Playing Beatie Bow

by Ruth Park

  ‘Dreaming!’ she thought. ‘That’s all. I’m dreaming.’

  But the cobbles were cold and dank, her knees were stinging where she had fallen, the air was full of strange smells, horse manure and tidal flats, wood smoke, human sweat, and an all-pervading odour of sewage.

  She felt the little girl withdraw, heard the patter of her bare feet along the road, and panic swept through her.

  ‘Don’t leave me – I don’t know where I am!’

  She scrambled up and ran after the child. Strange, foreign-looking women in long aprons came out of dimly lighted doorways to stare. Children, more dirty and ragged and evil-looking than she had imagined children could be, looked up from floating paper boats in the gutter. One of them threw something stinking at her; it was a rabbit’s head, half decayed.

  She did not know where she was; all she knew was that the furry little girl might be able to tell her, so she held her skirts up to her knees and ran after her in both terror and desperation.

  Chapter 3

  When she thought about it, weeks afterwards, Abigail felt that surely, surely she must have believed herself dreaming for longer than she did. Why didn’t I think I’d got into some street where the television people were shooting a film or something? But she knew she hadn’t. From the first minute, as she lay dazed on the cobbles, she knew that she was real and the place was real, and so were the people in it.

  The furry little girl tried to lose her, ducking up dogleg courts where the houses pressed close to the earth like lichen. They had shingled roofs covered with moss, and heaps of foul debris around their walls. Sometimes the child glanced over her shoulder as she jumped black gullies of water, or dodged urchins with hair like stiffened mop-heads. Her face was distorted with panic.

  The houses were like wasps’ nests, or Tibetan houses as Abigail had seen them in films, piled on top of each other, roosting on narrow sandstone ledges, sometimes with a lighted candle stuck in half a turnip on the doorstep, as if to show the way. The dark was coming down, and in those mazy alleys it came quicker. The lamplight that streamed through broken grimy windows was sickly yellow.

  The little girl darted past the tall stone cliff of a warehouse, its huge door studded with nail-heads as if against invaders. There Abigail almost caught up with her, but a beggar with a wooden stump reared up and waved his crutch at her, shouting something out of a black toothless mouth. And she saw that she had almost trampled on something she thought was a deformed child, until it leapt snarling to its master’s crooked shoulder. It was a monkey in a hussar’s uniform.

  And now she had gained on the little girl, who was beginning to falter.

  They had turned into what Abigail did not immediately recognise as Argyle Street, though she had walked up that street a hundred times. The enormous stone arch of The Cut, the cutting quarried through the sandstone backbone of The Rocks, was different. It was narrower, she thought, though so many shops and stalls and barrows clustered along Argyle Street it was hard to see. Where the Bradfield Highway had roared across the top of The Cut there were now two rickety wooden bridges. Stone steps ran up one side, and on the other two tottering stairways curled upon themselves, overhung with vines and dishevelled trees, and running amongst and even across the roofs of indescribable shanties like broken-down farm sheds. These dwellings were propped up with tree trunks and railway sleepers; goats grazed on their roofs; and over all was the smell of rotting seaweed, ships, wood smoke, human ordure, and horses and harness.

  She wondered afterwards why people had stared at her, and realised that it was not because she looked strange – for with her long dress and shawl she was dressed much as they were – but because she was running.

  Once a youth with a silly face and a fanciful soldier’s uniform, or so she thought, stood in her path, stroking his side whiskers and smirking, but she shoved past him.

  Picking out the fugitive child’s figure she ran onwards, almost to the edge of The Cut, where the child dived into a doorway of a corner house or shop, with a lighted window and a smell of burnt sugar that for a moment made her hesitate, for she had smelt it before.

  And while she stood there, hesitating, there was a fearful noise within – a feminine protest, the clatter of metal, and a man’s angry roar.

  Out of the doorway bounded a grotesquely tall figure in a long white apron, brandishing what she thought was a rusty scimitar above his head. He was bellowing something like ‘Charge the heathen devils!’ as he rushed past her, knocking her down as he went. She hit her head hard on the edge of the doorstep.

