Ned threw his cards down on the table in despair, pushing away his last chocolate.
‘Well, tha’ tis me. Connie has had the divil’s very own luck tonight. I vote we have some cheery music and a little dancing.’
The four pushed through the kitchen door, into the front of the house, and gathered around the grand piano in the front drawing room. Georgiana pulled up the bench and began to play a lively Scottish ballad. The others soon joined in enthusiastically, singing the lyrics over her shoulder.
They were all out of tune and singing at different speeds, but they had fun.
Then Connie and Ned danced a jig, kicking up their heels and swinging each other gracefully around the room. Jemma clapped her hands in time to the music.
For the next song, Ned grabbed Jemma by the hand and pulled her into the centre of the room.
‘No, no Ned,’ Jemma protested, trying to push him away. ‘I can’t dance – at least not the way you do.’
‘Ah, Jemma, give it a try,’ begged Ned, bowing over her hand. ‘Tis not hard.’
Jemma felt clumsy and slow compared to Ned. Her feet couldn’t keep up with the music. She was used to slow, graceful ballet, or free-moving rock, not the fast tempo and intricate steps of an Irish jig. Jemma pulled away, laughing helplessly at her own clumsiness.
She preferred to watch Ned, his feet flying until they seemed to be a whirring blur, his arms aloft, a wide smile on his face. Connie took Jemma’s place, holding up her flowing skirts and petticoats, her face creased with concentration.
Then Ned pulled out his harmonica and played a jaunty tune while Georgiana and Connie danced. Jemma’s feet started tapping and, before she knew it, she was joining in the dance, making up her own steps, swishing her skirts and humming the tune. Then Connie played the piano once more and Ned danced with Georgiana.
After several songs, the girls’ hair was slipping from their pins and tumbling down their backs. Their faces were flushed and shone with perspiration. Georgiana flung herself back on the sofa, breathless and hot.
‘Oh, that was simply the best fun I’ve had in ages! Ned, you play the harmonica so well.’
‘And ye, Miss Georgiana, play the piano beautifully.’
‘Isn’t it lovely how much fun you can have just playing music, singing and dancing?’ Jemma puffed. ‘I think I could dance all night.’
Georgiana wiped her brow, pushing the tendrils of hair away from her face. ‘What about you, Jemma? Can you play something?’
‘I used to play the piano for a while – not very well – but now I have flute lessons, and sometimes play the guitar with my friend Ru–… One of my friends.’
Georgiana jumped up. ‘My papa played the Spanish guitar,’ announced Georgiana, heading to the door. ‘His instrument is in his old study.’
‘No, Georgie,’ Jemma said. ‘I don’t play very well.’
Georgiana returned brandishing an old, well-loved guitar.
‘Come on, Jemma,’ urged Georgiana. ‘It’s your turn to play for us.’
Jemma flushed, shaking her head in embarrassment.
‘Please, Jemma,’ begged Georgiana with a winning smile. ‘I haven’t heard the guitar played since Papa died. I used to love it when he played for me.’
Jemma glanced around at Georgiana, Ned and Connie. They all joined together, urging her to play.
Reluctantly, she took the instrument and tested the strings, tightening the ivory pegs to tune them. She thought quickly through the repertoire of songs she had played with Ruby. One of their favourites was ‘Lost in the Moment’ by the young, up-and-coming Australian singer Daniel Lee Kendall.
She strummed the introduction, nodding her head to the familiar beat and tapping out the percussion on the body of the guitar with her fingertips. Immediately, she felt like she was back in Ruby’s bedroom, sitting on her bed, listening to the CD and singing the words at the top of their voices.
‘You were wearing your pretty white dress. You wore it with your pretty smile. I was trying to do my best to see you smile your pretty smile at me …’
Jemma’s voice wasn’t trained, but she sang with passion, losing herself in her memories and the catchy tune.
‘Oh, I got lost in the moment and nearly told you all about how I … I think I’m falling … I think I’m falling … I think I’m falling … for you …’
Jemma suddenly paused on the chorus and remembered her audience. Georgiana, Ned and Connie all stared at her with faintly puzzled looks. Jemma stopped and flushed red to the roots of her hair.
