Bessie gave her a dubious look. ‘People like me don’t get ointment, Rose.’
Rose averted her eyes.
‘Don’t feel embarrassed. I chose this job. I can leave anytime I want. Truth is, I like it here. I like the free board and food and I’m not afraid of a little hard work. There aren’t too many prospects out there for women like me. I’m not pretty or educated like most.’
‘I think you’re pretty.’
‘That’s because you’re far too kind,’ Bessie said.
Rose caught sight of movement in the trees. Thomas materialised and walked towards their verandah. The sun caught flecks of auburn in his hair and his eyes were green and gold as he smiled at them both. He had a small package wrapped in brown paper under his arm.
‘Good morning, ladies.’
‘Hello Mr Van Cleeve,’ Bessie said. ‘What brings you all the way up here?’
‘Just checking to see if anything needs repairing.’
Rose caught his playful smile and dipped her head to hide her own.
Bessie looked back towards their open front door. ‘No, I don’t think so. We’re all fine here, Mr Van Cleeve.’
‘Very well.’
‘Anyway, I better get back to work. Mrs March will have my head on a plate if I’m late.’ She stood, tugged at the tight uniform that strained around her hips and stepped down off the verandah. She gave them a final wave before disappearing through the trees.
‘Are you well, Miss Porter?’ Thomas asked when they were alone.
‘I am thank you. And you, Mr Van Cleeve?’
‘Yes. I had a busy morning up at third class fixing the dumbwaiter, but I have an hour free now. Would you like to walk with me?’
Rose smiled. ‘I would like that very much.’
She climbed to her feet, trotted down the steps and together they headed towards first class, bypassing it and continuing on down Wharf Road.
‘You have a package beneath your arm,’ she said as they walked.
‘Indeed. You are most observant.’
‘I do try.’
‘You’re very good at it.’
It was the kind of playful banter they shared on their regular walks down to the cove. Rose had come to appreciate Thomas’s light humour, something he intermingled with his serious side, when they spent long hours talking on the sand. He was quiet, intelligent and did not seem to mind that she, as a woman, had an opinion. In fact, he encouraged it.
And Rose, unable to temper what she knew was an attraction to him, felt the full weight of the rules bearing down on her. She knew she shouldn’t spend time with him, knew that to encourage it was wrong, but she didn’t know how to stop herself. She didn’t want to stop herself.
They reached the sand and Rose took a seat beside Thomas, unlacing her shoes. A large ship was anchored in the bay and two rowboats ferried passengers across to the wharf where doctors and nurses waited, along with the luggage boys from the autoclaves.
‘Poor souls,’ Thomas said, dusting sand from his hands as they watched the infected disembark and walk, hunched and weak, towards the shower blocks with the aid of nurses. ‘They don’t stand much of a chance.’
‘What will they do with the infected ship?’
‘The decks will be scrubbed with lime and they’ll burn or disinfect cargo that might carry lice eggs. A lot of it will go through the autoclaves.’
When the children were carried off, Rose had to look away. She couldn’t bear to watch. No matter how many times she’d witnessed the boats come in, the children were a sight that still affected her. Instead, she glanced down at the package in Thomas’s hand.
He caught her gaze. ‘I have a surprise for you.’
‘For me?’
‘Yes. I got the idea when we spoke about it some weeks back.’
Rose drew a blank. They’d spoken about many things on this patch of sand. ‘I’m intrigued.’
He smiled and handed the package to her. She accepted it and tore open the paper.
‘I worked with the postmaster to place the order. It wasn’t difficult. If you include the trip to the autoclave for fumigation, the whole process took about two weeks.’
A hard tan corner poked out from one side of the packaging and when she had torn all the paper away, she was left holding a book with a small brass clasp and a velvet pouch that stored a key. A silver fountain pen slipped from the package and into her lap.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked, his eyes hopeful.
‘Is it what I think it is, Thomas?’
‘That depends on what you think it is.’
