The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

  She couldn’t be bothered to explain, as long as the buttons were done up; besides, Michael might invite Molly, worse still, he might invite Mrs Cameron. She wanted him all to herself. ‘Hurry up.’

  ‘I’m trying. I’m trying.’ Molly’s damp fingers fumbled on the long row of buttons. ‘You need to put your hat straight too. Here, turn around.’ She fussed and tutted until Elizabeth wanted to scream. ‘You tell that brother of yours it’s time you had a new dress, this one’s way too small. Turn around again and put your shoulders back.’

  Elizabeth stood straight and arched her back until Molly finished fastening the buttons. ‘You’re done.’ She gave her a quick pat on the back. ‘Off you go and enjoy your prince. Say hello from me to that lovely brother of yours.’

  Not bothering to reply, Elizabeth shot down the hallway and barrelled into the front room. ‘I’m ready.’

  Michael turned, his face red and angry, and snatched up the basket. ‘We’ll be going. I’ll have her back before dark. Come along, Elizabeth.’

  She slipped her hand into his and had to almost run to keep up with his big long strides. ‘How are we going to get there? Where’re we going? I’ve forgotten the name of the place.’

  ‘Clontarf. It’s on the other side of the harbour. We’ll go down to the Quay and get a ferry.’

  ‘A ferry! I’ve never ridden on a ferry. Will the prince come too?’

  ‘He’s got his own ship, the Galatea. It brought him all the way from England. It’s moored down here; we’ll see if we can see it. They’ve got a special steamer for him to use today. Over there.’ He pointed at the smartest ferry Elizabeth had ever seen, bedecked with hundreds of tiny fluttering flags. ‘You’ve got to hold tight to my hand. I don’t want to lose you.’ Michael’s angry look had faded and he’d stopped galloping, which was a good thing because her legs could hardly keep up.

  In the all the lonely days, he’d changed. Grown taller and broader, and looked more important. How she wished she could go with him to Hill End instead of staying in Sydney. Every time she asked, he’d say next time … maybe soon … one day … It wasn’t all bad, but as she’d got older she had more and more jobs to do and school every day until lunchtime. Without a doubt, today would be the best day of her life.

  The trip across the harbour was as magical as she’d imagined. Their ferry was jam-packed full of people, but Michael found a spot for them out of the wind. Before long they rounded the bay and there before them was a long sheltered stretch of golden sand. Trust Michael to know the best of places. The skin on her face felt stretched from all the sunshine and smiles. It was so good to have her brother back.

  Giant tents ringed the beach and a band, playing breathtaking music, had set up under a clump of trees. So many people. There were thousands. Elizabeth tried to count but got lost sometime after the first hundred because they kept milling about. ‘How many people do you think are here?’

  ‘They said they’d sold fifteen-hundred tickets. We’ll sit ourselves under these trees and when the prince comes out of the tent we’ll get a good look at him.’

  ‘What’s he doing in the tent?’ She wanted to see him now. Maybe she’d practise her curtsey a little. She bent slowly, crossing her left leg behind her right and keeping her back straight, like she’d seen Molly do with her tongue rammed into her cheek, when Mrs Cameron’s back was turned. She toppled over.

  ‘Up you get.’ Michael set her on her feet. ‘He’s in the tent having lunch with the other dignitaries.’

  ‘Can we go in there?’ She dusted off her skirt.

  ‘Sit yourself down, darlin’, and have some lemonade. There’s sandwiches too.’

  ‘No, no look. They’re coming out.’

  Like a massive animal, the crowd surged forward. Elizabeth’s heart was beating so hard she thought she might fall over. ‘I think he’s coming to say hello to me. I can’t see.’

  Michael swept her up and held her high, and she got her first good glimpse over the heads of the pulsing crowd. Her prince, walking towards her. He’d seen her, she was sure of it, even though he was busy chatting to a woman wearing the biggest hat imaginable.

  So handsome! Elizabeth waved her hand. He turned towards them and sauntered across the green towards the clump of trees where the band had set up. He had a piece of paper in his hand, which he held out to one of the men.

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  Michael shrugged his shoulders.

  The woman jammed in next to them hissed, ‘It’s a cheque, a donation for the Sailor’s Home, to mark his appreciation.’

