by Clare Flynn
'Was it very beautiful up there? When you spoke about it yesterday you seemed to miss it very much? It must have been hard to leave?'
'Not so hard. Not leaving the mine. But yes the dale is beautiful. Quiet. You could walk all day and never see another soul. It's wild and when you're there, you know it's been the same for centuries.'
'But not the mining?'
'That too. They've been digging the lead out of those hills for hundreds of years. Even the Romans mined there.'
He talked on and she listened, transfixed by words and his face. But she felt he was holding back, slightly guarded, almost suspicious. Yet when their eyes met it was as if she could see right inside him. She liked his face: the still boyish features and the bright eyes and the way his hair was always rumpled as though he'd just got out of bed. She wanted to run her hands through it. She surprised herself with the way she sought out his company: she had never been so forward with any man and had certainly never met or spoken to a working man like him. But it felt right being there with him.
Lying in her cabin that night she thought of him again. What was she doing? Where was this leading? So much for the promise she had made to herself to close herself off from other people? And what future was there in this? But then she told herself that they would soon be in Sydney and she would never see him again, so what harm was there in spending time with him while they were stuck on the ship? Avoiding him in this confined space was futile. Once they landed, they could say their farewells and go their separate ways.
The next morning she woke from a nightmare about Dawson. The sheets were drenched with sweat and she ran into the bathroom and threw up. She decided, rather than facing the world, to stay in her cabin and have her meals brought to her by the steward. But it was worse. Stuck in the small space she felt cornered and trapped and every time she closed her eyes Dawson's face was looking down at her. She went up on deck to get some air.
Returning to her cabin, as she rounded a corner, she saw Winterbourne ahead of her in the corridor, engaged in conversation with a woman. She stopped in her tracks and slid into the recess of the door to the empty smoke room. Leaning out cautiously, she saw him place a hand on the woman's shoulder – Betty, one of the stewardesses. Elizabeth watched him pull the woman towards him and hold her for a moment in his arms, her head on his shoulder as his hand stroked her hair. Then the pair pulled apart and after a few words that Elizabeth couldn't make out, the stewardess went off up the passageway. Elizabeth stood motionless in the doorway, trying to take in what she had seen and the effect it had had on her.
Back in her cabin, she tried to sort out the thoughts that were racing through her head. Why should she be surprised? Betty was an attractive woman and Winterbourne was a free agent. But she felt a sense of loss as the emotion welled up inside her. She had thought him an ally and believed he was becoming a friend: the only person on the ship with whom she had willingly spent time. Betrayed. Not just that. Jealous too. She wished it was on her shoulder that he had placed his hand and that it was she who had been folded into his arms. She thought about how it would feel to have those arms around her, to bury her head in the warmth of his chest; to feel his hands upon her hair. Sitting there on the bunk, she clenched her firsts and smashed them down into the mattress, a little cry escaping from her lips. All those intentions to be strong, to be hard, to be brave, had abandoned her. She was alone, lonely and felt rejected.
He had made no advances, had made no promises, had behaved impeccably. She could not blame him for seeking the company of an attractive woman. No doubt he felt more at home with a woman nearer his own social class. She cursed her naivety and stupidity and swore to avoid him for the rest of the voyage. She got up and looked at her reflection in the mirror. You silly goose. Fancy falling for a fellow like that! You've no business to fall for anybody. Not any more. Not after what's happened to you. Stop thinking about him. Focus on the future. On Father. On your new life together.
She abandoned her daily expedition to the boat deck, preferring to go to the ladies' saloon or stay in her cabin. At mealtimes, she waited until the dining room was almost empty and he had already finished. Whenever she reminded herself of her stupid suggestion that she take him to an orchestral concert she cringed and wondered what must he think of her?