She breathed the words. ‘A lock-up diary and pen?’
He nodded, a big grin on his face.
‘Oh, Thomas!’ She was ecstatic and breathless and humbled all at once.
‘You love to write, Rose. And because you aren’t sure what you love to write yet, I thought a diary would be a good place to start.’
She stared down at the gift in awe. She had a sudden urge to wrap her arms around him and say thank you in ways that she knew were not allowed. She settled for brushing her fingers against his in the sand and he responded in kind.
‘I love it, Thomas,’ she said.
‘I’m so glad you do.’
‘You really listened to me.’
‘I will always listen to you.’
Rose’s breath caught in her lungs. A longing invaded her body, shooting into the pit of her stomach like a physical ache; a longing for someone she wanted. How cruel the universe was to thrust Thomas into her path knowing she could never have him.
Rose wrapped the diary, key pouch and pen away in the brown paper and tucked it in her lap where prying eyes couldn’t see it.
‘Where do you sleep, Thomas?’ she asked as waves gently lapped the shore.
‘In a bed, like most people.’
She nudged him. ‘No I mean, where are the male staff quarters?’
‘They’re up near third class.’
‘So is that where you sleep? In the male quarters?’
He stared at the water as it sighed in and out. ‘I’m a quiet man, Rose. I don’t care for the antics of the other lads. I don’t sleep in the male quarters.’
‘Where do you sleep?’
He looked at her as though considering something. ‘When is your next shift?’
‘In about thirty minutes.’
‘Would you like to see where I sleep?’
Rose nodded slowly. ‘Okay.’
‘Come then. I will show you, but we must be quick.’
She laced her boots and he helped her to her feet. She tucked the diary under her arm, careful to ensure no part of it was exposed.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked her as they climbed the hill towards third class.
‘I’m all right.’
‘We can stop by your cottage and collect your coat if you like.’
Rose shook her head. The breeze had grown chilly, reaching through her dress and into her bones, but she didn’t want to waste a precious second going via her cottage first.
They passed by the humble, weathered accommodation of third class and the freezing outdoor dining areas of Asiatics, with little Orientals in funny pointed hats eating bowls of rice around a wood fire.
Rose didn’t go up there often. There was no reason to. Her work was in first class and she alternated between there, the female staff quarters and the Wharf Precinct. The conditions in third class and Asiatics were vastly different and it was not lost on her that had she been a passenger coming through quarantine, third class was probably where she would have ended up.
Thomas led her to the male staff cottages that were not unlike the female ones, clumped together, out of sight and surrounded by trees. All was quiet, for the luggage and autoclave boys were busy down at the wharf.
He guided Rose towards the rear of the quarters and through to a narrow trail that curved away into bushland. With no one around to see, he reached for her hand and she gave it to him. With her other hand, she h
itched up her tunic and they walked along the path, their bodies side by side as they headed towards the station’s outer perimeter.
Rose smelt a medicinal smell in the air that she could now associate with tea tree and eucalyptus, and she heard the friendly call of the kookaburra high in the trees. She saw a fat furry animal waddle into the undergrowth, which Thomas explained was a wombat. The path they walked was flanked with native Australian flora that she could easily name by sight—sunshine wattle, banksia, waratahs and carpets of flannel flowers.
She had Thomas to thank for the knowledge; he had taught her much about the local landscape.
They had been on the track for a few minutes when the bushland cleared to an opening on a large cliff with a small cottage set back from the edge. Only metres away was an enormous drop, a view of Port Jackson and a sea of deep blue extending across to the next headland.
‘This is where the boats first come in,’ Thomas explained, still holding her hand. Rose stood close to him, the wind ruffling her dress and hair. ‘They sail in through the Heads, where they’re stopped by health officials. If all passengers look healthy, the boat is allowed to continue on to Sydney, but it takes just one unhealthy passenger and… well, you know the rest.’
‘And the cottage?’ she said, looking behind her.
