by Jude Thomas
‘Only in this instance it is a song, already with the words established, Billie. Now please let me start the recital.’
‘Stablished. Good words when stablished, Mama. Now you begin!’
Evie draws breath, smiles around the room and duly begins:
‘Oh, Jenny’s wet, poor body,
Jenny’s seldom dry,
She dragged all her petticoats
Comin’ thro’ the rye!’
The guests join in each chorus, quietly at first, some dabbing at the corner of their eyes.
If a body meet a body
Comin’ thro’ the rye,
If a body kiss a body
Need a body cry?
‘Ev’ry lassie has her laddie
None, I say, have I,
Yet all the laddies smile at me
When comin’ thro’ the rye!
Occasionally a bold young man will venture comments such as ‘And no wonder they smile at you, miss, if you pardon me saying so!’
The smiles and quiet bravos tell their own story, and rarely does anyone frown like Father at the notion of kissing. That is the part where the sadness of her early life, and the wrench from Mother and Father and her siblings, clutches at Evie’s throat, but she takes a deep breath and continues. ‘Skye Boat Song’ is next, after which she asks for requests, and they come quickly: ‘Purple Heather’ and ‘Scarborough Fair’; ‘Highland Mary’ and ‘Ye Banks and Braes’; then, ‘Dawning of the Day’ and ‘The Wind that Shakes the Barley’.
And more learned from guests who wish something to be sung or, on occasions, are happy to take a turn. Most guests hail from England, Scotland and Ireland, and those from Australia have mostly originated from the same parts. The Australians are not of those who were depopulated from England and Ireland for petty crimes or political leanings. They are mainly those who sailed originally for New South Wales or Victoria of their free will. Their songs of choice are ‘The Wild Colonial Boy’ in which the men’s voices often chorus the rebellious words, and ‘She Moved through the Fair’ requested by the women. Evie knows it brings on the tears with its mordant melody, and she will only sing the first two verses and reprise the first.
My young love said to me,
My mother won’t mind
And my father won’t slight you
For your lack of kind.
And she stepped away from me
And this she did say:
It will not be long, love,
Till our wedding day.
She stepped away from me
And she moved through the fair
And fondly I watched her
Move here and move there.
And then she made her way homeward,
With one star awake,
As the swan in the evening
Moved over the lake.
My young love said to me,
My mother won’t mind
And my father won’t slight you
For your lack of kind.
And she stepped away from me
And this she did say:
It will not be long, Love
Till our wedding day.
Tears flow as predicted, but then it is quickly on to more buoyant tunes such as the rollicking ‘Clementine’ (oh, how many songs are about disaster – fell into the foaming brine indeed!) and ‘Cherry Ripe’ (where everyone is happy, thankfully!) to retrieve the positive mood. Evie does not sing coarse or vulgar songs, partly because Billie is always present even when she falls asleep in Alf’s arms, and partly because just up the street there are plenty of bawdy houses where the tempo is raucous.
The final song is always ‘The Gypsy Girl’s Dream’ and the notion of dwelling in marble halls falls softly over the sleepy audience. Evie sings with sweet grace and as they head towards their rest, the guests often whisper ‘Pretty indeed’ and ‘Most pleasurable.’
‘Pleasurable,’ murmurs Billie in her half-sleep as she is gathered up in her mother’s arms and carried up the steep stairs to their shared bed.
Chapter Nine
By the end of the year, fourteen more hotels have sprung up in and around Maclaggan Street. Even so, Maguires is almost always a full house with little time for conversation. To compensate, Meg and Eveline sometimes spend their evenings beside the kitchen fire, stitching and chatting. It is a companionable time.
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ says Meg firmly. This night they are talking about the sorry state of a neighbour whose devotion to the bottle is the cause of much misery to his wife and eight living children. Their abode is a wooden shack, built some ten years ago around the same time that the Maguires erected their little palace, but now ramshackle with a leaking roof and broken windows. The woman of the house sleeps on the floor and the children share two rank mattresses. A dire situation, only too common around Maclaggan Street.
