by Téa Cooper
‘They do, don’t they. She did say that no matter what he’d done she couldn’t fault him for the way he’d worked his way up …’ Elizabeth’s eyes widened. ‘Oh good heavens …’
With a satisfying clank, rather like the beads on the abacus, Jane saw the connection become clear to Elizabeth. ‘Is there anything else you remember?’
As she twirled a flyaway strand of hair around and around her index finger, Elizabeth’s cheeks pinked. ‘I haven’t felt I should share the few memories that have surfaced …’
Jane’s head came up with a snap. ‘More repressed memories?’
‘I have no idea. To be honest, I don’t know if they are simply dreams.’
‘Have you told Dr Lethbridge?’
‘Of course not. One more seal on my doolally status.’
Jane shifted to the edge of the bed.
‘Firstly the birds, obviously swooping, their wings brushing my cheeks, and the smell, an awful smell I can’t get from my throat.’ Elizabeth’s hand rose and her fingers wrapped around her long neck. ‘I have such a feeling of claustrophobia, as if I was confined in a small space. And trains. I don’t like trains.’ She covered her ears with her hands. ‘The noise. As if my heart is pounding, about to burst from my chest.’
‘That’s why you won’t travel to Sydney.’
‘I used to, when the steamers still ran up to Morpeth, but no, I haven’t left Maitland for many years. I feel safe here.’
Elizabeth’s cobwebbed memories slipped neatly into the picture forming in Jane’s mind. ‘A train line runs from Yeovil to Liverpool.’
‘When Michael told me about the fire at the workhouse, I remembered answering to Lizzie’s name, not much more, except the painting, Marigold’s painting is wrong. I didn’t want to go with him. He ran, tucked me under his arm like a squealing pig.’ Elizabeth dropped her head into her hands, her shoulders heaving as the tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘Him? Who is he? Who didn’t you want to go with?’
‘I don’t know. He squashed me under his arm and ran and ran, then threw me into the dark and the birds came.’ Elizabeth’s head came up and her eyes widened. ‘He put me in the dovecot.’
‘I think he did, I truly think he did and then he took you on the train to Liverpool and left you at the workhouse.’
‘Who?’
‘I believe it was Penter, the pigeon-keeper.’
As the words left Jane’s lips the truth of it settled in her mind. I got her tucked up safe ’n sound. Did like you said. Ain’t told no one. Not ever. ‘I think Timothy’s great-grandfather put him up to it.’
Elizabeth’s face creased into a frown. ‘Langdon? Why, why would he?’
‘Timothy told me he saw Daisy and Marigold as a stain on the family name, they were born out of wedlock.’ She bent down to the pile of damp clothes she’d dropped onto the floor and rummaged through the pocket of her skirt. ‘I believe Langdon paid Penter. Before he died he said he’d done as Langdon said and hadn’t told anyone. Said he’d kept his mouth shut.’
She held out the sovereign. ‘I’m not very proud of this. I took it from Mr Penter’s pocket after he died. I think he’d kept it as some kind of talisman.’
Elizabeth took the coin and turned it over in her fingers. ‘It’s dated 1862.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I wish Michael was here.’
Epilogue
Maitland Town, 1913
Jane cast one last look around the auction room and crossed to Timothy’s side. ‘I think everything is ready.’
‘It looks perfect, and so do you.’ He tipped the brim of her new straw boater, smiled and held out his hands to her. ‘I had my doubts we’d ever see the day.’
It had been a difficult few weeks. Penter’s funeral had to be postponed, and his body lay in the mortuary until the flood waters receded, along with a Mr Egan of Morpeth. He too had perished trying to cross the Wallis Creek bridge, the poor man.
The waters had continued to rise after the rain stopped, and turned the High Street into a river. They had to cart all Marigold’s paintings upstairs and delay the exhibition. Jane and Timothy worked alongside the townsfolk, plying the High Street in a row boat, handing out blankets and rations to those trapped in their houses and then helping with the dreadful clean-up. However, the good moments well outweighed the bad.
