Southern Gold

by Jude Thomas

  ‘Did you name the little one, Miss Eveline?’

  ‘Name?’ Evie can still only think dimly. ‘Baby,’ she replies.

  ‘We cannot just call her Baby. What do you say that you call her a proper name for the while?’

  Evie is fixated on the memory of her sister’s face. ‘F – F – Florence.’

  ‘Florence it is then and it will be Florrie before long, that’s for sure.’

  Evie knows immediately that this is not right. Florence despises the name Florrie and could not abide Flo. ‘No, not Florrie, never. And it mustn’t be Flo. It must be – ’ Her mind lurches over her friends and her mother and her siblings to her little brother. ‘William.’

  ‘Miss Eveline, William is not a proper name for a female child. Do you mean Wilhelmina and we might call her Minny?’

  ‘Definitely not. Minny is our maid – that is – . But not William? Then must be Willy? Or maybe Billy? Billy, yes indeed!’ Evie’s mouth curls triumphantly.

  Meg says nothing for a while, cogitating the obstinate yet naïve young lady. We must humour her, and it is not for me to name the little thing. Billy indeed. But wait – she has heard of Billie spelled in a feminine way. Yes, it is quite pretty.

  ‘Then Billie it is for the time being, miss, if you’re satisfied.’ She smiles at mother and child.

  Thus Billie Frost is ordained.

  Over the following days, Evie regains most of her mind and convalesces well. She never recalls her wild and feverish lurch along the northern terraces with a hamper, or the slippery weave down the rutty hill until her frozen feet gave way and she crumbled to the ground. But she recalls that she was to be sent away and her baby was to be given up. She knows she has scandalised and disgraced her family, and that she can never go back. She will not talk about her family, ever, even though her heart calls for them. She decides to put it out of her mind; stubborn as Father and determined as Mother. Yes, of course they must be spared her disgrace; they must not ever find her.

  She shall now be Miss Eveline Frost, and she shall have such a grand time with baby Billie.

  Chapter Seven

  Meg and Alf think long and hard over the first weeks. They could have created a story about Eveline being a widow but she is obviously far too young to be married. They could have said she applied for a maid’s position and was accepted but Meg knows this wouldn’t wash amongst the locals – there is no denying the young lady’s breeding. They know that mother and child might be still be claimed, but if not Meg and Alf must think about the future, especially how Eveline and Billie will be seen and treated in public.

  And so, with agreement by Evie the announcement is made: that she is a young friend come to live here for the while, and a great help she will be too if she stays on. End of story; Meg is not one to be challenged on the whys or wherefores.

  Alf’s best mate, Sean O’Fee, generally known as Shuran, has a strong opinion on most things, and on this occasion he states, ‘Sure an’ nuttin’ is new since Eve bit da apple. God bless ye in yer troubles.’

  ‘Troubles be dashed,’ replies Alf. ‘This is a gift from Heaven above, and I’d thank you for leaving out the trouble.’

  ‘Sure an’ I didn’t mean anyt’ing contrary, Alf, but surely ye have enough without such arseways complications? Oh, Alfie, don’t take on so; I meant no harm in it. I can see ye dote on da child and da mammy too. An’ dis little charmer willn’t ever want for a better Da. Sure, even ’tis claimed and sent home – Jasus, Alfie, ’tis not what I meant to say a’tall! I was only sayin’ – but I see ye’re determined; sure an’ you’ll be grand, so.’

  Meg’s closest friend is Ernestine Struthers. She has come from Glasgow but is not of the Protestant persuasion. Nessie has many tales to tell in such a rapid, broad burr that Meg is lucky to catch half of her words, and the latest information is that a proper Catholic Church is soon to be built. ‘Ye ken the first Mass was celebrated oop loft of Burke’s Brewery halfway doon to Port Chalmers? Verra convenient for their suppin’! But the jarney was long and it was more convenient when Father started celebrations doon yon local skittle alley! Och, aye the noo, when we get a proper church,’ cackles Nessie, ‘the laddies will have to show more respect before skivin’ off after Mass for their wee drop!’

