The Light Horseman's Daughter

by David Crookes

  Emma went straight to Crestview from Mrs Shapiro’s. It was a bright summer morning. As she slowly walked through the pleasant tree-lined streets of Armidale, her anger turned to despair as she pondered the future. But now everything was out in the open, she found she was thinking clearly in spite of the morning’s unpalatable events.

  With almost forty pounds in the brown leather wallet under her mattress, her concerns were not for the immediate future. There was more than enough money to last until well after the baby was born. What frightened her was what might happen when the money eventually ran out. The thought of giving her baby up never crossed her mind. She clung to the hope that if the worst came to the worst, Stephen would appear and somehow everything would be all right.

  Suddenly nauseous, Emma stopped and steadied herself against a tree. The baby moved inside her. She breathed deeply, waiting in the shade until the feeling passed. The baby moved again and Emma gently massaged her stomach as if to reassure it she was there and all was well.

  But Emma knew all wasn’t well and her anger began to rise again. This time she was angry with herself. Perhaps Mrs Shapiro was right, she thought. Perhaps she was irresponsible. At the very least she was naive to think her baby wouldn’t be taken away from her. Of course it could. And it would be if she had no means to support it.

  Once again she hadn’t faced up to facts. She had refused to face reality, trusting that things would somehow turn out alright. Just like when she thought there would be money left over for a fresh start after the sale at Yallambee. Emma’s mind went back to the day in Gordon Braithewaite’s office when she said that she would never make that mistake again.

  As she continued on towards Crestview everything became clear to her. She had no right to risk her baby’s security on whether or not she had a job, or whether or not Stephen might suddenly appear. And whatever the reason for his absence, he still had a right to know the child existed. And she had no right to let her pride prevent her from telling him at the expense of the child’s well-being.

  By the time she walked up the steps at the entranceway to Crestview, her mind was firmly made up. She had decided that under no circumstances would she leave her baby’s future to chance. He or she deserved more than that. She would go to Sydney and tell Stephen she was expecting his child. And she would leave immediately.

  *

  The long journey from Armidale was tiring but pleasant and at times there had been other passengers to talk to. But now, with light rain falling from a dull, whitish-grey sky as the train eased slowly through Sydney’s inner suburbs towards Central Station, Emma suddenly felt very alone.

  It was early afternoon on the last Friday before Christmas. Emma sat in a grubby compartment, peering through a rain-streaked window at the tiny cluttered backyards of Newtown and the depressing grey railway yards of Eveleigh. So far, she had seen nothing of the bright, radiant city displayed on picture postcards and in glossy magazines. She leaned back in her seat, dejected and lonely, and watched the blemished face of Sydney pass by.

  Emma picked up her handbag from the seat beside her and took out a slip of paper Erin Potts had given her. She read the address on it. Miss Potts had said the hostel for girls on Castlereagh Street was run by a religious mission and had long provided good and reasonably priced accommodation for young ladies arriving in Sydney from the country.

  A short time later the train jerked to a standstill at Central Station. Emma stepped out onto the platform, suitcase in hand. The huge station was teeming with people. Emma pushed her way through the crowds towards the exit and the Eddy Avenue tram stop for the short ride to the hostel.

  Inside the old building, Emma mentioned Miss Potts’ name to a friendly woman who seemed to be in charge. The graying matron smiled warmly and introduced herself as Lil.

  ‘How long will you be staying with us?’ she asked as she showed Emma into a spotlessly clean little room which rented for three shilling a night or ten shillings per week.

  ‘Oh, I’m not really sure yet,’ Emma said.

  ‘Girls are allowed to stay here until they have found work if they are job hunting, but only up to a maximum of three weeks in any event,’ Lil said. She glanced at Emma’s stomach and smiled. ‘But I don’t suppose you’ll be looking for work, will you?’

  ‘No, I’ve just come to Sydney to visit.’

  Lil turned to leave. ‘After you’ve freshened up, you may want to come downstairs for a while. If you’re peckish, we have a nice little cafe where you can get a good hot meal for a shilling. And you’ll find plenty of company here if you want it. There are always lots of girls coming and going all the time, most of them very nice young ladies. But always be sure to lock your room when you go out.

