Written in the dark with the last of my laptop battery power during an impressively heavy Queensland thunderstorm. The title is from a great song by the 1980's Australian political-folk-rock band "Redgum".
...
A particularly bright flash of lightning precedes the going out of all the lights.
Sitting customarily close in the parlour, Jack and Phryne freeze with whiskey glasses in hand. When the lights fail to return, Jack feels his way to the window and peers out at the street.
"It's not the fuses. Every house on the street is dark." He returns to his seat, thankful for Phryne's hand outstretched in the darkness to guide him around the ravenous maws of furniture legs waiting to attack.
"Well then. How are we going to keep ourselves amused until the power is restored?" It doesn't matter that all Jack can see is the faintest outline of her face: he can hear the salacious smile she wears.
"Might I suggest we start by finding some candles?" he says, skipping over her flirting despite the way her leg presses not-entirely-accidently against his own.
"Spoilsport," Phryne mutters, but she stands and grips his hand tight in hers to lead him to the kitchen.
Dot and Mr Butler are already there, a pair of thick paraffin candles flickering to life as Dot applies a match. The kitchen door bangs open and Bert and Cec stride in looking pleased to be out of the storm. The rain follows them in and Dot scolds them into the corner of the kitchen, where they stand like two naughty schoolboys until Dot unearths some old towelling for them to dry off with.
"It's coming down right heavy out there, Miss," Cec says from under the towelling as he dries his hair. "We was on our way to the Grand for a beer when the bloody hail started."
"How bad is it?" Phryne asks.
"Well there ain't no lights for at least three blocks and the poor sods what've left cars parked on the street are gonna find themselves short a window or two come morning," Bert replies, tipping water from his boot and sparking another telling off from Dot.
"Well, thank goodness we are all here, safe and – for the most part – dry," Phryne says, adding firmly, "And I expect everyone to stay and make themselves comfortable while this storm is raging." Jack knows Bert and Cec are in no hurry to go back into the rain and he suspects Phryne's warning is directed at him. And, yes, decorum says he should be leaving before the evening gets too late, but he's not exactly been a stickler for the rules lately. As for the storm, he's seen worse. But the prospect of cold water guzzling down his collar and soaking his shoes seems particularly unattractive when he could be here, warm and dry and in the company of Miss Fisher.
No. Phryne has no need to worry that he will excuse himself from the house anytime soon.