Five

Rosie

March 1959

There was a nip in the air. Summer was well and truly over. The moon seemed to be edging out the sun sooner and mornings held a chill that made you shiver and reach for an extra blanket.

It had been close to two months since Rosie and Jimmy had arrived at the house at the McElhone Stairs end of Victoria Street, perched on top of what seemed like a steep cliff, with a vista of the terrace houses of Woolloomooloo, their never-ending gun-metal grey slate roofs meshing into one another.

The house was one of the older ones in the street, not like some that had their well-kept original cast-iron lace balconies. Its cream façade dirty and mouldy, its dim hallways dingy and robbed of light, the only saving grace was the front door with its stained glass and colourful bevels that seemed to catch whatever scarce sun there was. Rosie had taken the door as a sign—that while the rest of the house was depressing and uninviting, the door, the very heart of the house, provided some beauty, some hope.

‘Come on, Jimmy.’ She hurriedly ran her fingers through his fine baby hair. ‘I need to get you to Mrs Hawkins so I can head to the shops early.’ Dulcie Hawkins was their elderly neighbour who lived next door with her granddaughter, Mary.

Rosie’s first impressions about the women next door were not particularly favourable. It quickly became apparent by the number of men coming and going at all hours of the day that she was living next to a house of ill repute. Perhaps much to her amazement, it seemed not to faze Tom when she shared her discovery with him. He simply grunted and made a comment that he had told her about the brothel next door. Rosie was sure he hadn’t. She wouldn’t forget something so shocking. Ruddy and gruff with a booming voice, Dulcie Hawkins cast an imposing presence, whilst Mary seemed to be flighty and floozy. But it didn’t take long before Rosie realised how wrong she was about them both.

The first time Rosie thought that perhaps she had been wrong about the Hawkins women was about a week after she’d arrived. It was late in the evening. Tom had, as he done every night since her arrival, gone to the pub, and Jimmy was restless. He’d gone to sleep relatively easily but he’d woken not long after howling with pain. Rosie had noticed his swollen gums and wrapped a piece of apple in a cold cloth, just as she had done so many times before, only this time it wasn’t enough. It seemed that the more she tried to soothe her son, the more he cried.

After what seemed like an age of trying to settle Jimmy, there was a brisk knock at the door.

‘That child hasn’t stopped crying in hours,’ Mrs Hawkins noted sternly, her hair piled up on her head in elaborate curls and a cigarette precariously dangling from her lacquered lips.

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Hawkins,’ Rosie struggled to voice her apology over Jimmy’s incessant wailing.

‘What’s wrong with the boy? Is he sick?’

‘Teething, I’m pretty sure. Although, nothing I’ve tried seems to be working.’

‘Teething, ay?’ She narrowed her eyes and leaned in, and much to Rosie’s amazement, jabbed a bejewelled finger into Jimmy’s gaping mouth, not seeming the slightest bit perturbed when he chomped down on her knuckle.

‘Humph,’ she declared after sufficient investigation, apparently satisfied that Rosie had been telling the truth. After retrieving her finger, she turned and left as abruptly as she’d arrived.

Moments later, when there was another knock on the door, Rosie was surprised to see Mrs Hawkins again.

‘Here.’ She thrust a small bottle into Rosie’s hand. When Rosie simply stared, Mrs Hawkins explained with a brisk nod, ‘It’s clove oil; apply it directly to his gums.’ She barked it more like an order rather than advice and was gone before Rosie could thank her.

She promptly followed Mrs Hawkins’s directive, fearing that if she did not do as she was asked, her neighbour would be round once again. But even as she battled to rub the oil against Jimmy’s swollen gums, she highly doubted it would work. When her son’s cries subsided within minutes, she heralded it a minor miracle.

Later she would discover that Dulcie used the same oil on Mary as a child, as well as Mary’s mother many years before. It would be the first of many things her neighbour would teach her.

