The Philosopher's Daughters

by Alison Booth

  She pulled the trigger. Her hand jerked back with the impact at the same instant that the bullet bit into the top of the tin furthest to the left. It teetered for an instant and then toppled to the ground, leaking its contents on to the dusty red earth, darkening it like a stain of blood. I aimed slightly too high, she thought. The next tin went, the bullet biting into it slightly lower. Now I’m in control, she thought, each shot will be a quarter of an inch lower than the next. A perfect aim, a perfect shot, a perfect fall. And the next tin, and the next, until they all lay on the earth, rolling slightly, for the surface of the ground was not entirely even, until at last all was still.

  I’m good at this, she thought, and I’ll become even better. This round her hand had been steady, no trembling to spoil her aim, even her palms were no longer sweating.

  ‘You have to keep practising,’ Henry had said when he’d given her the revolver. And she would; there’d be no stopping her now she’d learned that she had a good eye.

  Chapter 19

  ‘You Have a Very Forgiving Nature’

  Early afternoon, the sea smooth with a gentle swell. In the distance Harriet could distinguish a dark blur along the horizon, and rising above this were several plumes of smoke. It was Arnhem Land, the captain had said over lunch, and the Guthrie was making such excellent progress after leaving Thursday Island that they’d arrive at Port Darwin a couple of days earlier than scheduled.

  Leaning on the ship’s rail, Harriet thought she was alone until she heard a deep voice right next to her. It was Dan Brady, with his tanned face and long nose pointing this way and that, as if it had been broken a few times. A fighter or a footballer, or perhaps he’d been thrown a few times from a horse. Though he’d joined the ship at Moreton Bay and she’d spoken to him a couple of times, this had always been in a group of other passengers. She’d liked him; he’d seemed friendly without being pushy.

  ‘I saw you sitting on deck this morning with your sketchbook,’ he said. ‘I stood right behind you and looked at what you were doing. You didn’t even notice me.’

  ‘Didn’t I? You’re too big to be easily overlooked,’ she said, laughing. Big but lithe, she thought, with eyes the colour of the midday sky and a black beard so long it covered the top of his shirt front.

  ‘I do cast a bit of shade, people tell me.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t see you. I get rather absorbed once I start sketching.’

  ‘Bit of an artist, eh?’ He began to comb his beard with his fingers.

  ‘Not a professional one.’

  ‘Thought not.’ He finished combing his beard and said, ‘Good drawing, but.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Of the men playing cards.’

  ‘It was just a quick sketch,’ she said.

  ‘None of the great artists have been women.’

  His remark seemed so pat he could have been reciting something he’d been taught at school. She decided to treat it as a joke rather than an act of aggression. After forcing out a little tinkle of laughter – four notes of the scale were all she could manage – she said, ‘Well, I do it because I’m driven to. I don’t expect to make my living out of it. What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a drover. You can tell by me hands.’ He spread them out. Though strong and well-shaped, they were sunburnt and work-hardened too. He continued, ‘Spent most of me time in western Queensland but I’m heading to the Territory to find work there. Thought of going overland but then decided to take a passage on this steamer. I’ve got some mates in the Territory. That’s the thing about droving, you meet people on the road.’

  ‘Not many, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s why you become mates with the few you meet.’

  ‘Do you find it a lonely life?’

  ‘Me wife left me a few months ago. Buggered off, excuse the language, when I was droving.’ He began to chew at a wad of tobacco.

  ‘That’s tough.’

  ‘Tough being rejected, is that what you mean?’

  ‘I meant tough losing someone you love.’

  ‘Yes. And I’ll never forgive her.’ He spat viciously into the ocean.

  There was a moment’s pause. She toyed with the notion of saying that until you forgive you can’t move on, but dismissed that as patronising. Instead she said, ‘I lost my father some months ago.’

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘My mother died when I was young.’

  ‘I see. What’s a good looker like you doing travelling on your own?’