Of course. How stupid of me! thought Jemma, biting her lip. It doesn’t sound anything like nineteenth-century music. I should have played something classical, like Mozart or Beethoven, but I don’t know any classical guitar music.
‘That was just something my friend and I loved to play and sing,’ explained Jemma, putting the guitar down hurriedly. ‘You wouldn’t know it.’
‘No,’ replied Connie bluntly, shaking her head. ‘I’ve never heard any song like that.’
‘It was pretty,’ Georgiana added hurriedly. ‘But what does “falling for you” mean?’
Jemma flushed again, staring at her hands clenched in her lap. ‘Oh, you know … falling in love …’
‘Ye are a daft lass,’ teased Ned with a grin. ‘I have ne’er met anyone quite loike ye. A nursemaid who plays the flute and the guitar, and sings love songs and cooks fancy French omelettes.’
Georgiana and Connie laughed and nodded in agreement, but their smiles were friendly.
‘And your memory must be starting to come back,’ added Georgiana. ‘That’s an excellent sign.’
Ned picked up the harmonica and played another jaunty tune, recapturing the light-hearted mood of the evening. Jemma was grateful to have the attention taken away from her.
The grandfather clock in the corner chimed the half hour and everyone glanced at it expectantly.
‘Well, tis half-past nine and the witching hour,’ decreed Ned. ‘I must be gone to hitch up the horses and fetch the fair princess from the ball.’
‘The ogre more like it,’ snorted Connie. ‘And I suppose Ogre Agnes will be home soon, too. It’s time for us all to turn back into pumpkins.’
Georgiana sighed, straightening her skirts with the palm of her hand. ‘The evening went by so quickly.’
Connie stood up and started plumping the cushions on the sofa.
‘Well, fair lasses, I must be gone, so I bid ye farewell with a lovely old Irish blessing.’
Ned struck a theatrical pose by the doorway, one arm held over his eyes as though searching the distant horizon. In a deep, dramatic voice he recited:
May the road rise up to meet ye.
May the wind always be at ye’r back.
May the sun shine warm upon ye’r face,
and rains fall soft upon ye’r fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold ye in the palm of His hand.
Connie snorted. ‘Until we meet again, over breakfast!’
‘Thank ye, fair Jemma, for a most delicious French feast.’ Ned took Jemma’s hand in his own and bowed over it with a flourish, as though she was a high-born lady and he an aristocratic lord.
Jemma responded with her best ballet curtsey, her hand curled upwards over her heart and one leg tucked behind the other.
‘It was my pleasure, Ned.’
Ned laughed, waved and disappeared out the door, whistling.
Once Ned had left, the light and excitement and joy disappeared with him. Connie and Jemma had to return, with a sigh, to the task of tidying up all evidence of their illicit, fun-filled night.
The days rolled by that week, each one following the same pattern as the one before, working from dawn until late at night – scrubbing floors, making beds, dusting, ironing, sweeping and polishing lamps. Jemma was not called to take Georgiana out walking, and in fact had little time to spend more than a few minutes with her each day.
Jemma sighed, faced by a huge p
ile of dirty pots and pans soaking in hot, soapy water. She had her sleeves rolled up, suds to her elbows and dribbles of sweat running down her face.
‘What, still going with those pots?’ scolded Agnes. ‘You must be the slowest maidservant I’ve ever come across. Leave those for the moment. The mistress wishes you to go up to the haberdashery to see if her embroidery silks have come in yet. She also has a package she wants collected from the apothecary.’
Jemma’s heart leapt at the thought of escaping the house and walking in the spring sunshine.
‘Do you know where the haberdashery is, in Booth Street?’ Agnes asked.
Jemma nodded. Her heart skipped in excitement. Booth Street – I wonder how it looks in 1895?
‘Well, at last you seem to remember something!’ exclaimed Agnes. ‘Go and tidy yourself up, take a basket and, for goodness sake, don’t forget your bonnet.’
Agnes gave her clear instructions on how to find the necessary shops and what to do once she found them, all in her scolding, nagging voice, as though speaking to an exceedingly stupid foreigner.
Jemma raced upstairs, washed her face and hands, unrolled her sleeves and took off her sopping apron. She tied her bonnet, collected the basket and was soon walking out through the back garden. Clean, white laundry flapped on the clothes line, scenting the air with the smell of lye and soap.