* * *

As they rushed out of the house they were met by their other neighbour, Floss, short for Florence to those close to her. The first time she met Florence, Rosie thought she was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Dressed in a long, flowing pink silk gown with tulle overlay, her white-blonde hair was piled atop her head in perfectly rounded and coiffed barrel curls, and her coffee-coloured eyes were framed with the longest, darkest lashes. She was tall, yet she was wearing the most impossibly high heels ever.

‘Hello,’ she greeted the glamorous woman as she approached.

‘Hello, darl,’ came a reply, and Rosie was stopped in her tracks, her mouth hanging wide open, gaping for the longest of whiles. The voice was not as she’d expected. She was a he! Face aflame, she promptly closed her jaw.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘It was just that …’

‘Let me guess, darl, you thought I was a sheila.’

‘I’m afraid so, I’m so sorry.’ Rosie finally found the courage to meet Florence’s gaze. ‘I feel so foolish.’

‘Don’t give it another thought. You’re not the first and you certainly won’t be the last. I was born Floyd Richards, but you can call me Floss.’

Floss extended a perfectly manicured hand, and Rosie accepted it gingerly.

‘Pleased to meet you, Floss, I’m Rosie.’

‘Is that an Irish accent I hear?’

‘Yes. We just arrived last week.’

‘We? Did you move here with your family?’

‘My son, Jimmy, and I. Tom, my husband, he’s been here for a couple of years.’

There was an element of surprise that flashed across Floss’s eyes. ‘You’re Tom’s wife?’

‘Yes, I am.’ Rosie tugged self-consciously at the less-than-glamorous dress she had thrown on that morning. Her hair was neatly braided, but she was well aware that it was both staid and straight-laced, and she wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup. She was the very antithesis of glamour and she wouldn’t be surprised if Floss was wondering what a handsome man like Tom was doing with a waif like her.

‘And you have a child you say?’

‘Yes, Jimmy, he’s two.’

‘Well, you’re a jewel, Rosie darl, no wonder he kept you hidden!’

The frankness in Floss’s voice led Rosie to believe Tom had never told Floss he was married. Why was that? She speculated if it was because he hadn’t wanted anyone to know, but another part told her Floss didn’t seem like the company Tom would keep.

Today, Floss was wearing a head-to-toe teal ensemble. Even though as a blonde Rosie could pull off the colour, she knew she would never do so with the flair and flamboyance that Floss could. Rosie had only known her for a handful of weeks, but she rarely saw Floss in the same dress more than once. Which had her pondering—where did she store all her clothes, how did she afford such extravagance, and finally, who was her dressmaker, because surely, given her height, the clothing would all need to be handmade.

‘Hewo, Foss!’ Jimmy bounded excitedly next to her.

‘Well, top of the morning to you, Jimmy. Where are you off to today?’

‘I see Mary today!’

‘I’m leaving Jimmy with Mrs Hawkins while I head to Darlinghurst. It’s Easter next week and I want to cook a nice lunch on Sunday.’

‘Oh, how splendid. I do love Easter. I’m not much of a cook, but Roberta is planning a roast.’ Roberta was Floss’s housemate and dearest friend.

‘I want to take Jimmy to mass on Easter Sunday, and Tom too if he’s not working.’

‘Oh, he won’t be working, darl, they close for Easter and Christmas.’

‘Good, then he’ll be able to come.’ They hadn’t spent much time alone. Tom worked most days and came in late, except for Fridays, when he was home by five and at the Piccadilly as soon as he was done with dinner. If he wasn’t working, it seemed the Piccadilly was where her husband was. It was a routine Rosie had learned quickly. When she had quietly mentioned that Jimmy would like to get to know his father, Tom had not taken kindly to it. He’d told her that he worked hard and deserved some time on his own.

Rosie wanted to point out that he’d had three years on his own. He certainly wasn’t the man who had left Tinahely, rubbing her still-flat stomach and telling their unborn child how much he couldn’t wait to meet him. It seemed that the time on his own was enough to make him forget how it was to be married. His indifference raised questions. Questions she wanted to push to a tiny corner of her mind and forget about.

