‘Begging your pardon, sir. I don’t want to be a domestic. I want to be a seamstress, sir.’
The Supervisor glared at her and coughed, and went on as if she hadn’t spoken. He looked down at the indenture papers and spoke in a loud and insistent tone.
‘You are to be paid eight pounds for each year of indenture. At the end of a period of two years, your indenture may be reviewed and the terms of your indenture may vary, but otherwise you are to remain in the house of the De Quinceys until you are nineteen years of age, or until such time that you marry. You will be trained in the domestic arts by the De Quinceys’ housekeeper, Mrs Fairlea, commencing your duties as a scullery maid. Your new mistress will be the gracious Lady De Quincey, and you will serve your new mistress faithfully and at all times behave yourself with respect and decorum towards the family during the term of your indenture. The Board, for its charity, expects you to serve your new mistress honestly and obediently, and to be a faithful apprentice in every way. You will be provided with lodging, meat and drink, medicine when required, and all other things but for your clothing. You will be allowed to attend Divine Service of your religion, if practicable, once on Sunday.’
The Supervisor continued to drone on, but Bridie had stopped listening. Seven years before she would be free! Seven years before she would be her own mistress and able to send for Brandon.
‘Please, sir, I’d rather go to a draper’s, like Caitlin Moriarty. I’ve a fine hand with a needle.’
The Supervisor went bright red in the face and leaned across his desk, scowling.
‘Listen to me, young lady. You are extremely fortunate to find someone willing to take you at all,’ he said in a harsh whisper, his voice full of suppressed rage. ‘There’s not much favour for you Irish girls in Port Phillip. The whole town’s crying out against you, so consider yourself lucky for whatever you get and be grateful, my girl.’
In a daze, Bridie put all her things in her box and followed the Matron out into the yard of the depot where a cart and driver stood waiting. Mrs Fairlea climbed up beside the driver, while Bridie sat in the back of the cart on top of her small trunk. They drove straight to Market Street, where Bridie followed her new mistress through crowds of fat, red-faced men, shouting out their wares. When Mrs Fairlea had finished her shopping, they climbed back onto the cart, now loaded with boxes of produce and sacks of flour and grain. Bridie sat among the purchases, feeling like an item on Mrs Fairlea’s shopping list. They passed by grand houses in East Melbourne and the big, empty government paddock that stretched down to the muddy river. Eventually the cart turned and trundled down a long, dusty road to the banks of the Yarra.
There was a small house, built right on the water’s edge, which belonged to the punt-keeper. He was halfway across the river, ferrying a load of cattle. The sun was bright on the water as they waited for his return and Bridie wondered why everything was so harsh and difficult to look at in this country. And where did all the swarms of flies come from?
It was late afternoon by the time they turned onto a gravel drive leading to a big white stone house with wide verandahs running all around it and a balcony on the second floor.
‘This is Beaumanoir, the home of the De Quinceys,’ announced Mrs Fairlea, speaking to Bridie for the first time since they’d left the depot.
The cart trundled along the driveway around the side of the building, and into a big coach-house. Inside were two coaches, one small and one grand, with a family emblem embossed on the door.
‘Come along, Bridie,’ she said. ‘Pip will bring your trunk.’
Bridie followed her out of the dark coach-house and into the sunshine. The servants’ entrance was around the back of the building. They passed into a long kitchen where a woman was working at a big, black stove. Her face was red, and little beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead as she leaned over a cast-iron pot.
‘Mrs Arbuckle, this is the new kitchen skivvy, the Irish girl.’
Mrs Arbuckle glanced across and grunted in reply. Even though she seemed surly, Bridie felt a rush of pleasure at the thought of working in the kitchen, surrounded by food. The room was long and wide with two huge work tables in the middle and pots and pans stacked along deep shelves all around the walls. There was even a big pantry opening onto the kitchen, with shelves from floor to ceiling full of supplies.
‘I’ll show you your quarters and then you can start work with Mrs Arbuckle straight away. You’re to do as she directs you and make yourself useful.’
