by J. Hepburn
The pressure gauge had been reading five hundred and fifty, which would not rapidly increase with the jet on minimum. I had a little time.
Taking the matches, a taper, one of the cleaner rags and the dark lantern, I carefully walked off the road, over uneven ground as I found my way to a tree next to a fence.
I closed the lantern and looked around again. There was no movement, no sound. Feeling a thrill of naughtiness, I squatted beside the tree.
Women's clothes were not designed to make this procedure easy, another area where men have a considerable advantage. By the time I was able to finish arranging myself I ran back to the car in a panic to check on the pressure and had a rude shock to find it at eight hundred and fifty.
I vented steam, the pressure dropping quickly from such a small boiler, and took deep breaths until my heart rate settled.
I had, however, one more thought—Hugh's toy car would stand out even more than I would, even in a city, such as Ipswich, which had grown rapidly on the back of fertile land and high-quality coal and was lobbying to replace Brisbane as capital of the Colony of Queensland.
The car, from what Bill had told me, was rare—a new model from a new factory—and would be noticed not merely by those buyers or engineers who knew what they were looking at, but by everyone else. Ipswich, despite its ambitions, had begun as a rough town—built for miners and growing large enough to be a city only because of the Customs House and the associated regional police station and other structures of government—and I had heard nothing to suggest that prosperity had brought with it the culture of moneyed leisure which would make toy cars a commonplace.
I would have to either hide the car and proceed on foot—difficult, not knowing the land or where a hiding place may be found for such a large object—or proceed visibly and with confidence. Confidence, Katharine and I had found, was the best disguise.
I nearly wept when I realised I should have spent the drive from Tawampa planning this. Had I really become some soft-willed society girl who could not think for herself? Or had Katharine's message had a bigger effect on me than I had realised?
The thought of Katharine hardened me. She would not have broken down, and she was—somewhere—waiting for me.
In that spirit, confidence and my wits really were the best options I had.
After lighting the headlamps again, I set off, accelerating rapidly to bring steam pressure down, hooking-up and keeping the burner on low so that pressure dropped to five hundred and fifty as I approached the outskirts of Ipswich and had to once more slow.
The city would obviously cluster around the train line and the docks—the main reasons for the city's existence—but it had spread widely and rapidly, buildings lining the highway as if reaching out for the open country. Tawampa had behaved in a similar manner but, built around a swamp, with more caution.
Off to my right, away from the river, I could see lights burning on what seemed to be a coal mine on the very edge of the city.
Ahead of me, I could see a glow from street lamps in the business district but, out here, lamps were few and ran on gas, not electricity.
I kept going, rolling down the street slowly and keeping a keen eye out for any sign of movement. I saw a public house lit up well and heard noise from it, but my luck held and nobody was on the front veranda as I passed.
My luck stopped holding once I came to what looked like the edge of the business district, when a policeman stepped off the kerb and held up his hand.
I stiffened my spine—not hard, in a corset—as I closed the throttle and applied the brake.
The policeman held up his lantern as he walked around the car towards me and, as he passed out of the light of the headlamps and could see me, with my goggles now up on my forehead and the scarf pulled down to reveal my face, his own face took on a truly memorable expression and for a second he looked as though he did not know what to do with me.
Confidence, I reminded myself.
"Good evening!" I said brightly and cheerfully, attempting to hide any trace of my upbringing from my voice—for now. "Is the Customs House closed for the night? I have business there."
"It shuts at sun-down to anything but incoming cargo," he said, startled into answering, before his brow furrowed into the habitual policeman's suspicion once again. "Here—"
"Cargo comes in this late?"
"River gets crowded if it doesn't. Here, Miss, what—?"
"I'll need a hotel," I said, dropping the inflections in my voice a little down the class ladder, and smugly imagining the apoplexy Ms Sinnet would experience to know her drama lessons, meant to teach us culture, would ever be used in such a manner as this. "I don't know why Master Ramsden insisted I leave tonight in such a hurry, if I won't be able to look after his business until dawn."
I had never before been so smugly satisfied to see such a reaction to my family's name. The policeman visibly blanched, his face so swarthy to begin with that the change was even visible in the poor light from his lantern.
Any objections he had, or suspicions, were driven out by the fear of the Governor of Cunningham Downs finding out he had impeded the Governor's servant. I wouldn't even have to offer him a bribe.
"Down by the wharves," he said, pointing. "There's a hotel for merchants and travellers next to the Customs House."
That was a nice touch. There would be any number of hotels suitable for miners, but few would be safe for a woman. Anywhere frequented by merchants was a step up from servants, but a representative of a Governor was a different matter entirely. I mimed tipping a hat to the policeman. "Cheers, love," I said, unlocked the brake and, as he stepped smartly backwards away from the wheels, let out the throttle.
I didn't start breathing normally again until I had crossed two more side streets and could see the road down to the docks ahead of me.
Here, there were more people. Ipswich was clearly not a busy port, and the river did not look wide enough to accommodate much traffic, but two steamers were tied up, one with a couple of men leaning idly on the railing to watch the other, where some cargo was being unloaded with, I had no doubt, the assistance of more men than was strictly necessary.
