18
By the waters and the wild
A dry autumn settled on the District, and then the first frost on the grass appeared. Bridie had imagined it would be hot all the year around, so the bitter mornings were like a gift. Some mornings her breath came in a misty stream as she crossed the yard to the scullery, and the icy water from the pump bit into her skin.
Bridie spent most of the working day in the scullery, a little stone room on the other side of the kitchen yard. That was where Gilbert would come looking for her. Sometimes she’d turn to find him standing in the doorway of the hut, leaning against the door frame, grinning at her. And then he’d turn a bucket upside down and sit upon it and beg her for a story, and she would tell him all the old stories: of Cú Culainn; of the Fenians, mighty warriors of Ireland; or of the magic folk she’d once imagined lived at Dunquin. Bridie began to listen for his footsteps in the yard, hoping he would come and make the long day pass more quickly.
In the kitchen, she watched everything Mrs Arbuckle did, and whenever she could learn something, she quickly offered to help. The only dish she hated helping with was the soup Mrs Arbuckle made from the pippies that the boys occasionally brought back from their trips down to the seaside; the scent of them cooking reminded her strongly of Dunquin. They smelt of the soup kitchen at Ventry and of her father’s death. The new world was full of strange new smells: the sharp scent of the lemons that she gathered from the tree that grew by the scullery; the warm tang of the eucalypt leaves when she walked past the stand of ghost gums by the gate.
On Saturday afternoons she had a half-day holiday, but there was nowhere for her to go. There was little for Bridie to do at Beaumanoir except work. She was meant to be allowed to attend Mass on Sunday morning as well, but there was no chapel nearby and no one offered her any help in finding a priest, though they were keen to take her to their own churches. When she asked Mrs Arbuckle if the priest might come to Beaumanoir, the old woman frowned disapprovingly. ‘We’ll not have an agent of the devil in this good place.’
Bridie suppressed a snort of annoyance, but Mrs Arbuckle smiled with the first flash of affection Bridie had seen in her face.
‘Now, Bridie, you can’t be knowing this, raised in ignorance as you were, but Hell is waiting for you, my girl. That devil in Rome, he’s not interested in your eternal soul. If you need to hear counsel from a man of God, you can accompany Albert and Dora and I to church any time you like. Our Reverend Tilly, he’ll set you on the path of righteousness.’
‘Reverend Tilly says the finger of God is in everything,’ chimed in Dora. ‘He says the reason the Irish had a famine is God willed it so that they could see the error of their ways, and the reason why England will always be victorious is that God wills that too.’
Bridie could barely contain her disgust, but Mrs Arbuckle smiled and nodded. ‘Aye, the finger of God is in everything. Dora has seen the light and been baptised in the true faith.’ She leaned forward and spoke with fierce enthusiasm. ‘What a happy kitchen we’d have if you would come over to the truth too, Bridie.’
Bridie looked at the floor, afraid her angry eyes would betray her. ‘At home, ma’am, we call that taking the soup. My mam always said she’d sooner die than take the soup. And I’m truly my blessed dead mother’s true daughter and a member of the Holy Catholic Church.’
Mrs Arbuckle reached out and rested one hand on Bridie’s shoulder.
‘Your mother is burning in hellfire, child,’ she said, pityingly. ‘But you could be saved.’
Bridie shut her eyes, and for a moment she could picture her mother as she was on the last day they’d seen each other, her face pale and drawn, her thin hands stroking Bridie’s cheek. She opened her eyes and stared at Mrs Arbuckle.
‘If my mother is burning in Hell, then it’s Hell I’m bound for, ’cause I’d rather burn with them I love than bask in Heaven with the likes of you and Dora!’ shouted Bridie, shaking herself free.
The smile drained away from Mrs Arbuckle’s face. ‘If you’re determined to have the flesh seared from your skin, to live knowing that damnation awaits you, I can’t force you to the baptism, but your sins are before us every day, child. Every day.’
So on Sunday morning, while the servants and masters hurried to and from their churches, Bridie would sit in her room, looking out the window and flicking through the prayer book the Board of Guardians had given her. She’d pick out words she knew and puzzle over the longer ones, and dream of the day when she and Caitlin would be together again and Caitlin would read the pages to her.
