by Vicky Adin
“But that doesn’t make sense. And she’s more schooled than that. Believe me.” Philip swallowed his brandy in one mouthful and ordered another. “Mother is always going on about how much better and fairer it is here, and how she has standing in the community because of her ability rather than who her family were.” Philip got to his feet and paced around the table. “Shouldn’t Brigid be given the same chance to prove she can be more than what she was born to? Shouldn’t I?”
“Hey, don’t shout at me. I’m just pointing out the obvious. I happen to agree with you – after all, that’s how our family got its chances – but ... what’s the odds your mother is afraid you want to be more involved with this girl than you’re letting on?”
Philip stared at his friend as the idea sunk in. Had his mother seen him talking to Brigid? Maybe Sam was right. He sat down again. “I’d like you to meet her,” he blurted. “Then I think you’ll see what I’m talking about.” He trusted Sam’s judgment of character. His astuteness had been proved right more than once.
“That could prove a bit tricky. Isn’t she going to be suspicious, and where do you suggest? Hardly in surroundings like this.” Sam waved his hand around the room. The hotel was a male bastion for drinking. “And we can’t take her anywhere friends of our mothers might see her.”
Philip sat forward, as if to speak, leant back and flicked his hair. He sat up again. “What if we met her at the market, or at the park? It would seem a casual meeting of people who are previously acquainted.”
Sam sighed. “All right. If that’s what you want.”
On Friday, Philip watched Brigid leave the house heading for the markets in Roma Street. She was carrying a basket full of produce to sell and, he was sure, a list of goods to buy. As soon as she was out of sight, he fetched his horse and rode to the club.
“Come on, Sam. She’s on her way. If we hurry we’ll meet her in the street before she gets lost among the stalls.”
Sam looked up. After a full day of billowing clouds scudding across the leaden sky that threatened rain, the air throbbed and the wind was keen. “We should be all right this morning, but when that lot falls, we’ll know about it. It’s going to be a whopper of a storm.”
Philip never doubted Sam’s predictions. He and his family relied heavily on being able to read the weather for the safety of their stock. “Well, let’s hope it holds off until we’re back.”
Leaving his horse there, Philip hurried with Sam along George Street, up Anne and into Albert Street in time to see Brigid approaching.
“There she is,” he nudged Sam. “She hasn’t seen us yet. Let’s hurry.”
Brigid walked along with a jaunty gait, taking in everything that was going on around her.
“She’s a looker, I’ll give you that. No wonder your mother thinks you have an ulterior motive.”
Philip looked sideways at Sam, nonplussed by his remark. True, Brigid’s black hair made her skin appear almost translucent and her eyes sparkled like the blue of the ocean; she was a tiny wisp of a creature too, but Philip had seen more beautiful women. In fact, he’d always considered her friend Sally from the ship was the more physically striking of the two, but Brigid had something else, something that drew people to her.
“I’m glad you see something in her already, but wait until you speak with her, then you’ll know what I mean.”
The gap between Brigid and the two men narrowed, but she didn’t notice them until Philip spoke.
“Good morning, Miss Brigid.” He raised his hat, and immediately she lowered her gaze as her skin tinged pink.
“Morning, Master Philip.”
He wished Mavis had never told her to call him that. “Surely there’s no need for you to call me master?”
But to his dismay, she unwittingly added to his woes. “’Tis only proper, while I work for Mrs Browne.”
Philip hadn’t told Sam where she worked, and he hoped it wouldn’t mar Sam’s opinion of her.
“Anyway, none of that matters,” Philip cut in. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Sam Barton. Sam, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Brigid O’Brien.”
Sam lifted his hat. “A pleasure.”
Brigid bobbed a small curtsy, only looking him when he asked, “How are you finding Brisbane?”
“It’s a wonder. It truly is. I love coming to the markets and seeing so many strange fruits, and there’s ever so much produce. Never seen anything like it in my life.”
Sam chuckled at her enthusiasm. “I’m glad you are finding it to your liking.”
