by Alison Booth
‘Plenty of women travel out here on their own,’ Mrs Richardson said. ‘Think of all those governesses and teachers emigrating to the colonies.’
‘They have jobs to go to,’ persisted Mrs Jacobs. ‘Or they’re engaged to be married.’
‘I have relatives,’ Harriet reminded the company.
‘Miss Cameron is such a resourceful young woman,’ said Mrs Richardson calmly. ‘But perhaps you too would do the same if you were in her situation, Mrs Jacobs. Travel is so broadening, don’t you think? I always tell my girls to seize the opportunity in the lifetime of the opportunity.’ She paused, before adding, ‘And of course necessity is the mother of invention.’
Harriet smiled at her hostess. Mrs Richardson was inclined to bring forth a proverb or two – usually but not invariably apposite – when she wished to guide the conversation from the personal to the general, or perhaps even to the metaphysical.
‘Indeed that is precisely what you will discover when you begin your odyssey south,’ Mrs Richardson continued, now addressing herself to Harriet. ‘It’s amazing what people can put together with a little ingenuity and some scraps of wood and metal. I’m always particularly impressed with the uses to which the simple kerosene tin can be put.’
Harriet laughed.
‘It’s true,’ Mrs Jacobs said. ‘People use them for cooking. They use them for their ablutions. They even make furniture out of them.’
‘They possess a wonderful advantage that is vital in the Territory,’ Mrs Richardson explained. ‘They’re unattractive to termites.’
The ladies now vied with one another in recounting examples they’d seen of the creative use of the kerosene tin. This competition was ultimately won by an account of a chest of drawers that one of the women had encountered at a cattle station in the Barkly Tablelands, where she’d been travelling with her stock and station agent husband. ‘It was constructed out of a rough-sawn timber frame and runners,’ she said. ‘Into which were slotted kerosene tins on their sides with one face cut off. The handles were original, of course.’ She turned to Harriet. ‘Perhaps you haven’t seen these cans? They’re rectangular and come with handles attached to the top. So very useful! Of course, they can come in other shapes too, but the rectangular ones are particularly valuable for construction of the finest furniture.’
In this climate any effort, even of a verbal nature, generated additional heat and several of the ladies began to fan themselves. Another guest, an elderly woman whose name Harriet had not caught when they were introduced, now turned to Harriet. It seemed she had somehow found out about Henry’s family – in particular about his father’s baronetcy – and she took advantage of the general lassitude to ask Harriet if she and Sarah were presented at court. Harriet laughed, as did Mrs Richardson, who knew of James Cameron’s background as well as his politics.
‘My father was against all that stuff.’ Harriet was pleased that, eighteen months after her father’s death, she was able to talk of him with pleasure and pride and to conceal the grief she still felt. ‘We had a very unusual upbringing. He brought us up to see all human beings as equal. And that everyone had the right to education.’
‘A wonderful man,’ said Mrs Richardson. Although she’d never met him, she greatly admired those whose principles coincided with her own. ‘A strong supporter of sexual equality and the right to vote for all.’ She smiled benevolently around at the other women, as if no one could possibly refute the logic of these opinions.
‘Well, there’s universal suffrage for the blacks in South Australia but the Aborigines don’t all turn out for the elections.’ Mrs Jacobs spoke almost triumphantly, as if this were an argument against giving everyone the right to vote.
‘I think it’s more that they don’t know they’re allowed to vote,’ Harriet said.
‘Whatever. My point remains. They don’t know what to do with the vote once they have it.’
‘Anyway, there’s not quite universal suffrage,’ Harriet added. ‘I believe the Chinese don’t have the right to vote. Not to mention women.’
The immediate drop in temperature could have been due to the slight onshore breeze that had sprung up rather than to the concerted intake of breath of most of the women present. Mrs Richardson, never at a loss for words, said quickly, ‘And then there are the other Australian colonies. No votes for women there. Or the Celestials or the Aborigines. But I do think one needs to educate people before giving them the vote. That will come, but not for a long time I am afraid.’
