Sisters of Freedom

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  ‘… pinned on the door,’ Barney said, memory dawning as his eyes grew wide. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Is it still there?’ Riley asked, trying not to lose his temper, and Barney went over to the door to investigate. He lifted the oilskin coat that hung on the peg and found the note beneath it, turning to show it to Riley.

  ‘Stuck me oilskin on there this morning. Felt too bloody humid not to storm. I was right about that much, anyways,’ he finished lamely.

  How a man could read the weather so well yet not notice a note on a door when you hooked and unhooked a coat over it, let alone forget something as important as telling a missing girl’s family she was safe, was beyond Riley’s ken. But there was no use berating Barney, as frustrating as he could be.

  ‘Anyway, she’s back now, ain’t she? Didn’t you say you were taking her home today?’ Barney said, his memory of the previous night obviously beginning to return.

  ‘No, she’s taken sick with a fever. Fiona’s tending to her down below,’ Riley told him, closing his eyes momentarily.

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s bad luck,’ Barney said, looking below deck guiltily. ‘I can take another message if you like. The moon’s up. I could make my way right now, I reckon, just need to drop off these fruit crates but then I’m good as gold.’

  ‘How will you get up to town, though?’

  There were no omnibuses running from Bobbin Head at night. Normally Barney got picked up by his mate Joe near where he moored his boat in the gorge, but this would mean leaving his boat at the wharf instead. Heading up to Hornsby in the middle of the night would be both treacherous and too far on foot.

  ‘I’ll borrow one of Jimbo’s horses, I guess.’ Jimbo managed Shaw’s Boathouse near the pier and had a few mounts that he occasionally rented out. He probably wouldn’t be too impressed at being woken in the wee hours but Barney had a way about him that saw people easily forgive his transgressions, right now a case in point.

  Still, Riley hesitated. It was dangerous navigating the smaller creeks up near Hornsby, despite the aid of the partial moonlight, but ultimately Barney was a riverman, born and raised, and he made this journey most days of his life. What he lacked in everyday intelligence he made up for in his knowledge of these waters.

  ‘All right,’ Riley agreed. ‘I’m giving you a second note to go with the first but head straight to the girl’s family home this time, all right? And no more grog.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Barney agreed, still with an air of guilt about him but seeming relieved to make amends. ‘I was done anyways.’

  Riley went over to the boat’s cabin and rewrote the second note to include a line about the first letter being waylaid. Let Barney explain it better in person. It was probably more believable that anyone could forget to deliver such an important message if they met the man himself.

  That done, he made sure the family’s address that Ivy had provided was clearly printed on the front. Barney could barely read but he knew numbers, at least, and Rosemead Road was an easy street name to memorise.

  Barney set off and Riley watched his departure until he disappeared from sight, wondering what other twists and turns these startling few days of 1902 could possibly bring, guilt gnawing away within him too. He was the one who’d picked Ivy up and brought her here and he was the one who’d trusted Barney to deliver the news of her location and wellbeing. As a man of usually good common sense neither decision seemed very smart now.

  The sound of his sister’s muffled administrations prompted him to go to see the patient, debating with himself whether he’d tell her this new piece of bad news. One look at her ill white countenance made the decision for him, however – best she fight the fever without this additional worry. Fiona’s eyes raised at the sound of his tread and she looked worn out. Riley hadn’t considered how much physical strain this crisis was putting on his sister, especially in her current condition, and he placed a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Why don’t you head over home to bed and I’ll sit with her now.’

  Fiona hesitated but it was a mark of how drained she really was that she nodded and agreed.

  ‘Just a few hours’ sleep and I’ll come back.’

  ‘It’s too much effort for you, wading back and forth and getting on board again. I’ll carry you.’

  ‘Ha. Not while I’m the size of a house, you won’t,’ she replied, considering things. ‘Perhaps I could just sleep on the bench upstairs awhile. Out in the fresh air.’

  The porthole was open but it was still stuffy here below deck and Riley agreed. He’d move Ivy too only he didn’t really want her exposed to any other nasties at this point.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said, helping her stand.

