Bridie's Fire

by Kirsty Murray

  ‘How old are you?’ asked Amaranta, staring at her intently.

  ‘Fourteen years this month, ma’am,’ answered Bridie, unable to meet the woman’s gaze.

  ‘I remember exactly what it was like to be your age. Betwixt and between, neither woman nor child. You remind me of myself, girl. We’ll have a grand old time playing dress-ups,’ she said.

  Amaranta reached over to the pile of garments on the bed and pulled out a dress. It was made of a fine, green, silky cloth and Bridie felt her hands tingle with pleasure as she rubbed a piece of the fabric between her fingers. She looked across at her new mistress, amazed at her generosity. Suddenly, Bridie realised that Amaranta was not much older than twenty, barely out of her teen years, and had probably had few servants of her own.

  ‘I think the green would complement your eyes,’ said Amaranta. ‘They’re a lovely colour, you know.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Bridie shyly. Amaranta reached out and gently tugged one of Bridie’s black curls. They had grown quickly over the past two months and now reached down to her collar.

  ‘A wild Irish rose unfolding, that you are, Bridie O’Connor,’ said Amaranta, and Bridie blushed, the colour rising from her naked chest.

  The green dress was several sizes too large, and Bridie immediately asked for a pair of scissors and needle and thread. Amaranta was impressed by how quickly she cut the dress down to size and altered it to fit.

  ‘Where’d you learn to sew with such a deft hand?’ asked Amaranta as Bridie stood before the cracked mirror, smoothing out the green fabric.

  ‘My mam was a fine seamstress. I’ll be happy to tend to all your clothes, ma’am. I love to sew and to cook and I’m not afraid of hard work.’

  ‘I can’t imagine that there’s much you are afraid of,’ said Amaranta.

  The next morning, Jacobus came tottering into camp and eased himself down onto an upturned bucket by the fire. He carried Marmalade inside his shirt. Neither Eddie nor Amaranta had emerged from their tent but Bridie had been up before dawn, setting the fire, bringing water from the forest and preparing breakfast for her new employers. Jacobus looked wan but the old mischievous spark was back in his eyes again. Bridie offered him a cup of tea from the billy and went on kneading the damper she had prepared.

  ‘You’re a wise child, St Brigid,’ said Jacobus. ‘’Bout time you got yourself out of those trousers and back into a skirt. And latching on to Eddie Bones might serve you well. Stupid fool that he is, never could pick the devil in a blue dress from an angel of mercy. You’ll be bringing him the bad luck he deserves, I hope.’

  ‘And what sense am I to make of that?’ asked Bridie, snatching the tin cup back from Jacobus and pouring his tea into the dirt. ‘Sure enough I brought you good luck, bringing you back from the dead and you not deserving a scrap of kindness. And why should you be calling a curse on Mister Bones? It’s no small thanks you owe him for paying for your medicines. Get out of this camp and go to the Devil!’

  Jacobus pulled his pipe out of the inside of his jacket and began packing it with tobacco, humming softly to himself as if Bridie wasn’t even there. Bridie glared at him, wishing she’d left him to rot in his tent.

  She went about her work, ignoring Jacobus and quietly fuming. When Eddie Bones finally emerged from the tent, Jacobus was still sitting on the upturned bucket, gazing silently into the fire.

  ‘Good morning, Alf, Bridie,’ said Eddie, nodding at each of them. He stretched sleepily and smoothed his yellow hair flat. ‘Come to visit your granddaughter and see how we’re treating her, old boy?’

  ‘He’s not my grandfather,’ snapped Bridie.

  ‘No, of course,’ said Eddie. ‘I did know that. And there’s no family resemblance, is there? So to what do we owe the honour, then, Alf?’

  ‘No honour among thieves, Eddie,’ said Jacobus. ‘It’s Mrs Bones I’ve come to have a word with.’ Eddie Bones grimaced.

  ‘She doesn’t want to speak with you. Best if you move along now.’ He reached down and grabbed Jacobus by the arm, dragging him to his feet. Jacobus took a moment to steady himself and then looked up at Eddie and suddenly, inexplicably, he grinned.

  ‘It’s a tangled web you’ve woven for yourself, Eddie,’ he said, glancing at the tent where Amaranta lay sleeping.

