Above the Starry Frame

by Helen Townsend

  ‘It’s the talk of the bar every night,’ said William.

  ‘There’s precious little sense talked in any bar,’ said Robert. ‘That’s the trouble with this democracy. Those hot under the collar get heard the most.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a fine thing to have a say in our country?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Robert, knocking his pipe. ‘I don’t wish to vote. I find myself swaying this way and that. It should be a more thoughtful business.’

  William was astounded at this casual attitude to the business of democracy, but those who had not been present in the great year of 1854 were often less passionate. And in one sense, he thought, he agreed with Robert. He hated the passions of the mob, the hysterical hatred that had been whipped up against Humffray and Cathie. When Robert left for Italian Gully, William smoked another pipe in an attempt to calm his own passions. He thought how he and Humffray had discussed the principles of politics, how Humffray had stuck to those principles through Eureka, and how he had stuck by the diggers. He could not see how there could be corruption in the man.

  The thing, he decided, was about friendship, and he must take action.

  That night, after the bar closed, he worked for another hour, telling Danny to go off early. He scrubbed the tables and the bar, swept the floor, cleaned the glasses and emptied the ash cans. He did it all fiercely, for his emotions were still high. Then he went up to Bridget in the parlour to propose a course of action. She lay back on the chaise longue, looking very tired.

  ‘I get so tired, Billy,’ she said. ‘I rest every afternoon and I’m still tired. I fear I’m getting old.’

  ‘You’re not yet thirty,’ he said. He twisted her curls round his finger and kissed her, but she did not respond. He thought she was still a little cool with him after their argument.

  ‘I’ll be going to bed.’ She stood up and he took her hand.

  ‘I want to ask you something.’

  ‘You can always ask.’

  ‘I want you to agree.’

  ‘You have to ask me first. I’m not the sort of wife that agrees with everything her dear husband might suggest.’ She pulled her hand away and stood in the doorway, her arms folded.

  ‘This is most important to me.’

  ‘Something to do with John Humffray, I’d guess.’

  ‘I want to invite him to dine here at the hotel on Saturday night. And I want us to greet him and his missus when they arrive and farewell them in the same way. In friendship.’

  ‘It may not be good for business.’ She was sick of the Humffray affair.

  ‘Some things are more important than business,’ he said. ‘It is not that I agree with the way he voted, but that I do not believe him corrupt. We may have a difference of opinion, but our friendship stands.’

  Bridget thought for a moment. She liked it that this friendship stood higher than his commercial instincts. ‘You are right. I think we should invite him. But you should ask him, before he comes, why he voted that way, for your own satisfaction.’

  When William knew Humffray was back from Melbourne, he went down to his house. John Humffray greeted him cordially, but it was clear he was agitated. They sat down together, while Mrs Humffray boiled the kettle for tea.

  ‘Why did you vote that way, John?’ asked William. ‘I am your friend, you know that, but I need you to tell me.’

  ‘I voted that way because that was the only way the bill would pass. It was not the most satisfactory outcome, but the thing could have gone on forever. And moreover, the government may have fallen and that was not a desirable outcome. These rumours, which are spread by my enemies, are unjust, as you would know, for I have always represented the voters of this city with the utmost of integrity. But we cannot always achieve exactly the outcome we may desire.’ Humffray continued this way through the cup of tea, and though William followed his thought, it was not quite what he wanted, being more in the way of speechifying.

  As William walked back to the hotel, he wished that the exchange had been more straightforward. He supposed that in some part of his mind, he did wonder whether there was corruption. The simple assurance he had sought from Humffray had not been given in a way to entirely put his mind at rest, but he thought he must proceed out of friendship and his instinctive feeling that Humffray was honest.