“Oh, that I am, sir. That I am.”
Philip watched the interplay between the two and was sure he detected that spark he’d told Sam about, but it wasn’t only coming from Brigid.
“Shall we walk with you awhile, Brigid? You can show us the ways of the market.”
This time, the colour infusing Brigid’s face was not embarrassment, at least he hoped not, but a keenness to share her joy. “The big business goes on under the tin roof, but I like the smaller stalls scattered around the outside. It reminds me of home.”
As Sam had predicted, when the rain came it thundered down. Raindrops bounced off the ground; puddles turned into pools that grew into lakes.
Philip arrived home late afternoon, an hour or so after the rain started. It irked him he’d not had time to talk further about his plans – or Brigid – but Sam reckoned he would end up stranded at the club if he didn’t leave.
“What about you?” Philip asked. “Would you like to come and stay at my house? I’m sure my mother wouldn’t mind.”
“No, thank you for your offer. I won’t bother your mother. I’ll be quite warm and dry here.”
Mavis Johnson met Philip at the door and helped him strip off his wet jacket and shoes. “Oh my, you’re near soaked through. Lucky you’re home when you are. That’s some storm brewing out there. Here, I’ll take these. You go and get changed, and bring me them wet things to dry.”
She bustled off to the kitchen carrying his shoes, muttering about how much damage the rain would do to the vegetable garden.
Situated high on the hill, the Browne property usually had a sweeping view of central Brisbane and the curving river that was the lifeblood of the town. From where Philip stood at the upstairs window he’d opened, he could barely make out the river through the rain, but he could hear the tumbling and roaring of the water as it gushed along kerbs, around trees, over hills and down the streets to the river. Wilder. Faster. The wind roared, keening like an old woman at a wake.
Dusk fell early. The drapes billowed in the wind.
In many ways, the storm matched Philip’s mood. Possibilities and opportunities were building inside him, preparing him to sweep away obstacles in his path. He laughed at the clap of thunder.
The meeting between Brigid and Sam had gone better than he’d hoped. She was fresh, unaffected and warm-hearted, totally unaware of her appeal – and Sam was captivated.
Even though his father said his plan took advantage of Brigid’s naivety – exploitation, to put it bluntly, he’d said – and he’d have nothing to do with it, Philip couldn’t agree. Brigid would get paid for her work and, after all, they were in the business of making a profit. Just because Brigid wouldn’t get the credit was neither here nor there. Workers worked, owners profited.
On the ship, it had all seemed so simple. Once he’d created a fascination about her, he was certain her skills with the needle would do the rest. He’d imagined how Brigid would create high-end, one-off pieces that would sell for a fortune. He could see all the fashionable ladies flocking to the store to get their own special lace design, but since Brigid would only be able to make so many in a set time frame, the rarity of each design would make each one even more valuable and sought after. He could sense the money rolling in.
He even expanded the idea to include dressing some of the finer homes with embroidered napery, and lace-bedecked bedding and window hangings – all handmade by Brigid. He was certain s
he would fall for the idea as soon as he mentioned it. He didn’t think it would be hard to persuade Sam to come in with him either.
“Philip? Are you there, Philip?” His mother’s anxious voice calling from the bottom of the stairs interrupted his thoughts.
“Yes, Mama. Coming.”
At the sight of her distressed face staring up at him, he quickened his pace. “What’s the matter?” He took her hand and putting his arm around her, escorted her into the sitting room where the lamps had already been lit. “Come and sit down. I’ll get Mavis to get you something. You don’t look at all well.”
This behaviour was so unlike his mother, he was ruffled. He was used to her being in charge and taking care of everyone else.
“No, no. Don’t bother Mavis and I’m fine, really. It’s just I’m worried about your father. I’ve seen the water rise like this before. You were too young to remember, but we had a flash flood back in ’63, which took everything in its path. The damage was enormous. I’m worried it will happen again. We’ve a lot more to lose now. Have you seen him?”
He immediately felt guilty for not showing up at the warehouse or the shop. “Father? No, not today. I had a meeting with Sam Barton.”
