You can’t ignore that loud voice. Even above the noise of the tram groaning along Gertrude Street, nobody need eavesdrop; that voice scotches any demand for such social impropriety.
And those wonderfully raw, dropped consonants. You won’t hear those from a private school! “Ya know dear, walking from ta tram stop, ya turn left inta Gore Street, that’s where they found ‘em, ta bodies, some ‘eadless – in that old derelict ‘ouse …”. The tram rattles on, but with that last titbit, you, and the others, are hanging on her every word. You can just imagine the headless bodies lying around the house.
Hang on, she is getting off. She knows she has you, and most of the other travellers, all wanting a conclusion, or further details. You’re going to get off too? And those other couple of women, gathering things together; there are flurried movements on the tram. You are all wearing that harried look, despairing of missing out on the ending, driving you, like Lemmings, towards the door.
On the pavement, you all hesitate, pretending to straighten skirts, adjusting demeanours, playing for time until she declares her path. Then off you all, independently, troop.
She is still gabbling at the top of her lungs. “…Police was called, but …”, and “…ya know, like dem Spanish tarts tangoing, cass-nettes, Ole’, ‘uge earrings …” and then, “… reports of loud, racy music in ta evenings. Old blokes, never any ladies, coming an’ going. Well, natchurley, wees’ all thort …”
You need to get closer, her voice has dropped, the words are being whipped away on the cool morning breeze. You catch a sneaky, over-shoulder glance, a grin. You sense that she is actually stringing you, and the other girls, along. Her voice drops almost to a whisper, as she confides more of the grisly details to her travelling companion.
You are so immersed in the story that you almost bowl her over, as she executes a sudden manoeuvre, a sort of a left-hand twist, at what must be her front gate? “Ta-ra, Doreen, see ya tomorrer”. You attempt composure, but you are all non-plussed, caught without an explanation for finding yourselves in unfamiliar streets, literally on the heels of this quite intriguing storyteller. You try a discreet shuffle, a whole-of-body movement as if to confirm an awakening, a realisation that you got off at the wrong tram stop. Two of your compatriots turn, forced into tactful retreats, back towards the next, onwards tram.
What the heck, the game is up. You open with “Hello. I couldn’t help but overhear…”.
With a triumphant smirk, she turns, and trumpets, “Well, as I was sayin’, wees’ all thort it was a knock shop. Been vacant for years. Last week, ta young kids broke in. Theys found ‘eadless bodies: ta cops found old dressmaker’s dummies, some ‘eadless, with flouncy dresses, wigs, make up, ta whole nine yards. In ta lounge, theys also found an old broken, wooden sign, promotin’ Fred and Ginger’s Lido Dance Academy.”