Salvation Jane

By Ann Massey

Meet Jane Patterson, mid-thirties, single and looking for love. But that was yesterday. Today Jane is the unimpressed owner of a shelter for homeless men. Catapulted in the high flying world of Leonard Hardie, an ambitious politician out to make a name by ridding the city of vagrants, Jane finds a conscience and a cause. A political satire mixing romance with intrigue and grubby politics where the homeless are pawns in a greedy corporate chess game.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Massey
• Release date: Nov 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9780648838050

Ann Massey

Ann Massey's life changed when the newspaper where she worked closed, leaving her unemployed and penniless. Passing herself off as a governess, she found employment on an isolated sheep station in Western Australia where she supervised lessons for three sweet-natured girls educated through the School of the Air. Unlike Jane Eyre, Ann didn’t find Mr. Rochester, but she did unearth the setting for her latest novel,The Biocide Conspiracy.Striking out next for Borneo, Ann exchanged her no frills life in the outback for a mansion in Miri and the pampered world of an ex-pat. With time hanging heavy, Ann wrote her first novel. Tough, tender and unforgettable, The White Amah exposes the shocking practices of the timber logging industry in Malaysia.Ann uses her personal knowledge of the Australian outback and the jungles of Borneo to give the fast-moving action of these novels a unique authenticity. Both books deal with lives lived on the edge, breath taking thrillers full of unexpected twists and turns. For a mystery novelist, inspiration is never far away.

Book preview

Jane Patterson, the naïve owner of a refuge for the homeless takes on the big end of town in Salvation Jane, a political satire mixing romance with intrigue and grubby politics — with the homeless pawns in a greedy corporate chess-game

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Copyright © Ann Massey 2013

This edition published January 2021

ISBN: 978-0-6488380-5-0

epub Smashwords edition

First published in 2013

ISBN-13: 978-1456506223

ISBN-10: 1456506226

Ann Massey has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to people living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The author has no responsibility for the information

provided by any author websites whose address you obtain from this book (author websites’).  The inclusion of author website addresses in this book does not constitute an endorsement by

or association of such sites or the content, products, advertising or other materials presented on such sites.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may

be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means

(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise)

without the prior written permission of the author.  Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Cover design: Chameleon Print Design

Publisher: HPEditions

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

Visit www.AnnMassey.com to read more about her books.

ANN MASSEY, whose novels include The White Amah, The Biocide Conspiracy Trilogy and historical fantasy, The Little Dog Laughed was born in 1945 and grew up in the harsh environment of a council estate in the industrial north of England.  Brought up on stories of the bleak living conditions among the working class in Lancashire before World War 11, her new book, Salvation Jane grapples with the emergence of the working poor in Australia and middle-class oblivion.  Ann lives in Perth, Western Australia.

Visit her website at: www.AnnMassey.com

Other Novels by Ann Massey

The White Amah

The Biocide Conspiracy Trilogy

Saboteur

Biocide.com

Jihad

The Little Dog Laughed

Yelp: A Time-Travel Fantasy

For my son, Chris

CONTENTS

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

Appendix

OTHER ANN MASSEY BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOY

Before You Go

1

An award-winning cartoon on display in the National Gallery shows me flying into Perth on a broomstick.  In the interest of historical accuracy, I booked a cheapie on the Red-Eye.  Disaster came along for the ride.

When the dog-tired cabbie pulled up outside my hotel the cleaners were hosing down the city streets.  A stream of icy water from the vehicle’s spray-jets drenched a down-and-outer sleeping on the doorstep; a wakeup call, courtesy of the Perth City Council.  Cursing, he threw an empty at the automated sweeper before shuffling off, talking to himself and waving his arms around.

I deliberately took my time paying the taxi driver.  I wasn’t the only one to feel uneasy.  Trapped workers at the bus stop moved closer together.  I felt for them.  There shouldn’t be any need to beg when there was such an acute shortage of workers in Western Australia.  People like that just don’t want to work, I supposed, shivering in the fur-lined coat which was the most expensive purchase on my maxed-out credit card.  The moment the coast was clear, I made a beeline for my hotel.

Tall, narrow and poorly lit, Patterson’s was sandwiched between a café and a TAB in what seemed to be a seedy side of town.  The bad impression was reinforced when I approached the porch and saw the litter the vagrant had left behind.  Stepping over the soggy cardboard, I pursed my lips, frowning at the empty stubbies and the takeaway trash.  I would have to have a word with the manager.  Obviously standards had dropped since my uncle had died.  But that was what happened when the owner wasn’t there to supervise staff.  ‘Start as you mean to go on,’ my supervisor had advised when I announced I was leaving the call-centre to run a hotel.  And, so it was with determination, I opened the door on my inheritance.