  Bridie watched the old man shuffle down the dusty yellow road until he disappeared among the sea of tents. When she turned to ask Eddie Bones if he’d like breakfast, he was gone too. Bridie went back to the fire and waited for Amaranta to wake.

  The mornings were always slow with Eddie and Amaranta. As the long, hot summer unfolded, Amaranta spent a lot of time lying on the red satin bed, reading novels and complaining of the heat, refusing to help with any of the practical work involved in keeping the camp. Eddie would emerge early and go straight to his ‘business’. What exactly that business was, Bridie had some difficulty establishing. In the late afternoon, he’d usually come back with at least one person in tow. Some days it was only a boy wheeling a barrowload of mining equipment that Eddie had purchased from the latest round of disillusioned goldseekers. Within a week there were four cradles, a dozen sharp pickaxes, crowbars, water-lifters, zinc buckets, shovels and axes strewn around the inside of the big tent. Bridie couldn’t keep track of the flow of men and equipment.

  Gradually, Bridie began to realise that Eddie had business with miners all across the goldfields. In exchange for equipping them and paying their licence fees, Eddie would take a cut of whatever they found. In the evenings, dusty, bearded miners would come into camp and sit at the long bench that Eddie had paid someone to build for him, and Bridie would be kept busy making tea and damper. Or sometimes, mysteriously, a puncheon of ale would arrive in the camp along with Eddie, and then there would be laughter and loud conversation until late into the night. Bridie would keep in the background, sitting in the tent with Amaranta, repairing or adjusting her vast collection of dresses. Bridie loved handling the soft rich velvets, and carefully repaired any tears in the fine lace that edged the collars and sleeves.

  Occasionally, Amaranta would go out and join the men, but never for long. Later, when Bridie was lying on the low camp bed inside her little tent, she would listen to the voices ebbing in the darkness. And in the small hours of the morning she would hear Amaranta berating Eddie when he finally joined her in bed. Sometimes their voices would rise to angry shouts and then, the next morning, Bridie would discover Eddie asleep by the campfire.

  On a dry, hot February morning when dust was whirling around the goldfields, driving grit into everything, Amaranta sat at her makeshift dresser in her white lace undergarments, shaking a bottle of lotion and cursing under her breath.

  Bridie sat in a corner of the long tent, repairing one of Eddie’s shirts. The collar was damaged and the buttons had been torn from its front. Bridie had heard him arguing with Amaranta in the small hours of the morning and she was fairly sure that Amaranta was responsible for the damage to his clothes.

  ‘Brigitta, you can stop that now. Eddie has far too many shirts, he can wait. I have a pressing task for you. I want you to mix me a few potions.’

  Bridie folded the shirt up and watched as Amaranta wrote out a list of instructions.

  Bridie glanced at the sheet and then handed it back. ‘I can’t read, ma’am.’

  She was ready for Amaranta to grow irritated, but the woman looked at her with a mixture of interest and compassion that made Bridie more uncomfortable than if she had laughed.

  ‘Well, perhaps if I explain it to you, you’ll be able to remember the recipe. The sun here is cruel and my skin is suffering from the heat and dust. So I need some Crème de l’Enclos. You must take half a pint of new milk, a quarterounce of lemon juice, a half-ounce of white brandy. Then you must boil it and skim the surface. I will use it to wash myself with each morning. But it must be fresh.’

  ‘There are no lemons to be had on the goldfields, ma’am.’

  ‘What are you talking about! Of course t
here are lemons. Why, there’s a man selling lemonade at a stall only three tents away.’

  ‘But he makes it with acid, ma’am, not real lemons. I could order some real ones from Mr Mallop’s store, but it could take a long while before they arrive from Melbourne.’

  Amaranta scowled and then threw herself down grumpily on the bed.

  ‘Everything takes for ever in this wretched hellhole. Eddie should never have brought me here. This isn’t how I should be living my life. If I don’t go back to the stage soon, I’ll go mad.’

  ‘Mister Bones is sure to strike it lucky any day now,’ said Bridie.

  Amaranta looked at her sceptically. ‘I’m sure he’d be pleased to know you have such faith in him. Eddie’s no miner. He pretends that all is well as long as he has a fistful of cash. He’ll be bankrupt before he knows it, the fool.’