What had happened in these years to make Tom so different? From his letters, she knew the first months were hard—finding a job, somewhere to live, getting used to all things different. But …

‘Well, if your plans fall through and Tom doesn’t come for … whatever reason, lemme know, darl, and I’ll be happy to come with.’

‘You want to go to church with me?’ Rosie squeaked in disbelief.

‘Don’t look so shocked. I might not dress the way the Lord intended me to, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in Jesus Christ as our saviour.’

‘Well, you could’ve knocked me down with a feather,’ she admitted.

‘Father Michaels at St Columbkille’s down in the ’Loo is a progressive soul. Well, as progressive as a Catholic priest can be. He doesn’t mind us flamboyant folk or even the prostitutes; it’s the queers and the lesbians he doesn’t like.’

‘The ’Loo?’ Rosie asked before it dawned on her that Floss was referring to Woolloomooloo. She was slowly getting familiar with the area, the language and the slang. She already knew Kings Cross was known as the Cross, and that it was unlike anywhere else in Sydney, or indeed, from what she could tell, anywhere else in Australia.

It wasn’t your ordinary Australian suburb. Seemingly drab and dreary by day, the Cross was transformed at dusk, when the liquid fire of the neon lights became incandescent, inviting, iniquitous and radiated across the nocturnal sky in a kaleidoscope of colours, words and images.

After bidding Floss farewell and leaving Jimmy with Mrs Hawkins, Rosie briskly walked down Victoria Street, where the oppressive plane trees and their lush deciduous emerald foliage were now dotted with various shades of brilliant yellow, orange and red. The wind whistled and rustled, swaying branches, causing leaves to fall towards the ground in an errant and somewhat elegant fashion. The sun peeped through the receding limbs, like eyes trying to see through bony fingers, reflecting off the falling golden stipule.

Saturday mornings seemed to bring every man and his dog to Darlinghurst Road and Rosie quickly caught on to head to the shops early for it wouldn’t be long before you could hardly move for the human tide. It was one of the many things Rosie had come to learn about the Cross.

Kings Cross seemed to be at best described as a giant melting pot—it was home to the very wealthy, while simultaneously inhabited by the poor. It was a mecca for artists, for prostitutes, glue sniffers and hashish smokers. But at the same time, it was a byword for sophistication, where bohemians (who were referred to as ‘beatniks’) were in abundance.

It was also a place where foreigners and their food were accepted. Rosie had thought all the exotic ports she had visited on her journey would be the only strange and exciting places, people and food she would be exposed to in her life—but she was very much mistaken. In her street alone, there was a French bakery called a patisserie that served all sorts of heavenly pastries, then there was a Russian restaurant where half the time she wasn’t even certain of what she was eating, all that she knew was that her mouth had never entertained such a strange yet mouth-watering combination of tastes. But her favourite had to be, by far, the Italian deli run by Giuseppe and Alberto Di Norro, two brothers who had emigrated after the war. Shaved-ham-and-macaroni salad was fast becoming Jimmy’s favourite meal, and Alberto’s wife, Rubina, had taken a shine to Jimmy and snuck him a cannoli as a treat every time they frequented. At first, between their broken English and Rosie’s thick Irish accent, it took time for them to understand what she was after, but now, after weeks of regular visits, their conversations became clearer and more elaborate. Every time Rosie walked in, she met yet another member of the Di Norro extended family. And it seemed that today would be much the same. Today, there was a young girl standing somewhat timidly behind the counter. Her dark hair spilled like chocolate waves from a bright-purple headband.

‘Eh, Rosie, ciao, come stai?’ Alberto welcomed her with a wide smile and his usual warmth.

‘Molto bene,’ she returned, although she was certain that with her accent, it sounded nothing like it was supposed to. To his credit, Alberto didn’t correct her pronunciation.

‘What can I do for you today, mi bella rosa?’ The melding of his home tongue with broken English was common for Alberto, as it was for many new Australians.

‘All of the usual, Albi,’ she said, using the moniker that Jimmy had come up for him, mainly because he couldn’t say Alberto. So Alberto was Albi, Rubina was Ruby and Giuseppe was Peppe.

