A Tattooed Heart

by Deborah Challinor

  Harrie Clarke had been present when Malcolm died and, sure he’d said more than Dundas had passed on, Leary had at first tried to terrorise her into telling him what else she knew. But she’d been quite cracked, well on her way to being barmy, and he’d got nowhere, even after he’d threatened the baby in the orphanage. There was Dundas himself, of course, but he was saving him as a last resort. By all accounts he was a very tough cove, and Leary didn’t want to cross him directly until he had to. Unfortunately, at the rate things were going, it was looking more and more like he would have to, though he did have one or two more things yet to try. Not that anything he’d done so far had borne results.

  He’d wasted a lot of time, and money, in Van Diemen’s Land. First he’d gone to the convict barracks at Port Arthur — the most obvious place, he’d thought — with no luck. Then he’d tried the penal colliery about twenty miles from the port, not that far as the crow flies but it had still taken him two days each way because of the atrocious road, and again with no result. Then he’d gone up to Darlington Probation Station only to find, after forking out an extortionate sum for the boat ride over to Maria Island, hardly any convicts there at all and the place in the throes of closing down — and no Bennett. Finally, he’d spent bloody days perched on top of a coach, in the pissing rain, all the way to the Brickendon and Woolmers farm estates. There had been plenty of convicts there, but none had been his brother.

  After that he’d had to find work to afford the passage from Hobart Town up to Norfolk Island, and bloody expensive it had been, too. Having failed to find Bennett in Van Diemen’s Land, he’d convinced himself that he must have done something heinous — well, that wouldn’t be surprising, would it? — after he’d arrived in the colony, and been sent to Norfolk Island with the worst of the recidivist convicts. By the time he’d got to Norfolk he’d been sure he was finally going to find him, but he hadn’t. The disappointment had been like a kick in the balls. So he’d spent a couple of days drinking himself senseless in a particularly foul little pub on the island waiting for the next ship, then off he’d gone again, this time to Newcastle.

  But Bennett wasn’t here, either. True, it was no longer a penal settlement, but he’d thought that as his brother had disappeared from Liverpool in 1822 it was possible he may have been transported that same year and sent to Newcastle, and perhaps assigned, just before the bulk of the military had packed up and moved out. He might even be semi-free now, with a ticket of leave. It’d be very unlikely, though, that he would ever have been granted a pardon of any sort. Not Bennett.

  He’d been here for two months now. Five weeks of that had been spent riding up the Hunter Valley on horseback, a less-than-pleasant expedition thanks to bushrangers. Twice he’d been held up at gunpoint, ordered to remove his hat and boots and turn out his pockets, and robbed of his loose change. It had been irritating but he’d borne it stoically enough, especially knowing that his watch, paper money and pocket pistol had been safely jammed under the cantle of his saddle. Bloody amateurs. If he hadn’t been so concerned about keeping his head down, he’d have shot the lot of them. But the last thing he wanted was the police after him, or some do-good bloody member of the public thinking he was a bushranger and trying to arrest him.

  He’d asked at every homestead and little settlement at which he’d stopped, but no one had even heard of Bennett Leary. He’d spent four days at Morpeth, a riverbank town bigger and a damn sight busier than Newcastle, darting out of the pub every time a paddlesteamer or some other boat heading downriver tied up at a wharf, pestering travellers until someone complained and the watch told him to sod off.

  After that he’d crossed the river and tried Maitland, then gone farther up to Branxton, Singleton and as far as Muswellbrook. The land itself was fair — beautiful, in fact — and probably even more arable than England because of the climate, and he could see that this was the place to settle if a man had a mind to make his living from livestock or the soil. He did encounter plenty of emancipists and convicts on assignment, just not the one he was looking for.

  After a little over a month he’d had to admit that he wasn’t going to find Bennett, not by himself, and had turned back, sold the horse at Morpeth and returned to Newcastle on the paddlesteamer the Sophia Jane, saving his arse from a couple of days in the saddle.