  The pain was so sharp she was quite blinded. Other people burst from the doorway, there were cries of consternation, and she was lifted to her feet. The pain seemed to move to her ankle, she could see nothing but darkness and lights gone fuzzy and dim.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I think I’m going to faint.’

  When she came to herself, she kept her eyes shut, for she knew very well that she was in neither a hospital nor her own home. The air was warm and stuffy; she thought there was an open fire in the room, and it was burning coal. She knew the smell, for Grandmother had an open fireplace in her house, and burnt coal in winter. Someone was holding her hand. It was a woman’s hand, not a child’s, though the palm was as hard as a man’s. The hand was placed on her forehead for a moment, and a voice, with the accent of the little furry girl’s, said softly, ‘Aye, she’s no’ so burning. Change the bandage, Dovey, pet, and we’ll see how the dint is.’

  Gentle hands touched a tender spot on her head. She managed to keep still, with her eyes shut, partly because she was filled with apprehension at what or whom she might see, and partly because she still felt confused and ill. A distant throb in her ankle grew into a savage pain.

  Still she did not believe she was dreaming. She thought, ‘I’ve gone out of my mind in some way; this can’t be real, even though it is.’

  A girl’s voice said, ‘’Tis clean, Granny, but I’ll put a touch of the comfrey paste on it, shall I?’

  ‘Do that, lass, and then you’d best see if your Uncle Samuel is himself again.’

  ‘He’s greeting, Beatie said, heartsick at what he did.’

  ‘Poor man, poor man, ’tis an evil I dunna ken the cure for.’

  As with the little furry girl, Abigail at first thought these unknown women were speaking some foreign tongue. Then she realised it was an English she had never heard before. She thought, ‘Perhaps it’s Scots.’ After those first bewildered moments, she found that if she listened closely the words began to make sense. She was so desperate to find out where she was, and who these people were, that she concentrated as well as she could on all they said; and after a little, as though she had become accustomed to their speech, their words seemed to turn into understandable English.

  The voices, especially that of the girl, were placid and lilting.

  ‘She’s a lady, Granny, no doubt.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Abigail felt her hand lifted. Fingers ran over her palm.

  ‘Soft as plush, and will you see the nails? Pink and clean as the Queen’s own.’

  Abigail’s astonishment at this was submerged in a sickening wave of pain from her ankle. Out of her burst a puppy-like yelp of which she was immediately ashamed. But the pain was too much and she began to sob, ‘My foot, my foot!’ She opened her eyes and gazed wildly about.

  Bending over her was one of the sweetest faces she had ever seen, a young girl’s, with a soft, baby’s complexion. A horsetail of dull fair hair hung over one shoulder.

  ‘Poor bairnie, poor bairnie. Take a sup of Granny’s posset, ’tis so good for pain. There now, all’s well, Dovey’s here, and Granny, and we’ll no’ leave you, I promise.’

  Granny’s posset tasted like parsley, with a bitter aftertaste; but although Abigail thought she would instantly be sick she was not. She drifted drowsily away, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the warm hand holding her own.

  When she awakened she seem
ed to be alone. Her clothes had been taken off, and she was wearing a long nightdress of thick hairy material. It had a linen collar that rubbed her neck and chin. She cautiously felt this collar. It had been starched to a papery stiffness. One foot, the painful one, was raised on a pillow. The other was against something hard but comfortingly warm. She felt cautiously around it with her toes.

  Then a child’s voice said, ‘’Tis a hot pig you’re poking at.’

  Abigail snapped open her eyes. Natalie’s furry girl sat on a stool beside her, so close that Abigail could see the freckles on her face. Her eyes were excited.

  Seeing the child so close was strange but comforting, for she knew this child belonged in her own world; she had seen her and Natalie Crown had seen her. And yet, viewed at close hand, she did not seem like an ordinary little girl at all. There was something headstrong and fierce and resolute in her face. Her little hands were marked with scars and burns.

  A wave of intense fright ran over Abigail. The very hairs on her arms prickled. Her breathing became fast. Deep inside her, in her secret place, she began to repeat to herself, ‘I mustn’t lose hold. I must pretend I haven’t noticed anything … anything strange.’