‘This is Elena, my … how do you say … nephew?’

‘Niece,’ she corrected before turning towards the girl. ‘Buongiorno, Elena.’

‘Hello,’ Elena said shyly, busying herself with laying out cannoli.

‘Elena’s mamma is mia sorella. She’s a helping for the school holiday, but soon she a leave school and come work here all the time,’ Alberto said proudly as he went about filling Rosie’s order.

Di Norro’s Delicatessen was a family business, and like many new Australians they worked hard and saved every penny, and at times, this didn’t sit well with those who had come to the country earlier, or those who perhaps had been here for a few generations.

It wasn’t uncommon for new Australians to be called ‘wogs’, a term that Rosie first heard Doug, the boarder who occupied their spare room, use. Doug worked with Tom at the stevedoring place in Woolloomooloo. Doug had been kicked out by his wife and was extremely bitter about it. According to Doug, he wasn’t the one with the faults. Apparently, it was acceptable for him to take his hard-earned money and spend it however he pleased and his ex-wife could go and ‘fuck her poofter wog neighbour’.

Rosie wasn’t fond of Doug, and that was putting it mildly. She didn’t like his foul mouth and she didn’t like the way he glared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Her protests to Tom fell on deaf ears. He told her they were lucky they had Doug as a boarder and that the money he was paying helped towards the rent. So far, any money Doug had contributed went straight into Tom’s hands, and like most of the money Tom earned, that all went straight with him to the Piccadilly.

After the deli, Rosie made her way to the butcher, where Fritz loaded her up with all sorts of goodies, then the French bakery to purchase a baguette, then to the fruit-and-vegetable stand where Spiro proudly displayed his produce. By the time she was done with the last thing on her list, her string bags were laden and cutting into her hands, and her feet were sore. The walk home wasn’t long, but it was hampered by those strolling about, taking their time enjoying their Saturday, which was fine if you didn’t have a child to get home to, lunch to make, clothes to wash and—

She felt something tug, then before she knew it, the bag in her left hand gave way, the contents strewn across the footpath. Two potatoes tumbled one way, and a fragrant orange that Spiro had held under her nose to show her how ripe and lush and fragrant it was, was now rolling swiftly towards the oncoming traffic of Victoria Street. Instinctively, Rosie made haste to rescue her errant citrus with the sickening sound of crushing eggshells underfoot. Her stomach sank to her knees as she realised that somehow her half-dozen eggs hadn’t broken on impact, but she had managed to obliterate them in the aftermath.

‘For the love of God!’ she cried, exasperated. Her shoes slimy, she tried to stand, but as she did, she slipped, hitting the ground with an indignant thud. Almost instantly, pain shot from her backside all the way down the right side of her body. When the shock of the fall subsided, she went to leverage herself up, but immediately winced. Her hands were riddled with asphalt: grit and bits of rock were embedded in her scrabbled palms, which were covered with tiny lacerations. As she surveyed the surrounding carnage, tears pricked her eyes. Nearly all was lost: very little of her purchases could be salvaged and she didn’t have any money left to replace them. She would need to ask Tom for more money, but the very thought of doing so caused her heart to palpitate. Tom wouldn’t like it—he provided her with enough, more than enough, or so he said, for her to purchase all the required household items. Most of what was ruined was needed for Easter lunch. What was she to do now?

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled Rosie out of her miserable reverie.

‘Are you okay, Miss?’ It was a man, his voice carrying a distinct American twang. She turned towards him, the glare from the sun forcing her to shield her eyes to meet his gaze, and even then she couldn’t see his face.

‘I’m … fine,’ she managed, struggling to lift herself without crying out in pain. He offered a hand and she falteringly accepted his assistance, but underestimated her pain because as soon as she placed the smallest amount of weight on her foot, Rosie yelped, lost her footing, and was caught by her helper’s strong hands. She lifted her head to find his mesmerising green eyes focused on her, the intensity of his gaze making her both breathless and light-headed.