Heads turned to look at me, but even the much stronger, electric, street lamps here would have hidden me, so although some looked twice at the car, they soon lost interest against the more familiar entertainment of other men working.
A quick glance left and right showed what was clearly the Customs House to my left, and a hotel to my right. I hesitated, but the hotel was the much wiser choice. When Katharine and I had been sneaking out into Sydney at night, we had looked out for each other. I was alone. I needed someone to know I was in town, to at least wonder where I had got to, and one policeman was not enough. I spun the wheel to the right.
My luck held and a night porter, an older man, was leaning in the open doorway of the hotel, watching the barge.
He straightened up and looked official as soon as I stopped, then looked shocked for a second when I jumped down from the car in a skirt and corset. I could see his gaze flicking from me, to the car, and back to me, but he did not immediately draw himself up in righteous indignation and wave me off.
I tried to pitch my voice more upper class than I had used with the policeman and put authority into it. "Have you a room? I have driven straight from Tawampa."
He decided to err on the side of business, hopefully assuming that the most common class of single woman did not normally have access to expensive toys, and nodded respectfully. "Of course, Madam," he said. "I will open the gates and you can park inside."
I felt elated out of all proportion to that minor victory.
Of course, I had to hope the money I had with me would be adequate, but with any luck I would have time to pawn some jewellery in the morning—if I could not sign an account to my father, of course.
I drove into the hotel's small yard and parked as directed next to an old but sturdy steam wagon and a horse-drawn surrey.
Before l
eaving the car, I quickly retrieved my jewellery from my sack and put a necklace around my neck and some rings on my fingers, putting my gloves back on afterwards.
The night porter, who had closed and locked the gates once more, returned as I was folding the blanket and returning it to the compartment at the back of the car. I kept the scarf around my neck.
I noticed a small trace of uncertainty on his face as he saw my necklace and tried to remember if he was surprised to see it or not, but he simply said, "This way, Madam. May I carry your, uh, bag?"
I did not wish it to leave my side, but keeping it would not give the right impression. I let him carry my sack while keeping my satchel and followed him inside the hotel.
And glad I was to be following because it occurred to me that in a few moments I would be asked for a name, and I dragged my heels as I considered the problem. Some moments of frantic thought lead me to the conclusion that I really did not have a choice. Being caught giving multiple names would only lead to distrust and uncomfortable questions, and if I wanted to trace the delivery of the box then I would, ultimately, have to use my own name. So if I was to be hung for a lamb, I may as well be hung for a sheep.
When he had the ledger in front of him, I said, "Frances Jeanne Ramsden," as sweetly as I could.
I saw him almost frown as he started writing, then the connection was made and he nearly pushed the tip of his fountain pen through the paper.
"Oh," he said with suddenly more respect in his tone, "The Tawampa Ramsdens? Of course, you said you had just driven—"
I thanked my guardian angel profusely as I pulled a visiting card from my sleeve and handed it to him. I had almost left the house without them.
"Indeed," I said, before leaning forwards and dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I have business to attend to for Father, but wish to maintain a low profile, you understand. Time and discretion are of the essence."
The porter's eyes bugged out. "Yes, yes, of course Miss, uh, Madam, I quite understand! Discretion is our watchword!"
I thanked him sincerely, laying one bare hand on his arm, my rings gleaming in the electric light, and had the small but undeniable satisfaction of seeing him fluster, nearly complete his registration card incorrectly, and then, having selected a key, realise it was the wrong one and nearly drop it as he fumbled it back and selected a second.
He did not ask for a security for my stay, for which I was even more thankful.
"This way, Madam, this way."
He led me upstairs to the second, and top, floor to a room which was, I realised after I had oriented myself, facing east and would therefore receive the morning sun.
Breakfast, I was informed, was at eight. If I wished to stay another night, would I be pleased to let them know by ten. I thanked him profusely, pressed a couple of pennies into his hand and closed the door firmly after him, waiting until I had heard his footsteps retreat into silence before locking the door and weighing the key thoughtfully in my hand as I turned to survey a pleasant, if not luxurious, room.
I was being torn in two directions. Part of me screamed to move now, to chase up every lead, to investigate the Customs House without delay. Part of me warned that leaving the hotel would attract suspicion, that the Customs House was shut anyway—
I braked that train of thought. Shut? There was a steamer being unloaded!
My mind racing, I turned in place and stared sightlessly out the door, retracing my steps and mentally mapping the layout of the hotel. I would not be able to return, if I could leave, without the porter knowing. Could I bluff, say that I had business with the boat? Or was that too obvious? Would I still have time?
Driven by the wild impulses of my earlier years, I crossed rapidly to the window and threw it open, but the stonework was close-mortared, the gates too close-barred for me to squeeze through, and leaving by the walls would, in any case, be too obvious.
Confidence, I reminded myself—confidence.