‘Time to open up.’ Jane peered out into the street at the large crowd who had gathered on the footpath, impatient for the exhibition to open.
‘I’ll unlock the doors and let them in,’ said Timothy. ‘You go and get Mother and Aunt Elizabeth. They said they wouldn’t come down until everyone was settled.’
Jane clattered up the stairs. At last the time had come to lay all the rumours to rest, and Elizabeth seemed to relish the opportunity. She and Marigold had spent every moment together, talking long into the night and making plans for the future, both firmly convinced Elizabeth was Marigold’s long-lost twin sister, Daisy.
Much to Lethbridge’s interest, Elizabeth had continued to remember snippets from the past. The colour of a cushion, the placement of the rocking chair by the fire, the words of the lullaby Maggie had sung every night.
But it wasn’t until the evening Marigold produced her art folio and showed them the picture she had painted of Daisy as she’d imagined her to be at eighteen, that Jane finally agreed. Sealed by a faded photograph Elizabeth produced, taken in Hill End in 1872, showing an identical young girl.
‘Are you ready?’ Jane stuck her head around the door.
‘Indeed we are,’ Elizabeth and Marigold replied in unison.
Jane stood behind and waited until they reached the bottom of the stairs. A hush fell as they made their way to the auction table at the front of the room.
With a flourish, Elizabeth brought the gavel down hard on the cedar table top. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome.’
She paused while the two hundred-strong crowd settled.
‘Before I undertake this momentous occasion, I would like to say a few words. We have not only lived through a monstrous natural disaster, we have lived through a flood of emotion.’ She reached for Marigold’s hand and drew her closer. ‘You may think you know me; after all, Miss Elizabeth Quinn has been something of a fixture in Maitland Town for more years than I care to remember. I stand here in front of you today to tell you a little more about the woman you think you know.’
Not a movement, not a sound. Every one of them captivated by Elizabeth’s words. Jane couldn’t resist a wry grin as she slid into the spot next to Timothy and took his hand. That alone should give Mrs Witherspoon and her cronies something to chew over.
‘I didn’t begin life as Elizabeth Quinn, in fact I was born Daisy Dibble, and, as many of you rightly ascertained, Michael was not my brother. I grew up believing he was, all of you knew him as my brother, but the fact is, we were not related. I’m not even Irish as I’d always thought. I was born in Somerset in a little village not far from Yeovil, one of twins.’ She paused, turned her head to Marigold and smiled. ‘I would like to introduce you to someone dear to my heart, my sister, Marigold Penter.’
The silence was palpable, enough fuel to stoke a long-lasting bushfire. Though how anyone had failed to recognise Elizabeth and Marigold’s similarity was now beyond Jane’s comprehension. With their hair drawn back in neat chignons, their facial structure was identical. There may never be any tangible proof, but as Elizabeth had assured Jane in a remarkably un-Elizabeth-like comment, their souls knew, and that would suffice. The world would simply have to accept it.
‘At the age of four I was deposited on the doorsteps of Brownlow Hill, the Liverpool workhouse,’ Elizabeth continued. ‘Michael rescued me from that atrocious place and together we came to Australia and forged a new life, a life which brought us both a great deal of pleasure.’
Across a sea of smiling faces, even the gossips remained silenced, for now they knew it all. So many people from the town, so many she counted as friends, so many Elizabeth and Michael h
ad helped. There would be nothing to feed their curiosity now.
When the first mutters of conversation began, Elizabeth stilled the crowd again with a raised hand. ‘Marigold and I intend to travel to England where I shall reacquaint myself with my roots. I will be leaving Quinn Family Auctioneers and Accountants in Jane and Timothy’s capable hands.’
Thunderous applause greeted her words and a look of satisfaction crossed Mrs Witherspoon’s face, as though Jane had managed to rescue the entire town from the Quinns’ dubious heritage.
