‘Bridget, you’re so ill. What if I don’t know how to care for you?’
‘I tell you, Billy, I want you near me. It’s enough that she fusses all day, but whenever I wake, she’s staring at me, just waiting for me to die. I won’t have her at night, I won’t. I get too frightened. I need you.’
She looked small now, and so thin that her bones stuck out around her throat. The lack of flesh gave her face a great intensity, her eyes emphasised by the dark circles under them. Sometimes he thought she looked like an old woman, sometimes like a little child.
His nights with her were a great comfort to William, because he felt otherwise useless to her in her pain and despair. She would wake in the night, and he would lift her gently onto the pillows to help her breathe better, and give her laudanum to help her sleep, and hold her in his arms. Sometimes, she woke quite lucid, and he’d read to her, poetry mostly, from the old book of Robbie Burns they’d enjoyed in the days of the rush. But sometimes she would wake angry and defiant.
‘Why must I die? Why me? Why should I die, with my two young children never to know a mother’s care. It’s wrong, Billy, it’s wrong.’
‘Do you want to see the Reverend Henderson?’ he asked tentatively.
‘No,’ she said.
‘Bridget. . .’
‘No, he’ll tell me it’s for the best and it’s the Lord’s mercy. I can tell you exactly what he’ll be saying to me, Billy Irwin, word for word. I have no wish to hear it at all. If I choose to, I can say it to meself. The good Lord knows my measure and my life, whereas the Reverend Henderson would like to see me brought down by his piety. These reverend gentlemen know rather less of life than they might think.’
William was shocked, but he said nothing. ‘Do you want me to read from the Bible?’
‘You’ve never done such a thing in my life and now’s no time to start. I’ve read it myself. I been thinking of Lord Jesus alone in the wilderness forty days and forty nights, and that’s how I feel meself. I want you to bring little Willy in the morning, for I miss him so.’ And she curled into his arms and cried and fell asleep again.
William was for the most part useless at hotel work. Danny Phelan did everything he was asked and more. He was happy to do so, for he had a high regard for Billy Irwin and for his missus too. Robert’s Birdie came and took little Willy out to the shops with Mary Jane, for the child fretted badly for his mother. Bridget’s mother came, but Bridget firmly sent her away. There was the wet nurse, the maid, the doctors all there. Other publicans helped Danny Phelan order the liquor and manage the cook, and the Masons discreetly offered financial help, which was not needed, for William’s shares were paying fine dividends. For the first time ever, he did not care at all. He was beside himself as Bridget declined, fading each day. He would have done anything to be able to reach out and pull her back into the world.
‘Look, Mother,’ said Eliza. ‘There’s little William Joseph and his mother. She’s such a pretty woman. And here’s Ann Jane and her little ones. And Mary and her David, who has a hundred pound in the bank, and their brood. I do wish William had put himself in the picture, though his missus said he looks the same as the first day he ever arrived on the goldfield. I hope his missus is better.’
Eliza had put the photographs of the family in America and the family in Australia where Mother might see them, although they were hard to see in the late afternoon when the light got low. But Mother liked them there, tokens of her absent children, for she was forever reciting where they had gone, who they had married and what children they had, and calling on Eliza to remember which child she had forgotten when they did not count out right.
‘Oh I know William cannot come home, for it’s such a long way and he has his business and his family, but oh, how I would have loved to see his face once more. I hope he still walks in the way of the Lord and brings his children up well. He was always such a religious child himself.’
‘Oh yes, he was,’ said Eliza. ‘And I am sure he’ll be most careful with the child’s upbringing, in the way that he himself was reared up. I don’t think you need fret about it.’ For although it had never seemed in her memory that William had been a particularly religious child, she did not like to disagree or even discuss such things with Mother, on account of Mother now getting quite savage.
‘Is what Joseph says of Robert true?’ asked Mother. ‘For I cannot believe a child of my own would turn to the Roman Catholic religion, endangering his own salvation.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Eliza, ‘for William has written nothing of it.’ She thought that William not writing was an indication that indeed Robert had turned to the Roman Catholic religion, for otherwise surely William would have denied it. But she did not wish to disturb Mother’s little group of photographs or trouble her mind, which ruminated and fretted and ran with troublesome thoughts. Mother suffered, for whatever they tried her pains could not be taken away. She bore it patiently for the most, but at times she spoke out angrily against Eliza.
Eliza saw James standing in the shadows of the door. ‘I have to do the milking, Mother. The cows is mooing.’
‘Oh get James to do it; he’s big enough. I need you to stoke this fire, for I’m most short of breath again.’
Eliza sighed, for she longed to get out of the house, even to the cows in the byre. She sometimes dreamed these days of running down the lane, going to the bog with its open sky, or taking the path across the paddock to Tattykeel. She missed her times with James and talking to him of nothing but the shapes in the clouds, or the way the stream ran, but it seemed that Mother was nervous to be alone and got sharp if James wanted Eliza. She often read the Bible to Mother and she herself felt comfort from it, for it spoke of suffering.
