Ghost Gum Valley

by Johanna Nicholls

  Marmaduke was the first to bowl. Isabel felt an odd flash of pride at the sight of him hurtling barefoot towards the pitch as he sent down the opening ball at a speed that flew past the batsman’s wildly swinging bat, narrowly missed the wicket and was caught by the wicket-keeper crouched behind it. The fact their captain was almost bowled out for a duck on the first ball of the match drew a murmur of surprised approval from the soldier spectators.

  Two runs later when the same bell-topper batsman was again facing him, Marmaduke bowled him out on the last ball of the over. There was a roar of delight from every Currency Lad on the field and a jubilant cry of ‘’Owzat?’ Several lads leapt like frogs at Marmaduke and slapped him on the back exuberantly, one tugging his long hair in a gesture of triumph.

  Isabel turned to the officers’ wives and said politely, ‘That demon bowler is my fiancé. Not bad cricket for a Colonial barbarian, n’est-ce pas?’

  Their haughty reaction to Isabel’s face reminded her she wore a carnival mask – an unthinkable fashion for a lady by day.

  I must appear to be a woman of the demi-monde.

  That idea was quite appealing.

  The match was clearly not going to be won without a fight. Bold cricket was played by both teams, but Isabel could see that the high-energy tactics of the Currency team, their irrepressible humour, risk-taking, extraordinary feats of barefoot running and athletic leaps in the air to take impossible catches, combined to swung victory within their sights by the time they broke for tea.

  Rather than risk being snubbed again by the officers’ wives, Isabel declined to take tea and crossed to join Thomas, who was standing beside the carriage.

  ‘He’s not bad, is he!’ she admitted.

  ‘That’s nothing. I reckon you’re in for a rare treat,’ Thomas said proudly.

  When the Currency Lads went in to bat Marmaduke proved Thomas’s prediction correct. Isabel grew increasingly excited as Marmaduke swung his bat wildly and sent balls regularly flying to the boundary for fours or over the heads of the spectator soldiers for sixes.

  Victory was now clearly in the grasp of the Currency team. At stumps the military officers, true gentleman one and all, warmly shook hands with them. They had never questioned one decision given against them by the umpire – their fellow officer.

  ‘God, I’ve got a raging thirst.’ Marmaduke turned to his team as they climbed back into the saddle to ride home. ‘Anyone care to join us for a few ales? I’m headed for the Parramatta road turn-off and the Surry Hills.’

  Two of the team who had arrived on foot climbed up beside Thomas on the box seat to get a lift to the other end of town. Even before they had passed through the barrack gates they ‘rubbed salt in the wound’ by singing the ‘doggerel’ lyrics of a song to celebrate their triumph.

  Isabel had no trouble picking out the refrain at the end of each verse when Marmaduke lustily joined them to sing, ‘Keep Off the Grass says Corporal Desperado!’

  When his two teammates climbed down off the carriage at the end of George Street before the Toll Gate and headed off to a shanty, Marmaduke turned to Isabel with that infuriating half-smile she had learnt to distrust.

  He thinks he’s so clever. As if he’s just laid a trap for me.

  ‘If you’re as thirsty as I am, care to try a watering hole that stocks the best grog in Sydney Town? You can bet your sweet life you don’t have anything like this where you come from.’ He added casually, ‘That’s if you’re game to try it?’

  ‘Anything you can do, Marmaduke, I can do,’ Isabel said coolly. Her mouth was so dry she was ready to cross the Blue Mountains on foot if there was something to drink on the other side.

  After they by-passed the gothic Toll Gate the road veered into a wide track that took on a new name – the Parramatta road. A milestone marked the miles to Parramatta, the village Marmaduke explained had grown the crops that saved the little Colony from starvation in its first years after the arrival of the First Fleet.

  ‘Parramatta’s now a prosperous community. Our second Government House is the governor’s summer residence and favoured far more than the original one in Sydney.’

  ‘Parramatta. What a lovely word. Aboriginal, I presume?’

  ‘Yeah. The translation I like best is “The Place Where Eels Sit Down” – where eels breed.’ He added slyly, ‘Ever eaten eel?’

  Isabel stopped herself in time from a derogatory reference to eels being considered a delicacy by the lower orders. She was relieved that they were approaching their destination. A painted sign swung over the doorway of an inn, showing a black dog standing on three legs, his lame leg curled under him.

