by Meg Keneally
She would not, ever, speak of Vinegar Hill, the battle where Colm was taken, or of returning to the house to find her father piked through on the doorstep. Of watching Colm’s execution weeks later, and not recognising at first the man they’d shot in the back of the head, his scalp ruined from pitch-capping.
And she would certainly not be telling Monsarrat of giving birth in the cell where she was taken after she had sold stolen butter to the wrong person.
Monsarrat was silent for a long moment after he had heard the story. Too long, probably. Hannah had risen from the table, started towards her sleeping room to pack.
‘My God, but you must hate us,’ he said.
‘Us?’
‘The English. You are a remarkable soul, Hannah, to still be speaking to me after what was taken from you.’
‘Why shouldn’t I speak to you? Did you do the taking? No, you’re a victim of the same people. The ones who look at us and see a disease to be cured, rot to be cut out.’
‘Still – I don’t think I could have done it. The hatred would have destroyed me. How has it not done so to you?’
‘For a time, I wanted it to. But why would I let them take my soul, when they had taken everything else? And I had Padraig to consider as well. That whole voyage – we buried a few babes at sea, you know, and when they slid the little bundles into the ocean I always imagined it was Padraig. Everything, everything I did or said was to help him survive. When we got here – well, I thought, this is his chance. His chance to live without the old hatreds glowering over his shoulder, forcing him to take up a pike. And my chance, too. The hole I left in Enniscorthy after I was transported would have closed over quickly, no one left to miss or mourn me. So if I was to vanish, why not reappear in a guise which would help me navigate this place, that of a married woman rather than a fallen one?’
‘You are not fallen, Hannah. Far less so than me, at any rate. Please, reconsider your resignation. I’m sure you would get on perfectly well in another household, but this one would fall apart without you.’
She stared at him for a moment, but said nothing and went to her room. Monsarrat did not know whether his words had had any effect. But when the next morning brought tea, and there were no signs of possessions being bundled together, he began to hope. And when she scolded him for spilling his tea on the kitchen table – ‘I’ll be scrubbing that for the next week, eejit of a man’ – he knew he had succeeded.
As relieved as he was that he had managed to talk her out of leaving, Monsarrat couldn’t help feeling a little bit offended. He made a scowling progress along the riverbank, having decided the water might restore his equilibrium, as he paced his way towards Government House, past small, low houses with mean windows, modelled on English houses that were designed to keep out the cold of English winters, and unequal to the task of catching a river breeze in a strange summer. They stood on land which had been pristine, untouched by anything other than a native’s hand or the pad of a kangaroo, just a few decades past.
Monsarrat had forgotten about the smell of the bats, dripping now in their thousands from the branches of the river trees, wrapped in their own wings like fat black flowers, insensible to the pique of the man who, for once, was making no attempt to avoid the muddier parts of the bank as he chewed at his irritation. The bats’ stench climbed down through the air to meet the smell of rotting river plants, set free by the low tide. The stink was not helping the state of either his mind or his stomach, which had not yet finished complaining about last night’s rum. And when he tripped in a hole dug by a bandicoot – odd little animals, grey dollops of fur with the nose of a rat, but three times the size – he decided to try out the word he had heard one of the convict women use on the overseer.
Why would she think such a history, in this place of unfortunate histories, would matter to him? And why hadn’t she confided in him earlier? He had saved her, after all, from the gallows, even though at the expense of someone she loved. And while it felt awkward, sometimes, to have stepped into the role of her employer, he had thought that they were both becoming accustomed to the arrangement, and that their friendship had survived the transition.
Still, this was a place where pasts became smudged. Usually either over-dramatised or underplayed in the retelling. And who was to call out the teller of the tales, when the stories – factual or not – were generated by events which had happened in a place of different seasons, different livestock, different lives.
He would get over his offence, he knew. Especially as he had secured continuing access to her company, her intellect, and her tea.
Getting over Sophia’s role in the revelation – that was far less certain.
Sophia knew, of course, that he was anxious to sand down the jagged edges of his own past, eager for a reputation which would insulate him from pulpit salvos. She must’ve presumed that he would distance himself from the Irishwoman should anything stain her reputation. In this, she was catastrophically wrong.
He intended to call on her later. Ask her what she thought she was doing. Listen to the answer, make a decision.
Now, though, he had a more important task. One given to him this morning by his servant.
‘Don’t you go thinking that this tea comes without a price,’ Mrs Mulrooney had said, her small, scurrying steps propelling the rest of her, and the tray she was holding, into the parlour.
‘Good morning, Mrs Mulrooney,’ he said. He had known she was up, of course. Had heard the creak of the pump in the yard, the bucket being dragged out from under the drip stone – a large granite bowl on a stand that purified the water poured into it. Monsarrat sometimes thought the fluid which worked its way slowly through the granite was the only thing here to become more pristine with the passage of time. The water that had recently dripped from the stone into the pail below was now in the teapot.
Monsarrat frequently offered help with the heavier tasks like pumping and carrying water, and was always glared at as though he’d offered insult. ‘Sure, you couldn’t be trusted to do it properly,’ she frequently said. ‘You’d galumph around and spill it all, big streak of a man as you are, and who cleans it up then?’
