by Vicky Adin
Even though Hugh prompted him, he changed the subject, again. “Don’t mind me. Just feeling a bit undone by the journey, I suppose. Let me tell you about a night I had.”
As the evening wore on, the three friends became more raucous as Philip’s make-believe stories of his conquests with the women grew. Some of the older members peered around the wings of their chairs at the noisy trio. The steward was even obliged to ask them to lower their voices.
“Shush now, Hugh,” warned Sam. “You’ll get us thrown out of here if you’re not careful – and I want to stay here, even if you don’t.”
“What’s your problem, Mr Goody Two-shoes?”
“You’re making too much noise, Hugh. Whisper when you speak.”
Hugh rolled his head to one side and pointed a wagging finger at Sam. “How would we manage without your guiding hand? Trip over your big foot, I suppose.”
“More likely your big mouth,” quipped Philip. “Now, are we going to stay here and get drunk or see if there are any pretty ladies about?”
Bets were taken as to which of them would find a suitable ‘lady’ friend first, but since they were already three-quarters cut, they chose to stay and finish the job.
Unexpectedly, Hugh leaned forward, teetered and put a hand on the table to steady himself. Blood-shot eyes glared at Philip. “What you are hiding?”
Philip was nowhere near as drunk as Hugh, but his friend’s acuity sharpened his wits. “I’m not hiding anything.”
Sam, the least affected of them, also looked at him with an amused expression. “Hiding might not be the right word. But there’s something you haven’t told us.”
Philip flipped his hair back, poured another drink and eyed Sam cautiously. Hugh was more like him, a bit of a gambler, who wanted more from life than their fathers could give them. Sam seemed content to live amongst the cattle and the dust. But Philip trusted Sam. He was steadier.
Maybe he should give them something to speculate on. “I’m thinking of branching out on my own.” He paused, wondering how much more to say. “Unfortunately, Pa has other ideas.”
Hugh snorted. “I’m not surprised. Your dad’s got you wrapped around his little finger.”
Philip bristled. Hugh had voiced exactly how he felt: controlled by his father, always having to ask for permission to do anything yet sent on interminable errands like a toady. He had no intention of admitting it – not even to those he considered friends. Some things were too private.
“Not really.” Philip tried for nonchalance, sipped his drink and lit a cigarette. “I’ve been biding my time, learning the ropes, but I think I’m ready to try my hand at something new.”
“About time, I say,” said Sam. “You always did have great ideas when we were at school.”
He was right. Even as a youngster Philip had an outstanding ability to see an opportunity, and an uncanny knack of appealing to people’s sense of greed. They got something from the arrangement, but he always kept the best part of the deal for himself.
“I could be interested in investing in what you’ve got planned,” Sam added.
Hiding his elation, Philip drew on his cigarette, carefully flicking the ash into the crystal ashtray. “Would you? I’d like that. Can we talk in more detail? When it’s convenient, of course.” He hoped the right mix of enquiry and intensity showed in his voice. He wouldn’t want to rush things, but then if he doubted Sam’s purpose or ability, he might lose him altogether – and he had to get someone to listen to him. “How long are you in town?”
“I’m here for two more nights. Let’s talk in the light of day.” Sam nodded towards Hugh, who had fallen asleep. “Right now I think we’d better get him up to bed. Are you staying here tonight?”
“Ah, no. I’m off home. I’ll need to speak with Mother in the morning. I’ve been away for months. She’s expecting me.” Family was important to Sam, so Philip was happy to pander to his whims if it would help his cause.
“Fair enough,” replied Sam, smiling. “Can’t disappoint our lovely mothers, now, can we? I’m in business meetings for my father most of the day. How about we meet here, say four o’clock? We can talk and have dinner to follow.”
“Excellent!”
Between them, they roused Hugh sufficiently to guide him up the grand staircase and into his room. Philip bade Sam a good evening and elected to walk the three miles home to the Browne house in Spring Hill.
He had a lot to think about.
