by Téa Cooper
Bert sat tucked in the corner, his head sunk low and his feet shuffling in the dust and ash.
‘What’s upset you?’
The lad lifted his bloodshot eyes and jutted his chin in the direction of two men leaning against the fireplace. ‘Them.’
One towered over the room, a goliath of a man tossing back a tankard of ale and bellowing with laughter. The other, more ratty, thin and shrewd, leant against the chimney breast shaking his head. He glanced up and their eyes met.
‘Captain von Richter?’ He ambled across the room tugging down a filthy vest. ‘I’m Gus. See you found the place.’
Stefan wrinkled his nose at the cloud of gunpowder and something far less pleasant enveloping him. ‘Gutt Abend. Mrs Atterton’s man, I presume.’
‘I’m nobody’s man but me own. She said we’d find you here. Interested in a bit of trading, I hear.’
‘I was under the impression you had a meeting arranged with a group of New Hollanders. I’m interested to accompany you.’
A loud guffaw of laughter came from the big man over by the fireplace and Gus turned and glared at him. ‘It’s all arranged. We’ll be leaving at first light.’ He tossed his head in the direction of Bert, who still sat cowered in the corner. ‘Is he coming too?’
‘Bert, come over here. Gus, this is my manservant, Bert Burless.’
‘So he tried to tell me.’ The fire hissed as Gus deposited a filthy ball of phlegm in the fire. ‘Tomorrow, first light then.’ He nodded his head and returned to the back-slapping company of the giant.
‘Ready for something to eat, Bert?’
‘Not real sure. I’d rather ’ave mine in the stable.’
‘Rubbish. I’d like your company and besides I’ve got a story to tell you. It concerns an intriguing young woman and a white kangaroo.’ He threw an arm around the lad’s shoulder and guided him into the dining room. He’d like to get to the bottom of Bert’s sullen mood and if, as he suspected, the oaf by the fireplace had anything to do with it, he’d sort him out.
Twelve
Hawkesbury, NSW, 1919
The last two days had dragged. Fleur had taken several walks around the city, unable to believe the beauty of the place. No grey skies, so much colour, the beautiful Botanical Gardens, the sparkling harbour. Even the railway station looked like a palace.
It’s the land of the future. Just wait until I show you. Even the city is beautiful.
Hugh hadn’t lied.
She’d taken a ferry to Manly. Anything further from the murky Thames she’d yet to see, and the beach was nothing like Brighton with its pebbles and slopping grey water.
Despite all the natural beauty she couldn’t settle. In a fit of impatience, she’d called at Lyttleton’s offices but there was no answer, the doors locked tight and the curtains drawn. Not a person in sight. Not even Kip.
Surely it couldn’t be that difficult to find a file. Weren’t solicitors supposed to be organised? It wasn’t as though they hadn’t known she was coming and even if Mr Lyttleton was in London with his repatriation board, a telegram would have reached him by now. She kicked at a stray stone then pushed open the door to the Berkeley Hotel.
At least Mr Sladdin had stopped looking sideways at her. He’d become used to her incessant questions and constant requests for directions.
‘And how was your day today, Mrs Richards?’ All long black legs and arms, he pulled a brochure from the desk drawer. ‘I thought you might perhaps be interested in attending the theatre tomorrow. Our Miss Gibbs is playing at Her Majesty’s. It’s a musical comedy which might take your fancy. Alternatively, there is bound to be something on at the Crystal Palace. It’s a very popular place for young people, all these modern films.’
She took the brochure and tucked it into her pocket without a second glance. She’d only been to the picture theatre once, in London with Hugh. Some film about falling in love with a gypsy. She’d been more interested in their love affair than Charlie Chaplin’s.
‘Thank you, Mr Sladdin.’ She couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting alone with her memories in a picture theatre, although she knew the man was doing his best to keep her entertained. ‘Are there any letters for me?’ Perhaps Vera had received word Hugh had been found alive and well, and it was all a ghastly mistake.
Mr Sladdin’s beady eyes missed nothing. At least he had the grace to turn and check. The little wooden pigeonhole with The Baron’s Suite neatly painted above it stared back at her as empty and hollow as the feeling in her stomach. A cry of frustration slipped out and she dropped her head into her hands.