‘Call back in a couple hours if you’re after a bed for the night,’ said the man behind the desk without glancing up from his newspaper.  His words were slurred, and the fumes that escaped from his mouth left me in no doubt to the cause.

I glanced at my watch.  It was six forty-five, but not according to the clock mounted on the wall behind the reservation desk.  For a moment I thought this was further evidence of sloppiness until I remembered there was a two-hour difference between Sydney and Perth.  Still early or not, this was definitely no way to greet a guest.

Oh heck! I thought, feeling distinctly nervous, if only I’d listened to my boss and taken the trainee management course.  I took a steadying breath.  ‘I’m Jane Patterson, the new owner,’ I said, in an effort to sound authoritative.

The reservation clerk peered over his paper.  ‘Ida did mention something about Ken leaving Pat’s to his niece.  The bearded man took his feet off the desk, and came round from behind the counter.  ‘Horrie Nelson,’ he said and held out his hand.

I couldn’t help myself.  I drew back.  There was a pervasive, unwashed smell about him that alcoholic fumes couldn’t entirely mask.  ‘Unbelievable,’ I muttered, under my breath.  What had my uncle been thinking, employing someone like him as front of house?  Right away, I made my first business decision.  He’d have to go, but first I needed a restorative nap.

I smothered a yawn.  ‘I’d like to get settled.  ‘Is my uncle’s flat on the ground floor?’

‘Yeah, off the office.  But you’re not thinking of staying here?’ His bleary eyes flickered in surprise.

Did he think I was going to book into a hotel when I owned one?  ‘Naturally, I’m staying, bring my bags, Horace.’

‘Horatio,’ he said, ‘after the admiral.’

I gave him a blank look.

He shrugged, and went back to studying the racing form.  Seething, I picked up my own case and strode over to the door with OFFICE stamped in black letters on a dull brass plate, making a mental note that it was in need of a polish.

‘Yer can’t just barge in there, without so much as a by your leave,’ protested Horrie, beating me to the door and defending it with the ferocity of a junk-yard dog.  ‘Not without your Aunty Ida’s say so, and she won’t be pleased if I wake her at this hour of the morning.’

I couldn’t be fagged arguing with him.  ‘Get out of the way,’ I yelled, returning glare for glare.  Something was very wrong here; I didn’t possess a relative named Ida, and I knew for a fact that my uncle didn’t have a wife.  I could still recall the crusty old lawyer who had handled his estate joking that confirmed bachelors like my uncle were a dying breed.

So, who was this woman queening it up in my hotel?

2

An angry old woman in curlers and a violent purple dressing gown burst through the door.  ‘For Christ sake Horrie, throw them drunks out, and tell ’em from me they’re barred if they don’t—’

She stopped short in her tracks.  Two large eyes, magnified behind a pair of coke-bottle glasses, blinked rapidly.  ‘Well if you aint a chip off the old block,’ she said, zeroing in on the distinctive family feature with no attempt at tact or subtlety.

Not everyone is blessed with their dream nose and mine, I have to admit, is a full-blown nightmare.  My father, himself a genetic casualty, dubbed it—‘Patterson’s curse’.

In my childhood, stories were Mum’s favoured medium for passing on to me, her only child, life lessons.  Pulling me on her lap, she’d tell me how long ago another Jane Patterson had brought some flower seeds from England to brighten her garden, and then had watched despairingly as the weed ran riot, squeezing out crops and ruining pastures throughout Australia.

‘Everyone blamed Jane and to make sure that she never forgot, they named the pest Patterson’s Curse.  Can you imagine how bad she felt?’ Mum would ask.  At this point she’d remove my thumb from my mouth.  ‘But then,’ she’d continue, ‘there came a long drought and all the grazing pasture withered and died except for?’

‘Patterson’s Curse?’ I would shout out the answer in excitement.  ‘That’s right,’ she’d say with a smile.  ‘And then farmers realised it wasn’t a curse at all, because if it hadn’t been for Jane planting some seeds in her garden, all their animals would have starved to death.  After that, they started calling it ‘Salvation Jane’.  So you see, Jane,’ and she’d give me a big hug, ‘a curse can turn into a blessing.’

You had to give her points for effort but I would have given anything to have inherited her pretty tip-tilted nose.

The old woman took a step forward as I hesitated at the door.  ‘Welcome to Patterson’s, dearie.  Come on in, you must be frozen to death hanging about in that draughty lobby.  Horrie, don’t just stand there like a useless bag of wind.  Help the young lady with her case.’