As the Historic sailed into Sydney Harbour she couldn't help but feel uplifted. The panorama in front of her was so beautiful: the clear blue sky mirrored in the crystal water, the myriad inlets and outcrops of the natural harbour, the rich green vegetation and the impressive growing development of the city spreading inland from the water's edge. As the ship docked at the quayside, she searched in vain for her father's face among the crowds, then remembered he would have had no idea she would be on this particular ship or arriving so soon after his letter.
She felt a hand on her sleeve and jumped in surprise.
'Miss Morton, have you been ill? I've not seen you in a while. I hope it weren't the ciggie I gave you the other day?'
She tried to adopt an aloof expression and her coolest tone of voice. 'I've been quite well, thank you.'
He looked crushed but doffed his cap and stretched out his hand to her. 'All the best for the future, Miss Morton. It were a pleasure to meet you.'
She prayed she wasn't blushing and tried to repress the little leap her heart gave. But she knew he was courting the stewardess. There was a bitter taste in her mouth as she forced herself to reply, ignoring his outstretched hand by pretending not to see it.
'You too, Mr Winterbourne. May you find what you're looking for in Australia.'
He hesitated, as though about to say something else, but Elizabeth had already turned away and started to walk towards the gangway. He looked after her, a frown creasing his brow.
'Fancied your chances with the posh lady did you, Mick?' One of the Mancunians slapped him on the back and laughed loudly. His brothers joined them.
'You daft lad! A bit of class like her 'd 'ave nowt to do with the likes of you, mate!'
'Eee! - you're soft on 'er aren't you?' the first one punched his arm playfully.
The oldest brother pulled the peak of Michael's cap down over his eyes. 'Come on don't deny it! We've seen you, Mick. All doe-eyed whenever she's in view. Can't say as I blame you though, She's a bit of alright. But out of your class, mate!'
'Alright, lads. You've had yer fun. Now I'm getting off this heap of steel and getting me mug round a pint of Australia's finest. And I'll not be sad to see the back of you lot!' And with that Michael knocked the cap off the first of the brothers and made his way through the departing throng, trying to force a smile through the hurt that he was feeling.
Chapter Five - Bad News
The Rocks, Sydney
The houses were gathered close together in rows as if retreating from the advance of the ships in the harbour opposite. The buildings were at least a hundred years old and looked rather the worse for the passage of time, their shabby paintwork highlighted in the Sydney sunshine. A girl sat on the steps of the first house, nursing a scraggy ginger kitten in her lap. Ignoring Elizabeth's approach, she stroked the matted fur and whispered words of affection into the creature's ear.
'He looks a friendly little cat. Does he have a name?' said Elizabeth.
The girl looked up, her eyes blinking into the sun, weighing up this uninvited intruder into her feline communion.
'Not yet. I haven't decided. I might call him Fluff. Or maybe Pickles.'
'Pickles is a good name.'
'Yes we had one before called Pickles, belonging to my brother, but he died.'
Elizabeth hoped she was referring to the cat and not the brother.
'That's sad - cats don't live as long as people. Even though they're meant to have nine lives.' She set her case down on the pavement and looked past the little girl at the façade of the house. The front door was open but the interior was dark and she could not see past a small entrance lobby. There were a few scruffy daisies in a pot on one of the w
indow-ledges, a half-hearted attempt at beautification. A rug hung from one of the upstairs windows, presumably after a good beating. These small signs of domesticity and the clean, if plain, attire of the girl lent an air of respectability to what otherwise was a very run-down street. Elizabeth noticed all the other houses had their curtains closed despite the late hour of the morning.
'Is this Mrs Little's boarding house?'
'Are you looking for a room?' the little girl replied.
A portly woman materialised on the doorstep, arms akimbo. 'That's enough, Molly. Go and fetch the bread like I told you and stop fussing over that cat.' Then nodding at Elizabeth, 'Are you looking for a room?' She eyed her up and down in an unapologetic appraisal.
'I believe my father is staying here? Mr William Morton.'
The woman smoothed her hands over her apron and frowned. She stepped back towards the doorway and said, 'Best come inside, Miss Morton.'