His mother pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and patted her brow, surreptitiously dabbing at her eyes and nose. “Oh, well,” she sighed. “We’ll just have to wait for him to return, I suppose.”
Outside, the rain beat heavily upon the roof, and water gushed noisily over the guttering. Philip needed to shout to be heard. “I’m sure he’ll find somewhere to shelter. Don’t fret, Mama.”
Despite his reassurances and the sultriness in the air, his mother began to shiver.
“Mavis!” he bellowed down the hallway. “Mavis. Bring Mother’s shawl, quickly.”
He knelt in front of his mother sitting in her favourite chair by the window. Her head was turned to watch the relentless downpour, and he saw her bite her bottom lip. He picked up her hand, surprised to find it cold, and rubbed it between his hands.
“Mavis!” he bellowed again.
“Don’t shout, please, Philip. It hurts my head.” Beatrice spoke absently.
Mavis trundled in, clutching a lightweight wool shawl. “I’m here. I’m here. No need to shout, young master. Now, what’s amiss?”
At Mavis’s touch, Beatrice gave her a small nod and put her hands up to pull the shawl more tightly around her shoulders, but didn’t speak. Philip looked at the shawl, thinking the one he’d seen Brigid wear was much finer. He knew he was on to a good thing. Why couldn’t anyone else see it?
“Mother seems inordinately concerned about my father in this weather. I’ve tried to assure her he will be all right and will find shelter, but I don’t think she believes me.”
Mavis put her finger to her lips and indicated Philip should follow her. “I’ll just get you a nice warm cuppa, Mrs B,” she said kindly, patting her mistress’s shoulder.
On her way to the kitchen, she tut-tutted. “I hope you’re right, young master. I hope you’re right. But if this rain keeps up I don’t like to think what’ll happen. There was a big flood way back when you was a nipper. Your father spent two days at the warehouse lifting stock and sandbagging walls and doors, trying to divert the water. All to no avail, the stock loss was huge.”
Philip surveyed the familiar kitchen as Mavis bustled about, filling the kettle and waiting for it to boil. It had been a favourite haunt of his growing up. The place had changed little over time and had been his mother’s domain as much as Mavis’s.
She chatted on. “Water’s no respecter of things in its way. When he finally came home that time, he was exhausted and took sick soon after. He spent weeks in bed unable to move ’cos of the fever. She’ll be worried it’ll happen again, no doubt. And your father’s that much older now. Not so strong, either.”
She set out a tray with a cloth, a fine china cup and saucer, and a plate with a slice of her fresh-baked madeira cake, along with a cake fork. She put another slice on a separate plate and handed it to Philip. “Here, get this inside you while you can. Devil only knows how long we’ll be cooped up here.”
He took a bite and memories of childhood filled the room: the warmth, the laughter, the people ... The people! Of course, that was what was missing. He stopped eating and put his plate on the table just as Mavis was filling the teapot.
“Where’s Brigid?” He didn’t think he wanted to know the answer. The last time he’d seen her was at the market, but Mavis wasn’t to know anything about that.
The look on Mavis’s face said it all. She was troubled. “She hasn’t returned from the market.”
If the image of his father stranded in the elements hadn’t galvanised him to action, the idea Brigid might be exposed to the storm’s wildness did. A timely flash of lightning and a window-shaking clap of thunder made him jump, but more opportunely, it greatly alarmed the two women – Mavis squealed and his mother howled. He could hear her from the other room.
He dashed along the corridor and into the sitting room. “Don’t be alarmed, Mama. You are quite safe here.” Deciding it wise not to mention Brigid, he soothed his mother. “But to put your mind at rest I shall go and seek out Father. I’ll bring him home, if I can, or stay and help if I’m needed. I’ll send a message as soon as I can.” He knelt down and gave his mother an awkward hug before retreating.
“No. Philip. No.” Beatrice was on her feet and running after him. She grabbed his arm. “I couldn’t stand it if I lost both of you. I’m sure you are right – your father will take shelter. Stay here, son, where I know you’re safe. Please. Philip, please.”