One Sunday, she asked permission to go for a walk outside the gates of Beaumanoir.
‘Don’t you be walking too far, and keep out of the long grass. There’s snakes everywhere this time of the year. I don’t want to have to send Pip out to search for you when you’re lying dead in the grass,’ said Mrs Arbuckle crossly.
Bridie was just turning out of the front gate when Gilbert came riding past with his brothers, returning from Sunday school. All the other riders ignored Bridie, but Gilbert turned around in the saddle and waved. Henry reached out and punched him in the shoulder as they turned towards the stables. Gilbert simply laughed.
Bridie was only a short way from Beaumanoir when she heard someone running. She turned to find Gilbert racing towards her.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘Just a-walking,’ she said.
‘Would you like me to show you where the river is?’
he asked.
‘That would be fine,’ said Bridie, pleased.
As they drew closer to the riverbank, the scrub grew thicker. Gilbert picked up a stick and beat the long grass around them.
‘To let the snakes know we’re coming,’ he said, over his shoulder.
‘There are no snakes in Ireland,’ said Bridie. ‘St Patrick drove them out when he brought the word of God. For all the churches you have in the Colony, this is a strange godless land.’ She stopped for a moment to listen to the sharp, whipping cry of the bellbirds.
Bridie raked the mud on the riverbank until she found a flat stone and then stood up, aiming carefully. The stone skipped seven times across the river, flecking the water silver each time it bounced across the surface.
‘That’s very good,’ said Gilbert, surprised. ‘My best is only six.’
Bridie smiled. ‘It’s much easier on a smooth, flat river. Sure, if it was the ocean I’d only manage half as many. My brother was the only boy I knew that could send the stones skipping across the waves on the beach for a count of seven.’
‘Where’s your brother now?’ asked Gilbert.
Bridie sat down again beside him and took a stick to draw patterns in the mud. ‘In Ireland. In the workhouse, unless they’ve sent him out.’ She felt her heart twist at the thought. If he left the workhouse, she might never find him again.
‘Hasn’t he written to you yet? My big brother William, he writes a letter every week from England, though they do take a long while to reach us.’
‘How can my brother be writing to me if he doesn’t know where I am?’ snapped Bridie.
‘Why don’t you write to him and tell him where you are?’
Bridie blushed angrily. ‘And how would I be doing that when I can neither read nor write!’
Gilbert frowned and looked out over the muddy river. ‘Don’t they have any schools in Ireland?’ he asked.
Bridie wanted to slap him.
‘Oh, there were schools for some where they beat the Irish from you and taught you nothing, but my father would never see us suffer that. Then there were hedge schools which the priests and scholars took wherever they could hide. My brother Brandon went for a while, but the hunger took everything away from us.’
‘Well, if your brother could read it, I could pen a letter to him,’ said Gilbert.
‘You’d do that for me?’ said Bridie.
‘My sister Charity says I have the finest hand of all us boys,’ he said.
&nb
sp; Bridie laughed out loud and skipped another stone down the length of the brown river.
The following Saturday afternoon, Bridie and Gilbert met outside the gates of Beaumanoir and walked down to the river again. Bridie wanted to skip all the way there, so sweet was the excitement of their secret project.
At the bend in the river, Gilbert drew a leather writing case from the inside of his shirt, opened it out on a flat stone and set a small bottle of ink in the dirt so it wouldn’t tip over.
‘Here, in this corner, I’ll write “Beaumanoir, Near Toorak Village, Melbourne, The District of Port Phillip, Australia”. And then your brother’s name and the name of the workhouse here. Now, what is it you want to say?’ said Gilbert, his pen poised.
Bridie wanted to weep. There was so much to tell Brandon. Everything, from the voyage across the sea, to the terrible wait in the depot, the strangeness of this world, how she and Caitlin would have a house and send for him if he could only wait, and how much she missed him.
