Little Gibraltar Street

By Gregory Paul

Escape into the gripping tale of Saffi, a young, privileged, and restless girl yearning for a life of adventure. In the backdrop of 1929, on a fateful Christmas morning, she coerces her friend and family employee, Lottie, into embarking on an impulsive journey from Melbourne to Perth. Little do they know, the uncharted path that lies before them spans over two thousand miles of rugged dirt roads.

Ill-equipped for the arduous journey, Saffi and Lottie’s fate takes an unexpected turn when they encounter Raana, a resourceful and destitute Afghan girl whose indispensable guidance propels them beyond Adelaide. Their group reaches its full complement when they chance upon Sam, a wounded young man scarred by a harsh upbringing and distorted views on relationships.

Venturing into the unforgiving wilderness west of Port Augusta, they confront a land ravaged by drought and the looming shadow of the Great Depression. In the face of scorching heat, swirling dust storms, shifting sands, poverty, and the ugly face of racial intolerance, their disparities become glaringly apparent.

Despite the hardships, Saffi cherishes every moment of their odyssey, as the splendor and solitude of the bush, shared trials, and a fight for survival forge an unbreakable bond among the travelers. As they navigate the untamed terrain, the beauty of their journey lies not just in the breathtaking landscapes, but in the transformation of their own spirits.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035809165

Gregory Paul

An engineer and geologist by profession, Gregory Paul grew up in rural England and Wales. First arriving in Australia in early 1982, Gregory lived and worked in outback South Australia, inland Queensland, and the Northern Territory. A period in the Middle East saw Gregory working in the community, where he developed a keen understanding of the local culture, and an appreciation of the important role that strong and capable young Arabic women play in their country’s future. Drawing on his love of open country, his experience in Australia and the Middle East, and inspired by a young woman’s diary detailing her drive from Melbourne to Perth in 1929, Gregory began writing Little Gibraltar Street.

Book preview

About the Author

An engineer and geologist by profession, Gregory Paul grew up in rural England and Wales. First arriving in Australia in early 1982, Gregory lived and worked in outback South Australia, inland Queensland, and the Northern Territory.

A period in the Middle East saw Gregory working in the community, where he developed a keen understanding of the local culture, and an appreciation of the important role that strong and capable young Arabic women play in their country’s future.

Drawing on his love of open country, his experience in Australia and the Middle East, and inspired by a young woman’s diary detailing her drive from Melbourne to Perth in 1929, Gregory began writing Little Gibraltar Street.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to anyone who has ever dreamt of getting into a car and driving to a different life. In particular, it is dedicated to a young woman, the writer of a diary, who in 1929 drove across Australia.

Copyright Information ©

Gregory Paul 2023

The right of Gregory Paul to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035809141 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035809158 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781035809165 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank my wife, Angela, for her continued support, and for tolerating my many hours of silent working. And Tracy, the most amazing editor ever. Without her unyielding guidance, encouragement, and patience, this book would never have been written.

Prologue

Down in his subterranean lair, the boy always listened intently. He didn’t know how long he’d been in this cellar, but at five years old, it was all he remembered. He knew the cellar sat beneath the front entrance hall and the library of the house above, as sometimes when the man wanted to speak with him, he’d drag him up the stairs, along the hall, and into the library. The boy knew the man was his father because, on these visits to the library, the man was fond of telling him, ‘I am your father boy, and as my son you will do as I say. Always! Do you understand?’ The boy would always answer, ‘Yes sir,’ in a quiet voice. Though he didn’t understand, he wasn’t sure what a father was, but he knew better than to ask questions of the man. The sting of the man’s cane on his legs was not something he’d soon forget.

For the most part, he was left alone. He could hear everyone who came and went from the house above; though he didn’t understand much of what he heard, he’d begun to recognise visitors to the house by their voices, and the sounds their footsteps made. He was allowed upstairs very rarely, usually only for one of his father’s talks or when his aunt came to visit. Apart from that and the glimpse he got of the lady who brought him his food, he saw no one.

Chapter 1

Apart from a brief period where he’d enjoyed the company of a tutor several times a month, as a young child, Sam rarely visited the rooms above him, and almost never saw another person. At fourteen years old, Sam had known no other life. All he had for company were his books. They covered the more academic subjects like reading, writing, arithmetic, and other subjects to do with history and geography, but he also had a few novels, which his father, Donald, had said would teach him to behave like a gentleman. Sam had read them all, more than once. He adored his books, and loved to read, not because of what his father said, and not because it filled his lonely hours, but because he loved to imagine himself in the stories. The adventures stirred a passion within him. Aside from his books, most of what Sam knew of the world came from what he heard from above.

