Pete Southie was kicking dirt in the front of the bakery. I had to oversleep, didn’t I? Dammit. Frank would be spittin’ brimstone—and at havin’ to open the store on his own. Maybe that’s why the doors were still closed. He stared at the women hovering around the bakery door, peering inside.
Without Rosie on hand, Frank would be running behind. That Rosie. She really left poor Frank in a state. He has to do all this work himself, now.
Pete knew not to go in the front way and began to walk down the alleyway between the bakery and the saddlery. Frank had always made him come around the back. But something about the shoppers huddled before the door made him stop and head back that way.
A grim-faced dumpy lady in her brown and patched day dress stepped aside as he approached. ‘We can see his boots,’ she said, alarmed. ‘He’s on the floor.’
Pete marched onto the footpath past the other ladies. Nose to the pane on the door, his breath clouding it a little, he rubbed the glass. As he squinted, he reckoned that he was staring at Frank’s lifeless body.
Mr Benson kept banging a molten horseshoe on the anvil with his hammer. ‘And I’m tellin’ you, Pete Southie,’ he yelled. ‘I ain’t handing over no coffin if I dunno how I’m gonna get paid fer it.’
Pete held up his hands. ‘You know the bakery’s good fer it.’
‘I know the bakery’s good fer it, but not you.’
‘The constable said it’ll just take some time for a magistrate to get to Frank’s affairs—’
‘Ever’body knows his missus has gone. Took orf, they reckon. Not comin’ back. So who’s gonna pay for a coffin?’ He stopped banging the hammer and jutted his chin towards an assortment of coffins standing by the far wall.
‘How much is it?’ Southie asked.
‘Won’t get much change from a fiver.’ The hammer clanged and bounced back off the horseshoe taking shape. Soot and glowing sparks leapt into the stifling air.
Young Henry Benson smirked at him. ‘Has to be a big coffin,’ he said. ‘That’s why it’s a fiver.’
Pete Southie wasn’t real sure about the truth of that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He knew right where he could get five pounds, too. He knew how to get into the bakery. He weren’t no thief, not really, not when folk would be looking out for Frank and the bakery. But he knew there was money in the till—and if it meant Frank would have a decent burial, then he’d go get it. Frank had been good to him, least he could do. He’d nip into the bakery, dark of night, and lift a fiver. Or two if there was two—to pay for anything extra required, of course.
‘You have to measure him up,’ Pete said.
‘I don’t,’ Mr Benson yelled. ‘That’ll fit him.’ He thrust the hammer at the tallest, widest pine box. ‘When will I get paid? Dunno where his missus has gone.’
A man with a long white beard approached. It was the retired solicitor, Mr Milton. ‘Frank Putney’s wife, do ye mean? I know where she’s gone,’ he said and stepped up to the anvil. He looked at Mr Benson. ‘I need you to make me six more of the railway spikes for me shed.’
The smithy nodded, threw down his hammer, picked a pencil out of his pocket and made a note on a piece of raw timber. ‘Will do,’ he yelled.
The man went on. ‘I passed those Goody girls on the road to Penola maybe three or four days back.’ He looked at Pete. ‘Someone will have to tell Mrs Putney she’s a widow now. There’s a will to be read, and all that.’
Pete Southie had opened his mouth to say something to Mr Milton then shut it abruptly. All manner of things rushed through his head. Rosie would be a rich widow. Elsa was unmarried. There was money in the bakery’s till to get Frank buried—and the funeral could happen while he was off looking for the two sisters.
Tonight, he would get into the bakery and get that money for this damned fool smithy. ‘I’ll get you your money, Mr Benson,’ he said, and he couldn’t help his lip curling. He turned to Mr Milton. ‘They were going to Penola?’
‘They were, to relatives there and then on to Naracoorte. Coming back here after that, I thought.’
Pete would get the priest fella, or the vicar or whatever he was called to get the council men to dig a grave in that fancy walled cemetery. Soon as that was done, he’d take off for the farm, then go after the women. No point trying to run the bakery, but he’d be able to look after the farm for Elsa when he brought her back. He’d make himself useful. She’d like that. She’d be grateful.
He wouldn’t mind living on their place. Now, there’s a thought. A man had to have prospects, after all. He’d have to take opportunities where he found them.