by Meg Keneally
She stood when she saw the party arriving, waved as though the women were her dearest friends on this earth, beckoned and sat them on wicker chairs far more comfortable than any seating available at the Factory.
‘Now.’ She clapped a hand excitedly. ‘You are going to be doing so much more than mending and darning; so much more than just making clothes or keeping them together. You’re going to create something entirely new. But, as with all creation, or even recreation, there is a price.’
The women looked at each other uneasily. A price? Wasn’t there always? What would this one be?
‘I am going to start by teaching you to embroider letters, words. Far easier, when you’re starting out, than a bird or a flower or a leaf, where you have to mimic the shadings that the natural world gave those things. Letters are ours, they owe nothing to nature, they have straight edges and regular curves and are far easier to sketch and sew.
‘So, each of you is going to embroider a word, one word, on a piece of cloth. But I will not hand you a frame until you tell me what the word is and how to spell it.’
The women looked at each other, and then back at Rebecca. A trick? Some sort of trap, testing their devoutness or their rectitude? Several clearly thought so, for the word they nominated was God – believing, no doubt, that it wouldn’t do any harm to be seen as devout. Thanks to Hannah’s efforts, they were able to stammer out the letters and were rewarded with a sewing frame.
A few of the others – some of the younger ones – gave their own names.
‘M-A-R-I,’ said Mary Smith. One of the more recent arrivals, she had been transported for theft of livestock.
Rebecca seemed to know all their stories. She had told Hannah that Mary had seen a cow straying, and had been attempting to lead it back when she was apprehended. She was a good girl, apparently, caused little trouble, and rarely spoke.
At the misspelling, Rebecca winced at Hannah, handing her a sewing frame. Hannah carried it over to Mary and whispered in her ear, ‘Put a Y on the end, there’s a good girl. But well done.’
Then it was the turn of one of the youngest of the group. Helen Down had been barely fourteen years when she was sentenced to transportation, for whacking her stepfather over the head with a piece of wood. She had never disclosed how he’d provoked the attack. Nor did she need to – most here could take a reasonable guess.
‘Eliza,’ she whispered, as though fearing to disturb the heat that lurked in the air, lest it turn on her. Hannah had noticed, on the walk here, that Helen’s eyes were continually scanning the guards, the road ahead, the slope leading down to the river bank. She had assumed Helen was taking in as much as she could of the world outside the Factory walls. Now, she wondered if the girl had been looking for threats.
‘Say that again, if you please, Helen,’ called Rebecca.
‘Eliza – E-L-I-Z-A,’ said Helen, more loudly.
And then she began to wail.
It took some time to get her to stop – she was gulping in air in gasps so violent that it seemed to Hannah she might tear open her own chest.
‘Mrs Mulrooney,’ said Rebecca. ‘Kindly go to the kitchen and get the vial of laudanum from the second shelf beside the fireplace. And a cup of water, too.’
Hannah welcomed the opportunity to step into the shade. Until she saw the dining room was green. Rooms of that colour made her nervous these days. This was paint, though, not paper like the last ill-omened green room she had entered. In every other aspect the room was a handsome one – elongated as though built around the long dining table it housed, with a large fireplace which stood unused for the moment, and would probably see its hiatus extend to March or April, when the weather started to cool. Beautiful filigree statues on the mantel-piece, below a picture of a man she didn’t recognise, who was sitting with three-quarters of his body turned towards the artist, looking directly out from the frame as though trying to probe the viewer for deception.
A door at the other end of this room led through to a sitting room, which gave out to the backyard and the kitchen beyond it. There must be servants, but Hannah couldn’t see them – perhaps Rebecca had sent them away for the convicts’ visit. And at the side of the room another door opened to a study where an older man – the embodiment of the man in the painting – sat at a desk. He was frowning at a piece of paper, while its companions were weighed down against the breeze with a small bronze statue of a wolfhound. A much larger, living example of the species was attempting to imitate a rug on the floor in front of the desk, raising his head and growling when Hannah passed the room.