The cellar was under the front of the house, where the ground was lowest. As a result, it was usually cool, especially in winter. Against one wall was an old wrought-iron bed—with a stained and lumpy mattress. A table with a damaged leg stood beside it. On the opposite wall, was a tall cupboard made from wicker, which contained Sam’s modest wardrobe. Towards the middle of the room, a scruffy, worn armchair sat beneath a dim light globe, which hung from the central floor joist. Furthest from his bed, in a corner hidden by a sheet, his commode sat strategically positioned above a pipe connected to the septic tank. Next to it was a small sink, which had a tap that gave only cold water. Sam disliked that corner most of all, as the smell was often overpowering.

Despite his cloistered existence, over the years, Sam had listened intently to the goings on above him. He understood the day-to-day affairs of Chatwood House quite well. So, even before the doorbell rang on this Tuesday, Sam knew it was George Benson who stood in the porchway. George came every Tuesday morning at about this time, and Sam recognised the sound that his leather boots made on the bluestone treads.

Sam knew George’s boots had a crescent-shaped piece of ironwork embedded in the back of each heal. Sam knew this detail because, some months ago, just prior to one of George’s weekly visits, Sam had been in his father’s library for a talk. George had arrived, and was let in by the housemaid, before his father could order Sam back down the stairs. George was in the entrance hall as Sam was making his way back to his cellar trapdoor, which opened in a corner of the entrance hall near the front door. His father had no choice but to briefly introduce them. It had been an awkward encounter that stuck in Sam’s mind.

‘Ah George, good to see you. This is my boy, Samuel.’

‘Hello, Samuel.’

‘Hel—!’ Sam started.

Then, clearly keen to keep George from having too much contact with Sam, his father had added, ‘Now we must get to it. Off you go Boy.’ With that, Donald put his hand on George’s shoulder and guided him towards the library. Sam had studied George’s boots as he’d moved away. They were black leather with a dull shine, and as George had turned, Sam saw they had a crescent shaped piece of metal embedded in the back of each heel. That brief meeting was enough for Sam to remember every detail of this huge, boisterous man’s appearance. It was like it was imprinted on his memory. He had found this was true of many things he heard and saw.

The twanging sound the bellpull made pulled Sam from his thoughts. George had yanked the apparatus forcefully, as was his custom.

‘Yes, yes, yes, I’m on my way. I’ve heard you, George,’ his father called. Sam could hear his father’s hurried footsteps heading towards the entrance, then the clatter of the barrel bolt on the front door sliding back. He imagined his father gripping the handle and pulling the heavy wooden door inward. ‘George, wonderful to see you, come inside my good man.’

‘Thank you, Donald, a pleasure to see you.’

‘Come through to the library, George; I trust your journey wasn’t too tiring. Let me get you a wee dram for your trouble.’

‘Yes, wonderful, just what I need.’

Sam knew the library had become his father’s de facto office, as he’d heard him tell the housemaid, Molly, a few months prior, ‘I’ll be taking all my business in the library from now on. It gives a better impression, don’t you think?’ He’d not given her a chance to answer before he continued with, ‘All this fine furniture and my book collection. Speaks of a man of substance and learning—who can be trusted. Don’t you agree, Molly?’ Molly had answered so quietly that Sam had not been able to hear her reply. He had come to realise that Molly’s opinion was probably not something his father cared much about anyway.

Sam could hear the clink of crystal glassware as his father poured them both a drink. His father would always manage to present as the perfect host when a customer visited the house, however galling he might find it. Making small talk with someone like George would stretch him to his limit, but money was money, and George was worth a considerable sum.

‘I’ll trouble you for another shot of that delicious brandy, thank you.’ Sam heard George say.

‘Of course, George.’

But Sam knew by the stifled sniff his father gave before he spoke, he wasn’t pleased by such expense before a deal was done. But his father would never let George know how he really felt. Sam never ceased to be amazed at how well his father played men like George Benson. Those who liked their liquor, and who, after a little lubrication, often placed a larger order than they initially intended. Despite the irritation it entailed, his father would just smile, present them with generous refills, then sit back in his seat and hope to reap the rewards.