This morning, he’d made no such offer. He understood her well, or fancied he did, and guessed she would use the domestic rituals of the morning to calm herself, take an inventory, make sure each part of the contraption which made up Hannah Mulrooney was in working order, if not spotlessly sparkling.
‘As for the price,’ he’d said, ‘one might remind you that one pays considerably more than one can afford for the excellent tea and the pleasure of your company, as well as the occasional swat with the cleaning cloth. I know, I know, it’s a bargain, but still – it isn’t nothing.’
‘A small step up from nothing, I suppose,’ Mrs Mulrooney said as she laid out the tea things on the table in front of him. ‘But it’s not more money I’m after.’
‘No? What may I do for you, then?’
‘Pens, paper and ink will do for a start.’
‘Of course. But I do recall giving you a quantity of paper very recently. You must be writing letters to Padraig several times a day.’
‘Not for me. For the women.’
‘The women? Which ones?’
‘Now you can’t expect me to know all their names, not yet. It will be at least next week for that. But this Mrs Nelson, you see, is very keen on teaching them how to read. And I have found that the best way to learn to read is to write.’
‘Have you indeed?’
‘I have,’ she said, with all the authority of a professor.
‘So you would like me to procure pens and paper for Mrs Nelson’s use in teaching letters to the women of the Factory.’
‘Did I not just say that? Are you still drunk?’
‘I don’t believe so, but my head is nowhere near as clear as it usually is, a situation which I am relying on your tea to alleviate. Can Mrs Nelson not get the items elsewhere? I am not sure Mr Eveleigh will give me leave to make off w
ith his stationery, and David Nelson – I have passed his house a few times – is more than wealthy enough to spare a few writing implements.’
‘I’d agree with you there, if I did not think that procuring them myself would provide us with certain advantages.’
‘I see.’
‘I very much fear you don’t, Mr Monsarrat, if you’re asking questions like that. You want me to listen, keep an ear out for notes which sound a little off. It’s far easier to listen if people are talking. And far easier to get them to talk when you’re teaching them something. And far easier for me to convince Mrs Nelson to allow me to assist her if I am making a contribution myself.’
‘Ah. You are right, as usual.’
‘Of course I am. So you will do as I ask?’
‘My dear lady, despite your assertions to the contrary, I am not an eejit. Therefore I may be relied on to accurately assess where my interests lie, and at the moment they lie in fulfilling your requests in the hopes you will continue to help me.’
‘I certainly don’t think we can rule out Crotty,’ Monsarrat said, hoping he did not still smell of grog. ‘I found his belief that his problems with watered rum are over rather interesting.’
Eveleigh got up from his desk – an unusual move in itself – and began pacing the perimeter of the office, head down, carefully measuring each step.
‘Monsarrat, do you know how I felt when I was told you were coming?’
‘No, Mr Eveleigh.’
‘I was delighted. I thought to myself, how remarkable, someone with investigative instincts and clerical skill, so rare to find in one individual. It should simplify matters greatly, I thought to myself.’
‘And now?’
‘Well, I can’t say I regret your arrival. But I was certainly mistaken with regard to your ability to simplify things. You seem instead to be making them rather complicated.’
‘I assure you, sir. They are complicated without my intervention. I’m simply thinking to untangle them.’
‘And there are those, Monsarrat, known to both of us, who would say that no disentanglement is needed. That the guilty party is obvious, and that nibbling around the edges is wasting time.’
‘Is that your view, sir?’
Eveleigh sat back down, rather heavily for such a slight man.
‘I don’t know, Monsarrat. I just don’t know. I do know, however, that the superintendent of police – and others who, shall we say, believe they have a role to play in secular society – are very anxious to proceed to the trial of the O’Leary woman, and would be alarmed by your activities of last night.’
‘But surely, sir, you would not wish to see an innocent woman hanged?’
‘No, no of course not. But I do want to see this business dealt with. Tidied away. It’s interfering with the efficient running of things.’
Monsarrat knew that interference with the efficient running of things was in Eveleigh’s view the worst crime anyone could commit.
‘So, Mr Monsarrat, I feel that we do need to set some boundaries. You are not – absolutely not – to investigate this or any other matter outside of official hours and without my express permission. You will not involve any third party in this investigation. You will inform me of your intended course of action each day.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘And, Monsarrat, one more thing. You have until the end of next week. Should you fail to discover anything germane, I will depose the O’Leary woman myself and prepare a brief for trial. And your status in this office will be less secure than it was.’
Monsarrat felt something inside him wake, shiver, stretch. It was a short step from losing his position to losing his ticket of leave. And he firmly believed a third penal stretch would kill him.
‘Now, Monsarrat, if there’s nothing else, I suggest you go and talk to O’Leary one last time, to see if you can find a hole in her story.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Monsarrat, standing. And then swallowed. If he were to have a black mark against him anyway …
‘Sir, if I may have one more moment of your time. An acquaintance of mine is engaged in some charity work with convicts. Promoting literacy. I wondered, if it’s not too much trouble, would this office be able to spare a few sheets of paper?’