* * *
Brisbane
December 1886
“Are you Brid-get O Bryn?” The man standing at the entrance to the Immigration Depot spoke slowly and deliberately.
Brigid had carefully dressed in her best outfit, which showed off her handmade lace on the collar and V-inset, a complete contrast to his shirtsleeves, baggy trousers and wide-brimmed hat. She spoke politely, emphasising the correct pronunciation. “I am Brigid O’Brien, that I am.”
He looked her up and down, finally fixing his eyes on hers. “I don’t care what yer name is. You’re to come wi’ me.”
Brigid had spent a miserable eighteen hours in the draughty, dilapidated old building waiting for word of the ship’s arrival to reach her new employer. To her mind, the dingy, dirty facilities were worse than on the ship, and the food rations were limited to day-old bread and chewy dried meat. Now it seemed this ill-tempered man was here to fetch her. All in all, the welcome had not turned out to be as reassuring as she had wanted, despite the sunshine.
Uncertain who the man was, and confused by his attire, she wasn’t going to be put off by his surly manner. In an attempt to quell her nervousness, she held her back ramrod straight and stared back at him. “And who might you be?” she demanded.
After surviving her worst fears and losing all she valued, she’d willed herself to begin this new life on her own terms, confident in her ability. How she’d come to that decision had been a painful battle. It warred against everything she’d been brought up with, but since she’d reached rock bottom already, there seemed only one way to go.
“Name’s Collins,” he drawled. “Lady Fiona’s fetch-and-carry man. You comin’ or not?”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr Collins. Can you help me with my trunk, please?”
He looked from her to the trunk sitting on the verandah and back again and made some sort of noise Brigid took to mean displeasure. When she made no move, he reached forward, pulled the trunk towards him and, turning around, hoisted it upon his back. He headed off down the steps towards the wagon without waiting for her.
Brigid picked up her carry bag, draped her coat over her arm and followed.
The dray was no different to those she’d seen in Ireland, with two large wheels in the middle and pulled by a horse as unkempt as its driver, but she judged it to be a little longer. The bench seat up front was hard and unsprung – as they invariably were.
As the dray made its way along busy Queen Street, her eyes followed a smart-looking gig as it passed by. One day she hoped she’d be able to travel in a vehicle like that, with a lovely padded seat and a canopy to shield her from the sun. Thinking about the way the sun beat down on her despite the early hour, she was glad she’d worn her large-brimmed hat, rather than her bonnet, after all.
“So what do you do, Mr Collins?” Brigid turned her head to and fro trying to take in all the surprisingly fine buildings with footpaths and verandahs lining both sides of the street. She hadn’t expected Brisbane to be so built up. In her mind, she was coming to a small town like Ennis, but these buildings were grander, newer, yet somehow different from anything she’d seen at home.
“What I’m told.” The driver clicked his tongue at the horse and steadily steered it around another wagon parked outside the general store.
Rather taken aback by his abrupt manner, Brigid tried a different approach. “Can ye tell me what I should know, now I’m here? There are a lot more buildings than I ever imagined. What else should I expect?”
The single-storey home
s she saw were mostly built of wood, whereas the public buildings were stone or brick.
The man shook the reins over the back of his horse. “Heat and flies and hard work.”
Brigid was already aware of the flies – they’d buzzed around her constantly all through the previous day and last evening. As she waved her hand to keep them from settling, she decided they were just as annoying this morning. “Surely life must be better than that?” Brigid used her bright and cheery voice. “Isn’t that what we’re told. A land of opportunity?”
The horse plodded its way along the street, passed by multi-passenger coaches, four-person broughams, and two-seater phaetons, drawn by various numbers of horses that clip-clopped their way about their business. Dust rose from their hooves. People came and went from doorways, and energy filled the air.
“For some, maybe,” the driver grunted, settling back into silence.
Brigid began to feel sweat on her forehead and down her spine, thanks to the steamy air; even the gentle breeze was hot. The cool shade beneath the curved iron roofs of the verandahs, which provided protection from the sun on most of the houses, beckoned her. She imagined sitting somewhere like that doing her lacework.