‘In the 1800s, the coastal officer used to live up here. He would monitor the boats coming in. If he saw one, he would alert the health officials by way of a light signal. He would then walk down the track to the station and inform the hospital staff that a boat was potentially incoming.
‘We’ve advanced a bit since then and there isn’t a need for a coastal watch up here. When the cottage became vacant, I made some repairs and moved in.’
‘The view is breathtaking.’
‘It’s the best of the whole station. Come, I’ll show you inside.’
He led her to a brown painted door and opened it. Rose stepped across the threshold. It was a simple room that looked much like her own—plain hardwood floors, a single bed, neatly made, and a table with a basin, ewer and a towel.
But the windows were different. There wasn’t just one but a whole row of glass panels that drank in the view and filled the room with light. The windows were open and curtains fluttered in a salty breeze.
‘It falls woefully short compared with first-class accommodation, but it’s clean and quiet and I like it up here.’
‘It’s lovely,’ she said, looking around.
He turned to her and reached out, gently removing a strand of hair from her eyes and tucking it behind her ear. ‘You are lovely, Rose.’
Rose’s heart skipped a beat as his fingertips moved down her cheek and caressed her chin, the softest touch she had ever felt. She was breaking a thousand rules just by being there and so was he. They were being reckless and indulgent, and while she knew all this, while her brain screamed for caution, she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t move. Her feet were weighted to the floor as if by cement.
‘Thomas.’
‘I don’t want to get you into trouble. But I can’t help myself.’
‘I feel the same.’
‘When I’m with you, I…’
‘Me too.’
He smiled at her, letting his hand drop slowly from her face. He took a composing breath as though sense were prevailing. ‘Come, my sweet Rose. I’d better get you back.’
‘I don’t want to leave.’
‘But you’ll be late for your shift. And that will surely make Miss Dalton wary.’
She conceded and, slightly giddy, stepped back out into the sunshine with him. They held hands and followed the path, returning to the male staff quarters. Once there, they glanced around to ensure no one was watching before giving each other’s hand a final squeeze.
Rose said goodbye, thanking Thomas again for the diary, and hurrying back to her cottage.
It wasn’t long after they parted that Rose was counting down the minutes until she could see him again. She reached her room and placed her diary, key pouch and pen beneath the petticoats in her drawer. She changed out of her tunic and back into her corset, stockings and uniform. She washed the flush from her cheeks, reset her hair and tried to still the untamed happiness coursing through her.
She still had a lunch service to get through.
‘Rose Porter, you are late,’ Miss Dalton declared as Rose dashed into the kitchen where the parlourmaids, Mrs March and Bessie were gathered in a circle.
‘I apologise, Miss Dalton. Time got away from me.’
‘Indeed! See that it doesn’t happen again.’
Rose found an opening in the circle, smoothed down her uniform and tucked loose strands of her hair away. Bessie eyed her curiously.
‘As I was saying,’ Miss Dalton said, ‘The duchess remains unwell. She has recovered from Spanish Influenza but has developed a secondary bronchial infection and is receiving treatment in the hospital. The duke will continue to await her recovery here in first class.’
‘His isolation period is finished. Is he going to make an appearance in the dining room or are we expected to wait on him hand and foot?’ Mrs March asked with her hands on her round hips.
‘It’s an unusual circumstance. I don’t think we have had royalty come through the station before.’
‘I don’t care if the king himself is here,’ Mrs March argued. ‘We’re not a luxury hotel. We’re a quarantine station. The duke can come to the dining room like everyone else.’
‘I don’t disagree with you, Mrs March. I’m far too busy to be taking him meals and tending to his housekeeping. But,’ she said when Mrs March opened her mouth to interject, ‘I will tolerate it just a little longer in the hope that the duchess recovers soon and they will be on their way.’
Mrs March harrumphed.
‘The duke’s impression of us will no doubt reach the king. We must demonstrate our hospitality.’
