The Quarantine Station

by Michelle Montebello

  The nurse arrived an hour later, just as Rose finished unpacking her suitcase. Sister Clark was old and dour with a severe face and bun to match. She ran dark beady eyes over Rose and sniffed as if to disapprove of her youth and beauty.

  ‘You will need to remove both arms from your sleeves and push your bodice down.’

  Rose removed the sash at her waist and unclipped the two pearl buttons at the nape of her neck. She wriggled both arms free and slid her dress and petticoat down midway, exposing her corset.

  Sister Clarke produced a steel tray with six brass syringes, the cylinders filled with liquid. Rose turned away, staring out the window as she heard the sister preparing the injections. There was a sharp scent of alcohol then something wet hit her skin as it was disinfected. Rose winced when the first thick needle plunged into her muscle.

  ‘That was tetanus. It always hurts,’ Sister Clark said dispassionately and Rose felt the plunge of a second needle, then a third. Sister Clark taped a patch of gauze over her arm.

  Before Rose could catch her breath, the sister was reaching for her other arm, disinfecting the skin and jabbing it hard with vaccine after vaccine—typhoid, tuberculosis, cholera, smallpox and plague.

  ‘You’re going to be sore around the injection points for a few days,’ she said as Rose pulled her dress agonisingly back over her arms, fastened the buttons at her nape and tied the sash around her waist. ‘You might feel unwell too. If there’s anything severe, come down to the hospital.’

  She piled the syringes back into the steel dish and left the cottage.

  Rose moved to the bowl and filled it with water from the ewer. She splashed water on her face and neck, washed her hands and took a deep breath, feeling the colour return to her face.

  Patting her skin dry with the towel, she reset the pins in her hair and went in search of the carpenter.

  Rose found Main Axial Road easily this time. She located the white building that housed the painter and carpenter’s workshops and entered through the carpenter’s door.

  Inside, his workshop was dim. There were no windows and she flicked on a switch that gave her a spluttering burst of light before fizzing out.

  She left the door open and looked around. There was a workbench along one wall with all the woodworking tools she might expect to find on it—hammers, nails, wood, dirty rags, hand drills and chisels. Hanging from nails in the wall above were more tools.

  Unfortunately, there was no carpenter. He could be elsewhere on the station, Bessie had said and Rose decided she would leave him a note.

  She searched around the mess on the bench for a pen and scrap of paper. She lifted boxes of nails and moved aside oil cans. She bent low to inspect the bottom shelf, rustling around amidst the tools when she heard a voice behind her.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Rose jumped and hit her head on the underside of the bench. There was a chuckle as she extracted herself and rubbed her head. When she turned, a man stood in the doorway. She was unable to see his features, his silhouette backlit by the light outside, but she detected a slight grin on his face as he leant against the doorframe, watching her.

  ‘I beg your pardon for the intrusion,’ she said blushing.

  He remained there, arms crossed, watching her.

  ‘I was looking for the carpenter.’

  The man pushed off from the doorframe and took a step forward. ‘You found him.’

  He moved past her into the room and Rose squeezed out of the way, sidestepping to the door. From there, she was able to glimpse him better. She noticed a strong jaw, brown ruffled hair and a smear of dirt across one cheek. He had eyes that were humble and kind.

  ‘The bed in my cottage is broken,’ she said as he turned to his bench and rummaged through the items. ‘I was searching for a pen and paper to let you know.’

  He looked up at her. ‘Do you work here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you before.’

  ‘I’m new. I started today, well tomorrow. I start tomorrow.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Rose Porter.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Porter.’ He extended his hand, ‘I’m Thomas Van Cleeve, the station carpenter.’

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr Van Cleeve.’ She shook his hand politely.

  ‘Are you one of Miss Dalton’s girls?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I like Miss Dalton. She’s strict but fair.’ He returned his attention to the bench. ‘So you have a broken bed?’

  ‘Yes. One of the legs has snapped off.’