  Billy Irwin and his missus were seen to greet John Humffray and his missus when they arrived at the John O’Groats the following Saturday night. They were seen to dine at the same table, a fine meal being provided and little William Joseph being brought in to be admired and petted. And there was considerable cheer and conversation. Later, Billy Irwin and Humffray had a pipe in the men’s smoking room, and while that room emptied of others rather quickly, Billy Irwin took his time talking to Humffray. Then Billy and his missus were seen to farewell the Humffrays most publicly and cordially. There was no mistaking Billy Irwin’s regard for John Basson Humffray.

  ‘I can tell you, he is not corrupt,’ Bridget said, as she brushed her hair before they went to bed.

  ‘You see,’ said William, ‘you talk to John and you see what a good man he is.’

  ‘It weren’t that at all,’ said Bridget. ‘When you left us to have your smoko, I was talking to Mrs Humffray and noticing very many things about her. You see, her dress was nice, but I could see it was old and carefully mended. And her shoes and his boots likewise. And when I talked to her, she knew the price of a loaf of bread here and the cost in Melbourne, which are details I don’t trouble about. And she told me that they don’t need such a big house as they have, which by my reckoning is quite small. And there were many little details that led me to believe that while John Humffray may have made a mistake to vote as he did, he did not have the wit to make it pay. Which, for all the trouble it’s caused him, perhaps he should have.’

  William smiled to himself. Bridget, with her practical assessment of the situation, had given him the assurance he had sought. He hugged her close to him and kissed her.

  ‘I do not know what I would be without you,’ he told her. ‘You help me steer the right course.’ He was going to say more, but she was already too cognisant of his frailties. When they had dined with the Humffrays, he had noticed Mrs Humffray’s great deference to John. He wondered whether it came about through John being a person to admire and look up to, or whether the lack of it in his marriage came from Bridget not being a person with any great deference in her nature. But when she looked sideways at him and smiled, it seemed a small thing. As she lay in his arms, he teased her about it. He would not have wanted a wife like John’s wife. It may well have been more peaceable and easy, but there would have been less in it.

  As Bridget predicted, the bar trade in the John O’Groats suffered further from the dinner with the Humffrays. On occasion, men took the time to tell William just what they thought of him. However, when Bridget put her view of Humffray’s position when she worked in the bar, some sentiment flowed back towards John Humffray.

  But William felt that Main Street represented the past, and much as that past meant to him, he was now looking forward in life.

  CHAPTER 12

  11th January, 1863

  Knockaleery

  My Dear Daughter, Mrs Bridget Irwin,

  As Miss Norris leaves here for your part tomorrow, I must avail myself of the opportunity and to request you will do me the kindness of paying her all the attention you can, and should you require her services, you will be conferring a great boon on me, for she is a most trustworthy girl, and could be very beneficial to you in many ways.

  She has been known by me from her childhood, and I always considered her a prudent and well doing girl, and so far, as such, she has carried herself through life.

  So by complying with my request, I will always feel grateful and consider myself under a multiplicity of obligations.

  I am

  My Dear Daughter

  Your ever Loving Father

  Joseph Irwin

  * * *

 
; April 1863

  My dear brother and sister and nephew,

  I long for a leter from you. . .

  I have to inform you that Letticiah Johstant came home about 2 weeks ago from Sydney. She married 9 years ago to man of name Banfield and she has no children and came on visit to see her mother. They live out at Parramattay and kept a dairy. She saved a lot of money. I seen her at Church this last 3 Sabaths and she had 3 seperete changes of silk dresses on her.

  Give my love to Miss Norris. I hope she gets on well.

  I remain ever affectionate Sister to Death Eliza Irwin, though absent ever dear

  * * *

  Eliza had not thought it was in her nature to be jealous, but she felt very jealous indeed of Jane Norris, and she could not shake herself of the feeling. She prayed and prayed, and thought and thought, but she was forever finding fault with Jane Norris, counting up her deficiencies, which she knew were neither more nor less than any other person’s. She felt ashamed of herself, for it seemed to her that Jane Norris probably knew of her feelings and, even worse, that she knew the reasons for them. When Jane Norris had admired the wild roses growing near the byre, Eliza had not offered her some as she would have any other person. When Jane Norris admired the fancy stitch in her knitting, she did not offer to show her how it was done, and there was a long silence between them as they waited for Father to come back to the house, for Father was helping Jane Norris with her emigration. Eliza was knitting to send some socks to William, to be taken with Jane Norris. She knew there was nothing bad about Jane Norris, but it seemed so wrong that she was going to William and his missus, taking Eliza’s knitting, to live in the new hotel, which was to be called the Provincial, and to know his family and her dear nephew whose photo they had sent.

