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Should anything ever happen to me, Tom, you have to go and see a firm of solicitors called Tillet & Associates.

Tom, if I die suddenly, you get yourself to Adelaide somehow and visit Tillet & Associates.

What’s the name of that firm I want you never to forget?

He’d duly repeat the name, sounding almost bored, never believing anything would happen to his mother that would force him to go in search of these people in Adelaide. It was only now that he recalled his mother murmuring to him about Tillet & Associates while he raced against time over the desert to get her and his soon-to-be-born sister to Farina. She’d said it so many times as he had driven Bonny faster than she cared to go while he grimly set his sights on the bush hospital. ‘Tillet & Associates, Tom. Don’t forget,’ she’d panted.

His eyes watered at the memory as he realised that perhaps his mother had begun to believe that she might not see another day. And she hadn’t. He swallowed, returned to the present and became aware of more people flowing around him as he stood, staring, in the middle of the pavement. He straightened himself, breathed in and knew that he would need to confront the firm of Tillet & Associates, to see what secrets lay behind that black door.

But not today.

It was getting on towards late afternoon so he turned away and wended a path through to the famous Hindley Street on his way back towards the station. He’d actually heard of it for its debauchery of pre-war times, but he wasn’t observing much of anything too racy. Instead, he gathered that the street likely lit up the city of an evening with colourful, blinking lights and sounds of excited audiences attending the theatre.

As he reached the station where he’d begun the afternoon, it was approaching sunset and the people moving around now were the theatre-goers and early diners. Given the pleasant evening, there were also plenty of strollers taking a walk near the river.

He stood in the wide boulevard of elegant North Terrace and knew a decision had to be made quickly. Either he found accommodation in the city, which would be expensive, or he should make his way down to the port before dark and find a guesthouse or hotel room over a pub. Once night closed in, everything would seem more strange, more difficult.

However, the smell of cooked pastry wafted over, making his belly rumble. He’d not eaten anything at midday, saving his money and relying on breakfast to carry him through to an evening meal, and right now, the irresistible fragrance of meat pie was calling to him. He followed the scent to where people were queuing at a kiosk with a canvas awning. Two men in white baker’s hats were serving a dish he overheard people ordering called a pie floater. It seemed to have appeal to all, from workers ending a busy day to the theatre-goers in their finery, as he watched them experiencing what looked to be a guilty treat, laughing and dabbing at their mouths with paper serviettes. Craning to see the dish, he spotted a thick slurry of mashed peas, halfway to a soup as far as he was concerned, and then a square pie placed lid-down to float in the pond of vivid green. Odd but irresistible.

Well, there was nothing for it, he decided, but to join the herd. He gathered from the talk around him that the van would be twice as busy once the drinkers poured out of the pubs. So within a few minutes he was one of the smiling people standing around and eating, chatting with his fellow diners.

‘Your first? Really?’ one man said, sounding astonished.

Tom grinned. ‘I come from the outback, up north. No pie floaters there, although I think my father once mentioned that his folk used to have a pea-and-pie supper in England where they came from. Maybe it was this.’

The man nodded. ‘Could be right. Although visitors from the other states turn their noses up. They just don’t get it.’ He grinned, dragging a spoon around the last of the thick gruel of peas. ‘It’s twice as good after a skinful,’ he continued.

‘Is that right?’

‘Oh, my word. It’s as though you’re enjoying the final meal of your life. You’ll see. So, what’s a fellow from the far north doing here? Looking for work, are you?’

‘Yes. I thought I’d head to the port and ask around.’

‘Not an easy time for anyone to find work,’ the fellow said, apologising with a shrug for stating the obvious.

Tom nodded his understanding.

‘But you’re on the money – the port is probably the best place. Have you heard about the Black Diamond?’

Tom shook his head.

His companion smiled. ‘It’s at the intersection of Commercial Road and St Vincent Street. Busy spot, overlooked by a silent cop.’

Tom didn’t know what that meant but he nodded all the same, encouraging the man to continue.

‘Black Diamond refers to coal, of course, but it’s that corner where men gather and find out what work is going at the port. In days gone, the lucky ones would be given a piece of coal as their pass to get work – hence the nickname. Anyway, head there. You’re young, strong, fit . . . you should be able to find some manual work.’ He pointed down North Terrace. ‘Follow the road but it’s a long way. I’d recommend you take the train. Have you sorted your accommodation?’

‘Not yet. What about a tram?’ Tom asked, preferring to watch the street life go by rather than rattling on a track that would likely snake around Adelaide’s hustle and bustle.

‘No trams here – take a motor bus from over there by the Gresham Hotel.’ The man pointed to the opposite side of the great terrace, back up towards the intersection of King William Street. ‘I think you’ll have to change, but ask the conductor. Go down to Alberton, find rooms, and it’s a short walk to Black Diamond Corner.’

‘That’s perfect.’

‘There!’ The man pointed. ‘A motor bus like that one. You’d better ask which number, or you’ll be off to Largs Bay,’ he warned with a grin.

Tom scooped up his final mouthful and then bent down to pick up the small bag that he slung over a shoulder. ‘Cheers, mate.’

‘Good luck,’ the man said, giving a casual salute of farewell, and they parted ways.