‘It’s unacceptable in my book. No excuses. If you don’t have work, you go and find it. If a man can’t provide for his family despite whatever the good Lord has sent his way – begging your pardon, Lord – then the man has no testicular fortitude. If the demon drink has him in its sights and the man can’t look it in the eye and say ‘Be gone, Satan!’ then that pitiful man has not got what made him into a man in the first place. No spine. No testicular fortitude.’
Meg and Evie often discuss the high and the mighty; the elevated and the lowered; and the popular topic of men – especially the man who has fallen into the path of all evil through a weak will or any excuse for bad behaviour. But they also bring themselves up short with a sigh when the conversation throws a slant on men and their ways, and the ways that brought Evie to the street.
‘What is test – test-ular fortitude?’
A small voice, without guile or any other motive than a child overhearing adult conversation, stops them short this time. Billie is in her curled-up place under the kitchen table. ‘What is test-ular fortitude, Mama?’
‘All shirt and no trousers,’ states Meg, then claps her hand over her mouth, realising that the child’s ears have been flapping.
Evie takes up the response: ‘It – it means having gumption, being brave, and doing the right thing even if you are scared. But it’s time you were up in bed.’
‘Then I must have test-ular fortitude, Mama.’
‘No, Billie, indeed that is not what you have!’
Billie’s eyebrows knit, knowing that what Mama says should be obeyed. But with a wisdom far beyond her three years she cannot be content. She cringes as she thinks of the privy down the back garden. Mother Meg calls it a dunny, but Mama corrects Billie to the more refined word. Whatever its name, nothing terrifies her more than that infinite black hole with its rotten-egg stench of lime sulphur. The only thing that allows her to manage the ordeal without crying out, is the thought of her little companion Mungo waiting by the door. It is as if he senses the need for distraction from her torment, and is ready for race-me as soon as Billie flings herself free.
‘But, Mama, when I go out to the dunny – um, the privy, I must be brave. I’m not afraid of the dark, and I’m not afraid of the spiders, not very much. But I am afraid of – of when I get up on the seat, of slipping right through, falling all the way through to China. And I am so, so afraid. But, Mama, I think of Mungo waiting for me by the door, and am brave and strong and quickly jump down and I am safe. So why, Mama? Why if I am being brave and strong why cannot I have test-ular fortitude?’
Meg and Evie eye each other helplessly. They know Mungo waits for her out there. He is such a comical dog, with stumpy legs, a long body, and a shaggy head that doesn’t seem to fit; as if he was put together in a hurry with no time to check the parts. One ear cocks forward and one back, and even his black patches are of a peculiar placement. But Mungo is a very smart dog, and they are glad Billie has such a constant companion.
‘Heavens!’ breathes Evie. ‘I beg your pardon, I’m sure. I didn’t know you were so very afraid of that old privy. So you indeed have fortitude. But not test – you are
a girl and so you just have – have – fortitude.’
‘Fortitude,’ muses Billie and squeezes her eyes tight against the terror of that black hole. And so she learns that to be brave has a handsome new name.
Chapter Ten
Alf treasures his reading time allocated for three o’clock each afternoon, sometimes sitting in the warmth of his kitchen alcove or, if it should be sunny, in the front window of what might grandly be called the parlour. He reads his weekly Witness and its daily rival voraciously, and he is always thankful that he learned to read back Home, a rare thing for a boy of his background. His mentor was his uncle, who put a great store in book learning, and Alf is determined that his Billie shall have the same.
Not that Billie needs to be coerced; she snuggles up to him most days and seems to absorb information like a thirsty throat. She is permitted only to speak at certain intervals, otherwise Alf does not get his peace, and from five minutes to four, she watches the mantel clock for the eternal minutes to pass before the o’clock. At this time she may pick a headline or advertisement and ask Alf to read them aloud. She then repeats them herself, word for word:
DUNEDIN FLOUR AND BARLEY MILLS. Fine flour, best quality and Pot Barley. Highest prices given for Wheat and Barley. Oats bruised and Hay Chaffed on reasonable terms.
HORSES, HORSES, HORSES. Twenty saddle & harness horses on sale at Goodall’s Paddock, Tokomariro. Can be bought privately off Mr Goodall, or T. Miles, Importer.
