In a Great Southern Land

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

‘I’m simply sharing some homespun culture about the place. Can’t let the troopers and toffs create another bloody England o’er here – Australia needs a good dose of the Irish, I’m reckoning.’ A young woman walked by and Dave tipped his hat with a grin. ‘Hello there, lovely. My, my.’

  ‘You seem determined to add a fair dose of Irish kiddies to the place too,’ Kieran said over his ale. ‘You’ve a new lass in your bed every week.’

  ‘A challenging task yet someone has to take it on,’ Dave declared. ‘You could help a little, you know – just as a contribution to your new country an’ all.’

  ‘Aye, I could,’ Kieran said.

  ‘What’s the hold-up then?’ Dave pushed. ‘Are you still heartsick over some lass back home? I’ve told you, nothin’ fixes getting over a woman better than bedding a dozen more. Don’t bother denying it. It’s written all over your long face there.’

  ‘Who says I’ve a long face?’

  ‘The horses outside were all talking ’bout you. I think the grey mare’s taken quite a fancy…unless you finally goin’ to give in and claim your girl.’ Dave nodded at the door where the woman who’d been showing interest in Kieran these past few weeks was arriving. ‘Speak of the she-devil.’

  Kieran watched her through bleary eyes and she caught his gaze, smiling in immediate, open invitation. She was just his type really: blonde, curvaceous, pretty, or she would have been before Maeve O’Shannassey had come along. The thought curbed his lust and he drained his glass. ‘No blondes for me.’

  ‘It’s what’s beneath that green dress you should be thinking of, not the colour of her fecken hair,’ Dave told him and Kieran noticed she had indeed worn the same outfit tonight. It was obviously new and she seemed keen to show it off. And indeed, what was underneath it, besides. Her bodice strained against a generous expanse of skin as she sauntered towards him, turning heads as she made her way through the appreciative, leering crowd. They doffed caps and whistled and offered all kinds of greetings her way but she ignored them all, focusing on Kieran alone.

  ‘Hello again,’ she said, hand on hip. It was a stance of confidence and expectation.

  ‘Hello,’ said Kieran, too drunk to bother standing but sober enough to realise his lust hadn’t quite been curbed, after all.

  ‘Good evening, miss, can we fetch you a drink?’ Dave asked and Kieran supposed he should have offered to do that himself. ‘Please, have a seat there,’ Dave added and Kieran figured he really should have been the one offering that, too.

  She didn’t seem too perturbed by his lack of manners, however; in fact it seemed to encourage her if the way she sat down and challenged his stare was any indication. ‘Please,’ she said to Dave and he headed off to the bar.

  Kieran studied her, taking in the smaller details of her person: the powder her skin didn’t need, the reddened lips and the tightness of her dress. He wondered then if she expected money in return for favours, knowing he wouldn’t be willing to pay if, indeed, he did end up bedding her. Perhaps she’d already had customers tonight, hence her late arrival. The thought curbed his lust once more.

  ‘Busy evening?’ he asked, more arrogantly than he’d intended.

  ‘Not really,’ she said, sliding her hair off her shoulder with her hand, exposing even more of that creamy skin. ‘You?’

  ‘Busy watching,’ he shrugged, flicking his eyes at the young woman Dave had noticed earlier, trying to bring her down a peg or two.

  She ignored the ploy. ‘Busy drinking, more like,’ she countered, eyebrows raised as if daring him to deny it.

  ‘It’s my duty as an Irishman, isn’t that right, Dave?’ Kieran said to his friend, who was returning with the drinks.

  ‘I sincerely hope you’re not on the same bloody topic as before,’ Dave muttered to Kieran, then he smiled at the woman. ‘I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. David Tumulty’s the name, although please call me Dave.’

  ‘Nice t’meet you, Mr Dave. I’m Shelagh Byrne.’

  ‘Shelagh Byrne. What a fine Irish name for a fine-looking lass, eh, Kieran?’

  ‘Kieran, is it?’ she asked, looking at him half-amused.

  ‘Kieran Clancy,’ Kieran said, knowing his manners towards her had really been appalling so far but not caring all that much. She brought out the worst in him for some reason, probably because he knew she was trying to make him pander to her ego just for sport and it made him determined to resist her, which she seemed to pick up on.

