“You work all the days of the week,” Shyla commented, and Billie smiled.
“Sometimes,” she responded. “I’m on a case.”
“Working for women whose men are running around?” Shyla guessed.
“Thankfully, no, not a divorce case this time.” It was pretty much necessary to hire a private inquiry agent to secure grounds for divorce, and it was often ugly work, skulking around bars and doss-houses to obtain proof of adultery. Had her financial situation been better, Billie would have refused such cases absolutely, but the Depression had taken its pound of flesh from the von Hoofts and the Walkers. Her mother might like to deny it, but if Billie didn’t get the agency to work—really work as a financial enterprise—her every last pearl and piece of silverware would end up sold. Maybe not this year, maybe not the next, but soon enough. Billie wasn’t about to let that happen.
She pushed the menu across the table and watched her quiet companion. “Would you like something to eat?” She wasn’t sure of Shyla’s age but thought she might have been about eighteen, though at times Billie guessed her as older or younger. Shyla took her navy gloves off, and Billie noticed the rough skin of her hands, and how the gloves she seemed always to wear had been worn in patches and repaired with careful mending. She had a fine hand with a needle.
Shyla informed Billie in a quiet voice that she’d like the made-to-order French cutlets and bacon. It was still well before lunchtime, so Billie ordered a single scone for herself instead of her usual salade Niçoise. A blond waitress delivered their tea and took their order. When she returned to her post, it was obvious that she was talking about the unusual pair with the other server, but Billie couldn’t make out what was being said.
Tea steamed in Shyla’s cup. After a moment, she sipped it gingerly, seemingly oblivious or resigned to the fuss her presence was causing among the refreshment room staff.
“I got your note,” Billie said. “I’m sorry to say that I haven’t heard anything yet about your brothers, though there is a cattle station down at Urana that I hope to hear back from soon.” Her inquiries into the whereabouts of Shyla’s brothers had been surprisingly difficult and frustrating. The system was simply not set up to make it easy for separated Aboriginal parents, children, and siblings to find their families again. For a start, the names of the taken children were routinely changed from those given at birth by their parents to anglicized Christian names like Elizabeth and John.
“I didn’t come to speak to you about my brothers,” Shyla interjected to Billie’s surprise.
She sat up in her seat, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “Tell me, Shyla,” Billie prompted in a low voice.
“There’s a white fella up at Colo. There’s a bad feeling about him. He has some of my mob there—four girls.”
“Girls you trained with at Cootamundra?”
Shyla nodded, and her eyes darkened.
“What is the bad feeling about him?” Billie asked. She knew Colo was a town on the northern fringes of the Blue Mountains, butshe had not been there. It was a fairly remote area of bushland, a few orchards and farms.
“He came after the war, one year now they say. They say he has no woman, no children, and he has a lot of money. Four girls do the work for him.”
“What does he do? Is it a property he has there? Sheep or cattle? Crops?”
“A house only. There are no men working there, only him. He lives alone, except for the girls, and travels in a motorcar, carrying things to Sydney.” Shyla took another sip of her tea, seeming to hold on to her cup for comfort. Though she wasn’t usually one to be emotional, she was upset about something, beneath her usual reserve. “Since the girls went there to work no one has seen them. It’s not good,” she said.
Was he a deliveryman of some kind? Billie wondered. Delivering what? Shyla knew a lot of girls in service to different families. She wouldn’t have come to see Billie about this man without reason.
“What does he carry? Do you know?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t been told.”
“It would be good to find that out,” Billie said, keeping her voice low. “What is the bad feeling about him? Do they think... Does he hurt them?” she asked.
“I can’t say,” Shyla said, shaking her head slowly. “I think it’s not good.”
Billie’s eyes narrowed. Their food arrived, and she leaned back in her chair. Her scone was warm and she spread a touch of jam on it. She looked up at Shyla. “When you say he cameafterthe war, do you mean that you think he might not be Australian?”
“They say he’s a foreigner.”
“What does he look like? Were you given any description?” Billie asked.
“He’s white and big. That’s what they told me. Odd-looking face. A big man.”
“I see. And he travels alone in a motorcar. Do you know the type?”
“A Packard. A fancy one. It’s black.”
“Number plate?”
Shyla shook her head. It was a shame about the plate, but there couldn’t be too many Packards in Colo, surely? Billie could dig it up.
