‘I just wish I’d done things differently. I wish I’d paid more attention and asked more questions. I wish I’d hugged my mum and dad and brothers a little tighter before they left.’
‘Why didn’t you go to France?’
‘Because I was selfish. Because going to my best friend’s sixteenth birthday party was more important. I didn’t want to miss out. Everyone from school was going to be there.’
She looked down at her hands, embarrassed at the sound of her own appalling actions. ‘I kicked up such a fuss about it when my parents booked the trip. Instead of being grateful for the opportunity, I argued and slammed doors and wouldn’t talk to either of them until they finally relented and let me stay.’
‘But if you had gone…’
She nodded. ‘I know. If I’d gone I wouldn’t be here now. But for a long time, I wished I had gone with them. Sometimes I still do.’
Matt was quiet.
‘I feel guilty that I dodged the bullet. Through being a selfish brat, I managed to avoid the same fate. I should have been there with them.’
‘That’s a lot of guilt to carry around. You didn’t know how it would play out. You were only fifteen. No one can ever predict these things.’
Emma saw the logic in what he was saying, but guilt had a funny way of being all-consuming. While she heard the words, she didn’t feel assuaged.
They sat that way for a time in the cool room, surrounded by history, Matt’s hand still on Emma’s arm, and she realised how nice it was to feel a man’s touch. It had been too long.
He broke the reverie with a gentle squeeze of her arm before releasing it. ‘Well, I’m not entirely sure we’re going to find much in here. All these documents seem to be related to day-to-day activity on the station.’
Emma nodded her agreement.
‘And without 1919 birth records from the hospital or your great-grandfather’s name, we can’t say for sure who fathered Gwendoline.’
‘Correct.’
Matt chewed his lip. ‘There’s another room.’
Emma inclined her head. ‘Another room?’
‘Yes. Behind us.’ He pointed to the back wall and Emma saw the closed door she had noticed earlier. ‘People rarely go in there. It’s full of odd pieces, nothing worth putting on display, but no one ever had the heart to throw it out.’
‘Another room?’ Emma said again, her smile widening.
‘It’s worth a try.’
Matt unlocked the door, flicked the light on and they stepped inside. It was smaller than the archive room and not as cold. The air was thick with age and Emma noticed all around a clutter of old sheets, blankets and suitcases.
‘This room has a different feel,’ she said.
‘Yeah, it’s the old bedding that gives it that musty smell. Many people died on the station and left behind suitcases full of clothes and shoes. Mostly they were disposed of, but sometimes they piled up.’
Emma walked slowly around the room, glancing at the old suitcases stacked against the walls or high on top of each other. Some had inscriptions stamped into the leather—Percy Bowden 1875, Elizabeth Plimsoll 1898, George Raymond RMS Lusitania 1906. If their luggage was still on the station over a hundred years later, Emma could only guess as to the fate of each of those souls.
Matt gently dragged one of the suitcases into the middle of the room and they both sat on the floor, cross-legged once again. The case was mustard-coloured with metal studs lining the edges and a strong smell of old leather.
‘I’ve only been in here a couple of times and haven’t gone through everything. There’s no order in here. We’ll just have to take a stab in the dark.’ Matt snapped back the luggage locks and opened the lid.
Emma peered forward. The suitcase was filled with stiff dresses, corsets, old lace-up boots with pointy toes and yellowing petticoats that had undoubtedly been a creamy satin once. The clothes smelt pungently stale like the room and she was almost grateful when Matt closed the lid again.
‘Those clothes look like they’re from the 1800s. We need something more recent.’ He fastened the locks and pushed the suitcase back to its original position. He dragged over another. ‘Let’s try this one.’
The next suitcase was full of melted pairs of shoes.
‘These must have gone through the old fumigation system, before the autoclave was built. The old system used to burn and melt things.’ He closed the lid, snapping the locks, and returned the case to the corner where it had come from.
He looked around the room, his face set in determination, and Emma felt a small rush of affection for this stranger who had become so intent on helping her. She would still be lost at the Gravedigger’s Cottage if it hadn’t been for Matt.
He moved across the room and pulled a thick grey blanket away, revealing several suitcases beneath it. He folded the blanket and placed it to one side.
‘I’ve never had a look in these.’ He gently tugged one of the suitcases out and Emma caught another strong whiff of old leather. The suitcase was faded bottle green with tanned straps and he set it down between them on the floor.
With some effort, he flipped the stiff locks and pried open the lid. The top layer of items contained a black dress and white apron that looked like a housekeeping or maid’s uniform. There was a pair of black laced boots, a handheld mirror, a hairbrush, a strange-looking corset with a wide, flexible front, two satin petticoats and an old glass perfume bottle that no longer held any scent or liquid.
Matt removed the top layer of items and set them to the side. It revealed another layer, this time of small brown books with three silver fountain pens. He picked up one of the books and handed it to Emma while he reached for another.
Emma ran her palm over it. All the books looked the same—a tan hardcover with a small tarnished clasp that was firmly locked. They appeared to be diaries, but where were the keys?
‘Can you see them anywhere?’ Matt said.
