booth, his back to the door.

Jean flicked her knife at Dolly, indicating the kitchen. Dolly followed her.

‘Get rid of him quick. The cops’ll be here soon.’

Dolly turned back into the café and slipped into the seat opposite Charlie Fox. ‘This’d better be good or you’re out on your ear,’ she said, taking shallow breaths through her mouth. She tried to look interested and ignore the somersault her stomach was doing.

Charlie Fox smiled widely, showing the gold edgings around his dark-grey front teeth. He slowly opened his brown pinstriped suit coat.

‘Wait till you see these little treasures, my loves, you’ll thank me for coming.’ Charlie Fox reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a purple velvet roll, leaned forward, and smiled again as he spread it on the table between him and Dolly.

‘Jean, you’d better get out here.’ Dolly leaned as far away from Charlie Fox as she could.

Jean glared at Charlie Fox as she wriggled in beside her sister. She cupped her hands together and rested them under her nose. Dolly grabbed a sideways glance at Jean’s face and smirked.

‘These are good stock,’ Charlie Fox said. He reached into his coat again and pulled out a small, tatty black velvet bag and tipped the contents onto the purple cloth.

‘And I have that from a reliable, trustworthy source,’ he said. ‘Nice, aren’t they? How many of these little baubles will you be taking, ladies?’

Onto the table fell a silver brooch as big as a florin, with a sapphire centre surrounded by diamonds, an array of rings—some emerald, some diamond, and a heavy gold necklace with a diamond-encrusted heart-shaped pendant. There was a ring with a silvery moon pearl as big as a threepenny bit. This fat juicy pearl was encircled by diamonds. They all sparkled in the yellow light from the kitchen.

Jean shook her head. Dolly’s eyes were locked on the ring. She hit the side of Jean’s foot with a solid whack. ‘Take out your glass eye. Have a good look.’

Jean pushed herself off the bench seat and went back into the kitchen.

‘There’s no need for that, ladies. You can take my word for it, they’re all genuine.’ Charlie Fox smoothed the cloth and rearranged the pieces. His nicotine-stained fingers trembled.

‘Have I ever come to you with goods that weren’t the highest quality?’

‘Charlie, you know better than that,’ Dolly said.

‘Yes, Dolly, but I thought if you knew they were genuine it would save poor Jean from straining her eyes looking through that glass of hers.’

Jean came back to the booth after taking a deep breath and with careful hands placed her jeweller’s loupe in her right eye socket, making a futile attempt to cover her nose at the same time. Charlie Fox licked his forefingers and ran them through his hair.

‘Never mind, Charlie,’ Dolly said through the fingers partly covering her face, ‘she likes to double-check things, don’t you, Jean?’

‘Would you like a cigarette to calm you, Jean?’ Charlie Fox asked.

Jean waved him away and picked up the emerald ring. Charlie Fox took a bent cigarette out of a crumpled packet and put it between his teeth. He patted his coat pocket and pants pockets and looked in his shirt pocket. When neither Jean nor Dolly offered him a light he slowly peeled the cigarette off his bottom lip and returned it to its space in the packet.

‘This lot, so far, is looking good,’ Jean said to Dolly, ignoring Charlie Fox.

He sat at the table, licked his fingers and swiped his hair again then folded his hands in front of him, and rested his elbows on the table. A smirk wriggled across his lips.

‘OK, ladies, how much will you give me for this lot? That pendant is a real beauty, don’t you think?’

Jean carefully removed the jeweller’s loupe, looked at Dolly then slowly shifted her eyes to Charlie Fox.

‘Well, we’re only interested in the genuine article.’

‘Yes, yes, of course, and that’s what I’m offering, ladies.’

‘So you’ll understand when we don’t buy the pendant.’

Dolly let Jean do the talking—she could always pick a furphy, sometimes without her eyeglass.

‘Are you saying that pendant isn’t good stuff?’ Charlie Fox leaned forward, his lips stretched back from his gold-rimmed teeth. Dolly and Jean both leaned back in their seat, and Dolly crossed her arms.

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, Charlie, and you know it’s worthless,’ Jean said.

‘I would never do that to you,’ Charlie Fox said, his hand on his heart.

‘Well, Charlie, it doesn’t matter. Jean has said it’s worthless and we’re not interested.’

‘Yes, ladies, you’ll get no argument from me,’ Charlie Fox said as he squirmed and ran his thumbs around behind the waistband of his trousers, his elbows flapping like a nervous goose.

‘Are you happy with the rest?’ Dolly asked Jean, ignoring Charlie Fox.

Jean nodded. ‘The rest is worth taking.’

‘OK, let’s do business and make it quick,’ Dolly said to Charlie Fox as she glanced at the clock.

‘How much?’ she asked.

Charlie Fox rubbed his chin and looked at the ceiling. ‘Six hundred pounds,’ he said, looking back at them and giving them what he thought was a winning smile.

‘Four hundred and fifty,’ Dolly said.

‘I’d consider five hundred,’ Charlie Fox whined.

‘It’s four hundred or nothing,’ Dolly said and slapped her hand on the table. Charlie Fox flinched.