  He collected his leather tool bag, handsaw and a piece of wood. ‘Well, Miss Porter, I suppose we had better take a look.’

  She accompanied Thomas up to the female staff quarters, making small talk along the way. He pointed out the local wildlife—koalas and possums high up in the trees; animals she had never seen or heard of before—and she told him about her journey from Manly in the horse and carriage, then the impossibly long walk to Miss Dalton’s office. He seemed to like it when she spoke, smiling all the way.

  She opened the cottage door for him and showed him the broken leg on her bed.

  ‘I can fix it, but did you know there’s a perfectly good one next to it?’

  ‘That was Agnes’ bed,’ Rose said.

  A smile formed on Thomas’s lips and his ears reddened. ‘Ah yes, Agnes. We all heard.’ He scratched his head. ‘Well, I just need to remove the old leg, cut a new leg to fit, then nail it in place.’

  ‘That would be wonderful.’

  ‘It could take me a while,’ he said. ‘Best you wait outside. We’re not supposed to be alone in your lodgings together.’

  Rose went to sit outside on the verandah steps for Thomas to finish. She could hear him whistling as he worked and at one point, he joined her at the front of the cottage to cut a new piece for the leg.

  Rose watched his powerful arms move the saw back and forth, cutting the wood, realising she had never taken the time to admire a man before. She had come of age in London as the war broke out, at a time when she should have been courting but when all the boys had been sent to the Front. She’d had many advances from drunken sailors on the Ormonde but had fought them off, staying close to the cook; a burly man with a fatherly nature and a good aim with a meat mallet.

  Watching the carpenter now from her position on the verandah, she noticed how rugged he was in his trousers and shirt, how the muscles in his arms flexed and relaxed. She liked the smear of dirt on his cheek, the dirt on his hands, the boyish way he flicked hair from his eyes.

  As she watched, she found herself wondering who Thomas Van Cleeve was and where he had come from. When he looked up and caught her staring, she blushed and turned away.

  He went back inside and the sun began to dip below the trees. Rose rested her chin on her knees and settled into the quiet. Birdsong trilled from the trees and animals rustled in the undergrowth; such tranquillity when compared with the noise and grit of London’s streets. Still, she was overcome with a sense of displacement in this strange land where everything looked and felt perplexingly foreign.

  Thomas emerged later onto the verandah with his satchel of tools. ‘All fixed. It’s as good as new now.’

  Rose stood. ‘Thank you. I’m most appreciative.’

  ‘It was nothing.’

  They stood on the verandah as a moment passed between them, neither moving nor speaking. Their eyes met and held then Thomas broke away. ‘I should go.’

  ‘Of course. I’ve kept you too long.’

  ‘Actually, I’m finished for the day,’ he said, trotting down the steps and turning back to her. ‘I was thinking I might stroll down to the wharf. The sunset is lovely on the water.’

  ‘That would be a sight indeed.’

  ‘Would you care to join me?’ he asked.

  She hesitated.

  ‘We could stop by and see Bessie. She might have something in the larder for us.’

  Rose brightened.
She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast at the boarding house. ‘I am quite famished.’

  Thomas smiled. Rose slipped into step beside him and they walked back down the hill to first class. They visited Bessie in the kitchen and she passed them two oranges from behind the cook’s back with a sly grin.

  Next, they stopped at Thomas’s workshop and he dropped off his tool bag. Rose waited outside and when he emerged again, he had on a clean shirt and the smear of dirt from his cheek was gone.

  He led the way to the wharf, guiding Rose down winding paths flanked by thick brush. He pointed out the funicular railway to her, where luggage was transported from the wharf, through the luggage shed and fumigation chambers of the autoclaves, curving around the shower blocks before it was hauled up the steep sandstone incline to healthy ground. They turned at Quarantine Creek Junction and Rose caught sight of the Hospital Precinct high on the hill; a place she had no desire to visit.

  They talked and peeled their oranges, and when Rose bit into hers, it was wonderfully sweet and juicy, like nothing she’d tasted before. Her fingers and lips were sticky as she sucked on the flesh.