  ‘The Sign of the Lame Dog. Step inside those doors tonight, Isabel, and you’ll be making history,’ Marmaduke said enigmatically.

  As Thomas swung the carriage around, a bearded drunk wearing a cabbage-tree hat weaved into the direct path of the horses, hurling abuse at Thomas who desperately swerved the horses to avoid running him down.

  Marmaduke helped Isabel alight and told Thomas to wait.

  The moment she passed through the doors of the noisy, smoke-filled tavern Isabel felt she had been set down on the far side of the moon. They were surrounded by densely packed bodies fighting their way to the bar, each man cursing and jostling to gain a wide enough berth to avoid spilling his grog.

  To Isabel these rough-hewn faces were like caricatures in a lampoon. Their pugnacious features, shaggy hair and matted beards made them look as if they had all sprung from the same tribe. The women ranged from bedraggled drudges to flashily dressed girls in gaudy colours with wild flowing tresses. Not a bonnet or glove in sight; and every man kept his hat or cap fixed on his head.

  ‘I’ll get us a drink. Stay put and don’t wander off!’ Marmaduke warned as he shouldered his way through the crowd.

  Isabel flattened herself against the wall, trying to look as if she was a regular customer but was soon aware that she was the object of hostility from two bosomy young girls. One had flaming red hair that matched her dress and the other, a strong-jawed brunette, was decked with strings of baubles.

  A brutish man, wearing a top hat shaped like a concertina and a waistcoat over his bare tattooed chest, gave Isabel an encouraging leer of approval.

  ‘Ain’t seen you here before, sweetheart,’ he said to Isabel and the words instantly enflamed the two women staring at her.

  Isabel was relieved when Marmaduke manoeuvred his way back to her and handed her a mug that she immediately drank down to quench her thirst.

  ‘Here have mine, too,’ he said dryly. ‘I had a quick one at the bar. It isn’t vintage wine but at least it’s wet. What do you think of the place?’

  The heat and smell of unwashed bodies made her feel faint but she was determined not to buckle. This is Marmaduke’s idea of a test. But what on earth is he trying to prove?

  ‘Quite interesting. Do you come here often?’

  ‘Regular as clockwork. It’s one of Garnet Gamble’s shanties, so at least I know the grog isn’t lethal moonshine. During his climb to fame my father cheated drunks but now he’s hell-bent on respectability his grog’s the real stuff. That’s why this shanty’s packed to the rafters.’

  Isabel felt uneasy when the tattooed man drew Marmaduke aside and locked him in a confidential chat.

  On Marmaduke’s return to her side, she asked, ‘What did that awful creature want?’

  ‘Don’t worry, he just wanted to buy you. Doggo is a small-time pander, a whoremonger. He used to train fighting dogs, now he runs a couple of street girls. He mistook me for your procurer. Wanted to add you to his team. I told him you were my “wife for the night”,’ Marmaduke added nonchalantly, ‘but to come back here tomorrow night and try his luck.’

  Isabel was glad her Venetian mask concealed her horror. She forced herself to sound equally offhand. ‘How much should I charge him?’

  Marmaduke raised one eyebrow. ‘Same as you charge me.’

  Aware that Doggo and his two girls
were moving towards them with intent, Marmaduke hooked his arm around Isabel’s waist and steered her through the crowd, giving a shrill whistle to Thomas as a signal to keep them in sight.

  Shepherded through a network of paths in the Surry Hills, Isabel found herself swallowed up in a colourful kaleidoscope of Saturday night action. No matter how ragged the spectators, they all seemed to find money to wager on the contests engaged all around them. Even children had farthing and ha’penny coins to bet. She shuddered at the brutality of the fights between bloodied bare-knuckle pugilists, local fighters pitted against the celebrated Hawkesbury champions. But at least men had a choice. Isabel flinched with horror at the cruel ‘mills’, the contests between animals. Cock-fighting drew raucous cheers from the spectators as the trained roosters fitted with deadly spurs fought to the death. When a large bulldog almost devoured a brave little kelpie in the ring, the crowd booed even though most had wagered on the bulldog.

  ‘That’s typical Currency sportsmanship,’ Marmaduke explained. ‘As competitors we play dirty to win, but when it comes to spectator sports we tend to root for the underdog.’

