back. We don’t want any trouble from your erstwhile employer, do we? Here’s the money for the taxi; pay what’s on the meter and two shillings tip, no more, and don’t forget to pick up your bundle from the station. I say, that suit does things for you, Dorothy! You look quite stylish.’
Dorothy blushed, accepted the money, which was more than she had seen in her life before, and gulped down the last of her tea. She stood up, smoothing the beige skirt, and said haltingly, ‘I’m ever so grateful, Miss. .’
‘Consider whether you still think so after you’ve tackled the mess,’ Phryne said briskly. ‘Got everything? Good, off you go now.’
Dorothy left, and Phryne smiled to herself, tossing up whether she would ever see the girl again, once set loose in possession of five pounds and a new dress. She mentally slapped herself for such cynical thoughts and reflected that it was indeed high time that she went to church.
An hour and a half later, the strollers in Melbourne would have noted a slim, self-possessed and beautifully groomed young woman sauntering down Swanston Street to the cathedral. It was a crisp, cool morning, and she was wearing a severe dark-blue silk suit, with a priceless lace collar, dark stockings and black shoes with a high heel. She had pulled a soft black cloche down over her hair, and the only note of eccentricity was her sapphire earrings, which glinted brighter than stained glass. She ascended the steps of the cathedral as if faintly surprised that the great west door had not been opened for her, and took her place in a back pew with economical grace. She accepted a service card and a hymn book from a jovial gentleman, and unbent sufficiently to smile her thanks. He looked familiar.
He was stout, ruddy and pleasant looking, tailored to the nth degree, with a shirt whiter than snow. As the organ struck up the ‘Old Hundredth’, Phryne recognised him as the man who had smiled across the dining-room last night.
She stood up to sing, and heard at her side a thundering bass to her light soprano, easily rising over the sheep-like bleating which passes for singing in most Church of England congregations.
Her neighbour was certainly adding a cheerful and forceful voice to the anthem. Phryne approved. She saw no reason to sing in church unless one meant to really sing. By the end of the hymn they were attracting a certain amount of attention from the polite citizens in the front pews, and Phryne smiled at her neighbour.
‘I do love a good sing,’ he whispered. ‘Can’t stand all that moaning!’
Phryne laughed softly and agreed. The gentleman slipped a card onto the open page of her hymn book, and she reciprocated with one of her own. It had been engraved, not printed, on heavy cream card, and merely said, ‘The Hon. Phryne Fisher, Colling Hall, Kent’. She knew it to be in the best of style. His card was also engraved, and stated that the rosy gentleman now listening devoutly to a reading by a clerical person with the snuffles was Mr Robert Sanderson, MP of Toorak. Phryne recalled that he was on her list of noteables, and she slipped the card into her purse, giving her attention to the sermon.
It was not long, which was a mercy, and dealt mostly with Christian duty. Phryne had heard so many sermons on Christian duty that she could almost predict each word, and amused herself for some time in doing just that, as well as admiring the stained glass, which was catching the morning sun and blazing like jewels. The sermon passed into the general confession, and Phryne admitted with perfect frankness that she had done those things which she ought not to have done and left undone those things which she ought to have done. The service went on as she reflected on her time in Paris, on the Rive Gauche, where she had done many things which she ought not to have done but which nevertheless proved very enjoyable, for a time, and reminded herself that she had seen Marcel Duchamp checkmated by a child in a Paris cafe. That, Phryne thought, must be worth a certain number of small sins. She stood hurriedly for the final hymn, and the church began to clear. Mr Sanderson offered her his arm, and Phryne accepted.
‘I believe that I have left a card with your wife, sir,’ she smiled. ‘I’m sure that we shall meet again.’
‘I hope so, Miss Fisher,’ said the MP in a deep, rich voice. ‘I’m always disposed to like a young woman who can sing. Besides, I believe that I knew your father.’
‘Indeed, sir?’ Phryne showed no sign of horror that her working-class past was to be revealed, and the MP admired her courage.