  After Lil had gone, Emma lay down on the bed staring up at the ceiling. On the train, she had worked out exactly how she would handle things when she arrived. She would bathe, then put on the special pale blue dress she had made, then take a taxi to Stephen’s law firm in Pitt Street. It had all seemed quite sensible then. Now, on a rainy afternoon in Sydney, and with Stephen so close at hand, her well-thought-out plans somehow seemed ridiculous. She decided it would be better to telephone him first.

  Emma got up from the bed, opened her suitcase and put on the blue dress. Then she opened her father’s brown leather wallet containing her money and the few important papers she possessed. Amongst the papers she found the business card Stephen had given her the morning he had left Essex Downs. She put the card into her pocket and pushed the wallet deep under the mattress of the bed.

  The light rain had stopped when Emma walked down to the telephone kiosk on the corner of Castlereagh Street. Moments later, her mouth went dry when a businesslike voice announced:

  ‘Fairchild and Associates.’

  ‘May I speak to Mr Stephen Fairchild?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the switch-board operator said. ‘All the firm’s partners are away until after the holiday season. Would you like to leave a message?’

  ‘No thank you,’ Emma replied, then added quickly, ‘this is a personal call, perhaps you could give me Mr Fairchild’s telephone number at home.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that,’ the voice said. ‘I have very strict instructions not to give it out under any circumstances.

  *

  Prospect House, the Fairchild family’s large Mediterranean-style home on Vaucluse Bay commanded a stunning view of Sydney Harbor. On the last Saturday before Christmas, the Fairchild’s always held a garden party at their beautiful home in what was invariably perfect summer weather. What started out many years earlier as a friendly festive season gathering of a few well-heeled neighbors had, over time, developed into an almost who’s who of the Sydney professional and commercial establishment.

  Over the years it had become a tradition for Leonard Fairchild and his wife to journey from Port Macquarie to Sydney, not only for the garden-party, but also to spend the entire festive season with his younger brother and his family. The holiday was an annual event Leonard looked forward to. The sojourn gave him an opportunity to mix informally with his contemporaries in the business world and also allowed Leonard and his wife, who had a childless marriage, to spend Christmas in a family atmosphere.

  It was now mid-morning and a steady stream of guests were arriving at Prospect House. They were received by a maid at the front door, then led through the house to the terrace overlooking the harbor. There they were greeted by Mrs Fairchild with morning tea. Later in the day, in keeping with custom, a seafood buffet would be served by caterers from nearby Rose Bay.

  It was usual for the ladies to remain chatting on the terrace sipping tea and gossiping, while their husbands, normally rather aloof and reserved men, would gradually wander off across the lawn like errant schoolboys to join a crowd standing around a table at the water’s edge. It was here Fenton Fairchild dispensed his celebrated and potent Christmas punch and his friends would set aside their professional roles and laugh and joke in the spirit of Christmas.


  One of the most vocal men in the crowd was William Bowes-Scott, the short, overweight chairman of Bowes-Scott department stores. As the laughter died down after he had delivered yet another of his ribald jokes, Bowes-Scott put an arm over Leonard’s shoulder.

  ‘How are your retail interests performing, Leonard?’ he asked.

  ‘As well as can be expected, I suppose, in these tough times, William,’ Fairchild replied. ‘There’s no money at the bottom end of the trade with so much unemployment and the lack of confidence among consumers, but sales in higher-priced merchandise is holding up quite well.’

  ‘It’s about the same with us,’ Bowes-Scott said. He took a fresh glass of punch from Fenton Fairchild who was standing within reach. ‘Makes it all the more important that the stock at the upper end of the market is of the finest quality. These days, even people with money still won’t waste it on inferior merchandise. We only bring in the very best from our European suppliers.’

  ‘Speaking of Europe, ’ Leonard said, anxious not to let his holiday mood be dampened by the state of the economy, ‘where are your lovely daughter and my lucky nephew now?’

