by Mary Arrigan
‘You’d be too tired to work tomorrow, lad,’ he said. ‘We need extra strength right now.’
So we covered our shaft as usual, and went home in silence. We were all in a sober mood that night as we sat down to supper. With three days until the next licence inspection, was this to be one of our last meals here?
John Joe put his elbows on the table and leaned towards Grandpa. ‘Mr Maher,’ he began. ‘I could get work with one of the big mining companies. They pay well and I could earn enough to keep us until…’
‘No, John Joe,’ said Grandpa. ‘Not yet. If no miracle happens before those troops come back, then you can do as you wish. But for now, we must continue as we are.’
‘It’s just as well we didn’t invite those nice English diggers over for supper,’ said May. ‘We would have been in no mood for their company.’
Her remark sparked something in my mind.
‘That’s it!’ I exclaimed. ‘Mama’s stew!’
‘What’s wrong with my stew?’ asked Mama, as I wiped my mouth.
‘Nothing at all,’ I replied. ‘That’s the whole point. Your stew is perfect, Mama. So perfect, that every digger wants some.’
‘I don’t see,’ began Grandpa.
‘Oh, but I do.’ Mama smiled as she realised what I meant. ‘Esty’s suggesting that I sell my stews. Isn’t that it, Esty?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Think about it. Those hungry diggers – especially the ones who are doing well – would be delighted to pay for good food. You’ve heard what they say about the smell of Mama’s cooking.’
‘She’s right, Mr Maher,’ agreed May. ‘We could prepare the vegetables the night before. It wouldn’t be hard work – we’d only be sitting by the fire anyway, so we might as well be doing something useful. All Mrs Maher would have to do the next day is to cook them.’
‘I have enough money left in my purse to buy vegetables,’ said Mama. ‘And maybe a little meat – which I can cut up very fine.’
‘What about plates?’ put in John Joe.
‘We’ll ask them to bring their own,’ replied May.
‘I’m not sure about this,’ Grandpa began doubtfully.
‘Oh, but I am,’ said Mama. ‘We could make good money by boiling up a few vegetables and mutton.’
‘It’s too much work for you,’ said Grandpa.
Mama put her hands on her hips. ‘Too much work, is it?’ she said, leaning closer to Grandpa. ‘Father, I spent months making cauldrons of soup to feed those starving people back home when food was scarce. Don’t you think I could feed a crowd of diggers here, where ingredients are plentiful?’
Grandpa was taken aback. ‘I suppose so,’ he said.
And so we plotted and planned well into the night. I’d never seen Mama so animated. Perhaps it was that she felt she could use her skills to save us. She’d always been subservient both to Papa and Grandpa, and now here she was, taking on a real business. She beamed at me and said, ‘We’ll make this do well, Esty.’
It’s a funny thing about life: one moment you can be in the depths of despair – the next, you’re working out a new plan to make things better.
The next day was Sunday. Grandpa and John Joe went to the shaft on their own, even though working on the Sabbath was frowned upon. May and I went into Ballarat to buy vegetables. Mama took the wagon and went to visit the Bakers.
‘Perhaps they’ll have some left-over bones,’ she said. ‘They’d add flavour and substance to the broth.’
Despite our plight, May and I giggled with excitement as we made our way through the town. There were some diggers hanging about the bowling saloon, and they whistled at us as we passed.
‘Don’t look back, Esty,’ May said. ‘That only encourages them.’
‘Perhaps I want to.’
‘That’s common, and not nice,’ said May, glancing back.
‘La-de-da,’ I laughed, poking her in the ribs.
As we crossed to the grocery store, we met a group of troops on the street. May pulled me on to the verandah outside the store as they passed. My heart skipped a beat when I recognised the young trooper from the hotel. He recognised me, too, and we stared for a moment that seemed forever. He’s nothing, I said to myself after they’d gone. He’s just like the rest of those upstarts in their red uniforms, and I want nothing to do with him. But still I looked back in his direction as May drew me into the store.
Mama was excited when she got back.