The man looked up, saw her and rose, closing the study door behind him as he walked towards her.
‘I trust my wife has explained to you that no convicts are to be inside the house,’ he said. He sounded firm, authoritative, but not necessarily angry.
‘Of course, I’m sorry. But I’m not a convict. I’m assisting Mrs Nelson, and she’s asked me to fetch an item for her from the kitchen.’
‘Ah, you’re the housekeeper she speaks of so highly. How did she persuade you to act as her factotum?’
Hannah bobbed, introduced herself. ‘I don’t think there was any persuasion,’ she said. ‘I’m pleased to assist her.’
He smiled slightly. ‘Yes, a common experience, I think you’ll find, among those associated with my wife. She seems happy out there.’
‘Indeed, Mr Nelson.’
‘Surprising. She was once suspicious of convicts – I had to prevail on her to do this work. But I’m glad to see her taking to it. It distracts her from her grief, you know.’
‘Her grief, sir?’
‘Her father died shortly after the two of them arrived here. She is still in mourning for him. Now, kindly fetch what she asked you for, and please do see that none of the rest of them come in.’
Hannah located the glass vial of laudanum in a cupboard next to the cloves, got a cup from the kitchen and scooped some water from a pail beneath the drip stone. The yard between the house and the kitchen was damp, almost muddy – odd in this heat. There was a small puddle surrounding the nearby pump, with water leaching up from the ground, slowly colonising the space.
By the time she returned to the verandah, Helen seemed somewhat recovered. Her young skin was blotchy, and her eyes were still red and leaking, but she was no longer gasping. She was half-reclining, and being fanned by Bronagh as Peggy held her hand.
‘She didn’t know me on Sunday,’ Helen was wailing. ‘Or she pretended not to, which is worse. She wouldn’t come to me, wouldn’t let me hug her. What must they be doing to her?’
Hannah sat down beside her. ‘Eliza is a lovely name,’ she said quietly.
‘It was my mother’s, who is dead, thankfully – she didn’t live to know that her granddaughter was born in servitude and has never taken a free breath.’
‘And how old is your girl?’
‘Four.’ The word seemed to shatter Helen’s voice for a moment, remove her ability to speak.
Hannah finally understood: the age children of Factory women were taken from their mothers to the orphan school.
‘I’m sure she’s being well taken care of,’ she said, sure of no such thing.
‘Do they sing to her, though?’ said Helen. ‘Do they know that she’s scared of magpies? That she likes braiding leaves? That she’s good at running but gets a pain in her tummy if she goes too fast?’
She began to cry again, and Hannah cast around for any small mercy to cling on to.
‘Soon you’ll be able to show her how beautiful her name looks in needlepoint,’ she said, cursing herself and His Majesty’s excuse for a government that this was the best consolation she could offer. ‘And not everyone here is without kindness: you may find she is being better looked after than you had hoped.’
‘You mustn’t worry,’ said Peggy. ‘A lot of them have trouble at first. I’m sure it won’t last, and her rations are probably better now.’
Bronagh took the cup and held it to Helen’s
lips. ‘As for you, you’re too thin, you are,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a word to the pirate queen, see what can be done.’
Hannah was most certainly not aware of anyone matching the description of a pirate queen residing in Parramatta. In fact, the only one she’d ever heard of had harried the coast of Ireland long ago.
Though distracted by Bronagh’s strange comment, she noticed now a young man standing by the verandah. He removed his broad-brimmed hat. His hair should have belonged to the man in the house, far too white for his years. As the heat danced around him and soaked into the fires of his coat, he couldn’t stop himself glancing briefly at the cup.
‘Ah, my friend from the markets,’ Hannah said.
And so he was. Hannah hated asking for help with anything, but sometimes, if it was offered on a hot afternoon while carrying home some heavy parcels, she forced herself to accept. Not many people offered, though, but this man had, and while his face was unremarkable, the white hair made him memorable.