  And Jane Norris was only twenty years old, with her entire life ahead of her, and she would be married and have children of her own and she would see all the fine things in the city of Ballarat. She would see the wide main street with the trees planted down the centre, and the lake and the botanical gardens, and she would cross the ocean to do so, and she was doing it all with the blessing of Eliza’s own father and her brother Joseph; and those on the other side were waiting to receive her with open arms.

  And in addition, Jane Norris was particularly pretty, and spoke easily, and smiled demurely, and could read and write at least as well as Eliza and had some grasp of the geography of the world, which had disappeared from Eliza’s mind, since it was a long time indeed since she had been to school. And in every particular that Eliza could think of and could imagine, Jane Norris seemed luckier and superior in accomplishments, with only the exception of the fancy knitting stitch Eliza was putting into William’s socks.

  ‘I will not like her if you do not like her,’ said young James as he and Eliza walked the path along the river to the church at Kildress.

  ‘Oh James,’ she said. She wondered if she talked rather too much to him, but he was always ready to listen to her. ‘She is going to my dear brother William. She will see the things I may never see.’

  ‘And she is very pretty,’ James said. ‘Uncle Joseph said that.’

  ‘He had no call saying so.’

  ‘He did though. But I am glad you’re staying here. Grandmother and Grandfather are very kind to me but they may die soon – they say so themselves. If you went, I would have no-one at all.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Eliza. They walked across the little bridge together, and paused for a moment to watch the full stream run across the rocks. But the church bells were ringing, so they couldn’t lose themselves in the way the stream flowed, which was what they liked to do.

  ‘I think you are jealous of her,’ said James, as they climbed the hill up to the church.

  ‘That’s my sin,’ said Eliza.

  ‘It isn’t such a bad one,’ said James.

  ‘Ohhh.’ Eliza stopped and put her hand over her heart. ‘It’s bad for me. It keeps me awake at night. It gives me shame and loathing of myself.’

  James took her hand. ‘You ain’t that bad, Aunt Eliza. You never pushed her in the bog like Charlie McGowan did to Johnny Johnston. You didn’t steal her cows, like that man stole Grandfather’s brown calf. You didn’t blaspheme about her. You’re not so bad at all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Eliza.

  As she walked up to church with James, she couldn’t stop herself smiling, for she had a picture in her head of pushing Jane Norris into the bog.

  Jane Norris was not tired from the railway journey. Jane Norris was not ill-nourished from poor food on the ship. Jane Norris did not complain of the colonial heat. Jane Norris did not look as poorly dressed as many Irish girls did when they first arrived. Jane Norris sat at the kitchen table and gave the news from home, told in such a way that it brought tears to William’s eyes.

  ‘Oh your mam, she’s not well, and she can’t go about much at all, but she was knitting, knitting, knitting, along with sister Eliza, to see these things were finished for you. She looks at the picture of little William Joseph and she thinks he’s like his mammy, but like you around the eyes. And she’s religious as ever, so Eliza and young James walks to church, but your father gets out the pony cart and takes your mother there, no matter what the weather. And your father puts a bag of fleece in the cart so she won’t feel the bumps on the Cookstown road. I never seen a man and wife so devoted.’

  It was eleven o’clock in the evening, but Jane Norris wasn’t flagging. She looked as fresh as when she arrived. Bridget looked at her and at Billy together and felt a stab of jealousy. Jane Norris, apart from her parcel of socks and comforters, which were finely done but reminded Bridget of nothing so much as the poverty of Ireland, had brought something she could never offer Billy, which was an intimacy with his home, a sense of his family. Jane, out of all those who had come from Ireland, had a knack of description and a sense of family that seemed perfectly tuned to Billy’s need of such things.