‘I’ll get the bucket for James,’ she said, and ran out, before Mother could stop her. James was frightened of Mother now, for she could get angry with him too. He longed for Eliza, she could see it in his eyes. Sometimes, in the half-light of early morning, he would creep into her bed and talk to her in a whisper, and tell her of where the hens were laying and which of the sheep were lambing. She thanked God for James, for his love was a great comfort to her.
Now, she stood with James and looked at the clouds racing fast across the sky.
‘Like I used to race with brother William, across to Tattykeel,’ she said. ‘Oh, to think of him, there on the other side of the world. Life is so strange.’
‘I sometimes hear you, talking to him in the night,’ James said.
‘That I do,’ she said, ‘for he sometimes comes to me. Up the stairs he creeps. I see him in his fine clothes and he shows me round his fine hotel. It would be rude not to talk back to him, would it not?’
‘It would, Aunt Eliza.’
‘Eliza, the kettle’s spitting. Come back in.’
Eliza and James exchanged a quick smile and went their separate ways.
Bridget woke one morning quite calm. She had slept without crying and pain, and she felt quite well, even though she knew that she was not. She looked down at William, sleeping beside her. He had been so faithful to her through this. With her pain, she was often short with him, but he was always there. He loved her, she knew. He loved her in a way that most men did not love their wives. He had never tired of her, never fallen out of love, and she was grateful for that, for she could not have borne that, especially now. She had loved him too, very much indeed, although maybe not quite as much as he had loved her. It was not entirely her way to love like that, she knew.
She looked across at her book of Robinson Crusoe, which was on top of her Bible and her other books, and it seemed strange to her that she would never open Crusoe again, for she had loved the book for reasons she did not quite understand. In some way, her life here in this colony was as if she had landed on a desert island. Not deserted, but new and strange, where you could try to live the way you liked. And while she had never really achieved that dream, she had done many things. She had loved Billy, and her children. She had
read much, and thought much, but there had been so much more she wanted. She could not think of it, because the pain of leaving it all was too great.
Even as he slept, William looked tired, and she put her hand out and stroked his face. His eyes opened at once, full of yearning and pain.
‘Hush,’ she said. ‘I want you to do some things.’
He sat up quickly. ‘What things?’
‘The maid told me Jane Norris was here last week, and was looking for a situation in the town. I want you to employ her – to care for the children. You may keep the wet nurse till little Johnny is strong, but I want Jane Norris to come and be in charge. I wish to talk to her.’
‘She’s here. I gave her a maid’s room till she’s settled.’ He was anxious, ready to do whatever she commanded. ‘She can come up when you want. Do you want some tea? Some broth?’
‘I’ll have the broth later.’ She said so because he liked to spoon it into her, not because she really wanted it. ‘And when the maid comes to nurse me, tell her I don’t want her today.’ He started to protest, and she put her hand over his mouth and shook her head.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m fine, Billy. Don’t tire me.’
He looked at her with some anxiety. ‘Do you want Reverend Henderson to come?’
‘Indeed I do not. I know he’s been skulking round, quite unfitting for a clergyman, but I do not wish to see him till I’m quite dead. Then he can stare and pray and shake his head and whatever else he feels the need to do. Tell him so.’
William did not know what he could say to the reverend, who had, as Bridget said, been around the hotel rather much of late.
‘Now go and get Jane and send the maid off.
He went and spoke to Jane, who was helping Cook make the breakfasts. ‘I don’t know what she wants, but just go along with it. The laudanum may make her say strange things.’
Jane was very surprised at the sight of Bridget, who seemed very small and much reduced, but Jane did not show it. She sat by the bed, and waited for Bridget to speak.
‘I want you to take care of my children,’ Bridget said. ‘Little Willy needs much gentleness and I dare say little Johnny will be the same. I want you to make sure they grow up fine and they never lack a woman’s care. And that they be educated up to read and write, and be good men. I expect nothing less of you.’
‘Will I start . . . today?’
‘You can start in a moment, and bring little Willy in to say goodbye to me. But I have something further I’d ask of you.’ She closed her eyes and breathed carefully, as if to summon up her strength and drive out the pain. She opened her eyes again. ‘Billy too. He needs a woman’s care.’
‘But I . . .’
‘He’s an excellent man, Jane Norris. You’d be a fool to refuse him. And you’re a very fine girl yourself.’ She closed her eyes again. ‘I’m going to die today,’ she added. ‘This afternoon.’
Jane Norris tiptoed out. She was twenty-two years old, and she had seen a number of deaths. But she had never seen anyone as clear and strong as Bridget Irwin. It felt to Jane that what Bridget had said was the saddest and bravest thing she had ever heard. It was like a wind, cold and clean, for Bridget was letting her whole life go, knowing it, and not lightly. She understood now why it was better that the reverend gentleman did not meet with Bridget. Bridget did not need anyone between herself and God, for she could deal with God directly. Jane went into the children’s bedroom and washed and dressed Willy.
‘You’ll see your mammy,’ she said. ‘Be very gentle, for she’s not well.’
Jane took William Joseph in and sat him on the bed. Bridget had something to say to him, but she could not say it, because it was both too much and too little, and he was too young. He was frightened because it barely seemed like his mother, and after she kissed him, she was glad to have him taken away.