‘I won’t argue. You’re good customers,’ he stammered, took the pendant, rolled it in the purple velvet cloth, and shoved it in his pants pocket.

‘How about that drink?’ Charlie Fox leaned forward again, his elbows on the table.

‘You can have a cup of tea,’ Jean said. She pulled herself out of the booth and hurried to the counter. ‘You’re lucky the kettle has just boiled.’

Dolly bundled up the jewellery and stuffed it into the black bag. She shoved the whole thing into her uniform pocket before she pulled four hundred pounds in small notes out of the till. Charlie Fox turned and watched them both while he drummed his fingers on the table.

‘Here you are.’ Dolly thumped the notes in front of him. Charlie Fox licked his fingers, slowly counted them, then rolled the notes into a tight wad, and jammed them in his trouser pocket with the necklace. Jean brought a shallow cup of strong black tea and slid it across the table to him.

‘Drink up, we’re in a hurry.’ Jean stood over Charlie Fox, her hands on her hips again. Dolly stood beside the front door with her arms crossed.

Charlie Fox curled his top lip, raised the cup to his mouth, and stole a sideways glance at Jean. He shuddered when the heat hit his lips but threw the hot, unsweetened liquid down his throat. He banged the cup into the saucer and pushed it to the middle of the table, then reefed himself along the seat. Jean took a step back.

‘I’ll see you out,’ she said.

He scurried to the café door, clutching the pocket with the money and so-called diamond pendant in it. Dolly turned the key. Charlie Fox stepped out, and then she relocked it.

‘Gee, that tea must have burnt on the way down. He got a move on though, didn’t he?’ Dolly said as they hurried back into the kitchen. They both laughed.

‘I’ll put these away in my bedroom for now,’ she said as she walked through the kitchen.

CHAPTER TWO

W hen Dolly stepped back into the kitchen, she pulled out her hairpins and shook her hair loose.

Jean looked up from her vegetables. ‘Getting ready so soon?’ she asked.

‘Mmm, what?’ Dolly smoothed her soft dark curls across her forehead then held her hand up like a stop sign. ‘I really, really like this pearl ring. What do you think?’ She crossed the kitchen and stood beside Jean, holding the ring so close to Jean’s face that Jean had to pull her head back to look at it.

‘I’m sure I could wear it a few times before we turn it into cash. Oh, and that brooch.’ Dolly bunched the tips of her fingers and kissed the ends. ‘Beautiful.’ She wiggled her fingers and admired the ring again. ‘Oh, I just can’t choose—I’ll just wear them both.’

On the kitchen table moisture from the vegetable peelings and scraps crept towards the edge of the double pages of the Melbourne Herald they were piled onto. Jean dumped the half-Kentish pumpkin she had been holding in both hands face down onto her chopping board with a loud thud then stabbed it with her kitchen knife. It made a delicious almost wet noise as the skin split.

‘Right, I’ll just put these in a safe place,’ Dolly said and hurried around the table, scuttling back to her bedroom.

Jean glanced down at her hands and wrists as she worked at slicing the skin off the pumpkin. Grandma used to say strong wrists and thick fingers were good for kneading dough, not for wearing fancy things, and brooches needed big bosoms. She frowned, cupped her small breasts, shrugged her shoulders, and kept chopping.

‘We have to hurry. We’re running out of time,’ Jean snapped loud enough for Dolly to hear it in her room. She chopped and sliced, building another pile of prepared vegetables on her left. The smell of hot meat pies filled the room.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Dolly asked coming back into the kitchen with a scarf tied around her loose curls.

‘Get out another saucepan and some cutlery.’

Dolly clattered in the cupboard as she rummaged for a large saucepan.

‘Do you realise that we dealt with the Slippery Fox in record time?’ Dolly thumped the large pot next to Jean. ‘And, that’s a good stash of jewellery we got, too.’

The front doors rattled. Dolly looked into the darkened café. The streetlights threw a silhouette onto the lace curtains.

‘They’re here and early.’ Dolly picked up a shiny saucepan lid and used it as a mirror to check her hair. She slid the scarf off, put it into a pocket before bouncing her curls with her fingers. She rolled her lips together and pinched her cheeks.

‘Are my seams straight?’ Dolly let out a deep breath as she thrust a leg behind her for Jean to check.

‘They look fine to me,’ Jean said as she threw potatoes into the saucepan and turned on the stove.

‘Did you have a good look? I can’t stand it when they’re crooked.’ Without waiting for Jean to answer, Dolly dropped the lid and hurried to the front of the café. She ironed the sides of her skirt with her hands, pulled her tummy in, thrust her chest out then leaned forward and opened the door.

‘Oh my God, Jean, Jean, help me,’ Dolly shrieked.

Jean dropped the knife with a clatter and ran to her sister.

‘There’s blood everywhere,’ Dolly shouted as Charlie Fox slumped to the floor inside the door, his hand holding his face. Blood ran through his fingers down his arm and soaked into his shirt sleeve.

‘Get up, Charlie Fox,’ Jean demanded before she had even reached him.

He tried to push himself up but lurched