The Tallow Image

by J. T. Brindle

  ‘Are you ailing?’ Maria was at once concerned that he might have caught a fever. After all, it was well known that the prison harboured more undesirable parasites than convicts.

  ‘No, no… just a slight chill, I expect,’ Ralph assured her. His gaze fell to the child. Satisfied that her daddy was home, and being content and warm with the small amount of broth she was allowed at this late hour, little Agatha was already heavy with sleep. ‘Here, let me take her,’ Ralph whispered, gently lifting the child into his arms. His reward was a quick, sleepy smile from a small, round face, and two twig-like arms wound round his neck. It was a good feeling, soothing the turmoil within him.

  On slow, sure footsteps he carried his daughter up the stairs and into the smaller of the two bedrooms. Here he laid her tenderly into the wooden cot which he himself had taken great pleasure in making. Gingerly, he tucked the thick grey blanket about her, afterwards stealing quietly out of the door, which he carefully closed; it was always a fear of Maria’s that the child might wake in the night and tumble down the stairs. Ralph’s answer was to move the door-sneck to a higher point, beyond little Agatha’s reach. He had it in mind to construct some suitable obstacle over the mouth of the stairs to prevent any possible accident, but so far his first measure had proved more than satisfactory.

  When he returned to the parlour, it was to find Maria relaxed in the chair, with two mugs of steaming hot cocoa standing in the hearth. This was the moment he loved best, when the child was sleeping peacefully and he could sit here, quietly rocking in the chair, gazing across at Maria and counting his many blessings. He did so now, his gaze reaching out to the figure of his wife. Tired and growing heavier with child, Maria had laid her head back against the chair, her eyes were closed, her breathing low and rhythmic as though any moment she would succumb to slumber. Ralph’s gaze grew tender, taking in every detail of the woman he loved.

  Dressed in long dark skirt and pretty cream blouse, with neck ruffles and pearly buttons, Maria made a handsome sight; the now obvious bulge of child across her midriff only enhanced her beauty. With almond-shaped eyes of darkest blue, and thick rich brown hair that wound into a shining coil at the nape of her neck, she was a woman any man could be proud of. In nature she was kind, loving but firm, and, above all, she was a wonderful wife and mother. Ralph counted her as his greatest blessing. Then came Agatha, and in four months’ time, he instinctively believed, his next blessing would be a son.

  ‘Oh! Goodness me!’ Maria’s eyes suddenly popped open and stared at him. ‘I’m sorry, Ralph… I didn’t realise how tired I was,’ she exclaimed, leaning forward to collect the two mugs from the hearth. With a small laugh she handed one to Ralph, before settling back in the chair and carefully sipping at the hot liquid.

  ‘It’s a fine thing,’ Ralph said with humour, ‘when a man comes home to find his wife bored with his company.’

  Her answer was a smile. ‘I could never be bored with you,’ she told him sincerely. ‘You can’t know how much I miss you when you’re not here.’

  When Ralph made no comment, she regarded him quizzically, saying, ‘You would tell me if the work at the prison was too depressing, wouldn’t you?’ Anxiety betrayed itself in her voice.

  ‘You know I would,’ Ralph quickly assured her, absent-mindedly rolling the mug in his large, tanned hands and making no effort to drink from it. ‘Wouldn’t do no good though… I’d still have to put up with it.’ He sensed her heightened apprehension and quickly assured her, ‘But no, Maria, I can handle it fine.’

  ‘But there is… something on your mind,’ she insisted. ‘Won’t you talk about it?’ She might have imagined it, but in that moment she sensed a fear in him, that was not unlike her own.

  ‘Nothing to talk about,’ he told her, taking a deep gulp of the smooth, dark cocoa. ‘I do feel at odds with myself, though,’ he finally admitted, in the hope of putting her mind at ease. ‘I’ve no doubt it’s because of working shifts… never worked such late hours before. I’m used to starting early of a morning, and being home before little Agatha’s bedtime. Don’t worry, though, it won’t be long before I’m back at my duties at the asylum. One of the blokes who took ill from the prison is said to be reporting for work within the week. So you’re not to worry yourself. Everything’s just fine.’

