Chapter 8
‘Really?’
‘Almost. A lecturer. Classics. Oxford. The city of dreaming spires.’
‘And then you drank?’
‘No, my dear. I drank while I taught. And then … my world turned hollow.’ He looked back at her with his red-rimmed eyes. The whites were yellow, just like Mum’s, his cheeks dark with stubble, the skin both loose and papery.
‘I married. A girl of sunbeams and laughter. And she died, without me there to hold her hand —’
‘Oh yeah?’
He smiled at the disbelief in her voice. ‘Would you prefer another story? That I sailed to the goldfields for adventure? But when I got here,’ he lifted the flask again, ‘I discovered I was a drunk. Now I am Shamus O’Blivion indeed. I do not like reality, my dear,’ he added. ‘It’s over-rated. The unexamined life is not worth living. But sometimes one’s life is not worth living if you examine it too closely, either.’
‘A boy said something like that today. He said that Socrates said it.’
The drunken gaze sharpened on the other side of the glowing coals. ‘The greatest of all philosophers. Who was this boy?’
‘The farmer’s son. George. He’d been reading a book.’
‘With a red cover?
She nodded.
‘I sold it when funds ran low. A mistake. I would like to buy it back again. I must see this boy some time.’
‘He won’t part with it. He loves it.’
‘Ah. Perhaps more than I did. So he should keep it. The love of ideas is a precious thing. More precious by far than gold, though that’s what I dig for now, not for ideas. Ideas make you look at the world, but gold can buy oblivion. Shame and oblivion, my two best friends.’ He gazed into the fire. ‘This future … which I still neither believe nor disbelieve. Is it good?’ He shook his head as though to clear it. ‘I know it is not good for you. But if good things can happen to people in bad societies, then perhaps bad things can happen to some people in good ones.’
Sam hesitated. ‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘Bits of it are good. Kids can go to school now. Most people are better off, I think, in this country anyhow.’
‘Thank you, my dear. True or not, it is good to believe. For Pilate sayeth, “What is truth?” The Bible, my dear …’
He was quite drunk now, Sam realised. The Professor lurched up, the firelight sending his shadow shuddering about the campsite. ‘And now I must leave you, oh child of the future.’
‘Professor — before you go … what do you know about the Eureka Stockade?’
‘Stockade? There is a mine they call Eureka — one of the first good seams they found at Ballarat. That’s what the word means, you know. “I found it.” The area all around it is crowded with claims now, but I wouldn’t call it a stockade. There was a hotel called Eureka too, but the miners burned it down. Goodnight, Master Puddleham.’
‘Sam,’ said Sam. But he was gone.
Chapter 9
Sam woke to the thunk of Mrs Puddleham’s axe. She peeped out of the tent. Dew glistened on the branches above her, and sunrise was still a red haze on the horizon.
Mrs Puddleham stood by the hunk of tree that was her table, hacking the sheep carcass into small chunks of meat and bone. She wore an apron today, made of the same sacking as the bag that held the potatoes. Suddenly Mr Puddleham came into view, lugging a wooden bucket of water up from the creek. He still wore yesterday’s suit, his hair slicked down and neat under his hat. He nodded to Sam, neither welcome nor distaste in his face, as he tipped the water into one of the big pots and headed back down towards the creek for another.
How long had they been up for? Sam wondered, as Mrs Puddleham beamed at her. ‘Morning, lovey,’ she puffed, lowering the bloody axe. ‘Breakfast won’t be long. Nice bit o’ hot damper, with a bit o’ bacon too.’
Damper? Maybe that was what smelled so good, thought Sam. The stench of the night before was still there, but the fresh-bread scent was even stronger. Sam’s stomachrumbled. How long had it been since she’d looked forwards to what she was going to eat, instead of using food just to fill her stomach? Frozen pizzas, shoved into the freezer the rare times Mum remembered to shop for food, the cheapest ones, just cheese and sour tomato. Milk she had to sniff before she drank it, in case it had gone off, or the packets of chips Gavin brought back from the pub, and tossed to her as though she should be grateful.
‘There’s a tin o’ salt by the flour sack if you wants to clean your teeth. Doesn’t do to let your teeth rot, deary. You pays for it in the end.’ Mrs Puddleham lowered her voice. ‘Don’t forget to use the you-know-what afore you come out, too. You don’t want to lower them trousers of yours where anyone can watch.’ She began to wield her axe again.