  ‘Not quite on my own,’ she said, inwardly registering the rare compliment. ‘I’m visiting family.’

  ‘Going back home after?’

  ‘Yes.

  ‘You’ll find yourself a good man up north. Not a bad place to look.’

  ‘Is that so? But I’m not looking.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s what they all say. Engaged, are you?’

  ‘No.’ When he edged closer, she wished she’d manufactured a fiancé. She could have told Brady that, like her new friend Annie McArthur, she was travelling to Port Darwin to meet up with him.

  ‘You look a bit like me wife,’ he said, ‘but a bit younger.’

  His chewing became more energetic and she wondered how she should respond to this remark. After a short pause she simply said, ‘Do I?’

  ‘She didn’t draw, but. She worked as a housemaid.’

  ‘I see. Do you have children?’

  ‘No children. Me wife had a baby but it wasn’t mine.’

  The ringing of the lunch bell terminated their conversation.

  * * *

  Several afternoons later, Harriet sat on deck next to Annie McArthur. From the lower deck of the steamer came the raucous laughter of a group of men playing cards and drinking.

  ‘Who’s that man down there?’ Annie had red hair and pallid skin that was better suited to the mists of the Scottish Highlands than the relentless sun of the tropics. ‘The one with black hair dealing the cards.’

  ‘That’s Dan Brady.’

  ‘I’ve noticed him following you around,’ Annie said. ‘Has he made a pass at you?’

  ‘No. He’s a bit lonely, that’s all.’ Although he stood too close to her each time they spoke, Harriet thought this meant nothing. Some people had no idea of social distance. They would either stand too far away, as if they couldn’t trust themselves – or you – not to leap into an embrace, or too close, as Brady did. She added, ‘He says I look like his wife.’

  ‘He’s married?’ Annie said. ‘What on earth is he doing trailing after you then?’

  ‘He’s not doing that. Anyway, his wife ran off.’

  ‘You can’t really run off, can you?’ Annie said, smiling. ‘There’s nowhere much to run to, apart from our stuffy little cabins. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask if you’ve been to Port Darwin before.’

  ‘No, but I’ve read a bit about it.’

  ‘It’s hot, humid and horrid. The three H’s. Well, my fiancé didn’t actually write horrid, but that’s what I’m expecting… It’s a real hardship post, but the pay’s much better than down south so that’s why we’re going to be spending at least two years up there. After that he’ll be looking for promotion to a better job in Adelaide.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll stay on. Some people claim that there’s something about the tropics that gets to you. The smells, the air, the light. The fact that it’s so different to everything you’ve ever known before.’

  Annie laughed. ‘Maybe you’ll be staying on then.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve got rather fond of the Sydney light.’ Harriet thought of the artists’ camp at Balmoral, not far from Mosman where she’d stayed with the Morgans. She would love to be part of that group.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Harriet d
eveloped a headache not long after lunch. It was her own fault, she thought, as she lay in her cabin, with a cold facecloth over her eyes. Too much standing out on deck without a hat, staring at the sparkling sea. Her temples were throbbing and she felt as if needles were piercing the back of her skull. The smallest movement made it worse.

  When she surfaced again it was nearly ten o’clock at night. After almost eight hours’ sleep she felt quite refreshed, although the cabin seemed claustrophobic, and her clothes were sweat-soaked. She washed and changed before going on deck. The sea was calm and the salty air heavy on her skin, but cooler now, a gentle breeze taking the heat out of it. The moonlight was so bright she thought she could distinguish the shoreline but perhaps it was simply a band of cloud.

  Men’s voices wafted up from the lower deck, with the occasional gust of laughter, as they continued with their everlasting card games. Harriet rested her hands on the ship’s rail and watched the flickering ladder of reflected moonlight lying across the ocean’s surface. Above her the stars seemed so close she might reach up and touch them.

