by Vicky Adin
“Sounds like the young master is home,” said Mavis. “I didn’t hear him come in last night. Must have been real late, but his mama will be pleased to see him. She has a real soft spot for him. Pop along and ask if he is wanting luncheon. My hands are wet.” Mavis carried on chopping the vegetables while Brigid hovered in the doorway looking hesitant. “Go on, girl. Get a move on.”
Brigid tiptoed along the hallway on edge about interrupting their conversation. The voices had moved into the parlour, and she tentatively knocked on the open door. To her left, a man stood with his back to her, his arm resting on the mantelpiece. Mrs Browne sat facing her in the wing chair on the other side of the fireplace.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Pardon me, ma’am. Mrs Johnson wants to know if the gentleman is staying for luncheon,” she muttered in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Come closer, girl, and speak up.”
Brigid took two steps into the room, bobbed an awkward curtsy and, keeping her eyes glued to the pattern on the rug, repeated the question. “Ah, yes. Philip, this is our new maid. Do be nice to her. Now, are you staying for luncheon?”
At the mention of his name, Brigid’s heart began to thump so loudly she could hear the echo in her ears. She raised her head slightly, her mouth partly open. Surely, it couldn’t be the same Philip. Life wouldn’t be that cruel.
He turned, tugged his jacket into place and swept a lock of hair back from his face, the way she’d seen him do so many times. She stared at that heartbreakingly familiar face, and her dreams shattered in the seconds it took for him to recognise her. The fleeting expression was wiped from his face in an instant.
Time seemed to stand still between them until he tipped an almost imperceptible nod in her direction.
He turned to his mother. “Thank you. Yes, Mama, I shall stay.”
“Very well.” Looking back towards Brigid, who had dropped her gaze once more, Mrs Browne sent a message back to the kitchen.
“Please tell Mrs Johnson to set the table for two. We shall eat in the dining room after all.”
Brigid bobbed again and fled.
She spent the rest of the day in a state of anxiety. Fortunately, Mavis was too busy to notice her helper was distracted. Brigid managed to complete all the tasks asked of her without dropping or burning anything and was thankful she’d not been told to serve at luncheon. The chore of doing the dishes in the scullery gave her plenty of time to think.
She couldn’t just leave – she had nowhere to go and knew no one, let alone had any money – but how could she stay in the same house as Philip, now he’d discovered her here as a maid? She crossed herself several times in the course of the afternoon when the notion she might have to wait on him, as well as his mother and father, entered her mind. Holy Mother of God! What should she do?
Days passed and she began to relax a little. She was yet to meet the distinguished Mr Browne and she hadn’t seen Philip again either. Her chores were mundane and kept her in the back reaches of the house. Later in the week, when she was putting the scraps out and collecting fresh vegetables from the garden, she heard her name being called.
“Brigid.”
She looked around trying to work out where the whispered call came from but couldn’t see anything.
“Brigid.” Philip’s voice reached her. “I’m behind the hedge. No, don’t look. Just carry on what you’re doing and listen. I don’t want my mother to know about you yet.”
“Why are you talking to me at all? Go away and leave me be.” Her hands were shaking; she wasn’t sure whether anger or despair was the cause of her distress – whichever, the situation was ridiculous.
“I was so surprised to see you, I didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry I pretended I didn’t know you.”
She finished emptying the scrap tin and started to pick some peas and beans, placing them in the open basket. “You don’t need to pretend no more. You’re the young master and that’s all there is to it.” Moving to another garden bed, she knelt to dig up a few onions and two large beetroot.
“But don’t you want to do all those things we talked about?”
Briefly, she let herself imagine the impossible. “Aye, I do.” Her voice was barely audible. She shook her head, stood up and dusted off the front of her apron. “But it just can’t be, so don’t think on it no more.”
Picking up the now heavily laden basket, she added two ripe tomatoes to the stack and started to walk towards the house.