  The wine made Isabel bold enough to ask, ‘Did you play dirty when you fought your duel?’

  He threw her a sharp look. ‘Gentlemen duelists play by a code of honour. I’m no gentleman.’

  I wish I hadn’t said that. If he killed a man in a duel, my flippant words must have felt like stabbing a finger in a wound that never heals.

  There was no time to temper her manner. Isabel saw they were now closely tailed by Doggo and his flash girls. The tattooed bruiser pushed his fist into Marmaduke’s chest, spoiling for a fight.

  The flaming redhead issued Isabel an open challenge. ‘Keep your paws off our Doggo. Go tout your business down at The Rocks, where ye belong!’

  The lantern-jawed brunette made a vain grab for Isabel’s mask at the same moment the redhead gave Isabel a shove that sent her tottering backwards. Regaining her poise, Isabel pointed at the tattooed Doggo and summoned up the most vulgar phrase she knew.

  ‘Him? I wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole!’

  Insulted, both girls roared and lunged at Isabel. Marmaduke and the pander broke off their negotiations and stepped in to block them.

  Isabel had never heard language as virulent as the obscenities the two girls yelled in her face. She tried to stand her ground, but was relieved when Marmaduke exchanged words with Doggo and they nodded agreement.

  The pander jerked his thumb at his girls and they backed off.

  Marmaduke casually informed her, ‘This is his territory. Don’t worry, there’s an easy way to allow him to save face. Gambling is the Colony’s religion. I’ve staked you to race against Doggo’s working girl.’

  ‘You’re crazy. I couldn’t run five yards in these slippers!’

  ‘You won’t have to. Turn around. Quick smart.’

  Confused, Isabel turned her back on him but looked warily over her shoulder. ‘Why?’

  ‘Shut up and open your legs.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing!’

  ‘Open your legs, soldier, that’s an order!’ Marmaduke roared.

  Isabel was all ready to swing around and slap him when she felt an appalling sensation, as though some hairy dog was pushing between her legs. She was airborne! Her skirts were hiked up to her thighs, her legs flew out in front of her and her vision rocked sideways. Hoisted up in the air she was mounted astride Marmaduke’s shoulders above the heads of the crowd. Marmaduke grabbed hold of her left ankle and her right hand to steady her balance.

  Isabel saw that the busty redhead was now locked in argument with her tattooed pander. The brunette was the lightweight of the two girls so when Doggo chose her to be his jockey she scrambled up onto his shoulders and yelled in triumph.

  A young bloke in a red shirt, the self-appointed referee, announced that the starting point of the race was a barrow of cabbages, the route twice around the block to finish at the cabbage starting point. They were fast drawing a fresh crowd and a street urchin was quick to cash in on a way to make money.

  ‘Place your bets! Who’s gunna win, our whore Maggie or the Pommie whore?’

  Isabel hissed in Marmaduke’s ear, ‘Does he mean me?’

  ‘Yeah, soldier, but only for tonight. Tomorrow you’ll be respectable again.’

  The red-shirted referee stuck two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle.

  The race was on. Marmaduke was first off the starting line but Doggo ran close at his heels. The crowd scrambled behind them, cheering, booing – and cat-calling when Marmaduke half-stumbled, causing Isabel to tilt dangerously close to toppling over. On instinct she grabbed his hair like the reins of a horse.

  Appalled by the public display of her bare legs, Isabel was equally disconcerted by the warmth of Marmaduke’s neck between her thighs – it felt like riding bareback on a two-legged horse. Marmaduke kept up a sharp pace but as they passed the brick walls of the Albion brewery his words came in a series of laboured grunts.

  ‘I’ve put money on you, soldier. Are they gaining on us?’

  Isabel looked back. Doggo and his jockey, Maggie, were fast gaining ground.

  ‘Faster, faster!’ She rode Marmaduke’s shoulders in a surge of excitement.

  The two ‘horses’ drew level fifty yards short of the finishing line. The brunette jockey screamed out a gaol-house oath and swung her beads like a lasso at her target – Isabel’s head. Isabel had no chance to duck the blow.

  ‘Shame on you! That’s not cricket!’ Isabel’s English County accent rang out in outrage and the crowd roared approval. In sight of the cabbage cart at the finishing line, Isabel urged Marmaduke onwards.