On the left was the kitchen garden – a neatly fenced plot of vegetables and herbs growing in neat furrows, carefully hoed and weeded by Ned. Tomatoes, peas and beans grew on tripod stakes against the wall. Rows of lettuce, cabbage, carrots, turnips, parsnips, beets, cucumbers and capsicums thrived in the sunshine. Bees buzzed amongst the sprawling mounds of thyme, sage, oregano and lemon balm.
Jemma felt like singing as she gazed up into the deep blue sky. A flock of white-and-yellow cockatoos swooped, calling raucously. Jemma had never seen so many cockatoos together before.
‘Hello, cockies,’ she called softly, smiling at the brilliant colours. She pushed the irksome bonnet off her head so that it fell down her back, hanging by the ribbons.
‘Ye’r sounding very happy this grand morning,’ called a familiar Irish voice.
Jemma glanced quickly to the stable in the corner of the garden, leading onto the back laneway.
Ned was sitting in the sunshine outside the stables, polishing a huge mound of leather harnesses. He had a rag in one hand, a bottle of linseed oil in the other and a mischievous glint in his green eyes. Merlin sat beside him, licking his paws and cleaning behind his ears. Jemma could hear the snuffle and stamping of Sugar and Butterscotch inside in their stalls.
‘Oh, hello, Ned,’ replied Jemma, a flush racing up her neck. Why, oh why, do I blush every time Ned speaks to me? He must think I’m an idiot.
Jemma leant down to stroke Merlin’s back to hide her confusion. Merlin miaowed and arched his back under her palm.
‘Where are ye off to so happy, I wonder?’ Ned asked, rubbing the reins with the oily rag between his brown, calloused hands.
‘Miss Rutherford wants me to run some errands in Booth Street, and it is such a beautiful morning. I couldn’t wait to escape from the piles of filthy pots and endless dishes!’
‘Skiving off? Grand. Old Agnes is a fire-breathing she-dragon, isn’t she?’
Jemma giggled at the image of Agnes breathing fire, smoke coming out her ears, with huge, scaley, green paws, sharp claws and crimson eyes.
‘She’s terrifying all right,’ agreed Jemma. ‘She thinks I’m completely useless.’
‘Do not let her worry ye,’ advised Ned, smiling. ‘She is a bully all roight, so if ye stand up to her, she’ll back down.’
‘I can’t imagine standing up to Agnes.’ Jemma shivered at the thought. ‘I think she’d tear me limb from limb. I’d better get going or she’ll be chasing me all the way down Johnston Street breathing fire!’
‘Well, enjoy ye’r walk then,’ offered Ned, sloshing more oil on his rag. ‘Do not lose ye’r groceries on the way home or Agnes will really have something to say.’
‘I won’t,’ replied Jemma, smiling back.
Jemma continued out the back gate into Piper Lane – a narrow service laneway that ran behind all the Johnston Street mansions. To walk to the shops she should turn left. Jemma stood at the gateway, staring to the left, then the right. To the right was the route she would normally go home, to Breillat Street. Jemma glanced quickly back at Rosethorne, then made up her mind. Hoisting her basket into the crook of her elbow, she hurried out the gate and turned right.
On the corner, she passed the imposing sandstone towers and crenellations of the Abbey – the largest and grandest of the Witches’ Houses. So familiar, yet subtly different. Across the road, the view was a complete shock. Instead of the row of tiny Federation terraces and semis she usually walked past, there was a wrought-iron fence then vast, landscaped gardens and a glimpse of a large house, partially hidden by trees.
Jemma hurried up the hill, away from the Abbey, beside the timber-paved roadway. A woman in shabby long skirts, with a tattered shawl covering her head, nodded to Jemma as she walked the other way. A group of small, barefooted boys, wearing caps, shirts and long shorts, were crouched in the gutter playing marbles. A messenger boy scooted past on a bicycle.
In a few minutes Jemma was in her own street – Breillat Street. She could recognise very little. The dirt street was potholed and littered with mounds of horse manure. Some of the blocks were vacant and weed-infested, heaped with rubbish and broken implements, chickens scratching around in the dirt. The houses were shabby with peeling paint, the verandahs boarded up with scrap timber, the shutters broken.