  ‘Clancy, eh? A fine name too,’ Shelagh said and Kieran could almost feel the gauntlet being thrown down between them.

  ‘Those who passed it down to me certainly were fine Irishmen.’

  ‘I can well believe it, Mr Kieran,’ she said, running knowing eyes over him as she took a long drink of her ale then trailed a single finger across her lips to wipe them. The action made him catch his breath and this time the lust returned with a vengeance, flooding through his alcohol-heated veins and coiling in his gut.

  ‘Er…I think I’ll just go see a horse about his long face,’ said Dave, moving away, but Kieran was engaged in her game now, despite himself, his gaze never leaving hers.

  ‘What else do you believe, Miss Shelagh?’ he asked, taking a deep drink too.

  ‘That you should take what you want in life,’ she said, leaning in closer. ‘That time goes by too fast to waste even a second.’ Her face was close now and her mouth within range for him to kiss her if he wanted. The thought further stirred his blood.

  ‘Don’t you want to just sit and savour it sometimes?’ he said, still trying to remain cool even while that mouth was sorely tempting him.

  ‘What’s to savour here in a pub full o’ drunks?’ she asked, shrugging her creamy shoulder dismissively. It made the green material slip a little further and Kieran itched to rip it off her altogether.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know; the knowledge that you have a fine Irish name…’

  She moved even closer now, her lips mere inches away, and his inebriated mind slipped and fed her ego after all.

  ‘That half the men in this room want you…’

  Shelagh smiled, claiming victory in the flattery. ‘Only half?’

  She kissed him then, just a touch of her lips but the hunger caught like sudden fire.

  ‘You don’t waste any time,’ he murmured against them.

  ‘Not even a second,’ she reminded him, then she kissed him again, a longer dance this time, and he was so drunk with both grog and lust he could have taken her on the table, right there and then.

  Instead he pulled back and grabbed her hand, leading her outside, past the leers and whistles and a grinning Dave who was taking a leak near the horses, but any other awareness was drowned out by desire. And no amount of ale was going to affect his ability to unleash it now. She took him to her room, which wasn’t far away, leading him up twisting stairs to the back of a building that was crowded with add-ons, their progress hampered by urgent kisses against the sandstone walls. Then they were on her bed and the green dress was shed and all the angst Kieran had felt since he’d left Ireland behind was funnelled into an explosion of desperate, hungry sex.

  The alcohol blurred it but Kieran awoke to memories of exploring every inch of Shelagh’s creamy skin and feeling the satiating if exhausting effects of bedding a woman who didn’t like to waste even a second of time.

  There were coins on the bedside table as he dressed and he paused to stare at them then over to Shelagh who was watching him from the sheets.

  ‘Should I be adding to the pile?’ he said, not really sure whether or not to ask.

  Shelagh stretched her naked form and smiled what seemed a very satisfied smile. ‘I took what I wanted last night as well, Mr Kieran. In good conscience, I’d have to pay you too.’

  She closed her eyes then and he saw little other choice but to take his leave, stepping outside to make his way down the stairs in the pre-dawn light. It felt strange to have spent the night with a woman again, even stranger that it was for pu
re lust. He’d had little interest since he’d left Maeve behind, thinking without love it would mean nothing to him now.

  Kieran stood and stared out at the harbour, observing ships that had sailed from all corners to rest here, beneath a new set of stars. To bring people who needed to start again. People like himself.

  This was part of that process, he supposed, and he searched for feelings of regret, finding none. The indifference disturbed him.

  The thought came to him then that Whitely’s ambush had beaten more than his flesh; it had taken some of the goodness inside him too. Filling him with ambition and vengeance was one thing, he was glad to give the experience that, but it was quite something else if it had left him cold inside. If it had actually broken his heart.

  Seventeen

  Sydney, August 1852

  ‘Rise ’n’ shine,’ Dave called out cheerfully as he banged open the door of the small room Kieran was renting near the shipping yards. Winter had long arrived since the one night he’d spent with Shelagh and Kieran had been fast asleep under the blankets, choosing his own bed despite her offer of a repeat performance last night.