‘How’s that new find up at Burra playing out, George?’ Sam knew this was his father’s way of leading the conversation to business.

‘Not as good as many hoped, the vein began to peter out way quicker than anyone expected. It was almost a foot thick when they found it and near pure copper, but only thirty feet yonder it was down to six inches. God can be a right teasing bastard sometimes.’

‘Yes, it’s a frustrating business at times, George. So, can I put you down for eight cases of dynamite, then?’

‘Four will be plenty, what with the vein being so much thinner.’

‘Alright. What about those picks you wanted for the find at Gawler?’

‘I’ll take two, and four of those flat head shovels, but that’s my lot for today.’

Sam knew by George’s tone, there would be no further discussion on the matter. However, his father kept him talking, hoping that another angle would result in further sales. But despite his best efforts, George remained adamant. Once it became obvious that the order could be increased no further, Sam knew his father would want George’s signature on the order book and him out the door quick smart. As expected, his father wrapped up the meeting telling George he’d see him the following week. And as usual, as soon as the bolt was re-instated in the latch, the cussing started.

‘The snivelling, slimy halfwit; he fills his gullet with my best brandy and for what? An order that wouldn’t feed a dormouse.’

Sam had heard it all before and knew what followed.

‘Boy, Boy! Get up here and take this order and be quick about it.’

That was Sam’s cue to make his way to the library.

‘What kept you Boy? I’ve had enough trouble with that ape Benson without you playing up.’ His father thrust the order book into Sam’s outstretched hand before saying, ‘Make sure you include this in the ledger, and don’t be giving him his normal discount, he’s already received more than enough.’

Sam took the order book without a word and retraced his steps back to his cellar, where he’d sit at his desk and commence his chore. Sam didn’t mind though, it gave him something to do, and he was good at it. He remembered when he was younger, he had to sit in the armchair and squint in the poor light when he wished to read or write. Though about a year ago, a straight-backed chair and wooden desk had been placed beneath the only window in the room, to take advantage of the daylight. This had transformed Sam’s life. But rather than an act of kindness, the change had come about after his father realised that Sam had talents that he could make use of. This realisation had happened after Sam had listened to a meeting between his father and a customer, who had placed a large and rather complex order for several different types of shooters rods. As fate would have it, on this day, his father had made a visit to the cellar to check on a cracked floorboard. Usually, Sam stayed out of his way on the rare occasions that his father came into his room, and never spoke unless spoken to. But this day he was feeling talkative, so he ventured a comment on the meeting. ‘I didn’t realise there were so many types of shooters rods. I’ve only ever heard you mention three before, Father.’ His father had turned to look at him, and for a moment, Sam was sure he’d made a grave mistake speaking up.

‘And so?’ his father said.

‘W…well, I just meant it’s a wonderful order, it must be worth almost five pounds.’ Sam could see his father was surprised by the comment.

‘Been sticking your nose into my business again?’

‘I’m sorry Father, I didn’t mean to.’ He was now sure he’d made a mistake and could almost feel the sting of his father’s cane.

‘Seeing as you seem to know so much, you can use that little head of yours to earn your board and keep.’

Sam had no idea what his father meant, but the next day the chair and desk arrived, and later that week, a bundle of trade magazines appeared next to the trapdoor. His father even spent time showing Sam the mechanics of his ledger. From then on, whenever an order was concluded, it was Sam’s job to enter it into the ledger, prepare the invoice and calculate the profit.

Apart from his clerical duties, Sam’s only other relief from this hum-drum existence was provided by the books he read. Almost anything would do regardless of the subject. He devoured every volume he could get his hands on, and when his father’s mood was favourable, he could often borrow something new from his library. But today his father’s mood was anything but favourable, as only a trickle of customers visited the house. Sam tried re-reading one of his favourite books, but his heart wasn’t in it. Instead, he sat watching the hands of his pocket watch make their way towards 4 pm. The watch was his most prized possession, the only item Sam possessed that had once belonged to his mother. It had a brightly coloured peacock on its rear, which he adored. Sam imagined that his mother had loved it too, and that it had given her much pleasure. The thought made him feel closer to her, even though he’d never known her, as she’d died giving birth to him.