‘Mrs Richards.’ Mr Sladdin reached her side in two long-legged strides. ‘Are you all right. Can I get you anything? You look very pale.’
‘I’m fine. Thank you. Just a little overcome and to be honest …’ She clamped her lips together; she could hardly tell the hotel clerk her problems.
‘Come this way, sit down in my office. I’ll call for a cup of tea.’
Fleur let him lead her through a glass door into his small office off the foyer. He guided her onto a hard chair pushed up against the wall. ‘I’ll be back in a moment. Take a minute or two to get your breath. A cup of tea is what you need.’
She didn’t need a cup of tea. What she needed was some concrete and solid information. Something that would tell her she hadn’t wasted her time coming to Australia. She jumped to her feet and started pacing.
Short of breaking down the door to the Curio Shop, there was nothing she could do there. It still made her blush knowing that Kip had as good as caught her in the act. What about this St Albans place? She had no idea where the Hawkesbury River was and eighty acres sounded like an enormous amount of land … Come to think of it, she had no idea how big an acre was, never mind eighty of them.
‘Here we are. A nice cup of tea.’ Mr Sladdin set the tray down on his desk. ‘Shall I pour?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Shall I pour?’
‘Oh yes.’ Tea. She didn’t want tea. She’d drunk enough of it since she’d arrived to float a battleship. ‘Mr Sladdin? Do you know where St Albans is?’
He tucked his head on one side, rather like an enquiring blackbird. ‘North of Sydney unless I’m very much mistaken. It was one of the very early settlements, in the Hawkesbury area. Let’s have a look.’ He crossed the room and peered at a large framed map on the wall.
Why in heaven’s name hadn’t she noticed it sooner? She moved closer. The South-Eastern Portion of Australia compiled from the Colonial Survey and details published by exploratory expeditions. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘And very rare. It belonged to my grandfather, and then my father. We have a very proud tradition of serving the Berkeley Hotel and it seems only fitting that something of our heritage should remain here.’
‘Your grandfather was responsible for the survey maps?’ She scanned the framed map looking for the name Sladdin.
‘Oh no. Not at all. He bought it from a man who owned a circus. Can you believe it?’
Mr Sladdin pushed his glasses onto his balding head and squinted. ‘There we are.’ He traced his finger north from Sydney where a vast tract of water stretched inland. ‘The mighty Hawkesbury River. Now it branches off here.’ His long nose almost touched the map and the reflection of his head in the glass distorted his features. ‘Got it. Macdonald River and St Albans would be about there.’ He stepped back leaving his finger pressed against the glass. ‘Might I ask why you are interested?’
‘My husband owns a property not far from there, at a place called Mogo Creek.’
He hooked his wire-framed spectacles over his nose and squinted at the map. ‘Mogo Creek, you say? I don’t seem to be able to locate it.’
She eased in closer to the map. ‘It seems a very long way.’
‘In the old days yes. Not anymore. The train meets the Hawkesbury River at a place called Brooklyn. Obviously not marked on this antiquarian treasure.’ He ran his hand over the glass in a caress. ‘I believe ther
e’s a ferry that runs upriver from Brooklyn.’ He stabbed at the map again. ‘Here. Wiseman’s Ferry, that’s where the tributary the Macdonald River runs off. Let me see.’ He stepped back, pulled off his spectacles and polished them, then hooked the wire arms back behind his large ears. ‘St Albans. About ten miles, not much more.’
A great bubble of excitement blossomed in her chest. The perfect solution. She’d take the train to Brooklyn while Vera sorted herself out. Have a look around and find out if she could get to Wiseman’s Ferry. There’d have to be someone going to St Albans, she could beg a lift.
‘Thank you, Mr Sladdin, you might just have solved my problem.’ She flew out of the door and into the street. It couldn’t be more than half an hour to the railway station, she’d walked past the palatial edifice only the day before. She’d go and find out when the trains left. With a squeal of joy, she galloped off down the street.