I took enough time to change my necklace for one more useful and fill my satchel with my purse, a roll of tools, the single malt and, after a moment's agonised indecision, Katharine's message. I packed the bottles comfortably with the scarf. I hung my gloves from a clasp on the left side of my corset, and the goggles above them on another clasp, checked in the mirror that I could conceal them to casual inspection under my jacket, and marched out the door with head held high in visible expectation that I would be obeyed.
*~*~*
The night porter was startled to see me return, but he hid it well. "Can I help you, Madam?" he asked, a trifle warily.
"What is the name of the steamer being unloaded," I asked, half friendly and half imperious.
"The Bremer," he said, momentarily surprised.
"Excellent! You will be here when I return?"
Looking like a man bemoaning the collapse of society, but knowing it was not his place to say so, he opened the door. "Just ring the bell, Madam," he said. Then, concern breaking through, he added, "Here, are you sure you'll be safe–?"
"It is not far and I have business to conduct," I said firmly. "Thank you, my good man." I slipped him another couple of pennies before striding off across the docks, casually changing my satchel from my left shoulder to my right as I went, letting my jacket fall open to reveal the gloves and goggles hanging on my left side.
I had seen, in Sydney, warehouses built over the water so goods could be passed directly inside or be lifted by cranes attached to the upper levels of the building. The Darling River that flows through Ipswich afforded no such opportunity, and wharves had been built from the river to where there was land enough for buildings.
These docks were inhabited by more people than I had expected, given the hour, many of them seeming to have become inebriated at local pubs before turning out to enjoy the entertainment afforded by other men doing work.
Of the others, there were a scattered few women dressed, to put it plainly, as their own advertisements, with necklines plunging to expose a great depth of uplifted cleavage.
Katharine and I had discovered early that these street prostitutes can be violent and cruel to those they believe competitors, and we had spent time carefully becoming known, and known of, around Sydney, but here in Ipswich I was a stranger, and I kept briskly walking without making eye-contact with any man or woman. I saw one woman notice and start forward, enraged, until the sailor she was with objected to her wandering attention. I saw another recognise my engineer's goggles but fail to comprehend them, remaining confused but, thankfully, not aggressive.
From the men, I received one whistle and several stares, and the men engaged in carrying boxes off the Bremer had to be shouted at to get back to work, but I kept my head up until a sailor leaning against a wall, exuding a miasma of rum and frustrated loneliness, lurched forward with a leer and a "Here for business, love?"
I raked him up and down with my eyes. "You don't look like you have valves needing adjustment," I said, slipping easily into the voice I had adopted in Sydney before Ms Sinnet beat it out of me. "Your seals might be leaking a bit, though."
The exchange earned me laughter and visible approval from other sailors and dock-hands who had overheard, which gave me an immense sense of relief.
I stopped to join the small crowd watching the Bremer's cargo being assembled onto a wagon on the dock. I did not want to make myself too obvious but I did want to be close enough to see inside the open warehouse doors of the Customs House.
Two guards lounged in the doorway with visible boredom, one on each side, and a tired-looking but, equally, implacable-looking clerk stood squarely in the middle, glaring at the incoming crates. There was nobody else visible inside.
I took a closer look at the men unloading, and this time saw two distinct groups I took to be sailors and dockers. They all worked together but tended to stick with their own kinds.
I guessed that the men not dressed as sailors were the "men" of the Customs House that Bill had been referring to—one young, one a
s old as Old Morley, and two as big and strong-looking as bullocks.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed back the edge of my jacket to better reveal my gloves and goggles, and gave the older man a nod, locking eyes with him. He returned a calculating look and a small nod of his own, before going back to work.
One of the others, however, gave me an altogether sharper look, more calculating but without seeming aggressive or threatening. He saw my engineer's accoutrements, and this fact seemed to neither surprise nor disappoint him. His eyes almost made me shiver, but I was able to control myself. I suspected I would have to deal with him if I wanted to discover anything useful.
I waited until the wagon was being pushed through the Customs House doors into Government possession before I strolled on my way as just another onlooker wandering on now the entertainment was done. I had seen an alleyway I thought worthy of investigation.
I stopped level with the alleyway and, on the pretext of looking back at the progress of the wagon, examined it. I could not see the end, no street lamp being positioned close enough to the entrance to shine that far inside, but there did seem to be a small door halfway along.
The wagon disappeared inside, the guards glared around the docks, then the dockers closed the doors.
I waited. If I was lucky, it would not be long—
The door in the alleyway opened and all four dockers slipped out, fumbling with matches and pipes. I congratulated myself. They would not be needed until the paperwork was finished, if not until the next morning, and would take the first opportunity for a smoke.
I took a deep breath before stepping confidently into the alleyway.
Before I could say anything, the old man, quick of eye, said, "I figured as how you'd have business with us, girl."
His match flared as he lit his pipe.
"Got a message from Bill up in Tawampa," I said. "He says he hasn't forgotten the hand he owes you, and he could do with some spending money next time he's in town."
The old man laughed, sharply but happily. "He says that, does he? Well you tell him he better bring spending money for me and my boys, he won't be so lucky next time! What can I do for you, girl?"