  He wasn’t giving up, though. Bennett had to be somewhere. The tarot card woman he’d consulted before he’d left, Serafina Fortune, had said he was alive and in the colony and he’d believed her, even if he hadn’t liked her. There was too much money at stake to quit, money that belonged to him, Bennett and Malcolm. Malcolm was dead and Bennett didn’t deserve it, and once he’d got what he wanted from him, he’d be dead, too.

  If he could just find the bastard.

  And soon, he thought with a tickle of anticipation, he would. He’d always suspected that the Clarke girl really did know where Bennett was, addle-headed and pathetic though she was. She’d nearly died of fear when he’d confronted her about it in the George Street markets. Surely that was proof enough? All he had to do, he’d decided, was apply the right amount of pressure to her Achilles heel — and he knew exactly what that was — and she would tell him.

  Turning into Newcomen Street, he plodded up the hill a short distance, then let himself through a low hand gate in a picket fence. Iris had a row of lavender growing on each side of the short pebble path leading to her cottage door — probably the only thing that would take root in the sand. She said there was perfectly good soil if you dug down a foot, but he wasn’t that interested in finding out. The sand blew up from the beaches along the harbour and from the great dunes on the ocean side of the town, behind the gaol and the hospital, and he’d had a bloody gutful of it.

  He opened the door and went in.

  Iris was at the hearth, poking at something in a pot. She glanced at him over her shoulder. ‘You’re early. Your dinner’s not quite ready. D’you want tea or a tot of whisky while you’re waiting?’

  ‘Whisky. I’ll get it.’

  Leary poured himself a tumbler (his sixth of the day) from the bottle on the sideboard, sat down at the table and watched Iris as she stirred. She was five or six years younger than him — she said — which made her about thirty-three now, and wasn’t bad looking, despite her age. She’d kept her figure, too, and her hair was still a nice, bright gold colour. He’d known her when she’d lived at Parramatta several years earlier, when she’d worked as a whore from her house and he’d been assigned to a market gardener just outside the town.

  He’d visited her regularly on Sunday and Wednesday nights, in winter taking her a bag of carrots, potatoes and leeks, and in summer tomatoes, beetroot and squash, for her services in lieu of coin. At the time he’d been saving what little money he had to pay the fee for a ticket of leave, should his behaviour be deemed satisfactory enough to earn one. He’d only got away with giving her vegetables because she’d fancied him. When he’d been granted the ticket he found a real job and started paying her properly, although he had managed to talk her into accepting a reduced rate, given he was a guaranteed customer twice a week. They’d had what he thought was a very comfortable arrangement, with her even cooking him supper on the nights he visited, but then she’d spoilt everything by suggesting he might like to share her bed on a permanent basis.

  He’d told her that if he ever settled down with a woman it certainly wouldn’t be with a whore, and she’d promptly told him to fuck off. So he had. There were plenty more fish in the sea, especially if you had a quid or so in your pocket. A few months later he heard she’d moved up the coast.

  He hadn’t thought about her again until he’d arrived in Newcastle in June, taken a room in the Miners’ Arms Inn and asked the publican about available women in the town. When the man mentioned an Iris Kellogg as a possibility, Leary had laughed — surely there couldn’t be two whores in the colony named Iris Kellogg. She’d been proud of her surname, which she’d insisted was ancient and meant ‘killer of h
ogs’, but he’d teased her about it mercilessly, which she hadn’t found funny at all.

  So off he’d gone to knock on her door, hoping he could weasel his way back into her bed. To his surprise he found she’d given up whoring, and was now supporting herself by mending the uniforms of soldiers stationed in the town — first the 39th Regiment then the King’s Own Royal Regiment when they took over in July — and making undergarments for their wives and slops for prisoners in the local gaol. But she let him in anyway, after he’d grovelled and told her how much he’d missed her since Parramatta. She’d made enough money on her back, she’d told him, to buy herself a cottage and do what she fancied now, which was sewing. What she hadn’t told him was that she was also looking for a husband, but he’d seen it in her eyes when she’d opened the door to him. It wasn’t going to be him, though. He had other plans, for her as well as himself.

  Iris ladled hot savoury stew into two bowls, set them on the table and sliced a loaf of fresh bread. She was a good cook. He’d give her that.