It wasn’t until she rounded the corner of the park near the station that she remembered poor Mr Sladdin and his pot of tea! She’d have to apologise. Joining the throng of people crossing the road she side-stepped a tram and worked her way between the horse-cabs waiting in line and a row of motor taxis parked beneath two street lamps. When she pushed open the imposing door into the ticket hall it was full of families and trolleys with clanking wheels. Easing her way through the crowd she spotted a ticket office sporting a neatly lettered sign saying Country Lines.
She leant towards the ticket window. ‘I’d like to buy a ticket to Brooklyn, please.’
‘Ain’t no Brooklyn station.’
No. Mr Sladdin couldn’t be wrong. ‘I beg your pardon.’ Not now, not when she was finally doing something constructive.
‘No Brooklyn station, we’ve got one called Hawkesbury River. You can walk to Brooklyn from there.’
‘How far is it?’
‘About ’arf a mile.’ He gave her a lopsided grin.
Oh, for goodness sake! ‘In that case I’d like to purchase a ticket to travel tomorrow morning. What time does the train leave?’
‘The ticket clerk raised one hairy eyebrow and quirked a smile. ‘Been there before, have you?’
‘What’s that got to do with it? No.’
‘English, are you?’
Why did everyone keep asking her that? It wasn’t as though she spoke a different language. She drummed her fingers on the counter. ‘I want to buy a ticket. I want to go to Brooklyn–Hawkesbury River Station.’ The man was driving her crazy, all those ridiculous names just to confuse her.
‘Visiting family, are you?’
‘No, I’m not.’ Possibly she might be visiting family, if she could find them, and this man wasn’t helping one iota. ‘I want to go to St Albans actually.’
‘Ah right. Then I suggest you get back here at six o’clock tomorrow morning, get the first train. That’ll get you into Brooklyn a little after eight and with a bit of luck you can pick up the postman.’
‘The postman?’
‘He’ll take you upriver as far as Wiseman’s then you’re on your own.’
Now it was beginning to make sense. ‘Thank you very much. I’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘You do that love, and good luck.’
She might well need it but what else was she going to do with herself while she waited for Mrs Lyttleton to unpack her offices? At least she’d feel as though she was doing something. If she was going to go back to England with her tail between her legs, she may as well see a bit of the country first. And better spend Hugh’s money trying to find him than swanning around Sydney going to the theatre.
On her way back to the hotel she took a quick diversion down Hunter Street. Lyttleton’s premises were still locked up and so was the Curio Shop. She barrelled through the door of the Berkeley straight into the ever-attentive Mr Sladdin.
‘I’m so sorry I left before drinking the tea. I will be leaving tomorrow on the early train for Hawkesbury River. Thank you so much for your help. Will it be possible for you to keep my room? I’m only planning on being away for one or two nights.’
‘It’d be my pleasure, Mrs Richards. The Baron’s suite is yours until you inform me otherwise. Dinner is being served in the dining room. I shall reserve a table for you while you go and get changed.’ He lifted his eyebrows as she shot up the stairs, her heart thumping nineteen to the dozen. At last something was happening. If she was lucky, by this time tomorrow she’d be in St Albans.
After an almost sleepless night, Fleur stood clutching her satchel containing a change of clothes and her ticket, staring up at the huge indicator board trying to make sense of the clocks and lists of strange place names. Turramurra, Berowra, she could barely get her tongue around them. Finally, she found what she was looking for: Hawkesbury River. Platform three. 6.05. The ticket inspector flashed her a wink and she climbed into the first carriage with only moments to spare before the train took off with a bellow and a hiss. It juddered over the lines of intersecting rails and threaded its way to the outskirts of the city, far dirtier and dustier than anything she had seen since she arrived, and so many stations... Ultimo, Surry Hills, Redfern, Waterloo—nothing like Waterloo station in London, the huge edifice where she’d farewelled Hugh.
Goodbye, my darling. Next time we’ll be together, heading to Australia …
And then the train picked up speed and the repeated sound of the wheels on the tracks replaced the wheeze of steam. The sun appeared from behind the clouds and the countryside opened up.
An hour or so later, a steep section of track dropped down and in front of her stretched the huge expanse of the river.
A mighty river bigger than the Thames, deeper and cleaner. Tall sandstone cliffs and secluded sandy coves. And fish … fish like you’ve never seen. Flathead too big for the pan.