“Don’t you believe it. I still have plans for you, Miss Brigid.” Philip’s voice sounded full of promise, just as it had on the ship. But now the situation was hopeless.
Tempted to turn around to look at him, she saw Mrs Browne watching her from the conservatory window. She blanched but kept walking, increasing her stride to get into the house and out of sight as fast as possible.
7
Mixing It Up
Townsville
December 1886
Sally was drawn to the clink of glass and hum of voices coming from the two-storey building on the corner of Wickham Street and The Strand. She’d turned her nose up at the miserable accommodation the Immigration Scheme was offering, and was in need of a job and a place to live. She’d wait for no man to tell her how to live her life, and being a barmaid seemed as good an option as any. At least, that was one thing she knew how to do. She learnt some tricks on the streets of Glasgow after she’d escaped the clutches of her stepfather.
Entering the high-ceilinged foyer, she ducked into the cloakroom, glad of the chance to remove her heavy mantle in the stifling heat. Hiding her carry bags behind the other coats, she pulled out an array of grooming effects from her reticule. She redid her hair until it looked full and flattering, nestling her fair curls softly around her face and puffing them out under her hat. A dash of rose water and a tiny amount of rouge rubbed high on her cheekbone and on her lips to emphasise the whiteness of her skin and she looked glowing with health. The happy-go-lucky servant girl of the ship disappeared and was replaced by a striking woman who knew what she wanted.
Despite the heat, she’d hidden her best outfit under her cape prior to leaving the ship and while the hem was a bit grubby, thanks to the condition of the streets, she knew they wouldn’t be looking at her feet. The rich red empress stripe brocade with a fitted bodice and not quite demure V-neck suited her – and, after all, first impressions counted.
From the entranceway, she could see the public bar to her right, and extending along the length of the building to her left was the gentlemen’s lounge. She headed left. With a beaming smile plastered on her face, she pushed the door open. She faltered slightly before letting it close behind her, swallowed, squared her shoulders and strode purposefully into the bar. It was do or die.
She tilted her head to the man on her left, leaning against the bar, whose eyes followed her, and to the man on her right sitting in the tub chair, his newspaper lowered so he could watch her progress. A few steps further and she spied an opportunity – a man was rising from his chair with an empty glass in his hand.
“Can I fetch a refresher for you, sir?” she said cheerily, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder to encourage him to sit down. Two others sitting at the table with him looked back and forth from her to their companion.
One of them gave a low whistle. “You lucky devil, Ted. Order us another round while you’re at it.”
The room fell quiet; the man behind the bar stopped what he was doing, wiped his hands and threw the towel over his shoulder.
“Mrs McKendrick!” he called in a loud voice. “You might like to come and see something in the Gentlemen’s Lounge.”
“Now,” said Sally, her heart thumping wildly as she gauged the impact she’d made on the clientele. “What would you gentlemen like?” After taking their orders she approached the counter to be greeted by an impressive woman with dark hair and bright, knowing eyes, in a well-cut black dress. She and Sally faced each other, each sizing the other up before e
ither spoke.
Sally decided to take the initiative. She extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Sally.”
Mrs Emily McKendrick hesitated. She accepted the outstretched hand and after a quick shake, let it go again.
“I’ve just arrived off the ship, and when I saw how busy you were, I thought I’d call in and lend a hand. You don’t mind, do you? After all, I’ve got nothing better to do today, and these gentlemen are in need of refreshment.” Sally flashed her brightest smile, turned to the barman and repeated the drinks order.
By this time, all eyes were on her and Mrs McKendrick, who was scrutinising the newcomer. “I’ll give you today to prove your worth,” she said at length.
An immediate ruckus followed her announcement. Arms were raised in the air to attract Sally’s attention and shouts came from all corners of the room.
“Over here, miss. I’ll have another.”
“Sally,” cried one man who had been close enough to overhear her name. “Sally, love, I’ve got an order for you.”