‘Thank you,’ she said politely when she could finally manage to string a sentence together, the awareness of his hands permeating her bare skin and rapidly spreading through her body like wildfire.

‘It looks pretty bad.’

‘I know,’ she said, sighing heavily and looking around at the mess she’d made.

‘I mean your ankle. I think you need to get it looked at.’

‘Oh.’ Anxiety hit her with a vengeance. How would she explain needing a doctor to Tom? A couple of weeks ago, Jimmy had had a cold and she had mentioned to Tom that they might need to find a doctor. Tom had told her they couldn’t afford a doctor. ‘I don’t think it will come to that.’ She forced a smile and tried her best to hide the excruciating pain, but her helper would have none of it.

‘Why don’t you let me have a look at it?’

‘Are you a doctor?’ Rosie asked hopefully.

‘I was a medic during the war, so I’ve seen my fair share of broken bones.’

‘Oh God …’ Rosie felt the blood drain from her face and her knees weaken. ‘Is it that bad?’

‘I’m sure it’s just a sprain, but please let me look at it. My place is just across the way.’ He motioned to a coffee lounge opposite them.

‘The diner?’

‘Yes, Ma’am. If you’re worried about your things, I’ll have someone come and collect them for you.’

Rosie was hesitant and for good reason. He was very handsome. Too handsome. The last time a handsome man had come to her aid, he had swept her off her feet and she had ended up marrying him and following him to the other side of the world. And now, he treated her like dirt. ‘I’m not sure, I should … I mean, I don’t even know your name.’

‘My name’s Jack, Ma’am, Jack Reid.’

‘I’m Rosie … Rosie Hart.’ Technically, she was Rosie Fuller, but she had never called herself Mrs Fuller. Only her passport and documents to Australia bore the name Rosaleen Fuller, and it was only for ease of travel with Jimmy.

‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Hart.’ He tipped his chin and bowed, making Rosie smile despite her pain. She didn’t correct him on her title, nor did she hesitate when Jack offered his hand to help her cross the street, and when he slid an arm around her waist, God help her, she didn’t stop him. Not that she had a choice. Her foot was in agony, and placing weight on it was doing it more harm than good, so with Jack’s assistance she hobbled to Maggie’s Diner.

Rosie had walked past Maggie’s on a number of occasions, but had never given it more than a cursory glance. As Jack helped her into a booth, she took it all in—from the black-and-white chequered linoleum floors, to the retro stools lined up like soldiers standing to attention, to the cherry-red vinyl booths with their jade, pink and white formica tabletops. It was as American as apple pie. Around the right side of the counter was a jukebox that was currently blaring an Elvis Presley tune. It took her a moment to realise it was ‘Don’t Be Cruel’.

‘You stay put, you hear? I’ll be back in a New York minute.’

Rosie had no idea what a New York minute was, but by his speedy return, she hazarded a guess that it wasn’t a long period of time.

‘Here.’ He crouched down, carefully picked up her foot and rested it on a small stool. Then, with great and immeasurable care, he removed her shoe and examined her foot attentively, running his thumb smoothly down the dip of her ankle, then around her heel to the ball. His fingers were long, his touch was gentle and it was only after he spoke that Rosie realised she’d been holding her breath. She gasped for air, her chest burning from the lack of oxygen.

‘Hmm, it doesn’t seem like you’ve broken anything,’ he murmured, his voice as smooth as silk. She figured it was his suave accent.

‘Well that’s a relief.’ Rosie exhaled. He continued to hold her foot, not showing the slightest hint of letting it go, and it concerned her. ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’

The rumble of his chuckle reverberated, and for a moment it made her feel faint. When he tipped his chin upwards, his eyes meeting hers, he wordlessly held her gaze briefly before answering, ‘Yes, it’s a good thing. But it does feel a little tender, so I’m guessing you’ve gone and sprained it. Some ice, compression, elevation and rest should do the trick.’

Anxiety bubbled. Rest? She had a two-year-old. There was no time for rest. Rosie opened her mouth to explain, but the words never came. Instead, her chest heaved, her eyes pricked and her ankle throbbed with such pain that she had not experienced since birthing her son.