The train shuddered to a halt and she stepped out onto the platform. Below her she could see the village and the wharves. By the time she’d reached the end of the platform the mailbags had been unloaded from the guard’s wagon into a small trolley. She stuck right behind it, surely the easiest way to find the postman.
The porter wheeled the trolley down a slope and headed for the village. They crossed a narrow road and turned left and her heart lifted when she saw ahead of her the neat timber vessel moored against a wharf proclaiming The Postman’s Boat.
‘You all right there, Miss?’ The porter turned to push the wagon towards the wharf.
‘The man at Central Railway Station said that I might be able to get a ride upriver with the postman,’ she called after his retreating back.
He stopped and turned around. ‘Ah, that makes sense. You’ll need to have a word with Old Jimbo. Sure, he wouldn’t mind a bit of company on a lovely sunny morning. Follow me.’
With a spring in her step she eased through the narrow gate and onto the wharf.
‘You there, Jimbo?’
A grizzly old man wearing a battered navy blue cap and a frayed jumper minus the elbows appeared from the cabin. ‘Morning!’
‘Got a passenger for you.’
Thirteen
Hawkesbury, NSW, 1853
The clouds hung low over the hills blocking any sign of the sun, and only the faint lightening of the sky behind the hills indicated the approaching dawn. Stefan tightened the remaining strap around his botanising box and left Bert to saddle the other two horses. Gus and his overgrown companion hadn’t made an appearance.
‘P’rhaps they changed their mind.’
Stefan didn’t miss the hopeful note in Bert’s voice. He’d refused to say anything over dinner about the set he’d taken against the two men, however Stefan was in no doubt something had upset him.
Bert hefted his bag onto the pack horse and strapped it down.
‘I thought to leave the rest of the baggage here until we return.’
‘Not bloody likely. Wouldn’t trust this bunch further than I could throw ’em.’
‘Any particular reason for that?’
‘Bunch of no ’opers. The pair of t
hem could do with a decent bath too. Smell like scheisse.’
His lips twitched. Since Bert had acquired his new set of clothes he’d become most scrupulous about his appearance, washing at every opportunity and polishing his boots within an inch of their life every night. And he appeared to have picked up a new vocabulary.
‘Captain.’
Stefan whipped around.
Gus and Dobbin sat, muskets dangling and large, empty saddlebags hanging like elephant’s ears on the backs of their rough mounts. ‘Need to get a move on. We’ve got a fair few miles to cover.’
‘You have an agreed rendezvous time?’
‘Nah. Blacks don’t pay no heed to time. They’ll be in camp until the sun gets high. Lazy buggers. Let’s get a move on.’ Without another word the two men led the way out of the courtyard.
They followed a rough track alongside the creek, past the spot where he’d seen the beguiling girl and her albino kangaroo, and then up into the heavily wooded hills. After about half an hour they dropped down from the ridge onto a cleared plain, the remnants of burning still visible amongst the new grass shoots.
‘Has there been a fire through here recently?’
‘It’s the bloody blacks. They do it all the time. Set light to random patches. Make the place less than useless for any grazing.’
Stefan studied the undergrowth as they made their way down the incline. Contrary to Gus’s explanation, the land appeared to be abundant with bright new grasses. In some places small orchids and a wandering purple vine had broken through the charred leaves.
After another hour or so a coil of rising smoke caught his attention then the joyful shrieks of children playing, the murmur of voices and the excited yap of a dog.
‘Are we there?’
Gus turned in the saddle, acknowledging Bert for the first time. ‘Dunno. Difficult to tell. Move around too bloody much to keep track of ’em.’ He followed a narrow track into the trees then brought his finger to his lips and signalled them to stop.
In the clearing, several small dwellings made from flattened sheets of bark, neatly placed branches and foliage sat around a fireplace designated by rounded stones. The ground surrounding the fire pit was as scrupulously swept as any parlour floor. A pile of shells and bones was stacked on the outskirts of the clearing and a group of women sat in a circle around the fire, one nursing a small baby, another grinding something in a flat wooden bowl. Three young boys appeared, squealing and tumbling over each other as they chased a tan, wolf-like dog with a tapered muzzle. Their shrieks came to an abrupt halt as Gus entered the clearing.