  Suddenly, her mood changed again, as some new thought came to her.

  ‘Brigitta, where is old Jacobus camped?’

  ‘He was down near Chinaman’s Gully. When I was caring for him, that was. I think he’s working as a shepherd, minding a claim for someone up on Golden Hill now that he’s well again.’

  ‘Help me with my clothes,’ said Amaranta, leaping up off the bed. She stood before the mirror, winding up her long black hair and pinning it into place while Bridie pulled the stays of her girdle tight for her.

  Bridie watched as Amaranta walked off into the dust storm, her skirts whirling around her.

  That evening, Eddie came back earlier than usual and sat down beside the campfire with a disconsolate look on his face.

  ‘Is everything all right, sir?’ asked Bridie, pouring a cup of tea for him.

  Eddie sighed. ‘No, everything is not all right, Bridie. Four of my men working a claim have gone and done a bunk on me, and the other claim isn’t yielding an ounce of gold. If our luck doesn’t turn soon, I’ll be ruined.’

  Bridie hadn’t wanted to believe Amaranta when she’d suggested that Eddie was bankrupt, but hearing it from Eddie himself made a chill creep up her spine. If the Boneses had no money, she would have to leave them. The thought of being alone on the goldfields once more or having to make her way back to Melbourne again made her shudder.

  ‘Where is your mistress?’ Eddie asked Bridie.

  ‘She’s gone for a stroll up Golden Hill. I think she was hoping to find Mr Jacobus.’

  Eddie sat up abruptly as if he’d been slapped, letting his stool fall over in the dirt. Without saying a word, he set out quickly in the direction that Amaranta had taken.

  When Amaranta returned, she looked very pleased with herself. She went into the tent and Bridie heard her singing as she changed out of her red dress. Bridie put her head around the tent flap.

  ‘Mr Bones is looking for you, ma’am. I told him you’d gone up to see Mr Jacobus and he went after you.’

  ‘Bloody fool!’ she exclaimed and then seeing the expression on Bridie’s face she said, ‘Not you, Bridie. It’s not your fault, but you must take a note to Eddie immediately.’

  Amaranta finished writing, blotted the ink and folded her note in half.

  ‘I want you to find him as quickly as you can. It’s very important he gets this note before he does anything stupid.’

  ‘But I don’t know where he’s gone.’

  ‘Go up on Golden Hill, near where you told me to find Jacobus. He’ll be on his way up there.’

  Bridie didn’t understand the urgency in Amaranta’s voice until she reached Golden Hill. Eddie Bones had Jacobus by the front of his clothes and was shouting at him.

  ‘She’s not yours any more, Jacobus. She’s mine. My wife. And she’ll do as I wish. You’re nothing to her any more and I don’t want to catch you stirring up trouble again.’ He lifted Jacobus clean off his feet and threw him to the ground. Jacobus lay with one hand raised to shield himself from the sun and Eddie’s fury.

  Bridie put her hand across her mouth to stifle a cry as Eddie drew back his leg and kicked Jacobus hard in the gut. She turned and ran through the city of tents, her mind whirling. The thought of Amaranta being married to Jacobus made her flesh creep, but seeing the old man on the ground and Eddie abusing him was no less disturbing.

  ‘Did you give Eddie my note?’ asked Amaranta, her eyes still steely.

  ‘I couldn’t find him, ma’am,’ said Bridie, putting the note down on the upturned barrel that served as a bedside table. Amaranta crumpled the paper in her hand.

  Bridie couldn’t meet her gaze. She gathered up a handful of dirty washing and backed out of the tent. At the edge of the bush, she sat down with the pile of soiled clothing in her arms and sat staring into nothingness, puzzling over what she had witnessed. Eddie and Amaranta were the two most complicated, mystifying people she’d ever met.

  In the middle of the night, Bridie woke to a strange and unfamiliar sound. She crawled out of her swag and saw Amaranta’s silhouette, long and black, moving against the calico of the big tent. Her hair was loose but she was wearing a full-skirted gown. Bridie guessed it was the red and black lace one that she had repaired just the other day. As she glided back and forth, her shadow moved gracefully across the canvas. And as she danced, Amaranta sang, in a rich and honeyed voice. Bridie could imagine Eddie Bones sitting on the big bed, watching.