  For a brief moment she felt as if she was being squeezed between the immensity of the ocean and the weight of the heavens. Over two years had passed since she had last seen Sarah. Would she have changed much? And would Harriet like Henry any better? She would have to try. Apart from the fact that Henry had carried her sister off to a harsh and inhospitable world 9000 miles from London, there was nothing much else wrong with him, or at least not that she knew of. She grimaced at the thought that quite possibly Henry was dreading her arrival. The trouble with family being far away was that you couldn’t just drop in on them for a day, a week, a month. Three months was what she had planned. That was a long time to stay.

  Now she became aware that she was not alone. Footsteps sounded from the other side of the deck. She kept very still. Perhaps the person wouldn’t come her way, or if they did, they mightn’t see her; she didn’t want to be noticed if it was one of those raucous men. The footsteps halted.

  ‘Relax, it’s only me.’ The voice was unmistakably Dan Brady’s. ‘I hoped I’d catch you on deck. Have you been avoiding me?’

  ‘No, I’ve been sleeping off a headache.’ She felt pleased to see him; it had been half a day since she’d spoken to anyone.

  ‘Don’t want you running off on me as well.’

  For an instant she wondered if there was something sinister in those words but dismissed that thought. He was simply a lonely man who was being friendly. Although she couldn’t see his eyes, his collarless white shirt was a gleaming contrast to his black beard. It was good to think that someone was looking out for her.

  ‘No one else but us around. The fellers are all on the lower deck.’

  At this moment she felt her shoulders firmly gripped and Brady pulled her towards him. Pinning her against the railing, he bent and kissed her on the mouth, pushing his tongue that tasted of tobacco and whisky into her mouth. Pulling her head back, she tried to shove him away, but he had her pinioned against the railing. ‘Don’t,’ she said, her voice catching. ‘I don’t want to kiss you.’

  ‘Didn’t look that way to me.’

  She wriggled free and turned to face him. She stepped back a pace. He followed. He lifted one hand and put it over her face and with the other hand pushed her back, wedging her against the railing with his bent knee to her right and his free arm to her left. Heart racing, she gave him a hard heave, but she couldn’t budge him. She wriggled her head against his hand and managed to bite one of his fingers. When he yelped and removed his hand, she began to shout. Though it was unlikely that anyone would hear her over the sounds of the engine, she carried on yelling until Brady gave her cheek a stinging slap. The shock of it stopped her scream and she saw the gleam of his teeth as he smiled. Then he was leaning against her, his hands cupping her face and bending down to kiss her.

  ‘Let her go!’ Annie stood a few yards away, her flaming hair blanched by the moonlight.

  Brady let his hands slip from Harriet’s face and turned to face Annie. It would be easy for him to tip her over the railing and into the ocean and blame it on a sudden swell. Heart thumping, Harriet hooked her arm through one of the life-rings hanging nearby and put out a foot. Brady stumbled on it.

  ‘Stupid fucking bitch,’ he said, his face contorted as he struggled to stay upright. ‘You were asking for it.’

  ‘Perhaps we’re not as stupid as you think.’ Harriet’s voice was hoarse from shouting and her palms slippery with sweat as she gripped the life-ring with both hands.

  ‘Doncha bet on it,’ he said, stepping towards her with his hand raised.

  She wondered if he would he hit her again. Tightening her grip on the life-ring, she turned her face to one side to avoid the blow. His image stayed with her: that gleaming white shirt and black spade-shaped beard, and above it all that searing look of hatred. Seconds passed. Raising one arm to protect her face, she stole a look. Brady had moved back a few paces. His hand lowered, he was turning away; he was shambling along the deck towards the staircase.

  Annie put an arm around Harriet’s shoulders and smoothed her hair. Harriet pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed her mouth with it. She had badly misjudged this man. Her legs began to tremble, and she sat down abruptly on the deck.

  Annie knelt beside her. ‘It’s lucky I came along and heard you shout. We’re going to have to report this to the captain.’ Enfolding Harriet in her arms, she said, ‘Was there a reason you were out on deck? You hadn’t arranged to meet him, had you?’