  But even Nessie, who found humour in many things, was sceptical of the new lodgers at first. ‘Ye’re tellin’ me, Meggy, it’s a lassie and her bastard? Foundlings? Och, ye’re lookin’ for trouble noo! Better to send them to the nuns or the workhouse with nae questions.’ And she initially urged Meg to send the unfortunates on their way, because surely with Evie’s fine clothes someone will find them and charge them with kidnapping, and before you know it, it will be gaol.

  But with each day of the first week she softens like a sucked toffee, and is soon enamoured of the two newcomers, especially the tiny Billie. ‘Och, aye, dinna fesh wee gurlie. An’ Meggy dear, lang may ye’ lum reek, for a bairn is a bonnie wee gift in the sight of God.’ A tear drops quietly from Nessie’s eye. She has never born a live child, only several dead souls.

  Meg is grateful for her kindness; she knows support from friends and neighbours will be very handy. Not that she doesn’t think that convents do the best job they can for such mites. Probably better than the workhouse – but who knows what goes on behind the doors of either? No life for anyone, if truth be told. And she and Alf see no sense in washing their hands of a young lady in an unfortunate situation when the pair have landed on them in their childless state. And for another thing, there are as yet few orphanages in the province – only further north where the French and Irish Catholics have established themselves. So it is settled.

  The first few weeks are challenging but Meg ensures Alf goes about his daily scavenge with old Dolly, and only begs that he will bring back no more of the likes. She has coaxed Evie into suckling her baby and success develops with each new day. Meg knows that a wet nurse is next-to-best for a babe, but best indeed is its own mother, and with this mother now amongst the common people whose instinct is for nursing their own, all is proceeding well enough. Evie is sometimes still dazed about the entire outcome of her circumstance but her maternal instinct comes to the fore and she is in constant attendance of baby Billie. She comes to know that her infant is not a doll that she can pick up and put down and play with at will; she also learns that broken nights and fractious days take a toll on one, even if one is fifteen and spirited.

  Most importantly, she understands the constant fear of infant mortality – death that can come like a thief in the night, robbing without impunity. But Billie seems as determined as her own mother, and within weeks her bright eyes are fixing intensely on objects and movements. The stare that will become the Look.

  Eveline does not, or will not, reveal anything of her identity, and her wish for silence is respected. Alf and Meg do what they decide honest people would do, and they place a notice in the newspaper.

  FOUND: Young Lady with Baby, possibly lost memory. Apply Otago Witness Box 28.

  This does not bring forth any interest, and they agree there must be some other sort of enticement. Alf places the next notice two weeks later:

  FROST: Young educated Lady seeks Family. Confidentiality assured. Apply Otago Witness Box 28.

  What a to-do this results in, with twelve applicants pleading varying agendas. There are those who have sniffed a chance and believe they could take a Lady into their care for a small sum. There are others who offer courtship, no doubt hopeful of a dowry – and what a dowry it would be, Meg laughs.

  Mostly there are those who have lost their governess or maid to marriage and are looking for a replacement. Servants and their lack of suitability is a very common conundrum in the colony. Emigrant families may bring their maids, but what single woman can snub the chance of marriage and advancement? Some have come under the guise of a ‘suitable woman’ but are often mediocre at best and useless at worst and the overwhelming ratio of female to male is superb. This predicament often forces
the more well-off to endure the inconvenience of advertising for servants.

  No one applies to advise that they have lost a daughter.

  Alf writes back to each of them as dictated by Meg, advising that their application is unsuccessful. ‘I think, Alfie,’ she says, ‘we must think of something better. I know, we don’t want to be in the position of losing the little pigeons, but if we are challenged sometime down the road – say someone thought we had done a kidnap or similar! – we could be in trouble. I think we must put it more particular, so as to try and reunite the family. And then we can say we’ve done our best.’

  The next and final advertisement is straight to the point:

  REWARD: Young educated Woman and Baby seek to reunite with Frost family. Apply Otago Witness Box 28.