  Oh! Elizabeth didn’t care about that, she wanted to go and meet him. Curtsey, and maybe he’d smile at her and ask her name, offer his arm and walk her across to the band, and dance. Maybe he’d dance with her!

  By the time the prince and his entourage had finished a whole lot more talking and speeches, she was ready to jump out of her skin; she had to get closer. He was so handsome with his golden hair, uniform frock coat and dazzling white trousers.

  Suddenly someone cried out.

  A man sprang forward, lifted his hand and pointed straight at the prince’s back.

  A gun!

  A sharp crack echoed and Elizabeth slammed her hands over her ears as her feet went from under her. Was she dead?

  ‘Come away, my darlin’, you don’t want to be looking.’ Alive and safe in Michael’s arms, she peered over his shoulder.

  Another shot resounded, and another, and her prince collapsed onto his hands and knees.

  ‘No. Let me go. They shot my prince. He’s dead.’ She wriggled and squirmed but Michael held her tight.

  The crowd parted and a group of men carrying the limp body of her prince struggled up to the tent.

  ‘No, not dead,’ a voice called.

  ‘There you go, my darlin’, he’s not dead.’ Michael lowered her to the ground and his rough fingers wiped away her tears.

  ‘They’ve got the dastardly ruffian,’ another voice reported.

  The crowd yelled its approval and surged forward, almost flattening Elizabeth. ‘Lynch him! Hang him! String him up!’

  In front of her, a poor man stood, his arms pinioned behind him, his head hanging low. The crowd roared and pushed closer, ripping at his clothes, spitting on him.

  A loud scream cut the air.

  Michael scooped her up again and she buried her head in his shoulder as he barged through the crowd. By the time she dared look, they’d reached the wharf.

  ‘I’ve got to put you down for a minute.’

  The moment her feet hit the ground, Michael bent double, his breath coming in great heaving gasps.

  ‘Stand right by me.’ He coughed and spluttered. ‘Don’t move.’

  ‘Did they shoot you too?’

  He sank down onto his knees and pulled her close. ‘No, me darlin’, I’m not hurt, only buffeted. They’re bringing him aboard now. We’ll stay right back.’

  They manhandled the poor prisoner down onto the wharf. His white waistcoat hung in tatters, and a bloody trail marked the gangplank as they dragged him aboard and threw him in a bedraggled heap.

  How had everything changed so quickly? One minute everyone was so happy and now the sounds of crying and wailing, shouting and screaming reverberated all around as if the crowd wanted to rip the man apart.

  Sometime later, the crowd waiting around the tent parted and a hush fell. A mournful cry trickled out of Elizabeth’s mouth as a group of sailors bearing a litter carrying her prince edged their way onto the deck of his waiting steamer.

  The sound of pounding blood in her ears receded and she slumped down onto the grass. Michael pulled her into his arms. ‘We’ll stay here and wait while everyone sorts themselves out, then we’ll find our ride home.’

  What a bloody disaster. The day he’d planned so carefully from the moment he’d read about the prince’s visit had ended in a debacle. Not that he’d got much time for the British monarchy, they’d too many questions to answer about Ireland. He
’d done it for Elizabeth, done it because he knew she’d like the idea of seeing a real prince, what with that imagination of hers. Now here she was, as tired and dishevelled as the flags on the prince’s steamer.

  Michael had worried the diggings were no place for a young girl. Sydney was as bad. Worse perhaps. At least in Hill End people had their mind set on gold, not murder.

  And now it was getting dark and they’d been waiting in the queue for the ferry for hours. He shuffled forward; maybe they’d make this one, maybe not. Elizabeth’s head had fallen to his shoulder and she was fast asleep. She didn’t weigh much more than a small bag of chaff.

  ‘Last one. Come on, mate. We’ll squeeze you in. Let you get the little girl home. She looks tuckered out.’

  The gangplank wobbled as Michael walked aboard, and for a moment he imagined the black oily water closing over their heads, just like the stowaway who’d fallen overboard in Liverpool.

  ‘There you go.’ A hand under his elbow pulled him aboard. ‘Go up in the wheelhouse. Room for you to sit the girl down.’