  ‘So what has brought a young English lady like you all the way across the world, Miss Porter?’ Thomas asked as they continued along the path.

  ‘Please, you may call me Rose.’

  ‘Okay, Rose.’

  'The war has been hard on England, Mr Van Cleeve, particularly London. My family are from Bethnal Green. They decided some time ago to pack up and move to the country and when they did, I decided to come here.’

  ‘So you boarded a vessel, crossed seas filled with your enemy’s ships and sailed across the world to a foreign country on your own? I’ve never met a person like you before.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m not sure if that makes me sound terribly brave or terribly silly, but yes, that’s what I did.’

  ‘Certainly not silly,’ he said with admiration. ‘In fact, you are so brave that you accepted a position as a parlourmaid in a quarantine station where people are dying and the odds are against you every day.’

  ‘Now that decision I may have to rethink,’ she said laughing.

  ‘You are braver than most, Miss Porter.’

  They reached a small cove where the ground grew flat and Thomas pointed out the buildings of the Wharf Precinct—the autoclaves, boiler room, luggage shed and disinfecting shower blocks.

  They stepped down onto the sand as water lapped gently at the shore. Thomas bent to wash his sticky hands in the sea and Rose followed. When he sat down to take his shoes off and sink his feet into the sand, Rose hesitated.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘When was the last time you felt sand as soft as this between your toes?’

  ‘I’ve never felt sand before, Mr Van Cleeve.’

  Thomas patted a spot next to him. ‘Then I insist.’

  Rose sat beside him and unlaced one shoe. She slipped it off then unlaced her second. She had them both off in minutes and sat with her stockinged toes sinking into the sand.

  ‘Isn’t it something?’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, grasping a mound of it in her hands and letting it fall through her fingers.

  ‘It’s peaceful here. Sometimes I like to come down to the cove on my own and just sit. Down here it’s easy to forget all the sad things that are happening back up there.’

  Rose stared out at the heavily-treed escarpments across the water. Everywhere she looked, the Australian bush stared back—quiet, unassuming. It was so unlike the noisy, over-crowded streets of home. She wasn’t sure whether to feel calmed or unsettled by it.

  ‘Across the bay you can see Middle Head, Smedley’s Point and Little Manly Point,’ Thomas explained.

  ‘Have people ever tried to escape across the water to avoid quarantine?’ Rose asked.

  ‘A few,’ Thomas said. ‘But they don’t usually get far. Sometimes they drown or the bush kills them. If they’re sick, they succumb to their illness.’

  They sat in silence for a time with the station behind them a hive of activity. Rose breathed in the smell of driftwood and the sharp tang of the sea. She heard the bird with the raucous laugh again, deep in the trees.

  Thomas nodded towards the wharf, jutting out into the water like a long planked arm. ‘Boats are inspected by health officials as soon as they come through the Heads and into Port Jackson. If illness is suspected among the passengers, the ship is anchored out here in this bay and the passengers are transferred to the wharf.’

  Rose squinted at the wharf in the dying sunlight. A group of young men sat with their feet dangling over the edge, their toes skimming high tide. She could hear their laughter and smell their cigarette smoke.

  ‘They’re the boys from the autoclaves and luggage transfer,’ Thomas explained. ‘They’re a good bunch.’

  ‘How long have you worked here, Mr Van Cleeve?’

  ‘Please, Thomas,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve worked here for five years.’

  ‘And you’ve managed to escape illness yourself. That’s an achievement.’

  ‘I mostly keep to myself. I don’t socialise much,’ he said, drawing his knees up and leaning his elbows on them. He offered nothing more and Rose sensed that he was a contemplative man. She didn’t want to disturb his solitude and sat silently beside him as the sun finally dipped, casting the beach into shadow.

  After dusting the sand from their feet and slipping on their shoes, Thomas walked Rose back to first class where he bid her good evening and disappeared into his workshop. Rose walked the rest of the way up the hill to the staff cottages. She washed and changed her clothes and at nine o’clock, she stepped out for the staff supper.

