The sugar palace, p.5
The Sugar Palace, page 5
‘Get home, lad,’ the ringie advised Alfie. ‘Get that money safe.’
Alfie didn’t need any further encouragement. He knew at least one of the half sovereign notes was crispy; the rest, including the pounds, were limp and well used. Keeping Dooley diverted, muttering about having just had a small win in the two-up school, he casually felt around in his pocket and took a chance on one that felt the newest.
He withdrew a rusty-coloured ten-shilling note and inwardly sighed with relief. ‘There you are, Mr Dooley. That’s all I have. But it’s yours. I know I owe you ten shillings.’
‘There’s a matter of interest, Alfie lad.’
‘Interest?’ he repeated, buying time. ‘But that includes the inter—’
‘No, well, you’ve cost me more money trailing you, don’t you see? I’ve spent a whole morning having to find you, wait for you. If you’d paid me back as promised, you’d not have had to pay the extra I’m now insisting upon.’
‘How much extra?’
‘Another shilling.’
‘A shilling?’ Alfie repeated, unable to hide his astonishment. ‘That’s robbery, Mr Dooley.’
Dooley shrugged. ‘Never borrow, lad. That’s the key.’
Alfie thought about his money. He didn’t want Dooley seeing the other notes, or even knowing he had pounds to his name. He didn’t trust Dooley not to have him fleeced somehow by one of his marauding thugs.
‘Mr Dooley, can I bring the interest to you this week?’
‘No, Alfie. Your word is not your bond – this I’ve learned the hard way.’
‘I mean it. I will bring it to you tomorrow if you could just give me some time.’
‘What the heck are you going to do between now and tomorrow that earns you a spare shilling?’
‘I have work.’
‘What work?’ Dooley sneered. His breath smelt fishy.
Alfie would have to lie. He didn’t want to incriminate the Fairweathers, especially since Grace had denied seeing him this morning. ‘I start this afternoon as a rat catcher, Mr Dooley,’ he said, impressed by his own artfulness. ‘Do you know Ron Dyer?’
‘I know that weasel, yes.’
‘Well, he got me a job. I’ll have your shilling for you by tomorrow. I intend to catch plenty of rats tonight.’
The tension went out of Dooley; he was going to let him go. ‘You’re something of a rat yourself, Alfie. You’re cunning. What’s in here then?’ He snatched the bag that Alfie had been protecting.
‘That’s mine,’ Alfie said, feeling stupid for saying the obvious. ‘Can I have it back, Mr Dooley? It’s a gift.’
‘A gift. Who are you giving gifts to?’
‘A girl,’ Alfie said as vaguely as he dared.
‘What girl? A slag, you mean. Who else would look at you, Alfie boy?’
Alfie refused to defend Grace to this piece of nastiness.
Dooley looked inside. ‘Phew . . . These look pricey, lad. You don’t give sluts this kind of gift. Where did you get the lolly to pay for these? Or did you st—’
‘I didn’t steal them. I have a receipt.’
‘You bought them? How? That’s a lot of money for a sometime rat catcher and lowlife.’
Alfie was, for a rare moment, lost for a clever reply.
Dooley laughed. ‘I’ll tell you what, Alfie. Forget the shilling you owe. I’ll take these instead. Mrs Dooley is very partial to chocolate and always complaining that I never bring her any treats. Might even put me on a promise for these.’ He gave Alfie a hideously sly wink and licked his lips. ‘We can call it quits until the next time, eh?’
‘No, Mr Dooley, those were four shillings and—’
‘Shut your mouth, lad, and bugger off now. You’re getting away lucky. Don’t think I didn’t see you go into that grocery store down by the quay, and don’t kid yourself for a moment that I didn’t take note of the pretty young thing behind the counter. Maybe these are for her. Maybe not. Either way, you don’t want me making a visit to her again.’
Alfie slumped, hating how helpless he felt.
‘Good boy.’ Dooley slapped him twice, playfully, on the cheek but to Alfie it was a condescending dismissal, as though he was worthless. Dooley walked away casually, the tin tucked under his arm, whistling tunelessly as though he had no care in the world.