Mrs Fairlea led Bridie down a narrow, dark hallway with stone floors. They went up a flight of rickety wooden stairs to a bedroom not much bigger than a cupboard. There was barely enough room to stand between the two narrow beds. A small window looked out over an orchard of young fruit trees and a kitchen garden. Bridie’s box was already waiting at the foot of one of the beds.
‘You’re to share with Dora, the parlourmaid. You can have five minutes to make yourself ready. Hang up your bonnet and cloak on these pegs on the back of the door, and be back down in the kitchen as quick as you can.’
Mrs Fairlea shut the door behind her. Bridie turned and looked out the window. In the dappled light of the orchard, three boys were chasing each other between the trees. The smallest of them had thick yellow curls that caught the afternoon sunlight as he ran. The two bigger boys grabbed at his coat and pulled him to the ground, where the three of them rolled over and over in the grass, laughing. Bridie could hardly remember what it was like to be like that any more, to simply run around for the sake of a game. She turned away and undid the ribbon of her bonnet. For a few minutes, she sat on the narrow bed, holding her cloak and bonnet, wishing she was out in that orchard with Brandon, playing a game, laughing like a child. She was eleven years old.
17
Gilbert Clarence Arthur
Bloomfield De Quincey
‘Bri-dee,’ called Mrs Arbuckle, her voice booming out across the cobbled yard. ‘Where is that wretched child?’
Bridie scowled and wiped her hands on her apron as she trudged back into the kitchen. She’d never known people to use so many dishes just to make one meal. And so many different plates for all the different things they ate! And so many things that they pushed to one side and didn’t eat. She scraped the good food into a bucket in the wash-house to be fed to the pigs, but the sheer waste of it made her feel hot with disgust. She looked over her shoulder to check no one was near, picked one of the roast potatoes off a plate and crammed it into her mouth.
‘What are you doing, you filthy girl?’ asked Dora, coming in through the scullery door with another tray of dishes. ‘That’s for the pigs!’
‘It’s a sin to waste it when there’s a Christian to eat it,’ said Bridie, not meeting Dora’s eyes.
Suddenly Dora’s hand caught her hard across the cheek.
‘A Christian indeed! You’re a papist! What would you know about being a Christian!’ said Dora.
Bridie shut her eyes and fought down her rage. She thought of her promise to Caitlin and tried to make a picture of the moment when she and Caitlin would be together in their own home. If she held that image clear and bright in her mind she could keep from belting the lard out of Dora.
That night, Bridie crawled into bed, exhausted. Dora came into the room and poured some cold water into the washbasin.
‘Aren’t you going to wash yourself before bed?’ asked Dora.
Bridie’s hands were red raw, and the last thing she felt like doing was having to wash them again. ‘I’m too weary,’ said Bridie, pulling the blanket up to her chin and turning her face to the wall.
‘Bog Irish. That’s what they call you and now I know why. They said you girls were a useless, slovenly lot, and it looks to be true,’ said Dora. ‘I don’t know what Lady Adeline was thinking when she sent Mrs Fairlea to fetch you.’
Bridie gritted her teeth and even though she was exhausted, a spark of anger flared inside her. ‘Perhaps she heard the news from the minister and took pity o
n a Catholic girl,’ she said.
‘What news are you talking about?’
‘That the bottom dropped out of Purgatory and all the papists fell straight into Hell.’
Dora snorted with disgust. ‘What a stupid story. Besides, if they did fall into Hell, it’s only where they belong.’
‘Maybe,’ said Bridie. ‘But it was a terrible crushing for the Protestants, to have all those Catholics landing on their heads.’
It took a moment for the barb to sink in. Bridie braced herself for a slap but Dora simply flushed red with rage and confusion then reached out and snuffed the candle.
Bridie spent most of the first few weeks at Beaumanoir in a haze of exhaustion. There was so much to learn, so many mysterious rules and methods for doing everything. Each day merged into the next, a blur of scrubbing, cleaning and dishwashing. Sometimes it made her gnash her teeth with frustration that there could be so many fernickety parts to a house, so many little chores that made no sense to any mortal soul, and so many strict rules. She tried to learn quickly, but it was never fast enough to satisfy Dora. All day Dora flew back and forward through the green baize door that led into the main part of the house. Bridie wasn’t allowed beyond the kitchen and Dora made sure that Bridie knew where she fitted in the hierarchy of the servants – at the very bottom of the heap.