‘We’re so lucky,’ she said excitedly. ‘Not only did the Bakers give me two fine legs of mutton, but Rose has said she wants to help. She’s bringing her own large pot, so we’ll have two fires and two pots going. Isn’t that wonderful?’
That evening Mama, May, Grandpa and I wrote out handbills for John Joe to put up.
‘Come to the Bridge End sign’, it said. ‘Sample Mama Maher’s Excellent Stew for sixpence. Bring your own plate.’
By ten o’clock we were exhausted. We looked at the mountain of vegetables we’d prepared.
‘What if nobody comes?’ said May.
‘Of course they’ll come,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t you, if you were a hungry digger?’
The next morning we went to work as usual – Grandpa, John Joe, May and I. Even though we’d prepared ourselves, we were heavy with disappointment when our dig yielded nothing. As we closed our shaft for the night, we tried not to dwell on what would happen if our great plan didn’t work out.
‘What’ll we do if nobody…?’
‘Shush, May,’ I said. ‘Let’s not even think of it.’
Sure enough, when we got to our tent, the only people there were Mama and Rose. The smell was enticing, but any pleasure we had was cancelled out by the awful thought that nobody would want any of the stew. We washed, and changed our clothes.
‘We’d better feed ourselves first,’ said Rose, ever the practical one. ‘No point in standing by with our tummies rumbling. Come on, everyone, sit down and have some of this beautiful broth.’
‘This is very good of you, Rose,’ said Grandpa, holding out his plate. ‘But aren’t you needed by James and Adam?’
‘Ha!’ laughed Rose, waving the ladle to drive home her point. ‘The shambles is finished, the sheep are out to grass and we’ve enough mutton in the meat safe for two days – no point in keeping any more to go bad and smelly. All I’d be doing is nagging at those two men of mine. It’s much better here. Besides, it’s good to be among my friends again.’ She winked at May. She had brought her another letter.
Mama kept glancing around anxiously. ‘No sign of anyone yet.’
‘Calm down, Kate,’ said Rose. ‘Give them time to clean up. No self-respecting miner is going to bring his dust and grime to table.’
‘I beg to differ, Ma’am,’ laughed John Joe. ‘Some of the miners I’ve met would come covered in a week’s mud…’
‘Will you shush, John Joe,’ May said, pointing her spoon at him. ‘Keep your daft words to yourself.’
But I could see that Mama was upset by his remark. She looked doubtfully at the two simmering pots.
‘Look!’ said Grandpa. ‘I believe we have company.’ Sure enough, two diggers had appeared from behind our wagon. They stopped, when they saw us sitting at the table. Grandpa got up and beckoned them over.
‘Have you come for some of Mama Maher’s excellent stew?’ he asked. ‘Here, sit down,’ he went on, indicating the rough bench he and John Joe had made shortly after we’d arrived. Shyly the two diggers sat down at the table and nodded at us.
‘Up, Esty,’ said May, giving me a nudge. ‘We can’t be sitting down when there are customers to serve.’
We took their plates to Mama and Rose, who filled them with steaming broth.
‘Well, that’s one shilling earned,’ May whispered to me.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ asked Grandpa.
‘Yes,’ replied Rose. ‘Get out of our way, you and the lad. Too many of us dancing attendance would make our customers nervous.’
‘True,’ said John Joe. ‘You come with me, Mr Maher. It’s time you met some of my friends.’
‘What if a row breaks out?’ asked Grandpa. ‘There could be some very rough elements here.’
‘A row?’ said Rose, waving the ladle again. ‘Don’t you worry. I know how to deal with anyone who dares to even hint at trouble. You can rest assured of that.’
Grandpa looked helplessly at Mama, but she simply nodded.
‘Do go, Father,’ she said. ‘It’s time you got acquainted with other people.’
‘More customers!’ said May.
And so there were. Many more. Most of them were, like Grandpa’s English friends, working to make enough to bring their families here. But a few brought along their wives. Soon we were so busy that we could scarcely keep up. There were too many to sit at our small table, so they took their plates and sat under the nearby trees, or settled cross-legged on the ground. They were noisy and good-humoured. May, who had declared herself in charge of finance, took their sixpences before the plates were filled.