Moments later, with Alfie still in the same spot, bemoaning his ill timing, the goldminer came blinking out into the sunshine, another man with him.
‘Still here, mate? Waiting for me to break your legs?’
Alfie grinned. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to make some of your money back?’
‘No more gambling for me. I need beers, a good meal and a warm woman. Prepared to pay honestly for all.’
‘Well, let me pay for those beers.’
‘Oh yeah?’
Alfie pointed. ‘You see that bloke chatting to someone there – the one with the bag under his arm?’
‘I see him.’
‘Can you get that bag from him?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because it’s mine. He stole it.’
‘Why?’ Don was too sharp to be hoodwinked.
Alfie told the truth. ‘I owed him money.’
The miner blinked. ‘So why didn’t you pay him with your winnings?’
‘I did pay him, but I owe others as well,’ Alfie explained. ‘I want to settle those debts too. But he decided to charge extra for having to wait for me to win at two-up.’
‘Bastard. I do remember you holding that parcel.’
‘He took it from me even though I offered to settle up by tomorrow.’
The miner seemed to lose interest in the why and wherefore. ‘How much?’
‘How about a shilling to lift it?’
‘And where will you be?’
‘Not here, that’s for sure. I’m presuming you’re headed for the Cross?’
‘Yep.’
‘If you bring it to Minton House at the main King’s Cross intersection, I’ll be there.’
‘What’s in the bag, son? Nothing dangerous or that’s going to come back and bite me?’
Alfie laughed. ‘Nothing like that, I promise. It’s chocolates for my sweetheart.’
‘They must be good or she must be perfect.’
‘Both,’ Alfie admitted. ‘He took them instead of the shilling he decided to add to my debt. Will you do it?’
‘For a florin, I will.’
‘Done,’ Alfie said with an inward sigh. These chocolates had now cost him six shillings, but he wanted Grace to have them, not ugly Dooley who it seemed would be using them to have sex with his wife. Made sense that the brute would have to buy it. Who would give Dooley anything that intimate willingly?
‘You’d better keep your word, lad, or me and my friend here really will hunt you down and break your legs.’
‘I’ll be there, Don, with your florin and my thanks.’
Grace was busy making a counter display of her newly made toffee apples on a tray. She’d only made eighteen, which was all the fruit her mother would spare.
‘Those had better sell, Grace, so help me, or I’ll have Norm arrest you!’
‘I promise they will,’ Grace assured her, carefully balancing the last of the glassy baubles on its heavy, flattened end. ‘Don’t they look superb?’
Her mother sighed and Grace knew not to take it to heart. She and her father were dreamers and her mother was the practical one – ‘the ogre’, she called herself, which wasn’t true. But she did always take the more pessimistic view of life, claiming that someone had to. This sounded like an excuse to Grace, but neither she nor her father were very good at managing a budget. Fortunately for them, her mother was frugal and carefully worked within the plan she had for running the grocery store at a small profit.
A small profit, however, was never in Grace’s mind. She dreamed big and wanted to be involved in an enterprise that was capable of large earnings.
‘Mum, I am going to sell these at tuppence ha’penny each,’ Grace had announced earlier.
Her mother had given a soft snort. ‘You realise how much that is all up, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I added it up,’ Grace said. ‘It’s five shillings.’
Mary Fairweather shook her head. ‘Grace, each of those apples cost us a ha’penny to buy. We can sell them for a penny each. And you’re telling me that with a little bit of sugar you’re going to make tuppence per apple?’
‘No, Mum.’ Grace grinned. ‘I’m going to return more than that. You see, this isn’t just a little bit of sugar. This is toffee that I’ve perfected so it’s like glass. I’ve dipped each apple once and then once again to get this shimmering appearance that no child will be able to resist. And the toffee has been cooked to perfection, so it’s sweet but with that delicious and ever so slightly bitter hum that contrasts with the sugary juices of your sweet Cox’s Pippins. And—’
Her mother gave a huffing sound. ‘They’ve come all the way from Tasmania, and I’ll be damned if you’ve wasted them with your toffee larking.’
‘I was going to say that more than the immediate profit, these toffee apples will drive in new business. I’m so convinced about this recipe, you’ll want these on the counter every day.’