‘Marigold and I will then return to Maitland to free Jane to accept the place she has been offered at the University of Sydney to study mathematics.’
Jane hugged her arms tight as the bubble of euphoria threatened to carry her away. With all the events of the past weeks, she’d as good as forgotten sitting the entrance exam, and when the letter arrived it had come as more than a shock. Elizabeth simply offered her trademark smile and said that she hoped she’d follow in Fanny Hunt’s footsteps.
Timothy’s reaction had been slightly less enthusiastic, until Jane pointed out that his mother had a career and so had she. There was little difference. Finally he’d embraced her, and the idea, on the condition she would consider his marriage proposal once she graduated.
After a slight pause, and some looks of askance from the more conservative members of the audience who believed a woman’s place was at home, a series of loud claps resounded from the back of the room. Somewhat reluctantly, the assembled crowd joined in offering their congratulations.
‘And now,’ Elizabeth’s voice rose, ‘it is with great pleasure that I open this exhibition of my sister’s work. I give you the renowned English artist, Marigold Penter.’
Applause broke out once more and Elizabeth stepped back, surveying the packed room. Her face paled. Her lips formed a single word and curved into what may have been a smile, and her arms lifted.
Jane’s heart stuttered. Not again, not now, not in front of all of these people. She took two steps towards Elizabeth, ready to support her if she fell. Lethbridge pushed through the crowd to her side, and Jane’s gaze came to rest on a lone figure leaning on a cane at the back of the room.
Memory or imagination? More ghosts rearing up from the past? Elizabeth had no idea, but she had every intention of being more than a passive observer. With a silent apology to Michael, she stepped from the raised platform, shunning every one of the well-wishers, intent only on traversing the length of the auction room.
‘Miss Elizabeth.’ He removed his bowler hat and smiled with such pleasure, she forgot everything and ran into his embrace. And while the stunned audience of Maitland’s finest drew an outraged gasp, the scent of incense, jasmine and never-forgotten love enveloped her.
Finally, Miss Elizabeth Quinn could lay the past to rest.
Historical Note
The Girl in the Painting is a work of fiction, an invented narrative, inspired by imagination yet based around a series of unconnected historical events. I very much hope that if you are reading this you have already read the story—there may be a spoiler or two!
On 7 September 1862, a serious fire broke out at the workhouse in Liverpool, England, destroying the chapel and one of the children’s dormitories. Twenty-one children and two nurses burnt to death.
Child migration has a long and chequered past and is well documented. The first 100 children, ‘vagrants’, were despatched from London to Virginia in the Americas in 1618 while the last nine children were flown to Australia in 1967 under the auspices of Barnardos. In all, more than 100,000 children were sent from Britain to Canada, Australia and other Commonwealth countries through various child migration schemes. Many came from workhouses or were found destitute and homeless in overcrowded cities and declining rural areas. Each set of embarkation papers recorded the name, religion and education, but not an exact date of birth. Passengers were listed as either an adult (over fourteen years) or a child (seven to fourteen, four to seven and one to four).
On 12 March 1868, at Clontarf, a popular picnicking spot on Sydney Harbour, an Irishman, Henry James O’Farrell, attempted to assassinate Queen Victoria’s son, Prince Alfred. Although O’Farrell fired his pistol at close range, the bullet inflicted only a slight wound, thanks to his braces, according to some accounts, and the prince recovered completely. O’Farrell narrowly escaped lynching by the crowd, and was immediately arrested. The events that followed included an outpouring of prejudice and racism towards the Irish. The New South Wales government passed the Treason Felony Act, making it an offence to refuse to drink to the queen’s health, however they failed to uncover any conspiracy. O’Farrell was convicted of attempted murder and was hung. A public subscription fund was opened to finance a hospital to commemorate Prince Alfred’s safe recovery, known today as the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital, Camperdown.