‘That way, there can be no cheating,’ said Rose.
At one stage, May showed me the bag bulging with money. She folded her apron up over the bag and tied the ends around her waist. As we cleared up, after turning away several latecomers who’d arrived after the last servings had been scraped from the pots, May’s movements were accompanied by jingling coins.
The four of us stretched out under the tree exhausted, though it didn’t stop me writing in my journal.
‘Shouldn’t we count the money?’ asked Mama.
‘No, Mrs Maher,’ said May, putting her hands protectively over the bundle of coins. ‘This does not leave my person until Mr Maher finds a safe place for it. There could be someone watching who’d pounce if I untie it. If they want the money, they’ll have to take me as well.’
‘They wouldn’t dare, May,’ said Mama. ‘You’d terrify them.’
Drunk with our success, we couldn’t stop laughing.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
For the next three evenings, the pattern was the same. Word had spread, and soon there were queues from our tent almost down to the first diggings. Mama and Rose stocked up with even more vegetables and two more large pots. Rose would not hear of Mama paying for the mutton with the money we’d earned.
‘No,’ she insisted. ‘That money must be used for your licence, otherwise the whole effort will have been for nothing. I’ve told you, Kate, you can pay us back when you’re back on your feet. We’re quite comfortably off, me and my two men. We sold our farm and part of our stock to get here. What we have is our own – and our meat stall is making good money every day.’
The letters to and from May and Adam via Rose continued to brighten our evenings. Although I didn’t actually read them, May told me as much as she felt I should know. It was a pity that Adam couldn’t visit us himself.
‘In good time,’ she said, when I mentioned it. ‘He and his father work late, Esty. Then they take turns minding the stall and the stock. There are thieves out there who’d steal the eye out of your head.’
She broke off. We knew all about thieves.
‘Anyway,’ she went on. ‘It will be different when they set up a proper business in town.’
‘And John Joe?’ I said. ‘How will you break this to John Joe?’ I was still worried that he’d be hurt, though he’d scarcely shown any attention to May – he was so involved in the miners’ affairs.
May shrugged. ‘I’ll find a way to tell him, when the time is right.’
One evening, long after the last digger had left, and Rose had gone home, Mama was relaxing with her sewing, May was snoozing under a tree and I was writing my journal by the light of a lantern. Suddenly, there was Grandpa, and a distinguished-looking gentleman with him.
‘I’d like to present Mr Henry Seekamp,’ said Grandpa. ‘Mr Seekamp owns and edits The Ballarat Times. He’s very sympathetic to us diggers, and isn’t afraid to say so in his paper. He’s married to a woman from Dublin, so he’s used to our accent!’
I made room for them to sit down, and took my lantern over to sit near May. I half-listened to the droning conversation at the table. It seemed to be the usual talk of injustice, crippling fees and the miners’ unrest, so I concentrated on my writing.
‘I don’t know where you get your energy, Esty Maher,’ muttered May drowsily. ‘I’m so tired, what with the mining and serving dinners, that I think my legs have worn away up to my knees. I’m afraid to look down in case my feet are missing.’
‘That’s what I love about you, May,’ I chuckled, as I smoothed a new page. ‘You’ve always made me laugh. I scarcely had a sense of humour before I met you and your rag rugs.’
‘Get away with you,’ May muttered, turning over for another snooze. It was quite true, I thought. As an only child in a house of adults, there had not been much of the nonsense and silliness that makes one’s tummy shake with laughter.
When he was about to go, Mr Seekamp looked towards me.
‘What are you writing?’ he asked.
Mama laughed. ‘She’s writing her journal. Any spare time she has – and that’s precious little – Esty is either reading or writing.’
I shuffled around a bit, embarrassed at being singled out by this gentleman. Especially when he came towards me.
‘What sort of things do you write?’ he asked.
‘Just things about the camp,’ I replied. ‘The everyday things that I see here.’
‘May I see?’ he asked.