The overheated room she ushered me into was crammed with what my father used to call tourist bait, tacky souvenirs, all crowded in too small a space.  It was obvious that this woman must be living here because, if Uncle Ken was anything like his brother, he wasn’t the type to collect dolls.  There must have been around twenty of the tacky dust collectors standing on top of a heavy mahogany sideboard.

Some people like the cluttered antique shop look, but I prefer a light, bright stream-lined space, and so had my ex.  Our home was predominately modern offset with quirky Asian pieces.  Oliver took the best stuff when he left.  Knowing my classy hand-painted Chinese vase, and elegant bamboo paper screen now resided in the apartment he shared with my best friend, was just more salt in a wound that was still red raw.

‘How cosy,’ I said to be polite.

The old woman looked pleased at the compliment.  She smiled and pointed me towards a cracked leather recliner.  ‘Take a load off your feet.  I don’t know about you, but my ankles swell up before I’ve gotten round to fastening my seat belt.’ She bent down, and to my horror turned up the blazing gas heater another two bars.

‘Now Ms ... er,’ I began, when she finally sat down in the matching chair, her ropy veined legs supported by the adjustable footrest.

‘Wright, as in the Wright Brothers.’ ‘Who?’ I asked, totally confused.

‘Surely, you must have heard about Wilbur and Orville Wright?  They invented the aeroplane, dearie.  Don’t they teach you anything in school nowadays?’

‘I was thinking of right as in not wrong,’ I said, in an effort to be civil.  The old woman beamed at me.  ‘Your uncle always said I was his Miss Right, Janey.’

‘My name isn’t Janey.  It’s Jane.’ I spoke snappishly to discourage further confidences.  It wouldn’t do to get friendly, or I would never have the nerve to evict her from what was, indisputably, my property.

‘Well, excuse me.’ For the first time there was an edge to her voice.

‘Your uncle always referred to you as Our Janey, but I wouldn’t want to offend you, dearie.  So from now on it’s Jane, plain and simple.’

Using Jane and plain in one sentence was no accident, and while I may be plain I’m not so simple that I don’t know when I’m being insulted.  I narrowed my eyes, and looked down the length of my nose at the dumpy old woman.  ‘And what should I call you?  Miss or Mrs.  Wright?’

‘What a question?  You call me Aunty Ida, what else?’

I was in no mood for playing games.  ‘Will you please tell me who you are, and what you’re doing here?’

‘There’s no need to shout.  I was just getting round to that ... but first, how about a nice cup of tea?’

‘Thank you, but I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘It’s no trouble at all,’ she said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

While I was impatiently twiddling my thumbs, I glanced at a framed photograph on the mantelpiece of my uncle, Kenneth Patterson.  Too tall and too thin, like all the Pattersons, he looked so like my late father that it brought tears to my eyes.

I was still holding the photograph when Ida returned carrying a tray with two mugs of tea and a plate of toast.  ‘That was taken last April, just after Ken’s first stroke.’

Of course, it was so obvious.  I can’t think why I hadn’t realised immediately.  This woman must have been employed to look after my uncle.  If anything finding a legitimate reason for her presence increased my suspicions.  Since I’d given Oliver access to my heart, home and bank account I’d learnt how easy it is to be taken in by a smooth talking con-artist.

‘Were you my uncle’s carer?’ I asked, hoping he hadn’t been robbed blind too.

‘Eventually.’ She put the tray on the coffee table.  ‘That’s what happens when you marry an older man.  Inevitably you end up as his nurse.’

‘You were married?’

She stiffened.  ‘We never actually got around to legalising our union.’ Her generation think it’s wrong to live together without being married.  I felt sorry for her, but not enough to drop the subject.  ‘How long were you together?’

‘It would have been ten years in June.’

That threw me.  If Ida Wright and my uncle had lived de facto for all that time, why had he left his estate to me?  It wasn’t as if we were a close family.  Kenneth Patterson was my father’s much older brother.  He’d left New South Wales and headed west when my dad was just a kid.  He’d never been back, not even when both my parents died in a car accident five years ago.  Instead, my sole surviving relative ordered a wreath, placed a bereavement notice in the paper, and sent me a sympathy card.  At the time I was thirty.  Maybe if I’d been younger he’d have felt a greater sense of responsibility.  As it was, neither of us had ever bothered to keep in touch.

‘Er, were you happy?’ I was fishing.  There had to be some reason why my uncle had left his business to me.

With a drawn-out sigh, she straightened her hunched shoulders and turned her wrinkled face in my direction.  ‘Blissfully.  I adored the dear man.  He was a saint.  Ask anyone.  They’ll all tell you the same.’

