“What am I to do all day?” she demanded, swatting a platoon of flies away from her face. “Sit around in your room while you earn a living?” She shook her head. “No. I’m not a cause for your charity. However much you might think it.”
I stood in the middle of the alley, clenching my teeth at her stubbornness. I debated whether to argue.
Think of your son, I wanted to say. But I held my words. In spite of, or perhaps because of all life had thrown at her, Lottie had a pride about her. A pride, I saw then, that would not let her accept charity from a sasanaigh. No matter how well meaning.
“And you’ll not change your mind?”
“No, Nell,” she said, hand on her hip. “I’ll not change my mind.”
Dejected as I was, a part of me understood. Being a cause for Blackwell’s charity had stung. I’d not stopped to think I might be cutting Lottie as deeply. And what could I do but give a nod of understanding and head back towards the tavern?
*
Sydney Town was refreshing. In Parramatta, I’d seen the same stale faces walk the streets each day, added to only once or twice, when a new shipment of convicts had come crawling up the river.
But Sydney reminded me there was more to this world than the sand and stone of New South Wales. The Whaler’s Arms was full of merchants, of sailors, of settlers with big dreams. They spoke of their new homes and their old, raged against the governor, the Rum Corps, the English, the Irish. I listened in on as many conversations as I could as I wiped tables and refilled glasses.
Did you hear young Bobby’s been pardoned?
Can’t get a thing to grow in this soil.
Bligh’s behaving like God himself…
Soldiers and farmers, and emancipists celebrating with one too many ales. Sailors with hands that felt like tree bark when they pressed their coins into my palm.
I knew what the sailors were after, of course. Their eyes would gleam as they leaned across the bar to order their drinks, hands lingering against mine when I passed them their change. I was always quick to let them know I was no good for anything but putting a drink in their hands. But sometimes, when the tavern was quiet, I would listen to them speak. Hear them tell tale after tale of their travels. I needed to hear of that faraway world. Needed that reminder that we weren’t all alone out here.
“London,” I said to one. “Have you been to London?”
The sailor was older, with grey streaks dashed through his dark hair. Had a round, rough voice that spoke of coasts and cliffs and wrecks. He said:
“Aye. Of course. Was in London not a year ago.”
“Tell me of it,” I said wistfully, as though the place were paradise and not the hell I’d sailed out of with blood on my boots. I rested my chin in my palm and listened as he told me of strikes against the wars in Europe. Of the gas lights that had lit up Pall Mall as though it were morning.
“And this place?” I dared to ask. “What do they think of us back home?”
The sailor chuckled. “Every hot-blooded man has a mind to visit. They say them factory lasses are a good thing.”
As I had learned in Parramatta, we lived in a deeply divided colony. The Whaler’s Arms saw its fair share of croppies, who huddled in the back corners and murmured beneath clouds of pipe smoke. Though I never saw Owen or Brady among them, I was constantly on edge at the prospect of another uprising. I’d sidle past tables in hope of catching fragments of English. The murmured Gaelic made it all too easy to imagine them plotting their next rebellion. I felt a pang of shame as I thought back to the two croppies in Parramatta. Tied to the triangle for speaking their own tongue.
But while the croppies kept to themselves, the tension among the Englishmen was no less stark. Most evenings, the Whaler’s rang with terse voices as the farmers and enlisted men argued the way forward.
“Would you listen to them?” Charlie snorted, passing a glass of rum to the older gentleman sitting at the bar. “Harping on like fishwives.”
I peered over at the throng of men. Tonight there was plenty of them; half in their lobster coats, the others in the faded shirts and breeches of the men who worked the land. “What are they arguing about?”
“Love for Governor Bligh,” said Charlie. “Or lack of it. Redcoats are losing their mind cos he’s taking away their liquor stills.” He looked over at the gentleman he had just served. “What do you make of all this, Flynn?”
The older man chuckled. “Heaven forbid we stop trading in liquor like savages and use the grain for bread instead.”