  He settled her above deck on the same blanket that Ivy had used and took out his pouch to roll a cigarette, delivering the news about Barney and the failed message. Fiona’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Bloody hopeless,’ she muttered. ‘Imagine her poor parents … not to mention what the authorities might make of this now.’

  ‘Let’s just focus on getting her well and back in one piece,’ Riley said, nervous about that himself, and the added pressure of ensuring Ivy’s wellbeing hung between them. Bad enough she was here unbeknown to her family, far worse she perish in Fiona and Riley’s care.

  Riley lit his cigarette and looked out to the moon that was sailing along through scattered clouds. They passed before it like shadows, obscuring its brilliance, as if they were secrets hiding the moon’s clear truth. Riley’s concern over Fiona returned at the sight and he tried again to question her, to reassure himself that this shadow, at least, was a false one. The mere folly of a drunken man’s words.

  ‘Speaking of staying well,’ Riley said, looking pointedly at the beach where George snored in the night.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sakes,’ Fiona protested, shifting uncomfortably on the bench, ‘leave it alone, Riley. Where on earth did this idea spring from again?’

  Riley studied her face in the moonlight, searching for any reaction as he told her. ‘Donovan and the boys were caught in the storm with us today.’

  She stared at him, her bleary eyes widening in concern. ‘Don’t tell me they saw Ivy.’

  ‘No, I managed to keep her hidden away in a cave but she could hear them well enough, I’m afraid,’ he said, telling her the rest of what had transpired, including Donovan’s brags of violence. ‘Hopefully she’ll forget,’ he finished, ‘think it was all bad dream.’

  ‘Must have felt like a nightmare for a girl like that,’ she agreed. ‘Poor thing. How frightening for her, being exposed to such talk, and near enough and weak enough for them to … God, Riley, how frightening for you. The very men you wanted to protect her from.’

  ‘Yep, it’s been quite a year so far,’ he quipped, sharing his earlier reflection, and she sighed.

  ‘Not the best start, no.’

  There was silence then and Riley watched her again. ‘Fi, you can tell me, you know. I won’t kill him, I promise … well, maybe mess him up a bit to make sure he never lays a hand on you again, but that’s about it.’ He paused, earnest now. ‘Tell me the truth.’

  She was looking him in the eye and then she surprised him by actually smiling. ‘Bless your heart, Riley. I am telling you the truth. I’m perfectly fine, I promise. I’d tell you if I wasn’t, or hit him back myself. You know I can pack a mean punch – walloped you once, didn’t I?’

  ‘I was ten years old—’

  ‘—and laid down by your eleven-year-old sister,’ she said, giggling a little.

  ‘Humph,’ he said, but he was smiling now too.

  ‘Now let this go, all right? It’s just rum talk and a waste of our precious time,’ she stopped to yawn, ‘and energy. Speaking of which, I’m having a nap. You all right to watch over her?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, rising and stretching. ‘You rest up, Fi. I’ll see you after a while.’

  ‘Night,’ she said, eyes already closing.

  Riley watched her, hoping she’d
been telling the truth but unable to do more than that as he tossed his cigarette away. ‘Goodnight.’

  He made his way below deck and sat heavily beside Ivy, reaching over to gently stroke her face with the cloth. Even white and feverish in the lamplight it was a beautiful countenance, and a young one. Riley studied it with a sigh, wondering how much more protectiveness for women he could possibly feel. It was a natural instinct, a moral obligation that his parents had always encouraged and instilled, but it came at a cost.

  Ivy was beginning to toss once more and he stroked her cheeks with a fresh cloth from Fiona’s neat pile nearby; dipping it in the water, soothing her quietly with his words.

  ‘Dad,’ she moaned. ‘I’m sorry …’

  Delirium wasn’t a good sign but perhaps it meant the fever was at its peak so Riley continued to bathe her, trying to keep her calm.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Riley said gently.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry … Mum … where’s Mum?’

  ‘You’re all right, Ivy, you’re safe.’

  ‘Tell Frankie I’m sorry too … and Aggie …’

  She was crying now, her hands clutching at the blanket.

  ‘There’s no need to be sorry, there’s the girl.’