Leaving his de facto out of his will seemed like the act of a malevolent old devil to me.  Biting the bullet, I asked her straight out, ‘Weren’t you disappointed that er ... your partner left Patterson’s to me?’

‘Blood is thicker than water.  You’re Ken’s next of kin.  It’s only right that you take over.  Any road, I’ve got more than enough on my plate.  I own the café next door, and it’s been a strain trying to keep both businesses going.  To tell you the truth, I’ve never been more pleased to see anyone in my life.’

Relaxing for the first time since I’d stepped from the taxi, I helped myself to the toast, thick, well browned and dripping with butter.  Some phrases slip out of the mouth in response to familiar situations.  I sighed and said, ‘There’s nothing beats a good cup of tea.’

‘Fancy you saying that.  Do you know that’s what Ken always said?

He’d sit in that very chair sipping his tea in front of the heater, and he’d turn to me and say, nothing beats a good cup of tea.’

‘Be sure to let me have your new address, because I’d love to hear more about him.’

The old woman’s steaming mug froze, midway between the table and her mouth.  She gave me an et tu Brute, as if without provocation, I’d stabbed her through the heart.

I tried to smooth things over.  ‘I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean it to sound like I was trying to get rid of you?’

‘Oh really!’ she said her voice sharp and shrill.  ‘That’s exactly what it sounded like to me.  Well I won’t stay where I’m not welcome.’

With that, she walked over to the mantelpiece, and snatched up a wooden box.  ‘I’ll be taking your uncle’s ashes, this photo, and a few personal bibs and bobs.  As for the rest, you’re welcome to it.’

‘Don’t be silly.  This is your home.’

She shrugged.  ‘I’ll be out of your road just as soon as I’ve packed my things.’ By the look on her face, I could tell it was going to take more than an apology to change her mind.

I thought fast.

‘The box please,’ I said holding out my hands.  ‘Uncle’s ashes belong to his next-of-kin, and that’s me.’

She shook her head and thrust her chin out defiantly.  ‘I’m not putting a foot out of here without them.’

‘Hand them over.’ I gave her a straight look.  At one hundred and eighty centimetres in my bare feet I was banking on the diminutive old woman finding me intimidating.  Visibly shaken, she hugged the box against her.

‘Why don’t we both sit down and see if we can figure something out?’

She slumped back down in her chair and removed her thick glasses.  Without them her eyes didn’t seem to focus properly.  She blinked at me blindly, then pulled a tissue from her sleeve, and blew her nose.  ‘I can’t believe a niece of Ken’s could be so heartless.’

‘I’m sorry, but I couldn’t think of any other way to stop you leaving.’

Ida Wright replaced her spectacles, and stared hard at me.  ‘So you were just putting on an act, were you?’

I nodded and held out an olive branch.  ‘How about I move into one of the hotel rooms for the time being?  It’ll give us time to work something out.’

She shook her head.  ‘No, that won’t do at all.  You’ll have to stay here.

You can have the best spare bedroom.’

‘Are you sure?  I wouldn’t want to be in your way.’

She gave me a slightly insulted look.  ‘You are Ken’s niece, of course you won’t be in my way.  Besides, I’ve been kind of lonely since Ken passed away.’

I’m not used to coping with grieving old women.  I leant forward and patted her arm, somewhat awkwardly.

She sniffed back her tears, and produced a smile.  ‘It’ll be nice to have someone to fuss over again.’

I smiled back, but it was an effort.

3

‘Chuck out!’ Horrie had to yell to be heard over the guests’ angry voices.

I stood in the doorway staring into the lobby open mouthed.  It was as if I’d wandered onto the set of Les Miserables.  The guests weren’t actually dressed in rags, but you could tell they had bought their mismatched clothes at charity shops.

I’ve got friends who think it’s cool to dress retro in worn out clothes, with messy hair and no makeup, but these people just looked like weirdos.  You could tell they were not faking.  This was urban grunge without a trace of chic.

Horrie tried again.  ‘Come on youse blokes yer know the rules.’ Most drifted off, but about a dozen refused to leave.  The ring leader, a gaunt bald-headed man in an army great coat, called out, ‘Forty dollars and there’s no fuckin’ hot water.  It’s a bloody rip off.’

Heads nodded in agreement.

‘There was always hot water when old Ken was running the dump,’ chimed in a grey-faced youth with a bad case of acne.  He lifted his arm, and sniffed at his armpit.  ‘No wonder I stink.’

‘What do expect, the soddin’ Hilton?’ Unfazed by the angry faces and the litany of complaints, Horrie walked over to the entrance and stood next to the open door.  ‘Now piss off the lot of yer.’