I’d grown to like Arthur Flynn, with his neat frock coats and polished boots, a far cry from the mud-caked lags who usually tramped through this place. In the three weeks since I’d begun working at the Whaler’s, he’d appeared on several occasions, always with a kind word for me.
Charlie nodded at the glass in Flynn’s hand. “Didn’t see you coming in here and ordering a loaf of bread.”
Flynn chuckled. “Quite right. But all things in moderation.”
“Get rid of the rum stills like Bligh wants and this place’ll fall apart,” said Charlie. “We’re in a colony of drunkards.”
Flynn lifted his glass. “Exactly. And if we’re to flourish, then that must change. Bligh’s done damn fine work here, if you ask me. Half of us holding land would have lost everything we had if it weren’t for him. The Rum Corps would have bought all our land for pennies and ended up with this entire place to their name.”
“My business is flourishing just nicely, thank you very much,” said Charlie. “It’s all those fine drunkards that are keeping me in business.”
I smiled.
Flynn turned, catching me listening. He gave me a warm smile. “Good evening, Miss Marling.”
I’d never bothered to correct him; to tell him I was no miss; that I carried my dead husband’s name, as well as his guilt. There seemed little point.
He nodded to the corner of the bar where one of the men was gesturing wildly. A fat cloud of cigar smoke hung over his head. “Have you ever seen such a pitiful display? Those men ought to be ashamed of themselves, behaving this way in front of a woman.”
“I think she quite likes these pitiful displays,” said Charlie. “Always with her ear to the ground, ain’t you, Nell? Always keen to know what’s happening.” He winked at me. “She thinks we don’t notice.”
Flynn chuckled. “Is that so?”
“Here.” Charlie took a fresh ash tray from beneath the counter and handed it to me. “You want to catch an earful you can take this over to them.”
I took the ashtray and set it on the men’s table, collecting the old one with its overflowing cigar butts, and as many empty cannikins as I could bundle into my arms. Oblivious to my arrival, the men continued talking over one another.
“Watch your damn mouth, boy,” one of the soldiers was hissing. “Or you’ll be at the coalmines before you know it and that farm of yours’ll be nothing but dust.”
“It’s as it always is,” I said, as I returned to the bar and dumped the empty cannikins in the trough. “The Rum Corps are the ones with the power. The rest of us just go where they lead us.”
Flynn emptied his glass and took his top hat from the counter, pressing it on over his thick grey hair. “They’ll be pulled into line soon enough. Bligh’s cut from far too strong a cloth to let them keep up their run of the place.” He bobbed his head at me as he made his way towards the door. “Take care, my dear. Keep that ear to the ground. You never know what you might hear.”
I smiled, turning back to the trough to scrub out the empty glasses. The door creaked and thudded as several of the men left, a momentary quiet falling over the bar.
“I remember you,” said a voice behind me. I whirled around to see a young soldier sliding onto a bar stool. “You’re a Parramatta lass. Blackwell’s lodger.”
The words made heat blaze through me. I both did and didn’t want to be Blackwell’s.
“How d’you get down here then?” he asked.
�
�I have my paperwork.” I reached into my pocket. “If you wish to see it, I—”
He waved a hand dismissively. “’S’all right. I was just making conversation.” He slid off his jacket. “Ale, if you please.”
I poured him a glass and sat it on the counter. The soldier’s face had a faint familiarity to it. I remembered him standing on the edge of the green while the two Irishmen from the chain gang were flogged. “Lieutenant Harper,” I said.
He nodded. “That’s right.”
“You’re a long way from Parramatta.”
“I’ve come downriver with the fishing party,” he said. “We’re to head back up north in the morning.”
“And you managed a decent haul?”
“There’s fine kingfish in Sydney Cove,” he said, gulping down his ale. “Government stores’ll be well stocked when we return.”
There was far more I wanted to ask him about, of course. The rebels and their uprising. The rebuilding of the burned-out factory, and whether the women from the spinning wheels had roofs above their heads. Above all, I wanted to ask him about Blackwell.
My missing him was a deep ache inside me.