  ‘What have you been up to this morning?’ she asked as she sat down.

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘Still no word?’

  Reaching for a slice of bread, he shook his head.

  Iris looked at him, her pale blue eyes full of compassion. ‘Try not to worry about it, Jonah. You’ll find him. I know you will.’

  ‘You’re right, I will.’

  All he’d told her was that he’d had word his brother was in New South Wales, and that it was vital he make contact with him concerning a family matter as important as life and death. She didn’t need to know that the death would be Bennett’s.

  ‘What will you do next?’ she asked.

  ‘Go back down to Sydney again.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In a week or so.’

  He thought he might travel down on one of the ocean-going paddlesteamers. The fee wasn’t too excessive — twelve shillings and sixpence for steerage or twenty shillings for a private cabin (which he certainly wouldn’t be wasting his money on) — and the journey was either overnight, or less than a day during daylight, saving endless hours on horseback or in a crowded and probably springless coach.

  ‘But you will come back?’ Iris asked.

  Leary really didn’t care for the note of raw hope in her voice. He nodded. ‘Can’t tell you exactly when, but. Depends on me business.’

  ‘What will you do there?’

  ‘Nothing you have to worry about, all right?’ he said sharply.

  ‘I’m just asking. I might be able to help.’

  He sighed as she poked at her stew with her spoon. Her mouth was doing that clamped shut thing and she looked like she was slipping into one of her sulks. He didn’t want to get offside with her — he couldn’t afford to, he’d be needing her soon — so he said, ‘You can help when the time comes. When I get back.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘What’ll be happening then?’

  He made himself reach across the table and playfully touch the end of her nose. ‘Wait and see.’

  10 August 1832, Sydney Town

  Harrie was out of sorts. James was in an extremely good mood and wouldn’t tell her why. It had started the previous night. A man had come to the door to see James: she’d thought it was something to do with a patient so she’d taken no notice, but James hadn’t gone out. Instead, he’d returned to the parlour and resumed his seat in his favourite chair near the fire, grinning his head off. She’d begun with polite enquiries as to the reason for his apparent delight, which had yielded nothing but more beaming smiles, then she’d descended to threats of kicking his shins if he wouldn’t tell her, but still he’d remained infuriatingly tight-lipped. And it had been no better this morning.

  Even more baffling, he’d taken the day off work, something he almost never did.

  ‘I thought we might go into town today,’ he said brightly as he buttered a slice of toasted bread. ‘Have a look around, perhaps do some shopping.’

  ‘But you don’t like shopping,’ Harrie said.

  ‘I don’t mind it sometimes. Or, I know! We could take Charlotte down to the wharves and show her the ships. She likes the ships, doesn’t she?’

  ‘The wharves? That’s hardly an outing for a small child.’ Harrie stared at James as he continued to smile away to himself. What was he up to?

  ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘I’ll go and tell Daisy to get her ready to go out, shall I? Are they upstairs?’

  Harrie thought briefly about warning him that Daisy was very likely in the middle of Charlotte’s potty training, but decided not to. That’d teach him to keep secrets from her. ‘In the nursery, I think.’

  James shovelled in the rest of his toast, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and trotted off.

  James didn’t bother to knock on the nursery door, which was slightly ajar, and went straight in. The room was somewhat over-heated by the fire roaring away in the grate, and a deeply unpleasant smell tainted the air. Clad only in her woollen vest, Charlotte pointed triumphantly at a chamber pot on the floor and crowed, ‘Look, Daddy! I done a turd!’

  ‘Charlotte!’ Daisy reprimanded, red-faced.

  Obligingly, James looked. In the pot was a solitary, rather firm, little stool. Perhaps the child needed dosing with castor oil. ‘Jolly well done, Charlotte. Though we say “I did, er, a turd”, not “I done a turd”.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dr Downey,’ Daisy said, wrapping Charlotte in a towel and plonking her on the bed.

  ‘Not to worry, Daisy, it’s a natural function. Though probably best to encourage her to use the word “stool”. Or perhaps “bowel motion”.’