  ‘Go away,’ Kieran mumbled into his bed, pulling the bedclothes over his head and groaning.

  ‘Time’s money, Kier, and there’s work to be done.’

  ‘Don’ care.’ Kieran’s head was throbbing from the foolish decision he’d made to accept a challenge to a Scotch-drinking contest from a Scotsman. He’d done it to divert himself from the temptation of re-bedding Shelagh and feeling soulless once more, but surely feeling like you were in hell afterwards nullified the purpose.

  ‘What kind of attitude is that?’ Dave proclaimed, hauling the blankets off and pouring a mug of water from the jug on the stand. ‘Look sharp. I’ve got a hot tip on a fight this morning and I need your arse with me up the river.’

  ‘That’s not work,’ Kieran told him, retrieving his blankets.

  ‘All manner of making money is work. Sweet Mary, Jesus and Joseph, it’s like I’ve taught him nothing ’t all,’ Dave said, looking up at the ceiling as if to address the spirit world.

  Kieran groaned again and Dave picked up the jug, holding it above his friend. ‘Three seconds or you get this over your head. One…’

  ‘Can’t a man be left to recover from an evil Scot in peace?’

  ‘Two…’

  ‘Alright, just give me…’

  ‘Three.’ Dave dunked the water over Kieran’s face then put the jug down to brush his palms together with satisfaction. ‘Right, see you outside then.’

  Kieran closed his eyes in defeat as the chilled water trickled down his face and hair, soaking the bed, and he groaned anew as Dave’s cheerful voice carried through the walls.

  What shall we do with the drunken sailor

  What shall we do with the drunken sailor

  What shall we do with the drunken sailor

  Earl-eye in the mornin’

  ‘I’ll get that bastard one day,’ Kieran muttered to himself before sitting up and looking around for a clean shirt. There was no use trying to argue with Dave when he was hell-bent on making some coin, especially when you were in a fragile way.

  Ten minutes later they were boarding a steam ferry headed for Parramatta and Dave was greeting the ferry-master like an old friend. Kieran wondered if he actually knew the man but the ferry-master was chatting cheerfully to him, regardless. For his own part Kieran didn’t bother making pleasantries as he gripped the cold rail tight, wondering if he’d make the journey without throwing up.

  ‘Sit down, go on,’ Dave said, finishing up his conversation and turning to point Kieran towards the bench near the doors. ‘What kind of Irishman are you, anyways? Turning down a woman then letting a Scot out-drink you like that.’

  ‘You’re just sore because you lost money betting on me.’

  ‘Who says I bet on you?’ Dave said, taking a seat next to him. ‘I may be your mate and all but I’m not stupid enough to back you in a Scotch duel against a man called William “Haggis” McDougall.’

  ‘I’ll never touch the stuff again,’ Kieran said, meaning it.

  ‘Don’ try to eat none o’ that haggis either. Disgusting it is. Some part of an animal’s innards just shouldn’t be consumed by man. Entrails and the like…where you off to?’

  It was a good ten minutes until Kieran returned, holding onto his stomach and wishing he’d never opened his eyes that morning.

  ‘All better now, are you? Better out than in, as me da always used t’say.’

  ‘Shut it,’ Kieran told Dave, taking his seat gingerly.

  ‘My, my, we are a bit cross this mornin’; maybe a spot of breakfast might perk you up? They have some lovely fresh oysters on board headed for the market. Mind you, y’can never be too careful with them slimy buggers. If the wrong one slides on down it can churn your stomach round and round and leave you retching for days on end until…what ho? Off again, are you?’

  Dave played this wicked game all the way up the river until Kieran was quite sure there was little chance there was anything inside of him left to bring up. It was with shaky legs that he walked down the gangplank at the journey’s end and paid a woman a penny for a drink from her pitcher of water. It helped settle him somewhat and he stood for a moment to regain his equilibrium and soak in his first view of Parramatta.

  It was a busy place, especially near the docks where men were loading and unloading produce from the farms nearby and a mixture of society was on parade: soldiers, troopers, convicts, farmers, traders spruiking their fare. It was cleaner than The Rocks area and the more affluent rode across the stone bridge in fine carriages, the women holding on to brightly decorated hats alongside men sporting ties and coats. They looked uncomfortable and Kieran didn’t envy their attire as they walked into churches for weekly Mass or Service. Eileen came to mind then and he felt a wave of guilt that he had stopped going himself without her around to prod him.