‘I’ll get you that ice.’ Jack rose and walked towards the counter where a tall, stocky dark man was polishing glasses. She couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but they spoke for a while and he seemed to be noting something on paper. The man looked over Jack’s shoulder towards her and nodded. Not long after, Jack returned with a bagful of ice. The contact of the cold against her skin caused her to whimper.

‘There, there,’ he soothed. ‘I know it’s a little uncomfortable, but it will do your ankle a world of good. You’ll see, after a while, the pain will subside.’

‘How long will I need to keep it on?’ She thought of Jimmy with Mrs Hawkins. It was past midday now and he would be up from his nap and wanting his lunch.

‘You have some swelling coming up already, so the longer the better. Let’s start with a couple of hours and see how you are then.’

Rosie’s stomach tightened. She didn’t have a couple of hours. She didn’t even have half an hour. ‘I really don’t think that’s necessary.’ She placed her hands on either side of her and tried to stand.

‘Rosie, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ he warned, but she didn’t listen and persisted.

‘I really need to go, I have my—’ As she placed the smallest amount of weight on her foot, she cried out in pain. It was even worse than before.

Jack sighed and helped her back down. Defeated, she let him.

‘How about I get you something for the pain?’

Rosie nodded before tilting her face to meet his gaze. ‘Yes, thank you, that would be most appreciated.’

‘Are you hungry? I could get you something to eat so you’re not taking medicine on an empty stomach.’

‘No, that’s quite alright.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t need anything.’ But almost as soon as the words left her lips, her stomach betrayed her by letting out a very audible grumble. Jack chuckled and Rosie sent him a rueful smile. ‘I guess something to eat would be nice.’

‘How does a cheeseburger with fries sound?’

‘It sounds … well, I’ve never had a cheeseburger before, so it sounds quite intriguing.’

‘You’ve never had a cheeseburger before?’ Jack’s eyes twinkled with amusement and delight as he rubbed his hands together and smiled. ‘You’re in for a treat. I may be biased, but our burgers are the best there are out of Kansas.’

Silently, she scolded herself. She was a married woman, she had no business looking at other men, let alone thinking they were handsome. It had been a long time since a man had paid this much attention to her. Not since their courting days had Tom been as attentive as Jack was being right now.

Stop it. You hurt your foot. He’s just being nice and helping you.

Jack placed a glass of water and two tablets on the table. ‘I need to check on a few things, I’ll be back soon, but Jenny will bring your food over when it’s done.’

A short time later a waitress in a pink gingham and crinoline dress delivered a plate with the cheeseburger and a mountain of fries. Rosie’s mouth watered simply looking at it all. There wasn’t any cutlery on the table, so tentatively, she picked up the burger and took a bite. It was unlike anything she’d ever eaten and in the past eight weeks she’d had her fair share of new and exotic food. It was amazing, that was undeniable, but Rosie was keeping an eye on the time. It was getting close to one. Mrs Hawkins would be expecting her back soon.

‘Do you need to be somewhere?’

Jack seemed to appear out of nowhere and Rosie almost choked on a French fry. ‘Why do you ask?’ She swallowed, her throat thick.

‘You keep looking at the time and you were in a damn hurry to get out of here before, despite that bruised ankle.’

‘I need to get back to my son.’

‘Your son? You’re married?’ Surprise and perhaps disappointment threaded his voice. Or maybe she was imagining the latter.

‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘my son, Jimmy, is with my next door neighbour. I was only meant to leave him for two hours, and now it’s gone more than three.’

‘Your husband …’

‘Tom’s at work; he won’t be home until late.’ She didn’t add that Tom would be going straight to the pub and she wouldn’t see her husband till he crept in at dawn. ‘I really must go, he’ll be wondering where I am, and so will Mrs Hawkins.’

‘Mrs Hawkins? Wait, Mrs Hawkins is your next door neighbour?’

‘Yes. Do you know her?’