  ‘Come on! Faster! We can beat those cheats, I know we can!’

  With a final spurt of energy Marmaduke pulled ahead to win by ten yards.

  Isabel was furious at her rival’s lack of British fair play but to her surprise she saw Maggie the whore was hugging her pander and laughing. The crowd seemed to be applauding all four of them. There were no losers.

  The redheaded whore descended on Isabel and threw her arms around her.

  ‘You’re all right, girl. Come and have a grog with us.’

  The two whores linked arms with Isabel and were heading her gaily in the direction of the Sign of the Lame Dog, when Marmaduke came to the rescue.

  He folded an arm around each whore’s waist and explained he had booked the Pommie girl for the night, a transaction they understood and accepted.

  Isabel was relieved to see Thomas manoeuvring the carriage to reach them.

  Marmaduke acknowledged the crowd’s whistles with a royal wave of the hand then bundled Isabel into the carriage. Slumped on the opposite seat, he eyed her curiously.

  ‘What do you think of a Colonial Saturday’s entertainment? Pretty uncouth, eh?’

  So that’s his game. He’s trying to force me to jilt him! Two can play at that!

  ‘Your Currency cricket team won fair and square – even if playing barefoot is not the done thing. But you would not have won tonight’s race without me!’ She added coolly, ‘How much money did you win on me?’

  Marmaduke raised one eyebrow but she saw the laughter in his eyes.

  She pulled off her mask and confronted him, black eye and all.

  ‘Well, did I pass your test?’

  Marmaduke gave a slow nod of approval. ‘You came through with flying colours, soldier.’

  Chapter 14

  The morning sunlight made Marmaduke wince as he approached the Sign of the Red Cross Inn, where he had hired a private room to take luncheon with Edwin. He was also irritated by the raucous sounds from the saloon where drunken voices bellowed out a sea shanty in conflicting keys.

  Marmaduke needed his friend’s cool legal mind to balance his own confusion about the events of the past few days, including Isabel’s honest revelation about her lost virtue. Marmaduke prided himself that being jilted as a youth had armed him against falling for any fema
le’s lies. He was confident Isabel had told him the truth, yet instinct warned him there was more to her story.

  He was distracted by the arrival of Maeve carrying a tray bearing the inn’s best wineglasses and the bottle of Hunter River claret he had ordered.

  ‘This will be fine, Maeve. I’m pleased the publican is supporting the Colony’s fledgling wine industry.’

  ‘Thank ye, sir. I take it you’ll be dining with your friend – the barrister gentleman?’

  ‘Edwin Bentleigh, yes indeed, Maeve. But frankly, I’m pleased to have arrived ahead of him. There’s something I wish to say to you in confidence. My friend greatly respects and admires you but he is exceeding shy by nature. I know he has it in mind to ask you...’

  Maeve’s smile did not falter but he saw from the subtle way her eyelashes fluttered it was a sign of wariness not flirtation. He pressed on quickly to put her at ease.

  ‘My friend would like to get to know you better.’

  Maeve stood with arms akimbo, eyes blazing. ‘So, you’re asking me to take him to bed, are ye? Well I’ll be giving it to ye straight, Mister Gamble. I’m here to serve your meal, not to service you, your mate or any other fine gentlemen, no matter what the publican might have been telling ye. The old pimp’s been pressuring me to make myself available to gentlemen after closing time and pocket his cut. I have to dress like a tart to keep me place working here but I’m pretty damned choosey about the man I take to me bed!’

  Marmaduke was appalled that his attempt to act as go-between had misfired so badly.

  ‘Please, Maeve, you’ve mistaken my meaning! I know Edwin so well—’

  ‘What on earth’s going on here, Marmaduke?’

  Edwin stood in the doorway. Framed in a shaft of sunlight from the window he assumed an heroic stature.

  Marmaduke collapsed in his chair. ‘God help me, I should never have got out of bed this morning. I swear on my life, Edwin, I simply tried to convey to Maeve that you admire her but that you’re a bit shy. I swear I had nothing but good intentions.’

  ‘With which your particular road to Hell is well paved!’ Edwin said crisply. He turned to Maeve and bowed to her. ‘I came here today with the express purpose of requesting your permission to escort you next Sunday to whichever is the church of your persuasion.’