Sydney, Australia, 1911
‘Ladies, ladies. Your attention please. It is imperative that we take advantage of this opportunity.’ An air of despair laced Mrs Booth’s voice. ‘Miss Fletcher is a very busy woman, her studio portraits are in high demand. We are very lucky to have her here today.’
The hands on the wall clock ticked their agonising way to two. By the time the women were herded into place it would be well past the hour Letitia Rawlings promised to be standing on the corner of George Street. The boat race started at three and she had to be aboard before the starter’s gun.
Precious minutes lapsed while Miss Fletcher arranged every single member of the Women’s Club, seating Mrs Booth in the centre, adjusting drapes, worrying about height, the set of elbows and the ability to remain silent and still. When she’d accomplished those major feats, she spent more valuable moments measuring the intensity of the light while a further argument ensued about who should sit next to whom.
Patience worn to a frazzle, Lettie turned to Mrs Booth and hissed, ‘I really must leave. I have a prior commitment.’
‘You cannot.’ Mrs Booth clamped her hand firmly on Lettie’s arm and held her steady, fixed her eyes on the camera and nodded. ‘Continue, Miss Fletcher. We are ready.’
A further eternity passed until finally Lettie managed to offer her farewells and escape. She scanned the busy street searching for Thorne’s pride and joy—his motor. The shiny green custom-built Model T Ford with its distinctive khaki roof was nowhere to be seen.
There was no sign of her brother in Pitt Street either which was hardly unexpected. If he’d waited he’d have missed the pre-start checks. Thorne always won the sprint and she usually made a fine showing in the ladies’ steering race but she’d promised to attend the luncheon at the Women’s Club. There had been several of her cohort from the Ladies Debating Society present and she hadn’t caught up with them since university days. Now she wished she’d refused the invitation.
Clamping her hat over her unruly curls and dodging the crowds she bolted down the hill towards the Quay. The start line was just beyond Fort Macquarie Tram Depot. It couldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. If she hurried she might have time to slip into her well-worn seat at the back of the boat before the race began.
The first glimmer of the harbour appeared between the buildings surrounding the Quay. Seven minutes until the gun. Even if she wasn’t aboard she’d be there to cheer Thorne to the finish. Tucking her bag under her arm, she lifted her skirts and ran.
The ground shuddered.
A deafening explosion ricocheted from the buildings, thundered through her body and shook her to her core.
And the sky lit up—an obscene ball of flame and smoke shot into the windless air. Jagged timber shards knifed towards the sky. Flames crackled and her ears rang, filling her chest with a strange, heavy thump.
A limp puppet-body arced through the billowing clouds.
All-encompassing silence. No sound, no words, just an horrendous earth-stopping dread as the dancing blaze and floating debris mesmerised the crowd of onlookers.
And there in the benign waves lapping the small stretch of sand, a boater. Not a mark on it, the blue hair ribbon he’d pinched from her dresser that morning still pristine.
The gaping hollow in her stomach sliced its way to her heart and Lettie knew her beloved brother, Thorne Ludgrove Rawlings, was no more.