He bobbed his head. Rebecca had noticed him too. ‘Henson! How nice to see you. All well at the warehouse, I trust? Do go inside. He’s in his study, trying to stay as far away from all this femininity as he possibly can.’
Henson smiled, nodded and walked into the house.
‘He works for your husband?’ asked Hannah.
‘Yes, he runs David’s main warehouse, down by the river. Serves in the store sometimes too. He inspects the goods off the ship, off the carts. He has a small amount of discretion within strict boundaries in regard to what he can buy. He stores it and catalogues it and generally makes sure everything is in order. He’s not a bad clerk, either. Not much of a sense of humour, but you can’t have everything. He’s a Quaker – David employs them when he possibly can.’
Hannah had rarely heard one of the social rulers of this place go to so much trouble to explain an acquaintance, especially to a housekeeper.
Helen was now recovered enough to begin to sketch the word which had upset her onto her piece of muslin stretched across its frame, and to start plunging a needle trailing a vivid scarlet tail in and out of the cloth.
Rebecca spent the next hour walking among the women, inspecting their work. ‘For God’s sake, Ann, what has that cloth ever done to you? There’s no need to stab it, now. Gently ease the needle in through the fibres – far more effective and leaves a cleaner result.’
‘Harriet, please try to keep your stitches a little smaller. If you make them too big you simply pull at the fabric, see? Small and delicate, like a duchess’s footsteps.’
‘Never been near a duchess to see what her footsteps are like,’ said Harriet, one of the older ones, and, judging by her pitted skin, a survivor of smallpox.
‘Ah, but you have such a vivid imagination! Like my dear Lizzie. You can surely create a fictional duchess and observe her gait.’
Harriet did not look particularly inclined to create anything, out of thin air or otherwise, but her stitches gradually became smaller and neater.
Hannah realised they must’ve been there for longer than she had thought when she stopped having to shield her eyes from the sun to examine the convicts’ work. Perhaps Rebecca noticed as well. In any case, she withdrew a small, delicate pocket watch from her skirts, checked it, put it away.
‘It appears our time is up. I mustn’t be tardy in getting you ladies back to the Factory, otherwise they might not let you come again. Mrs Mulrooney, would you kindly collect the frames? I’ll let the guards know their rest is at an end. Cook will be back soon anyway, and she wouldn’t be happy to find those galumphing louts hanging around, probably with their feet up on her table.’
At that moment her husband came out with Henson, who was blushing slightly and smiling. They were trailed by the wolfhound, who jumped onto one of the benches next to Helen, giving her a fright.
‘Nemesis! You appalling thing, get down,’ said Rebecca. Nemesis ignored her, sitting on his haunches and examining the group of women, assessing them for their ability to provide food.
‘He’s brought me the most marvellous news, this lad,’ said David, clapping the young man on the shoulder.
‘Oh? Have you made a particularly advantageous purchase, Mr Henson?’
‘Better than that, Mrs Nelson.’
‘Better indeed!’ said David. ‘Henson has informed me that the thieving has stopped. I’m sure it was hiring some night guards that did it, but whatever the reason, for the first time in six months everything is there. Nothing is missing, nothing at all! Odd that I should get this news when I was staying home to prevent a potential theft myself – I will look more kindly on your ladies in future, Rebecca. They seem to have brought us some of the good fortune we have been praying for.’
Chapter 20
It had turned into a particularly pleasant evening. As the summer drew towards its peak, the evenings lengthened beyond anything known in the damp islands Monsarrat and Mrs Mulrooney had come from, and tonight a gentle breeze cooled by the river was finding its way through the kitchen window, which had been opened to receive it. The evening was warm but cool enough, for once, for Hannah to put some dough into a small indentation of the wall where, heated by the fire, it would become bread.