Sam found afternoons particularly boring. Today, he couldn’t even hear a murmur from the back rooms. He had always been able to hear the goings on at the front of the house, through the floor. But what took place at the rear, was for a time a mystery to him. But when he was eight, one of the legs of his side table broke and, he’d repositioned the table against his bed, for support. After this, he realised he could hear voices and sounds coming from an old vent in the wall, which the side table had been covering. These sounds, he realised, must be from the furthest corners of the house. Sam was intrigued with this discovery. He’d felt like a new world had opened up to him.

Sam had finally decided to re-read his book on geometry, when he heard quiet footsteps in the porchway and knew they were the light and gentle sounds of Molly’s soft sandals. He checked his pocket watch; it had gone five—she was late returning from her afternoon break. Sam heard his father make his way to the entrance to open the front door, then Molly’s hurried footsteps as she scuttled inside.

‘Late again!’

He remembered a similar situation once before when Molly had been held up at the drapers. On that day, Sam had been in the entrance hall when she’d arrived, and he’d watched as his father had berated her for her tardiness. She’d stood forlorn and taken it, head down, saying nothing. It had made Sam sad to watch it.

Today, Sam heard his father grumble something unintelligible, and Molly answer him in her whisper quiet way, Sam couldn’t make out what she’d said, but he was sure it was some sort of apology. Without another word his father headed back to his library. Sam heard Molly make her way to the broom cupboard where he knew she hung her coat and stored her bag, before collecting what she needed to clean. The evening settled into its normal pattern. Sam heard the crackle of coals in the library grate, the occasional clink of glass as his father poured himself another drink, and the clank of Molly’s mop bucket as she cleaned the hallway floor, accompanied by the delicate, fairy-like sound of her soft leather sandals on the polished floorboards.

Later, Sam heard pots and pans in the kitchen, then at close on 7 pm, the sound of his tray being placed on the floor next to his trapdoor. Sam ate his meal sitting at his desk, as he usually did. He was used to eating alone, it didn’t bother him. Molly was a good cook and always gave him a little extra when she could, even sneaking him a treat sometime. Tonight, he’d had pork sausages and vegetables, and a tall glass of milk. Once he was finished, he returned his tray to its place outside his trapdoor. Then got a book he’d only read once before and stretched out on his bed.

As the evening wore on, the vibrations of the day wound down, and by 9 pm the house had become very quiet. Sam knew, from the few times his father had invited him to have dinner in the library, that he often dropped off to sleep soon after eating. He imagined him now, slouched in his carver chair with an open newspaper on his chest.

Sam was lost in his book until it occurred to him, he had not heard Molly leave. She was usually gone by 9.30 pm and wouldn’t return till 6 am to begin breakfast preparations. His pocket watch told him it was just on 10 pm. He wondered if he’d dozed off and missed her. Though, he didn’t think so.

A short time later, he was just on the verge of sleep, when an abrupt thud startled him. Sam was sure it had originated from somewhere in the back rooms. He rose from his bed and crouched close to the vent to listen. He waited, but all he could hear were the sounds of muffled voices. He found this unusual at such a late hour; perhaps Molly was still here, he thought. After a while, with nothing more interesting happening, Sam’s eyelids fluttered, sleep was calling him. But just as he was about to get back into bed, he heard the strangest noise. It was a surging, rattling sound, faint at first, then repeated with more urgency and force. And there was something else, lower, more guttural—a grunting sound. Then, suddenly it all stopped. Sam continued to listen intently, but apart from the faint sounds of movement, it was quiet. He wondered what the cause of the odd sounds might be. He didn’t dare leave his room to investigate, as if his father found him wandering the house at such an hour, he would be furious. Hearing no more, he went back to his bed. He thought again about what he’d heard. The voices must belong to his father and Molly, surely, he thought. But why was Molly still here, he hoped she was okay, and what on earth were they doing?

Chapter 2

‘Doesn’t this look simply divine, Alice? Come and help me try it on, I’m desperate to see if it suits me.’ Saffi held the frock at arm’s length so her maid could view the delicate colours and elegant stitch work of this latest Crepe de Chine creation. Alice helped her slip on the dress.

‘It’s wonderful Miss Gibson; the needlework’s the finest I’ve ever seen.’

‘Yes, it certainly is. I can thank Lottie for that, and look at those pastel shades across the shoulders, aren’t they just sublime. They remind me of pictures of Paris in the springtime. I dream of how wonderful it would be to live there.’

‘I’m sure it would be, Miss Gibson.’