‘Yes, I know Mrs Hawkins and Mary.’ There was something in his tone that made Rosie ponder just how well he knew Mary. From what she could tell, Mary wasn’t starved of male attention. Was Jack one of Mary’s … visitors? Was she jealous? She had no right to be, and yet, she was.

‘Leave it with me. You just finish your burger. You look like you could do with it.’

Rosie’s hand was poised to pick up a fry when she froze and shot him a look. Her brow cocked, a silent inquisition as to what he was insinuating.

Jack’s cheeks turned bright red and his eyes widened. It was clear he regretted the words. ‘Listen, Rosie, I didn’t mean—’

‘To imply I’m a bag of bones? That I could do with a good meal? It may not be far off the mark, but it’s also insensitive to comment on a woman’s physical appearance. Especially one you’ve just met,’ she said, her tone a touch incisive.

‘You’re right.’ He held up his hands, palms facing out. ‘I apologise unreservedly.’ His plea was earnest.

‘Hey, boss!’ The man from behind the counter walked towards them. ‘Where do you want these?’ He lifted his arms to indicate the string shopping bags laden with groceries in each hand. Rosie stared longingly—many of the items seemed to be those she had lost.

‘Hey, Phil, just leave them behind the counter, I won’t be long.’ When Phil walked away, Jack turned his attention back to her, a shy smile on his lips, and a touch of something she couldn’t quite pinpoint in his eyes. ‘And just for the record, there’s nothing wrong with your physical appearance.’ He reached out and swiped his thumb across her bottom lip, making her pulse soar.

‘I …’ She opened her mouth to respond, but her brain and mouth were not coordinating. From the other side of the room, the click of a jukebox sounded and a second later, ‘Playing for Keeps’ by Elvis Presley drifted across the room, pulling them both back to the here and now. Jack dropped his hand and averted his gaze, as if ashamed of what he’d done. ‘That was out of line, you have a child, a husband. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry if my unwanted actions caused you discomfort.’

‘Jack, don’t …’ Air whooshed out of her lungs. On the tip of her lips sat words telling Jack that his touch was very much wanted, that he shouldn’t apologise, that she wasn’t at all sorry. ‘Thank you … for your apology,’ she said in a shaky voice, focusing on anything but his face.

‘I’ll … ah, let you finish your food. Do you want a soda? A milkshake? A sundae?’ he babbled.

‘No, thank you, I’m quite alright,’ she said politely, plucking up a now cold fry and popping it into her mouth. He left her then, mumbling about attending to something in the kitchen, and after he was gone, she hesitantly reached up and touched her bottom lip, still tingling from his touch.

She needed to stop this! It was pointless. A man paid her the smallest amount of attention and she almost melted. Despite the lacklustre start to her life in Kings Cross, Rosie had vowed not to give up on her marriage; things were bound to get better. They had to. In fact, she was sure that next weekend, with the pubs closed, Tom would stay home and they would have some quality family time together, enough that he would finally be able to connect with Jimmy. It broke her heart whenever her little boy reached out to Tom, only for his father to brush him away with a gruff comment that he was busy, or worse, he wouldn’t even speak to Jimmy, but call out to Rosie to ‘come and get the child’, because he was trying to relax.

What had happened to her Tom? The man she’d fallen in love with? She owed it to her son to try to save her marriage. They had been apart longer than they’d been together and it would be up to her to fix it, to make sure Jimmy didn’t grow up without a father, like she had. Tom hadn’t left her. He could’ve written and told her not to come, but he didn’t. They had made the decision mutually for her to emigrate. Or had she been the one to suggest it? It didn’t matter whose idea it had been, only that she was here and she would make the most of it.

Her thoughts were broken by Jack placing two string bags on the table, along with the bag she had managed to save.

‘What’s all this?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘I had one of the kitchen hands run down and replace all the items you lost.’

Rosie’s heart skipped a beat as she felt her eyes widen. ‘But … how?’

Jack shrugged. ‘We guessed most from the carnage, but the quantities were harder to deduce. Luckily, Alberto at the deli, Fritz, Aurelian from the bakery and Spiro all remembered your purchase with them and were able to replicate them.’