Elizabeth picked up her case and followed her inside, squinting to see in the sudden gloom. The woman led the way to the rear of the building and into a small, sparsely furnished parlour.
'We didn't expect you so soon, Miss Morton - please sit down. You must be tired after your voyage. Can I bring you some tea?'
'That would be very kind. But is my father here now? May I see him?'
The woman frowned again and hesitated, then grasped the edge of her apron and began to squeeze it through her hands, as if it were a cloth she were wringing out.
'There's no easy way to say this and sure enough no easy way to hear it. It's bad news I'm afraid.'
Elizabeth cried out. 'What's happened? Is Father ill? Has he been hurt? Where is he? Let me see him.' She moved towards the woman who stepped backwards towards the doorway, still clutching at her apron.
'Miss, I'm truly sorry. He's dead.... It was just a week ago it happened.' She moved towards Elizabeth and took her by the arm and eased her into a chair.
Elizabeth could not take the words in. The room spun in front of her and her heart began to pound a rhythm in her chest. She took several large gulps of air.
'That can't be true. He wrote and asked me to join him. The ship only got in this morning. He can't be dead.'
'I'm sorry. He was such a nice gentleman. Better class than we're used to here. They tend to be sailors or travellers or folk from the outback in town for a few days. He was a nice man. A bit down on his luck you might say, but a gentleman all the same. Very polite.'
Elizabeth started to sob.
'You have a good cry, Miss. Let it all out. When Molly gets back I'll have her make up a bed for you and you can get some sleep.'
'What happened? He was in good health and not an old man - he was only fifty-five. Was it an accident?'
'Seems that way. He went out one evening and didn't come back. He told us he was going for a couple of drinks and would be back around midnight. There's a place he went to near here that's not that particular about the licensing laws. The front door's never locked. I wait up if I know my guests won't be too late so I can make them a hot drink. That night he told me not to wait up. So it wasn't till the next morning that I realised he hadn't come home at all. Don't get me wrong, Miss, but I think he may have had a few jars too many. Liked the drink he did Mr Morton - but always took it very well. There was never a peep of trouble from him. He was having some hard times lately - not having much luck and he sometimes had a few too many - to console himself I suppose. He was walking back in the early hours and must have lost his footing and fell into the Harbour. His body was found just two days ago. I'm sorry Miss.'
'What am I to do? I've nowhere to go and no one else here. Oh, Father, what have you done?' She started to sob again, her body shaking in shock. Then she looked up at her hostess and said, 'You say he was found just two days ago? Where is he? Has he been buried yet?'
'Funeral's tomorrow. His friend Mr Kidd has arranged it. My husband and I will be going of course. Now you just wait there while I get you a nice cup of tea and that's Molly I hear now - so we'll have that bed ready in no time.'
The woman left the room. Elizabeth leaned back, rubbing her eyes with her sodden handkerchief. Never for a moment had she entertained the thought that her father would not be here, that she would never see him again, that she would be alone on the far side of the world.
She tried to recall his voice, always gentle, but resonant and deep. The harder she struggled to recreate it in her head, the fainter it grew. What had their last conversation been, goodbyes apart? What had they ever talked about? There had been a strong bond between them and a teasing affection, but now that she had lost him forever, she couldn't remember any specific conversation: the words he used; the things he teased her about. It was just a blur, fading in the force of the unbearable truth that she was never going to see him again.
Mrs Little returned with a tray of tea. 'Get this down you. It won't make you feel better but it might calm you a little - I've put plenty of sugar in – and a drop of the hard stuff - it's supposed to be good for a shock, Miss Morton.'
'Please call me Elizabeth, Mrs Little.' There was no one else now who could address her by her given name.