‘Yes, that’s all it is, though, Alice, a dream.’ Saffi had realised lately, France, like everything beyond Melbourne, remained something of a mystery to her. She saw her life as a circle. She continued to go round and round and never really experience anything. Her life was a series of repeated actions. She knew once this frock had been tried on and viewed from every possible angle, it would go back into the wardrobe. It was unlikely to see the light of day again for a considerable time. She always had such fun buying things, but once she had them, she found no joy in them at all. Saffi wasn’t sure why this was the case, as her passion was always so intense to begin with but waned so quickly. ‘Oh Alice, there must be more to life than all this. I enjoy all my nice things and working at the store, but I’m nineteen. Mother wants me to marry, but who wants to settle down at my age, I ask you? Certainly not me. I want action and excitement and something different every day.’

‘Yes, Miss Gibson, of course.’

‘The trouble is Alice. When I do try new things, it just annoys my parents. They don’t understand me. What should I do?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know, Miss Gibson.’

‘Oh, of course you don’t, Alice. I’d like to be alone now, you can go.’

‘As you wish, Miss Gibson.’

Saffi was feeling restless and unsettled after her discussion with Alice, and the moment she walked into the parlour, her mother started on her about doing something productive with her life, same old thing she always went on about. Saffi was not in the mood today, and in frustration, she blurted, ‘Mother, anything I try to do that I feel is worthwhile, you want to stop me. Do you suggest I stay in bed all day in case I strain a muscle?’

‘Of course not, Saffine, don’t be so dramatic. I swear you will be the end of me. Why you think you know better than your elders, I do not know. You wouldn’t even listen to that tutor I employed. He’s taken off already, couldn’t put up with all your tantrums I expect,’ her mother, Myrtle, said.

‘You just don’t understand, Mother, with him it was all books, books, and more books. I want to experience the real world, not sit with some stuffy shirt in a dismal room all day.’

‘Well, that’s all fine Saffine, but you need a proper education, and to learn how a young lady should behave.’

‘Oh Mother, I don’t wish to speak about this anymore. I have dreams too, you know.’

‘I know, they are just impractical, Saffine. I want you to concentrate on solid options. Since you turned eighteen you have had suitors queuing by the mile. It’s time you found yourself a beau. Why don’t you invite that nice young man you met at the fabric display, to next month’s ball? I think he likes you, and he is very well connected.’

‘I don’t want to. He reminds me too much of Father. Anyway, I’m going to ask Joe.’

‘You mean that strange boy who delivers the wool packs from Sydney, I’m not sure he’s really your type?’

‘Really Mother, how would you know what my type is?’ Saffi turned to leave.

‘Where are you going now?’

‘I’m going for a walk, Mother. I need space to think.’ Saffi stared defiantly at her mother for a few seconds, taking in the annoyed look on her red face, before hurrying off. She didn’t want to fight with her mother anymore, and she really did need to think. She had to do something to change her dreary life. Despite all her dreams, Saffi knew her knowledge of the world beyond the family home and department store walls was considerably lacking. She had tried to focus on her schooling but found it impossible to concentrate on any subject for more than fifteen minutes at a time. Why everyone else could do this and not her, she didn’t know. Saffi was convinced that her parents were partly to blame, they seemed intent on stopping her doing anything she found interesting. She had tried it their way, but the things they pushed on her were so tedious.

As Saffi paced the grounds trying to find a solution for her problem, she noticed her best friend Lottie arriving. As soon as Lottie stepped from the buggy, Saffi was at her side, ‘Lottie, I need to talk to you.’

‘Of course, Saffi. You seem upset?’

‘I am feeling very upset.’ I wish I were more like you, Lottie. You are so capable, and you seem to know just what you want out of life. Here you are at twenty-three, one of Gibson’s best dressmakers. I don’t know how you manage everything and still have time to spend with me. I do hope our friendship is genuine Lottie, not just the result of me being the boss’s daughter?’

‘Being the boss’s daughter makes no difference to me, Saffi. I value our friendship and I’m more than happy to help you out with anything you need, and I understand it must be so difficult for you at Gibson’s, sometimes, you must feel a bit stifled, as though I shadow you. But I am only trying to help.’

‘I know you only have my best interests at heart, Lottie. You are a good friend, and I trust you.’

‘And I you, Saffi. Now let’s go and sit and have some tea, and you can tell me more about what’s going on.’