  This time three replies are received, each forcefully claiming to be the very Frosts. Alf replies to them as before and arranges to meet each applicant. Of course it must be away from Maclaggan Street, and it is decided to conduct these encounters in the private lounge of the new Queens Arms Hotel, south on Princes Street.

  The first couple look strained and tired, arriving by bullock cart from west of Outram. Their daughter has run away from home and they have no idea where, but have heard she may be in trouble. If it is the trouble, there is nowt to fret on as they shall provide for them with great certainty.

  ‘And what does she look like, if you please?’ asks Alf.

  ‘She is a strapping lass, the eldest of seven, only three alive now, and we had such hopes for her future in New Zealand. She’s like her mother here, brown eyes, and curling black hair. Look, here is a likeness – not very good, but you will see her strong looks.’

  Nothing like Eveline’s. Alf’s heart goes out to them, but knows they are not the ones. The woman clutches her husband as they stand up to leave, and murmurs, ‘Any road, if you do come upon our girl, please, oh please let us know directly.’

  And so goes a family in tatters after the disappearance of their daughter. Who is to know if she has drowned in a river, or got lost in the hills, or run away in shame?

  The following day a second pair of claimants sweep into the Queen’s Arms lounge, looking about as if they expect to see a young woman and a baby with the gentleman agent. They are nothing like the first Frosts. Well-heeled but too clever by half, thinks Alf after the first two minutes, merely allowing them to create their own scenario. Oh, they are ever so pleased their girl has been found, everyone is frantic with worry as the wicked thing has stolen her aunt’s baby.

  ‘Or that is how it seemed after she was gone, because no, of course she is not wicked, and must have just fallen and lost her senses! After all that education, just to think of it! But whatever the reason, she is welcome back with us immediately. We will obviously be doing you a significant favour, sir, in taking her, that is claiming her – and of course the baby. And what, may I ask, is the reward you are offering?’

  That evening Alf has great pleasure in miming the antics of the second Mr and Mrs Frost, reducing Meg to stitches. ‘Yes, indeed, probably would call himself the Duke of York if the occasion warranted it. Him and his lady friend carrying on like that, just thinking about the reward. Deary me, only one more lot to go then.’

  But the third applicant does not arrive for the interview. The Maguires have done their best. No authentic claimants by the name of Frost, and so now what?

  They continue to put much thought into the situation over the following weeks. That is, Meg discusses it with Alf, who agrees with most things in the fullness of time, after a firm defence of the odds to ensure his soft nature is not taken advantage of. Such discussions usually end with ‘Well, my darlin’, if that is what you think is best, we shall agree that it shall be done.’

  And the agreement is that they keep these orphans of circumstance under their own roof until she is properly claimed or – more hopefully – until the seas run dry. For Meg and Alf have formed an attachment so strong that it would break their hearts to see their charges leave. They know that one day it may come to pass, and to guard the accuracy of their own story they keep copies of the advertisements, and Alf’s subsequent notes. Meg is torn between emotions, the stronger being that she feels Evie is like a much younger sister, and treats her with love and care. Alf adores her too, and Billie is like the child they never had. Already she is wrapped around his heart like a tender vine. Life is hard, but plenty of cheer abounds in the slums. And so Billie Frost survives the perils of infancy amongst the common folk of Maclaggan Street.

  Eveline is a most welcome hand in Meg’s kitchen, even though she is all fingers and thumbs at first. She is lively and willing to help where she can. She has her daily tasks and before long is indispensable. Throngs of new arrivals need their victuals and plenty is provided, with Meg’s astute ways of giving what always seems more for their money – pearl barley soup to fill, mutton stew for vitality, an abundance of fresh silver beet for the bowels – whilst making a steady profit herself.

  Although Maguires operates without dispensing liquor, many merry times are to be had of an evening. Evie has never regained memory of how she arrived, but has built confidence over the past two years to sing like she did before at – but no, not that – and is happy to trill her sweet voice after supper. She has blossomed from a bewildered girl into a poised young woman. She receives bravos from the parlour’s guests and there is often a moist eye during recitals.