More recently, full paragraphs are what she requests, even if some are thinly disguised as news:
A PUBLIC MEETING will be held on the Evening of FRIDAY, the 5th of April, at half past Seven o’clock p.m., in the Provincial Hotel, Stafford Street, to take into consideration the best method of testifying to A. J. BURNS Esq., the high esteem in which he is held by the working classes of this community, for the successful efforts displayed by him in maintaining the Eight-Hours System of Labour at the Settlement of this Province.
‘Fancy that, my love.’ Even tedious reports that are of limited interest to Alf do not appear to deter Billie and she races on:
A letter was read from Hayman Joseph, of the Hebrew persuasion, applying for the Town Board office on Sunday next and succeeding Sabbath, for the use of his co-religionists. The clerk was authorised to express the regret of the Board at their inability to accede to the application.
‘What is the Hebrew persuasion, Alf? And what is co-religionists?’ She is curious about all things and always gravely ponders Alf’s explanations before proceeding.
DUNEDIN, OTAGO, NEW ZEALAND. Designs and Drawings for a new Gaol at Highcliff will be received at the Office of the Provincial Secretary, until 4 p.m., the second day of March, 1863. The following Premiums will be given to the successful competitors, viz:–
For the Gaol, 1st Prize, ₤150, 2nd Prize, ₤75.
For the Hospital, 1st prize, ₤100, 2nd prize, ₤50.
For the Lunatic Asylum, 1st prize, ₤100, 2nd Prize, ₤50.
‘Oh, Alf, how amusing it would be to design a Gaol! Now the next, please, Alfie.’
‘Amusing, I’m sure. Very well, and this will be the last for today, my love,’ smiles Alf and Billie is already tracing the page to find the longest block of words. She reads on, far ahead of her four years, stumbling from time to time and stopping to ask Alf the meaning of new words. Meg has said, ‘You’ll be a fool unto yourself, Alfie, spoiling that child,’ but Alf is not dissuaded. Billie reads doggedly on:
THE GOLD FIELDS MANUAL FOR NEW ARRIVALS. We publish the following information concerning the gold fields for the benefit of new arrivals:– The principal gold fields of Otago are those at Tuapeka, Waitahuna, Waipori, Woolshed Creek, Mount Highlay, Dunstan and Nokomai Diggings, and several minor fields, such as Coal Creek, Lindis, the Dunstan River, Shag River, and Moeraki Beach. Tuapeka, although not the oldest, is the best known and most extensively worked gold field Gabriel’s Gully, the scene of Mr. Read’s early discoveries.
‘That is enough, my love, you have done well, but enough today,’ sighs Alf indulgently.
‘But, Alf – oh, Alf, how I adore your soft whiskers – but, Alf, there is still more inside the lines,’ Billie persists.
‘It isn’t like you to try flattery, miss. Yes, there is more inside the border; you have been crafty with your choice. But it is four-thirty on the clock, and you must help lock up the chooks and do your other jobs before you lay the table.’
‘Please, lovely Alf, just one more teeny-weeny bit?’
‘Billie Frost, hear me now: if you whine there will be no more reading tomorrow. But I shall agree for you to read one more paragraph.’
She searches quickly:
There are about 4,000 miners on the Dunstan field. These appear to have done well. Six thousand ounces have been brought down by escort, 2,000 ounces have reached town by private hand, and it is estimated that an equal quantity has been sent to Tuapeka, making an aggregate of 10,000 ounces. Large quantities still remain in the hands of the miners owing to the want of cash on the field for purchasing. A fortnightly escort service has now been established.
‘Escort service, Alf, that’s for catching robbers! Do you – ’
But Alf has closed the Witness with a deep inhalation of breath, and that is enough for Billie to slide off his knee and make haste out of the parlour with a backwards tilt of her head.
Alf grins like a fool. Great Scott, she seems to absorb information through her stubby finger, and her memory is infinite. Rarely can he fault her comprehension once the words are explained. At the age of four, when most children are yet illiterate – and many of this district will always will be so – Billie is reading to the level of a well-educated ten-year-old. Alf shakes his head as he returns to his paper before the light from the parlour window.