  ‘Oh, the honeymooners will have left London for the continent by now, I expect. They’re spending Christmas in Rome, as a guest of my friend, Vittorio Conti.’

  Leonard’s face registered a blank expression.

  ‘You know, Leonard,’ Bowes-Scott took a large swallow of punch, ‘Conti—Italy’s largest clothing manufacturer. He’s one of our best suppliers. Our stores are full of his stuff. Very influential man in Europe, has the ear of Benito Mussolini, you know.’

  ‘Oh, that Conti,’ Leonard said and tried hard to look suitably impressed.

  Bowes-Scott took a sip of punch and moved on, making his rounds. Leonard stepped to his brother’s side ready to assist with the strong demand for punch.

  A maid came out of the house and hurried across the lawn. She whispered in Fenton Fairchild’s ear. The lawyer listened as he replenished an empty glass. For a moment he looked puzzled, then he said: ‘No, no Jane, quite impossible. I can’t see anyone now. Besides, I don’t know any young lady named McKenna.’

  ‘But sir, you did ask me to let you know about anyone enquiring after Mr Stephen,’ the maid persisted.

  ‘Yes, of course, Jane. You did right. But I’m afraid I can’t see anyone now.’

  Fairchild clearly recalled the instructions he had issued to his household and office staff immediately after the armory incident. He had wanted to be aware of any interest in Stephen by the police or anyone else. But now he assumed the whole armory affair was in the past.

  Leonard, who had heard the brief exchange hurried after the maid as she walked back to the house. The name McKenna had rung a bell. Wasn’t it the name of the girl Stephen had taken to Port Macquarie when he and his wife had been away earlier in the year? Surely this was the young lady his housekeeper had said was so nice, and whom she suspected, Stephen was in love with.

  Leonard’s relationship with Stephen had always been more like two close friends rather than an uncle and nephew. He knew Stephen would never have taken a girl to Port Macquarie if she hadn’t been special to him. No one had been more surprised than Leonard when Stephen had so suddenly married Eleanor. At the wedding, Leonard had sensed something was wrong, but for once Stephen hadn’t confided in him.

  The maid had almost reached the house when Leonard caught up with her.

  ‘Jane. This young lady. Did she tell you her Christian name?’

  ‘She said it was Emma, sir.’

  Leonard’s eyes widened just a little. ‘And where is she now?’

  ‘I asked her to wait in Mr Fairchild’s study, sir. I was just going to tell her no one is able to see her.’

  ‘It’s all right, Jane,’ Leonard said. ‘I’ll go to the study and tell her.’

  Emma turned her eyes away from the garden party outside on the lawn. It was then she saw the framed photograph at the end of the big desk in the study. It was a wedding photograph. When she took a closer look her heart almost stopped. The man beside the elegant bride in the photograph was Stephen.

  Emma was still looking at the photograph when the study door behind her opened. She turned her head. A tall elderly man stood in the doorway. He smiled warmly.

  ‘Good morning, Miss McKenna. I am Leonard Fairchild, Stephen’s uncle. We haven’t met, but you were once a guest at my home in Port Macquarie.’ Leonard crossed the room to Emma, his hand outstretched. ‘I’m so pleased to have the pleasure of meeting you now. But I’m afraid Stephen is overseas.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know, Mr Fairchild,’ Emma said curtly, conscious of his eyes on her swollen stomach. ‘And I can assure you, I would not have dreamt of visiting your home in Port Macquarie had I known Stephen was a married man.’ She glanced once again at the photograph. ‘And I realize now, of course, that Stephen must have known you and your wife were away at the time.’

  Without another word Emma walked briskly out of the study. For a few moments Leonard was lost for words. Emma was almost out of the house before he hurried after her.

  ‘Please, Miss McKenna. Please wait…’

  But Emma didn’t look back. She hurried out to her waiting cab and climbed inside, leaving Leonard standing on the steps watching the green and white taxi drive away.

  Emma said nothing to the taxi driver all the way back to the hostel. He tried making conversation once or twice but soon gave up. She just stared out of the side window, her eyes seeing nothing, as once again she was forced to ponder her future.