I opened my mouth to speak; nothing but casual questions of course. Is he well? Will you pass on my regards?
But it felt dangerous. Felt as though speaking of him would stoke a fire that needed to burn out. Perhaps even then, hidden somewhere at the back of my mind, I knew that having Blackwell in my life would destroy me.
*
Later that week I went back to the Rocks. It had been almost a fortnight since I’d last seen Lottie, and each night I fell asleep thinking of her crammed into that squalid kitchen with her baby in the basket beside her.
I made my way down the alley and peeked through the door into the kitchen. Lottie was sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, Willie held to her breast. Healthy, as far as I could tell. As safe as could be hoped for.
I hurried away before she could catch sight of me, and wove through the alleys towards the market. Carts were crammed into the streets, loaded with potatoes, with cabbages, with hessian bags of grain. An enormous brown horse nudged my shoulder as I passed.
I bought a loaf of bread and hunk of cheese, and tucked them into my basket.
A faint tug on my skirt. I whirled around and caught a small hand reaching into my pocket. I grabbed the wrist of the young, dark-haired girl. I guessed her no more than nine or ten. Her eyes widened as I tightened my grip.
“I didn’t take nothing,” she said hurriedly. “I swear it. Not a thing.” She spoke with a forced confidence but I could see the fear in her wide blue eyes. I loosened my grip a little.
“What do you need the money for?” I asked. “Food?”
She nodded.
I let go of her wrist and reached into my coin pouch. Handed her a couple of shillings and a little of the bread.
She crammed the food into her pocket and tightened her fist around the coins. Gave me a tiny smile of thanks.
“Wait,” I said, pressing a hand to her shoulder before she could dart away. “Do you have somewhere to sleep? Someone to take care of you?” I couldn’t shake the fear that when night came, she would disappear into the maze of the Rocks with all the forgotten women.
She chewed her lip, as though debating whether to talk. Dark, tangled curls blew loose around her cheeks. “I lost my ma,” she said.
“Where did you last see her?”
The girl didn’t speak for a few moments. “Well,” she said carefully. “I don’t really remember.” She looked down at her scuffed boots. “They took me to the Orphan School when I was little.”
I let out my breath. I had heard far too many stories of the Orphan School around the spinning wheels.
I thought of the crying woman I had sat beside in my first week in Parramatta, tears falling for the child she would never see again. I thought of all the women in the factory sleeping beside their babies in the night, knowing it was only a matter of time before they were taken away. And I thought of the lifeless body I had found in the scrub on the side of the road. Because when I looked down at the young girl with my coins her hand, I saw Maggie Abbott’s stark blue eyes staring back at me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
This runaway from the Orphan School would not find her mother; of that I was certain.
I swallowed heavily. “What’s your name?”
She looked over her shoulder, then back up at me. “Kate,” she said finally. “Kate Abbott.”
My heart was beating fast. “You’ve got to go back to the Orphan School, Kate. This is not a safe place to be.”
She shook her head. “I finished at the school now. Got my Bible and everything. Only they sent me to work for some toff up in George Street. And he were real nasty… He… Well, he…” She faded out, her eyes back on the ground. “I don’t want to say.”
Something twisted in my chest. “You ran away?”
A faint nod.
My heart lurched then, for this child, traipsing through Sydney Town, looking for the mother she could barely have remembered. Walking the streets and waiting for a woman to claim her.
“All right,” I said, churning through my mind for a way to tell her of Maggie’s death. I had to take her back to the tavern with me. I could hardly tell her the truth standing here in the street with Sydney Town heaving around us. Who was I but a stranger with the worst of news to give her?
“Come with me,” I said carefully. “I’ve a room at the Whaler’s Arms. You can rest there. Have some food and—”
Kate whirled around suddenly and started to run. I looked over my shoulder to see what had startled her, coming face to face with a soldier. Kate’s pockets, I guessed, were full of stolen coins.
I grabbed a handful of my skirts and ran in the direction she had disappeared. I wove past the market and into the narrow streets of the Rocks, my basket bumping against my hip.