‘Hospitality,’ Mrs March muttered, leaving the circle.
‘Now, to other business,’ Miss Dalton said. ‘We’ve had another boat arrive with several suspected cases of Spanish Flu. The hospital, understandably, is in a flap about it. Apparently, there is a new vaccine available in Great Britain, but it will be some time before we receive a batch of it here and probably only limited vials. Please stay away from the unhealthy ground. We do not need an outbreak in first class on top of everything else.’
There was a compliant murmur.
‘Very well, that will be all.’
Bessie returned to the sink to scrub pots as the parlourmaids made their way across to the dining room to set the tables for lunch.
Rose hung back to collect plates.
‘Why were you so late?’ Bessie whispered once Miss Dalton and Mrs March were out of earshot. ‘Did you take a nap?’
‘No, I went for a walk.’
‘Where to?’
‘Just down to the cove to watch the boats come in.’
‘Who with?’
The lie came so smoothly it made Rose cringe on the inside. ‘No one.’
The next morning at six o’clock, Miss Dalton arrived to the kitchen flustered. Her usually sleek brown bob was sticking out at odd angles and not even her pins could hold it in place.
‘I’ve just come from Asiatics,’ she said. ‘Last night they cooked rice in their rooms and almost burnt down the dormitory.’
‘What do you mean they almost burnt down the dormitory?’ Mrs March asked.
‘Exactly what I said. Curtains, beds, a wall and part of the floor went up in flames. They claim it’s too cold to cook outside so last night they cooked inside.’
‘Well, that will have to come out of their rice rations!’ Mrs March said.
‘Perhaps it is too cold,’ Rose said from her spot by the table polishing cutlery. ‘Perhaps they could eat in the third-class dining room until the weather warms again.’
‘Orientals eating in the third-class dining room?’ Mrs March looked outraged. ‘Has this whole place gone mad? Next thing we
know third class will be asking to eat with first class.’
Miss Dalton wrung her hands.
‘What are you going to do about it?’ Mrs March asked, looking warily at her.
‘I’m going to have to inform the superintendent. He’ll be livid. The last thing we need is to be pouring funds into repairing a dormitory when we have a deadly flu on our doorstep.’
‘Let me brew you some tea.’ Mrs March pulled out a chair.
Miss Dalton shook her head. ‘Thank you, Alice, but not right now. It would only give me indigestion. I’ll tend to this first then I’ll come back. Rose?’
Rose looked up. ‘Yes, Miss Dalton?’
‘You will take care of the duke today. See to it that he receives three meals, with morning and afternoon tea in between. You will also need to tend to his room. I’m afraid you won’t get much of a break between shifts.’
‘Yes, Miss Dalton.’
‘Thank you. That will be all, everyone.’
The kitchen resumed its early morning activity. Rose placed the cutlery into a tub and heaved it onto a serving trolley to take across to the dining room.
Miss Dalton appeared beside her. ‘Rose, finish setting the tables then come straight back and take the duke his breakfast. Mrs March will have the tray ready for you.’
‘Yes, Miss Dalton.’
‘And a reminder not to engage in conversation with him. Not that he’s a chatty fellow anyway, but refrain from being a nuisance. He’s a busy man and you must mind your place.’
‘I won’t bother the duke.’
‘Address him as Your Grace. And curtsey. That’s very important.’
Rose nodded.
‘Thank you, Rose. I feel a migraine coming on and it’s only six-thirty in the morning.’
She pinched the spot between her eyebrows then swished out of the kitchen.
While Mrs March was bent over in the larder, her huge bottom filling the doorway, Bessie dried her hands on a dish towel and came to stand beside Rose at the table. ‘You lucky thing!’ she whispered.
‘I wouldn’t call it lucky. I feel rather like I’ve drawn the short straw.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’re all dying with jealousy. You’ll have to tell me everything tonight—what he looks like, what he sounds like, what he smells like.’
The Quarantine Station Page 9