‘I can’t make the words for it,’ she said glumly, after minutes of silence. ‘And his English isn’t good. He won’t understand it. And you can’t write in the Irish.’
‘Well, you could write him something simple. That you’re here and well and hope that he’s well. That’s how letters usually start out. Surely he could ask someone to read it to him and explain.’
Gilbert dipped the pen into the little bottle of ink and scratched words onto the white paper. When he’d penned a few lines, he sat back beaming.
‘How’s this, then?’ he asked.
‘My dear Brother,
I avail myself of the opportunity of writing you these few lines with the aid of a kind young gentleman. I am hoping this letter finds you well. I have found employment in Melbourne town at the residence of a most excellent gentleman and his family.’
‘That sounds very fine, don’t you think?’ asked Gilbert, looking pleased with himself. Bridie nodded. Haltingly, she dictated the rest of the letter, twisting the hem of her skirt in her hands as she spoke.
‘Could you read the words back to me, please, Master Gilbert?’
Gilbert smoothed the paper out. ‘It is a world of separation between us but there is one consolation and that is that one day, dear brother, you and I will be together again. If you can find help to do so, write to me and tell me how you are getting on so that we shall not altogether lose each other.
Your loving sister, Brigid.’
‘That’s a grand letter,’ said Bridie, grinning.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ said Gilbert. ‘I’ll keep it with me until Father takes us into town, and then I’ll post it with my letter for my own brother. Do you think your brother will find someone to help him write back?’
‘To be sure. Or perhaps he’s learnt his letters in English now and can write to me himself,’ said Bridie, full of an optimism that she’d forgotten she could feel.
The idea of the letter was like casting a line into the wild turbulent sea of her past. The notion that Brandon might take hold of the other end sent a shiver of pleasure coursing through her.
19
Silken threads and golden needles
In the spring of 1850, Gilbert’s sister, Miss Charity, was married. Bridie woke up early on the morning of the wedding and looked out the tiny bedroom window. The orchard behind the house was a mass of blossom in the moonlight, with a cloud of white on the ground beneath. She couldn’t believe another season was unfolding already.
Bridie and Dora got up in the dark and set to work in the kitchen, polishing the silver and glassware so everything shone. Mrs Arbuckle had been cooking for days, preparing a feast for the wedding reception.
‘I saw Miss Charity’s fiancé this morning outside in the driveway with Sir William, and he’s the handsomest man I’ve ever set eyes upon,’ said Dora to Mrs Arbuckle. ‘And such a gentleman you never did see. They say he’s a gentleman through and through. The nephew of the Earl of Warwick himself, they say.’
Mrs Arbuckle’s hand flicked back and forward across the pastries she was glazing and she looked up with a satisfied smile.
‘And Miss Charity,’ enthused Dora. ‘She’s like a princess and she let me help spread her things out. You’ve never seen a dress like it. I don’t think there’s been as fine a dress made in the Colony ever before. And she says there’s never been as many people invited to a Colony wedding, with Superintendent La Trobe himself in attendance and all the most important families in Port Phillip.’
Bridie wished more than anything that she, too, could have helped with the dress. As Dora described it in detail, Bridie imagined how satisfying it would be to have actually made such a gown herself, to have sewed each of the seed pearls into place with her finest, smallest stitches.
Before the guests arrived, all the staff were lined up and looked over by Mrs Fairlea to ensure they were presentable. They heard some of the carriages moving down the driveway, wheels crunching on the gravel, as the family returned from church and the guests began to arrive. There was still so much to do. Bridie was sent back to her room to comb her wild black hair into place beneath her cap. She scowled as she leapt up the stairs to the back servants’ quarters and wondered why Mrs Fairlea cared for how she looked. No one would be seeing much of her during the party. There was so much work to do in the kitchen and the scullery she’d be sweating out there until darkness fell.
She flung the door open to the bedroom to find Dora, clutching at her bloodied petticoat. All the colour had drained from her face.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Bridie. ‘Have you cut yourself?’
Dora just looked at Bridie, then turned to lie face down on the bed, moaning.
‘Dora?’ said Bridie, leaning over the other girl, alarmed. ‘They’ll be wanting you downstairs. Are you ill?