  Daisy went even redder. ‘Yes, sir. Were you wanting something, sir?’

  ‘Can you get Charlotte ready to go out this morning, please? I thought we’d all go to town, you included. I’ve a surprise planned for Mrs Downey. I’ll tell you what it is because it’s going to affect you, but you have to keep it under your hat, all right?’

  Daisy nodded, a little wary.

  ‘Mrs Downey’s younger siblings are arriving by ship this morning.’

  ‘Ships!’ Charlotte shouted, clapping.

  ‘And they’re coming to live with us. Isn’t that good news?’

  Daisy gave an ear-piercing squeal of excitement. James knew that Harrie talked so often about her brother and sisters that Daisy probably knew as much about them as he did himself. Then her face fell somewhat as she rather transparently calculated how much work three more people in the house would generate. He waited for signs of protest, but none came.

  ‘That’ll be lovely for Mrs Downey, sir. And you. And madam,’ Daisy said, nodding at Charlotte. ‘There’ll be plenty of folk for her to play with now.’

  ‘You’re a good girl, Daisy Miller. I thought, given the extra housework, an increase in your wages will most definitely be in order. We might even take on another pair of hands. We’ll see how it goes, shall we?’

  ‘Not to look after Charlotte, though,’ Daisy said quickly. ‘That’s my job.’ Realising what she’d said, she clapped a hand over her mouth and added a muffled, ‘Begging your pardon, sir. Only if that’s all right with you.’

  James laughed. ‘I wouldn’t dare separate you. Both Charlotte and Mrs Downey would . . . What is it they say? Have my guts for stockings?’

  ‘Garters, sir.’

  ‘That’s it, garters.’ James kissed the top of Charlotte’s silverblonde head. ‘Bundle her up in something warm. It’s cold out today.’

  An hour later, after the breakfast things had been seen to and a successful search conducted for Charlotte’s missing mittens, they were on their way. Harrie was in a thoroughly grumpy mood by then as it seemed that even Daisy had been infected by whatever wonderful good humour had overcome James. Every time Daisy looked at her she smiled hugely, as though she knew something Harrie didn’t. It was infuriating.

  They set out along Hunter Street, Charlotte in the lead — ‘I walk, Mama!’ — stopping every few feet so she c
ould examine something. At this rate, Harrie thought irascibly, they wouldn’t get down to the cove until sunset. By the time they reached George Street, however, Charlotte insisted she was tired so James picked her up, and so far had had his hat knocked off twice as she pointed energetically and waved at passers-by.

  Then they had to stop so James could dash into his friend Matthew Cutler’s place of work.

  ‘What do you need to see Matthew for?’ Harrie asked as James gave her Charlotte to hold.

  ‘He might want to come with us. I won’t be long.’

  ‘To look at ships?’ Harrie called, mystified, after his retreating back. Scowling, she turned to Daisy. ‘What is going on, Daisy? Do you know?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Daisy said, not meeting her eye.

  Harrie finally snapped. ‘Look, how many times have I told you not to call me that?’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Harrie.’

  ‘Mama grumpy,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Yes, love, I bloody well am,’ Harrie agreed. ‘Everyone seems to have gone mad. Especially your father.’

  At that moment Charlotte’s father was marching triumphantly into Matthew Cutler’s small office, which he shared with two other architects. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. Matthew, they’ve arrived!’

  Matthew stared up at him. ‘Who?’

  ‘The children! Harrie’s brother and sisters. The ship was sighted outside the Heads last night and they’ll be dropping anchor this morning. We’re going down to meet them.’

  ‘God, really? That’s exciting, isn’t it? Does she know?’

  ‘No, it’s still a surprise. I thought you might want to come with us, given the hours you’ve spent listening to me going on about it.’

  Matthew looked at his watch. ‘I can probably pop out for a little while. It’s just about midday.’

  He grabbed his hat and coat and followed James outside, where he greeted Daisy and a sour-looking Harrie. As usual, Charlotte cried, ‘Maffew!’ and threw her arms around his neck.

  ‘What’s all this about, Matthew?’ Harrie demanded.