Early one morning, when Bridie came into the kitchen to fetch the first round of breakfast dishes, Mrs Arbuckle stopped her. ‘The little master’s sick. You can take a tray up to the nursery for him,’ she said, slopping some gruel into a bowl. ‘Dora’s too busy with the breakfast table.’
‘Dora won’t like it, ma’am,’ said Bridie, as she loaded the breakfast tray.
‘Never you mind what Dora likes. She’s not in charge of my kitchen.’
Bridie often heard the voices of the three De Quincey boys, Thomas, Henry and Gilbert, as they played in the grounds, and some days they would canter past the open door of the scullery, riding back to the stables after an excursion on their ponies, but she had never been to the nursery. She followed the directions Mrs Arbuckle had given her until she found the room at the end of the upstairs hallway.
When she pushed open the door to the nursery, the yellow-haired boy was sitting up in bed. The other beds were empty. He didn’t look particularly sick to Bridie, though one of his eyes was bruised and swollen.
‘Your breakfast, sir,’ she said. It seemed ridiculous having to call a boy smaller than herself ‘sir’. He was younger than Brandon. The boy looked up and smiled.
‘Thank you,’ he said, politely. ‘You must be the new girl. The Irish one.’
‘Bridie O’Connor, sir.’ Bridie felt a small rush of pleasure. No one had thanked her for anything since she’d begun work at Beaumanoir, and the boy’s smile was like a ray of sunshine in the gloom of her morning’s work.
‘My proper name is Gilbert Clarence Arthur Bloomfield De Quincey, but you may call me Master Gilbert.’
‘Well, I hope you’ll be feeling better shortly, Master Gilbert,’ she said, setting the tray on the bedside table.
‘I’m not sick at all,’ he said perkily. ‘It’s just I had a fight with my brother Henry this morning and he gave me this black eye and knocked out a tooth, so Mama says I should stay in bed.’ He grinned at her and pulled his mouth wide to show where the missing baby tooth had been.
‘He’s a bully, that brother of yours. I saw him and the other lad pelting you with fruit the day I arrived.’
‘Oh, that was all right,’ said Gilbert, shrugging. He blushed a little as he spoke and looked away from Bridie. ‘I can’t say I didn’t deserve a trouncing this time. Last night, while he was sleeping, I poured treacle on Henry’s pillow so it oozed down and stuck to his hair.’
Bridie burst out laughing. ‘So it was you! I heard Cook in a temper about the treacle gone missing!’
Gilbert grinned. ‘Henry always loses his temper when I best him, but I didn’t care. Now I get to spend the morning reading and I don’t have to do my lessons.’
‘Bible stories are a fine way to pass a glum morning.’
‘Oh, it’s not the Bible that I’m reading,’ said Gilbert, laughing. ‘It’s all about Odysseus, the Greek hero. It has marvellous stories in it. You should read them. I’ll lend it to you if you like.’
Bridie shrugged. ‘I’d never have the time for reading. I have to work.’
‘That must be terrible,’ said Gilbert. ‘So you don’t even know any stories?’
Bridie put her hands on her hips and stared at Gilbert with defiant amusement. ‘I know more stories than you’d find between the covers of a hundred books.’
Gilbert raised one eyebrow.
‘How can you know any stories if you never read?’
‘My dad was the finest storyteller from Slea Head to Tralee.’
‘I mean exciting ones about heroes and adventures. That’s what a real story is. Not village gossip.’
Bridie marched over to the bedroom door and put her head out into the hall, glancing either way. There was no one out there but she shut the door, just to be safe. She knew she should hurry back to the kitchen but here was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up.
‘I’ll tell you a grand tale, Gilbert De Quincey. Have you ever heard of the great Irish hero Cú Culainn?’
Gilbert shook his head and leaned back on one elbow, set for judgement.
‘There was a king,’ began Bridie, ‘the high king of Ulster, which is up in the north of Ireland, and this king’s name was Conchobhar. In English you call him Connor.’