Soon they passed down an avenue of tall trees with peeling bark. Their sparse leaves fluttered in the air, but they provided little shade and even less respite from the heat. In the distance, she could see palm trees like those they’d seen in Port Said. Everywhere she looked, the place seemed strange in many ways, yet familiar at the same time.
A few turns later and up a steep hill, Mr Collins pulled the horse to a stop under one of the large trees lining the street. “This is it, miss.” He climbed down from the wagon, lifted her trunk from the back and put it on the ground by the picket gate leading to the front garden. By then Brigid was standing on the footpath wondering what would happen next.
“Whose place is this?” She gazed up at the large two-storey, three-bay house with an upstairs balcony adorned with ornate iron lacework and balustrade.
“Dunno the lady meself. ’Twas told her name was Browne.”
He climbed back onto the wagon and picked up the reins.
“What do I do?” she called out, when she saw he intended leaving her on the side of the road.
“How would I know? Try knocking on the door.” He flapped the reins over the horse’s back. “Get along, now,” he clucked and the animal plodded off down the street.
A short flight of steps led to the front door recessed under the verandah that ran along the front and side of the house. Brigid left her trunk where Collins had dropped it, hoping she’d find someone who could help her carry it, and walked up the path. Standing a few feet from the front door she considered using the rear entrance, but not seeing any way of getting round the back she walked up the steps and gave the knocker a sharp rat-a-tat.
A few moments later, a matronly woman dressed in black opened the door. Her eyes were small but sharp. She inspected Brigid from head to foot in a second.
“I’m Bri ...” Her voice caught in the back of her throat, and she put her gloved fist up to her mouth while she cleared it. “Pardon me,” she said, remembering the training the nuns had given her about how to speak and introduce herself. “I’m Brigid O’Brien. I believe Mrs Browne is expecting me.”
The unexpected transformation that came over the woman when she smiled put Brigid at ease. “Come in, girl. Come in. It’s good to see you arrived safe and sound. I’m Mavis Johnson. Now, where are your things?”
Brigid stepped across the threshold into the hallway that smelt of beeswax and fresh-cut flowers. Adjusting her eyes to the darkened space, she placed her carry bag on the floor and rolled her coat up on top of it. A hallstand, two upright chairs and a narrow table with a vase of assorted flowers and greenery filled the foyer next to the staircase leading to the upper floor.
“I’ll get my Jack to bring your trunk in, but right now Mrs Browne is looking forward to meeting you.” Mavis led the way down a wide, wood-lined passageway and into the kitchen at the back. A tall, upright woman wearing a full apron, and the sleeves of her cotton blouse rolled up, was kneading dough.
While the cooler air at the front of the house had been refreshing, the heat in the kitchen nearly threw Brigid off balance, even with the door and window thrown wide open. The woman wiped her forehead with her arm and, watching Brigid from the corner of her eye, carried on kneading.
“So you’re Brigid. I hope your journey wasn’t too arduous. I know they can be, and they are all terribly tedious.” She paused to thump the dough on the table a couple of times, generously sprinkled more flour around, picked up the rolling pin and began to flatten the dough. “Mavis will show you to your room. Get yourself changed – there’s a uniform for you – and come back here when you’re ready. You’ve a lot to learn about life in Australia. It’s greatly different from home.” She straightened up once the circle of pastry was large enough to fit the pie dish Brigid had spied on the table among piles of fruits and vegetables. “That’s beautiful lace on your jacket. Did you make it?”
Brigid stood mutely watching and listening, taking in the details of the compact yet highly functional kitchen. The large central table served as the workspace, and some delicious aromas she couldn’t quite place were coming from something in the modern oven.
“Lost your tongue, missy?” nudged Mavis.
“Ah, no. Sorry, ma’am,” said Brigid blinking rapidly. “I was distracted, but aye, I made the lace ... Thank ye for asking. Um, pardon me if I speak out of turn, but ... are you Mrs Browne?” Brigid couldn’t understand the order of the place. Mavis was hovering behind her doing nothing, while the lady of the house seemed to be doing all the work.