‘I have seen people in all sorts of states,’ she told Monsarrat as she worked. ‘Especially when they first arrive. You should have seen the state of me, now, when I stepped off with a baby in my arms. I was more fortunate than Helen, though. I got to keep him, grow him to manhood. If he had been taken … Well, I would have lain there at night imagining him crying for me, wondering why I had abandoned him. Later – and this would be worse – I would have imagined him hardening, making a shell for himself, one which wouldn’t have room for me. No wonder she was panicking.’
Panic had always shimmered around the edges of Monsarrat’s own consciousness when he was a convict, and occasionally it threatened to return even now, invited back by people such as McAllister. Monsarrat occasionally envied women for their ability to exorcise it by screaming it into the air, something his gender prevented him from doing, dearly as he would have loved to on a few occasions.
Hannah never spent more than a few minutes seated, at least not in this kitchen. She stood, checked on the bread to ensure it was behaving itself and unconsciously started boiling water to warm the teapot.
‘But then,’ she said, hanging the kettle on its hook to allow the fire to do its work, ‘I have to wonder whether there was something else to it, too. She was acting as though it had just happened. Do you think, perhaps, that her soul is so used to insult, so injured, that it tears afresh at the slightest touch?’
‘It is a mystery to me, my friend. Why people act the way they do. Particularly women.’
Only very occasionally did Monsarrat wish he had been able to afford a larger kitchen, so he had more space to avoid Mrs Mulrooney’s flick of the cleaning cloth.
‘I get thoroughly fed up with men complaining that women are incomprehensible. And in that you’re no better than any other man I’ve ever known, Mr Monsarrat, although in other regards you’re above most of the rest. All that is required is for you to open your eyes as well as your ears.’
Monsarrat was mildly irritated. For years observation had been his chief strength – one of the only things he was at complete liberty to indulge in. ‘Forgive my dullness, then, but perhaps you could advise me on interpreting female communication?’
‘Yes, well. As a service to the people of Parramatta, and particularly to its women, I’d be delighted to. When a woman – when anyone – is speaking, you listen to the words, yes?’
‘Of course. I believe that is standard practice.’
Mrs Mulrooney narrowed her eyes. Had she not just flailed him with the cleaning cloth, he was certain she would have done so now.
‘But do you attend to how the person is talking?’
‘With their mouth, presumably.’
‘Eejit of a man! Are they talking slowly, choosing their words carefully? Are they ta
lking quickly, nervous perhaps, anxious to get everything out? Are they looking directly at you? Is their head down, up, to the side? Are they smiling, frowning, emphasising any word in particular? Do you pay the slightest attention to any of this?’
‘Well … Of course.’
‘Of course you don’t. Kindly do me the courtesy of telling me the truth. If you did, you’d have seen the trouble with herself coming.’
‘Herself? You mean Sophia?’
‘Had you noticed, I wonder, how she was beginning to choose longer words, and say them slowly so that whomever she was speaking to would notice; how she was beginning to hold up her chin and angle her eyes downwards?’
‘As it happens, I hadn’t. Clearly I require your services as a translator.’
‘And I will give them to you, freely and loudly. The first thing I’ll say is that if I were a betting woman, I’d wager Sophia didn’t speak like that when she boarded the ship in London.’
‘I wouldn’t have the faintest idea.’
‘I would. A London chambermaid? Very few of them speak like duchesses. But she does now. Lord knows where she picked it up. Possibly been keeping an ear out whenever someone of quality’s around. Holding her head the way she imagines such a woman would do. She wishes, Mr Monsarrat, to join the gentry. And to hasten that day, she is acting as though it has already happened. And a clerk, even a ticket-of-leave man working for the governor, is not going to get her there.’
‘Especially one who has managed to earn the enmity of what passes for aristocracy in Parramatta. Have you heard of Socrates McAllister?’ Monsarrat said.
‘Of course. Unlike you, I keep my eyes and ears open. I’m surprised Sophia did not make her play for him. Exactly what she’s looking for, I’d imagine.’
‘He’s married, of course. Six children. Wife not well, from what I understand. But that’s of no concern.’