‘No.’
He hunted around in the suitcase, pulling out another pair of shoes, a coat and three tunics and setting them aside, anticipation growing on his face.
‘They would only be little, so they could have fallen to the bottom,’ Emma said.
He pulled out stockings, undergarments, two baby dresses with matching bonnets and a pink crochet blanket. He reached the bottom of the suitcase, but there were no keys. He straightened his back and sighed. ‘They’re not here.’
‘They have to be somewhere,’ Emma said, returning to the pile of items on the floor. She shook out the crochet blanket and dresses and overturned the shoes. She stretched out the corset and stockings, but the keys weren’t there. ‘We just have to think like the owner of these diaries. Clearly it was a woman. Where would a woman hide a set of tiny keys that she wouldn’t want anyone else to find?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Think like a female, Matt.’
‘Um…’
They both laughed.
‘If it were my diary,’ Emma said, ‘I would hide the keys in a place no one would think to look.’
‘Like where?’
‘Like the inside of the diary.’
Matt gave a slow smile. With the diary still in her hands, Emma turned it upside down, spreading the outer covers as far as they would extend, which wasn’t far. She shook, gently first then more vigorously. Nothing.
Then plonk! A small brass key slipped out of the pages and onto her lap.
Matt looked up with surprise. ‘No way!’ He picked up the diary in his lap, turned it upside down, spread the outer covers like Emma had done and shook. He shook and shook, then plonk. Out fell another key.
There were five diaries in total and Emma and Matt shook each one, and out of each fell the small brass key to unlock it with. Emma opened her diary first, inserting the key into the hole in the clasp and turning it. The clasp sprang free and she opened the cover.
A thrill charged up her spine. Scrawled in neat black curves on the first page were the words ‘This
diary belongs to Rose Porter, 1918’. Gwendoline had never mentioned her mother’s maiden name before and Emma couldn’t be certain this was the same Rose, but the diary had been written in 1918 and it was too great a coincidence not to be.
Matt shuffled across the space to sit close to Emma and she set the diary down in front of them so they could both see. She turned to the first page and read aloud.
18th June, 1918
The gift was unexpected, though spoke volumes. He had listened to me speak in a way that no one has before. When he gave me the gift, my heart soared and I was unprepared for that. I have never felt anything so intoxicating and yet, I know I shouldn’t. I know I should lock away my feelings like I do these words, but I cannot help it. I do not want to help it.
Life on the station can be a bewildering concept. The people arrive, either terribly sick or perfectly healthy, and they survive and move on or they die. Looking at the people in first class, it is hard to imagine that others are suffering just nearby. They eat, drink and wile away their quarantine in merriment. Sickness has not visited their doorstep. They are the lucky ones.
While I have been inoculated now against many of the diseases, I have not yet traversed the unhealthy ground near isolation and the hospitals, but I have sat on the sand and watched the boats come; an endless stream of people offloaded, their eyes sunken and skin pale from days at sea. It is hardest to watch the children suffer.
And yet, life seems to go on in first class, mostly unaffected. I work hard in the kitchen and dining room, I complete my shifts to the best of my ability, I cherish the time between those shifts when I can run my fingers through the sand and just be. The weather is cold now with the turn of season, but it does not stop me wanting to go to him, a weakness I shouldn’t indulge, but I cannot help myself. Forgive me.
Rose
Emma looked over at Matt and found his eyes on her.
‘Rose was in love.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘With someone she wasn’t meant to fall in love with.’
‘Probably another staff member or a passenger.’
‘When I spoke to my grandmother, she told me about some rules on the station, that staff weren’t allowed to fraternise for fear of pregnancies. Rose indicates the same constraints. A weakness I shouldn’t indulge.’
‘Your grandmother was right. They had strict rules about relationships back then. And Rose seemed smart enough not to mention his name. If the diary had been found, she could have gotten into a lot of trouble.’
Emma chewed her lip. ‘I wonder if this mystery man was Gwendoline’s father. It would make sense, considering how quickly Rose fell pregnant.’
‘Whoever it was bought her a gift of some kind. If we could trace the gift, we might be able to trace the person. If we trace the person, we might be able to work out who Gwendoline’s father was and possibly who she was waiting for by the wharf.’
‘That makes sense.’ Emma turned to the next entry, dated a few days later. Rose’s neat cursive hand filled the page.
21st June, 1918
Everyone is talking of the duke and duchess. She continues to recover from Spanish Flu. We have been told her progress is hampered by complications of the lungs. She still resides in the hospital while the duke resides in first class. Although his isolation is officially over, he remains a recluse, preferring meals in his room where he continues to conduct official business for the king. Miss Dalton takes him his meals and tends to his housekeeping, though I get the impression she thinks him bothersome.
My dear friend, Bessie Briar, almost self-combusts whenever we speak of them! She loves the royals. I find her terribly funny, like a breath of fresh air. She is my dearest companion, sweet and young at heart, and I consider her family. I couldn’t imagine sharing lodgings with anyone else.
The station continues to beat its usual rhythm. Boats arrive daily, the people pour in, graveyards fill up. A third cemetery was opened last week and already headstones dot the hill like needlepoints on canvas.