  Quite a few church spires rose above the scene but Kieran looked past them now, taking in the neat rows of cottages interspersed with shops, pubs and larger buildings that he supposed were factories and government houses. In all, it felt far more cosmopolitan than the Sydney he’d been exposed to so far and he began to forget about his nausea as they walked alongside the river towards the main part of town, the fresh sights diverting him.

  Dave had been to Parramatta several times and he started giving Kieran a bit of a tour as they went. ‘That there’s the Lennox Bridge where I fell off a cart last summer and hurt me rear end and that’s Julia’s brothel where the lady herself kissed it better later on,’ he said, pointing. ‘And that’s Tim Hanley’s eatery; best Irish stew in Sydney and that’s a fact.’

  The delicious scent was almost enough to whet Kieran’s appetite and he made a mental note to try it another time as he peered about in the warming sunshine. ‘’Tis bigger than I expected,’ he said, ‘and the river looks like it might be nice for a dip in summer. Do many people go swimming?’

  ‘Usually just the Aborigines. There’s some o’er yonder.’

  Some people were indeed visible and Kieran paused to watch them with interest. They were partially dressed in animal furs, cooking on a fire nearby and going about their daily lives as he supposed they’d always done. The men were in conversation and the children splashed in the shallows, seemingly oblivious to the white people on the other side, living a very different existence. The water looked inviting despite the cold and Kieran was tempted to have a quick dip himself.

  ‘Quit your gawking and look lively,’ Dave called over his shoulder a few yards ahead and Kieran hurried to catch up.

  ‘That must be strange for them, having us land here and take over,’ Kieran said, panting a little from the exertion of running with a hangover.

  ‘Fewer of them to offend at this point; smallpox wiped out most and a lot of them were shot,’ Dave told him.

  ‘What for?’

  Dave shrugged, but his tone was bitter. ‘Objecting to dy
ing, I suppose.’

  Kieran took one last look, disgusted and sorry for them now. ‘Poor buggers.’

  ‘Aye, well at least they got to keep the original name alive. Parramatta is their word; it means place of eels.’

  ‘Eels?’ Kieran repeated, looking back at the water doubtfully now.

  ‘Good eating apparently. Although they tend to have a rubbery texture and you have to get past that greasy skin o’theirs…you feeling alright there, Kier?’

  Kieran swallowed against the rising bile and grimaced. ‘Keep it up and I swear you’ll be wearing what’s left.’

  Dave laughed then and they rounded a corner, dodging a loaded cart as they went. A large crowd was gathering in the park ahead and Kieran wondered if this was the location of the fight. ‘Is this it then?’

  ‘No, that’s the Hanging Green. Some poor blighter’s about to swing.’

  Kieran looked at the eager faces of the crowd in disgust. ‘Sick bastards.’

  ‘People need entertainment I suppose,’ Dave said with a shrug. ‘Hopefully they’re not executing a lass. That there’s the Women’s Factory, well, it was anyway, until they stopped bringing ’em here. Now it’s an asylum for the sick ones and the lunatics.’

  ‘Just what they need to see out their window then,’ Kieran joked, gesturing at the Hanging Green, although the concept of those wretched souls looking out at such a place was making him feel sicker still.

  ‘Maybe we should rescue a few later, see if we can’t cheer them up. The mad ones probably aren’t too particular so there’s hope for you yet...ah, here we go: The Royal Oak Hotel.’

  Kieran peered up at the sign that crowned the pub, a rather elegant building, painted in cream and green, that sat on the corner of Church Street.

  ‘After you, sir,’ Dave said, reaching for the door and Kieran walked in to a sea of mostly working-class men like themselves, all itching for a cold ale and a flutter today.

  ‘Jacko, mate! Angus, you ugly dog – get yourself a haircut before I put a collar on you! PJ McLaren! Y’know last I saw this idjit he was face down in a horse trough and a trooper was eyeing off his arse for a right kickin’. Jock McCock – as I live and breathe. Where’ve y’been hiding that sorry mug o’yours?’