Chamber pot, thought Sam, draping the cloth back again so no one could see in. She hoped the thwacks from the axe muffled the sound.
She’d just got started when the world exploded again. It was the same noise she’d heard last night. Sam grinned as she pulled up her jeans. The diggers must be making sure their powder hadn’t got damp overnight. At least no one would have heard any noise she made.
The shots had hardly died away and the birds stopped screeching when she heard a hopeful voice outside.
‘Any damper going, missus?’
‘When has there ever not been morning damper at my cook tent?’ demanded Mrs Puddleham. ‘Threepence a hunk, and treacle’s a penny extra — an’ if you pour on toomuch an’ it drips on the ground again it’ll be tuppence. Bacon’s threepence as usual. Now sit you down, Happy Jack, and your dog too.’
‘And you too, sir,’ said Mr Puddleham politely. ‘If you would be so kind as to sit here, sir? And you, sir, over here?’
Sam stepped out of the lean-to. A dozen miners already sat on the blocks of wood around the fire, their faces eager in the early morning light. Even as she watched, others lined up to take their places.
Old men with strange hunched backs, like the man she’d seen the day before; young men wearing bright shirts in red or pink or blue, or faded rags, beards of every shape and colour; some men tanned and some with peeling noses from too much sun; and others with a strange pallor she assumed came from working underground, each one handing his coins to Mr Puddleham.
There was something else about them all, too, she thought. A look of hope, as though today might be the day they found a nugget, and tomorrow bring all the dreams they’d ever had.
Mrs Puddleham wiped her bloody hands on her tatty apron. ‘Our son,’ she announced proudly, putting her arm around Sam’s shoulders. ‘Sam Puddleham, as has come up from Melbourne specially to help us. Now you sit down, lovey,’ she added to Sam, ‘and get a good lining in your belly afore you do anything else.’ She grabbed a stick and pushed something out of the fire.
It was about the size and shape of a cushion, and darkgrey like a rock that had been left under the flames. But when Mrs Puddleham gripped it with the edges of her sacking apron and began to break it into chunks Sam saw the inside was white and moist and steaming.
So that’s how you cook a damper, she thought. It looked okay, apart from the ashy crust. And it smelled … she sniffed.
It smelled like the best thing she’d ever eaten.
She sat down on an empty spot on a log, next to a small man with a crooked shoulder and a face stretched in what looked like a permanent smile. A yellow dog sat at his feet, its head down warily in case someone gave it a kicking.
Sam stared. It was a doormat with fleas, a long weeping sore on its side and brown eyes as big as the beads on the necklace she’d given Mum two Christmases ago. But despite its wound and fear, it looked well fed — much better fed than its master.
‘What’s its name?’ The dog looked a bit like the one Liz and Nick used to have. Bitsa, Liz had called her, because she was bitsa this and bitsa that. But Bitsa had been old, and a bit fat. She had mostly lived on the sofa, accepting the pats of whoever passed. Liz had cried all day when she died.
‘Name?’ The grinning man stared at her, his smile empty, as though he didn’t understand. ‘Dog,’ he said at last. He licked his fingers. The dog sat up, its fear forgotten, and barked.
The man’s crooked grin grew wider, showing worndown stumps of teeth. ‘See, he’s happy!’ He threw the doghis slice of damper. The dog caught it in its mouth, and retired behind the seats to eat it.
Mrs Puddleham sighed as she passed Sam a tin plate with a chunk of damper on it, the treacle oozing through the steam like lava from a volcano. ‘An’ I suppose you’re happy too, now your dog’s happy.’
He nodded. ‘We’s all happy here, missus. Gold to dig and damper.’ His voice as well as the words sounded strangely simple.
‘Ah, well.’ Mrs Puddleham passed him another slice of damper. ‘You take this, Happy Jack, an’ this one’s for you, not yer dog, and it’s threepence too. But the other was just a halfpenny. Special rate fer dogs. But no bacon, mind,’ she added as the dog stared at the hunk of meat grilling on a stick propped up by the fire. ‘Bacon’s too expensive fer dogs.’
The little man shoved half the damper into his mouth. ‘Happy,’ he repeated. ‘We’s all happy now.’ The dog gave a woof of agreement behind them.