  When Bridie turned away she saw a row of men at the edge of their camp, staring at Amaranta’s shadow, mesmerised by her movements.

  33

  A troupe of stars

  A few days later, in the early morning, Bridie returned from the bush with a supply of fresh water to find two men sitting on the long bench, poking at the embers of the fire and eating the damper that she had prepared for breakfast. One of the men was gigantic, with a thick black beard and a mane of untidy black curls, the other was bald-headed and fat, with a ruddy, clean-shaven face and blue eyes.

  ‘And who do you think you are to be eating our damper?’ she said crossly.

  The fat, bald man grinned and stood up and made a bow. ‘Alfred Wobbins, at your service, miss. Here by request, miss. To join the honourable company of thespians, miss,’ he said, bowing again.

  ‘Mr Bones doesn’t need any more men to work his claim,’ said Bridie, snatching the damper back from the big bearded man at the end of the bench.

  ‘But, little miss,’ said Alfred Wobbins, ‘we’re thespians! It’s all the talk of the diggings that Mr Bones is keen to gather a troupe and what a very fine idea that is. My friend and I have discovered we’re not miners after all. I’ve been here a month and not found a bleeding thing, so it’s the fine old life of the thespian that I hanker for once again.’

  Bridie didn’t want to admit she wasn’t sure what a thespian was, other than a thief like Jacobus, as he was the only other person she’d ever met who talked about them. Nor was she keen to confess that she’d heard nothing of the forming of a ‘troupe’, so she simply glared at the man, picked up a small tomahawk and set about splitting wood to make more kindling for the fire.

  Eddie looked as surprised as Bridie had been when he emerged from the tent.

  ‘Freddy Wobbins!’ he exclaimed as he stepped out into the bright morning sunshine.

  ‘Your lovely wife said you’d be very glad to see me. And I’m certainly glad to see you, Edward Bones!’ said Wobbins. ‘Someone should take that man Hargraves and string him up for the line he’s spun that brought us humble folk in search of gold! Your Amaranta tells me it’s a different type of gold you’ll be mining from now on.’

  Eddie laughed, and ran one hand through his hair. ‘Bridie, fix our guests some tea and then run up to the butcher’s and buy a pound of sausages for their breakfast. We have a morning’s work of plotting and scheming ahead of us, and our companions will need sustenance!’

  Word spread that the camp on the turn of the Ballarat Road was a meeting place for performers of all types. Bridie had never met anyone like the people that began to arrive. The big, black-bearded man turned out to be a bluff Scotsman called Robbie Mc
Robbie, who was nowhere near as fierce as his appearance suggested. Most evenings he would get drunk and recite poetry in Gaelic and sometimes the poems would move him so much that tears would course down his face and drip from the end of his beard. Bridie loved the sound of his voice, the rolling warmth of his words, so close to the language she’d known as a small child.

  A week later, an Italian fiddle-player called Marconi joined the camp. Marconi could also juggle knives and catch them in his teeth. He tried to persuade Bridie to be part of his knife-throwing act, but she politely declined.

  One morning Eddie came into camp with a slim, curly-headed boy called Thomas Whiteley. Bridie heard his laugh before she saw him. His voice carried through the camp, a warm inviting sound that made her look up from her work as if someone had called her name.

  Tom’s chestnut hair fell in snarly tangles around his collar and over his eyes. He had to push a thick hank of curls away from his face to see who he was being introduced to. Freddy Wobbins was so incensed by this that he demanded Bridie’s sewing scissors, set Tom down on an upturned crate, and immediately began cutting his hair. Bridie thought the stranger might be offended, but Tom smiled as if he was happy to humour them all.

  Tom was nearly sixteen years old and had come to the goldfields with a gang of boys hungry for riches, but they’d had no luck panning for gold. Eddie had found him outside the post office playing a tin whistle and dancing to earn a few coins, and easily persuaded him to throw in his lot with the thespians. It didn’t take long for everyone to understand why Eddie had invited him to join the troupe. He had a handsome, good-natured face, brilliant blue eyes, and he loved to laugh. Tom even laughed when Marconi threw knives into the ground around his feet as he danced, which seemed a rather dangerous form of amusement. No one could help liking him.