  ‘I just want to go home,’ she said on a sob.

  ‘I know, love,’ he said, the word coming out so naturally it gave him pause.

  Her eyes fluttered open and she seemed to focus on him. His heart skipped at the trust there.

  ‘I just want … I want …’ But then she shut them tight and he couldn’t resist a prompt.

  ‘What is it that you want, Ivy? What is it, my love?’ There was that word again but Riley didn’t care.

  ‘I want …’ and he held his breath as she whispered, ‘Patrick.’

  The word was like a punch and Riley felt a wave of jealousy towards the owner of that name so intense it made him sit back in his chair. Who’s Patrick? he desperately wanted to ask, equally desperate not to know.

  He could be anyone, he reasoned to himself, he could even be a pet, for all Riley knew. Why should you care if she cries out another man’s name, anyway? It’s not like you’re in bed with the woman. He shook that disturbing thought away but others rushed in. It’s not like you expected her to say your name. Or use a word like love.

  Riley stood then, needing air, and he climbed the stairs to the deck to lean against the rail and stare out to where the clouds drifted, edged in silver and hiding the moon once more. Shadows and truth, truth and shadows. He didn’t want to understand what he felt for Ivy Merriweather as she fought for her young life aboard his boat on this mysterious night. Let the grey clouds shield that truth for now. Let them shield the underscoring worry that Fiona could still be lying too, and the fact that somewhere down the river Barney’s boat chugged away, closer by the minute to delivering the one truth that couldn’t be avoided. One that would inevitably draw Ivy’s world his way and with it the people whose names she called.

  Two feminist sisters and two scientist parents – smart people who would question his not-very-smart decisions. People whose protectiveness over women extended far beyond their own flesh and blood and to all womankind. How would they judge his efforts? What verdict would they make? And what state would Ivy be in when they came here, to her sickbed on an old boat far, far removed from a soft bed in a rich man’s home? Who, indeed, would come for her? All of them? A few? The police? Or simply a man called Patrick – a single word breathed in her delirium, yet a name that deeply mattered to her, it couldn’t be denied.

  Whatever happened and whoever came, this moon would sail on until the dawn hid the night and the third day of this dramatic year arrived. And whatever truths were shielded or revealed, two very different worlds were set to collide and erupt, regardless, in the broad daylight of tomorrow.

  Part Three

  Rule of thumb

  Fifteen

  Hornsby, New South Wales, 3 January 1902

  Patrick was alone and he’d never felt more so in his life. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning and sleep had eluded him for the second night in a row, his occasional fitful naps ending in fractured nightmares that left him shaking and in a sweat. It didn’t help that a policeman slept outside his bedroom door, part of the bail arrangement negotiated by his father. He was lucky to be under house arrest and not in gaol, the lawyers had told him. Lucky to be the son of Douglas Earle.

  Lucky. What a word to use in association with these cursed few days when everything that was promising and wondrous in Patrick’s world had ceased to be in one singular, gruesome moment. It was all a blur, and it seemed impossible to believe such a thing had truly transpired; that there could have been so horrifying an end to such a perfect day. So horrifying an end to such a perfect woman.

  Patrick’s head fell into his hands. No, no, no. She can’t be dead. She can’t. Like Frankie had said, ‘I’ll believe it when I see it’. She actually believed in Patrick’s innocence too, despite finding him in such incriminating circumstances. Blessedly all of the Merriweather family believed him, but that’s where the blessings ended. The police looked set to lay charges against him by the end of the week if Ivy couldn’t be found and even the son of Douglas Earle wouldn’t be spared a trial, if so. Being found with the victim’s blood on his hands and the last one to be seen alone with her was pretty damning. Even Patrick could see that.

  He stood and walked over to the window to gaze out at the half moon gliding behind random torn clouds, as if it were fighting for the right to sail free upon the black canvas of night. As he watched it, Patrick wondered what his own chances of ever being free again were. Even if they found her body and proved it wasn’t murder after all, he would still forever be a prisoner, the scars of losing his first love so suddenly and so cruelly, then being accused of causing her death, were chains that would forever bind. All else that had seemed important only a day and a half ago mattered nil: cricket tours and degrees. What foolish human folly. Mere games. The only thing that had truly mattered was his beautiful Ivy, the woman he loved, and now his heart was broken, all the life gone from him if it had gone from her.