Arnold sat pondering the upsetting phone call he’d just received from his wife. He knew as soon as he’d heard the distress in her voice, the call was about Saffine. He also knew that he bore much of the responsibility for the issues with his daughter. The fortune he had made courtesy of his dedication to the family’s busy Melbourne department store, came at a price. He had spent little time at home over the past years, and almost none of that time with his daughter. It was only of late that he had taken any notice of her at all—largely because of her ever-increasing demands.

As he sat alone in his office, he contemplated his life. I’m getting older, he thought. He knew soon he’d hand the business over for younger men to run. He’d always thought that was when he’d spend time with his family. But he was becoming aware that he’d made a mistake putting it off. He was regretting now that he hadn’t spent more time with them, especially Saffine. It upset him when he thought of their last conversation, only days’ ago.

‘You want what?’ he’d said. As she told him her latest request.

‘Only as a pet. I’m sure a camel or a boa constrictor would be nice.’

‘You are mad girl; you must think I’m made of money. And anyway, what on earth would you do with them and where would you keep them. You never think anything through, Saffine.’

‘They would be interesting, Father. People could come to see them, and I’m sure we could find someone who could build enclosures for them.’

‘Saffine! Enough, I’m saying no.’

After several minutes of back and forth with tempers fraying, his daughter had finally stomped off, screaming that she hated him and that he didn’t understand her, apparently no one did. Arnold was concerned with the way the conversation ended. He hated to fight with her and hadn’t meant to get so angry. He knew if he didn’t try to talk to her later, she would sulk for the next month. The acid rushed to his gullet just thinking about it. He knew the problem stemmed from the fact that his daughter had been too sheltered from the real world, which was done to protect her. But his long hours at work and lack of guidance, seemed to have had the opposite effect. And after that particularly taxing conversation, this view was firmly reinforced.

Arnold was still ruminating on the dilemma that was his daughter when he had a second phone conversation with his wife later that day. Myrtle was worried that they were raising a spoilt fool. She wondered how Saffine would survive when they were no longer around to prop her up. But Arnold saw the real picture his wife seemed reluctant to see. ‘Myrtle, she’s not stupid, she’s just ill equipped, thanks to us. And we can’t afford to back her up on these ridiculous endeavours she keeps suggesting, otherwise, she’ll continue to inhabit this artificial world of hers.’

‘I am not backing her up, Arnold, sometimes I just tell her what she wants to hear so she will stop arguing. You know she never goes through with any of her crazy ideas. And I know that you will never agree anyway.’

‘Well, that’s not helpful, Myrtle. Saffine thinks you are backing her up, you must be honest with her. Honest and firm.’

‘I know Arnold. But she’s not the easiest person to deal with. She has no judgement, she believes everything she’s told, and wants to try every new idea she hears about. Two days ago, she was telling me about the local gossip she overheard on the shop floor. She thinks it’s all gospel. I told her, much of what you hear in that situation is scuttlebutt, uninformed claptrap, but she doesn’t believe me. She thinks I am out of touch with the younger generation. I don’t know where she was when they were handing out common sense.’

‘Don’t you think I know she’s difficult? I’m the one who must cope with her here at the store. I’m the one who gave her the token supervisory role hoping it might broaden her knowledge, a lot of good that did. Just last week she misunderstood the most obvious of instructions and sold an expensive silver dinner set for less than the cost of its wholesale price. I want to help her but I’ve no idea how, and with you placating her by seeming to agree with her, it just makes it harder. We must be united.’

After he’d hung up, Arnold felt better. He felt like he’d at least made his point. Time would tell if Myrtle would indeed back him up in future. But situations like the one involving the silver dinner set had become increasingly common over recent months. It was like she just had no head for business at all. He wondered how this could be the case, had none of his expertise rubbed off on her. It seemed not, and he feared the occurrence of more substantial incidents, like the time Saffine had purchased a full bolt of bright yellow material from Anthony’s in London. He knew he had to do something, and just as he was feeling desperate, he had an idea. He decided to get Lottie involved. She is close in age to Saffine, and they seem to get on well, he thought. I must speak to her straight away. He lifted the receiver and rang the store’s main switchboard. ‘Hello, put me through to Lottie…what’s her name, at the cutting rooms,’ he said.

‘That will be Lottie Graham, I’ll put you through to her immediately, Mr Gibson,’ the telephonist replied. Moments later he heard a young woman’s voice.

‘Hello, is that you Lottie?’