Chapter Eleven
August 1863
Eveline takes an unwilling Billie to town. The child wishes to stay and play with Mungo, but she needs proper shoes for next week’s excursion to Port Chalmers, and not just hand-me-downs this time.
Although her family disowned her – or in effect she has rejected them – she will not disown herself or her precious daughter. She is now a reasonably accomplished seamstress and not only is their attire always smart, but she now earns a fee for small orders. She attends enough clients to keep her very busy, some of whom gift her any remnants, which she delicately incorporates into her slim, but fashionable, wardrobe. Only last week she was able to add a corded embellishment to her best hat.
She walks purposefully down the rutted hill, along the Rattray Street slope and into the dirt road grandly named Princes Street. She wears a deep-brown bombardine skirt flat-pleated into a narrow waist, chestnut velveteen jacket and a cream lace jabot. The neat hat of interwoven moiré and velveteen, with its new silken twist cocking up the side, is as fine as any lady’s. The paisley shawl of heathery purples and browns is wrapped tightly around her shoulders; it is still a week away from spring and still very raw.
Billie wears a stout grey tweed coat cut down from one of Meg’s that is now too tight; she has stitched it with love and humour upon instructions from Billie as to its style – ‘opening so the under shows out.’
‘That will never keep your chest warm, my love,’ she tuts. To compensate, what shows out is a high-necked bodice of violet gabardine which, with a matching tam-o’shanter, brings out the indescribable colour of her eyes.
They turn into the Princes Street cutting and soon pass the handsome Farley’s Buildings – stone and brick, and unlike any of its wooden neighbours – which houses ground-floor shops, upstairs offices, a meeting hall and a photography studio. They pass Collins the fruiterer, McLeod & Gibson the grocers, Ure & Co with its large chests of tea, and Bray’s the hatter, before arriving at their destination. The Golden Boot is operated by the Walsh brothers who strive for elegance as well as practicality. Billie is still out of sorts but when they enter the Ladies’ Sitting Room with its array of fine leathers, kids, and fabrics – a
ll totally unsuited to the muddy streets – she instantly becomes fascinated.
Evie selects two samples. Strong black ankle boots with thick leather laces, practical but smart. Then a handsome oxblood, high-buttoned style that will have room to grow when the toes are stuffed with newspaper.
‘Mama, may I try on these wee white ones, most gorgeous and shiny, and oh, look at their dear little heels and the many glass buttons. Two, four, eight times two equals sixteen buttons, Mama!’ Billie is thrilled with the delicate style.
Mr Damian Walsh who reigns over the shop looks stunned at such quick calculations.
‘Of course not, they will never be suitable for – that is, you may not need – ’ Evie does not wish to give away her circumstances.
‘Oh, Mama, please just one little time, just for the pleasurable?’
‘It’s “pleasure” in this instance, Billie, but no, you shall not try them on today. Let’s try these oxblood ones, if you please, Mr Walsh.’ Billie’s affections then transfer to the shiny deep-red boots and their groupings of buttons, and she is satisfied.
‘I do believe we shall take them in two sizes larger; this way extra stockings shall keep her feet very warm,’ she says firmly. It is true that warm stockings are always a necessity in Dunedin’s chilling winter.
Mr Damian enjoys the talking, the gossiping and the wooing of customers. Several of them treat him as a confidant, and he is privy to a range of information. He knows what two sizes larger means – they must last two years. ‘You will be pleased with these, I’m sure, madam. And,’ he coughs slightly, ‘if they’re regularly polished they will keep well.’
If it wasn’t for his genuine charm he could be rather oily, thinks Evie as he goes on with his pitch.
‘I hope you would pardon me, madam, but I must say both your coat – that is yours and your daughter’s – are most elegant. Your seamstress is obviously very well trained and with an excellent eye for detail. And the stitching is so perfect. What quality, what style, and what a grand costume the young miss has too. Here you are then,’ as he presents the wrapped boots, ‘and that will be one pound, thank you, madam.’