  If. It was the only word giving him any hope but it was fading with each passing hour. If she was alive they would surely know by now, but if not, then how had she died?

  Imagining all the possibilities was sending him mad, as it was surely doing to her poor family. Did she take a swim then slip and a rogue wave take her, pulling her down? But no, all day yesterday they’d had men dive down and scour the water near where her clothes and the blood lay. She had simply disappeared. So what then? Perhaps a shark? There were plenty of bull sharks in these waterways but not usually in the shallower waters near Apple Tree Bay. Still, it was plausible, although he felt sick even considering it. Then there was the last possibility, perhaps the worst of all: that this tragedy was caused by man. The river was notorious for unsavoury characters, smugglers and thieves. Was she set upon by a band of murderers? Rapist thugs?

  Patrick leant against the window frame in despair, hot tears falling as he cried in the pale moonlight. Where are you, Ivy? Where are you, my love? Please come back to us. Please.

  But there was only the moon and those guarding clouds, with no end to them in sight. No way to break free.

  Frankie hadn’t bothered putting on her night rail. She hadn’t bothered eating either, all routine seeming an insult to her missing sister somehow. As if she were allowing life to go on normally. As if it ever could again.

  She sat out on the grass by the main pond in the middle of the night because that was something she’d never usually do either, which made Frankie feel better, illogically. It was a peaceful place to sit, yet there was no true peace to be found in Frankie’s world right now. Only this hellish and distorted version of reality. And fear.

  All was quiet at Kuranda, save the hum of insects, and the occasional hacking cough coming from her parents’ room window. Frankie listened to it worriedly. Albert had reacted to the new
s of Ivy’s disappearance with physical shock, his body racked with severe chills by the morning. It probably hadn’t helped that he’d searched along the shores of the bay until the wee hours, calling her name until his poor throat could produce no more than a rasp.

  Harriet had taken things very badly too, and Dossie had sat up with her to hold her hand and fetch her cups of tea or brandy with surprising docility, not even offering to fetch Dr Pratt for Albert. Just being there. Letting Harriet cry. And cry she had, in a terrible aching wail as she rocked back and forth, holding Ivy’s now-bedraggled birthday hat in her arms, hugging it to her like it was the most precious thing on earth.

  Aggie hadn’t left her family’s side, sleeping in the spare room that would have been hers if she hadn’t married before they’d moved in, and Robert had fallen asleep on the lounge, after spending the previous night and all day with the police, doing whatever he could. But there was nothing to be done now except wait while the authorities searched and tried to find a single girl missing somewhere within the vast waterways and wilderness in and around Apple Tree Bay.

  It didn’t come naturally for Frankie to sit and let others take action so she’d joined the police in their search as well but they’d called it off when darkness fell, saying it was no use looking for her in the dark. There was some moonlight, Frankie had argued, but the sergeant had been firm in his decision.

  ‘There’s little point continuing on now. We’ll come back at dawn.’

  Little point? The point was that her sister be found, alive and well. Frankie couldn’t bear to envisage her otherwise. For her voice never to be heard, her laughter never to ring, to never see her sketch out there with her father or don one of her marvellous hats was unthinkable. And to consider that the last words ever spoken between them were hurtful and anger-fuelled was too much of an aberration for sisters who loved each other. So very, very much.

  All day as they searched, old memories had kept coming to her as she’d tried not to fear the worst. It was like her mind was conjuring evidence of Ivy alive to thwart the possibility of them finding her otherwise. Ivy running down the road at Christmas time when she was little, dressed in green and red from head to toe; Ivy being piggy-backed by their father up the hill, her bright curls bobbing about as she hugged him tight, ever his cherished baby. Ivy drawing her a birthday card last year that had Frankie holding a cricket bat with words ‘nineteen not out’. Not out. She couldn’t be ‘out’ herself on her eighteenth birthday. She wasn’t, Frankie affirmed, as she stood and began to pace, despite her exhaustion.