Sam bit into the damper. It was soft and light and sweet, a cross between a cake and a hunk of bread. Even the crust wasn’t too bad. It was easy to peel the sooty bit off the rest. How could something as good as this come out of a fire? She smiled at herself, and tried to eat more slowly.
Next to her the men lingered on each crumb, as though Mrs Puddleham’s cooking was their only link with the comforts of a home, or the women they’d left behind or never known.
Mrs Puddleham forked a small brown thing onto her plate. ‘You get that into you too, deary.’
‘What is it?’
‘A nice sheep’s kidney. Mr P’s already ate the other one. You never had a grilled kidney afore?’ She smiled comfortingly at Sam. ‘Don’t you worry, lovey. You’ll have kidneys galore from now on. I’ve kept a bit o’ liver for you in the flour sack for tomorrow too.’
Sam prodded the kidney. It looked like a turd someone had shoved in the fire. She bit onto it, then fanned her mouth at its heat. It tasted like a turd too. She swallowed it as quickly as she could, then took a bite of damper to take the flavour away. No, damper was definitely better than a kidney.
Twenty dampers later the sun bounced above the horizon, large and red as an apple. The flow of men stopped as the miners headed off to their claims. The chuckles of kookaburras gave way to sounds of clanking and thudding, yells and shouts.
Happy Jack clicked his fingers. His dog sat up, barked once, then looked at Mrs Puddleham hopefully.
‘Here,’ said Mrs Puddleham resignedly. She scraped the damper crusts into a pile, and watched as the dog gulped them down. ‘Happy now?’
The grinning man bobbed his head at her. ‘We’s happy now, missus. Happy, happy, happy.’ He clicked his fingers again. The dog licked treacle from its whiskers and followed him out of the gully.
Sam licked the last of the treacle from her fingers too. ‘Is he okay? I mean … all right,’ she added, when she saw Mrs Puddleham didn’t understand the word.
Mrs Puddleham picked up the axe again, and began chopping at what looked like sheep ribs. Flies clustered over the meat now, but she didn’t seem to notice.
‘Happy Jack’s just simple like,’ she said a bit breathlessly between blows. ‘No harm in him.’ Thwack. ‘Comes here whenever he gets a few pence, fer food for him an’ his dog.’ Thwack. ‘Don’t think he knows how to cook fer himself.’ She stopped, panting, and picked up a bit of meat that had fallen on the ground. She wiped it on her apron and threw it with the rest into the pot.
‘Can I do something?’ asked Sam.
Mrs Puddleham beamed. ‘Didn’t I tell Mr Puddleham you’d be a help? I’ll make you the best cook in the colonies, deary, you see if I don’t. Now you just sit here where I can look at your pretty face and chop the spuds. No need to peel ‘em neither — you can’t see a bit o’ dirt in a good stew. But make sure you cut ‘em proper, thicky thin.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’
‘An’ why should you? It’s me as knows the secrets o’ good cooking. Thicky thin’s how you make a good thick stew, lovey. You cut the spuds like this — thin on one side, thick on the other. That way most melts down into the fat to make a good thick gravy, and leaves a few chunks to get yer teeth into. Understand?’
Sam nodded. Mrs Puddleham passed her a knife, then hauled the sack of potatoes out with one great heave of her arm. ‘There you are then. A nice lot o’ choppin’ in that lot.’
Sam began to chop the potatoes, throwing each handful into the pot. It was already bubbling, the water dark andfrothy with bits of meat bobbing up like wet socks in a washing machine. Sam wrinkled her nose. How could that stuff turn into the stew she’d eaten last night? Suddenly she wondered what the Professor was doing. ‘The Professor didn’t come for breakfast,’ she remarked.
Mrs Puddleham sighed as she wiped the blood from her axe onto her apron. ‘Fool of a man. If I didn’t ask him to mind me pots now an’ then he’d never eat nothin'. An’ he’s got book learnin’ and everythin'. Wonderful bit o’ learning the Professor has. All them big words.’ She winked at Sam. ‘But you speak almost as beautiful as him, deary. Makes me right proud.’
Sam chopped, while behind them Mr Puddleham washed the dishes in one of the buckets, then trudged out of the gully to look for more firewood. Sam was relieved when he left. He hadn’t spoken to her yet — or anyone, she realised, except for the polite greetings and farewells to their customers.