Mavis and Beatrice Browne chuckled at Brigid’s confusion. “Were you expecting some sort of lady? If you were, you’ll be mighty disappointed. This isn’t like the home country, lass. We all started out in this mess together, and we’ll work it out as we go along. I like to make my own pastry, that’s all. Mavis is the cook here, but I like cooking when I’m in the mood, and have time. Jack looks after the garden, that’s Mr Johnson, but there’s still plenty to do. Now run along and put something lighter on before you melt away.”
“Don’t you fret none,” Mavis encouraged as they trudged up the wooden staircase at the back of the house. “Mrs B is a generous and easy-going employer. Back home she’d not been one of the upper class and she isn’t here either, but the master, he likes her to have help so she has free time to do ladylike things around town. Helps the business, he says. There’s only the two of them most of the time, until the young master comes home.” She stopped at the far end of the narrow corridor. “This one’s yours.”
Brigid gasped as Mavis opened the door to her room. The attic rooms at the back of the house were small, painted white. With a heavy white cotton coverlet on the single wire-framed bed, the room shimmered with light. The other furnishings were sparse – a washstand with a pitcher and ewer set, and a chamber pot, a dresser and a chair – and the white muslin curtains framing the sash window overlooking the rear garden utterly thrilled Brigid. “I’ve never been in such a room like this,” she admitted. “It’s beautiful.”
Mavis agreed. “You’re a lucky girl. There’s your outfit, hanging behind the door. Don’t be long.”
As soon as Mavis had closed the door behind her, Brigid spun around with her arms extended and her skirt swinging, thinking she would burst with joy.
The uniform she was expected to wear was far too big. She had to roll the waistband of the light blue skirt so she wouldn’t trip over the hem, and the matching long-sleeved, collared blouse would need a lot more pin-tucking to make it fit well. Brigid tied the strings of the full white apron tightly around the front, which at least helped pull in the excess fabric. After she’d hung up her best dress and folded the rest of her clothes neatly into the drawers of the dresser, she made her way downstairs again.
“Is that a bit cooler?” Mrs Browne greete
d her. “I like to keep up with the fashions, but we have to be practical. It’s too hot for the fabrics and styles we knew back home. Oh dear, it’s a bit big, isn’t it. But my, that colour suits you. Your eyes are so blue now.”
Brigid flushed at the compliment. “I can take it in to fit.”
“Clever girl. Mavis will find you a needle and thread.” Mrs Browne finished her pastry and went to wash her hands under the pump over the sink in the scullery. “Mavis, you can fill the pie now. And we’ll have a lettuce salad and some baked tomatoes to go with it, and don’t forget Mr Browne’s potatoes.”
“Very good, Mrs B. And how about some tapioca for pudding?”
“Excellent. Thank you, Mavis. Now Brigid, follow me.”
The rest of the morning disappeared in a whirl of instructions as Mrs Browne marched her through the downstairs – the parlour, the dining room, the conservatory and then the garden. She was introduced to the herb and vegetable patch, the fruit trees and on past the flowerbeds and shade trees to the stables at the back. Brigid could hardly take all of it in – there was so much to look at.
“What shall I call you, ma’am?” Brigid scurried along behind her long-striding employer, who continued rattling off descriptions and explanations. “It’s just I’ve never heard people use first names before, ’cept they be family or the same class.”
“I can’t stand ceremony, but my husband insists that we maintain some sort of standards. You’d better call me Mrs Browne. Although Mrs Johnson does shorten it to Mrs B when we’re working together. You can too – if there’s just us, mind. Don’t let Mr Browne hear you.”
They re-entered the house, past the scullery and straight into the kitchen.
“Right, Mavis, I’m sure you have tasks for the girl while you get luncheon ready. Mr Browne will not be joining me today, so I’ll eat in the conservatory.”
Beatrice Browne strode off along the corridor. At the same time, footsteps could be heard bounding down the stairs. Shortly after, voices travelled along the hallway to where they worked, but they couldn’t discern any words.