  ‘No, no. I just felt I needed a breath of fresh air before going to sleep.’

  ‘So did I. The cabins are stifling. And Miss Foster’s started having her meals brought into the cabin and, honestly Harriet, she hasn’t had a wash for days. She’s stuck in her bunk like a body in a coffin, and she says she’s not getting up until we get into port, apart from to use the toilet. We’ll go and see the captain once you’ve recovered. You don’t want to feel you can’t leave your cabin at night.’

  ‘I don’t want a fuss, Annie. Brady only kissed me.’

  ‘But you know he was planning more.’

  ‘I don’t want to think about it.’ Harriet couldn’t prevent her voice trembling. The last thing she wanted was a fuss on arrival.

  ‘Why not? He assaulted you.’

  ‘I don’t want everything spoilt when we get there.’

  ‘You have a very forgiving nature.’

  * * *

  For the rest of the voyage, Harriet avoided Brady and he kept out of her way. During this time, she interrogated her actions, wondering if she had led him on. It was true that she was inexperienced, and yet searching for ambiguities in her behaviour towards him she could find none. Maybe he was unstable, or her physical resemblance to his wife made him think she was his for the asking. She hated the sense she’d had that he’d enjoyed pushing her around, had enjoyed slapping her. She hated that she didn’t have the physical strength to fight him off. She hated the thought that this gave him power over her.

  It was high tide when the ship arrived at Port Darwin. Harriet stood on deck with Annie as they steamed past the low mangrove-clad shoreline that gradually rose to cliffs perhaps sixty feet high, and then into a bay between two headlands. And there was the town of Palmerston, a smattering of white roofs amongst dense tropical foliage. How lovely it all was, and in a couple of days she would see Sarah and Henry.

  As they were preparing to disembark, she felt a quick tap on her shoulder. Turning, she faced Dan Brady. ‘You watch out for yourself, Miss Cameron,’ he hissed. ‘You bloody stuck-up bitch.’

  ‘Take no notice,’ Annie said, putting an arm around Harriet. ‘The Territory’s a big place. You won’t see him again.’

  Chapter 20

  A Little Ingenuity and Some Scraps of Wood

  The air was pressing down on Harriet like a
heavy blanket. She couldn’t imagine being here in the wet season. Even now, in July in the so-called dry season, she found the heat enervating. She surreptitiously wiped her sweating palms on her skirt and glanced at the harbour, visible below the lawns of the Government Residency. She hadn’t been prepared for the startling rise and fall of the Port Darwin tides, a daily reminder of the volatility of the tropics. She loved to watch the tide turn: the water could rise five feet in a few seconds and if you were close enough you could hear a sucking sound followed by a roaring as the water pushed forward in a vast wave.

  Then she looked at the other women seated in cane chairs on the Residency lawn. They were gazing at her expectantly. Suddenly she felt a little like a creature in a zoo whose sole purpose was to be inspected. In due course she might also be interrogated, although not by Mrs Richardson, wife of the Resident. Harriet had learned in the two days since the Guthrie had arrived early at Port Darwin that her hosts, the Richardsons, would never ask her questions of a personal nature.

  ‘Well, I just don’t know how you did it,’ said Mrs Jacobs, putting her cup and saucer on an occasional table and settling herself more comfortably in her chair. A large woman in early middle-age, Mrs Jacobs’ complexion had been made brighter by the indiscriminate application of rouge, or perhaps this was simply the after-effects of gulping down several scalding cups of tea. She added, ‘Fancy travelling all the way from England to Sydney on your own and then coming up here barely two months later!’

  To Harriet, Mrs Jacobs’ words sounded like an accusation. She didn’t feel able to offer Mrs Jacobs further justification for her presence here. She had already told the party that she was travelling to see her sister and brother-in-law, who would be arriving at the railway station the next day. She took a deep breath and looked down at the grass. Even if she were to try, she suspected vindication would be impossible.