Araluen by Judy Nunn

machine on the scarred wooden table, the strips of leather and twine hanging from hooks everywhere — it all spelt industry.
    ‘For a little extra rent you maybe want to use my kitchen too?’ Solly asked.
    ‘No, thank you.’ Franklin shook his head and followed the man into the shop.
    They sat opposite each other across the counter, surrounded by displays of boots, shoes, belts andassorted leather goods and for a full ten minutes they haggled. Franklin was aware that Solly had assessed the quality and the price of his suit, his waistcoat, his shirt, his hat and, above all, his boots and had come to the conclusion that here was an easy bet.
    Having already enquired as to the average price of rooms in Surry Hills, Franklin was also aware that Solly was asking over four times the accepted amount.
    Eventually they agreed upon a sum to their mutual satisfaction. Franklin could have pushed it down a little further but he decided to let Solly have the extra couple of shillings. Mankowski was a shrewd fellow, he knew the area and its people well and he could prove useful.
    ‘You drive a hard bargain, Mr Ross.’ Solly grinned amiably; he enjoyed a good haggle.
    Franklin paid him three months rent in advance — unheard of in Surry Hills — and said he would move in the following morning. I shall no doubt be doing some business locally and would appreciate your advice from time to time,’ he said.
    Solly pocketed the money and nodded eagerly. ‘Anything, Mr Ross. Anything you want, you ask Solly Mankowski. And I tell you what — for no extra rent you use my kitchen. Come. I show you.’
    ‘No, thank you.’ Franklin rose and crossed to the door. ‘That won't be necessary, I prefer to dine out.’ Useful as Mankowski may prove to be, he didn't want to encourage over-familiarity.
    As he opened the door Franklin collided forcefully with a woman on her way in. ‘I’m so sorry,’he said and put out a hand to steady her.
    ‘I'm perfectly all right, thank you,’ the woman replied and smiled reassuringly.
    ‘Millie, this is Mr Franklin Ross — he's going to be your neighbour.’
    ‘Oh.’ Millie Tingwell looked taken aback. She had presumed the posh gentleman leaving the shop was someone from the outer suburbs purchasing a pair of Solly's boots. Solly had a number of wealthy customers. ‘Well, fancy that.’ Millie smiled again, her dimples flashing alluringly. ‘How do you do, Mr Ross.’
    ‘Mrs Tingwell.’ Franklin raised his hat and tried not to stare too hard. The woman was astonishingly attractive.
    Millie was in her early thirties and she wasn't beautiful. Her features weren't fine enough to be beautiful. Her mouth was a little too generous and her jaw was a little too wide. What's more, she was a redhead, and her curls were a little too lavish to be in good taste. They were natural — everything about Millie was natural — but, like her hair, everything about Millie was unruly. It was a constant source of frustration to her. She was conscious of style, very much wanted to be ‘chic', and tried desperately to maintain some control over her appearance. But no amount of pins successfully anchored her hair, her generous body refused to be disguised by her modest choice of dress and her dimples flashed disobediently even when she was at her most serious.
    ‘Welcome to Solly's,’ she said. ‘I'm sure you'll be comfortable here.’ Then she excused herself and went up to her room. She had just finished a tenhour shift at Gadsden's Fabric Bag and Sack Factory and she was exhausted.
    Solly had noticed Mr Ross's reaction. It was the same reaction he noticed in every red-blooded male who came in contact with Millie. Indeed, it was the same reaction Solly himself had experienced when she'd first moved in five years ago.
    So attractive had Solly found her that, after Millie's husband died, leaving her in financial trouble, he had even suggested there might be an alternative method of rental payment he would be happy to