  ‘You’re sure now?’ she insisted. When he nodded, a thoughtful look on his face, she persisted, ‘And there’s nothing else troubling you?’

  Avoiding the need to lie, he gave no answer, other than to rise from the chair and stretch his hand out. ‘If you’ve finished with your cocoa, I reckon we’ll be off to bed, eh?’

  Nodding in agreement, she put the half-empty mug into his outstretched hand. ‘I don’t want any more,’ she said, with a grimace, ‘or I’ll be in and out of bed all night.’ Patting the rise of her tummy, she laughed. ‘Lately, my bladder refuses to hold more than a cupful. There’s not much room in here for anything but the little one.’

  Ralph smiled with her. ‘I’m glad I wasn’t born a woman,’ he said thankfully. Taking the mugs into the scullery, he put them into the deep pot sink and came back into the parlour. Maria was waiting at the door of the stairs, candle in hand. ‘Funny,’ she said quietly, smiling up at him, ‘but I don’t feel tired now.’

  ‘Really?’ His voice was teasing, his expression suggestive. ‘And neither do I,’ he murmured, bending his head to kiss her. Afterwards, they mounted the stairs together, she in front, he behind; and a well of love between them.

  In the bedroom, Ralph stood by the window, his quiet gaze looking towards the ocean. The wind had abated, the rain still evident, though, on the small puddles that had formed within the dips of the window ledge, and in the occasional prick of raindrops which disturbed their black, shiny surface. He stayed a moment longer at the window, his brown eyes looking out yet unseeing, his thoughts captured in a strange kind of daydream. The sound of his name being called, softly, prompted him to look round. What he saw was Maria, already in bed and wanting him to lie beside her.

  ‘You dressed in a hurry this morning,’ she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Oh? And how do you know that?’ he asked.

  ‘Because you’re wearing odd socks.’

  He came towards her. In the flickering candlelight, her eyes appraised him as he undid his belt and laid it over the iron bedstead at the foot of the bed; then came his trousers, shirt and undergarments. Unashamedly he stood before her in all his glorious nakedness, his need for her so obviously proud in him. Drinking in his manhood, Maria’s blue eyes darkened, dulling with passion. The flush of embarrassment coloured her face. Coyly, she turned away, hiding her confusion in the depths of the bolster.

  Laughing softly, and loving her all the more, Ralph slid in beside her. A moment before, he had grown chilled, even though the room was stiflingly hot, with only the half-hearted breeze from the window to cool it. Now, with his bareness against her soft, silky skin, the warmth spread through him. As always when his need for her grew strong in him, he made himself be patient, wanting to please her also. He could never understand a man who was selfish in love.

  Gently, his fingers probed her body, moving slowly, teasing and tantalising, raising all manner of delight in her. Now, the flat of his hand traced the mound of her midriff, wonder rushing through him when he realised that it was his child curled safely there, his son, their son. The thought was like a giant fist squeezing his heart. ‘Oh, Maria,’ he moaned, wrapping his arms about her, pulling her trembling form into him. His mouth closed over hers; thrills raged through him like the fiercest storm. All restraint gone, he pulled himself up, leaning over her, instinctively pushing in anticipation. Returning his fervent kisses, she clung to him, softly moaning. When with a cry of elation he thrust himself into her, she groaned, half-laughing, half-crying; instinctively she opened her thighs, wound her arms over his thick firm waist and snatched him deep inside her, arching to him, sharing his passion, wanting him with the same deep-down urgency. He w
as her man, her beauty, her joy. And the unborn between them was a part of it all.

  Later, when all passion was spent and they lay contented in each other’s arms, a feeling of shame came over her. It was always the same. She was a woman, and women who shared such violent emotions were frowned on; the things of night, and passion, and wantonness, were these things not condemned in harsh, trembling voice by the preacher in his sermon? And yet, the shame she felt was only a small, passing shame, because Maria believed that God had joined her and Ralph in the eyes of heaven and would not brand her a hussy for keeping good the vows she had made her husband. If he awakened such raging passion in her, it must be right. It could be no other way. In the half-light she glanced at him. Shame ebbed away. Pride and profound love flooded her heart. When she stirred in his arms, he held her closer. Soon she drifted into a sound sleep.