‘The blacks are savages, they’ll never learn,’ said Mrs Jacobs.
Harriet, about to respond, was pre-empted by Mrs Richardson. ‘I don’t think that’s very Christian, dear,’ she said. Her voice was as calm as ever, but a small pink spot had appeared on each of her pale cheeks. ‘All men are equal in the eyes of our Lord.’
‘But not in the eyes of our legal system,’ said the woman who had travelled in the Barkly Tablelands. ‘Just look at how those troopers managed to get acquitted in the Adelaide murder trial when it was as clear as daylight they’d massacred those blacks.’
‘It’s not what you know but who you know,’ Mrs Richardson said. Her tone was slightly vague, her attention having been distracted by two housemaids who had embarked on some game on the Residency verandah rather than on the more important task of clearing away the tea-things.
This sight inspired some of the women to initiate a new subject, the perennial problem of obtaining good household help. Harriet let the conversation wash around her while she watched the harbour water turn a deeper blue. It had been high tide when her ship had steamed into Port Darwin and she’d thought she’d seen the last of Dan Brady.
But she’d been wrong. Only yesterday she’d gone out for a walk in the late afternoon, with two of the Richardson girls, when the air was a little cooler. They’d passed through the street known as Chinatown, a street that was lined with battered-looking buildings constructed from timber and corrugated iron, buildings housing laundries and tailors, a few stores, and a ramshackle edifice that was reputed, according to the Richardson girls, to be an opium den. Harriet loved the exotic scents of joss sticks and spices, and even the smells of dried fish and pungent tobacco appealed to her. A small Chinese child, dressed in a blue jacket and pink trousers, and with a shaven head apart from an almost perfect square in the centre, stumbled off the kerb in front of Harriet, and collapsed into a heap on the road. Harriet leaned forward to pick him up; he was more amused than shaken by his experience.
When she looked up again, she saw Brady not five yards away, lurching towards her. White collarless shirt, black hair and beard, face contorted with hatred: the image from that moonlit night on the Guthrie rose up before her again.
Hoping he was too far gone to notice her, she quickly averted her face. But when he was level with her, he turned and spat. A string of saliva, dark brown from the tobacco he had been chewing, landed on the skirt of her white muslin dress and dribbled down, leaving behind a dark, ugly stain. He gave a short laugh before walking on.
Involved in the antics of the little Chinese boy, the Richardson girls didn’t notice. When Mrs Richardson remarked later on the soiled dress, she wondered if she should explain what had happened with Brady on board the steamer. Yet she didn’t want to worry the Richardsons unnecessarily. She knew that if she told them, they’d become concerned about her welfare and start fussing if she decided to take one of her walks. Better by far to keep quiet about it. That way they wouldn’t worry about her taking unnecessary risks. She wouldn’t tell Sarah either. There was no need to. If people around her started to worry about her safety, Brady would have won. She was going to try to forget all about him. She could look after herself, and in a few days’ time she’d be off with Sarah and Henry to the peace of Dimbulah Downs and the incident would be well and truly behind her.
Harriet would never wear that dress again. D
espite her resolve to forget, she still felt violated and thought it would be impossible to remove the stain completely. Although Mrs Richardson had said that her Chinese laundry man could remove anything, how else could everyone wear so much white in the tropics, Harriet decided not to keep it. After having it laundered, she would give it to one of the housemaids.
Now one of the ladies at the tea table was asking her a question, was repeating a question; it seemed that she was inviting Harriet to attend, with Sarah and Henry, the little cricket match her husband was organising on Sunday. One side would consist of Aboriginal players and she might find that amusing.
‘Is there an oval here?’
‘Of course! It’s one of the first things any self-respecting settlement creates. That and the racecourse, although in some places they’re one and the same.’