‘I’m dying,’ said Dora, half-mumbling into the pillow. ‘My mam died like this. I’ll bleed to death just like she did.’ She was trembling.
Bridie ran from the room and into the hall, calling for Mrs Arbuckle, but when she reached the kitchen, the old cook had disappeared and all the servants had gone in different directions. Bridie turned and ran back through the house. On the landing of the second floor she almost collided with Miss Charity. For a split second, her hand brushed against the beautiful thick white silk of Miss Charity’s bridal gown and she leapt back, staring with a mixture of awe and embarrassment.
‘Sorry, miss,’ said Bridie, breathlessly.
‘What is it? Is everything all right?’
‘I have to find Mrs Fairlea or Mrs Arbuckle. It’s Dora, she says she’s dying.’ Even as she spoke, Bridie wondered what exactly could have happened to Dora.
Miss Charity frowned with concern.
‘Where is she?’
Dora was still lying on the bed weeping when Bridie returned. Miss Charity’s bridal gown filled the small bedroom, the fabric rustling gently as she leaned over Dora and spoke to her softly.
‘Oh, Miss Charity, I’m dying and here it is your wedding day,’ moaned Dora. ‘Bridie, what have you done, bringing Miss Charity to a servant’s deathbed?’
‘Hush now, Dora. Bridie,’ said Miss Charity, ‘I think you’ll find Mrs Fairlea on the front lawns. Run and fetch her. I’ll tend to Dora until you come back.’
By the time Bridie returned with Mrs Fairlea, Dora’s mood had changed completely. She was dressed in clean clothes, and her cheeks were flushed with colour. When she saw Bridie, she scowled, and Bridie knew that somehow she had recovered from her life-threatening illness. There was a quick, muted conversation between Mrs Fairlea and Miss Charity that Bridie couldn’t quite catch; then Miss Charity turned and hurried down the dim hallway. As she passed a corner of the balustrade, there was a loud ripping sound and a little gasp of distress. Bridie darted down the passageway to her side.
Miss Charity tried to smile through her exasperation. ‘If it’s not one thing, it’s another. They’ll be wondering what’s become of me.’
‘Follow me to my room, quickly,’ said Miss Charity, gathering up the folds of her dress and hurrying away.
A moment later, Bridie was kneeling before Miss Charity, with the beautiful fabric spread across her lap like dreamlike folds of snowy cloud. Bridie’s needle flew through the silk, binding the tear together with tiny invisible stiches as Miss Charity’s sisters fussed around her, straightening her veil and listening to her explanation of where she had disappeared to. Bridie had often heard stories from Gilbert about his sisters, and she could easily pick which was which from his descriptions. Alice was the youngest, and her golden hair reached down her back like fairy princess tresses. Emily had mousey-coloured hair and big pale blue eyes that made her look like a china doll. And then there was Constance, plump and cheerful, who was the closest in age to Charity.
‘Ma’am, please, is Dora all right?’ asked Bridie.
‘You mustn’t worry about Dora, Bridie. She had a fright but she’s not ill. She’s become a woman, that’s all it was.’
‘Ma’am?’
Miss Charity smiled a small, secretive sort of smile. ‘It’s something that happens to all females,’ she said awkwardly ‘as we grow into women.’
Alice suppressed a giggle.
Suddenly, Bridie realised what they meant. The girls on the ship had told her about what it was like to bleed each month. Bridie hoped it would never happen to her. But there was something else Dora had said, something about her mother dying, that made Bridie feel uneasy about the way everyone seemed amused at Dora’s distress. She lowered her head and concentrated on making her stiches perfect.
‘Gilbert’s told me about you,’ said Charity. ‘He says you tell good stories. How lucky for me that you have other talents as well.’
Bridie blushed shyly, smoothing the fabric out, the job completed. In that moment, she felt something so unfamiliar that she was surprised by it: a fleeting sense of her own happiness. To be useful, to be appreciated, to share in the excitement of the day, felt like balm after the endless drab cycle of washing and cleaning.
Bridie's Fire Page 10