  Now that her head was no longer whirling, though it was still paining, she was able to collect her thoughts. She didn’t like the fact that her clothes had been taken away. She remembered all the stories at school, about girls who were drugged and taken away to South America and Uganda and Algeria to be slaves in terrible places there. Nicole Price absolutely swore on the snippet of Elvis’s silk bandanna (which was the most sacred thing in the world to her) that her own cousin had been standing in Castlereagh Street waiting for a bus in broad daylight and was never seen again.

  After a while she whispered, ‘What’s a hot pig?’

  ‘Daftie,’ said the girl. ‘’Tis a stone bottle filled with hot water. Dunna ye ken anything?’

  ‘Why does my foot hurt?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it? You sprained your ankle terrible bad when you fell.’

  Abigail felt a feeble spark of anger. ‘I didn’t fall. Some great ox knocked me over.’ She thought for a while. ‘He didn’t really … really have a sword, did he?’

  ‘Aye, he did. That’s me faither. He has spells.’

  Abigail thought this over but could make nothing of it. Briefly she thought that if she went to sleep again she might wake up in her own room. But the strong smell of the tallow candle that burnt on the table beside her, the crash of cartwheels and hoofs on the cobbles outside the window, the blast of a ship’s whistle from somewhere near, the anxious look of the little girl, denied this.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Beatie Bow.’

  Abigail scowled. ‘Quit having me on, whoever you are. That’s the name of a kids’ game.’

  ‘I ken that well enough. But it’s my name. Beatrice May Bow, and I’m eleven years of age, though small for it, I know, because of the fever.’

  Suddenly she gripped Abigail’s arm. ‘Dunna tell, I’m asking you. Dunna tell Granny where you come from, or I’m for it. She’ll say I’ve the Gift and I havena, and don’t want it, God knows, because I’m afeared of what it does.’

  Abigail thought muzzily, ‘There’s some sense in this somewhere, and sooner or later there’ll be a clue and I’ll understand it.’ Aloud she said, ‘What is this place?’

  ‘It’s the best bedroom, and it’s in faither’s house, behind the confectionery shop.’

  ‘I mean, what country is it?’

  The other girl looked flabbergasted. ‘Have ye lost your wits? It’s the colony of New South Wales.’

  Abigail turned her head into the pillow, which was lumpy and smelled puzzlingly of chicken-coops, and sobbed weakly. She understood nothing except that she was hurt, and was afraid to her very toes, and wanted her mother or even her father.

  Beatie said urgently, ‘Promise you won’t tell where you come from. From there. I shouldna ha’ done it; I were wicked, I know. But when I heard the bairns calling my name, my heart gave a jump like a spring lamb. But I didna mean to bring you here, I didna know it could be done, heaven’s truth.’

  She was talking riddles. Abigail was frozen with terror. Was she amongst mad people? The memory of some of those terrible hag faces that had confronted her while she was running returned to her – the caved-in mouths, the skin puckered with old blue scars – of what? The fearsome beggar and his wooden leg, a thing shaped like a peg, like Long John Silver’s in Treasure Island. She gave a loud snuffle of terror.

  Beatie shook her, so that her head and her ankle shot forth pangs of agony.

  ‘Promise me or I’ll punch ye yeller and green!’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ cried Abigail. ‘I don’t know where I come from, I don’t know where this place is, I can’t understand anything.’

  ‘You’ve lost your memory then,’ said the little girl with satisfaction. ‘Aye, that’ll do bonny.’

  Abigail trembled. ‘Have I? But I remember lots of things: my name, and how old I am, and I live in George Street North, and my mother’s name is Kathy, and she’s angry with me because …’ At the thought of her mother, coming home and finding her missing, ringing the police, Dad, being frantic, she lost her head and began to scream. She saw the elder girl limp into the room. Why did she limp? And Beatie Bow looking frightened and defiant.

  Then she became aware that a tall old woman stood beside her, holding her hand. She wore a long black dress and white apron, and on her head was a huge pleated white cap with streamers. Afterwards Abigail realised she looked exactly like a fairy godmother, but at the time she thought nothing. She said wonderingly, ‘Granny!’