Jemma walked along tentatively, her basket over the crook of her arm, trying to recognise her house.
Small, grimy children in ragged clothes were playing barefoot in the dusty road, skipping ropes and bowling wooden hoops along with a stick. They called out, shrieking with laughter as a hoop escaped and bounded over to Jemma, crashing into her leg.
Jemma picked up the fallen hoop and held it out to one of the little girls who was wearing a patched dress, her sunken face filthy. Jemma noticed the girl was very thin, with stick-like limbs.
‘Here you go,’ Jemma offered, smiling.
The child snatched the hoop, poking her tongue out and escaping back to her friends.
An older girl watched from the steps of the house that would one day be Jemma’s. The girl had a dirt-coloured shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders; a drab, stained skirt; frayed petticoats and old elastic-sided boots that looked a couple of sizes too big for her. She was sewing buttons onto a snow-white shirt, its brightness glaring among all the grime.
‘What’re you staring at?’ the girl asked rudely. ‘You’ll catch flies in your mouth if you leave it hangin’ open like that.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ offered Jemma. ‘I was just looking at the house. I … I used to live here.’
‘Poor you,’ sniffed the girl. ‘It’s a dump all right. Funny. I don’t remember you, and I’ve lived here for a few years now.’
‘I wouldn’t call it a dump.’ Jemma smiled at the girl, trying to win her over. ‘I loved living here – I had a lovely view of the sunset from my window.’
The girl paused in her sewing and nodded.
‘Oh, you lived upstairs at the back then. We used to have the whole of the downstairs, with the Watsons living above us, but then Pa lost his job at the soap factory and we couldn’t afford the rent no more. We just have the front room – there’re four families living here now.’
Jemma’s eyes widened in surprise. Four families living in the little house I share with Mum and Dad?
The girl snipped the cotton with her scissors and started on a new button.
‘The house is a bit different from when I lived here,’ offered Jemma.
‘It must’ve been a long time ago then,’ agreed the girl. ‘The landlord hasn’t spent a penny on the bloomin’ place since he moved out. The toffs used to live here, but they move
d out to a snootier suburb a few years ago. They decided the place was getting below them with all the riffraff moving in – so they rented it to us. Now we’re the toffs of Breillat Street.’
The girl laughed at her little joke, ruefully examining her own drab skirt.
Jemma’s eyes scanned the sandstone house. It did look neglected. One of the window panes was broken and patched with the side of a timber packing case. The paint on the door was dirty and peeling. The front garden was filled with weeds, and a scrawny chicken scratched for grubs.
On the left-hand side was a single-storey cottage, which Jemma realised was the original part of Ruby’s house. On the right-hand side was a number of timber slab huts, which looked like they had been built from offcuts and packing cases. Through the open door of one of these makeshift huts, Jemma could see a woman stirring a large iron pot over a wood fire.
‘Who lives there now?’ Jemma asked, pointing to Ruby’s house.
‘Ma Murphy,’ replied the girl, tossing her head with some disdain. ‘The baby farmer.’
‘The baby what?’ asked Jemma in some confusion.
The girl rethreaded her needle, biting off the cotton between her chipped teeth. She shoved the needle through the material forcefully.
‘The baby farmer,’ the girl repeated with some irritation. Jemma obviously still looked confused.
‘Don’t you know anything? Poor women and unwed mothers pay her to look after their babies,’ explained the girl. ‘Well, she takes their hard-earned money, but there’s not much looking after that goes on. If they’re lucky, the poor wee mites die in a few weeks. Most of them die before they’re more than a few months old.’
Jemma felt sick. Baby farming! Babies dying in a few weeks.
‘No!’ Jemma exclaimed. ‘You can’t be serious!’
‘Oh, yes I am,’ retorted the girl. ‘Why’d I lie about something like that. You was the one who asked me!’
‘How many babies does she look after?’
The girl shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘Eleven, maybe twelve at a time?’
Jemma glanced over at the quiet, neighbouring cottage – shabby, neglected and poverty stricken like all the others.
The Ivory Rose Page 10