I called after her, my voice bouncing between the walls of the alleys. I turned corners, climbed terraces, peered into shops and houses. But Maggie’s daughter had disappeared.
By the time I made it back to the tavern, I was a dishevelled, sweaty mess. I was also late for work.
Charlie glared at me as he heaved a fresh rum barrel onto the shelf. “Don’t make me regret hiring a lag.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. I tossed my basket into the kitchen and hurried back to the bar. My stomach groaned loudly and I realised I hadn’t managed to eat.
Charlie flung a dish cloth at me. “Get to work.”
I poured ales and rum with my head full of Kate Abbott. I couldn’t bear the thought of her roaming the streets of the Rocks, searching for her dead mother.
A part of me wished I could return to the state I had been in when I’d first been shipped out to this place; that state of pushing others’ predicaments to the back of my mind. Of emptying myself of empathy.
But I couldn’t do it. I ached for Lottie, for Willie, for Kate. I felt the weight of it all upon my shoulders. I felt the loneliness of the men and women shipped away from their loved ones; of men like Blackwell who had left their wives in the name of duty. I ached for the croppies tied to the triangle, and for the women sleeping between the spinning wheels on piles of tick-infested wool.
I felt suddenly exhausted. This was my life now, I realised. Even if I were somehow to obtain that magical pardon, and see the shores of England again, I knew I could never go back to my old ignorance. Couldn’t turn my back while men were flogged and women died, and pretend the world was as it should be. I was powerless, yes, but I was no longer unaware. This place had changed me irrevocably.
I cringed at the sight of Arthur Flynn strolling into the bar in his top hat. I knew I looked a right mess, after tearing through the streets in search of Kate. Loose strands of hair clung to my cheeks, my plait hanging limply down my back. I knew my face had caught the sun. But at least with Flynn, I would be guaranteed an intelligent conversation, whether I looked a right mess or not.
Something to take my mind off Kate and Lottie, and all the others who were pushing their way into my thoughts.
“This heat is quite dreadful, don’t you think?” he said, as I poured him his customary liquor. “Although my farmhands tell me the corn crop is flourishing in this weather.”
“Well,” I said, pushing the cork back into the bottle. “Perhaps you ought to wish for more hot weather. I hear there are many farmers not lucky enough to have their crops flourishing.”
“That’s very true.” He smiled. “You’ve a sharp mind. I like that.” Flynn climbed awkwardly onto a stool at the bar. “Are you a free settler, Miss Marling?” he asked suddenly.
“No, sir,” I said, cheeks colouring with shame. “I have my ticket of leave.”
His gaze didn’t falter. “I see.” He slipped a tobacco box from his pocket and filled his pipe.
“I’m seeking a wife,” he said matter-of-factly.
Short of a more astute response, I said, “Is that so?”
He used his little finger to tamp the tobacco into the pipe. “Perhaps you might consider it?”
That night, I found myself considering it.
I lay on my back, staring up at the crooked beams of the ceiling. The room was near lightless but I could hear laughter and the clop of horse hooves rising up from the street.
What would it mean for me, this elevation from concubine to wife? As I’d stood dazedly behind the bar, caught off guard by Flynn’s proposal, he had outlined his credentials while puffing on his pipe. A house overlooking the sea. Fifty acres of farmland. A small household staff and eight convict workers.
I didn’t love Arthur Flynn, of course. I barely knew the man. But who married for love in this place? Who married for love anywhere? Flynn was kind and studious, with a large property and a successful business. As a husband, he would be far more than I could ever have dared hope for when I’d been sent to the factory as one of the left-behind women.
As proud as I had been of finding work, I knew without a man beside me I had no security. No way of getting ahead in the world. Marrying was the only hope I had of a stable, protected life. It had been true in London and it was even more true here. Without a husband I had no way of getting ahead in the world, or of doing anything to help people like Lottie and Kate. Without a husband, I saw with grim certainty, I was nothing but a candle trying to outlast a gale.
One of Us Buried Page 19