Chapter 15
In the early days in the little home, before Mrs Mulrooney and Monsarrat had settled into the rhythm of Sunday suppers, Mrs Mulrooney had insisted on serving Monsarrat his supper in the parlour. But in all honesty he preferred to take his meals in the kitchen with her. She acquiesced – to a point. She would rarely sit down and eat with him, always flitting from one task to the next. He hoped she ate properly at some point. Quite happy to carry on with her frantic activity in his presence, quite happy to put a plate of root vegetables, cauliflower and spinach in front of him while she muttered at the sugar snips for failing to cleanly slice the dome off a piece of sugarloaf, or berated a pannikin for displaying a hairline crack.
Monsarrat had told Mrs Mulrooney about his conversation with Grace, and about Grace’s suggestion that Lizzie might have been one of the few people who could have seen the murder.
‘Do you think you can face talking to Lizzie again?’ Monsarrat asked.
‘Well, I don’t see why not. I’ll ask Mrs Nelson if we can visit her again today. I’ll just keep a reasonable distance.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Mulrooney. I’m uncomfortable about the whole business, to be honest, and particularly about asking for your involvement. But there is a very small chance it could be crucial.’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Monsarrat. Mrs Nelson will be with me. And I rather hope Lizzie calls her Eddie again. Her reaction may teach me something.’
She reached into the bowl of sand where the eggs were kept – they lasted longer that way – wiped the grains off the one she extracted and cracked it into a mixing bowl.
‘Thank you for the paper, by the way. It will come in very handy. It’s taking them a little while to pick up the skill of forming the letters, I must say, but still it’s a joy for them and me.’
Monsarrat knew from watching her in Port Macquarie that Mrs Mulrooney was never happier than when she was coaxing people along, or compelling them, bossing or cajoling. He realised it must’ve been strange for her to have only him to take care of, after, for a time, having such a sizeable flock. And he had to admit that it was a relief she wasn’t objecting to the task. He’d had more than enough objections from women for one day.
He had visited Sophia on his way home that evening, at the small white boarding house. He had opened the gate and walked up the path which bisected the neat little front yard, knocked on the door until its neat little owner answered. Fortunately, there were no guests at home, so they were able to use the parlour. There was, in particular, a small chaise on which Sophia loved to recline before drawing Monsarrat down to her.
‘I would like to ask you,’ he said, once he’d settled into a seat and refused the offer of tea, ‘why you felt it necessary to attempt to blackmail my housekeeper?’
‘Ah,’ said Sophia, sitting down opposite him. ‘Blackmail? You really think so?’
‘What else would it be?’
‘An attempt to persuade, that’s all. You have been very slow to put in place any firm arrangements for our marriage. It occurred to me that your housekeeper’s attitude may be part of the reason. And you know, of course, that it is important for both of us that such an event proceed. I was simply attempting to remove one possible obstacle.’
‘So you have,’ said Monsarrat, standing up. ‘For there can be no obstacle to an event which is not possible.’
‘Now, please, Hugh. Be sensible. This is a match which will help us both advance, and any qualms you may feel over the discomfort of a domestic servant are really neither here nor there.’
‘They are, though, Sophia. Very much so. The authorities can take our freedom away again in an instant, you know. It just takes someone like Reverend Bulmer to catch either one of us in the tin
iest transgression, and you or I, or both, would be back in slop canvas and government muslin. All we can control is our ability to be better than the animals they think we are. Yes, even you, my dear – do not think for a moment that Bulmer doesn’t see you as soiled goods, as an outcast woman. We cannot change his mind – none of us, none of the fallen. But we can make him wrong. It is the only real decision open to us. That, and the company we keep.’
Monsarrat turned, opened the front door and walked slowly down the path, towards the river and the rank smell of the bats.
The next morning Hannah was up before the sun, with breakfast ready a full half-hour earlier than normal. She had the fresh sheets of paper in her basket, thanks to the largesse of Mr Eveleigh, and was looking forward to Rebecca’s delighted reaction.
For the first time, she arrived earlier than Rebecca. She tucked herself away just inside the Factory’s arched gate, hearing the bell which seemed to be doing its best not to be melodious as it told the women it was time for work.
Rebecca must’ve heard it too and realised she was late for she came trotting around the corner at twice her usual sedate pace, slowing and smiling when she saw Mrs Mulrooney. But she did not slow quickly enough and, catching the hem of her dress under the pointed toe of her shoe, she pitched forward.
Hannah was at her side in a moment, trying to set her to rights, but Rebecca seemed oblivious to all but her hair. The fall had knocked off her sun bonnet – an item for which she seemed to feel considerable affection, for she never removed it, even inside, and it now sat at the end of a small stream of copper-red hair, almost indecently bright against the dirt.
When Rebecca realised her bonnet was no longer carrying out the task she had set to it, that of constraining the red waves, she snatched it up with one hand while trying to gather her hair at the back with the other, twisting it in a way which must surely have been painful, jamming the bonnet back on her head and stuffing the hair in, wide-eyed and breathing hard.