  Ralph could not sleep. He also felt ashamed. In those moments of heightened passion when his thoughts were glorious, something else had spiralled into his mind. It was an image, a face, a pair of eyes. Not Maria’s but the convict woman’s. And, far from disgusting him, he had been elated by the experience, imagining Rebecca Norman to be the nakedness in his arms, wanting it, enjoying it. Now, though, the disgust infiltrated every corner of his being.

  Agitated, he slid softly from the bed and collected his clothes from the bedstead; he took the lighted candle, tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs. In the parlour, he placed the brass candleholder on the sideboard and quickly dressed. In a matter of moments he was out of the house, standing forlornly against the closed door and wondering at his own actions. Nothing he had ever known before had disturbed him so deeply as he was disturbed now. He felt incredibly lonely, like a lost soul, and yet there still remained in him a strange and gripping excitement. And a very real sense of terror.

  The streets were eerily silent. Only the faint moonlight relieved the darkness, creating shadows that flitted and danced, going before him like so many phantoms. On slow, deliberate footsteps he went to the top of Henry Street, feeling dangerously hemmed in on all sides, the tiny terraced houses standing shoulder to shoulder in a packed and colourless line, seeming to him like an army of sentries, spying on him, reading the ugliness in his mind, waiting for a vulnerable moment when they would seize and punish him. He shivered within himself, though the heat of the night was suffocating. On and on he went, trudging the deserted streets, deliberately distancing himself from the prison, from her, desperately trying to rid himself of her, yet knowing he could not.

  Down the High Street he went, then along Cliff Street, past the Custom House and towards the beach. For a while he wandered aimlessly from North Jetty to South Bay, pausing a moment near the jetty, his troubled gaze scouring the many vessels that bobbed up and down, creating their own weird lament as the water slapped the hulks and occasionally pushed one into the other. The port of Fremantle and its thriving colony relied on these vessels and the trade that had built up here. A busy seaport always gave a feeling of security and pride.

  Ralph felt that now. He had often thought to be a sailor and roam the world’s great seas, but the fire was never really kindled in him, at least not to the extent that he ever followed his earlier intention. Now, he was content to keep his feet on firm ground and leave the sailor’s life to those who craved it most. All the same, although the sea itself was not in his blood, Fremantle was. A jewel in any ocean, with long stretches of fine, bleached sand, an ever-growing community and ambitious plans for the future, Fremantle was a fine place; what was more, the Fremantle to Guildford section of the railway would soon be opened. It was an exciting time – especially now the convict ships no longer brought their unhappy cargoes to these shores.

  Inevitably, a certain convict loomed large in Ralph Ryan’s mind at this moment. In restless mood he skirted the beach, the sharp, salty smell of the sea in his nostrils and a fine spray of sand kicking up from the toe of his boots; at one point he squatted to his knees, clutching at the sand and letting it trickle through his fingers like silk water. A lone seagull screeched at him, its brilliant beady eyes watching his every move. From somewhere along the jetty a man’s voice was raised in anger, the sharp invasive tones cutting the still night air and startling a scavenging mongrel, who shot out in front of Ralph’s striding figure, fleeing into the darkness, its tail between its legs.

  Not mindful of any particular destination, but urged to seek a degree of solitude, Ralph was astonished to find that he had gone up the High Street, past his own home on Henry Street, and was now standing at the mouth of the short walkway that led to the prison itself.

  Almost without realising it, he had brought himself back to within a stone’s throw of Rebecca Norman. It was a sobering thought. One that raised all kinds of chaos in him. Staring up at that imposing building, he could not help but admire its awesome dimensions. For a place that contained within its great heart the most wretched of mankind, it stood proud, almost noble in its beauty. Ironically, it was the convicts themselves who had constructed this formidable place, having quarried the stone that formed its impregnable walls, floated the timber from Woodman’s Point and, with the aid of stout, broad-muscled horses, hauled the timber along the beach, before delivering it to site. Parts of that timber were used to build the gallows, and many a hanging had taken place on them; there would no doubt be many more in the years to come.