‘Yes, it is Mr Gibson. How can I be of help?’

‘Stay exactly where you are Lottie. I’m coming straight over to talk to you.’

‘Oh, very well, Mr Gibson.’

Arnold grabbed his coat and told his butler to organise a carriage to take him to the cutting rooms. Within fifteen minutes, he was peering between a myriad of mannequins at Lottie’s puzzled face. ‘I expect you’re wondering why I wanted to see you so urgently.’

‘I am concerned, Mr Gibson.’

‘Well, Lottie, don’t be concerned. I have a rather delicate task for you, regarding my daughter.’

‘Oh, I see. What is it you want me to do?’

‘You’re to watch her like a hawk; I don’t want her to know you’re doing it. But we can’t afford another episode like Anthony’s, or the silver tea set.’

‘I completely understand, Mr Gibson. I agree, designing an entire range of summer wear to use a full bolt of bright yellow fabric wasn’t easy. We wouldn’t want that to happen again. But I don’t like the idea of lying to her, perhaps I can say that I’m going to start helping her to learn more about the business and how it works.’

‘Good, yes, that’s much better. I’m glad we understand each other. Keep her busy Lottie, but for God’s sake, don’t let her actually do anything important by herself.’

‘Yes, of course. I understand, Mr Gibson.’

As Arnold sat back in the carriage on his way home, he felt some sense of relief that at least now there were some safeguards in place. Though he’d find out later, to reduce everyone’s embarrassment and protect the business, Lottie had been performing the requested task for some time already.

Chapter 3

Sam woke well before the sun came up the next morning—shaking with cold. He hated winter. Despite the air in the cellar maintaining a reasonably constant temperature throughout most of the year, during winter it often became icy. Molly had once placed an extra blanket on his bed to help combat the winter chill, but his father had disliked that.

‘You’ll make him weak and feeble with your pussy footing, Woman,’ he had said.

The sight of the camel-coloured throw stretched across the bed clothes had seemed to anger him. Sam wondered why having an extra blanket would make him weak, but neither he nor Molly had dared argue or seek approval for such an action again.

Today, even waking up cold didn’t bother him. Sam was feeling happy because today he would have breakfast in the library. A treat extended to him once each month when reconciliation of the company’s accounts was due. And, if the ledger balanced without reworking, his father would usually let him borrow a book from the shelves. Something that Sam looked forward to each month. But it was still early, not yet 5 am, and breakfast was still a couple of hours away. So, Sam used his commode, washed, and dressed himself, then sat at his desk and read, and waited.

It was nearing 7 am. Sam looked towards his trapdoor, impatient for his cue. As if reading his mind, his father stamped on the trapdoor, and he hollered.

‘Boy! It’s breakfast time, make sure you bring all the invoices and the ledger, and be smart about it.’

With the paperwork in hand, Sam climbed the cellar steps, raised the trapdoor, and made his way towards the library. As usual, breakfast was laid out on the table opposite the largest bookcase. His father was already sitting in the wooden carver, which he had moved from behind his desk. A smaller chair was also placed near the table, and his father motioned him to sit. Bright morning sun streamed in through the library window, Sam blinked, it was so infrequent that he sat in such strong light. He laid the monthly invoices on the table in a neat pile and placed the ledger next to them. His father took several minutes to check them, and when he was convinced, everything sat in good order, he lifted his knife and fork and began to eat. Sam knew this was his cue to follow suit.

As they ate, Sam noticed his father watching him from time to time, which was somewhat unusual. Often, at these meals, Sam felt like his father had forgotten he was even there.

Eventually, his father spoke. ‘You’ve grown, broadened at the shoulders, and what’s that on your chin?’

‘I think you call them whiskers, Father.’

His father leant closer to him as if to confirm what he had said. ‘Remind me, how old are you now?’

‘I turned fourteen nine months ago, Father.’

‘Well, you might be getting older, but you don’t have any colour, skin’s as white as a snowflake but not as pretty. More like window putty.’ His father gave a feeble laugh at his own joke.

His father’s words didn’t bother him, anymore, he’d become used to his meanness. This morning, Sam was noticing changes to his father’s appearance too. He had not seen his father in bright daylight for a month and was surprised by the change in him. While he had been noticing changes to his father’s appearance for some time, he seemed to have aged faster in the past month. His jowls now dominated his lower face, where before the skin was tighter, and his stomach looked swollen. Sam became aware that his father was glaring at him and realised he must have been staring.