  When the taxi stopped in Castlereagh Street, the driver said the round trip fare was nineteen shillings. Emma was staggered at the amount. She opened her purse and gave the driver the pound note she had taken earlier from the wallet under the mattress, then hurried inside the hostel without waiting for change.

  As she climbed the stairs to her little room, Emma wondered if anything else in her life could possibly go wrong. When she reached her door she was shocked to find it was wide open. With her heart pounding, she rushed to the bed and groped around under the mattress. When she felt nothing, she tore it right off the bed.

  But the brown leather wallet containing everything she had in the world was gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Emma found Lil in the hostel cafe taking afternoon tea.

  ‘Nothing like this has happened here in a long time, my dear,’ Lil said sympathetically when Emma told her what had happened. ‘Was everything you had in the wallet?’

  ‘Everything but three shillings,’ Emma said grimly.

  ‘What will you do now, my dear? Go back to Armidale straight way?’

  ‘There’s nothing for me there,’ Emma replied sadly. ‘I got the sack from my job because the child I’m carrying is illegitimate. I came to Sydney to see the baby’s father.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It turned out that he’s married.’

  ‘The bastard. What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t see him. He’s overseas.’

  Lil reached across the table and took Emma’s hand. ‘I think under the circumstances, you’ll have to go back to Armidale,’ she said gently.

  ‘I only bought a one-way railway ticket’.

  ‘Perhaps, Erin Potts can help.’

  ‘She’s already helping enough looking after my mother,’ Emma said despondently. ‘I can’t ask anything more’.

  ‘But what will you do?’

  ‘If I must ask for charity, I’ll go to the authorities.’

  ‘They won’t help. There’s no susso for single girls, just single men, and they have to travel the countryside to get it.’

  ‘But I’ll tell them my money was stolen. Surely they’ll do something.’

  ‘They won’t do much, Emma,’ Lil said. ‘You don’t even live in Sydney. The best you could hope for is a railway warrant to get you back to Armidale.’

  ‘I won’t go,’ Emma said flatly. ‘I just won’t go.’

  �
��I’m afraid they’ll make you, dear.’

  ‘No one can make me do anything, not any more,’ Emma said. She spoke very calmly, staring into the table top. Some of the anxiety had gone from her eyes. ‘Over the past year, the more I’ve tried, the harder things have become. The world is a cruel place, Lil. It’s not a place I want to live in anymore, and it’s no world to bring a little baby into.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Lil asked warily. She had seen the same look of resigned desperation on the faces of disillusioned country girls before, after their hopes and dreams of life in the big city had crashed around them. ‘You’re not thinking of doing anything silly are you?’

  Emma smiled bravely. ‘Don’t you worry about me, Lil.’

  ‘How can I not worry, with you talking like that.’ Lil stood up. ‘Look. Go on up to your room and lie down for a while. I’ll come up later. Let me make a few enquiries. I can’t promise anything, but perhaps the hostel may be able to help in some way.’

  *

  Since the day of the violent confrontation in the Domain, Molly Gallimore had been lying low. The story of the riot, and photographs of the mounted policeman with his face covered in blood had made the front pages of the newspapers. She knew every policeman in Sydney would be looking for what the one reporter described as: ‘a vindictive, grey-haired female communist.’

  Molly was something of a local identity in Redfern. Since the death of her husband nearly two years earlier, she had lived alone, her two sons having fallen on a blood-stained beach at Gallipoli in 1915. Now, with no one but herself to care for, and with so much poverty and heartbreak around her, she devoted herself to the community and its disadvantaged people. She lived in a two-bedroom worker’s cottage in a neglected terrace, just a stone’s throw from Redfern Park. It was one of the few cottages in the terrace that was occupied, most of the others having stood empty since their tenants had lost their jobs and been evicted for non-payment of rent. But Molly had been more fortunate. The letting agents, who managed the properties for a Melbourne landlord, let her live rent free in return for keeping an eye on empty dwellings and doing light maintenance work.