  Suddenly, Ralph saw what he must do. Tomorrow morning he would explain his intention to Maria; only the intention, though – being most careful not to betray the real reason behind his decision. Afterwards, he would report for duty at the prison, ask for an appointment with the Governor, and request an urgent transfer back to his former duties at the asylum. The reason he would give was surely obvious, because wasn’t his wife heavy with child? And wouldn’t it be sensible for him to work a normal day, instead of arriving home so late of an evening? It was a feasible excuse, and one which would serve his purpose.

  With lighter heart and a merry tune whistling from his lips, he turned about and began his way home. The convict woman had somehow touched him deeply; too deeply. But he prided himself on being a strong-minded man who saw what he must do and did not shirk from doing it. He had misgivings about his decision, of course he did, if only because it seemed as though he was begging out of harsher duties. As a rule he would not succumb to rash decisions, preferring instead to weigh all the options. This time, though, he was urged to follow his instincts. Strange and new instincts. Unsettling instincts. Instincts that murmured of danger, and things he did not fully understand.

  As Ralph Ryan quickened his step homeward, his mind alive with the day’s events, there was another, not too far away from him in that moment, whose thoughts fired the blood in her veins. In the darkness of her prison, Rebecca Norman stood with her beautiful eyes raised to the outside world. She was smiling, soft laughter on her lips. It was a chilling sound. Now she grew quiet, her head tilted to one side, her small exquisite ears strained for the slightest sound. In the distance she heard the firm, determined steps that took Ralph Ryan home, that carried her quarry away. Bitterness stabbed her heart as she waited for the last echo of his footsteps. A vicious curse fell from her lips. But then, suddenly, she was smiling. All was not lost. The image of his tall, attractive frame came into her devious mind. Charmed, she caressed it. He was no stranger to her. When she looked on him, the years fell away and the pain became unbearable. At first she had not fully understood. But she understood now.

  From that moment when she had first felt his gaze on her, Rebecca Norman had been drawn to the young guard; she had sensed his inner turmoil and been strengthened by it. His handsome face had stirred a dark memory deep inside her, churning something that had lain dormant all these years. There was no going back now. She wanted him, needed him, his body and mind, his very soul. And, beside his strength, she had sensed his weakness, a weakness that scarred his serious brown eyes whenever they looked on her. That weakness was her. His only weakness. A wea
kness she would not hesitate to exploit for her own ends. A weakness he may well come to regret. Her dark, beautiful eyes closed in a smile. Ralph Ryan’s weakness would be his undoing.

  2

  The child’s merry laughter echoed along the beach, mingling with the screech of swooping seagulls and causing passers-by to pause and smile; there was always something uniquely satisfying in seeing a happy family at play.

  ‘You’re a rascal, Agatha Ryan!’ Maria told her giggling daughter.

  ‘Mammy, play!’ The child was too full of energy to be quietened. Stooping, she clutched the elusive sand between her tiny fingers. ‘Play,’ she insisted, looking up with mischievous eyes, as she ran towards them.

  Laughing aloud, Ralph and Maria fled hand in hand, feigning horror when the child bore down on them with two fistfuls of sand; they were mindful, though, not to make too long a distance between themselves and the delighted little girl.

  When in her haste Agatha tumbled to her knees, Ralph seized her into his arms and, raising her high in the air, perched her securely on the broad span of his shoulders, where she wound her skinny legs round his neck and tugged at his thick brown hair until he protested in mock yells and pleas for mercy; her answer was to collapse in a fit of infectious giggling.

  Presently, all three were content to pause awhile; Agatha still bubbling with energy and eager to resume their game, Maria flushed and breathless, with her two hands spread over the bulge beneath her shawl, as though in attempt to calm the turmoil there. When, in her great joy, she looked up at her husband whose face was turned out to sea, she thought she had never seen him more handsome. His strong, clean-cut features made a proud study; the sea breeze played with his unruly hair, flicking it every which way, and causing him to narrow his brown eyes as they gazed out to the horizon, entranced by the beauty of the ocean. Quietly, yet with immense feeling, she slid her small hand into his. Without a word he turned his gaze from the sea, his heart full with love for this woman who was his wife. For what seemed an age, he looked on her uplifted face, half-smiling, half-serious. Between them lay a precious silence. A silence too wonderful to break.