by Di Morrissey
‘Yes, Mrs B. Kate’s a fine name, and I would be honoured to be her godfather. You do understand, both of you, that this is merely a guardianship arrangement? You will have no claim to her inheritance; you are legal guardians charged with her upbringing and welfare. The same applies to Mary, though, of course, the situation is rather different.’
‘Yes, we understand that. All we want is to see that these little girls get lots of love and care,’ said Gladys.
Hock Lee smiled and patted her hand. ‘That’s why I think this is a highly agreeable arrangement.’
Outside the massive sandstone structure of St Stephens in Macquarie Street, a steady flow of carriages, buggies and hansom cabs deposited the elite of Sydney at the main entrance. Ladies and gentlemen in mourning attire walked through the park to the church and many of those who had worked for Robert came to pay their respects.
Sid and Nettie Johnson, with their son Ben, drove Zanana’s best carriage. Inside sat Harold and Gladys Butterworth with baby Kate and young Mary.
Hock Lee, dressed in a black suit, hurried forward to help Mrs Butterworth step down with the baby. Taking Robert’s small daughter in his arms, he peered into the folds of the lace shawl. ‘My, she is a pretty little thing. Will she be all right, Mrs B? It’s going to be quite a long service — so many people want to pay tribute to Robert.’
‘She’ll not be any problem. Besides, a baby crying is good luck . . . it means the devils are being chased away.’
‘Quite so. And during the service don’t dry the drops of water that land on her, let them be,’ added Hock Lee.
‘By golly, between the two of you, she’s going to grow up sillier than a two-bob watch,’ laughed Harold.
Hock Lee was unoffended. ‘Many things might seem like silly superstitions nowadays, but they have their roots in strong and practical beliefs.’ He lifted his hands in an upturned gesture, his eyes lifted briefly to the heavens. It was not for him to question centuries of belief. Silently they all traipsed into the dimness of the big church. Mary, wearing a tailored navy sailor dress, trailed behind them.
There was a choral tribute and many fine speeches and readings by politicians, influential business associates and churchmen from several faiths. All paid glowing accolades to the life and work of Robert MacIntyre. After the congregation sang ‘Abide With Me’ they sat down and there was a pause as everyone settled. A soft buzz of whispered conversations, like a breeze relieving the heat of the summer’s day, subtly changed the mood in the church. Suddenly the organ broke into a triumphant chord and the Butterworths and Hock Lee were ushered forward. Mr Butterworth stood very straight and looked nervous in his stiff white collar. Mrs Butterworth stood by the font fussing with the trail of Kate’s lace shawl.
It was a simple ceremony, during which the Butterworths were charged with the care and upbringing of the child. The minister sprinkled holy water across the child’s head and baptised her, saying with warmth and sincerity, ‘He who gives a child home, builds palaces in Kingdom Come’.
Harold and Gladys glanced briefly at each other, aware of their new responsibility. Both smiled at the serious-faced baby. Kate was then handed to the godfather and Hock Lee raised her above his head saying, ‘To all of you here gathered, I now present Katherine Gladys MacIntyre’, at which she gave a lusty cry that filled the church with smiles.
As the small procession filed out of the church, no one noticed young Mary surreptitiously dip her fingers into the water of the font and brush them against her forehead, whispering to herself.
After the sad memorial service for Robert, the occasion ended on a joyful note with groups clustered about on the pavement, talking quietly and admiring the now sleeping baby. Gradually the crowd broke up and the Butterworths joined the group heading to Hock Lee’s mansion for the christening celebrations.
Unnoticed and neglected throughout the entire proceedings was the seven-year-old Mary. Her face was set and sullen and she spoke to no one. The baby was the focus of attention and she couldn’t understand the fuss being made over the infant who had been responsible for the death of her adopted mother Catherine. In her child’s mind she now blamed the baby for Robert’s unhappiness and death.
Hock Lee lived in a spacious home in fashionable Mosman next door to where his family had settled after amassing a very comfortable fortune. From the upstairs balcony of his home there was a dramatic view of the bay, and the house was furnished with many Chinese antiques shipped from Shanghai.