  As she walked, she tried to picture what her first day as a first-class parlourmaid might be like but instead, inexplicably, all she could think about was the carpenter.

  At six o’clock the following morning, Rose reported for work in the first-class kitchen. Bessie was already there, boiling large copper pots of water and heating the ovens. Rose had heard her leave the cottage sometime before dawn, when the sky was still black and the birds soundless. Rose had risen not long after, washing her face, setting her hair and pulling on her new uniform and apron.

  Miss Dalton was waiting in the kitchen, dressed in a smart plum jacket and skirt with a silver watch necklace. Standing in a small circle were five other parlourmaids and the cook, Mrs March, a plump woman with ginger hair and beady eyes.

  Miss Dalton introduced Rose to Mrs March and ran through her duties for the morning. Rose listened, trying to grasp the many instructions—manage your section of the dining room, lay the toast and spreads, tend to the tea and coffee, serve the hot breakfast, be polite and attentive, do not engage in conversation, do not drop anything on the floor or on the passengers and clear the dining tables afterwards.

  ‘After service, all dishes and cutlery can be stacked on this bench for Bessie to scrub,’ Miss Dalton said.

  Rose glanced over at Bessie who was already up to her elbows in steaming water.

  ‘Staff breakfast is at nine-thirty after the dining room has been cleared, followed by lunch at two and supper at nine in the evening.’

  ‘And might I add,’ Mrs March said, crossing her arms over her ample bosom, ‘if I catch you stealing food from my larder, you’ll leave this kitchen with no hands.’

  Rose swallowed and Bessie giggled from her spot by the sink.

  Miss Dalton consulted the watch on the end of her necklace. ‘Guests will be arriving in the dining room in thirty minutes. Rose, follow the lead of the other parlourmaids. They can show you the ropes. I have to get up to third class to ensure all is in order there. I’ll be back shortly.’

  Miss Dalton stepped out of the kitchen, and Mrs March and the parlourmaids burst into a torrent of activity. Rose was given a pile of plates and cutlery to push across the road to the dining room on a serving trolley, and was shown how to set the breakfast tables properly.

  She slipped on a pair of white gloves and place
d down cutlery and side plates, taking care to position them exactly an inch from the edge of the table. She laid out salt and pepper with accompanying salt spoons, along with butter dishes and knives. Following that was the marmalade, honey, sugar cubes and napkins.

  She had barely caught her breath when Miss Dalton arrived back, whirring through the dining room to inspect each table. ‘Those spoons need buffing,’ she pointed out. ‘There’s no marmalade on this table. Where are the napkins for this setting? My goodness girls, are we still asleep?’

  Rose and the other parlourmaids ran frantically to make the corrections as the doors swung open and first-class passengers began to pour in.

  Rose had never before seen such aristocracy gathered in the one room. There were men in smart suits and polished shoes, their moustaches trimmed and combed. Women wore dresses of fine silk, their throats garnished with pearls. The children had clean skin and neat hair, and were dressed in tailored shorts and pretty frocks. They took their seats and waited to be served and, despite being healthy but stranded in quarantine for forty days, Rose hardly felt their circumstance was a poor one.

  They were served bacon, sausages and eggs with hot toast and beans. The parlourmaids were attentive with the tea and coffee. Rose felt she must have poured a thousand cups by the end of service, moving through a heady haze of aftershave and perfume.

  She wasn’t quite sure how Bessie and Mrs March were keeping up in the kitchen, only that they were, for the food continued to flow as she ran from the dining room, across the road to the kitchen and back again with serving trolleys full of plates.

  When service was finished and the passengers began to idle out of the dining room—men donning their smoking jackets for the smoking room and women fussing over the children—they cleared the tables.

  Rose piled the empty plates, teacups, cutlery and butter dishes back onto the trolley and pushed them across the road to the kitchen where Bessie was madly scrubbing, her plump cheeks bright with sweat.