The rabble rouser was the last to leave.  ‘Hey Horrie, can I lend a smoke?’

‘Yeah, mate.’ Horrie handed him a cigarette and tossed the empty packet in the bin.  ‘I’m off to Auntie Ida’s for a feed.  How’s about keeping me company?’

‘I’m a bit short of the readies.’

‘No worries Crusty, my shout.’

I watched as the two of them walked off together.  Horrie was wearing a shrunken jersey over his tartan lumberjack shirt.  Of the pair, I thought he looked more of a vagabond.

In my staff’s absence, I began an exploration of Patterson’s.  It was a far cry from the Hilton.  Apart from the office and the manager’s apartment, there were three doors leading off the dimly lit ground floor reception area, (the only natural light came from a stained-glass semi-circular fanlight).

Like most Victorian buildings, it had high ceilings and this one was ornamented with moulded plaster roundels depicting what looked like a Roman orgy.  When it was new it must have been magnificent but the yellowed paint was flaking and spiders had set up house among the vine leaves and grapes.  A spider’s web, (so thick and strong, it had to be a communal effort) looped down from the cheap looking fluorescent over the high reception desk sending out a message that this was a rundown dump that normal people, (tourists and business executives), should avoid like the plague.

Patterson’s needed a serious facelift, and I typed COBWEBS and NEW LIGHT FITTINGS in my Ipad under HOTWATER which I’d added earlier.

I turned the dull brass knob of the door, to the right of the front desk.  To my disappointment, it was locked.  I added HOTEL KEYS to my list.  Without keys, I told myself the inspection was going to have to wait until the grouch returned.  Feeling cross because I was impatient to take over the reins, I looked at my wrist.  Ten o’ clock.  I reset my watch.  Two hours was a small adjustment but it made me feel like I was committing to life in this backward hole.

With little hope, I tried the adjacent door, heard a click and pushed the door open.

It was a single bedroom, now being used as a store.  The window was boarded up and on all four walls unpainted chipboard shelves reached from floor to ceiling, jam-packed with bedding and towels.  Industrial size bottles of cleaning materials, bleach, disinfectant and a pail full of perfumed blocks were stacked under the shelving.

I read the label.  The puck-shaped blocks were used to suppress the stench of the urinals! I shuddered at the thought; not that I envisaged ever having anything to do with the hotel’s domestic arrangements; management and marketing were the roles I’d picked out for myself.

The remaining door opened onto a cyclone-fenced concrete yard, separated from the backs of the buildings in the street behind by a narrow service lane.  Most of the yard was taken up by a laundry set up in an asbestos shed.  Asbestos, wasn’t that a health hazard?  CONTACT COUNCIL, I typed.

After what I’d seen so far, the laundry was surprisingly well equipped with industrial washing machines and dryers.  There was a twenty-kilo drum of washing powder on the floor between the machines and two more, stacked on top of each other, under the deep double sinks.

I’d never given much consideration to the housekeeping and cleaning side of the hospitality industry, and my heart sank at the thought of all those piles of sheets and towels, mountains of them, heaped up on the store room shelves.  How many beds were there?  What time did the housemaids start work?  There was so much I needed to find out.  Relax, I counselled myself, there’s no point in panicking.  Obviously there are systems in place for the day to day running of the business.  Once I’ve all the information at my fingertips I can start to create more efficient methods, and target a better class of clientele.

There was still no sign of my staff when I went back inside.  I decided to take a look at the upper floors.  A dusty but surprisingly elegant staircase with a curved wooden balustrade led to the first floor.

‘I don’t believe it!’ I spoke aloud, appalled.

The entire floor consisted of one large dormitory; a terrible room with peeling drab green walls and worn, broken linoleum on the floor.  Twenty triple bunks, grey blanketed and made from tubular metal were stacked one on top of the other.  Sixty men had slept up here, and the air was heavy with the stench of unwashed bodies, stronger than the zoo smell you get round the cages of lions and tigers.

I jumped when Horrie said, ‘How do you like being a hotel proprietor?’ I hadn’t heard him, and his two companions come up the stairs.  He eyed my elegant suit.  ‘Not what you had in mind, eh?’

‘Not entirely,’ I answered, knowing full well he was making fun of the way I was dressed.  Before I’d left Sydney, I’d lashed out on a business suit, charcoal grey, discreet and well-tailored.  What a waste.  Even in my jogging suit and sneakers I would stand out like a brand-new car in a wrecker’s yard.

I felt my temper rise when I saw Horrie wink at the two dodgy-looking cleaners.  One I recognised.  He was the skinny youth with zits who was upset about being forced to take a cold shower.

‘I understand some of the guests complained about the lack of hot water,’ I