Kerry Greenwood: Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher

‘Come up, Phryne, and watch for the harbour,’ said Dr MacMillan. Phryne slipped the sailor suit on and joined her in the climb to the deck.

Phryne leaned on the rail to watch Melbourne appear as the Orient steamed steadily in through the heads and turned in its course to find the river and Station Pier.

The city was visible, the flag on Government House announcing that the governor was at home. It appeared to be a much larger city than Phryne remembered, though admittedly she had not been in any position to see it clearly when she had clung to the rail on the way out. Dr MacMillan, at her side, threw a foul cigar overboard and remarked, ‘It seems to be a fine big city, well-built stone and steeple.’

‘What did you expect? Wattle-and-daub? They aren’t savages, you know, Elizabeth! You’ll find it much like Edinburgh. Possibly quieter.’

‘Ah well, that will be a change,’ agreed the doctor. ‘Are your trunks packed, Phryne?’

Phryne smiled, conscious of three cabin trunks, two suitcases, a shopping bag and a purse in her cabin, and seven large trunks in the hold, no doubt under a lot of sheep. Her dangerous imports into her native land included a small lady’s handgun and a box of bullets for it, plus certain devices of Dr Stopes’s which were wrapped in her underwear under an open packet of Ladies’ Travelling Necessities to discourage any over-zealous customs official.

They leaned companionably into the wind, watching the city come nearer. The little book in the cabin had informed Phryne that Melbourne was a modern city. Most of it was sewered, had water and in some cases electricity laid on, and there was public transport in the form of trains and trams. Industry was booming, and cars, trucks and motorcycles outnumbered horse transport thirty to one. Most streets were macadamised and the city was well served with a university, several hospitals, a cricket ground, the Athenaeum Club, and a Royal Arcade. Visitors were urged to attend the Flemington races or the football. (Collingwood were last year’s premiers, the pamphlet claimed, to Phryne’s complete bemusement.) Ladies would appreciate a stroll around the Block Arcade, the shopping highlight of the city, and would admire Walter Burley Griffin’s interesting addition to Collins House. The Menzies, Scott’s, or the Windsor Hotel were recommended for first-class passengers. Phryne wondered where the steerage passengers were advised to stay. ‘Elevator House, I expect,’ she said to herself. ‘You can always rely on the Salvation Army.’

‘Eh? Yes, splendid people,’ agreed Dr MacMillan absently, and Phryne realised that she had spoken aloud. Had she been at all used to blushing, she would have blushed, but she wasn’t, so she didn’t.

Clearing customs required less expenditure of charm than Phryne had feared, and within an hour she and her mountain of baggage were through into the street and waiting for a taxi. Dr MacMillan, lightly encumbered with a gladstone bag full of clothes and a tea-chest of books, hailed vigorously, and a motor swerved and halted abruptly before them.

The driver got out, surveyed the pile of impedimenta, and remarked laconically. ‘Y’need another cab.’ He then yelled across the road to a mate, Cec, who was lounging against a convenient wall. Cec vanished with a turn of speed which belied his appearance, and returned in charge of a battered truck which had evidently once belonged to a grocer. ‘Cox’s Orange Pippin’ still decorated the flaking sides.

So these are the natives, thought Phryne. Cec was tall and lanky, blond with brown eyes, young and ferociously taciturn. The other driver, who was apparently called Bert, was short, dark and older. Both were strikingly attractive. I believe they call it ‘hybrid vigour’, Phryne mused.

‘Load up,’ said Bert, and three porters obeyed him. Phryne observed with amazement that at no time had the hand-rolled cigarette moved from its place on the driver’s lower lip. Phryne distributed tips with a liberal hand and took her place in the taxi. With a jerk they started off for Melbourne.

It was a fine, warm autumn day. She doffed her moire coat and lit a gasper, as they left the wharf area with a great smoking and roaring of engine and proceeded to take a series of corners at alarming speed.

The driver, Bert, was examining Phryne with the same detached interest as she was examining him. He was also keeping an eye on the traffic, and the following grocer’s van driven by Cec. Phryne wondered if she would ever see her expensive baggage again.

‘Where we goin’ first?’ yelled Bert. Phryne screamed back over the noise of the labouring engine, ‘First to the Queen Victoria Hospital, then to the Windsor Hotel, and we aren’t in a particular hurry.’

‘Nurses, are you?’ asked Bert. Dr MacMillan looked resigned.

‘No, this is Dr MacMillan from Scotland, and I’m just visiting.’

‘You staying at the Windsor, Miss?’ asked Bert, removing his pendant cigarette and flinging it through the rattling window of the taxi. ‘Toffy, are you? The time will come when the working man rises up against his oppressors, and breaks the chains of Capital, and. .’

‘. . then there won’t be any more Windsor,’ finished Phryne. Bert looked injured. He released the steering wheel and turned his head to remonstrate with the young capitalist.

‘No, Miss, you don’t understand,’ he began, averting death with a swift twiddle of the wheel that skidded them to safety around a van. ‘When the revolution comes, we’ll all be staying at the Windsor.’

‘It sounds like an excellent idea,’ agreed Phryne.

‘I saw enough of such things during the war,’ snorted Dr MacMillan. ‘Revolutions mean blood and murder. And innocent people made homeless.’

‘War,’ said the driver sententiously, ‘is a plot by Capital to force the workers to fight their battles in the name of economic security. That’s what war is,’ he concluded.

‘Is Cec still following?’ Phryne asked, hoping to divert this fervent communist.

‘Yeah, Cec is on our tail. He’s a good driver,’ said Bert. ‘But not as good as me.’

The city was flying past, halated behind them in the cloud of exhaust and dust generated by the ex-grocer’s van, and they stopped suddenly at an unimposing entrance. As the air cleared, Phryne saw the legend of the main door and realised that she must part with Elizabeth MacMillan. She felt an unexpected pang, but suppressed it. The doctor kissed Phryne on the cheek, gathered her Gladstone bag and her coat, and Cec unloaded the tea-chest onto the pavement without actually endangering the lives of too many passers-by. Elizabeth waved, the driver hauled his unwilling motor into gear and, avoiding a clanging tram by inches, belted down to Collins Street, described a circle around the policeman on point duty, and groaned up the hill. They inched up, past the Theosophical building and the Theatre, past two churches, some rather charming couturières, and brass plates by the hundred, until Phryne saw a large and imposing grey building dead ahead, and entertained a momentary apprehension that her driver might try his steed on the majestic flight of steps that fronted it.

Her fears were unfounded. The driver had done this journey before. Bert hauled the motor around in another three-point turn and stopped, grinning, in front of the austere portals of the hotel. The doorman, not blanching in the least at this outlandish vehicle, stepped forward with dignity and opened the door by its one remaining hinge. Phryne took his gloved hand and extracted herself from the car, brushed herself down, and produced her purse.

The driver abandoned his vehicle and handed over Phry- ne’s coat, grinning amiably. He was wearing a new cigarette.

‘Thank you so much for the interesting ride,’ said Phryne. ‘How much do I owe you and — er — Cec?’