‘We’ll be going,’ said Mrs Richardson. ‘It’s such good fun to watch. You can come with us. Mr and Mrs Vincent too, of course, they’ll be here by then.’ At this moment she succeeded in attracting the attention of the maids and, with the removal of the tea-things, the tea party came to a conclusion.
After dinner that evening, Harriet wandered out into the garden through which moonlight poured, turning to shades of indigo and silver the foliage that by daylight had seemed green and gold. The air was heavy and scented with flowers that were unknown to her. Three pearling luggers, solid shapes in the shimmering water, were moored not far from the mangrove-edged shoreline. She sat on one of the chairs on the lawn and listened to the distant shouts from the crew of one of the luggers.
Presently she heard the haunting sound of a didgeridoo, which seemed to be coming from the direction of Mindil Beach, its reverberation so deep that she could almost feel its vibrations. The didgeridoo was joined by a rhythmic beating of what could be wooden sticks. After a time, a mournful voice started to chant, a chanting that continued for some minutes in a restricted range of a couple of notes, until it suddenly rose in a whooshing sound, almost like the cry of some startled animal, before settling back to its original narrow range of sounds, accompanied all the while by the didgeridoo and the beating sticks. The voice was articulating words in a language she could never hope to understand. The chant was almost hypnotic, for it made her want to tap her foot, and then to stand up and move, to stand up and dance.
So she did that after a while; she got up out of her chair and stamped around the lawn. As she danced, she moved out of herself and looked down on herself, a tiny figure on the lush lawn of the Government Residency in this tiny settlement next to the Arafura Sea, on an isolated continent on a planet spinning through space, for she had been well-educated in science and, by nature and nurture, was aware of the insignificance of man.
As she danced and contemplated the vastness of space and the unimportance of man, it didn’t occur to her that she might ever find this frightening.
Chapter 21
‘What on Earth’s That Thing She’s
Got on Her Head?’
Leaning out of the carriage window as the little train inched to the end of the line, Henry was the first to spot Harriet. ‘There she is, Sarah! My God, what on earth’s that thing she’s got on her head?’
‘It’s a hat, Henry,’ Sarah said, leaning out a little further. ‘Almost exactly the same as yours. Isn’t she sensible? It’s the perfect thing for Dimbulah Downs! Now don’t you go spoiling things today, will you?’ As Sarah spoke, she lightly touched his shoulder to take the sting out of her words. Then she called out, ‘Harriet! Harriet! Oh, Henry, why is she looking in the other direction – has she gone blind?’
Henry opened the carriage door. Sarah was on the platform in an instant and reached Harriet just as she turned her way.
‘Hattie, how glad I am to see you again!’
‘Sarah, you look wonderful! I can’t tell you how happy I am. Oh, my heaven, you’re strangling me!’
‘And you’re squeezing my stays, Hattie, they’re digging in terribly! You don’t know your own strength!’
‘You’re not wearing them up here are you?’ Harriet said, laughing and crying at the same time. ‘It’s far too hot for a corset!’
‘But it’s a very special ventilated corset. There are vertical tapes for the whalebone and horizontal bands to hold everything in place. The skin breathes through all the little gaps. Clever, isn’t it?’
‘Sounds like an instrument of torture,’ Harriet said, running her hands down Sarah’s back. ‘But I understand the principle. It feels a bit like split cane!’
‘I found a marvellous little place in Sydney that does them.’ Sarah relinquished her hold of Harriet and watched her husband and sister confront one another. ‘You can kiss your sister-in-law, Henry,’ she said, smiling. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony.’
Although it was achieved slightly clumsily, Sarah decided it was because of the width of Harriet’s hat rather than any residual awkwardness. Harriet had become, if not exactly beautiful, certainly rather striking-looking, with the bone structure of her sun-browned face more pronounced than Sarah had remembered. Although she seemed much thinner, her weight loss suited her and she’d become almost graceful in her movements.