I have watched the passengers disembark from the boats, covered in pustules or racked with fever, their bodies limp and their eyes sunken. I do not mean to turn away, but I loathe seeing such suffering.
I wrote to my father three weeks ago to inform him of my safe arrival in Sydney and my job on the station. He was furious when I turned down the butcher’s son’s proposal, furious still when I packed my bags and left Bethnal Green for Australia. I do not anticipate a reply. Perhaps he will surprise me, though I fear his disappointment is so great it will span oceans.
I so enjoy writing to you, dear diary. You are a vessel for my thoughts, for things that are in my head but I cannot say aloud. You know especially whom I speak of. I long for the breaks in my shift when I can see him, speak to him, feel his eyes on me. He is handsome and gentle and so very kind.
The need to see him is powerful and that scares me. I know it is forbidden. The rules are clear. I do not mean to be insubordinate, but I fear my attraction is stronger than me.
Rose
On and on they read, page after page of Rose Porter’s most private thoughts and desires. The young maid spoke of day-to-day life on the station and of the contrast between first class and the rest of quarantine. She spoke of the duke and duchess, Miss Dalton and Bessie Briar, and she always spoke of the mysterious man she had come to revere, though never did she name him.
The end of the first diary took them to the fifteenth of July, 1918. Emma set it down and straightened her back. Beside her, Matt uncrossed his legs and stretched them. She tried not to glance down at his powerful legs, the closeness of his body next to hers and how they had been like that for well over two hours as they’d read through the diary. Back there, in the tiny room behind the archives, she felt oddly suspended in time.
‘Shall we work out which diary comes next?’ he asked.
Emma locked the diary they’d been reading, slipped the key back between the pages and glimpsed her watch. ‘It’s already four pm. I’ve kept you here the entire day.’
Matt glanced down at his watch too. ‘Wow, that went fast.’
‘I should let you get back to work.’
‘I suppose.’
They carefully folded and placed Rose’s clothing and other items back into the suitcase. They laid the diaries on top with the keys securely tucked between the pages, with every intention of coming back to read the rest later.
Matt closed the lid and fastened the luggage locks, sliding the suitcase back to its original position and throwing the blanket over it.
They stepped out into the fading afternoon light as the sun sank below the station. It was still bright enough for Emma to squint after the dimness of the previous two rooms. ‘That was incredible, Matt. I can’t thank you enough.’
‘No problem. I’m just glad we have a lead now.’
‘We found Rose’s diaries. I mean, we actually found them. Gran will be so pleased.’
‘And there’s still plenty more to go through, so whenever you’re ready, come back and find me.’
Emma’s breath caught on an invitation that brimmed with promise. Another day to read Rose’s diaries and spend time with Matt. She couldn’t help the lopsided grin forming on her face. ‘I’d better let you get back to work. You’ll still be here till midnight otherwise.’
‘Okay.’ He touched her wrist lightly and something pleasant tingled up her arm. ‘Goodbye, Emma.’ Smiling, he turned back into the museum.
Emma started up the path to the shower blocks to wait for the shuttle. It had only taken her a few steps to realise what was happening.
She liked this guy. She liked him, probably more than she ought to at this stage. It was the butterflies, the way she felt around him, the strange, thrilling, heart-warming anticipation she’d experienced that morning at the thought of his company.
It was all the things she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Not since Drew.
Rose
1918
‘Do you thin
k they’re much like us?’
‘Who?’
‘The royals.’
‘What do you mean “much like us”?’
‘You know, like normal people.’
Rose threw the piece of bark she’d been playing with down the steps of the verandah and leant back. A pale sun cut through the trees that surrounded the female staff cottages. The breakfast shift was over and lunch was still an hour away. Bessie had just returned from the kitchen and was smoking a cigarette beside her on the verandah.
‘I suppose. They are human after all. They live and love and make mistakes like the rest of us.’
‘Yes but their lives are grander than ours. I mean, could you imagine marrying a prince or a duke? You could have anything your heart desired. You would never have to plunge your hands in filthy hot water again to scrub someone else’s dishes.’
Rose gave Bessie a sympathetic smile.
‘I wonder if the duke will marry again after the duchess dies.’
‘Bessie Briar!’
‘What? She’s not getting any better. She’s been ill for weeks. Everybody knows it.’
‘It’s not for us to discuss.’
‘Do you the think the duke would take one of us for his new wife?’
‘Have you even met the duke?’
Bessie drew back on her cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. ‘No, I’ve only glimpsed him from afar like everyone else. He never comes down from his verandah.’
‘Well, people like the duke do not marry commoners like us.’
‘It could happen.’
‘You’re being far too dreamy, Bessie Briar.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right.’ She flicked her cigarette down the steps to join Rose’s piece of bark. Then she scratched and picked at her raw hands.
‘Are they terribly sore?’ Rose asked.
Bessie shrugged. ‘I’m used to it. No chance of them being any different with my hands in water all day.’
‘Can you ask Miss Dalton or Mrs March for some ointment?’
The Quarantine Station Page 8