Some of the men started to bang their glasses on the table, demanding Sally serve them first. To avoid a riot until she could take everyone’s orders, she started to sing snippets of folk songs she’d learnt as a child. ‘The Skye Boat Song’ proved a great start, although she knew she’d have to pick up the pace the more they drank. ‘Ye Banks and Braes’, ‘The Scottish Soldier’ and ‘Loch Lomond’ all worked their magic as she made her way around the room, taking orders from some, encouraging others to go to the bar themselves, and getting still others to join in singing the chorus.
By the end of the afternoon, the lounge was packed. Word had spread of the new serving lass. Mrs McKendrick had come out from the kitchen to help serve – leaving the cook and scullery maid to manage as best they could to keep the patrons fed – and still more people tried to get into the crowded space. Reluctantly, Mrs McKendrick was forced to shut the lounge room doors. She sent some of the new arrivals around to the public bar and suggested to the more inebriated that they return to their wives and families.
Sally found the heat wearisome. Her feet were sore, her shoes pinched and she knew the underarm of her gown would be stained with sweat. She was flagging, but she kept a smile on her face and continued her friendly banter while she waited for a cue from the mistress. Had she proved her worth, or would she be thrown out? It had to work. It just had to.
Gradually, as dark fell, the bar quietened and settled to a restful murmur. During the lull, Mrs McKendrick, who’d gone back to the kitchen to make sure there were enough pies for dinner, returned to the lounge bar. She poured two glasses of brandy and invited Sally to join her at a small table by the window. “Seems you’ve made an impression on the customers. Not sure I care for your approach – bit too uppity for my liking. Now, I am grateful for the extra sales, but ...”
Sally jumped in before the woman had finished her sentence, in case what she had to say wasn’t what Sally wanted to hear. “Thank ye, Mrs McKendrick. I’m only glad to help. What would you like me to do next?”
The woman lowered her brows. “Who said I wanted you to do anything at all?”
“Well, no one exactly, but I can see you’re a canny businesswoman.” Beneath the table, Sally pleated the fabric of her skirt between her fingers. “And since I’m in need of a job, I think we can benefit each other.”
Up close, Mrs McKendrick appeared younger than her plain dress indicated. She had an upright posture with a good figure, despite a little plumpness. The harsh Australian sun had weathered her skin bronze, and worry lines creased the area around her eyes, but her physical appearance wasn’t what struck Sally, it was her intensity. She had a genial smile, when she bestowed it, and an ever-changing face as thoughts and emotions flitted across her mind. But her eyes – dark, sparkling orbs, warm and perceptive – were her most captivating feature.
“Can you cook?”
Unsurprised by the question, Sally instinctively knew Emily McKendrick would not easily concede, but neither was she a fool. “Not as good as you, I’d guess, seeing as what comes out the kitchen. But, aye, I can a little. But I’m thinking it’s not me cooking that will make you money.”
Emily McKendrick threw back her head and laughed – a deep, rich sound. She raised her glass. “You’re a woman after my own spirit.”
Sally touched her glass against the other and took a sip, carefully resisting the urge to down the amber liquid in one go. She watched and waited while Emily supped.
“I think I agree with you – we could profit one another. You’re hired – for now. But no shenanigans. You can sing, you can serve drinks, you can flirt, but if I catch you with a man in your room, you’re gone. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mrs McKendrick. And thank you ever so much.” No way would any man find his way into Sally’s bedroom, not until she had a ring on her finger, and even that, she doubted. If it happened, it would be on her terms.
“Twenty-one shillings a week. Room and all found. Deal?”
“Deal. And I promise, no men.” Sally tilted her head and looked out of the corner of her eye with a coquettish smile. “But there’s no harm in using a bit of persuasion now and then to get them going, is there?”
“None whatsoever.”
The two women drained their glasses and went about their tasks. She saw no need to tell Mrs McKendrick her plans to make a little extra money on the side.