But now Harriet’s expression had become critical as she looked at Henry. Sarah wondered if she was appraising him as an artist might a model and might at any moment whip a sketchbook out of her bag to record her dishevelled brother-in-law, crumpled after a week’s travel. Or perhaps more likely was that her sister was struggling to forget that she’d never really warmed to Henry.
* * *
Harriet thought that Sarah looked pale despite the heat, and even lovelier than she had remembered. Dressed in a beige riding skirt and high-necked white blouse, Sarah raised her hands to push back a curl that was escaping from her straw hat, and Harriet saw that her once-beautiful hands had become rough and dusted with freckles. They looked as if they belonged to a woman years older. Too much sun and harsh soap, Harriet thought. It was all Henry’s doing, bringing her into such a cruel climate. And to make matters worse, there wasn’t even the comfort of a piano at Dimbulah Downs. A harmonica was all very well, but it wasn’t the same as a piano. But at least there was the Louis Lot flute, which Harriet had slipped into her handbag to bring with her to the station.
‘I’m so glad to see you, Hattie,’ Sarah was now saying. ‘It’s been nearly three years and I can’t believe you’re here at last.’
Harriet observed that there was a new serenity about Sarah’s expression. Perhaps all her experiences since leaving home had been kind to her. Her letters had suggested so. Henry might have ruined her hands but maybe he’d brought her happiness.
Sarah continued, ‘We’re going to have such adventures and of course you must stay with us the whole time we are here. Mustn’t she, Henry? We’re not leaving until the build-up and we won’t hear of you going before then.’
‘The build-up?’
‘Yes. To the wet. Dimbulah Downs gets cut off completely by all the rivers flooding their banks. But there’s lots of warning before the rains start – storms and humidity – and the usual manager will be back in October anyway. I suppose it all seems very strange to you, Harriet? I do hope you will like it.’
‘I shall, Sarah. I shall love it.’
‘It’s so exciting to have you here. Isn’t it, Henry?’
Henry was nursing a sweat-stained felt hat in his hands. There was no sign yet of the baldness Harriet had predicted for him when they’d met years before. His fair curls were sun-bleached and worn long enough to cover his slightly protruding ears. Though he had obediently kissed her when instructed by Sarah, and had managed a smile, excitement was absent from his suntanned face; in fact, he appeared rather glum. He doesn’t want me here, Harriet thought.
‘Very good to see you, Harriet. Very good. You will excuse me for a moment, won’t you? I have to find a couple of our stockmen
who’ve come with us, to give them instructions before we head off.’
While Sarah struggled to put away her handkerchief in a pocket that was too small for the purpose, Harriet watched Henry thread his way around the edge of the crowd until he reached an athletic-looking Aboriginal man.
‘That’s Mick he’s talking to,’ Sarah said. ‘He’s going to purchase some more horses while we’re here.’
Remembering the present she’d bought Sarah in Sydney, Harriet began to rummage in her bag. ‘Here’s the flute you wanted, Sarah,’ she said, finding it at last at the very bottom although she’d put it in at the top before leaving the Residency.
‘Thank you so much, Harriet. Henry will be so pleased.’
‘Is it for Henry?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought it was for you.’
‘No, I have a harmonica. Henry wanted the flute.’
‘I see.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘I could only send a short telegram about it. Dimbulah Downs is several days’ ride from the nearest telegraph station so we had to send one of the stockmen with the message. Otherwise you mightn’t have heard from us at all before you’d left Sydney. Just as we didn’t hear from you before you left London.’
‘I did send you a telegram then, as I said in my letter.’
‘We didn’t get it, so there you are. I’m so sorry we weren’t there in Sydney to meet you, but let’s not go over all that again. We’re here to meet you now, or rather you to meet us. What a surprise that the Guthrie got in a bit early! Oh Hattie, I’m so very, very happy you’re here at last.’