‘Yes, I was introduced to him when he was leaving for England; some little trouble with the fare. I was delighted to assist him.’
‘I trust, sir, that he remembered to repay you?’ asked Phryne frigidly. Mr Sanderson patted her arm.
‘Of course. I regret mentioning the matter. May I escort you, Miss Fisher?’
‘No, sir, I am going to the Queen Victoria Hospital. But perhaps you could remind me of the way?’
‘Straight up the street, Miss Fisher, and turn into Little Lonsdale Street and thus into Mint Place, just past the Town Hall. A matter of half a mile, perhaps.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ smiled Phryne. Then she released herself, and walked away, a little offended and saddened. If her father had left debts of honour all over Melbourne, then establishing herself in society was going to be difficult. However, she was inclined to like Mr Sanderson, MP. He had a hearty voice and an open and unaffected manner, which must be an asset to any politician. And perhaps he could give her lunch at the Melbourne Club, the bastions of which Phryne had a mind to storm.
She climbed the hill to the museum, located Mint Place with a certain difficulty, and announced herself at the desk in a ramshackle building, smelling rather agreeably of carbolic and milk.
It was partly wood and partly brick, and seemed to have been built rather on the spur of the moment than to any pre-arranged plan. It was painted buttercup-yellow and white inside.
Dr MacMillan appeared, dressed in a white overall which became her well, and gentleman’s trousers with a formal collar and tie showing above a tweed waistcoat.
‘This way, dear girl, and I’ll show you a consulting-room, a ward and the nursery, and then we’ll go to luncheon,’ said Dr MacMillan over her shoulder as she took a set of oilcloth-covered stairs like a steeplechaser.
For all her age and bulk, Dr MacMillan was as fit as a bull. They reached the top in good order, and Dr MacMillan opened a painted door and disclosed a small white room, windowless, equipped with couch and chair and desk and medicine cabinet.
‘Small, but adequate,’ commented the doctor. ‘Now to the nursery.’
‘Tell me,’ asked Phryne, ‘how did this hospital for women come about? Was it a charitable endowment by the old Queen?’
‘It was a surprising thing, Phryne — could only have happened in a new country. Two women physicians began a practice here in Melbourne, and the medical establishment, being what they still are — blighted and hide- bound conservatives — would not allow their femininity to sully the pure air of their hospitals. Nurses, yes. Doctors, no. So they set up in the hall of the Welsh Church — the only hall that they could get; I’ve felt kinder toward the Welsh ever since — and they had one tap and one steriliser and, pretty soon, more patients than they could cram in. They were sleeping on the floor, and there were deliveries on the hour. But they didn’t want only a lying-in hospital, and they petitioned for a general hospital. Parliament refused them any funds, of course. So they petitioned the Queen, and every woman in Victoria gave her shilling, and the old Queen (God bless her) gave them their charter and the right to call it the Queen Victoria Hospital. Unfortunately the fabric of this building is none too good. We shall be moving in a few years to a new home, and then we can raze this tenement to the ground. It used to be a governesses’ school. In here, Phryne, is the nursery. Do you like babies?’
Phryne laughed. ‘No, not at all. They are not aesthetic like a puppy or a kitten. In fact, they always look drunk to me. Look at that one — you’d swear he had been hitting the gin.’
She pointed out an unsteady infant with a wide and vacant smile, repeatedly reaching for and failing to seize a large woollen ball. Phryne picked up the ball and handed it to the child, who waved his hand and gurgled. Elizabeth lifted the baby and tickled him while he cooed. Not the faintest spurt of maternity?’ she asked slyly.
‘Not the faintest,’ Phryne grinned, and shook the baby by its small, plump hand. ‘Bye, baby. I hope your mother loves you better.’
‘She may,’ replied the doctor dryly, ‘but she abandoned him all the same. At least she gave him to us, and not some baby farmer who’d starve him to death.’
‘How many are there?’ asked Phryne, covering her ears as one baby began to cry, which set all the rest of them off so that the nursery resounded with little roars of fury.