  ‘Ta.’ He pushed through the door into the thankfully warm space. He wasn’t the only one who’d got lucky, there were a couple of constables in there too. They shoved along and made room for Elizabeth, and Michael propped his shoulder against the cabin wall while the ropes were loosened and the ferry nudged away from the shore, out into the harbour.

  ‘Saw it all, did you?’ one of the constables asked.

  He nodded. ‘Right near the front.’ He pointed to Elizabeth curled up on the seat. ‘She wanted to see a real live prince. Bloody almost wasn’t. Any idea what prompted it?’

  ‘Thought you’d have a fair idea. Being Irish.’

  No self-respecting Irishman would give a toss, but he hadn’t expected it in Australia. ‘Beg your pardon?’

  ‘Who are you trying to fool? O’Farrell, that’s the bloke’s name. Told everyone he’d done it for the Fenians, for Irish independence.’

  He shrugged. ‘Never been much for politics.’ Da had, back in Ireland. Michael had been too young to pay much attention, more worried about where the next meal would come from.

  ‘Yeah, well, you better keep your head down because this’ll go a lot further. What’s your name?

  ‘Michael, Michael Ó’Cuinn.’

  ‘A good Irish name. Where are you from?’

  ‘Hill End.’

  ‘I’d be going back there quick smart if I were you. They’re looking for O’Farrell’s accomplices and there’s talk of a reward, a big reward.’

  Michael stared out at the oily water bubbling out from beneath the ferry. Talk about give a bloke a bad name.

  The moment the ferry hit the wharf he lifted Elizabeth into his arms and went out onto the deck. He wanted to be first down the gangplank and get her back to the Camerons’ safe and sound.

  It took longer than he expected to make his way along George Street. At every pub bodies spewed onto the road and there was only one thing on people’s lips. Bad news travelled faster than the devil.

  When he reached the Camerons’, Elizabeth was still fast asleep. He knocked on the door and tried the knob. Locked tight. He stepped back and the window upstairs opened.

  Bill Cameron’s head appeared. ‘Surprised to see you here.’

  ‘I’ve brought Elizabeth home.’

  ‘No you haven’t. Bugger off! We ain’t harbouring bloody Fenians.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Piss off, Mick.’ The window slammed shut.

  Michael raised his fist to hammer on the door, then let it fall. Elizabeth lifted her head and smiled sleepily at him. ‘Are we home?’

  ‘Not yet, me darlin’, not yet.’ To hell with the Camerons, he’d sort them out tomorrow. He’d got a room booked at the Clarendon. He’d bed Elizabeth down there. Chances were, everything would have blown over by the morning.

  ‘Where am I? Michael, Michael, wake up!’ Elizabeth sat in the middle of the bed, panicked eyes staring at him.

  He shot to his feet, every muscle tense.

  For a moment, his befuddled brain refused to function. He rubbed his hand over his face and examined the chair where he must have spent the night. Elizabeth’s hat lay on the floor on top of his coat and her boots were tossed by the bed. She was a mess—dress all screwed up and her hair hanging down her back like a banshee.

  Beyond the window, the sky was a pearly grey. ‘Snuggle back down for a minute or two. It’s early yet.’

  The crash on the door sent his heart into his mouth.

  ‘Ó’Cuinn. Michael ‘Ó’Cuinn. Open up.’

  He tucked the blanket around Elizabeth’s shoulders and went to unlock the door. Before he’d even reached for the handle it flew open, catching the toecap of his boots, flattening him against the wall.

  ‘Michael ‘Ó’Cuinn, you’re under arrest for Fenian conspiracy.’

  ‘Do what?’ He shrugged them off, held his hands high.

  Elizabeth’s wide frightened eyes stared at him over the blanket.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You were at Clontarf, in the company of O’Farrell.’

  ‘Aye. I was at Clontarf. I saw what happened.’

  It was too much for Elizabeth. She threw back the blanket, her face bone-white. ‘Is my prince dead?’

  ‘You’ll be coming down to the station.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll come, but I have to take me sister home first.’

  The heftier of the two men spun him around, pushed his face against the wall and yanked his arm up his back. Holy Mary! Elizabeth didn’t need to see this. He had to get her somewhere safe. No matter what Bill Cameron had said the night before, Mrs Cameron would take her in; she’d said she loved her like a daughter. Not sure he believed her anymore, but anything was better than this.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere. Where’s the girl got to go?’