The mourners who’d been invited back to the house stood around talking quietly and eating the food prepared by Hock Lee’s mother. Mary stood to one side, unobserved, idly picking at the food.
Nearby, Charles Dashford was talking to Hock Lee. ‘I’ll have the papers drawn up for the Butterworths to act as Kate’s guardians. It’s very straightforward. I just wish Robert had left a will. It’s difficult to know what he wanted done about matters. Sending Mary back to the orphanage is not the answer.’
Hock Lee suddenly caught a glimpse of Mary’s shocked small face staring at them. ‘Let’s talk about this later, Charles. Mary . . .’ He turned to the little girl but she was running from the room.
Hock Lee hurried after her but the child had disappeared. He sighed and returned to his guests. Gradually people began to depart. They had paid their respects to a great man sadly lost in a ‘boating accident’, commiserated with Hock Lee, thanked him for the wake and were ready to pick up the threads of their own lives.
Charles Dashford, his wife and young son Hector, also made their farewells. ‘Will you come to my office next week, Hock Lee? The papers about the baby will be ready.’
‘What about young Mary? What’s her legal status?’
‘The adoption papers were never finalised, so there is no legal obligation or commitment which, frankly, simplifies matters in the long-term as far as any claim on the estate.’
‘But there is a moral, social and emotional obligation for the estate to care for her wellbeing, nonetheless,’ replied Hock Lee.
‘Quite so . . . quite so.’ Dashford was noncommittal. ‘Well, we’ll be off. Say goodbye, Hector.’
The little boy hung his head and refused to shake hands. Hock Lee patted his head and moved on to farewell others.
With the formal proceedings over, Hock Lee slumped into a chair and closed his eyes. He knew the pain of losing his friend hadn’t really begun. Images of their days on the goldfields — the rough and tumble life, the dangers, the excitement of finding gold — spun through his mind. He took a deep breath, feeling it catch in his chest. He gazed around. His mother was pouring a last cup of tea for Harold and Gladys Butterworth. They looked tired and drawn.
‘I’ll arrange for the carriage to take you back to Zanana. Where is Mary?’ asked Hock Lee.
‘She’s in the garden,’ replied Gladys.
Hock Lee left the room. He had to search the grounds thoroughly before he found her. Mary lay face down beneath the massed flowers of a large azalea bush. Her face was pillowed in her arms and although no sound escaped her tiny frame, her shoulders shook with stifled sobs.
‘There, there, Mary dear.’ Hock Lee lifted her into his arms. But Mary fought him angrily and struggled from his embrace. Her face was streaked with earth and tears.
‘Leave me alone!’
‘Mary, I understand. Please, I know how you feel.’
‘No! No, you don’t,’ shrieked the young girl.
Hock Lee pinned her flailing arms to her side and spoke firmly. ‘Listen to me, child. You are safe and loved. You will always have a home at Zanana. You are part of the family, just as much as baby Kate.’
The girl was silent, her expression disbelieving.
‘Do you understand? Now you must stop this and think of Kate as your sister and the Butterworths as special guardians who will look after you both.’
‘She’s not my sister. I don’t have any family. I’m not allowed.’ Mary spoke in calm adult tones and turned and walked away from Hock
Lee with a very straight back and body that seemed as tightly coiled as a spring. She walked stiffly, mustering as much pride and self-control as she could, until she was close to the house, then she wiped her eyes with the back of her fists in a vulnerable, childlike gesture.
Hock Lee let her go, an ache in his heart. To see so much pain and bitterness in one so young was almost more than he could bear. For a brief moment he resented Robert for abdicating his duties, but he quickly pushed the thought aside, realising it had been a long and emotional day.
Several weeks passed and the new routine at Zanana was soon established. Gladys Butterworth enlisted the help of Nettie Johnson to help with the care of the mansion. Sid Johnson and Harold Butterworth continued to liaise with the dairymen and gardeners. Hock Lee made weekly visits and checked that Zanana’s milk and produce was reaching the Sydney markets and that all was running smoothly.
On one visit, sitting over tea with Gladys in the side courtyard overlooking the river, Hock Lee asked how she was coping with Mary and the baby.
‘That baby isn’t a scrap of trouble. But Mary is being a bit difficult. Moody like. She used to be such a happy soul,’ she sighed.
