buried without mourners. She’d been a streetworker herself in her younger days and was painfully aware of the fragility of identity in such a world. It was her sense of responsibility that had drawn her to work for the Collective, and in helping Moss discover Amber-Lee’s real name, she was helping all the girls, in a way. There but for the grace of God . . . she thought grimly as she opened her desk drawer and took out a notepad.
‘I’ll have a word with Damara. I think she kept in touch with Brenda. Give me your number and I’ll let you know if she’ll speak to you. It might take a week or two.’
Thanking Georgia, they left, feeling elated. They hadn’t reached that dead end yet. Moss returned to Opportunity to await developments, and Hamish went back to his studies. The interruption had been welcome. He needed to come up with an idea for a major project to support his thesis, but time was running out and ideas were elusive.
Finn was worried about Moss. She seemed so dejected, and her interest in her music had waned again. She was too young to drift into the lassitude that infected so many in Opportunity. She needed cheering up, but he was at a loss. What did young women enjoy nowadays? She didn’t have a boyfriend; Mrs Pargetter had mentioned this a couple of times. The problem was that he didn’t know any suitable young men. He’d have to come up with something else. Women always like a nice dinner, he thought. Some hopeful calculations indicated that it must be close to her birthday. A present too, then. Dinner and a present.
He was due to meet with the Commission for the Future next month, but, impatient to execute his plan, he brought the meeting forward and travelled down to Melbourne by bus and train.
Wandering aimlessly around the shops, he had a sudden inspiration. Jewellery. Women loved jewellery, didn’t they? He slid diffidently into several jewellery stores and was finally captured by a well-dressed young man who looked doubtfully at his customer’s dishevelled appearance.
‘May I assist you, sir?’
‘Yes. Yes. I’m looking for a gift. For a woman.’
‘Our selection is very fine. Many items are hand-crafted.’
The assistant’s tone implied that Finn couldn’t possibly afford such merchandise.
Finn stood his ground. ‘I was thinking of a pendant. You know—a thing on a chain. Gold. I want gold.’
Now there was a tinge of impatience underlying the studied politeness. ‘All our gold is eighteen carat or more, sir.’
‘Show me what you have. She’s only twenty-four, so I don’t want anything old-fashioned.’
The young man raised his eyebrows and Finn blushed. ‘My daughter,’ he snapped. ‘Do you have anything to show me?’
Finn looked at the various lockets, heart-shaped, oval, with and without gems. There were tiny gold dolphins (Very popular with young girls, sir). Finn rather liked the pearl drops, but thought they might be a bit middle-aged. He felt helpless and wished he could ask a woman’s opinion. Then he saw it. A gold filigree treble clef hanging from a finely wrought, tubular chain.
‘That one. I’ll have that one.’
The sales assistant sniffed. ‘It’s one of a kind, sir. Hand-crafted. Very expensive.’ He indicated the price tag.
‘Gift wrap it, please,’ Finn said. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’
Finn was pleased with his find and couldn’t keep the smile from his face as the train sped through the familiar countryside. When he got home, he carefully unwrapped the parcel to look at the pendant again, then rewrapped it before clumsily retying the bow.
When Moss came in from walking Errol, her father was waiting at the door.
‘Are you doing anything on Saturday night?’
Moss was surprised. When she was in Opportunity, she never did anything on Saturday night. ‘No. Why?’
Finn hunched his shoulders and looked at her from under his eyebrows. ‘I’d like to take you out to dinner. Somewhere nice. Chez Marie, in Cradletown.’
Moss was surprised and touched. ‘Thank you, Finn. I’d love 217 to come.’
She was unsure what to wear. Mrs Pargetter assured her that Chez Marie was indeed a very nice place. ‘Very fashionable. It’s won the regional Fine Dining Medal five years in a row. It said so in the local paper. The couple who do that cooking show own it. You know the one—on Wednesdays: Classic Chefs.’ When she heard this, Moss was glad that she’d brought a few more clothes back with her.
At the agreed time, Finn appeared, squirming self-consciously in a suit and tie. He looked