‘Will I indeed?’ her mother said, sounding resigned. Grace knew her mother was simply thinking about the one and six shillings she knew she could, with luck, have in her till by the end of the day, instead of being excited by the potential of three shilling and sixpence pure profit. Oh, wait, she thought: calculate the sugar and it’s probably a little less, not considering her time. But her time was freely given and she’d made these outside of shop hours. ‘I’ve even got gloves to wear while handling them that make these treats seem more special.’
‘For the life of me, I don’t know where you come up with these things.’
Now her father breezed in from the back, blowing on his hands. ‘Getting chilly out there, girls.’
‘Yes, I’d noticed. You’d better start wearing those socks I’ve knitted and your gloves, Hugh. I don’t want you with chilblains this winter.’
‘What would I do without you?’ Hugh said and kissed his wife’s cheek.
She pretended to shake him off but Grace smiled at the affection that her mother obviously enjoyed.
‘Go on with you,’ Mary said. ‘Has that new lad turned up?’
‘Yes, he’s out the back,’ Hugh said.
‘Alfie’s here?’ Grace reined in her enthusiasm immediately so her mother’s ears didn’t prick up. ‘It’s just that I need him to lift some fruit for me.’
‘I’ve told him to start rearranging the dry stores how you want them, Mary, and then when you’re ready, we’ll get him away on some deliveries. Oh my, Grace, look at those toffee apples!’ Her father beamed. ‘Can’t imagine those will last long.’ He gave her a wink and Grace looked to her mother in triumph, but Mary simply shook her head.
‘I’ll get onto the delivery orders . . . not many this morning. Right, I’m opening up.’ Mary moved to the door to unlock it and turn the sign to open. Hugh had already wandered off to wash his hands and put on his apron.
Alfie took that moment to step inside the shop from the back, already smiling at Grace. ‘Morning, beautiful,’ he said, removing his hat.
‘Hush,’ she warned, nodding towards her mother.
Alfie caught sight of the glistening apples. ‘Blimey! I’ll bet those taste brilliant.’
Mary arrived back behind the counter.
‘Good morning, Mrs Fairweather.’ Alfie nodded, half bowing, nearly making Grace laugh.
‘Alfie, we don’t eat the stock, in case you were wondering,’ her mother cautioned him, and Grace was reminded of how sharp her hearing was.
‘But has anyone tasted them to know how scrumptious they are?’ he asked.
Grace felt crestfallen. How right he was. ‘No. They were ripe apples on arrival and I know that’s a beautiful toffee . . .’ She gave a shrug that she knew didn’t explain anything. ‘I just assumed . . .’
Alfie shook his head. ‘They look superb. Don’t you worry, Miss Fairweather.’
‘But you’re right. I should always do a taste test.’ Grace snatched one off the counter and, before her mother could protest, bit into it.
A shard of toffee broke away and Alfie caught it. ‘Well, we know the toffee’s got a snap to it.’ He sounded delighted.
‘Here, Alfie. You taste,’ Grace said, much to her mother’s dismay.
He gladly took a bite and just before the bell sounded the arrival of the day’s first customer, they all heard the appealing crunching sound of thin sugar. Apple juice ran down his hand and he looked at Grace in wonder. ‘You’d better get cooking on the next batch,’ he warned. ‘These are even tastier than they appear . . . and they look like jewelled treats.’
Grace beamed and her mother gestured with a flick of her hand that they should both get rid of the evidence of the sampling. They ducked out the back, grinning as they heard her welcome a familiar customer. It was one of the wealthy ladies from North Sydney who volunteered at the schools for the impoverished and raised funds to buy food for widows and their families. Grace knew her as a generous woman, a mother and wife of one of the Sydney councillors.
Mary greeted her warmly. ‘Good morning, Mrs Chalmers.’
‘Hello, Mrs Fairweather. It’s certainly brisk today.’
‘The crossing must have been a little choppy.’
‘Choppy and cold,’ Mrs Chalmers agreed. ‘Those ferries aren’t built for comfort, I’ll say. Just practical craft to get us from one side of the harbour to the other.’ She chuckled. ‘But this Harbour Bridge is so exciting.’