After that, William came to her, but she did not speak again. Sometimes, her eyes flickered open and it seemed to William that she looked at him or sometimes that she looked past him. Later, she squeezed his hand; he thought maybe she wanted to speak but could not. Then she closed her eyes and did not open them at all. But as he lay beside her, he felt everything between them. He did not dwell on their life together, which he had thought much of in the time she had been ill, but on the great bond between them, here and now. It could not be thought of, only felt. He could feel its loss looming – too large, too painful.
He heard the noises of the hotel, the coach leaving, the horses being watered, the Chinese grocer calling out, the noises from the station, and later, as it grew dark, the convivial noise of the bar. He felt in a world quite apart, just he and Bridget. Her breath grew slower and slower and slower, and then it was no more, and she was dead.
He lay with her a long time. He thought perhaps he should have known her better, but he knew that there were parts of herself that she always kept close. He knew that she had loved him. And she had known how much he had loved her. He thought how in this whole world, with so many people, how easily he could have missed her. He thought how lucky he was to have met her, known her and wooed her, for it felt remarkable to him that it should have happened. He could not think of his life without her, and that was what made it so hard to leave the room where she had brushed her hair, he had cut his toenails, she had read in the afternoons, where they had talked, quarrelled, made love, where she had given birth – that he should leave this room and go into the world without her.
CHAPTER 14
November 18, 1865
My Dearest Son, Dear William,
It is not easy for you to get along now, depending on strangers, but God’s will must be done. But don’t neglect your childern. I would be glad to see you, but you know best. I sent two of the portaits to Mary and one to Ann Jane. Send me another of the late Mrs to send to Ann Jane. I have to pay docks tolls now – 2/6 each. It is very wet weather now, no snow or frost yet.
I once more embrace you with a few lines in hopes to find you and dear childern all well as this leaves all here at present, thanks be to God for it; and dear Mother is still eable to go about yet.
But her health is bad and still getting worse, but how glad she feels and happy she bes when we get leters, and especial every mail that comes from Australia. We watch the post for 3 days – the last one came 6 days early . . .it came on the 7th.
I recived your leter deted September last mail. I was glad to hear of you and childern being well.
I remain your loving Father,
Joseph Irwin
* * *
There were many letters from Knockaleery, but none touched the depth of William’s grief. William thought it must be hard to understand back home, where everyone was known to each other, and to think upon the death of a stranger, even though it was his own dear wife. It was as if they did not know what to make of it. Bridget had written to them and sent presents, but she was unknown to them, except as his wife. Somehow, it made the distance even greater between Ballarat and Knockaleery, and he longed for a sense of being at home in either place, but he had lost his touchstone here in Ballarat too. His dear wife! How he grieved her, how hard it felt to be going through life without her. She was everywhere for him, but he could not look at her portrait, or move her things, because doing such things would bring him up too sharply against his loss.
He was aware of what was expected. There was a period of mourning – sombre, but not calamitous mourning. His grief was to be dignified and contained, a proper public show, but he was expected to go on, and then behave as if nothing had happened, except for the mourning band on his arm. But he gave up wearing it; he thought it a hypocrisy given the depth of his feeling, and he would not allow Jane Norris to put mourning bands on the children either.
Splendid and formal were the condolences sent to William by his fellow Masons, other publicans, members of the Exchange, members of the congregation of the kirk and many old friends. Some of these touched the depth of his grief. With Dan
ny Phelan, who had done so much when Bridget was dying, he had an understanding about the nature of his grief. It came from the death of Michael O’Connell, from them being partners on the Eureka lead, from that day when he had brought William the whisky in the stable. William felt ashamed that he had previously let the friendship fade in his mind, seeing Danny more as an employee than a friend. Now he understood that Danny and he knew each other as well as any men could, and the matter of employment was neither here nor there, for their friendship stood far above that. He saw that he may have overvalued friendships with such eminent men as Henry Cuthbert. It seemed a great thing to be on equal terms with such a man, but the friendship with a man such as Danny Phelan, in which there was true kindness and sympathy, meant a great deal more than an exchange with eminence.
John Humffray was another who understood, and for a man talented in speechifying he did none of it, but instead talked with William of the early days of their friendship, bringing in kindly mention of Bridget. John Humffray had also reminded the editor of the Star newspaper to mention in the report of Bridget’s death that she had nursed the wounded at Eureka.
‘We forget, William,’ he said, ‘that we needed our women then. They were a powerful force behind us.’
There were others who came later, often tentatively, to say something to Mr Irwin of Mrs Irwin.
‘She nursed me at Eureka, she did,’ said an Irishman who was accompanied by two small children. ‘I thought she was an angel then and I believe she’d be an angel now. She always stopped in at my shop and asked me how my leg was – the one she bandaged that day. She said she had a personal interest in it, seeing it was her that saved it. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, Mr Irwin, she was a fine woman.’
A Chinaman came by the hotel so many times that William went out and asked him what he was up to, thinking he might be sizing up the place for robbery. He was surprised that when the man spoke it was in a Scottish accent. ‘I come about Mrs Irwin,’ he said.
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