  ‘And the new house,’ Jane went on. ‘They’re so happy there. Yes, it’s not so big, but they like it so much because it’s comfortable and the roof is well thatched. And your daddy, he still drives a hard bargain, but he seems to have got the better of Mr Edward McCrea at last. He says it’s all due to you and your brother and sisters in America. Oh, how they long to hear from you. And they read your letters time and again, and the papers, so they told me all they know of Ballarat, which they think is a wonderful place. And they are so happy for you to be married to Mrs Irwin, for she writes them such a fine letter, with all the news.’ Jane Norris lowered her eyes. ‘They do wonder though, that even having such a fine wife with a good hand, that you write less than before, for they wait for your letters too.

  ‘And brother Joseph, oh, he looks much older than yourself, but very kind to me, taking me all the way to Liverpool and warning me of all the things that might go wrong aboard the ship and in colonial life. And his son, William, he is turning into quite a man now, and talks of his Uncle William.’ She smiled. ‘There are so many William Irwins, I’ll forget which is which.’

  ‘And my sister Eliza?’ asked William.

  ‘Oh, she is much taken up with Robert’s child James. She dotes on him. But I think it was hard for her, myself coming here, for Eliza herself would love to emigrate. She often talks of you.’

  Bridget excused herself on the grounds of tiredness, but in truth she did not wish to hear any more of what Jane Norris had to say, or see how attentively Billy listened to her. And though she was tired, she could not sleep that night until Billy came to bed and put his arms around her.

  Bridget understood that with those coming from Ireland, you helped those coming after you. She had helped John Geddes, even though she disliked him. She had a great fondness for Joseph Brown, whom she had no trouble helping at all. There were many others that came, some outstaying their welcome, others keen to embark on their new life in the colony with a small amount of guidance or money, which William gave generously. But she did not want Jane Norris, who b
rought her a Bible, ever so carefully inscribed from Eliza.

  Bridget kept the Bible by her bedside to please William and she wrote to Eliza thanking her for the Bible with its kind inscription, for she knew in Ireland such a thing would have cost Eliza dear. She did not, however, read the Bible. Whenever she glanced at it, she thought of Jane Norris, who was younger than her, still with a slim girlish figure. Jane Norris took notice of Billy and what he said and what he did. Naturally, that was pleasing to Billy. Jane would iron a shirt or fix up dinner for a guest that came in late. She was by far the best maid they had ever had, as well as the most fetching and attractive.

  ‘I’ll show you how to pluck a chook,’ Bridget heard Billy say to Jane. ‘I cannot remember Mother or Father ever doing such a thing, for we kept them laying until they weren’t fit to eat, on account of being too old.’

  Bridget watched as he demonstrated the art of chook gutting and chook plucking, and saw that Jane could do it perfectly, almost immediately, which Bridget could not herself, for she hated the business of plucking chooks. And it wasn’t that she envied Jane the accomplishment, but the way Billy showed her, being close to her, smiling at her, and her smiling back at him, and him laughing with her, like he had never laughed with a maid ever before.

  Bridget did not think Jane Norris would seduce William; she was too good a girl for that. She was too sensible, for where would it get her? Nor did she think William would exploit the adoration Jane felt for him. But she did not want to live day by day, week by week, month by month, in comparison with Jane Norris. Jane Norris made her feel her age, made her look her age. Without Jane Norris, her own humour, her quick comebacks, her flashes of temper and her laugh made William feel she was the only woman in the world. By herself, she was mistress of this small world of the hotel, effortlessly and decisively. Next to Jane Norris she knew she might appear cynical, hard, unforgiving, even lazy. For in the afternoons she still liked to read, and at night, she was tired, while Jane Norris was ferociously full of vigour. It could not, she decided, go on like this.