‘Exciting – and noisy,’ Mary admitted. ‘And we’ve been promised years of it.’
‘Yes, I imagine that is going to be a symphony that accompanies your life for a long time,’ Mrs Chalmers said, and Grace could tell she was trying to shine a pretty light on the situation. It was, at times, hugely inconvenient as well as deafening. Add to that the dust, the sheer volume of people and animals moving around at either end of the pylons being built, the high-pitched sound of welders and loud reports from the riveters . . . Grace figured Mrs Chalmers probably didn’t really understand how overwhelming the building of the new Sydney Harbour Bridge was for the families of The Rocks. She was brightened, though, by the woman’s next comment.
‘Oh my goodness, Mrs Fairweather! I spot toffee apples.’
‘Freshly made today by my daughter. Just tuppence ha’penny each and they won’t last long.’
Grace and Alfie shared an open-mouthed stare behind the shop, thrilled her mother was so vigorously promoting her new product.
‘Get out there,’ Alfie said, grabbing the remains of the shared toffee apple. ‘Go sell! This is delicious – so be confident.’ He gave her a light shove and Grace was back in the shop smiling at the customer.
‘They’re so shiny – makes you want to eat one immediately,’ Mrs Chalmers remarked, moving to where Grace stood, where she inhaled audibly. ‘Oh, and they smell delicious, Grace! Well done.’
‘Grace made these as a trial to see if customers enjoy them.’
Grace was thrilled that her mother was giving her the praise and the opening she needed. With an encouraging nod from Alfie, whom she glimpsed listening through the doorway, she shifted effortlessly into her sales parlay.
‘Good morning, Mrs Chalmers. Yes, we thought we’d make them as a special treat for autumn when the apples are at their freshest and most delicious. These came in from Tasmania and are right off the ship. They’ve got a lovely ripe crunch to the fruit beneath the thin shield of toffee.’
‘Gosh, I remember eating toffee apples as a tiny child on bonfire night. We don’t do that here in Australia, but I remember it fondly. A toffee apple is the flavour of an English late autumn, I’ll grant you.’
‘Well, I hope to make them an Australian treat for early autumn too,’ Grace said. ‘These are not inferior apples either, Mrs Chalmers,’ Grace continued, warming to her task. ‘Nothing less than the finest Cox’s Orange Pippins. Are you familiar with them?’
‘I am, yes.’
Grace beamed. ‘Then you’ll know that complex flavour of the Pippin dessert apple, with its tang and sweetness of so many other fruits – pear, melon, even orange juice. But that’s not why they call them Orange Pippins – no – that comes from its beautiful warm blush of orange glowing to red, which shows through this magnificently rich toffee. I’ve spun it from the best cane sugar into the thinnest of crusts, and I’ve dipped them twice so there’s a double crunch of sugary deliciousness.’
Mrs Chalmers let out her breath of amazement. ‘Well, Grace, I don’t need any further convincing. I think I shall have to buy one for each of my children as a special treat.’
‘Three, is that correct?’ Mary asked, knowing full well how many children her customer had.
‘And one for you too, Mrs Chalmers,’ Alfie mouthed, nodding at the customer while hidden from her line of sight. Grace glanced once at Mrs Chalmers and back at Alfie, who nodded vigorously.
‘And one for yourself, surely?’ Grace suggested, hopefully.
‘Ooh, I shouldn’t but yes, why not? Make that four, Mrs Fairweather.’
‘Grace, dear, will you pack those carefully for Mrs Chalmers, while I serve her for whatever else she needs?’ Mary nodded at her customer before looking back at Grace. ‘Don’t forget to put your gloves on, dear.’
She didn’t mind her mother remarking in the way she had; it helped draw attention to the effort, as had been her intention. ‘Yes, of course,’ she replied.
‘Mrs Chalmers, I’ve got your regular order here too, if you’d like to follow me to the till? Unless there’s anything else we might fetch for you?’ Mary looked attentively at her customer.
‘Thank you, Grace,’ the woman said over her shoulder, following Mary. ‘How’s that lovely young man of yours?’
‘He’s fine, thank you,’ Grace said, clearing her throat of the immediate clog of guilt.