‘Has she given you any trouble?’
‘Oh, she runs away a bit. Won’t come when she’s supposed to and often doesn’t speak to me. She won’t help take care of Kate at all. Doesn’t seem to want anything to do with her. Maybe she needs a bit more schooling to keep her occupied.’
‘I was thinking of that. I’m making arrangements for a tutor to come from the village.’
Later, as he bid Harold goodbye in the main driveway, Hock Lee said, ‘By the way Harold, I’ll need you and Mrs Butterworth to come into the city soon. Dashford has those papers ready for you to sign. I could bring them out, but I think a day in town and lunch in the Tea Rooms might be nice for Mrs B.’
‘Yes, that would be a treat for her. Thank you, Hock Lee. I’ll be glad to get everything about Kate sorted out, all proper and legal like.’
Hock Lee slammed the carriage door. ‘Keep up the good work.’
‘Don’t you worry, we’re all managing well now.’
As they bid farewell, neither of the men noticed the slim shape of Mary step from behind one of the portico columns and dash through the gardens.
Mrs Butterworth dressed with care for her trip to the city. She brushed off her felt hat with the ostrich plume and cooed at baby Kate as she tied the ribbons of her knitted bonnet. Catching sight of a sullen-faced Mary in the doorway, Mrs Butterworth smiled at her. ‘Don’t look so down in the dumps, Mary. I know you wanted to come with us, but today is the first day of lessons with your new teacher, and you don’t want to miss that, do you?’
‘I don’t want a man teacher.’
‘You’ll like Mr Brighton, and he’s a very good teacher. You’re very lucky. And he’s going to give you piano lessons as well as school lessons.’
Mary still looked sulky.
Mrs Butterworth pressed on. ‘It won’t be long before you can go to the village school. Would you like that?’
‘No. I don’t want to go away from Zanana.’ She stormed down the hall banging her heels on the polished wood floors.
‘Oh dear, Kate, Mary is developing a temper. Let’s hope she gets over this soon, eh?’
The golden-haired baby gave a contented smile and Mrs Butterworth hugged her before swathing her in a delicate crocheted lace shawl.
The day passed all too quickly for Mrs Butterworth, but Harold was anxious to get back to Zanana and out of his good shoes and into his comfortable old boots. They had signed the guardianship papers with Hock Lee in Charles Dashford’s office, looked in some of the new shops in bustling George Street and lunched with Hock Lee in his Lotus Tea Rooms — though Harold would have preferred a tankard of beer and a pasty in one of the city’s hotels.
In the sunny afternoon they walked through the Botanic Gardens which stretched in a horseshoe curve around Farm Cove, with Government House on its western point and the finger of land known as Mrs Macquarie’s Chair on the eastern extremity. The loveliness of the view hadn’t diminished since Mrs Macquarie, the wife of an early Governor, had her special seat cut into the sandstone to contemplate the magnificent harbour foreshores. The sparkling blue water met the lush green lawns of the gardens at a low stone sea wall and through the Norfolk pines, gum trees and palms could be seen the masts and smoke-stacks of ships from all over the world.
The Butterworths’ perfect day was spoiled when, in the twilight, they reached Zanana to find a distraught Nettie Johnson wringing her hands. ‘It’s young Mary. Can’t find her anywhere, Gladys. I waited for her to come for her tea after her lessons but she didn’t turn up. Then Mr Brighton calls and says he’s sorry he wasn’t able to come as arranged . . . something about his horse going lame.’
‘Where’s Sid? We’d better get the rest of the men together and start looking,’ said Harold.
‘What could have happened to her? She should have been perfectly safe here. I hope she hasn’t done anything silly like running away again,’ worried Mrs Butterworth.
Nettie took the baby from her. ‘Here, you must be tired, come and have a cup of tea whilst the men go out and look for Mary.’
‘Are you sure you looked through all the rooms in Zanana, Nettie?’
‘Yes, Gladys. I’m so worried. Sid says she’s probably just gone off in a snitch because she was left behind today.’