'Then you must call me Peggy - everyone does. We don't stand on ceremony in Australia. I'm sorry it's such a rotten start for you. This is a wonderful country, even though you may not believe me right now and I wouldn't blame you. I've been here twenty years and never regret coming. We came out just after we married. He was a coal-miner so we had ten years in the coalfields over at Lithgow - but we wanted to live in Sydney. I've seven children - Molly's the youngest and the only girl - and we thought the city would be a better place for them. We didn't want our boys going down the pits. But it didn't make any difference. My eldest two, Bobby and Matt, they went to work in South Australia in the opal mines. I haven't seen them in two years, but I'm hoping they'll be back once they've made a few quid. Listen to me – once I get started I find it hard to stop.'
'I like you talking. It stops me thinking.'
'Ah, bless you, my lovely.' The woman flung her arms about Elizabeth, crushing her to her ample bosom. 'Excuse me, dearie, but you looked like you need a good hug.'
'Thank you. I've just realised I don't even have a photograph of Father. I can't even remember what he looked like.'
'You will remember. You're still in shock.'
'And his voice. I can't remember how it sounded. Or anything he ever said to me. We used to talk about music and books. But I can't remember anything personal.'
'That's grief. It will all come back to you soon and you'll have some very happy memories. I promise you.'
'But I'm angry with him, Peggy.' She looked up at her hostess. 'Does that shock you? I'm bloody angry. I've come all this way and I needed him to be here for me. He's abandoned me. What am I going to do? He didn't even have the grace to wait till I got here, before going and dying.'
Peggy rubbed her shoulder gently, but said nothing.
'You think I'm selfish don't you? But if you knew the half of it! You'd understand why I'm mad. Why I feel justified in being angry, when I've travelled across the planet and he couldn't even hang on until I got here. He's let me down.'
'He talked about you often, Elizabeth. He showed me your photograph. Right proud of you he was. Told me you played the violin like an angel from heaven.'
'Did he?'
'He loved you very much, my dear. Now let's get you upstairs so you can rest up. Try and get a little sleep.'
The bedroom was small and sparsely furnished, but spotlessly clean, with painted wooden floorboards and a colourful quilt on the bed. Elizabeth lay down and closed her eyes, trying to submit to much-needed sleep.
After a couple of hours she admitted defeat. She washed her tear-stained face with the pitcher of cool water on the washstand and decided to take a walk. She thought more clearly when moving about, frequently taking long walks on the hills above Northport, when she wanted to work through a problem or coax out an idea.
The
house was quiet and she met no one as she left through the wide-open front door. The street was bathed in sunlight. Although the day was cool, she felt the sun on her head and shoulders. She would need to buy herself a wide-brimmed hat or she would end up looking like a field worker. This reminded her of her situation. She had so little money. Finding work must be a priority but how much demand was there for music teachers?
She walked through the city, along the grid of streets with their large stores and solemn looking buildings. The roads sounded so English, named for faraway English towns, politicians and royalty. It made her desperately homesick. She walked past the Circular Quay, with a tide of humanity pouring on and off the ferryboats to cross the Harbour. The blue of the sky and the sea was so different from grey and cloudy Liverpool, but she would have given anything to be back there.
Eventually she reached a rocky promontory and stopped to look out at the panorama before her. A small island with some kind of fortified building interrupted the channel in front of the green sweep of gardens surrounding the Governor General's residence. The beauty of the scene made her feel even more isolated. If only she were sharing this with her father; instead tomorrow she must bury him. That would mean meeting Mr Jack Kidd and working out how she would repay him the cost of the funeral.
Never in her life had she felt so utterly lonely. Unable to help herself, she leaned against the stone parapet overlooking the Harbour and gave in to the tears. They were silent but flowed like a river, blinding her to the view.
She didn't know how long Michael Winterbourne had been standing there. She just became aware of his presence beside her, leaning against the wall, looking at her. Embarrassed and irritated that her privacy had been invaded, she searched in her pockets for her handkerchief. He anticipated the need and pressed a clean white handkerchief into her hand. She mumbled her thanks and dabbed at her face, gratefully.
'I'm sorry. I didn't realise there was anyone there. I'm feeling much better now. I'm sorry to have ruined your handkerchief.'
