The Gilded Madonna, Garrick Jones [best fiction novels txt] 📗

not protested once when I’d had long conversations in a language he didn’t understand. I’d apologised, but he’d said it was only fair. On our second day in Melbourne he’d taken me to catch up with friends of his from the war, when he’d been stationed just outside the city, trying to break the Japanese naval code. They’d shared jokes and stories I’d have loved to have known more about, but hadn’t wanted to intrude into their personal space or poke my nose into history they’d shared, and of course that might have caused some embarrassment and evasion as a large part of it was most likely still top secret.

The dining car steward had been extremely attentive and the breakfast delicious. I’d really only gone to keep Harry company while he ate, but I’d changed my mind when a cart had arrived next to our table and a fully garbed chef had whipped up Harry’s scrambled eggs while we’d watched. I’d found myself saying “yes please” when the man had asked if I’d like the same. Even the coffee, although percolated, was very good.

“Can I get you anything else, gentlemen?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” Harry replied. “Is it all right to smoke? There are other diners still eating.”

“Smoking in the dining car is perfectly acceptable,” the steward said as he cleared our table. “If you’d prefer to stretch your legs, there’s a lounge in the next car towards the engine.”

Harry looked over his shoulder and enquired of the young lady sitting at the table behind us if she had any objections to him lighting up. I watched as they laughed and exchanged a few words. He had a way of engaging with strangers they always responded well to. I could see she was flirting, and her mother, sitting opposite, started to look impatient, so I tapped his shin with my shoe under the table.

“What was that for?” he asked, leaning over the table as he lit his cigarette.

“I think that young woman’s mother was about to box your ears.”

“You’d have saved me though, wouldn’t you, Clyde?”

We decided against the lounge car and headed back to our compartment, where we found a pair of blankets and a few pillows on the bench seat, right next to the door. On the top of the stack was a small card, on which was a printed message that stated if we wished to catch up on some sleep, we should press the buzzer and the carriage attendant would turn down the seats and make up beds.

“What do you reckon, Clyde?”

“I think I’ll pass. But I might pull the blinds and rest my head on your lap while I read for a while.”

“I can take my pants off?”

“While I’ve got my head in your lap?”

He picked up his newspaper and winked.

*****

At precisely two minutes past nine o’clock in the evening, our stream­lined express train drew into the platform of Sydney’s Central Station.

“Well, aren’t you getting up?” I asked Harry, who’d still not put his shoes back on.

“I forgot to tell you when we changed trains at Albury, the carriage attendant told me we should wait for a few minutes before we got off and our baggage would be waiting outside the carriage door.”

“How magic is that! Is it going to run down the platform and do cartwheels in anticipation of us getting off the train?”

“Funny, Smith. A porter will bring it.”

I smiled at his ironic tone, and then retrieved his hat from the rack above our seats and threw it to him. He’d lost his new Stetson during the scuffle at the aquatic centre, and we’d made a trip to the famous Melbourne store in Flinders Station, the City Hatters. He’d left with three new hats, including a very spiffy new model from the USA, called the “Airflow”—woven straw with a very natty, folded-linen band.

“I bet the line for the taxi will be enormous,” he said.

“Nope, it won’t.”

“Crystal ball gazing again is it, Clyde?”

I chuckled. “Philip Mason is picking us up.”

“Philip?”

“Yes, you remember Philip, the guy you used to—”

“I know very well who he is, and that’s enough out of you, Smith.”

“I sent him a telegram this morning from the hotel, asking him to pick us up.”

I knew Philip’s evening radio show finished at half past eight and his studio at 2GB was not far from the train station. Philip was one of a group of four guys Harry used to fool around with. They were all mates who’d served together in Singapore before it fell. Philip was also the lover of one of the junior detectives who’d worked under me when I was still in the force, a young Italian man, Vincenzo Paleotti, who’d become my friend. Although Philip was married, it was what we called a “lavender marriage”. His wife had a special lady friend who was a milliner in the city, and the cover of a marriage of convenience suited him and his spouse.

I was only slightly surprised to find Vincenzo, or Junior T. as he was known in the force, waiting for us outside on the platform.

“Hello, Vince,” Harry said. “Where’s Philip?”

“I volunteered, Harry. Nice to see you both.” He shook Harry’s hand, but gave me an Italian hug, with kisses to both cheeks.

*****

I kissed Harry slowly outside his front door, my arms around him and my fingers interlaced, resting on the small of his back.

“Do you remember this spot, Clyde?”

“Uh huh,” I replied. “It’s right here behind the hedge in the shadows when you told me you’d wait for me.”

“It’s going to be hard not waking up and finding you next to me.”

“Yup.”

I didn’t want to think about it. Ten days away together, sleeping in the same bed, sharing our daily lives, and spending time as a couple had made me want it to last forever. Maybe one day it might be possible, but for now, two men living together, unless they were very broke, or relatives, caused tongues to wag. Not that I cared for myself, but for Harry