I covered my journal with my hand. ‘I don’t think it would interest you,’ I began. ‘It’s very ordinary.’
‘Go on, Esty,’ Grandpa said encouragingly. ‘Let the man have a look.’
Reluctantly, I passed Mr Seekamp my precious journal, hoping that he couldn’t see my blushes in the light of the lantern. He flipped through my work, pausing every now and then to peer at something that caught his attention.
‘This is very well written, young lady,’ he said eventually. ‘How would you like to try writing a short article for my paper? Nothing too taxing,’ he added, when he noted my confusion. ‘Just a brief article about life here on the diggings. You are just the person to write it, because you are right here in the thick of the workings. I’ll pay you two shillings. Will you consider it?’
For once in my life, I was struck dumb.
‘Go on, Esty,’ May urged, suddenly wide awake. ‘She’s good at writing,’ she went on, looking up at Mr Seekamp.
‘It’s a splendid idea,’ said Grandpa. ‘Do say yes, Esty. You know you want to be a writer. Now is your chance to make a start.’
I could see Mama’s face filled with pride. I looked back at Mr Seekamp to see if he was really serious. He was.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘But if it’s no good, you must tell me at once.’
And so it was decided that I would write a short article on life in the chaotic world of the goldfield. As Mr Seekamp took his leave, I turned to May.
‘What on earth will I write about?’ I asked.
‘Oh, you’ll think of something, Esty,’ laughed May. ‘You always do.’
‘I won’t,’ I groaned. ‘Now that I’ve been asked to write something that people will read, I just won’t be able to do it. It’s different from writing for myself. I’ll die.’
‘No you won’t,’ retorted May. ‘You’ll earn that two shillings and that’s it. I’ll help.’
‘Will you?’
‘Not with the writing,’ May laughed. ‘But I’ll keep my ears open for any gossip.’
I laughed too, mostly because any gossip May heard, I would hear too, since we went everywhere together.
However it was May who provided the first bit of news. It was early October. We were now several weeks into our Mama Maher’s Stew business and all was going well. We always managed to pay our licence fee, and though the long working day was fatiguing, we were so happy to be still here that we ignored our aching limbs.
That eve
ning the diggers seemed restless. There was much subdued muttering. I was stirring a pot of stew on the fire when May rushed over.
‘Have you heard?’ she said.
‘Heard what, May?’
‘A young digger was shot last night at the Eureka Hotel.’
The Eureka Hotel was a place where the military drank at night. It was a place most diggers avoided, preferring instead to be with their own at the sly-grog tents.
‘Was he badly hurt?’ I asked, still stirring. We’d become quite used to diggers wounding one another with guns or knives or fists.
‘He’s dead,’ said May in a hushed voice. ‘The diggers are furious.’
‘Dead?’ I asked, stopping mid-stir. ‘Who did that?’
May looked about her and leaned closer. ‘They’re saying it was the owner who shot him. This could turn nasty, if we’re to believe the diggers.’
‘There’s been talk of things turning nasty for some time now, May,’ I said. ‘I’m sure it will all blow over.’
But it didn’t blow over. Even Grandpa, who preferred to stay outside the plotting and scheming of disgruntled diggers, was showing signs of frustration that turned to anger later on, when the publican who shot the young digger was found not guilty by a magistrate who just happened to be the publican’s friend.
‘This is it,’ Grandpa said, on the evening of the trial. ‘This corruption of justice will spark off something terrible.’
His words were to become reality sooner than we expected. When John Joe set off on his usual nightly jaunt later, Grandpa tried to stop him.
‘Don’t go, lad,’ he said, putting out a restraining hand. ‘Let those who would, deal with this. It’s not our fight.’
‘I’m afraid it is, Mr Maher,’ said John Joe, pulling away. ‘Haven’t we had enough injustice at home, without having to deal with it here?’
Grandpa sighed and sank on to the bench. Mama said nothing.
‘Mr Maher is right, John Joe,’ May said gently. ‘Listen to him.’
John Joe took us all in as we looked at him, pleading. ‘I’m part of this,’ he said. ‘I must go.’