It was peaceful, sitting here in the sun, the warmth of the fire on her face, the clamour of the diggings faint beyond the walls of the gully. I could get used to this, she thought. Just cooking, day after day, and people happy to eat your food …
‘Thunder and bleedin’ lightning!’ swore Mrs Puddleham, as a chunk of bone flew off into the fire. She fished it out with a stick, then looked around guiltily. ‘Pardon me French, lovey. Good thing Mr P didn’t hear that, neither. He can’t abide bad language. But I got into the way of it afore he found me again. Too much bad company, that’s what itwas.’ Mrs Puddleham rinsed the charred meat in the water bucket, then threw it into the pot with the other bits.
Sam stopped cutting the potatoes and stared. ‘What do you mean, before he found you again? When did he lose you?’
Mrs Puddleham blushed, her red face turning almost purple. She heaved the axe down onto the last chunk of meat before she spoke again. ‘Didn’t want you to think badly of me, lovey. But you’ve got a right to know. Mr P’s only been out here less’n a year. But I’ve been here seven years now.’
‘You didn’t come straight from the palace?’ asked Sam slowly.
Mrs Puddleham plonked herself on one of the bits of wood next to Sam. She shook her head. ‘Worked in that kitchen for near twenty-five year, I did. But then they kicked me out.’
‘Why?’
‘Cause I were in the family way, if you knows what I means.’
‘I know,’ said Sam. Mrs Puddleham meant that she was pregnant.
‘Thought you would. Innocents don’t survive what I reckon you’ve seen, deary.’ She shook her head. ‘Can’t have goin’s-on in the palace. Goin’s-on are all right for the gentry, but not for the likes of me and Mr P.’
‘It was his baby?’
‘O’ course it were! Dunno why he chose me, ‘cause there were younger maids, and prettier than me too. But chooseme he did, and it were grand, for all we had to keep it secret. Oh, that time he kissed me in the pantry among the silver … First kiss I’d ever had. You don’t forget your first kiss, never.’ Mrs Puddleham’s red cheeks blushed even redder. ‘But they’d have thrown us both out if they’d known, an’ there ain’t no place for a married butler at the palace neither.’
Mrs Puddleham shrugged. ‘I were sacked, soon as I were showing …’
‘You mean when you looked pregnant?’
‘In the family way,’ corrected Mrs Puddleham. ‘That I was, an’ out on the street with the dustbins that very morning afore I could even tell Mr Puddleham what were happening. Just the clothes on me back — not even me wages that were owing nor a crust o’ bread nor pint o’ porter for me breakfast. But I never told ‘em who done it, so Mr Puddleham kept his job. He never knew what happened to me.’
‘You didn’t go back to tell him?’
Mrs Puddleham shook her head. ‘He’d worked that hard to get where he was. Couldn’t make him lose all that. And me manners ain’t posh like his. Ain’t no grand house back home that’d employ us as a married couple like, not for the sort of job that’d be fitting for a man like Mr Puddleham.’ Her voice held infinite pride.
‘What happened then?’
‘So there I was on the streets, with no money. They picked me up for thievery, but what else were I to do? An’ truth to tell, deary, I weren’t much good at picking pockets,not like me cooking. These fingers was made to roll pastry, not slip into coves’ jackets. Got sent to Newgate then, after the trial, the magistrate sent me here.’
What about your baby? thought Sam. It took months for convicts to sail to Australia, didn’t it? Surely the baby would have been born by then?
Was Lucy the Puddlehams’ daughter? Then where was she?
She glanced up at Mrs Puddleham. The big woman’s face was blank suddenly, as though she was back in that old world of pain. Her hands twisted together, like they were searching. No, thought Sam. Whatever had happened to Lucy she couldn’t ask Mrs Puddleham now.
‘You mean you were a convict?’ she asked instead.
‘Seven years,’ said Mrs Puddleham, coming back to the present. ‘They wasn’t bad years, all in all,’ she added, her voice suddenly more cheerful. ‘Not once I got off that boat. The colony ain’t got no one what can cook as good as me. They sent me to be cook for a magistrate. Old bastard he were too, would order the lash soon as look at you, but I had me own bed with no fleas in it, and meat five times a day if I wanted it. Had to let out me petticoats four times that first year. An’ I’ll tell you the truth, there was some as wanted to marry me too. There ain’t many women in the colony, is there? So a girl has her pick.’
The Night They Stormed Eureka Page 5