Gently taking her hand off his arm, he led her back to her chair. “I will be safe, I promise. I will take Meg and ride the long way down. You know how sure-footed shire horses are, and I’ll take care to avoid the flow path. I can see where it is going.”
He dropped a kiss on top of his mother’s head and leapt up the stairs two at a time. Grabbing his large felt hat and heavy oilskin from the wardrobe he hurried back downstairs to the kitchen. From the scullery he snatched his long riding boots, and once fully attired strode off across the back garden to the stables.
* * *
Wednesday, 26th January 1887
The sheeting rain came as a shock. Nothing had prepared Brigid for such a heavy downpour. Used to the soft Irish mists that hovered over the countryside for long periods, or the screeching winds and sharp rain that lashed the west coast of Ireland, she had not known anything like this. A booming roar turned her dismay to foreboding.
“Run!” a woman yelled, causing panic. “Run. Quick. The water’s coming.”
Brigid soon lost her basket as she was swept along in the crush of people trying to salvage their produce and wares and find shelter. A woman fell and became trapped under her table. Brigid stopped to help and was nearly trampled by the billowing throng. She had barely caught her breath before being driven forward again.
“Get out of the way, girl,” a man shouted, pushing at her.
She had no idea in which direction she was being pushed, but it took all her strength to stay on her feet. Above the storm’s turbulence, voices shouted, calling out for people they couldn’t find. Mud oozed underfoot, people lurched and skidded as they tried to escape the confines of the marketplace. Shrieks and wails rang in her ears – “Help me, God. Help.” Was that her own voice she recognised? And still the relentless push persisted. Her bonnet fell back and her hair tumbled over her shoulders, sticking to her face as the wind tossed it about.
After what seemed an eternity the crowd started to thin out, with people running in different directions. Brigid found she was no longer trapped between the shoulders of the people around her. Her sodden skirts weighed heavy against her legs, and she tripped and fell several times. A foot kicked her and once someone stood on her hand, but it sank into the mud and suffered less damage than it might otherwise have. Another time a hand under her armpit dragged her upright. “There you go, girl.
You’ll be right now,” said a woman.
Each time she struggled to her feet, the mud clinging to her clothing sapped her strength further.
Freeing herself from the worst of the mêlée, Brigid followed a group of people running upstream as a river of water came rushing down the street. She was gasping for air and knew she had to catch her breath. A side alley offered brief shelter. Slumping down on a stack of crates, she pulled her knees up to her chest and untangled the choking ribbons of her bonnet. The wind howled even more forcefully through the narrow space while the water raced past, ballooning against the side of the building and redirecting a rising flow of water towards her. Her ears ached and her teeth tingled. Hot, burning tears streamed down her face. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Are You up there, God? Are You trying to kill me? Is that what You want? I mean to say, I don’t want to sound ungrateful or anyt’ing, but it does seem to me that You’re making me life a tad difficult lately.”
Now she’d started talking, exhaustion turned to outrage. It had been a long day, and night was falling. She wiped her nose with her damp sleeve, leaving her tears to mingle with the rain.
“First, You led me away from me home, and all that I loved, and sent me on a journey. Now I’ll not complain about that if that is Your will. But the storm You sent at sea nearly killed me, and now You send another my way. Am I being punished for something, because if I am, I don’t know what it is. And I don’t t’ink I’m ready to die just yet.”
Comforted by her conversation, she got to her feet. She’d not talked out loud to God before, at least not like that. She’d always said her prayers, of course, and she’d asked for things sometimes – silently, in her head, hoping He’d hear her – little things of small consequence, but never out loud and never demanding answers.
“Am I supposed to learn something from it, God? Is that it? Whichever it is, I wish You’d show me the way because I’m getting mighty weary.”
A blazing flash of lightning lit up the opposite end of the alley from where she’d entered, followed by a clap of thunder so intense she screamed. She put her hands over her ears to stop them ringing. Was that a sign?