‘Like your name, O’Connor?’
‘Yes,’ said Bridie, ‘the very same. Well, one day, a famous smith called Culann invited the king and all his finest warriors to a feast.’ She frowned for a moment, trying to think how best to tell the story in English.
‘So this King Connor, he puts on his travelling clothes and goes to say farewell to his boys. And when he comes out onto the green, he sees a most amazing vision. One hundred and fifty boys are playing at the ball, and a single little boy is thrashing them. When it was the boy’s turn to keep goal, he could catch one hundred and fifty balls and none would get past him, and when it was his turn to hurl, he never missed a shot. So the king is full of wonder for the child and he asks the boy to come to the feast. But the boy doesn’t want to leave his friends because they are still a-playing, so he says, “Go on and I’ll follow the tracks of the chariots and catch up with you by and by.”
‘So off go King Connor and his men, and when they’re all in the stronghold of Culann the Smith, Culann asks the King if it’s time to be locking the keep for the night. Now the King forgets all about the boy, so the stronghold is made fast and a great ugly bloodhound set to guard the place. It was a mighty savage beast, this bloodhound. Like a giant wolf he was, guarding the ramparts and staring out over the land, ready to rip into pieces any traveller who dared to come near.
‘So when the bloodhound sees the little boy carrying his ball up to Culann the Smith’s house, he’s all ready to bite the child in two, and his roar is heard all over the land. The beast leaps over the ramparts and comes charging at the little boy, set to swallow him in one gulp.’
Gilbert was leaning forward now, his eyes bright with interest.
‘So what did the boy do?’ he asked.
‘Well, he’s no means of defending himself, has he? So when the giant bloodhound comes lunging at him, the boy he throws his ball so hard that it goes straight down the monster’s throat and rips all the guts in the beast out through the back way! And then the boy, he seizes the giant bloodhound by its two back legs and smashes its skull wide open against a standing stone, and so the beast falls in pieces on the ground.
‘And it’s then that Connor and all his men come rushing out, because they’ve heard the hound and remembered the boy and think he must have been eaten alive. And amazed and relieved they are at what they find, but Culann the Smith is angry to see his great hound in bloody pieces and he sets up
a mighty wail.
‘ ‘‘Don’t be angry,” says the little boy, “I will make all right again. Until you find another, I will be the hound to protect your lands.” And so he did. And that’s how he got the name of Cú Culainn, because he was like the mighty bloodhound and guarded Culann’s lands for years after.’
Gilbert lay back on his pillows and smiled.
‘That is a very fine story. I like it when the guts get ripped out of the monster dog. Do you know another story about that hound boy? Did he become a great warrior?’
Bridie grinned. ‘The greatest warrior in all Ireland, and I know a hundred stories about warriors and all the magic folk and the saints and the druids of Ireland.’
By this time Gilbert had finished his breakfast. Bridie gathered up the dishes and turned to go.
‘Don’t leave yet,’ said Gilbert.
‘I’m in trouble enough, thanks to you, boyo. Cook will be fuming that I’ve taken so long.’
In the kitchen, Mrs Arbuckle was slamming a big slab of pastry down, pummelling it hard with her hands. When Bridie walked past, she reached out with a floury fist and boxed her on both ears, so that a cloud of white flour dusted Bridie’s black hair. Bridie only just managed to keep a grip on the breakfast tray.
‘That’ll serve you for taking so long at a simple task,’ said Cook.
‘I told you Master Gilbert could have waited until I could take him his breakfast,’ said Dora sulkily.
Mrs Arbuckle’s floury hand lashed out at Dora as well, clipping her across the back of the head.
‘That’s enough from you, Dora. Weren’t you listening when I read you St Paul’s words this morning, child? Servants, obey in all things your masters, and Rebuke not an elder. Who in this kitchen is mistress and your elder, may I ask?’
Dora hung her head and mumbled an apology. Bridie didn’t linger to hear it. She carried the tray out to the scullery, whistling as she walked across the cobbled yard, thinking with pleasure of the next story she would tell Gilbert Clarence Arthur Bloomfield De Quincey.
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