The history of Hill End in the second half of the nineteenth century is well known and thoroughly documented thanks largely to the Holtermann Collection, one of the world’s most unique collections of glass, wet-plate negatives. They came to light in 1945 in the back shed of a house in North Sydney. On my most recent visit to Hill End I discovered the Heritage Centre, a brilliant interactive museum which brings the sights and sounds of the past rushing back through a series of recordings, photographs and artefacts of the European history of the area and also that of the Chinese who were among the earliest gold diggers at Hill End. And of course, tribute is paid to Holtermann and his gold nugget found 19 October 1872, at the Star of Hope Gold Mine.
The Art Gallery of NSW and Maitland Technical College, now Maitland Art Gallery, were both built by Walter Liberty Vernon. In 1890 he was appointed NSW Government Architect and is responsible for many other buildings that make Sydney the city it is today—the Mitchell Library, Central Station, Long Bay Gaol and Customs House to name but a few.
Tost and Rohu, the mother-and-daughter taxidermy artists who ran ‘The Queerest Shop in Sydney’, have featured in my books before. An exhibition of their work, the giant diprotodon and paintings from the national gallery, were shown in Maitland, at the technical college, and reports can be found in the Maitland Mercury.
Maitland has suffered a series of floods since the town’s establishment in the early nineteenth century. Although longer lasting than many, the 1913 flood caused least loss, but poor Mr Egan died attempting to take his sulky across the Wallis Creek Bridge. Today the town is protected by a large levy bank.
Norton-sub-Hamdon is a village in the English county of Somerset, five miles west of Yeovil. The manor was granted after the Norman Conquest, however it was broken up and sold in the 1850s. (A fact I chose to ignore for the purposes of this story!)
And lastly, the name ‘The Australian Labour Party’ was adopted in 1908, but the spelling was changed to ‘Labor’ in 1912 (right in the middle of the story!). For the sake of consistency, I have used the modern spelling throughout.
So, those are the facts I weaved through the story of The Girl in the Painting. The major players, the other characters and the events that shaped their lives are figments of my imagination. My aim was to produce a story that, though fictional, was plausible. I hope I’ve achieved that aim and you, the reader, have enjoyed following in Michael and Elizabeth’s footsteps.
Acknowledgements
I would like to acknowledge the Wiradjuri and Wonnarua people as the traditional owners of the land where this story is set and pay my respects to Elders both past and present.
There are so many people I wish to thank: my wonderful publisher Jo Mackay and her team at HQ fiction; Annabel Blay and Dianne Blacklock for their assistance in turning my manuscript into a real book; the marvellous designer Darren Holt who has produced my favourite cover to date; Natika Palka and the HarperCollins sales team who take my stories out into the world; and James Kellow for providing the very first spark of inspiration for this story. It is an ongoing pleasure and privilege to work with you all.
Thanks also to the numerous people
who help me with my research: Daphne Shead, researcher and founder of the Hill End Family History group, who allowed me access to some of her amazing files; Ann Campbell of the Maitland Family and Local History Research Group, who read a very early draft of The Girl in the Painting to check I had the flavour of Maitland; and Ray Richards of the Lost Maitland Facebook group, for his help with the history of the steamships. And finally, the State Library of NSW. What a wonderful organisation!
As always my thanks to Chief Historian, Carl Hoipo and Chief Researcher #1, Charles, particularly for his help with Jane’s outlandish mathematical calculations and also to Dawn—there’s a little bit of you in Jane. Do you still know the train timetable by heart?
To my daughter, Katy, my writing friends, and my Wollombi friends, and most especially my critique partners, Sarah Barrie and Ann Harrison, for braving my dreaded first drafts. Thank you for your support and patience.
And finally, to you, my wonderful readers, thank you for all your support, reviews, emails, encouragement and enthusiasm. You are the icing on the VoVos!
ISBN: 9781489270702
TITLE: THE GIRL IN THE PAINTING
First Australian Publication 2020
Copyright © 2020 Tea Cooper
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher:
HQ Fiction
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