  Billie’s sleep patterns leave her wide awake until late evening, so it is accepted that she stays with the adults rather than in her bed alone upstairs. She toddles amongst the guests and rides on their knees. She leans on Evie as she sings, and warbles her own versions. She follows Meg as the last cups of tea are offered, and carefully proffers the cake plate. Billie is much cosseted and indulged, but remains without guile. Yet there is something wise and old about the child, and although she is generally biddable, at times a violet spark of indignation flames across her sloping golden eyes. She often refuses assistance, whether getting in a tangle putting on her dress or buttoning her shoes, stating clearly, ‘I do mine-ownself.’

  ‘Well I never,’ is all Meg can say to this increasing independence.

  While three humans watch over Billie, Mungo is her true guardian. His place at Maguires is never questioned; he is the humble servant who will lay down his doggy life for her. Blind in one eye and with a mangled ear, Mungo is always on guard. In the evenings he shadows Billie vigilantly as she offers around the sultana cake.

  ‘Not two,’ Billie admonishes a surprised gentleman who reaches again towards the platter.

  ‘But I believe you are now two! It is said that you are two years old and a clever girl,’ is the response.

  Billie’s spun-toffee hair flicks from side to side and her eyes are indignant. ‘Not two cake,’ she instructs. ‘Not one-two-free-four-fi-sic-seben. You take only one cake!’

  Chapter Eight

  January 1862

  The town is in an uproar. Gold was discovered last year in a bleak gully near Dunstan, some two hundred miles inland, and vast wealth is predicted. The Otago Witness has declared boldly: ‘Gold, Gold, Gold, is the universal subject of conversation. The gold fever is running to such a height that, if it continues, there will be scarcely a man left in town.’

  The Maguires continue to earn a steady living by their shrewd but kind-hearted hospitality in the rapidly expanding slums. A steady flow of humanity arrives at Port Chalmers. Some survive the journey physically but not so well in mind, having lost babies, children, husbands or wives during an appalling journey. Others are keenly focused on making a new life on the land. The rest are desperate to embark on the next stage of their great expectations along the Dunstan trail. Most of these fling their swags over their shoulders and trudge up the narrow dirt track to Dunedin before heading for the diggings where it is said that the rivers spew forth gold nuggets. Some stay and get thoroughly drunk before the journey and by nightfall their tents are dotted all over the hillside.
Others, although they too see gold and fortune, have the coin for a night of civilised comfort, and Maguire’s Private Hotel offers wholesome board plus eight beds sardined into the upstairs rooms. Many guests are single males, but some are couples or families that have transferred from one form of poverty into another by way of eternal hope. Meg cannot host these guests without being paid, but she will occasionally give a penniless newcomer a mattress for the night before gently but firmly asking them to move on. And there are some who try to take advantage, moving on and coming back, hoping for another two days before the next bullock train, but she stands firm as others arrive with their meagre possessions. The stream is steady and unrelenting.

  According to the superior-thinking Scots, the immigrants pouring into Dunedin are ‘the new iniquity’, diluting their vision of godly perfection. Meg and Alf do not choose to be affronted and they continue to keep an honest board and bed for their continuous flow of guests. Not all new arrivals are bent on booze and bawdiness, gravitating to the public houses before wildly pressing on over hill and plain to the perceived riches of the diggings. Most are steadfast, happy to pay the going rate of two shillings per night for a few days of plain wholesomeness, and Maguires is a palace compared to their narrow, lurching bunks aboard ship. Plus there is literally music to their ears every evening except Sunday, from ‘the lovely Miss Eveline’ who sings in the small parlour. She has taken to wearing a thin golden band for convenience and discretion, and is also assumed to be young Mrs Frost. The nightly event has become quite an occasion, often orchestrated by three-year-old Billie:

  ‘First with “Jenny’s Petticoat”, Mama.’

  ‘Yes, wee girl, and it’s called “Comin’ Thro’ the Rye”,’

  ‘You told me Comin’ not correct, Mama, it should be Coming.’