  ‘Up the road a piece, Cameron Victuallers.’

  ‘Right you are. It’s on the way.’

  The pressure on his arm slackened. ‘Get your boots on, Elizabeth.’

  She slid off the bed, slipped her feet into her boots, left the laces dangling. He couldn’t do much about it with his arm rammed up his back. They trundled him down the stairs like a sack of potatoes and out into the street.

  It took only moments to reach the Camerons’. ‘Let me take her in. Sort things out.’

  ‘Not a chance, lad. I’m not having you shoot through.’ The bloke rapped on the door and Mrs Cameron’s head appeared at the window, as though she’d been waiting. ‘He wants you to take the girl in. All right with you?’

  Mrs Cameron slammed the window shut.

  ‘Stay here, Elizabeth. Mrs Cameron’ll be down in a moment.’

  ‘No.’ She hung onto his free hand. ‘I’m staying with you.’

  ‘No, darlin’, you can’t, not now. I’ll be back to see you. Just sort these fools out.’ His arm wrenched in the socket. The door opened a crack and Mrs Cameron’s hand shot out, grabbed Elizabeth and pulled her inside.

  ‘Michael, I want …’ The slam of the door muffled the rest of Elizabeth’s words and the constables propelled him down the road. Why in God’s name had they picked on him? There must be thousands of Irish in Sydney.

  Most of them were at the police station. It was crowded as all get out. They threw him into a packed cell, reeking of shit, piss and unwashed bodies, with a bunch of other blokes, every one of them Irish.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Michael slumped against the only vacant space on the wall, standing room only.

  ‘Some bugger’s got a fly up his arse.’ A big redheaded bloke spat neatly into one of the few empty spots on the floor. ‘Reckon this assassination is some Fenian plot to overthrow the Queen.’

  ‘Ain’t the assassination attempt that’s got everyone riled up. It’s the reward.’

  ‘Reward?’

  ‘Thousand pounds for information leading to conviction of any of O’Farrell’s accomplices. Whole world’s
ratting on an Irishman.’

  ‘That’s a load of rubbish. O’Farrell didn’t have any accomplices. I was there.’

  An uncanny silence settled on the cell. ‘You were there, man?’

  ‘Aye. I was.’

  ‘I’d say the rest of us’d be safe as houses.’

  A laconic voice called, ‘You’d be telling us what you did.’

  For Christ’s sake, even his compatriots thought he was guilty. He let out a long slow puff of air and recounted the story.

  Eleven

  Maitland Town, 1913

  Despite Elizabeth’s turn, she was back in the garden well before breakfast the next morning, dead-heading the roses, apparently none the worse for the events of the previous day.

  ‘What time did Mr Quinn say his train would be arriving?’ Bessie dropped Jane’s two eggs into the boiling water and added a splash of vinegar.

  ‘He said he’d get the nine thirty.’

  ‘Which will get him back here when? Not everyone carries the train timetable in their head you know.’

  ‘Twelve fifty-two.’

  ‘Lunchtime. Right.’ Bessie nodded. ‘What about the doctor?’

  Jane hadn’t thought to call Dr Lethbridge while she sat with Elizabeth as she slept. When she’d finally decided to ignore Elizabeth’s wishes and telegraph Michael in Sydney, he’d told her to ask Lethbridge to call at two o’clock.

  ‘I wish I’d thought to call him yesterday.’

  ‘Can’t be calling the doctor every five minutes. Here, take this to the dining room and I’ll ring the bell. Make sure you put it on the warmer. Miss Quinn likes her kedgeree hot.’

  Jane took the serving plate and made her way down the hallway. She’d hoped she’d manage to snaffle a piece of bread and jam in the kitchen and cite some excuse about having to be at the auction house. She simply didn’t want to face Elizabeth. The look on her face the night before had said it all.

  ‘Good morning, Jane.’ Elizabeth swept into the dining room, placed her basket of roses on the window seat and took her usual place at the head of the table. ‘What’s for breakfast? I’m exceptionally hungry.’

  ‘Kedgeree. Or toast if you’d prefer something lighter.’