Several weeks later, towards the end of January, Sally was settling into her new life, even if she still struggled with the weather. The heat rose to unbearable temperatures at times, and the clammy, humid conditions made everything sticky. The rain turned out to be something to welcome. Although short-lived, it came in downpours, washed the dust away, made the air smell fresh and cooled the temperature for a while – until the sun came out again. She now understood the importance of the verandahs and shades – and the value of appropriate clothing. Never had what she’d worn meant so much. Her memories mostly consisted of the times she’d been numb with cold.
Dressed only in her chemise and standing by the open window hoping to catch a breeze off the ocean, Sally began to hatch a plan, one that had taken root while sitting under the shade of the large Moreton Bay fig tree with Emily McKendrick on Christmas Day.
The Christmas Day meal had been an unusual affair. Mrs McKendrick had turned on a feast for staff and customers alike, who had nowhere else to go. Sally could honestly say the day was better than anything she expected and the first Christmas she had celebrated since she was a wee child and her mother was still alive.
The laden table nearly groaned with the weight of food, most of which she couldn’t name and had no idea what it tasted like. The first course was a local fish called barramundi, served with oysters and crab. Grilled parrot and roasted wild duck followed, and the meal ended with a magnificent flaming plum pudding, packed full of dried fruits, the likes of which she had never eaten, even in Scotland. But the day had been far too hot to enjoy so much food, and the pudding sat heavy in her stomach.
The exotic and refreshing fruits, like pawpaw, quince, pineapple and guava, became Sally’s new favourite treats. She’d been amazed they could be used fresh in salads as well as cooked in sauces and pies – not that Sally wanted to learn anything about cooking – but she surely enjoyed eating.
After the heavy meal, many guests drifted off to find a place to sleep the afternoon away, while Sally and Emily sat in the shade and talked. Their conversation was still tentative after only two weeks of getting to know one another and still on a mistress–servant relationship, but since Mrs McKendrick had no complaints and Sally was wise enough to keep her tongue in check, a rapport was developing.
“My father owns the hotel,” Emily told her. “He has two others in Brisbane and Sydney, but sent me here to Townsville to learn the trade. Luckily, Walter doesn’t mind the licence being in my name.”
Walter McKendrick was exactly the sort of husband Sally wanted: one who did as he was told. Well-spoken, goo
d with the customers and extremely affable, he was content with his status, as long as he had the visible public role. Equally happy with the arrangement, Emily managed the books, the kitchen and the staff, but she had ideas for the future.
The hotel was grand by Australian country town standards and far better than the rough drinking pubs found elsewhere. They had accommodation, often held public meetings and entertainment, and welcomed the gentlemen of the town, but Emily had seen what could be done in the cities.
“I’m much in need of better-trained staff who know how to set well-dressed tables, with quality furnishings to match. But none of that is available here in Townsville,” Emily bemoaned as she languidly waved a palm frond in front of her face. “I do so admire that lace you’re wearing. Quality like that is hard to come by.”
Sally had fashioned the lace Brigid had given her to sit as a high collar at the back of her neck and extend in a small V down the yoke. The open lace was lighter and cooler to wear than the throat-wrapping collars that trapped the heat, but still retained decorum and style – much as she’d like to abandon both. But Emily’s comment had set Sally thinking.
Sally reluctantly moved away from the window and began putting on her corsets and petticoats. She looked at the two gowns she had to choose between and knew there was an answer there somewhere.
Many of the fashionable, upper-class ladies who had emigrated from the grand houses of England remained steadfast in their determination to wear only the latest and best that Europe could offer, regardless of its unsuitability to the climate. High collars, long sleeves, tight corsets under fitted jackets, and petticoats with bustles and trains were all the rage, but Australia was a different place and, in Sally’s opinion, needed more practical fabrics.
A few of the women who worked for a living had started to abandon the heavy fabrics and restrictive undergarments, but unfortunately only servants and farmers’ wives had adopted anything remotely sensible. Sally often had pretty, yet practical ideas pop into her head, seemingly from nowhere, but she had no clue how to go about putting the ideas into action. What she did know was she needed Brigid’s sewing skills.