Mrs Butterworth stopped in her tracks. ‘I think he’s right. I hadn’t thought of it like that, Nettie. And she’s been so upset lately. In fact . . . I think I know where she might be.’ Holding up her good serge skirt, Mrs Butterworth hurried as best she could in her heeled shoes through the gardens in the fast falling light.
The Indian House was in darkness and with some trepidation, Mrs Butterworth tried the door. It creaked open. All was silent, the scent of sandalwood pungent in the darkness.
‘Mary . . . Mary . . . you in here, luv?’
There was a faint rustle. Mrs Butterworth stepped inside. She could just make out the shadowy shape of the massive canopied bed.
‘Mary . . . ?’
With a cry like a wounded animal, a shape rushed at Mrs Butterworth, colliding heavily against her and fleeing through the door into the night. The hoarse scream quivered in the air behind the blur of movement as Mrs Butterworth tried to regain her breath and steady her rapidly thumping heart.
‘What is the matter with that child? I can’t take much more of this nonsense,’ she thought. Slowly Mrs Butterworth trudged back to the Johnsons’ cottage to tell them Mary was all right. Well, she was physically all right, but obviously more emotionally upset than they had realised.
Mary knew she was in disgrace and kept to herself for several days. She was withdrawn and her manner veered from haughty disdain to fierce sullen mutterings.
At night Harold and Gladys talked about it in the comfort of their big wooden-framed bed.
‘Maybe we’d better talk to Hock Lee. He’ll know what to do,’ decided Harold.
‘Umm. I suppose so . . . it just seems to me, there’s something else. Some wilful streak in her. I wish we knew more about her . . . her background,’ sighed Gladys.
‘Sleep on it, luv. We’ll decide tomorrow,’ yawned Harold.
‘That’s always your solution to any problem,’ said Gladys fondly, pushing a foot against Harold’s solid leg.
But the next morning matters took a swift turn, and Mary’s fate was sealed.
Harold was up early and walked sleepily past Kate’s nursery. Seeing the door open he reached out to close it so Gladys could sleep a bit longer. But his hand paused on the door knob. The mosquito netting draped over the baby’s crib was folded back, and instantly he knew the crib was empty.
He stepped in and glanced swiftly round the room, then rushed down the hall, flinging open Mary’s door. He froze in horror in the doorway.
Mary, still in her long white nightgown, was sitting on the open wind
ow ledge. Resting in her lap was Kate, her large trusting blue eyes fixed on Mary. They were on the upper level and beneath them was the roof of the portico, its marble tiled floor and stone steps leading to the gravel drive.
Mary’s legs were dangling out of the window. She only had to lower her knees slightly and Kate would slide from her lap. One hand rested lightly on the front of the baby’s nightdress.
Harold tried to remain calm, but his voice was strained and fearful. ‘Now, Mary luv. What are you doing? That’s not a very safe place to be with Kate. Come on inside now.’ He took a step towards her.
‘Don’t come near me,’ shrieked Mary. ‘Go away!’
‘Mary . . . for God’s sake . . .’
From behind Harold there came a gasp and a strangled sob, ‘Oh no . . .’
Harold spun round to see Gladys standing stricken in the doorway. He went to her, but she pushed him aside, rushing to the window. At the same instant Mary panicked, began to move from the window, and suddenly put both arms up to shield herself as Gladys rushed at her.
As if in slow motion, the baby slid and fell from sight; Harold reached Mary and flung her to the floor as Gladys sank with a moan, her legs giving way before she reached the window. Outside there was a faint thud and terrible silence. Harold’s vision blurred. Then it came. A lusty but frightened cry.
Harold clutched the window ledge and looked out. The baby was caught against the roof guttering five feet away, balanced precariously on the edge. The slightest movement would topple her.
Harold flung a leg over the sill and gingerly tested the sloping tiled roof.
‘Harold . . . is she all right . . . ? Oh God, be careful.’ Gladys, white faced, was at the window. ‘Wait a minute . . .’ She dragged a sheet from the bed and quickly handed one end to Harold. ‘Hold onto this, and I’ll tie the other end to the bed frame.’
Harold lowered himself towards the whimpering baby, moving quietly and carefully so as not to alarm the baby or do anything to make her move.
Gladys held tightly to the other end of the sheet, closed her eyes and prayed.
Mary was no longer in the room.