’You think I’m getting fat and hopeless, do you?

‘No Father, of course not.’

‘Well, I’m not. I could outwit you with my eyes closed. Anyhow, if you’re finished, I think it’s time for you to run along.’

Sam was surprised by his father’s words. He was not sure what he had done to deserve them. But all he could think about was the book he’d earnt. ‘But what about my book, Father, you promised.’

‘Promised, huh. You think I’ve got all day to let you swan around the place. If you’re going to have a book, hurry up boy, grab a volume and be gone with you.’

‘Yes Father, thank you. I won’t use up your precious time.’ Sam had hoped to trawl the shelves at his leisure, the search was part of the treat. But now, rather than risk his father’s fury, the search was reduced to nothing but a frantic rush. Despite the situation, luck was on his side. He stumbled on a thick edition dealing with a subject he adored. Astronomy!

Back in his cellar, Sam scrutinised the pages of the book, taking them in one by one. He lingered over each new illustration trying to imagine what mysteries the starry universe might hold. Though, reading about these mysteries made him realise that all he knew about the world beyond the house, was what he had read in his books or gleaned from the conversations he heard. He didn’t know if it was this realisation, or the abrupt end to breakfast, but somehow the joy of having a new book was diminished, and he didn’t feel quite the same pleasure as usual.

He wondered, as he often did, if he would ever see the world outside this house. Sam had often sat and watched the stars twinkle in the night sky, through his little window. But he dreamed of standing outside on a clear night, when the stars shone brightly, in a moonless sky. When the majesty of all above was on display. With these pleasant thoughts, Sam was able to lose himself again in the details of the book.

Sam dozed until woken at 9 am by the first customer of the day, a Mr Asquith from Sun Minerals who purchased fifty railway sleepers. It turned out to be a busy day for his father, with customers visiting to place their orders, the house bustling all day.

Sam knew each of the regular customers by the distinctive sounds they made, and not only could he tell who graced the rooms above him, but he had developed the ability to sense their mood, and often their intent, by the little things they did. For instance, when Abel Jones began to tap his foot against the floor, Sam knew his mind was made up, and no amount of pressure would change it. And if Chester Johnson hummed his favourite tune, Sam knew he thought his purchase was a bargain. Sam had often thought he might be persuaded to buy more. But his father didn’t seem to pick up on these small clues, and so didn’t pursue them.

By early evening, all his father’s visitors were long gone, and the only sounds came from Molly in the kitchen preparing dinner. At 7 pm, his dinner was ready to collect. It was steak and kidney pie tonight, and tucked snugly within his serviette, Sam discovered a small chocolate covered mint. It made him smile, and he gave a silent thank you to Molly.

By 9 pm, Sam had been reading steadily for nearly two hours. He was starting to feel tired, so he got up to use the commode and have his nightly wash, then he slipped into the clean pyjamas Molly had left with his other washing earlier in the day and got into bed. His last thought before he fell asleep was whether he would hear the same odd noises he had heard the night before. But he didn’t, in fact, it was a week before he would hear them again.

Chapter 4

For a week after her argument with her father, Saffi hadn’t spoken to him, she had barely spoken to anyone unless she’d had to. And after a particularly frustrating day, in which she felt everything had gone wrong, she had been rifling through her father’s writing bureau at home, looking for a pen, when she found a photograph. She almost dismissed it until it flipped out of a draw onto the floor, and as she picked it up, she saw it had writing on the back. The name Maureen, and an address she’d never heard of. Saffi studied the photo, her search for a pen now totally forgotten. The way the girl looked intrigued Saffi, there was something very familiar about her, Saffi wondered if she might be family. She remembered hearing her parents talking about a Maureen, once or twice, but when she’d asked them who they were talking about, they’d clammed up. There was something odd about their silence, which had aroused her interest even more, but no amount of badgering on her part would get them to reveal another word. Now she’d found proof that there was someone called Maureen. She knew there was no point confronting them with the photo, as she was sure they would just take it from her and refuse to speak about it further. In that moment, she decided to find out who Maureen was.

Over the next few days, she’d done a bit of research on the address written on the photo’s rear. She discovered that the only place with such a strange sounding street name as Little Gibraltar, was in Perth, two thousand miles to the west. The thought of somewhere so distant suddenly excited her. Given her increasing frustration with her parents, Saffi decided this might be a good time to put some space between