  ‘She’s no’ your granny, she’s ours!’ snapped Beatie. Dovey hushed her, smiling.

  The old woman put her arms round Abigail, and rocked her against a bosom corseted as hard as a board. Terrified as she was, she was at once aware of the goodness that dwelt in this old woman.

  She stole a look upwards, saw the brown skin creased like old silk, a sculptured smile on the sunken mouth. It was a composed, private face, with the lines of hardship and grief written on it.

  ‘There, there, lassie, dinna take on so. Granny’s here’

  Abigail pressed her face into the black tucked cloth, and held on tight. Something strong and calm radiated from the old woman.

  Never in your whole life could you imagine her addressing snide remarks to her bonnet, or the grey silky hair that showed beneath it. She was a real grandmother.

  Above her head she heard the grandmother murmur, ‘Fetch Judah, Beatie, pet. I think I heard his step. He’s that good with bairns.’

  ‘I want my mother,’ moaned Abigail.

  ‘Rest sure, my bonnie, that you’ll have your mother as soon as we know where she lives, and what you’re called.’

  A tall young man entered the room. She had a glimpse of fair hair, cut strangely, a square-cut jacket of black or dark blue, with metal buttons, crumpled white trousers.

  ‘Faither’s in a state, fair adrift with fright and sorrow. You’d best sit with him, Dovey, till he comes out of it.’

  ‘I’m frightened, I’m frightened,’ Abigail whispered.

  The young man sat beside her. She could not see his face because the light was in her eyes. Instead she saw a big brown hand, on the outstretched forefinger of which perched a bird as big as a thimble, its feathers a tinsel green.

  ‘Would you know what that is, Eliza?’

  ‘My name isn’t Eliza,’ whispered Abigail, ‘it’s Abigail. And that’s a humming-bird. But it isn’t alive, it’s stuffed.’

  The young man stroked the tiny glittering head with one finger.

  ‘She came from the Orinoco. I got her for a florin from a deepwater man. Did ye ever see aught as fine?’

  He turned the finger this way and that, and the little bird shone like an emerald.

  ‘Will you listen to the way she speaks,’ murmured the old woman to Beatie. ‘I fear your da
da will be in desperate trouble if he’s injured her, for she’s a lady.’

  ‘I’m not a lady,’ muttered Abigail. ‘I’m just a girl. You’re a lady.’

  ‘Not me, child,’ said the old woman. ‘Why, we Talliskers have been fisherfolk since the Earls of Stewart.’

  Abigail could make no sense of any of it. She buried her face in the chickeny pillow. Maybe when she opened her eyes again she would be in her own bed, her own bedroom. But clearly she heard the young man blowing up the fire. It was with a bellows. She knew the rhythmic wheeze, for bellows were a popular item at Magpies. There! She remembered Magpies, even where things were put; Mum’s crazy sixty-year-old cash register with all the beautiful bronze-work, the green plush tablecloth draped over the delicate rattan whatnot.

  She forced her eyes open. The room was now much brighter. The firelight leapt up, reflecting pinkly on a sloping ceiling. On the table was now a tall oil lamp, and Dovey was carefully turning down the wick.

  There was a marble wash-stand in the corner, with a blue flowered thick china wash-basin set into a recess. Underneath stood a tall fluted water jug, and a similarly patterned chamber-pot. The fireplace had an iron hob and on it was a jug of what Abigail thought, from the delicious smell, was hot cocoa. The jug was large and white, and in an oval of leaves was imprinted the face of a youngish man with long dark silky whiskers. She had seen him before in Magpies, too.

  ‘That’s Prince Albert, isn’t it?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, God rest him. He was taken too soon,’ replied the old woman.

  Judah brought something out of his pocket and proffered it to her on the palm of his brown hand. It was a pink sugar mouse.

  ‘Our faither makes them. Do you fancy a nibble?’

  Abigail did not even see it. She sat shakily up in bed. She saw over the mantel a picture of a middle-aged woman in black, with a small coronet over a white lace veil.

  How many times had Abigail seen that sulky, solemn face – on china, miniatures, christening mugs?