Rosie was speechless. She should’ve been touched that Jack had gone to so much trouble. ‘Thank you, Jack, but you really shouldn’t have. I don’t have money to pay for all those groceries again. I barely have enough to pay you for this meal.’

Jack’s brow creased. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to pay me, Rosie. And as for the groceries, each shopkeeper refused payment and even if they hadn’t I would’ve gladly paid for you, and for that I’m not apologising.’

‘Why?’ she asked, exasperated. ‘Why would you go out of your way to do that for a complete stranger?’

‘Why?’ He seemed annoyed with this question. ‘Because I saw a woman distressed on the side of the road. I saw her literally weeping at her lost groceries, more concerned about squashed oranges, smashed eggs and spilt milk than she was by her swollen ankle. Because I thought she needed a break. Because I heard her accent, knew she was far from home and I remembered how it felt to be new here. Because it’s a place that can suck you in, chew you up and spit you out. You keep referring to us as strangers, Rosie, but we’re not. I know more about you than you think. I know that you put others before you, that you don’t take people for granted. You fretted when you realised you needed to leave your son with Mrs Hawkins longer than intended. And each and every shopkeeper refused to take payment when they heard what happened to you. Everyone added something more than you originally had and they asked how you were. Was there anything else they could do for you? Should they deliver groceries to you tomorrow, or the day after? You know what that tells me? That you’re well liked, Rosie. People here in the Cross like you, I like you, but the question is, why don’t you like yourself?’

Jack finished his rant and stared at her. He was angry with her? His American accent was more pronounced when he was angry. Did he know that? She shook her head, annoyed that she was focusing on the wrong thing.

‘How dare you,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t ask for your help.’

‘No, and that’s the thing, Rosie. I’m willing to bet my bottom dollar that if I hadn’t happened to look up and see you fall, that you would’ve somehow dragged yourself up and home. I know you live a couple of hundred yards away and I know that may not seem much, but on that,’ he pointed to her elevated foot, ‘you would’ve caused more damage, perhaps considerable damage and—’

‘Hey, Jack! The oven is playing up again; can you spare a minute?’ Phil called over from the counter and begrudgingly Jack stopped.

‘We’re not done here,’ he told her firmly before heading to the kitchen. After he left, Rosie realised that thanks to Jack’s prompt attention, her ankle wasn’t throbbing nearly as much as it had been initially. She found that somewhere between taking the pills and having a screaming match with him, the pain had subsided considerably.

It was after two o’clock. Diving into her purse, she pulled out a wad of bills and threw them down on the table. Then she carefully lifted herself and slowly tested placing weight on her foot. It hurt, but nowhere near as much as the searing pain before. Then with as much speed as she could muster, she put on her shoe and made her way out of the diner, like a thief in the night, before Jack returned. It was only when she had reached Mrs Hawkins’s front door that she remembered the bags of groceries left at Maggie’s.

An hour later, there was a knock on her door. By the time she made it down the hallway and opened it, there was no one there, but there were three bags of groceries and an envelope with her name on it. The cursive writing was bold and beautiful and instantly she knew it was Jack’s penmanship.

She hobbled down the path to see if she could catch sight of who had delivered the bags, but whoever it had been was quick as she could see no one. Moving into the kitchen, she placed the bags on the dining table and opened the envelope. Inside was the money she had left at the diner and a note.

Rosie,

I know I upset you today, and for that I am truly sorry. Please take care of your ankle, rest it when you can, and as much as I know you will not, I still would ask you to see a doctor.

Sincerely,

Jack

PS—I am returning the money you left. I meant it when I said I didn’t want you paying for your meal. It was my honour to introduce you to your first cheeseburger. I didn’t get to ask you what you thought of it, but I am hoping that it will not be your last.

Pressing Jack’s note flush against her chest, she could feel her heart racing, and try as she might, she couldn’t slow it down. She loved the cheeseburger, more than she imagined she would, and she too hoped it wouldn’t be her last.